Purpureus…

A stone thrown to granite wall to be chipped, to ricochet, and to land aside the line of a cove’s strand. To lie about what else was strewn there—sun-crisped kelp, old rope, crab shell fragments, and shingle.

A lone beachcomber by the moniker of Ruby, and by the luck to eye a glister within a glimmer spotted and became attracted to it. On inspection, she deduced it carried many a nautical mile, by many an eddy, before being cast from an irate sea. She thanked, for this, any powers that be, praising both her—she looked skyward—and divine serendipity. Aye, by a glint from the stone husk’s dint, she was pleased to have caught its vibrant wink. Amethyst she wagered, she hoped, a gift from some deep vent, deep-sea paradise—beached now—amidst a world of flint. Her caring fingers she curled about it—collected it to fist—where into anorak pocket she slipped it. 

From there, for a time, the gemstone’s story went cold. For Ruby was invisibly handicapped, diagnosed—by concerned friends—an incorrigible amnesiac. Back home it wasn’t long before her escapade from memory…pffft had gone. Aye, once divested and for the chance cluster of many a warm winter from thereon, her anorak (with pocket contents intact) hung unheeded and unworn, in a wardrobe, in the company of nought besides settling motes.

When at last to her outside world came a cold snap to occasion the coat be sought, found, and found useful—pulled from an aleatory curfew—to protect, for a necessary venture, its wearer from a meteorological anomaly; dubbed by the media The Beast from the East. Aye, bitter air had blown into the area at a pace and drafted with it an ice-flake swarm. Ruby, on task, out there at its height, knee deep in its drifts, and hunkered in hood, gave leave to her gloved hands to reacquaint with the further refuges of the anorak’s pockets. In the right, by feel and through fabric, she rediscovered the cocooned amethyst. Her blizzard-stung face smiled.

Out of the winter, out of the pocket, and by the light of embers did she, for a lucky moment, recall and freshly admire her find. Deeming it a jewel in the making and, for her failing memory, promising to commit its merits to something more lastworthy. Lest again would she lose the stone to time and the shady hollows of her Swiss cheese mind. Aye, that evening to atone (a heroic feat for her) a six-part to do list was mentally concocted and subsequently recorded—set on the brightest paper with the darkest ink. An indelible table of deeds that four days later would be struck through and done.

One: a rock tumbler conveyed to her by courier; a quick-click purchase courtesy of a niche site on the net. Ruby determined herself a lapidary, abetted albeit by the modern tech of YouTube and her new (second hand) machinery.

Two: A crowbar and trowel the tools of choice to prise away four grades of grit ‘neath the weight and icy grip of the yard’s frigid flagstones. Where after they—the grits—were warmed, dried, sieved into jars, and labelled: the polish, the finer, the fine, and the coarse kind.

Three: An unused room in the let, appropriated without her co-habitants’ protest, was dymo-labelled and designated from then on as Lansdowne Studio. The walls soundproofed to a fashion by the hanging of old drapes (the heavy-lined kind) and well-considered placings of plumped up cushions. For rock tumbling in drums—as was her plan—for days on end, one should understand, is a noiseful enterprise. Aye, the emanating hum and concomitant drone from such endeavours being pervasive enough to prompt any sound-minded witness to at least complain or, if too polite to do so, be driven to a crazy distraction.

Four: Where into the detached drum, before a dose of water and coarse grit, went the stone, the (believed-to-be) amethyst. Ruby, with the cautious finger-thumb tightening of a burred wing nut, sealed the brimmed vessel’s lid and settled it, the hefty rotund unit, onto rollers. From the machine’s motor and base she traced a power cord to its connected plugged-in plug, flipped its adjacent switch, and sensed something prime.

