Thread: The New Bad Writing Competition...just for laughs!

CRIMES OF FICTION CONTEST

WARNING: ANYONE WHO TAKES THEMSELVES TOO SERIOUSLY WILL BE CANED.

Moderan has inspired me to throw up a new Bad Writing thread. Is it a competition? Sure, in the same way that people swapping tall tales is a competition. Do you win anything? Only groans...and hopefully you'll have a good time with it.

Don't just write badly...take bad writing to a whole new level! The most entertaining awfulness wins.

Check out the link to Moderan's story 'Squatched' above to see how this should be done! Then post your efforts (or lack of effort) here!

Most of all...have fun.

Recycler (723 words and a picture)


It was with a heavy heart and even heavier boots that I undertook to clean out the sub-basement after the shit had hit the fan.
You see, I had performed certain arcane rituals, and had become the keeper of a slightly iridescent amorphous creature, born of the unholy union between a man and a mutant banana. The banana had split with the pain of de livery and was off in a limousine somewhere enjoying the High Life until the guy in the commercial came to take it away, and I was stuck here in the middle of a bad writing contest, trying to keep my shit together.
There I was, with a collection of Hefty bags, a big shovel, a rake, and a Super Duper Pooper Scooper, trying not to breathe while the shoggoth watched me collect its dung. I was wearing a vintage gas mask and several other devices, but the stench still wrapped its arms around me and gave me a loving embrace and a big wet kiss.
Guano what's worse than shoggoth dung? Nothing. The smell is roughly akin to deep-fried, three-week-old, rancid mackerel, with sulfurous low notes and skunky high notes, concentrated, and distilled with the essence of yesterday's six-weeks-before-changing cat litter.
Mind you, a small shoggoth is an excellent pet. They're quiet, friendly if you don't mind the smell and the trails of sticky mucus they leave everywhere, and will eat anything. The problem is, they grow as they eat, and they don't stop. They are from the universe before this one and don't obey the same laws of physics as common terrestrial creatures. The conservation of mass and the ratio of mass to energy don't mean a thing to them.
I learned that very early, and stopped feeding him. I installed a small attic fan and did a little ductwork to allow the smell to escape into the outer air, through several thousand layers of charcoal furnace filters. That helped some, but he ate his own refuse and continued to grow.
Shoggoth poo is the best fertilizer in the universe. That's the sole saving grace of the whole enterprise. I found that out by paging through the Necronomicon, trying to find a solution to my dilemma, namely, how do you get rid of a pet shoggoth? It isn't like the ASPCA is gonna come and get it-it isn't even an animal, a vegetable, or a mineral. I dunno what exactly it is, but man, does it ever shit. And it shits in balls, like a rabbit.
Once I had located a market for the shoggoth feces, I was kept busy collecting the shitballs, loading them into my van, and delivering them. I had to work fast, since, as noted, the thing would eat its own dung, often collecting it directly from the source. Few things are more repugnant than watching a shoggoth suck poo-balls out of its own ass. Those few things include listening to a shoggoth suck poo-balls out of its own ass, and smelling a shoggoth sucking poo-balls out of its own ass. But one cannot look away from a train wreck, and that's about as wrecked as a train gets.
While I was at the market, the shoggoth kept eating, and eating, and growing, and growing. Soon it filled the sub-basement where it was kept, and threatened to ooze into other areas of the house. It pointed its outsize pooper at the ductwork, and that was that. The fan blades cut the shoggoth into many little shoggoths, whch I collected and threw into a room filled with dry ice, which kept its selves quiescent, and released the contents of its abdomen.
One son of a shoggoth escaped my clutches and took to lurking over my shoulder while I shoveled the shit into the hefty bags. I couldn't catch it, and instead concentrated my attention on the shitballs. I did manage to collect em all, and told my friends, being the first on the block to have a shoggoth.
Despite it all, I was rather fond of the jelly bellied little dude, who lived to eat and poo, and had some regrets when I called Alhazred Exterminators to rid me of its odious presence. But not so much that it stopped me.
I'm lonely without it, though, and I think I'll buy me a dog.

