Category: Short stories

[Autumn stories 2] K2, when a dream falls away

K2

On that day of the 31st of July 1954, Dr Charles Houston completely forgot who he was. For as much as he tried, he could not remember a single thing about his identity. His name, his profession, the reason why he was in the small town forty kilometers from where he lived. All of this appeared to have simply gone from his mind.

Charles was a strong men, of that he was sure. There was something in him telling him that he had what it takes to survive, although he could not be sure of where that conviction was coming from. It was perhaps for this conviction that Charles was feeling almost dizzy as he was walking around in that suburban town.

“What a strange feeling not to remember one’s own identity”, this was the thought that accompanied Charles as he was distinctively perceiving the different phases of his amnesia. At the end of the day he was still a doctor, although he had no memory of it!

At first Charles could feel a sense of astonishment, just like when one forgets what he was meant to say. To that followed a feeling of being out of place (we are not meant to forget who we are!). The last feeling was a desire to discovery, to find out the name attached to that familiar face.

It was precisely this feeling that moved Dr Houston’s next steps in his quest for his identity. He wanted to find out who he was and why he was there.

A first, natural move was to look into his own pockets. Perhaps he might have been so lucky to find an ID card, a diary, a note, or at least a clue of his name. Nothing, nothing at all. All of his pockets were as empty as his mind.

It was with a strange sense of hope that he decided to go to the local hospital to find out more about who he was, or at least a little bit of human sympathy for his condition.

The receptionist of the hospital had been particularly kind to Dr Houston. She was perhaps used to people attending the hospital in altered states. Besides, Dr Houston appeared to be a composed and elegant man in his forties. There was nothing in his appearance that could make her judge him badly for what she could tell.

The diagnoses made by the doctor who check Charles Houston spoke clearly: global amnesia due to a stressful event. An hospital would have been of little use in a case like that. What was needed was somebody who could help the patient remembering who he was. Somebody like a parent or a police man.

The engine of the police car was still warm when the young deputy found a clue to help the poor Charles to find out more about his name. A label on Charles’ tie, told the young officer that the man in front of him was an esteemed medical practitioner from Exeter, New Hampshire. What was needed was now just a short car ride to get get Dr Houston to his familiar environment.

As Charles was approaching his hometown his mind, just like the sky after a storm, appeared to becoming clear again and his memories started to surface back again. First slowly, then all in a rush, just like overflowing river.

It did not take it long for Charles to remember it all. The storm, the frost, the hunger. The desire to go back, to get down from that icy, beautiful hell. The fight for life. The hate for his German leader in his first attempt to the peak. The bereavement of his friend Art Gilkey who fell down the mountain despite the friends’ attempt to bring him down after Charles diagnosed thrombophlebitic leg. The hope to make it the next time, when the new expedition would have finally been ready to reach Pakistan.

More than else Charles remembered the fierce sense of disappointment when he heard the names of those two Italian men who took away the trophy for which Charles risked his life just the year before.

Achille Compagnoni and Lino Lacedelli. These were the names who took away Dr Houston’s life dream: to be the first one to climb the K2.

Little was left to Dr Charles Houston in that summer day. “Been there, done that”, this was the thought that was reverberating in his mind as he was finally able to recall who he was. The man who almost made it to the K2.

This story has been inspired by the BBC documentary Mountain Men: The Ghosts of K2. I encourage you to watch it if you like stories of expeditions. I believe Dr Charles Houston and his fellows have been incredibly brave in trying their second attempt to conquer the K2. They just have been the unlucky subjects to a series of unfortunate events.

Also, I have met Mario Lacedelli, the grandson of one of the two men who conquered K2, in person. A strong mountain man indeed!

 

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[Autumns Stories 1]: Mr Rioba’s Pub Crawl

ostaria-da-rioba

As everybody who visited Venice knows, this city is a marvellous place, where many magical things happened over the course of centuries. One of those mysterious happenings is testified by the statue of a merchant called Sior Rioba [Mr Rioba in Venetian dialect], located next to Ponte dei Mori [Bridge of the Saracens] in the borough of Cannargio in North of the old town.

