Tag Archive english

Camerieri_waiters

Waiters

— Read the First Chapter —

— Read the Second Chapter —

— Read the previous part —

— Read in Italian —

The letter

Only M. knows the truth. Or part of it.

What I know is that we don’t have much time to loose, since the guy will come here in minutes. M. rushed into the hotel with her grey bag, scared enough to hide. But if S. would find her first he would have a probability to understand something more. How they’d say? He will put a new piece of the puzzle in the right place.

A chaotic walz

Waiters and men with straw hats share the ground floor with elegant women. Not to eat, that’s clear. After all, this is the kind of place people book for the soft slippers in room and in swimming pool. Don’t carry anything else here but your money.

Escape from metropolis

It’s not just this place alone, you’ll able to find tons of places like this in the countryside, with tons of people from the metropolis in it. Far from the city, they can have all commodities at hand and, at the same time, slowly pollute and destroy what they already polluted and destroyed in the city, before. They had to cut some trees and they got the water the characteristic grey colour, but having a bath in a nice swimming pool has its own price.

Waiters and waiters

They don’t stop with a mere swimming pool, here. No, there is a feeding line filling  the main room with waiters, all hopping from one foot to the other keeping in balance heavy metal trays. You can find everything on top of that trays, from exotic fruits to soul’s brandy. It’s a never ending chain that line, a roller coaster of food.

Human domino!

Oh, it would be just magic to trip this woman with the dark fur and let her stumble. Oh, would be amazing seeing her falling to the ground carrying all the others with her. A human domino about which tomorrow all the newspapers will speak!

Here she is!

Wait a second, here she is, M. I can spot her red shoes. S. doesn’t see her, yet, but she’s there, just across the room close to that man with round ears. No, he cannot see her, in this chaotic rendez- vous of trays and food. You have to be a pair of shoes sometimes to spot some details. But she spotted him, anyways, and now is watching him from behind a plastic plant, asking to herself.

Should I stay or should I go?

It’s not a song, but a genuine question. And even from here I can feel an answer coming from somewhere

It’s not him you have to be afraid of, but the man that entered in your room crashing your door. This man with moustaches will be your solution

That voice

That voice seemed to have the power of calm her down. She’s actually got a point on being afraid, what a way to awake running from your own window! Sink or swim, she must take a risk, but in her own way. She suddenly start scribbling fast in a piece of paper.

The food wheel of waiters is still going on, but here there is a waiter with empty hands.

Grab him!

Camerieri_waiters

Sorry, are you available?

Actually, no. I’m going to take an order…

Excellent, take my order. Do you see that man with pointy moustaches?

Y-yes

Amazing, you must give this piece of paper directly to him. It’s a matter of life or… Never mind, take this money and go

And suddenly two piece of paper makes the waiter smile and utter a:

Thank you

But before he finished to thank her, M. is already crowd, part of this circular chatting, coming and going, of this room- service order of things.

Surprise!

Hi, I have a message for you

S. shows his best genuine surprised face. All his attention taken from the research of M., he didn’t even see the waiter coming. He takes the letter from him which, without saying anything, disappears in the eating- assembly- line. S. doesn’t have  a chain or a line to disappear in anymore. He lean against the counter and starts reading.

We have met before, not long ago. You are a dealer of souls and I’m a doctor. What you are searching for is a white soul, even though I don’t know why. Right, I want to make a deal with you. I’m not interested in the soul, I will keep it until I reach the Well of Souls. I’m heading there right now. If you really care about your soul, keep me safe from the huge man who’s following me. After I will reach the well, you’ll have your soul back. If you agree with me write grab a white rose from a vase and pin to your jacket, I will see you.

I hope one day we will meet again in normal circumstances.

Good luck,

M.

A white rose!

S. tears the letter apart and throws it in the waist bin under the counter. Now he goes in a rush to the first table where an old couple is playing cards and takes one of the white roses from the vase. She’s still watching him? This flowers don’t need to have any colour, as they don’t have any smell. That faded long time ago, while they let them travel inside a fridge as they were steaks.

What do you think you’re doing, young man?

The old woman is shocked, how dare him stealing a rose from her vase? The husband in front of her take the chance to cheat and watch her cards.

Fast, fast!

S. doesn’t care, he just look around hoping she’d seen him. Suddenly, the huge guy enters in the room, with his hat still lowered over his eyes. There’s not much time, he needs to get rid of him. But how? First things first, now he needs to go out, out in the world, out from this chain, in the countryside. Without swimming pools and food lines. Where the trees still sing.

— And the next week… Help! —

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

Amore_disperazione_corri!

Run!

