The Purple Prose Contest Entries Thread

LITERARY:


The bastard son Jason, the fruit of a once-in-a-life-time torrid love affair that shamed the most tragically bewildered lovelorn tales of our times, her only child (bless her soul), was secured in his own world, shielded from the glaring light of the world that cast an unfavorable judgment upon him in that he was a bastard, and has he cuddled his five-year-old body, devoid of any overtly sexual development and desire or impurity, in the antique chest handed down from four generations (since they moved to the continent from the war-torn, long forsaken wasteland that someone called Walt's brother was killed), but she, the beautiful MaryJo Bobby Coppersmith with her raven hair and skin so soft that it rivaled the smoothest imported silk from Indochina of the last century, was the bastard's underaged white-slave of a mother and she did worry.


Original sentence:

Jason was safe, she knew, and as comfortable as a five-year old hidden in a chest could be, but she was his mother and she did worry.

Click to expand...

(OK, the last one... I promise...)


ROMANCE:


Two steps -- not one, not three, but two, and not baby steps, or giant steps, or quick steps, or the country dance that simple cowboys and cowgirls twirl themselves around the hardwood floor of some barnyard-turned dance hall -- just two steps propelled her, the sad and lonely and incredibly sultry Lorielle, to the end (not the one with the towering, Polynesian bedpost taken from Pier One) of the Queen bed, covered with laces and flower-print linen and a quilt she quilted many moons ago for her beloved, and she reached her gentle hands -- the only one that had ever went through Jason's hair during a summer fling from which her son was born -- down and clutched the quilt she quilted many moons ago for her beloved, pulled it to her voluptuous body oozing with a young mother's sensuality, wadding the quilt she quilted many moons ago for her beloved into a soft, bulky, unfinching bundle in her creamy arms.

The night was dark, so dark he could see only an everlasting expanse of blackness before his eyes, those very eyes that had only a short moment ago torn themselves from the tragic sight of Eugenie, his one and only love, the only woman he had every deigned to give his heart to unconditionally, so brutally slaughtered at the prime of her life, lying there, her throat savagely carved open, so alone and bloody on the very bed on which they had sported in rature the night before, in the very chamber where, 30 years previously, his mother had given birth to him on just such a dark night as this; dark, and stormy too, the wind lashing angrily around him and almost sweeping him up, up and away, carrying him in its tender arms like a caring mother, as if on a magic carpet, far, far away from those terrible scenes and the haunting memories implanted on his soul which nothing could ever again erase, no, not Time, the great Unknown, or another Love, yet to enter his life; for he would never love again.

Original: "It was a dark and stormy night." (my last, too. Genre: romantic thriller)

Suspense:

Two evil black beady eyes crept up over the top of the moss covered rock. Watching his prey carefully for any unforeseen opportunity, the snake moved an inch silently. The tiny fuzz covered bunny was only a month old and a very tender and tasty piece at that. It sniggled it's nose at the warm breeze and closed baby bunny eyes briefly. The snake struck with great surity, pulling the jumping rabbit out of the air. One second of foot kicking flurry and the bunny was wiggling it's way down the muscular throat of the rattler. The snake began to curl its long diamond back into a contented circle when the mighty eagle's sharp curling talons snatched him up, up into the cool, clean mountain air with great grace and speed.

Old line: I came home and thought my wife had finally left me, but then I heard the shower running.

New: Ah, but for a taste of your scent upon the merest waft of breeze to carry it to me from that place most recently vacated by thee, would I sell my heart, my soul, yeah even my Mercedes ... which would be ironic since the purchase of same seemed to be the proverbial straw that broke the spine of the proverbial camel in twain ... I take another faltering step further into our shared domicile and what dost assail mine ears but the faint, shimmering, rain-like music of the Waterpik Shower Massage Model SM-650 I so lovingly installed for you lo these many years ago, and I weep to know that today, of all the days remaining to me, will not be the one in which I return from my toils to find you gone.

Humor

As the undulating strips quivered spasmodically, quaking about, in the smoked and salty, sweetened oil, which had rendered during their gloriously popping transformation, raw to worthy, sickening to nutritive, the wizened and wrinkled woman, skillfully, and with no thoughts of sorrow, cracked the embryonic orbs, and dropped their contents in alongside the curling streaks, of fat and lean, allowing them to join the dance, and to heighten the staccato of the musical orgy, before taking flight to retrieve a blouse, which lay draped across the back of her drawing chair, and clothed herself, to protect her naked skin from the burning lava, which explosively leapt from her cast iron skillet, saying, "Zeke, get your butt in here, breakfast is pert' near done".

Is there a "parenting" category? Oh. Then maybe this is SciFi.

