MY FATHER AND A PEN

My father, from when he got up to when he went to bed, only opened his mouth to say nice things to someone, something and to the whole universe. If a pen dropped from his hands he was unable to get angry but it was said that it was necessary. I am giving this example because the majority of people today are not at this point. They are like immature and grumpy parrots, they keep repeating how the world is falling apart and do not understand that they are supporting it as well. All they do is talk, shout, feed and get angry. If you know chronically irrecoverable people and can’t get away from their shit, look for any solution to recharge yourself. It is no longer time to reach out to them with empathy and understanding. What hangs over everyone’s heads is a much heavier test than the shit that others drag around and continually throw up on others. Today we need the utmost clarity and inner consistency to face the game. Remain silent and reflect on your situation. Do something but no need to scream. Doing something for others is a silent and beautiful action. These angry people suck the lifeblood no matter if they are aware of it or not. Raising the defenses, not just immunity, is a sacrosanct right that belongs to you and which you must take note of. Anger is contagious and therefore we must detach ourselves from those people who have hatred for everyone and everything. (I am referring to the anger of the dull, not to a physiologically normal emotion)

STORY OF AN EMPTY CART

I was walking with my father, when suddenly he stopped at a bend and after a short silence I wonder: "Besides the song of the sparrows, do you hear anything else?" I pricked my ears and after a few seconds I replied: "The noise of a cart". “Right - he told me. And an empty cart ". I asked him: "How do you know it's an empty cart if you haven't seen it yet?" He replied: "It's easy to understand when a cart is empty, since the more empty it is, the more noise it makes". I became an adult and even today when I see a person who talks too much, interrupts the conversation of others, is intrusive, boasts of the talents he thinks he has, is bossy and thinks he can do without others, I have the impression of listening to the voice of my father who says: "The more the cart is empty, the more it makes noise"

STORY OF A CLOSED MOUTH

There is a person, alone, leaning against a window overlooking the world, he looks but has his eyes closed, he is unable to see. He hears all the noises in the world: cars that run, children who laugh, those who cry, adults who fight, what they love. The leaves that move resting on the wind, the clouds that move, the water that flows in the rivers, which ends up in the seas, in the puddles, down the gutters. He hears everything but cannot hear. He answers everything but is unable to speak. He would like to touch everything but is unable to move out of that window. There is this person who is desperate, but does not want to cross that fine line. Every day he looks, listens, answers. After months she starts crying every night, she was missing something that could not exist for her. Standing on the windowsill he screams, but no one can hear, because he cannot speak. He decides to go up on that windowsill every day, to make his voice heard. And scream, scream, scream. Then one afternoon he freezes with his mouth ajar and whispers. "Is it I who cannot speak, or the others who are unable to listen to me?" The closed mouth, a weight in the void, the hair resting on the wind, the clouds move. Then there is the land, a lot of land. Above, below, everywhere. Its branches sway, the leaves dance forced by the force of the wind, the roots are well planted up to the center of the earth. Every day he listens to the birds singing, the squirrels chasing each other, the clouds that move, the water that flows in the rivers, which ends up in the seas, in the puddles, down the gutters. Children laugh, others cry sometimes. Some adults kiss there, in the shade of her hair. The answer comes like a blizzard. It is others who are unable to listen.

STORY OF A SUNSET

- You're beautiful.
SUNSET - Eh, modesty aside ...
- But you put on some restlessness.
- Because?
- Hide something. I bet you are a metaphor.
- You found me out.
- Why do you behave like this?
- I'm a sunset. Being a metaphor is my job. People look at me, think about the end of something and cry.
- And this thing amuses you?
- Enough. We sunsets are sadists who feed on your tears. A sunset that doesn't make you cry is doing everything wrong.
- What kind of metaphor are you this time?
- I'll tell you right away. What are you looking at?
- You.
- Where I am?
- On the desktop.
- How long have you not watched a real sunset?
- Months. Maybe years.
- I'm a metaphor for that.
- Real sunsets?
- A part of you.
- I'm crying. You are a bastard.
- It's my job. Do not get mad. I am a sunset. I make people cry.

