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Anyone

Racconti brevi - Short stories

Anyone.

In a sea as flat as fearsome as the ax of the executioner, sailing on the Lady D, a sailing ship carrying two hundred slaves for the American market to be sold as pets or even worse, as objects.
The lucky ones died during the crossing ...
The writer is lit another cigarette, trying to read carefully what he had written, then looked toward the window facing the street and closed his eyes waiting for the image is transformed, in an attempt to hear some gull or the lapping of waves on the side of the ship, but nothing happened.
Indeed it was not even sure of what he had written.
He put out his cigarette, trying to figure out what he wanted to write and then look for a starting point: the silver lining to carry the whole ball of yarn.
He was amazed at the statement just shewn in the head.
In twenty years of career he had never sought a point of departure or arrival, why not also exist.
Now, however, became almost as important life, that life that led him to become a writer researched and argued.
His stories of wars, slavery, murder victims, but always with a happy ending that had earned money and fame, now appeared to his eyes, empty and false.
It was perhaps for this reason that he had never had a starting point and an end?
White smiled at his son.
He rose from his chair and walked to the library where they were on display all the books he had written.
Remembered them all, one by one, and began to pass in review mentally Vietnam, they all die in the end everyone is happy and satisfied, you do not know what for, but I am.
Drugs, toxic massacre by a madman, and in the end, everyone is happy and content, perhaps because of the toxic dead, who knows.
This went on for quite a while.
In his books he had built up as a judge of good and evil: he was God he decided who should live and who dies, but the important thing in the end, everyone was happy and contented.
He walked to the window and opened it.
The crisp air and stinging of the evening hit him on the face, making him run a little shiver down my spine.
He returned to the library and began to throw out the window one by one, all his books, which seemed to fly in many small chicks in an attempt to soar high in the sky but with little success.
Twenty years of career and falsehoods hours left instead with the dark wood of the library that vaguely resembled, to a skeleton.
The writer sat down and watching a few sentences written, took up his pen between his fingers and continued his story.
"That night a terrible storm hit the Lady D. High waves hit more than ten meters, with their relentless fury, the ship that did not survive more than an hour at that constant hammering.
The Lady D. snapped in two like a walnut shell and the sea, slowly swallowed everything, things and people.
The ship was never found and the three hundred men between slaves and crew, not rescued anyone.
The prayers of the slaves were clearly heard by the sea ... so they died happy. "
He opened his desk drawer, pulled out a gun and he shot himself in the temple.
The writer, then you said that he suffered from depression crisis, which left his latest works reveal an obvious tiredness and lack of imagination.
Others said that the disappearance of the writer was a real tragedy, but that should not inflate the thing more than it already was.
The day of the funeral, the funeral procession not a tear, not a sad face, not a sad face.
Behind the coffin, everyone was talking about: those of time, business people, who even told jokes thrusts.
No word on the writer.
It was as if he were not dead, indeed, it was as if he had never been born and then, what was not his funeral.
And in fact there was no funeral, no casket, no deaths.
A quiet day on Sunday, where people gather to talk in the bars or on street corners, telling half-truths and false stories, by making fun of those who told the biggest or plausible, so as not to forget that lives every day in contact with falsehood.
The writer, forger of reality, no one remembers, so another took his place and life goes on.
So they all lived happily ever after.

MavŔ



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