Friday, January 31, 2014

Russia Ballerina dance in chains video story

Stories and News No. 631

Here is the story of a ballerina who, supporting an Amnesty International petition, dances in a garden of Moscow against the laws that stifle the human and civil rights in Russia.
She is flying there, at -20 °C…

0 °C
It is cold.
At zero degree is cold, no jokes.
Okay, maybe it might not rain, maybe if there was the sun.
Maybe, yes.
But if the water freezes at zero there will be a reason, right?
Or at least consequences.
At home, at home.

-1
If zero is cold, let alone...
Nevertheless, ending here it would be too easy.
Because you speak well, staying warm on the other side of the monitor.
For those who live at the antipodes of web it could make the difference.
Back home, back home soon.

-2
Taking apart what already said, reiterating that it is cold is reasonable.
You feel it all, let's say it like it is, on the tip of the nose and fingers and feet and everywhere.
You should feel completely, a point less
Go home, we go home.

-3
This time it snows, that is not doubtful.
Better for the children, I agree, but what about the rest of us who work at piece rates?
You might play with snow, I know, it's nice to see, it is not the best to drink, once dissolved, in extreme conditions, but we do not eat with it.
No, damn snow, no.
At home, let’s remain at home.

-4
Turn on the stove… no, turn it off.
Now you're warm in bed.
Once at home.

-5
Do you think about when in the middle of summer you complain about the heat?
Well, think about it now.
In the home, into the home.

-6
No more blankets, it is useless to look for in the closet.
Go to bed and forget about it.
But do not shake, please.
At home.

-7, 8 and 9
Here all accelerated.
Otherwise, the glacial story collapses as the dinghy you attempts to inflate.
We are at home, now.

-10, 11, 12
And -13
Never leave it alone, to freeze.
At home, your home.

-14, 15, 16
-17 and - 18
How many times have I told you that the cold will come? And you never listen to me.
Have you seen that the predictions were true?
Now you know what the cold is.
At home.

-19
It's time to close the curtains.
We'll be warmer.
No... wait. There's something out there...

-20 °C
Here she is, the dancing girl.
Despite the cold handcuffs, the only one allowed to kiss her.
Only on the wrists.
Because you can only admire the rest of her.
It is free as much as the country she lives should be...




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Thursday, January 30, 2014

Missing Millionaire New York Lottery story

Stories and News No. 630

I read that the U.S. Powerball Lottery organizers are looking for the owner of the winning ticket of $ 1 million, bought in the Bronx last year. The "Missing Millionaire" will be waited until Sunday and if he will not come in time no money for him.
Who is the mysterious winner? Meanwhile, there are a thousand explanations.
Here is one plausible.
Or at least that is what I think...

My name is Jeff.
But you can call me Tom or Mike.
Nothing changes.
Because it never changes.
Because here everything sucks.
And I don’t believe in anything anymore.

You don’t agree? Look around you, I say.
Where do we start? By the government.
They are all got enriched with citizens money.
No one cares about the welfare of voters before they promise and then they get the villas, boats and beautiful women.
With our cash.
We squeeze through taxes to pay for the pool and luxury cars to some politician.
Actually, no, to the politician’s girl.
Everything sucks, this is the truth.
And I don’t believe in anything anymore.
The job is the same, huh?
Colleagues care only about themselves and making a career.
So everyone is ready to cheat the others to earn a point with the boss.
Oh come on, this is the truth.
A bunch of vile people, this is what you find in the office today.
In the office?
On the subway, in the car traffic, in line at the post office.
They thrust and kick, in an endless race to finish first.
First to the traffic light, first to sit, first to get out.
And the others may all die.
Come on, this is reality.
Everything sucks.
And I no longer believe in anything.
Do we want to talk about relatives and friends?
Let's face it, then.
If you are present with manic continuity, without ever missing a recurrence, that’s okay, but as soon as you have a bad time, everybody goes away.
If you're there when they need you, alright, otherwise you are deleted on the phonebook, WhatsApp and Facebook with a single click.
They all do so, come on.
And there is no gender difference.
The females, when they are young they look just the beautiful guys and as they grow they continue to look them, but then they marry the rich ones, only to betray the latter with the former.
Males betray all, beautiful or ugly, it makes no difference.
The old people, do we want to talk about them?
Tell me: who have built this bastard world?
They are the worst persons, bad examples, ignorant and rude.
Children can only whine and break everything.
And immigrants? You know, with a so horrible country do we get well to accommodate what comes from outside?
Everything sucks, you know better than me.
And I don’t believe anyone anymore.
Like that Chinese shopkeeper who a year ago convinced me to buy a lottery ticket.
Stupid me that I listened.
Luckily, that was the last time.
Since then, I only trust myself...


