Friday, November 28, 2014

Explaining homosexuality to a child video: the magical rubber

Stories and News No. 694

Explaining homosexuality to children is easy, writer Roberto Saviano said today.

I agree.
I try...

Take the paper.
Blank, possibly.
So nothing might suggest the best road.
Imagine, now.
Imagine and draw two people who love each other.
Really.
Do not worry.
Go ahead without haste.
It’s a drawing, it may be not perfect.
But the idea does, because no one will ever scratch it.
Only you.
Now, hold this.
Yes, I know.
It’s just a rubber.
A normal eraser, apparently.
Yet it is magical.
Because I imagined so before giving to you.
As once I’ve written, magic is always in the intentions.
What is its miracle?
This rubber removes the superfluous, the useless baggage that slows down the way.
Let alone the flight.
Take the paper and the rubber.
Look at the two people you have created.
Those who love each other.
Really.
Clear.
Clear out the unnecessary.
Send away the heavy as empty words.
Above all, as if they had never existed, forget shapes and colors that do nothing but confuse.
Stifling the best.
The beauty that deserves the price of admission.
Done?
Well, now admire.
Admire the only reason that makes to be here important.
Two people who love each other.
Only this.
Only this counts.
And only this will remain.
Forever and ever.

Watch the video:





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Thursday, November 27, 2014

Cleveland police kill 12 year old boy: the 3 rules of the game

Stories and News No. 693

The video showing the Cleveland police shooting a twelve years old African American boy has been recently shared.
The blame?
The child - because at twelve years old you are just a child, had a gun in his hands.
A toy one...

My name is Tamir Rice.
Yes, my name is.
Not was.
Because the images remain.
The words as well, I hope.
For future wisest memory.
More human, maybe
I lost, all right.
You have deleted me, defenders of the people.
Heroes of the rights of all.
Without cape or tights.
But still recognizable among the common citizens.
The so-called civilians.
You have erased me from the game.
However, let me say, you have made a serious mistake.
In this game, as in the story that tells it.
Dear paladins that save our roads, rules are important.
The game rules are everything.
They are clear, you cannot say the opposite.
Even a child understands them.
And even a child reminds them.
There are few, among other things.
Just three.
The perfect number, they say.
Well, in the little time I played, I realized that in the game as in love perfection is wrong.
Only the victory is, like death.
But then it's all over and so there is no taste.
Otherwise, why keep playing if you cannot lose?
Otherwise, why continue to love if you do not believe that it will be forever?
The first rule is the easiest.
You play because you know at that time is the best thing you can do.
Alone or with others.
You see when someone feels compelled.
He’s the one who tries to smile the most.
The second rule is equally elementary.
Anyone can play, if he wish so.
Because if you leave someone out, most of the time is the one who could make the game better.
Much better.
The third rule is even shorter, but it is the most important.
The game is a serious thing.
It’s naive to think you can play without believe it is all true, except what's left out.
From the game.
And it is an unforgivable sin pretending to live the rest of time as if it were a game, when it is anything but.
Like going around to serve and protect with a charge gun.
A true one...



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Wednesday, November 26, 2014

Passengers push plane in Russia video: who remain on board

Stories and News No. 692

In Siberia, at -52C, passengers must push the plane to facilitate the take-off, since the carriage was blocked due to the freezing of the brake fluid.
So the flight continued.
On the other hand, the problem is never who gets down to push...

Those who remain.
Those who remain on board.
You may easily see those who remain on board.
Indeed, you may listen to them.
They are the loudest to shout.
Those who claim to be angry.
And tired.
Yes, you read that right.
Tired.

Those who remain on board are the ones who complain the most.
And they are also the ones that have many things to tell you about it.
Why the plane has stopped.
Why it does not fly anymore.
Why we all are in the ground.
Unacceptable nightmare.
Because when you fly you can always brag of being in first class.
And you can always curse everybody not to be there.
Hard to do, when the toy breaks for all.

