[Marion Shore]

Not poetry, but I think it looks promising. I myself, with all due modesty, believe I possess a flair for trash-- which I'm sure many of you do too, if you'll only reach into your inner garbage cans.


No. 2587: Open and shut case
The annual Bulwer–Lytton contest challenges entrants to come up with a magnificently bad opening to an imaginary novel. You are invited to submit a first paragraph so appalling that it is guaranteed to repel any would-be reader (150 words maximum). Entries to ‘Competition 2587’ by 12 March or email lucy@spectator.co.uk.

BTW, John, I hope you don't feel I've usurped you as nuncio of the Speccie competition. And, thanks for putting us on to this competition. Really fun, a great time waster, and I've made more money on these than I've made on poetry in a good number of years (0.00, in round figures.)

[Roger Slater]

Although they say that the way to a man's heart is through his
stomach, Myron never expected his surgeon to take it literally, and
therefore never expected to be the plaintiff in one of the oddest
medical malpractice cases ever to be presented to a jury of men and
women who could scarcely bring themselves to look at the evidence, and
when they did, found it difficult to suppress a chuckle at Myron's
expense.

[Roger Slater]

Many years later, after the shame had mellowed into something more
like mortification, Andrew swore that he had learned from his past
mistakes, although he steadfastly refused to say what those mistakes
were, and sometimes, when asked about them, knocked everything off the
dinner table in a calculated effort to avoid having to allude to them
at all, a tactic which, while it had the desired effect of changing
the subject, all too often prevented Andrew from finishing meals he
had, until that moment, been enjoying, and more than once resulted in
his ejection from a restaurant where his reputation had hitherto been
impeccable, but no longer was.

[Roger Slater]

If I had only known, back before I developed a case of genital
herpes, that there were telltale signs that could have warned me in
advance, even in the face of Janice's dishonesty that otherwise struck
me as so enticing, everything would have gone swimmingly with Denise,
who, unfortunately, unlike me, knew about the telltale signs and
therefore, despite the obvious chemistry between us, ultimately
declined to become involved, preferring to risk her chances on the
singles' market rather than to follow her heart where it led her,
namely, to myself.

[John Whitworth]

I do not think so Marion. This is a splendid thing. I should have brought it forward myself. Curious how all the entries so far remind me of Henry James.

[Marion Shore]

As usual, Bob, you haven't disappointed, either in speed or quality.

I have a question. Does the passage have to be one continuous sentence? I know that's the rule for the Bulwer-Lytton contest-- but Lucy just says "a first paragraph." What do you all think?

Anyway, here's mine. (My first anyway. Unfortunately, I have others brewing in my head.)


“Distinguished guests,” the doctor began, “perhaps you recall my disastrous attempt to create life out of death. Years later, I realize the reason for the subject’s demise was his inferior brain. In short, gentlemen, the creature was stupid.” His assistant drew back a curtain to reveal a corpse sprawled on the operating table. “This time, before I administer electric shock, I propose to replace the subject’s brain with another.” A gasp rose from the gallery, as slowly, reverently, the doctor held up a box labeled "Einstein's brain.” The chamber was silent as the doctor approached the table, calling to his assistant: “Igor. Scalpel please.”

[Terese Coe]

Eewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!

hideous

[R. S. Gwynn]

Because it was that, before my mother died, my father, also, sadly did, and, before him, a myriad of other family members who were related to me, if not in spirit, at least by the ties of blood that bind more tightly than any water, it devolved, after some time, upon me, as the last or latest, so to speak, of my line, to undertake the journey to our ancestral home in Upton, Massachusetts, where it was widely held that the men were men and the women were, in a manner of speaking, too, and that the long parallels of iron that led one to the sorry stop there were, in more ways than one, signfiers of the end of the line.

[Allen Tice]

It was a stark and torn nightie.

[Michael Cantor]

They smelled the town before they saw the town, that familiar blend of popcorn and burnt flesh that had hung heavy in the air at the site of every octoplex bombing, and without even thinking formed a single line as they moved toward the smoldering ruins, the horses picking their way through the first piles of rubble, the six men shapeless within the triple layers of their biohazard gear; the group of them following the path that had started in a shopping mall near Austin, and then taken them to a wind swept mesa outside of Santa Fe, and then to a California forest where they had caught their only glimpse of the red-headed midget and his bicycle, and then quickly back east to the FBI lab in Maryland, and now they were here, and here was where they were. Suddenly, a trumpet sounded.