Present

A glove, aliens

Calm down.

The one that follows isn’t a true story. It cannot be for many reasons. Between all the causes, there is the fact that I would be dreaming right now if this story was real. And I cannot believe I’m sleeping, really.

Let’s skip me, then. Well, after all, the only grammar I know it’s the one I learned watching the big speech of small politicians. The only words I know are those I heard in the tiny squares populated by elderly people. Those words were stretched, slow, able to cover them from the sun as well as the rain.

Falling down


This small fantasy story started with a man falling down from the sky, followed by many others. Shadows of men, women, children were dropping down, recorded by cameras, as pure entertainment. The pain of giving birth, the fall of a meteorite, along with a simple heart attack have in common one thing: they can easily be turned into fiction, and that’s a great business. No one eager to stop for a second, trying to understand what’s going on. 


On all this, a glove


 Let’s go back for a moment. Use your legs, your arms, or your finger. Point it, walk through it, just don’t miss the contact with your past. Only the past will get you through the future. 

Cold


Cold has a season in which it decides, thanks to a star and an inclined sphere, to beat the street. Half of the humans in a city, during this season, decides to stay at home, coughing. The other half, the strongest, runs over stairs, in the cars and on the sidewalks.


On the steps, in the automobiles, on the footpath, everybody slips. Someone slips differently, in a frozen sleep with a long beard, and close the eyes without opening them again. Under the stairs, you can see an undefined number of human beings without any future. Wrong choices? Yes, maybe. A wild, lavish life? Sure, why not? 

Whatever their mistakes were, it seems so cruel to see them leave under a blanket of carton, in the cold. That was the reason that lead the People’s Champ to the creation of the Happiness Patrols. That is, groups of citizens ready to put some colours on this sad grey lives.

 What could you expect? The civilizations that first divided good from bad grains, which really work out, crave a zero. Someone they can add to the average, better if they are decorated, happy zeros.

 So, we were saying, in the middle of a cold winter, the sun set up. Just pure light, no warm was coming from it, reflecting from the closed windows sidewalks and painted stairways. The morning air was clear, crossed by dark coats and sleepy glances.


Anyways, we were speaking about a glove

Un guanto perduto_a missing glove
Un guanto perduto_a missing glove

 There was a woman first. She left from her square called home and passing through big and small doors, keys and locks, until she was finally out in the air. In her pocket, as always, two accessories used to warm up your hands. One of those things, for unclear reasons, decided to jump from her pockets to travel somewhere else. Free to go around the world, alone.

 It’s too late when the woman noticed the missing gloves.

No, better losing an arm in the freezing cold than arriving late at the cubicle. After a few steps on this cold planet, though, the woman looked at her bare hand suspiciously. A blue, grey hand? Indeed, not as pink as always was. She searched fast in her purse, to finally find a bill. A banknote ready to be burned for a taxi ride. A way as any other to warm up a bit, in a white car.

 The taxi driver looked weird.


She would say later the woman to the police officer.


He was looking at me, worried. I thought that was uniquely due to inexperience.


The taxi driver turned and turned, less and less secure behind the wheel.


He didn’t speak at all, not even a small sound, as he was in apnoea. As he wasn’t even human.


All this was added by the woman-with-only-one-glove speaking to a journalist of the “Belly of the People”, a local newspaper.


The last turn and the taxi slowly stopped in front of the Trustful Bank, the workplace of the woman.


Few frozen steps, some non-gloved handshakes and finally the cubicle.
Outside, ready to ruin a pacific day in that place-non- place, an explosion. A car crash, an accident, you would say.


Boom


But no, it was something else, louder. An explosion capable of reducing the mirrored-grey front of the building in small geometric shapes each one not bigger than a nail.


This was the only information people had when started going in the street. A white taxi was burning.


A terrorist, a terrorist.


The people started shouting in the street. Then they did louder, on the net, so all the rectangles-phones of the city-nation mirrored the information in big letters:


A TERRORIST


Few hours passed and the panic was viral. The People’s Champ felt the urge to step out of his balcony, with his famous reassuring smile.


In that street suddenly felt the silence. Anyways, it was a long time the silence wasn’t much of a choice anymore, but a mere style of communication. When you live in terror, there is not much else to do than stay quiet. The only sound you could listen to was the buzzing of the helicopters, searching the clouds.


Servants


Stated the Champ, waiting until the echo was ready to come back, passing over the heads and ears of the people in front of him.


Our Glorious Country is currently under attack


A smile, still reassuring, even after a small murmur came from the crowd.


But we’re not afraid of them! Africans, Indians, communist, homosexuals, southerner, they didn’t scare us before. And we have solid walls to protect us!


A spontaneous applause started as it was called. As if there was somewhere a sign:


APPLAUSE


As if that was just another variety show.


Brothers and sisters, our walls cannot be high enough, this time. The enemy is coming from the sky and it’s ready to invade us!


