Tag Archive storytelling

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.

Finale_The end

Fine

Tempo di elezioni

Ragazze avvenenti sfilano in intimo, coperte per il resto solo da cartelloni pubblicitari. Nei quadrati appesi al collo, facce tonde di futuri aspiranti statisti.

Alla fine

Alla fine tutto continua come da copione. La festa dell’Indipendenza concede il tempo alle famiglie di perdere un po’ tempo in chiacchiere vuote davanti a rettangoli luminosi. Questi ultimi, consci del loro ruolo centrale nel formare un’opinione pubblica senza opinioni, lanciano notizie di questo tenore:

La pioggia di alieni continua. Il Governo adotta misure straordinarie per fronteggiare la crisi.

Marito ammazza moglie nella periferia, poi la taglia a pezzi e li seppellisce in giro per la città. “Pensavo fosse un’aliena”, sembra abbia detto agli inquirenti.

L’Onorevole Svanzoni si dimette, in seguito alla bocciatura della sua mozione di minoranza:

<<Ho chiesto solamente di lasciarli cadere a terra interi. Ho pensato di dare loro almeno una possibilità di salvarsi>>, sembra abbia dichiarato questo nuovo nemico della Patria.

Non si è fatta attendere la risposta del nostro Capo Popolo:

<<Capisco la frustrazione dell’Onorevole ex Ministro per le Infrastrutture e il Quieto Vivere. Bisogna però ricordare che l’aspetto ludico è importante. Le persone, il popolo, soffre già per il coprifuoco. È giusto che ci sia un momento di svago. Secondo le regole, certo. Noi siamo sempre per le regole. Per questo motivo ho chiesto i pieni poteri, per poter dare alla gente ciò di cui ha bisogno.>>

A partire da oggi, grazie alla mozione Babu, sarà legale giustiziare un alieno per le strade durante le festività. Chi dovesse sparare fuori dagli orari e dai giorni consentiti, sarà soggetto ad un’ammenda pecuniaria. A seguire una breve guida su come riconoscere gli alieni.

Il Popolo

Il popolo, però, prima di armarsi e andare a caccia dell’alieno, si svaga ripetendo le notizie sentite a casa, nei bar. Le informazioni cambiano un po’, come nel famoso gioco del telefono, così da generare discussioni accese, divisioni che possono solo agevolare il Governo.

Il Capo Popolo

Il Capo Popolo, sicuro della vittoria alle imminenti elezioni, siede rilassato sulla sua poltrona nera. Davanti a sé, sulla scrivania, il mezzo busto di un tiranno morto da decenni.

C’è un motivo per il quale ha lasciato il suo gatto decidere le sorti di quegli alieni. Lo stesso motivo per il quale non è là fuori a festeggiare e sparare come tutti gli altri. Tra le braccia tiene stretto tutto ciò che ha un senso per lui. Una piccola nota musicale, un principio di vita che è in grado solo di urlare, dormire e mangiare.

La piccola V

L’unica creatura con cui sa di poter parlare, l’unica in grado di capirlo davvero, facendo bollicine allegre con la bocca. Russa un po’, ma in quel modo buffo che sembra essere appannaggio solamente dei bambini. E sorride. Un sorriso senza denti che sposta come fosse vento i sorrisi sulle altre facce attorno. Un vento positivo, naturale.

Un uomo buono

Come far comprendere agli elettori buoi e al Partito che il suo animo è buono? Se potesse, accompagnerebbe le vecchiette da una parte all’altra della strada. Questo è il tipo di persona che è. Un imbecille, ma in fondo per nulla cattivo.

Si è semplicemente ritrovato tanto potere nelle mani, troppo in fretta. Quando si ha tanto potere, si devono prendere decisioni. Servono risposte chiare, sicure. Lui non si fa pregare, sa di essere un capo e gioca sempre fino in fondo. Ah, dove sono i suoi nemici ora? Ridono sotto qualche metro di terra e di cemento, ecco cosa fanno!

