Sad news to report: After 42 years, the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest, which showed how hilariously horrible the English language can be, is no more after its founder decided to retire it. Founded in 1983, the contest was to compose the most atrocious opening sentence to the worst novel never written.

If you think Edward Buller-Lytton’s opus, “It was a dark and stormy night…” was a masterpiece of pukable purple prose, you should check out some of the beauts and treasures housed at the BLFC website. I spent time scrolling through the list of winners and runners-up for each year. In no orchestrated and orderly organization, here are some spectacular and stunningly-silly specimens spewed by competent, creative creatives.

“Gwendolyn, a world-class mountaineer, summoned the last of her strength for one more heroic haul on the nylon strap (for she was, after so many failed attempts, dangerously close to exhaustion) and looked heavenward with resolve, aware that, in spite of her fatigue and anguish, she must breach the crevice in one well-coordinated movement, somehow cleave the smooth fissure with the flimsy synthetic strand even though she was chaffed raw by her repeated efforts, or more sensibly, just give the heave-ho to this new-fangled (and painfully small) Victoria’s Secret thong and slip into her well-worn – and infinitely more roomy – knickers.”

“Emile Zola wandered the dank and soggy streets of a gloomy Parisian night, the injustice of the Dreyfus affair weighing on him like a thousand baguettes, dreaming of some massage or therapy to relieve the tension and pain in his aching shoulders and back, and then suddenly he thought of his Italian friends and their newly invented warm water bath with air jets and he rapturously exclaimed that oft misquoted declaration — “Jacuzzi!”

“She strutted into my office wearing a dress that clung to her like Saran Wrap to a sloppily butchered pork knuckle, bone and sinew jutting and lurching asymmetrically beneath its folds, the tightness exaggerating the granularity of the suet and causing what little palatable meat there was to sweat, its transparency the thief of imagination.”

“Ulysses Simpson Grant, having just finished a meal of Virginia ham, stretched out in his underwear of Mississippi-grown cotton, puffed on a Georgia cigar, swilled straight Kentucky bourbon whiskey, and thought just how good it was to be in the Union Army.”

“Folks say that if you listen real close at the height of the full moon, when the wind is blowin’ off Nantucket Sound from the nor’east and the dogs are howlin’ for no earthly reason, you can hear the awful screams of the crew of the “Ellie May,” a sturdy whaler captained by John McTavish; for it was on just such a night when the rum was flowin’ and, Davey Jones be damned, big John brought his men on deck for the first of several screaming contests.”

“A small assortment of astonishingly loud brass instruments raced each other lustily to the respective ends of their distinct musical choices as the gates flew open to release a torrent of tawny fur comprised of angry yapping bullets that nipped at Desdemona’s ankles, causing her to reflect once again (as blood filled her sneakers and she fought her way through the panicking crowd) that the annual Running of the Pomeranians in Liechtenstein was a stupid, stupid idea.”

“Gerald began–but was interrupted by a piercing whistle which cost him ten percent of his hearing permanently, as it did everyone else in a ten-mile radius of the eruption, not that it mattered much because for them “permanently” meant the next ten minutes or so until buried by searing lava or suffocated by choking ash–to pee.”

“Seeing how the victim’s body, or what remained of it, was wedged between the grill of the Peterbilt 389 and the bumper of the 2008 Cadillac Escalade EXT, officer “Dirk” Dirksen wondered why reporters always used the phrase “sandwiched” to describe such a scene since there was nothing appetizing about it, but still, he thought, they might have a point because some of this would probably end up on the front of his tunic.”

“Through the gathering gloom of a late-October afternoon, along the greasy, cracked paving-stones slick from the sputum of the sky, Stanley Ruddlethorp wearily trudged up the hill from the cemetery where his wife, sister, brother, and three children were all buried, and forced open the door of his decaying house, blissfully unaware of the catastrophe that was soon to completely devastate his life.”

And this one wins the Christmas turkey…

“Space Fleet Commander Brad Brad sat in silence, surrounded by a slowly dissipating cloud of smoke, maintaining the same forlorn frown that had been fixed upon his face since he’d accidentally destroyed the phenomenon known as time, thirteen inches ago.”

Kill Zoners — Who feels creative and wants to take a crack at competing for a Bulwer-Lytton even though the contest is officially closed? If you don’t feel creative, there’s always ChatGPT.

By John Gilstrap

Close to a year ago, when I presented my short story, “All Revved Up and No Place to Go,” to the Rumpus Writers, the critique group of which I’ve been a member for roughly 15 years, the ten or fifteen seconds following the final passage were dominated by a heavy silence. I believe it was Ellen Crosby who spoke for the group when she said, “Oh, my God, I hate everybody in this story.”

To which I replied, “Thank you.”

“All Revved . . .” is, hands down, the darkest story I’ve ever written. You can find it in the recently published anthology, Bat Out Of Hell, edited by Don Bruns, and the story is inspired by the title of one of the songs on the famous Meat Loaf album from the 1970s. The story tells the tale of Ace Spade, an off-duty firefighter and search and rescue operator who’s trying to impress a young lady with his four-wheeling skills in the back woods of West Virginia when things go terribly wrong. After he wrecks his Jeep in the middle of nowhere, the man who they think is there to lend assistance turns out to be a killer who wants to hunt them down and kill them.

