Exhibition Sentences

Celebrity Townships writers put purple ink to screen!

“Your evil, vile name is an unmerited pox upon our house, your house, for you have soiled even the earth upon which you walk in answer to your dissolute immoderations, calumny oozes from your fetid pores, unpardonable pestilence the likely issue of your grey-green spittle – pig! – whore monger, blasphemer, fifth column Judas; would you take tea and scones then, Jimmy?”

– By Jerome Krause

Thrusting her abundant bosom forward and tossing her burnished fly-away Farrah Faucett locks, Isolde stepped over the threshold into the deep, burnt-orange, shag-carpeted office of  Mr. Mc Muldoon, celebrated attorney at law, only to discover she had just missed him, his bird-like secretary informing her that her employer had had to rush off to attend to the unexpected arrival of his mother-in-law, direct from Estonia, so she advised Isolde to settle down for an indeterminate wait in one of the four purple faux leather chairs that lined two sides of the spacious waiting room, whereupon looking around her, Isolde could not fail to notice, peeking at her from behind a stiff copy of Der Spiegel, a sunburnt, middle-aged gentleman who  reminded her of her first love long ago in Cape Town, causing her moss-coloured eyes, despite the light flooding through the tall, mullioned windows, to mist over as a thousand memories engulfed her—so that when she heard her little known pet name, Lola, called out loudly and forcefully, not once but twice, she could not help but sit up.

– By Angela Leuck

“We must not close this meeting of the Clear-cut Hunting and Fishing Club until our fiscal ducks are all lined up!” bugled the skinny, red faced chairman clucking opprobriously, and then, mixing his metaphors, anxiously went on: “We are back skating on thin ice again and certainly risk getting this committee once more into the hot water it has been in before, meaning just last year when, despite our small number, unable to agree with each other even on a night to meet, and then agreeing through compromise to gather in a member’s all but unheated above-garage den on what turned out to be the night of the deepest frost of the year, we in our rush to get quickly home, neglected to take care of the one club account outstanding that really mattered: the paying of the bill from the local taxidermist (I direct your eyes to the large moose’s head suspended on our wall) who was also the town’s mayor, a vile fellow with a penchant for hating who promptly passed an ordinance making the brand new wing of our club house illegal, so that it had to be promptly demolished, making for a humiliating scenario not to be repeated, and involving a steep fee sadly reflected,” the chairman continued, “ in the pathetically diminished present assets of the club, the greater part of which, before we adjourn (for God’s sake, by no means again prematurely!) we must now employ to pay the outstanding bill of the construction guy, whom, upon subsequent investigation after the fact, we have come to realize is–misery heaps upon misfortune–a secret Hell’s Angel associate most probably laundering gang money by offering discount business, and whom we foolishly hired to shore up the rest of the club house which, because of the previous disastrous intervention and of  the unknown existence of an aging and faulty foundation was sliding off its sloped site into our beloved nearby lake, that may be small and shrinking but still of sufficient depth, assures Razor Ed, the furious, heavily tattooed construction thug, to immerse and conceal all six of our bodies till next Spring, if the unpaid bill still sits in his accounts receivable file another month.

 – By Steve Luxton

Gallumphing, Gallumphing, with her buxomness hindering her not the least, Deirdre the milkmaid tarried forth – tardy, down the waggily path toward the scattershot milking shed at the leading edge of the for strewn copse, the threshold of the house fading into the mist behind her, much as she hoped that someway would fade the memory of the sibilant manner the master had of pronouncing the word “teats”.

– By Ross Murray

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