continued from previous page 

The following entries can be found on the first page
To Refuse a Reprobate by Cheryl S
Epilogue by Blythe Barnhill
Intervention with the Vampire by Rachel Potter
The following entries can be found on the second page
Rude Awakening by Ann Davie
The SEAL Mercenary by Alicia Myers
Review of Formulania Wryter's She Ran Calling Wildfire by Rachel Lowder
How to Snag a Gazillionaire by Carol Irvin
The following entries can be found on the previous page
Sheik's Seduction by Ivanna Scribble
The Virgin Supermodel and the Lonely Rancher by Candice Small
The Duke by Sherry Thomas
Dora's Ladies by Leigh Davis
The following entries can be found on the this page
The Eyes Have It by Leslie Lawrence
Breasts in the Wind by Carrie Hines
Dark Putz by Christina Zeeman
The Happily Married Hero by Janet Mitchell

Purple Prose as written by Leslie Lawrence:

The Eyes Have It

He’d known she was going to be a hot cookie under the covers the moment he laid eyes on her. Bound to be sexually repressed. Begging to be sexually possessed. It was the gold-rimmed eyeglass frames that tipped him off.

He’d had them all: long-limbed office workers, taut aerobics instructors, curvaceous flight attendants. But only he had discovered the real secret to a great lay: pay attention to a girl with glasses and she’d be so grateful she’d do anything to express her appreciation.

And this one had that tight-laced, auditing-is-my-life accountant look written all over her. The sensible flat-heeled shoes, hair pulled into a tight bun low on her shapely skull, pert nipples peaking beneath her tight sweater, the long, narrow skirt with a peekaboo slit in the side. His loins grew heavy in anticipation of the great sex he knew was only minutes away.

Hot.

Wild.

Kinky.

He sidled up to her at the coffee bar.

“Hey, babe, could I tempt you into trying a foaming-hot espresso?” he murmured into the tight little whorls of her delicate ear.

Startled, she whipped her head around to peer myopically into his leering eyes. The pencil tucked behind her ear flew out and nicked his sculpted jaw. “Oooh, I am so sorry,” she said in her throaty contralto. “Whatever can I do to make it up to you? Does it ache frightfully?” She licked her forefinger with her small, moist tongue and raised it to soothe the tiny wound.

He pulled her slender hand down and silently urged her to cup his raging tumescence. “Oh, it does, it does,” he responded hoarsely. “My apartment’s right around the corner, but I may need some help getting there.”

As her sensitive hand explored the rigid length behind his zipper, she hesitated. She didn’t even know him. A smart girl never went off with a total stranger. Even one who was rubbing his granite-hard erection into her soft palm. But she had wounded him ever-so-slightly and owed him for that. “Oh, I want to help but....”

Then he did something that reassured her beyond words. He reached into the inside pocket of his blazer, took out his heavy-rimmed glasses, and settled them on his nose. Her doubts evaporated. A fellow eyeglass wearer! He probably read poetry while listening to recordings of string quartets and sipping expensive cognac and hardly ever went out. He’d be pathetically grateful for her least attention. It was a well-known truism: guys with glasses hardly ever got lasses on their asses.

She squeezed gently, her thumb drawing a small circle on the blunt head. “Wherever you go, I’ll come.”

He led her up the narrow steps and into his apartment. Closing the door behind her, he braced an arm against the door, trapping her voluptuous body with his. He lowered his head and began dropping kisses on her arching neck. “Oh, baby, it’s going to be so good!”

She grabbed his beard-roughened cheeks between her heated palms. “Kiss me, you four-eyed sex machine!” she demanded.

The corners of their eyeglass frames collided, and they both chuckled huskily. “We could take them off,” she suggested softly.

“Oh, no, my hot little pussycat. I want to see you. All of you.” He raised her pink angora sweater and let his eyes feast on the bountiful breasts exposed beneath. “And all of you is as perfect as 20/20 vision.”

