Chamblee54

The Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest has announced the results of the 2024 competition. Every year, B-LFC solicits opening sentences for bad novels. The “winners” of this competition receive heartfelt condolences from all concerned. Chamblee54 uses B-LFC for text to go between pictures every year, like this. Part Two and Part Three are here. Pictures today are from The Library of Congress.
As a “value added service,” chamblee54 compiles a list of noteworthy author names and locations. This years notables: Jack Harnly, Sarasota FL, Douglas Purdy, Roseville CA, Mary Laiuppa, San Diego CA, Sophia Wang, Nashville TN, Debi Hassler, Central Point OR, Gwen Simonalle, Grenoble, France. This year saw three men with multiple entries: G. Andrew Lundberg (7) Mark Meiches (8) Joel Phillips (4.)
Norman gazed searchingly into Susan’s mesmerizing Windex-colored eyes, observing that her left eye was quite lighter than her right, more like a watered-down generic glass cleaner, probably at a dilution ratio of 1:3 which Norman predicted would definitely leave some streaks.
Leslie Muir, Atlanta, GA
She was poured into the red latex dress like Jello poured into a balloon, almost bursting at the seams, and her zaftig shape was awesome to behold, but I knew from the look on her face and the .45 she held pointing at me, that this was no standard client of my detective agency, but a new collection agency tactic to get me to pay my long-overdue phone bill. Jack Harnly, Sarasota, FL
As Nils Nordgrund struggled mightily treading water to stay afloat, while grimly watching from a distance the Norwegian oil tanker he captained slowly sink in the treacherously dark and stormy seas off Murmansk—he gave no thought to whether the Giants had any chance at a pennant win this year. Rex Allen, San Rafael, CA
It had seemed a good idea at the time, the first night of my two-week all-inclusive vacation, spent with an affable stranger in a tapas bar oiled by an excess of Corona Extra and tequila shots, but now, in fancy dress holding a red cape, under a pitiless noonday sun, while 1000 pounds of snorting horned beefsteak eyed me malevolently, hoofing a hole in the dirt, the packed spectators oléing for all their worth, I, a junior sales rep in kitchen utensils from Milwaukie, wasn’t so sure.
David Hynes, Bromma, Sweden
As he mustered the platoon for another patrol on a moonlit Mekong night, Lieutenant John “Hoseman” Walker, Jr., USMC, remembered what his dad—a fellow devildog who survived the previous generation’s island-hopping campaign against Japan that had sealed the Corps’s legend—had told him as he shipped out from Coronado fourteen months earlier: son, when you’re a Marine, rank is what you smell, not what you pull. G. Andrew Lundberg, Los Angeles, CA
The grappling hook caught, and Dirk hoisted himself hand-over-hand to the balcony, where to his surprise stood Dr. Darpa, a banana sandwich in one hand and a Smith & Wesson Bodyguard M&P 380 in the other—a pistol more suited to the delicate hand of a femme fatale, he thought—though he kept this observation to himself. Joel Phillips, West Trenton, NJ
Magnus was in a tough spot…the Icelandic Police were pressing him to cough up the name of the top capo in each of the 3 main cities in which the Mafia operated—Reykjavik, Akureyri, and Middelf—threatening to lock him away for life if he didn’t, but he knew that if he ratted out the Reykjavikingur or the Akureyringur the Mob would kill him for sure—so he just gave them the Middelfingur.
Mark Meiches, Dallas, TX
It was a dark and stormy night, which makes perfect sense when you realize we’re on Neptune, with a mean distance from the Sun of 4.5 billion kilometers (or 30 astronomical units), and winds that howl at 100 meters per second, composed of mostly hydrogen and helium (and only trace amounts of methane), which is way better than Uranus, which stinks to high heaven. Jon A. Bell, Porto, Portugal