Chamblee54

Part Two of the 2020 chamblee54 report on The Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest is here. Part one is there. Pictures for this affair are from The Library of Congress.
With one bound she was at the bookcase reaching for the heaviest book she could find to halt her attacker, a thesaurus of indeterminate, inconclusive, or unstipulated weight, ponderosity, or heftiness, with which she intended to pummel, lapidate or belabor her assailant’s skull, cranium or brainpan. Stu Duval, Auckland, New Zealand
As the two beheld each other, Lady Asthenia’s bosom swelled with love like two perfectly popped pans of Jiffy Pop while Lord Mycort’s heart melted like butter, making their union complete.
Roni Markowitz, Brooklyn, NY
Brigid O’Hanion was the fairest flower of Southern womanhood, and Lt. Lance Beauregard was almost blind with lust for her, but after he slipped off her hoop skirt, unbuttoned her lacy blouse, untied her incredibly tight corset, dove beneath the rustling crinoline petticoats, and laboriously inched off her pantalets, he realized his mood had shifted and he now wondered if there was still some cold ham on the sideboard downstairs. Randall Card, Bellingham, WA
He had never seen such a beautiful woman, he thought to himself as his blind date was being escorted to their table at the restaurant, although unfortunately he hadn’t seen her yet and was just staring at a framed photograph taken three years earlier of a famous actress standing awkwardly with the restaurant manager. Izzy Maurer, Lincoln, England
The door to happiness, which was now closed so cruelly for Clare, had been slammed shut the day Jimmy died, yet she lived in hope that someday somewhere someone would come, not perhaps with that superior key of Jimmy’s, the one that fitted the compatible lock of her affections so perfectly, but one like the card-key that finally manages to open the door of your dreary motel room after a whole heap of jiggling and fiddling. David Hynes, Bromma, Sweden
Believe it or not Ripley refrained from firing her laser at the alien creature lurking in the starship’s ceiling above the crew’s happy hour gathering, its dripping secretions burning through the titanium floor like it was made of cheap wet toilet paper, when she discovered by sheer accident that just one drop of the oozing substance reacted with the contents of her cocktail glass to produce a martini so perfect that 007 himself would have betrayed Queen and country for just one sip, as long as it was shaken and not stirred. Reinhold Friebertshauser, Chagrin Falls, OH
Astronomer Herschel Williams deeply regretted notifying the Interstellar Patrol that he had discovered a microwave-emitting star, as his new duties consisted solely of piloting the cargo ship *Redenbacher* around the star three times a week, its holds filled with popcorn and that rancid-smelling butter substitute. Randall Card, Bellingham, WA
Post-game cake, long a clubhouse tradition for the Mudville Nine, was taken off the menu when new manager Sperb Farquhar made it clear that everybody, including the team’s sluggers, would be called on to sacrifice bundt. David Laatsch, Baton Rouge, LA
Virginia knew Gerald would make love like a recently released convict, probably because he was a recently released convict, and Virginia always fell for his type, not the least because the diner where she worked was between the gates of the penitentiary and the bus stop.
Peter Skrzypczak, Burlington, Ontario, Canada
Rocking contentedly on the front porch while watching Marvel’s pretty little baby girl pluck dandelions in the yard and poke them up her nose, Granny Witherspoon fondly recalled her wild weekend at Woodstock. Anna Franklin, Lubbock, TX
I’m a very smart and loyal dog, but when I found out that the average lifespan of a dog is about thirteen years and a human’s is nearly eighty years, I didn’t see the fairness in that at all, so on the day after his fourteenth birthday I lured Timmy to the old abandoned well and when he looked in I jumped on his back and knocked him in, his final words echoing from below: “Why, Lassie, why?” Randy Blanton, Murfreesboro, TN
Sonny hated life on the farm — the cloying reek of overripe figs, the acrid stench of chickens, the tangy funk of oxen, and the malodorous attitude of his older brother; nonetheless, he was grateful to be home after some riotous living abroad which had left him denarii-strapped, and his stomach growled at the sight of the fetid calf. Patrick James Plunkett, North Vancouver, Canada
“You’re a lazy, indolent, slothful, idle, good-for-nothing, work-shy, sluggish, inactive, bone-idle, inert, skiving, lackadaisical, listless, apathetic, lumpish layabout!” exclaimed Mrs. Roget when she saw the state of her son’s bedroom. Nick Stevenson, Sevenoaks, Kent, England