— Read the First Chapter —

— Read the Second Chapter —

— Read the previous part —

— Read in Italian —

Death

Dying is so easy that no one wants really be next on the list. Or too difficult, perhaps? Maybe it’s just the dread of finding out that we’re alone, without anything to keep us in the world. Sometimes it’s difficult to keep up with that fear when you’re still alive. Buried undead in a nauseating reality, I see everyone jumping on the monocycle of lying with one aim: surviving. Happy? Yes, maybe just for despair, leaving behind whom made despair a style of life.

Despair

M. was obviously not desperate, with a brilliant career in her studies and a steady job, plus a man with whom she could distress her passions. Without paraphrasing, she was just happy. That evening she was even happier, despite for the rain that was falling for days with no stop. The kind of happiness you cannot find in a movie or a comics, but in the elegant pages of a good book.

Love

A bliss completely light- hearted that is just impossible to imagine because M. is still only a name for you. But what is not a name, floating and shining in light and shadows around us? That name in particular was in love with a man smelling hair- gel and  strong pine fragrance.

The curly-hair man

Never been a good friend of a comb, the guy was using his curls to reach as many person of female gender as possible. M. was obviously unaware of all those conquers, all too busy studying origami, working at the Old Hospital and attending operas. The last one was moving her to cry for a lady’s man sent to war or a hunchback angry with the world and his curse.

The Opera

Was during one of those silent- crying moment, in the opera in which the clown is regarding himself as it was for the first time at the mirror, that the fate stepped in. Better, a series of fates create a chain of events, a river flowing faster and faster as the rain falling out of the windows of the theatre. What has to be has to be, they say.

Tramuta in lazzi

lo spasmo ed il pianto,

in una smorfia il singhiozzo,

e’l dolor-Ah!

And the singer fell to the ground, his face turning red. The tears were still on the Maestro’s face when the doctor and the soul dealer stepped on the stage. The people around, like bees stunned by a smoke, ran up and down, blind and confused. M. didn’t move, instead. She’ve never ever leave an opera without reaching the end, before. She stayed in her seat, waiting in vain for a

Ridi pagliaccio

that inevitably wasn’t going to come. Instead, a sensation of anxiety, started its way through her chest. A cold draft was passing through the lung’s wall, along with a strange sensation. An anxiety crisis or soul crisis as someone calls it. She had to leave that horrendous staging out of the stage. Outside it was still raining, but the air was fresher, easier to breath. No show of those human- bees and the smoke that made her blind and anxious.

Home, home!

The theatre wasn’t so far away from her apartment, behind the street with two buildings, in a fourth floor coloured by her curtains. She was expecting a gas stove to dry up a bit, then read a book and well, probably some cuddles.

Amore_disperazione_corri!
Amore_disperazione_corri!

Human warmth

As she turned the handle, instead of the stove, she found out two sweating bodies trying their best to heat up the apartment through some human warmth. The guy  was the curly hair man we mentioned before, while the girl was just a student with buck teeth.

I know some people which never recover from adolescence, other people that never learn how to grieve and then there is M. For her and people like her, it will be difficult to look in the eye another man without thinking about the gamble people still call love.

E se Arlecchin t’invola Colombina,

ridi, Pagliaccio,

e ognun ti applaudirà

A sense

Countless minutes, hours and years passed since then searching for a sense, with no luck. Countless because I’m a watch and I’m here exactly to make count of every second. She mystified the perfection, she was really thinking to be finally in the right side of the wall. And then, as in a second 1989, the wall fell. Or a house of cards. Someone opens a window and the whole structure collapses. Almost a year later, on the table of doctor M., now coroner in a small town in province of nowhere, someone put the corpse of a doctor with a severed carotid.

And she was as always, as in the last days, still

Hey, wake up!

No signs, from the bed table I cannot really see if she’s sleeping, crying or just praying in silence

Hey, wake up!

The only thing I know is that the one speaking is the severed finger animated.

And suddenly she was as always, but a bit trembling, lost in thoughts of someone else.

A rustle of sheets and finally I can see a figure. The sheets fall to the ground and two hands grab me, avidly. On my clock- face I can see her face, hesitant. Yes, I’m still the one counting the time here around, the only one taking track of the time. Her face get blurred with her warm breath. She gets more and more blurred, while her hands start shaking. I’m certainly not a pair of eyes, but still I’m part of her reality. And her reality is blurred. Sometimes I want to know if I really exist or if I’m a fruit of my own fantasy.

Rise and shine! We need to talk

Again, the voice is coming from the small bloody cloth at the other side of the bed. It’s there because two trembling hands let him fell before. The same hands that now are grabbing me so hard, as I simply was the last link with a lost reality. The last second of the night passes, slow and elegant

Tac

So… your’re not going to talk to me?

The red eyes seem to look far away. That voice, that bloody cloth on the bed seem to be all unreal. Then

What… who are you?