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Wednesday, January 29, 2014

Lesbian daughter Hong Kong father open letter by Don Juan

Stories and News No. 629

After the Hong Kong tycoon Cecil Chao Sze-tsung offered more than a hundred million dollars to the man able to seduce and back on the ‘right’ road Gigi, his lesbian daughter, the latter wrote him an open letter published on the South China Morning Post, where she reiterated her love for her nine years partner, Sean Eav.
However, if all this were not enough, here is a letter from the greatest seducer all over the world.

Dear Mr. Cecil,
You are a sadist.
A huge sadistic, I add.
If I outclass in the art of seduction, you do the same in the most maddening activity. Obviously for the victims, of course.
I mean, despite I assume it is obvious, to enjoy another's suffering.
Do you see?
Don’t you?
Well, here is further explanations.
As you well know, wooing ladies is to me the most adored of the passions.
There would be enough considering that in my mind the very act of conquest precedes the object of it.
You know, oriental friend, that is what the rest of us eat.
We love eating in itself, regardless of the dish.
And so the intrinsic dance, whatever the soundtrack is.
The trip, any destination awaits us.
And just admiring, without any attention to the image.
The word woman makes sense if mine is implied.
This could be the text below to my nature.
Then, this is the reason why, when I have heard about your challenge to the category which I have the honor to excel in, I could not avoid to better know the details.
As it has always been my practice, I have taken care of getting the highest number of anecdotes about the girl in the game and the more I understood and just it grew in me a overflowing feeling.
Resentment would be the most suitable word.
You, Cecil, I am referring to you.
How can you do this to us? I speak, it is natural, also on behalf of my colleagues.
In such times of crisis you enticed us with the above considerable sum, and then you place this cruel top?
I guess already what you think about this specific paragraph on this letter.
You are wrong, it is not the fact that the girl is engaged to act as an essential obstacle.
My resume is also filled with marital ties broken, although it is not my pride.
Her fondness for the same gender has also not accountable for my frustration. You know, the impediment would be great for anyone, but my name has to say something exceptional about my abilities.
Nevertheless, if each wall is worth one if you deal with it in a single framework, the sum of the barriers that your daughter puts on the path, even to the greatest seducer in history, stands as a superb perfectly impenetrable pass.
A pass made incredibly hard also by the words that she herself has written on the public page, spilling vermilion ink directly in the meat that have so far vibrating for someone.
Not you, sir.
And no other man in the world.
That’s why you are a sadist, dear unworthy of so great love father.
Because you have almost deceived me as what you have done to yourself...

Don Juan


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Tuesday, January 28, 2014

Washing machine internet access and smart fridge: time story

Stories and News No. 628

I just read what is waiting for us: the web connected washing machines, the smart fridge and other stuff. Well, I offer a kind of commercial from the future people...

Here we are.
The woman of the future.
The man of tomorrow.
Humanity on the horizon.
In short, the lucky ones who will enjoy the most coveted prize.
Time.
A lot of time.

How? Simple, with the washing machine connected to the Internet.
It washes with Wi-Fi remote programs lying cloths on the balcony with a simple click of the mouse. Do you understand?
In exchange for the above reward.
Yes, the time.

Not enough? Here's the smart fridge.
Stop with those insane things that you people of the past keep in the kitchen.
The wise refrigerator already knows what food to thaw before you even decide to eat.
H24 connected with your palate, it will be able to read between your mouth finding out the taste that will please you in the next hour meals and you will find the dish at room temperature, ready to be cooked or consumed instantly.
Can you believe it?
Believe it, because this is what awaits you.
In addition, of course, the real income of all is the same.
Still time.

Is it not enough? But we have other stuff to sell.
Ladies and gentlemen, we in the future have the water closet in full hd.
This is the new generation of toilets.
Thanks to the high-resolution, it will make your day light and not only the day.
The gain is granted.
Time.

