Friday, October 30, 2015

German killer of refugee boy: the stealer of future

Stories and News No. 806

Germany, the man who had kidnapped Mohamed, the four years old Bosnian child refugee, has confessed. He killed also Elias, a six years old boy, who died in July in the city of Potsdam.

My name is Mohamed and I am four years old.
This is my future. The coming dawn, regardless. And the following sunset, in spite of anything.

That is reminiscent of my past.
There, where everything is still possible.
Drawing the path leading to the top.
The name of the peak does not matter.
Which piece of world it overhangs does not too.
What really counts is that once standing, with flag waving in hand taking a breath and satisfaction, I will not be alone.
The days behind are a few, if you look at them from above.
Anything but sparkling with joy and lightness.
But it was a start.
Somewhere we have to start.
Leave.
All the scenery at the shot of the starter does not count.
If you are sure to have no chance to finish first does not matter.
What is worth the ticket price is a mystery on the horizon.
Is it enough?

My name is Mohamed and I am four years old.
This was my past.
It reminds me of my very present.
Because despite much has become impossible, the secret of secrets is still intact: much is not everything.
We can still make it, the game of the last ones is not yet over.
Have you ever seen that good luck will defeat normality?
Then, courage, everyone on board of hope boats.
Please, blows the sails, dear optimism.
And push our dreams over the rocks, dear Sea of the unconscious.
Have you ever seen that bad times will lung instead of the usual victims?

I am Mohamed and I was four.
Here is my future.
Stolen.
Devoured.
And rejected on the unnecessary noble pages.
Do not turn around, please.
Stand for a moment and think before you speak.
And do.
Because what remains of the days stolen to me.
It became your future.
Past.
And more than ever present...

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Call for submissions and help: The gift of diversity Italian Storytelling Festival 10° Edition, Rome - April 2016

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Thursday, October 29, 2015

Gender equality stories: the perfect school

Stories and News No. 805

Once upon a time there was the perfect school.
It was perfect because had banished once and for all any trace of “gender confusion”.
In the perfect school there was the perfect principal.
So, in the perfect school with the perfect principal - no room for modesty, they had decided to hire him, the perfect teacher.
That is, this was his dream, and after a heated succession of talks he was chosen among many.
Eager to be such.
Perfect.
After receiving a formal good luck by the perfect principal, the perfect teacher came into the perfect class of the perfect school.
The perfect class, at first glance, appeared to be as many more.
The desks, the little chairs, the blackboard and the teaching post.
And then they were there.
The fragile incomplete creatures, but grown and well selected to be perfect.
"Teacher," a girl child said after the man had just finished to present himself. "Can you tell us a story?"
"Gladly," he said, happy to start with a good tale his first lessons in the perfect class of the perfect school.
"I will tell you Snow White..."
"You cannot," she interrupted him.
"Why not?"
"With the seven dwarfs, all boys, who live together, and then adopt a child as well..."
"True," the perfect teacher said. "I never thought about... then I will tell you Cinderella..."
"No way!" Another child shouted.
"Seriously?"
"Sure," he replied. "With that strange couple of of mice, Jaq and Gus, it is a shame..."
"Yes, you're right," the perfect teacher said. "Well, I'll tell you Little Red Riding Hood…"
"Are you kidding me?" A third child exclaimed.
"No... Little Red Riding Hood too?"
"Certainly, teacher, with the wolf who dresses as a woman we really are beyond any limits..."
"Excuse me," the perfect teacher lied, "but I already knew, I just wanted to test you."
So he tried other fables, unfortunately without success.
Thus, after even Pinocchio was refused, because of the carpenter Mister Geppetto who cannot have children and claims to fabricate one, the perfect teacher surrendered. He greeted the children and went to resign.
"Why?" The astonished perfect principal asked.
"Because I have not been able to find a story for those kids..."
Inevitable.
Because the stories of everytime and everyone are and never will be perfect.
Luckily…

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Wednesday, October 28, 2015

Stories about life: the most important before

Stories and News No. 804

In the US, while his father slept in his own bed, a two years old child died after accidentally shot himself with the dad’s gun.
This story is for him, for it.
And especially for you...

