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It has been several years since the last "Bad Hemingway" (to which it was irreverently referred) contest was held. "The International Imitation Hemingway Competition is an annual writing competition begun in Century City, California. Started in 1977 as a "promotional gag", and held for nearly thirty years, the contest pays mock homage to Ernest Heminway by encouraging authors to submit a 'really good page of really bad Hemingway' in a Hemingway-esque style." "The competition, as created, had two rules: 1) mention Harry's Bar & Grill (the Venetian Harry's was long one of Hemingway's favorite watering holes) and, 2) be funny." I will chronicle here some past entries, but also invite original submissions. Have fun with it.

A place, for comedy.

I've had the idea of opening this forum, basing on the idea of "five words story" forums. The difference between this forum and those forums will be, that here there is no words limit. You can write from one, upto 9999999999999999 words. As many words as you are in the mood to write, and as many as your time allows you....If you are just writing here, and suddenly something/someone calls for you to go offline, just post what you have so far written. Please post and do not abandon the text to continue it later. During writing the story here, there will be another forum for the participants to discuss the story. https://www.chess.com/clubs/forum/view/a-story-disccusion Anyone is most welcome to participate, and equal here, no matter if you haven't written anything in your life, or a thousand books. What has been posted stays there, if only it doesn't extremely change the vibe, is in some means untolerable, or is done with the intention to hurt the story. You are most welcome to participate. P.S.: Please don't post two times or more in a row.

Here is the discussion forum for this topic https://www.chess.com/clubs/forum/view/a-story-1

Once upon a time, there

Over the years a few things hhave stuck in my head. I'll try to dig out the books and find the original quotes. Anyone one else here read something that snicked into place in their head?

Here is a short story I wrote meant to be a bit of a farce a la Brian Rix (if you remember him). Hope you enjoy it. Achille’s reflections Achille Pierot (pronounced as Pea-row) cast his rueful eye over the people sat in front of him. They were a motley bunch if ever he’d seen one. The finest in English country gentry was the first impression. But it was only when you spoke to each and every one of them about the others that you learned all their dirty little secrets. He shook his head in silent disgust at them. ‘Well come on Pie-rot, out with it!’ called out Sir Eustace. Pierot thought of him as ‘useless, rather than Eustace.’ ‘Please be patient with me Sir Use.. Eustace. I am but a humble Frenchman trying to put his thoughts into the English for you.’ ‘I thought you told me you were from Belgum. Oh well never mind that. Do get on with it.’ This from Mrs Walter Bellamy. Mrs Bellamy was a divorcee who had made a fortune from marrying into the right family and then deciding it was the wrong one for her. If her ex husband had been dead, as she would have preferred, he would have turned over in his grave at some of the things she said and did. There were various other people gathered here: Sir Eustace’s secretary and live-in lover, Gaynor Barley; his ward, Emma Forsett-Browne; her fiancée, Thomas Wilmington, Conservative Member of Parliament for the area; a distant cousin of Sir Eustace’s wife, Phillip Marlow and then various servants, hangers-on and interested parties. Pierot’s companion and friend (though many wondered how friendly they were!) Brighton hung about watching and admiring his every move. The missing and dead numbered amongst them Sir Eustace’s wife, Mildred; the family cook (murdered by ramming apple chutney down her throat – not a nice way to go; or at least not one to relish – there are better ways to be pickled), and a few odds and sods (with the emphasis on this last word). ‘Thank you all for gathering here to listen to me. (Didn’t know there was any choice in the matter said one of the assembled audience in a loud stage whisper) I will try to get to the point quickly. (There were a few of those gathered who detected that his accent had changed noticeably but none brave enough to mention it to him). ‘I have brought you all here to tell you exactly who killed Mrs Doughnut, the cook; Ramrod, the butler, Maisie, the chambermaid and all the others. I can tell you it was the same person. I know because...’‘Because you’re the great Achille Pierot,’ interrupted Brighton. ‘Well not exactly for that reason.’ He turned round to look at himself in the rather grand mirror. His favourite occupation, apart from showing how clever he was, was to admire himself in mirrors. ‘I know because it was ...,’ he paused for dramatic effect, ‘ I.’ ‘What do you mean Pie-Rot? Who’s ‘Eye?’ cried out Sir Use...Eustace. ‘No it was me.Oh now I’ve murdered grammar,’ Pierot ejaculated (but that’s another story). ‘Whose grandma?’ asked Sir Use... well no it seems he really is useless. ‘Not grandma, GRAMMAR YOU IDIOT!’ yelled Pierot. ‘I am the murderer. I have attended so many of these tiresome, tedious stately hall events. At every one of them I have been faced with a murder or murders. I have solved them all. I thought it was about time that I was the architect of the mayhem and murders taking place.’ Inspector Chinaman rushed forwards and quickly had Pierot handcuffed. He led him out of the room reading him his rights ‘and anything you say may be taken down in evidence...’ ‘Oh knickers,’ roared Pierot. ‘Whose knickers?’ asked Sir Eustace. ‘Sir Useless!’ roared the rest of the cast. The curtain fell, unfortunately catching Brighton on the temple. The stage manager rushed onto the stage and, after checking the injured party, opened the curtain. ‘Is there a doctor in the house? A vet? Anybody with any sort of first aid training?’ he asked. An old lady in her nineties stood. ‘I’m not a doctor but I did work in a hospital pharmacy in the war. Perhaps I can help.’ Reaching the stage, she introduced herself as Nurse Agatha, a very keen fan of murder mysteries and amateur theatre. Pierot sang ‘There is nothing like a Dame.’The End