The statue, a piece of white stone, one and sixty five centimetres tall, represents a local merchant who, it is told, was turned into stone by an old lady after the merchant refused to grant her a loan. The statue has always been much loved by local inhabitants. So much so that the locals decided to make him an iron nose when the original one got lost. A similar sign of love and appreciation occurred recently, when the local population gave a party to celebrate the finding of the head of the statue after it missed for three long nights.

At the time of the finding many people spoke about vandalism or robbery. Few people really know what happened on the night of the disappearance. What I am going to tell here is the whole story of Sior Rioba became a statue and of what really happened on the night when his head disappeared.

“Since young age Sior Rioba had always shown a developed business acumen. Being the oldest of three orphan brothers, Rioba had soon to put his talent into practice to ensure a livelihood. While being initially among the poorest of the families of his borough, Rioba immediately experienced a fair amount of success in his business. Following an occasion given by a batch that got lost from an Arab boat and that Rioba found, he managed to establish his first spicy business.

With the help of his two brothers his business grew and grew. It grew so much that Rioba became one of the wealthiest men of the area. He became so wealthy that he managed to start a local bank, giving credit to all the other businesses nearby.

While his initial drive for his business had been necessity, Rioba quickly recognised that what was truly leading him was the fun felt by growing his activity and by making more and more money. Despite this deep passion of him, Sior Rioba was not an evil fellow, he was in fact quite liked by his neighbours. Let’s just say that, sometimes, he had a flexible view of what was to be considered financially appropriate and what not. This was particularly true for the conditions under which he would give loans to his customers which, in his view, were only the ones who could afford his rates.

It is not well known that Venice had always been a city of magic and mystery. Despite being a touristic hub nowadays, the city has been home of many magicians, scholars of occult and especially alchemists. It is precisely an alchemist, Siora Isabella [Miss Isabella] who defined the fate of Sior Rioba.

An alchemist’s life was indeed an hard one at that time. In those days, in fact, Alchemists didn’t yet found the Sorcerer’s Stone, the magical stone able to transform metals into gold. For this reason they always struggled to find the money to pay for their expensive experiments. Siora Isabella did not reduce her struggle, after that Rioba refused her a loan.

“Te podesi sentir el peso de i to schei e che el naso te se aruginisca!” [May you feel the weight of your own money and may your nose rust!]. Those were the words that Siora Isabella used to respond to Rioba’s rejection.

Rioba did not understand the meaning of those words from the very beginning. He completely ingored that Isabella was an alchemist, had he knew he would perhaps reduced the interest rate! It was only when night came that he felt a strange noise coming from his bank. He ran out in the street and he found Isabella under a heavy column falling above her. Rioba, a stingy man when it came to money but kind when it came to help, did not think about it twice. He run towards Isabella, he rolled away the column and lifted up the heavy stone above his shoulders to give Isabella a chance to escape the inevitable fall of the house.

Isabella could not believe it, the same man who refused her the money in the morning just saved her life in the evening! Despite the surprise Isabella knew it was too late to recall the spell she casted on Rioba as he was turning into stone. Poor Rioba, who was now turning white and cold, heard from her these last words: “Che i te daga da ber almanco!” [May somebody give you a drink, at least!].

Centuries had past from that day. In those many years the statue of Rioba always brought a sense of happiness and community among the locals, perhaps as a sign of his selfless act of courage. But it took quite a while for the second spell of Siora Isabella to be finally fulfilled (again, alchemists at that time did have much of a clue on how to perform their art).

On the night of Tuesday 30th of April 2013, the night of Saint Pio V, a notorious inflexible and morally rigid Catholic saint, Sior Rioba finally started to be thirsty.