<<Pling- plong?>>

La porta, improvvisamente, chiede attenzione. Oggi è il giorno dell’Indipendenza, che cosa vorranno mai? Che vada a rispondere la servitù, alla fin fine è là per quello.

<<Pling- plong!>>

Stavolta la porta sembra chiamare in modo più deciso, senza esitazione. Non è una domanda, sembra sia più una risposta. Oh, ma che sciocco! Oggi la servitù ha avuto tre ore di riposo per andare a festeggiare con le famiglie. C’è la caccia all’alieno per le strade.

Si dimentica sempre di essere così magnanimo.

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

<<Ma insomma!!>>

Sbotta il Capo Popolo, indispettito. Di questo passo potrebbero svegliare la piccola Vittoria, questi incivili. Si alza, deponendo lentamente il corpicino addormentato della bambina. La culla, rosa e bianca, inizia a cullarla lentamente. La “V” disegnata sulla testa della culla sembra essere un orologio rotto.

<<Pling- plong!>>

E il Capo dimentica il suo lato romantico.

<<Pling- Plong!>>

“Li ammazzo!” Pensa mentre scende le scale.

<<Pling- Plong!>>

“Oh, li squarto vivi, li squarto!” Pensa ancora, mentre finalmente, con la bava alla bocca, gira la maniglia.

<<Per Diana e Benito, ma chi è?>>

E davanti a lui,

<<Ehi, e tu chi sei?>>

Finale_The end
Finale_The end

La figura di una signora anziana, vestita di stracci e fango lo guarda atterrita. Sembra avere cento anni, sporca sulle braccia di quello che sembra essere sangue rappreso. Non suo, comunque, non sembra ferita. Occhi grandi, resi ancora più grandi dalla faccia ossuta, lo guardano come una visione.

<<Tu, tu, tu sei… sei, sei, sei un’aliena!>>

Un uomo così grande e grosso, spaventato da uno scheletro umano, impaurito.

Uno scheletro umano

La donna vorrebbe parlare, ma tutte le parole che vorrebbe pronunciare le sono state portate via. Ha perso la parola qualche tempo prima, insieme ad una costola incrinata che non le permette di respirare per bene. È stata scelta per essere là in quel momento, per essere davanti a quell’uomo, al Capo Popolo. Ne ha passate tante per ritrovarsi finalmente là, finalmente di fronte a quell’uomo per dirgli che…

<<Blam!>>

Un colpo solo, che fa fischiare le orecchie e chiude gli occhi del Capo. Uno sparo solo basta per fare della testa della vecchia una nuvola di coriandoli rossi. Spariscono gli occhi, sparisce la paura, sparisce la faccia intera sporca di terra. Diventa un corpo ossuto, la testa una macchia per terra. Una macchia come un’altra, che verrà pulita dalla servitù tra qualche ora.

<<Capo, state bene?>>

Una ragazzina di dodici anni, con il suo fucile ancora fumante in mano, lo guarda curiosa.

<<S- si, grazie. Non so cosa volesse da me.>>

<<Posso avere un autografo?>>

<<C- certo. Come hai fatto a riconoscere che era un’aliena?>>

<<Ho visto il programma “come riconoscere un alieno” su Tu Tubi, sono un’esperta.>>

<<Oh, certo, bravissima. Come ti chiami?>>

<<Ananke.>>

<<Ananke, che nome curioso. Sei stata proprio bravissima. Dove desideri l’autografo?>>

<<Posso averlo sul corpo? Lo carico qui sulla carriola, i miei amici moriranno d’invidia.>>

<<Certo, certo, ci mancherebbe. Te lo sei più che meritato. E buona festa dell’Indipendenza!>>

Da vicino è diverso

La ragazzina guarda il Capo. Non l’aveva mai visto così da vicino, sempre e solo su qualche balcone o nei rettangoli colorati. Le sembra di guardarlo per la prima volta e si rende conto di quanto sia molliccio e sudato. Trema ancora di paura mentre si pulisce il volto dal sangue. Non lo ammetterà mai, ma prova un po’ pena per lui. Tutto quel potere e ha paura della prima vecchia che gli si para davanti.