As regular Killzoners know, I don’t outline, so even I was surprised by the lengths to which our characters would go to stay alive. I don’t want to give to much away, but let’s just say that in the end, everyone acts in his or her best interests.

As a writer who’s carved a niche for myself by writing stories with moral clarity where good triumphs over evil, it was kind of refreshing to clean the creative pipes with a story where there really are no good guys–just . . . survivors.

Here’s my take on short stories: They’re not really part of an author’s permanent record, in the sense that I think they don’t necessarily reflect their true storytelling sensibilities. In a short story, I can feel free to kill a cat or cavort with vampires. I could even write a romance–even though I don’t think I’m actually capable of doing that.

This is why I cringe when I hear writerly advice given to newbies that they should cut their teeth writing short stories before they take on the burden of a novel. To me, that’s like telling a budding cook that they need to perfect the art of scrambling eggs before they bake Thanksgiving turkey. One has nothing to do with the other–or where the skill cross, the intersection is so tangential as to be meaningless.

It’s equally important to note that novel-writing skills can get you in trouble when crafting a short story. I was fortunate that submission rules asked for an approximate submission length of 8,000 words for Bat Out of Hell. If I’d had to turn in flash fiction, or anything under, say, 3,000 words, I would have considered myself unqualified from the start.

What say you, TKZ family? Are you a fan of short stories? Do you like to read them? Write them? Where do you go to find them?

By PJ Parrish

I was sitting in my favorite breakfast place, dipping my rye into my sunny-side-ups and reading an old paperback that I had found at a yard sale. It was by a mega-bestselling author, and frankly, I was smugly happy that I had paid only 50 cents for it.

I looked up to see a familar face. It was Tom S., one of my pickleball peeps. He’s sort of annoying, on court and off, the kind of guy who slams the ball at your head and then disingenuously apologizes for almost taking out your eye. So when he asked if he could join me, I was dearly tempted to go with the truth. But no…I try to play nice, on court and off.

“Sure, have a seat,” I said cordially.

He sat down, his eyes slipping secretly to the paperback lying wantonly by my coffee mug. “I see,” he said insightfully, “that you are reading a book by XX.”

“Yes,” I said affirmatively, nodding energetically.

“Do you like it?” he asked inquiringly.

I wasn’t sure how to answer. See, Tom’s trying to write a book and my kind-hearted sister Kelly had recently offered to give him a quick critique. His WIP was a hot mess but she patiently offered Tom some some good tips about plot structure, the differences between thrillers and mysteries, and character building.

Tom wisely picked up on my silence. “So,” he said interrogatively. “I take it you don’t like the book?”

“It’s sort of meh,” I said flatly.

“In what way?” he asked inquisitively.

“Well, I can’t quite put my finger on it,” I said perplexedly.

“How is the plotting?” he asked ploddingly.

“The plot was okay. But it’s sort of falling apart toward the end,” I added brokenly.

“That’s too bad,” he said sympathetically. “Anything else?”

“The characters were okay but kind of cardboard,” I said woodenly.

“Really?” he said shockingly.

“Yes,” I acknowledged.

“But this is a New York Times bestseller,” he interjected suddenly, jabbing at the book pointedly with his extended right index finger. “It got great blurbs. And all the reviewers loved it.”

“Well,” I said deeply, with a exhalation of a sigh. “I just don’t know what it was about the book that I found tiresome but there was something.”

Tom gave me a nod of his head, shaking it up and down, and then added a small, understanding smile, displaying his Chiclet teeth. “Well,” he said philosophically. “Some books are just like that.”

And with that, Tom rose and sauntered away, slowly and casually, slipping out the door, sidling across the parking lot, and disappearing into the almost rainy, slightly foggy, early morning Michigan mist.

I was left with my bad book and my thoughts. I was thinking about all the good advice I had heard over the years at all the writers conferences I had attended. Thinking about all the great panels I had sat on, even a really special heated one about talent versus technique. I was thinking, too, about all the wonderful posts here at The Kill Zone that tackle such a wide range of topics on our craft — everything from yanking yourself out of the muddy middle to the sins of the semi-colon.

Gina the waitress refilled my coffee and I returned to my mega-bestseller. Only a couple chapters to go, and even though I knew in my heart I should have tossed the book aside a long time ago, I was determined to finish it. Maybe I just wanted to get my full 50-cents worth. Then it came, this sentence:

“I could have saved her,” he whispered quietly.

I turned the book to its cover and looked at the author’s name. It was in huge block letters and bright neon pink, the name bigger than the title.

I flashbacked to a panel I moderated years ago at Sleuthfest. Robert Crais was our guest of honor and he was waxing eloquent about our craft. But it was one sentence he said in his keynote address that I was remembering at that moment: “Adverbs are not your friend.”

He didn’t say it lightly. He didn’t it dramatically. He didn’t even say it succinctly. He just said it.