Rhys saves the Princess

Rhys rode wildly through the dark, deep, sinister forest, guiding his faithful steed Lightning with a steady and sure hand down the narrow twisting path made by sneaky evil woodgoblins.

Clomp! Clomp! Clomp! Clomp! went Lightning's hooves on the stony ground. Clomp! Clomp! Clomp! Clomp! went Rhys's heroic heart, beating time with Lightning's clattering hooves, as he held the reins tightly in one hand, guiding Lightning through the dangerous and treacherous terrain with his manly instincts and his superior horsemanship, plus the blessing of Arestwo, God of War, not that he needed even a god's help because of his own surpassing bravery and courage. He held his magic shield before him like a shield, deflecting the twisting grasping branches of the evil trees of the Goblinwood, which sought to restrain him, to slow him, to keep him from the woman he loved above all else, the most beautiful half-elven princess ever, Amberissa the Beautiful.

"Hold on, Amberissa, my love," he said with grated teeth, sparkling and white like an ivory portcullis, "I am on my way, and soon there will be hell to pay!"

He rode on, determined to save her!

Clomp! Clomp! Clomp! Clomp!

* * *

Far away, many leagues and some furlongs and a cubit or two, Amberissa the Beautiful lay weeping in the deepest, darkest, dankest, most rat-infested and cold and dirty dungeon of Merde'or, the powerful and evil sorcerer who had kidnapped her from her castle home and brought her here, to his far away tower, to force her to marry him so that he could claim the throne of the Kingdom of Veneration, and also the throne of the elf-nation of Wingdom, and could ravish her repeatedly until she bore him a brood of little sorcererlings and she was a used-up distorted thing with no beauty left, and he also intended to live off the labor of the Kingdom and elf-nation and subject the inhabitants thereof to whatever cruel whim struck him at any given moment, and it must be noted that he was the cruelest and most whimsical sorcerer in the four lands of earth, air, water and fire.

A sound approached, and the princess rose, wiped away her tears with the ineffable dignity only a princess, particularly one of partially elven blood, because elven half-breeds are the only kind that is socially acceptable, can do, and turned to face her fate. There was a sharp click and the lock was unlocked, and her dungeon door opened. Several rats jumped out and ran down the hallway, carrying indescribably vile little morsels. Through her bright blue eyes with hints of silver and the occasional glint of green and gold, Amberlissa saw two strong guards, wearing the sorcerer's livery.

"We have a delivery!" one announced ominously.

"What is it?" asked the ephemerally beautiful half-elf Princess with trepidation.

"You!" ejaculated the other guard with an evil snickering laugh. And the two guards forcibly seized the gentle young virginal maiden and hauled her out of the cell, and up the 392 steps from the deepest dungeon to the highest room in the sorcerer's tower.

* * *

Rhys charged valiantly and quickly across the unending desert of Parabola-Banana, his steadfast steed Lightning living up to his name by galloping with lightning speed through the sand, stomping on the deadly poisonous yellow sand scorpions which sought to bear the hero's way with stings from their tails, the poison of which was enough to kill the largest whale in but 4.3 seconds, which explained why there were no whales in the hot, dry and deadly desert of Parabola-Banana.

"I am coming, Amberlissa, my love, with the sparkly skin of the half-elfs and the only slightly pointed ears, and a heart that is true and whose beauty makes children weep with gladness!" Rhys called out in encouragement, even though he was still some leagues away from the sorcerer's tower, which was on the far side of the desert next to the endless Ocean of Endlessness, where the pirate king and the kraken of korn had their lairs. He pulled out his sword, and a flame of courage ran along its blade, which, when added to the interminable heat of the desert sun, would have made a lesser man sweat, but Rhys, cool as a cucumber and pure as the driven snow - at least as pure as a manly hero can be, for he loved his princess with a manly love - stayed dry and comfortable and a model for lesser men. He pointed his flaming sword right at the obsidian tower in the distance and spurred Lightning to even greater speed.

