The trap works

— Read the First Chapter —

— Read the Second Chapter —

— Read the previous part —

— Read in Italian —

The bicycle

It was just few minutes ago. Then the woman took her bicycle, again. Following those wheels are not as easy as you can think, in the traffic. For cars is easier, with all that red, and yellow and green.

Two wheels

A bicycle, though, is pure action, a shadow suspended between two round mouths eating asphalt, jumping skilfully over and down the sidewalks. Blue and black that bicycle is even difficult to catch, in a small town got all black and grey by the escape of people to the city. No, the city let enough people still live here, they’re necessary.

Grey hair, grey towns

People here are getting more and more grey every day, white even as mountains tops. The only help comes from the white beards of the old people, in fact. They let the blue and black bicycle stand out and so being recognisable. Elderly people point, then. Yes, they have white hair, they speak slower than the others, spit on the ground and point with their fingers. Not everyone can point out as elderly people do. I saw youngsters trying to point out something and ending up fighting.

The market

Anyways, that was the market, completely another story. When you’re in the market you know they’re not going to be soft. They shout, trying their best to attract the attention of people passing by. It’s a surviving game.

A stuttering shouting amass of wreckage, fruits and jeans interrupted only by the rain. When it’s raining, everyone got under their big umbrellas to smoke their peace pipe. A cigarette and let’s go out, as shell-less snails. Shouting and selling again.

Just sun

To be honest, here there’s no rain, but a big sun wagging his tail and barking through the lawns, meowing on the roofs and stumbling on a ball in the backyards. Maybe there’s no rain, but there’s a lot of life here. You can still see those circular breathing and die that the suicide offices hate.

Dough of humanity

Those offices they never get really i nostri lettori in this place. This is more the place in which all the soldiers, the night janitors, the workers have their origin. Here the bread dough is made, ready to go to the oven to be cooked. When it’s finally ready, when it’s a human being well formed, this one-day-dough go to the city, hoping to be eaten by someone.

Refused bread

Refused bread, the imperfect dough, most of the time would come back here. First just to find some peace with dad and mum, then to start a new job as a cashier, waiting for the hair turning grey. And with the secret hope to make a great dough, a bread good enough to be eaten by the ravenous mouths of the city.

The bicycle run fast through the streets, disappears, then appears again. A lighthouse over a quiet sea, it flashes reflecting the sun.

Just an humble hat

My head doesn’t know where to turn anymore, all sweat at it is. The sweat is the worst enemy for us, hats. It let us slip down, and we start being annoying. But wait a bit of wind and rain and you’ll start loving me again, you big head!

Few days passed and this bicycle run fast through the streets, leaving behind this elephantine man asking himself

Where would she have been?

Something isn’t right, anyways. If at the beginning finding her was quite simple, now she’s just a shadow which appears and disappears as a dream. A nightmare, frankly. A nightmare willing to wake up this guy, which miss his grandma, or the shadow of his mum, to switch on the light and make all those scary shape worthless.

He needs to find that woman, but she’s not what he’s really searching for. He doesn’t really care about her, what he needs is to put his hands on the soul. That’s all that matters. He wants to take that soul in his hands again and laugh, finally. Just laugh with his white soul.

Ah, ah!

The laugh leaves the lungs and passes through the vocal cords, modulated by the humid tongue and the dry lips. It’s too late to understand that he’s not alone with his thoughts. The old people around start glancing at him as he was a strange fool thing. Then they seem to realise it’s a huge fool strange thing, with muscles and all so they keep going with their conversation leaving the craziness to the craziness.

Alone, again

A new idea comes now to his mind. I feel the idea passing from one ear to the other. The pupils dilate, the fingers rub the lips and from there goes straight to the forehead. Sure!

Why wasting time trying to catch her? If she’s escaping, there would be a reason, no? And if someone will catch her before him? Or worst, someone will alert her every time he will be there around, like that time at the hotel? The best thing to do now it’s following her, but not too close.

It’s difficult to disappear

We have to take into consideration that it’s really difficult to disappear, when you are so big. Long steps pass through the streets inflating the shadows of the sun. Some pigeons happily coo swelling up as well as the shadows, some leaves leave a tree to try their luck in the street.

The bicycle_the trap
La trappola funziona_ the trap

The steps now are firm, secure, you can see he has a plan in mind. Why he didn’t think about that before!? Why trying to stop that bicycle all these days, when the best move from the beginning would be finding a small house with a blue bicycle parked in front? Not all the houses are hidden behind a bicycle, after all.

Finally!

And, in fact, the bicycle is there. A small building with the colour of the palm of a hand, where someone has drawn a brown door and two green windows. He just needs to park here in front and wait. So clever, he understood everything so quick, just three days. Oh, but with a head like that! We hats can recognize when someone is clever.

–And the next week… The Library!–

La storia sarà pubblicata una volta a settimana e tutti i diritti della storia e relative traduzioni sono riservati a Flyingstories.org e nella persona di Daniele Frau.

Tutte le grafiche sono fatte a mano, realizzate con tecniche differenti da Gabriele Manca, DMQproductions, che ne detiene i diritti. 

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

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