I seem to recall a series of “Dark and Stormy Night” books featuring people making up bad, intentionally ponderous novel openings. Some American universitry had a Edward Bulwer-Lytton contest each year that gave a prize to the worst entry. I don’t know if they still have this contest, but I figure the creative minds here could come up with plenty of good examples of bad beginnings. Or maybe not. I’ll get things started.
“The summer of 1973 was good for Bordeaux wine, but not so good for Officer Plonk. He had just been informed that his hated rival had made detective, and that he would still have to walk a beat in the dingiest district of Loch Ness – where violent drunks and giant serpents made his days and nights a living nightmare.”
M’baasa squinted out painfully over the praadveldt, as the searing suidaafrikaan sun beat mercilessly down on his unprotected flanks. Enkeerie birds circled listlessly overhead, and sweat began to trickle from under his kerpfufje. Once again he shouldered his laagerbag and reluctantly, painfully shuffled forward towards the low entshubbe-covered hills on the horizon. The next 45 days would test his manhood and would probably lead to his lonely death through starvation and animal bites. "Why did I ever become a mobile librarian? he asked himself…
How about “Call me Ish…no, no, wait…okay, got it. Call me Burrrrrneerreeddszzzzee…uh…dang. Alright…hmm…oh, I know. It was a dark and stormy night on the set of the Jean Claude Van Damme film.”
Sir Poindexter trotted his steed furiously to the crest of the hill. Blinded with rage, deafened with vengeance, he ran his sword through his squire in an act of senseless violence. The illegitimate son of Lancelot and Guinevere was, indeed, a dark and stormy knight.
When you’re done you might want to check this out. Here’s the link to the contest referred to in the OP. I found it a couple years ago, and for some inexplicable reason I keep going back.
I cannot compete.
Especially with the really and truly published examples.
The jaded college student sat at his desk. He was depressed, jaded, and had romantic troubles that he just knew he would have to deal with in the next few hours. He knew that he would find the perfect girl then, for some inexplicable reason, be unable to attain happiness with her. So he grabbed his knife, gun, booze, pot, drugs, and a guide to bars in LA and set out for a dark walk around town, looking for love and sex in all the right places, but with all the wrong people.
Ok ok now I have a serious entry (though based on my previous one) It even follows the only-one-sentence rule:
It was saliva; it was that same saliva that carries in its syrup the enzymes that begin the digestive process, that same saliva that one swallows to clear the lump in one’s throat at seeing her beauty, yes it was that same saliva that then moistened her two perfect rosebud lips and that glistened in the new sunlight as the night gave way to the dawn, that dawn when I first knew I loved her.
Just how long she’d been watching him, her violet eyes shaded by a heavy curtain of ebony lashes, Carleton did not know and he felt compelled to approach her, as he had so many other nights; night like this one, nights that seemed to expand and contract with his every breath, with his every footstep as he neared her, knowing he was damned to repeat the same, nightmarish scenario as he had so many other nights as that puffy, overly-rouged face eclipsed his view of her sanguid form and, floating like a bloated fish on the surface of the lake near his childhood home, spoke,
“Sir, I’m afraid we’ll have to ask you to stay away from the store manniquins as it disturbs the other shoppers.”
She smelled bad and wasn’t much of a conversationalist, but I screwed her anyway. I screwed her like there was no tomorrow, and for her there wouldn’t be one.
In fact, she hadn’t had a tomorrow for three weeks.
I read those books and wanted to enter, but never got around to sending in any entries. So now’s my chance! Here are a few:
Dawn was just peeking over the windowsill when Billy Markham picked his head up off his desk and stared blearily at the room around him–the pizza boxes scattered on the floor, the panties hanging on the back of a chair, the congealing blob of something green in the corner–and the bottles (oh, the bottles!) everywhere, and wondered just what had happened to turn the school science club’s meeting to plan the annual science fair into such a long drawn-out evening of debauchery.
It had been five hours now and Sam Diamond was still sitting watching the clock tick and wondering where his next case, his next meal, and most importantly, his next drink would come from.
Jolly old Mr. Tiddles strode happily down the Purpley-Polka-Dotted Path, past the Goshgolly Glen and over the Merrily Singing Brook, saying hello to Babsy Bunny and Ricky Raccoon and Billy Bluejay and all his other forest creature friends as he went on his way to Miss Bambi’s, where he would enjoy her favours for the afternoon.
“I say,” said William James Hepplewhite III, trying to force a smile, “I say, it’s not much like the horses we ride in the hunt, is it?” and Lady Catherine, tired from the long voyage, and only wanting something to eat and a good long sleep, in that order, wished she had accepted Ashley Blenheim’s invitation for a holiday in the Lake District instead of having to mount an elephant in India with that pill, William.
This role reversal therapy was wholly unfulfilling – try as he might, he could not get his manhood to heave and she was in tears from the effort involved in making her bosom pulsate.
1990 Detective Category winner here. Got a free book and the opportunity to thank my high school and college for their help in shaping one of the worst writers on the planet.
I’ve also had others printed in the “Dark and Stormy” series. My favorite was from the children’s category. I came up with it after reading too many bedtime stories to my kids.
“Pretty Percy Pig and Jolly Molly Moo-cow enjoyed watching the sunshiny green meadows and silver sparkling streams of Pleasant Acres from the back of Farmer Brown’s new apple-red truck on their way to the Rainbow Valley Meat Packing Company.”
Happily snuggled near a warm fire, dressed only in a pair of old shorts, a tie dye t-shirt, fluffy cotton socks and a straight jacket, Robert found the new therapy session being conducted by Dr. Iam Betarthenyu very relaxing in much the same way that getting hit over the head repeatedly with a mallet isn’t, and found his memories of being forced to watch Ishtar over and over again for more than 2 days slowly fading away.
I was born on October 14, 1981, fifteen years after the inauguration of the Montreal metro system and 399 years after a date which due to the intervention of Pope Gregory did not take place.