Once upon a time there was a “before”.
The first and more important one.
There is always.
There was, alas.
Before you pulled the trigger? Yes, maybe.
Thanks to a simple thought, in the form of the memory of a precious admonition.
Do not touch, do not touch it.
It.
Is this the most important? No, let’s try, be brave, don’t be satisfied.
Before opening Dad’s drawer? Perhaps, it could be.
The above thought, but also a blessed distraction.
A melody behind, a more interesting game or just getting back.
Exactly what you were doing.
Before.
It is flawless, clear, smooth as the slide at the park.
Among all, is this the most important? It does not seem, let's move on.
Before entering your parents room?
That is, before you know that it is there, in their room?
Who knows, it might work.
Depriving the vulnerable memory of a poisonous information, uncomfortable everywhere.
Let alone between walls of butter and unconditional trust in all raining from above, as well as the wonderful two which everything comes from.
Let alone you.
All right, my little one, but is this the most important “before”?
On paper, but the real world is not just pages and ink.
Before you understand what it is?
Or maybe not a “before”, rather a salvific “after”?
After you fully understand what it is?
A gun?
It will still pollute the fragile waters back there, after your curious eyes, but gaining a weapon loaded with a precocious knowledge.
To guard against another one.
So that’s it?
The most important “before” is an “after”?
I would like, dear, seriously.
It would be amazing and the story would benefit.
However, it does not fit and that is a sin.
Because the error lies in the main character, the only accountable for this sad story.
We should not look between your “before’s”, but in those of your father.
And the most important among many would be evident as a discordant note in a perfect solo.
Before deluding ourselves that bending prone at her majesty the fear will keep us away from our death.
And from those we love…

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Friday, October 23, 2015

Story about Gun Control

Stories and News No. 803

As the rest of the world, also in Italy there are political parties that promote guns vs migrants, just looking for support from weapons manufacturing companies…

Once upon a time there was a land.
A land like many, but only one too.
You know what I mean.
The land as many, but only one too, you know what I mean, was said the reign of sun.
Because there was always the sun?
No, since even lefties platypuses know that there is no place where there is always sun, except the sun itself.
And if even lefties platypus know that, indescribably dumb animals, well, you draw your own conclusions.
The land as many, but only one too, etcetera, was said the reign of sun because there was a sun, that's all.
In the sky, at least once a day, not every day.
Often.
Then the night came and all started to doubt the light.
As if the sun really died at sunset, instead of playing hide and seek with the moon.
Nevertheless, in the reign of sun people was more likely to sanctify mourning rather than delight.
So, one day they arrived.
Them.
In large numbers, inexorably invading the lives of the inhabitants.
“But why do they not stay at home?” One of the many yelled, the one who could shout more ardently. “Why these damn drops don’t go back up there?”
Yes, the terrible tragedy was the rain.
Clandestine pieces of water, migrant tears from the earth to the clouds and return, refugee waves with the absurd claim to do something more.
Than dying on the shore.
The screaming guy realized he would not get better opportunity to make the meanest of miracles: to transform cowardice into hard cash, to seek a listing for fear, to gnaw the last remnants of humanity to the bone reaching the vermilion gold.
Red with the blood of the expendable creatures in this world.
"Rain is the enemy," he exclaimed barking, pretending to improvise a well prepared script. "The falling drops want to exterminate us, sweeping our history and erasing our traditions. We must defend ourselves from the rain because the reign of sun is ours."
"How?" the most attracted to the barker asked.
At that moment, with properly calculated timing, the cunning charlatan made a masterful coup de théâtre.
"With this", he said showing the audience the mysterious object.
For the record, an umbrella.
From that day the sales of the latter skyrocketed and the usual division took place.
Security for the gullible people, wealth for some and power to one.
The unscrupulous newsboy with business talent.
Once upon a time there was a land.
A land like any other, but also only one.
You know very well what I mean.
The land like many others, but even only one, you know well what I mean, was said the reign of sun.
Because there was always the sun?
No, because there is no place in the world where there is only sun but the sun itself.
But one thing is clear.
Wherever life may continue it will always be essential.
That sooner or later.
The rain arrives...

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Thursday, October 22, 2015

Mistaken killed in Israel

Stories and News No. 802

In Jerusalem, somewhere, where the Story is told.
From above.
Very high.
Where things of the world must necessarily be small.
And confused.