Championed by Peter Hyatt, I came across him via Richard Hall's website. He has deconstructed Neil Armstrong's interviews as well as affirming Hall's position on the Madeleine McCann case. Hyatt is also interested in chess. He references it many times. I thought this might be an interesting subject for this forum.

The words from autumn, by You, Her, Him and Me. No need for revelance to anything....Poem, prose, story, all are welcome here.

My writings, which's kind I do not know.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dql-D6JQ1Bc&feature=youtu.be

Food speaks to your soul Grab your spoon and have bowl. Alaskan Clam Chowder 5 pieces of bacon, 1 medium white onion, 5 stalks of celery, 2 large carrots, 5 medium potatoes, 2 10 oz cans of clams, 1 quart of half-n-half, 1 tsp of dill, salt and pepper to taste, 1 TB of Tabasco (i add a little more - mmmmmm like it hot), 1 TB of Worchester sauce. Cook the bacon in the pot. Then add the onions until translucent. Then add the potatoes and stir to coat. Add 3 TB of all purpose flour. Stir to coat. Then add just the juice from the clams. Cook this for 20 min. Then add the h-n-h and the rest of the stuff except the clams. They go in 10 min before the chowder is done. Hope you enjoy!

We wouldn't write humans, Klingons and Vulcans, but Humans, Klingons and Vulcans surely ? Anyone have any thoughts on this? I notice that grammar dictates that sun and moon are obviously used with lower case, but we particularly have the "Moon" and the "Sun". Proper nouns. Without knowledge of other sentient beings, we speak of 'humans', lower case, because there aren't collections of others we need make regular comparisons with. (Edit - just discovered this isn't original https://english.stackexchange.com/questions/47324/why-we-capitalize-all-race-names-but-our-own)

The Pen Is Mightier Than The Sword My attacker raised his sword and began to bring it down upon my head… Fortunately, the three dots allowed me some thinking time and I ducked. As he swung again. I curtailed his action with a full-stop, giving me as much time I liked to plan my next move, but realised after fifty nine minutes that a full-stop is a called a period in American English so my time was more limited than I’d first thought. Just in time I evaded by Indenting as he came forward and indenting again My opponent got wise; attacking rapidly with a semi colon; giving me little time to readjust. Now armed with a flame—thrower his renewed assault proved fruitless as his weapon wasn’t properly hyphenated. I took away a ‘-’ and I turned the flame-thrower upon him until he defended with a watermark. To cut a long story shor we were both arrested by the grammar police, given the appropriate sentence , together with convictions for bad punning with intent.

The Manu Bombings - A Tearful Tribute Taffy-Duff May 26, 2017, 8:27 AM 4 They had their lives as they played in the yard skipped and danced and cared with no regard Every breath was not wasted upon their youth They embraced the world and absorbed its truth Every waking moment was something to gain Their laughter and smiles in loved ones remain Age shall not creep upon their head Knowing now no evil as they sleep in their bed Let their echoes of life fun and laughter Shine upon every family home everafter Let every twinkle of their eyes and fond gaze Flutter in our hearts as memories of them - will never erase Never forget the children that we have longed for As they come home from their daily run of things Tell them always that you love them Enhance their lives and huddle them in your wings

Hello friends! This is my first post here (wish not last:)) And i wanted you share with everybody who your favourite writer! And the second question can be like why he/she is your f.w.. For example, my favourite writer is Jack London. His books about gold rush are exciting! Adventures that reveal the whole of human nature! ... reading his books, you are immersed in a world of heroes, and only after reading you are returning to this world! so, what about you:)

