Qualcuno si ricorda ancora dei miei racconti "solo tre parole" ? Spero di sì perché io non me ne ero scordato affatto, solo che non sempre si va in linea con i propri desideri, soprattutto nello scrivere. Il 25 ottobre del 2009, temendo di avere l'immaginazione un po' assonnata ho chiesto ai lettori di propormi tre parole, un aggettivo, un sostantivo ed un verbo, ed io ci avrei wrote a post above, proposals thirty-three I arrived and I have promised you, but especially to me, that although it would take a century, I used the thirty triplets. Only some have exaggerated with the proposal, one of them was the fox that, rather than to propose the three words, he proposed an actual plot, here it is the comment left by now over a year ago and then the story that came out:
Well there is still time ....
Then choose another method of inspiration
Subject: Pin-up
Exterior night quay
Subject: package paper
far easier is not it?!
added difficulty: tamed monkey-swing hanging from a tree branch - sung mass.
It's about having fun, is not it, well, it took me a long time 'but finally the post by the words of the fox is ready
A pile of dirty snow
I always do the night shift I suffer from insomnia, all I've seen at most gives me a few hours of troubled sleep and wakefulness of the most exhausting, and then at night I always liked real people you meet, the hours of the night to clear the mask that all normal wear during the day. "We had a report of a corpse thirty-two the pier of the port commissioner, who does? With me? "Is almost one and he just made an anonymous phone call echoing rooms of the police, my assistant came forward making a slight knock and stares at me with tired eyes of those who saw one too , the question has made me a formality, we know too well, we'll also know that I, as always. When we arrive at the port of the cold mistral wind from the sea face cuts us climbing over the collar turned up, the corpse is really behind a container, just in front of the pier to pier thirty-two , a girl, pale, lunghi capelli neri a cornice del volto, un taglio ad aprirle il collo come un secondo sorriso e tutt'intorno una pozza di sangue vermiglio; gettata lì, come un rifiuto, vicino ad un cumulo di neve sporca. Ad individuare chi è ci mettiamo poco, vicino al corpo c'è una borsa e non è stato rubato nulla, documenti, soldi, cellulare. Si chiamava Marie Swan ed aveva ventidue anni, faceva la pin up in un locale di burlesque del centro; indossa ancora il costume con pizzi e bustino che, probabilmente, usava sul lavoro; nella mano sinistra stringe un foglietto di carta con una frase in corsivo elegante: “Lo farò ancora”. La storia di Marie è quella di tante; un piccolo paese di provincia, life is always the same for generations, school, church choir, perhaps the role of soloist in sung Mass on Easter or Christmas and the dreams begin to feel tight. It come so many here in town, girls like her, have some luck, others meet the wrong person, as has happened to Marie, and end up in a game bigger than themselves. Some believe that the worst of this work are the victims of the slaughter of them that the human is capable of doing, but it is not, and who is the worst thing, look into the eyes of a husband, a son, a mother, and say what happened, you see the pain I feel, you get strong in the face, like a slap and then see all the doubts and questions of the world off the view of who you are dealing with. Not delegate this task never, I always do I, as an atonement for the evils of the world, even in this case do so, I decided to take me to an agent in a quiet trip to the province, oblivious to a relative, before discover it in some other way. The childhood home of Marie is a villa on the outskirts, a meadow and some trees and bushes, one of them, a bit 'on the left side of the house, hanging from a sturdy branch, an old swing that will surely accompanied many moments of Marie and I can almost see her trying to grab the sky, trying to get higher. The woman who I am open to less than fifty years, long-haired blacks as the daughter and holding a towel to dry freshly washed dishes. When I tell who is the smile flattens into a look of concern, it makes me sit in a bright room with a window overlooking the garden where you see the trees and the perfect swing. The room is full of pictures of Marie, his childhood, just before her on the table, there is one in which one of about ten years Marie in his arms, amused, tamed a monkey, of those with the red waistcoat and fez, probably taken at a fair or a circus. When I tell you what happened while I recite the script of the usual formalities, his knuckles whiten the cloth and squeezing it explodes in a silent cry, holding her head in her hands. He tells me of his daughter, his life and choices, its not always be her affection through a phone call, a letter, listening without saying anything, I have come to that, to absorb his words. When I'm going away at the door, I realize I still have pocketed the slip of paper that we found in his hand, "I'll do it again" and looking in your eyes off this woman now, I do what a good cop should not ever do : I promise.
