elizabeth lane lawley
michael "OC" clarke
e v h e a d
sweet fancy moses
wood s lot
m. melting object
Tuesday, October 15, 2002
The Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest
Cribbed from the
2002 Results page...
- Like an expensive sports car, fine-tuned and well-built, Portia was
sleek, shapely, and gorgeous, her red jumpsuit molding her body, which
was as warm as the seatcovers in July, her hair as dark as new tires,
her eyes flashing like bright hubcaps, and her lips as dewy as the
beads of fresh rain on the hood; she was a woman driven -- fueled by a
single accelerant -- and she needed a man, a man who wouldn't shift from
his views, a man to steer her along the right road, a man like Alf
Sheila was easy as opening a jar of pickles, not one closed by a man
who has virility doubts and closes a jar so women and young boys get
hernias opening it or at least the boys get them; although I heard
about a woman who had a hiatal hernia so I guess women get them too
but doctors don't ask them to cough unless their malpractice covers
sexual deviance but a jar closed by some ninety-year-old whose grip on
the jar as well as reality has slipped.
- As Professor Wincklespoon took a sip from his coffee, craving the
caffeine that scalding hot water had seduced from the beans, his eyes
fell on an old equation he had written down years ago, metaphorically
speaking, for the falling of his eyes should not be taken literally,
and suddenly it struck him, as if his mind had been cleared by the
same stormy wind that had brought a dark cloud overhead, two million
volts of electricity from that same cloud and gone were the man and
his equation, the solution to the theory of everything.
- It was then that Caroline remembered her kitchen back in Montana, with
a stove that she might or might not have turned off, and so with a
heavy sigh, she put down the penguin.
- "Mummy's gone to Paris to buy hats, and Daddy's pranged the Bentley,"
Fiona responded with a m�lange of wry acceptance and distant promise,
her ring-less fingers playing slippily on the moist champagne flute in
a way that suggested to the normally jaded Sir Jeremy far more than
merely imbibing Bucks Fizz.
- Having opened my 40th birthday present from my husband -- a kitchen
window fan -- and now on my way to the bakery to pick up my cake, I
started thinking: What if I get hit in this intersection, and, struck
with amnesia, I hobble to the edge of the highway, hungry and
confused, and am picked up by a lonely trucker headed for McDonald's
and since I have no memory, I've forgotten I hate McDonald's, so I hop
in, and he -- just thankful for the company -- figures I'm a middle-aged
housewife looking for love in all the wrong places and he's got
several of them?
2:44 PM | link |
get your badge here.
"RageBoy: Giving being fucking nuts a good name since 1985."
28 October 2004
||More of Chris Locke's photos
Until a minute ago, I had no photos. I still have no photos to speak of.
I don't even have a camera. But all these people were linking to "my photos."
It was embarassing. It's still embarassing. But I'm used to that.
what I'm listening to...
egr on topica
on yahoo groups
terms of service
It is too late.