[See my blog entry for information on use of the word "Indian" in this story.]
Once upon a desert that color forgot, there was a Purple Indian. This Indian lived all alone, except for the little dog who was his faithful companion. He affectionately called the dog Plumcrazy. The desert around these two happy hermits was a wonder of shades of purple. Neither the Indian nor Plumcrazy had seen red, or blue--not a trace of green, yellow, orange or pink.
The Purple Indian was one of those solitary souls who just don't mind having all their time to themselves. He entertained himself by painting the walls of the many caves that surrounded the desert--he was quite an artist-- and when "hungry time" rolled around he simply ambled over to a purple-pome tree, opened his mouth and waited. Some days he got a little more than he bargained for . . .
When "thirsty time" came, he just wandered across to the magenta waterfall. Drinking straight from the fall worked fine--except when the wind changed.
All in all, the Indian had no complaints about his life. He knew nothing else, after all--why would he want anything he didn't know existed?
Then, as it always does to paradise, trouble came. Trouble wore the shape of a retired general from the lands far outside the Indian's little desert. General Mayhem marveled at this sandy, cactus-y stretch, all done up in shades of a color he had never imagined.
Spying moccasin prints outside a small cave, the general got off his coral-colored burro and decided to investigate.