STORY OF A NAKED LOVE

When I met you I didn't know what we would become.
I didn't know what love would turn us into.
I didn't even know that you would be the love to me that I never imagined I would find. I didn't know that love saves.
I didn't know that love would take my breath away as only you can take it, love.
When I met you I had to fight with every fear that I had always carried inside me, every day for all my life. I had to fight myself and you because you weren't real. You were dreaming and dreams hurt in the morning when you wake up. You I love you was a struggle against everything I had in my heart and brain.
Because you know, the heart goes on one side, the brain on the other.
And I believe that love is love when the brain and heart both answer yes.
Becoming yours was a reward, it was receiving the best gift ever requested and received. You weren't expected, you weren't expected to upset my life. It was not expected that together we would be different.
Beautiful things are never expected.
Love, they say, is seeing even the worst of the other beautiful and it is true. True because I see everything about you beautiful, even your worst. Because loving is first learning to love mistakes. The defects, the ugliness, the troubles of the other.
When I met you I did not know, you taught me.
Like everything else. Like to love, like to fly looking at a pair of eyes. How to write your name everywhere. How to learn how to make cakes just to surprise you.
That fighting is the most powerful demonstration of love there is.
That the sun in your eyes warms up more willingly if two hands are intertwined, especially if these hands are ours.
When I met you I didn't know that making yourself beautiful was something to give to you.
I did not know that each of your "you are beautiful" would remain engraved in the heart and each "I love you" would become a mark on the bones.
When I met you I didn't know that loving you would empty and fill me with everything and that being naked in front of you meant feeling free for the first time in my entire life.
But love, I'm not just talking about a naked me in your arms, I'm not just talking about skin that undresses and hands that touch, I'm talking about showing you my heart as it is, without barriers, without reservations: naked.You took it. I gave it to you.
And I thank you for all the fears you have taken, for all the insecurities that you have cured me, for all the still open wounds that you have disinfected me. Thanks.
Because people don't know they hurt, because life doesn't know it's hurting and because we ourselves don't know how to stop hurting ourselves and then we are poisoned by wounds that do not heal and for this I thank you for coming, for knowing you and letting myself be saved.
When I met you I did not know that love is a miracle and that the greatest miracle for me is you. 

STORY OF A TIRED OWL

Once upon a time there was an owl that lived in a forest, along with many other specimens of its species.It rested preferably on the branch of a plane tree and, having a calm and peaceful character, remained there almost all the time. From that position, he watched the life unfolding around hmim. There were insects and animals that flew, ran around and chased each other incessantly. Witnessing the life of others did not amuse him on the contrary, he often felt tired and, not infrequently, a loud yawn caught him. His aunt, perched on a higher branch, urged him to move from his torpor and his sister, who was standing on a branch of the same tree, invited him to fly with her and her children. But Marino, this is his name, did not like the restless life of his relatives and begged them, with guttural sounds, to leave him alone. At night he hunted mice and green lizards and this was the only activity he carried out with pleasure. Often, in the middle of the night, when everyone else was asleep, he would exclaim: “I’m fed up, I’m fed up, I’m fed up!” He had had a friend, Doriano, who had soon made a family and therefore had abandoned him. He remembered that he had invited him to follow him into the holm oak grove where he lived a few kilometers away and one day he decided to accept his invitation. Opening its wide dove-colored wings, it flew into the unknown. As soon as he arrived, he heard himself called: “Marino, Marino, here you are at last! I was waiting for you”. The owl braked its flight and glided over an holm oak next to its newfound friend: “I left my hometown to live an adventure”. “Bravo, here you can have fun as much as you want”. Life in the holm oak was exciting. Doriano was part of a large group. There were birds of prey everywhere, especially owls and the food was plentiful. A true paradise. In the grove of plane trees he had been a loner. Now he enjoyed company and had become friendly and talkative. One night when he was making a larger flight than usual, he met an owl, a friend of Doriano’s. “What are you doing around here?” she asked him in a friendly hoarse voice. “I come from the woods not far from here. Would you like to visit it? ” Marino thought he had been too bold but the little owl blinked and emitted a pleasant throaty sound. Together, they took off and arrived at Marino’s house. They settled on his favorite plane tree. Owlette flapped her wide wings then remarked: “The world seen with you is beautiful.” “Marino, Marino where have you been?” His aunt and sister came down from the highest branches and alighted next to him. The aunt protested: “Why did you leave us? The children missed their uncle ”. “I left because I was in the mood for adventures. Here I was bored ”. The two women examined Owlette: “You have a nice partner… And now, what are you going to do? Will you leave us again? ” Marino was silent, undecided. Then the owl, offended, went away without saying anything. The fed up owl was very sorry. He found himself alone and bored again: ‘I’m sick, I’m sick, I’m sick!’ He would have liked to join Owlette, play with her and Doriano’s party, but something held him back. More and more often he exclaimed: “I’m fed up! I am fed up! I am fed up!” He would have liked to join Owlette, play with her and Doriano’s party, but something held him back. More and more often he exclaimed: “I’m fed up! I am fed up! I am fed up!” “Why don’t you go see her? Why don’t you go back to the holm oak grove? ” relatives who were worried about his mood encouraged him. “I do not want to”. One day Doriano arrived: “Marino, what’s wrong with you? Why didn’t you come to us anymore? ” “I was busy and then Gufetta abandoned me”. “You must know that Gufetta has returned to the holm oak because her mother was injured and needs treatment. She kept silent because she didn’t want to force you to stay with her, however, she always thinks of you ”. Marino was not in himself with joy. He greeted his relatives inviting them into the holm oak grove and exclaimed: “I’m not tired anymore! I’m not fed up anymore! I’m not tired anymore! ” The little owl was happy to find her mate again. Together, they decided they would never break up again. When they had owls, Marino invented stories to make them fall asleep and all the animals of the holm oak flocked to listen to them.

