Inspiration for a story can come from anywhere. A random conversation can spark an idea. Or a news article. Or the scene outside the office window.
The idea for the opening scene in Dancing in the Purple Rain came from a report of an internet challenge hoax that scared me as a parent. And my writer brain just wouldn't let go of it, even though I knew it was a hoax. My writer brain did what it does best: It took that seed of an idea and asked the famous "What if…?"
The Momo Challenge Hoax
In the 2010s, there were many internet challenges floating around. The most famous was the ice bucket challenge, where celebrities (and others) were challenged to dump a bucket of ice water over the top of their heads—and in some cases, in spectacular ways. For the celebrities, it quickly became a charity drive, where anyone not willing to have a bucket of ice water dumped over their head was encouraged to write a check to a charity of their choice.
(And Patrick Stewart did that challenge in style! Ice in the scotch… and a pen in hand.)
But there were more sinister internet challenges that started to come to the surface.
You had the Tide Pod Challenge, where teens were eating Tide Pods (pods of laundry detergent)… and getting very ill because of it. The Tide Pod challenge resulted in six deaths by 2017, and the manufacturer needed to take active steps to discourage the challenge… including adding a bitter-tasting chemical to their product.
You also had the cinnamon challenge, trying to eat a tablespoon of cinnamon. I know that cinnamon in large enough quantities is supposed to be a hallucinogenic, but why would anyone try to eat a tablespoon of dry powder of anything?
There was the "Bird Box" challenge, where participants attempted to navigate the world while wearing a blindfold—including driving a car in heavy traffic. It was a recipe for disaster.
But all of these challenges ultimately led to a hoax that went global and scared parents everywhere.
The "Momo Challenge" was rumored to be a user by the name of Momo, harassing children and teenagers to perform dangerous acts, including violence against others, self-harm, and suicide. My children were in their early teens at the time, and the parent in me was freaking out about this "Momo" thing. However, the social media expert (and writer) in me was fascinated by the lingering effects. It didn't matter that it was a hoax. Just the simple thought that anyone could come up with this and propel it onto the global stage…
My writer brain grabbed a hold of the idea and started playing around with it, asking that famous "What if…?" question.
What if some official agency was using brainwashing to manipulate people to perform acts of violence, turning them into assassins? And what if this was all being done by subliminal messaging somehow? And what if you had couriers who would deliver packages of death around the city, delivering them into the hands of the brainwashed killers? And what if…?
My brain instantly started writing the opening scene from what eventually became Dancing in the Purple Rain. My main character (a courier) drops off a package filled with something that she knows will ultimately result in death, but she didn't know how or of who. After delivering the package to an unknown recipient, she just walks away, listening to Purple Rain by Prince and the Revolution. In the background, two gunshots go off.
I wrote the first variant of that scene back in 2018, back when the Momo Challenge Hoax was reported to the news outlets in New Zealand. It wouldn't be for many years (until after Covid hit) that I was able to write the full story. But that's a post for another day.
For now, I want to share with you the opening scene from Dancing in the Purple Rain. Enjoy.
(This opening scene is 1,130 words.)
Chapter 1 from Dancing in the Purple Rain
I stared at the brown package on the table. What form of death would it contain this time? Gun? Bomb? Some biochemical weapon? It really didn’t matter. My job was to deliver the package—not question why or how the ensuing chaos would be unleashed on the world.
I sighed as I glanced around the room. Who would be the unlucky recipient of the brown package of death? Would it be the man with the tablet in the corner having a boisterous conversation with someone on video chat? Perhaps it would be the woman who seemed to be at her wit’s end as the console at her table refused to take her order—something about exceeding her caffeine allowance for the month. Or maybe it was the young thing who kept getting stopped at the door; the entry scanner flickered between a red X and a green checkmark, then back again.
Those units were always failing in the outer sectors. Twenty years ago, they were outdated technology. Now, they were ancient. Yet, the owner of the joint probably couldn’t afford anything else. And if they wanted to stay open for business, they needed something to scan the pharmachips embedded under the skin at the right wrist.
I needed another job. One day, a drop would turn sour and I would be forced to take matters into my own hands. It was bad enough that I was the Pregutor’s lackey, delivering packages to people who would die. But I didn’t want to be the one who died myself.
