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Looking for reviews for historical romance parody

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message 1: by Lucinda (new)

Lucinda Elliot (lucindaelliot) | 2 comments Ravensdale by Lucinda Elliot

Hello, I'm looking for reviewers for my parody of a theme beloved by traditional writers of historical romance Wild Young Viscount Framed for Murder and Condemned by his Previous Reputation, Turns Highwayman while Seeking to Clear His Name.

My aim is to give readers a good laugh by sending up the cliches but to draw them into the plot too.

It's a full length novel and obviously I'll give an epub, pdf or emobi to anyone interested.

Thanks in advance.


message 2: by David (last edited Jun 03, 2015 09:59AM) (new)

David Lentz (wordsworthgreenwich) | 19 comments Wilhemina lived in a mansion by the sea where the wind blew the cool, salt air through her black hair with its gleaming purple highlights and swept her revealing, chiffon, full-length ball gown to reveal a stunning, buxom figure and face with mostly doll-like features. She adored to sit in private upon a modest bench by the sea to remember her lover who was lost in a shipwreck as he was unjustly taken off in a prison ship after being banished for an unspeakable crime of which he was incompletely innocent. Until recently, she had been married to a half-witted, complete dolt, opium addict, alcoholic, womanizer and gambler who traveled too much overland by stage coach in the royal employ of the King as a road inspector. The man lost at sea was her lover, of course, but their steamy affair was a secret few people in the village knew because their love was as forbidden as the Lambada -- the Forbidden Dance. She spoke with few words mostly because she really just wasn't all that bright and had a limited vocabulary. She made it her practice not to dig too deeply, to speak in monosyllables and to focus her leisurely reading on hot, vivid scenes which approached soft porn in their rendering and exploited readers like her into filling their dull and empty existences with the kind of love they never knew and would never know, evermore. She was frigid with good reason after her loveless marriage to the road inspector until her lover, Edgar, came along and showed her the way of true love overlooking her one tragic feature in that she had an enormous beak. But he loved her epic proboscis and it even inspired him to break out spontaneously into the mad but oddly sonorous poetry of Edgar Allen Poe of which her favorite poem was "The Raven." Because of her gargantuan beak, he gave her the endearing pet name of Billy, which charmed her whenever he spoke it in such tender tones. For he was a man of color and it was forbidden for a woman of her social standing, even with her hideous facial imperfection, to marry a man who was purple like a good Chateau Margaux with bright shiny hair with purple highlights. She was ravin' mad for him all the same because he was gentle and would listen to her many complaints rooted in the endlessly cruel comments that the town's rustic folk made about her great, big, giant beak. But Edgar was a brilliant but imperfect intellectual, shy though he was, because his odd skin tone rendered him a social pariah and he would only come out at night, which was fine by her because she was an insomniac and walked alone by the sea when she couldn't sleep and liked to catch and crunch large flying insects and small birds flitting about in the night sky with her gigantic beak. How it thrilled him whenever she snatched the odd, black bat out of the bleak night sky with her rapturous gifts as a raptor! How it filled the darkness with the cawing of their shared laughter! What a lovely theme for a poem, he posed to her. Edgar worked in road construction during the evenings to minimize disruption of road traffic and remove litter and road kill for he was a highwayman. That is how it was her ill fate to meet Edgar on that same cliff one night when the light from the lighthouse was shining and she first saw his tall, dark and muscular physique with his gamey musk but didn't know in the dark that he was purple like the wine dark sea of an epic poem by Homer. He was holding a dim oil lantern and stuffing a small dead hare into a sack when they met. His body was rough hewn by the hard work of the highway in foul weather: he was the man of her dreams, a model man, who swept away the heroine in the vacuous novels she read. She laughed even to think of how perfect yet imperfect he was and it was the latter which gave him gravitas. She couldn't help herself: she was addicted to the wild and reckless ways of the highwaymen, whether Royal or humble, and there were times when she hated herself for her sensual weakness for them. Their cloyingly cute and coy meeting was a source of joy to them over their tragically all too brief illicit affair despite the harsh criticisms which later emerged after everyone learned the full story. They became lovers in the early morning hours when Edgar was working the night shift in her neighborhood. He preferred to work the late shift out on the King's highways because he attracted fewer caustic and demeaning remarks about his purple skin in the evenings fixing potholes, removing litter and unlucky critters on the King's Highways and along the well trod paths by the seaside. But Edgar found his self-esteem as a poet, an intellectual giant -- the inventor of purple prose -- who needed a day job at night, because he went tragically unpublished and unread, so he could write his heart out in solitude in his garret in an old Victorian mansion overlooking the sea during the day. So they shared their physical faults in common and overlooked them and even overcame them and over time their hideous personal defects bonded them together deeply and profoundly until they lingered together making sweet love on the sentimental and overworked simile of the bench by the sea under the equally obvious rotating light of the towering lighthouse spilling onto the sea swells until the sunrise betrayed them to a soldier of the Crown patrolling the seaside path during a so-called "random night watch of the road kill crew" at the behest of her suspicious husband. And the King's soldier took Edgar away at the barrel point of a rifle and butt of a joke, which was a pity because Edgar knew every poem of Poe by heart and could recite them from memory to her with a surreal tenderness she had never known before and it moved her beyond belief and stirred the raging harlot deep in her soul. At first, she nearly henpecked Edgar to death in the heat of their passion. How his lips at first bled but what man in love mourns the loss of a bicuspid or two? But he was a tender lover as a poet but everyone didn't know it in the School of Poe reciting with his new lisp by heart the mind-numbing rhyme and juvenile, even moronic, meter inspired by the insipid, tintinnabulation of bells and cheesy, dreadful, funereal imagery meant for simpletons of his namesake -- EA Poe. But her lover was convicted cruelly in the King's Court after a bad review by her bird-loving, jealous husband and ironically he was handed down the maximum sentence -- no writer had ever been condemned with such a maximum sentence even longer than Proust's. The hopeless, last ditch appeal made by Edgar's public defender just out of law school for writer's liberties fell upon the deaf ears of the Crown's brutal, hanging judge who went strictly by-the-book. And the magistrate went into a rage when the young counsellor ended the last sentence of his appeal with a dangling preposition hanging for all to see so dreadfully out. So Edgar was annihilated by his diminishment and trotted off in chains aboard the prison ship for exile to the West Indies. But his ship never made it out of safe harbor because on the night of its departure the lighthouse keeper was drunk and forgot to light the lamp. Under a full moon and partly cloudy skies as the ship navigated in the half-light, she heard the tragic crash of the sailing ship upon the heartless reality of rocky shoals as she watched helplessly and even hoplelessly in horror under the moon's impossible twilight from her little lover's bench by the seaside, shrieking out in caws, as the prison ship sank into the wine dark sea. God had stepped into the story as He was divinely insulted by the deus ex machina because Edgar had been found guilty of only a bad review and He gave the poet the just reprieve of a death sentence to abbreviate his maximum sentence, a lost labor of love and life sentence, because of the poet's divine calling in crashing upon the rocks of his existence as a Purple Sage of the Writers. How prophetic were her lover's last words in the foreshadowing of his pitiful demise as they resounded in the echo chamber of her usually empty head: when the poet climbed aboard the doomed prison ship to the West Indies, chained in 50 shades of purple prose in human bondage, he recited in the most sonorous of dark, shadowy overtones, "Hark the Edgar, nevermore."

message 3: by Lucinda (new)

Lucinda Elliot (lucindaelliot) | 2 comments Ha, Ha, that is excellent, David. You should publish that; 'Swelling with Purple Passion.'

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