Those who remain on board are all the same, tell me if I am wrong.
The chilling emptiness in the eyes.
The confused fidgeting of equally inconsistent hands.
And above all that unpleasant noise.
Read as well as the dull regurgitation of words chosen with closed eyes.
As heart and brain.
Everything tight, except the belly.
Free to attack the first passenger around.

Those who remain on board do not see light outside the window.
His window, that’s clear.
Because to see the others they should get up, and then ...
It’s useless, they know it.
You're a naive, my dear.
You will be deluded, little one.
You are going towards secure disappointments, all of you.
You that leave the place to go down.
Convinced.
That a push is enough to fly.

Those who remain on board.
Maybe, without them, the plane would never stopped...





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Wednesday, November 19, 2014

A different story

Story published on the collection: Italian short stories, a dual language book: True short stories collection to understand contemporary Italy (2017)

Thursday, November 13, 2014

Standing sentinels Italy story: we are coming

Stories and News No. 690

Italian standing sentinels, we are with you.
We have understood.
We have got the message, brothers and sisters.
Where and between the latter two words is not random.
As husband and wife.
Wife or husband is bad, we agree.
Husband and wife, alleluia.
We agree with everything you say.
Even if you keep quiet.
That’s better, in fact.
No, we are not ironic.
We are serious.
Silence is good for us.
Above all you remain still, we will arrive soon, but we explain this at the end.
You are for natural family.
That’s right.
Nature is good.
To be born, live, die.
And return, as you believe.
This is true, we are a living proof.
Quite the contrary, but we clarified this after too.
Life is simple, you are very right.
To sleep and to eat.
Not eating everything.
Nature donate food.
Men and women are made naturally.
Therefore, all men and women are food.
Also the strange latter syllogism will become clear at the end.
You are against man and man making a family.
Woman and woman too.
Bad, very bad, it’s a long time we said it.
If you cannot adopt, you are not able to have children.
Bad, very bad.
Incredibly bad.
Many, many children, are the best.
For all.
Children are not fast.
They go slow.
They are good and sweet.
Tender.
But they still move.
You are perfect, however.
Sentinels, thanks.
Continue to read and tell everybody days and towns where you stand.
We will come soon.
When we arrive, keep reading.
Do not move your head.
Too bad!
Raising the head is a mortal sin.
Then, when we will be next to you, you may watch us.
It will be too late.
And we will do the last supper.
Ours…





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Wednesday, November 12, 2014

Womb for rent in Italy: the son of no one

Stories and News No. 689

I read that the Italian Supreme Court has taken away a 3 years son to a couple from Brescia, who
was born in Ukraine with a 'surrogate mother'.
The latter is not to be found and the child cannot be recognized in Italy.
Here are the reasons of the true protagonist of this story...

Son of no one?
Okay, I'm in.
May I choose otherwise?
Maybe I could.
I wish I could make myself understood, being three years old.
And maybe we could really understand what these precious and very young fellow citizens think.
Three years old.
And even less.

Son of no one.
Okay, I accept it.
I'm alive.
Is this what counts, right?
It comes first.
Actually, no.
That’s after the law.
Law is equal for all, they wrote.
And, somewhere, there must also be another note.
You may come out from nowhere.

Son of no one...
What does it mean?
Starting from nothing, some say.
With the void behind, others say.
Only, almost all synthesize.
And what remains is there, on the horizon.
Well, no, my friends.
What remains must be here, now, under my feet, in my hands.
More than ever ahead my eyes.
Because when the words ‘no one’ are in your name, everything becomes indispensable.
Now.

Son of no one.
The problem emerges at the end.
Of the phrase.
As the story.
Like when you try to hide a flimsy lie.
No one.
Even three years old you know the essentials, such as eyes that are not ashamed to watch yours and hugs given with no hurry to run away.
As when many, too many, strive to prove that something is of no one.
It means that it is blatantly…
Of everybody.




