Chamblee54

Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest 2017

Posted in Georgia History, Undogegorized by chamblee54 on August 8, 2017


*Results* of the 2017 Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest have been announced. The XXXIVth Lyttoniad is a bad writing contest, named for Edward George Earl Bulwer-Lytton. Every year, thousands of writers-who-shouldn’t submit a first sentence, to a terrible novel. Chamblee54 wrote about BLFC in 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015, and 2016. Part two of 2017 is forthcoming.

As a value added service to the BLFC community, every year chamblee54 compiles a list of noteworthy names from the contest. This distinction is purely nominal, and is not related to the quality, or lack thereof, of their entry. Nine names made the cut in 2017: Beth Armogida, Sierra Madre, California, Clark Snodgrass, Huntington Beach California, Jackie Fuchs, Los Angeles, California, Michael Leshnower, Encinitas, California, Myra Vanderpool Gormley, University Place, Washington, R. D. Fish, Jr., Versailles, Missouri, Richard Bos, Emmeloord, The Netherlands, Samantha Bates, Columbia, Tennessee, and Tyson Canale, Rochester, Minnesota.

Pictures for this feature are from “The Special Collections and Archives, Georgia State University Library”. These photographs were taken at the Krystal. What the BLFC is to english composition, Krystal is to nutrition. The onion anointed Krystalburger has been a staple of southern life for generations. White Castle rumors are yankee misinformation.

She was the most desired object in the room, not unlike the last deviled egg at an Easter Day potluck.— Christine Hamilton, Atlanta, Georgia

Detective Sam Steel stood at the crime scene staring puzzled at the chalk outline of Ms. Mulgrave’s body which was really just a stick figure with a dress, curly hair, boobs, and a smiley face because the police chalk guy had the day off. — Doug Self, Brunswick, Maine

As hard-boiled detective Max Baxter ate his soft-boiled egg, he thought about the gorgeous dame he’d found last night lying in a pool of her own blood—it being inconvenient to lie in a pool of someone else’s blood—and wondered how she liked her eggs.— Pam Tallman, Huntington Beach, California

Detective Robertson knew he had Joyce Winters dead to rights for the murder—at the crime scene he had found Winters’ fingerprints, shell casings matching the gun registered to her, and, most damning of all, a Starbucks cup with the name “Josie” scrawled on it.— Doug Purdy, Roseville, California

Nobody messed with Rocky “The Anvil’ Roselli, the toughest, badass mob enforcer that ever walked the mean streets of downtown LA, but for some time now he had been considering an alternative career in interior design, a secret kept well hidden from his felonious contemporaries; like a strawberry jam sandwich lying buried at the bottom of a sack of brussels sprouts.
Ted Downes, Cardiff, Wales

So many questions raced through the heiress’s mind: Who had killed the maid and which guests were lying to her and who the hell was going to clean up all this goddamned blood because it sure as hell wasn’t going to be her, she could tell you that much.— Samantha Bates, Columbia, Tennessee

The horizontal array of rectangular golden sunshafts that filtered through my shutters was interrupted by a statuesque silhouette appearing at my office door, her widow’s pillbox with netted veil only slightly obscuring her opalescent eyes, her alabaster décolletage accented by a sizeable amethyst pendant, and a silky floor-length ebony gown that revealed a muffin-top that clearly lacked of any kind of abdominal exercise regimen. — Peter S. Bjorkman, Rocklin, California

Replacing the Human Torch’s fireproof colostomy bag, teaching Iron Man how to use the TV remote, listening to Iceman complain that it’s too cold, searching in vain for the Invisible Woman after she’s wandered away yet again—life isn’t comical as a Marvel Universe hospice nurse.
Dan White, Clarendon Hills, Illinois

Vadblad the Bad had known for centuries that impaling his victims before draining their blood was extremely wasteful but somehow he could not stop himself reaching for his spear as he rose from his coffin; bad habits never die. — Ann Wood, Corrales, New Mexico

I looked up at her breathless “hello,” and knew I could never unsee her Bride of Frankenstein makeup, or the way she filled her clothes; which must have looked good form-fitting a younger, svelter her, but now resembled a sausage skin strained to its limits by a failure of the emergency stop on the filling machine; perhaps a developing grub, whose skin failed to molt, or a Michelin Woman, as imagined by Salvador Dali on acid. — Michael Newton, Vancouver, Washington

Meeting his fiancé’s parents for the first time, Damon felt no fear because she had accepted his marriage proposal, but he still hoped for the parents’ approval, so it felt good that Mr. Dracula shook hands with one hand while his other hand squeezed Damon’s neck and then Mrs. Dracula proceeded to place a gentle kiss on his neck that intensified so much that it probably left a hickey.
Randy Blanton, Murfreesboro, Tennessee

A sweaty Hector threw off his shirt, passion burning, skin glistening, his deodorant congealed to little chunks ensnared among the matted jungle of his armpits like so many crumbles of pungent blue cheese over a bed of sprouts, moistened with a dressing of perspiration, and lustily asked, “Are you as hungry as I am?” to the confused busboy. — Tyson Canale, Rochester, Minnesota

Like the smoke from a cheap corn cob pipe, the tragic events of the past week descended into Lloyd Mounser’s brain and stubbornly clung to his memory the way those little white styrofoam peanuts get stuck to your hands you when you’re opening a box of soft-white light bulbs that you got online with free shipping.— William Keegan, Pine Bush, New York

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  1. […] coverage of The Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest. This is an annual contest celebrating bad writing. Part one was published on tuesday. Pictures today are from “The Special Collections and Archives, […]


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