Once upon a time there was a land.
A strange, absurd land, you might say.
Because that was the land where people did not read any books.
Incredible, I know.
Because at the end of the day, perhaps tired of holes donated by a debilitating job, someone might be intolerant before a small written burly essay full of abstruse definitions.
But a story...
How do you face the night without at least a story in your conscience’s suitcase?
Yet, in this land people did not read any books.
Until one of them decided to take the dark path: the literary terrorism.
We spoke about, between a book shelf and the other, of this mysterious organization: ASS, Army o Sadist Storytellers.
The story was a little volume, one of those reached he bookstore only by mistake, author's name written with humble words and anything but appealing title.
The publisher, then, was so small to not have even an office.
He received manuscripts and aspiring authors on the last place of the last wagon of the last subway of the day.
Latest Editions was in fact the name of the publisher.
Well, the new book was as fiercely ambitious as unscrupulous, the title testified: The reckless story.
So, it joined the bad guys.
The great chief of the latter, a disproportionate collection of short stories that none read, not even the author himself, gave him the first mission.
Every rookies started so and promptly failed.
"Go to Mr. Voyeur’s house, our worst enemy and made him to read you: at any cost."
The worst enemy of the Army of Sadist Storytellers was really impossible.
He did not read any books, no newspapers, magazines or let alone comics.
He did not read the shop signs and then he was often wrong, entering a bar to ask beard shave and haircut, and vice versa. With all the embarrassment asking a coffee to a guy with scissors and comb.
He did not read the warnings on drugs and so he received hundreds of gastric lavenders.
He did not read at all.
Lonely letters or piles or words had no right to cross his eyes.
His eyes so obsessed with seeing things in the world, not understanding the value of naming them.
Avoiding the risk of begin loving them.
Inert or alive they were.
Especially in the latter case.
Despite the difficulties, The reckless story came at night in the house of the man while he was asleep.
The story was very determined.
It tore some pages and with them tied the guy to the bed.
It tore others and gagged him.
Ripped other pages and waved at the man’s ear, to wake him.
Mr. Voyeur opened his eyes suddenly and horrified by the terror.
"A book," he thought shaken by uncontrollable panic. "There is a book in my bed..."
He shifted his eyes on the bedside table in search of the cell.
Well, the story tore other pages to cover the latter.
Mr. Voyeur glanced into his room and saw.
Or, the contrary.
Each primary source of sacred images had been tarnished by seemingly innocuous pages of equally mild paper, the new TV and the superfast PC, so the tablet with all the valuable apps.
The man looked back on the book and seeing that the latter was composed now only of the first page, so he let out a sigh of relief.
That’s naive, Mr. Voyeur.
Because The reckless story inflicted him the worst torture that the man who never read could ever suffer.
It told him about the first page of its own life.
A magnetic first cry in the form of a so fascinating starting to erase all the universe outside the boundaries.
An anonymous book as many.
And the whole land heard the piercing cries of a man who would have gouged out his eyes just to know what would happen.
Read other stories with morals.
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Storytelling with subtitles
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