the Wakefield Doctrine

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

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

Hosted by Denise, constrained by a sentence limit (high and low) of six, there are worse ways to spend the remaining time you have on earth.

Previously, in our tale…

(Language Advisory. ….’cause, well, Rosetta!)

Prompt word:

SNAP

“Geez Louize… that poor little robot …”

The Sophomore’s quiet lamentation was, against the sheer volume of the conversation raging around him, but a scream doing a killer imitation of a whisper.

“What!?”

Anya Clarieaux’s single word question, at a volume no greater than the young man’s, cut through the vocal maelstrom of recrimination, accusation, invective and all around ‘whose fault is all this’ filling the dining room of a vacant house/temporary safe-house.

I watched as our leader/captor/rescuer walked around the table to where the Sophomore sat, his girlfriend on one side busy with fueling the argument and, with a soundless snap of a perfectly manicured finger in Rosetta’s direction, transformed the girl’s,  “what the fuck are you talking abou…” into silence.

Standing next to the Sophomore, Anya’s voice was a thoroughly disturbing synthesis of a mother comforting a child and a not-that-much-older young women coaching a determined yet unsure suitor, “Ethan, I need you to tell me what you saw in your time trip and don’t leave anything out…”

Without taking her eyes off him, she began to sit while taking his hands in her own.

I know I shouldn’t have been surprised, but it was Rosetta Storme who managed to get a chair behind Anya in time for her to sit; I was rewarded by her look of defiant chagrin before she returned her attention to Anya and the Sophomore.

*

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

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

Hosted by Denise, constrained by a sentence limit (high and low) of six, there are worse ways to spend the remaining time you have on earth.

Prompt word:

STOP

“Wait, stop!”

The (much) younger of the two men turned with a practiced calmness that spoke not only of having heard this request before, but served as an umlaut on his non-verbal voice and a smile devoid of condescension, pity, strained patience or any of the myriad other ways society teaches it’s members to defend against unsolicited need.

“Don’t get me wrong, I believe what I believe, including such things as angels and other supernatural agencies…but one minute ago my life was a minor symphony arranged for bedside monitors in the key of ECG and EEG now, I’m here,” the older man smoothed out the folds of his sports coat with hands mottled with iv ports and injection bruises.

Smiling with a mix of intensity and whimsy, the man said, “You are here per your most recent wish which, I remind you, was ‘To understand how Time changes as we grow old.”

With a nod towards a stream running through a dense forest, it’s rough gravel shore protecting the exposed roots shading clean water, agitated into rounded wavelets that stumbled over the rocky bottom which, in turn, pushed back against the flow.

The older man realized he was barefoot, tailored trousers rolled up to the knee and hearing the bubbling water, began to wade into the flow; sharply edged smaller rocks triggered nerve trills up over his ankles, the brisk cold of water mixed with the blood-warmed soles of his feet and he laughed as his time-clogged senses were washed down the river and seeing he was now alone, crossed to the other shore.

*

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

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

Hosted by Denise, constrained by a sentence limit (high and low) of six, there are worse ways to spend the remaining time you have on earth.

Previously…

Prompt word:

STOP

“Forgive me, despite ‘dealing with a sentient non-human beings’ being conspicuously absent in the job description for Café Manager, I am trying not to be caught up in the all-too-human conceit that machine-based life is…well, alien.”

{I’M SURE YOU’RE DOING YOUR BEST TO NOT BE AS RACIST AS YOUR CHAUVINISTIC CONCEIT COMES ACROSS…}

“It’s just that with such a chasm of time between today and 1885, my concern is what your original design parameters were and how they may have been altered or degraded,” the tall, thin man stepped back a step, held the interior glass-and-stainless-steel door open and with the slightest of bows, indicated a table where man and machine might sit and continue their conversation.

The Automaton, for it’s part, walked through the open door but abruptly stopped, turned to face the Manager and, in a demonstration of remarkable, albeit, hundred plus year old engineering, leaned backwards sufficiently to establish direct eye contact with the man…

{SO ARE YOU STILL THE SAME LIFEFORM YOU WERE WHEN YOU WERE A CHILD?}

Laughing, the Proprietor said, “Touché and please forgive my clumsy attempt to put you at ease, the desire to accommodate others is one of the weaknesses of the flesh to which I most desire to put to a stop.”

The tall, thin man, standing to the side of the small, round table as the Automaton approached, looked around the SSC&B with a cautiously hopeful expectation of seeing any of the other Proprietors or Frank, but failing to do so, he continued, “Speaking of mechanical life, I cannot help but wonder how your life is sustained; for we humans the answer is both brief yet grandly poetic, if not quite scientific: red blood coursing through our veins and arteries sustain our life and provide a stable context for the spirit to thrive.”

{AS YOUR THOUGHTS ARE EMBRACED BY A FLOWING, CARNELIAN STREAM, MY SOUL FLOATS IN AN OCEAN OF TIME, THE MOMENT I BECAME AWARE IS AS REAL AND IMMEDIATE AS RIGHT NOW)

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

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

Hosted by Denise, constrained by a sentence limit (high and low) of six, there are worse ways to spend the remaining time you have on earth.

Previously, in our tale...

(Language Advisory. ….’cause, well, Rosetta!)

Prompt word:

NOD

“Who the fuck do you think you are, telling us all to quiet down?”

I knew Rosetta wasn’t addressing her concerns to Anya Clarieaux by the simple fact that she was still breathing and therefore able to voice her feelings about my effort to get the group organized.

“OK, maybe, ‘Everyone try to get a grip and speak in order‘ could’ve been better phrased, but come on, we’re all big kids here and we need to make the most of the moment…

“Or what, your girlfriend, Miz Blondie McPsycho bitch’ll cut you off?”

I looked across the room at Anya, fighting a ‘why me’ look only to see her nod and raise an eyebrow. I secretly hoped she was considering making our Miz Storme the new leader but instead, with a quiet smile, said,

“This man you’re talking trash to is the only person in this room with a history of surviving a conflict with me,” at this, the leader of the Hostage Rescue Team looked suddenly uncomfortable until Anya laughed, “Not you…pussy. ”

As Anya continued her scary-tinged laugh, the Sophomore nodded towards her but spoke to me, “What do we need to remember and does it help that while everyone was in ‘less-fun bondage’, I somehow spent a week in some wacko inventor’s workshop in Victorian London?”

*