Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)
hey! the world out there is holding off, (stalled, occulded coldfronts, windsheer from the West’ard), lets see what happens when we try a photo-prompt from our friends to the east…(way East, so East they’re having lunch as we write). We referring, of course, to jenne and ceayr‘s hangout, the Unicorn Challenge.
Simple rules, subtly provocative photos and a gang of writers with mad talent at the wordage.
(this week’s photation):
“This is it? A second-rate staging of metaphor that makes a pie-in-the-face the height of subtle inference?! If there’s any divine agency and, if this mise-en-scène offers any insight, we’re dealing with a god possessed of all the sophistication of a Norman Rockwell painting, minus the pederastic sub-text.”
The man looked back down the trail that were there any chronological continuity to where he became self-aware, was the path he’d followed. The hint of bitter whimsy rose among the words of his soliloquy like the smell of a fart at a formal dinner; but a stirring of his hair, as if by a breeze, restrained his coiled pain sufficiently to permit the view of the world he’d spent a lifetime enduring to re-establish a sense of narrative order.
“Clearly,” he thought, “Death has accepted my offer of the exchange. Damn sporting of Him.”
From beyond the second fence grew … sound. Not noise, not words-shared-in-common-context, not simple nature, but the sketching of an aural portrait. Pushing past what appeared half a rusted-pipe turnstile, the notion of a turnstile and the words on the sign exuded tendrils of sentimental need, like emotional sea anemones, predators posing as passive vegetation, giving up the advantage of speed and strength in exchange for co-opting the will of the prey.
It wasn’t the bite of a certain Apple that condemned Man, rather it was their creator’s conceit in bringing to the world Hope as the stalking horse of Death, the true god of the mortal.
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