What is better, reading a good book or writing a bad one? With an affirmative nod to the latter, here is my ill-opening to a novel yet to be never-written. (Apologies to Bulwer Lytton. And I do acknowledge having read many entries to the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest but swear that this work of wonderment is all mine. Not valid with any other offer. Must present fiction at time of purchase. Limit one story per person. This does not apply to prior purchases or future poems. Other Restrictions may apply. Void where prohibited. Taxes extra.)
"It was the stark and horny knight. He emerged from the castle and peered at the floating pupil in the moonlight, bobbing on the surface of the silvery pool. "Isn't it past your bedtime, boy?," he shouted motioning the child to get away from the water. The pupil ignored his stark master's ill-appearance and his command and went on with his nocturnal water sports. The knight paused, not knowing the exact next step, contemplated many and discarded them all and muttered with a ephemeral chuckle appearing on his countenance, "What is the point, after all, boys will be buoys."
This agnostic has only a single plea: Ora Pro Nobis
