Thursday, April 30, 2015

Diversity stories: the meaning of disturb

Stories and News No. 747

In a B&B in Rome a mother of Ravenna was advised to get out for his son, an autistic child.
Because he might disturb...

Once upon a time there was a population.
A united population.
Tight in the middle of the world.
Safe, protected.
Possibly away.
From danger.
Real or narrated it might be, because if the story and the news will greet along the way, it means that the boundaries between the naïve invention and the roughness of the bare ground becomes ambiguous.
Confused and rarefied.
Getting the most paradoxical outcome.
To fascinate drunken people by misguided tales, at the same time, to strengthen the beliefs of the population in question.
No one knows when it all began.
The exact moment when the intruder dared to shatter the evanescent eggs in the basket of dull anguish drawn.
What matters is that the story changed.
A girl with unregulated voice screamed, spotting the silent living of the population away.
So the latter reacted by pure consistency.
Or the opposite, there is no difference.
They shrank.
Enough to erase even the echo of the unwelcome melody.
An old man possessed by the demon of the good kind, which in turn was owned by an old flamenco female dancer who had been forbidden to dance up to ninety years, which in turn again had sold his soul to an angel distracted by an irrepressible curiosity, dared to approach the fingertips to the skin of the population.
Up to fulfill the unacceptable sin.
Read as well as the scandalous practice of human stubborn to remain human.
In short, touching.
In response the population moved according to script.
They shrank further.
To make the insane unknown skins meeting just a memory.
Ugly, an ugly one indeed.
The night seemed to be spent, when the third odd appeared.
A little girl.
Watching her, you would have also commented in the same way: "Look, look at her: she is a little girl..."
What a bad mistake before a professional stain killer, even if so young.
She was fully armed.
Tomato sauce and hamster droppings, mucus by a sheep without wool, somewhat cooled, and spit from a pretending cow mad, but that's not implies that its saliva was scented, if you know what I mean.
All this and more was thrown from the child wherever the victim exposed the hairless side.
Well, once again the population did not surprise.
They shrank again.
Just enough to become unreachable by the launches of the terrible enemy.
Nevertheless, it was only the beginning.
A girl, an old man and a child.
One, two three...
And others came, not less able to affect the forbidden word in the story of the people living in the middle of the world.
Disturb.
The population replied each time in the only way they knew.
And shrinking obtained the only result at the end of that road.
The population disappeared.
Deleting themselves from the earth.
Not until they realized that, more often than not, the meaning of disturb is simply the evidence.
That we are still alive...

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Wednesday, April 29, 2015

Moral stories: resisting and saving

Stories and News No. 746

Rishi Khanal, 27, was rescued.
The man remained 82 hours under the rubble of a hotel in Kathmandu, due to the earthquake that recently hit Nepal.
He is still alive because he resisted.
And because someone went to save it.
Well, the story is all there.
In the middle...

Once upon a time there was the earthquake victims.
No, do not immediately jump to the logical conclusion.
Imagine.
Imagine with me the overwhelmed and buried lives by more or less noisy shocks.
You choose the preferred scale.
That seismologists of human destiny may define as well the severity of the quake.
The result does not change and the picture remains intact.
Tiny breathing and late hearts, behind the last turn, but still in the running.
Still determined to overcome it, that blessed breakthrough.
Come up with me at the turn of the simple metaphor and watch them where usually the living eye sees things.
You do not see anything, don’t you?
Dust, confused vapors of dust.
And even if it should go away, just as nothing, right?
The usual gray and indifferent indoor carpet of ruins and remains of the condemned puny world.
No sound, isn’t it?
Even the vibration of a smartphone, even if a modest one.
Indisputable evidence of vacuum.
Down there.
But I told you to imagine, right?
And then let’s close our eyes and trust the stories.
Invented by a deluded storyteller as mentioned without fanfare by a midday TV News.
Man pulled alive from rubble in Nepal 82 hours after.
Eighty two hours.
Let's say this is actually the sum of the trust of one to other’s humanity.
An hour to hope that there is really someone up there.
With lowered eyelids and hands in a story.
Three more hours to assess the consequences.
A farewell to the lives that worship, willingly and unwillingly, to continue their journey.
As the existences that have in common at least belonging to the same species.
Six hours trying to sleep and dream it was all just a dream.
As striving to wake up and be convinced that it was all just a nightmare.
Whose main character is not you.
Twenty-two hours that will clash with no mercy, as in the final match where the draw is excluded, for the teams called future and death.
With the audience in the stands unaware of being also the referee.
Fifty hours, interminable, but inevitable to get heart still hot off the golden wedding between the life you wanted and the one you have left.
With witnesses of the successful union that really begin to understand their responsibilities.
Having seen or just imagined.
Because once you've been in a story.
You can only continue to do so, or suffering the miss.
What matters is that others may be saved.
Because they have resisted.
And because someone went to save them.
Well, the story is all here.




