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:

TRICK

Eibingen, Germany:

“Mother Superior, Sister Aclima is in New York City, on her way to the Metropolitan Museum of Art rather than checking in at the Order’s hotel,” the woman behind the desk nodded acknowledgement, her expression a slow-dance between surprise and resignation; a flick of the fingers on her left hand served as dismissal to the young admin who did a poor job of disguising her excitement to be in possession of such scandalous news, the Order of Lilith’s Eibingen Abbey was not exactly the most wired-in convent in Europe.

Manhattan, New York:

Sister Aclima stared out the half-tinted window of the Yellow Cab as the scene changed from the suburban sprawl of Long Island to the concrete ecosystem of the City; the denser the development the more she felt like a 21st Century Gulliver, cast ashore in increasingly strange lands; as the cab approached Central Park, she felt a kinship with Jonathon Swift as out her cab window the sublime danced with the ridiculous; excitement turning a trick with a carefully conceived plan to change the world.

Medium-Sized City in the US Northeast:

Lou Caesare sat at the far end of the row of red leather booths that looked out over Weybossett Street; he scowled through the cloud of cigar smoke that gathered like thunderheads which had the effect of causing the volume of conversation in the Bottom of the Sea Strip Club and Lounge to drop precipitously, a truly impressive manifestation of emotional micro-entrainment in a public setting.

Chicago, Illinois

Anya Clarieaux rose from her desk in an unmarked office on the 42nd floor of the OmniCorp Building and walked towards the wall of glass, drawn to the vast expanse of Lake Michigan which appeared as still and blue as the oceans on an elementary school globe; turning to stare at a group of CCTV displays on an interior wall, each labeled in local time, she smiled.

Miami, Florida:

Cyrus St. Loreto walked the length of the window wall that overlooked Biscayne Bay and the Atlantic Ocean, a miracle of light control technology, besides shading the interior of the Bernbau Company’s boardroom, an impressive synthesis of material science and digital illumination systems cast what might best be called a custom, localized shadow wherever the owner of the Company happened to be; when he moved, the shade followed…perfectly; from overhead a voice, “Mr. St. Loreto, the nun has landed…” Cyrus, bathed in semi-darkness, smiled.

Oxford, England (1875):

“Professor Egmont, the Council has voted, you are relieved of both your duties and responsibilities as Chair of the Department of Physics; the mechanism you created is now the property of the University; for the record I see nothing in these proceedings to  warrant a smile.”

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.

Readers! Through the magic of our metaphoric hangout and the creative mind of Chris (one of the Proprietors of said SSC&B) we have the first example of the power of the virtual world. Established characters in an enduring imaginary location following different narrative trails. v cool. You will notice a difference in the layout of ‘ [a Café Six]’ in the the subtitle. Have fun! Better yet, join in on the fun.

Previously…

Prompt word:

SPICE

“Hey, Ian, am I hallucinating or did those ‘Proprietors’ of yours just walk out on my little warm-up speech; oh well, since its just Rosetta and her sidekick-with-benefits I need; in light of your use to me in the past, I won’t arrange for them to meet their makers… tonight.”

Anya Claireaux’s voice became as innocuous as a priest administering penance to third grade children prior to their First Communion, “Come on, I’m kidding, really, but speaking of killers, I do appreciate your professionalism here tonight Lou; I won’t insult you by saying if you ever need any special help, call me… and, needless to say, big respect to your people’s development of omertà, well, as they say, admittedly in a different context, ‘Thank you for your service.'”

Lou Caesare, receiving a feral smile of assent from Rosetta, rose from the table and walked towards his driver waiting at the door; stopping at the end of the bar, the owner of the Bottom of the Sea Strip Club and Lounge looked back, “Devereaux, unless you want to stay and be a bottom for your Dragon Lady’s meeting with my niece and boyfriend, I suggest you join me, variety ain’t always the spice of life.”

As the door hissed it’s Last Call, Anya Clarieaux’s voice dominated the darkened Bistro, “As the folks at one of my publishing houses love to say, let me lay the logline on the next bestseller on you.

‘Sent to America by age-old secret Order, a troubled nun must confirm the existence of a working time machine; tricking a young couple into helping her, she fails to realize they are reporting to a woman running a multi-national information company. They might just live happily ever after.'”

“Hey, Ethan, you know that your girlfriend Rosetta here, she doesn’t really believe those stories about how you were mysteriously transported from your college dorm room in 1972… but even with that, I think you’re the team I need to pull this off, what with your knowledge and her balls.”

