The contest in which you are asked to write the worst possible opening sentence you can think of for a story or a novel has announced this year’s winners.
I like the three winning sentences quoted here, but none of them can touch this one, a winner from an earlier year:
The widow Hasha Brown, whose agrarian husband had died from an unfortunate accident involving a hoe, leaned on the filigree railing of her balcony, overlooking her lavish, ornate Idaho estate, her dewy breasts protruding from her Pucci-print dressing gown like subterranean tubers saturated and distended from the vernal rains.
Winner and still champeen.