* * *

Merde'or cackled evilly as the struggling princess was dragged in and thrown callously upon the obsidian floor of his tower's highest room. He dismissed the guards before turning on the hapless maiden.

"Hahahahahahehehehehahhohohoho!" he cackled evilly.

'You can't hurt me!" Amberlissa bravely cried, reaching out to slap him. "Rhys will be here soon. Look!" she said, pointing out the window on the side of the tower that looked out over a vast and trackless desert.

"There he is now!" she said triumphantly!

"My boyfriend's back and you're gonna be in trouble!"

"Hehehehahohoha," giggled the sorcerer Merde'or as his giggles subsided. "Foolish Princess, neither you nor that foolish hero are a match for me. Have you forgotten? Or have I never mentioned it in all the times that you have been my prisoner? I am Sorcerer of Polymorphyry! HAHAHAHAHAHA!"

The princess was struck dumb with sudden dread. Well, dread, plus the fact that the sorcerer had polymorphed her mouth shut. He then waved his cruel little magic wand in her direction, muttered a foul unholy incantation, and Wa la! she was transformed into an identical version of the sorcerer himself, but without a mouth. He repeated the process, and instantaneously he was transformed into a bound and beautiful princess.

* * *

Rhys threw himself off of his horse Lightning, and kicked down the adamantium door to the obsidian tower, his sword cutting into guards from left to right, slaying them all as he fought his way up the stairs, from where he could hear his princess's calls for help, threw down the last door and burst into the tower, to see the beautiful Amberlissa bound and at the mercy of the sinister mouthless sorcerer known as Merde'or. Before the princess could even speak, Rhys had slain the evil sorcerer, gently cut off Amberlissa's bonds, and kissed her with the kiss of truest love ever.

"Oh,. Rhys," sighed Amberlissa dreamily. "You have saved me. Take me away from this awful place, never to return."

And he did. And they were married and lived happily ever after, although Rhys was quite alarmed on their wedding night to discover his beloved had hairy nipples and after the triplets were born, with their strange shapeshifting abilities, he could never get rid of the lingering doubt that perhaps Merde'or had had his wicked way with Amberlissa at his tower.

moderan, no offense, but your story stinks

I know. Isn't it wonderful?

Yours reeks, too, Alan...don't want you to feel left out. I think Moderan should get extra points for ugly artwork and Alan gets extra points for some horribly mangled writing.

Far away, many leagues and some furlongs and a cubit or two

LOL!

You both have set the bar so low that it'll be difficult for anyone else to worm under it. Great start to the thread!

I like it. Everybody limbo!

I think Alan should also get extra credit for having a new avatar every single day

Hero's Delight

There was a time, and a place, when a hero was all the many many people on this big planet dreamed about having walk through the windswept doorways of their meager lands. That day in fateful historical reference was about to arrive!

*** 12 years earlier ***

“Father, I wish to attire to my refines until supper has been repaired.”

“Boy, quit speakin’ like such a retard.”

“I know not of what you reek my clearest Father.”

“I done told ya, if you don’t shut yer yap I’m gonna get out the plunger and beat some sense into ya!”

“Why Father, that is just vanity, and lately I have been calling your sanity into gestation.”

A knock at the door halts the father’s hand from socking his son in his ugly face. But before either of the two men can answer, the intricately carved portal covering, made from Tasmanian Pink Myrtle wood (imported from the island of Thieves and Fools) to protect the abode from evil magic as Tasmanian Pink Myrtle wood was rumored to protect abodes from evil magic, suddenly exploded into pieces as a ball of suspiciously evil fire impacted with the Tasmanian Pink Myrtle wood door (seriously, ALLLL the way from the island of Thieves and Fools!). Bits of wood and other stuff were strewn everywhere, into every corner and nook and cranny.

A booming voice rang through the smoky abyss that was previously the door through which a suspiciously evil fireball came.

