Tag Archive souls speech

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

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

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

The meeting between S. and the boy

Steps

— Read in Italian —

— Read the previous one —

The encounter

The colours and the sounds are fading away, colours in the eyes of a man drunk of life. He drops the bottle and

P-ach-sh

The hat_ il cappello

The hat

— Read in Italian —

— Read the previous one —

At the market

Markets are complex places, full of colours and voices. Sometimes theatre and cinema try to replace the murmur of crowd just saying

Walla Walla

All together. But if you have experience of markets, you won’t be fooled. Maybe I’m not as useful as a pair of shoes or as precise as a watch, but I know how people yell in a market. I also know how winter changes the market itself. I’m familiar with winter, the season in which I, an humble hat, suddenly become important.

The life of a hat

In between this indistinct chattering and yelling, this human crowd murmuring, a hand takes me, another tries me over his head and looks at me in his reflection. I don’t have any advice to give to anyone, but that skull is too big for me, while that one has a sweaty forehead. In case they’d buy me, I would fly at the first wind blow and then who’d spend a minute to pick me up from a puddle?

No respect for hats, that’s all. Not even for gentleman’s hats.

This guy

Right now there’s a guy coming towards me. He’s not good looking and has a serious grim, but the shape of his head is perfect for me. Sure, we’re a lot here. So many hats to choose from, even though I feel I’m more elegant than a fedora,  a panama, a bowler, or a flat cap. Oh, I said that, didn’t I? He chose me! He wears me perfectly and pulls me over his eyes. Homburg is always a good choice.

Hmpf

Mumble in appreciation to the salesman

It’s only 30

Hmpf

Reply the man, not happy about the price. So the price drops to

25? I think it’s honest for a hat like this one

Hmpf

He left!

He answers back once again, still not happy about the price suggested by the salesman, and he quits. No, you small head salesman, go after him, stop him, he seems to have the perfect head shape. And probably some story to tell. With a head like that, it will be a shame not to understands his end.

No, no, wait! are you going for real? It was a joke, you see. I would never let you go without this hat. Wait, my friend. I say, wait! Let’s make it 20, deal?

Hmpf

Answers happily the guy with the perfect skull. The head of the salesman makes a lot of small wrinkles of happiness, while we leave fast out of that screaming mass of people

That face, that face

The hat_ il cappello
The hat_ il cappello

That square, that cube to solve in every side and every lost colour. The door opens, bringing the smell of forgotten, of dust, paper. Small pieces of wall, white, are in the ground as a reminder of a sad white and black carnival passed.

The room is simple, with a small red table. On the door, an elephant drawing, that the time discoloured.

The eyes watch down, the back bend and all together with the hands they try to find a drawer. Inside the drawer, a lot of random papers, the dark side that was forgotten, giving the back to the sun. Elephants, leaves, clouds, mountains and tubers, but no trace of a face. Why I know he’s searching for a face? He just keeps repeating

That face, that face, that face, hmpf

What a face looks like?

As a hat I don’t really know a lot, I’m just a thing, an element useful to repair heads from sun and rain. But one thing I know it’s that the faces are ovals, with a nose in the middle, two red or dark strips horizontal under the nose, with which the faces can yellto call yellow cars. Over the nose two things called eyes coloured the world and the soft one on the side record the sounds. And keep hats on, most of the time. On top of the heads, you’ll find most of the time a natural hat, called hair.

It’s him

So, a face is roughly as simple as that. Oh, the boy just finds out a face. The face is long, with a nose long and narrow as a finger and two small moustaches as commas over the lips. If only that man would buy me, with that moustaches I would be a star! The hands now are shaking, while they found a small note on the side of the paper

His name is S. Follow him

And next week, the End! (of the second chapter)

Read the first chapter!

This story will be published once per week only, with all rights reserved for the story and its translations by Flyingstories.org and in the person of Daniele Frau.

All the graphics are handmade and designed with different techniques by Gabriele Manca, DMQ productions, who reserves all rights. 

All English articles published in Souls (alive) proofread by Elisabeth Corcoran

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?

M. il medico_ The doctor

The doctor

— Read in Italian —

— Read the previous one —

I’m a humble wristwatch

Time

Time is just a matter of rhythm. The bigger is the space, the easier is to see that movement stretch until it dissolves completely. Here, then, in this small controlled space, time seems to be small, tiny. A midget of time, in the big circus of lights and planets. And yet, you cannot open a door that a second seems to fly away, together with some whitish yellowish body.

The device

The souls device

Second part sales lesson

— Read in Italian—

— Read the previous article —

Let’s go straight to the point. The case in front of you is an example of box for souls. Its 5.8’’ size makes it pretty handy and perfect to be contained inside a custody with alarm integrated system. You will keep your soul inside this small box, so first you have to keep it from being stolen.

Il valore di un'anima

The value of a soul

–read in Italian–

–read the previous article–

It would have been a nice ending

It would have been really romantic. A perfect happy ending, if only that soul wasn’t so pure. Most of the time, people appreciate stones more than fluffy animals, climbing plants or even other human beings. It seems unbelievable, but I have seen for myself how people fall in love with small coloured stones.

Scarcity, rarity

Their value changes based on how they sparkle with purity when encountering light. Wars and  invasions started and still continue around the world, ignited by greedy hands in search of shiny stones. It’s really unbelievable. You can easily find grey and white rocks, but if you can find something everywhere it doesn’t make sense wasting time searching for it. It’s a love for rarity. You’ll find the same love for scarcity when (changing subject completely) speaking about pure souls. How do you determine the value of a soul? It cannot only be the right light that makes the value rise.