Friday, March 31, 2017

Animal stories: 300 whales killed in Japan

Stories and News No. 977

In Japan over three hundred whales were murdered during the yearly Antarctic hunt.
The whaling fleet has returned to port Friday after the extermination of mammals, implementing its program despite criticism from much of the world.


Once upon a time there was the courage.
To be one versus three hundred.
In a inevitably learn challenge.

Where the most impressive and worthy of awe and reverence is among the many.
And the most fragile and incomplete is alone.
He is incurably unaided, even if he chooses to be so in the midst of a universe of colours and shapes.
Yet an unexpected ending happens and he wins.
He usually does on everyone.
He triumphs, humiliating the opponent.
Extinguishing breaths and prospects.
However, the error lurks where you least expect it.
The beginning is a liar.
Because despite appearances, there is no trace of boldness in this story.
Then, once upon a time there was the strength.
To stand up and dive in the fight.
One against three hundred.
Where the muscles and the favor of sizes are in the many.
And the thinnest and most vulnerable is precisely that one.
Nevertheless he grinds his teeth and widens the contemptuous gaze on the opponents.
Sure of the victory.
Confident in the defeat of the contenders.
In fact, that is precisely the fight’s outcome.
Each creature of the pod cannot escape from it.
They fall, one after another, they fall.
However, the deception is even more subtle than the error.
It hides in a papier-mache pride.
Between the folds of chilling smiles on the faces of alleged warriors with smoke’s and delirium’s armor, while are pompously posing on the bloody prey.
As far as the winners will be celebrated coming back, the strength has never been their decisive advantage.
So, once upon a time there was the honour.
What thrusts the one to defy three hundred.
Where the knowledge of the former privilege only of the one.
And the limits of a simple and pragmatic mind are all in the hundred.
That’s why they do not understand the logic of the war.
That’s the reason why, maybe, they succumb without protesting.
As if it were normal.
Nevertheless, in spite of the numbers and the purely human manipulation, there is no honour in this tale.
There is even less courage and strength.
Otherwise, those three hundred and many others would sweep away that one as the craziest and most dangerous of mother nature’s typos.


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Thursday, March 30, 2017

Human rights stories: Future’s victories

Stories and News No. 976

Sinixt First Nation, indigenous people descendants of Canada, finally won, they obtained recognition.
Perhaps “finally” is not a quite accurate word, since the last member of the Canadian Sinixt was Annie Joseph and died in 1950. In fact, from that moment the government declared extinct the native people.
It therefore is yet another future’s victory...


The picture is naked.
I hope it is now clear.
Unveiling the mystery, the phenomenon is today under the sunlight, clear in its tender melancholy,

but don’t think we will stop.
We won’t go back either.
Nowadays persevering in our perpetually staring at the horizon it is understandable.
Crossing it with sharp eyes and no more labored, no longer afraid, hungry breath too.
Here and now you know why we wake up first, and never go to sleep.
Present day it is obvious why we enlarge eyes before the normal things.
Right now every apparently vain sacrifice compartment becomes meaninful.
Every leap of faith is mandatory.
And flying without landing rights resonates as a logical, right?
The story is explained, the moral is there.
It's always been there, where we could not touch it.
Where, fortunately, no one could, at the end of the rainbow of colors without a residence permit, but only with your feet firmly on the ground.
Up there, on the unreachable road for, protected by clouds of compressed humanity, the podium was waiting.
It waited for us, that sooner or later we will be put on the bad guys record.
The undesirable people’s house, ever open for creature with complicated names and too lively memory for sedated cultures.
The crucial clue, the riddle’s solution was too simple to be put in context.
Forgive the mysterious plot’s author, it is called life and is made to surprise everyone, even the longest standing spectators.
The curtain is opened again, ladies and gentlemen.
Get back in the room, please.
Because the show is not at all starting again.
You should know that it's never over, if what was true and fair yesterday is still not today.
And even when the last light disappeared, the exiled emotion still vibrated behind the scenes made by cement and greyness.
The marginalized words resisted under the blanket of double-breasted shoes dust.
And the alleged appearances of the farce called modern civilization, only pretended to play the last heartbeat.
Clap your hands now, free souls, erased by named only ones.
Clap your hands everybody, today.
Since now, despite the fragile past has been killed and an inhumane present tried to devour its meat, the future stands up.
Sadly victorious it smiles.
Despite everything.
It looks at us with compassion and smiles.


