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Finale_The end

The end

Election time

Beautiful girls in underwear walk covered with billboards. On the pictures hung under their necks, the round faces of aspiring statesmen.

In the end

In fact, everything continues as always. The Independence day gives all the time the families need for chatting in front of their rectangles full of lights. These rectangles, knowing how important they are in forming a public opinion without any opinion, decide to send news like these:

The Alien Rain continues. The Government decided new special laws in order to prevent the situation to escalate.

Husband kills his wife in the suburbs, then cuts her in pieces and throws them around the city.”I thought she was an alien”, he stated.

 The Member of the Parliament, Svanzoni,  forced to resign after his minority motion has been rejected.

<<I just asked them to let this people fall down without dying. I thought it was right to give them one chance to save themselves.>>, these the first statement of the new enemy of the Nation.

The Champion of the People decided to answer back, immediately:

<<I can understand how frustrated the Member and ex Minister of Infrastructures and Quiet Living could feel right now. We have to remember that we had to take into account the fun aspect. The people of this Country is suffering enough for the curfew, it’s a right thing they can have some fun. Following the rules, as always. We’re always on the Law’s side. This is one of the reason why I asked the full power, because me and only me know what people really wants.>>

Starting from today, thanks to the new Babu’s law, it will be legal to kill aliens around the streets during holidays. For whom would kill out of the time and days recommended, it would be charged with fines, accordingly. Later, a short guide on how to recognise an alien.

The people

Before having fun outside, shooting aliens, people are happy discussing the new laws in the pubs and at home. As in the old fashioned game of the telephone, the news bounce from one to the other, changing slightly.

The People’s Champ

The Champion of the People, sure about winning in the next elections, seats relaxed on his black armchair. In front of him, on top of his desk, the half length statue of a tyrant, died decades ago.

There’s a reason why he let his own cat take a decision about the aliens. Interestingly, it’s the same reason why he’s not outside having fun shooting aliens as all the others. On his lap lays everything he ever cared about, the meaning of his life. A small music note, the beginning of a life which is able only to scream, sleep and eat.

The small V

She’s the only creature he knows he can speak to, the only one able to truly understand who he really is. Mainly just making happy bubbles with her tiny mouth. Sometimes she snores, but in that funny cute way that only babies seem to have. And she smiles. A toothless smile, able to move smiles as it was a happy wind. For sure a positive, natural wind.

Not evil

How could ever explain all this good feelings to the stupid voters and the Parliament members? If it was up to him, he would help elderly women crossing the street, this is the kind of person he is. An idiot, but deeply inside not an evil idiot. Simply, he has found in his hands too much power and too fast.

Obviously, when you have such a great power, you have to decide. You need to give answers and that answers have to be clear and certain. He doesn’t mind, he knows the rules and he plays well. Where are his friends, right now? They’re probably too busy laughing under few meters of soil and concrete, that’s what they’re doing!

<<Pling, plong?>>

Suddenly, the door calls for attention. Today is the Independence day, what they want? Anyways, he has servants for that, they will go and see who’s at the door.

<<Pling- plong!>>

This time the doorbell seems to be in a hurry, demanding to be answered. Oh, how silly! Today he conceded the servants three hours of free time, so they could celebrate with their families. On the streets there’s the aliens hunt.

He keeps forgetting how generous he is.

<<Pling- Plong?! Pling- Plong!?>>

<<Who dares!>>

The People’s Champion snaps. If they keep ring the bell like this they’ll wake up the small Victoria. How uncivilized! He stands up from the black armchair and lays the sleeping baby down in the cradle. The cradle, rose and white, start its swinging movement. The “V” drawn on top seems to be the legs of a broken watch.

<<Pling- plong!>>

All of a sudden the Champ forgets his romantic side.

<<Pling- Plong!>>

“My word, I will kill them!”

He thinks while descending the stairs.

<<Pling- Plong!>>

“Oh, I will dismember them!”

Think again, while finally reach with a foaming mouth the door. Here, he turns the handle with fury.

<<For Adolf’s sake, who’s there?>>

And in fron of him:

<<Who… who are you?>>

The figure of an old woman, dirty and dressed in rags stays speechless in front of him. She seems to be a hundred years old, covered with dirt and clotted blood. She doesn’t seem to be hurt, not physically anyways. She’s got big eyes, which seem even bigger because of the skinny appearance. She’s looking at him as he was a vision, a dream.

<<You…You are an alien!>>

Such a big boy scared by this terrified human skeleton.