Do you want some more? Alright.
We, the humans of the third millennium, will be the first to sleep on the web bed.
The 2.0 beds will be connected with each other through the pillows, with tons of gigabytes of memory in it.
The pillows will store our dreams, which will be shared on the web and everyone will look around in the unconscious of the others.
Finally knowing everything about everyone.
With a consequent saving of questions and as much effort will be erased in the responses.
To be honest, what fun will you find meeting people when you will not find anything new?
So we really will have all the time in the world.
More days.
Hours and hours free.
A myriad of moments for us.
To do what?

Well, it is difficult to answer this question.
Because we have used so much time to spare time as we have forgotten how to use it...


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Monday, January 27, 2014

Ancient European dark skin blue eyes: racist primitive men

Stories and News No. 627

I read that, according to a study published on Nature magazine, 7000 years ago European men had dark skin and blue eyes.
But what the study does not say is that even then the immigrants had hard life in Europe, as it is clear in the translation of an apocryphal graffiti summarized below.
It depends as always, to be taken literally, on the point of view...

We European primitive men were racists, but try to understand us.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=56ksi2Pr0oE
Watch the video
We had to first think about our furs.
These people arrived here on board their stegosaurus and pretended to chase our mammoths and collect our ferns.
On the other hand, it is nature that had decided so. We say nature as Mother Nature, otherwise you might confuse it with the well-known magazine that, in the distant future, will find out us.
Immigrants were different from the rest of us, let's face it.
In fact, if we had dark skin and blue eyes, immigrant primitive men had dark skin but dark eyes.
Sure, sometimes they tried to deflect the controls at the border, passing with lowered eyelids for the most imaginative reasons.
There were of course people alleged blind and blindfolded due to infections of the cornea, chronic allergic to sunlight and perennials narcoleptic.
However, we knew all that and if you did not show your eyes you were not in.
It was useless, then, using providential colored contact lenses, because we knew that too.
The only lucky people were those with cataract problems, more difficult to track down, but we were gearing up for that too.
Some progressive thinkers came up reminding us about when we were being discriminated too, in this case by primitive men overseas.
They also had dark skin but green eyes.
On the other hand, primitive men overseas had arrived on their land after men so-called primitive natives, who had also dark skin, but red eyes.
The former called them red skin and the latter were angry because they preferred to be called natives. And, to be honest, red eyes, not skin, but these are details.
Or not.
As the man of Cro-Magnon told, eyes are the cave of the soul, because the mirror had not yet invented.
Well, you know, in our times we all were dark skinned.
The only thing we could use against the others was the color of the eyes.
But try to understand, we were primitives.
In those days we did not have the intelligence and maturity sufficient to go beyond appearances.
Blessed are you who live in the future…


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Friday, January 24, 2014

Indian woman gang rape: I am Batman

Stories and News No. 626

I read that in India a 20 years old girl was forced to suffer a gang rape by the village elders because, been ordered to pay a fine of 25 thousand rupees for having dated a foreign guy, she refused to obey.
It seems a distant story, and yet, everywhere in the world and in every moment there are people who feel free to abuse their fellows as they are considered inferior and weaker.
There are and, in my opinion, always will be.
Here is who can change the story...

I am Batman.
Yes, I am the Dark Knight.
And I swear that the next time I see a bully who tries to take advantage of the helpless ones I grab him and get him to the ground.
No, you're not Batman.
No? And then... then I'm Hulk.
Yeah, when I pissed off, my clothes explode and I become a green all muscles giant.
And if it still happens that some coward dares to vent his cowardice on unarmed people I take him out and threw him in the air.
You're not Hulk too.
Really? Well, I did not want to say, but I'm Hercules.
Of course, the son of Zeus.
And when the villain will think to attack the weakest persons in the world I'll be there to beat him with punches.
You're not even Hercules.
In fact... but the truth is I wanted to lead you astray from my real identity.
I'm Luke Skywalker.
The true one, not that blond guy who has disappeared from the series.
The force is with me.
And when some hateful man will dream of hurting others, with the help of my mind I will push him into the atmosphere and the ionosphere and off earth orbit, sending him to roam the universe forever.
You are not Luke and the force is not with you.
I see, I understand, it was just an example.
I confess: I am Diego De La Vega.
Aka Zorro.
And at the very moment that the bad guy will stand menacingly on the poor targets I will cut him with my blade in his flesh, and I will sign him with the famous initial letter.
You are not and never will be Zorro.
Okay, I don’t say otherwise, but this obliges me to find out once and for all the cards.
I'm Harry Potter.
There, I said it.
And thanks to the magic of my well-known wand I will prevent the wicked people to cause pain in the helpless victims of this land.
You're not Harry Potter and never looks like him.
Okay, I give up.
I'm not Batman and Zorro, and all the others.
I'm not even Spider-Man, just to clarify.
I am just like many, who, at this time are among the vile oppressor and his prey.
In the middle between courage and other cowardice.
And every one of those desperate people have only me.
The only chance of salvation.
That’s what we are.
And so you.
Now.


