It was a dark and stormy night...

Yes! All you aspiring literary powerhouses out there...

It is time for the Lounge's randomly scheduled Edward George Bulwer-Lytton
appreciation thread. Where we put forth our best pulp for the world to
see and love.

So, put on your visors and break out the Smith-Coronas or Goose Feather Quills
and let the reading public see the real you!

My entry...

"I am a simple man."

Looks like I'm going to have to carry this one.

His mind wandered, like a monkey in a new zoo habitat, exploring the crevices of his mind as if it was a new rope or tire swing that could be used to launch monkey poo at his critics, that always in their distain for his work, never failed to compare him to an ape with a minimum of architectural training.

:thumbsup:

Your writing is comparable to my oil masterpiece... "Who Flung Poo" which now
hangs in the private living space of my esteemed benefactor.

Madagascar, "If you've got poop, fling it now!" Wise advice indeed.

Find your inner Bulwer-Lytton!

entirely with zebra stripes.

“Oh, my God, I’ve done it again,” she thought out loud.

He spoke softly, low, reassuringly. “No." Pause. "No you haven’t. At least…" He paused in deep thought, or was it reticence? “…at least not yet.”

Edit: crappy punctuation.

And so far the best.

Great!

An actual quote from someone I know. :rofl:

just waiting to unleash a more destructive kind of storm?" she wondered. Was it...?

edited for redundancy.

the devil himself finally following up on his promise to...

Never mess with a married man, she scolded herself as she answered the door....

:kick:

How could she have been so naive?

He had been her all, her lifeline, the king of all things piano. He played her as expertly as he played the ivories, she knew now. Every word out of his mouth was a lie; every smile on his face was fake.

And that little slut... The girl who crept around him, who was his student, his "darling daughter"... She was neither darling nor a daughter; she was his mistress, his play-toy. The woman would have felt sorry for the little bitch--for she knew that that girl would be discarded just as she had found herself to be--except for the look of smug satisfaction she always wore.

Stealing my husband, you bitch, you slut, the woman found herself thinking, is only going to put you where I am now....And you fucking deserve it.

Goddamned musicians....If he was so determined to have his bitch like he had his piano, then he could, and was welcome to. He would certainly never have his wife again, the hungry, foul, jazzed-up lout....

***********************************************************

Don't ask where that came from, because it's just off the top of my head....

:shrug:

You Bitch, you slut....

Great....

;)

:hi:

sued him for his last damn dime. It just might satisfy her bloodlust to see him reduced to playing a harmonica on the street corner, begging for just enough to buy a cup of Joe. But could she, dare she take a sip of that bittersweet liquid that would make her picture?...

She wasn't gutsy enough to take care of matters herself--and anyway, she would be greatly satisfied to see him an impoverished waif, the rest of his life made miserable by the simple fact that he couldn't keep his pants up around his waist.

Just the thought of him, gasping, leaning his sweaty body against that bitch's, whispering dirty phrases into her ear, unable to keep his beautiful hands to himself--oh, it made the woman sick. But what disgusted her even more were the memories of her own time spent gasping next to him, both of them delirious and naked, with those very same pianist's hands working her body like she was a grand piano...She could see his face now, wide and open, hear his breathing, labored and frenetic...At the time it had seemed unbelievably sexy, but now the thought of lying with him made her skin crawl...

I slept with a lecher, she told herself, digging her nails into her palms now. I wonder how many bitches he was hitting up then...

In fact, the more she looked at the situation, the more she saw the undeniable truth--he had always been a whore. There had been so many signs she had missed, things that at the time had seemed inconsequential. Love had been the curtain across that window into his mind: she had never seen his thoughts clearly, had never even realized that she wasn't getting the whole picture.

Why, there had been that one time...

************************************************************************

This is ridiculously fun...

:D

:hi:

best friend. All of their hair had been mussed and all three were breathing hard but they claimed they'd just been excersing to the music on the stereo. She'd told her brain to shut up that evening, and listened only to her heart. Had that been a mistake? Oh why had she allowed herself to be such a fool? Maybe taking his money and ruining his reputation wasn't enough. Something even more punnishing might be approriate. Perhaps she could murder him and then frame his cheap hooker friend for the murder or perhaps she could...



Writing Is My Religion, you are right this is a lot of fun. Thanks Prag for starting this thread.

I've enjoyed it too... I'm not able to participate as much
as I'd hoped when I started it.

I did discover this cool Tee Vee mechanism!

He was an animal, after all, lusting constantly after forbidden sex. He had broken her life, but still a part of her clung to him, not wanting to surrender the few good memories she had of time in his arms. No, she didn't dare kill him....but her feelings towards the bitch were certainly vitriolic enough...

What in God's name am I getting at? she thought suddenly, viciously, jumping to her feet. I'm not going to murder anybody...Lecherous bitch or no. Every cuckolded wife wants to murder the bitch. No one dares to murder the man unable to keep his zipper up...

It doesn't matter! another part of her argued. Don't think about murdering anyone, even him, the savage, stupid bastard!

She was getting tired now. Normally she resented sleep, but she wanted to go to bed before he came home from his gig, and she had to sleep in that bed...She couldn't make him suspicious. Not yet.

She decided to flee to the safety of the shower, massaging her aching head as she went.

***

During the break between sets he eyed the bar wench hopefully as she went passed him, noticing how her uniform couldn't quite contain her cleavage. As if his gaze had physical form, like a javelin or spear, she turned towards him, and caught him staring. She returned the stare, her eyes drifting to between his legs. Under the pretense of picking up a dropped napkin next to his chair, the wench asked, sotto voce, "You the....pianist?"

