Purple Pennies

Said the Storyteller to the crowd:

“The swarthy, tall, muscular man strode up to the elegant woman and swept her off her feet.

‘Oh, monsieur,’ she breathed, her long dress flowing in the wind like satiny ripples. Her auburn hair shone in the morning light, a vibrant contrast to the green grass of the meadow.

‘We shall make love right here in the pillowy bosom of nature,' said the man. 'No one shall disturb us. Not even se birds. It will be a day you will remember for se rest of your life.’ He spun her round.

‘Oh, you are so tall and handsome and brave,’ she said. ‘Well, not brave, I suppose. I mean, maybe you are, but you are a lover, not a fighter.’

‘Exactly!’ he set her down and they skipped about the meadow. ‘I am the best lover. No one’s a better lover than I!’

‘Oh, I know. I can’t wait! It will be like a dream.’

Indeed, it wold be. And the meadow was like a dream, too. A fantasy. The grass like verdant carpet. The sun a glimpse of heaven, as if angels and harps might descend and sweep them both off their feet, floating in ecstasy. Floating on the clouds. In the sky. A day that would last forever, yet be over too soon. Eternity, yet finite. Bittersweet, only in the tragedy that it would eventually end. But they would drag it out and make the most of it and linger in each other’s company long after. Savouring the sweet-”

“Okay. Wait bud. Are you ever going to get to the actual freaking lovemaking?”

The storyteller glanced around at the crowd, then back at the man who’d spoken.

“I am building anticipation, good sir.”

“No, sir. You are just engaging in these flowery… unnecessary, purple prose.”

“Purple?” The storyteller cocked his head.

“Yeah,” the man said, and a couple audience members nodded in agreement. “Like… showy and flashy just for the sake of it. Like a distraction from the freaking lovemaking. It’s almost like you get more money for. Every. Word. You. Say.”

The storyteller looked aghast. “Certainly not. This is simply artistic expression. And if you do not appreciate it, I say adieu to you, good people. I shall find an audience who appreciates my vision.” He swept away with a flutter of his coat-tail.

And that is how purple prose was born.

Fin