TOP 3 WINNERS
WORST OPENING LINES IN THE HISTORY OF NOVELS
The sun oozed up over the horizon, bulbous, rouged, penile-like protuberance that stiffly heralds a new day, one again that it engorges with light, yet inevitably to falter to darkness again from time tics, just as a shaft loses its girth and mankind ponders its worth. Suns subside. Tides happen. People get mooned.
There comes a day in our lives as did this one in Amelia’s, fraught with perilous decisions that would determine her fate, lost as she was in wonder at the emotional machinations that had endangered her very being, and the consciousness that she sought to control, expand and turn into a joyous redemption that she knew her soul needed, even as it needed the daily sustenance she provided with her usual homilies and platitudes that she spoke to herself in the garden, behind the gate, and out of sight of the imperious neighbors who blackened her name with their insidious slander that they thought no one perceived, all evidence to the contrary, since they were known and despised by most people of decent bearing in her village, steadfast with ingrained cultural values that these snipes and outsiders could not begin to understand, much less to set up as some kind of contrary competition to gratify little more than their ego, that big old bloated thing that, personally speaking, had proved a devious barrier to their courtship, even their friendship, as dark revelations began to take hold and grow into bitter fruit, creating an aura of confusion and misguided introspections that would invariably not reveal true answers, but lots of silly shit instead.
Shit happens, Steve knew it, and he intended to use that wisdom to bet on a sure thing. The greyhound had taken a big dump and was now more than ready to run the race, just as he himself was running the race of life — every day, and on most nights at the track.
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