The Purple Prose Contest Entries Thread

HORROR:

The shock of black hair jutting from the crisp, velvety nape of the creature in front of him shook him to his nervous, perpetually anxious core. Blood, glowing crimson in the soft, diffuse light coming from the overhead row of perfectly accentuated track lighting, ran down the back of the creature's thick, pulsing right arm. Justin, in his obviously fully engrossed fear and loathing of the marauding monster, stood in a trance so deep and impenetrable as to prevent him from moving the three meager feet that would have ensured his safety.

There are some historians who fall into the purple prose pattern. How about this (I guess the category would be LITERARY):


The interregnum following the fall of that invincible pan-Mediteranean titan--sired by Romulus and nursed by the blood of the Carthaginians, the Egyptians, the Laceadomians, and even the Gauls--and preceding the rise of the Germanic and Nordic principalities was an a-temporal period wherein the foundations of the future sovereign and affluent descendents of the Medieval feudal barons were firmly, if unidentifiably, laid. The fabled darkness of the times was not so much a lack of light, as it was a dearth of glorious memories; man was not, for the moment, neither tightly bound by time nor cognizant of her relentless, though unsteady, flow. But nonetheless, some still kept a careful accounting of her passage, in yellowed parchment bound with the skins of the once sacrificial. The musty, tattered, and coarse threads that enfolded the accountants were perfectly suited to their tools and offices: wormwood furniture, smoldering candles fashioned by ill-fed trembling hands, worn and whittled quills, and cracked shafts of daylight rarely intruding on their painless solitude. Yet, they carried the hope of civilization and the pain of empire on their narrow shoulders and crooked backs; unknowing of Dionysian delights, unheralded by Tuscan blasts of trumpets, and unyielding in their single-minded goal.

Rob

Romance (OOps, sorry, more like Erotica!)

Eliza Wrigley was awoken from her luxurious sleep by a warm hand caressing the nape of her pale, exposed neck. She felt light, long fingers creep their way downward, downward to the ruffled neckline of her pink lacy nightdress. Slowly she opened her almond-shaped eyes, her long black lashes fluttering in confusion. Was it, could it be him? After all these years? She gasped; a knot rose to her throat. He sat on the edge of her bed, outlined by the sparkling gold of the rising sun which drenched the room with flakes of glorious light, reflected in the tall mirror on her dressing table and in his sultry eyes, which were all that could be seen of him. Though she could not yet see his face she knew it was him. She would recognise that uniquely tender touch anywhere. No words were needed between them; she sat up languidly in bed and lazily stetched out her arms towards him. Slowly, passionately, he leaned in towards her warm, pulsating body and quickly tore the nightdress from her shoulders, with a moan of deep desire which rose from the very depths of his being and was echoed by her gasp of sheer delight. A short moment later they were making deliciously passionate love, her quivering body arching desperately against his in spasms of rapture as he powerfully thrust his heaving manhood at her in a volcanic outburst of lush exuberance.

HORROR/THRILLER

It was a dark, rainy, windy, stormy, moonless, eerie kind of night. A wicked, evil, ugly, tattoed man named Jasper was sitting on his front porch staring at the sky. He had a knife in his pocket and a smirk on his face. There was going to be trouble tonight, that was for sure! His mind was cooking up some devilry. Perhaps he'd go on a killing spree! He hadn't done that in a while. The only roadblock in his plans was his wife, Bertha. She was a big, loudmouthed, stubborn, wisecracking pain in the butt. She might have to be the first one to go. But how and when would he do it?

The Horror Oak of Hatteras Island

The gnarled and lightening-struck old oak had stood as a silent sentinel for many an eerie moonlit night. The countless hurricanes that had battered this lonely, storm struck coast had twisted the mighty branches into sweeping, outstretched arms that nearly touched the smooth sandy ground beneath them. The local villagers avoided this desolate stretch of beachside wasteland. The wizened old grannies and the salt crusted fishermen told tales of blood curdling shrieks and gut wrenching moans that emanated from the base of this old oak on cold and lonely windswept nights. They say that the tortured spirits of the shipwrecked sailors prowled these deserted, shivering dunes, searching – always searching for another lost and tortured soul to join them in their macabre dances back and forth from the wave washed beach to their sunken ships lodged deep in the shifting shoals of Hatteras, the Graveyard of the Atlantic.


