Tag Archive souls alive

Sotto il cappello_under the hat

Treason!

— Read the First Chapter —

— Read the Second Chapter —

— Read the previous part —

— Read in Italian —

Under the hat

Days and days without any sound, just the same bicycle parked in front of the house. From the room, a dim light which seems more a way to waste energy than illuminating. People passing by doesn’t really like our car parked here. Maybe this guy, or this hat, but I’m quite sure they will call authorities, soon. Waiting here is getting more and more unnerving every minute.


Puc, Puc

Knocking on the window


Outside, close to the car window, a man with hard features. One of those rare people whose never felt scared in his whole life. The eyes hidden, protected inside the skull, sharp forehead, he seems to have the right characteristics to be a survivor in this world. Enough for sure to scare someone knocking in a car window in a cold evening. Even if with well- cured hands.


Puc. Puc.


A small pause stands between the two knock, now. As if he wanted to speak with his fist.


Hmpf


And finally the guy opens the window. If it was me in the car, I would probably start the car and run. If I was him, right, if I wasn’t just a hat. My role is to protect him from wind and rain, how could I possibly understand about fists and car windows talks?

Cold like a fridge


The windy air runs inside the car, and it suddenly starts being cold as a fridge. Yet, no fruits or vegetables or anything else to make it a real fridge. The air, anyways, awaken the guy, which was almost asleep at the wheel.


Hi


The voice of the rough man says. No answer, if not a blink and a bored look from this perfect skull which wears me.


I know something you don’t know.


The voice changed, now it’s a bit less scary.


Hmpf


Oh, how chatty this guy! The other man thinks is an invitation, maybe, because he opens the door and seats in the car. Not in the front, but in the rear of the car. My head now has to decide, to turn three quarter or look at him from the rear view mirror. A leather seat makes some strange, funny sounds, but in the new comer’s voice there’s nothing funny.


I’m a track finder, my name is KI


Hmpf


I’m quite good tracking


Hmpf


It’s because of me if you’re sitting here watching like a fool a lamp in an empty room. And the person you’re searching for, would have changed already two times the timing of her watch while we’re speaking.


Empty?

Sotto il cappello_under the hat
Sotto il cappello_under the hat


Says the guy, abrubtly. Sometimes it’s just a word, a simple word to activate an entire vocabulary of reactions. This time he tries to turn and they find themselves with the noses one nose away from each other. They can smell the rancid coffee and the poor oral hygiene from each other’s mouths. The voice slips out of his lips before he could replace it with a more simple “hmpf”. The rough voice of the man, as a mumble of a old man, continues.


Yes, it’s empty. Briefly, it’s why I’m here. My task is to mislead you, so you’d take the wrong path while they’re far away. Did you like the bicycle? It was my idea


Where?


Maybe, before I would answer where, it would be easier to answer why


From features like these and a voice so low, I wouldn’t ever expect to be so polite. This is disconcerting, and a man so big and without any hat! But then, here he continues, with that voice that seems a recorded, crackling low sound.


We have a friend in common


Who?


S.


Not a friend of mine


Yes, well. But I’m pretty sure you met him and he knows you’re after the girl


He knows a lot, this man with no hat! Obviously, all this sounds suspicious. The eyes mounted in my perfect skull turn and watch in front, as ready to stop the conversation.


What do you want? My soul?


Finally, some real conversation, here!


No, my interest is on where your soul is leading


Hmpf


Hmpf, indeed


Here the silence sew some sounds around them, like a good tailor would do. One of those sounds is a dog, another a cat jumping from a waste bin. Why cats do such crazy things?


They’re going to the prison of souls


The Prison of Souls!


No, that’s enough. Probably cats are crazy, but at least are elegant, beautiful animals. Why two men would ever decide to jump in that waste bin which is the prison of souls? Come on, you’ve got brains, please think about something else.

That’s a monstrous place, if not even just a bad idea, a non- existing place. As if the real prison of men wasn’t his own body, his illusions and his eyelids. Which souls would ever been there, in that prison? I’ve never seen this guy so surprised, the pupils dilated as cat’s eyes. Speaking about cats.


The wind moves the tops of the cured plants in the gardens. The lamps is switch off, in the house, while the two men close the door and walk silently. Then, the guy with the grim speaks again.


Only the doctor knows where the place is. S. doesn’t know it yet and it would be an advantage for me, for us. Help me find the prison and you’ll have your soul in a plate


Do you mean, in a box


Yes, yes. Anyways, you understood me


The car now pass through small roads, outside a small house for shepherds. Or people escaping.


Here is where she’s been hiding. Until this morning, when she caught the train


Let’s go, I don’t want to waste more time. Why did you wait so long to approach me?


You must give your pray some advantage, if you want to take it by surprise


Umpf


Bom Bom Bom


A bell ring somewhere, the trees vibrate and dance in the air, while two men go in the dark. One of them has a small smile under his hat.

— And the next week, the End of the Third Chapter. The train! —

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 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

Help!

— Read the First Chapter —

— Read the Second Chapter —

— Read the previous part —

— Read in Italian —



The help he needs

The tracker

Stumbles and bounces back, a dead branch of a tree dissolved in the wind. It’s just another dark shadow passing with its noise between the eyelashes- tree of the world asleep. That same small universe able to host a light wind, strong enough just to caress the hair of the small children intent to watch the stars give a sense over the night sky.