<<Aspetta. Stava provando a prendere qualcosa dalla tasca. Cos’è? Non vorrei che fosse un’arma.>>

La ragazzina fruga nel corpo ossuto della vecchia, con aria disgustata. I rettangoli hanno detto che gli alieni portano malattie mortali.

Una lettera

<<È una lettera, signor Capo.>>

<<Bene, dammela pure e vai a giocare con il tuo cadavere. Buona Indipendenza!>>

La porta inizia a chiudersi lentamente sulla scena grottesca della ragazzina, intenta a caricare sulla carriola il corpicino senza testa dell’anziana.

Lo sguardo del Capo sembra perdere lucidità, mentre legge la lettera che gli trema tra le mani. Che scherzo è mai questo?

Poi intuisce qualcosa e allora non c’è tempo per le domande, solo per il terrore.

Lascia la porta aperta e corre.
Corre con la pancia che gli trema.

Corre come mai prima in vita sua.

I piedi sono già sulle scale, superano gli ultimi gradini, si lanciano nella stanza, urtano il busto del tiranno che cade in mille pezzi a terra. Nella stanza una finestra aperta e orme di fango sul pavimento.

Davanti a lui, una culla vuota

E il mondo è un incubo.

E il mondo è distante.

E il mondo è il futuro.

Forse pensava di essere padrone del tempo. Ma quello fa ciò che più desidera, senza interpellare gli uomini.

Mentre cade a terra, urla. Disperazione, rabbia, confusione. Come se cadesse dalle nuvole. Come un alieno, alla fine.

Su una montagna di dolore e fango.

Troppo tardi, pensa mentre i suoi pensieri si dissolvono.

<<Ci avete rubato il futuro!>>

Un grido, una voce dietro di lui.

Si gira per vedere un alieno, sporco di sangue e terra. D’istinto impugna la sua pistola preferita da dentro il cassetto, Walkiria. Non l’ha mai usata e non sa come si spara, ma sa che Walkiria lo aiuterà. Victoria è tra le mani di quell’alieno. Non piange.

Perché non piange?

L’alieno deve morire.

L’alieno deve soffrire.

L’alieno verrà squartato.

Invece, l’alieno parla la sua lingua.

<<Sparami, sparami quanto vuoi, ma non potrai cambiare la tua sorte. Tu hai rubato il nostro futuro, noi abbiamo rubato il tuo. Ti abbiamo anche dato un’occasione, ma l’hai sprecata.>>

L’alieno deve morire.

L’alieno deve soffrire.

Improvvisamente, il Capo si sente un alieno. Punta la mano tremante e la pistola alla tempia e preme il grilletto.

<<Blam!>>

In un secondo, in un solo proiettile, una fontana in tinta di rosso. La stanza diventa più vivace, con questo effetto aerografo. A terra resta il corpo del Capo Popolo, il cervello misto ai cocci della statua e al sangue. L’alieno non sa che fare, non si aspettava una reazione del genere.

<<Click.>>

Dalla porta, un rumore di qualcuno che toglie la sicura ad un’arma.

L’alieno si gira, per trovarsi davanti una ragazzina di dodici anni, che lo osserva.

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

Non attende la risposta, sa come riconoscere un alieno.

<<Blam!>>

Ora per terra stanno due corpi, mentre uno molto piccolo giace nella culla. Irriconoscibile, una macchia rossa al posto di quel sorriso senza colpa. Presente e futuro legati dal medesimo destino.

Nella mano sinistra del Capo Popolo sta una lettera, scritta in una grafia tremolante.

“Non uccidermi, ti prego.

Salvami.

La tua V.”

