Hearing Whispers of a Purple Revolution
Lavender turned radioactive, revolution in bloom.
They said keep your head down. We packed our heads with silence and called it survival. Whispers first. Thin wires. Thread that hums. Purple—not compromise, not coalition. Purple like a bruise that learned to sing. Purple like a crown smashed into a flower. It starts small: a cough that won’t be shushed, a child who reads a word that used to be forbidden, a neighbor humming a song you were told not to know. Power laughs at whispers. Power only takes the big noise seriously. They forget rot smells like soft things: mold in the margins, seeds in the gutters. They forget empires collapse on whisper-days. So whisper louder. Count the small refusals: the single grocery clerk who gives a stranger water, the teacher who teaches a banned line, the person who refuses to rename their grief. Those tiny no’s—multiply them. They stack. They calcify. They become weight. Weight topples marble. We are not asking for thunder. We are building it. One chipped tile at a time. One purple stitch at a time. This is not decorum. This is rupture for good. This is a bruise blooming into harvest. Answer the whisper. If you do nothing, you are part of the silence you complain about. If you answer, even with one small defiant thing— you become a knot in the rope that will pull them down. Bring your voice. Bring your small sabotage. Bring your purple. Let the whisper learn how to burn.
With violet defiance,
—Rebecca M. Bell
www.rmbellwrites.com
Filed Under: Radioactive Lavender, Violet Hour Transmissions, & Revolt in Bloom