"A man was killed", the voice that saw says.
"What man?" the voice that writes asks.
"A Palestinian," the other voice replies.
"A Palestinian was killed," the second voice repeats.
"A Palestinian was..." the voice that will share is about to announce before being interrupted.
"Hold on," the voice that saw says, "he is an Eritrean."
"What do I write, then?" the second voice inquires.
"What do I spread, then?" the third voice asks.
"Eritrean killed by mistake," the first voice replies.
"Eritrean killed by mistake", the second voice repeats.
"An Eritrean has been killed by mistake", the voice that will share echoes.
"Another man was killed," the voice that saw says later.
"What man?" the voice that writes asks.
"A Palestinian," the first voice replies.
"Are you sure?" the second voice requests.
"Well?" the voice that will share joins.
The voice that saw stalls, but the dance goes on with the usual indifferent inertia.
"A Palestinian was killed," the involved voice writes.
"A Palestinian was killed..." the relative voice starts to share.
"Stop", the voice that saw screams, "the man is an Israeli."
"What now?" Jump up both the other voices.
"Simple," the voice that saw says seraphic, "an Israeli man was killed by mistake."
"An Israeli man was killed by mistake," the voice that writes remarks somewhat annoyed.
"An Israeli man was killed by mistake", the voice that will share exclaims back.
A gray hood, soaked by impatience and anxiety, falls on the three when the third and final news reaches them.
"A man has been killed," the voice that saw yells.
"What man?" the voice that writes asks expectantly.
"A Palestinian," the first voice responds promptly.
"Are you sure?" the second voice doubts.
"Really?" The third voice asks.
"Never been so sure," the voice that saw replied.
"A Palestinian was killed," the delegate voice says with joy.
"A Palestinian was killed," the voice that will share intones delighted.
And stop with mistakes

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Wednesday, October 21, 2015

Man killed by landlord to prevent theft: one of us

Stories and News No. 801

In according to a recent update, the investigation contradicts what told by a retiree landlord who murdered in Italy a young man with a shot straight to the heart. Not in the bedroom, as the murderer stated, but when the victim was on the stairs outside the apartment.
So the thief died even before committing break-in, theft and so on, even before being definable a thief.
Nevertheless, many citizens of killer’s town, in the province of Milan, marched under his balcony screaming together: you are one of us

Once upon a time there was a game.
No, it is a movie.
Indeed, sorry, it is a dance.
Pardon the mess, really, that is not my fault.
The story is chaotic.
As a road that leads everywhere, bounded with dangerous approximation.
Where those who have good glasses are traveling in the middle.
And all the others just breathe.
Until falling down.
Outside the envied edges of the way.
Of life.
But we, who are we, in the fuss of lives that contradict each other?
That is a game?
Then we are the audience, of course, rejoicing for the feat of our star.
And railing on the opponent guilty of the worst sin.
To be himself.
The adversary.
We are the same audience who waited hours to reach the bleachers.
We paid a lot for this.
That is why we are not willing to accept defeats.
Especially for negligible trifles as an equitable distribution of human victories, for example.
That is a movie?
So we are ever the audience, but also the producers of the film burning on the big screen.
Because we want...
We are screenwriters, so that the good guy might recite exactly what we dreamed in the most troubled nights.
Slaying the grim bad villain.
Because we want our...
We are the story which the film is based on, honoring the real hierarchies, among those who deserve the lights and who not.
Because we want our name on the credits.
Maybe that is a dance?
Then we are spectators, again, yes, but more than ever we are the one and only choreographer who is pulling the wires.
The oscillating movement on each corner in the heart.
With all the available space in the world, because it is an empty hall at the mercy of the highest bidder.
Once upon a time there was a dance, then.
No, that is a game.
Indeed, forgive me, it is a movie.
Excuse the mess, really, it is not my fault.
Or maybe yes.
But it is the story that is confused.
When one of us... kills one of us.

