New York Times’ City Room blog published Andrew Porter’s entry to its tournament in purple prose, “Odes To Heat-Struck New York” —
The hideous sun, swollen like a rotten maggot upon the face of the heavens, beat down upon my sweat-besotted brow like an infernal hammer, straight from the depth of the lower pits of Hell. Alas, that I had lived to see these days of living nightmare, the great masses of the city fleeing in their thousands to the shores of our trash-strewn city. Fortunate man that I was, I praised the gods for giving me the wonders of the lightning, harnessed to Man’s needs, in the form of the brilliant inventor Carrier, whose clever mind had devised a means by which esoteric gases are forced through metal channels, the end result being that the air within my dark chambers, instead of scorching my very being, was cooled and flowed delightfully upon my person.— Andrew Porter, Brooklyn Heights
What’s the word i’m looking for?
…and later, it was a dark and stormy night.