Seriously!!!! 

 The rules to the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest are childishly simple:

    * Each entry must consist of a single sentence but you may submit as many entries as you wish.
    * Sentences may be of any length BUT WE STRONGLY RECOMMEND THAT ENTIRES NOT GO BEYOND 50 OR 60 WORDS, and entries must be "original" (as it were) and previously unpublished.
    * Surface mail entries should be submitted on index cards, the sentence on one side and the entrant's name, address, and phone number on the other.
    * Email entries should be in the body of the message, NOT IN AN ATTACHMENT. If you are submitting multiple entries, please include them in one message (and it would be really swell if you submitted your entries in Arial 12 font).
    * Entries will be judged by categories, from "general" to detective, western, science fiction, romance, and so on. There will be overall winners as well as category winners.
    * The official deadline is April 15 (a date that Americans associate with painful submissions and making up bad stories). The actual deadline may be as late as June 30.
    * The contest accepts submissions every day of the livelong year.
    * Wild Card Rule: Resist the temptation to work with puns like "It was a stark and dormy night."
    * Finally, in keeping with the gravitas, high seriousness, and general bignitude of the contest, the grand prize winner will receive . . . a pittance.

I ought to think of something. I'm like the queen of the run-on sentence.

Yeah, bow before me.

Ironically the above sentence that I wrote, had no issues with the Word grammar checker. :)

--Ray

Here, chew on this:



Ironically, we meet our heroine on a bright, bird-chirping day full of promise (or at least full of the abilty to seriously annoy people who are in a foul mood to begin with because their deadbeat landlord won't spray for roaches or fix the squealing toliet) marching up the poorly repaired steps of the near-hovel that in two weeks she will no longer call home, but as she has no idea that her future holds the kind of love that unfulfilled housewives would murder to attain and that the large-nosed man of her dreams will spend every waking minute of his independently weathy life soothing her achingly saddened soul and meeting her every need and whimsy in the most loving and emotionally caressing of ways, at this moment she is simply and thoroughly pissed off.

Does anyone else think that little clap guy looks like he's banging purple cymbals together?

Jennifer opened the car door as the wind messed up her long, blond ponytail which she'd done up especially that day cuz she was going to the Mountain Man retreat and wanted to see that guy from last year who said her hair was the color of spun gold...

Crap. This is harder than I thought.

Your guy was peeing. I missed the hair part. Hopefully he wasn't peeing into the wind, though.


Oh, whoops.  I thought the first one was yours, too. 

-- Edited by Cocobeem at 12:31, 2007-09-27