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Un guanto perduto_a missing glove


A glove, aliens

Calm down.

The one that follows isn’t a true story, it cannot be for many reasons. One of those reasons is the fact that, if the story was real, I would be dreaming right now. And I cannot think I’m just sleeping.

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 listened in the small 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 falling down, recorded by cameras, pure entertainment. The pain of giving birth, the fall of a meteorite, along with an heart attack have in common one thing: they can easily be turned into fiction, and fiction is 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 a bit, 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 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 beating season, decides to stay at home, coughing. The other half, the strongest, runs over stairs, in the cars and in the sidewalks.

On the steps, in the automobiles, on the footpath, everybody slips. Someone slips in a different way, 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 were their mistakes, it seems so cruel to see them disappear 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 civilisations that first divided good from bad grains, the ones that really work out, they crave for a zero. Someone they can add to the average, better if they are coloured, happy zeros.

So, we were saying, in the middle of a cold winter the sun set up. Just light, no warm was coming from it, reflecting from the closed windows sidewalks and coloured 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

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 the pocket and go 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, then arriving late at the cubicle. After few steps in the cold planet, though, she looked at her bare hand, suspicious. A blue, grey hand? For sure 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 said later to the police the burning-banknotes-woman.

He was looking a 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.

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

Few frozen steps, some non-gloved hand shakes 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.


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.

Started shouting people in the street. Then louder, on the net, so then all the rectangles of the city- nation mirrored the information in big letters:


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

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


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

Our Glorious Country is today under attack

A smile, still reassuring, even after a small murmur.

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:


As if that was just a 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?


From the sky?

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

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, 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 a wise option.

The red button

You’re intelligent, right, but 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 terrorising 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 quite, 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 always smily.

See, this is the kind of modern man always feels comfortable if surrounded by a crowd clamouring 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. Apparently, now, he was again without any flammable part to fan to. 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 man from the future survived were found and arrested. Some of them, more photogenic than the others, were invited even on some show 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-age 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 smily applause escort 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 agains 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 this 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 clouds 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 raise, 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

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

Vuoi leggerla in italiano? Clicca qui.

Sotto il cappello_under the hat


— Leggi il Primo Capitolo–

— Leggi il Secondo Capitolo–

— Leggi la puntata precedente–

— Read in English–

Sotto il cappello

Sono giorni ormai che non si sente più alcun rumore nell’aria. Dalla stanza, la luce fioca di una lampadina sembra diventata un modo per sprecare energia, più che illuminare davvero. I passanti non sembrano volere la nostra macchina parcheggiata qui.

In attesa

Sarà questo ragazzo, sarà che indossa un bel cappello, ma davvero credo manchi poco prima che chiamino le autorità. L’attesa diventa snervante ogni minuto che passa.

Puc Puc

Fuori dal finestrino, un uomo dai lineamenti duri. Uno di quelli che non ha mai dovuto sentirsi preda in tutta la sua vita. Occhi incavati come a volersi proteggere nel cranio, fronte spigolosa, sembra avere tutte le caratteristiche giuste per sopravvivere in questo mondo.


Sicuramente per incutere paura bussando ad un finestrino di una serata gelida. Perfino con delle mani ben curate.

Puc. Puc.

Questa volta i due tocchi sono separati da una piccola pausa. Come se attraverso i pugni volesse comunicare impazienza.


E il ragazzo apre finalmente il finestrino. Io forse avrei messo in moto e sarei scappato, fossi stato in lui. Però il mio ruolo è di essere un cappello e di proteggere dal vento e dalla pioggia. Cosa posso saperne io di finestrini e pugni?

Il fresco della notte

L’aria ventosa si precipita non invitata nell’abitacolo, rendendolo immediatamente simile ad un frigorifero. Manca la frutta, la verdura e tutto quello che di solito si mette dentro un frigorifero. L’aria sembra risvegliare il ragazzo, che ormai aveva quasi perso le speranze.


Dice la voce cavernosa dell’uomo dall’aspetto poco mansueto. Non arriva alcuna risposta, se non un battito di ciglia e un’occhiata annoiata da parte di questo cranio perfetto che mi indossa.

So qualcosa che lei non sa

La voce si è fatta stranamente meno cavernosa.


In macchina!

Sotto il cappello_under the hat
Sotto il cappello_under the hat

Ah, quanta loquacità! L’altro la scambia per un invito, così apre la portiera e si siede in macchina. Non dall’altro lato, come farebbe ogni persona che per la prima volta salisse in un’auto sconosciuta. Si siede nei sedili di dietro, cosicché il ragazzo per poterlo guardare negli occhi deve decidere. Girarsi di tre quarti o dare un’occhiata allo specchietto.

