Red

Gianni Memory

It is one of those nights where you feel attacked, chased, robbed by a color. From a stupidissimo color as well as by the woman on duty. What is usually well that stupid. And more is more stupid is easy for you, download it.
Steps from a prey to another lightly, with the grace of a dance step.
But your heart is just for you.
The telephoned you. Voice mail.
Then you put in the car. You have lit a cigarette. The burning embers balenava in the dark. Red fire.
And they are red lanterns and the car in front of yours. While run by Irene. In an evening in which domanderebbe not much more than a cigarette. Just under a little 'love.
Changing women did not gave you happiness. A smile of Irene yes. Over much sex, nameless bodies that roll, avvinghiati, ansimando in an uncomfortable bed.
It was a beautiful party, there is not that dire. Irene knows we really do certain things.
When she was six arrived there, red lips are agganciava to perfection to dell'attillatissimo red dress.
-- Irene looks… I phoned you - you have said.
And you mute.
-- You and the vice cursed not let me explain - you tried to do everything hard.
You, wetsuit, with labbroni red increspati, gave kisses to nothing. Col. silence you sent elegantly to get fottere, we said: "vai fottertene to another."

It's all red this evening.
Pure your face rubizza shame.
Even the night it looks red. But perhaps are the eyes. The red ce you have in front of the pupils, in the brain.
Irene was different from others. Really. Yes, I know him say that whenever one is about to piantarti, but this time is the truth. We did something inside that's there. Some women know; knows how to vinegar in the brain of a man.
On the sand, that afternoon the first two years, tenevi her hand. Did atteggiavi to impacciato lover, you and your swept three thousand. You and Irene, a sky covered with clouds and a lake in black and white because only for red is no room in this story.
-- This lake was created by the tears of a princess - the sussurravi touching them come the chills.
View from afar was a postcard in black and white. A pedal stalled in an impossible landscape in summer, red pedal, where you have taken Irene, have raised the shirt el'hai set as if to say: "Try to say that you do not like…."
You and Irene, in pedal red, carmine believe that dance slightly under the pressure of any flutto, a powerful hug, and Irene you that you make love. Of you that you love and Irene you look scared from behind the neck. Three thousand and one.

Now you will vai. The head always her. Her red lips. In the ears secretariat. In the eyes a single color.
The car in front of you goes to zig zag. Do not see the road, only the lights dancing and leave trails. Red lanterns, as lips.
Baciami, Irene. Please. Close your eyes, let go.
And even with closed eyes still see the red lanterns of those that attracts you. Too attracts you.
"It tries to say that you do not like…."
Baciami, love.
That is why precipiti in the gully. Without a scream.
And no more red. Not even the shadow.

Gianni Memory was born in Cles in 1957. It has been reported in various competitions of stories and poems, in the province and beyond. Ama century English literature.

