Blood coated my knife as I made the first cut. It splashed off my hand and stained my shirt crimson. I stopped to stare at the deep red sky as the sun crested the mountains to the east. In my mind, I began to contemplate the nature of revenge, retracing the painful events that led me to embrace its bloody path.
“End it,” said Currado, lying prone on the rust coloured ground. “It’s the only way to stop your pain.”
“No,” I replied. “Our suffering is endless.” I made another deep slice, then dropped my knife.“You see," I said, revealing the freshly cut fruit in my hand. “In Sicily, even the oranges bleed.”
A few years ago I came across a book of really short stories. I mean REALLY short ones, no longer than one hundred words. So, being the sucker for that kind of stuff that I am, I figured I'd give it a shot. The result was the depressing, yet strangely humorous (if you get the joke) tale above. Now that I read it, I kind of wish that I had edited it more, or chosen a few words better, but tinkering with a finished work seems wrong to me. If you didn't get the last line, let me explain. Essentially the guy is referring to a blood orange, my favourite fruit, which grows naturally in Sicily as well as a select few other places. The line is actually an old Sicilian proverb that alludes to the extreme violence of Sicilian culture...how bad is it if even the earth and the fruit bleed?
Ok, that's it for tonight, I hope you liked my only attempt at a one hundred word story. If not, then write one yourself and see how well you do. Ciao.