“I HAVE COME TO SELL YOU COOKIES!”

“What in the hell are you talking about?” The father was reaching for his beatin’ stick.

“Oh sorry, I mean…I HAVE COME FOR YOUR SON!” The father stopped reaching for his beatin’ stick.

“Weeeell now, I see we have ourselves a customer. It’ll be 49.95 for an hour but all week we’ve got a special goin’ on : 199.95 for the whole night! Whaddya say there… you’re a little on the old… and crusty, side but my boy is a real deeee-light!”

The old man in the doorway looked confused, “What? No, I just need him to help save the world…HE IS THE BOY WHO WAS PROPHESIZED TO SAAAAVE THE WORLD!!”

“Eh? It’ll be extra if you damage the merchandise.”

** 11.99726 years after the aforementioned events **

The boy who was now a man walked with his mentor of almost 12 years (11.99726 years to be exact) toward the windswept doorway of a land. People in that land had dreamed of the boy for many years and news of his arrival caused happiness, laughing and premature ejaculation even in the farthest reaches of the land.

As the pair of travelers made their continued travel through the traveled woods of traveling, the boy (not the old guy) suddenly had a revelation that was so immensely profound that it shook the very foundation of reason, rationality, logic, philosophy, religion, and science. The thought swirled in his head like a storm cloud trapped in a crystal ball, forming into an awesome power of insight. It was so immensely large and profound that he felt it would crush him or make his brain explode or in the very least give him a nose bleed…

“Master, I’ve just had the greatest revelation!”

“Oh? Do tell.”

“Well I realized that all of this around us is really just-“ Something hard smacked into the side of the boy’s big head. “WTF was that?”

“What does W, T, F mean? Sounds cryptic, you truly are the prophesized one!”

“No I mean what hit me in the head?” The boy spun around, looking for the perpetrating culprit. He could have sworn he heard a tiny squeaking noise coming from a nearby tree. As he stepped closer to examine the tree, there were suddenly more squeaking noises behind him. When he turned around, the squeaking noise was now all around him and growing louder and louder. His eyes went wide when he saw the terrible fanged creatures with their tiny claws and big puffy tails (probably filled with maliciously evil poison) staring and squeaking… they were plotting to kill the boy-hero!

“Run Master! They’re after us!” The old man didn’t waste any time, he hiked up his long robe and booked it out of there so fast that the boy had difficulty keeping up.

Once they had finally escaped that horrid squeaking they stopped to catch their breath. The Master spoke,

“You have learned much, and today you have learned something else. There is a time for which you should fight and a time for which you should run!” The boy pondered this tidbit of information, letting the idea roll around in his brain like a piece of candy dissolving in his mouth.

“Are those the only two options? Seems a little limited, I mean what if I want to negotiate? Or what about all of the ordinary situations like in the morning, what if I want to eat breakfast instead of fight or run? What if-“ The Master held his hand to stop the rambling.

“You are missing the point, live to fight another day!”

“Again with the fighting! What if I’m a pacifist? Did you ever think of that?”

“Live by the sword, die by the sword!”

“What does that even mean? What if someone poisons me? Wouldn’t that be dying by the poison?”

“For the poison of hatred seated near the heart doubles the burden for the one who suffers the disease; he is burdened with his own sorrow, and groans on seeing another’s happiness.”

The boy through his arms in the air, “I can spout some cool quotes too, ‘English mothafucka, do ya speak it?!’” The Master sighed and sat down.

They stopped to make camp for the night. As the boy-turned-man-turned-soontobehero dreamt, he dreamt of his father…

** DREAM SEQUENCE **

“Father! I have almost arrived at my destination that I have traveled to reach for so long now!”

“Boy, I’m just glad you no longer speak like a retard.”

** END DREAM SEQUENCE **

The next morning they awoke feeling refreshed and ready for the fateful day that had been prophesized for so long. They made their way to the King’s castle, drawing many stares and cheers from people along the way.