E la lettera sparisce, mentre la ragazzina trascina per le scale il suo trofeo.

<<Ritorna al futuro.>>

Borbotta tra sé e sé.

Fine

Ti guardi intorno con aria perduta? Guarda qui di cosa si tratta.

Ti manca solo l’ultimo pezzo pubblicato? Leggi qui.

Questa storia è un racconto originale scritto da Daniele Frau, cui sono riservati i diritti di riproduzione. I disegni sono ad opera di Gabriele Manca (DMQ productions) e tutti i diritti correlati sono di sua proprietà.

Read in English, click here!

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.

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

Sotto il cappello_under the hat

Tradimento!

— Leggi il Primo Capitolo–

— Leggi il Secondo Capitolo–

— Leggi la puntata precedente–

— Read in English–

Sotto il cappello

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

In attesa

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


Puc Puc


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

KI

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


Puc. Puc.


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


Hmpf


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

Il fresco della notte


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


Salve


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


So qualcosa che lei non sa


La voce si è fatta stranamente meno cavernosa.


Hmpf

In macchina!

Sotto il cappello_under the hat
Sotto il cappello_under the hat


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

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


Sono un cercatore di tracce


Hmpf


Sono abbastanza bravo a cercare tracce


Hmpf


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


Vuota?


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

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


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


Dove?


Prima di tutto le potrei dire perché, sarebbe più semplice

Una cosa alla volta


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


Abbiamo un amico in comune.


Chi?

S.

Non è mio amico.

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

Cosa vorrà?

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


Anche lei vuole la mia anima?


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


Hmpf


Hmpf davvero

Silenzio

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


Sono diretti alla prigione delle anime


La prigione delle anime!


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

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

Sotto il cappello, sconcerto

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


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


D’argento


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


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

Una casetta


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


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


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


Umpf

Bom, Bom, Bom


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

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

La storia avrà pubblicazione a cadenza settimanale. Tutti i diritti sulla storia sono riservati da Flyingstories.org e nella persona di Daniele Frau.

Tutte le grafiche sono eseguite a mano e in stili misti dall’artista Gabriele Manca, DMQ productions, che detiene i diritti sulle opere.

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 biblioteca

La biblioteca

— Leggi il Primo Capitolo–

— Leggi il Secondo Capitolo–

— Leggi la puntata precedente–

— Read in English–

Rettangoli di carta

Era un’infinità di tempo che la vita non osava, perlomeno, tentava di rendere qualche goccia di quella rugiada un torrente gorgogliante, un fiume fluido e florido. Una goccia però, sfuggendo al fato, sa sempre cadere in una riserva secca, chiamando altre gocce prima che il sole si accorga del misfatto.

Carta bagnata

Con estrema cautela questo sorso di esistenza imprevedibile sfugge rendendo la foce del corso d’acqua un passaggio al mare. Pesci differenti, tartarughe marine, coralli perfino. Quanta pazienza bisogna avere per attendere che tutto ciò accada. La stessa pazienza che si legge nello sguardo da dinosauro in ritardo della grossa tartaruga che segue la corrente.

Alla foce

Dunque è proprio lì, alla foce del nostro fiume, prima che si incontrino nuovi e misteriosi compagni di viaggio, che si decide il proprio destino. Quel gocciolare isolato è diventato finalmente una storia, un cammino da intraprendere.

Sul treno


Ora, cullata dal movimento del treno, M. sogna di essere nella pancia di un enorme serpente del deserto. Mi guarda, sorridendo per la fortuna che gli è toccata in sorte. L’ultimo treno è questo e non si sfugge, per ora è al sicuro. Ecco l’ultima fermata, fuori diventa buio ad ogni istante, il treno


dakadakadakadakdadakakakakakakaakakssssss


si ferma con il suo celebre tossire.