Il sedile di pelle fa dei rumori buffi, mentre il torvo visitatore si sistema. Però nella sua voce non c’è proprio nulla di buffo.

Sono un cercatore di tracce


Sono abbastanza bravo a cercare tracce


Sono il motivo per il quale lei se ne sta seduto qui a guardare come un’ebete una lampadina in una stanza vuota. E la persona che cerca ha cambiato già due volte l’ora nel suo orologio.


Tuona la voce del ragazzo sotto il naso. Incredibile a dirsi, a volte basta una parola sola per attivare un intero vocabolario di reazioni. Stavolta decide di girarsi di tre quarti e i due nasi si ritrovano quasi ad un naso di distanza.

Possono sentire entrambi l’odore di caffè rancido e poca igiene dentale. La parola scivola via dalle labbra prima che lui stesso possa sorprendersi di saper ancora articolare qualcosa di più complesso di un “hmpf”. La voce da basso, rauca come un borbottio di un vecchio, continua.

Vuota, si. In breve è il motivo per cui sono qui, fare in modo che lei trovi sempre una pista sbagliata, mentre le sue prede sono a chilometri di distanza. Le è piaciuta la bicicletta?


Prima di tutto le potrei dire perché, sarebbe più semplice

Una cosa alla volta

Da un viso così duro, da una voce così bassa, non mi sarei mai aspettato che desse del “lei” alla mia testa. Ciò mi sconcerta. Un uomo così grosso e senza neanche un cappello! Ma eccolo continuare, con quella voce che sembra un nastro registrato, gracchiante.

Abbiamo un amico in comune.



Non è mio amico.

Oh, certo, certo. Eppure so che vi siete incontrati e lui sa che lei lo sta inseguendo

Cosa vorrà?

Quante cose che sa, quest’uomo senza cappello! Ovvio che tutto questo sia sospetto. Gli occhi della mia testa perfetta si girano e iniziano a guardare avanti, come pronti a terminare la conversazione.

Anche lei vuole la mia anima?

No. Sono più interessato al luogo in cui la sua anima è diretta


Hmpf davvero


Qui il silenzio cuce qualche rumore intorno a questi due uomini che si guardano allo specchio. Uno di questi rumori è un cane, un altro è un gatto che salta da un cestino dei rifiuti. Chissà perché poi i gatti facciano sempre cose demenziali, poi.

Sono diretti alla prigione delle anime

La prigione delle anime!

No, questa poi. I gatti son si demenziali, ma almeno sono belli, eleganti. Perché mai due uomini dovrebbero saltare dentro quel cestino che altro non è la Prigione delle Anime? Dai, su, avete due cervelli, escogitate qualcos’altro.

Quel posto è una mostruosità, se non addirittura un’idea, un non- luogo. Come se la prigione di un uomo non fosse il suo stesso corpo, le sue illusioni e le sue palpebre. Quali anime potranno mai trovarsi in quella prigione?

Sotto il cappello, sconcerto

Non ho mai visto questo ragazzo così sorpreso, le pupille così dilatate da sembrare gli occhi di un gatto. Appunto.
Il vento muove le punte delle piante ben ordinate nei giardini. La lampadina è ormai spenta, nella casa, mentre questi due uomini procedono silenziosi nelle strade deserte. Poi l’uomo dalla faccia truce rompe l’indugio.

Solo il medico sa dove sta andando, S. lo ignora e questo potrebbe essere un vantaggio per lei. Mi aiuti a raggiungere la prigione e avrà la sua anima in un piatto d’ottone


Si, certo. Ci siamo capiti. Gira qui a destra e fermati davanti alla casa

L’auto si accosta scricchiolando sui sassolini. Fuori dal finestrino, una casetta di campagna, di quelle per pastori o amanti della solitudine. O fuggiaschi.

Una casetta

Qui è dove si trovavano fino a qualche sera fa, prima che prendessero il treno

Andiamo, non voglio sprecare altro tempo. Perché hai aspettato tanto prima di contattarmi?

Bisogna lasciare un po’ di vantaggio alle prede, se si vuole prenderle di sorpresa


Bom, Bom, Bom

Una campana suona da qualche parte, le fronde degli alberi ballano vibrando nell’aria, mentre due uomini si lanciano nell’oscurità, in cerca di un treno notturno. Uno di loro ha un piccolo sorriso sotto il cappello. L’anima è vicina.