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Thursday, January 23, 2014

Hero boy saves 6 from fire dies: story of returning lives

Stories and News No. 625

While he was sleeping in his grandparents’ home, a child becomes aware of a fire and saves the lives of six people, including cousins and relatives, returning home each time to save the next one.
This ballad is for him.

Tyler Doohan was eight years old and he was one of them.
A few, being honest.
However, when the right music seize them, even in sleep, they stand still.
So they start to dance.
This is for them.
The ballad.
Of those who return their life.

Backing on their steps, it is clear.
Or maybe it is not for most of us.
What is the right thing to do? What is a credit to the moment and what blows it off the story? How can we continue the journey with dignity? And at the same time abandoning it?
Those are scenes we've already seen. Instants already lived. Times already written.
A tremendous roar, the bomb has finally exploded.
Behind us.
The cries of anger and violence rise vehement.
Before us.
The poisons of the world and the beasts of war are about to devour the helpless.
To the south of our eyes.
Away, run away. Let’s save ourselves. That’s for them, we do it for them, not for us. We must first think about what is before our eyes. Who could blame us? On the other hand, don’t you suggest to have faith? Okay, horizon can also be an excuse, but who would take the other way?
And here's the best page of the history, that is life. It steals the scene with arrogance and forces us to stop.
We must have the courage to at least admire those who not only turned around much earlier than us.
They received in their heart the sounds that best accord with the soul and began to dance.
It's not worth it, the verse sings.
It's not worth being there and leave the rest behind.
It deserves the best.
All deserve it.
On the contrary, this is worth prove it.
Because they are the best.
Those who return.

Tyler was only eight years old and was one of them.
Not many, I know.
Nevertheless, when the good melody wraps them, even in a dream, time stops.
And they start dancing.
This is for them.
Here's the story.
Of those who returning their life.
For us.


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Wednesday, January 22, 2014

Creation of antimatter at CERN: anti-explanation story

Stories and News No. 624

It seems that in Geneva, the European Organization for Nuclear Research (CERN) has captured the antimatter.
But what is antimatter? How is it done? How could we create it? What does it show when you look at it?
Here is an unlikely anti explanation...

Antimatter?
That's easy, it's the opposite of matter.
You do not need any scientist.
It is a word as many.
That is, an anti-word.
Just put the anti and maybe you get the opposite.
Certainly something different.
Read it as well as an anti-story.

Once upon a time there was a truly unique anti-country.
Of course, in this anti-country the anti-inhabitants were living.
Anyway, let’s not too complicate their anti-life.
Or anti-death.
That is the real life.
The anti-country anti-inhabitants were known as the most anti-comfortable in the anti-world.
On the other hand, being anti-comfortable is not so trendy.
It is, however, anti-trendy.
Like the antipathy.
In contrast to the anti-antipathy.
That instead has its value when you go out with an anti-girl.
Although an anti-female should be a male, but not to be confused with the anti-male who is a female.
Mainly do not mix all with the anti-gay.
On the other hand, who would never think of going out with the latter?
Only someone who demonstrates anti-craziness.
Some will object, following the logic of the story, that an anti-crazy should be a sage person.
That’s wrong, or anti-exact.
According to the logic, it may be, but the anti-logic is unpredictable.
As the anti-stories do.
And maybe even some story in the real world.
In fact, there is one among them that begins with a child girl who tells the little brother about a
country where the inhabitants live known for their outstanding hospitality.
Nevertheless, maybe the book is upside down and then the two appear to sit on the ceiling of the bedroom.
However, looking at it briefly, it might also seem to be in an anti-book.
So, we would speak of an anti-fable and the ceiling would be an anti-floor and everything would make sense.
That would be an anti-sense in our world.
Read as absurd.
Not here.
On this anti-page of an anti-blog.
Where stories and anti- stories mingle.
So country and anti-country become both famous in the world.
For its hospitality.



