Thursday, 31 December 2009
Friday, 18 December 2009
Femme Fatale (Short Story)
Her alarm clock shouted at 7:30 am, the sun was yet asleep, behind the mountains, there
were timid light beams, that coloured the sky of a bright blue, the blue sky was mirrored on
her french windows, through the albedo, in a cold Thursday.
She was entirely absorbed in a dream of love, broken up by the alarm clock, bringing her
into reality. “Oh no it was just a dream, the love does not exist”
When the sun was between the mountains, Sammy was on the road waiting for the number
two, she was looking at her shoes, because it was too cold, she didn’t noticed the blue above
her unfortunately, she was continuously punched by circular snow flurries, the number 2 was
yet far.
The silence was sovereign, through her wool hat, she heard the arrival of coach,
recognisable by its mechanical noise, and from the grip of snow chains that scratched the
impenetrable ice.
That day it was not a good day, her shoes were covered by the muddy snow, the coach were
packed, of pity person, she was going to work.
Once arrived at her office, her boss Lucy, asked her of following her in the office, for an
official communication.
Sammy has got a romantic and sweet character, this girl was worried about
the official communication, maybe she did something of wrong or inexact, she tought.
After few second, her preoccupations were swept away by all doubt, the subject was the
imminent arrival of an intern.
His name was Steve, he was afraid of his shadow, his eyes were lost inside that room.
When he saw the blonde, he felt immediately at home, giving a wonderful smile to Sammy.
In a nano second, their backs have been crossed by a warm thrill at the speed of light, that
crashed in their lonely hearts, lighting the spark of love.
Sammy invited Steve for a romantic dinner in a famous restaurant just outside the town,
Steve accepted immediately, he was extremely excited and happy.
At 7:00 pm the couple were sitting comfortable on a decentralised table, in the company of a
scented candle and a bouquet of red roses, placed in the upper left corner of the table.
Steve began his first discourse, in the worst way, for his closed character it was more simple
win a national lottery, rather than going out with a girl, after the starters he spoke about his
problem with the other sex.
During his childhood, he lived in a convent in Dublin because he was abandoned when he
was two years old, by a poor family of illegal immigrants from Romania.
Despite this tragedy, Steve told that he was raped for days, months and years, inside those
humid walls, fortunately, after years those monks have been arrested after a documentary,
broadcasted by the BBC, called Sex Crime and the Vatican.
This is the main reason because, I have not sexual relationships, he said.
Sammy was petrified, she was shocked, her eyes were pointing a point without a reason,
she began to hate Steve.
The phrase “Sex Crime” caused a domino effect inside her mind, she suddenly remember
that she has been raped, too by a shy boy, on a moonlight bridge, he was the exact copy of
Steve: same eyes, jeans, hair, he was him she was sure.
The voice of Steve was raping her mind, she recognised the same tonality, the same accent,
savoring the revenge.
Sammy kissed Steve, using the French technique, for a long time without a break, after that,
she invited him for a romantic pedalling, Steve accepted without hesitation.
Those Thursday night they were singing pedalled on a tandem over the moonlight bridge,
enveloped by a dark sky, filled by falling stars, her deep dream turned into reality.
Written by Italo Perazzoli
Tuesday, 8 December 2009
9764 (Short Story)
The Italian’s State Railways are famous for their punctuality, better knows as FS renamed by its commuters in an unpronounceable word, the red colour is the symbol of the londoners’ busses, the brown is its unspoken colour.
It’s a chilly morning of November, every feet of the commuters are freezing, waiting for the train to Central Milan, the speaker with a repressed voice announces the delay……The train from Venice travelling with a delay of 195 minutes, we apologise for the delay.
After 205 minutes, the train arrived on the platform number one, The commuters are begins ice statues, along the platform there are million of statues, “we must jump on the diligence”
The pseudo train is dirty, slowly, Willy stands in the gangway, he loves listening to other stories, there is a girl tired of her job, there are university students and even a pseudo multimillionaire “During the period of xmas we rented a hotel in the Alps, we are 30 people we will make a great profit, we are the best, because we came from Milan”
“Yep because you won’t pay the taxes” Willy replied inside himself.
After 45 minutes the train arrived at Milan Central, Willy was waiting for the Eurostar City 9764 to Lecce, he got the train at the platform n°18, “yeeep the this train is on time, nope it is ahead, incredible???!!!!