Just one last thing, a dedication, and on 14 December last year was the twentieth anniversary of the death of Friedrich Dürrenmatt and last January 5 novantennale birth; Dürrenmatt consider a great writer who has reconstructed the crime novel, for this reason, this post is dedicated to his memory.
Well there is still time ....
Then choose another method of inspiration
Subject: Pin-up
Exterior night quay
Subject: package paper
far easier is not it?!
added difficulty: tamed monkey-swing hanging from a tree branch - sung mass.
It's about having fun, is not it, well, it took me a long time 'but finally the post by the words of the fox is ready
A pile of dirty snow
I always do the night shift I suffer from insomnia, all I've seen at most gives me a few hours of troubled sleep and wakefulness of the most exhausting, and then at night I always liked real people you meet, the hours of the night to clear the mask that all normal wear during the day. "We had a report of a corpse thirty-two the pier of the port commissioner, who does? With me? "Is almost one and he just made an anonymous phone call echoing rooms of the police, my assistant came forward making a slight knock and stares at me with tired eyes of those who saw one too , the question has made me a formality, we know too well, we'll also know that I, as always. When we arrive at the port of the cold mistral wind from the sea face cuts us climbing over the collar turned up, the corpse is really behind a container, just in front of the pier to pier thirty-two , a girl, pale, lunghi capelli neri a cornice del volto, un taglio ad aprirle il collo come un secondo sorriso e tutt'intorno una pozza di sangue vermiglio; gettata lì, come un rifiuto, vicino ad un cumulo di neve sporca. Ad individuare chi è ci mettiamo poco, vicino al corpo c'è una borsa e non è stato rubato nulla, documenti, soldi, cellulare. Si chiamava Marie Swan ed aveva ventidue anni, faceva la pin up in un locale di burlesque del centro; indossa ancora il costume con pizzi e bustino che, probabilmente, usava sul lavoro; nella mano sinistra stringe un foglietto di carta con una frase in corsivo elegante: “Lo farò ancora”. La storia di Marie è quella di tante; un piccolo paese di provincia, life is always the same for generations, school, church choir, perhaps the role of soloist in sung Mass on Easter or Christmas and the dreams begin to feel tight. It come so many here in town, girls like her, have some luck, others meet the wrong person, as has happened to Marie, and end up in a game bigger than themselves. Some believe that the worst of this work are the victims of the slaughter of them that the human is capable of doing, but it is not, and who is the worst thing, look into the eyes of a husband, a son, a mother, and say what happened, you see the pain I feel, you get strong in the face, like a slap and then see all the doubts and questions of the world off the view of who you are dealing with. Not delegate this task never, I always do I, as an atonement for the evils of the world, even in this case do so, I decided to take me to an agent in a quiet trip to the province, oblivious to a relative, before discover it in some other way. The childhood home of Marie is a villa on the outskirts, a meadow and some trees and bushes, one of them, a bit 'on the left side of the house, hanging from a sturdy branch, an old swing that will surely accompanied many moments of Marie and I can almost see her trying to grab the sky, trying to get higher. The woman who I am open to less than fifty years, long-haired blacks as the daughter and holding a towel to dry freshly washed dishes. When I tell who is the smile flattens into a look of concern, it makes me sit in a bright room with a window overlooking the garden where you see the trees and the perfect swing. The room is full of pictures of Marie, his childhood, just before her on the table, there is one in which one of about ten years Marie in his arms, amused, tamed a monkey, of those with the red waistcoat and fez, probably taken at a fair or a circus. When I tell you what happened while I recite the script of the usual formalities, his knuckles whiten the cloth and squeezing it explodes in a silent cry, holding her head in her hands. He tells me of his daughter, his life and choices, its not always be her affection through a phone call, a letter, listening without saying anything, I have come to that, to absorb his words. When I'm going away at the door, I realize I still have pocketed the slip of paper that we found in his hand, "I'll do it again" and looking in your eyes off this woman now, I do what a good cop should not ever do : I promise.
Just one last thing, a dedication, and on 14 December last year was the twentieth anniversary of the death of Friedrich Dürrenmatt and last January 5 novantennale birth; Dürrenmatt consider a great writer who has reconstructed the crime novel, for this reason, this post is dedicated to his memory.
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