Purple Paragraph:

That is not the question. The real question, the true question is what frothy notion would take possession of your head and even provoke you to ask such a question? Your mother is merely a mortal, like yourself. Knowing not your own mortality, as so clearly you have revealed that you do not, you blunder into this ghastly gaffe. And yet, somehow, it is expected by the entire dominion that you, youthful, naive, innocent and trusting as you may be, that you would know better than to ask such a thing. A thing such as this is not to be asked. Not of your mother. No! Not of anyone. You have no right to ask it. It is what cannot be asked. And the answer, while known -- known all too well by all who have heard your unseemly utterance -- will not be revealed to you as an answer. The answer will not be spoken; no soft nor gravelly nor booming nor whispered voice shall utter the sounds that in your ears would become enlightenment. Only as an experience, lived through, with highs and lows and setbacks and lucky breaks, as all of life is lived, only in this way will the knowledge born of the question that is not to be asked ever be revealed to you.

Original Paragraph:

Geez! How should I know? You'll just have to wait and see, kid.

Humor

Instead of forever pondering, through painfully knitted brow, rather than endless meanderings of imagination, not allowing her ever spry, and vividly cruel curiosity, to pick at the ethereal scab, that the horrible pondering caused her fettered mind to constantly throw her way, she loosed her, white knuckled, grip enough to rotate the offensively dripping informant, and turned it to the florescent globe hanging, precariously, above her ginger quaff, squinted the deep holes which now held her red-rimmed eyes, pouted and bit her full luscious lips, and concentrated her every thought, every dream, every fear, upon the tiny rectangle, which now held her very future in it's grasp, before screaming, "Cooter...we ain't gotta get hitched."

I suppose this will have to be Literary since it doesn't really fit the other categories.


The chemical silence of the hospital was punctuated with the cacophany of life. In one room laughter, in another tears. In one corridor anxiety, in another hope. The voices rose and fell, as muted whispers and stacatto cries vied one with the other for the observer's attention. Nor was the resultant symphony more strongly played anywhere than here, where the crescendo of activity briefly lulled; as the nectarine of her nether regions was at last plucked free, and the whole room fell into the unbreathing desperate anticipation that arises between the last wail of the mother and the first wail of the child.

fantasy

The flatlands were sullied with burrows of nocturnal creatures and bisected with gullies dusted with histories of fresh water streams, but they guided their dirt gray mice safely and at an expedient pace over the pocked terrain with the help of the ever wary scout cat whose glistening reputation seemed to precede them, illuminating their way.

Romance

{After}
This pair; one weak, languid, graceful, a deer among lions; the other fierce, alert, sinuous, a lion among deer; both coming one upon the other like cloths dancing in a knowing wind, merged for a few life-changing moments their separate existances as the two, becoming burningly conscious of eachother, heat and chill fusing, locked a lingering gaze, their eyes creating the friction of silk between them, a true lovers caress.


{Before}
Their eyes lingeringly met.

True Life Horror-Not To Be Taken Lightly



A sound like a freight train deafens her ears as she tightens the knot of the flimsy cloth strap that anchors her to the wheel chair. One frail, ninety year old hand grips the arm of her questionably faithful vehicle, the other grips her faithful, fury old friend, Benny. Horizontal rain sprays her face like a ruthless machine gun as she flinches away, flying slivers of glass cut deep into her tissue paper-thin skin. The only light she can see is the one flashing on the cell phone which is illuminating the inside of the pocket of her robe. She lowers her terrified eyes to look at it, afraid to let go while Benny violently shakes and then goes limp as his little heart gives in to the fear. She screams but cannot hear her own voice. One cold, salty, unforgiving, catastrophic wave sweeps the dark, lonely house clean in one cruel, unaffectionate sweep and the walls of the little wooden box are ripped from it's foundation and the woman waits miserably for eternity..... as Katrina screams her a lullaby.



I realize I'm being bold here, but this is the way I'm dealing with the loss. No intentions to offend, thanks...

Romance

Old line: She cries in her room.

New Purple Version:
Tears cascade down Penelope’s pale, rose colored checks. Outside, the rain pounds into the earth, cracking into Penelope’s torn and broken heart. Her soft, tender hand gently wipes the tears from her azure color eyes, which sparkle even in the mist of her heart breaking tragedy. “Why him?” she yells to the heavens, but only receives the crushing bang of thunder as a reply. She intently bellows in her small cage of a room, and falls to the floor, as she torments herself with the fact that her star cross lover is no longer.

Literary. Old literary.

All the beauties of manifold Nature showed themselves abloom at Squire George Welmsley's estate that morning in 18__. Nevertheless, a heartfelt sigh escaped the dejected squire's lips as his thoughts returned to the sole obstacle to his future happiness, the disparity in age between himself, born in 17__, and Miss Emilie Chascombe, who had entered this world in 18__; for although it perhaps counts as nothing in the sight of the Divinity, mere men do reckon as weighty a difference (which the astute reader can easily calculate) of nearly __ decades.

Romance or strange erotica?

