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August 6, 2007

Monday

There was a fairly recent theme on the Bulwer-Lytton competition (the results of most recent which can be found here), so this time let's do a variant: post the last 100 words of the most awful novel never written.

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And so it was, on the last Tuesday in June, that Mr Samuel Escobar of Chestnut Avenue hung up his hat and trenchcoat for the last time, and sat down to dinner with his wife. And there were no more vanishings; nor artistically suggestive cigars while sat behind a giant oak desk, leaning back with his feet up by the inkpot; nor soulful smoky eyes or the husky voices of scarlet-clad women, sensuous shapes silhouetted behind a smoked-glass door. But there was the PTA and floral napkins and mowing the lawn every second Wednesday until death do ye part. Amen.

Posted by: Misch at August 6, 2007 4:53 AM · Permalink

“We saved zee fashion industry. Zee whole trendy world is liberated,” smiled Jean-Claude. “Stay with me. Don’t cash out. Je t’aime.”

“I’m due back in New York. Another modeling job,” sighed Cindy.

“I’ve routed zee sheep shearing terrorists and discovered zee cure for cotton rot disease. Zee future of fabric is secure.”

She smiled knowing she’d taken the bigger risk. Her beauty, her fame made canine fiber the “must-have” wearable during the fabric shortages.

He shut the cab door.

Cindy waved, “Adieu.”

She clutched the check for 20 million francs. It paid to be an American Wear Woof in Paris.

Posted by: Barb at August 6, 2007 10:41 AM · Permalink