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Welcome to the Bullwer-Lytton Fiction Contest. The aim of the contest is not to write the best fiction, nor the most interesting, nor the most intellectually, physically, even erotically stimulating; nor even the most average, the greyest, the drabbest but simply the worst opening line it is possible to contrive without mounting the inside cover of the papery repository of knowledge with twelve inches of sheffield steel that would, shining like mirrors in a Sahara heatwave, pop out and scour out the reader's eyes like as a cannon shell bursts a water-bed.

Click here for frontpage.
Click here for the full list of winning entries for 2005.

Here are some examples laugh:

As he stared at her ample bosom, he daydreamed of the dual Stromberg carburetors in his vintage Triumph Spitfire, highly functional yet pleasingly formed, perched prominently on top of the intake manifold, aching for experienced hands, the small knurled caps of the oil dampeners begging to be inspected and adjusted as described in chapter seven of the shop manual.

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The double agent looked up from his lunch of Mahi-Mahi and couscous and realized that he must escape from Walla Walla to Bora Bora to come face-to-face with his arch enemy by taking out his 30-30 and shooting off his nemesis' ear-to-ear grin so he could wave bye-bye to this duplicitous life, but the chances of him pulling this off were only so-so, much less than 50-50.

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Captain Burton stood at the bow of his massive sailing ship, his weathered face resembling improperly cured leather that wouldn't even be used to make a coat or something.

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Maybe we should have our own. :E