The Purple Man
Megan Jones
Note: Written in minutes based on three words He ate… he ate… and he ate his hot fudge sundaes one after the other. Larald Woolington was a shy man. A man that bothered no other. His shirts were purple, and the pants he wore to cover his jug were a darker tint of that color. He wore round pur - ple glasses that sat on the bridge of his nose of his chunky pink flesh. He sat on his purple reclined chair day and night, stuffing his face until his cheeks couldn’t hold anymore. He slept with sundaes in his lap or next to him on his purple sheets and dreamt about the marriage of one. Cautions and bombs filled the streets outside of his small purple house that sat right in the middle of town. The Russian and Ukraine war started days before, but Larald paid no mind. He continued to sit on his throne as people around him died as havoc took their souls. One day, it all just stopped. The film The Color Purple had finished and the end credits were rolling. The world was quiet. All noise from the outside world
has just stopped. It was then Larald finally picked up his heavy head from his sweet treat. He took his six-hundred-pound lifeless body off his chair and wad- dled over to the light purple door. The wind blew past the purple walls as the door opened. He stepped out to nothingness. There were no people, no houses, no aircrafts and no weapons. No nothing. His house sat alone in the middle of nowhere. He began to cry and drop to his aching knees. The sky turned to a purplish gray as it closed in on the last man on Earth, Larald Woolington.
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