Friday, March 11, 2011

Paint-it-Purple Practice

I didn't know how I would feel writing in an over-the-top fashion.  I am a person who goes to an expensive buffet, and select small amounts of interesting foods, taking time to lay the item artistically crafted on my plate.  My husband has an all-out-no-holds-barred approach, and layers his selections, topping it off with horseradish cream.  Therefore, I tried out writing with gusto and abandon.  The following is what I came up with.  I didn't want to file it away and do nothing, as it was fun to write.  Have you checked out the Paint-it-Purple at

The glaring egg-yolk yellow sun hung in the azure blue clear sky over the scattering of rocky outcrop islands.  The intimidating sizzling rays baked the minute bright white houses with closed royal blue splintered shutters.  The houses huddled under scraggly dull dried out olive trees, under which hammocks hung and swayed in the ocean breeze.  Menacing brown eyes viewed the islands through outrageously priced Ray-Ban™ sunglasses, the one the man had bought at a miserable Sun Glasses R Us kiosk at the tiny filthy airport.
            The salesclerk had been a blonde whose chest poked out at him with the intensity of two guided missiles, had bent over enticingly, displaying her deep crevasse cleavage, showing off her perfectly rounded buttocks.  They were firm, as firm as two Texas-sized watermelons lying out in the fields, ready to be picked and enjoyed.
            He and Blondie had spent some sweaty moments in the back of rented metallic red Metro.  As she pulled her long, brittle dry, bleached blonde hair into a tussled reckless pony tail, she had purred in her deep cigarette raspy voice, “So, what’ll I call you, buddy?”  Blondie continued buttoning up her too-tight red and white striped blouse, the buttons creating strained gaps, revealing her cheap black lace bra that barely contained the guided missiles.
            Brushing off his midnight black Saville Row wool slacks with grey strips that ran down the length of his lean muscled legs, he had replied in a silky deep voice which would normally have signaled danger to any other person.  “You can call me ‘Ray’, Ray Johnson, or R.J.”
            “See ya’around, Ray,” Blondie had replied, as she squired her voluptuous ripe body through the front seats, and wriggled out the door.  “I’ll be watchin’ for you.”
            “Maybe I’ll buy some more sunglasses, when I come through again,” he had answered, pulling a deep lung-filling drag on the Russian cigarette he had retrieved from the gleaming gold cigarette case, engraved in curlicues and initials.  It read “LRG”.  He had taken it from a sleazy arms dealer named Larry, back in Dubuque, Iowa, a secret seedy den of iniquity, during his last mission.

My brothers used to read old detective novels.  I drew on the fabulous writing featured in those famed pieces of fine literature.  Susan Kane


  1. This is great! Over-the-top is so much fun :)

  2. A purplefest! That sounds like fun. From what I can tell it involves a reckless use of adjectives, which we have been spanked into avoiding. I wonder if I have the guts to try it. On the other hand, it reads like an acid trip.

  3. I loved reading this. I could visualize the whole thing!

  4. This was fun to read! I loved the lurid descriptions of the blond particularly.


Go won' t hurt...I'd love to hear what you think!