the Wakefield Doctrine

Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

This is the Wakefield Doctrine’s contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

It is hosted by Denise and has a strict Six Sentence Limit

Speaking of ‘Penny Dreadfuls’, Tom and I are writing a Serial Six Sentence Story: ‘…of Heroes and the MisUnderstood‘. (If you’re just starting, this link will provide the whole story.)

Most previously   …from Tom. and, now following our first Six this week, we continue the tale.

Now, as we’re sure you surmised from our peculiar subtitle, we up to some hijinks. Given that we’re approaching the climax of our Serial Six, we decided to switch desks! Tom is writing ‘our’ storyline, (in which Rocco is protagonist), and we’re taking over the Rue & Moonbeam narrative. For a while, at least.

Prompt Word:

TONIC

“I’m just outside the main doors, hurry the hell up, we’re on the move.”

Stepping into the cold morning air, Rue DeNite laughed at the sight of Moonbeam leaning over the empty front passenger seat of a brand new, shiny metallic green, something-or-other brand SUV; as soon as she clicked her seatbelt, he pulled away from the terminal, drove past what appeared to be a giant acorn sculpture and headed northeast.

Rue leaned against the passenger door after checking the GPS display in the dashboard; there were two starred highlights: the airport, receding along the illuminated route in the animated map and, on the destination end, ‘Tunglfjőrður’, with a label “Mooncross Industries’ at the bottom of the screen, Estimated Travel Time: 1 hour 50 minutes blinking in red.

“You’re mad at me, that’s what’s going on here,” in premeditated response to Rue’s assertion, Moonbeam furrowed his brow, as if his concentration on the nearly empty road was all that stood between their success and the fate of the world;

“While I’m impressed with that business of dark energy shooting out of your arm and being able to make people, like, suddenly fall sleep, when it comes to boosting cars and other forms of transport, of all the Supervillains I know, ‘You’re my all-time favorite‘;” Rue, pretending to admire the snow-covered mountains took hope in a slight tremor to the corner of his mouth.

“I don’t know what you mean, but since you brought it up, am I safe thinking that under all that white denim, you’re not wearing some kind of stripper-secret-weapon that, when we get cornered, you’ll start to twirl in the face of our foes?”

Taking off her jacket, Rue turned in her seat, added an unprovable arc to her spine and, with the hint of a side-to-side shoulder motion, brushed a button on her phone; Bob Seger’s voice filled the car, “They’d kill to make the cut“; laughter once again proving itself to be the best tonic.

Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

This is the Wakefield Doctrine’s contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Denise is the host

Tom and I are writing a Serial Six Sentence Story: ‘…of Heroes and the MisUnderstood‘. (If you’re just starting, this link will provide the whole story.)

The prompt word is:

PRESENT

Standing at the towering wall of glass that looked out over the Miami business district, Cyrus St. Loreto felt at home; as insufficient a designator that phrase might be, given his unnaturally-long life.

A metaphor from Shakespeare came to mind, accompanied by a private smile as the sun conspired with the waves of the Atlantic to sneak up on the businessman: ‘The world was his oyster’. Rumors to the effect that he did some ‘reputation management’ work for the playwright was the stuff of corporate legend and rejected PhD dissertations. Given a certain span between ‘then’ and ‘the present’, the transient character of good and evil, endemic in the society of man since expulsion from a certain Garden, always transforms from liability to something more akin to power.

The business of the Bernebau Company and Cyrus’s personal interests were inseparable and as witness, carved into one of the columns in the first floor lobby:

“Fura ceea ce se poate, cumpara ceea ce trebuie atunci repossess rămâne.” *

In no small measure an indication of his reputation, there was nary a comment, Romanian or otherwise. in any business publications on the meaning of the inscription; at the moment, which is the only place Cyrus St. Loreto operated from, the affair in Iceland demanded his special talents.

*’Steal what you can, buy what you must, repossess what remains.’

Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

This is the Wakefield Doctrine’s contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Denise is the host and reminds us to allow only six sentences to tell (our) tales.

Tom and I are writing a Serial Six Sentence Story: ‘…of Heroes and the MisUnderstood‘. (If you’re just starting, this link will provide the whole story.)

Most previously in our tale: this from us and this from Tom.

The prompt word is:

PRESENT

“No, I don’t care if the Miller Analogies are in twenty minutes…”

In the delightfully subversive ways of the unconscious mind, my desire to remain asleep incorporated a persistent shoulder shaking as part of my dream… something to the effect of having to get up out of bed and a girl who was slapping the palm of her hand with a ruler; Waking World: Zero / Enjoyable Dreams: One.

Like they say, from the moment you believe you can figure out how the stage magician achieves his illusion, you’ve surrendered the joy of pretending in exchange for the dubious power of maturity; it takes most of us getting to the far end of life, if we’re lucky, to again appreciate youth.

Cyrus St. Loreto’s private plane did nothing to betray either our velocity or location, which for anyone keeping score was: a skosh under the speed of sound and on final approach to Iceland’s Keflavik Airport; in the spirit of the dichotomy of life, despite the engineering to maintain the bliss of not knowing, there was a display over the cockpit door spelling out present position and speed.

Isla was lying on her left side, an inhale and a venial sin next to me, our adjacent seats reclined as one; seeing my eyes open, she lifted the blanket covering us enough for me to see my phone leaning against her left leg… it was live and the caller ID showed: Rue.

Given the rapid development of our relationship, I felt comfortable enough to move my right hand down to hunt ‘n peck a text message; I think Isla was hoping it might involve the use of excessive emojis.

As always Rue had taken the initiative, her text: ‘Are you alright?’

Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

This is the Wakefield Doctrine’s contribution to the Six Sentence Story bloghop.

Hosted by Denise there is but one rule: 1) the story must be exactly six sentences in length and b) the prompt word must be apparent, evident and/or otherwise referenced

Tom and I are writing a Serial Six Sentence Story: ‘…of Heroes and the MisUnderstood‘. (If you’re just starting, this link will provide the whole story.)

Previously in our story: (from Tom): ‘Mooncross Industries‘ and (from us): First this. (then) this

Prompt word:

CORE

“Are you fuckin’ kidding me right now?”

“Get that goddamn woman back on the phone…” Lou Caesare rarely tolerated being unable to do something about a problem; having survived and, more importantly, thrived in the core of the extraordinarily-lethal world of organized crime, were an author to write the biography of the owner of the Bottom of the Sea Strip Club and Lounge, an fitting epigraph might be:

All great men, criminal and honest, are possessed of a natural talent for performing before an audience and the most successful of these project an air of irrefutable sincerity.

“Miz Claireaux, I wanted to thank you for your efforts on behalf of my people,” Lou frowned at the smile of unalloyed approval on Diane’s face from the opposite side of the booth.

“Lou, how kind of you to say that and let me assure you, I will consider your input regarding how much destruction I arrange over there in Iceland. After all, a girl can’t kill every blind date who turns out to be a boor, of course a few, every now and then, well, that’s what makes life worth living, don’t you think?”

She laughed in a way that, were there normal people participating in the conversation, they would likely soon be found in therapy, a confessional or the depths of existential despair.