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Bad Sentences

Bad Sentences

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Published by Inge Meldgaard
This is my first set of entries to the annual Bulwer-Lytton fiction contest, which seeks the first sentence to the world's worst novel. Enjoy! http://www.bulwer-lytton.com/contact.html
This is my first set of entries to the annual Bulwer-Lytton fiction contest, which seeks the first sentence to the world's worst novel. Enjoy! http://www.bulwer-lytton.com/contact.html

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Published by: Inge Meldgaard on Sep 03, 2012
Copyright:Traditional Copyright: All rights reserved

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09/03/2012

BAD BEGINNING SENTENCES AND GETTING BADDER…

Vergana swung her battle axe over her head, intending to intimidate all and sundry within the crowd surrounding her, their eyes dark and fierce, their hair wild and hanging into their eyes, but instead, she nearly beheaded one gormless, pudding-faced fool, who had the temerity to come too close, but then ducked just in time. ‘If only I could meet the right man,’ murmured Tabitha, as she swung herself back and forth on the old garden swing, the moonlight falling on her face, silver and pale, reminding her of all the lonely nights she had spent wishing the very same thing, yet knowing in her heart of hearts that life would be too cruel to be kind to her. There was simply no doubt about it being the worst decision that Geoffrey Adams had ever made in his long, but very boring life, and this was only Sunday, and he still had the rest of the week to get through before he could even begin to have enough time to undo the damage that the decision had already begun to do to just about everyone he had come into contact with since he made it. The green sky turned a horrible shade of yellow as the crowd stared up at Warrander as he stood looking at the man who was about to take his life from him, even though, if there was any justice in this alien world, the man would never have even considered doing such a terrible and unkind thing, particularly as he looked just like a friend Warrander had once had, in another lifetime and on another world…but then, Warrander knew life had never been fair to him. Spurred on by memories of mulled wine and the lusty, buxom wench who served it at the Swan Inn, the dark rider spurred his black steed, which neighed in response, knowing his master would reward him well with hay once they reached their destination by the river; still ten furlongs of hard riding eastward, beneath the light of the bright silver crescent moon and a swathe of twinkling stars, which if they were any brighter would have meant his cloak would no longer have hid him from his enemies as well as it did. Hurling forth a vomitus litany of vile curses and libellous epithets, the horny green toad boggled its bulbous eyes and then slammed the door in the face of the loathsome weasel that had had the gall to come to his burrow trying to sell him, at exorbitant price, a full set of totally irrelevant body-building equipment. While keeping an eye on her pot of split pea soup as it simmered, bubbling gently, on the kitchen stove, Miss Penelope Frogmore knew that if she could just finish knitting her grandnephew’s pair of bright red socks, which she had begun this morning, then her mind would achieve the peace and quiet it needed to focus on solving the awful murder of poor Colonel Jenkinson, who had been found cruelly stabbed to death, down by the village lake, just two days ago. COPYRIGHT: Inge Meldgaard, 2012. Entry to 2013 Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest

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