Category Archivesouls (alive)

La fuga_ the crowd

Leave!

— Read the First Chapter —

— Read the Second Chapter —

— Read the previous part —

— Read in Italian —

The crowd

Every human being and every culture which learned how to avoid stepping on the grass, must learn how to live together with solitude as well. Solitude and lack of space, the paradox of civilisation. Some cultures have found a natural solution, as amassing belly against back, squeezing the mass into shapeless balls made of men and women. As in an animated hazelnut chocolate praline box, these heads move, heaving around on escalators and in railway carriages.

Reality

This shapeless mass is leaving libraries and small theatres almost always empty. This crowd isn’t dripping, but just flowing away. Some other cultures invented some other way to avoid physical contact, increasing the perception of reality. They don’t want belly and back to be aware of being in contact, people almost breathing in one another’s ears. This is the kind of scandalous love people don’t really like in these latitudes.

The space of beings

Anyways a human being, for how small he or she could be, occupy a certain space. That’s the role of headphones connected to rectangles of light and colours of advertisements. It’s a simple glance on a blind mirror, able to mute and soften up the shadows reflected.  Suddenly lives way less miserable are born. Belly against back. People start being happy, careless, delighted by the successes achieved by their avatar. These shadows at least they’re not confined in walking with their feet, sneeze and hate their own job. This shades don’t have to alienate themselves or to repeat with the bravest facial expression

I’m not here

Reassured in their forest- game, training- world and stage- castel, these bugs forgot they’re born to suck blood. Instead, they start convincing themselves to be pilots, pirates, amazing players(with ball or racket). From insects to god with a tap of your finger. They’re actors refusing to leave the stage, persuaded to be the character the director gave to them.

An endless sea

Sqeezed between these solitude- men and women, metropolis- entities, the man of tomorrow is watching outside the window. The train is leaving the lights bounce one into another, letting them speak their silent messages. The same waves coming from a sun already set under the horizon. The night is a winter’s sea, cold and quiet. A movie in white and black. S. finally let slowly that moment of fear come back. No probably wasn’t fear, mostly pity. Sorrow, yes sorrow for that stutterer vulgar man. Even though, the words of the giant find an echo in his memory, a painful rebound as thousands of pin holes.

You stole my soul, prepare yourself to die

Yet, even if those weren’t exactly the words used, he replaced with what he can recall. As in a movie he watched when he was young. Memories are irrational and the more are fear- related, the more erratic. In the movie it was about some unfinished business, the death of a father. But here is reality, he was real and real was that man with all those shadows around his eyes. Those holes under the hat, staring at him. The answer?

Certainly the answer wasn’t the one you can read in a communication manual, but still it was an answer.

Which soul?

Hmpf

An suddenly he remembered. The boy, his body laying down in his room. The door with that elephant. That old woman crying so loud in the other room. Yes, that man was the guy he stole the soul.

You… You are that boy?

For the first time I can feel his voice cracked by an ellipsis, suspended in between words which don’t want to come out. Finally, entering in that morgue he understood what he really needs. He have to find his father’s soul, his own spirit. But now this man wants to take it from him, once again. Or this is what it seemed to want, stuttering and mombling, that man with the hat.

Tuuuuuuuuuuuuu-p

Shouted the phone

Tuuuuuuuuuuuuu-p

Repeated the phone, a bit annoyed this time

Tuuuuuuuuu-pp

Again, the phone repeated for a while

Come on, answer, please!

Tuuuuuuuuuuuu-ppp

T-clack

Tu tu tu tu tu tu tu tu tu tu tu

The ring changed to an angry voice.

Then, silence, with the phone left with his voice under the table.

Run!

The steps were big in the room or maybe is just a tiny house. He must leave, the baggage is ready. He knew he must leave, his keys on the table. No more time. That’s what he kept repeating. Before that piece of muscles will come again, before he will loose all the traces of that woman and the stolen finger.

Too complicated

That doctor seemed to be the solution, but something slipped from his hands. No, not an hand, a finger. That finger must be the answer, but what answer? No, he had to run, he had to go. No more time. He wanted to tell her, tell something to that woman with black hairs, and that blue skirt. But there was no more time. Keys in his hands, in the other the small grey baggage and

Blam

The door followed its hinges with force, and got closed inside the apartment. Outside, the steps run fast through the white keys piano, a crazy music this steps found difficult to follow. Than he caught the tram, and now we’re moving and…

A letter

La fuga_ the crowd
La fuga_ the crowd

Something in the jacket, a small letter with lavender perfume, blue paper. It doesn’t seem to be an happy letter. He let the letter drop, his hands on his face. The letter drop here, close to this humble pair of shoes and says

Dear S.

