Filler Mignon

The Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest http://www.bulwer-lytton.com at San Jose State has been in existence since 1982. The English Department at San Jose State University has sponsored the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest, described as “…a whimsical literary competition that challenges entrants to compose the opening sentence to the worst of all possible novels.”

My fillers exemplify the worst of the writing that may be found there. As usual, I did these as a challenge to my writing. To write well is difficult enough, but to write poorly, with purpose, is just as difficult.
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Words were insufficient to describe her deep, dark, intelligent eyes framed by the masterpieces that were her perfectly arched brows and long, curly lashes. I also appreciated her soft, sensuously wide mouth, evenly spaced and proportioned bright, white teeth and her flawless naturally, tanned skin and classic nose.


She fanned herself with one of the bible tracts she had vowed to hand out in town that morning. She took another sip of the tall, Singapore Sling, pulled a few, deep drags on her Pall Mall and yanked the black ball at the end of the chrome arm down hard. Marietta was playing hooky gain, and the bundle of tracts that she threw away in the casino parking lot were starting to blow up and out of the dumpster.


The shot rang out. The 400 grain, steel jacketed, 380 slug entered one and one-eighths inches above his left ear, tumbled around inside his head for several seconds as it turned his brain to pudding, then exited just above his right eye to pierce his new Calvin Klein sunglasses with the rimless frames, only to drop harmlessly at his feet onto the new, white carpet of his fully-restored, dual-carbed and turbocharged, 1957, Chevy Belaire.

Debbie popped the clutch of her 68 Chevy Camero and tore the filter off before she lit her second Marlboro. Today began with a two-hour session with her life coach, Nancy, who recommended that Debbie open herself up to more serious relationships and stop hanging out near the snack bar at the bus depot.

Mario squinted through the heavy, blue smoke of his Rafael Gonzalez Panatella Extra, adjusted the handle of the blue steel piece in his shoulder holster, and wondered why he had gone through all the trouble of getting a substitute teaching credential.

The Executioner breathed heavily under the black hood as he secured the arms and legs of the condemned. He raised the heavy blade to the top of the guillotine a few seconds before he threw the latch that sent one hundred pounds of heavy, hollowground, Swiss steel into and through the neck of Alfred Tedesco, who had the tenacity to withdraw his savings early from his account.

When he was confronted by the red faced, alcoholic carpenter, his heart beat like the five gallon buckets that street musicians use when they can’t afford bongos or a conga drum.

As the fiery driver-less, truck bore down on him, his feet trapped under the clutch and break pedal and his seatbelt jammed and tight, Klaus remembered what his mother always said to him before he went out – to make sure he had on clean underwear in case he was in an accident.

Her venomous reply to his request for a personal massage stung Ralph deeply, just like the time he used the garden house around the underground yellow jackets nest and was attacked by eight thousand, angry, wet and displaced Vespidae.

In his frustration and anger, his autonomous nervous system loosened one bead of sweat from his temple and it fell haphazardly into the breech of his Wembly Vickers 4-4-0 causing it to misfire and put a slug into the toe of his new Wellingtons.

Because she hinted that she was leaving him, he clung to her like the start of a roll of new toilet paper or the shrink wrap on a new CD.

Her telephone voice was as sweet as a double chocolate latte with two shots of butterscotch syrup topped with a dollop of real whipped cream, not that stuff in a can.