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Tuesday, January 21, 2014

Monday, January 20, 2014

Mars mystery rock story of fear

Stories and News No. 622

It seems that NASA scientists have been surprised comparing two photographs taken by the Opportunity probe, after 12 days, because a mysterious rock has appeared.
It is a new rock and more or less scientific theories are spreading.
Here is mine, among the less supported, of course...


“Dad, I'm sorry,” the little one said.
“I’m sorry? It's easy to say, now,” the father lamented. ”You do not know them, those ones...”
“But Dad, all this screaming about a stone?”
“A stone? How many times have I told you not to leave things lying around? There are probes, for Jupiter!”
“Bad word, Dad, you said a bad word.”
“You throws me that off. Do you know the risk, here?”
“I know, Dad, I know. You repeat it every day.”
“You repeat, now, let's see if you remember.”
“They do not respect anything or anyone, they ruin everything, they are uncivilized and ignorant, they will take advantage of our females and we will steal our job.”
“And most of all?”
“And most of all, we are not racists but we must first think about our species.”
“Exactly. And what about you? You forget the stone...”
“Dad, I understand, I apologize. But... you know, putting everything in order each time exactly as it was before the return of these probes, it's not easy. Sometimes you forget something...”
“Something? You call a rock something? Do you see what we're dealing with or not, pig Saturn?”
“Another bad word, Dad...”
“You're tearing me it from the mouth, it is not my fault.”
“What if you're wrong?”
“In what way?”
“What if you're wrong about them?”
“Explain.”
“I say, and if you're wrong and they are not as you say. What if they prove to be good creatures?”
“Who put these ideas into your head? Your mother?”
“No, I was just saying, it was an hypothesis...”
“Hypothesis? How do you speak? This is sure your mother stuff. It comes from those things she is holding the evening before going to sleep.”
“The exact name is books, dad.”
“Do not be a schoolmaster with me.”
“I'm sorry, but...”
“But what?”
“But how can you be so sure that them are like you describe?”
“I know, I just look around. What do you want to know? This is adult matter.”
“Dad?”
“Tell me.”
“Have you ever met one?”
“Who?”
“One of them.”
“No.”
“Now I understand.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing, nothing.”
“Well, put the rock where did you get it.”
“Sure, Dad, I will do as you want.”
You relax, the son thinks. Do not fret anymore, it's all right. This too will pass away. It also will dissolve in the invisible space dust like all the other damn unnecessary fears.






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Friday, January 17, 2014

Hiroo Onoda last Japanese soldier story of ghosts

Stories and News No. 621

Despite the end of the war was declared in 1945, Onoda continued to fight in the jungle until 1974...

My name is Hiroo Onoda and I do not give up.
This could be written now, on my tombstone.
Monument in memory of a story that ends today.
The story of a soldier.
Hiroo Onoda and his war.

This could be the subtitle.
Nevertheless, there are various kinds of wars, and what sets it apart are more than ever the causes. The real causes.
Especially against whom you fight. The enemy. The real one.
However, as often happens, every story hides others.
Invisible to most people. Except the protagonist.
These are the joys and the sorrows of the leading actor. Perennially occupying the script, he cannot claim he had not seen.
Yes, of course, it sometimes happens that a choice with such vehemence obliges us to fix a horizon among the many that we cannot consider another one.
Nevertheless, obeying an order is not and never will be a real choice.
The opposite does.
So, on an inert road, straight and free of any breakthrough, deaf and blind to every call, honoring an alienated promise of death, it happens that other stories unwinds off the screen.
A twenty-nine years tale.
A story? A hundreds volumes saga, to say the least.
With a myriad of characters.
Among them, here's a girl in the crowd, that turns into a life companion.
And a desire of soul and dreams, in the form of a child.
A project that grows in spite of the cynical disenchantment of the onlookers.
And maybe that changes things for the better. Or at least many.
A succession of bad actions, of course, we are always in the human literature.
But among the many, you will find a decent one, right?
And if it will be the good one?
As the wonderful gesture that remains, for example.
Well, just pay attention to that chapter of the saga above, the seemingly insignificant one, gooey appendix to the essence of the entire work.
The hugs.
All the hugs in one book, maybe accompanied by photos.
Twenty-nine years, or three hundred and forty-eight months of unions between bodies in a variety of styles. The distracted and convinced embraces, the passionate and affectionate ones.
The kisses. Twenty-nine years, three hundred and forty-eight months, twenty-seven thousand one hundred and twenty days of each other landings lips. And even in this case, with all the samples of unique and unrepeatable meanings.
Do the same with the exchange of glances, heated and fleeting discussions. All the times you made love. Each instant that is able to win the stage. And then a role in the plot.
All that will not be mentioned in the annals. But it was there. In the meantime.