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Wednesday, March 29, 2017

Racism stories around the world: Indians vs Africans

Stories and News No. 975

India’s Foreign Minister has publicly condemned racist aggressions towards African students near Delhi this week. A Kenyan girl told she had been dragged down by a rickshaw and beaten by a group of men.

Once upon a time there were you, them and others.
Where you is us, the many, sometimes too many.
Where they seem always to be more, even in the case of just one.

And where others are simply others.
Everything but us, you and me.
I said, there were once.
We talked, wrote and, above all, we read about and we saw some bad news.
Uniquely beautiful and profitable to legalized misfortunes’ eaters, who used to see raising high their murky trade actions if the latest creatures of this world sadly fall on the ladder of human understanding.
The most common story is simple, though enlightened words, and suggestive images too, are often futile: you, we, are intolerant and brutal, insensitive and sometimes cruel towards strangers, but you, we, should be understood, right? Because of them...
You know, if you record them all together, gathered in a deliberately blur stain on the white dress, it is difficult to offer simple empathy.
So, you, us, the many among the few wearing the aforementioned snowy dress, let’s try to observe the modern farce from afar.
Let’s look at what happens between them and the others, who are the same to you, us, even up close.
Can you see the absurdity of the best-selling story of these times and more relevant than ever near elections or popular, so-called democratic expressions?
Those who usually you do not distinguish, and with epochal laziness we merge in the aforementioned, annoying mixture, now they appear in quite another scene, equally crazy, on opposite sides.
In a yet, distorted picture, they are you, us.
And the others are them, the others to someone else that's not you, us, but he is playing the same role of the executioner.
Now, do you understand the stupidity of such short-sightedness?
In your eyes, ours, always in a hurry before the essential and at the same time obsessively wrong, the skin color is almost the same, as bright eyes, unusual outfits, alien language and different religion.
How could they be racist without logical and justified reasons?
They should be crazy, you might think.
This you could deduce, and maybe the truth would not be far away.
Because this is what happens, when there was a time and even today it is.
The story of you, us, who give for granted the insane right to vent our sufferings and our ignorance on those who show the most unpardonable difference.
Being poorer than us


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Friday, March 24, 2017

Moral stories: Europe’s birthday

Stories and News No. 974

The treaty that officially gave birth to the European Economic Community is an international agreement which established the EEC, the forerunner of today's European Union.
It was signed on 25 March 1957 and tomorrow will turn sixty.
It is yet another birthday for the old continent, which is a mosaic of words and more or less pronounced lines on the map, loved and idealized, as detested and even hated, especially in the last decade.
A complicated design, so...


Europe.
Europe is like a drawing.
And a drawing is like a child’s dream.

Who dreams of a drawing himself playing a game.
Serious and crucial hobbies are those lived by the beardless creatures of this world, despite the poor memory of the elderly ones.
The kid is sitting with crossed legs on the ground, in his bedroom.
The bowed head on the floor and the various forms called toys.
In other words, as the so-called adults define them.
You have noticed, right?
The main characters of the extraordinary wonder of playing healthy and explore fantasy rarely uses these words.
As if calling something a toy could made it suddenly devoid of magic, unable to fly or, at worst, to be anything beyond the limits of the eye.
While a blinded version of the latter, obsessed with the monitor’s glare and lying special effects, see only a jumble of objects without any reasonable combination, the child extends his gaze inspired by his still intact imagination.
There is a little, dented car and a puppet with a crooked leg, a pair of mismatched bricks and a handful of discolored animals, a robot with low batteries and a deflated ball, but still useful to the task, a piece of something that you do not what it is and another that you know it, but totally ignore where the rest is, and more.
The child looks at everything from above and start playing with confidence.
To put together and create.
To generate time and space.
Something was not there before.
To make sense of his project.
What was there at the very beginning.
He just needed to want it, really want to.
A complete design.
Often he will listen voices saying that the final work does not work, but the reasons the casual judges will find, they are actually good reason.
Because it was fine composed.
The drawing was imagined and built from above, yes it was, but that does not mean that the hands worked in a rush and without affection for each part.
The drawing is not yet finished and continues to change, but this is inevitable, as long as it is alive.
The drawing needs to be explained to those who did not play, and above all it must be defended at any price.
Because being there, on the floor, anyone could feel entitled to stomp and destroy it…


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Thursday, March 23, 2017

Stories to think about: the two attacks

Stories and News No. 973

Once upon a time there were two attacks.
Both terrorist.
In other words, potentially capable of terrorizing lives and looks, present and future.
They equally occurred on March twenty-two, 2017.