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Evil can not do

Sergio Paoli

The car that evening, passed a Neil Young monotonous and overly nasal voice, even more offended by the poor state of boxes mounted on my old Opel of'91.
Attraversavo the city, overcoming distrattamente crosses deserts and unnecessary traffic lights. In the mind still had the image of Giò, its contour sheets and protected by him I felt his scent and its sweet taste.
I wanted to go back, infilarmi to bed and sleep close to you, without svegliarla, complying with the position of my body as his own. These were the nights that I preferred, despite what was supporting Ligabue.
Ultimately, my faithful Blaupunkt, after twelve years of reassuring the background to my travel newspapers, had not understood who I was.
Infilai slowly the great gate of entry of barracks, guarded by a policeman young and awake, I greeted with a nod of his hand. I found the place in the small square inside, under the building Saint Lucia. The few windows were illuminated is gradually dying away, returning from the front door, the protagonists of the night by declaring that went.
Murders Neil with a round of key and closed eyes, supporting his head or arms crossed on the wheel. It was time to start. Once you get off by Opel and raggiunsi the rest of the group in an area heavily illuminated between tests sirens and exhaust gas. C'eravamo left with the ammazzacaffé just ten hours before, yet all had a strong desire to speak, to tell us something, the latest news, gossip, jokes, almost had spent a life from the previous shift. It ricreava like every time quell'irreale environment cameratesco, made up of words shout strong comments sconci and virile bulls manate on the shoulders, we were almost back to the times of the School of Police; had little if by then had passed for all much more than a decade.
A shift that the fate, perhaps a little 'helped decided only males, led inevitably to this, because we were such facts, those of Volante.
Midnight was now next when, as the last ritual, comunicammo central to our presence. Elio, on the other side of the microphone, voice cantilenante and metallic, we counted as a good brooder, sciorinò the latest recommendations then gave the okey for the exit.
The interventions, in that part of the first night nell'ordinario held, family disputes, jammers to emergency rooms, some scazzottata in night clubs and reports that not led to anything good. There were all the prerogatives hoped for a quiet night when, as always happens to who does the accounts without the landlord, came a call that would have transformed ordinary that night, in a very special night.
"One, vai the cemetery, calls us Francis. Tonight says that the time is good. "
Francis was one of our fond score, unbalanced enough to make it sometimes original and fun; about thirty years, taciturn, big and irsuto. His specialty was the suicide attempt, also announced on 113. Squilibrato, but not split. He had set up over the years dozens of different performances, with courtesy replica, and every time, of course, venivamo sent to try to prevent the insane gesture.
There avviammo towards the place of alert, particularly not in a hurry, recalling with Alfio scenate some of the most successful of Francis. The attempt of poisoning with the bleach, which is then revealed orgeat, cutting veins with a plastic fork, suffocation with a bag on his head, which had so many holes that seemed pierced by a discharge pallettoni. This time had implemented a particularly effective scene, choosing as the theatre camposanto Street Giusti.
Notammo at the bottom of the avenue, with the inevitable cypresses, a fire lit. We were forced to approach on foot, leaving the faithful Marea first of a robust chain of barrier. Alfio spoke strong, exaggerating a little 'his characteristic laugh, while the light of the flames projected our shadows sull'alto wall fence, which is increasingly defined and inquiete.
Accendemmo torches that, in that dark so dense, appeared to hesitate, make its way to fatigue. The beam of light was even more hampered by smoke released by the bonfire. Alfio broke the silence, but his voice seemed not find rein in that situation unreal and oppressive.
"Francis, come out, force."
Francesco not seen or felt. Finally arrived at bonfire, fed with buckets rosettes funeral and some piece of rotten wood. There guardammo around, the call was certainly his work, had never hiatus, Francis. Oltrepassammo fire pointing torches over a canceled, towards the gravel paths, ordered delimited file tombstones elegant; some lumino occhieggiava away, someone seemed to go off in the precise moment I tried to localizzalo. Ritornammo towards the bonfire and decided to shut it down, sparpagliandone the embers. Diedi a football first, causing a cascade of sparks and ashes, when a voice above me, he missed a few beats to my heart muscle tested.
"Detention!"
I did a leap back and alzai the beam of light upward. Above the branch of a tree, with its imposing bulk, Francis was standing with a finger pointing at me.
"Do not turn off the light, it is still too early."
"Francis, but vaffa…, I almost do crepare of heart attack!" Ribattei setting with a voice that hardly riconobbi.
"Well, so do the trip together," sentenziò with solemnity.
In a rather blasphemous, given the place, and I gave Alfio in a contemporary sistematina the turn of trousers. I was not never been superstitious, but, as Alfio, Campania true, evil can not do.
"Maybe another time. Come on, come down there that we are going to take a coffee "said Alfio put sull'amichevole.
"I can not, are connected, if I jump impicco."
Puntammo torches on him and saw that really mad that had around her neck a twine, a thin rope, but also that its length was disproportionate compared to the distance from the ground. Any jump in a vacuum would not have had any effect.
"Hey Among ', now makes good and downs that I el'Ispettore here, we have to do a lot of things tonight."
"I have to join my brothers who are beyond the gate," he said indicating the expanse of tombstones a few meters from my shoulders.
I had an imperceptible thrill along the back ed'istinto I voltai. I seemed that lighted candles were increased in number and particularly brillassero. Not feces in time girarmi again that Francis had materialised before me. The thing began to give me on the nerves.
"The appointment is for tonight," said sussurrando just, so that Alfio not felt.
"I just need a little 'dark, total darkness."
Ignorai those words and we incamminammo to Marea, with Alfio few steps later.
"Then you think to rekindle everything." Ammiccò amicably Francis prendendomi an arm with one hand. With the other, careful not to be seen by Alfio, I porse a white object, perhaps plastic or porcelain. Immaginai that it was some crap that Francis was usually raccattare on the street and keep as a treasure inside the huge pockets of his coat eternal four seasons. It was an old electric switch, rectangular and dirt on the edges. Only the center key seemed new, never used. The infilai in the pocket of the jacket, pretending gratitude for that precious gift. Salimmo and drive us avviammo towards the hill, where we would have left for that night, into the custody of his father Bernard.
We arrived at the hospital, unknown to the posters parish and town councils, set up the goodwill of that priest face simple and many faithful, perhaps reluctant to occupy the benches of churches, but ready to scucire soldini and roll up their sleeves. Father Bernardo, alerted by Elio, we waited on the threshold, smiling and dressed as were leaving for a trip Sunday. Not that I found strange at that hour was not yet gone to bed; often its guests not premuravano to book the room and more than once himself had fallen in the city, to remove them from situations inconvenient to take them in his corner on the borders in the world.
