[Brian Allgar]

Very good, Adrian! It strengthens my intention never to read Ivy Compton-Burnett.

[Adrian Fry]

Thanks for the compliment, Brian. I actually rather enjoy Ivy Compton Burnett's novels; I think it is easier to parody or pastiche writers you like, which is probably why I can't think of single one writing today worthy of use in this particular comp.

[Douglas G. Brown]

Wendy’s ancient VW stopped at the Mountview Trailer Park. “Remember, Danny, your father’s never been the same since the Overlook Hotel exploded. Sometimes, I think things would be better if he’d died. Anyway, the divorce decree allows him alternate weekends with you.”

Danny sullenly approached the dilapidated trailer on Lot 32. As he entered, Jack Torrance shouted “I’ve won the goddamn lottery! I’m gonna buy a humongous house, a Corvette, and get back with your mom. It’ll be just like old times!” Draining the dregs from a quart of Chivas, Jack collapsed on a pile of papers. Danny noticed that “All play and no work makes Jack a swell dad” was typed hundreds of times on them.

Danny pulled the winning ticket from Jack’s pocket, and dropped it into the smoldering woodstove. “Frig this!” he muttered. Slamming the trailer door, he began the long walk to his mom’s apartment.

[John Whitworth]

I sniff a competition. Write 150 words by a novelist you have not read and have no intention of reading.

Would Beckett count for this competition. You say he's dead but how can you tell?

[Rob Stuart]

I like it John. Where to start? Jilly Cooper? Will Self?

[Adrian Fry]

David Foster Wallace! Surely the most talked about and - uncoincidentally - least read writer of the age. But even he is dead.

[Brian Allgar]

Originally Posted by John Whitworth

Would Beckett count for this competition? You say he's dead but how can you tell?

Even fewer words.

[Rob Stuart]

Irvine Welsh

-Angus, c’moan! Maggie is sayin, tryin tae shake her boyfriend oot ay his skag-induced stupor. -We’ve won the fuckin Lotto!
Angus opens his eyes. Pish holes in the snow.
Maggie gestures awa tae the black an white TV balanced on toap of a deid baby in the corner ay the room. Their numbers are oan the screen. -We’re in the fuckin poppy! D'ye hae the wee ticket?
Angus feels aboot under the sleepin bag.
-Aye, but it’s goat a bit ay shite oan it. An puke. An pish.
-Kin ye still see the numbers?
-Ah cannae see fuck. Yir pimp detached ma retinas last night wi that fuckin crowbar, remember?
Maggie taiks the ticket oaf ay him. -Aye, ye kin.
-Whae d’ye soond sae fuckin miserable aboot it? Angus sais, tryin tae stab a passin rat wi a hypodermic.
-Jus proamise me we won’t let the money change us.

[basil ransome-davies]

LMFAO, Rob.

[Rob Stuart]

Originally Posted by basil ransome-davies

LMFAO, Rob.

I'm very glad to hear it. I hope you managed to get it reattached OK.