On Notions Surreal

The sea was a cold dark menace, lurching upon the craggy banks of the shore. They were tall,
impeding banks, stretching high into a fog ridden sky. Crashing, splashing, with interminable force; the
ocean was angry. With violent ripping she smashed ships of splendor into bits of unrecognizable debris.
A maelstrom rode on a wave, like a final plea of what used to be a cargo-bearing wayfarer, only to
disappear into an abysmal grave.

And the winds, how they screamed! Moaning and retching torrents of apocryphal rain. Water
attacked from above and below; from every side even. Such that one would suspect he may drown
whether in the ocean or not! It was a baleful night! Smells unlike most have had the misfortune of
smelling; of worms, of sea creatures, and the putrid stench of rotting decay. Something was dead. A lot
of something.

But the thing that resonated perhaps most of all on this sullen, cataclysmic night; what leered
and pulled most at one’s very inner being, wasn't the pounding of the sea or the screaming of the gale,
but an immaterial thing. It was something impalpable, intangible, and inexplicable. A disquieting of the
soul, a strange and yet familiar chaos. This was something lurid, yet inviting. It was almost as if it had a
countenance of its own, with eyes peering out and watching; immutable eyes barren of emotion. Yet, it
had no conscious, and no purpose, and no intent, and no property, though the heart of a man would
thrash with wanton abandon at its caress.

No light pierced that dark sky on this night. All luminescence was extinguished like it had been
put out by the presence of this thing. Prospect?; there seemed none. And life? Where could it be
found? Should it be hiding in the crevices of the mountain? Could any fish or fowl survive such a
catastrophe? For Gaia had long ago spewed the contents of her stomach, and oil contaminated the
ocean, and permeated much of the land. Mountains had long ago been toppled by the tremors of the
earth; new ones formed by the eruption of ancient volcano’s. Dormant they were, though their fury had
been known, and their rivers of magma shifted and bent the lay of the land to their pleasing, and their
flames caught the oil where it lay and blazed most all the forests where they existed.

But there was no light now and no fire. No glow of torches, no flicker of flame, no stars above
nor fireflies in the fields. No sign of life anywhere. Except for the man, standing at the top of the tall
and forlorn mountain. He stood there, in the blanket of darkness, with no concern to the cold and
battering rain that pelted his face and spat in his eyes. His whole attire was black, such that his pale
countenance stood out in stark contrast. Strands of shock white hair flew out wildly into the air from
beneath his hood. From the shadows fierce and purple eyes glared out upon the sea. Impossibly
emotionless eyes, showing neither a hint of sadness or glee, nor remorse or agitation. Just cold, purple
eyes. Gateways to the soul and arbiters of the barrenness of this man.

The veracity of those speechless pupils was furthered by a gaunt and emaciated face. Slight
necrosis seemed to have set upon his cheeks, for they were black and rotting; looking the way the area
smelled. He was an old man, with a protruding forehead and a pig-like nose. White, callused lips were
pinched tightly together, bits of dead skin clinging on in a visibly nauseating fashion. Blue veins
stretched through his forehead and down his emaciated neck, and the tendons on either side

grotesquely reached down behind his hood. If the sight of that macabre scene didn’t provide enough
menace, nor the depravity of that untouchable and horrible aura that emanated from all around, then
the presence of this man must.

Around his neck, and hanging down from his hood upon the front of his rain sodden shirt, hung
a medallion. And it was, in the midst of turmoil, the most welcome of all to see. As if a beacon of light
or a talisman of power. A splendid thing! Yet, upon closer inspection one could note that indeed, it
wasn't that spectacular, or that wonderful, by comparison to normal things. Only that it seemed as
hope in a hopeless place. Yes, here in this existence, its tarnished, thick linked, clunky gold chain
seemed magnificent. Its pock marked surface was like shelter from the storm. Four ridges rose from a
thin surface, and a small, purple jewel was inlaid at the center.

The purple jewel had a very faint, iridescent glow. It pulsed, slowly, like the beating of a heart,
soothing and lulling the soul with the most captivating and unheard cadence. All around was a
beleaguered ambiance, and yet there was this lovely light. Everywhere death; and yet life seemed to
emanate from the faint radiance of its hue. And in the throes of calamity, one would long with all they
were just to be near it.

The man picked it up and held it with fetid hands ghastly in pallor, lifting it slowly and turning his
eyes down upon it. Suddenly the jewel seemed to dance with a different rhythm, and wisps of colors
swirled dimly up, flickering to a halt just above the man’s head. Dull whites, translucent yellows and
reds, dim blues, and even a lush black color began to spiral around the man, lapping him with their
palates. The lights grew more plentiful, but never brighter. Simply a faded dance of something like thin
paper streamers. Until finally the man was surrounded in white. For a moment, nothing else happened.
Except that the man’s hair still flew wildly about, and the chaos still ensued all around, but the light and
the man stood still.

Until the man was surrounded by visions portrayed all around him. They came fast and
abruptly, such that one could hardly make them out. A blue sky, then shocking white, open fields of
grass with fawn in the field, then that shoved away in streaks of indiscernible hue. A woman…a mother
with her child? Bodies in motion…the light smeared down in the rain around him, a shocking and bright
visage of a wooden structure surrounded by red sky…a cross? The light abruptly stopped, only to
resume with tremendous and tumultuous force…remarkable and nonsensical things flared all around,
surreal images that called to the subconscious, figures of alien-like humanoids with ladders for legs and
eyes with staircases, visages of strange concoctions of animals…a tall giraffe with a body of a steam
boiler and legs of some mechanical contraption, a neck of reptile skin and a head of an elephant.

