The Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest

Since 1983 the English Department of the San Jose State University has sponsored the annual Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest.

A whimsical literary competition that challenges entrants to compose the worst possible opening sentence to an imaginary novel.

Named after the Victorian English writer Edward George Bulwer-Lytton, who penned a novel with the opening line, “It was a dark and stormy night.” Later immortalized by Snoopy, the beloved Schultz “Peanuts” cartoon character.

Bulwer-Lytton is also credited with coining the now famous quotations, “The pen is mightier than the sword,” “The great unwashed,” and “The pursuit of the almighty dollar.”

During the more than thirty years the Bulwer-Lytton contest has been in existence it has grown in popularity to attract entries numbering in the thousands, from contestants worldwide.  Prestigious newspapers in the past have written articles about it, and requoted the winning entries.  

The number of entries per person is unrestricted making the total entries received far greater than the number of people. So I was thrilled when the two entries I submitted were recognized. I won First Prize in the “Children’s Literature” sub-section, with the following entry:

“The doctors all agreed the inside of Charlie’s intestinal tract looked like some dark, dank subway system in a decaying inner city, blackened polyps hanging from every corner like tiny ticking terrorist time bombs, waiting to burst forth in cancerous activity; however, to Timmy the Tapeworm this was home.”

Furthermore my second entry received a “Dishonorable Mention,” (Which is actually good.) in the Crime/Detective” sub-section:

“The janitor’s body lay just inside the door, a small puncture wound below his right ear made with a long thin screwdriver, the kind electricians use and can often be found in the bargain bin at the hardware store and come with a pair of cheap wire cutters that you never use because they won’t cut wire worth a damn and at best will only put a small indent in the wire so you can at least bend it back and forth until it breaks.”

These winning entries bring no monetary gain, but never-the-less it is a huge deal for me. It is recognition for my creative endeavors. Although it is extremely satisfying to have people admire my past work, namely bicycle frames I built, it is my “Past” work. I have moved on.

I was recently called out on my use of the term “ex framebuilder,” and it was suggested I should drop the “ex.” It is part of my title now, it has been the heading of this blog since its inception almost ten years ago. I haven’t built a frame since 1993.

When I walked from the bike business, I decided to direct my efforts in other creative directions, namely writing and songwriting. A difficult field to reach any level of recognition because there are way more writers and songwriters than framebuilders.

It is one thing to take metal and paint and create a functional object of great beauty, but to choose words and assemble them in the correct order, for me is the greatest form of creativity. It is truly creating something out of nothing. Songwriting takes this concept a step further, I am adding random musical notes to the equation.

So this is why this whimsical, nonsense, competition means so much to me. It is a level of recognition for what I do now. One cannot dwell on things they have done in the past, no matter how worthwhile. I like to think that my greatest creative achievements are yet to come.

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Chasing Charlie

This story was posted here for Halloween 2006 when my readership was much smaller; you may or may not have read this before.

I neared the top of the hill on an evening training ride on a road so familiar to me I knew exactly what lay ahead; I had ridden my bike on this country road in the rural West Midlands area of England many times before.

There would be a short steep descent, a slight right hand bend at the bottom over a narrow stone bridge, then another tough climb even longer than this one. I lifted myself out of the saddle and stomped hard on the pedals, legs aching, breathing heavy, but knowing there would be a brief rest as I coasted down the other side.

At the top I sat up to allow my lungs to gulp in more oxygen; I saw him for the first time. He was just cresting the next hill ahead; silhouetted against a pale vanilla sky as the sun set. He was too far off to make out who he was but as I knew all the other racing cyclists in the area, I was sure I would know him.

All thought about coasting down the short descent was gone as I slammed into my highest gear and increased my speed; the chase was on. This is something that all racing cyclists will do instinctively; never miss an opportunity to chase down another rider.

Of course not knowing who was ahead meant I didn’t know his speed or level of fitness. I might never catch him, but I was going to try. This was in the early 1970s and I was in pretty good shape myself and the phychological boost of having someone to chase increased my adrenalin flow.

At the bottom of the hill I coasted through the slight bend and without shifting down I got out of the saddle again and let my speed and momentum carry me halfway up the next climb. Before my cadence dropped I shifted down, and up on the pedals again to the top.

I thought I caught a brief glimpse of him again and I was gaining on him, but the sun was completely set by now and it was getting quite dark. I reached down and turned on my battery lamps.

I must have chased hard for about four or five miles when I came on him suddenly; in fact I almost ran into him. He had no lights on his bike and he suddenly loomed up in the darkness. I pulled along side; I didn’t recognize him.

“Where’s your lights?” I asked.

“I wasn’t planning on being out this late, but I got a puncture earlier. I did a stupid thing; I was out of tubular cement and I had stuck my tires on with fish glue. I took me for ever to get the tire off.”

