Tag Archive original graphics

Il ragazzo, ancora

That guy, again

— Read the First Chapter —

— Read the Second Chapter —

— Read the previous part —

— Read in Italian —

Drawing the cold

The evening is just a yellowed piece of paper desperately trying to picture a cold town. How do you illustrate a cold sensation? Maybe with leaves flying around, people passing by wrapped in their coats and colours. Cold colours, maybe blue amongst them.

No, it’s better not to mention blue or the cold will pass through the bones up to the soft pillow of blood which pump and suffer inside this man with pointy moustaches. From outside you can see far away the river of cars in the city, as a neon light getting stronger and stronger as the sun fade away. It reminds a shop at closing time, with someone coming back home and keeping words and smiles in a safe until tomorrow. Others are simply going to meet some friends, and they will spend some time around a table with golden bubbles and chats.

So, everyone have one thing in common: they know at this stage where they are going. A small group is the one that still doesn’t know where is going to finish this day, and in this last group we can put S., now watching outside the balcony of a bar with a blue light saying

Blue bar, river view

It wouldn’t be more reasonable to call the police? Those uniforms would know what to do, that’s for sure. But-but-but. How’s going to explain to the law enforcement about all that mess of his father’s corpse with a dark soul, or the cropped finger? Or even worse, what police would say about the white soul of that guy, stolen from a minor without any right to do so? That would be his end.

The blue crystals of the table nearby crumble apart the few light remained, making reflections glaring over the shoes. Over me. So I’m changing from dark brown to almost light blue in seconds.

M., from distance

Out there, under the stone stairs, a hotel abandoned even from the god of neglected. Finding the woman wasn’t difficult at least, and now he can see her figure through the window. She has semi- closed eyes. The sunset sun is something really strong and shield S. He can watch her a bit more, more than he has ever did before. She’s beautiful, even thought that cold air makes her unreachable. She decided to put one white cloth over her face, to disappear from life and the city, to find her own place here, in the hinterland of forgotten hotels.

 Your bill

Says a voice behind, making him startled and almost letting him go down the balcony. That would be a glorious death, with a coroner less than thirty steps away, ready to examine him. Cause of death: sudden idiocy.

Sure, sure. Do you accept cards?

No

Hinterland

As you can expect, we are in the hinterland. That fairy tale the adults tell the children in the cities, before the same children grow up and meet hairy arms, guns and charming woman with some more hairs over the lips. There are no money- spitting machines around those empty small streets. It’s just a matter of time, since he will find himself completely out of pieces of paper. Wait a minute, someone is approaching the hotel. Is the guy!

That guy, again

Il ragazzo, ancora
That guy, again

The huge guy walks carrying his potato- nose as it was a backpack over his ears. He’s walking straight to the motel, fast on the jasmine’s climb. With that nose he will be woozy by that smell. I can recognize him by his shoes, the same model of which are here describing the whole story of this dealer. M. is still there watching out of the window, unaware, with her usual sad expression in her face. S. would probably just whistle, or maybe shout from the bar, he could tell her to escape now. But who’s him for her, if not another untrustworthy stalker?

A voice

Then, something suddenly change in her expression, as she’s listening to someone inside the room. She run toward the bed, put two t-shirts inside the backpack and run through the window. Just in time, because then the potato- nose start banging on the door. A banging that, even from distance, reminds of that of a huge chimpanzee on a glass. Under the chimpanzee pressure, the door finally opens. The guy run to the window, in his eyes the blind anger of whom cannot understand, the shark smelling the blood.

Hate

Looking up his eyes stop on S. for a minute. Small drops of cold sweat pass behind his ears and through the neck. No they cannot see each other, the sun is too strong behind S., and still his eyes are set on him. Even though the huge guy cannot see him, S. can feel all the hate coming through those black eyes. How he would possibly find M.? Probably he just followed him at the morgue, and then he understood everything. Yes, it’s the only explanation, but how he couldn’t understand he was followed before? And what’s the next step, now?

M.’s feet touch the ground and start running through the Blue Hotel. She needs the car’s keys and S. has to help her, his feet already small drums down the stairs.

— And next week… Waiters! —

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

Umano_Human the restaurant

Human

— Read the First Chapter —

— Read the Second Chapter —

— Read the previous part —

— Read in Italian —

The restaurant

Real… food?

Between a table and another you can count three steps. All squared tables are wooden, with a small tablecloth. On top of each table stands a small dusty plastic plant. Two steps more and S. cuts the breath in two with wrinkled lips aghast, horrified by that human noise.

All around him, the feet wearing dirty trainers move between tables, while mouths are passing from one conversation to the other so fast and smooth that you cannot understand a single word anymore. This is a human soup with not so much meat but really tasty juice. Spicy conversations are carried out by yellow teeth due to too much coffees and house wines.

Tracks

Everyone shows shadows of smiles through the wrinkles of their faces. Their real human faces, I mean. When a human dies you can open up its face and read more than if he or she wrote it in a personal diary. For instance, imagine one of those that always forget how to smile. In this case, their face will show weak facial muscles all around the mouth. At the opposite, whom always corrugates his forehead will leave tonic muscles for a curious forensic. Wrinkles are rivers, invisible roads, natural passages to reach our passions.

