The Problem with Puce

Author's Note:
This was prepared for a creative writing class. I was told to "be a color."

The other students picked red, black, orange, pink; the kind of colors found in a Crayola eight pack. They described the sunshine, the sky and the ocean.

I picked Puce.
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The Problem with Puce

As colors go, I am often left out. It’s because of my name. Puce. Admit it. You thought I said puke. Or worse, puss. Everyone makes those mistakes.

Last week, a married couple was thumbing through the swatches.

“We need the perfect color for our baby’s room,” she said.

“How about this one?” he suggested. I tried to reflect more sunlight so they could appreciate the full spectrum of my hues.

“It’s lovely,” she said. “What color is it?”

“Puce.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Absolutely not! Did you know that Puce is the French word for flea? I can’t brag to Nellie that we painted our baby’s room flea. She painted Crysta’s room Flamingo.”

The mother-to-be was right. My name derives from French. But I am rather royal. After all, Marie Antoinette brought me to popularity in the 1700s.

Those were the days. Ball gowns, head dresses, slippers and drapes. I was all the rage. Till I fell out of favor. Things didn’t turn out so well for Marie either.

The problem isn’t my shade. I’m actually extraordinarily attractive. I’m a combination of brown and purple. Like a chocolate and grape milkshake. I get along with deep blue. And I combine especially well with other shades of purple.

The trouble is my name.


Puce.


Should I hire a publicist? Or maybe have my name changed. I understand Mauve is taken. But what about Palace Purple?

After all, it’s all about marketing.