Warriors Dance We fighting men may go there when life has laid us low. When wine, women and song have tapped our wallets, and the lords of the land have seen fit to set us adrift, those who've worn the soldier’s fatigues or the sailor’s dungarees have a haven known as Liberty Landing. Those who've lost a leg or a hip can wheel their chairs along a concrete ramp that angles around the concrete steps, to a concrete path lined by a clay brick wall to the left, and an iron railing to the right. The path leads them to a steel and glass door. The door opens to a cinder block waiting room and office where the referrals are submitted to old Bess. One may not reside at Liberty Landing unless they have a note from the V.A. Liberty Landing is not a cozy home. It is a converted warehouse with offices. A maze of hallways leads to a kitchen, a dining room, a computer lab, a TV room, a dorm (which I call a barracks), and a few two and one man rooms (for those who've been there long). It houses up to forty male veterans, and four of the other gender(s). I can tell you, a homeless person is no prize to take home to mother, even if he is a veteran. The residents of Liberty Landing and fighting men in general are about the most foolish one can find. Many are fresh from prison. Others are drug addicted. None are wise with money, and several are sexual deviants. I went there in muddy March of 2013. I had lost another shitty job, and couldn't pay my rent. I have these mental issues, you see, and the pot just masked reality and made me all the sicker. My driving became erratic. I was a menace on the road. Then one day I ran a red light, and my car got smashed to bits. That car was my home—as other cars before. So, this time I was in the worst bind I'd ever known. My good friend and drug dealer took me to Park Center. Park Center sent me to the VA. The VA sent me to the old brick warehouse down on South Calhoun—Liberty Landing. I started to get myself together. I got on food stamps, and went to regular counseling. I even got a job. I quit on my third day—wasn't ready for work. That was a minor setback. These things happen the dance of life. I was still getting high though, and that was holding me back. Now in close quarters with forty homeless men, one must learn to negotiate the various personalities with caution. Most of the men were small and weak. Of course, when you're 6'4”, 220lbs. as I am, most men are small and weak. Everyone at Liberty Landing was in a tough spot. Tempers were short, and tension—high. I kept to myself as much as I could, and didn't have any quarrels. There was one fellow though, Kevin, that I knew would cause me trouble. Kevin is a large man. He stands 6'2” and weighs at least 290. He looks like an offensive lineman, and he is an offensive man. I found out—after the dance—that he was a bully. The little folks did not like him because he would intimidate them with his mass. Now when the tomcat dances, he screams and hisses, and makes himself as big as he can. He threatens to swipe with his razor claws and bite with his carnivorous teeth, but usually the lesser cat dashes off before damage is done. When the kangaroo dances, he punches with his forearms, but one can always identify the dominant 'roo, for he never leans on his tail to kick. That is the trick of the weaker animal. When the cock dances, he clucks and flaps and slashes with his deadly talons. One can tell the stronger cock when the other lies dead or dying. When the warrior dances, he is more unpredictable than any creature. He may strike with his hands or feet or head. He may grab with his arms to squeeze. He may wield a weapon to bludgeon slice or stab. He may calmly take aim and fire his bow or his gun. He may even throw a brick or a hammer. One old warrior--Tom--told me his favorite was to use a lighter and an aerosol, like hair spray, to torch the face of his foe. I said, “Jesus Tom, you're a dangerous man, but what do you do with the body?” He said, “Nothin'. Just kick it down the stairs into the alley.” Good ol' Tom. I was there for about a month when Kevin made a pot of coffee and put cinnamon in the grounds. When I took a sip, I spit it out and dumped it in the sink. I made a fresh pot. I was livid. I went to the office to report the offense, and Kevin was sitting there, talking to Bess. I told him he was an arrogant self-centered asshole. Some people are allergic to cinnamon. He took the bait. He followed me back to the kitchen arguing as I poured hot coffee in my travel mug. The young man was mad as hell at me. “So what? Who cares?” he argued, “I like cinnamon in my coffee.” “You're an arrogant self-centered asshole.” I repeated, playing with the hooked fish. A minute or so later I had let him plenty of line. He was still by the kitchen and I was near the door to the computer room. We were at opposite sides of the building, but the harsh acoustics of its architecture allowed one’s voice to carry without effort. “Well you're a piece of shit!” he said. “You're a fat bitch!” said I. “Oh that does it!” he replied, and silence ensued. “Uh oh.” I said to myself, and dashed into the barracks. “He's not allowed in here. If he comes through that door, this is where I'll make my stand.” Still to myself. Well, he came through that door, and the warrior's dance began. I had taken the lid off my coffee. It was steaming hot. I watched as the door burst open, and the huge man stomped toward me. I was trapped between two steel bunk beds a cinder block wall and a very angry giant. Without warning I splashed the coffee into Kevin's eyes and dropped the cup. “I can't believe you just threw coffee in my face!” he tried to open his burning eyes as I buried my right fist into his ribs. He said the same thing again as I danced behind him and threw two more rights into his sciatica. You see, I have a broken bone in my hand from a similar dance seven years ago. (Don't tell me the hardest substance is diamond. I am sure it's an Irishman's head.) I didn't want to break it again by punching another hard head. It was then the thoughts flew through my mind. Think combinations. Remember to breathe. I danced around to Kevin's left. The man was thoroughly disoriented. I grunted as I landed two quick lefts to his obese diaphragm. Then, strange as it seems, an image of my favorite boxer, Mohammad Ali, throwing his powerful overhand right, flashed through my mind. I didn't have a target, but I let it go. It made an arc starting at my right ear, over Kevin's left shoulder and landed squarely on his jaw as he turned into its path. His eyes snapped shut and his jaw went askew, and spittle flew from his mouth. A surge of pain traveled from my wrist, through my elbow and into my shoulder. I thought to myself, “I've got him now, but I'll stop beating him if he goes down.” Just then two residents stepped between us. I let little Sparky push me away. His head was on my chest and I thought, “I won't let Sparky get hurt.” Calvin—a former prison guard—pushed Kevin toward the door. Kevin protested a little, but when he looked up at me, and saw I was ready for more, his head dropped and he left peacefully. I wasn't truly ready for more. My arm was in agony, and my 43-year-old body protested bitterly. I sat on my bunk, exhausted as the shakes took over. One shakes as the body rids itself of excess adrenaline. In the aftermath of the dance I was asked to leave. I went to a friend’s house and got a job, but as the autumn approached, I lost that job. (While working full time I quit counseling, and went off my medications, and continued to smoke hella weed.) The warriors dance is over quickly. The addict’s dance never ends. I returned to Liberty Landing because I couldn’t pay my share of the rent, and I returned to counseling at Park Center. My previous case managers in both places had moved on, so I had to start from square one. A little over a year later, Park Center got me a roach infested apartment near downtown. I am living there now. After I left the shelter, my access to pot all but disappeared, and I have only smoked a few times since I moved here in December of ’15. I haven’t smoked at all since early summer. My only source was ripping me off, and I am too paranoid to go find another. They may change the laws, and I will probably smoke again. Meanwhile I’ll use this period of lucidity to reflect on my past, and prepare for my future. The dance of life—the dance of days and seasons—that dance never ends either.

