Purple Thursday.

Everyone knows that I have to be a writing fool this month, and I am mostly making it work, and still writing fresh stuff for my writing classes. Anyhow as a minor cop out and just so you can see that I can edit stuff, here is what I read in my class today, I wrote it last night, along with the piece that I am going to read in my other class tomorrow, I'll post it there. Now just a wee little bit from Paranoid Deadra to start. Please don't plagerize me, it will make me really mad, and I will have to go all hog wild on your ass....

Purple Thursday.

Today is Thursday, so today, her favourite colour is purple. Routines are very important to Jean, she follows hers meticulously, taking pride in how orderly her life has become. She is so diligent with her routine that if you were to compare two days on film you could see just how closely she follows her ‘dailies’.

Jean wakes up at exactly eight fifty every morning; this ensures that she is able to listen to Donovan Smith on the radio. When her alarm goes off she reaches over to turn off the buzzer and turn on the radio. Then she lies in bed, with the covers up to her chest and her arms laid out over them, after she smoothes them all. She likes to pretend this is how she will look in her coffin, serene and well rested.

“Good morning Prince George!” Donovan wails from the radio, greeting his listeners with his trade mark greeting, an imitation of Robin Williams in Good Morning Vietnam.

“Good morning Mr. Smith,” Jean titters, ever impressed with his exuberance at nine A.M.

“Today we are going to talk to Premier Gordon Campbell. We are going to talk about the importance of the lumber industry to Prince George and how we can make sure there will still be forests for our children and grandchildren.”

“Mr. Smith you have friends in such high places!” Jean exclaims as she slides out from under her covers. She is wearing a long blue nightie, with a high buttoned collar and ruffles at her cuffs. She stuffs her small, heavily veined feet into her white slippers and shuffles into her closet. Hearing the music start Jean is inspired to take long gliding strides as she dances with an imaginary man to the swing music that Donovan has programmed for her listening pleasure. Gently twirling herself past a well organized rod of clothing she fingers various articles as she flits past them, humming along to the music in the other room. She gracefully ends her dance at the purple section of her closet and walks her fingers along the hangers, choosing her cardigan, slacks and blouse. Jean is proud of her closet. It’s taken her years to get seven neatly organized sections. With her selections Jean shuffles back to her bed, having lost the grace of the dance. She still fingers some cardigans as she passes them, delighting in their textures.

After dressing Jean continues with her routine, to the bathroom to make herself presentable. She doesn’t wear much make up, choosing not to look trampy like young ladies do now, as she used to say. She opts to wear a little blush, to give herself the rosy look of a young girl in love, and some chap stick. Jean gathers her long white hair into a braid and coils it around her head, pinning it in place. Next she follows a worn path in the carpet to her kitchen, where she opens a cupboard and pulls her Thursday cereal down. After pouring herself a bowl of Raisin Bran she puts the box away, between Wednesday’s All Bran and Friday’s Froot Loops. Jean knows that she should eat a healthy cereal everyday, but she likes her Friday sugar cereal, it’s the only one that rotates, last time it was Cocoa Puffs.

Jean tidies as she makes her breakfast, intent on maintaining a spotless house. She places her cereal, toast and tea on a tray, and makes her way to her living room, to sit in her favourite spot on the sofa, with her tray on an oak T.V. table, and clicks on Canada AM on CTV. Jean likes to be up to date on her current events; she won’t let her mind get slow and soft.


About three years ago Jean slipped and fell; it was January 27th, 2004. She was stepping out her front door when she slipped on some ice that not been cleared properly. She had laid in her entrance way for three hours, until the mail man discovered her. Jean was rushed to the hospital, suffering from hypothermia and a severe concussion. Her prognosis was dim; her family was told to prepare themselves, and to expect the worse. Plans were hastily made and they waited. But, Jean never died; instead she hangs on in a vegetative state. She lives in a home now, where she has around the clock medical support. Her family visits her occasionally, a demotion from frequently.

We know though, that Jean lives on. Today is Thursday, and today she wears purple.


So what do you think???