** Fast forward to Throne Room because the stuff in between is boring **

“My King! I have brought the boy who will save our land!”

The King was pleased, “Good, good. Let’s get this show on the road.”

Very loud horns sounded and the people of the land gathered in the King’s courtyard. The King stepped to his balcony and spoke,

“My faithful people, the day has arrived!” Everyone cheered. “The day when we will finally be in God’s grace once more!” More cheering. “Without further ado, LIGHT THE FIRE!” The boy looked very confused.

“Wait, fire? No one said anything about a fire.” The Master just shrugged and started smoking his ridiculously long pipe.

Before he knew what was going on, the boy was bound, gagged and subsequently thrown into the fire. More cheering.

A clean looking businessman stepped out of the shadows and spoke to the King, “Sir, studies show that if we make an additional sacrifice then our national approval rating will increase another 10%.”

“Very well, throw the old man in.” So the Master was also bound, gagged and subsequently thrown in the fire. Much more cheering.

“Fantastic sir, we can already see our currency is being bought up like hot cakes and our commodities market is sky rocketing as well. We’re back, project ‘Hero’s Delight’ was a success!”

“Yeah yeah, the world is saved, we’re rich, great. Now I need to take a shower and a shit, let me know when we’re rich enough to buy something cool.” The King retreated from the balcony and the cheering continued.

I like it. There are some very good lines and stuff in that. My head didn't explode but I think I sneezed. That must count for something, somewhere *thinks* it must. That thinking stuff hurts.

It was difficult for me to post my story because I kept stopping myself wanting to fix it somehow. Same with reading yours and alan's stories. I find myself forgetting that this is a "bad writing" competition and then I start thinking "wtf, that's terrible!" and then I remember...

EDIT : all right Mod, a sneeze is good enough then. A bloody nose would have been more respectful but I'll take what I can get

Sigg, I think I hurt myself...not laughing, exactly, but your story IS very painful. As established in the Biker Baby thread...You badd!

Edit: I'm working on something for this and I think Word might be online turning me in for crimes against fiction.

OK, I'm going to break the rules here, because I already posted this in File 13. So sue me.

Mylar and The White Queen

Mylar sat by the roaring fire. He had worked hard that day, and felt he deserved a stout tankard of mead. He took off his boots, which were covered in mud and placed them by the hot fire. They were caked with mud, from him having worked so hard in the fields that day.

Mylar was a jolly sort, and as cunning as ever a Peopelve there was. It was said that humans, in a time of great suffering and famine had somehow crossed of the River Zorn, a mystical a river that was not only of water, but of time itself. On their journey, the humans came across the Druze, in the Wood of Isonon. Druze were elves, and as such, were most kind and provided the humans with much needed sustenance. In time, the two became one. Poepelves possessed the kindness of elves and the cunning of humans. They had the pointed ears of elves, but the long legs of a human, so they could hear exceedingly well, but were also fleet of foot. But they also had much difficulty finding those pointy elf shoes that were large enough.

Just as he was sipping his first sip of mead, he heard the unmistakable, hollow clump of hooves.

“Be damned!” he said to himself. “Who could it be at this time?”

He heard pounding on the door.

“Mylar it is Bozem and Ken, we carry news from the town!”

“It had better be important!” Mylar said, with a scowl.

Mylar opened the heavy wooden door of his hut. He could see that they had a look of worry on their faces.

“Henni, the scout, came with news that the Dwarves of Enbar are amassing a mighty army and they mean to attack us!”

“Why?” asked Mylar, with an inquisitive look. We have always lived peacefully side-by-side with the Dwarves of Enbar.”

“Their crops have failed, three years now. They are pretty hungry!”

Mylar thought of the humans of so long ago. The Poepelves would provide food to the Dwarves, if they had only asked. He sensed something or someone was behind this treachery.

“Xanax!” Mylar blurted. "Only he could put the Dwarves up to such a thing.”

“Do you think?” they asked.

“You betcha.” said Mylar.