However, as it often happens to what makes up our common history, there are more or less significant differences.
In one five people died and there were at least forty injured.
In the other there are thirty-three deaths, no one survived.
In the first one it seems that the bomber is one.
In the second, they are many more, although it seems that the finger on the damn button was only one.
One have already got the usual claim, with all the usual guesswork out.
In the other it is not necessary, because the culprit is clearly visible under the sun.
Maybe too much.
The first one is a horrible thing and it is natural to grieve, right to get angry and required to investigate the facts in the shadows.
The second is just as horrendous and it would be natural to grieve, right to get angry and required to investigate the facts in the shadows.
One has already its wiki page.
The other does not have enough sources.
The first is newsworthy.
The second estranges sponsors and empathy.
One generates understandable doubts, sensible questions and countless interpretations. Yet an aura of certainty seems to envelop viewers and orchestrators.
The other is undisputed about its murderous hand’s detached atrocities as the tragic and unacceptable innocents’ end. Nevertheless, doubts and even denials stand united as a tidal wave, facing the still, hot blood of the dead.
The first affects whole societies, elections and the greatest newspapers home page.
The second kills, period.
One is systematically exploited to foment hatred and madness.
The other does the same and it is absurd that only a few is aware of it.
Paradoxically, it seems that the former is able to make supportive and united those who wage war on a daily basis in all lawful ways today grants.
Equally unexpectedly, it seems that the latter is able to do the same with those who, the day before, were convinced that the killers of their loved ones were their savior. Supportive, united and infinitely full of anger, to be precise.
Once there were two attacks.
Both terrorist.
In a few words, really able to terrorize people and horizons, present and future.
They both took place in 2017, the twenty-second of March.
Maybe not so disconnected from each other.
One in London and the other in Syria.
The first near Westminster and Parliament.
The second in a school where refugees from the conflict had thought to find, indeed, the long-desired refuge.
Nevertheless, as it often happens to what gives shape to our common existence, there are more or less significant variances.
It's up to us to decide whether allowing the latter to move our feelings and our intellect or maybe our rationality and the much-underrated humanity…


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Wednesday, March 22, 2017

Environmental stories 2017: Water’s birthday

Stories and News No. 972

A recent UNICEF report states that climate change and conflicts are increasing risks for children living without enough water, and that the poorest among them will suffer more and more.
The NGO WaterAid asks international and national leaders to keep their promises of reaching the objectives of sustainable development, including ensuring free access to safe drinking water and sanitation
.

Once upon a time there was the Water’s Day.
I am talking her party, her birthday and name-day at the very same time.

Now the room is packed, everybody is there.
Or almost, as it often happens.
This is a particular lounge for special celebrations, as there are no walls and ceilings, electrical wiring and air spaces, various fixtures and other human devilries.
Because at the end of it, all would be a waste of time and time is not money, here.
It is much more, it is water.
Indeed, this is Water’s time.
It is now and perhaps it always has been, on the planet by the usurper name.
Earth was a mistake, H2O should be the right nickname.
The guests are all around her, or nearly so, and the anniversary’s Queen cries of joy, laughs not to suffer more, and dances and thanks.
“Happy birthday,” says a glass on behalf of its fellows, “because you filled my invisible soul.”
“Have a wonderful time, my friend,” exclaims a flower, “because as a generous and loving mother, you lift me up covering me with your love.
“Bless you,” praise together the green lawn and the barren land, the arid steppe and the inevitable red-hot desert, “because despite all differences decided by luck, rewarding us with your harmony, you make us as a unique, happy thing.
“Thank you, again and again thanks for your presence,” exclaim mountains and hills, ridges and volcanoes, valleys and more or less steep slopes, “because you merges us in a multi-faceted and interesting design as the worth of reading and living stories.
“We are debtors and we will be forever,” sing the seas and oceans, bound by rivers of gratitude and a still innocent lake of astonishment, even more vibrant that the very first day, in front of the liquid miracle that keeps on the game for everything and everyone .
“One hundred and a hundred more, a thousand and a thousand again, the whole universe time and also what was never discovered by the open eyes star counters,” recite the animals arriving at the court of the only sovereign that turns everyone in kings with a mere drop of her heart.
There was once the Water’s Day, I said earlier.
A birthday, but it is not really the exact one, maybe just the name-day.
Anyway, the party has already begun.
There are everybody, here, all of them were always there.
But, to be honest, they are not everybody at all.
Perhaps there will still be a tomorrow to celebrate, not forever, but maybe we can hope for more days like this.
If to give thanks, and more than ever to offer the right devotion and the sacred respect, we will be there too…


