Posted on 02/22/2005 4:28:09 PM PST by utahguy
Continue The Story: It Was a Dark and Stormy night. Attention Writers, Wouldabee’s, Wannabee’s, Amateurs, Hacks, etc. etc.
Now is your chance to perceive, pen and publish your punishing purple prose planetwide.
Just take the last line from this, or any post/comment and add your prose. No need for this turkey to come out linearly.
Any genre, any style. And without concern if it’s bad, it’s SUPPOSE to be.
Comments and Groans are welcome.
It was a dark and stormy night. The wind howled out of the north like a bereaved banshee, roaring over the moor, funnelling its fuming ferocity down the valley toward the opulent manor.
The gale twisted bits of flotsam, flora and fauna into the frigid air, creating a clammering cacaphony of wretched debris hurling headlong into the walls of the estate as if on some suicidal mission to find refuge.
Inside the manor Percilla pouted. Thurgood and Eason had undoubtedly cancelled their visit, since her butler had informed her earlier that the bridge had been washed out due to the storm.
The only other route was a narrow, twisted trail through the moors of which she was told no sane person would dare venture at night, much less in this weather.
And they could be such cowards at times, she thought, for she so looked forward to a rousing game of whisk.
Oh, bother. Nothing left to do but get tiddly.
She poured the sherry herself, as she had dismissed the servants early. Pressing her voluptuous lower lip to the edge of the glass, she took a long sip of the amber liquid while giving a blank stare toward the immense fireplace.
Percilla watched impassively as the flames flickered fluidly, like dozens of Dante’s dancing denizens, pirouetting upwards to a silent symphony.
She signed, placed the goblet on the table, which now was adorned with a baby's bottom of crimson on the lip of the leaded crystal.
Suddenly there was a knock on the door . . . . . . .
"Hillary was looking for the family bible to use when she took the oath of office tomorrow morning.."
"Darn that Dominoes Pizza....They never deliver within 20 minutes...."
I remember the all time worst piece of prose I've ever encountered, but the site rules forbid it's posting. :(
"President Kerry sat hunched over the 2000 page French proposal for joint control of the US military. He smiled to himself as he reached for his Montblanc, and with a flourish, inked is name to the document. He then reached for the phone and dialed Jacques while conferencing co-UN SecsGeneral William and Hillary Clinton. Its done, he said gleefully, the last bastion of US sovreignty has been demolished. Never again will her military offend the likes of Saddam, the Ayatollah, and Kim Jong-Il ruler of the Kerry brokered 'One Penisula government'...."
They HAD made it. Maybe the bridge wasn't as bad as her butler had feared.
Across the room, Viking, the sleek, hungry cat, stretched his long black paws out along the cushions of the black leather couch. Some times, she thought, I can't even see him there.
Viking's ear's had perked up when he heard her speak of a writing thread on freerepublic. Lost in thought, Viking was startled by the knock....
Such prodigious prosers! Keep 'em coming!
"Well, it's high time you showed..." But Percilla stopped in mid-tantrum, at the sight of the appartition - there was no other word for it - at the door.
Before her stood a man, of an age she could not guess. He was dressed in a long-length greatcoat, which might have been fine leather once, now travel-stained and worn, battering his gaunt frame in the breeze. Gaunt, though, only began to describe him. The face was drawn, with an angular point to the jawline, almost a wedge. The skin was not sallow, but gave the illusion of humanity, more of the pallor of the night workers or the mines. But it was the eyes that were the most arresting feature of this stranger: not sunken or starting, but vague and distant, as if not seeing anything near, but riveted on the opposite wall, or the horizon, or some distant phantasm that only they could see. The man had no baggage visible, no traps or satchels; only his coat, beating like bound bats' wings in the wuthering blow.
Percilla was startled, her voice catching in her throat as she tied to form even a simple question. But the man spoke first, breaking the silence with a high, nasal, patrician voice.
"Percilla? It is Percilla, is it not?"