The skeleton

The old woman wants to speak, but all the words she prepared before seem to be stuck, blocked as her breath due to a broken rib. They’ve chosen her to be there in that moment, to be in front of that man, the so- called People’s Champ. She passed any kind of pain to be there, right in front of this man. To tell him that…

<<Blam!>>

One shot and the Champ closes the eyes, the ears ringing. A single shot and the woman’s head has become a cloud of red corianders. The eyes full of fear disappear, along with the whole face covered in dirt. Abruptly, she’s transformed in a lifeless skeleton, with a spot of blood where before there was a head. A stain, a spot as any other, that the servants will clean in few hours.

<<Champ, are you all right?>>

A girl

A sixteen years old girl stands in front of him, her smoking gun still in her hands. She looks at him with a curious face.

<<Y-yes, thank you. I don’t know what she wanted from me.>>

<<Can I have an autograph, please?>>

<<S-sure, young lady. How did you recognise she was an alien?>>

<<I watched the program “how recognise an alien” on You Tumble. I’m sort of an expert.>>

<<Oh, wow. Really good shot. What’s your name?>>

<<Ananke.>>

<<Ananke, what an anusual name. You want an authograph?>>

<<Yes! Could I please have it on top of the corpse? I will load it on my wheelbarrow, my friends will die of envy.>>

<<Sure, sure, here we are. You’ve earned it. Enjoy the Independence day!>>

Just a flabby man

The girl watches the Champ, it’s the first time she can stay so close to him. She watched at him only from distance, looking out some balconies or on the coloured rectangles. For the first time, too she realised how flabby and sweaty he is. He’s still trembling, while wiping the blood out of his face. She wouldn’t say it loud, but she feels pity for him. All that power and he’s afraid of a small old woman.

<<Wait a minute. She was trying to take something from the pocket. What was it? A weapon?>>

The girl searches through the skeletal corpse, with a disgusted face. The rectangles said aliens bring mortal illnesses.

It’s a letter.

<<It’s a letter, Mr. Champ.>>

<<Well, well. A letter. Hand it to me and go play with your corpse. Again, have a good Independence day!>>

The door remains open on a grotesque scene: a tiny girl is trying to load an headless corpse on the wheelbarrow.

The Champ starts closing the door, his facial expression changing into horror as he keeps reading, the hands shaking. Which kind of joke is that?

Then, he realised something.

There’s nothing else but terror.

He leaves the door open and run.

Run!

He runs as he’ve never run before.

Run fast, with his belly up and down.

He bumps into the half length statue of the tyrant which crashes on the floor. In the room the window is open and there are few muddy footsteps on the white pavement.

In front of him stands the cradle. Empty.

And then the world is a nightmare.

And the world is distant.

And the world is the future.

And the world doesn’t smell good.

He thought he was master of time. But the time makes whatever it pleases.

While he falls on his knee he starts shouting and crying. Despair, rage, confusion. As he was falling from the clouds. As he was one alien.

Falling over a mountain of pain and mud.

“Too late”, he thinks while his thoughts seem to dissolve.

<<Ci avete rubato il futuro!>>

A voice, a shout behind him, full of rage.

He turns and sees an alien, a man covered in blood and mud. The Champ instinctively takes his favourite gun, Valkyrie, from the closet. He has never had a chance to use it before, he doesn’t even know how to shoot. Victoria is on the hands of that alien, mute.

Finale_The end
Finale_The end

Why she doesn’t cry?

The alien must die.

The alien must suffer.

The alien will be torn apart.

Instead, the alien speaks.

<<You stole our future, now I’m stealing yours.>>

The alien must die.

The alien must suffer.

<<Shoot me, shoot me as many times as you want, but you won’t change what happened. We gave you a chance, and you missed it.>>

The alien must die.

The alien must suffer.

And suddenly the Champ feels like he is the alien. Point the trembling gun to his head.

<<Blam!>>

In a second and in a single bullet, a fountain of red paint. The room starts being brighter, with this spray gun effect. On the floor, the corpse of what remains of the People’s Champ, his brain and blood mixed with the pieces of the statue. The alien didn’t expect that.

<<Click.>>

Behind him the sound of a gun loaded.

He turns and sees a small twelve years old girl, with a shotgun bigger than her.

<<Quella vecchia è sparita, nessuno mi crederà. Tu sei un alieno, vero?>>

She doesn’t have to wait for an answer, she knows how to recognise an alien.

<<Blam.>>

On the floor now lay two corpses, while a small one lays inside the cradle. It’s impossible to recognise Victoria, her smile now is just a red spot. Future and past linked by the same destiny.