I miss to go out together in our Saturday nights, to see you at work. I miss our silences, even, in our favourite restaurant. I miss your pointy moustache! That’s why I become understanding more your silences than your words. I understood that’s something important going on. I don’t know what is it, but don’t worry. I will be there every day, close to our favourite coffee machine. Or maybe I won’t ever leave you.

Your woman in blue,

N.

P.s. The keys of your apartment are inside your mail box

Escaping

This is the point of not return, when the city seems to transform suddenly in a monster with open nostrils ready to sniff fear. When every wall exude dirt, when a glance of the people squeezed in the metro reveal nothing else than chaos. Everyone reflected in their rectangular devices, linked to some cables in their ears as recharging. Now he hopes to be in a place in which restaurants would have food, real food. A restaurant in which is normal to enter, order, shout, talk. Now all he wants is to run to the first cinema and watch something that is not advertisement, something able to give him some emotion. He wants to take N.’s hands, explore her fingers, that small soft fingers. Escape, live, or both, that’s all he wants now. Then, he smiles, giving colours to the world, again. Nothing is lost, he mumbles

Yes, I know where to go

And doing so he attracts the attention of some passengers, for a moment of two distracted from their games- world. For a second back to reality. The true reality, where bellies and backs are touching each other, where a crazy man is mumbling alone in the train.

Yes, I know where to go

Tucutlun

Tucutlun

Tucutlun

And the track of the train disappears behind the shadows of the buildings, as they wanted to give depth to this drawing

Yes, I know where to go

This story will be published once per week only, with all rights reserved for the story and its translations by Flyingstories.org 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. 

All English articles published in Souls (alive) proofread by Elisabeth Corcoran

Second Chapter

Second Chapter

Souls (Alive)

Death, souls, escape and truth

So many pieces of this story seem not to match, as they were a complicated w/b puzzle. We have flashbacks accounted by a crying grandma ashamed of herself, suicide offices and souls hidden inside cut fingers.

A story of souls?

Little by little we start understanding that this story is not all about souls as we thought. Not really. Souls are just an energy, the hidden force behind our world, which tell stories, give us a structure. In a word, they are the shape of th world itself.

A story of desires

S. has a desire: having his souls back. His ultimate dream would be one day to have his father’s soul, which was his own present. He desires a great career, and this as well as having his father’s souls has to come to terms with reality. The boy, in the meantime, is searching his own revenge against whom, his grandma said, stole his soul (and all his perspective with it). M. is the most cyinic of all the characters. She doesn’t want to dive into the world. Not anymore. Souls, corpses or the chirping of birds, everything’s part of an alien world for her. Even though the fate, in the shape of a soul, is going to take her in a journey.

The escape

Finally, an escape for three. An escape for souls and desires, ready to lead us in an unexpected travel. A travel in a souls world in which people are still planting its own dreams, drinking coffee and eating in restaurants.

The second chapter

Second Chapter
Second Chapter: The journey of souls
  1. The Big day
  2. The night
  3. About body and soul
  4. Find him!
  5. That boy
  6. Vendetta!
  7. The pyramid
  8. Bu
  9. The patient of 8.05 a.m.
  10. The doctor
  11. A corpse that… speaks?
  12. The hat
  13. Steps

Didn’t read the First Chapter? Do it now!

The meeting between S. and the boy

Steps

— Read in Italian —

— Read the previous one —

The encounter

The colours and the sounds are fading away, colours in the eyes of a man drunk of life. He drops the bottle and

P-ach-sh

The hat_ il cappello

The hat

— Read in Italian —

— Read the previous one —

At the market

Markets are complex places, full of colours and voices. Sometimes theatre and cinema try to replace the murmur of crowd just saying

Walla Walla

All together. But if you have experience of markets, you won’t be fooled. Maybe I’m not as useful as a pair of shoes or as precise as a watch, but I know how people yell in a market. I also know how winter changes the market itself. I’m familiar with winter, the season in which I, an humble hat, suddenly become important.