Percilla's haughtiness returned at the familiarity. "And who, my man, might you be, at a doorstep on a night such as this?"
The man laughed, sqeaking through his nose. "Why, how so like you mother, as well! I was told to expect that. Now, Cilla, why don't you let me in, and greet your uncle properly?"
Percilla was shocked, for a moment, then composed, answered, "Uncle, is it! And how dare you take liberties, calling me that! You're who, just exactly?"
The nose-laugh again. "Ah, yes, your father's suspicion, in equal measure, I see that now. Yes, Cilla, your mother's brother, Edgar. Surely, your vaguest childhood stories recall that name?"
"Uncle Edgar? Why, of course I remember stories about him, but how do I know it's you? I mean, honestly, after all..."
Edgar laughed again. "Yes, Raymond's suspicion again. How would it be, if I told you I only met you once in your entire life? When you were eleven years of age? Your father, and your mother, Chelsea, oh, they tried and tried to prevent me, but I wanted to see you, and see you I did! And remember, now, dear grown-up niece of mine, how we talked in the gazebo behind this very house? How you hated your governess, Mrs. Keenewick, when she wouldn't tell you much about me? Do you remember?"
Percilla most certainly did. An afternoon over fifteen years past, long before the demise of both her parents, and her assumption of the manor and the estate. An uncle, a mystery and a phantom, who told her his story...
"The ships, and the castles, and the mountains," Percilla said, "and all the places you saw on adventure..."
"Ye-eess, Cilla, you DO remember," Edgar replied softly. "Not only a traveler, but a hunter, as well. Do you remember what it is, that I told you I hunted? Do you! Or should I refresh your memory?"
"No, that's not necessary..."
"Because you were afraid, weren't you, Cilla?" Edgar hissed. "And you called for old Keenewick, and your mother came, too, and forbade me to come back here again. Oh, your mother protected you, and your father, like a lioness she did. I knew better than to cross her in her own den, that day. And you listened at the drawing room door, didn't you, lilttle scamp that you are. What did you hear, eh?"
Percilla answered, her voice no longer patrician, but small, frightened. "Papa said your business didn't concern me, but you said it did - you said that 'if the blood ever awoke, you'd return, and take up the family order'. I never forgot that." She stared at Edgar, searching for answers of dread. "What did you mean? Mama and Papa forbade me to ask about the 'family order'. What did they mean? And about 'the blood awakening?'"
Percilla cautiously opened the massive door and asked for the name of the balding, mysterious man.
The handsome stranger inadvertantly let out a whistling laugh as he answered her question, "Knock....James Knock."
The nose-laugh again. "Ah, yes, your father's suspicion, in equal measure, I see that now. Yes, Cilla, your mother's brother, Edgar. Surely, your vaguest childhood stories recall that name?"
Edgar? She flung her hand to her milky white neck, grasped the locket that her mother had, on her death bed, given her and swooned.
This austere man, who had the trials of life etched on his world weary face, straddling the doorway whilst the storm swirled around him.
Edgar? Her breasts heaved as she grasped for air. Was is that Edgar, the one her family talked about in dark rooms in whispered tones?
The one, her nubile mind sought to affirm, the one who was confined to the . . . . asylum?
“I come for the locket,” he said tersely.
“Or more precisely, the small key the locket contains”
Edgar gave a sinister smile, his facial lines confirming his desire.
Though her spirit was weakened by the sudden rush of nefarious memories, she managed a meager whisper, “Locket? Order? I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes you do,” Edgar hissed,” in a way that made her blue blood run cold. “Now please give me the locket.”
Oh, this was going much, much too fast. Her mind flashed to Thurgood and Eason, hoping beyond hope that they would suddenly appear, the duel Dandies as she had on countless times teasingly called them, with their perfumed continence, manner and speak, two who would pluck her from this nightmare and bring her back to her sheltered existence as she had known since her privileged birth.