On the Champ’s left hand there’s a letter:

“Don’t kill me, please.

Save me.

I’m your V.”

And the letter vanishes as the old woman did before. The twelve years old grabs her alien trophy and starts dragging him through the stairs.

<<Go back to the future.>>

She keeps mumbling to herself.

The End

You didn’t read the first three parts and now you’re watching at it thoughtful?  Click here.

You want to read just the last part? 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 keeps all the rights over them.

Vuoi leggerla in italiano? Clicca qui.

La carta del gatto

The Parliament

One cat

Two votes

The 30 Members of the Parliament of the People create a buzzing sound in the small hall. It seems a bunch of bees working on building a wall of honey. No more honey, though, but only a huge wall, a solid wall built long ago all around the small nation. As a new trend, all nations started getting smaller and smaller, before realising that the problem it would be one day or another the “vital space”. They are like a crazy cat which jumped inside a small box and now doesn’t know how to get out.

<<Dling-dling-dling!>>

A small silver bell call to order everyone.

<<Ladies and Gentlemen, members of the Parlament, colleagues women and men, please silence. I will give the floor to the Minister of Infrastructures and Quiet Living, Mr. Arnoldo Svanzoni. Please.>>

Arnoldo Svanzoni

The imposing figure of the ex boxer Arnoldo Svanzoni stands in the centre of the room. All newspapers places their microphones, it’s all live. It’s an important moment, the first time after the Champion got “Full Authority” over the Parliament that someone dare to speak. As a result, the Parliament is getting less and less useful, as it was a public library for teenagers only.

<<Ladies and Gentlemen, I’m here standing in front of you today to solve a problem. We already have to fight against terroristic attacks and a poor state of the world economy. As I said, I’m here with a solution. I was one of the first advocating the construction of the Mighty Walls raised around our beloved Motherland. The same walls we celebrate today, with the Day of Independency. Again, I was the first promoter of racial laws and new regulations against refugees and terrorists. I did what I did with sole purpose of serving our beloved Motherland. That said, today in front of you is not a member of the Parliament, but a simple family man. We have to take into consideration the possibility that, as People’s Police attested, these aliens are coming from the future. A future attested around 100 years from now at the most. We must reconsider our position, because statistically there is a high possibility that the so- called aliens would be nothing less than our sons, daughters, nephews and nieces.>>

<<Dling-dling-dling!>>

The bell rings trying to calm down the drooling members of the Parliament and the press. How dare you! All these months of propaganda speaking about aliens and this guy comes with this idea. Unconceivable!

<<Dling- dling -dliiiiiiiing!>>

<<Ladies and gentlemen, please try to calm down. We’re in a Parliament’s room, for Champ’s sake!>>

The Cat

La carta del gatto
Go back to the future_The Parliament_The cat

On the empty chair of the Champ seats a fatty cat. When the Champ is occupied, being photographed as a puppet or out for personal reasons like today, the only allowed to seat there is his cat.

<<The solution, and here comes the end of my speech ladies and gentlemen, would be easy. We should put a net under the aliens landing points, in order to save up to 90% of them. Thank you for your attention.>>

<<Dling- dling- dliiiiiiiiing!>>

<<Ladies, gentlemen! You will scare the cat!>>

Hearing this, the whole room turned to the Champ’s chair, terrorised. If the cat would leave the chair, scared by them, something terrible would happen. The cat moves his eyes from one to another, like he knows exactly what kind of power he holds.

Princess Babu

<<Mrs. Babu, it’s your turn to speak.>>

<<Thank you Woman- Chief of the Parliament of the People. I have few questions for Mr. Svanzoni, and whole rhetorical. Why we should help those people? We have to do it because they’re human being? But they’re not, they’re aliens. We should probably help them ’cause they’re escaping from hunger? Sure, my family escaped from hunger long time ago, and they came to this beautiful Country. However, those were different times.>>

The dark figure of Princess Babu seems to be a whole with the mahogany wood used to cover the Parliament of the People.

<<There were times in which it wasn’t necessary to build a wall in the sea and we could speak about human beings and not alien scum falling from the sky. I heard some of you saying they are like us, they share our DNA, so I will ask you another rhetorical question: whom amongst you did fall in this beautiful country from the sky?>>

<<Driiiiin- driiiiin-driiiinnn!>>

<<Please, please silence! Let Mrs. Babu end her speech.>>

<<Thanks, Mrs. Chief of the Parliament. I have something to say to whoever thinks on treating them as sisters or brothers: go back to your country! Some people escape from hunger, from poverty or even from the heat. And we have to give something tolet those beasts eat and drink? No, let’s just shoot them! Thank you, I’m done.>>

The cat licks a paw, while the Master of Ceremonies of the Parliament pets him with a velvet glove.