My name is Hiroo Onoda and I do not give up.
These words could have an impact now, on my tombstone.
Remembering a story that today finds its end.
The story of a soldier.
Hiroo Onoda and his war.
Against himself.
And against a twenty-nine years life I can only imagine.
A ghosts story that I missed.
And I will miss forever...



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Thursday, January 16, 2014

Stefanie Grant story: smile of the so called freaks

Stories and News No. 620

Stefanie Grant is a girl from London who, thanks to surgery of feelings, as she said, at age of 25 started to smile, after living unable to do due to a malformation that 13 years has made her lose 7 teeth. Forced to wear braces until two years ago, she said of having also suffered because, due to her expression immobility, was bullied and called freak.
I dedicate these words to the first smiles...

Here we are.
Look at us, on the scene.
On the street, on the square.
On the subway.
They call us freaks.
So we are symbolized, that is, in this way we are cataloged.
Odd and different, irregular and strange, horrible and wrong, awkward and more than ever abnormal.
Shamefully abnormal.
Nothing new, including embarrassing synonyms and unpleasant redundancies.
Sure, there are fairy tales, movies and novels to upset the balance.
Okay, we know how things are.
Magic wand and the ogre becomes an hero, as well as the frog, the beast is more beautiful than you think and not all the charming faces are the good ones of the story.
Fantasy is a lovely balm and who among us could deny it?
But reality is there.
The most ruthless of the narratives is always there.
Where we can not apply for asylum even if we would have the right.
Because we are the monsters.
Or you have always treated us so, since there is no difference.
Nevertheless, even if it is not a fairy tale, as well in the real universe, composed of tangible truths, there is a remedy to the worst of evil: to be born monster.
Or being so singled out, since both have the same reverb in our wounded heart, even in traditional form and color, as invisible to everyone.
Trying to draw attention to the rest is useless, bringing down the cruel house of cards in which we are imprisoned.
Yes, but I'm smart.
Yes, but I am also a good dancer.
Yes, but I have a beautiful voice.
Yes, but...
Yes, but you're always a monster.
Always ?
No, not forever.
We have our liberator kiss too.
And we do not need the help of princely lips.
We do not need the intervention of a sympathetic witch or a wise warlock, although they would have been very welcome, in the past.
We know that, as monsters, to get rid of this condemnation by the god of the forms there is only one way.
Incredibly tough to pass, immensely great trial for courage and character.
But it is the only way and this is, perhaps, the only help.
It does not happen often, but when the moment comes, we must not let it leave.
Here, it is now.
Let’s be brave, let’s open our eyes and let’s admire it.
The smile of the woman who was drawn like us.
Freaks.
And in the light of this unexpected miracle let’s observe with clarity what was undeservedly dancing around her.
The horrible and pestilential circle of bully normality.
The real freaks.

To the next smile, my dear…




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Tuesday, January 14, 2014

Sam Berns story of an old teenager with child eyes

Stories and News No. 619



Whenever someone’s death gets great popularity due to an exceptional disease, I like to consider it as one aspect among many of his special life.
Or story…