Five: Following keying a setting of three days into the machine’s digi-panel, she, with her left forefinger and a small measure of mental ceremony, pressed go. Aye, awash with electrical energy the motor was and spun up so fast as to whir; the rollers (geared to more leisurely revolutions) rolled with the whir. And the drum on those rollers, it rolled too; its contents rumbling, tumbling, sloshing, and clacking. And humming, of course, the whole shebang, it hummed. Ruby’s widening eyes watched events cycle till such a time as near entranced. With her last ounce of awareness, she snapped herself from what (for her) was not the up-there-said noise that’d annoy, but music to beguile.

Six: The last of the list’s tasks bade she stave her forgetfulness and undertake the creation of further, nevertheless necessary, instructions. Penned paper being swapped for the dabbed screen of her smartphone—into which she set a batch of three concurrent midday reminders: each a prompt to visit the rolling tumbler, pause it, and swap out the working contents of the drum for increasingly finer grit.

Trousering her phone, she struck-out the final to do and left the sound-lagged Lansdowne Studio to harbour its contents and time. The machine, the clacking stone, the drone within—muffled by makeshift upholstery—were quietened all the more for the door she pulled closed in her wake.

In each of the middle of those three days, at the ding of a text-tone’s bell, she re-entered the room, paused the machine, opened its drum to empty all but the stone and introduce—in a prescribed order—fine grit, finer grit, then polish. And through each of the middle of those pauses was she fortunate to witness the incremental exposure of what was, to come, to be. Aye, from the encasement of a shineless shell, by ever finer grinding, by gradual erosion, was the birthing of the gemstone. For the first time in a millennia and for the first time to appreciating eyes did she witness the blossoming, the glistening—the no longer hidden beauty—of this, the purest, cleanest amethyst.

When months later, on an afternoon in a weather spell dubbed this time by the media The Summer of Content, ventured in a ray (from space no less), arrow straight (yet with great twists of fate), to pierce the atmosphere; a break in the clouds, a gap twixt horizon’s poplar trees, her freshly-squeegeed, fastidiously-cleaned lounge window and, lastly, the gemstone itself. Now  sitting proud in the prime position on her mantelpiece, aye, was that cherished amethyst. It witnessed in less than a human instant an infiltration of the most determined light. It digested, reflected, refracted, amplified and from there ejected a bursting array of beams, a radial spreading to the four walls of the sail-white lounge—its payload. A payload of purple, hueing all it struck with all its innate complexion—pinks to indigos—thereof (some would have said orange too). A mood-lifting moment of beauty, a brightness with an ambience much like the machine managed before, yet with more infinite potency, to beguile—to entrance. Seeing this for the first time (she believed)…Ruby’s ruby face smiled. 



Published by

Museworthy Man

Typically atypical man from Manchester with aspirations that'll never/maybe/could one day be realisations :-D

5 thoughts on “Purpureus…”

  1. Beautiful; such a gentle touch to this, it leads the reader forward, close-up to Ruby so one sees through her eyes, feels her long, hard-fought-for periods of concentration, so easily lost, a triumph when achieved. And despite all she loses from her mind, there’s the poignant yet lovely silver lining at the end – finding fresh beauty and joy as though it were brand new when actually it has been enjoyed and lived many times before. As one who has memory issues myself, I can tell you you’ve done a superb job at capturing being stuck in such a loop.

    Amethyst is also a fine choice as (if one takes heed of such suppositions) it is said to have healing powers to help with physical ailments, and primarily is associated with helping anxiety, and all forgetfulness holds fast to an element of anxiety that simmers or boils in the background of a person.

    I’m often ten steps ahead as a reader, and have a version of the ending (and sometimes whole plot) decided ahead of time, and I do tire of getting it right – marvellously my predictions were wrong here, and I liked that very much indeed. Very muchly much in fact.

    Good to see you back on the WP horse MM, this is one of the best you’ve crafted, an excellent piece.

    – Esme beaming and waving upon the Cloud

  2. Thank you for the beaming wave Esme, appreciation most appreciated and applicable too given beams and waves were integral to the tale. Alongside memory. Of course memory; how could I forget. There’s other legs too on which I was having the story (hopefully steadily) stand: that of focus—what it takes in the present world (the internet of distractions) to stay on task, that of Gemma and Ray the subtle/subtexted coming together of them two. < But only when the sun shines, and that of, well a social comment on the media and its wannabe-nouveaux(ness); the practice of slapping new names on phenomena that have been about for more than millennia.

