Cosimo Pacciani
La City dei Tartari
28 Luglio Lug 2013 2357 28 luglio 2013

11 Short Stories for 11 Summer Hits. 1 - Dream on

On Monday, 29 July 2013, wrote: Dream On Damiano loved that feeling of being the last swimmer in the sea, when the light of the sun is parallel to the surface of the water and it turns into a black canvass where he can see his strokes, precisely, neatly, deep into the upcoming night. Nobody but him and sea monsters, weird creatures like him, swimming, touring into the mysterious cavities of oceanic depths. He was craving, now, for the forthcoming evening, as there was a promise of storytelling, where he could use his fantasy to imagine worlds outside the abyss over which he was swimming so earily. The splish-splash of his arms into the jet-ink water was like the noise of his mind working, finding inside his brain a story to tell. The night came too soon. He sat on the bench and Maria, with the punctuality of a Swiss train, jumped and sat just on the hedge of the harbour's defences or, maybe, she was well inside his own devices of self-awareness. 'Tell me your story', she said, 'and, after, I will tell you mine'. Damiano had that initial feeling of being lost, shadows of irrequieted creatures threatening him, like some bad form of democracy. He paused, found few words, and started: 'There is a village not far from here, hiding among a fertile valley, where everybody shares the same dreams. When people sleep, they have the same story to tell the morning after. Experts and doctors tried to find an explanation, but there is none. They just have the same dream, night in, night out. Which is fine when they dream of freedom, of generic childhood memories, but, when the heat of the summer pervades bodies and minds, few days before the harvest, they share also forbidden dreams, like making love with the pharmacist's wife. And the morning after, everybody share the same sense of mixed pleasure and guilt. Excitement and scents of desire fill the air, as the first farmers cut the wheat. Old ladies, the local priest, they meet each otherthe and they lower their head, still keeping smiling. Imagine the pharmacist and expecially his wife. She may find puzzling the dream of making love to herself. This all started when the most famous and precious asset of their little town, the crown of a famous king, kept inside the local cathedral, was stolen. The whole village participated into a reparation procession, which led everybody from the city centre to the summit of a hill, overlooking the village and the bendy and curvy valleys till the sea. It was an end of July's steamy night. For some reason, they slept there, after the prayers and the usual speeches from the authorities. As fires lit up to burn away the night worries, and keep imaginary wolves at bay, the villagers felt all asleep together. Somebody blamed it to them having burned belladonna bushes, which toxic fumes led all to collapse into an oniric comunance. When the light of the sun filtered through the cypresses far away and hit the eyes of the villagers, a little girl stood up and she said to her mother 'I dreamed of a soldier, dressed like the king of the frescoes inside the cathedral. He told me we are all blessed now, and that the crown we are looking for is on the bell chamber inside the main church's tower'. Everybody heard the girl, as golden pollen and dust was fighting to settle in the morning mist. And all the villagers recollected that dream as the same one they had. The village's youth ran toward the cathedral and climbed to the top. The crown and its jewels's encrusted reliquiarium were there, as shiny as they have ever been. Since then, all the village started sharing dreams and, sometimes, daily visions of a better world and new ideas. They stopped having nightmares, as all the dreams they collectively were telling each other were of a positive and optimist nature. It was like if the only act to share purpose and direction made this isolated community happier and able to share their inner hopes and desires.' Maria hastily opened her mouth, like ifn an anomaly of feelings, an unexpected wave had hit her. 'What are we going to dream then, tonight?' 'Hope', Damiano said. 'Hope your stories will be better every day. It's your turn, now'. Maria rolled her eyes and she pointed to the carpet of stars. 'Just a minute, I will start as soon as we will both see a falling star'. Darkness turned deep blue and black, like the evening sea where Damiano loved to crawl, above scaremongering secrets. Soundtrack Snow Ghosts - And the World was Gone http://youtu.be/ChzRHZGHRNg

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