*

*

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… Concurrently with this, our contribution to Chris’s Tale from the SSC&B

Prompt word:

NEED

The tall, thin man sat on the edge of the very new, very expensive desk and fidgeted, no small feat given that the soft curves of rare woods were polished to a mirror finish.

At the mid-point of the rectangular office floor-plan, the decor went from over-flowing ashtrays, dog-eared Rolodex on a smudged pencil-hieroglyphic’d blotter, (just recently up-up-way-up graded by Chris’s gift of the aforementioned desk), as found in many a small business, the decor transitioned into a comfortable sitting area, all top-grain leather couches and club chairs; at the moment, the Gatekeeper, stepping away from the onyx mantle of the fireplace to the entertainment console, lowered the tonearm on the Clearaudio turntable and with a flourish of his Fuente y Padrón Legends, announced, “Led Zeppelin… first use of pre-echo on a guitar track.”

Standing in front of the red-haired writer, the tall, thin man extended his hand, “Please, la Raconteuse, I totally need you to try the Eames office chair…be careful of the buttons, the instruction manual is two inches thick and does everything but light your cigarette, you have such good taste in furniture;” pulling the chair out and seating the red-haired woman, the tall, thin man walked back to the office door and pulled it open.

Pushing a service cart loaded with a steaming coffee urn and full china service, the Bartender announced, “I’ll just park this in front of the desk and head to couch by Nick, been on my feet all day…”

“Wait, cher, one surely cannot survive on caffeine alone,” Mimi followed, pushing a pastry cart, “We have beignets, Tarte à la Bouillie and,” adding a magician’s flourish to the pedestal cake-holder, “Doberge.”

“Sit, please, all of you,” once the other Proprietors were seated, the Manager poured cups of steaming coffee for each and immediately wheeled the pastry cart in a hyper-caloric Fibonacci spiral until everyone was served.

Raising his cup, the Manager said, “To insanely creative friends who I was blessed to find after being washed up on the shores of Metaphoria, welcome.”

*

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:

NEED

“Kayla, come down out of that tree this instant, young lady! Your uncle is here, now don’t make that face, he is kind enough to take you places and show you how big the world really is, so be a good girl and give us a smile.”

“Kay, dude, we’re all up for the Ouija board and candles, but I think you’re taking this a little too far, come on, the sun’s out, the beach awaits… even if you insist on wearing flannel and jeans, but you need to lighten up and enjoy life.”

“Your transcripts are exemplary, test scores in the top 1 percent; however the Admissions Committee had certain reservations arising from comments in your online High School Yearbook:  ‘For a girl you got more keloid than a vision-impaired knife-fighter‘ and ‘Remember or not…that class trip to Capitol City, way to put the BAC in baccalaureate‘; we are, nevertheless, willing to accept your application on a probationary basis.”

“You almost fuckin’ killed both of us… stop the car, give me the keys, and get out… Uber yourself home, I’m through… you need help… ”

“The Order is neither homeless shelter nor a refuge for the abused… no, don’t interrupt; we are not here to cure or fix anyone; simply put, we are more tool shed than first aid station, more armory than embassy, so if you’re willing to give up being the victim and take up arms in defense of your sisters, there might be a place for you here.”

“Ladies, Gentlemen and fucked-up nuns, this is your captain speaking, as we are on our final approach, please return your seat to the uptight position, fasten whatever real or imaginary restraints you may enjoy and observe the no smoking sign, especially you, Kayla, you sexy thing and thank you for flying Lilith Air,” Sister Aclima felt the dull-electric jolt as she ricocheted out of her premature hypnagogic state.

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:

FILL

“Hello everyone, my name is Anya Clarieaux and I just know you’re gonna find what I have to tell you to be…well, let’s just say, interesting.”

Perhaps it was the superior quality of the Bistro’s sound system or maybe audio-enhancing digital magic in the phone system housed in the Omni Corporation building, who can say for sure, the effect was to place the contralto voice not merely in the room, but within a lover’s breath of each and every individual present.

From the cardinal points of the single round table with a cigarette scarred/drink-ringed lacquer top were heard, in tones ranging from outraged to offended; concerned to simple regret:

“Shit, that psycho bitch,”

“Who the fuck is that?”

“Uh oh”

“Damn!”

At various points along the bar that ran from just inside the entrance foyer down the width of the Café and ending at the perpetually under-lit hallway leading to the Manager’s office, were all the Proprietors who, being only human, (as far as anyone could prove) reacted as well:

“Awwrihgt Anya,”

“Pour l’amour de dieu, tha Bonne a rienne,”

“Wat op die wêreld,”

“Ti ston diávolo?”

“Wish I was a drummer, I’d totally play the fill from ‘In the air Tonight'”