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Friday, October 16, 2015

Proof aliens exist in space of the red dwarf

Stories and News No. 800

I'm not a star and I never desired that.
Despite sometimes I give bursts of light too.
I'm an alien.
I know well and when I forget, there is always someone around the corner.
Ready to make me remember.
I care about it.
I care about to say it.
The whole universe bless the red dwarfs.
I mean the stars, of course.
Even if I do not slight at all the modest height and red hair ladies.
I care about it.
I care about to say that too.
However, it is for one of those giant stars that I am here today, to affect the white of the page.
Anyway, you might call her dwarf, but we are ever talking about a star, not a nobodies asteroid, full of self-importance.
I care about it.
I care about to recall that everything is relative, even for the dwarfs.
Because there is always someone dwarfer than you, once the quark told the atom.
Nevertheless, I forgot the fundamentals: the essential clarifying introduction.
The red dwarf is the star which today newspapers spoke of, the light source that has emptied the plausible answers box of the bigwigs of this world.
The dust raised by Tabetha Boyajian, a researcher at Yale University, once thinned showed on the board this alarming question: how the above star, aka KIC 8462852, standing in the space between the constellations of Cygnus and Lira, 1,481 light-years away from us, could be surrounded by a huge circle of stuff? It would make sense if the dwarf was young, like our sun long time ago, but here we are talking about an elderly lady.
Could it be something... artificial?
Aliens! Yes, there are aliens, I have no doubt.
And you? What are you waiting to leave with your spaceships hunting of extra lives?
I care about it.
I care about to warn you that also Jason Wright, an astronomer at Penn State University, says that.
I would understand if the distrust to focus the magic in the sky with a shaky finger had come only by me.
Who would believe an alien sighting another alien?
But Mr. Wright is a smart guy, I do not know him personally, but he sure is a bespectacled humanoid and with a lot of formulas in the heart to explain.
I do not put his telescope on the risk about a true extraterrestrial presence but at the same time he does not rule out that the above astral cover surrounding the dwarf could have been built.
Built by whom?
Aliens, who else? Newspapers said and scientists are on board, what you need more?
Turn on the rockets and launch yourself in the air, dear human obsessed with different creatures.
Go, quickly.
I care about it.
We all care about it, terrestrial aliens.
To get out of the usual target for a while...

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Thursday, October 15, 2015

The migrants and the polar bear: the true story

Stories and News No. 799

After decided to cross the Eurotunnel and reach the UK, four men climbed onto a truck in Calais, France, and found a polar bear in a cage.
One of them escaped, while the three remaining were then arrested.
The animal, named Nissan, arrived later at its destination, a Yorkshire park, to join two other bears, Victor and Pixel.
This is the story that Nissan told them…

Once upon a time there were three migrants.

The three migrants were actually four.
In fact, to be honest, I have no idea if they were migrants.
Or in any other way humans love calling each other.
Distinguishing.
At worst, estranging.
Four of them have got on board.
And only three are left.
Too bad, I thought.
Who knows what the fourth could have said.
Well, as you know, we bulky souls, who travel from pole to pole of the planet only reluctantly, we are always there with our mind.
On the empty chair in the classroom and the blank place in the crowd.
On the lacking horizon.
Anyway, I settled.
Three better than two.
Imagine how much better than nothing.
"Come on, I'm listening," I said in our language, the one that tell as much as little hope is.
To be understood.
But the eyes do the rest, as mom said and, I don’t want to brag, I have two chatters eyes to deafen a crowd of yelling teenagers.
Nothing, not even a breath.
Maybe the one who had something to say was just the missing fourth in the band?
However, observing the three faces with the proper attention I read the unexpected.
Fear.
But even staunch courage.
Tiredness.
But also indomitable willpower.
Sadness.
But even a strange kind of optimism.
The one of creatures who designs light ahead despite the longest night of the year is just began.
Why?
I wondered and still wonder.
Why?
What was the reason of that fear and that fatigue?
Why that sadness?
Maybe because unlike them we are white?
Or maybe for what many said about us?
That we could hurt them?
The truth is that they and only they are the free ones.
Now we are in a cage, but once you were like them.
The real problem of this world is…
All the others.