Swiftly, eagerly, they stripped off their clothes and fell on the bed. His hands sought soft, dark, wet, sultry petals of sensation. Her hands cupped hard, sweaty, throbbing globes of passion.

Realization struck both of them.

He’d been right! She was as primed as a firecracker. All he’d had to do was flick his finger over her sensitive little nubbin, and she was oozing the silken moisture of her desire. This was going to be so good!

She’d been right! The poor fellow obviously hadn’t gotten laid very often because he thought foreplay was going for the main goodies right from the get-go. A creamy pearl of anticipation glimmered on the satiny head of his pulsating shaft. This was going to be so good if he could last longer than a slam-bam-thank-you-ma’am!

He raised himself above her, examining every inch of her quivering flesh. A finger tilted his glasses to ogle her swollen, heaving breasts. “Oh, yeah, baby. I’ve got what you need!” He lowered his head to press a wet, open-mouth kiss on her ruby lips. Rubbing from side to side, their noses pressed against lenses like kids’ noses on the Christmas display windows at F.A.O. Schwartz. “Yeah, let me show you how good it’s going to be.” His fingers plucked a pouting nipple.

Sensations coursed through her body.

Yearning.

Aching.

Reaching.

Feverishly, she thrashed her head from side to side against the rumpled pillow bending both eyeglass temples and pressing indelible dents into the sides of her nose with the nosepads.

“Ouch!” she exclaimed. “Those designer frames set me back 300 bucks!” He gave a hoarse cry of rapturous completion and collapsed on her naked frame. “With some practice you might turn into a real stud, but I wouldn’t rank this bout above $200.” Her insistent hand shoved him off.

“Two hundred?” he demanded, plainly insulted. “I wouldn’t give you $100!” Straightening the smudged glasses on the bridge of his nose, he reared up and hastily departed the passion-tousled bed. “Not a penny over $50, “ he added snidely, as the noseprints on his lenses rendered him completely blind and he ran headlong into the wall.

She eased her languid body from the bed and stood over his unconscious form prone on the floor. She removed her glasses and inspected the ruined frames ruefully. “I’ve got to make that appointment to get contact lenses,” she thought. “Keeping up a regular sex life is getting way too expensive.”

Purple Prose as written by Carrie Hines:

Breasts in the Wind

Millie Talleywacker struggled to button her white velvet jacket over her heaving, enormous globes as she stepped out of her adorable, quaint little cottage. The breeze fluttered the wisps of hair on her neck. Millie cast a fretful gaze about her, noticing that the wind was picking up. She crossed her arms over her enormous bosom, but the wind was too fierce. The wind found her zeppelin-like breasts, and the contact lifted Millie from her feet and cast her into the arms of the storm.

“No!” She cried, the sight of her familiar little, old-maid cottage growing faint as she wafted in the air. Everyday, the wind lifted her tiny body with her incongruously large breasts from terra firma. And of course, it would never occur to Millie to get a breast reduction surgery.

“There goes Millie,” she heard the drunken groundskeeper say. She hoped he wasn’t trying to sneak a glimpse of her bare bottom beneath her flowing white dress. The drunken groundskeeper would probably be a villain, guilty of atrocities such as taking away Millie’s birthday, but in this 1500-word parody his character remains undeveloped.

Millie would have to do what she normally did to combat the fierce wind. She would have to unbraid her virginal white knee-length hair. She tugged on the ribbons and shook out her hair. The unbound tresses acted as a parachute, allowing the slight Millie to descend back to earth.

To her dismay, she landed not on the ground, on her feet, but in the arms of a cruelly handsome man.

“Well, I say,” The cowboy Navy SEAL pirate drawled, his muscular, seventy-two inch chest heaving at the wondrous beauty he held in his arms.

“Ouch,” Millie said, squirming to avoid the blows of his quivering pectorals.

