INK ME PURPLE (OR NOT)

One fine morning, in a village this writer shall not name, people woke up and realized their eyes had turned purple.

Deep imperial ianthine, soft lavender, vibrant violet irises, purple all without exception - from the bright eyes on the tiniest babe to the faded ones of the gnarliest crone. 

Every gaze had been tinted overnight and was now purple as the most florid ink - and just as prone to weep over each injustice as to exalt every creation, even the smallest newborn leaf, still pink on the branch of an oak.

How this had happened was a complete mystery to all villagers.

Until one of them remembered that the two village poets had spent the afternoon penning verses by the water well.

They killed the poets, of course.

All their eyes went back to being grey.

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©2026 CE

Inspired (weirdly enough) by Daniel Cummings’ piece about violet eyes on X and Raymond Chandler’s short story “I’ll Be Waiting.”