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Friday, April 24, 2015

Immigrants stories: the Avengers of Migrants

Stories and News No. 745

Once upon a time there were superheroes.
But not those of the comics.
And then the movies.
Because let's face it, before they were comics.
Then movies.
It is always fine to remember well, where you tell of heroes and great exploit.
Deadly challenges.
Between good and bad.
The superheroes which I speak of are different.
Because they are real.
Seriously, there do, I know them, I saw them.
We spoke with them.
I heard them.
Some do not know it yet.
They are the Avengers, yes, just like the movie.
They have got the powers too, no jokes.
There is Tor, without the aitch, which stands for Torquato, but when you call him you do not see the difference.
He is an alien, a real alien: he is a bricklayer.
Because only an alien would be able to stand still in front of the quantity of hate so-called news is told every day.
He is an alien with a tireless hammer.
A marvelous weapon, capable of transforming the empty and the walls that enclose them in homes and lives, roundtrip between one world to another, the way upwards and the one to embrace earth.
There is Susi, or Susanna, the invisible woman for all except the many alive shadows sitting at the desk eat the teacher’s words as the sand does with water.
Voraciously.
A seemingly disembodied entertainment, that suddenly becomes popular where a ceiling collapses on the school and tries in vain to clear it.
Because the show must always go on.
There is Toni, aka Antonio, the real iron man, literally indestructible.
There is... let's say that there was, he was here a moment ago.
Now I do not know where he is.
But he is certainly out there, somewhere, one of the many young people who maybe right now is receiving yet another rejection.
Sooner or later he will find a job.
Meanwhile he makes the hero for free and endures everything and everyone.
There is Rita, Miss fantastic, the elastic girl, which has been able to get anywhere someone woke up in the morning and even went down to sleep on the same evening with the naive belief of being able to prevent her passage.
Because the day that the fight for the respect of their aspirations begins can stretch to infinity, when a woman is struggling.
And then there are the others, girls and boys who, when the time comes, get angry on the contrary, tearing their clothes with muscles of joy, becoming every color imaginable.
Even green, if you prefer.
Here they are, these are the Avengers of migrants.
They are superheroes, such as movies.
But they are real.
We are.
You are.
But many still do not know it…

