Everything, from the air melted in the wind to the water gurgling in the sink, is extract- closed- sold- closed again and resold by a dealer.
Naturally, after all these steps, the first purpose is lost; the attention is all on the package. In human hands, souls are nothing more than the simple boxes, cans and containers they happen to occupy.
Most of the souls are confined inside cases small as matchboxes or cookie jars. Souls can stay so long inside a cookie jar to begin feeling as they were cookies themselves.
For instance, I consider myself a shoe. As a shoe, I think and walk and whenever they might ask me what time is it, I will undoubtedly answer with a six as that is the finished number of my laces; or perhaps I will reply five, which is the number of fingers requested to put me in business.
A dealer of cases, then?
Enclosed inside boxes or frames, the common souls wait half-asleep, their value slowly to raise, eager to change hand once more with the secret desire to finally disappear. See, there are amongst you simple souls, called souls of objects.
They’re not bright, they don’t appear on any screen and they’re weightless. I’m that kind of soul and I feel more independent than you, free from any dealer of souls. I have been inside a lamp in a fridge and a picture jumping with the frame from a wall.
Oh, and once I was a record of classical music.
Now I’m a pair of shoes and to be honest I enjoy every bit of it. Staying close to a human completely unnoticed it’s fascinating. I can study this dealer and increase my memories every day.
Frames, lamps and music records don’t have such a fun life, I have to say. They stay still and sometimes, a few noses get closer to inspect them, together with a pair of long hands.
We talked about discovered souls, extracted by a dealer as they were gas and inserted in new bodies or new cases. The case is vital for the human science of trade and, therefore, essential for a dealer of souls.
Why on Earth people change their souls?
There are such cases in which being traded is not a choice. It’s the case of the comedian soul, the pure one. Suddenly, it was passed to a child from a humble family.
Maybe it was its destiny. This time the soul was sold by a father as the last resource. It all started when the doctor asked the boy to try Y-rays, the animogram.
<<This soul worth a fortune!>>
Exclaimed excited the doctor, in front of an equally astonished father. The son, completely unaware, was drawing on a small bench outside. Suddenly the father saw a gold mine which as opening right under his feet, an answer to his prayers and bills.
How to explain all this to his own son, to a small guy?
They run out the Yellow Hospital, inside the pocket the name of a famous dealer of souls, eager to pay straight away a fair amount of money for that prodigious soul.
When at home, the father started a monologue with the yellowish picture of his dead wife. This imaginary dialogue lasted the whole night.
<<Look at me, my love, tell me what to do.>>
As any other monologues recited in front of a photograph, this one as well never received any answer. The father started feeling sad, lost, a widow pathetically crying alone in his room.
When outside started the day, he decided to put aside the photograph and the filial love. Finally called the dealer of souls. He thought maybe it was the ladder for heaven or a gold mine, but something inside him said it would be just the entrance of a dark well.
Even the monologue changed in front of the photograph.
<<Fundamental, not necessary, so the doctor said. Yes, he said that.>>
<<Someone asked for that soul, someone ready to let it grow and spread its wings. I cannot lose this opportunity.>>
A dark well.
The sun somehow managed to color a grey breakfast, a poisoned meal, while the father prepared himself for work. The decision was made and the grandma in the other room silently cried, speaking to the same yellowish photograph.
That same night, illuminated by streetlamps as every other night, many new figures entered inside the house and, among them, a dealer of souls.
It wasn’t long before the guy got lost in an induced death, his dreams made of concrete and lights with plastic smell. Everyone was working to extract that soul in the room, which took a long time before being dragged completely out, inside a wooden box.
Another soul, greyish with dark stripes, was used to replace it. The boy in the morning opened his eyes, confused.
<<Grandma, what happened?>>
He asked, watching his grandma crying at his feet. The woman didn’t answer, keeping her silent weeping.
Then, it’s better to allow another chance to our soul to let it spread its wing elsewhere? We have to survive, no? Nothing really changed, though. His new soul, as his life, started following a path, an anonymous grey-with-dark-stripes destiny.
A day with run on the spot in a gym, few fists banged on a table and many drawings abandoned inside a drawer.
Well, the owner of my laces is finally turning on the bed. After a night inside, I’m ready to walk as a real modern man, always in a hurry. Some vital footprints started from the bed arriving at a scale—a weight almost without a soul, as all the dealer of soul.
Anyways, one thing at a time.
His name is S. and he’s a dealer of souls.
If you’re curious about what will happen next and in what consists the job of a souls’ dealer, read the next part.
If you landed on this page, but you don’t have any clue of what this is all about, please read what is this story about.And remember that this is a bilingual project, so you can read it in English and Italian.
This story has been published once per week from October 2018 to October 2019, with all rights reserved for the story and its translations by Flyingstories 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.