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… and (courtsey of Frank) between then and now…

Prompt word:

NOD

“So, would you care to tell me how you ended up in a secret workshop in Room 215 here in the Six Sentence Café & Bistro…”

{HEY, CAN’T YOU SEE I’M WORKING HERE?}

The tall, thin man laughed, walked past the automaton, (that was, at the moment, wearing a turban), in the vestibule of the SSC&B, took the sign propped up on the top of the cigarette machine and, with a black magic marker wrote, in large block letters: CLOSED FOR INTERROGATION; appropriating a display stand of color glossy real estate booklets, he then placed his hand-made sign in the wire rack, stepped back a pace, (‘Pardon me’), looked at his work and smiled.

{YOU CAN’T DO THAT, I PROMISED FRANK I WOULD STAY UNTIL MIMI RETURNED…}

“I need to know you…or, failing that, your backstory, given how you’ve become something of a regular here. And before you write on your little silent movie cards: “What’s to know, I’m a four foot automaton capable of independent action, endearing myself to a group of exceptional people with vast resources“… I need to know what happened back in Victorian London and, here’s a shocker, what became of your creator.”

{NOTHING HAPPENED… IT WAS AN ACCIDENT… I TRIED TO REPAIR… AWW JEEZ I DIDN’T MEAN IT}

The Proprietor stared at the automaton, his expression of a managerial interest being replaced in his eyes by a dark sun rising as the implications of the intertitle card took root and grew; sympathy, the red-headed stepchild of charity held reign, even as he became aware of a sub-sonic keening.

{MY SENTENCE IS TO LIVE ON, AN OUTCAST IN A 21ST CENTURY LAND OF NOD; WITH A SAVOY LANE-TAILORED YAHWEH}

*

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:

FOIL

                                                         “motherfucker!”
“Go bhfaighir bás gan an sagart” *
                         “whoa that was truly some bad shit…”
“if there is a god, she had better have a good reason  oww“

The multilingual cacophony filling the room sent me back to my first arena concert. Released from my restraints, though still in the formal living room of a vacant house, I recalled, with fondness, the hour or so of Marshall amplifier-induced deafness that followed me home that night.

I smiled at the sight of Anya Clarieaux giving orders to the Hostage Rescue Team in her preferred language: ‘Do what I say-ese’. She caught me watching, of course, but I still savored the brief reminder that, despite having foiled an attempt to kidnap us, she wasn’t superhuman.

Waving the man away, Anya threw me a ‘what else would you expect‘ shrug, followed by five seconds of direct eye contact; almost immediately, with a mere finger-circling motion towards my shouting companions, she made me responsible for them.

*  “I hope you die without a priest”.

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.

upstairs …

Prompt word:

FOIL

{SHE SAID THAT?}

The tall, thin man lit his cigarette and looked about for an ashtray; the room was done in authentic, if not somewhat harsh, Victorian decor meant for homes with high ceilings, elaborate moulding, wainscoting and a marble fireplace; one could easily imagine a rental agent hired to offset the plummeting local textile industry, showing the suite of rooms on the second floor to an odd gentleman with a cockney accent.

{…ABOUT ME?}

“Yes, yes she did,” finding an amber glass pedestal ashtray next to a brown leather wingback chair, the Proprietor sat and regarded the four-foot tall automaton; since appearing from a secret door in one wall of the living room of Room 215, the man-shaped machine seemed to have a limitless supply of 12×15 cardstock, the type used for intertitle cards employed in the early 20th century’s silent movies.

“I hazard to say that I, for one, cannot imagine what job you would be suited to in the Café…”

{I’LL DO ANYTHING}

“…although, seeing how due to the antiquated plumbing in the building, the garbage disposal in the kitchen is still on the fritz and from the looks of your design schematics in that workshop, your inventor included a sub-assembly that maybe we can transfer…

{WAIT …WHAT?}

The tall, thin man, opening a fresh pack of Benson & Hedges, pulled the smooth foil wrapper that covered the filter ends and laughed, “Small dude, I’m joking, Mimi will take care of you, not to worry, though… given your height and features… perhaps we could put you in the foyer, “Doctor Zolton Mystic and Seer Your Fortune for 25 cents…”

(Ha Ha… FUCK YOU!)

*

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.

upstairs from…

Prompt word:

RUSH

If you were to venture up the stairs to the second, (or, god-forbid, third), floor of the former mill building housing the Six Sentence Café & Bistro, the silence makes the most forceful impression; the wooden-match-strike sound of shoes on steel-edged concrete steps providing aural punctuation to your upward progress, but it dies as quickly as it flared into life, not reassuring.

The lighting on these floors is sufficient, yet there persists an unreliable quality to the illumination, if were you to notice something of interest along the corridor, it would fade into the asbestos tile and painted walls even as you draw near.

To make matters worse, or to borrow from a vocabulary since deceased, there is an uncanny sense of a rushing sound tied to the lighting, as if the darkness moved independently along the corridor, the feeling worsens on the second floor by a fluttery sound of paper and metal, an intermittent waterfall of reams of stiff paper sliding to the floor.

Stepping through the door of the room marked 215, the sound increases, enhanced by the sight of a figure standing in the center of the room; like a World War I signalman semaphoring the other ships in the task force, except the sailor is four feet tall, made of metal and his flags are titlecards held and discarded in a rhythm not particularly accessible.

{Someone Please Do Something}

{Do You Not Realize That for Beings Like Me Time is a Prison}

{My Creator May Have Been a Genius But Like Many, He Was a Heartless God}

{Put Me Back into Sleep Mode or Free Me From This Standby State}

{You Heartless Bastards Can You Even Imagine Being Alive Without Purpose}

(Goddamn You Set Me Free}

{Please!}

You decide exploring the second floor, (or, god forbid, the third) is way, way above your pay grade, (karmic or otherwise), close your eyes, step into the corridor and, feeling your way along the wall, seek the stairwell and it’s decent into the rational world.

*