The Scrivener: It Was A Dark And Stormy Night
“You, too, can write purple prose,’’ says Brian Barratt, who proceeds to give examples of writing which is so bad that it becomes hilariously good.
For more of Brian’s entertaining columns please click on The Scrivener in the menu on his page.
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You, too, can write purple prose! Here are the flowery opening paragraphs of ten stories to inspire you. Alternatively, you might like to savour these examples of how NOT to write. Try reading them aloud.
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Far away in the lonely distance, the lambent beam of an ancient lighthouse broadcast its rays of shining hope to seafaring mariners. Below, at the rocky base of the craggy cliffs, the mighty breakers hurled themselves in fury at their enemy from time immemorial. From infinite heights above, the softly glimmering stars of the heavens were concealed by the great, baleful, scudding clouds. Amidst the dark splendour, Muriel Prothero was innocently unaware that she was about to meet her destiny on this dark and stormy night.
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Hermione gazed pensively across the moor, her bosom hanging low, like the menacing storm clouds above, while her tears mingled moistly with the miasmic mountain mist. The sound of distant thunder brought to her mind memories of the past, of a time when the world was young and she was blissfully carefree. She shrugged her shabbily shawled shoulders and allowed a weary smile to loosen her lips as Sir Reginald brought her down to earth.
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The heavily reverberating prop of the sturdy Albatross Mark II ploughed its way through the sunlit air. 'I say! What a jolly jape!' cried Troy Throckmorton. Below, he could see the neat quilt of green fields, meandering country lanes and quaint thatched cottages. They rose up to meet him as he manoeuvred his trusty kite towards an open space. The rector was there to meet him, as usual. 'Good old Throckers!' called out the Reverend Mortlake Pendlebury. 'Always on time. I'm having a spot of bother with the choirboys.' Troy smiled grimly but knowingly.
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Lady Millicent Heatherington Plunkett studied her reflection in the mirror. Her hair, fair but unkempt, cascaded around her face like some rapturous waterfall in a virgin forest. Her nervous bejewelled hand clutched her diaphanous morning gown. Her husband, the fifth Earl, removed his jodhpurs and slowly but purposefully came to her, his eyes gleaming with unspoken desire. 'Are you distressed, darling?' he whispered. 'Oh, David,' she sobbed, 'what are we going to do about Geraldine?'
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The steaming tropical air was thick and menacing around Carruthers as he fought his way through the marshy undergrowth of the threatening jungle. Had it not been for Euphrosnia, he would not have been here, but how he longed for her languorous presence! His team of trusty bearers had been reduced to a straggling retinue; those who had not already succumbed were sickening with dysentery, blackwater fever and bilharzia. Nevertheless, for Euphrosnia's sake, he knew they must struggle on, regardless of the perils that were ahead.
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There was a tumult of frenetic activity at The Grange that night. Dorian, heir to the family fortune, had left the house shortly after luncheon and had not returned. It was now well into the evening. His grandmother, the dowager duchess, had discovered a discarded riding boot in the north wing. Diligent old Ditherington, the butler, had found a jar of pickled onions in the conservatory; the jar was half empty. Constable Stirk was called in, but when his eagle eye spotted a girl's petticoat in Dorian's wardrobe, everyone fell silent.
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Silently sipping the last lingering drop of fragrant Assam tea from the delicately decorated Royal Doulton cup, the last remnant of a set which had been a wedding gift so many years before, Grace wondered why life had been so terribly, terribly cruel to her. She slowly became aware that she was being approached from behind the tendrilous ferns by a tall, dark stranger carrying a curiously embellished riding crop. As he deftly removed his flowing, black cape, her moist eyes met his in a tryst of immediate, demanding rapport. 'Do you come here often?' she murmured.
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'Belinda, please open the door, I beg you!' Simon Fotheringay's deep voice was muffled as it penetrated the heavy, unyielding oak. His strong hands pounded yet again upon the unrelenting timber that kept them apart. His manly spirit was almost overwhelmed by the unfamiliar darkness. 'Dearest heart, I do so much need to be with you.' At that moment, he heard the gruff voice of another man in the room: 'Belinda, darling!' Simon knew immediately that it would be another dark and stormy night while he remained helplessly locked in his wife's wardrobe.
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Mirabelle's dark eyelashes fluttered becomingly as Richard strode across the room, his clinging jodhpurs accentuating his thrusting manhood. As soon as he had entered, she had loosened her grip on her mother's advice and now all her good intentions were silently slipping away. He could not help noticing that her womanliness was heaving rapidly beneath her diaphanous blouse. 'Do you come here often?' he whispered. She responded in liquid tones of pressing desire: 'Only on dark and stormy nights'.
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Deep in the dank dungeon, Lavinia lay listlessly on the stark, stone slab. Why, she fretted fearfully, would Wilhelm wander so wilfully? They had together disentombed with delight the demands of their desires but now he had fled, like a wolf into the forest. Resolutely, she rose from her reverie and stealthily scaled the cellar wall. Unfolding her dark wings at the small window, she sped like a bat into the sunset. There would be little sleep at the cemetery on that dark and stormy night.
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© Copyright Brian Barratt 2007
