A Tyrian Tirade

A blank, virtual page awaiting some text - I sit down to begin.

But what is this? What is this? WHAT IS THIS?

Do I see a hint of plum on the dot of this question mark?

A purpure pixel perhaps?

I peer closer, my eyes seeking to magnify the minute mote of mauve on my monotone monologue.

Yes, yes, yes! There it is. Can’t you see? Waves of wisteria travelling outward from the point, at first only faint, but illuminating, intensifying, INFECTING! Oh, I place a hand upon my bosom, seeking to quell the fleeting, fluttering beat of my heart and to push back the boulder that rises in my throat.

How can this be? It is my greatest desire that my jottings be economic, elegant, and precise; like the gentle step of the fawn in the forest or the stab of the blackbird as she seeks worms on the lawn. I do not want to fall victim to such frivolous frippery, such over-elaborate ornamentation.

The epicentre bleeds fully magenta now, turning a more royal shade. I see tiny tendrils turning to pulsing vein, throbbing and taking on life. A shifting mist, a tinted essence wisps lazily from the screen, spreading ever wider, growing ever denser - something becoming more corporeal before my disbelieving, yet imprisoned gaze.

And… and… do I see fingers? No. Claws!

Two reaching, talon-tipped hands grope blindly from the screen, dagger-nails glinting amethyst in the sickly lilac light; tendons rigid, grabbing, snapping, as they search for a hapless victim.

The realisation is painfully slow, spreading like the drip, drip, drip of ice water through my already-paralysed mind. It is I that they seek. I they wish to grip, strangle and wring dry of every possible and unnecessary word, letter by letter from my soul until I can summon up no more and am left an inarticulate husk, ready to blow away desiccated on the slightest breeze.

“NO!” I gasp, staggering off my chair and falling back against an unyielding, unsympathetic wall, held there to await my fate.

I cower in adjective terror.

Corkscrewing curlicatures spiral forth from the monitor followed by a mane of wild hair whipping on an unfelt wind. Then slowly is revealed a face that shall haunt my waking nightmares for longer than eternity.  

A horned, heliotrope horror – a hag from hell - fixes me with a violet stare that turns my blood to ice.

“I am the Anti-Muse! The fabled Purple Prose!” she screams in voice like escaping steam. “I will drown any well chosen words beneath my tsunami of excess. Asphyxiate any apt metaphor in a cloud of cliché.” The thin lips of indigo twist into a sneer. “Draw attention to myself until your story is lost forever. Forever!”

She throws back her head and laughs.

And then she is above me, bearing down… down… harpy’s claws set for the kill. I prepare for the death of my writing career.

There is a flash of scarlet.

My screen shatters.

A red pen slashes the air, again, again and again until my story is reduced to a tidy pile of… well nothing much really.

I look up to my rescuer. It is the Knight of the Edit – man of few words.

He regards me sadly.

“Delete?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

And he is gone.

Yes it's awful.

I recently decided to find out exactly what is meant by the term "Purple Prose" and discovered it applies to pretty much everything I've attempted so far. So in a cathartic exercise I've tried exorcise the demon. I don't know whether this works, but I did have fun doing it.

Hopefully, the next time I get carried away I can refer back here.

Amy K