I gotta go wash my hands now.

With a mighty roar and a curse to the gods, he shot upright from the soft, velvety tigerskin chair and sprang forth using his mighty sinewy thighs across the dimly lit room that reeked of dark dank dreams and faded lost hope and drew his mighty gleaming uber-sword, Mama, from the finely oiled sheath and with a wild gleam in his eye and a fierce snarl on his lips, he lowered the deadly sword and popped the tab on the beer can.

I'm not sure that this qualifies, but here goes.


Humor


No matter how agonizingly hard she tried, she was never to be lifted, from the choking and drowning depression, which filled each and every orifice, each crevice, she could ever hope to have, see, or feel, threatening to suction every last drop of her spirit, her life's blood, while the one thing she could seemingly have always counted on, to bring about her redemption, yea, to carry her limp and lifeless body to safety, her one and only true love, had at the last, and in a most horribly timed moment, been taken from her beating breast, by the awful spell of a Monday night football game; the dishes must be done.

Genre: Science Fiction


The great wide span of the universe--immense, immeasurable--lay before him in speckles of white on an infinitude of black velvet space that stretched as far as the range of the eye in every direction: forward, left, right, backward, up, down, north, south, east, and west, and coruscated with the living light of a multitude of stars too great to count. He could try if he wanted to; maybe he could reach one hundred, or perhaps even stretch his mind as far as a hundred of thousands before losing interest, but he had not the mind for it at present. His mind lay on the approaching fleet of ships, each a different tint against the bubonic darkness that shrouded over infinity, each one of them an ephemeral blip against the agelessness of the stars behind, each one facing toward him with its prow and away with its aft, each one also fashioned of a different metal and rendered on factory floors too far distant to fathom with the mind. The glow of their engines added to the light of the stars, which the darkness sapped away. He imagined them for a second as a fleet of the ancient Phoenicians--though he'd never though to wonder after the archaic design of a Phoenician ship--and saw their cables and manifolds as halyard and mast of some primal caravel. Would that he faced only caravels and sailors: these were corsairs of the Iolian Abyss, none more feared in all the Twelve Free Galaxies, none more deadly; ion drives drove them, rather than the wind; and they would strike with energy cannon and antimatter ray rather than bolt and blade. Yes, Captain Tyrellius faced the armada of his undoing; with macabre face and a grim voice, he ordered his officers to their stations.

This would be in the Literary section.

She had made her decision; it was a noiseless and emergent thing. It floated lazily, whisping in her mind like a soft, pillowy and senseless cloud which would never float above the level of her own soft and billowing consciousness. It rested then, still and silent, severely and severally calling to her, urging with endless and apparent epiphany which only layered into quagmire where no thoughts, especially not those illustrious, lacking, and sagging thoughts that were the trademark of her hollow and foggy mind, could exist. She struggled, trying in quiet, sudden soul gasps to receive the knowledge she so needed, something without which the laundry may never be washed with warm water, something without which the truculent passages of her ornately adorned, expertly locked, stunningly concealed diary could be realized into existence. She could not remember, try as she might, to recapture the little floating and naggingly elusive thought and enumerate it with a logical twist of her active thought; but she simply, utterly, without question from the inner recesses or her languid and sleeping brain could not remember that which had started the whole cumbersome process of the forgotten thought.

By the way, enter as many as you want. There's no limit. We vote for a winning "entry," not writer.