“Cio’ che se’!” [Gosh, how thirsty!] those were Rioba’s first words once he found himself awake. Rioba remembered that the weight of the whole house was relying on him, hence he had no choice but to wait for somebody to pass by to take him for a drink to the local pub. It was only at about 3 am that Marea [Tide in Venetian], a local whacky fellow, passed in front of the statue.

You could imagine the surprise on Marea’s face when he saw the statue talking to him. “Cio’, ma ti parli?” [Gosh, how come you speak?] said Marea. “Cio’! E go anca se!” [Of course! And I am very thirsty!] said Sior Rioba. [TN the word cio’ is often used in the Venetian language to indicate both stupor and assertion].

Marea always loved the sense of peace brought by Sior Rioba and he could not leave him there thirsty. Yet it was clear even to a whacky fellow that he could not take away all of his body, otherwise the whole house would have fallen. It it for this reason that Marea brought only the head of head of Sior Rioba with himself.

The only drawback of those who are a little bit crazy is that they get distracted too easily and, sometimes, they tend to forget what they carry. In this case taking the head of poor Rioba to the local pub.

As the statue was much loved by villagers the whole town was in turmoil once the morning after it saw that the head of Sior Rioba disappeared. Even the mayor, who soon after the events resigned due to a financial scandal, intervened to find the head of the beloved statue.

Despite the efforts, nobody could find the head of old statue. It took three days to poor Rioba to get out of the Hostaria and to roll towards his standing stone body before being found in Calle della Racheta [Racheta street] few days later.

Upon the finding, the villagers restored the stone head and gave a huge party in Rioba’s honour who, after this terrible event, decided not to drink no more.”

This story is reported here exactly as I’ve heard it. You might decide whether you believe it or not. I do, because I know that Venice is a magic place were anything can be real. And remember, if you will get turned into stone, decide well who to go for a drink with!

<a href=”http://www.tripadvisor.co.uk/LocationPhotoDirectLink-g187870-d1537846-i60080084-Ostaria_Da_Rioba-Venice_Veneto.html#60080084″><img alt=”” src=”http://media-cdn.tripadvisor.com/media/photo-s/03/94/bf/d4/ostaria-da-rioba.jpg”/></a><br/> The photo of Ostaria Da Rioba is courtesy of TripAdvisor

Autumn, time for stories

Autumn

Autumn is the season where most people make up quotes. ~ Winston Churchill

Ah, how good it is the feeling of Autumn taking over.

Trees turning yellow, the weather outside making you realise how much you like your sofa. What about pumpkins, chestnuts and the psycho squirrels freaking out because they realise how many nuts do they have to hide if they want to stand a chance of surviving the winter?

Autumn is really a time to relax, reflect, take time for ourselves.

This season is also a perfect moment to enjoy some nice short stories in the heat of your home.

Yet you may argue, who nowadays has time to create short stories in this busy, busy life?

Well.. Here’s the deal. I will write those stories for you absolutely for free!

Whether you’re in the mood for a spooky horror story to read together with the person you have an eye on to have a chance of getting closer, or whether you want to read about about exotic adventures you can’t really afford because you’ve just paid the subscription fee of your local gym (thank you Summer’s nights out!), then don’t worry!

Just write a short description of the type of story you want to read in the comments session below and I will write it for ya!

All the stories I will write will be of approximately 1000 to 2000 words according to inspiration. I will write one story per week (quality > quantity) and post them in this blog as part of the “Autumn Stories”series. However, as you’ve contributed to the creation of those stories, you might use them at your best discretion. You can print ’em, read ’em, post ’em in your blog. All is allowed! (mentions would be welcomed though!)

So, if you want to hear about spaceships vs aliens, gangsters, people finding beauty hidden all around them, or a gazelle falling in love with a lion, who am I to judge?

So, I hope you’ll enjoy YOUR stories and this beautiful season as well!

Can’t wait to start writing for all of you!

Have a great Autumn.

p.s.