First vote

<<Well, thanks Mrs. Babu. Let’s vote. We have the first motion to be voted, tabled by Mr. Svanzoni, about the construction of a safe net under the landing point. The second motion to be voted, tabled by Mrs. Babu, is about the shooting of survived aliens in the streets, starting today.>>

<<Driiiiin- driiiiiin- driiiinnn.>>

<<Please, start voting for motion number one.>>

On the black display on the back of the room appears a number of lights, almost all with the same colour.

<<Well, the results for Mr. Svanzoni is 30 votes against 1. Motion rejected. Mr. Svanzoni, I kindly ask you to pledge for forgiveness to the room and then leave the Parliament accordingly.>>

Arnold Svanzoni, the ex boxer, keeps his eyes down, while asking for forgiveness to the Parliament.

<<Dear members of the Parliament, I ask for your forgiveness. I ask you to forgive me for my irreverence and I hope you’ll let me come back here in this holy place. Goodbye.>>

<<Driiiiin- driiiiiiin- driiiiinnnn.>>

<<All right, then. Now please let’s vote the second motion.>>

The second vote

The black display this time doesn’t look like it did before. There are lights of two different colours.

<<The vote shows a draw, 15 against 15. Let’s proceed with a second vote.>>

<<Driiiiin- driiiiin- driiiiin.>>

And this time again it seems a draw. Probably the fact that the Champ isn’t here today gave them some courage.

<<Ladies and gentlemen, deputy of the People, the vote seems to be in a deadlock, with a second draw. Following the New Regulation, the final decision is up to the People’s Champion or his substitute. Mr. Master of the Ceremonies, please bring the cat on stage for the vote.>>

The Master of Ceremonies takes the cat in his velvet gloves, descends the stairs and place the black feline in the centre of the room.

<<Well, Master. Proceed now blindfolding the cat.>>

The cat, chosen for his absolute docility, seems even liking the red hook the Master places over the ears and face. Then, the Master takes two small bells from the pocket, a red and a green one. He seats few meters from the cat, knees down and…

<<Driiiiinnn—Driiinnn.>>

Tries the first bell.

<<Driiiiiinnn—Driiinnn.>>

Tries the second bell.

To be fair, the sounds have to be exactly the same. So to avoid an impartial decision from the cat.

The cat is seated, blindfolded, and it seems ignoring the two bells. Nothing is written about the possibility that the cat would choose to ignore the bells.

<<Driiiiinnn—Driiinnn.>>

<<Driiiiinnn—Driiinnn.>>

Finally, the cat raises the small blindfolded head and starts walking towards the bells.

A step, then two

<<Driiiiinnn—Driiinnn.>>

<<Driiiiinnn—Driiinnn.>>

Then three, then four

The destiny of men and women is all in this bored cat walking. This feline will decide if it will be legal to shoot to the surviving aliens in the streets. Therefore, this cat- choice will give a chance to other men and women to practice the use of their guns, slaughtering aliens in the streets.

Then five, six. He’s almost there.

<<Driiiiinnn—Driiinnn.>>

<<Driiiiinnn—Driiinnn.>>

There is still hope?

Then seven, eight

And the dance is over.

<<Driiiiinnn—Driiinnn.>>

<<Driiiiinnn—Driiinnn.>>

… It continues…

You didn’t read the first three parts and now you’re watching at it thoughtful?  Click here.

You want to read just the last part? 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.

Il Capo_The Champ

The Champ

An enemy

We shouldn’t at least… check before?

To check… check what?

I mean… to be sure that behind the explosions…

Shush!

But…

I said shush and I meant it. They can hear you, you know? They must be them behind the attacks. What do you want to check?

Sure, sure, you’re right. I was just saying because I wasn’t… anyways, here he comes the Champ. Hopefully he will carry some news.

The People’s Champ, with his fatty figure enters in the room as he was simply a shadow. A shadow with the unmistakable smell of roast beef and the usual, ever present, smile tattooed under his nose.

Good morning, everyone!

He starts his scene, shaking hands, say hi to everyone. Trying to ignore the tension inside the room. A concern, a fear that sneaks, until it’s too big and fill the whole room as it was a kind of gel or putrefying liquid.