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Friday, March 17, 2017

Moral stories: the beaver’s lesson

Stories and News No. 971

The xenophobic populism’s defeat came in the recent elections in the Netherlands.
Dutch voters have turned their backs on extremism, perhaps demonstrating the beaver’s lesson...


"How strong should be the dam?" Asks the younger brother.

"As much and stronger than the river," the older replies.
"How strong is the river?"
"An old mountaineer proverb says..."
"Another maxim, bro?"
"Yes, another one, until they are valid."
"Go on, then, shoot, I'm all teeth."
"Ears, you mean."
"Forgive me, I’m tired of gnawing, complete your motto."
"I said, as an old proverb says, don’t ask how strong the river is, but rather..."
"Rather?"
"I don’t remember the rest, sorry, blame the age."
"What age? You are just one year older than me. "
"Well, you are no longer a youngster too. In fact, is that molar on the lawn one of yours? "
"No, it's yours."
"Oops... anyway, we’ll do our best as always and if the river will be stronger, we’ll work harder, giving everything."
"Because the rivers don’t stop alone."
"And because we cannot much alone, but together..."
"Because it's easy to go over everything and everyone."
"And because it’s difficult to understand everything and everyone."
"Because, at the same time, it’s impossible to remain indifferent to everyone and everything."
"And because once you really understand who someone is, you cannot help but see him."
"Because nature gives us the trees and ignorance to burn them."
"But even the teeth to model and claws to weave them."
"It's easier to clear than draw."
"To push on, rather than embrace."
"Hurt is a gesture that needs an instant."
"And taking care of is a story that lasts as long as those who care and those who are cared for will live."
"It takes being careful to join the banks one other."
"Precision."
"And unremitting efforts."
"As it takes nothing at all to leave things as they are, at the mercy of what wipes out others’ lives."
"So we don’t need to know how much the river will be strong, right?"
"Well, if we knew before, it would not hurt..."
"Yes it is."
"But we'll never find out if we remain here to count how many teeth we have left."
"And combing the fur."
"Exactly, so no more talk."
"Bro…"
"Yes?"
"If it should come to rain?"
"An old proverb from the valleys says..."
"I get it, do as if I had not spoken, let’s work."
"Let’s work."


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Thursday, March 16, 2017

Human Rights Stories: The River’s Day

Stories and News No. 970

New Zealand has decided to grant a river the same legal rights attributed to a human being.
After 140 years of negotiations, a Maori tribe gets the recognition for the Whanganui River. This implies, from now on, that the latter must be treated as a person.


The day of the river.
We want to call it so.
So we want to remember it.
Today is an historic day, the most important in its story, the very first, the one that gives life to all others.
It took forty years after a hundred more to get it.
The exceptional, unexpected and painful, normalcy.
The River’s Day is our day.
The reasons are many, your honor or dishonor, that is the same.
Since the party has now begun and we are already in the streets to celebrate.
We are children of the river, we are composed of water and hope almost in totality, because the flesh is thin and the bones are brittle, but a raging torrent impels us, in spite of appearances.
We look for the sea from the top of a mountain of desires, waiting for a mouth of any form, since delta or estuary is the same to us.
What matters is that the goal will show itself before eyelids had been closed for good.
We just need to see.
To dream is enough.
The day when the river will join the father.
The instant it will embrace the mother.
With constant waves there will be no betrayal for every drop of our scroll.
We will merge with the life that awaits and we will be something unique.
Part of the natural design.
The saint cycle that lifts you into the sky without killing you.
Bringing you back to earth without hurting you.
Today is the day of the river and it is a great one.
Because if you are an inseparable portion of the waves you cannot sink.
You cannot be shipwrecked.
You cannot die within yourself, because you are the water.
You are the life.
You are alive.
As everything is.
Let’s give thanks to the sisters and the brothers who did not give up.
And yes, let us do the same with those who finally surrendered to it.
The underestimated, confused and abused normalcy.
Because if a river took forty years plus hundred to be recognized as a human being.
It means that our victory is not so far away...





