Writespiration #45

Worst Ending

A couple of weeks ago, I asked you to write the best worst opening line you could think of. Well now I am asking you to write the best WORST ending you can come up with. Once again, there will be a winner and runner up and if we get some funny entries I may just pick a comedic winner too!

What do I mean by worst? 1. Write it badly, break rules, make sentences long and arduous use adverbs… whatever you like, but do your worst, it needs to be so bad, its stinks. 2. Make the story ending stink too, what’s the worst ending to a story you can think of? Write that! Heres mine: I sat at the table in the kitchen and ate the cereal my brother had given me for dinner with the red spoon I liked. I was glad mum wouldn’t shout at me or ground me or take my pocket money away now that I had found the toy I lost the other week when I was in the park, yes, I was glad everything was sorted now.  THE END. Terrible wasn’t it?! Your turn! Now to last weeks writespiration. Just one entry last week, from Hugh, with a seriously chilling tale about crossroads: “Just do as the dam Sat Nav tells you Colin, and turn right. How many time I have got to tell you, just do as it says.” Colin looked at the crossroads ahead of him. Sheila had done nothing but nag him for the last 44 years. Yes, they were lost but he was sure the right turn was the correct one to take. “Are you sure dear? I’m pretty sure if we turn left–” “JUST TAKE THE RIGHT TURN COLIN!” Colin took the right turn as both the Sat Nav and Sheila told him. They found Sheila’s body, and what remained of the car, at the bottom of the cliffs the following morning. Colin’s body was never found.



  1. Slime dripping from his nose and ears, Bart who was having second misgivings about dating Pam, turned to her and asked, “What the hell do you mean that’s not how you’d kill a Ghost? Pulling off his gooey slimey shirt Bart threw it at Pam and growled, “The next time I get to pick the restaurant.”

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  2. ‘So now everyone is dead, can you explain who did it.’
    ‘After Mrs Arbuthnot left her dentures in the tea pot, giving Mr Ermintrude the opportunity to take Mr Galoshes’ hand-held defibrillator from its neoprene case while Toady Johansson untied the sailing boat in order to set Miss Prim-Nipple free to catalogue the recently declassified twenty-seven volumes of Gladstone’s Most Curious Tree clipping stories for the perpetually bewildered while injecting Sir Pustulent Cyst’s right buttock with formaldehyde, thus creating a speed awareness diversion which PC Nobby Bigend mistook for a minor infraction of a recently introduced piece of European Food Hygiene legislation that had temporarily prevented Colonel Particle-Lamppost from completing his Neo Classical refurbishment of the former Home for Terminally Uncertain that had had to close on grounds that The Right Reverend Dolores Throb once kiddy-fiddled the recently elected MP Parsons Grope-Closet whose campaign was exclusively based on obtaining justice following the unfortunate immolation of Nuneaton’s last remaining witch.’
    ‘Ah ha! Of course. It was obvious wasn’t it?’

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  3. As he looked at the whole of information he had gathered, the files, the testimonies, the map on the wall full of pushpins and post-it notes… Martin suddenly realized he didn’t care. He didn’t actually care. Every clue was right there for him to put together… but he just didn’t give a damn. As the realization sank in, a smile crept on his lips. With a skip in his step he walked out of the room and closed the door behind him. Someone else might find his notes and determine who had murdered the Ashton girls… but he wasn’t going to bother anymore. He was done with this particular whodunnit. THE END.

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