The life of a hat

In between this indistinct chattering and yelling, this human crowd murmuring, a hand takes me, another tries me over his head and looks at me in his reflection. I don’t have any advice to give to anyone, but that skull is too big for me, while that one has a sweaty forehead. In case they’d buy me, I would fly at the first wind blow and then who’d spend a minute to pick me up from a puddle?

No respect for hats, that’s all. Not even for gentleman’s hats.

This guy

Right now there’s a guy coming towards me. He’s not good looking and has a serious grim, but the shape of his head is perfect for me. Sure, we’re a lot here. So many hats to choose from, even though I feel I’m more elegant than a fedora,  a panama, a bowler, or a flat cap. Oh, I said that, didn’t I? He chose me! He wears me perfectly and pulls me over his eyes. Homburg is always a good choice.

Hmpf

Mumble in appreciation to the salesman

It’s only 30

Hmpf

Reply the man, not happy about the price. So the price drops to

25? I think it’s honest for a hat like this one

Hmpf

He left!

He answers back once again, still not happy about the price suggested by the salesman, and he quits. No, you small head salesman, go after him, stop him, he seems to have the perfect head shape. And probably some story to tell. With a head like that, it will be a shame not to understands his end.

No, no, wait! are you going for real? It was a joke, you see. I would never let you go without this hat. Wait, my friend. I say, wait! Let’s make it 20, deal?

Hmpf

Answers happily the guy with the perfect skull. The head of the salesman makes a lot of small wrinkles of happiness, while we leave fast out of that screaming mass of people

That face, that face

The hat_ il cappello
The hat_ il cappello

That square, that cube to solve in every side and every lost colour. The door opens, bringing the smell of forgotten, of dust, paper. Small pieces of wall, white, are in the ground as a reminder of a sad white and black carnival passed.

The room is simple, with a small red table. On the door, an elephant drawing, that the time discoloured.

The eyes watch down, the back bend and all together with the hands they try to find a drawer. Inside the drawer, a lot of random papers, the dark side that was forgotten, giving the back to the sun. Elephants, leaves, clouds, mountains and tubers, but no trace of a face. Why I know he’s searching for a face? He just keeps repeating

That face, that face, that face, hmpf

What a face looks like?

As a hat I don’t really know a lot, I’m just a thing, an element useful to repair heads from sun and rain. But one thing I know it’s that the faces are ovals, with a nose in the middle, two red or dark strips horizontal under the nose, with which the faces can yellto call yellow cars. Over the nose two things called eyes coloured the world and the soft one on the side record the sounds. And keep hats on, most of the time. On top of the heads, you’ll find most of the time a natural hat, called hair.

It’s him

So, a face is roughly as simple as that. Oh, the boy just finds out a face. The face is long, with a nose long and narrow as a finger and two small moustaches as commas over the lips. If only that man would buy me, with that moustaches I would be a star! The hands now are shaking, while they found a small note on the side of the paper

His name is S. Follow him

And next week, the End! (of the second chapter)

Read the first chapter!

This story will be published once per week only, with all rights reserved for the story and its translations by Flyingstories.org 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. 

All English articles published in Souls (alive) proofread by Elisabeth Corcoran

A corpse that... un corpo che...

A corpse that… speaks?

— Read in Italian —

— Read the previous one —

A corpse

that

speaks

Do you believe in reincarnation?

M. il medico_ The doctor

The doctor

— Read in Italian —

— Read the previous one —

I’m a humble wristwatch

Time

Time is just a matter of rhythm. The bigger is the space, the easier is to see that movement stretch until it dissolves completely. Here, then, in this small controlled space, time seems to be small, tiny. A midget of time, in the big circus of lights and planets. And yet, you cannot open a door that a second seems to fly away, together with some whitish yellowish body.

Il paziente delle 8.05 the patient

The patient of 8.05 a.m.

