My morning writing has shifted to mid-day, because of all the non-writerly things I have to do these days. Today I picked up a random picture as a prompt, and here’s what I wrote in 5 minutes of timed writing:
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 am 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.