It came to pass on the 3rd of June in the year 2017, that Marcel, having lived sixty-three years, twelve days, four hours, thirteen minutes, and forty-two seconds, experienced the onset of excruciating chest pain from clogged arteries, caused by years of over-indulging upon greasy cheeseburgers and frothy, sugar-enriched vanilla malt milk shakes, clutched his chest in agony with knuckle-popping, arthritic fingers, stressing further the ligaments in his right elbow from the ongoing issues with tennis elbow, gasped his last breath and fell dead while waiting in line at the theater to see Gal Gadot, his new favorite movie star in her new film Wonder Woman.
And he died as an unfulfilled man, much like a fuel tank only half filled in a petrol station of extreme incompetence, and his gauge showing empty despite the fact he had requested a full tank and even handed over his credit card to the attendant, who did not do his job properly and was smoking a cigarette, regardless of the numerous anti-smoking, flammable warnings that were adhered to the steel pillars propping the roof made of steel girders and ply sheets adhered with screws.
No, I will not create a silly, long-winded and convoluted evolution of intricacies to please your pathetic idea of fun with endless splashes of words scattered meaningfully, meaninglessly across this page like a half-wit succumbing to the whimsy of some half-arsed thought thrown out randomly on the internet; as a ramble of some belligerent old fisherman, weather-beaten and worn, throwing the slimey waste of his catch to the bottomless pit of the endless, and heedless, unfathomable void of their ignorance of a tangling net set to enmesh and snare the intellect and reduce it to nothing more than nothing.
Unlike the unlikable badgerjelly, who might also be likable, to be honest I have no idea, but to be hypocritical is the worst case of having fun, though it has been fun writing this, like riding a small boat with an engine as old as my grandfather and a hull as thin as my hide, it's a thrilling, under and overwhelming experience to behold in the fact that no one else can best the unbeatable, hypocritical post on a forum.
Hoist on his own petard, Generalissimo Alfredo El Cahon carefully deployed every single cannon he could muster from all the near and far-flung provinces he had managed to conquer during his previous twenty-five illustrious years of his military career , upon the highest mountain overlooking the small venerable undefended town of Cuernavaca, and ascertaining with meticulous almost fanatical care that all other edifices in the town's vicinity would definitely remain totally unscathed from the concentrated barrage, proceeded calmly to give the infamously dastardly order for the cannonade to commence which resulted in the complete demolition of San Vicentes Cathedral which had been a national historical monument from the time that the town had been founded by the conquistadores until Generalissimo Alfredo Del Cahon decided that it was a totally intolerable eyesore which needed to be immediately removed by all means at his military disposal. 145 words
The men and women all stared at the depressed prostitute who realized her wish which she made with her secret djinn had not come true and that she was still all alone and surrounded by multiple paying morally unscrupulous male 'clients' who were going to remind her that she was and may always be in hell, so the prostitute decided to get up on her own two feet and look into the eyes of the unbearable male clients staring at her and without hesitancy said the apocalyptic message regarding prostitution in the modern world, "Hookers have hearts just as sleazy businessmen do, so the real 'challenge' of modernism, crude gentleman, is to celebrate governance!"
Blinking her thick, two-inch long, purple eyelashes as slowly as possible and languidly rolling her deep-red, dinner-plate sized eyes, the Moluskian maiden [who happened to have been in estrus] had repeatedly attempted to catch the Earthman ambassador to the planet Qaur's amorous attention on numerous convenient occasions only to have elicited either a look of utter disdain or else one of complete repugnance tinged with a look of insulting panic on his insolent Earthian countenance. .
Oh god, this is the Iain M. Banks starter kit right here. To be very, very clear, these are not my sentences, they're from published books by the aforementioned (my word of the day, it seems) author: From The Algebraist: Same book: Again, not written by me, but having the occasional monster sentence was a kind of Banks trademark. Too late for me to get started on one, but I'll try tomorrow.
Someone over in the NaNoWriMo forums recently wanted an over-worded acceptance letter to a magic academy. I offered the following. It stops where I got tired With transcendent pleasure, the governing authorities of this revered institution wish to affirm our warmest faith in your talent with regard to all elements of the craft of prestidigitation and enchantment. In witness to that faith, we beseech that you will acquiesce to our desire to tender a scholarship sufficient to all expenditures that may be incurred in your span as our comrade in erudition and discernment. With the greatest of gratification, we anticipate your ingress...
I know, he never officially closed off the possibility of more stories in that universe. I think the Dwellers were the best example of what I always referred to as "Douglas Adams, rewritten by Clive Barker".
Looks like we have similar tastes. There are very few fictional writers I have returned to. Clive Barker and Ian Banks are probably the two I've read the most of. Weave World to this day is the only novel I've ever read in one sitting. Not the best example of "good writing", but the imagination and general "feel" of Barker really gripped me. What current authors do you regard as the best today? Any recommendation? Genre is not an issue with me btw, I just find most fiction nowadays either repetitive or simply tripe.