Luoghi remoti


Ci sono luoghi remoti, giusto dietro gli altari magici che vengono costruiti per connettersi e disconnettersi la coscienza. Qui si trovano i tipi più solitari, ma anche macchine di piccola cilindrata in cui con i finestrini aperti personaggi senza tempo ascoltano le partite di pallone. Sui muretti, da qualche parte là intorno, voci spensierate e mani sottili conversano dando pareri senza filtri, di quelli inadatti perfino ai bar più rumorosi.

Umanità

Si trovano questo genere di persone nei pressi delle stazioni, nei grandi parchi, nei concerti con le magliette larghe e i jeans. Questi funghi qui trovano il loro sottobosco ideale in cui crescere e nutrirsi. Tra queste gocce di cemento ecco camminare un’ombra obliqua, tagliata in maniera rozza dall’ultimo sole del giorno. Si allunga fino a toccare i capelli di una ragazza intenta a disegnare una cupola di trecento anni fa seduta con la lingua di fuori sul prato. La ragazza, non la cupola.

Velo d’esistenza

Eccola continuare il suo cammino, quest’ombra ora quadrata, ora oblunga, eccola sorpassare un muro e poi un altro, scavalcare una strada senza più ombre. O luci. Sembra scomparire fino all’ombelico della terra, dentro la pancia misteriosa che ci ospita paziente da tanto tempo. Poi, una luce fioca avvisa


Tavera- carne


Ed ecco l’illusione della realtà. Nuove ombre, stavolta colorate di rosso e giallo, definiscono i contorni così come le aspettative. Leggi taverna e pensi


vino


Poi leggi carne e pensi


Fuoco, legna, caldo


Tutto ciò che in questo momento della giornata sembra essere solo un miraggio. Invece, poi, accade. Le mani spingono forte la porta che separa il vino, il fuoco, la legna e il calore dal freddo della sera che avanza scivolando silenzioso dietro il sole distratto.

Luce

Un vortice di luce rende ciechi per un attimo quegli occhi abituati al buio, alle ombre, stanchi dopo giorni di corse senza riposo. Essere braccati ha i suoi pro e contro. I pro di sicuro sono quelli che illuminano di più le vite degli ottimisti. Quando però si ha sonno e fame, si notano solo i contro.


A pochi passi dalla pesante porta di ingresso quattro braccia robuste si interessano del nuovo venuto. Nessuno nota il suo orologio. Se lo facessero, potrebbero constatare come continuo a calcolare tre ore di differenza. Non è una mia colpa, non posso regolarmi, so di essere sbagliato, o meglio corretto ma in qualche altra longitudine.

Un umile orologio


Potrebbe darsi che non sia poi così difficile ignorarmi, per quanto sia invece semplice notare questa donna misteriosa che, sebbene stanca, porta con sé tutto il fascino possibile. Alta e dai capelli corti, un polso sottile e le mani morbide e lisce, non è certo di queste parti.

È una forestiera e non se ne trovano poi tante qui intorno. I passi sicuri danno un ritmo agli occhi che la osservano. Quattro, come le braccia, attenti a non perdere un particolare di quella forma longilinea che li supera e chiede


Potrei avere un bicchier d’acqua e un panino, grazie?


Un panino…


Uno qualsiasi, ho poco tempo e troppa fame


Certo. Desidera un amaro, un caffè?


Un amaro, uno qualsiasi


L’uomo dall’altra parte del bancone ha un viso di quelli che si dimenticano in fretta. Potrebbe lavorare come spia o come modello di medicine contro le emorroidi. O magari un pescatore solitario in attesa di essere ucciso da un assassino. Un viso non simpatico, non antipatico, uno sguardo che non incontrerete mai direttamente, se non voltandovi di scatto verso uno specchio. Certo questa donna che mi regge con il suo polso sottile ha carattere, non ci piove.


