Well, this is going well...
...thought Jeremy Parkins as he ascended the seventy-four steps to the top of the monument, checked the wind-speed and direction, took one last swig of Drambuie from his gilt-fettered hip-flask, and then cast himself out into the oceanic blue depths of evening's endless canopy, flapping his feather-strewn arms desperately as he plummeted towards the remorseless ground, emitting poignant, unheard shrieks of euphoria-turned-desperation, realising all too late that all his friends and family had called it 'the impossible dream' for a good reason, and then gasping with delirium when he found himself caught up in the talons of Gorgorax, the mighty Storm Eagle whose nest lay within the churning bellows of Marnieth's Soul-Furnace, now bearing a precious cargo with which he would surely feed his young, as Jeremy now found himself ensconced within a tale that would surely span millenia, space sectors by the trillion, and even time itself, in a quest to free the Democracy of Upper Andromeda from the tyrannical clutches of Horomax, the cruel Mind-Daemon of Gothmador, Planet of the Syplhs, in an adventure that would surely test his mind, his body, his senses five, and, eventually, his ability to fly aided only by chicken-feathers superglued to his arms.
― You've Got Scourage On Your Breath (Haberdager), Tuesday, 14 November 2006 17:13 (nineteen years ago)
argh, i'd have thought you'd all love this...
further info here: http://www.bulwer-lytton.com/
― You've Got Scourage On Your Breath (Haberdager), Tuesday, 14 November 2006 17:48 (nineteen years ago)
who wants to write a 50,000-word novel when they can just write the first sentence?
― You've Got Scourage On Your Breath (Haberdager), Tuesday, 14 November 2006 18:16 (nineteen years ago)
four months pass...
As soon as Stanley stopped breathing, I knew that my life had entered a whole new phase, a phase wracked with unending grief and bitter recriminations, a phase that would last until my own demise, solitary, pathetic and useless, still begging the servants to bring his food and drink, still calling his name every cursed morning, surely drifting towards meaninglessness, bereft of any comfort; and it was in this state of apocalyptic realisation, as I closed the hutch door for one final time, that I decided to go out and find a lover who could actually return my feelings, for once.
― unfished business, Saturday, 17 March 2007 01:50 (eighteen years ago)
nine months pass...
My father's parenting left much to be desired; on my seventh birthday he held a cheese and wine party for me and my friends.
― Noodle Vague, Tuesday, 18 December 2007 18:07 (eighteen years ago)