Lt. Col. Snooty Snively, the XV (ret.) smugly settled back in the claret-coloured Corinthian leather at his favourite club, smoking a hand-rolled cigar while sipping 150 year old single malt scotch from a distillery know only to a select few, savouring his besting, yet again, of the main, most menacing rival for the pale, delicate well-manicured hand of Lady Fingers, for whom he would do anything, even having lost a body part swimming the mighty, dangerous Amazon River to a secret island inhabited by anarchists to procure the loveliest, most rarest orchard requested by the lady to festoon her rich cherry-blossom pink velvet, low-cut gown so enticingly matching her fair, sweetly-perfumed with lavender, elaborately coiffed hair, adorned with flowers and ribbons, while the pearls and jewels around her exquisite swan-like neck glowed under the 1000 cut-glass crystal prisms of the chandelier in the Game Ball room at the Palace for the Royal weekly ball, bowling and croquet games complete with a full orchestra, (fluent in “We will, We will Rock You,” and “We are the Champions), awoke in Lt. Col. Snooty Snively the XV (ret.) a even more ardent lover whose romantic poetry made Lady Fingers swoon into the strong, manly waiting arms of . . . . Private, No Class Homer Simpson, as Lt. Col. Snooty Snivel XV’s poems, like this sentence, were atrocious.
226 words: atrocious sentence, atrocious flash fiction, or a novel in the works?
I would say my genre lies between romance and purple prose, leaning more to the purple side?
Tale Weaver Prompt #10 : be a bad writer