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Friday, November 7, 2014

Stories about life: magic story of Jordan

Stories and News No. 688

A dog named Jordan, stolen seven years ago to Mike Nuanes, who lives near Atlanta, Georgia, was found in Denver thanks to the microchip.
Magical gift.
Miracle of technology, of course.
The rest of the story will put things affixed.
The magic of imagination...

Here I am, Mike.
We're back together.
Oops, I correct.
Without back.
Deleted.
We are together.
What I have done in the past seven years?
Excuse me, what are you talking about?
You see me grow up? Aged? Weighed down by time and fleas?
Dude, you are not Dog Pitt.
No, don’t be offended.
This is a day of celebration.
As it was yesterday and will be tomorrow.
With everything in between.
And nothing now.
Now.
Seven years? Eighty-four months, you say? More than thirty thousand days?
Well, I realized that you can count, but it is a wasted effort.
Close your eyes and open them again.
Now.
A second, not more than a second.
Ta-dah!
How did I do?
Magic, just magic.
Dog magic, however, that does not hide pigeons and rabbits in the jacket as in the top hat.
Because we magicians dogs respect the animals, for those we love too.
Unless the above sign a release, but that's another story.
Another magic.
Mine is simple and seven years disappear.
I eat a bite the first year, for starvation.
Of never forgotten affection.
I scratch the second one off, like a flea expelled for misconduct.
Listen, I understand the need, one day, two, but the third you go, baby.
I run after the third year, such as the classic stick.
But I do not bring it back, I leave it where it is.
Far away.
The fourth year I become blind and cannot see it anymore.
Pretend blindness, of course, cheater dog style.
The year number five is abolished, didn’t you know?
Why you did not read the press release? Here it is, put on glasses, approach...
Look behind you, a wonderful girl is passing!
Turn around, dude, I tell you about the sixth.
There is no sixth year, because this is a leap year.
Yes, I know, this is hard to believe, but it is so, what can you do.
Fleas have entered in my brain too.
The following year there is a crisis, the famous seven-year itch, you know too.
And we're done.
Magic over.Here I am, Mike.
I was with you and I'm with you.
Magic and a story in the middle.
Ours.



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Thursday, November 6, 2014

Stories about life: story of Tom

Stories and News No. 687

Since the day of death of Edwin, his cat Tom lives at the Medical Center VA, Unit For The Palliative Care, located in Salem, Massachusetts, USA.
The doctors decided to let him roam undisturbed in the hospital.
It seems that it reduces suffering of patients.
Here is Tom’s version...

Death.
What do I know about death?
I am a cat.
But I know something. Or maybe it's another one I do not know.
Where is Edwin?
Who is Edwin, you say? He is the man I lived with.
The man who was there, in the bed. The new one, not the other.
At the old house.
I am talking about this place, here.
He was there, under the covers, silent. Eyes closed. Motionless.
By the way, what does it matter?
It's not the look, the true proof? Ours and everything around us?
The noise of the voice and the awkwardness of action are useless pieces in the mosaic living.
Because eyes that know how to observe may distinguish the essential from the minor contours without the usual tests.
Read it as the overvalued demonstrations of the senses.
I am a cat and I can see in the dark, then imagine what kind of trust I put in the look to design my horizon.
What do you say?
Move one hand to the coveted figure?
And finally touching?
Well, this stuff is human.
We cats just look to marry the world.
With all its wonders.
Magnetic colors and unique shapes.
And a split second later we forget about it as an redundant interlayer in a banal phrase.
To fix our eyes on the only piece of island in the middle of an infinite archipelago.
A precious bread crumbs.
A shadow daughter of the case.
A fragment of the sun escaped the fall.
Trifles of existence.
Just like an old man named Edwin.
What? He is dead, you say?
The death...
I am a cat. What do I know about death?
And you? Are you sure you know more than me?




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