In a store of souls, you can find anything you like for a cheap price. Some souls appear clumsy, rolling around the dust of their own existence.
It’s that a kind of remissive, invisible, grey soul, which cannot switch on/off anything. They tend to be useful solely for the category of dealer of souls. When half of S.’s nose was inside the shop, the store manager knew already everything about him.
He immediately got what he represented, the last ring of a long chain, a part of a group that changed the face and therefore, the entire neighborhood’s soul.
That, before they got their hands over the whole metropolis. That chain got so tense, with time, to seem more like a tight wire, almost invisible. We must add that almost everything changed since the grandpa started his career as a dealer of souls.
All started with the Animae, ready to stretch its tentacles in every area of society.
You wouldn’t hear trumpets or crazy piano notes inside the bars, but the sound of colored, flashy slots. Even the streets, once a kaleidoscope of store windows, were now blind mirrors. And the reflexes of all those mirrors were on the net, together with gasping mute fishes.
Shoemakers, greengrocers, tailors all disappeared, leaving behind them a path of new shops. Nightmares’ shops, they were simply parts of lives lived or wished to be lived.
It was then an entire pulsating organism of smiley second-third hand electronics.
Inside the store
<<How may I assist you?>>
Suddenly asked the store manager, startling S. in the middle of a thought.
<<If you need help choosing the furniture or the souls, I’m here.>>
Added the store manager mechanically, without taking his eyes off the newspaper. The Friday crime news it’s the most interesting to read.
In the meantime, S. was trying to figure out which soul to choose. They seemed all the same, even though the labels were different. Some of them were simply horrific.
‘Child, never used’, or ‘Bride, burned’, or again right after that, ‘Groom, burned’. One after the other, death after death.
In the suicide section, you could find the strangest inscriptions. ‘Inventor, car, smog’, or ‘Mathematician, cyanide, apple’.
Nothing would be sadder than the suicide collection, which must be displayed in every soul’s shop following the law. It’s a circle, after all, because most of the time, the first buyer of those same cheap cases are the suicides themselves.
Every soul had its unique bar code, either sold in a shop or on the net. The difference is that in the net, you lose the mystery part completely. It’s love for a picture; it’s pornography. You read:
And you immediately feel that erotic impulse, that craving, that arousing. Your own soul it’s nothing if compared to it. The next step it’s you in your living room sipping your coffee and thinking:
<<How could it possibly be my life if I possessed a soul like that?>>
Choose a soul isn’t easy now as it wasn’t for S. But without a soul, it’s impossible to survive, so S. started having spasms and felt sick, really sick. Ill as a body without a soul. When he closed his eyes, he could feel a sensation of dizziness, a sweet fall into two bosoms of shadow. He had to pinch himself to recover.
‘Geologist, greengrocer, rat poison’, again ‘Puppeteer, painter, electric shock’. He’s getting close. ‘Grey soul, good for dealers, unknown cause of death’.
Right, that’s it, the soul S. was looking for. A simple soul, perfect to remain silent in a shadow of mud. A light, suspended between past and future, that soul was rolling around in the present, apathetic and dirty.
‘Soul grey in color, with cucumber-green and Himalayas-salt-pink streaks. Coming from eastern Pacific, it appears old and lacking the typical blue streaks usually found in the souls coming from Caucasus area’.
Just unbelievable how many words they need to describe a soul. And it wasn’t just that. There was more:
‘Soul extracted with Fechner method, following the death of the patient. Death probably due to a heart attack.’
‘Name of the body before the extraction: A.B.’
‘Occupation: Dealer of heart pills’.
How ironic, a dealer of heart pills died of a heart attack. S. smiled, without thinking that that would happen to him as well. A dealer of souls doesn’t have a soul, yet he spends the whole existence buying and selling them.
Nevertheless, S. was sure about his choice and from the pocket took the two coins to buy his first soul. Left the shop in a hurry, the head covered by the hood. The vendor didn’t even say goodbye. All his attention led to an article about the accident of Mrs. V during a hunting trip.
Once in his apartment, he immediately showed the case to his father. In return, he received what seemed to be a smile. Right after he laid down on the bed, he felt as he was going to faint.
He took the death pill with a gulp of water and waited. Slowly, half of those pink and green streaks left the case and start passing through his hands and then to the rest of his sleeping body. When the case was half empty, his father cut the rest of the soul inside a small box the size of a pencil sharpener.
His story as a dealer, then, starts in a store and then in a room, with his eyes closed. From the grandfather to the father and then to the son, the dealers’ foxhole got a bit wider.
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.