Anyway, I'm reading along, and reading and reading and reading, and I'm getting cottonmouth because the stuff is so damn dry, when suddenly I stumble across a passage that's loaded with meaning and shockingly beautiful--which gives me pause, not because it's deep or anything, but because it's exactly the sort of thing that leads to Really Bad Writing. Naturally, I thought I'd share it with you, then challenge you to gross me out.
The author is talking about supernovas and how these massive explosions ultimately create heavy elements, elements beyond the usual hydrogen, helium, and other stuff you find in stars. This new matter gets blown out into the universe, where it mixes and mingles with "the detritus of countless other supernovas":
Yes, people, we're all stars. How's that for the Poetry of Everyday freaking Life?Over the ensuing eons, these heavy elements are scooped up into new generations of stars and planets. Without the manufacture and dissemination of these elements, there could be no planets like the Earth. Life-giving carbon and oxygen, the gold in our banks, the lead sheeting on our roofs, the uranium rods of our nuclear reactors--all owe their terrestrial presence to the death throes of stars that vanished well before our sun existed. It is an arresting thought that the very stuff of our bodies is composed of the nuclear ash of long-dead stars. [Emphasis mine]
The Last Three Minutes
And now for the challenge: the person who writes the most ludicrous piece of fiction--perhaps a bit of prose, some dialogue, a poignant haiku--will get a special prize from yours truly. It could be a book, it could be an ashtray. It could also be my ragged-out, stretched-out jockstrap. I don't know yet, but you'll get it, and of course, I'll post your demi-oeuvre here. So, get cracking and drop me a line.
