On August 12th, post a story, an excerpt of your work or a poem you’ve written that shows HATE of some form or another – your character hates someone, someone hates your character, or maybe you hate someone/something?
I’ve broken the first rule, because I did not manage to schedule a post on time. My post will show August 13…though it is still August 12 in half the world! But blogfests are all about fun, and so many of my characters love to hate, that I have enough material, so here’s Rosso’s story, but not all of it, because he is still a work in progress:
He held me up by the ears, my father, just as if I were a giant rabbit at an auction, a rabbit as big as the pig he named me after, Rosso.But that is not the story.The story is also not, for example, that my father loved the sound of Italian names, and named his biggest, fattest pig, Rosso, or red, in Italian.It is also not that my ears grew longer with each hanging, and I grew to be a big, fat, pink man with long pointy ears that drooped when I was afraid. Which was whenever my father was in the room.The story is that I talked back at my father today, and he a strong man still at sixty, lifted my twenty-eight year old body that weighed 200 pounds, up by the ears, clear off the floor. He then stamped at me and said Sush! just the way he had done all my life, Sush! he said, go and bury your nose in whatever book it came out of, you fat pig! But today I figured I’m as big as him and must be as strong and why can’t I Sush him back?Which is just what I did. I sushed him and Sushed him, and I felt happy that I was as big as he was, no, bigger, and in the end I sushed him well.He’s on the floor now, very quiet. Rosso the pig is no longer around, but his offspring flourish in my father’s backyard. I will take him to them.And that, my friends, is the story.