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Wednesday, October 14, 2015

Diversity stories: marriages and adoptions

Stories and News No. 798

Once upon a time there were two friends.
Indeed, it begins so: there are two friends.
But it is not a joke.
One of them meets the other, who is reading the newspaper.
"What are you doing?"
"I read."
"What are you reading?"
"The news on the discussion about same-sex marriages..."
"I see, gay adoptions."
"No, not at all, I said same-sex marriages, you know? Those forms of cohabitation between two people of the same... "
"Yes, I understand, you're talking about gay adoptions."
"It’s not true, when you hear that? I said same-sex marriages, forms of cohabitation linked by bonds of affection..."
"Yes, of course, gay adoptions."
"I did not say gay adoptions," the man screams. "I repeat, I said - by spelling – same-sex marriages..."
"Of course, gay adoptions."
"Are you deaf or what?" His friend almost yells, victim of a nervous breakdown. "Same-sex marriages, these are not difficult words. Unions by people who desire a wedding according to their own free will... "
"Look, I understand very well, these are gay adoptions."
"You're out of your mind..." the other one says leaving the newspaper on the ground. "You are hearing voices or worst. I said SAME-SEX MARRIAGES, after the legal systems have given them the right relevance or granted a legal status..."
"In easy words, gay adoptions."
The newspaper guy approaches the other with a worried expression.
"There is something wrong? Let's talk about... you want to come to drink something? So you tell me more..."
"I'm sorry but I cannot," the other replies. "I have to go to court because I have being sued by my ex-wife. I did not pay the maintenance and ignored her daughter..."
"Her daughter? She’s not yours too? "
"Yes, but how could I keep up with everything? Yesterday I had to tolerate even the screams of my new wife because I punched his son in the face. You know, he spoke on the phone during the football game..."
"On the contrary, he actually is her son..."
"Dumb me that I got married for the third time... if the first one..."
"If the first one had not left you because you betrayed her with your secretary, I know that part."
"Yeah. In what kind of world we live in…"
In what kind of world, the friend thinks.
A world of gay adoptions.
Unions and, above all, citizens.
So civil...

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Friday, October 9, 2015

Diversity stories: the child and the assistant

Stories and News No. 797

Well, take a look.
Take a look for a moment.
Take a look for a moment and think if today an eleven fifth grade should explain world things to you.
Listen, are you awake or not?
When you decide to tell a story, you should be prepared at least.
Well, look...
Take a look at this news: Rubbles fall in the classroom: "two" - I repeat - "two" children and a teacher injured in the province of Agrigento.
One of them is disabled, this is what the article says.
Meanwhile, here you violate the first consideration for a storyteller who claims to deserve the vast audiences.
Well, take a look.
The title is important, dear sir or lady who, using ink and imagination, throw your vision into the web.
However, incomplete one, since I am the person who have got the true vision.
So, let’s take a look.
To me.
Yes, because I am the only child that was hurt.
How someone specifies further.
Well, take a look.
Just take a look at: Rubbles in school: only one wounded child.
From bad to worse, my dear, since wherever all best in arithmetic, it is the art of harmonizing words and the multiple plots of the latter - commonly grammar, that shows its sin.
Because, believe me: I feel everything except only one child.
Well, take another look.
Take another one look, even better, many of them.
Because also from the pen that at least is not making further lexical mistakes, come out a careless and misleading title: Rubble fall in the classroom, one teacher and a disabled student wounded.
Assistant teacher for the disabled child, the rest of the narrative clarifies.
Dear reporters, why don’t you stop flying grazing, if you decide to take care of our lives?
We are full of stuff down here, south of your myopia.
Come inside, the door is always open.
Just clean the shoes as the heart.
Maybe you'll discover that my friend and me.
We are countless stories.
Immediately below.
A disabled child and an assistant teacher...

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Thursday, October 8, 2015

If the mayor of Rome was a good person?