I didn’t have many options. When applying for a new job, your full medical history had to be supplied with your application. The moment potential employers discovered that I had White Rabbit syndrome, it was all over.
That wasn’t its official name, but who would want to hire someone who would frequently get the shakes and lose grip on reality? So, delivering packages of death for the Pregutor was my lot in life.
Yeah, sucks to be me.
The scanner at the entrance finally stabilized with the green checkmark brightly illuminating at the top of the unit. There was a collective sigh of relief from the patrons lining up to get through the door.
The clock in the corner of my virtual display insisted on counting down to zero. Any minute now, and I would become indirectly responsible for another death.
A soft hiss announced the arrival of my order. It wasn’t often that I was in a position to order coffee. Real coffee. Not the brown sludge pretending to be the incredibly rare caffeinated nectar. It was probably why this particular joint was so busy. A line of people snaked around the block, waiting for the clearance to come in.
One thousand credits for this tiny thimble of black fluid—roughly half my food budget for the week. Food wasn’t needed to survive, right? All of a century ago, there were some who classified coffee as a basic food group.
The clock in the corner of my vision started to blink. Thirty seconds to the drop. Thirty seconds to attempt to savor the coffee.
A muted ding in my ear announced the arrival of a new message—the one I’d been waiting for. I tapped into the empty space in front of me, a gesture that my glasses recognized as an instruction to open the message. It contained the photo of an unassuming man and the words: ››You know what to do.‹‹
I scanned the coffee shop for the recipient, running a facial recognition app on each face I looked at, comparing it to the photo from the Pregutor. There was nothing that stood out about the man in the photo. He wasn’t the most stunningly gorgeous person on the planet, but he wasn’t ugly either. He was clean shaven and possessed hair that was classically styled. Short, well kept. And his eyes . . . As the facial recognition program splashed a green MATCH in the center of my display, I studied the vacant eyes of the man in the photo. There was no brightness to them, like the man had nothing left to live for. Perhaps that was why the Pregutor chose him.
I skulled back the tiny thimble of caffeine, cursing at how I didn’t have the time to allow the liquid gold to linger on my tongue. But when there’s a drop to be made, time was of the essence.
The clock hit zero, and the scanner unit at the door flashed a red X again. A message on the main scanner panel said that the unit was reinitializing and reconnecting to the Central Health system. No doubt the Pregutor’s handiwork. That meant I had roughly forty seconds to make the drop and disappear before the system rebooted, tracking my movements.
I tapped out a preprogrammed sequence on the edge of my glasses, and my favorite song started playing in my earbuds. Purple Rain by Prince and the Revolution. The moment I heard that first strum of the guitar, any emotions or doubts I might have had about the drop melted away, giving way to clear logic.
With a steady breath, and the classic rock ballad muting all sounds from the outside world, I got up from my seat and grabbed the package. I then headed toward the table in the center of the room, weaving around chairs pushed backward in the pathway. I stood before the hollow-eyed man sitting on his own.
The moment he looked up at me, I did my thing. The edges of my vision darkened, and I pushed past whatever questioning thought sat on the surface of his mind. Soon, all that remained in focus were his eyes—those lifeless eyes.
“You better do what the Pregutor wants you to do,” I mentally said to him. “Don’t make me come back here and do it for you.”
I dropped the package on the table. Without a word or another thought, I headed for the door. I tapped the edges of my display glasses, and a seal formed to protect my eyes. I pulled up my breather and activated the filters, then pulled up my hood, tucking in the loose strands of purple hair.
The well-known refrain of the chorus played in my ears as I stepped out into the outside world. Walking down the street, I waved my gloved hand in front of me. My virtual display revealed a single icon in the center of my vision. A white rose in full bloom—my employer’s logo. I pressed the virtual button, relaying my position back to the Pregutor, along with a timestamp of when the package was delivered.
As I continued down the busy streets, a gunshot echoed behind me, followed by screams.
Dancing in the Purple Rain is now available from your favorite retailer.
Dancing in the Purple Rain
In a poisoned world, Michaella, a genetically engineered telepath, uncovers a web of lies and implanted memories when her closest friend is killed. Michaella must now rely only on her personal AI and a 200-year-old playing card as she attempts to maintain her grip on reality to save herself and future generations from becoming emotionless automatons.
The rain starts August 1st, 2025.
More info →
