The old man lay awake. This night was like many others. As he lay sweating on the thin, lumpy mattress, he thought of beef jerky and his life in the army. And he thought of her. He had fled to the army to escape, but she followed him in his dreams, like the cats that follow the milk wagons of the streets of Paris. She was still young in his dreams, ageless, like the haunches of a young bull, ready to charge the toreador and the picadors. A young bull that would soon be thinly sliced, rubbed with spices and left to dry on the racks behind the wine sellers shop.
Do any other writers inspire such bad writing, or look alike contests?
Discuss and/or write your own bad Hemingway and post it here.
Oh, and have some beef jerky while you are at it.