Hi all,
this will be the first “experiment” of english writing. What you are going to read (if you are) is a sort of short story. I hope you will like it and that my writing will be “readable enough”.
a good music for this small thing could be “Gimme the Power” by Molotov.
Nice reading! (And of course comments are WELCOME!
dedicaded to the Liberty
The night.
I have always been addicted to the night. Like a friend it comes when I need “her”, with “her” shadows, with “her” silences…
The flashing light of the military police has passed too many times this night, and every piece of light was screaming like an old banshee aiming for her target.
Tonight, I know, is Marcus’ one and his “Bloody Sunday”. I told him many times that he was risking too much, but he has always refused to listen to me too. His newspaper, the most wanted Bloody Sunday, has been printed in five different typing offices, in five differnt months, in five different issues. Every time the MP hit the offices while it was too late. He was doing good, he was spreading the thought that everyone has, but that no one can tell.
He became the most wanted number one for this government, because he had an outrageous idea: The truth must live. The Right to think, the Right to speak and the Right to write was something that no one should have ever took us away.
- You did well, but this night will be your last night, my Friend- I tought sadly.
The latest copy of the Bloody Sunday was on my pc, as usual, but this time the paper will not reach the public whose access the net has been denied.
It was 33 pages full of what would have been a big bomb for the public opinion: the Truth.
A huge explosion hit the center of the city and the night, for a while, loosed her shadow, while the capital was in daylight.
Marcus always mined the offices when he was printing the Bloody Sunday, ready to let everything explode in the air, ready to show the world that the truth is the enemy of this government, of this masked tyranny.
But not ready to kill anyone but himself. The explosion would have probably sent some military to the hospital, would have destroyed a building, but the explosion would have never killed anyone.
This was Marcus.
My computer showed me a green light, telling me that the secure connections was established, ready to spread the latest copy of Bloody Sunday over the net.
- Send - I said
And so my computer did. Matter of hours and the better printing system would have printed and distributed Bloody Sunday even without Marcus’ hand. This was the power of the slaves, and Marcus was their light.
From now on Marcus would have become the first martyr of this never started war.
“Freedom” was the title of Bloody Sunday.
My phone rang, with its annoying sound. I waited for the scrambler to decode the secure communication.
- Yeah -
- Marcus, have you heard that explosion? - said the voice of one of the hidden journalists.
- Marcus died - was my only answer
- Hey, Marcus, what the hell are you saying? - His voice was excited and scared at the same time, in a sweet mix.
- I told Marcus died. From now on you can talk to me. -
He hesitated for a while, then he started understanding…
- What is your name, Marcus -
- I’m not Marcus - i said again
- Ok, pal, what’s your fucking name? -
- Call me Liberty -
His smothered laugh reach my ears, but my silence let him thought I was not joking.
- I am not joking, Frank - I underlined
- What should I do? - asked Frank after a long silence.
The first story for the next Bloody Sunday was on its way again.
And so was I