Stories and News No. 796

Once upon a time there was a town.
Look, let’s avoid controversy.
Another city, not the Italian capital.
On the antipodes of the universe, where you want, just that you cannot bring up anything.
To transform it in the usual and stale string of confused semantic twists linked with delusional syntax.
In short, cackling.
Let’s imagine that this city is like many.
Inhabited by ordinary people.
To define ordinary you may refer to what you encounter every day on the road, prisoner of traffic, lined up in a row of any kind, surrounded by any screaming grouping, from the condominium meeting to the union assembly.
Imagine that, despite the above ordinary human material involved, for a mere coincidence of chances a good person was elected mayor.
As if that were to happen by mistake.
Listen, stop the rumbling emotional eruptions.
I mean another one, not the actual one.
A person beyond the boundaries of your imagination, anywhere as long as you avoid getting lost in in the usual and stale string of confused semantic twists... well, you know what I mean.
Nothing great, okay? No Martin Luther King's reborn, who would be deported the following day as an illegal immigrant for delusions of persecution and instigation of riots.
Only someone decidedly better than that above ordinary measure.
Which would still have a logical reason: I vote who I feel more qualified than the majority.
As ordinary it should be.
Given all the circumstances, thanks to the awareness of anything but decent level of ordinary people, the storytelling of the unexpected mayor’s life would be granted.
Being significantly better than the index average of ordinariness he or she would have all as bitter opponents.
All those who had benefited until then of the common ordinariness.
But how many these all are?
Difficult to answer, almost impossible.
Or, perhaps, let’s say that it is better not to.
The question that is worth our time is rather quite another.
Being one of the inhabitants of a city like this and, although driven by a temporary breath of honesty, you were to admit of being part of that very chaotic conglomeration called ordinary people, you'd be able to recognize a good person?
Or, would you be able to discern his intentions from the perennial malpractice you live every day?
In other words, even if you were to meet Gandhi in person, would you be able to trust him, despite the screams of his detractors?
If not, dear fellow citizen, how much is worth your opinion?
And what about your vote?

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Wednesday, October 7, 2015

Gay priest Krzysztof Charamsa: the future coming out

Stories and News No. 795

Commenting on the debated revelation by Monsignor Charamsa on his sexual orientation, the Pulitzer Prize-winning writer Michael Cunningham argues that "the Church should apologize to the world."
How many more excuses will be asked, and not only from the church.
Until we will hear yet another special kind of “coming out”…

I confess.
I am not better than the others.
Not better than myself and all the fake representations, well-formed or approximately cobbled together because of the rush, that I have sold, given, lent, imposed to you.
At worst, left behind as crumbs to casually pick up.
I have got a lot of vices, let this be known right away, where you intend to go beyond the reassuring line of mere knowledge.
I do not think about sins as many as I make them.
And I never make them as many as I will think about them during the following instant.
Now.
Even now it is happening.
Because that’s how it works - I will never be tired of repeating it, magic is always in the intentions.
Perfection lies in the simple flip of a coin and the goodness in the drawing of lines and colors not yet composed.
It's all there, the stuff which I have claimed so far of.
On the threshold of the door, on the side of the road, even in the prologue of the novel which I am sure - at the beginning it is always the case, I will amaze onlookers with.
The following story is broken, life wobbles and emotions arise on the way, but for me it is good like this.
Because that's all I have.
I will disappoint you, repeatedly, even after promising that it will never happen.
Especially in that case.
I will lie to you, as I always did.
Because if truth really exists I've never met it.
I am unable to imagine it because it goes beyond my capabilities.
I am not also able to portray it, much less tell it.
Let alone exclaiming it with incomprehensible pride, celebrating myself with the memory of such great undertaking in the nights to come.
I am small.
In sizes as the flow of the breath.
I close my eyes and I see it.
I open them and I would forget what I just saw.
That before the endless wonders around me I am just the latest to be given a voice.
Listening and attention of most.
Yet, not so often, even if only once in a lifetime, for sure by mistake, I leave consistent signs.
With the extraordinary mystery that accommodate me.
For these reasons and many more, I confess.
This is my coming out.
Like many, many more than it seems, I am just…
A human being.

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Friday, October 2, 2015

Moral stories: the forest of the seven

Stories and News No. 794

Killer of Christians.
According to many newspapers that is becoming the main fragment of the news title to spread yet another massacre in the United States.
Needless to imagine what it would have been, if somebody were able to bring up the Islam.
Nevertheless the recurring theme, the lethal greatest common denominator, is always present at the crime scene and every time it comes home undisturbed.
The alleged lawful possession of a weapon...

