My Addled Brain

The results for the 2008 Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest have been posted. For those not in the know (and really, how could you not know? I’m ashamed to admit you read my blog. Probably not as much as you’re ashamed to admit you read it, though), the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest is a yearly event where writers are asked to come up with the worst first line possible to a story that will never be written.

This is in honor of Edward George Bulwer-Lytton, who’s 1830 novel Paul Clifford begins with this immortal line:

“It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents–except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.”

Yes, that’s where the “It was a dark and stormy night” writer’s gag originated from, for those of you who were aware that at one point, Peanuts was not only funny, but clever and subversive. But I digress.

The BLFC chose their winner for this year, a rather ribald number that goes something like this:

“Theirs was a New York love, a checkered taxi ride burning rubber, and like the city their passion was open 24/7, steam rising from their bodies like slick streets exhaling warm, moist, white breath through manhole covers stamped ‘Forged by DeLaney Bros., Piscataway, N.J.’”

My favorite, however, is the runner up:

“Hmm . . .” thought Abigail as she gazed languidly from the veranda past the bright white patio to the cerulean sea beyond, where dolphins played and seagulls sang, where splashing surf sounded like the tintinnabulation of a thousand tiny bells, where great gray whales bellowed and the sunlight sparkled off the myriad of sequins on the flyfish’s bow ties, “time to get my meds checked.”

In the spirit of this year’s BLFC, I’ve decided to slap one together myself - hope you like it.

The light poured through the slats in the blinds, filtered through the dust and grime of the windows, pouring into the small office like a fine Port wine left out opened for three weeks: moldy, grey, and with a hint of cedar, cinnamon, and applesauce; “Just the way I like my day-care centers,” he thought to himself.

Two in one year!

She stared at me across the fresh fruit display.

I had gotten used to this by now. Sometimes, they would curse at me in their strange tongue. Occasionally, they would try to get rough, swinging at me with their beaks. While I’d love to say that I am as nimble as my name would lead one to believe, these scuffles often resulted in some type of injury - bruises, gouged fur, chemical burns, the occasional falling anvil. I can understand the anger directed at me - it’s only natural. Playing a bloodthirsty antagonist opposite their sweet, innocent, nigh iconic counterpart would naturally engender those emotions.

Yet, here was a different look. There wasn’t a burning hate behind her eyes, no fire of disgust, no desire to right my fictional wrongs with pain and suffering. Instead, as she tilted her head to one side, sweeping the feathery tuft atop her head briefly across her face, I saw only pity. I froze, my basket of tofu and vegetables clenched solidly in my right hand. I expected anything when venturing outside the studio and into the public eye - anything except this. We stood, this moment in time stretched across infinity, thin and delicate, but mesmerizing.

That night, I sat on my patio, under the cold, indifferent stars, and wept at what my life had become.

- From “I Was A Teenage ACME Addict” by Wile E. Coyote, Super Genius

I said it would be occasional. The occasion, apparently, is not as occasional as some had hoped, I guess. Well, after this, maybe you’ll hope they’re a little more occasional.

The honest truth is, DK was an absolute beast in the sack. I’d run off with him for the evening, and we’d make mad, passionate love wherever we could find a place we thought we might not be discovered. The first couple of times, we got a hotel room. While I enjoyed every minute of those visits, they utterly paled in comparison to the first time we tried a construction site. The raw steel and wood, the smells of the site, not to mention how easy it could have been for strangers to see us in the act, just added to the thrill for both of us. So I suppose it shouldn’t have been a surprise when my boyfriend found us at the top of a five-story girder framework one afternoon just before DK and I really got into it. For some reason, Victorian era dress style really turned him on, so I had purchased a pink gown, complete with the frilly full hoop skirt. Next thing I know, I hear from the bottom “It’s me, Mario! And I’ma gonna kicka you ass, you two-a-timing wench! Ha haha!” I looked down, and even from five stories I could see his dead-eyed look. He was holding a sledgehammer. Well, I shouldn’t say holding, he was swinging it like a madman, tearing up anything in his path as he worked his way, slowly, up to us.

- From “Of Bananas and Barrels”, by Princess Peach

This idea kind of came to me in a dream last night. I’m pretty fond of it, and since I’m too lazy to write complete short stories, I think excerpts from the private lives of fictional people will have to do. Less grunt work. So, I’ll be dropping one these in whenever I feel like it - which may be never again, depending on how it’s received and what I think about it later.

For weeks afterwards, I had dreams where I would be walking through the streets of downtown, presumably on my way to the station, on a beautiful spring morning. Suddenly, I would hear a loud crack of thunder, and I would look up, and see a torrential downpour of frozen Butterball turkeys come tearing from the sky, smashing car windshields, obliterating building roofs, and narrowly avoiding pedestrians scrambling for whatever cover they could find. Oddly enough, I could walk through this frozen thanksgiving hailstorm with nary a scratch, despite the obvious carnage it wrought.

Twice, I had the same dream, except instead of turkeys, they were people.

–From “A Newsman’s Life”, by Les Nessman

Yeah, it’s a bit wierd, unless you get the gag. But hey, it’s me - what do you expect?