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Thursday, April 23, 2015

World Book Day story 2017

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

Wednesday, April 22, 2015

Migrants death in Mediterranean video storytelling

Stories and News No. 743

Once upon a time there was the world.
No, hold on your intolerant bellies.
The hearts lightened by a wise disenchantment.
The accusing fingers of a perpetually sitting jury.
It is the wrong world, which I speak of.
So, you may safely consider the story and also the narrator blatantly out of place.
Decidedly inappropriate.
‘He is smart, but does not study enough’ and ‘he is overly exuberant’, as someone wrote several times on my school stone.
In the wrong world there was the sea.
Yes, like ours, but in the wrong version.
Only two kind of people lived in the distorted world.
Travelers and guests.
Without any other category.
Classes.
And, if you really want, you may say races too.
In the wrong world using such words would be just fine.
Wrong, I mean.
The guests were all living on an island.
Then in our world should be a limited portion of land completely surrounded by water.
But since in the wrong world it was the only mainland, was called the land and nothing more.
‘Nothing more’ is not just in the sense of a trivial ‘nothing else’, but: ‘what else you want?’
More than a land?
The inhabitants were called guests in the wrong way, I understand the surprise.
They were guests because they were so.
Literally.
Guests of the land that hosted them.
Never lords and masters, ramparts to defend the home soil and obsessed with the sacred boundary.
Forgive.
Forgive the mistake of the confusing human beings in the wrong world.
The other half of the sky was occupied, as mentioned above, by the travelers.
They were so-called taking the word literally.
They traveled since birth.
To death.
Nevertheless, they did not come to light as the rest of us.
I do not the word, try to understand, I have never been there, but I know it should be the exact opposite of ‘sinking’ and ‘subsequent disappearing of the ship’.
Well, in the wrong world things worked in reverse, while travelers came into the scene.
The water was boiling, the foam was dense and murky, and suddenly you saw.
The bow first and then everything else.
The all boat, the ship, even the usual flimsy raft, any plausible fantasies somehow able to overcome harmless waves, broke the latter and appeared.
Full of life.
Full of them.
The travelers.
Always traveling, consistent with the name as much as the personal reasons of existence.
And because in the wrong world sea for travelers was like the land for guests.
It is not your stuff.
You are only one that leaves the trail behind.
Perhaps with the hope that it will never completely disappear and nothing more.
This time it means really ‘nothing else’.
Some of you will ask: what happened when the guests met the travelers?
Easy answer, in all worlds, I think, wrong or not.
If anyone knew to be guest of the land were facing those who come from the sea, grateful to the latter not having claimed the greatest sacrifice in return, would be eager to tell.
And listen.
But, above all, they would not be able to see the difference.
Because each of the two would instantly understand they were always the same.
Guests and travelers.
In the life of the others.

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Friday, April 17, 2015

Moral stories: Youngest Cryogenically frozen person

Stories and News No. 742

I read that Matheryn Naovaratpong, a two years old Thai girl child, was declared dead in January because of an incurable brain tumor and now is the youngest person in history to be Cryogenically frozen.
With the hope that upon awakening, mankind has discovered not only a way to bring her back to life, but also care to heal her.
What a big shot, betting hope on mankind...

Once upon a time there was a girl.
A dreamer girl.
One of those stubborn.
With masochistic dedication to gamble everything on the ending surprise.
A twist, the virtuosity of the script or just a clumsy deus ex machina, the crucial turning point.
The unexpected turn, that becomes grimace on the face of cynical pro grumblers.
Wishing to claim: ”Improbable stories and plays were fine. The outbreaks of possibilities really survived the utopia’s storm. The one that may convince you that all was just a utopia. So we were right. Then...”
Craving speech, this, meaningful only in the realm of the personal aspirations of our girl, who managed to cross the rugged passing time that devours everything - let alone the vain illusions, reaching the last step with yet another desire.
Freeze me.
Cover me of frost, so I know it well, I met it every day without reciprocate the greeting.
Without getting used to it.
Freeze me and wake me when the world has really changed.
I know it will happen.
A century passed and the woman was awakened.
"So?"
"The world has changed," the scientists said.
"Everything?"
"No... there would still be a country where there are people who feel entitled to say what people have to believe."
"Oh, yes? Then, freeze me again. "
Another century went away.
"Here I am," the woman said. "Any news?"
"The world has just changed," the scientists said. Others, of course, because the former had died.
"All?"
"Well, not all... there is still a country where many believe they can define others sexual orientation."
"It's not enough for me, freeze me."
Another century left.
"I'm back," the woman said. "What about?"
"The world has changed," the scientists said, or I have to say the robots, otherwise what the hell have science fiction writers told us so far?
"The whole world?"
"Almost," the robot said, "there is still a country that has not yet understood the difference between those who fight for the freedom of all people and the ones who defend the alleged right to deprive others of that same freedom."
"Well, freeze me immediately."
More centuries passed and every time the dreamer girl woke up to ask if the world was finally changed, scientists, robots or not, always replied in the same way: the world has changed, but there is still a country...
Until the woman blurted out: "Excuse me, I have a proposal: instead of me, can you freeze the people of that country?"
Not everybody, right?
Only a few...