Oh, god! You’re alive!

The soul trapped in the bloody finger in the cloth exclaims. And then continues, more poetically

I’m a soul first stolen, then given as a gift, stolen again but for different purposes. I’m the insane tribute men reserve to beings without any choices. My destiny was clear, coherent even. And now I feel myself just a piece, full of dark blood, lost at the feet of a woman thinking she got mad

Tic

Why did you choose me?

Asks M. in a whisper

Tac

Finally a question I’m able to answer back. In the room, when I woke up, there were only you

Tic

— And next week… That guy, again! —

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

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

— And next week… human food! —

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

La fuga_ the crowd

La fuga

— Leggi il Primo Capitolo–

— Leggi il Secondo Capitolo–

— Leggi la puntata precedente–

— Read in English —

Pance, schiene

Ogni essere umano, ogni cultura che impari a non calpestare l’erba, deve per forza imparare a convivere con la solitudine e con la mancanza di spazio. Il paradosso della civilizzazione. C’è chi ha trovato come naturale soluzione a questa cronica mancanza quella di ammassarsi pance contro schiene, diminuendo l’estensione della folla in palle informi di uomini e donne.

La moltitudine

Come una scatola di cioccolatini animata, queste teste si muovono e brulicano su scale mobili e vagoni ferroviari, lasciando però intatte biblioteche e piccoli teatri. Una folla che non sa gocciolare, ma solo fluire. Altre culture hanno inventato altri modi per moltiplicare lo spazio personale, in assenza di aree ancora vergini. Non hanno desiderio che pance e schiene si ritrovino sempre attaccate, come a soffiarsi nell’orecchio. Un amore che in queste latitudini è considerato scandaloso.

I rettangoli di luce

Non che possano fare diversamente, gli esseri umani per quanto piccoli possano essere occupano una precisa area personale. Ecco dunque qual è il ruolo delle cuffie, dei rettangoli di luce e dei colori delle pubblicità. Uno sguardo verso uno specchio cieco che insonorizza, addolcisce le ombre, partorendo vite molto meno miserabili di quelle che si è abituati a vivere. Pance contro schiene. Così diventano allegri, spensierati, gratificati dal successo ottenuto dai loro alter ego. Queste ombre almeno non devono solamente camminare con i loro piedi, starnutire e bestemmiare il loro lavoro. Questi riflessi di vita non devono alienarsi ripetendo come a farsi coraggio

Io non sono qui

Tranquillizzati dalle loro foreste- gioco, mondi- allenamento e stadi- castello, queste pulci dimenticano di essere in cerca di sangue. Si convincono di essere piloti, pirati, grandi giocatori di sport di palla o racchetta. Da insetti a dèi con il solo tocco su un rettangolo colorato. Come attori che si rifiutino di lasciare il set, convinti di essere davvero il personaggio che il regista desidera che questi siano.

Dal finestrino

Schiacciato tra altri uomini- moltitudine, entità- metropoli, l’uomo del domani guarda fuori dal finestrino. Il treno lascia che le luci rimbalzino l’un l’altra, lanciandosi messaggi silenziosi. Onde che riflettono un sole tramontato da tempo, ormai. La notte è infatti un mare d’inverno, freddo e silenzioso. Un film in bianco e nero visto alla tv, direbbe una certa L. Lentamente S. lascia arrivare alla superficie di sé quell’istante di paura. Dai, forse non era paura, quell’uomo grossolano e balbuziente può solo avergli fatto pena. Eppure le parole del gigante arrivano come piccoli punti di spillo tra i pensieri accomodanti

Tu mi hai rubato l’anima, preparati a morire

Certo, magari non proprio queste parole, ma gli ricordano qualche film visto da bambino. I ricordi sono così arbitrari, soprattutto quando si tratta di ricordi cuciti sul cuoio della paura. Anche lì si parlava di vecchi conti in sospeso, la morte di un padre. Eppure quella era realtà, è facile ricordare, pure tra i filtri della paura, tutte le ombre intorno e quegli occhi. Quei fossi infiniti sotto un cappello a tesa larga. La risposta? Beh, la sua risposta non è stata di quelle che si leggono nei manuali di comunicazione, ma è stata comunque una risposta

Quale anima?

Hmpf

Tu… tu sei… quel ragazzo?

Per la prima volta sento la sua voce incrinata da puntini di sospensione, sospesa tra parole che non vogliono germogliare. Finalmente, entrando in quella sala di obitorio ha capito che c’è solo un’anima che cerca. L’anima di suo padre è la risposta ad ogni domanda passata o presente. Ed ora questo energumeno vuole portargliela via, ancora una volta. O almeno questo è quello che sembra volere, in quel modo tutto suo di farfugliare sotto il cappello.