“Fish glue?” I thought, “Who sticks tires on with fish glue?”

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“They call me Charlie.”

“I’ll ride with you.” I offered. “It’s a little dangerous to be out here without lights; where do you live?”

“Ledbury.”

I pulled ahead of him and increased the pace a little; Charlie pulled in behind me. Ledbury was a small town about five miles further on. After a short while Charlie came through to take the pace at the front.

I slipped in behind him. It was then I got my first look at his bike; my battery lamp lit up his rear wheel and gear train. He was using an old four speed, eighth inch, freewheel block with an Osgear derailleur; a single jockey wheel on an arm under his chainwheel.

I was thinking, “I haven’t seen one of those since I was a kid in the 1950s.” I moved to the front again and remarked as I went by, “Interesting bike you have.

Charlie didn’t respond, and we rode on at a pretty good pace. I noticed every time I was on Charlie’s rear wheel I could not get comfortable. I could not figure out which direction the wind was coming from. I would ride slightly to his left, then right, but neither was any easier.

We were within a mile of Ledbury; I was at the front when a car suddenly appeared coming towards us. The road was narrow and the car came so close that I had to pull hard to the side and I found myself on the soft grass. There was the sound of a tremendous crash behind me; my wheels bogged down and I came to a quick stop. My feet were strapped to the pedals, there was no time to release them, and I fell over sideways.

I was uninjured but my first thought was for Charlie; both he and his bike were gone. So too was the car. “It must have kept going without stopping.” I thought. I took my battery lamp from my bike and searched back along the side of the road. I turned around and walked slowly down the other side.

I couldn't find him; I was worried he was laying somewhere injured, hidden in the hedgerow. I rode into Ledbury and stopped at a public phone box and called the police. “There’s been an accident.” I told them, and I explained what had happened. A police car arrived and I parked my bike in an alley-way and rode back with them to the scene of the incident.

The two policemen searched both sides of the road as I had done. “Are you sure this is the place?” One of them asked me.

“Yes, I remember this big tree on the bend in the road.” I told them.

“Maybe he wasn’t hit but kept on riding as you fell by the roadside.”

“It’s possible.” I answered. “But you would think he would have stopped to see if I was alright.”

Eventually we gave up the search and the officers drove me back to my bike, and I made my way home.

The next day I didn’t go to work but instead drove my car over to Ledbury and started asking around if anyone had heard of an accident the previous night. Someone suggested I enquire at the local newspaper office.

I did this and met the editor of the little local paper. He listened intently as I told him of my ride with Charlie the night before and of the accident. He told me, “It sounds to me like you encountered Charlie Finch, you’re not the first.”

“Who is he?” I asked.

“Let me show you something from our archives.” He walked over to a filing cabinet and pulled out a strip of microfilm. He placed it in a projector and scrolled through the images; he stopped on a front-page story. “Here it is, about this time of year, 1948.”

I read the headline, “Local cyclist killed in accident.” The story told of a Charlie Finch who was riding at night without lights and was struck by an oncoming car. The car went out of control striking a tree; the driver also died instantly.

There was a picture of a 1940s style car smashed against a large oak tree; the same tree I had pointed out to the police officers the night before. There was also a picture of Charlie’s bike.

The front wheel was completely smashed, the front fork was bent, and the frame was buckled at the top and down tubes. The bike had an Osgear derailleur with a single jockey wheel under the chainwheel.

                        

A Halloween Story

Yorkshire moors, late October
lone cyclist, breathing hard
Drawing in the cold night air
up ahead a dim light flickers.

Wondering what the light could be
for all the world looks like a flame.
Descending now and closing fast
a coach and horses, team of four.

Not a sound from coach and team
tries to reason, must be real.
Reaches out and grabs a hold
coasting now, being towed.

Two oil lamps, one each side
bright when fanned by evening breeze.
Cyclist wonders, eyes play tricks
decides to stop and wait a while.

Feet on ground, astride his bike
blows on fingers growing cold.
Watching light not far ahead
cyclist ponders on his options.

Night air freezing, must ride on
in minutes he’d caught up again.
Rides beside the ambling coach
should he pass or stay behind?

Eyes straining in the dark
looking up to see who’s driving.
Coachman outlined, moonlit sky
cyclist can’t believe his eyes.

A shiver runs, not from cold
a headless coachman driving team.
Cyclist slows, dropping back
trying hard to think things through.

Must keep moving, growing cold
he’ll stay behind and wait his chance.
Road widens up ahead
changes up to higher gear.

Out of saddle, sprinting hard
slight downhill assists his speed.
Flashes by the apparition
startled horses rear in fright.

Cyclist feels the biting pain
of horsewhip slashing 'cross his back
Silence gone, now the sound
of thundering hooves and cracking whip.

