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Burning forests in Chile to survive

Once upon a time there was a land.
A region, indeed.
Once upon a time there were brave people.
You might call them Mapuche.
You can call them the natives ones.
But you can surely define them as the resisting creatures.
Defending life’s gifts and what rests of human soul.
In a few words, being one with nature’s perfection.
So, once upon a time in Araucanía, Southern Chile.
When you may sadly see, right now, unacceptable rows of charred pines.
It’s a hugely desperate act, it undoubtedly is.
But it’s maybe the last, only answer.
Like these words explain: “We burned these forests as an act of legitimate resistance against the extractive industries that have oppressed the Mapuche people,” says Hector Llaitul. “If we make their business unprofitable they move on, allowing us to recover our devastated lands and rebuild our world.”

Buy the ebook: Italian short stories, a dual language book

Equality story

You've heard this story.
You've already seen this movie.
We already told this tale, all together, and we've lived it too.
We were all there.
All of us, and we'll be there tomorrow too.
We were Jews in Nazi concentration camps, and in the same place we were Roma people and homosexuals.
Wrong creatures, living mistakes.
We were also women.
Yes, women with the alleged insane idea to be something more than a man...

From Italian short stories, a dual language book

True stories of dreams

So, next Italy’s president will be a female one.
Let’s remove again: the new president will be young.
No... come on, let’s do more: a little girl.
There will be a baby-girl at the head of the Italic nation.
But let’s go forward, continuing to eliminate old stuff.
Enough with the ability to mediate between the parties, since ever historical leaders pride.
The girl child who will guide Italy to the new horizon won’t provide any mediation.
If something is right, it will be so.
And if something is wrong, it will remain so...

From Italian short stories, a dual language book

True life stories

When the heart dies twice.
When the heart dies twice, it means that it lived, twice. And many more have enjoyed the benefits.
Because when the heart dies twice, arithmetic and its rules go out the window.
Because the love that subtracts creates endless empty, but when the operation is the sum, you can call it multiplication.
When the heart dies twice, you may cry as much, but they are defused tears.
They don’t delete smiles and gratitude for received and given gifts...

From Italian short stories, a dual language book

True love stories

My name is Saverio and a smile will be my last word.
Yes, smiling, so I'm gone.
With joy.
Because I have died with it.
I want to emphasize this for my son.
He must not take the burden.
I would like to leave on his shoulders and in his heart all except any weight.
Lightness, this is my inheritance.
Well, I'm not referring to the small legacy he will find in my last will.
He knows that have been no richness in our family.
The levity I would offer as ending credits of my life concerns the bag of thoughts and emotions that will accompany him for the rest of the road.
Life is already itself fraught by heavy luggage...

From Italian short stories, a dual language book

True stories of Samar and Maher

A thief of images, but a good one.
An atypical version of Robin Hood, which steals memory where all want to disintegrate it, and then he gives it to posterity.
So that they see the day after what has passed in vain under the eyes of the protagonists.
In fact, the pitcher of remembrances in the bottle among the waves of the future was blocked immediately after taking possession of that precious piece of lived history.
Everything was about to be lost, when Samar herself made her choice.

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True stories of missing children

After the tragic fact, Wang bought a taxi and began patrolling the city of fourteen million people during work hours.
He put a flyer on the car window, after printing business cards with his daughter's information, telling each passenger what had happened.
I lost her, we lost her, and the most horrendous meaning, that is, she has lost us.
Here it is the unacceptable sharing that binds us all along.
The emptiness, not the fullness.
The eager hands, never the full pockets.
Desire, fervent dream, irrepressible aspiration, everything but the vault full of vanity of the richest people.
I find you, the little Qifeng heard from far away, more than twenty years ago.

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True stories of an alien child

We punctually glorify the shared error, to the detriment of the exceptional out of place gifts.
We thought you were too different.
From us and everything that reassures us.
She cannot be one of us, we immediately said before your stretched head.
Nevertheless, the problem wasn’t the skull’s size, but the content.
Because beyond the superficial justifications, what scares us most is the inside of things.
Specifically, a brain of greater magnitude, with the propensity to extend upwards.
That is, reason and fantasy that point the heavenly vault as the only possible direction.

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True stories of a widow

Go to sleep, my husband.
Sleep and rest.
Dreams quietly, but not too much.
You know how dreams are, we perfectly know.
Like actors.
So desirous of applause, able to do anything to keep the curtain open.

The last dream, then, is the most vain between them.
A trap in the form of paradise tailored to the hero of the day.
There is time, my love.
There is still time.
An eternity, they say.
Well, I 'm not ready for so much.

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True stories of love

Today is a great day because everything is very tender.
Because the bones are the same for everyone, right?
Because two hands, even interwoven into one another, are harmless if nothing draw in the audience eyes.
Waking nightmares in the maze of the most obtuse fears.
Well, we have not forgotten.
“We do not want them next to us, even by dead. Because they were wrong. And if nature was wrong with them, who are we to change the story?
God, maybe?”
We, too, have never been God, not even in the dreams. Especially in the dreams.
Because when you have everything in one hand, and you already know that all that will live and die with you, under the skin, over time, up to a day like today... well, you can afford the luxury of not asking anything to anyone.

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True stories of miners

Once upon a time there was a school.
A normal school, far from favored.
By fate as the administrator of the so-called public affairs.
In the normal school there was a equally ordinary class.
On the other hand, normal or excellence it is, where there is a class here comes a teacher and them.
The sons.
Of mothers, of course.
Of life in general, every color and profile, able to survive the darkened reins of his majesty the prevailing moral.
Of course, fathers’ sons.
"What job does your dad?" The teacher asked.

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