Here's mine: LITERARY
(I did this one a long while ago... just for fun with some dear friends... )



I stared, my eyes watery from the tears that had drowned my soul, at the gelid marble headstones (must be at least six or seven of them) for the long perished, beloved family of Walt's (who was now weeping in torents next to his neice who was only thirteen -- poor child), already frozen like ice sculptures into the solid, unyielding, grassless ground -- his never-there parents of York (a knight and his mate from the old England), one brother, six years his senior, whose tormented, crumbled body sailed back from some long forsaken, distant, war-torn wasteland in a stark box draped with none other than the revered American flag, and Walt and Annie's precious, stillborn child -- their youngest, a son -- who would've been my twin had he not perished as a withered leaf.

Nancy knew that Neville would never notice her. She simply could not imagine why not. After all, she was attractive enough, wasn't she? And she planned to prove it. She stood questioningly in front of the tall mirror in her pink, sun-drenched bedroom and regarded her own naked body, moist from the soft, fragrant body-lotion she had just languidly rubbed into her thirsty sun-tanned skin. She deeply admired her golden body with its voluptuous curves and moved it slowly and erotically, smiling at the image she saw, displaying all her provocative features, which she knew displayed the kind of feline sensuality that was most appealing to masculine men of Neville's ilk, which was exactly her type. Cupping her heavily swollen breasts, nipples tender and protuberant with desire, in her hands, she lifted them proudly, then flicked her fragrant mane of sleek, well-groomed hair over her shoulders provocatively and pursed her lips at the mirror, feigning a passionate kiss, closing her eyes as she imagined Neville's face, sweaty with passion, closing in on hers tonight when she slipped stealthily and seductively through his back door, to which she had cleverly obtained a duplicate key, for this very clandestine purpose, which she had planned secretly in her desperately yearning heart.

ROFLMAO!

I must join in. Here's one I did during that playtime maestro alluded to, taking a poor innocent sentence offered up by he, which I endeavored to festoon beyond recognition. (category literary, though that might be stretching it)

The original:

I hurry around the corner and am relieved to find her in a narrow alley, a few houses down, chatting with three small children playing in front of a doorstep.

What I did to it:

I speed, hastily--for to dawdle would foresure ensure the continued state of abject agitation I find myself ceaselessly burdened with despite my best efforts to calm my restless soul as it crashes against my logical self in wave after wave of unending torment--and I relieve myself at the sight of her, unbending in the wind of angst I know the world slavishly lavishes upon her, partway down, not quite half but certainly more than a third, of the narrowest, cloying, restricting passage this tired old centre of humanity has to offer--and yet she has chosen just this place, to stop and offer up a moment, perhaps two--well actually three as you shall see must be the case--of kindness, compassion, yeah the very centre of her heart and soul, to a trio of youthful representatives of the best humanity has to offer this tired old world as they amuse themselves endlessly upon the stoop of a nondescript hovel in the mass of nondescript hovels of which the city is comprised.

I'll try a mystery one. Here goes:

Could this sweet, handsome man with a heart of gold and piercing blue eyes that could melt a woman's entire being, be the heartless killer? Could he have slid through the shadows like a slithering snake sneaks through the tall wispy grass on a hot sunny day catching its prey with nary a sound? Could he have taken that shiny new knife, a knife that glistened when the light caught the blade just right, and plunged it deep into the chest of Ms. Cratch the slender librarian with flowing auburn hair, who surrounded herself with books but read nothing but magazines? No, it can't be him. Because his lifeless body lies on the damp wooden floor, killed by the same knife that took the young librarian's life, the knife that glistened when the light caught the blade just right, until it was covered with crimson red blood. Then, it didn't glisten anymore.

A Western:

With a tremulous and shaking sigh of regret Sarah leaned over the pent up buckskin. Taking his sweaty and sweet smelling mane in her hand, she pressed against his heaving side with her tiny powerful heels. The high-strung stallion leapt into the air, lifting dry chunks of hot, dry desert sand and flinging a storm of gravel against the high reaching rock walls of the canyon. Foamy sweat flew from him like confetti as he raced away, tearing wildly in a panic dance. Hot grief-stung tears poured in great profusion on Sarah's downy, sundrenched cheeks. Agonizing cramps of pain sped through her slender body as she thought about leaving her hard won ranch to that mean, dried up old land grabber.

