And that'll do it. Your opinion raised hounds in me
Though I lowered their watery voices deep,
Like a door click for which there is no dream.
I can see through these windows fortunes away from us,
Our projects taking over from the front lawn.
I stopped by. Maybe I invented you,
But you are pleased, and committed, and in your letters there are
Quick notes and songs so dressed I strain
To let them transpire. Senses, you do more with less
And forbidden, you want no part of what's
Streaming by, although on these rocks it appears
As only the general store and the eddies that rely
On an eye for vortices hold hands for days.
Like an expensive sports car, fine-tuned and well-built, Portia was sleek,
shapely, and gorgeous, her red jumpsuit moulding her body, which was as warm
as 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 Romeo.
-- Rachel Sheeley, winner
The hair ball blocking the drain of the shower reminded Laura she would never
see her little dog Pritzi again.
-- Claudia Fields, runner-up
It could have been an organically based disturbance of the brain -- perhaps a
tumor or a metabolic deficiency -- but after a thorough neurological exam it
was determined that Byron was simply a jerk.
-- Jeff Jahnke, runner-up
Winners in the 7th Annual Bulwer-Lytton Bad Writing Contest. The contest is
named after the author of the immortal lines: "It was a dark and stormy
night." The object of the contest is to write the opening sentence of the
worst possible novel.
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