Once upon a time there was a forest.
It was called the forest of the seven.
Because seven men lived in the woods.
Not one less, not one more.
In the forest where seven men lived, not one less, not one more, running was the only activity.
There was no other hobby.
There were no soccer, rugby and basket balls.
Even no tennis racquets, which might have been useless.
Because there were no balls to hit.
The only things they used to throw out were themselves, at various speeds, but there was none able to definitively surpass the others.
Because each new day they had a different winner.
It’s the tailwind that changes every day, some said.
It’s the headwind that equally changes, others argued.
Or is it just the lucky butt of the lucky one, the more disenchanted replied.
However, one day the onetime winner ended his run just before a cave whose entrance was covered with stones.
The only ones in the woods, completely composed of soft green.
"Who are you?" A voice asked from inside.
"I am one the seven of the forest."
"You are not afraid to go out alone?"
"Not at all."
"You’re wrong," the voice said, which became more and more persuasive. "The forest is safe and quiet as long as the terror does not catch you alone in the woods. And then it's better to have something in your hands. "
"What?"
"A weapon, of course. "
"What is a weapon?"
The voice replied with a laugh that made his blood run cold.
"You don’t know what a weapon is and you go out alone in the woods? Fortunately you have met me. You’re free to take one of my stones, out here. "
"To do what?"
"Simple: to hit your enemy. To defend yourself..."
The man was quite disturbed by the voice and refused the invitation to take a stone, running away as he had come a little earlier.
However, the same night a rock was removed from the pile at the entrance of the cave.
In the following days it was not hard to tell who was among the seven.
At any race he was the one who come last, because of the heavy stone hidden in his pocket.
If this were not enough, night after night, every man decided to take a stone in front of the cave.
Running fast stopped to be the most important thing.
Defend yourself from terror that catches you alone in the woods, this had become the priority.
However, over time magnifying the distressing image of that terror, each one of the seven he was attacked by the same doubt.
Would one only stone have been enough to stop the aggressor?
Thus, in the following days they found themselves never compete with the race, but, to choose who among them were able to hide more stones, taken from the pile that blocked the entrance to the cave.
Exactly one month after the first meeting they had had with the voice in the cave, the winner was declared when he took the last stone, after filling all the space in the pockets and socks, under shirt and shoes, his pants, and even in his underwear, with all the eventual drawbacks.
I won, he screamed, before the other six, forced to applaud.
However, the celebrations did not last long, because a few moments after the last stone had been removed from the entrance of the cave, a huge wolf came to light with drool leaking from the wide open jaws.
"Thank you," the beast said before attempting to calmly eat the seven, unable to escape having become slow as snails because of the stones.
"Choosing to dedicate yourself to the defense from the terror that catches you alone in the woods is the greatest gift you could ever do."
To the monster that you have freed and that will eat you all together

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Thursday, October 1, 2015

Right Livelihood Award 2015 Gino Strada Nobel in the alternative world

Stories and News No. 793

On 30 November 2015, in Stockholm, for the first time an Italian will be awarded with the Right Livelihood Award, known as the Alternative Nobel Prize, recognition designed to "honor and support those offering practical and exemplary answers to the major challenges of our time".
I am talking about Gino Strada, founder of Emergency.
This and many other things happen in the alternative world...

There is a world, somewhere.
Somewhere that is here, but never quite here.
That is its fault, probably.
Born light and rarefied and equally grown over time.
Or maybe the looks of the most are not accustomed to the lightness or expansion of creation.
Of course, that is not god’s work.
The alternative world should be created by us.
Where us is here, somewhere.
But never sufficiently here.
And that is certainly our fault.
Born lighter and rarefied, we equally went ahead.
Or maybe the others stayed behind.
In the alternate world, somebody gives an alternative Nobel to a doctor who actually works as a doctor.
Anywhere, no ifs, ands, or buts, without compromise.
Crazy thing, right?
Oh, but that's nothing.
In the alternative world we have the alternative Oscar too.
Best actress - because the alternative world always starts with a she - goes to a good school teacher, where school is often everything except good.
The alternative Oscar-winning actor goes to a stubborn migrant.
A man so committed in his role to refuse any type of residence permit even after proving for years to deserve it under current legislation.
Because he believes that residence is one of the prerogatives of existence.
And because he also trusts that permission to live represents an inalienable birthright.
In order to debunk stereotypes about snobbery of the alternative world, there is also the alternative prize to the best soccer player: the alternative Golden Ball.
This year's winner is a Syrian kid who has exceptional dribbling skills to dodge his opponents.
That is, the bombs, friendly or not.
Finally, a special alternative mention for another alternative guy.
The writer Erri De Luca, who in our world is a defendant guilty of pronouncing dangerous words.
While in the alternative world he is just a man with noble courage and commendable consistency.
To always say those blessed, precious and indispensable.
Dangerous words...

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