 

STORY OF A DEVIL INSIDE THE LAKE

"At the beginning there was a great ocean on which brave winds blew and storm waves rose. Then, as the years went by, gradually the water decreased and new lands stood to limit the ocean, transforming it into a closed sea. Still other years passed and the boundaries narrowed more and more and the pain absorbed more drops of salt water. The water was still, there were no more storms and the breath of the winds was far away and he could not cross the mountains to get to the sea.
More years passed and the pain dried up more drops, turning the closed sea into a salty lake. Few fish remained and the water was now thick and dark, impenetrable. Still other years carried away more water and in place of the lake remained a stinking and evil pool where no fish and no plants had survived.
More years followed and the unbridgeable pain narrowed the pool to a tiny, devious and agonizing puddle.
Eventually, after the last few years of suffering, only a drop remained on the hard and parched ground. It slipped into a crack and no one ever saw the clear eyes of the dead fairy shine on that desert.
After many years a strange spirit came out of that crack, an evil spirit, an inhuman demon who wore the fake smile of the fairy on his lips. He went around and brought death to those who had ruined the soul of his divine companion. He avenged her and no one noticed who that being actually was who at first glance seemed a girl like the others, but like the others she was not and obtained every revenge with her evil power. "
Where had that drop of water disappeared?
One day a tiny green tuft appeared and grew slowly. But after a short time it had already become a great, beautiful tree, a lush oak.
A girl passed by and saw that huge tree in the middle of the deserted field. He walked over and sat down at his feet. He took his guitar off his shoulder and started playing. When the sun went down she went home. After that, however, the girl often came back from her tree and sang a thousand songs for her friend oak, then she went more rarely.
A few leaves fell from the branches of the oak.
During a dark night strange black flowers sprouted on the now bare branches. One after the other they opened their petals. The little girl came and although the black flowers had all blossomed she did not even notice them. The next day the flowers withered and fell to the ground. The petals crumbled under the scorching sun but something remained on the ground: seeds. Each branch of the oak withered away. The oak died.
After a long time the little girl passed. This time she realized that her friend oak was all dry and started to cry because she realized that somehow it was her fault. Some tears fell on a seed. This, made smooth, slipped into a crack in the ground. The little girl started singing a sad song and then went away forever.
During the night a snow storm crossed the mountains and reached the arid ground and gelled it, covering it with thick layers. But under that hard and cold glass surface the dark seed opened and let out many tiny colored filaments, which spread in various directions creating an underground branching. Thus a wonderful new tree grew, underground, bigger than the oak from which it was born but no one ever saw it.
But people say that on certain dark nights, when the moon is not there, a sad melody is heard carried away by the wind. And from the surface of the lake come out of the light beams that rise towards the sky like arms of light

