Bulwer Lytton Contest

there was only one ocean between he and she, as they stood together among the winter winds and felt their souls being lifted into the upper troposphere, for while their love was strong, it could not be buoyant or foolish enough to reach the stratosphere, for an airplane’s jetstream was surely strong enough to ruin it.

the juice spilled out of the child’s mouth the same way a runaway peach would along the slightly slanted grassy ground of a backyard orchard, it was a supple mess that could not be caught in time by any mother or arborist alike, and was to be forever both a small thing and a natural regret stuck in the infinite balance of time and space.

without a care in the continent, she stopped herself at the edge of the public bathroom, whirled around and stared at her own face in the mirror, a blotch of red spreading and curving like a spoiled tomato, and the world was only the mirror, everything else became the salad mess of the universe- thrown together roughly ten minutes before guests arrived in a kitchen slick with dust, to be placed on a oaken table that could never have been kindling just as her smile could never have been eaten up like roasted radishes, however gleaming white.

the white rabbit was not unaware of his own reputation that greatly preceded him, and decided spitefully that he would overzealously dramatize the stereotype all the other partygoers held of him in their mind, and he would dress in his best waistcoast (which was very grand as he had 40 plus), his shiniest swiss watch (always exact with the second with the world clock, and he was sure because he called geneva that morning), and with all this he was sure that he could prove the whole society wonderfully wrong.

the mannequin lay static, as mannequins are often expected to do, but as she wore her painted smile, it seemed to evolve into maniacal, a lack of eyes on the expanse of her sand dune face, seemed to signal a further and disturbing lack of empathy, and the farther that Bill the night manager got from her, the more she seemed to bore into him, full of malicious intent instead of stuffing, until he finally locked the heavy glass doors and went to the local chuck e cheese to enjoy some cheap kiddie soda and see some animatronic figures happy and well-meaning, as they should be.

the truck was a rumble maker down the empty desert, but it was not so empty because even cacti can feel vibrations and although the beach boys crackled their neon words over the radio, these tremors was more sickly and less like a heartthrob, truly there was nothing “good” about them.

as sweet little susie laid her head on her fluffed goose down pillow tuesday night, she was quickly disturbed by a treacherous image of a monocled man perched on her nightstand, he peered at her from below the brim of a cheap tophat, and thrust forward a fist, in it a wadded mess of pastel papers— he was by all appearances, her worst nightmare, and sure enough mr. monopoly always came knocking.

it was a dark and stormy night, the gray moon bouncing beams off of the clockfaces, making them look aged and weathered— and down on the street a one young winston s. havilshropkington the fourth took note of this ironical occurrence, making a note in his faded moleskine journal, the same one he had taken care to spill tea onto for the proper aesthetic.


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