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Thursday, April 16, 2015

Liberation Day Italy 2017 History Video until dawn

Stories and News No. 741

Once upon a time there was a republic.
I will not say what it was founded on.
So I will avoid to make fun of you.
The republic which I will not tell you what it was founded on was still.
Now, we all know that in the world republics do not go out for a walk.
The republics do not emigrate.
Those are the mutilated souls.
In search of the missing fragment.
Even if it means losing everything else.
Nevertheless, it is a good thing when human travelers decide to pursue common horizons. You might call them republic, as even gang or band, what matters is that at least one of those horizons is every day closer.
Otherwise there is wasted asphalt on the road.
And even if there is no more evidence on the way, someone has spent blood and dreams to draw it.
Yet, that republic was still.
Because it was always stopped on the same day.
The hours looked at each other puzzled.
The minutes seemed to be surprised.
And the seconds... well, if hours and minutes do not know, why you look for truth on the last row?
The next day was a mirage.
In fact, a lot of talking started, round tables or any plausible shape, writing hands ran on the keys, fast tongues were screaming, but no light was sighted over the obstacle.
Night, yes.
Sunset and nightfall, all according to script.
But the new day was something that only the tellers of fairytales dared to touch.
With the seemingly harmless illusion of light words.
Sure, it was not a common day, the place which people were trapped on, like in a giant snakes and ladders game.
Still a ride, indeed, one day, the condemnation.
Until that day will last, the classic written in small warning.
A wonderful day.
The first of possibly many others.
The day the rivers of hopes and ambitions, shared stories and feelings fed by other feelings and stories, all the life that you want to leave to posterity, are again yours.
Free.
Pleasant sounding words, there is no doubt, for healthy hearts.
However, the republic was still.
On that day.
Because if at any moment someone were to dare not only torturing the common achievements, but also claiming with stupidity disguised as pride of being one of the cowardly guilty and be ready to do it again a thousand times...
Well, it means that that day is not yet over.
Dawn has not yet come.
And there is still so much.
To fight for.

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Wednesday, April 15, 2015

Cuba US terror list story

Stories and News No. 740

It seems that finally the US president Barack Obama has asked to remove Cuba from the list of countries considered – by the USA - terrorism sponsor.
This suggests me the following story...

Once upon a time there was a land and an island.
The land of opportunities and the island of obstinate people.
So defined in one direction.
Island of free people, on the contrary.
Depending on where everyone looked the other.
For smooth and democratic agreement, I will use the most welcome to both names.
The land of opportunities was so called because this is what it was.
Endorsement of any opportunities.
Even to self-define.
The land of opportunities.
The land of opportunities, then, allowed many of them.
As the right to create a list.
A blacklist.
Always black the unpleasant color, isn’t it?
Well, being honest, since immemorial time the bad guys lists are white.
At least originally.
Then you fill it with red pen.
There is no trace of black.
All right, I am deviating.
The blacklist of the land of opportunities was filled with the names of all detestable countries.
The City of overflowing and the Kingdom of the rude, the Grand Duchy of snorers and the County of smelly.
And at the top, there was the island of free people.
Obviously it was written island of obstinate people.
Time passed and in many occasions a fight was near.
Until the day came when the land of the opportunities decided to change and announced they would have erased once and for all the name from the blacklist.
That is written in red on white page, but we understand each other.
The head of the country summoned all the world leaders, cleared his throat and proudly said: "Ladies and gentlemen, and especially you, dear inhabitants of the island of obstinate..."
"What?!" the head of the latter screamed.
"Oops, I meant the free people. We are here to give you some good news: you are no longer on the blacklist."
"Oh, thank you," he said. "So, we too will remove you from our list."
The man took a notepad from his pocket and read: "Let's see, Sultanate of latecomers, Archipelago of bullies and... here you are: Land of arrogant people, erased."
"Arrogant people?!"
"Oops..."
"Wow," the head of the land of opportunities said, "I ignored the existence of another black list that was not ours and with our name on it. Thanks anyway."
"Nothing," the head of the land of the free people said. "Now you just need to be erased from the others."
"What? Are you saying that other countries put us on their black list?"
"Let say some," the other replied. "And you have no idea what name they used..."

