World’s Worst Sentence

By Mike Myers

 

mike-myers(Ed. Note: At the last Lake Chapala Annual Writers’ Conference, what follows won the “Worst Sentence Award.” It is also incredibly long. We hope that this does not inspire any of our other literary contributors, though it may tickle our readers.)

Through the sleep-sequestered slits of my heavier-than-Iead eyelids, the Mexican sunrise began with the pewter-dark to slate-grey to bedazzling-blue of another boringly-beautiful lakeside day and so did my wanderings in search of what I do not know, but this auspicious day I would find out by circumnavigating “gringoland” from North, imprisoned by the steeply towering rim of sedimentary rock precipitously uplifted by plate tectonics, now shades of dirty, dusty grey with a leaf -on-the-ground oak tree topping, but later, during “la temporada de lluvias”, shrouded in a dark-Irish quilt of the greenest greens, with an abundancy of overflowing creek beds, cascading waterfalls, and “arroyos imposible pasar de”, to the West, steaming and sweltering with the thermals of San Juan Cosala, so close yet so far from the frigid water of Lago de Chapala, “con mas topes” to stumble over, “y muchos restaurantes” to sustain strength on my Don Quixote quest, then South and East along the disconnected and bifurcated “malecones” strung along the shoreline intermittently, leading me to Chapala Town, and, hopefully, to the San Greal in the holiest of lands which life has enticed and drawn me toward since my earliest, cognizant memory, with its cobble-stoned calles and ages-old Mexican ways of life, barely unspoiled by modern conveniences and contrivances and... wait, what do I see at the next corner, beckoning like a desert mirage, but El Gato Negro, and through its worn and well-used cantina doors and into its cool, dark, and embracing acceptance, I stumble, tingling with anticipation for relief from my unanswered obsession, as the bartender gruffly, but pleasantly, as is the Mexican way, intones ever so softly, “Una Margarita, señor?” to which I immediately counter, in my best Gringo-Spanish, parched, dust -dry throat response, “No, señor, gracias.. .make it a Dos Equis, por favor!! !”

Saludos, amigos!

primi sui motori con e-max

Add comment

Security code
Refresh

Parched Dreams By Tom Eck   As she lay in the shade, Zahra knew the end was near. The morning trek had been marked more by the time she crawled
  The Conservative Corner By Robert L. Nipper December 2014 What a Disappointment! November 2014  The Conservative
December 2014 Please select one: Online format Only articles (respond to any article here) Magazine style format Articles
Editor’s Page By Alejandro Grattan-Dominguez For more editorials, visit: http://thedarksideofthedream.com   (Note: Given President Obama’s
The Life And Lessons Of St. Francis Of Assisi By Dr. Lorin Swinehart   It was a bitterly cold Christmas Eve in 1223, in the tiny Italian mountain

Visit our Advertisers

Our Issues

November 2014

july2011-ojo

October 2014

july2011-ojo

September 2014

july2011-ojo

August 2014

july2011-ojo

July 2014

july2011-ojo

June 2014

july2011-ojo

May 2014

july2011-ojo

 

More....