In which we ponder the inspirational equivalence of the near-brilliant somewhat-random biker-crazy staccato-blurts of 3-word-limit prose with the boundless awfulness of the 2010 B-L Fiction Contest winners.

Apologies, in advance.

For the first month of Ricardo and Felicity's affair, they greeted one another at every stolen rendezvous with a kiss---a lengthy, ravenous kiss, Ricardo lapping and sucking at Felicity's mouth as if she were a giant cage-mounted water bottle and he were the world's thirstiest gerbil.

---Molly Ringle, Seattle (Grand Prize Winner)
As Holmes, who had a nose for danger, quietly fingered the bloody knife and eyed the various body parts strewn along the dark, deserted highway, he placed his ear to the ground and, with his heart in his throat, silently mouthed to his companion, "Arm yourself, Watson, there is an evil hand afoot ahead.

---Dennis Pearce, Louisville (Detective runner-up)
The Zinfandel poured pinkly from the bottle, like a stream of urine seven hours after eating a bowl of borscht.

---Alf Seegert, Salt Lake City (Purple Prose honorable mention)
She purred sensually, oozing allure that was resisted only by his realization as an entomologist that the protein dust on the couch from the filing of her crimson nails was now being devoured by dust mites in a clicking, ferocious, ecstatic frenzy.

---Jonathan BlayBedford, Canada (Romance runner-up)
Wearing his new slacks from L.L. Bean, and entering the pen to feed his three big dogs their usual three cans of dog food, some of which ended up on his new pants, Kevin then left the house to attend a revival screening of ‘Serpico’ with Alpo chinos.

---Greg Homer---Placerville, CA (Vile Puns dishonorable mention)
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