His earnest eyes fell on me. "Marsha, I love you!" he confessed, his voice full of emotion. "But, John," I sighed a heavy sigh, "Your wife will never let us be." His burning eyes flashed. I felt fear in my chest. It was frightful. "Then we shall kill her. Together." His wicked eyes stared deep into my soul. I was afraid. "But, John. That's illegal. And I am . . . afraid." My voice trembled with fear. He clutched me to him. I felt his love pressing against me like a contained beast. Fear quivered down my . . . spine. "Do not fear, my pet. We will do it with cunning and stealth. Like ninjas." Tears of joy streamed down my face. "Yes, of course. Ninjas are experts in stealth. And killing." I felt my heart begin to beat wildly. Was it love? Was it excitement? Was it . . . fear? His deep blue eyes were full of steely strength. My heart swelled with emotion. "John." "Marsha." "John." "Marsha!"
Flaxen-haired Katarina Anastasia Worcestershire's limpid soul shone from the star-like amethyst orbs nestled in the flawless pale alabaster skin of her dazzlingly sensitive and resplendant countenance, radiating peace and passion as she gazed through the fragile transparent shell of the shimmering casement in the lime-hued south-southwest wall of the sybaritic bedchamber of her stylish and rakish West Georgetown pied-a-terre. OK, I can't bear to write any more.
Space Colonel John Bzxyq eyed up the drone as it hovered into the Space Capsule he also occupied as well. From the appearance of it's insignia (three thick white lines below a purple lion surrounded by 26 orange starts and the number 238) he was in the presence of an Alpha Class 238 Imperial Ordnance Droid. It, or should I say he (all Alpha Class Droids are sentient) was armed with a Mega Imperial Space Bastard Mk II, and a black hole Cannon on the ends of his Droid-Arms. "All hail Emperor Filibuster" The drone ejaculated. Space Colonel John Bzxyq simply nodded at the drone. All at once klaxons went off all over the Space Capsule. John could hear the sound of a Impalpable Class Battle Cruiser roaring past his capsule (although actually he didn't hear it, as you can't hear things through a vacuum, so space is eerily silent) but he did hear it on his Space Radio, and new it was there, because of the klaxons. Bzxyq knew that this finally meant WAR! He legged it as fast as he could through air locks, space corridors and other parts of the ship like engineering and the med-bay before finally getting to his Bridge. While nervous, Space Colonel John was also severely happy, he would finally get to FIGHT! He had trained his entire life for this. He stared into the dark obsidian depths of space, it's vast blackness interrupted only by the twinkle of tiny stars, the faint blue smudges of nebulae and of course the Impalpable Class Battle Cruiser that was ramming the front of his ship. Truly this was the pinnacle of his existence, all those years at the Space Academy had paid off, he was ready, he had always been ready, he was born ready (although actually he was made in a Birthing Tank) and he now pressed the "Fire" key on his Command Chair. But... it... was too... late. The other ship rammed into this ships Plasma Engine Core, and within a second, and the burning heat of plasma fire, Space Colonel John Bzxyq died a horrible death. The Oonga Bedingi Tsitoli Space Fleet had won the Galaxy War. I apologise if this piece of writing physically hurt any readers. Also, this thread is wonderful.
You realise I have a friend who actually writes like that? It's hilarious to read! ----- "Drop your gun!" Vladimir Puccini yelled, and to make his point he pressed the point of his knife harder against Ellie's throat - a slender and pale throat, one that I had caressed countless times on those starry nights when we would tumble around under the covers, and I would kiss her in places only I knew about and make her gasp. Ellie gasped now, but not the way I know it. Her gasps came out shrill. No. When I was with her, I make her gasp with pleasure. I grinned at my own sexual prowess. No, I could not let Vladimir kill her. To think, that I would be alone in the empty bed, always remembering the warmth of Ellie beside me and reaching out to find nothing but the cold night air. That was too much to bear. I raised both of my hands slowly. Dropped the gun. Pa-ta-ta: it tumbled to the concrete ground below. Vladimir sneered. "Fool!" With his other hand, he brandished a gun. "Now you're mine!" Little did he realise he could not keep a woman with only a knife against her throat. Now with her arms freed, Ellie thrust her right elbow backwards into Vladimir's abdomen, while with her left hand wrestled the knife from his grip. Vladimir yelped, cursing in rapid Russian. Ellie spun, her eyes intense like melted chocolate, though now they were transformed by something I had not seen before, not even when we were alone together. They were transformed by contempt. Her eyes flashed angrily, a smirk creeping onto her face. Suddenly she was like a vicious queen bee, buzzing with hate that made her look both at once regal and terrifying. She would live. She was Ellie. She was not called Ellie for nothing. She raised her knife, steady, defiant, fearless, her eyes turned dark as the horrors of hell as evil gripped her mouth and turned it into a snarl. But she should've taken the gun. "ELLIIIIIIIIIE!!!" I screamed at the top of my lungs, lunging forward, but too late. Vladimir, still winded, fired, and Ellie tumbled backwards as blood bloomed on her breast. "Ha. Ha. Ha," Vladimir chuckled, his eyes wide like a bemused frog's. "Hahahahaha!" His laughter resonated in the enclosed space of the garage, for that was where we were. I ran forward, laid Ellie's head on my lap. She gazed up at me with a smile. "Bob," she said, gripping my hand. "I love you." "I love you too, Elenora!" "That's not my real name," she managed. "Wh- what do you mean?" "I have come to find you... so... I can tell... you... of your... d- destiny." "My destiny?" "Will you stand in the final battle? Will you fight, and never give up all that is good?" Tears spilled from her eyes. I tightened my grip on her hand and said, "Yes." "Then you are ready... Bob," she said with relief. "But I don't understand!" "I love you, Bob." And with that, she was gone. I threw my head back and cried, "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Vladimir's laughter echoed.