“Oh, sorry, m’lady,” He placed her on her feet, but her traitorous breasts threatened to lift her off of the ground, so he settled two beefy, hammy hamfists on her shoulders to keep in place. “It seems, my love, that your body is a bit aerodynamic,” he drawled, his Texas twang warring with military gruffness for supremacy. “Argh,” his pirate persona growled. “Peg-leg Jackie Gunnerson at your service, my saucy wench.” He dipped into an awkward bow, his prosthetic leg skidding on the concrete. He grasped her huge breasts to remain upright, and Millie emitted a shocked gasp.

“How dare you!” She sputtered. “I am a thirty-year-old maiden, for heaven’s sake, an intact, pure-bred virgin!” Her bosom filled with hot air in affronted rage, yet she ranted on, unaware that her feet had once again left the ground. “I am not some tart that you can just manhandle.” She grew aware that once again she was floating in mid-air. “Oh dear. Here we go again.”

“Not to worry, pretty sister,” Peg-leg Jackie Gunnerson said, his face twisting in a pirate’s leer. He grasped a hold of the delicate, dainty slipper laced about her slender, curvaceous ankles.

Jackie Gunnerson managed to yank his eyes away from her straining, heaving bosom. His eyes fell on her lovely, delicate, patrician, perfect Albino face. The blinding white of her skin, the innocent curve of her rosebud mouth, and her startling eyes, framed by thick white lashes…mesmerizing.

“You have the loveliest pink eyes I’ve ever seen,” Jackie said.

Millie’s white lashes, two-inches long, swept downward, covering her eyes in modest embarrassment. A colorless blush infused her white cheeks. “Thank you,” she stammered. “It’s embarrassing having pink eyes. They’re so common.”

“Ah, but yours are uncommonly lovely. Argh. They evoke the essence of cotton candy, rosy palms, Barbie-doll corvettes…not that I know about these things, considering that I am a manly man, full of machismo, and well-endowed.”

Her eyes flew open. Startled, they sought his face. But to her dismay, he continued talking in the same vein.

“And your lovely white lashes, they remind me of ermine caterpillars.”

“They’re so long and heavy, I have a hard time keeping my eyes open.” To prove her point, Millie’s delicate lids drooped, downed by the weight of her lashes.

“I am long and heavy, too, my sweet. Come aboard.” With a show of strength, Peg-leg Jackie Gunnerson swept Millie into his arms. “I will take you to my headquarters. The author insists on being vague on exactly where we are, in both time and place, but suffice it to say that my headquarters are lavish—and I long to have my wicked way with you.” He added, “argh.”

He stumped to his headquarters, and Millie’s delicious scent filled his head. She smelled like orchids and cat food, an intoxicating combination. He longed to drink in her smell.

Once inside Jackie’s headquarters, he released her. Millie floated about the room. Her head banged into the ceiling a couple of times.

“Are you going to deflower me?” She asked, her eyes hidden by heavy white lashes.

“You will enjoy it,” the cowboy Navy SEAL pirate said. “Take off your clothes.”

Millie released one little button, and her elaborate white dress fell away effortlessly. She floated, nude.

At the sight of her naked white beauty, Jackie’s wooden stump shot off his leg and circled the room, richocheting off the walls before catching Millie in the solar plexus and sending her crashing to the bed. “Oof,” she said.

Jackie hopped on one foot to the foot of the bed and parted the curtains. The sight of Millie on the bed, her enormous breasts reaching for him, her creamy thighs parted, and anchored by the phallic shape of his prosthetic leg, was too much for the manly Peg-leg Jackie Gunnerson, cowboy Navy SEAL pirate. His eyes popped out.

“Here,” Millie said, handing his eyes back to him.

“I long to be inside you.” Jackie released one little button, and his cowboy Navy SEAL pirate uniform, khaki trousers with billowing white blouse, fell away effortlessly. “Argh,” he said, proudly struggling on one naked leg to maintain his glorious nude balance.

Millie’s innocent, inexperienced, virginal pink eyes flew open at the sight of his magnificent body. His dark, tanned chest heaved beneath her gaze. His pectorals quivered. Her eyes traveled his length, from his eighty-inch shoulders to his seventy-two inch chest, before tapering to his forty-inch, rippled abdomen and dipping to his fifteen-inch manroot. His cockle quivered magnificently.