My name is Sam and I was unique.
We all are, in some way, many of you might say.
Really? So, find a page someplace and talk.
If you dare.
Yes, if you dare.
Putting the essence of a life in the middle of a writing.
Without reticence.
Shameless.
With love to the whole, more than ever, the irregularities of the soul.
Those that make us worthy of glances.
Amazed and sometimes horrified looks.
Me?
I was someone who ran.
No, I am not talking about sport.
No marathon runner or sprinter, here.
Well, you'll understand, there is nothing original in a story that praises the fastest sprinters.
They are already enough depicted and celebrated by the top media fat pens.
My obsession for the time was in the flow of blood.
Flow? Let's just say a frantic darting of cells and platelets.
In the roaring techno style heartbeat worthy of the most excited rave party on the earth.
Soundtrack for a full body wildly cast toward the finish line.
You may read it as the end of this story.
A fast-paced slide show of thoughts, a shocking choreography of emotions and especially a seemingly chaotic succession of memories.
This was the wonderful dance in my body.
Within my rough and rugged body.
In the shelter of what the skin evoked.
Where, more often than not, you may find the best, and those who had the good fortune to look beyond these boundaries know perfectly what I mean.
Others do not know what they're missing.
Why are you running like that? Would not it be better to slow down ? Are you overlooking something along the way?
Legitimate questions, I see.
Useless questions, I know better.
I had to run, because someday this was the cards dealer’s decision.
And this is the card I received as a gift at the beginning of the journey.
You'll run.
This was written on.
You'll run.
Without stopping.
Until the end.
Of this story.

My name is Sam and I was unique.
Not because I had to run.
But because when it came my turn I took my ticket and boarded without a murmur.
To enjoy every moment of the trip.
By accepting the role that the script called for.
Giving the best of me for the story.
Of an old teenager with child's eyes...




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Monday, January 13, 2014

Illegal immigration crime what is it really

Stories and News No. 618

If I arrive illegally in a country I make a crime.
I'm guilty.
This is what law says.
And if the law says, I am.
Guilty.
I was wrong.
I did something bad.
Something that should not be done.
And that should be punished.
I have to be punished.
A reminder for myself and the all people around.
So that the guilty action will be not repeated.
But...
There is a but, come on.
Let's be honest.
At least here.
Here, on this page, let's say that if I were a supermodel, crystalline eyes and blonde, brunette or red but also with incredible measures and I had passed borders without papers, some help would come, isn’t it?
If I had by chance arrived with my raft and at the same time I could prove to kick the ball with unusual vehemence, making a wonderful score, an ancestor of good origin would be soon available, right?
If then, I could arrive with my brown-skinned face, being Islamic and a rich beard hanging on the chin, without any document, but somehow I would show to be an oil sheik decided to invest my money in your country, maybe you think that someone would dare to report me to the police?
If I had to slyly pass through customs, but with a heavy wallet, filled with pecuniary until it burst, with the exception of an ID, who would be intolerant against me?
And if I were a famous actor from Hollywood?
But still a foreigner, but without a residence permit?
Who, again, who will protest against me?
I could go on, but I guess it's clear where this is going.
I am an illegal immigrant.
I'm guilty.
Because I came illegally in a foreign country.
But my real guilt is another one, right?
I apologize about it.
Forgive me if at the moment I can only offer my poverty.
Because when you complain to me, I know this is what offends you.
If only I had been born less poor...



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Friday, January 10, 2014

Pakistan boy hero Aitzaz Hassan story: the true bomb

Stories and News No. 617

Here it is, the bomb.
This is the true bomb, ladies and gentlemen.
Those threats in the form of farcical intimidating videos do not.
This is the explosion that destroys the circus.
Of fanatical delusions and clever manipulations.
This is what happens infrequently, I know.
Well, the true bomb is hard to see.
If we consider for a moment the ingredients that give life, no death, to such a dangerous mixture, we would be amazed.
There is not anything chemical involved and that is a miracle.
All natural.
All shining and alive.
All human.
Yes, it's a human bomb, the true one.
And the agents are two.
Divided by a mirror interwoven with pieces of everyday and dangerous banalities.
Fanaticism, decision, courage, move, religion, commitment, freedom, rights, politics, war, pacifism, choose, choice, chosen...
I could go on with all forms and synonyms of a term that live in a single reign.
The land of a more or less conscious acting.
In short, choosing.
The mirror is there, before our eyes, every day at least once.
Sometimes it eyewitness the perfect encounter.
Between the two halves of the same truth.
Heroes and martyrs.
Martyrs and heroes.
The movie does not last long, certainly not as much as the Hollywood top films, but enough to get you discuss with friends later, at dinner, the next morning, and the next day and many others.
The script is equally essential.
Aitzaz Hassan is a teenager and, at the precise moment when his eyes intercept the nemesis on the
mirror, he sees no other way to continue the journey.
Or to stop it.
I have a life ahead, I'm just a kid, why me, but nothing will change, but the world sucks, but humanity is doomed anyway, but...
These thoughts, that are common to many of us, are swept away with impressive ease.
Incredible, isn’t it?
However, although in a small story like this, the fact is everywhere.
Worthy news on the most noble pages.
The martyr and the hero looked into their eyes.
One embraced each other.
Until they merge.
And the glass has been shattered.
Now we see clearly, right?
Now even the blind understand the difference between the two.
Hero and martyr.
Only one was both.
The other has been deleted.