The Champ, a nice person

No, don’t judge him too early. The cheery behaviour, the capacity of never forgetting a name, it’s all a marketing strategy. That smile could be the last one you can see before drawing inside a tank full of liquid concrete. No, he hasn’t been always bad. Before, he was just a fatty guy with a kind face. Shaking hands, though, he learned how to survive, how to lead, and then he always increased his power.

Power, power

At first, he could’t bear the punishments against the adversaries. But then, he started enjoying it. Now he clap his hand happily, almost hysterical, watching the eyes red for fear of his enemies tortured. Innocent rabbits, they watched that hysterical smile right before dying in agony.

Oh, to be honest he never personally killed or tortured anyone. His hands are smooth and clean, the hands of whom never has to work his entire life. Even though his motto is:

Always on the side of workers, always on the side of Justice

Cannibal justice


Besides that, those same squishy hands changed the system once and for all. Torture, then death penalty came back in the everyday vocabulary. Then, the coup de teatre. The prisoners, a huge cost for the collectivity, became the main source of proteins for the other inmates after they die. A whole new way of administer justice: cannibalism. Why throw away such a tender meat?

No, the prisoners didn’t deserve much more than be served as a meal to the other inmates.

And still the number of crimes rises, and no one could see any reasonable solution ahead. So they took the extreme decision: they put the whole community under the umbrella of fear.

We make our own luck

The first one arrived as a matter of luck, but then seen how the population got scared, they replicated it. A small explosion on open air in the countryside as a starter, good to scare only few solitary cows. But it was enough for the newspapers:

And if instead the cows there were people?

And if there were women and children?

On page 23 the 3d graphic of the explosion, if it happened in the city and killed a hundred of people.


The fear started to be as real as the new 3D graphics imagined by disturbed illustrators.

My dear friends

The Head continued now, showing happily his grin.

Il Capo_The Champ
Il Capo_The Champ

We are dealing with one of the worst crisis scenario our amazing nation ever had in his history. One of the most difficult situation our Action Government had ever dealt with. But we’ve found the landing point. All of them.

Landing point! You’d really considered falling for 30 meters to the ground a landing? A fall, a deadly fall, that is the reality. The Head continues:

We put in jail the people that was helping them survive the impact. They will finish their days in jail, eating one each other. This is what the enemies of the nation deserve!

His hollow eyes, inside the fluffy cheeks, started moving from one person to the other in the room. Happy, cheered, as this for him was just a part of a game. A game he wrote, personally.

And what about the explosions?

A shy voice, one of the secretaries speaks.

The explosions? We will stop them, sure!

The voice took courage and asks one more question.

And how your Majesty think is going to happen?

As we always did. We will find the responsible of this abominable acts and we will rip them, and then they will eat them alive. I think it should be enough to discourage other attempts.

Oh, Champ! Your ideas are alway so… original!

Well, thanks. Gentlemen, for today is enough. Tomorrow you will vote for the new regulations. One will come from majority and one from opposition, vote accordingly. I won’t be present at the vote. As you know, tomorrow is the day of Independence and I will be with my family.

Independence day!

If the came up with the name Isolation Day instead, it would have made much more sense. The holiday was there to remind everyone about the day, few years before, when the last wall was completed. Before they started with a wall in the South, against the invasion of poor and terrorists, but wasn’t enough.

They continued with the East wall, against the invasion of communists and pedophiles. After few years, they completed the one on the West, with no reason at all. Last but not least, they built the North wall, the last one, against “Super Powers that invade us and control us”.

The Head-of-the-State leaves now the room, carrying his smile and thinking about the reason of his life, his small nephew Victoria.

… It continues…

You didn’t read the first two parts and now you’re watching it thoughtful? Click here.

Do you want to read just the previous one? 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.

Un guanto perduto_a missing glove

Present

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


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.


Bum


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:


A TERRORIST


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.


Servants


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:


APPLAUSE


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?


Danger?


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 thoughtful? 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.

La caduta_gli alieni

Go back to the future

Aliens

Now, that I’m falling down from the clouds, only now I understand the meaning of the air. It’s not just a shape, is a shape of life, alive. When it wants to, it can be the wind that flows and escape from your open hands outside a car window.

Cold

It finds its space under the door, in the houses or it can be a current of wind in the den when the trains live. When it’s cold let people get closer and closer, in love hugs, while when it’s hot make the humans wet and distant, but already in love.

Gentle

The air can be gentle, but only if it decides to be gentle. Otherwise, sometimes it stumbles, distracted on some mountain and then down rumbles and rumbles, mixing up since it becomes a cone of destruction.

I can feel it, right now, freezing cold, cutting my face, moving my ears. Under me I can see a land, light in colour inked with blood. A lot of blood. Bodies over bodies, a stack of eyes- hands- hairs- legs. Over me, I know there are other flies- man ready to follow me in this deadly hug.