“Oh,” Millie emitted an innocent, virginal gasp. “However will I accommodate you?” She wondered.

“Like this,” he said, and fell on top of her.

“Whoa, wait a second, buster!” Millie struggled beneath his massive, manly weight. “I may be an innocent, naïve virgin, but I know a little something about foreplay. I’ve been waiting for years for the perfect man, a cowboy Navy SEAL pirate, saving my hymen for him. I want it done right.”

“Argh. We don’t have much time. We’re at 1300 words as it is, and this essay has a limit of 1500 words. There are thousands of euphemisms for the act of sex, and the author wants to be able to use them all.”

“Well, she shouldn’t have wasted so much time talking about my tits. Drop or I’m flying away.”

“Okay, okay.” He whined. “Do I have to?” At her nod, he slithered down her body. “But I’m scared to eat the Fish Taco.” He gazed at the lovely thatch of thick, springy white hair at the juncture of her thighs. It reminded him of that scratchy angel shit his mom put out at Christmas. Wasn’t that stuff poisonous, as poisonous as the juices dripping from Millie’s body? He was a romantic hero, used to just jacking away, not performing cunnilingus.

He pulled a comb out from nowhere and parted the magnificent, white pubic hair. Closing his eyes and grimacing, he reached out a tentative tongue to the hidden love button nestled between her thighs. He licked. And suckled.

“Hey!” He exclaimed excitedly. “It tastes like chicken!” He dove back into the Colonel’s bucket.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Millie screamed out, the orgasm exploding from her body, and she flopped around on the massive bed like a fish out of water, like a chicken with it’s head cut off.

“Now?” Peg-leg Jackie Gunnerson asked, posing his fifteen-inch manhood at Millie’s portal. “Now can we do the wild thing? The naughty naughty?” He wiped Millie’s juices off of his chin and spit out a white pubic hair.

Millie nodded. Jackie, the cowboy Navy SEAL pirate thrust, stretching Millie.

“Ouch!” Millie shrieked. She turned her head away from the sight of Jackie’s pistoning hips. “Hey,” she said to the reader. “This little parody might be completely unbelievable, but no way in hell am I going to act like a typical romance virgin heroin who enjoys her deflowering. This hurts like a mother--”

THE END

Purple Prose as written by Christina Zeeman as an an homage to Christina Feehan:

Dark Putz

Nikhail Duh-brinksy, dark prince of the Appalachians, frowned as his life-mate's distressed thoughts beat against his mind. This would not do. It was the way of Appalachian males to see to the health and happiness of their life-mates. He could do no other.

"What troubles you, my darling?" he asked. Even if he could not read her mind, know it as intimately as he knew his own, he could see her inner turmoil on her expressive beautiful face.

After a millennia of being stuck in an emotionless void and being colorblind, Crow Witless had come to him in his bleakest hour and restored that which he had thought lost to him and rescued him from the fate of succumbing to madness. She took his breathe away. She was tall and elegantly thin like the rare female Appalachians. Her ribcage was pleasingly narrow, her arms and legs stick-like and boney in their slimness. Her hair, black as the crow she'd been named for, was silky and smooth. It had a bunch of split ends but that was nothing a good daytime snooze under the healing soil of the Appalachian Mountains wouldn't fix.

Crow sighed. "It's this whole 'life-mate' thing, Nikhail. I only came to the backwaters of Pennsylvania to take a brake from using my awesome telepathic skills to help the FBI track down serial cattle rustlers. This is only a vacation! I have a life and I'm going back to it. You can't act like this is permanent. We're oil and water! We come from two different worlds! You're too arrogant and overbearing while I'm independent!"

"You know I cannot let you leave me, Crow," he said, his voice soft and calm. "You are my life-mate. Your mind craves my mind to invade your privacy. Our bodies demand that we have wild monkey sex and suck each other's blood every night. Your health and safety must be put above my own at all times. If I were to lose you I would surely go mad and join the ranks of the Undead who slaughter my people and humans alike.

