The Shaman: And other shadows by Manzetti Alessandro

Author:Manzetti, Alessandro [Manzetti, Alessandro]
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2014-07-14T07:00:00+00:00

Four miles to the west. Some kids are playing in the trash. Theo, the bigger one, finds an iron cross. He shows it to his friends, who become curious. What’s that stuff?

They make a rudimentary slingshot out of it, to hit the black-billed seagulls.

A stone breaks the glass of a sunken church.

The Wolf Gate

The yellow eyes of the sewers, behind the borders of sidewalks. Rectangular wells that observe shoes, legs, consciences. Souls ready to emigrate. The wolf licks the edges, the drain of the rain. He holds on the order of its owner: attack and chase. Sinks its teeth in the soft filling of the predestined. The list of the day, the customers of the Reaper.

The Reaper is hidden in the sewers, sinking her fingers into the black waters. She sucks experiences processed by human kidneys. Her wolf is back into the center channel. The great whore has been working in Milan for ten days, and is taking it too easy this time. They need to change the flock, canals and drains more quickly. The list is long.

So, skipping too many lines, going back and forth, you risk to make mistakes. Someone who lives for too long, creating a short circuit in the patterns of predestination. The congested corridors of Hell, whips directing an impossible traffic. Soft stuff crushed, before the time. Trembling jellyfish, souls who drag their long guts, still remembering everything of the past life. Unforeseen torture, floors of simmered neurons

It should not happen too often.

The wolf approaches the mistress, rubs its muzzle on her black robe; it wants to be reassured. A white hand touches its ears, then dwells at length on the rump. The scythe begins to groom the fur of the wolf, breaking the old blood clots, the sketches of the craft.

It’s time to go back to work. The muzzle of the wolf seeks the mouth of the lady: waiting for a sign. The muscles of the legs are loaded. The Reaper lingers. She sucks the black water again, flowing smelly gas puffing breathlessly. Ectoplasmic shit, green dreams come out from the assholes of millions of people. The Reaper seems to be decided, at last. She grabs the wolf by the neck, breathing in its senses. She gives him a map of scents, a dartboard without forms.

The wolf flies into the tunnel, its sharp nails digging horizontal shots on the rotten brick walls. A final check from the window of the sewers. It sees a lean woman seeking shelter from the rain, white ankles, red hair on her face.

The wolf growls, chews thoughts of cells, accompanied by the storm that sweeps the city, without stopping. The time of the hunt, of the blood, the prize of the mistress. Excitement. The wolf comes out, follows the smell of the woman, runs to the predestined. A subtle shadow, stagnant puddles, a sudden wind, ghosts clippings. All that human eyes can't see: the special view of the Reaper’s wolf.

The two sides of the avenue are combined, the speed breaks geometries, forming large inverted pyramids.

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