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Friday, April 10, 2015

Vatican gay French Ambassador Laurent Stéfanini: another story

Stories and News No. 739

I read that according to the French press, the new Vatican ambassador in France, Laurent Stéfanini, despite being nominated since four months did not get the final approval because of his sexual orientation.
Of course, this suggests to me a story.
Another one…

Once upon a time there was a State.
I am not talking about them, I says another State.
Do not think of them, right?
They were other people, with other rules and different moral precepts.
Now, I have to say also that at the head of this State there was a government which paid much attention to those rules and precepts.
In a manic way, being honest.
Everything was going in a workmanlike and things went straight according to the road indicated by the government.
And by the Book, the one with the capital B.
Yes, because when burning conflicts arise and there is need to write better stories of the past, there is always somewhere a Book with a capital B.
The day when the government decided to make a general control of the situation came.
So, he started with the ambassadors.
The first ambassador was discovered to be gay, so we are actual.
One out.
The second ambassador was a trans.
Two out, quickly.
The third ambassador lived with a sheep, moreover nymphomaniac.
I mean the sheep.
Three out, with disdain.
The fourth ambassador had dared to legally adopt a baby giraffe, who had been trained since childhood to feign a plush during official visits.
However, the animal grew up and tell me where you can buy an eight meter high plush...
Four out and call the WWF.
The fifth ambassador was gay too, but had staged a mock wedding with a female mannequin, completed with wig and wedding dress.
A perfect ceremony, with honeymoon and scrapbook.
However, at the end the ambassador fell in love and had tried to have children by him, or her, offering to experience any procreative technics among the most modern, without any good luck.
However, when there is love, there is everything and the two had adopted the giraffe taken from the fourth ambassador.
Serious mistake.
So the fifth was caught, denounced by the giraffe, which in the meantime had started a long distance love relationship with the nymphomaniac sheep that seemed to work fine.
In short, a real mess, these embassies.
Because the rest of the ambassadors proved to have hidden in the closet a lot of sexually confused skeletons, at least according to the government.
All out, slamming the door too.
The State was therefore without ambassadors in the world.
No more spokesman where your voice needs to go.
The prime minister called the rest of the government and asked: "We need new ambassadors, people with a full of virtue and righteousness love life. Who among you is available?"
It seems that, even today, all the positions for ambassadors in the world are still free...