He looked at his reservation coach number 10, seat number 102 corridor okay
Arrived at destination, Willy arranged his luggage and opened his favourite newspaper “Il Corriere della Sera” after 33 minutes he decided to go to the toilet, located, in the last carriage, attached to the tractor.
With great surprise Willy noticed that the tractor was missing, outside the coach there were the train driver, incredulous and aghast “where is it the tractor?” the train driver replied “it has been stolen”
Written by Italo Perazzoli
It’s a chilly morning of November, every feet of the commuters are freezing, waiting for the train to Central Milan, the speaker with a repressed voice announces the delay……The train from Venice travelling with a delay of 195 minutes, we apologise for the delay.
After 205 minutes, the train arrived on the platform number one, The commuters are begins ice statues, along the platform there are million of statues, “we must jump on the diligence”
The pseudo train is dirty, slowly, Willy stands in the gangway, he loves listening to other stories, there is a girl tired of her job, there are university students and even a pseudo multimillionaire “During the period of xmas we rented a hotel in the Alps, we are 30 people we will make a great profit, we are the best, because we came from Milan”
“Yep because you won’t pay the taxes” Willy replied inside himself.
After 45 minutes the train arrived at Milan Central, Willy was waiting for the Eurostar City 9764 to Lecce, he got the train at the platform n°18, “yeeep the this train is on time, nope it is ahead, incredible???!!!!
He looked at his reservation coach number 10, seat number 102 corridor okay
Arrived at destination, Willy arranged his luggage and opened his favourite newspaper “Il Corriere della Sera” after 33 minutes he decided to go to the toilet, located, in the last carriage, attached to the tractor.
With great surprise Willy noticed that the tractor was missing, outside the coach there were the train driver, incredulous and aghast “where is it the tractor?” the train driver replied “it has been stolen”
Written by Italo Perazzoli
The Fire (Short Story)
Combe Down is a suburb of Bath,
Here the semidetached houses are equal; same French windows, same colours, same gardens, and even the inhabitants.
Every morning at 7am Dave a retired, walks along Westerleight, with his trusted friend a Labrador, when Dave arrive at the 40 usually entertains a chat to Cal.
Cal is a lovely and sweet grandmother, she is polite, she look after of the person in difficulties, inviting them for a cup of coffee, even the foreigner.
On that dreary morning Dave was speaking about Peter, the new neighbour, a veteran of the Iraq war.
The philosophy of Peter was “too cool for school” at the age of eighteen he joined the British Army, it was the 2001, he believed in democracy; as soldier he felt like an ambassador of the democracy.
Dave was whispered to Cal his anxiety about Peter, “have you seen Pete?? Ma’am” - “not she replied, honestly" "I do not see him until Sunday” - “this is not good” – “he lives alone”
Okay Cal I will knock at his door, tonight.
In the year 2003, Peter was reading The sun, he was really upset about the decision of the French's governments of do not send their troops in Iraq.
He closed nervously and speedily his tabloid, taking the form of a ball, then throwing it behind his chair, shouting to his friend
"C'mon that is incredible, Saddam Hussein has the weapon of mass destruction, I do not want dying for them."
"yeep mate that's the Frenchs have several businesses there, for them the profits comes before the human beings"
"I decided to be a soldier, because our main duty is to export the democracy, that is my religion"
“I am ready to die for my ideal”
At 8:00 am Peter was awakened by the alarm clock, and decided to switch on his telly, immediately, he turned on Channel 4, with a great surprise and disgust, he heard a devastating news, the war in Iraq was illegal, Tony Blair, was aware of this lawlessness, their business was not absolutely supported by an ideal, but the opposite, the oil.
At 09:00 pm Dave discovered the body of Peter, in a pool of coagulated blood – on the fridge there were attached a letter.
Unaware of this tragedy, his aunt, Robin was watching Strictly Come Dancing, on BBC one, the couple Chris and Ola were dancing under the flamenco’s melodies, she was travelling with her mind, she felt like a dragonfly.
Her black cat was sleeping, over her legs, in a dark and warm environment, at some point a red reflex crossed speedily the left corner of her glasses – what hell is that, have you seen it referring gently to her cat, let’s have a look!
The cat was sleeping soundly, doing his characteristic
sound, slowly she looked around everything was okay,
She didn’t put enough attention, probably those red beam was a laser, she naively thought.
After one hour, she stood up from her chair, her attention was captured by the light that filtered through her French windows.
It was orange and red, around the centre, there were a dark spiral, a few yards away she noticed some of strange, something of unusual.
No No it can’t be, it can’t be, it’s simply a stupid dream, yep it is so!!
