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…

Prompt word:

BALLOON

Anya Clarieaux glanced to her right, nodded ever so slightly and walked to where Rosetta sat as close to the Sophomore as the geometry of the round table permitted.

Even as she approached the couple, two waiters appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, positioned themselves behind the young couple and, with a demonstration of professional food service kung fu, moved them still seated, a chair’s width apart; without hesitation Anya stepped to the newly created space and sat, a chair materializing and held by the head waiter, ‘Danke, Enriico, you’re a dear.”

Turning to the Sophomore, Anya smiled like a recently sated predator, “My research department tells me you’re the only one at this table with direct experience with time travel,” smiling over her shoulder she winked at Rosetta, “We may need a …debriefing some time soon.”

“Rosetta, your involvement in the trajectory of the parcel now approaching Chicago is even more direct than Sister Aclima’s; whereas she is merely a member in the organization that took possession of the component a century and a half ago, while you and your family were about to go into business with the man who arranged the exchange. Sure, your uncle’s proposal amounted to nothing more than a trial balloon, however you need to appreciate the nature of the man in Miami, a certain Cyrus St. Loreto.

Sister Aclima jumped at the mention of the name but quickly regained her composure, all the while her guide, Brother Lymphocytus was busy making the sign of the cross.

Sliding her phone across to the center of the table, her tone now decidedly more business-like, “Devereaux, do me a solid and put this in the middle of the table, on speaker, I want you all to listen to Lou and Anya and Cyrus.”

*

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…

Prompt word:

THUNDER

The broad blue afternoon sky conveyed the uncertainty of an uninvited guest to the party-on-the-roof and frowned itself a low-row of dark clouds. Keeping a distance, it mostly hid behind the other buildings in the industrial district; an occasional flash of lightning, ineffectual attempts to announce itself. As a last-ditch effort to be noticed, it produced a distant chorus of thunder.

The tall, thin man stepped backwards through the door to the stairway led down to the lower floors of the mill building that housed the Six Sentence Café & Bistro. As his left knee accepted the weight of his body, his right leg extended into the stairwell, even as his mind considerately provided an ink and pen drawing of ta’i chi: 捋 (Lǚ).

The Proprietor’s last open-air view was of people surrounding la Raconteuse who, in turn, smiled at friends both new and old, with the kind of wistfulness that spoke of childhood games played out by actors far too old for their parts; only Frank, his head nodding to something or someone unseen, appeared comfortable in the social embrace of the other guests.

*

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...

Prompt word:

PLAN

“…stop talking.”

To better appreciate who, (and, to a suicidally-heretical few, what,) Anya Clarieaux is, consider this: she’d reserved the finest table in the Signature Room (on the 95th floor of the former John Hancock building in Chicago), for five people.

Sure, not a big deal, after all, at least a small handful of people in the city had the juice to compel the restaurant to cancel on an hour’s notice several, to-die-for reservations.

It does help, however, in this, our illustration of the woman’s power and influence, to know that the floor plan of the room consisted of tables radiating out from a single, large round table that commanded the maximum view of the night-city below. As a matter of fact, staff and a few, not-quite-powerful-enough parties, referred to it as ‘the Circle of Excellence’; it is helpful to note that not all who might call it that, were being churlish.

The thing about Anya Clarieaux is that, after crossing the room from the elevator, she stopped to address her five guests and were a diner, late for their reservation to ask the maître d’hôtel why the room was silent, the answer would be a whispered, “Because Miz Clarieaux is standing at the head of our best table.”

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…

Prompt word:

PLAN

The tall, thin man stepped forward, grasping the extended hand, “Feferil.”

Turning towards the distressed-green leather wingback chair currently the source of hospitality and succor to half of the pair of time/dimension travelers, he smiled while offering the hint of a bow, “Miz Brigid, the pleasure is entirely ours.”

Shifting focus to his fellow Proprietor, “Miz la Racontuese, I trust you don’t mind hosting our two Time Jaunters; according to a plan that I suspect was drawn up on a date not depicted in our current calendars by agency not yet identified,” interrupting him the sound of linen-on-cloth rustling, followed by a title card held with a certain mechanical sadness:

[But…but…but]

“…as much as I’d love to stay, I have certain responsibilities.”

Hearing, as much as seeing, the door to Room 215 begin to close, the Proprietor moved rapidly, “Hey, Frank I’m on my way to the staircase to the roof, care to join me?”

As the door swung shut behind the two men, the tall, thin man could be heard, “Jeez Louise, Frank, watch out for the… if we’re going to make it to the stairwell, you better stick close; I’d swear that the perpetual hallway darkness-thing has, for some reason, taken to disliking you.

I want to make sure that if la R and Reelika get it in their mind to go up to the roof, it’s safe for them; as safe as might is reasonable for any hundred and fifty year old mill roof that’s one-third Renaissance Observatory, one-third Medieval castle battlement and one-half whatever we want/need it to be.”

*