Greetings All,
This is mt very first attemp and writing purple prose. I guess the catagoery would be romance-humor? Here goes:

Brick sat staring at his empty computer screen. “She’s gone, Henderson, she's gone”. He stood up from his desk, his hands clenched into tight fists, while his biceps strained the fabric on his black Ralph Lauren polo shirt. He looked out the window from his 35th floor penthouse suite. Normally the glittering lights of the New York skyline gave him a sense of peace, but not tonight.
“Maybe she’ll be back, sir” replied Henderson.
“Dammit Henderson, she’s not coming back”, Brick retorted.
“Perhaps a sherry then sir? To settle your nerves”, Henderson offered.
“A sherry?, he stared incredulously at his man servant. “Henderson, I just lost the love of my life, a goddess, an angel, someone to whom I conveyed my inner most thoughts, the only one who truly understood me, and you offer me a sherry”? Brick turned his steel blue eyes back to the computer screen, as he turned, his perfectly manicured fingernails raked through his thick mane of jet black silky hair, while his black leather pants heaved against his thighs. He had to figure out what to do. He regretted being sharp with Henderson. After all, what did Henderson know of such things? Brick, however, had seen this before. He knew the end was close weeks before. Why hadn’t he done something? Now he was faced with this devastating situation confronting him.
“Right then sir, Henderson said. I’ll get the Cognac” Without turning to face him, Brick said “Make it the Remy ”. “Oh and Henderson, call that Computer store on 53rd st, maybe they can send out a replacement".

Since we get more than one entry, and since my last one was so fun, I have endeavored to write another of these most purple paragraphs; this time, however, I am hoping that I may for once surpass even my most grand of achievements, in literature and the life beyond--the genre is fantasy.

Forsooth it was the age of wonders--the age of knights and dragons and damsels in distress, and the age of the magnificent and the foul, who are truly diametrically opposed. It was also the age of the brave and the foolish (and a good many who take their equal share in both categories); it was the age in which even the squires of squires betook upon themselves to endeavor forth on fearful dreaded tasks to win honor in the eyes of the commonfolk. The age has passed us by--it is no more. No longer do kings and queens travail across the land; no longer do knights and dragons duel; no longer do the magnificent and the foul have so little in common; no longer are the brave and the foolish at large upon the Earth; no longer do the squires of squires betake fearfyl dreaded taskes upon themselves; no longer do men and women work the deeds that make their names great. But in the age that has passed Earth by, never to be reclaimed, a gallant valiant bannerman of the most noble high-seated king rode forth from the castle from which he hailed--his mind plagued by thoughts of the fell doom that awaited him, a bane to any man--to set to right a most grievous of wrongs.

Horror... maybe Sci Fi

He watched the opalescent beetle crawl up his inwardly trembling chest and called it crepuscular to those who listened, though the word stygian came to mind, peculiarly this beetle --and he knew the reason he niggled was to obviate the obvious reason this beetle was there. Niggling never helped.

Fantasy:

Purple version:

An undulating scream pierced the darkened night. Darius Klocek flinched involuntarily, but continued to stare torpidly into the raging, tempestuous storm that echoed the torment in his very soul. Rain and hail buffeted the glass windows of the small, white, clapboard house with a rhythmic irregularity that evoked memories of waves on the beaches of his long-lost youth. Lightning flashed blindingly in a random staccato, making it impracticable to correlate thunderclap to lightning stroke, except when one clove the night uncommonly close. Then the whole house shook and shuddered like a thing alive. Each flash created a frozen tableau, the details of which were recognizable only as quickly forgotten afterimages. The weathered barn, the fenced in corral, and the dusty chicken yard, stood out in stark relief, bright against the obsidian-black night.

Current version:

Darius Klocek stared into the storm. Rain and hail pelted the window in waves. Lightning flashed repeatedly, its irregular staccato making it impossible to associate a thunderclap with a lightning stroke. Each flash created a frozen picture, the details recognizable only as afterimages. The barn, the corral, and the chicken yard, stood out in stark relief, and then disappeared into the night. In the next room, his wife sobbed.