Cyclist riding for his life
uphill climb, lungs are bursting.
Coach is gaining, muscles burning
as he crests the final climb.

Down below the lights of home
shining in the misty night.
Cyclist spinning, highest gear
flashes past the first street lamp.

Listens now but hears no sound
turns to find the coach is gone.
Home again, bike inside
stumbles as he climbs the stairs.

Morning light, he awakes
lays there thinking of his dream.
Bathroom mirror, turns to look
a bright red weal across his back.

This story was first posted Halloween 2007. My redership was much smaller then and many may not have read this before

                         

Don’t be a jerk

Steve Hindy writing on the NYC Streets Blog said:

“Don’t Be A Jerk” is precisely the sort of catchy phrase that is needed to wake up all New York City cyclists, of all economic classes and educational backgrounds, to the need to obey the rules of the road. It is simple and direct, and has a New York ring to it.”

I put that thought to rhyme.

Don’t be a jerk
While riding to work
You know it’s not right
To go through a red light
But you think it’s OK
If you act that way

And when you blow a stop
Even though there’s no cop
You give us all a bad name
And we all get the blame
It’s bad for our cause
If you break the laws

All cyclists look bad
And that makes me mad
‘Cos it rubs off on me
I wish you could see
When you buzz someone walking
Even though they are talking

Not paying attention
But perhaps I should mention
On the sidewalk you see
Where you shouldn’t be
You buzz little old ladies
And mothers with babies

Scaring the crap
And not only that
You go the wrong way
Like you do each day
And at one intersection
Looking opposite direction

A car driver waits
And maybe it’s fate
Just as you pass
He steps on the gas
The outcome not good
As you bounce off the hood

You land in the street
And you lay at the feet
Of the little old ladies
And mothers with babies
The ones that you scared
‘Cos you didn’t care

You lay there all broken
And no words are spoken
You can see in their eyes
That they sympathize
They know that you hurt
Even though you’re a jerk

                         

Trying to write a song

The creative high I used to get from building bicycle frames I now get from writing and songwriting. In a way what I do now is even more satisfying.

It is one thing to take metal and paint and create something, but songwriting is taking words and musical notes out of thin air and making something from nothing. To me it is the ultimate form of creativity.

The following are the lyrics to one of my songs. The tag line at the end of every fourth verse goes:

“I’m just stringing words, trying to write a song.

It is just that; a string of random thoughts about modern life in these tough economic times.

He’s walking down the street, trying door knobs
Looking for an open one an easy place to rob.
The cop doesn’t notice crusin’ by in his car
He’s looking for drunk drivers at the local bar.

There’s a singer in the local bar, just playin’ the blues
A reporter from the local paper tryin’ to write the news
He’s workin’ on a story, workin’ on the hype
There’s a plumber in the basement working on a pipe.

He works so many hours, he works until he drops
He works because his car is in the auto shop
The mechanic working on his car is tryin’ to make the rent
He knows before the rent is due, the money will be spent.

Everybody’s got an angle, everybody’s got a scheme
Some of them have goals, and some of them have dreams
They’re just ordinary people tryin’ to get along
And I’m just stringing words tryin’ to write a song
I’m just stringing words tryin’ to write a song.

I turn on my TV, there’s two men with a mission
Although they sound quite sincere they’re just two politicians
One is a Republican, and one a Democrat
Mostly they’re just talkin’ different ways to skin a cat.

They’re talkin’ ’bout choices, and the choice of modern times
I can take it on my back, or I can take it from behind
It really doesn’t matter ’cos either way I’m screwed
It’s just government and Wall Street doing what they do.

I take it at the supermarket, take it at the pump
I try to do the best I can, to make it past the hump
Try to stretch a dollar, make it last all week
Try to keep a roof above, one that doesn’t leak.

Some of them are losers, everyone can’t win
Mostly they just take it, take it on the chin
Some try to make it better, try to right the wrong
And I’m just stringing words tryin’ to write a song
I’m just stringing words tryin’ to write a song.

We’re all ingredients in a melting pot
And I was always taught, cream rises to the top
But after all the boiling, all that rises is the scum
They don’t care about their fellow man, they think of number one.

It’s just a vicious circle if I get an education
So I can work my life away for some corporation
Work to send my kids to school to follow in my steps
Live a life of drudgery, credit, and of debt.

Maybe I’ll escape and get out of the trap
But I might be afraid to leave; I'll never make it back
I might hit rock bottom, end up on the street
Lookin’ for a fix, or just something to eat.

I might be walking down Main Street, tryin’ car doors
Lookin’ for an open one, an easy place to score
You can blame me for the crime, but don’t say that I am wrong
’Cos I’m just stringing words tryin’ to write a song
I’m just stringing words tryin’ to write a song.

Copyright: 2010 E. David Moulton