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Thursday, April 9, 2015

Romani people in Italy video: only one letter divides us

Stories and News No. 738

In a gypsy camp, in a trailer, somewhere.
A man looks out the window and watches the life in the camp.
Because, despite the more or less astute delusions by vile guys.
There is life in a camp.
Of human substance.
A six years old girl child is with him.
And she is curious.
“Uncle Nicolae?”
“Yes?”
“Can you speak well?”
“Yes for sure. We live in a camp, but the camp is in a larger one, you can call it Rome, which is in another camp that is Italy, in another camp that should be Europe, which is in another one...”
“I understand, uncle. But you know all the words? “
“You can be sure about that.”
“What does gypsy mean?”
The man leaves behind the window and observes the child's eyes.
There is life in the camp, but in her any infinitely more.
However, he notices the apprehension in her face.
He must do something about it and uses the better human weapon, whereas the larger camps are always too many for you.
“Dear Nadya, Gypsy is a beautiful word. If people who live outside the camp will call you so, you must be happy. “
“Why?”
“Because it is a word that gives good luck. Is that clear? “
“Clear, good luck.”
“Fine.”
Nicolae turns to admire the heart of the camp when the one who dances in his chest trembles, hearing the new question.
“What does to be Nomads mean?”
The man understands to be now in a dance guided by the music of a little girl hungry of meanings and which uncle could never escape such task?
“Nomads is a word even more beautiful than gypsy. You and I are Nomads. “
“Me too?”
“Certainly we are and, despite our camp seems small and the people who live here negligible lives, a long history follow us. We have countless stories to tell. Because, like stories, we ever flow, as nomads. Understood?“
“Yes, Gypsy and Nomads.”
Nicolae relaxes, moving the eyes again on the camp beyond the glass and focuses on the latter, discovering for the first time to appreciate the importance of the windows in this world.
And all the other ways which we see things in.
Nevertheless, the questioning is not finished yet.
“Uncle, and what Roma means?”
Nicolae takes a further effort to search in the precious childhood imagination that fortunately he protected by time cynicism and gives the child the last answer.
“Roma is the most beautiful word of all and you should not ever believe otherwise, promise.”
“I promise.”
“Our camp is located within a large and famous town, rich in history and culture.”
“Rome?”
“Exactly, and as the camp, even our name inside it. Just change a letter and we are all in the same house.“
The girl child finally decides to release his uncle and leaves the trailer.
She gets to the center of the camp, where Nicolae sees her.
Then Nadya’s eyes looks towards the outside world.
The city of Rome, but not satisfied, she watches beyond.
Indeed, we can say that she puts no limits to her horizon.
“Only a letter divides us,” she thinks.
Her words are mixed with hope and courage, tenacity and wonder.
And who can be so naive as to not agree with her?

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Wednesday, April 8, 2015

Crime of torture video in Italy: the blessed land

Stories and News No. 737

After the sentence by of the European Court of Human Rights in Strasbourg for the police violence on the Diaz school, proper today it was expected that the Italian parliament discussed about a special bill on the torture crime.
Better late than never.
Different story in the blessed land...

Once upon a time there was the blessed land.
No, do not raise your heads.
It is not up there.
Quite the contrary.
This is a simple story, the kind that, as negligible crumbs, slip away from the VIP’s table.
To feed those who touch the ground with their very hands.
Blessed is the land no law prohibited the tying and gagging someone to put cigarette butts on his skin.
Yet, none was stained by that unspeakable act.
There was no provision in the blessed land, which prevented anyone to strip persons humiliating them.
Nevertheless, nobody performed such infamy.
In the blessed land there was no rule prohibiting a person to lock up people unfairly.
However, no one dreamed of going that far.
There was no footnote in the legislation of the beautiful land that denied the alleged right to physically abuse of defenseless individuals protected by more or less licensing armor.
Nevertheless, you could not accuse anyone of such oppression.
In the blessed land the Penal Code was lackluster, in fact.
There was not written that you would not have freedom to do violence extorting words, or tears.
To disrespect the body as the dignity of others.
To strike the meat up empting it of every life energy.
Even managing to get the unexpected.
The condemnation of the victim.
Eating his name and memory even after death.
Gaining also an award, such as higher position.
Allowing the nightmare to overcome reality and imagination at the same time.
The Code did not say any of this.
Yet, no one, I repeat, no one among the inhabitants of the blessed land would never have dared to act with such horrible inhumanity.
Because the land was blessed.
And because blessed is the land where people have no need for a law to understand that torturing a helpless human being is ignoble.
Infinitely ignoble.

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Wednesday, April 1, 2015

Pause


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