  3. You’re very welcome, I am often nothing, if not apt – *spins another beam towards him (no ‘er’ so no wheels)*. Focus, yes, I told Swarn the piece reminds me of his tea making post from a while back in a way – mindful in nature, capturing the moment; time slows down when it happens, beauty found in the minutiae, and how better to do so than following a Ray of sun, his beam (wanted for one by Jesus ) an arm of illumination, pointing, catching, refracting and holding her focus as he does. Concentration. Lawdy, it’s being eroded away from humanity through the digital age methinks; its perfect foil is nature at it’s purest. *nods*

    “But only when the sun shines” – The Sun Always Shines on Calliope *bows and curtsies patting herself on the back*. Hahahahaha.

    Esme Cloud who just can’t get enough when the sun it shines and does love a good rock.

    ps – Swarn will be visiting here when he returns to WP from a hiatus.

  4. Welcome back MM! I apologize for the delay in commenting on this fine post. An e-mail has been ripening in my inbox for far too long that told me of your grand return! Fathering duties have kept my blog time to a minimum. I hear your tale is a similar one. The main difference being is that all are deprived of a much finer piece of literature when you are gone, than when I am. But I am sure it’s as true for you as it is for me that there is just a lot of joy in writing and it’s nice to get back to it when one can.

    First let me thank you for enriching my vocabulary. I had never heard of an anorak before and was surprised to learn that it’s a word that seems a Canadian such as myself should have heard of before! But the best word by far was aleatory. It seems a completely useful word, but as I think..”Yes I should use this in everyday conversation”, the counterpoint is “But everyday conversation was something I was quite successful at without this word”. It’s amazing how a wide array of vocabulary enriches writing, and yet if I were to try and use such a word in conversation I would be seen as pretentious. Of course if everybody started to use it, then I would no longer be pretentious. It seems a shame to let such a word fall out of usage, while at the same time I don’t have the memory to remember such a word when I write. Language is an odd thing. lol I find myself wondering how much you might use the word aleatory in everyday conversation. I’m betting not much, unless you are talking to Museworthy Woman. Someone who could really appreciate such words. 🙂

    I love your piece in general, because it was full of empathy and joy. I imagine one could easily take the tack that such an affliction would be a cause for much misery for Ruby, and I am sure it is, but there is a brighter side. I loved the way it ended with her seeing the light shine through the mineral and feeling the joy at seeing it for the first time. Whether it was the first time or not, is no matter, because her Swiss cheese memory actually allows her to appreciate it anew more than the rest of us. It’s sort of wonderful perspective to keep in mind.

    I hope there will be more writing from you in the near future, but I will savor this morsel if the real world should keep you away for a time again. I am not one to make demands of an artist. But if I was I’d have you at least on a once a month regiment. 🙂

  5. Hello Swarn,
    thanks for stopping by, I fully get the fatherhood role thing, mine’s lessened now, with time, save for the worrying (about them) < a lifetime commitment. Aleatory's been with me a good while, although I had it as aleatoric... which (by chance) I think means the same thing. 🙂 I agree it's not one for informal conversation. I'd err on the simpler 'as luck would have it' or 'lucky stars'. But written, yes. So long as a piece doesn't too obviously (pretentiously) over expose dictionary nuggets, I'd say it's fair game to pretty it up with the odd gem. 😛 Museworthywoman's a brighter spark than myself btw, spark that light's the fire to heat the pan that boils down my verbiage to digestible chunks. She also rolls her eyes if my words are too over-flavoured. Good to stay grounded. Much pleased you liked the piece and (hopefully) took something away from it. I'll be uploading a pair of poems soon if I can tempt you back—one minute wonders, each of them, to read, yet one took a couple of hours to write! Went for precision, to hold things to a standard and made many attempts to follow a form.

Leave a Reply