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prose de purple
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mfuwss is holding a Bulwer-Lytton style worst-opening-sentences challenge, and since I cannot resist any excuse to extrude outrageous purple prose:
Illuminating was the day when Napoleon Solo's milk-chocolate-hued orbs did happen to lift from the blizzard-like expanse of paradoxically white red-tape covering his desk, and fell upon the pulse-pounding vision of Janet St. Claude, his most recent flame in a libidinous and continent-spanning candelabra, with her lithe arms encircling the sable-suited shoulders of Illya Kuryakin, his steadfast partner in profession and comradeship alike, and also, so the surprising stab of jealousy's searing hot poker occasioned Napoleon to realize at this singular instant, his one and only true love--excepting, of course, his still-mourned wife, the tragically married Clara, that THRUSH scientist chick who (it occurred to him in passing) he'd quite forgotten the name of, even as she had forgotten everything but his own name; and perhaps a dozen other women and a couple men of unsurpassed fairness and virtue--but really, the important thing was the unexpected epiphany that he wanted in Mr. Kuryakin's off-the-rack but oddly flattering trousers at the nearest possible opportunity, and Miss St. Claude would have to wait (until tomorrow morning at the very least.)
mfuwss is holding a Bulwer-Lytton style worst-opening-sentences challenge, and since I cannot resist any excuse to extrude outrageous purple prose:Illuminating was the day when Napoleon Solo's milk-chocolate-hued orbs did happen to lift from the blizzard-like expanse of paradoxically white red-tape covering his desk, and fell upon the pulse-pounding vision of Janet St. Claude, his most recent flame in a libidinous and continent-spanning candelabra, with her lithe arms encircling the sable-suited shoulders of Illya Kuryakin, his steadfast partner in profession and comradeship alike, and also, so the surprising stab of jealousy's searing hot poker occasioned Napoleon to realize at this singular instant, his one and only true love--excepting, of course, his still-mourned wife, the tragically married Clara, that THRUSH scientist chick who (it occurred to him in passing) he'd quite forgotten the name of, even as she had forgotten everything but his own name; and perhaps a dozen other women and a couple men of unsurpassed fairness and virtue--but really, the important thing was the unexpected epiphany that he wanted in Mr. Kuryakin's off-the-rack but oddly flattering trousers at the nearest possible opportunity, and Miss St. Claude would have to wait (until tomorrow morning at the very least.)
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SOLESOUL SPEAKING! XPPPPno subject
soulssoles?