STORY OF PINCO AND PALLA

Once upon a time there were PINCO, an avid gamer, and Palla, his girlfriend, also very fond of the world of video games.
PINCO had made many videos on youtube but now he had switched to Twitch where he had even more following.
PINCO and PALLA woke up every morning with the sweet sound of the voice of some streamer commenting on some game. Throughout the house resounded the voices of these boys and girls who played for hours and hours without stopping.
But PALLA did not like the voice of a player, who was called Toreador, because his voice was lavishly ringing. He said it to Pinco but PINCO preferred him, because he played an interesting game. Palla only knew his voice and had never seen who he was.
One day PALLA started looking for other channels to look for companions to play with. So by chance he found a channel where there was a boy playing a very old game. She saw it and was impressed that the player did not speak during the game. Yet he had many followers. PALLA wrote to him and he answered her. They started talking to each other often. PALLA went to his channel and played that absurd game but only to be with that guy named Starry.
He told PINCO that there was a videogamer playing an old game, but PINCO was too busy watching Toreador and didn't give him any weight.
PINCO continued to write to Starry and then one day Starry gave her his cell phone and invited her on a video call. PALLA was so into him and she was thrilled. When she heard him speak she recognized Toreador's voice in him and was amazed. But now she was so in love that her voice, which she had never tolerated, became the most beautiful for her. Starry invited her to attend a fair with him. PALLA told him that his boyfriend would be pissed off. But Starry persisted. Palla thought that in fact she should have gone because her boyfriend was now playing and watching players play and neglecting her.
So he gave the welcome to PINCO. And one day PINCO saw his ex-girlfriend appear on Toreador's screen saying: “Hi PINCO, now you will always have to see me and listen only to my voice. ”And Toreador nodded.
PINCO put his hands to his hair and threw the joystick against the screen. He had lost his girlfriend and also the taste for playing.

