Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

This is the Wakefield Doctrine’s contribution to Doug’s new(ish) bloghop the Min-to-Min for this, the somethingth of February.

Only two requirements placed on those of us driven to write: it must key off of a specific phrase, idea or prompt word and it cannot exceed two hunnert an pfity words.

So, head over to there. Reading the stories is fun. But, if you’re so inclined, why not write one and link it to the ‘hop. It’s a very collegial bunch of writers there, you will feel comfortable. (though, maybe it best not to say anything about who you heard it from, ya know?

This week’s prompt

Spy Balloon

Marie Sophrosynée did not cry.

Her only child, Dieudonné, stood before her in the living room. To fortify her resolve, Marie looked past her son at the room that had been their refuge since the loss of a third of their family. The photo of the family as a whole remained on the mantle, a man in uniform, a woman in love and a child that made them whole.

Marie hated and loved the photo, but endured both as it was the last remnant of a life destroyed.

“And, they said, because I am of legal age, I could enlist right there, with the other boys.”

Dieu, (as Marie preferred), stood with an awkward pride. His mother’s glance towards the mantle did not go un-noticed. But he heard the Sergeant’s last words, after securing binding signatures from the very young men in his office, spoken with the invigorating confidence, “Don’t talk more than you must at home, lads. Just remind them that you are making them proud citizens of the State.”

Marie Sophrosynée, sensing with the corrosive wisdom of a mother’s love, that to cry or to clutch at her son might leave a vulnerability, like Thetis at the rivers edge, smiled and put her hand on his head in painful benediction.

The recruiting poster he held, fell and unrolled on the floor.  Florid colors and cartoonish lettering:

“Your Country Needs You. Train to Be a Spy Balloon Pilot.! Protect Our Freedoms! Sign Up Now!!!”

Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

This week, Doug is directing us to employ a fairly common convention in prompt-writing exercises, the classic ‘Finish the sentence’

Totally fun bloghop. Way clever, talented writers. And…and! they let us participate!  Click here to head over to ‘Min Min Prompt‘ (tell ’em the Doctrine sent ya)

(With nothing but utmost respect, we might suggest that our host should have been warned how extremely enticing this particular form of prompt is to those of us genetically-predisposed to the Stream-of-Consciousness approach to writing. That howling? Had I not spent the previous week, laid-low by a winter cold, I would’ve thought to send a note to ceayr by way of warning re: our effort this week, ’cause you know, rhetorical license.)

“The world thought it had seen everything until…”

You read the bold-font, italicized prompt and smile. You feel what you believe are hints of stimulation, adolescent fingers lost in a forest of foreign clothing, as the possibilities abound. However, it is early and so, are not concerned with the mundane details of plot and narrative. The way ahead is non-defined, your position preliminary; no commitments have been demanded, nor promises made. Your smile grows, as buttons and hooks conspire to end an age.

‘It’s been a while…’ without thinking, as it has ‘been a while’, you realize two things: you’ve accepted Second Person POV status and you’ve added your own ellipsis’d sentence fragment.

And, in a fleeting return to the rational, realize while first-draft writing is refreshing, you’ve already used 123 of your 250 word allowance.

Your head swells up and your face falls as you realize the only way out is through the door marked: META- 2nd POV notwithstanding.

The metaphorical heat of the beginning, meant to be pruriently (if not adolescently) suggestive becomes the red-glow of self-consciousness as you approach the word-limit threshold. Above the abyss is a sign, red-shades of blue pencil letters: ‘Experimental fiction is a label championed by the undisciplined to defy the skillful’.

Watching the shreds of hope for a Hail Mary story-hook Coriolis down the drain, (in the wrong direction), you type:

“... they were tricked into reading this.”

 

Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

This is the Doctrine’s contribution to Doug‘s new bloghop: The M of M.

(You should go check it out! Totally with instructions and a bunch of writers with mad wordage skills. Yeah, and we’re there as well??!)

This week, availing ourselfs of only 250 words, we are, all of us, invited to write a story involving the following prompt:

The best-laid schemes o’ mice an’ men
Gang aft agley (often go astray)

“Measure twice and cut once,” the five-year-old boy looked at his father who stood at the fluorescent-lit workbench, held up a ruler. Both had taken refuge in the basement workshop to escape the house above and the emotional discord waiting where the other half of the family rested.

“Plan your work and work your plan,” the boy, now a college professor, stood at front of the freshman engineering class, looked down at his dimly-lit lectern and smiled, “Failure is the bastard son of building without knowing everything about your materials.”

“And this will be the baby’s room,” smiling abstractly, the young man glanced at the girl at his side. A diamond on her left ring finger reflected light intermittently, as she leaned forward over the LED-lit drafting table.

“Don’t you understand? She is everything to me.”

“My father used to always say, Failure to plan is planning to fail.” Pacing through the flickering light of the church, the groom stared at the man charged with holding the ring and the cell phone. The device came to life with a sound, an unnatural sequence of tones; half musical and half incantation, the new century’s soul-less equivalent of a trusted guardian.

“Is that her?!! Is there anything wrong? No, just read it to me!” The best-man complied, in a tone as stilted as the grammar in world of texting instead of speaking:

“I don’t love you. You never asked me if I did. Sorry to ruin your plans for my life.”

Welcome to the Wakefield Doctrine (the theory of clarks, scotts and rogers)

Hey, so there’s this new prompt-write place we’re auditioning for. (Students of the Doctrine will now be raising eyebrows and reaching for real-or-imagined popcorn…. a clark deliberately going to a party?!?! This we gots to see.)

So, we got this message today, in a rarely-used email account:

In less than 250 words write a story inspired by “strange lights in the sky”.

The new apex predator confronted life: food to be found; predators to avoid.

The sun dominated the daytime sky with a simple directive: live and prosper. Despite His pride in this first quality of the earth, (‘Let there be Light!’), god grudgingly allow darkness to hold sway with a different agenda: hide and survive.

A stable dichotomy held until the upright hominids faced the inherent quality setting them apart from other living things: a subjective life that rivaled, in potential, their natural skills at running, tool-making and subjecting the weaker members of their kind to capricious will.

When the communal fire died down or a hunter stumbled away from the group, there was no escaping the strange lights in the sky. Like the whispers the spinster-to-be fought to un-hear, the night was not so simple and quite enticing:

‘Who am I, why am I here’