Tuuuuuuuuu-p

Esclama il telefono

Tuuuuuuuuu-pp

Ripete, apparentemente un po’ più seccato il telefono

Ancora per un po’.

Dai, rispondi

Tuuuuuuuuuuuu-ppp
T-clack
Tu tu tu tu tu tu tu tu tu tu tu

L’apparecchio pareva essere diventato un balbuziente arrabbiato.

Poi il silenzio, con il telefono dimenticato sul tavolo.

Partire, doveva partire

I passi che si facevano lunghi nella stanza, o magari è semplicemente quest’ultima ad essere piccola. Doveva partire, la valigia finalmente pronta. Doveva partire, le chiavi sul tavolo. Doveva partire, non c’è più tempo. Questo andava ripetendo senza sosta per qualche ora. Prima che quell’energumeno lo venga a trovare ancora, prima di perdere le tracce di quella donna e di quel mignolo mozzato.

Tutto cambia

Il medico sembrava essere la soluzione, ma gli è sfuggito di mano. Di mano, no, per la precisione di dito. Un dito mozzato, che di certo nasconde qualcosa. Le tracce di sangue sono sparite ad un certo punto, ma bisognerà riprendere le ricerche. No, correre, deve correre, non c’è più tempo. Voleva avvisarla, avvisare quella donna dai capelli così scuri e dal vestito sempre così blu. Ecco, prendeva le chiavi, la sua piccola valigia grigia e

Blam

La porta urtò con forza girando sui suoi stessi cardini e chiudendosi all’interno. Fuori, i miei piedi scendevano veloci un pianoforte dai tasti tutti bianchi, una musica di passi difficile da seguire. Ecco poi il tram, preso al volo, che si muove e in mezzo alla confusione di pance e schiena, ora.

Una lettera

La fuga_ the crowd
La fuga_ the crowd

Qualcosa nella giacca, una lettera che profuma di lavanda, di carta blu. Non deve essere piacevole, perché la lascia cadere e si mette le mani al volto. La lettera scivola qui, vicino a questo umile paio di scarpe e dice

Caro S.

Mi mancano le nostre piccole uscite del sabato sera. Vederti a lavoro, sempre così sorridente. Mi mancano anche i nostri silenzi, i tuoi baffetti che sembrano temperati. Capisco però, proprio dai tuoi silenzi, che c’è qualcosa di più importante. Non preoccuparti per me, sarò ogni giorno alla macchinetta del caffè, seduta ad aspettare che tu ritorni. O magari sarò sempre là, con te.

La tua donna in blu,

N.

P.s. Le chiavi di casa le ho lasciate nella cassetta delle lettere.

Non ritorno, fuga

E quello è il punto di non ritorno, quando la città sembra diventare solo un mostro dalle narici aperte a fiutare la paura. Quando ogni muro trasuda sporcizia, quando anche gli sguardi della gente sul vagone diventano opachi. Tutti riflessi sui loro rettangoli, attaccati a dei cavi come a ricaricarsi. Ora vorrebbe che i ristoranti avessero del cibo, del cibo vero, piatti sui quali chiacchierare e urlare. Ora vorrebbe correre al cinema e guardare qualcosa che non sia pubblicità. Stringere la mano di N., nel buio, lasciandosi andare ad esplorarne le dita fini, la mano piccola dalla pelle morbida. Ora vorrebbe scappare, o vivere, o entrambe le cose. Abbozza un sorriso, niente è perduto. Mormora

Si, so dove andare

Lasciando gli altri passeggeri perdere l’attenzione per qualche istante dai loro giochi- mondo, perdendosi per un istante nella realtà. La realtà vera, dove pance e schiene sono unite, dove un matto parla da solo su un treno.

Tucutlun

Tucutlun

Tucutlun

E le rotaie spariscono dietro i palazzi come a voler dare profondità ad un disegno

Si, so dove andare

E la prossima settimana… cibo umano!

La storia avrà pubblicazione a cadenza settimanale. Tutti i diritti sulla storia sono riservati da Flyingstories.org e nella persona di Daniele Frau.

Tutte le grafiche sono eseguite a mano e in stili misti dall’artista Gabriele Manca, DMQ productions, che detiene i diritti sulle opere.

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

First Words_Italian alphabet

The alphabet

First words

Let’s have some old- fashioned recap, now. Let’s start with the alphabet.  As we said before, there is a classic method for everything we decide to study. A classic way you can study the alphabet is the repetition of the sound of a language. In this case, the purpose is to give us a small base to start with.

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?

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

Un corpo che… parla?

— Read in English —

— Leggi il pezzo precedente —

Un corpo

che

parla

Lei ci crede nella reincarnazione?

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.