Two Hundred Thirty-Two

Above me, the skies turned grey and turbulent, roiling clouds drinking in moisture from the surrounding air, behaving like an inveterate alcoholic, sucking in atmospheric humidity as if it were liquor.

Suddenly, the visible turbulence of the clouds turned to a solid mass of dull dark grey. Growling claps of thunder, bone-jarring in their power, ripped the concentrated sound from the sky, smashing it against the earth below. Eardrums burst, windows shattered, wolves howled, and the moon overhead cracked into a million pieces  and fell to earth like confetti.

The core of the earth bubbled ferociously, unleashing volcanic eruptions as powerful as the sun, shredding the earth’s mantle and ripping tectonic plates apart like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

That, my friends, is purple prose.

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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