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Thursday, January 9, 2014

Solar flare 2014 human effects story

Stories and News No. 616

Human…
Let’s say one man. One as many.
Or even a woman.
The geomagnetic storm comes along and upsets everything.
That is, everything for human being. Or just one.
Me.
Solar radiations are everywhere and the omelet is done, as grandma says.
Web is the first to fall.
Internet gasps and then collapses after a few minutes.
A few long minutes, during which I try to see what the problem is.
I close and reopen the browser several times.
I do the same with modem and PC.
A virus? A malfunction on the cable? The provider is down?
Worse: an irreparable failure at the central up indefinitely deprives me of the holy connection?
These are the unnecessary desperate musings until dark.
Now how am I going on Facebook to share my precious thoughts?
Today I feel good, or not.
How are you friends?
Friends?
Are you there?
Silence.
How am I able to twit my brilliant thoughts on the world?
My extraordinary pearl necklaces up to 140 ringed?
Alone.
Wait, what a stupid I am: there is still the smartphone!
Now I turn it on.
One moment…

Here I know. When it is a day of bad luck all goes according to script.
The cell is lifeless, petty mine.
Usual practice of resuscitation: I take off the battery, clean it, I do the same with the Sim. I give it even a few caresses, for pure affection.
No light on the horizon.
You may read as the monitor.
I am isolated.
Alone.
Without posting and devoid even of the most casual I like, by mistake too.
Zero sharing.
Alone.
The TV is my last hope...
By now it sucks, but it’s better than nothing.
Same as above.
I change the batteries in the remote control, I do the usual cathartic sockets dance behind the television, but I do not get new result.
Alone
I am alone.
Blame the sun.
Blame the sun if I have to leave the house to talk to someone.
It's so true that nature is ruthless.





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Wednesday, January 8, 2014

Russian ship freed from antarctic ice video story

Stories and News No. 615



Once upon a time there was a ship.
A Russian ship.
I say Russian to those who are particularly interested in these anecdotes.
A ship is a ship. It navigates.
That is what it does. Or at least it tries to do.
The Russian ship sails to Antarctica on December 8, 2013 and the 25th of the same month gets stuck in the ice.
Blocked. A stuck ship is an oxymoron and at the same time is a crime.
Ships are made to navigate, that is among its rights.
In order to free the stranded ship, a Chinese icebreaker sails.
Here, too, I say Chinese to those who need to know it.
Despite good intentions, the icebreaker fails in its job.
In other words, not in accordance with its secondary function.
Because in accordance to the primary, all ships sail, unless unexpected holes, but breaking the ice is not so easy. The ice is no longer what it once was, my grandmother always says. It’s colder, the old woman told me, is more frozen, she exactly said.
The ice of Antarctica, then, is also an infamous sadist. It not only resists the attack of the Chinese ship, but traps it too among its ice... cubes.
The Russian ship, meanwhile, begins to lose hope when two other ships arrive to rescue it.
An Australian and a French ship.
Nothing to do. Ice 4 ships 0.
Well, you know, ice of Antarctica is one that does not like just to win.
It loves to slaughter the opponents on the field, mocking them with its fans.
Penguins and polar bears.
But here comes the traditional hero, the top at the box office. The super heroes, the Americans.
Here it is a discount final: And in the end the Americans arrive.
This time for a really good reason, no need to export democracy.
Americans, yes, but just a ship.
A ship that chooses to navigate to free another one.
Locked in the ice.
But in this story is just the latter to close the curtain.
Ice or the solid water, you name it. Not heroes.
In this story the enemy doesn’t need to die, he is not executed in the public square, caught and hanged live.
He is not even captured and thrown into the sea.
The Antarctic ice just frees its prisoners.
That's it. Nothing personal.
The ice freezes and ships sail. Sometimes to save other ships.
Russian, Chinese, French, Australian or American matters little.
Indeed nothing.
These are the stories I love to find.



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