Eason’s abrupt “ahem” broke her gossamer wishes.
“The locket,” he said, with impatience in his gravely voice. “Now.”
It was a dark and stormy night. In fact, it was a Perfect Rovian Storm.
Mary paused before accepting the fraudulent scrap of destiny. A bead of sweat formed on her sizable brow, slowly making its way to her widened eyes. She was racked with emotion...on one hand she was committing a crime, on the other hand she had an opportunity to take down the man she hated most.
But most of all, she had a chance to make Dan notice her. She pictured Dan, wearing his best blue suspenders and his freshly pressed white shirt. A small island of dark hair on a fine sea of gray reminding his viewers of his glory days. Dan would accept the forgery willingly. Excitedly. He may even smile. And he would say, "This is fine work Mary. Perhaps you and I could work together on your next assignment."
A girlish tingle ran down her spine. And she enjoyed it like a heroin addict taking his first hit after a long stint in prison. She couldn't help herself.
She took the paper. She turned away and ran...
Percilla puts down her glass of sherry, and strolls across the living room, taking care not to walk on the priceless oriental rug that still had the blood stains and taped outline of the dead body of her husband. The corpse of which had been removed earlier in the day by the coroner and taken to the morgue.
A second series of knocks was made at the door. This time more insistently. She finally reached the door, but before opening it, took a deep breath, straightened out the wrinkles on her blouse and skirt, and steadied herself for whomever was on the other side of the door.
She opens the door and standing there is a strange man she has never seen before. He is holding an umbrella over his head, which seems to be partialy broken and, judging by the man's soaked condition, somewhat useless. The man is also wearing what seems to be a dirty, well worn raincoat or trenchcoat. Judging by his unkempt condition, the man is clearly a homeless bum looking for a handout. Percilla just wants to get rid of this man. She's had a tiring day as it is.
"Wait a minute", she says to the homeless man. "I'll get my purse and give you something."
The man asks, "Give me something?"
Percilla replies "Why, yes."
Percilla leaves the door opened while she goes to retrieve her purse which is laying on the table in the foyer. She digs into it, and brings out some crumpled dollar bills. Some are fives. But some others are tens and twenty dollar bills. Without even counting out what she has grabbed, she shoves the fistful of bills into the strange mans hands and says, "There, I hope that will be sufficient. Now if you will excuse me...", and then Percilla goes to close the door on the man, but his hands full with the cash, the man blocks the closing of the door with his body.
"Um, I don't think you understand, ma'am.", the strange man says.
"Understand what?" asked Percilla.
"I didn't come here looking for a handout, ma'am." replied the stranger, handing back the bills to Percilla.
"Oh? Then what did you come here for?" asked Percilla, taking the dollar bills back.
"Allow me to introduce myself, ma'am.", replied the stranger, pulling out a billfold and showing it to Percilla which reveals a badge and an identification card
"My name is Columbo. Lt. Columbo. I'm with the Los Angeles Police Department. I'd like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind..."
Suddenly there was a knock on the door . . . . . . .
Percilla, startled, tentatively stood up from her chair. She plodded slowly towards the door and she started again when she heard another knock.
Surprised that anyone would be knocking on her door so late and in such weather, Percilla called out, "Thurgood? Eason? Is that you?"
The door knocker's male voice responded "No," followed by something mumbled Percilla couldn't make out.
Percilla sighed and slowly opened the door. A young man in orange, with the message "Dean in '04" on his shirt, collapsed onto her floor. Dripping wet from the rain, the tattooed and pierced caller looked up at Percilla and whispered "I'm from the Howard Dean campaign and I'm here to tell you this weather is all Bush's fault, it's all Bush's fault!" With that, the young man passed out.
The type of which hadnt been seen since the early years of the Reagan Administration. Percilla braced herself for the perfectly timed earthquake that was supposed to follow. A strong 8.6 earthquake that her fellow DUers had warned her about and accurately predicted.
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