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Wednesday, March 15, 2017

Love stories till it do us part

Stories and News No. 969

A young couple from Yemen, about to finally meet in the United States, risk to be divided because of Trump’s travel ban on immigration.
They fear to have only twenty four hours.
Nagi Ali e Arwa al-Abili have been separated by 9,000 miles and now are waiting for Thursday, when the ban will come into effect
.

Till death do us part, the verse says.
Yet it does not say it all.
Arwa says that forever is never promised by

chance.
No, it is not, she explains with her unfailing patience.
It may be so for inanimate things, since they depend on use’s fickleness and time’s caprice.
It could also be the same for animals, where natural selection will facilitate the existence and above all undervalued mutations will guarantee their survival.
Because - repeating never hurts, equality facilitates the journey, but only diversity save your life.
So, one of you could argue: as long as the fate do us part.
Nevertheless, this is an incomplete statement too.
Because destiny, the lord and master, which makes and breaks, proposes and erases is stuff for 'ever sitting' walkers, for lives born with a caul, and more than ever, a buttoned one.

The rest of us, Nagi says with pride, we cannot enjoy this luxury.
And, to be honest, we don't want it at all.
That’s the gift of those born on the cot’s edge, always at risk of falling over the uneven floor.
We must decide today, feeding it with the past, to write our future.
Because books with ready routes were sold for good and only the blank pages are left to us.
The defeats, certainly.
But also not yet told victories.
Well, you might ask just now: as long as life itself do us part?
Adding a polemical tone, if you prefer, and it would be understandable, given the determination of the above replies.
However, if they seem so to you, you have not yet had to personally deal with Arwa’s stubbornness.
Thousands of miles and free hatred, empty heads and filled with mud hearts, without empathy looks and dried up of humanity souls, impossible climbs and endless queues, invisible wounds and silent offenses, all the walls that basest fantasies could imagine, none of this has managed to arrest her.
Far from it.
Finally, here is the unexpected one, of course it is: as long as an idiot do us part.
It's true, we are not prepared to this, Nagi confesses.
Hungry monsters and evil ghosts? We know every countermove, Arwa confirms, but to face modern stupidity it takes a willingness to accept it as normal which, fortunately, we have not.
But we are learning that too.
Meanwhile, everywhere, we will be together.
As long as till it do us apart.
Our love


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Friday, March 10, 2017

Migrants stories: the king’s statue

Stories and News No. 968

Archaeologists from Egypt and Germany have discovered a statue of 26ft (eight meters) immersed into groundwater of a slum in Cairo.
They assert that it probably depicts the pharaoh Ramses II, who ruled Egypt more than 3,000 years ago.
At the same time and in the near future, in my naive head, a little boy and his dad are playing together on the beach of an island north of the world’s misfortunes...

"Dad," the child asks. "Can we make a hole?"
"Sure," the man says, trying to doze off lying on the beach towel, tired of the strenuous working