“The town council sent us here,” Henni said. "Because only you among us have fought such a battle!"

“Aye,” said Mylar. “But ’twas long ago. My fighting skills have long since gone away.”

He scratched his beard, as many men among the Poepelves had them.

“I fear we have no choice," Mylar said. “But there is only one way we can win. And that, my friends is to call upon the aid of….”

Mylar paused dramatically. He tapped his boot, which he had put back on and ruminated.

“The White Queen!” he exclaimed, loudly.

“The White Queen?” Bozem and Ken both said, together at the same time.

“Yes, but I will need two good strong and wise Peopelves to take on my journey to see The White Queen.”

“We are way ahead of you, Mylar,” Ken said. “Jozell and Nonny have said they would go with you on your journey!”

Mylar was relieved. Jozell was the strongest among the Peopelves and very smart indeed. He was as sharp as a stick that had been carved by a sharp knife to a point. Nonny was nearly as strong, but not as smart. He was as also as sharp as a stick like Jozell, but more as if the stick had been used for something, and was no longer as sharp as it once had been.

“I’ll need three good horses,” said Mylar. And tell Vim the blacksmith I’ll need a new sword, as I have put my old one somewhere and can’t find it.”

He smiled knowingly. For as much as he abhorred war, he also liked it, in a way. The thought of wielding a sword again, riding a strong horse and spending the night with Jozell and Nonny suddenly appealed to him.

“Yes,” he said, while swinging an imaginary sword. “Man, I’m up for this.”

Bozem and Ken nodded solemnly, for they knew the danger that probably lay ahead, more than likely. They stood facing one another. All held their fists in the air and exclaimed, “Power to the Poepelves!"

"Right on!" Mylar said. Then he nodded and turned away.

“I have to pack my suitcase now, friends. Go give word of my quest to the townsfolk!”

“Use the suitcase with the wheels on it, Mylar, for it is a long journey!”

"Aye, a long journey indeed," Mylar said. "A long journey indeed," he said again, as he repeated himself.

Excellent.

You know when you feel something, and you just have to write, and you channel your piss-moany sixteen year old self into your fingers, and bash away at the keys and call it poetry?

Here's two examples I'm ashamed to say I wrote, some time ago.

I call them:
Bound for the Bin

Untitled

If only he’d open his eyes
If only he’d tell her goodbye
If only he was what I need
If only he was easy to read

She could be the one that I want
But she can be so nonchalant
She’ll forgive what I did, though it was rough
She’s magic but is there really enough

He needs me to be more than I am
He wants me to call him my man
But he wants to be free, for what
He wants to find something I’m not

I look and I want only to touch
I love her but I can’t say how much
I think about her every single night
I hope time will someday make us right

Every man that I see on the street
Says I’m the best woman he’ll ever meet
Every boy that I have in my life
Can’t imagine me being his wife






Lucifer Run

I run with the devil, towards my demise,
We run through the firefield with smouldering eyes

I’m screaming your name, I’m hearing your voice
Your face burnt in my mind, do I have any choice?

I remember when you died and standing on your grave
You were ever so close, but so fucking far away

I cried for so long, so much pain, all those tears
Became a shell of a human filled with nothing but fears

Then I met him one night, at the late witching hour,
I swore allegiance to him and felt my being turn sour

We started running then and there and run we do still,
Always closer and further away from that hill

Through the heat in my mind I catch memories sometimes
See us driving with the roof down both alive in our prime

Hair whipping in the wind, smiles shining in the sun
Clouds reflected in your eyes, better memories; I have none,

He tells me you’re there, on this hill that looks fake
It looks smaller to me, every step that I take

I keep running with the devil, run forevermore
To try and get you my love, take us back to before

It's so good to be bad! I am wondering about the pointy elf shoes ruminating, among other things. And those poor boots, being booth covered with and caked in mud. Gad, sir, you have descended to the very depths with this turkey.

Wow, a twofer! And one has smouldering eyes! Hot diggity damn dog biscuits.