In the same time the cat scratch her left leg, she shouted damn! ,this is not a dream, she shouting loudly, the phone, the phone, firefighters, firefighters.
After a few seconds, the electricity went off, she was petrified, her chair was red instead of white.
She was completely into the chaos, with her hands she touched, and launched into the air everything, a newspaper, a book, the cloth, her i-pod, every object but not the phone, I am going to die, this was her main thought.
Fortunately a friend of composed her phone number, as enchantment the phone rang, following the sound Robin found the object of her desire.
Unfortunately it was too late, she looked out off the windows, she felt a strange sensation it was like to live inside the Dante’s hell.
Written by Italo Perazzoli
Here the semidetached houses are equal; same French windows, same colours, same gardens, and even the inhabitants.
Every morning at 7am Dave a retired, walks along Westerleight, with his trusted friend a Labrador, when Dave arrive at the 40 usually entertains a chat to Cal.
Cal is a lovely and sweet grandmother, she is polite, she look after of the person in difficulties, inviting them for a cup of coffee, even the foreigner.
On that dreary morning Dave was speaking about Peter, the new neighbour, a veteran of the Iraq war.
The philosophy of Peter was “too cool for school” at the age of eighteen he joined the British Army, it was the 2001, he believed in democracy; as soldier he felt like an ambassador of the democracy.
Dave was whispered to Cal his anxiety about Peter, “have you seen Pete?? Ma’am” - “not she replied, honestly" "I do not see him until Sunday” - “this is not good” – “he lives alone”
Okay Cal I will knock at his door, tonight.
In the year 2003, Peter was reading The sun, he was really upset about the decision of the French's governments of do not send their troops in Iraq.
He closed nervously and speedily his tabloid, taking the form of a ball, then throwing it behind his chair, shouting to his friend
"C'mon that is incredible, Saddam Hussein has the weapon of mass destruction, I do not want dying for them."
"yeep mate that's the Frenchs have several businesses there, for them the profits comes before the human beings"
"I decided to be a soldier, because our main duty is to export the democracy, that is my religion"
“I am ready to die for my ideal”
At 8:00 am Peter was awakened by the alarm clock, and decided to switch on his telly, immediately, he turned on Channel 4, with a great surprise and disgust, he heard a devastating news, the war in Iraq was illegal, Tony Blair, was aware of this lawlessness, their business was not absolutely supported by an ideal, but the opposite, the oil.
At 09:00 pm Dave discovered the body of Peter, in a pool of coagulated blood – on the fridge there were attached a letter.
Unaware of this tragedy, his aunt, Robin was watching Strictly Come Dancing, on BBC one, the couple Chris and Ola were dancing under the flamenco’s melodies, she was travelling with her mind, she felt like a dragonfly.
Her black cat was sleeping, over her legs, in a dark and warm environment, at some point a red reflex crossed speedily the left corner of her glasses – what hell is that, have you seen it referring gently to her cat, let’s have a look!
The cat was sleeping soundly, doing his characteristic
sound, slowly she looked around everything was okay,
She didn’t put enough attention, probably those red beam was a laser, she naively thought.
After one hour, she stood up from her chair, her attention was captured by the light that filtered through her French windows.
It was orange and red, around the centre, there were a dark spiral, a few yards away she noticed some of strange, something of unusual.
No No it can’t be, it can’t be, it’s simply a stupid dream, yep it is so!!
In the same time the cat scratch her left leg, she shouted damn! ,this is not a dream, she shouting loudly, the phone, the phone, firefighters, firefighters.
After a few seconds, the electricity went off, she was petrified, her chair was red instead of white.
She was completely into the chaos, with her hands she touched, and launched into the air everything, a newspaper, a book, the cloth, her i-pod, every object but not the phone, I am going to die, this was her main thought.
Fortunately a friend of composed her phone number, as enchantment the phone rang, following the sound Robin found the object of her desire.
Unfortunately it was too late, she looked out off the windows, she felt a strange sensation it was like to live inside the Dante’s hell.
Written by Italo Perazzoli
Tuesday, 1 December 2009
The last Photo (autobiography)
Before the year 1982, I was a normal child, especially those Sunday at midday, behind me there were my cousins, Silvia wore a special white dress, for her it was a particular day too, it was the day of her first communions, she was exactly behind me, looking straight to the camera conscious of being the main actor of that day.
On my left there were Moira, the sister of Silvia, she was looking direct to the camera, smiling a little bit, with a timorous expression, her arms were perpendicular and perfect aligned along her body, like a soldier, in front of his sergeant.
