Chamblee54

Part Two of the 2020 chamblee54 report on The Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest is here. Part One and Part Three are there. Pictures for this affair are from The Library of Congress.
“It’s a dark and stormy night, ladies and gentlemen, just the perfect atmosphere for the Monsters’ Ball, and look, here comes Mr. and Mrs. Dracula, both looking quite debonair and mysterious, and there’s Frank, the big guy himself, his neck bolts glinting during the lightning flashes, but I do have one piece of bad news and that is we probably won’t be seeing the werewolf tonight because, after all, it is a dark and stormy night.” Randy Blanton, Murfreesboro, TN
It was a dark and stormy roast; the baristas filled the cups in black torrents—except at occasional intervals when customers asked for non-fat milk (for it is Starbucks where our scene lies) or perhaps pumpkin spice, their faces puckered at the bitterness, the inflated prices, and the unspoken obligation to tip. Judd Hampton, Grimshaw, Canada
Cthulhu awoke from loathsome dreams of gangrenous decay and the foul stench of congealing viscera, lifting his pulpy, misshapen head to find what foolish supplicant had roused him to yet another age of fear and creeping dread, but found his bloodthirst unslaked, having been brought to consciousness not by horror-filled screams of human sacrifice but by his little sister’s overly dramatic wail of “Cthulhu’s touching me!” from her side of the family station wagon’s back seat.
Eric Williamson, Nine Mile Falls, WA
Had Mrs. Reed just offered: “I could whip up a quick buffalo stew, some corn cakes, and maybe toss together a dandelion salad” instead of remaining silent, perhaps George Donner never would have followed up his “Anyone have any thoughts on dinner?” query with “Don’t be shy—no idea is a bad idea.” Mark Meiches, Dallas, TX
“The hell . . . ?” wondered Dread Lord Atunkhamen, awakening to find his sumptuous sarcophagus transformed into an airtight glass box and his hordes of groveling undead servants into a sea of snotty schoolchildren, bored museum staff, goggling tourists, and an endless sea of faceless smartphones. Gwen Simonalle, Grenoble, France
Alas,” he thought to himself, careworn eyes flickering over a veritable charcuterie of limp meats festering with metaphor, “Is bologna simply a hot dog that has lost its backbone, its form, its very ilk—flattened, beaten down into this wretched shape, a mere flicker of what it once was?”
Annora McGarry, Granville, NY
If broken hearts were made of simple syrup, and shattered dreams were made from white rum, and agony and despair came from ¾ ounce of lime juice, freshly squeezed, and three mint leaves respectively, then Mary Lou just served up a mojito cocktail straight from the ninth circle of hell when she told Ricky the baby wasn’t his. Tony Buccella, Allegany, NY
Like looking for a missing needle in a haystack (a scenario Belinda had never quite grasped because of the absurdity of having a needle in a haystack in the first place since no one does needlepoint in a barn), the futility of searching for exemplary qualities in her ex left her exhausted and exasperated. Ann Franklin, Lubbock, TX
Harvey’s eyes tracked the undulating sway of Betty’s hips, clad in hot pink leggings, clinging to her voluptuous thighs, each pocket of cellulite like magnetic orbs of fuschia-tinted bubble-wrap drawing him forward; gnarled hands poised to snatch just one glorious pop of forbidden flesh before Nurse Jones whisked him away for cribbage time at the Rough and Ready Nursing Home.
Debi Hassler, Central Point, OR