"Would you do that to me, Crow? Leave me to the fate of becoming an wholly evil, second rate, ineffectual villian?"

"No!" Crow wailed. "But that's beside the point! I'm making some very valid points about the future of our relationship, but instead of working it out, whenever I bring it up you give me that same old spiel! What we have here is a failure to communicate!"

Nothing Crow had said had even swayed Nikhail from what he knew his course of action must be. Even if Crow could not see how paramount her safety was, he must hold firm to his resolve. It was for her own good that he protect and cherish her like the treasure a female Appalachian life-mate was. After all he was an Appalachian super-alpha-male; therefore, he could do no other.

"Without you I am colorblind and emotionless. I can feel no love nor laughter nor desire, and I titter on the brink of madness with my only options to be destroyed by the dawn or join with the ranks of the Undead who prey on my people and humans alike. You are the light to my darkness, the yin to my yang, the…. You get the point! Without you, my life-mate, I am lost, and there is no way in hell I'm letting Grebori, the Stupid One, become prince o' these mountains!"

"Most popular character my ass," he grumbled to himself.

Crow had to work to stop herself from screaming loud enough to be heard in Paris. A pickax was gouging furiously at the place behind her eyes, her teeth were grinding together, and her fist was curled around a hank of hair she had ripped from her scalp. And that jerk wondered about her split ends! Hah! This mental connection thing worked both ways.

"You're not listening me, Nikhail!" she started a little more shrilly than she had intended. "You do this to me every time I try to make some actual headway in resolving this conflict! You give me the same old speech and for the record, I got the importance of a life-mate the first fifty times!" she mocked. "Now let's sit down, talk this out, and really listen to each other. Please," Crow added more softly.

Nikhail was still stoney faced. His voice was still velvety and as calm as a windless night. He stared at her hard, his sexy dark eyes unreadable. His sensuous lips parts slowly.

Crow shivered in anticipation that he might actually say something rational. Sexy and dangerously handsome as he was, she was beginning to realize what a desirable trait communication skills were in a man. She really wanted to have this heart-to-heart to prove that her relationship with Nikhail Duh-brinsky was more than some preordained orgy of sex and blood drinking.

"I am Appalachian male and you are my life-mate. I can do no other than see to your health and happiness as is my right. If I were to lose you I'd join the ranks of the Undead who prey upon my kind …"

This time Crow did scream. Bats and birds were startled from the trees and flew up into the night sky. A pack of wolves began howling in empathy. "What it is it with you!" she sobbed in frustration. "Every time I try to talk seriously about our relationship, you put me off with either that damn stupid speech, a rollicking round of hot spontaneous sex," she shivered at some of the heated memories that brought to mind. The man may be as unbending as a steel rod but he was as sexy as a pagan god. Hey.. steel rod.. heehee.. No Crow, you must not be swayed by sex. You will resolve this now if it takes all night. Keep thinking like that and you'll become as irrational as he is. "Or you try to shove some nasty vegetable power drink down my throat," she finished quickly.

She let out an exasperated puff of breath and stepped towards her life-mate. "Please, Nikhail," she said with desperate earnesty shining from her eyes. " Let's discuss this like two rational adults. I'm independent woman who is used to running her own life. I'm not a baby and I don't need to be dictated to."

Nikhail studied her face. With his superior Appalachian night vision he could make out every detail of her visage perfectly.

"Crow…" he began softly, slowly.

She brightened, thinking at last this obstinate man would see reason.

"All that screaming has made you pale. Yelling at me is not good for your health, and as your life-mate I can do other than make sure you are healthy and happy as is my right." He magically conjured a bottle of V-8 tomato juice into his right hand and advanced on his 'sickly' life-mate. "I can not abide losing you. I can't go back to being emotionless and colorblind for I would surely join the ranks of the undead who prey on my kind and humans alike…"

This time, Crow let out scream so loud that the echo alone was enough to ring bells in Boston.