I'm entering this for MacAllister. Bwhahahahaha.

Original Prose said:

He put the last of his things in his new suitcase and clicked the latches shut. It was long past time to go.

Click to expand...

Purple version:


Gently, caressingly, wistfully, he consigned the very final garment--folded just so, because when he made his wife unpack them later she would only nag at him about the wrinkles, if he packed carelessly--into the stylish and manly piece of luggage he'd bought at Neiman-Marcus those brief hours before, afoot in this strange city (and it was a very strange city, make no mistake) and he ran his hands over the brass latches clicking them shut with an awful finality so very final he couldn't think of anything more appropriate to symbolize the utter finality of this simple gesture. Time had flown by with its inexorable and mercurial nature, on wings it seemed, his temporal disorientation now complete--yet the knowledge originating in his most primal cells informed him he must now, in fact, depart.

ENTRY BY JD KIGGINS

ENTRY BY JD KIGGINS

Paragraph (before editing) from yet another WIP.
Romance--Ancestral Promise

A braid of long shining black hair, draped over a buckskin jacket with fringed sleeves, caught her eye. Her eyes followed the hair to a leather belt covered with turquoise beads looped in faded jeans, then to leather soled moccasins decorated in the same turquoise beads and fringe. She began to look up and spied a notepad held by a dark skinned hand clad with several silver bands with turquoise settings. The silver brought brilliance to both the rings and the soft, smooth texture of his long slender fingers and neatly manicured nails. A woven black rope secured by a small silver arrowhead embedded with a turquoise stone hung on the neatly pressed white shirt. Her gaze slowly lifted to a moon-shaped, dark face, strong pronounced nose and deep-set dark brown eyes.

Thriller/Suspense

Daniel turned his sparkling, blue eyes the color of the sky just after dawn has broken toward Isabel to see how she was reacting to the news he had just told her even though he really, truly hadn’t wanted to be the one who broke the poor, sweet girl’s young and naïve heart. Frowning angrily, but looking more than a bit pretty despite the furious expression on her heart-shaped face, Isabel moved hurriedly and urgently towards Daniel until she was close to him—so close she was intruding a great deal into his personal space—and then she leaned forward and hissed horribly through her luscious lips glistening slightly with a light pinkish-purple lip-gloss that smelled like bubblegum, “You bastard! You better watch your back!”

Figured I'd add another. Now I'm finished.
(from the same romance.)

Disconcerted that her co-workers used her desk as a catchall, Carrie picked up the disheveled mess, pushed aside the phone, Rolodex, and tossed them on the top of the pile of file folders, stenographer pads, and pictures. Many back-wrenching hours had been spent at her desk. She despised untidiness and became very upset when those around her didn’t respect her need for order. Carrie was driven to distraction once more by the constant clatter from the typesetter’s office and the muffled chatter from the basement where photographers developed film in the dark room. Hell bent to complete her list of questions; Carrie focused, squeezed her eyes shut and closed out her surroundings. She took a deep breath, pushed her unruly deep auburn brown hair, behind her ears and fixed her tired emerald eyes on the blank computer screen with the annoying cursor. Carrie longed for an exciting, compelling, once-in-a-lifetime story that would reaffirm her convictions that journalism is more than just writing mundane stories and reports. Just once, she wanted to write a sensational story that is astoundingly adventurous, captivatingly concrete, and dangerously divulging.

MYSTERY:


Slicing and dicing the decrepit security guard's neck and chest was not something to be expected in this extremely dicy situation, especially if the unspoken privilege and desire for inquisition was one of the twelve hundred and sixty three items on the list on his refrigerator that morning, before his wife stopped him cold, asking for money to go shopping at the mall, which just opened; but could he afford such blatant, insidious, incredulous, unfathomable challenge to his dignity and authority, which was given to him by a higher power?