CHILDREN’S FICTION

Someone asks me: “Why don’t you write children’s fiction?” Children’s fiction sells a lot. How come? It is not the children’s fiction writers who are better, but schools simply force parents to buy children’s fiction texts for their pupils. This happens in elementary and middle school, in high school we pass to the classics, because teaching usually involves reading texts of Italian literature up to 900. And therefore everything else is ignored and remains unsold. After the closure of a historic bookshop in Turin, the closure of a historic Venetian publishing house has now been announced. The only surviving bookstores are the ones that sell school books and various stationery for students. Two Feltrinelli stores have closed in Rome. And this is a very bad thing. It means that the giant Amazon is winning the game and that people who say they love books no longer go to bookstores but buy everything online. What can be done?
Writing short stories for children is an ambition of many writers. If you have children or grandchildren, you yourself will surely have read many stories for them and you will have invented others. Indeed, by dint of inventing stories at the request of your children, perhaps it occurred to you that you could write them and turn them into a book. Why not? The sector of children’s literature is constantly growing, because children love to read and because parents are keen to give their children continuous creative stimuli. On the one hand, this means that the market is very competitive, but on the other it means that there is a lot of demand. So, don’t be shy: if you have some compelling stories spinning in your head, if you have invented many stories to make your children fall asleep, or if you simply have a strong creative streak and want to give voice to the child in you. , grab a pen and paper and write your children’s book. Writing a children’s book isn’t easy at all. Who has never read or leafed through a children’s book? Well, turning those pages full of images and often written in very large fonts, many think that writing a children’s book is easy. What does it take to invent a short story that, lined up, takes up a few pages? Then just lay out the text with very large characters, enrich everything with large drawings … et voilà! The children’s book is done. To say it is actually easy, but to do it not so easy, I assure you. Writing a book for children is not easy first of all because children’s imaginations are much richer and more active than ours as adults (fortunately for them and unfortunately for us). Have you ever been assaulted by a barrage of questions from a child? Children are curious, they want to know, they ask spontaneously, but if they don’t receive the answers they expect they are unhappy. So when they read or listen to a story, children need to find all the information in the text to bring their fantasy world to life. Writing books for children and teenagers means being able to think (again) like them.
Writing books for children is therefore not easy because you have to be able to get inside a child’s head and understand what he or she expects to find in a story. But above all, writing children’s stories is not easy because children are not all the same. It’s easy to say childhood! If you want to write a romance novel or a detective novel or any other narrative genre for an adult audience, you will have to ask yourself which characters you want to create, where you want to set the scene and other preparatory questions of this type, but if then your reader will have 20 or 30 years will make little difference. In the world of children’s literature, however, there are many differences depending on the age of the reader. The total length of the story, the linguistic style, the complexity of the sentences, the presence of implications, the linearity or otherwise of the plot, the psychological characteristics of the characters are all elements that must be calibrated according to the target audience. Writing a story for a 3-year-old child, who has his own imagination and who still does not read by himself and who will therefore listen to the story read by an adult, is completely different from writing a story for an 8-year-old boy, than that history if he will read it himself and that he has already developed his own identity and his own role in the peer group.
As you have seen, therefore, writing books for children and teenagers is not as simple as reading them. You need to start with a clear definition of your target audience first. This is actually a piece of advice that applies to anyone who wants to write a book, but if it comes to children’s books, the rule is even more valid, because writing for 5-year-olds is quite another thing compared to writing for kids of 11. If you want to write a children’s book that your (little) readers like and is successful, you have to put yourself not only on their side, but in their shoes. In fact, to write a story for children, it is not enough that the characters are children: the story must be told from the point of view of children and with the language of children. So many times to be creative you have been suggested to “think outside the box”: well, here instead you have to carefully choose a scheme, depending on the age of the readers you want to address, and enter it completely without leaving it. If you want to write a book for 5-year-olds, you have to enter the world of 5-year-olds, understand how they see objects, how they experience emotions, how they deal with new things, what scares them and what reassures them. You have to rekindle the fantasy and wonder that lie dormant somewhere inside you. If you want to write a book for 11-year-olds, you have to enter the world of preteens, speak their language, see the world with their eyes, starting with the world of adults, you have to feel the urge to adventure and independence. You have to ask yourself what you want to do when you grow up, as you did then, and, as then, viscerally believe that you can make your dream come true. This is the hardest part for those who write children’s stories, not so much inventing plots and characters. But precisely this total identification with the world of your readers, the necessary rediscovery of the child in you, is the most compelling and rewarding part of writing books for children and teenagers.

STORY OF A FROG

The wide-mouthed frog goes hither and thither, hopping around the pond.
- Graaaa graaa, Hello, I'm the wide-mouthed frog, who are you? - asks the buffalo who is in the shade of a tree.
- I'm the long-horned buuufalo, go somewhere else, stop bothering me.
- Ah! hello buuufalo with long horns, I eat flies and what do you eat?
- I eat grass, and now you've really bothered me!
The buffalo blows air from its big nostrils and goes away annoyed.

The frog then continues to jump here and there and meets a black crow.
- Graaaa graaa,Hello, I'm the wide-mouthed frog, who are you?
- I'm the black runner and mind my own business.
- Ah! hello black run, I eat flies and what do you eat?
- I eat worms, and now you've really got me fed up!
The crow takes and flies away.

The frog continues to jump to the other side, on the water it finds a beautiful water lily, those plants that grow in ponds, and jumps on it.
A pike fish approaches it from under the water.
The pike fish takes its head out of the water and the frog immediately asks it:
- Graaaa graaa, ciaaao I'm the wide-mouthed frog, who are you?
- I'm the pikeeee fish, dearest.
- Ah! hello pikeeee fish, I eat flies and what do you eat?
- I eat wide-mouthed frogs! - the pike answers him.

The frog, hearing these words, makes a tight little mouth, as when kissing each other and says:

- Hello, I'm drowing, said the frog with the narrow mouth, sorry but I'm in a hurry.
The frog running away in hops runs far away ... boing boing ...

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