Purple Prose as written by Janet Mitchell:

Happily Married Hero

Characters:
Lord Lance HawkhurstA tortured rake
Ted BransomDisposable secondary character
Felicity TrueloveBeautiful anachronistic heroine and former doormat
The Wretched Self-Pity PartyA group of rich, handsome, titled gentlemen
Setting:
Library of Hawkhurst manor

Lance (or is it Blake? Rafe? Oh hell, what’s the difference) sits in front of the fire, full brooding mode. His hard, chiseled lips are set in a pout. His dark, seductive eyes are gloomy. (well, you get the point. He is miserable. As usual)

Door opens, and Ted Bransom, (Nice Guy Who Never Gets the Girl) enters.

Ted: Lance, old fellow! I just came to see how you were, now that you and your beautiful, sensual, incredibly wealthy and intelligent wife Felicity Truelove have solved your troubles and reconciled. (Looks around) Where is she? Off delivering food to the slums? Teaching poor women how to plant corn at the women’s shelter she single-handedly built with her own trust fund at the age of fourteen? (Shakes his head with admiration) You know, not many women could do all that and attend Eton at sixteen by disguising herself as a man. (Muses) Strange that no one noticed that she was female. She only hid her glorious golden hair under a cap, and she is a 38 D-cup.

Lance: (Mournfully) She’s out picketing for women’s suffrage with other fiery, beautiful, anachronistic heroines. (Gulps down half a glass of whisky in one swallow.)

Ted: What’s the problem, old bean? I say, if I didn’t know better, I would think that you are upset that the Big Misunderstanding between you and your beautiful, sensual, incredibly wealthy and intelligent wife has been solved and you are Happily Married.

Lance: (Groans) Nitwit! Don’t you get it? People… expect things of contented men. Now that I am a Happily Married Man, instead of a Tortured Hero, people expect things of me. Courtesy, kindness, sensitivity to the needs of others. Even… (Shudders) fidelity and loyalty. (Throws his glass into the fire) When I was a Tortured Hero, I had fun! I got drunk, insulted my well-meaning friends, seduced women, went to a different brothel every week, cheated on my wife and cuckolded my peers. I treated everyone around me like dirt, and everyone rushed to make excuses for me, because I was in such pain. I got away with murder then! All I had to do was remind them of my miserable childhood! Now that I am the Happily Married Hero, (sobs) I have to… (whimpers) face the consequences of my own actions! (collapses in heap in chair)

Ted: (With a touch of disapproval) Well, Lance, you are thirty-seven years old. Perhaps… well, perhaps it is time that you grew up. Come to think of it, you never did apologize for compromising Felicity when she was my fiancée to force her to marry you in order to get your inheritance, when there were other girls who would have been willing to cut a deal for the cash.
(Frowns) And come to think of it, you never said you were sorry for beating me up and slapping her around when your evil stepbrother lied and you decided that she was cheating on you.
(Deepening frown) Or for sleeping with two different women within a week of the wedding and telling her that you had a right to be unfaithful because she didn’t love you when you married her. After all, she did tell you, “No”. (Pauses) Repeatedly.

Lance: (tears of self-pity welling up in his eyes) You see! You see! It’s already starting! Now that I can no longer wallow in my own self-induced misery, I am supposed to care what my actions did to others. (Folds arms, perfectly chiseled lips in a pout) Why does everybody pick on me? First, my Evil Mother made my childhood a living hell. And now I that I am Happily Married, I can’t get away with my careless disregard for the feelings and emotions of others.

Ted: (Trying but failing to be sympathetic) Poor old bean. By the way, what did your Evil Mother do to you? You’ve never actually said.

Lance: She - she sent me to my room without dessert once! Slut! (Sobs) So, I spent the next twenty years jumping the bones of every woman I could to prove that all women were strumpets!

Ted: But - but sleeping with all those women just showed your lack of morality. If anything, you were the strumpet.

Lance: (Indignant) I can’t be a strumpet! I’m the Hero! (Shakes head) A Romantic Hero is allowed to boink like a bunny rabbit until he finds the Right Woman. Then he can continue to hump other women to show his inner conflict and mental anguish. As long as he is miserable and tortured, he can inflict pain on anyone. Especially his wife.

