The Funniest Bulwer Lytton Fiction Contest Entries – Horror
“It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents, except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness”
The Bulwer Lytton Fiction Contest is a tongue-in-cheek contest held annually and is sponsored by the English Department of San Jose State University in San Jose, California. Entrants are invited “to compose the opening sentence to the worst of all possible novels” – that is, deliberately bad
The contest was started in 1982 by Professor Scott E. Rice of the English Department at San Jose State University and is named for English novelist and playwright Edward George Bulwer-Lytton, author of the much-quoted first line “It was a dark and stormy night”. This is the opening from the 1830 novel Paul Clifford
These are the entries (winners and dishonourable mentions) from the year 2002 to 2017 which I personally find funny or clever in some way.
“Release the Netherhounds,” sneezed the Dark Commander of Castle Direkill, though there were no interlopers but his allergy to dogs (and cats, though this is not a story about cats, but about dogs that take care of intruders) was intolerable, and it was expected he would have Netherhounds, being a Dark Commander and all.
A cold wind arose from the moss-covered tomb with a haunting asthmatic whistle and horned its way around the ornate marble monuments, increasing speed and raising its menacing sound as it set course towards five-year-old Samantha Wainberry, who forgot to wear a sweater.
As the shambling throng of zombies edged closer Leopold raised his quivering axe to shoulder height, pausing only to consider that the phrase ‘living dead’ is contradictory; that staggering about implied a fully functioning nervous system supplemented by an intake of oxygen; and that if they were really dead, then why persist in stumbling about in this vastly paradoxical manner?
Jacob and Elisa had been warned by their parents on numerous occasions never to venture into the Amber Woods after dark or risk some vague and unspoken fate once within the trees, so they didn’t and just played in their front yards instead.
Duane made a very unfortunate zombie; the coroner had removed his dentures and all of his clothes before he reanimated–thus he was destined to stagger naked through the woods, attempting to gum small animals to death.
“You’re a dead man, O’ Flanagan,” said the mortuary supervisor to the corpse laid out before him, chuckling to himself at how comical that remark was, a sentiment not shared with the rest of the night shift who all secretly yearned for the day he retired, having heard the same joke on innumerable occasions with just the surname of the deceased changed.
My name is Caroline and if you’re reading this I’m either dead or I’ve gotten lost in some alternate dimension where Liverpool has exploded and been replaced with a fancy water park … though it’s probably the first one.
“Don’t know no tunnels hereabout,” said the old-timer, “unless you mean the abandoned subway line that runs from Hanging Hill, under that weird ruined church, beneath the Indian burial ground, past the dilapidated Usher mansion, and out to the old abandoned asylum for the criminally insane where they had all those murders.”
Ronald left this world as he entered it: on a frigid winter night, amid frantic screams and blood-soaked linens, while relatives stood nearby and muttered furious promises to find and punish the man responsible.
Gripping his terrified victim by her sensual slender neck with his foul piercing talons like a lawnspiker, Igor the Terrible bellowed, “How do you want to die? over the coals? with a plastic bag over your head? with your blond hair seeped in red blood? in agony? today? tomorrow? – hurry up, please, my fingers are getting sore.”
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