The night

The black tongues of the streets disappear with no sound after the yellowish light of the lamp posts. Between all this, a figure passes and stop in front of two wooden thin lips. Two knocks at the door and a man with a rough face appears. The lips turn into something solid, and the door closes leaving a street mute and blind, outside. On his toes, silk steps turn into wool. The doubt that makes you shivers, the wool pullover, gifted by your grandma. Fate wrote this date, this day, this night at 10.30 pm, but why? Fate knows before the others, but nothing would do without the human marginal actions.

The dark

Outside, a dog starts barking against the hissing of the fresh air of the night. He barks loud, with rage, even though this fresh air refreshes him, moving his soft ears behind. Anyways, barking it’s too much fun.

So

Starts the flat voice with the rough face. His fuchsia socks and the hand well cured motionless.

Finally you came to visit me

How did you know I would have come?

Oh, you’re not the first stranger I meet in the bar with a worried face. I knew a day or another you would have come here to ask for my help. Even though I still don’t know why

S. appears to be hesitant, moving his body weight from one shoe to the other. A scale which doesn’t decide yet were the truth stays. Over that heavy man with the hat or with this tracker.

Remember, Mr. S.

Continues the rusty voice of the tracker.

Remember that I don’t sell truth, but I just help the right question with right answers. So, spit your question, Mr. S.!

I’m going to the Well of Souls

What? The Well of Souls?

Help_un aiuto

For the first time the cool gaze of the trackers, KI, changes. A second, in which the jaw just barely drops, leaving the rest of the skull, the nose and ears. It seems lost in the world, probably for the first time in his life, just for a second. S. is a good observer and he cannot refrain commenting.

Do you know the Well of Souls, don’t you?

This… this is a good question, son

The voice came back all at once, with the facial expressions and the jaw. Then, the jaw drops again, this time to talk.

I know the Well of Souls, even though it’s a place I’ve never been to. No one apparently ever set foot there. The only way to reach it it’s the lullaby all the children know here nearby:

The Well of Souls is in a forest that before was a desert, or a desert that before was a mountain.

Anyways, the place could be anywhere

Not anywhere, I have a lead

The jaw again perfectionates the surprise drop. This time S. continues

See, Mr. KI, I don’t need your help to find the Well of Souls. Actually I don’t want to set foot there, at all. I need something else, something more refined from you

Re-refined? I’m all ears

I made a pact with the person that is now going to the Well of Souls. I will help her to get rid of a stalker and in exchange she will give me what is mine

I cannot really see how can I help you out, here

Mr. KI, you are a tracker, no? I gather you’re specialised in finding details which lead you to what you’re searching for. Am I wrong?

No mistakes, you just describe my job

So, if for once I would ask you to do the opposite, it’d be even easier for you

Keep talking

Your job will be to create false leads for the stalker. That will help me to follow the woman without any further problem

You’re a man full of surprises, Mr. S. In my whole career it’s the first time someone asks me to create a lead, instead of following one. I will do it, but I’m not cheap

That’s not an issue. Put your price on a piece of paper and when everything will be done you’ll be repaid. What that woman have now somehow in her hands has a greater value than my own life

Oh, I hope the stalker is not a jealous husband. I don’t do personal…

No, no, you’re wrong. It’s not a jealous husband. Everything is exactly as I told you. Now I will describe him, for you it will be the easiest job ever. The only thing is he never has to be close to the woman. M., by the way, her name is M. The man’s name it’s still unknown for me

It will be taken care of

And without adding anything else, S’s feet turn and pass through the door, outside, over the trees, over the street with poor light, over the small noses looking at the sky.

Behind the door, the tracker is already working on a plan, with a grin in his face.

The Well of Souls- The Well of Souls- The Well of souls

He repeats constantly, scratching his forehead and watching in front of himself.

— And next week… The trap works! —



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

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

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

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

Second Chapter

Second Chapter

Souls (Alive)

Death, souls, escape and truth

So many pieces of this story seem not to match, as they were a complicated w/b puzzle. We have flashbacks accounted by a crying grandma ashamed of herself, suicide offices and souls hidden inside cut fingers.

A story of souls?

Little by little we start understanding that this story is not all about souls as we thought. Not really. Souls are just an energy, the hidden force behind our world, which tell stories, give us a structure. In a word, they are the shape of th world itself.

A story of desires

S. has a desire: having his souls back. His ultimate dream would be one day to have his father’s soul, which was his own present. He desires a great career, and this as well as having his father’s souls has to come to terms with reality. The boy, in the meantime, is searching his own revenge against whom, his grandma said, stole his soul (and all his perspective with it). M. is the most cyinic of all the characters. She doesn’t want to dive into the world. Not anymore. Souls, corpses or the chirping of birds, everything’s part of an alien world for her. Even though the fate, in the shape of a soul, is going to take her in a journey.

The escape

Finally, an escape for three. An escape for souls and desires, ready to lead us in an unexpected travel. A travel in a souls world in which people are still planting its own dreams, drinking coffee and eating in restaurants.

The second chapter

Second Chapter
Second Chapter: The journey of souls
  1. The Big day
  2. The night
  3. About body and soul
  4. Find him!
  5. That boy
  6. Vendetta!
  7. The pyramid
  8. Bu
  9. The patient of 8.05 a.m.
  10. The doctor
  11. A corpse that… speaks?
  12. The hat
  13. Steps

Didn’t read the First Chapter? Do it now!

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

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

A corpse that… speaks?

— Read in Italian —

— Read the previous one —

A corpse

that

speaks

Do you believe in reincarnation?