Flies

Their shadows are small points that mix one into the other down on the cleaning, projected by the light of an unaware sun. I feel now the air getting warmer, the earth closer.

La caduta_gli alieni
La caduta, gli alieni.

I would do it the same, if I’d know is a trap?

Yes,I think so.

I’m closer, now, I can see a writing:

Go Back to the future.

Too late, I think while I’m dissolving.

——————————————————————————————————————–

Villa Clichy

<<Welcome to Villa Clichy, I’m Vanessa and I’m here today as your personal guide. I will be your reference point during your stay here in this amazing Villa. Let’s start with a brief historical overview. Please, follow me. The wing of the house in which we’re walking right now is quite old. Recently a family member of the People’s Champ resided here, and even in the past a French King famous for his furniture decided to spend some time here. Probably he even played on this amazing pool table and had some rest in these comfortable plastic seats.>>

<<Madame?>>

<<Yes, dear?>>

<<It’s true that you can see the aliens everyone is speaking about, from here?>>

<<Arthur!>>

<<No, madame, let him speak, please. Children are curious and everybody is speaking about this every single day. Right, let’s move forward, let’s stay on the current events. Yes, dear Arthur, if you look right now from the windows you can see them falling. If I have to be complete sincere with you, they’re a genuine attraction right now. We’re fully booked the whole year. At the beginning they were saying to have a wish when you see an alien dropping, but now I don’t have enough wishes.>>

<<Ah, Ah, that’s a good one. Thanks Vanessa. Arthur, what do you say?>>

<<Than you, miss.>>

<<Oh, you’re such an educated angel. Thank you for your question, dear Arthur.>>

<<Sorry, Vanessa. I don’t want to take advantage of your kindness, but since we’ve touched the topic…>>

<<Tell me, Mr. Capra.>>

<<On the agency flyer we read about an hunting post.>>

<<Yes, that’s true Mr. Capra. You will find a station for hunters just two km away from the Villa. There you’ll find a colleague ready to give you all the instructions and an alien- hunting kit. If you’ve never shot any aliens before, let me give you an advice. Start shooting the big ones, so you will practice a bit. Later on you’ll be able to shoot smaller aliens.>>

<<I’m so sorry, Vanessa, but I have to ask. Even though it will sound stupid, but… they will suffer?>>

<<Well, no Mrs. Capra. Your husband and the others will be placed far away from the fall, there’s no danger.>>

<<Oh, sure it will be. My question was about the aliens. Do you think they will suffer, Vanessa?>>

<<Ah, ah! This question does only give you credit, madam. Look, I’m not a doctor and I never studied medicine, but I read that there are scientific proof attesting the complete lack of human feelings on the alien.>>

<<Oh, thanks. You have no idea how this makes me feel more relieved. You know, I’m a believer.>>

<<Me too, madam, me too. I’m a huge devout, as our People’s Champ>>

<<And what about the stack? Do you think the smell will reach the Villa?>>

<<Oh, that’s another good question, Mrs. Capra. I cannot hide from you the fact that, when the Villa is upwind, you probably would feel a bit of the smell. Don’t worry, though. The Government started with a separate collection for the aliens, and the house have an automatic deodorant system. You won’t feel anything. Now you must excuse me, but I really have to go, my children come out of the school soon.>>

<<Yes, of course, Vanessa. We can contact you any time?>>

<<Any time, there’s no small problem for me. Oh, and… good hunting!>>

<<Ah, ah! Have a good day, Vanessa!>>

<<Bye!>>

Continue reading 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.

You can read the story in Italian as well, have a look!

La biblioteca

The library

— Read the First Chapter —

— Read the Second Chapter —

— Read the previous part —

— Read in Italian —

Events

It was a long time life didn’t dare, or even attempt, to transform some drops into a rushing stream, or even a river. It’s a fact that, sometimes, a drop slips from his fate and finishes in a dry place. That calls rapidly other drops, before the sun realises the fact.

Being cautious this sip of unpredictable existence would be strong enough to open its way to the sea. There, different kind of fishes, and sea turtles, even corals start growing. You just being really patient to see all those things happen. The same patience you can read in the face of a delayed dinosaur, called turtle, when she’s trying to win the force of the current.

So, it’s there in the end, at the estuary of our river, before meeting new and strange new travel companions. It’s there where you’ll find your destiny.