Francis incamminò towards the house which confused in vegetation. It stopped in front of Bernardo.
"The others are there?", Churches with an unexpected lucidity.
"Aspettavamo only you. You have done everything? "
Francis did not reply, turned one last time to me, I threw a glance accomplice to which I replied, I do not know why, strizzando the eye. Then it disappeared over the door.
Bernardo us porse the hand by refusing as always our thanks.
"It's me that I must thank you for having brought," he said underlining the words with a handshake, which I found unexpectedly vigorous for a man of the church. We left in the garden, where for a few seconds rimanemmo in silence. I still annoying that strange feeling that something was not going your way.
"The other? What, a congress of madmen? Well, we brought the rapporteur, "said Alfio just to give a conclusion and a sense the situation, but his voice does not transpire left no irony.
"Master, the child is in the cradle," riferii soon as we were in the car, with a language but not encrypted and night replacing the official, made up of codes and acronyms.
We decided to stop a few minutes in the hills, the night is kept warm and was now time to grant us the only cigarette that we were promised smoking, in a latest attempt to stop definitively. Fumammo with solemnity and with an expression dreamy, in silence, supported the bonnet of Marea. Below us the Shining City, an expanse of glittering jewels on a black velvet. The dark almost dense, coming down from surrounding hills, dense woods, seemed to want to undermine the city, infilandosi, with its tentacles blacks, since the town in the heart. Taking advantage of peripheral parks, the dark mantle, insinuava daring, given at bay only by some providential streetlight, a sign advertising, or a traffic light schizophrenic and occhieggiante.
For the few roads cars, some truck, away, on the motorway, while around us the birds had long ceased to sing.
Suddenly a breath of cold air hit us behind, while everything that surrounded us calò the curtain.
Rimanemmo in silence, guardandoci around. Buio. The darkness more dense, enveloping and cold that I had ever seen. As darkness we can see.
Silence. The silence most unnatural and devoid of references that I've ever been able to hear. As the silence we can hear.
After a few seconds, maybe minutes, hours, the first timid reference points, the display Green radio board, with the clock that marked the 3 and 24 and the embers of cigarette Alfio, firm between his lips closed.
"In the face of blackouts," she recovered,
"It was turned off throughout the city, look, even a light, even along the valley dell'Adige."
It was precisely in this way, from south to north and all along the slopes of the hills embraced Trent. All off; indeed, to tell the truth, everything seemed gone. Tentai to communicate by radio, but got in response only weak. The phone is not received. Alfio sputò the cigarette and put in motion the Marea, that contrary to what I expected departed. Accese the headlights, turning the lever slowly, almost wanted to surprise and fottere quell'oscurità overbearing.
The beams of light, were struggling to get off. It seemed to hear that the stridio issued in an attempt to rape the dark, suffering, in a macabre chorus together at night wound. There avviammo towards the city, or at least towards the area where we had left shortly before.
Suddenly the sound of my phone.
I replied without looking who he was. Elio, on the other side gave me confirmation that the city was still and that we were the only survivors to some carnage, but the thing I tranquillizzò over time. None, for now, knew what had happened and no one could give a great dimension to the blackout that struck from the first news, all the Trentino. Sintonizzammo radio on channel emergency entravamo while in the city. Timidamente, some light relief tried to fulfil its task, illuminating unnecessarily sad internal shops closed and rischiarando short stretches of deserted road.
Not even met a car, not a person, while the Central apprendevamo that lacked electricity throughout the Triveneto. Always better. The suspicion of a terrorist attack was spontaneous. We thought for bombs placed in power, although it seemed unlikely be able to turn off this way, as if by magic, half the nation.
And now? What have in mind, will release a gas venefico? They burst of bombs? Invaderanno the streets armed with scimitarre and cropping heads? I had thoughts of really dark and I costrinsi to give a coup sponge to those for the moment were only macabre fantasies.
The thought of Giò, alone in our bed, I inquietò, but scacciai suffered the idea of the phone call. Timidamente someone began to head out of the windows of the houses, but the road seemed too insecure a place where no one wanted to venture. We were expecting frotte of thieves attracted by such a situation progress, but even their tonight, if felt to take advantage of a city so defenceless and unarmed.
Elio, was submerged in the central of phone calls from people worried and frightened. People with locked car in the garage by electric gates stubbornly closed, people locked in a lift, but what we did in the elevator at 4 am? And where caspita had to go at that?
Small nursing homes asking support for the transfer of patients with life linked to the machines. Not missing the incazzati for television esanime, which were politely but firmly asked to devote to other pastimes. Meanwhile Viminale came from news that the blackout was interested in Italy. Andammo to draw some technical dell'Enel, remained imprisoned by car, to accompany them in power. Someone came independently by bicycle or motorcycle. Each of them had a different explanation, technically complicated and possible, but there were few certainties. Large panels of salt command were a swirl of flashing lights and dotted lines, before that the technicians seemed to run a script carefully tested, pressing buttons, levers and moving frenetically typing on keyboards connected to who knows what, but that did not deliver, until then, no appreciable result.
Incrociammo truck Fire that began to supply fuel generators of hospitals and crisis unit. Chiedevamo news and asked them to us. For the gates of a factory, some workers, clinging to the bars, heard a radio batteries. It sbracciarono vedendoci and we avvicinammo. There scambiavamo information, trying to defuse, but nobody seemed to want to have scherzarci above.
Now suddenly, above our heads, the dark rumble of a flock of military aircraft there zittì. Ruppi without regrets the promise and I lit a cigarette, fumandola slowly, with commitment, as was last granted to condemned to death. Alfio did likewise. As the saw, dubitavo even that light, in whatever form or expression, it would be a day returned. Mancava dawn and just seemed that not even the sun, that morning, you would submit all'appuntamento. The appointment.
The appointment of Francis.
Tentai to drive even this absurd idea from the mind. It could not be, this was not a fable.
No really.
Francis. "I just need a little 'of darkness. Buio total. Then you think about it…. "
Tirai out of the pocket the switch, being careful not to make me see Alfio. I watched with suspicion, uncertain between doing the figure of scemo or buttarlo in the first trash.
"Evil can not do?" I said subheading imitating the voice of Alfio.
Spensi the cigarette, closed his eyes and schiacciai the key.