A couch of shaking atoms, with a handsome man upon it. A sea of writhing dead animals and
people. Streaks of ephemeral color sparked out away from the rest of the light, flickering out into the
night. The man stood calm and stoic; unblinking. Bright blue lightning stretched out, descending into
rainbows which transformed into gondoliers made of something like bone…and on and on until things
happened so quickly that nothing made sense at all. Then, an assault of smell rushed upon the man.
Such that he couldn’t tell any of them. Both horrible and wonderful, nauseating and appealing, as if to

smell flowers stuffed inside a turkey made of burnt human skin and topped with human defecation.

And the tempest raged, the sea grew more restless, and the dark seemed simply void. Then
there was to the man a reminder of that aura which he had lost in the envelopment of the light. A
foreboding and brooding, unshakable thing. As the dreadful feeling a person feels when they find their
child dead, or that a spouse feels upon news of adultery. Except this delved even deeper still. It’s
deplorable, yet ethereal tendrils effusing and intertwining with the man’s very being. Finally he could
take no more, and looking up towards the sky he opened his mouth revealing teeth of plaque and decay
and a languid tongue, and all the light swirled towards it. Impossible images, reds and blues and greens,
the sparks that had flown far away returned, and all at once as he inhaled they were gone.

And the man, with his breath continually withheld, stood still. The sea became quiet, for the
first time in what must have been a millennia. Gaia’s tremors became calm, and the pounding rain and
the gales ceased their anger for a moment. The light, oh that wonderful lunar light, emerged from the
clouds of distress, and shining down upon the earth revealed fawn arising to their feet. Purple eyes,
strained with effort peered out with deep affection; yet they were still not without trouble. And what, if
not, the smell of spring seemed to emerge as the man was able to inhale still a little more, his lungs
heaving for oxygen.

That sound, what was the sound? A rising and falling…chirping…the sound of crickets! And
above, an owl, in majestic flight, wheeled overhead. A lone tear of sentiment streamed down the gaunt
man’s infested face. And, alighting upon his lips ever so briefly, quite subtly, was the hint of a smile.
Alas, his lungs forbade no longer the expulsion of air. And the smile vanished from putrid chapped lips
to be repressed by the desperation of a frown. And the tear was dried, and as the owl made her cry
overhead the man tilted forward, and plummeted from the precipice, swallowed by a sullen sea.

Well done for posting your first piece on here.

Unfortunately, I think this takes 'purple prose' to a new dimension. It's so overloaded with grandiose descriptions and profound abstractions that it became almost impossible to read. This kind of rambling might appeal to some readers, but I'm afraid I found it too heavy going.

H

Dense in lack of density.

Thanks to you hillwalker and cafolini for your responses. Cafolini if I understand what you're saying, it's that I said a lot without actually saying anything, would that be correct lol?

I definitely understand that this could easily be seen as rambling, I wrote it with really only one topic (chaos) in mind. After that I just tried to set my mind free to write whatever might come out of it. Probably not a lot of people would find this much entertaining at all. There really is no quaintly spelled out plot, moral, or linear mode. When I set out to do a work like this it is supposed to be grandiose and over-the-top, yet stated with proper vocabulary that I feel is specific, appropriate, and necessary to convey a message concisely. That being said in retrospect there are probably some redundant sentences that just repeat in a different way what's already been said. And there comes a point where less says more, perhaps. Really I would think of it more as poetry -- and an attempt on the order of Edgar Allan Poe's "Silence."

Again, comments appreciated. I hope to be around regularly and have read a few works by others on the forums.

P.S. I'd never heard of purple prose before!

And I'm now wincing with the appropriateness of your title, "Purple prose." I will have to break out of this cycle, although it seems to be the way my mind demands to work!

It's all very well writing down whatever comes into your mind - often that's the best way to clear out the trash so you can get down to some real writing. But posting it for everyone to read is expecting rather too much. :nonod:

99% of readers read in order to unwind - whether through escapism or excitement. Since your piece displays neither, ask yourself why anyone would want to read it. If you're writing for yourself that's fine. But if you take writing seriously, you have to consider the reader above all else.

H

As I see it -- and who says my vision is any better than anyone else's?-- here are some of the elements of good fiction:

--As in good poems, a good piece of fiction avoids abstractions. "No ideas but in things." (Most good writing is about something.)

--It "shows" rather than "tells," in that it doesn't get bogged down in excessive exposition, explanations, superfluous descriptions, and chronological narration.

--Something happens. (Shows us HOW and drops a hint or two as to WHY.)

--It is about one or more human beings who conceivably could draw breath right here on Planet Earth. (If you're writing a fable or a SF story, the non-human characters should have human qualities to which the reader can relate.)

WHO? It shows us the person or people with just a few salient characteristics, not the full wikipedia-style vita sheet. Well-constructed dialogue can go a long way in revealing what makes a particular character tick.

(Can't go wrong with the "five w.'s," a dictum from the realm of journalism, but write fiction, not a straight news story.)

--Uses LANGUAGE which in itself reveals the character(s) and/or narrator(s) in a thoughtful, entertaining, and illuminating style.

--Has respect for both the language and readers in regard to grammar, spelling, and punctuation. (No writer is so good that he or she doesn't understand the necessity of revising, rewriting, and proofreading.)

--All of the above is presented in a way that engages the reader, in that the reader can participate in the creative process. A writer has a choice between talking down to the reader or assuming that the reader is just as smart as he is, if not more so. The wise writer always chooses the latter.

Best of luck!