The murmur was now a buzzing, a prayer man- helicopter, or an immense cat furring inside a box.


From the future?


Danger?


From the sky?


Those were the most original phrases you could have heard there.
The Champ continued, putting a halt to that murmur with a flat hand.


Comrades, we don’t have North or South, East or West to be afraid of anymore. This time the danger is way more concrete. However, we have to calm down, everybody. It wasn’t a terroristic attack.


In the people, down the balcony, emerged a sudden sigh of relief. And all the gazes were for the Champ, full of hope.


That was only an accident, caused by a clandestine. An alien.


The buzz of the people, the murmur became a bit hysterical, now.
Let’s make another step behind, now. If you’re intelligent enough, you would be wondering how the situation started getting so bad. In the communication era closing ourselves inside walls doesn’t seem to be the wisest option.

The red button

You’re intelligent, right, but maybe you didn’t see the red button. That red button, always shiny and ready to be pushed in case of need. The button of fear. With that, you can create people worried about invasions, epidemics, or terrorizing them about a crazy man with a bomb. No, not a usual bomb, but one of those bombs that can get rid of trees, rivers and even clouds.

A change


First, this change didn’t happen overnight, in a drastic way. More like a metamorphosis, with the same force generated by the grass growing. A quiet, slow change that first replaced the ruling class with something really close to the stomach of the people.

So close to that common stomach that was vomited. A ruling lump needed a leader, anyway, and there he was: the Champion People was waiting for. A buffoon, a functional analphabetic idiot, but successful and always smiley, no matter what.


See, this is the kind of modern man always feels comfortable if surrounded by a crowd clamoring for him. He learned how to fan the flames, and the crowd loved it and followed him in the fire. Obviously, without an enemy or a scapegoat, he would had just found himself blowing in the air, with no fire.

Many started to be seen as metastasis, new problems, enemies of the people. Many, again, started their journey into the dungeons or under the sharp knives of the buffoon.

But now, apparently, he was again without any more flammable part. he burnt everything that was slightly flammable. No more metastasis to cut, no more dead leaves to be burned.


But all in all, this explosion wasn’t so bad for him. That’s the reason why he was keeping his famous smile on. Slowly, all the men and women survived from the future were found and arrested. Some of them, more photogenic than the others, were invited even on some talk-shows as attractions.


So, Mr. Alien, where are you actually coming from?


The dirty blond hair presenter asked.


We’re coming from the future and we’re j-just escaping.


This frightened middle-aged man answered, stuttering.


And why you don’t want to live in your own future anymore?


You… you finished it off. There was n-nothing for us, only war and destruction.


There, there. Last question: how do you answer to whom is asking you to go back to your future?


I answer that we are your nephews and nieces, sons and daughters of your sons and daughters. We’re not aliens!


All right, Mr. Alien. The time’s up, good night and good luck.
A smiley crowd applauded escorting him out of sight, introducing the man of the moment. A man capable of the impossible, eating ten big sandwiches at once.


Slowly, the newspapers started new titles:


How to recognise and neutralise a future being


New kit against aliens


More and more explosions started to scare the population. The terrorist was always a man of the future, not well identified. The opposition tried to resit, throwing some drop of water on the fire:


We don’t have any substantial proof that the explosions are due to some future immigrants or are connected to any terroristic purposes. Even the taxi explosion is still under investigation. In the meantime, we find dutiful to help these people in need.


The press was waiting only for that. They started calling them bloodsuckers. Neither white nor Arabic, black or Asiatic, they were new mixed being coming from the sky.


As always happens, the first law was calling them illegal. That was the first step, and they ignored the fact that if you start calling illegal the nuvole you won’t automatically stop the rain. The so-called alien rains continued, and the population started helping them as they could.

They placed mattresses and pillows in order to save some lives. To stop somehow the massacre. Then, the Government made new laws and people got scared to be part of the massacre. It’s so easy to be exchanged for an alien. Shortly, the consequence was that mattresses and pillows disappeared.


The so-called aliens, as they wanted to disobey the laws, continued to come from the sky. Shortly, heaps of bodies began to rise, and some of the aliens could save themselves just falling on one of those big piles. People started to comment it coldly, as it was something far, far away:


They were asking for it


Finally they got it, they don’t have to come


We have laws and the laws must be followed


La massacre was going on 24/7 every day for months. In the streets you could see men and women covered with mud and blood, walking in shock in the streets. Those were the survivors.


Here is where our story really starts.


Or, maybe, it finishes.

… it continues…

You didn’t read the first part and now you’re watching it thoughtfully? Click here.

The story is written by Daniele Frau and he has all the rights over its reproductions. Read more about it here.

The illustrations are original and made by Gabriele Manca (DMQ productions) which has all the rights over them.

Vuoi leggerla in italiano? Clicca qui.

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