Purple Prose according to Wikipedia is writing “that is so extravagant, ornate, or flowery as to break the flow and draw excessive attention to itself.”
Calling all writers!
Why not have some fun with some Purple Prose by writing a completely interesting but outrageous mystery. I will start it off and let’s see how far we can go …
It was a drearily dark and stormy night. A shot rang out, its sound reverberating through the damp air imitating a claxon from the depths of hell. A police cruiser, eerily silent, it’s blinking red and blue lights reflecting like deadly dancing ghosts on closed store windows steadily maneuvered along the waterlogged leaf and debris encrusted macadam. Elaine Meadows, a stringer, but wannabe reporter, for the Daily Gazette, followed the cruiser in her old rusty VW, cursing the late autumn night, the thundering tempest and the ridiculous report that had come across the usually uninteresting police scanner that some obvious busybody, who should have been nice and dry somewhere inside, out of the rain, had heard gunfire from the old Andrews estate up on the hill.
The run-down mansion had obviously seen better days, it stood like a ghostly beacon on top of the hill overlooking the town. The lightning flashed around it adding to it's eerie persona as the police car pulled up. A tall thin officer, thick moustache hiding a hair lip, climbed out from behind the wheel.His partner, a short overweight man, grudgingly placed the half eaten Krispy Kreme donut on the dashboard and followed.
The rusty Volkswagon stopped outside the massive gate to the property, and Elaine quietly opened the car door and slid out. This promised to be the breakthrough scoop she needed and not another reporter in sight. She smiled and pulled her coat collar up to cover her slim neck against the cold rain that had started to fall, and approached the huge creepy house.
Elaine uttered a few more condemning phrases when she realized that one of the men was Office Dale Carter. Wouldn’t you just know it would be him! Especially after she had made such a fool of herself on their one and only date. He approached her; the hammering rain pelting the yellow slicker covering his narrow shoulders and dripping from his brimmed hat. “This area is restricted,” he said with what she was sure was a snidely smirk, each word punctuated by either a roll of thunder or a lighting bolt. “You will have to go back.” Elaine seethed with indignation. He admonished her again, a hint of impatience and irritability evidenced in his throaty growl, “Go back to your car now and exit the driveway!”
Elaine reentered her trusty little beetle and backed out of the driveway; driving down the road. She was a woman on a mission and she was determined to get the story. Once she was out of sight, she stopped and pulling her car as close to the property wall as she could, she resigned herself to being soaked. She climbed on the hood and with a prayer and an amount of diminutive, but determined desperate muscle; she grasped the top of the wall and pulled herself onto and over it, dropping into the slick, slippery mud. Much to her considerable chagrin she realized that she was in the large Andrews Family cemetery. She had planned to sneak up to the house and listen, but then she saw him, standing beside one of the larger markers; lighting flashed off the blue steel revolver in his hand. She gasped in disbelief. It couldn’t be him! Then he turned and the gun was pointed toward her.
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