Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)
This is the Doctrine’s contribution-of-the-weak to jenne and ceayr‘s bloghop, ‘the Unicorn Challenge‘.
A mirror of unreliable silvering, all invitees are told one thing: ‘this is an image, now tell your Readers and we few, we creatively-driven few, we band of bloggers a two-hundred and fifty word story.
“Shit.”
Surely the most concise and, therefore, powerful of invective.
The human animal often holds up language as its crowning achievement and distinguishing characteristic. Above all other animals, on a throne supported by a stubborn consistency of sound, at once remarkable and, yet, in it’s tendency to branch off into dialects and pidgin in fact, diminishing. Nothing is more emblematic of the curse of the fruit of a certain Garden than to choose, among the countless choices of sounds… words, than this:
“Shit.”
I looked down over the terrain. The blue of the sky made more the abyss by banks of grey-on-white clouds. The first to navigate the River of Time and my first impression is ‘an Artist’s studio minus the nude’. Of course I recognized the buildings, there was no mistaking my location.
When I was, as the Bard so tactilely invoked, there’s the rub.
The Mound was as it must be. The approach to the Baths was as conspicuously missing. Compounding my sense of dislocation were black pathways running in too-even rows among trees that had shed circumference by a factor not possible to yet remain alive. The afterbirth of Man’s effort to sire Nor Loch was there, but possessed the smoothed contours expected of the very young and the too-old.
“Damn that Professor Egmont and his infernal machine!”
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