A destiny

Now, lulled by the movement of the train, M. dreams about being inside the belly of an enormous desert snake. Then she looks at me, a thoughtful smile for her strange fate. That only drop is now a story and this is for sure the last train of the day. No one else can follow her, now she’s not in danger anymore.

This is the last stop, outside is darker and darker every second, the train

dakadakadakadakdadakakakakakakaakakssssss

stops with his famous coughing.

Places

There are some places, far away from everything, behind the magic altars build to obstruct the conscience. Here you can find the most strange and solitary people, but also small cars in which some time-less characters listen to the radio with their windows down.

Over the walls, somewhere, carefree voices and thin hands speak without any filters. You can find people like that around train stations, in great parks, and in the concerts where people wear oversized t-shirts and jeans. Those mushrooms find their perfect habitat here, where they can proliferate.

The shadow

Among those bubble of conscience, you can now spot an oblique shadow, a shape cut roughly by the last sun of the day and the first lights of the streetlamps. The shadow run and stretch touching the hairs of a girl peacefully drawing in her block a church three hundred years old.

The shadow continues, getting now squared, now stretching again. It passes over some walls and then in a street without shadows. Or lights. She gets down into the centre of Earth, in the mysterious belly that patiently host us long time. Outside a sign says

Tavern- Meat

And again the illusion of reality. New shadows, now coloured in yellow and red ready to redefine the boundaries as well as expectations. You read tavern but you actually think

Wine

Then you read meat and what you really get is

Fireplace, wood, warm

Everything that in a moment like this here seems to be just a mirage. Unless, then, suddenly would become real. The hands push hard on the door which separate this shadow from wine, fire, wood and warm against the cold of the evening.

A cold that taking the sun by surprise, advance again in his kingdom, the night. A vortex of light is enough to make this eyes blind for a while, accustomed to stay in the dark, with no sleep whatsoever in days.

Food, at least

To be followed has pro and co. The pro are always shining in the smiles of the optimistic people, even though hunger and thirst don’t help much here.

Few steps inside and four muscled arms get interested on the new coming. No one sees me, the watch. If they’d spotted me, they would see I’m still 3 hours behind. It’s not my fault, as you can guess. I’m not able to change myself the time. And I’m correct, in my own way, in another longitude.

The interesting shadow

Ignore me, if you want, you peasants, but I dare you to ignore this fascinating woman, here. She’s tall, with short hair, a thin wrist with soft hands. No, she’s written all over the face she’s not from here. She’s a stranger, and here they don’t see strangers so often.

The way she walks in is confident, and confident are the eyes looking over her. Four, as the arms, four eyes ready not to miss a single step of this thin figure now asking

Could I have please a glass of water and a sandwich? Oh, and a spirit, any spirit.

Which sandwich?

Anything, I’m starving

The man on the other side of the counter has one of those faces you forget immediately. Anonymous, he could easily work as a spy or model for haemorrhoids medicine. Doesn’t seem to be nice, neither a criminal and you’ll never see him watching you straight in the face for sure. If not probably if you’d look at the mirror. For sure, this woman keeping me in her wrist doesn’t care, anyway.

Here we go, your water and the sandwich

And the spirit?

Oh, I’m sorry, here we are. Our best vodka, Miss

Mrs

Mrs

Thanks

Can I offer you this one, madame?

The voice comes from one of the four arms sipping a beer at the counter. The strongest arms.

And he stress the phrase on the last word. As he wanted to account in a second all his life and his temper, too. As he wanted to say that he was married once, and exactly as her he doesn’t have rings any more,and be a Miss or Mrs isn’t such an obstacle for him.

She’s a pretty woman and he has two big arms and a yellowish coffee- cigarette- coffee smile, with a nice scent from the supermarket where he works. The real alpha- male.

The thin lips move a bit in an arch that seems to be a short smile, then she open them to gulp the water and vodka in rapid succession. Got rid of the cold and the thirst, now she’s just hungry. But suddenly this isn’t the right place to eat anymore.

Hey, where are you going? You didn’t even tell me your name!

This steps stop in front of the door. Outside the wind sings in B- flat and a door shouts somewhere.

Thanks for the vodka, but the least thing I want is to occupy your arm with a new tattoo with my name. Goodbye

The door shouts, leaving behind two open mouths and a stoic one. The bartender, even the last photogenetic, finds more interesting to rub the bottom of a glass than caring about this human fights. Inside the pocket, the bloody reason of all this rush.

Escaping

That soul, that rough voice which is following her everywhere, is guiding her. Escape, outbreak, runaround, she learned all the possible synonymous of the word in the last weeks. No bed is lucky enough to feel the warm body of the doctor enough to get warm itself. The chain is unbroken, and is made of steps, trains, cars, rooms and strange men.