Ecco il suo amaro e l’acqua, signorina


Signora


Signora


Grazie


Offro io, signora


Dice una voce alla sua sinistra. E tutta l’enfasi della frase cade proprio su quest’ultima parola. Come se volesse raccontare, in un secondo, tutta la sua vita, il suo carattere. Come se desiderasse affermare che anche lui è stato sposato, che come lei non porta più anelli, che lo status di signora non implica che la sua età sia un ostacolo.

E’ una donna avvenente, lui ha due grosse braccia e un sorriso giallognolo da caffè-sigaretta-caffè e sa di profumo del supermercato. Il vero maschio alfa.


Le labbra dal polso sottile creano un piccolo arco sul lato sinistro, prima di aprirsi e lasciar scomparire l’acqua e l’amaro in successione inversa. Via l’amaro, via l’acqua, si è pronti a ripartire. Il panino ficcato nello zainetto che la segue ormai come un piccolo guscio.


Ehi, ma dove vai? Non mi dici nemmeno come ti chiami?


I passi si fermano davanti alla porta, fuori il vento canta in si bemolle e una porta sbatte da qualche parte.

La ringrazio per l’amaro, ma non voglio che sprechi il suo tempo a tatuarsi il mio nome sul braccio. Buona serata

La porta si chiude e lascia dietro di sé due bocche aperte e una impassibile. Un barman, anche il meno fotogenico, trova più conforto sul fondo da strofinare di un bicchiere che in queste beghe terrestri.

In marcia


Nella tasca dei jeans una macchia scarlatta ricorda il perché di tanta fretta. Quell’anima, quella voce ruvida che la insegue, la sta guidando. Sono giorni ormai che sperimenta ogni possibile variazione delle parola fuga. Nessun letto ha il piacere di sentire il corpo caldo della dottoressa fino a diventare caldo esso stesso. La catena rivela che ci sono passi, poi treni, stanze e poi passi e così via.


Eccoci alla prima tappa davvero ricercata di questa fuga assurda.


Biblioteca Pubblica- Ufficio Pubblicità e Intrattenimento- Scuola di vita

E’ la prima ad interessare la dottoressa, però entrando non può esimersi dal guardare dal corridoio tutti quegli alunni della scuola di vita che seguono annoiati la professoressa. Alla lavagna si legge


Le tasse sono per i perdenti- Come evitarle


E’ davvero incredibile constatare la volontà dello Stato di modellare cittadini che violino le leggi. In un mondo perfetto, dovrebbero insegnare come pagare le tasse. Però questi studenti hanno deciso di intraprendere una strada diversa. Anche se non tutti sono portati per la scuola di vita, per materie come

sopravvivenza con i sussidi

o

rapina a mano armata

Se il Governatore di queste parti ha aperto questa scuola però avrà avuto le sue ragioni. C’era una certa domanda. Senza qualcuno che vada oltre le regole, le regole stesse si dimenticano e con esse chi le amministra.

La biblioteca


Eccoci dunque davanti alla biblioteca. La mano sfila dal portafogli la tessera ingiallita degli anni dell’università, l’orologio segna le 7.30, io le 10.30. Per fortuna seguono quell’orologio grosso e brutto sul muro, così M. avrà una chance di entrare e leggere i libri che le interessano. Seduti ai tavoli si intravedono solo professori e dottorandi. Nella sezione esoanimismo ecco i libri richiesti


Antianimatologia delle parti del reale


Tassonomia e regolazione di spirito e materia


Come liberare l’anima dal giogo della vita?


Ecco in quest’ultimo si legge


Quando un’anima è recisa dal suo corpo di adozione (cfr. capitolo III Reazioni e aura”) si trasferisce in quanto sostanza immateriale e priva di tempo in onde “di luce auto- riflettenti”. In termini più pratici, si distacca dal soggetto senza perderne la reale consistenza essenziale. Una nuova teoria vede l’anima come vittima annessa ad un nuovo corpo.


