The
Toast Point
Bad Fiction Contest!
Entries from December, 1997
Bluzebabe has challenged us to come up with a new Christmas story for December.
Elisabeth Marten begins a History novel 12/26/97
It was an unusually quiet day on the executioner's block.
Anticipation loomed over everyone like a heavy fog.
Normally, dozens of people were awaiting their deaths, but on July 28, 1794,
they were free. Only one man awaited his destiny.
That man, ironically enough, was Maximillien Francois Marie Isidore de Robespierre. The same man who had led the French Revolution through its Reign of Terrror. The same man who had sentenced hundreds of the so-called "traitors" to death. Now they had grown tired of all the senseless killing, and he was to die by by the same device of fate which he had condemned so many others to.
The crowd in the square slowly grew more and more anxious as the morning wore on. They grew restless, demanding the termination of Robespierre. Finally, when the sun had finished its ascent, the black-hooded executioner stepped out onto the platform in the center of town. Two soldiers led Robespierre to his impending doom.
As he walked towards the stage, his life passed before his eyes. He remembered how when he was born, no one expected a commoner like hisself to ever achieve anything. He proved them wrong by leading the National Assembly and the Jacobins. He adored the power, and killed anyone who would even think of trying to take it away from him. His popularity fell as the death toll rose, and the citizens grew to despise him. He collapsed under the pressure and had even tried to take his life the night before. He injured his jaw with a musket, but failed in committing suicide. The moment the gun went off, soldiers stormed into his house and ruined his aim. They wrapped his head in a handkerchief and threw him into prison, where he remained until dawn.
A hood was placed over his head, and
he knelt down. He whispered a small prayer as the wooden beam
locked his head into place, and with one final flash of silver,
his life came to a suitable ending.
Rat Boy begins a Coming of Age novel 12/21/97
I got a woman that's down with me, because she I got a dick that hangs like a willow tree. But the only difference between me and that tree is as long as I got this here dick she ain't gonna ever leave.
I had a woman with big ole teets, and at night when I made love to her she wanted me to wear my golf cleets. I said look here woman, wearing these cleets I ain't no damn good. She said I know but when you hit this hole in one you me remind me of Tiger Woods.
Leech Crich
begins a Virginia Andrews Novel 12/16/97
Green was the green grass that i lay on and green was the colour of the grass on the grave of my mother and my mother's sister and my mother's aunt. always the colour green brought bad tidings in the house of my father, Manx Lynx, deep in the lush and verdant forest of Western Virginia, where we lived far away from the marauding eyes of the village.
My father was a tall man, broad of face and friendly of visage. He was the brown of the solid tree-bark, while my mother was the yellow-blonde of the sunflower. And my grandmother was grey, grey like a horse that is called grey but is white, and all of them were dead, dead, dead in the green ground.
But I was alive that fateful day when they brought the remaining members of my incredibly large family to Wolverine House. Though I had thought that my mother Cordite and my father Manx and my grandmother Bismol were the only living relations of I, Corney, it turned out I was wrong...and black was that day, black like the stem of an eggplant. Black like the hair of my half-brother Cob, whose eyes I can still see, whenever I think about the times that, inevitably, we had incestuous sex. We were evil seeds of the wrong plant, a plant whose seeds should never have been taken out of the packet and scattered as if by the hands of careless children who had never yet experienced the strangeness of incestuous sex. Woe upon us that day we met, for we knew what our fate would be. Fate was written on our shameful foreheads, on our deceptively smooth skins, that sinfully longed to touch and caress and indulge in evil, shameful practices. From the very beginning, our line was doomed,!
doomed to endlessly repeat itself for no real reason, even after all of us had died.
The author comments, "This is all i do at work all day. Sad, isn't it?"
Wonderfully too, I might add.
November's Entries
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