Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest

In the tradition established by Scott Rice, founder of the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest – http://www.bulwer-lytton.com – here are my current entries :

Hurtling down the solid ice run towards Dead Men’s bend at 120 mph, Olaf, the steersman of the Norwegian olympic six-man bobsleigh team, was toying with the idea of serving garlic mushrooms instead of prawn cocktail as the starter for his dinner party that evening.

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Despite the excruciating pain caused by the bullet lodged in his thigh and the gangrenous condition of his frostbitten fingers, and having already missed one previous lesson, Julian felt compelled to attend his disco dancing class at the local community centre.

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Secluded in the mountain cave, legs folded in the classic lotus position, eyes closed and breath so soft that it would not disturb even a feather suspended by a very thin thread maybe 3 or 4 cm from his nostrils, assuming that there were no draughts in the cave of course and the feather was one of those extremely soft downy ones, from a duckling for example, that had been splashing about in the water, close to its mother for safety, he sat in deep zen meditation.

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Secluded in the mountain cave, legs folded in the classic lotus position, eyes closed and breath so soft that it would not disturb even a feather, he sat in deep zen meditation, many years of practice having given him the ability to completely empty his mind of all thoughts, leaving him blissfully open to spiritual enlightenment thus ending the eternal cycle of birth, death and rebirth, when all at once, unbidden and totally unexpectedly, a thought appeared: “Did I forget to turn that fucking oven off again before I left the flat today?”

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Looking deep into the dark liquid pools of her eyes, drowning in the intensity of her stare, washed by her pity and scrubbed clean by her profound understanding of him, oceans apart from his wife, Odette, now on the other side of the Atlantic, a professional diving instructor who had ditched him for Walter, a man who had plumbed the depths of depravity with his unfathomable need for erotic water sports, he felt a tear trace a wet path down his cheek.

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The assassin, having lost his bearings somewhere near Paddington Station and in a black mood during a rare respite from his grisly occupation, feeling increasingly browned off, unbearably remorseful for the pandemonium he had caused over the years, at locations ranging from Polar icecap to sun-drenched beach, from Siberia to Mexico, suddenly became furious on observing a bespectacled man, slothful of his civic duty, casually dropping an empty cinnamon-bar wrapper, and, snarling, shot him squarely between the eyes, barely giving the corpse a second glance as he walked away growling to himself “Now where can I get some honey?”.

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Ass he watched her fare hare waive in the breeze he thawed toe himself “Watt a waist”, there short liaison a bout two come too an abrupt finnish as a derelict result off the importunate a fair with the desert spoons witch hard crated such constellation amongst the party gusts and effected the shirt relationship sew adversary.

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Like ships in the night their meetings had become as rare as a comet, but despite it raining cats and dogs they were determined to make the most of this golden opportunity, both believing that every cloud has a silver lining, one must seize the day as bold as a lion, take the bull by the horns and accept that you only live once.

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Irritatingly abderian and  an incorrigible aeolist, Godfrey Witherspoon  nevertheless enjoyed extraordinary popularity with the opposite sex – despite (or even perhaps because of) his obvious apodyopsistic tendencies – but it was his preoccupation with callipygian ladies and his colposinquanonialistic habit that had eventually led to his disgrace.

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They sat together on the causeuse, he basorexial, she considering whether vesthibitionism would excite him, both eagerly anticipating the decubitis that would soon follow but, being committed cruciverbalists, they knew that they would have to solve 24 down, the last remaining clue, before succumbing to their mutual concupiscence.

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They sat together on the causeuse, he basorexial, she considering whether vesthibitionism would excite him, both eagerly anticipating the decubitis that would soon follow, but their pocket dictionary didn’t contain definitions of the ridiculously obscure words the writer had used to describe the scene, so they were at a complete loss as to what they should do next.

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The wind blew softly through the trees, caressing their limbs as trysting lovers entwined might (caress each other’s limbs that is, not tree branches), the lake lapped gently at the shore as a suckling baby might (at its mother’s breast of course, not actually suckling the shore), an owl hooted its night call like a hooting owl at night might (hoot that is), and lots of other night stuff might also have going on as night stuff might (be going on I mean).

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The trees sighed with pleasure as the wind caressed their limbs, the lake lapped contentedly at the shore, the grass waved cheerily to all and sundry and the moon smiled benignly between the playful clouds while George buried his latest victim.

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Some thought that the disappearances bore an uncanny resemblance to the Bermuda Triangle mysteries, others that they were similar to the events that took place on the Marie Celeste, and there were those convinced that alien abductions were the cause, but nobody really knew why passengers boarding certain flights to North-European countries simply vanished into Finnair – that is until now…

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Our story is one of noble shivery, of interceded love missiles, improper prepositions, angry alterations between heroin and unwanted suitcase, betrothal and receipt, and finally of happy family reconstructions;  but please, dear reader, be patent and let me start at the conclusion.

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