Ted: But you abused her for months! Refused to trust her! And decided that she was guilty of adultery and other crimes based on lies from a man you wouldn’t have trusted your horse with!

Lance: (uncomprehendingly) So, what’s your point?

(Ted stomps to the door and exits, slamming it.)

Lance: Ted? Where are you going? (shakes his head) Selfish man. Couldn’t he see that I hadn’t finished complaining about my boundless suffering? (pouts)

(another knock on door, and several well-dressed men enter)

Lance: (brightening up) It’s my friends from school, the Wretched Self-pity Party! Have you come to talk about me?

(Men look at each other, then one comes forward.)

Man: Look, Lance, we’ve been thinking and frankly, we’re all sick and tired of this whole thing. The readers are starting to abandon us. (looks around) I have to admit, I don’t blame them. Tortured Heroes have it pretty darn good. We’re rich, handsome, healthy, and somehow always manage to have a lot of loyal friends, in spite of the fact that our only topic of conversation is our poor, pitiful childhood and our Evil-Slutty-Bitch-First Wife/Lover.

Second Man: Instead of spending day after day agonizing over our poor, pitiful, tortured lives, we’ve decided that we should consider doing something constructive, instead of whoring, gambling, and ruining innocent women for our own amusement.

Third Man: (shakes head) Have you taken a look at the real world out there? Poverty, illness, starvation, unemployment… now, those are problems. Those are people with reasons to be miserable. And we’re supposed to feel sorry for ourselves because our mommies didn’t breast-feed us? I don’t think so.

Lance: Exactly what are you trying to tell me?

Man: Lance, it’s time to grow the hell up and get over yourself!!! There are millions of people in the world who’ve had unhappy lives! Only they have to struggle on in the world without money, houses, servants, and gorgeous sexy women throwing themselves at them.

Lance: (aghast) How dare you!? Get out of here! (Men troup out, shaking their heads) I can’t believe it! What is this world coming to, when a rich handsome Tortured Hero can’t get anyone to commiserate with him while he wallows in his wretchedness!

(Door opens. Felicity Truelove, impossibly beautiful and virtuous, and built like a brick house to boot, enters. She is wearing traveling clothes.)

Lance: Felicity! Thank God you’re here! I’m so miserable! (frowns) Why are you dressed for a trip? You know that I’m due for another nightmare about my miserable childhood. It’s been two whole days since the last one!

Felicity: I came to say “goodbye”, Lance.

Lance: (blankly) What - what do you mean?

Felicity: Lance, you are a bottomless pit of emotional need - and a rotten husband. I am sick of nurturing you. You’re good for an occasional roll in the hay, but otherwise... (shrugs)

Lance: (blankly) What - what are you trying to say?

Felicity: (leans over and speaks very slowly, as if to a two year old) I’m leaving you, you doofus. Mary Jo Putney, Taylor Chase, Judith Ivory, and Adele Ashworth are all holding Heroine auditions next week.

Lance: (outraged) B - but you can’t be a Heroine again! Heroines have to be virgins or victims! You’ve had sex! And what’s more, you enjoyed it!

Felicity: (rolls eyes) Lance, you are so out of date. Experienced heroines are in. The new Heroine is Woman With a Past. Besides, I’m also trying out for Other Woman. They have more fun than a lot of heroines. And they don’t have to die at the end of the book anymore. A lot of them end up having sweaty, skanky sex with a lot of other men.
(smiles) But don’t worry, Lance. I’ve got good news. I’ve embezzled most of your fortune - since you forced me to marry you, I decided that you owed me a little something for my misery. The creditors will be here to haul you off to prison for a few days.
(pats his cheek) Just think about it. Your wife abandons you to debtor’s prison - you can live off this for years!

(Exits)

And they all lived happily ever after. (except for Lance)

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Issue #142 of At the Back Fence - details of the contest's outcome and reader response
If you liked this parody,

try this one!