Brad was hot. In a good way, like on a summers day when the sun shines down like a big yellow radiator in the sky: he made me sweat, in all the right places. He took off his shirt and I whimpered like a puppy when it sees a favourite toy, but can't quite reach it. If only he would notice me, I thought. How could I get him to notice me? He only had eyes for Janet. Not some silly girl in a gorilla outfit handing out flyers for the Big Chimp Chip Shop.
Henry Kissinger walked into the bar. "I have parkinsons" he exclaimed loudly, vehemently and angrily. A small donkey walked up to him and started tap dancing Henry Kissinger had always loved tap dancing, and could not contain himself, he ripped off his trousers, started dancing with the donkey, and then sat down, only to be talked to by a deranged man who turned how to be Hannibal Lecter Jr, who also loved to tap dance, with his tap dance shoes on the tap dance floor in the tap dance club in the county of tapdance in Tapdance, Great Britain. A smurf walked up to them and started tap dancing too. All the other people joined him as the rays of the moon lit up the blue sky. The smurf, called Nib'alah ko-ro-to Nifzer-Al Kabun exclaimed "I can tap dance in 7 milliseconds" A small italian plumber, called Mario or something, loudly exclaimed "Wow, that's more than the number of days in a week!" Suddenly, the owner of the Tap dance Club, Fred Astaire, walked up to all the tap dancing people. "Yo Foo's, you don't know shit about tap dancing y'all. Dis is how you do dat shizz!" He then tap danced for 50000 years straight but then Jesus came and did a little tap dancing too but Jesus was then beaten by Winnie the Pooh who's moves were also undermined by James Joyce who was reciprocately beaten by Spider-Man who then proceeded to do a dance battle with Aggamemnon who then got beaten by a mad monkey who then eat a banana covered in strawberry pancake batter which had exited the rear end of a dead cat!
A day, unlike any other day, was upon us... this day. It was a day unlike any other. Do you, dear reader, want to know why? Well, I, the narrator will tell you in small words that are easily understandable to those of lesser intellect. That was going to have been a day that will have lived on in infamy for all of the future. I was walking my dog, when suddenly... The POV of the universe shifted! He, that will be me the POV shifted narrator, was walking the dog. Who so ever's dog I am not sure, but it is a dog that I am walking at this current time of narration. "Except that now, I am confused, or I was confused, because the verb tenses aren't made sense!" he shouted. He is still the narrator, walking the dog, in the street... it was a monday. Tomorrow will be tuesday. And the day after that was Wednesday, the day when everything thing will change. But, at this point, even the guy writing this is confused by who is narrating and when it's all happening. So he is currently deciding to stop this before he had a brain hemorrhage and dies. He rather enjoyed living and doesn't want to die. ------------- I am so sorry...
I really think that this is an amazing thread. It gives you en excuse to experiment with awfulness... and unless a writer knows what truly is awful, it's hard to avoid it. Bravo to the OP! And thanks Dagolas, It was painful to write that... verb agreement and POV consistency are pet peeves of mine lol
Writing badly here really does help in the editing process for my stories because I'm reminded what to avoid. The thread is funny and useful too
hehe totally agree - it's hilarious and it's actually pretty hard to write badly. I do think what I've written is bad, but not satisfactorily so This thread is pure awesomeness.
i got another one. AAron's skin wasn't white,black,red, or pale. It was black. Black like charcoal that gets consumed in the fires of a grill, and when it gets used up, the smoke serves as a reminder of the blackness. Aaron wondered why everyone didn't have skin like him. Were they jealous of the complexity of his melanin levels which must have been a gift from God, so that people can look upon him and wonder,"I wish I had that nice,black skin." Bad prose. Fuck yeah.