Even while the rogue was undressing and caressing Tess with his emerald orbs he conveyed in salacious detail how he would ravish her again and again and again in all the ways a manly man could ravish her staying hard as steel the whole time until her nubile, virgin’s body would respond with explosive tremors she would feel from the top of her head to the tips of her toes while Tess, standing with innocent, glaze-eyed wonder, watched the muscles bunch and flare in his jaw as the dangerous-looking rake talked and talked until she, inundated with the sheer volume of scintillating, rapacious words, began to wonder if her toes would feel anything that would “cause her soul to tremble” because her feet felt like they had fallen asleep and even the mahogany water stand next to the iron bed was beginning to wonder when the hell the dark-eyed, handsome bastard son of the Duke would shut up and unleash his tumescent, pulsing love cannon loose upon Tess’s furred honeypot so that afterwards they would press the hot sweaty flesh of their bodies to its hard cold drawer pulls and dip their hands over and over and over into the bowl of warm water waiting impatiently upon its cool marble top.

Technical Writing (Windows based, of course)

Upon ascertaining the lack of responsiveness to computer initiated command sequences, one should undertake to determine the underlying issues and remedy them with alacrity. Firstly, attempt to exit from the current egregious status and repeat the appropriate series of command strokes to the manual interface equipment. Should this fail to return one to a salubrious state of productivity attempt the employment of the trifold simultaneous impression of the Control Alternate Delete input devices of the manual interface. Should this fail to engender the desired response you will be most unfortunately left with only the option of disengaging the motive source of your device and after a brief pause of perhaps ten seconds, impress the initiator interface key briefly and await the musical tones which signify successful implementation of the operating system.

Humor-"Drivin' Miss Cutie"

It was a hot Vegas evening, my mind whirling with the days events searching for a place to insert some laughter. The golden sun was sinking behind the westward mountains faster than usual and I was drenched in some fine air conditioning half mooned eyed from the comfort of my favorite chair counting down the seconds in which I had left to take my beloved brother to the dreaded airport. From my thoughtless gut I bellowed, "I'm going to the airport!" Before I could finish the last word of that sentence I wished I could've sucked the magnetic phrase back in my mouth so I could have remained above reproach but it was too late. One very short, pleasingly round three year old broke into a foot-slapping-trot from across the other side of the house. Those indulgent, Shredded Wheat Biscuits with toes pummeled the the ground in which she ran upon as her inviting, plump, juicy cheeks rode with the bounce of her body. I tried to make a desperate dash for the front door when she dove in a single, heaping leap for my tired, swollen, overworked ankles and held on for dear life screaming, "I wanna go!" The bags under my eyes sagged a little more and the front door flung open on it's squeaky hinges, I winced as the doorknob flew toward the screaming drywall and thoughts of my alone time clouded over. "Go where?" my handsome, over active son spurted at me like one of Spider Man's sticky, wristed webs. I stood there entrapped in his verbal snare blinking as my husband intercepted him like a football on a mission. I bent down risking excruciating back pain and scooped up my pride and my joy from the floor and strapped her into her car seat planting a honeyed, little kiss on her mouth as if I were about to pluck a decant chocolate morsel from a box. The ride home was thankfully boring yet tranquil as the quiet passing minutes drooped my fair lady's eyelids to a blessed close, the look of love oozed from my tired eyes and a smile of contentment crept up the sides of my mouth. I steadied the steering wheel as my eyes darted from road to child in the rearview mirror, being careful not to crash this captivating moment; her pudgy, plugged in marshmallow-like arms casually folded behind her head, her lips slightly ajar. What could she be dreaming through her aqua-blue eyes, I wondered? My thoughts abruptly interrupted by a burst of laughter when I heard, "Momma?" "Yes." "You sleepin' too?"

Romance

Abigail nearly fainted when Pierre swept her into his muscular arms, held her closely and gazed longingly into her cornflower blue eyes. Batting her long eyelashes at him, she said, "Now, Pierre, you do know that I'm...that I am..." She hesitated. Holding up her delicate little white-gloved hand, she shielded her timid eyes and looked away, ashamed to reveal the secret of her virginity. Could this handsome, wealthy, debonair, much-adored prince of princes' lust be quelled until such time as Abigail could bring herself to release her inhibitions and give herself freely to the man she so desperately adored, the man holding her in his brutish clasp.

EDITED - -SORRY GUYS - LOOKS LIKE I'VE DISQUALIFIED MYSELF BY POSTING LATE.



ORIGINAL: I approached the door.

THRILLER:

I crept along, crunching the crunchy snow between each step of my trembling hesitant steps as I traversed the snow-covered lawn coated in a blanket of puffy snow broken only by the deep treads on my caterpillar boots as I crunched hesitatingly and scared towards the door that beckoned ahead of my bulging terrified eyes as I drew ever nearer to whatever it was that lay hidden behind that dreadful and dark iron-studded door that loomed ever larger out of the swirling darkness that enveloped me like the cold frigid darkness of hell.