— Read in Italian —

— Read the previous one —

A patient certainty

Between one of the few certain things you’d find in your existence, believe me, you must add the 8.05 of every Monday morning. In a red bricks buildings with a noisy neighbourhood, an alarm awaits just for an electric impulse to ring. I should say it awaits to sing, instead. The alarm will start in a metallic voice an old song of an Italian singer, Claudio villa,

Bu, l'ufficio_ the suicide office

Bu

The suicide office

— Read in Italian —

— Read the previous one —

The lights of truth

The stairs reflect a yellow light, even though today for S. they’re whiter and more lucid than ever. The shadows itself seem to be colourful, all colours coming from a wonderful palette. The stairs lead to floors that all look the same, one after the other. His walk is light, sure as he wasn’t for long time now. Happens the same when my laces got inextricably tied. Then, after few minutes of painstaking work, with the right move they are free, again. Finally, the life of this handsome man with well sharpened moustaches seems to have some relax. There are new colours and a small light at the end of his spyglass.

Piramide, l'anima

The art of pyramid

— Read in Italian —

— Read the previous one —

The soul of a salesman

Oh how easy is to follow a salesman, when you’re at his feet. It would be more difficult if I was a glove, lost in between one shake and another in a cold winter. And  an old witchcraft seems to  connect inextricably offices and handshakes, enough to raise the question if are born before the cold pleasantries or the awful furnishings in the cubicles.

Vendetta!

Vendetta!

— Read in Italian —

— Read the previous one —

Searching for the salesman

Glassy eyes, like the ones emotionless of a big doll. The guy, as everyone always calls him, is looking motionless at the door. No, it’s not an entrance or an exit what he’s searching for, but a bit of rest. Here, on the ground abandoned, lays the letter, still open

Not being able to help you when you needed, that’s my disease, not being able to see what you really could be, but nothing ever let me be happier than seeing you coming to this world

From negative…

All negative sentences, as someone whose intent is to prepare for the worst, put the hands ahead. Like the day your younger cousin asks you to come with him for the first ride alone in the car and you just try to press on an invisible brake. This seems to be the purpose of that incipit, that continued

I wish I could have the force to rise my head and fight for you that night

…to conditional

From negative phrases to a conditional one, you can see you’re close to the truth. A doubt, anyways, a carcinogenic shadow spider of the thoughts, cannot stop oppressing the eyes of the guy. It was only a feeling of guilt without hope or a real immense love the one his grandma always showed to him? How could she hide a fact so important for so long, letting it mutate in a cancer and letting the soul itself suffer? If she would just have the bravery to say something like

I know how things were and it wasn’t easy to hide it from you for so long. What I know is that if I’d told you this before, probably now I wouldn’t be sick, and you weren’t reading these lines suspended by those stones that are my tears.

A small detail

Yet, it’s not the grandma what matters right now. She helped doing so, but someone else is the one who actually did it. If he wants to find out whom, he needs to focus on another detail. The night of the accident for example

Vendetta!
Vendetta!

There was three or four in the morning, when a young man knocked the door followed by a doctor. Do you remember, you used to like doctor B. It was Christmas Eve and your dad was crying all day in his room. In that room you could see all the misery of a widow, a half man without purpose, getting grey among the rooms of his memory. And then there were you, the happiness embodied, the fire able to get warm the entire house. You were drawing as always in your room, laying in your bed. At the time you were into elephants, I remember. I didn’t know what to do, those man passed through the stairs leaving your dad in his room, searching for some useless music he couldn’t find in the air.

A white soul

Then the letter continues with all the details, how they had to restrain him, knock him out and drive him to death, in order to extract his soul. A white soul, so bright that it makes everyone laugh, even his father downstairs in his room. The doctor, at the last moment, seemed to feel it was wrong, and they pushed him out. Everything seems to be so smooth, but something else should be important, right there

Who was that salesman?

I don’t know how to describe the face of that man, the salesman. everything was so rapid, my small snail. I remember the wanted to speak to you, before. I don’t know if it was just to distract you, or maybe to understand if that soul was the real one. Maybe the doctor wanted to stop everything and he was trying to find a way to do so.

The soul sketched it!

Sure! Why he couldn’t think about that before! Even if he cannot remeber anything, he had the pencil and the sheet in from of him. His soul draw that moment, that’s for sure. The doctor and the other man, they have to be somewhere, the last draw of his helpless soul is the most important.

The stolen soul

This is the case of the stolen soul, it must be. And the guy doesn’t know yet that the person he wants to search has his name craved in his left foot, right now.

— Read the next one, The pyramid–

Read the first chapter!

This story will be published once per week only, with all rights reserved for the story and its translations by Flyingstories.org 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. 

All English articles published in Souls (alive) proofread by Elisabeth Corcoran