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There is an old say, “when it comes to tragedy, in Italy always surfaces a prank“. Maybe it’s the better way to look at the actual condition of my country, a place where nothing is simple. We’re in the deepest economic crisis ever, unemployment levels are getting higher every day and the national government is nothing but a hostage in the hands of two parties that hate each other. Basically they have to do a lot but they don’t really know what’s needed to solve this crisis and for almost everything there’s a mined field of crisscrossed political vetoes.

You see, it’s a stand-off. With three players on the field, each with a weak spot and a loaded gun in each hand. For the PdL, the party owned by Mr. Berlusconi, the weak spot is then leader himself  who’s on the edge of a number of legal issues that could wipe him out of the scene. Mr. Berlusconi is also the owner of a number of media companies, some in TV business. Using a TV frequency in Italy is possible under a public agreement (a form of concession) and for our laws who hold such a concession cannot be elected. So this center-right party is quite nervous about the destiny of his leader/owner and every other day menace to step down from the national government. They fear that PD and M5S, who hold a majority in both houses of the Parliament if they got an agreement, could boost an impeachment against Mr. Berlusconi.

Again, it’s a stand-off. The PD set up a new law, still to  be proposed in the Parliament, that force every party in the public arena to be legally constituted as legal subjects. That will put out of competition the M5S, whose leader Mr. Grillo already promised to stand out from the next round of general election if this law is approved. That will probably cause a national unrest, that’s what Mr. Grillo is saying. M5S got itself a lot of consensus channeling public outrage about politicians and the economy problems, so there’s a real choice to have riots if this “movement” will be put out of competition.

There’s a different level of stand-off, the one inside the PD. With the pact concluded with PdL, seen as unholy by the a vast majority of its supporters, the inner war inside this party is going on full rage. Old timers against young Turks, former members of the leftist part against the one from the catholic-oriented wing, local bosses that try to get more influence and small-time sharks that are in frenzy for all this political blood.

So everybody is screaming about this things and nobody is doing what’s needed to save my country. Once again, it’s prank time.

Note: this is a work of fiction, with all the usual stuff about copyright and permission. It’s also a work in progress and a way to develop my knowledge of the english language. So feel free to correct, debate, laugh, ask about it in the comments. Help appreciated.

You may find the prologue here.

Chapter 1 is here.

Chapter 2 is here.

Chapter three.

Every fight is nothing short of a chaotic mess.

My first battle on this planet was no exception to the rule. The attackers forced themselves through a gap in the thin line of defenders, five warriors wielding short swords and oval-shaped shields crossed the ideal line of the front and started running to the center of the field, right in my direction. Bad mistake. I was ready for them.

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Note: a few days ago (May 7, 2013) a cargo ship named “Jolly Nero” crashed into the port of Genova, destroying a tower and killing nine people (with nine more injured). The tower was the traffic control center of the port. This post is a translation of an article written by Cristiano Pugno, a friend and fellow blogger from Genova. The photo of the control tower is also from Mr. Pugno, who’s a professional photographer.

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Note: this is a work of fiction, with all the usual stuff about copyright and permission. It’s also a work in progress and a way to develop my knowledge of the english language. So feel free to correct, debate, laugh, ask about it in the comments. Help appreciated.

You may find the prologue here.

Chapter 1 is here.

Chapter 2.

I found myself on my back, panting hard and fast to recover the shock. My rifle was missing, so I nervously fumbled for my pistol then I finally started thinking again, a bit comforted by the familiar weight of the Beretta in my hands.

It was night. A few seconds before I was in the middle of a hot afghan day, how could that be possible? Then I saw that woman, a blonde beauty who was staring at me with her hands raised. Before I could say anything I saw an arrow hit the ground, no more than a few inches from my left foot. What the hell was going on?

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A little man dies today in Rome at 94. He was something more than a common politician, he was (and is) a key to understand the recent history of my country and more than a bit of what’s happened in Europe and in the Middle East in the ’60 and the ’70.

You may find a good summary of his public history here, but even a good article is not enough to understand the weight of Mr. Andreotti.  If you take a look at the italian pages of Facebook or if you read our newspapers you may feel a mix of emotions, something between relief and disbelief.

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Note: this is a work of fiction, with all the usual stuff about copyright and permission. It’s also a work in progress and a way to develop my knowledge of the english language. So feel free to correct, debate, laugh, ask about it in the comments. Help appreciated.

You may find the prologue here.

Chapter 1.

«We’re in deep sergeant! This is a trap!»

The explosion of an RPG concluded my sentence, like a giant exclamation point. The radio went off, maybe damaged. For a few seconds smoke and debris clouded my vision. All around me my teammates were shooting with all guns in every direction, searching for the insurgents that got us in their crosshairs.

Continue Reading »

Note: this is a work of fiction, with all the usual stuff about copyright and permission. It’s also a work in progress and a way to develop my knowledge of the english language. So feel free to correct, debate, laugh, ask about it in the comments. Help appreciated.

Prologue.

Usually you don’t get mail from dead people, not to mention packages.

Two months ago I got a little white box, a package from Ulan Bator. I had to think for a moment to remember that’s the Mongolia’s capital, I was amazed to receive something from such a country. Then I looked to the sender’s name and almost got myself a stroke. Howard Washington, a man dead five years ago. After a while I checked the postage stamp date, hoping for one of those incredible error made by the italian mail system, for a package held for years by the bureaucracy. No errors. The date was from the previous week.

Once back at home I was hoping for a joke. A dark, stupid joke.

Me and Howard got some common friends, people who served with me in the Italian Air Force or with him in the US Army. Nope. As I opened the package my eyes recognized the once familiar handwriting of Howard, his strange habit to add capital letters here and there to hide a message in the text. In the white box I found a letter and a battered paper notepad, standard military issue. I will not told you about the letter, not now. In the notepad I’ve found an amazing story and Howard’s request to tell it to the world, piecing together his sparse notes.

Old-Notebook

Lance Corporal Howard Martin Washington, MIA and presumed dead five years ago. Disappeared anywhere in the Helmand province, Afghanistan. His comrades found his broken rifle, his leather gloves and traces of his blood. Nothing else. Howard was an huge man, 6′ 4″ with broad shoulders and a gorilla-like muscular mass, always ready for a brawl or can of beer. His friends at the battaillon were ashamed, there was an extensive search to find his body. Even the local village chiefs do collaborate, everything to put away the pressure. “Heavy Metal“, that was his nickname, became another statistic in a bitter war.

(to be continued)

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