— Leggi l’ultima parte del terzo capitolo, Il treno!–

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.

Study Italian

Next three words

Discover Italian

Ok, then.

If you reach this page you probably are trying to study Italian and this is your second attempt. If not, read the previous article about the “C” sound with vowels A U O and I E.

First, recap

We said that the “C” sound can be hard when followed by A U O and soft when followed by I E.

What does it mean “soft” and “hard”?

Let’s discover what happened when C meets H.

We said before that the sound, when C meets the no/ sound letter H, is transforming C into an hard sound. The easy part is that, if we have memorised that CI CE have a soft sound, it will be easier to memorise that CHi CHe have a hard sound.


So here we are with our new useful words. “Chi” in Italian means “who”

Who (is there)?

Chi (è)?

Usually this is the phrase we use when someone knock to our door. We noticed immediately our new friend “Chi”, but we’re probably asking ourselves what is that E with an accent.

È è

This one, dear reader, is one of the most common errors in Italian written language. And today, with T9 auto- correcting our writings, even more. “È” and “E” are almost the same when you listen to them the first time. To be a bit specific, in Italian we have two different “E”, one with the acute accent and one with the grave accent. Right now it’s all too complicated, so just remember when you’ll find “E” it will mean a conjunction and when you’ll find “È” it will mean “it is”.

Che (cosa è)?

What (is this)?

When you see something for the first time and you want to understand what it is, just ask. “Che” means “What” and it’s used (and abused) in Italian. For now, remember that its core meaning is “what” and we will find it really often.


Here we are, to a new word. Cosa means literally “Thing”. It’s another used and abused word in Italian, so you will find in million different phrases. For what concern right now our lessons, it will mean only “thing”. Check it out, right now it will be easy for you to read the first “C” sound as hard, no?

The S sound

So let’s go a bit further with the sound “S”. This sound has so many rules to be read properly that it will discourage you. So I will give you a first important rule. When the sound “S” is doubled “SS” or at the beginning of a word as in “Sole” (Sun) it will have a hard sound as the sound “C” in English “Cinema” or “See”.

In practice…

Study Italian
Study Italian

 So we saw CI CE as soft sounds and CA CO CU CHI CHE as hard sounds. We can add to this last rule the double CC. It will be strange for you this difference, but it will make sense when you’ll have to listen to a word and transcribe. The difference is between




The first one it will have an hard sound, as we know, as per the sound “K” in English. The second one will have simply an even harder sound, stressing it a bit more. You will read the first one as “eKo” and the second one as “eKKo”. This rule it will lead us to the sound CCH that it will be the same KK sound. You will find CCH always with a vowel before and followed by a vowel.



Occhio will be read as oKKio and Secchio as seKKio. Note that the rule we read before it will help us to read properly “S” at the beginning of a word and followed by vowel as the sound “C” in cinema or “S” in see.

Let’s read

Let’s try to read this words loud guessing what is the pronunciation and then click for it













Next week we will see the last pronunciation of “C” sound and go a bit further. Stay tuned!

quel ragazzo_la mano della nonna

Quel ragazzo

— Read in English–

— Leggi il paragrafo precedente —

Una giornata di sole

Per quanto assurdo possa sembrare, alcune giornate vengono definite “di sole”. Come se, in tutte le altre occasioni, il sole non fosse comunque là a testimoniare che non c’è solo un immenso buio a nascondere la Terra nello spazio. Perfino nei luoghi in cui gli orsi bianchi e le foche sembrano saper sopravvivere, il sole si cela talvolta per molto tempo, ma in realtà è solo un adulto che si nasconde dietro una coperta per far sorridere un bimbo. In una giornata di quelle come sopra definite di sole nessuna coperta avvolge la città e così questo robusto ragazzo dal sorriso quadrato può camminare senza giacca. So tutto questo perché il suddetto ragazzo porta le scarpe sbagliate ai piedi, le stesse scarpe che vi stanno raccontando umilmente questa camminata solitaria.

That boy_ the hand of the grandma

That boy

— Read in Italian–

— Read the previous paragraph —

A sunny day

As absurd it would sound, sometimes we refer to a day as a “Sunny day”. As if in all the other cases the sun wasn’t there to show that the Earth isn’t hidden alone in the darkness of the universe. Even in the places in which seals and polar bears still survive, the sun is still there. Maybe you cannot see it for sometimes, but it’s still there, as an adult hiding from a child to win a laugh.