Interessante. Ecco spiegato come lei possa sentire la “voce” di quest’anima intrappolata nel mignolo. Ora bisogna fare in fretta, leggere dove si trova il pozzo delle anime. Sembra impossibile, eppure:


(…) là dove un tempo era montagna e ora è città, dove gli alberi non seguono il sole, ma quel mare scuro chiamato anima.


Tutto qui? Questo l’avrebbe potuto chiedere ad un bambino qualsiasi. Tutti sanno questa frase, per quanto senza senso possa sembrare. Una filastrocca che mette i brividi, la “Prigione delle anime” in cui finiranno tutti i cattivi. Nessuno ci crede davvero, ma nessuno ha mai davvero smesso di crederci. Anima, anima, non è questo il momento di sparire.


Prendi il libro rosso sullo scaffale


L’anima ha parlato. In effetti sullo scaffale, in alto, c’è un piccolo volumetto dalla copertina mangiucchiata dagli insetti, dal tempo o da qualcuno con delle grosse unghie.


M. si sporge e prende il libro in mano. Un libro come un altro, che si intitola


Come fabbricare una storia


Cosa mai avrà a che fare questo libro con ciò che stiamo cercando? Ecco che M. sfoglia le pagine, facendo attenzione a qualche messaggio segreto, cifrato tra le righe. Nulla sembra saltare all’occhio.


Quando si scrive una storia è importante un momento di pathos, dal greco (…)


Niente, proprio niente che possa aiutarla, darle un suggerimento qualsiasi. Poi, arrivata al capitolo

Scrivere non è per tutti. Se non conosci nessuno, è meglio darsi all’ippica



Un rumore.

Tup


Un foglietto cade per terra, un foglio ingiallito di una carta dura, costosa.


Là dove un tempo era montagna e ora è città, dove gli alberi non seguono il sole, ma quel mare scuro chiamato anima. Sei quasi arrivata, ora guarda alla tua destra


M., per quanto incredula, guarda alla sua destra e nota una scritta sul muro, che non aveva notato prima.

Prego, signorina, stiamo chiudendo!


Urla la voce rauca del bibliotecario. Ha una famiglia, una partita di pallone da guardare. Non è pagato per perdere un minuto di più in questo luogo insensato pieno di rettangoli di carta.


S- si, la prego. Mi dia solo un minuto


La sagoma del bibliotecario si allontana, borbottando tra sé e sé. La scritta sul muro è in una grafia da ragazza, scarabocchiata di fretta su un’immagine di una foresta vista dall’alto.


Piantonia, dove le radici guardano il sole. Per visite in elicottero chiamare il numero- rettangolo in basso


Dopo aver messo il libro al suo posto, eccola avvicinarsi all’immagine. Piantonia. La nazione delle piante. Il luogo in cui nessun umano può mettere piede. Ma come faceva il libro a sapere… Il foglietto giallo, lo tiene ora stretto tra le mani. Ma dice qualcos’altro:

Entra là dove sai, cammina da Est. Là troverai il Pozzo delle Anime


Poi l’immagine sparisce e una scritta grande come un urlo compare:


BRUCIAMI


E così M. scappa dalle grandi bocche di legno della biblioteca, si rifugia in strada. Nella tasca della borsa trova un accendino, vecchio compagno dei tempi in cui fumava. Lentamente, appiccia il fuoco ad un angolo e sente la carta sibilare umida e fumosa.
Quando butta l’ultimo pezzo di carta per terra, le sembra di leggere:


GRAZIE


Ma ormai è cenere, vento, nebbia che avvolge la vallata. Ora sa dove andare, sa dov’è diretta. E si perde nell’aria della sera, mentre addenta famelica un panino rosso sangue.

— E la prossima settimana… Tradimento! —

La storia avrà pubblicazione a cadenza settimanale. Tutti i diritti sulla storia sono riservati da Flyingstories.org e nella persona di Daniele Frau.

Tutte le grafiche sono eseguite a mano e in stili misti dall’artista Gabriele Manca, DMQ productions, che detiene i diritti sulle opere.



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

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