They call it a job! Working has a sense only if you wake up angry and tired in the morning. You have a job when you knead the bread, make sausages, produce some cheese, or at least you sell and buy something.
Weighting some goods and using tools, that is what working should be like, a synonym of pain, anxiety, sweat from the forehead. Having a job means having a constant fear of losing it and lose all that you have with it.
Only when you finally approach your pillow at night you are entitled to smile content, ready to listen to what seems to be the sounds of the sea. The bed, it’s always the bed at the end.
All the conjectures, all the lies and corruption of this world seem to turn around this non-problem. People suddenly recollect shriveled memories, tell lies and give gifts to achieve a night in a bed.
All that work is meant to shape our roots deep in the ground, or if we want to be less romantic and more pragmatic, to shape our roof over our heads.
<<A bead and a job, a roof over your head at least!>>
This is a real message, fixed and rewrote thousands of times as a nursery rhyme you must memorize in pre-school. The cerebral cortex gets soaked with this advice and it’s quite unlikely to get rid of it. It’s like a spider, nestled in the dark of your conscience and ready to consume seeds of dreams, a flicker of fantasies and lights, sprouts of divergence.
A job is really so important?
It’s unfortunate to see characters mislead by the value of their souls. They are either confused by their expensive attics or are silent ranks of artists, dreamers, and people who decide to live in clouds.
I realize this is precisely the world in which I walk -or they let me walk in- every day. They said shoes are still free to dream, as my only task is to keep my sole attached and never lose my laces.
Anyway, people almost forget about shoes in summer. They replace us by wearing reversed Y devices- flip-flops they call them- that make you lose balance. On one side, steadiness seems to be the best method if you want to walk.
However, on the other side, the irrationality is what let people still shiver, with some fresh air passing through the toes wearing flip-flops. I hope you can forgive a grumpy pair of shoes as you keep reading.
See, from a shoe point of view, you got to see the world from a different perspective, with old-fashioned underwear, unmatched pairs of socks and smiles with coffee stains. You certainly need to be a pair of shoes to fully appreciate all those views.
<<Do you really believe this is life? I know what the problem is, it’s that cursed soul of yours!>>
Artists in a governor’s eyes are just out of the equation of good society. They are the kind of people that make your eyebrows raise, but only if you are bored enough or still curious.
Eventually, some people need laws and important axioms to read all the chapters of their existence. In a world where you have to sell your soul even to find an easy job in a post office, it’s essential to be following those axioms if you want to survive.
<<Tell me why such a brilliant guy as yourself must mix with this… rubbish. Artists? Oh, they’re nothing else than an idiotic group of people that didn’t even learn how to wear a shirt on the right side.>>
This was the monologue S.’s grandpa used to repeat over and over again.
<<The souls market has never been so favorable as it is right now.>>
That was S.’s father that stepped in when the grandpa took a break.
<<Why should you waste all of your good cards just to play to be a… an actor?>>
He spat out the last word as it was an insult. At that point, S. was ready to do anything to stop that constant preaching.
<<Who ever wanted an actor’s soul? Someone ready to sell everything, even his emotions, for mere applause! Applause!>>
Continued the grandpa, forgetting to mention that precisely from an actor arrived the pure soul they trapped inside his nephew’s body.
Slow as a drop falling over a stone, this idea day by day gets through S.’s head. Then, one fine day, he decided to cut his hair, swept away by an old broom, altogether with his dreams. S. got in the army of ‘head on the shoulders‘, ready to lock his plans in a drawer together with some plot he would never perform.
He was part of the new generation of rubber smiles, with endless roads to beat up. Eventually, he would learn some new techniques to unpick some fabric from puppets- customers, instead of the applause he always dreamt of.
He backpacked, prepared to give his soul away. It was important that his soul didn’t finish too far from there. Better to find a newborn, preferably poor. One day it would be easier to have that soul back whenever the poor guy would reach the legal age. One step at a time, S. had to choose his new soul, a soul for dealers.
You don’t need anything fancy if you want to be a successful dealer of souls. In fact, for the job, it’s better to have something average, mediocre. Half of this soul would be locked down inside a case the size of a pencil sharpener.
It was an ordinary Friday evening and outside was raining a dirty juice of clouds, splashing from the feet in light grey shadows. Puffs of cold and warm air joined for a second, appearing and disappearing as it was a lighthouse in the dark.
Between the first and the last step, you couldn’t count more than two kilometers and suddenly stopped in front of an entrance. The store sign made clear he arrived at his destination, stating, ‘O. And sons_we buy souls’.
Even though a broker of souls and a souls shop seem to be in a complete antithesis, they’re quite similar, in fact. If one sets the price of the most valuable souls, the souls’ shop does something similar.
Here souls that belong to poor people, prisoners and losers of any kind you can find in every society are displayed all together for the customer to decide.
This was the perfect place for someone who wanted to be a professional dealer to find the perfect soul.
And S. decided he will be one. The best one, in fact.
If you landed on this page, but you don’t have any clue of what this is all about, please read what is this story about.And remember that this is a bilingual project, so you can read it in English and Italian.
This story has been published once per week from October 2018 to October 2019, with all rights reserved for the story and its translations by Flyingstories and in the person of Daniele Frau.
All the graphics are handmade and designed with different techniques by Gabriele Manca, DMQ productions, who reserves all rights.