She pronounced it "pee-NIST," which was dangerously close to what she had been staring at. He caught this near-double entendre, and grinned.

"If you want me to be...baby."

She glanced at his left hand. Knowing exactly what she was looking for, he waggled his fingers, showing how they were quite clearly ring-less. He had removed the offensive piece of gold earlier that night, knowing how even the sexiest, most devil-may-care bitches tended to shy away from married men. "Nothing there, babe."

"But you've got it where it counts?"

He laughed softly. "Babe, ask any waitress here tonight. I've...known...them all."

"Maybe you'll have another to add to your collection."

She disappeared before he could comment, but he was pleased with the results of his night's work. Better work than pounding away at the ivories, that was for sure. He took a sip of his rum and coke, staring at his ring-less hand and grinning broadly inside.

"Now here I thought I was your bitch..."

He winced: he knew that low, deadly voice. Resigned, he swallowed the mouthful of rum and turned to face....

*****************************************************************************************

It's a long one, I know. Sorry! :D

WIMR

I was hoping you would post in this thread!

I love it.

:)

;)

Thank you!

:hi:

past the lifeless space shuttle, giving no notice to the dead, floating hungarian clutching the equally dead and floating Bulgarian, who was obviously a woman as she was pointing toward the flickering light of Venus.

Cracked me up! :yourock:

*wipes a tear from his weary eye*

*sniff*

SF, eh? How'd you manage to beat out the "Made for the Sci-fi channel movies"?

I swear they have *one* script and they do a search-replace on it... Wait a second!
Maybe yours was the root script!

:)

Congrats! I am impressed.

I hadn't seen the new SD Quarter pattern yet.

Actually, precisely to toot my own horn,
there is also a quarter design waiting for South Carolina,
which has some similar legislation pending:
http://www.democraticunderground.com/discuss/duboard.php?az=view_all&address=364x629002

to my building.

i turned one last time toward the street -- and he was there -- right on top of me.

he was taller than me -- and his eyes bluer than i remembered from earlier in the day.

scared? my blood ran ice cubes...

I found him oddly attractive in that uniform. He reminded me of someone. I struggled to grasp the tiny nugget of memory but it slipped far beyond my reach. Oh damn this amnesia was so frustrating. For all I know he could be my long lost husband.

Or so the Doctors told me. I had no idea... All I know is that it was robbing me of
my life and my sanity.

The sky opened up and the thought left my mind like a butterfly in a hurricane.

He smiled. I noticed a bit of broccoli caught in his teeth. I must've been attracted
to him, as I typically miss details... Unless, I'm interested.

That broccoli had a story to tell and he was the one to tell it.

Everyone even possible amnesiacs knew that family hated Broccoli. Ah yes this fascinating yet oddly familiar stranger must be a Democrat, and that made me absolutely certain of one thing. If he wasn't mine already he was soon going to be. I had to have him and absolutely nothing was going to stand in my way.

"Why don't you invite me to dinner?" handsome! You tell me your tale and I'll tell you mine! Unless you've already eaten?" I asked while pointing to the afore mentioned lingering vegetable.

"No that was just a snack. I'm still ravenous," he assured me with a sensuous growl. "Where should we go?"

"You pick," I replied.

"Alright," he responded let's go to...

Beside that my boss is a jerk but he pays me a lot so I stay. The only ones who love me are my dopey cocker spaniel, Snort, and the cat, Tinkles. Tinkles urinates all over the house but I love that cat.

Had enough?

LOL!

I opened my eyes to find the most hideous thing I have ever seen, an currently seeing, or ever will see.

Blissfully, darkness took me.

and insisted that there was no way Newt Gingrich could actually be in my bedroom. It must be a waking nightmare. Did such things exsist? Or maybe it wasn't Newt Gingrich! Maybe it was...

Aaugh! What was Rush Limbaugh doing in my bedroom? I was seized with the urge to retch, but I resisted, knowing that that would only make Limbaugh more attracted to me.

The appartition of moral rot came closer to my bed. It was holding a microphone, which it was talking into. "Folks, what we have here is exactly what I have been telling you about. These liberals are corrupt to the core. Here's a prime example - this one is sleeping! Actually SLEEPING! What other kind of gross debauchery could they be up to?"

The Limbaugh-thing paced aropund the room. He continued his rant:

I don't know what inspired someone, anyone, to come out that night in the pouring rain with the thunder and lightning raging on in a downpour that would have rivaled the Great Flood, but suddenly, there he was, standing in the doorway of my dark and forlorn office, looking like something the cat dragged in, his once fine hat drooping and destroyed, his trenchcoat soaked, his umbrella broken from the gale force winds that howled like mourning doves, a crooked smile pursed on his lips, his dark eyes intensively gazing at me as I sat there, my feet on my desk, staring into nothingness, my eyes glazing over from too much cheap booze and too many lonely nights, like the film noir flick where Humphrey Bogart seems to get the girl even if he is a damned drunk, and me wanting nothing more than sleep or oblivion, whichever came first.

near the sewage ponds. It was a simple affair, just a doublewide and 5 acres of cotton. The cotton was just a front. The real business was cooking meth.

Good times.

the towering neo-gothic apartment building, though since his quarry was only accessible through the eighth floor balcony, he found himself wishing his lizard-like attributes would also enable him to vertically scale the walls as if he had a gecko's sticky little feet, and realizing yet again that this was quite impossible because of the force of gravity and his relative weight, nervously fingered the grappling hook which had been sticking him in the buttocks since 94th street.