week and hoping to use the end of the latter to regain strength. "You first."
Well, where a game is satisfying and full of surprises, it is rare that a child refuses to start the dances.
Time passes, and he digs, first with the paddle and then with bare hands. He uses especially latter, because - luckily for him, he still trusts them.
Meanwhile, the sea seems to slow down its usual habit of caressing the shore, and the succession of waves stretches to the utmost.
As if the real master of the world was waiting.
As if it was just a regular viewer.
"Dad," the child screams. "Look, Dad."
The man is forced to give up the sweet sandy mattress, which over time had diligently taken the form of his limbs.
Such a perfect horizon, in a not too sunny morning on a public beach, a not too crowded one.
"What's up? Did you already find the water? "
"No, Dad, I found a statue..."
The father is intrigued, no disturbed, and slowly rises from the improvised, worshiped couch to kneel beside his son, before the discovery.
The man opens his astonished eyes.
Now, he is much more than disturbed.
His heart is so out time that he is afraid to get an infarct.
He looks around and only then notices that the beach is almost deserted. Just an old man with the dog, two amateur fishermen and a girl searching for the lost suntan exactly one year ago.
"Whose is this statue?"
Yes, the explorer child, you cannot ignore him, Dad.
You have to do something, the right, expected thing from you, but now you have to answer. And, as it often happens, what you will say at that time will determine the history that awaits the entrusted to you, young life.
"It’s the statue of a king, son, the king of a distant country, that one day woke up and found his people hungry and thirsty. So, like any self-respecting sovereign, he decided to do everything in order to save the persons he loved and that depended on him. So he went to sea and through it all, far and wide, but unfortunately he didn’t make it and sank with his ship. Then, the inhabitants of this island built a statue to him."
"Why, Daddy?"
"Because they understood that he died doing what every brave and noble king and every human being would do in his place."
"They were good."
"Yes, son. Now let’s go to warn the authorities that we just found..."
"The statue."
"Yes, the statue."
Then the two walked away from the hole.
Where the remains of the man who came from afar rested…


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Thursday, March 9, 2017

Sad stories: how many times the fire burns

Stories and News No. 967

At least 22 girls have died in a government-run home for abused adolescents, because of a fire that broke out when residents staged a revolt, to protest overcrowding, burning some mattresses.
Sadistic fate, as if for some fire never stopped raging...


Once upon a time there was the first flame.
That burns at the beginning.
But still does, again and again.

It never stops, it’s burning right now, and it will go on.
It have to, damn it, but it must continue.
To show transgressions and aberrations.
The second time it burns inside and it hurts because all the unsuspecting world seems to stop exactly on the skin’s surface.
A cry that lingers to come out.
The tears and outbursts, which is understandable, do not show up.
Maybe they could.
The third time the eyes and throat start to burn, discovering how the tragedy is shared and devoid of joy.
We are many, too many and too similar, but not identical, because the weight of a wound is one of the greatest mysteries.
But lack the words that would give sense and hugs that would turn off the least noise.
It also becomes a chorus of inhuman echoes.
The fourth time it burns when you deceive yourself to have found refuge for what's left of you, and you believe it, you want it, because at the beginning you did not, but eventually you give in and rejoiced signing surrendered to the most fragile idea: the heat exists and it does not bite.
As the fire that burns the fifth time, when you realize that is not the unawareness of the grim story to let the world indifferent.
But it is precisely the same world, with its indifference, to write it and you're just an expendable, appearance guest.
Then it burns the sixth time, sweltering all that remains, because you convince yourself of ever been a highly flammable soul, living fuel for the hatred.
The seventh time is the most paradoxical one because they words and images begin to burn, in the ears and eyes of those who moved, and how can’t you?
Those who mourn, and how should not you?
And those who are outraged.
How didn’t want you?
More than ever recalling that there was once a flame.
The very first that burned my childhood and my future even before writing the present.
The wrong hand to caress.
And the inappropriate breath to respire on my defenseless limbs.
Extinguish that, if you can.
Do it, please.
It will give a sense to the fire, today.
That still burns…


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Wednesday, March 8, 2017

Stories of women's rights 2017

Stories and News No. 966

Today is the International Women's Day 2017...

See me.
Although I am a lot more than what you see.
Delete me.

Or at least, forget me.
If the use is unlawful or otherwise misleading.
However, approach me, if you have to, but to really understand what is hidden behind shapes and colors.
Admire me, I can’t certainly stop you.
But do it discreetly.
Dream of me, this is part of your freedom.
But do not blame me for your nightmares or insomnia.
Do not blame me at all, if you really want to do the right thing.
Put me there too, where each eye sooner or later ends up falling, but do not hurt me, in thought too.
Consider it just a beginning.
The anteroom of a first date.
And the morning that indicates the right path to a good day.
In the meantime, find the courage to open your heart and especially your brain, in addition to the eyes and all the other, overvalued senses.
Save me in your memory.
But to take care of the remembrance, never to abuse it, considering it as your own property.
Show your appreciation and do it gracefully.
But do not feel entitled to judge the only two dimensions that your naive imagination is able to draw.
Compare me with the mirages of the past.
And those of the future.
But learn to distinguish them from the present.
What vibrates and breathes beside you.
Now.
Nevertheless, do not trust the effect of the moment.
The perfect contours.
And the light without any kind of soul.
Because it is easy to pretend.
As much as believing the fiction is.
Trust me, rather, on what I can never give you.
All that you can only fall in love without ever fully understand.
Without touching nor seeing.
At the risk of disappointing.
With the ability to make you happy.
Because it is difficult to convince you at the dark.
As much as believing the truth is.
Namely, that I have never been a woman.
But only the image that you created...