I sat on the edge of the bed, having supported a cup of coffee steaming on the bedside table of Giò.
His first gesture of the day was a smile that lit the walls of the room. Accese the radio taking the cup. "It must have gone off the current tonight," he said with one voice and sensual roca watching the display flashing. "Already," replied stiracchiandomi and allungandomi under the sheets.
"How is gone?", Asked me how did forever.
"Nothing special," mentii.
The radio is envisaged of a failure of the power lines, a tree fell in Switzerland, responsibility to be discovered and punished, gave the blame on everything and everyone. Smiles to those words, while looking for a comfortable position in bed still warm.
Thu 'I looked with an interrogative expression. "Are you happy this morning."
"If you say that the sun this morning I turned on me?".
Giò is chinò on me and I locked eyes with a kiss.
"Sleep hero, I will wake up later."
I addormentai suffered, slipping into a peaceful sleep and without dreams, while the sun now high and reassuring, illuminated the September 28, 2003.

Sergio Paoli was 43 years ago and the policeman. This story was awarded the International Book Fair in Turin, "Storytellers in uniform", jury composed by Carlo Lucarelli and Marino Sinibaldi. The city in the dark in question is that of Trent. Your Internet www.javert.it

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Tale from here

Alessandro Assyrians

Tale from here
an indefinite elsewhere
monotonous in perhaps
dull landscapes
that the word not consoled

from here, where every world
is a mirror
of saying intrusive
are
flea hung
time to manufacture unnecessary.

Alessandro Assyrians, loaned to life in 1962, born in Bologna for years lies in Trentino. Present in many poetry anthologies published "Morgana and the clouds" and "the garden of thoughts recisi" Aletti Editor and "Modulation dell'empietà" happy hill in 2007. Collaborate with several magazines and papers that telematics.

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I

Luca De Feo

He had to happen in June, I believe, because passai all summer with a clear conscience and hands dirty. I was in front of all'orto grandmother, the point where the first sterpaglie scrostavano tar, in the area where the houses ended and began the woods. I think that was before lunch because I remember that shortly after I was called at the table and that courses away as retained and driven by a crime, with the uncertainty confess and ask for help or even quite wary of relatives and give me the spot. Maybe I lavai hands without waiting for me decide, and thoroughly. I had to look all, uncle, mother, father, grandmother trying to figure out if they knew. No, talking and eating. It passed the salt, masticavano and gustavano wine.
More studying them more convincevo me: I had committed they would be made a laugh. It was only my personal ribrezzo for that action, my only the damnation.
Or perhaps they were right. Maybe in fund had only hurried the course of things. From Luke, at the bottom was only a butterfly.
Yes, mother, but I ammazzata me.

Luca De Feo, beautiful presence, but absent unparalleled, he worked with his father to the repainting of fixtures at home and with various heads to open the windows. Lover of ossimori, those blond and those holes, then live a life turbo-slow. Author of "Condominium gocciadoro" (8 euros), with the story published here has won the fourth position in the competition Ponte Magic ed. 2005 to Lavena Ponte Tresa.

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