A brand new world

And again red faces, ruddy cheeks, neckline sparkling with sweat and tattooed arms speaking as they were singing, moving their backs over Cain and Abel style chairs. Too much, for whom since yesterday was walking over waxed white Asian soundproofed floors.

  Addio piccolo Cherubino. Come cangia in un punto il tuo destino!

A crazy day

Yes, it really seems to be a follee journèe, a crazy day. Started in a metro wagon, to be continued outside the shadows of building, in another train a bit more noisy than the first one. Along with that, now, a place illuminated by the sun. The kind of place, the countryside, that comes to mind to citizens of the metropolis only when smog clouds start being an unbreathable mask for them. Then there were two steps out of the train and out, at the train station.

Central Station T.

Cherubino alla vittoria! Alla gloria militar!

The battle for survival definitely started. One last step toward the trench, the human contact. This is the real human contact, the one that only the bipeds equipped with nose and opposable thumb are able to do. Words.

Hi

A whisper, audible only by three flies scratching their heads and waiting to attack a breadcrumb on the table close- by.

Hi

Repeat (this time stronger) S. attracting the attention of the innkeeper and scaring the three insects. A warty- nose man without an ear replies with a deep voice

Uh

Which, given the situation, is still something. The steps back up nearly falling down. I’m a pair of shoes at the mercy of two insecure feet.

Could I please have a table?

The voice now is a bit more confident, the eyebrow raised in the commanding style. The communicative effort is impressive. You can see the answer coming from a slow process in the primitive brain of the one- ear man.

Uh

Thus plus a nod seem to indicate a small round table. A different one, not squared as all the others in the busy noisy restaurant.

Yes, a brand new world

Right, it’s not even close to the white Asian material we were used to, but in the end you can see the innkeeper made an effort to give S. the best option available. On the table the classic plastic plant and a coconut- shaped ashtray. The glance of the man of tomorrow, seated in the middle of the buzz, seems to get lost. It jumps from one conversation to the other, roaming from mouths full of food to hand moving.

Who ordered?

 Even though I didn’t listen to him ordering any food, a steaming dish appears from nowhere. Maybe he ordered in a silent way. One of those human way of saying

Do as you wish

Sometimes with just one look they solve all useless questions. After all, the hunger is knocking louder at the stomach’s walls, so this steaming dish is the only answer available.

The left leg start moving again, showing nervousness in the mute language of the lower limb. The effect is immediate: I feel myself as having an endless hiccup.

Hi there

Umano_Human the restaurant
Human food

And as all the hiccup, this one needs to get  scared to stop. A gentleman with fuchsia socks and neat nails looks S. from a near table. He’s waiting for a reaction.

S. Say what?

You cannot really say if he’s introducing himself or just stammering.

Can I join you?

S. Certainly

No, probably is more likely a stammer than an introduction

Are you feel ok? Comfortable?

The voice is deep, as coming to the surface of the world with a rotten wood bucket and a rusty pulley.

Yes, yes. Why are you asking?

I don’t know, you have a face…

Oh, you have a face as well

You’re right. But it seems to me that you face specifically saw better times

The noise of conversations, the clutter of dishes and cutlery, cheers and crying of children make all this conversation a bit surreal.

The truth is that for me this is a strange world. I’m an alien, here. I come from the metropolis

Oh, I guessed that

I’m S., I’m a dealer of souls

Why?

I don’t really know anymore…

No, I mean, my name is Y.

Oh, I’m so sorry, I thought… Anyways, what is your job?

Let’s say I’m a mediator

Oh, a mediator between whom?

Between what you already know and what you want to know

Mmm a dealer of lamps and nose, I would say

Ah, ah. Yes, let’s say only noses. I leave the lamps to you

You’re not from here as well, then

No, I came here escaping from the noise, but now I’m craving for it

That’s interesting

No defences, anymore

This entire conversation, this chatting, has almost destroyed the last defence of my pointy- moustache man. In all this chaos, who can be such a distinguished gentleman, but at the same time with such a grim?

Oh, right. It was so clear all the way. Keen eye, jaw clenching and a big fist. He’s a policeman or a tracker for sure.

And then, suddenly he stands up leaving a business card on the table.

If you need me, you know where to find me. Enjoy your meal

And before S. can say something, he’s gone. An invisible shadow passing through the tables and leaving.

And the dish on the table is not steaming anymore.

— The next week… Love…Run! —

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

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.

The wall

The wall

Great expectations

— Read the previous paragraph–

— Read in Italian–

Tik, tok, tik, tok

Two pair of shoes follow the same pace, right at the foot of the wall. This pair of high- heeled shoes keeps walking on the white waxed floor at the HQ, leaving behind a trace of perfume and a blue shadow.

Puck, Pack, Pick, Puck

The cinema

The cinema, the advertisement

–Read the previous article–

–Read in Italian–

All movie theatres are the same, having the same dimensions and with the same screen with the same size. In the cinema the movies change, but