Read more stories about life
Buy my latest book Elisa and the wonderful world of objects
Listen my song Wolves
Watch my last storytelling show with English subtitles It's amazing what a little light can do
Storytelling videos with subtitles

Friday, March 3, 2017

Hunger stories for kids: the fable meanwhile

Stories and News No. 965

Saleh Saeed, head of the Disasters Emergency Committee (DEC), says that in 2010, only seven years ago, shortly before the Arab Spring, there was an atmosphere of optimism in Yemen. Although it is one of the poorest countries of the Middle East, the economy was developing and emerging tourism industry was emerging, taking advantage of golden beaches, turquoise sea, breathtaking mountains, the UNESCO heritage sites and fascinating history. Today the horror and uncertainty are part of life. Statistics tell us that 14 million people suffer from hunger, while nearly 19 million (70% of the population) are in need of humanitarian assistance (to donate: DEC website).
Meanwhile, they have to survive...

Once upon a time there was a starving country.
Made so by war and poverty which are always everybody’s fault.

Unless the people of that country don’t aspire to become everybody’s people.
You know what I mean, right?
In the country that you already know for sure, there was a house.
Also hungry by war and poverty, that are really everybody’s accountability.
However just saying things it’s not enough to see righted wrongs and celebrated truth.
Otherwise words would be seriously magical.
Nevertheless, they know some trick too.
In fact, an equally undernourished family lived in the hungry house.
I said properly “lived”, since actually an only child was breathing and murmuring under the roof.
His name was Amell and honestly “murmuring” is simplistic and offensive to the gesture, let's say it in a loud voice.
He told a story to himself and those who have ears without understanding.
I mean the fable that his grandmother Jabel was first to narrate, the tale of an elderly woman who looked around and saw her son Dirar wounded in the leg, Kaya, her feverish, young daughter in law and her grandson Amell, surnamed “the witness”, who had two vices which he would never lose in his life: to listen very carefully the important things and be able to tell them where it would have been necessary.
The story said that the old grandmother, to face her family’s hunger, left the house and went in search of food.
Meanwhile the child told the story and he was precise because he had a good memory.
He well remembered the sequel.
The instant Kaya realized that maybe the mother-in-law was not coming back anymore, despite had hot head and trembling limbs, she left the bed and stood as a giant before the body’s evil, nourishing spirit and courage to leave home and find eat for all.
Meanwhile, the story went on, because Amell was stubborn and wanted to get to the end, because he did not like just sketched drawings.
Read as well as the ended too soon lives.
So, when Dirar didn’t see returning his mother and Kaya, he sat up with difficulty, grabbed the crutch like a sword and got out of the door in search of the missing food.
Meanwhile, the fable was not over.
Because once upon a time there was a starving country by war and poverty, that they are always everybody’s fault, though no one will ever pay the price.
In the hungry country there was an equally malnourished house, where a child was and is still living telling to himself that maybe, one day, everyone will return home.
Meanwhile, he is listening to everything very carefully and sooner or later.
He will tell us all...


Read more stories with morals
Buy my latest book Elisa and the wonderful world of objects
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Watch my last storytelling show with English subtitles It's amazing what a little light can do
Storytelling videos with subtitles

Thursday, March 2, 2017

Stories about animals in the zoo: Lucy and the cold

Stories and News No. 964

After 40 years of winter below zero at the Edmonton Valley Zoo in Alberta, Canada, the elephant Lucy was recently at the focal point of the debate on animal captivity.
Unfortunately, while debates are continuing in the world, the prisoners creatures of the latter trying to survive as they can...

My name is Lucy and I have a friend.
You know like the cold.

