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…

Prompt word:

SIGNAL

“What the… ”

If, as the popular metaphor maintains, Time is a river, then no one, having stepped into one, will insist the section of flowing water leading to their position is separate and distinct and that the downstream body of water isn’t still the same river; unfortunately for our adventurers on their way to Chicago, a certain Dr. Egmont not only appreciated this all-is-of-one view but capitalized on it when he built his Time Mechanism, designing into it the capability to focus on an individual with the effect of moving them through their personal history.

Rosetta Storme felt her breath hitch as the burn of tears transformed the view through the car’s windshield into a sad and blurry kaleidoscope, a blackhole pulled her down and back in time; asphalt and white lines were replaced with autumn grass and rows of headstones. The hands that gripped the car’s steering wheel became younger, nails without color or polish, a coat of lighter construction than the blue-grey clouds might call for and before her un-mascara’d eyes, a sea of black-on-black-on-sadness showed through on all but the oldest of faces.

As real as the cold November wind ruffling their shrouds, two coffins stood at momentary rest next to a pair of open graves; as the priest droned on in a dead language about senseless killings and the promise of heaven for the benefit of the living gathered in the cemetery, a man in a dark suit stood next to the formally-carefree girl; Rosetta felt her uncle’s presence and dark strength, no words needed other than his turning his left palm forward until Rosetta, taking his hand, signaled she was ready to continue her journey.

“…fuck!?!?!”

Rosetta Storme felt the car drift towards the breakdown lane, successfully regaining control even as the tactile feedback from her hands to her brain changed from the rough skin texture of a hand accustomed to exerting force to one of a leather-wrapped steering wheel in a German luxury sedan.

*

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:

HELP

“Don’t know if this helps any of you, but I’ve had a number of dealings with Anya Clarieaux and, well, I’m still alive,” I left it at that, figuring any laughter or lighten-up humor would not go over well.

To no one’s surprise, Lou’s niece, Rosetta Storme piped up, “Big fuckin’ deal, Sherlock, that does exactly what to help me or the nun get through this increasingly Victorian sci-fi caper we’re some how caught up in?”

“Or me,” from the sound of it, the male voice was somewhere close to Rosetta.

The extraordinary fidelity of the three-way phone connection was to be expected whenever Anya and the Omni Corporation were involved, even for Sister Aclima, walking down a pedestrian-dense Manhattan sidewalk.

“I haven’t forgotten London, Mr. Devereux,” Sister Aclima’s words were that of professionals trading shoptalk over drinks at the Tavern on the Green, her tone was black-site rendition Twenty Questions.

“Hey, I just texted my uncle and he said to tell you he was at that Café place to meet his favorite author…. la Raconteuse somebody;” I was about to ask Rosetta to assure my admin, Hazel, that I was fine and on schedule, when Anya’s voice cut through it all,

“Cool your jets, children; you’re involved in something for more dangerous and consequential than personal grudges.”

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 out current tale...

Prompt word:

HELP

The Six Sentence Café & Bistro is a semi-private bar/hangout/venue/midnight rendezvous that has been on every list of Best Place to: propose marriage or partnership/breakup with spouse/reconcile with a certain someone; with it’s single long bar, a row of alcoves along the exterior wall and a sea of small, round wooden tables, the atmosphere is intimate, private and very much the tabula rasa for those with both the Will and the Desire to find their way to there.

“Hazel… what the fuck are you doin’ here,” Lou Caesare’s interrogative was a discreet whisper, provided one measured its volume as a double digit percentage reduction of his normal speaking voice; before his words could bounce back off the far wall, he turned towards his companion and with the hint of anacoenosis that he favored when he had to make a second visit to collect on an outstanding loan, said “Diane, help me out here, what the fuck is she doin’ here?”

After a pause, both in the subtle background music and animated conversation from the crowd around them, all three began to laugh… the silence threatened to become a permanent condition, until Lou added, “Drinks on the house… provided someone in this joint can tell me where’s the redhead!”

Moving to the bar, Lou sat between Diane Tierney and Hazel Grover, their collective silhouette against the illuminated rows of liquor bottles was reminiscent of a landscape painting of Monument Park by Maxfield Parrish on mushrooms; addressing Ian Devereaux’s admin he provided the answer to an unasked question.

“I’m here tonight because I enjoy a good read as much as the next criminal mastermind; as to how I met Chris, funny story that, there was a book release here and your boy Ian insisted I put in an appearance, give the soireé a dash of the wild side, word on the street was the New York Times was sending a reporter, a real Upper East Side trust fund orphan by the name Naomi or Natasha or some fricken thing, I was here to provide a touch of criminal ethnicity if you get my drift. Fortunately she wrote a good review, it was all a tempest in a C cup, to coin a metaphor.”

*

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:

FLAG

“First of all, nothing bad will happen to any of you as you make your way to my city.

After you get here… well, that’s kind of up to you,” Anya Clarieaux had a gift for speaking over a distance; her talent for vocal inflection imbued her voice with such presence that every grin and raised eyebrow was converted to a memorable portrait of the person in the listener’s mind, think: truly great silent movie actors… except in reverse.

“After I hang up, this group call connection remains open so you three can, if you are so inclined, explore common interests or goals; that said, if any of you are tempted by the thought of running a false flag move on the others, don’t bother; I will not hesitate to make my resources available to those bearing the brunt of any attack,” Anya’s voice faded slightly, as if turning slightly from her microphone, followed immediately by a coughing fit that sounded like: “Crazy nun, Sister Ah ah ah clima!”

“Gesudheit,” the Sophomore’s voice was clear, concise and quite sincere.

“Ell-mer, my man!” Anya Clarieaux reacted with unalloyed surprise and delight; the Sophomore smiled without affectation or guile and replied, “Gonna wave my freak flag high!”

“Yeah, you are,” Anya Claireaux, in the safety of her office atop the Omni Corp building at 333 Wabash Ave., relaxed and felt good.