Az our eyes connect, 'er eyez don look away. She knows. She knows ey need 'er ta do dis. I know I’ve dawn so many things wrong between us, but trust me, jast far today. After that, she 'as evry right to forget meh. I stick owt me 'and to 'er, nawt looking away. “Arria, we need ya.” She looks at me 'and den be'inde me, Yaseem and Neil are probably tellin' 'er da same ting. Arria bites 'er lip and breaks our eye contact. And that was me trying to write my character's first person voice as his actual accent (no offence to Irish people) Maybe I need to make this worse
It was four o’clock. That’s almost five o’clock, and soon it would be six o’clock - time to start waiting for seven o’clock, when the eight o’clock news would be only an hour away. Only an hour before it had been three o’clock, which was time for the six o’clock news on the East Coast, and the eleven o’clock news in London. An hour before that, it had been two o’clock, or ten o’clock Zulu time, but who cares how Zulus set their watches?
The army rushed into the destroyed city like a butterfly flapping its wings in the dew of the morning freshness. There was a man lying by a lamppost with no leg, almost like how you would peel a banana then bite into its fruity goodness. The sky was grey, the clouds floating miraculously like a hungry dog fighting for the last shred of meat, only it gets stolen by a stray cat, who is smaller, but has a ferocity much greater than that of the dog's. The army ran into the chamber room of the king in a similar way salmon fertilize their eggs. "What have you done with the king?" the captain shouted at the enemy. "Tell me or I will smite you like a lama from the heavens!"
This thread is hilarity. ----- Sally had finally made it. Today was her first day as President of the Republic, elected duly by the college of electors, all 15 of them (seven votes from the Northern provinces, which though they had already declared independence from the Republic thanks to the covert support from the two South-West provinces themselves still had voting rights under the Constitution; three votes from the South-West provinces, which though number only two had secured a third elector because of their role in negotiating a truce in the War of Unity between the South East and Eastern Provinces; one vote from the Eastern province, having already given its second entitled vote to the Central Provinces this year, in exchange for their extra vote for the next two successive years and then every other year thereafter; three from the Central provinces, one of which actually lay in the North, but agreed to remain Central after the Eastern provinces offered its elector vote - this province it should be noted did not declare independence, though was involved with the South-West provinces in supporting the independence of the other Northern Provinces covertly; and one from her mother who by virtue of being her mother was also allowed to vote).
"Horray!" Screamed the tens of thousands of furry creatures as they paraded through the city gates of Hurpurpa. They had recently conquered the city by telling the king of said city that he was actually a janitor, and only suitable to being the king of the porcelain throne. After the surreptitiously executed subversion, the furry creatures decided it would be cooler to just parade through the city, urinated at pedestrians along the way. Thus, the city was rendered kingless, but who, oh who, would be gallant enough to take back the thrown from the furries? None other than Edward The Bulimic. The has-been hero of the Flurfurrian conflict, where he cut eight heads off of the nine headed dragon, leaving only one so the dragon could see that he was missing eight heads. Yes, this was Edward's time to shine, his time to reclaim his long lost honor. He feels his stomach tingling with a feeling similar to being kicked in the testicles by someone with weak legs. At last, he musters the courage to stand in front of the group of thousands of invaders. He jumps in front, shouting "I will not bow before you!" At which point, a furry parader shot him in both knee caps, making him bow. "I will not surrender so easily!" He shouted, louder this time because adrenaline was coursing through his body like heroine through Jimi Hendrix. He lunged at one of the furry creatures, but quickly pancaked on the road. At which point, the creatures decided to pick him up, and worship him as their God. Thus ends the chronicles of Edward.
He gazed, like a cat gazing another cat that he is trying to ask out on a date, at the old wrinkled man. He was wrinkled because he was old. "HAHA you are old," he giggled. "Not as old as you son!" These words stank like poop on a Sunday morning. Not just any poop but Bald Eagle poop. He looked again at the greasy man, " HAHA you stink!" he said using his mouth. The old man did not cry at this comment, he sobbed. Sobbed like Simba did when Scar killed daddy lion, sobbed like Mr. Smith next door did when he found underwear on his cat's head. Suddenly the old man put three fingers, the index, middle, and pinky, on his heart and gasped. "I am dying, NOOOO!" The old man died, and everyone went to his funeral except for George. George didn't like the old man, because the old man cut off George's arms.
I was pumping out the Port-o-let; you might know them as Port-a-potties or Port-a-johns depending on where your from, you know the usually blue plastic portable toilets that they use at municipal event where lots of people attend or other places where you find lots of people or construction sights, when allofthesudden the pipe ruptured between my hands at the end of my arms close to my waist at the midsection of my body, spewing out a brown liquid like the color if Bob Ross mixed together all the siennas and umbers on his palate he uses to hold all his paints and it smelled so very bad like defecated excrement from the bowels of many people, but i woke up from my sleep only to discover, like a sleuth on a job a pretty dame hired him to solve in a smoke filled room while drinking cheap whisky and smoking a cheap cigar, that it was only a dream that i was having while i was sleeping; however, when i through back my covers that were on top of me while sleeping that i had taken a no. 2 on myself in my bed and it was the bad smell of defecated excrement that had awoken me form my sleep and the colors were the same color of the dream, which is weird because i was told by a teacher i had once that dreams could not convey real life things like color, but this one had and I had poop on me!!!!. Let's see Lord Kyle diagram that sentence