But that is not just a nickname for a very detached guy.
Indeed, he is too warm and affectionate.
However, these are only superficial descriptions of aspects taken for granted.
Consequences of a timely and tight hug as in a formal celebration between persons related only by name and by a paradoxical fondness.
A kind of Stockholm’s syndrome that’s good in both directions.
The Swedish friends, so they may call us, two foreigners in the north of the Americas, a tragic duo in an animal and inhuman show.
Those could be treated like synonymous, however there is nothing more wrong in this world.
I'm Lucy and the cold is also my best enemy.
In a dream picture, or a drawing of a still young and naive fantasy, he might reveal himself as a kind of giant white ghost, blowing unemotional and silent wind, but far away from me, incredibly happy since protected by the precious lines on the ideal world map and lighted by heat given from heaven.
Awakening from the most realistic nightmare of nature, projected directly by the eye of the one who believed himself to be the master and executioner, I open my eyes and I see him.
Spread all around, fair in his impersonal choice of victims and honest understanding the time when freeing the innocent one.
More than anything else, not guilty for the lack of interest and ambition in the inevitable aggression.
Of me.
Sorry, but I can’t hate the one who over time has tried to protect me.
Because it's trivial, I know, but the simplicity makes genial the action, where it is unique.
Because a frozen heart does not suffer any pain.
And because the white snow confuses the forms and delete colors.
At worst, you may disappear for good with it.
At the very best, you might become invisible.
You have no idea what I would give to exit the cruel framing.
Because, as a giraffe told me one day, blessed are the spiders, because humans have disgust and fear of them.
However, years later, I'm still here.
Along with the cold.
The only friend I ever had.
Among my many enemies…


Read more stories about life
Buy my latest book Elisa and the wonderful world of objects
Listen my song Wolves
Watch my last storytelling show with English subtitles It's amazing what a little light can do
Storytelling videos with subtitles

Wednesday, March 1, 2017

Immigrants stories for kids: walls explained to children

Stories and News No. 963

I read that most of those who attempt to climb the wall between Mexico and the United States will be arrested and sent back. The wall is nearly 18ft high and is topped by a one-meter blade.
However, that’s certain, if they’ll survive they will continue to try...


Once upon a time there was a planet.
A small one, great as a ground.

A large ground if seen up close and almost invisible to the naked eye, unless with an exceptional and free kind of instrument, called fantasy.
Two creatures lived on the ground of the little planet.
Two aliens, we would say.
Two friends, they used to say long ago, when both had a house and a garden to grow, animals to raise and water which to refresh the lips and life itself with.
The two lived side by side and you would have found it hard to figure out where it the fortune of the former ended and the latter’s began.
However, as it often happens, good luck proved to be less generous and, above all, less fair.
So, Lady Luck turned her back on one of the two.
Consequently, while the portion of land of one was flourishing and fruitful, the other turned out dry and dying.
The unfortunate alien decided to ask his friend for help, and the latter did not back down and offered his support.
He gave him a job and in return undertook to provide what he needed.
Inauspiciously the day came when the blessed alien became so accustomed to having someone else to work in his place that he began to fear the day when things would have changed unfavorably.
So, he decided to build a large warehouse next to his home and began to decline the reward for his friend, to fill the barn of all the rest.
Decrease one day and decrease the other, the hapless friend began to starve and to protest timidly.
Decrease the next day and decrease the day after that, the poor alien began to react vehemently.
So the favored by fate alien was frightened and at the same time became angry because he didn’t understand his reasons, considering him a thankless.
During the following night he couldn’t close his eyes and thinking of the now full barn he decided to put an end to relations with the former friend.
In fact, the next day, the latter found a very high wall between his land and the other's.
He was very disappointed and disheartened lifted his head toward the sky, witness of their life together.
Soon after, he went immediately on the wall and tried to climb over it, shouting loudly the old fellow's name.
No way, the wall was too high and too thick.
Only faint echoes reached the ears of the other alien, sitting at the table and greedily eating his food.
The ill-fated alien didn’t give up to reach at least the top of the wall, to be heard by the other.
Eventually he succeeded, but it was too late.
And despite his attempt to warn him, the lucky alien, his house and his precious warehouse were crushed by a giant meteorite...


Read more stories about immigrants
Buy my latest book Elisa and the wonderful world of objects
Listen my song Wolves
Watch my last storytelling show with English subtitles It's amazing what a little light can do
Storytelling videos with subtitles