Adam’s Dream By Brian Kleinschmidt All the world was desolation. Nothing lived, nor moved. Even the breeze was stilled. I was surrounded by rugged terrain. Brown rocks and dried mud went on for miles, broken only by plateaus of the same color. I looked upon the barren earth, searching for any sign of life. I saw no rodent nor lizard; not even a miserable cockroach. I cast my gaze unto the sky. There was only a pale haze. No clouds broke the sameness. No sun. No moon. No stars. “Is there nothing more?” I asked the empty earth. Then I noticed a shape in the haze. It was high in the sky to the South. As I stared at it, I realized what it must be. It was an immense tree. I walked towards it. How long I cannot say. There was no day nor night, nor length of shadow to measure the time. I looked up at the tree. It had no branches as far as I could see. Its trunk was three meters around and it did not taper as it disappeared in the haze. It had no bark; only rough wood. I felt compelled to climb it. My arms and legs were barely long enough for me to grip the trunk. I climbed for days, weeks, months I do not know. I could see no branches, but there was one large ancient knot. As I reached the knot, I look up and finally I could see the top. Three large branches grew in one direction, and one grew opposite. These branches supported countless smaller branches which grew tiny, green, teardrop shaped leaves that shimmered like silver. In the branch that grew alone was a bird’s nest. I determined to peer inside the nest, but as my eyes ascended to its level, a bird like a stork sprang out of one of the other branches, and alighted on the opposite side of the nest. With its wings outspread, I saw a grey patch on its chest. The rest of its feathers were brilliant white against the pale background of the haze. On its head was a yellow crest. It tucked its wings and cocked its head to the right, fixing a crystal blue eye on me. The eye was so striking that I was hypnotized. “Now what do I do?” I did not speak the words aloud, but the bird read my mind. “Stop playing with yourself so much,” Came the answer. “Ok. Thank you, God,” I thought, then slid down the tree. I opened my eyes and found myself lying beneath the Tree of Life in the Garden of Eden. I looked up and suddenly felt as if something had been pulled from my chest, and was in the possession of the goddess standing over me. “Hello, Adam. I’m Eve,” she said.

Does anyone have an opinion on the future of 'books' ? Will the ebook bubble burst or will it plateau ? Will sales stabilise at a particular ratio ? Thoughts ?

I thought since this is a group devoted to literature, the group members might be inclined to share some of their favorite reads/authors. Recommend a work, a series, an author, a smattering of a collection...or even warn us away from something... So,.... Some of my favorite reads include: The Spririt Catches You and You fall Down, and, Ex Libris, by Anne Fadiman The Meaning of Everything, and, The Professor and the Madman, by Simon Winchester On the Damned Human Race, and, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, by Mark Twain The Measure of a Man, by Sidney Poitier Don Quixote, by Miguel de Cervantes The Hunt for Red October, by Tom Clancy