This is the place she’s searching, the

Public Library- Office Advertisement and Entertainment- School of Life

She entered just for the library, but she cannot avoid a look to those children following bored a professor. In the blackboard she can read

Taxations are for losers- How to avoid them

It’s incredible how the State, instead of modelling responsible citizens, teaches them how to beat the laws. In a perfect world they’d be taught how to pay the taxes, instead. These students, however, decided to follow another path, more convenient.

Not everyone is ready to follow such subjects as “how to survive with State grants” or “robbery”. If the Governor opened this school, back then, for sure he had his own reasons. Without no one going against the rules, he probably thought, the rules itself could be forgotten and with them whom is in charge to control their respect.

The library

Here we come, here’s the library. The hand takes the wallet, the card got older from the years of university. The watch on the wall says it’s 7.30, I say it’s 10.30. Luckily everyone follows the ugly big watch on the wall, so M. will have a chance to enter and read the book she’s interested in. Seated at the tables professors and doctorates ready to go home. In the section esoanimaterism she finally finds the books she needs.

Antianimatology of the part of the real world

Taxonomy and regulations of spirit and matters

How to free a soul from the controls of life?

In the last one, the expert look of M. reads:

When a soul is cut from its adoptive body (cfr. Chapter III Reactions and Aura) passes as a non material and non temporal substance in the form of waves auto- reflecting. In more practical terms, it detaches from the subject without losing the real consistency and the essence. A new theory sees the soul as a victim annexes to a new body.

Interesting. So it explains this voice always speaking to us, trapped in the small finger. Now we need to rush a bit, find something about the well of soul. It seems impossible, but:

(…) where the mountains once a city now lays, where the trees don’t follow the sun, but that dark sea called soul.

That’s all? That’s something every child in the world knows. Everyone knows that phrase, but when they try to understand the real meaning, they don’t really find one. It seems a lullaby, that makes you shiver, the Prison of Souls where all evils will perish. No one really believes on it, but no one really stop to believe on it. Soul, soul, that’s not the right moment to disappear.

Take the red book from the shelf

The soul finally spoke. Actually, on the top of the shelf there’s a small book, its cover chewed by insects, by the time or maybe by someone with long big nails.

M. Gets on her toes and touch the volume. It’s a common book, with the title

How to make a story

What would be useful in this book about what we’re searching for? M. starts reading, trying to find any secret passage, a message between lines. Nothing seems to be interesting.

When you write a story, it’s important a moment of pathos, from the Greek word (…)

Nothing, nothing important to help her, not even a small hint. Then, the chapter entitled

Writing is not for everyone. If you don’t know anyone in the field, go for horse- riding instead.

A sound

Tup

A small piece of paper drops on the ground, yellowish by the time, made of a thick hard paper, an expensive one.

In the place which once was a mountain and now it’s a city, where the trees don’t follow the sun, but that dark mystery called, soul instead. You’re almost there. Now watch at your right side.

M., even if the whole situation seems just a dream, watches at her right side and for the first time notices an image and a note handwritten on it.

Madame, please, it’s closing time!

The rough voice of the librarian shouts. He has a family and a football match to watch. He’s not payed for losing a minute more in this non- sense place full of paper rectangles.

Y- yes. Just give me a minute, please

The figure of the librarian goes away, mumbling something inaudible. The note on the wall is a girl’s writing, someone who wrote fast on top of a picture of a forest.

Piantonia, where the roots face the sun. For helicopter excursions please call the rectangle- number at the bottom

La biblioteca
La biblioteca

After leaving the book in its place, she decide to get closer to the picture. Plantonia, the Nation of Plants. The place in which no human being can step on. But how that book knew what… the yellow paper, it’s still on her hands. Now it’s telling something else:

Enter where you know, walk from the East. There you’ll find the Well of Souls

Then, the imagine disappears and a note big as a scream appears

BURN ME!

A shadow, again

So M. escapes from the big wooden mouths of the library and goes in the street. In the purse’s pocket she finds a lighter, old friend from the time in which she was a smoker. Slowly, put fire on the side of the paper and feels it whistling and making smoke.

When the last piece of paper gets to the ground, it seems to her that a note appears

 Thank you

But it’s already ashes, wind, fog wrapping the valley. But now she knows where to go. And thinking about her destiny she gets lost in the night, eating ravenous a sandwich red as blood.

— And the next week… Treason! —

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 trappola_the trap

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 popular 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!–

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

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

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