On my right there were Sabrina, my favourite cousin, she was looking direct to the camera too, with a great smile, she was in a relaxed position, with her head inclined to the left, her arms were along her body, in a natural position.
Those Sunday was a sunny and happy day, I was smiling, and chatting to someone, on my left, I was really involved in the discussion, my left hand was on movement, probably, I was indicating someone or something, or calling a person, telling of to join us for the photograph.
I was not looking direct to the camera, probably, I have been distracted by a third factor, or I was not considering the photographer.
My clothes were full of colour, red, white, blue, green, with three buttons.
The colour of the central button was yellow, the other two were red and blue, on my shirt there were written “Sea Walks”
Beyond the photograph there were a brown big glass, it was not an house, it was a convent.
For me those environment was a paradise, after two years it was the exact opposite, my mother was no more the same person, my closest and unique friend was my little pink blanket, with a soft rolling edge.
A mosaic of molecules are trapped in a photograph, showing his physical characteristics, his life is in a piece of paper, hidden in a poetry book, where a faded ink, shows his deepest soul.
Written by Italo Perazzoli
On my left there were Moira, the sister of Silvia, she was looking direct to the camera, smiling a little bit, with a timorous expression, her arms were perpendicular and perfect aligned along her body, like a soldier, in front of his sergeant.
On my right there were Sabrina, my favourite cousin, she was looking direct to the camera too, with a great smile, she was in a relaxed position, with her head inclined to the left, her arms were along her body, in a natural position.
Those Sunday was a sunny and happy day, I was smiling, and chatting to someone, on my left, I was really involved in the discussion, my left hand was on movement, probably, I was indicating someone or something, or calling a person, telling of to join us for the photograph.
I was not looking direct to the camera, probably, I have been distracted by a third factor, or I was not considering the photographer.
My clothes were full of colour, red, white, blue, green, with three buttons.
The colour of the central button was yellow, the other two were red and blue, on my shirt there were written “Sea Walks”
Beyond the photograph there were a brown big glass, it was not an house, it was a convent.
For me those environment was a paradise, after two years it was the exact opposite, my mother was no more the same person, my closest and unique friend was my little pink blanket, with a soft rolling edge.
A mosaic of molecules are trapped in a photograph, showing his physical characteristics, his life is in a piece of paper, hidden in a poetry book, where a faded ink, shows his deepest soul.
Written by Italo Perazzoli
Thursday, 5 November 2009
Halloween
Today Halloween is only a commercial party, and no more a religious party.
During the afternoon of the 31st October; look on your window, there will be
kids with fancy dresses, and a big bag.
When they knock at your door you will listen to the most famous phrase of this magical day "Trick or Treat" be careful, if you haven't a treat with you, they at 100% will play a practical joke on you, for instance they will throw flour or toilet paper on your window, removing gates etc.
In my opinion the most suggestive thing is the lantern made out of a pumpkin behind a window in a cold dark late afternoon.
Historically speaking "Trick or Treat" is an ancient Samhain custom in particular in the UK.
For the Celts Samhain was the "end of summer", that coincided with the beginning of the Celtic year, where the night between, the 31st and the 1st November was magical.
This ancient civilisation believed that in this night the dead could come back and to communicate with us.
Cheers Italo
Useful Links
Samharian
Tuesday, 3 November 2009
The Red Ashtray
In an old, wet and oppressive house, there was a living room, in the middle of a black table, there is a red ashtray, he is not circular nor rectangular, his shape resemble, those of a butterfly, i.e. the beginning of a beautiful season.
He has a privileged position, everyone can see him, he loves listen to radio, chats and debates.
Around him, there is a personal library, most of them are poetry's books, the fragrance of cultures, collocated in a warm and safe environment.
Sometimes during a sunset, a gentle male voice bring into life these musical words.
The red is crossed everyday and in every direction, by millions of neutrinos, voices and poems, for days, months, and years, he is also a witness of a devasted family, jokes and christmases.
Written by Italo Perazzoli
He has a privileged position, everyone can see him, he loves listen to radio, chats and debates.
Around him, there is a personal library, most of them are poetry's books, the fragrance of cultures, collocated in a warm and safe environment.
Sometimes during a sunset, a gentle male voice bring into life these musical words.
The red is crossed everyday and in every direction, by millions of neutrinos, voices and poems, for days, months, and years, he is also a witness of a devasted family, jokes and christmases.
Written by Italo Perazzoli
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