Did you know that in Ancient Greece story-tellers, called Aedi, were taken into high consideration into their society? I bet life was though without netflix.

Mahir, purity and superiority. A Sufi story.

dervish

The process of taking out all of impurities was not an easy one, this is what Mahir was realising in his practice.

He realised all of that as he gathered with that company of Sufis, as they called each other, right outside the city of Izmir.

Mahir heard quite a lot about those sufis before deciding to join them. He heard so many different things on their behalf. He heard that they had lost their common sense, that they were mad, that they ruined their family’s reputation by leaving everything else aside and by joining this unconventional path.

Mahir did not fear of all this. He heard deeply in his hearth the burning desire to join that unusual fellowship. He knew when his hearth was telling him something he could not doubt. As a brave young man, he was rebellious enough to follow what his hearth whispered him.

“Remember Mahir”, once told him his uncle, “the rebellious ones are those who, over the centuries, gave humanity new ways of seeing things. All the prophets were not accepted by their fellows at their times, yet they did not give up. This is how things go”. Who knows, perhaps his uncle’s words plaid a part in his decision to join the company of dancing holy men.

Joining the Sufis was exactly how Mahir expected it, at first. A bunch of joyful people, dancing in circle and repeating the name of the Beloved. Everything was perfect, ecstatic, joyful. Nothing seemed to impair that bliss that Mahir had always experienced in the background of his consciousness and that finally seemed to have found the right foundation on which to grow.

Months had passed since he joined the Dervish. Mundane preoccupations were just a memory of the past. The future seemed to be one of bliss and divine enjoyment. Until the day were the unexpected happened.

On that day Mahir woke up early. He was going all the way to the central hall to start his daily work, as it was the rule of the community. As he was walking from his house to the hall something from the inside struck him. A deep sense of pride suddenly struck him like a thunderbolt. This feeling overcame to him quickly and deeply that Mahir did not even had the time to hide this feeling under some momentary distraction.

It was just unbelievably obvious to him how much his life had always been centred in his sense of superiority to other human beings. Even the holiest of his decisions, the one of joining the company of dancing dervishes, appeared to him as driven by a desire to gain importance, power and prestige, not in material terms, but in much subtler ways.

The more Mahir looked at this feeling the bigger the feeling seem to get.

After a few time the feeling grew so strongly that Mahir had a clear sense of exploding. Inside his brain a thousand voices suddenly appeared. Those voices were telling him how much he deserved to be recognised, that he was the holiest of his family, that he was the holiest of that company of dancing dervishes, that the was the holiest of the whole world. The voice was not stopping there. It started to remind him how well he did in school and that if he wanted he could start his studies again so that the whole world could benefit from the knowledge that was naturally flourishing in him.

Many other promises arose on that day in Mahir’s mind, many of which we cannot speak about because of decency.

Luckily for Mahir not all of his good will disappeared in a instant. He remembered what he had read on the Quran. He was well aware of the tricks that demons could play to the people in the search for God. He knew what had to be done. He had to visit Jalal, the headmaster of the dervish company to tell him all of his doubts and temptations.

“Beloved Master”, started Mahir. “Joining this company was the choice that most drew me closer to God. This is, at least, what I used to think before this day. Since this morning, however, there is a voice inside of me that screams so strongly it can’t be ignored. It tells about me. It tells about my place in the world. It tells about how you should sit at my place and how I should stand on your throne. It tells about all sort of unworldly things. I know that this voice is not true, but yet it won’t stop. I know that I am sinner. I am still the same sinner I was when I first joined. Oh Master, all of my search is just pure pride and I deserve nothing!”.

“Very well”, stated the Master, “I was waiting for you to come to this place. To be a Dervish is to accept God’s gifts, both in light as in darkness, as there is not without the other”. The Master stated.

“The human hearth is like a raw metal”, continued the Master, “to come to purity the metal has to suffer. It has to be put in hell’s fire and be beaten a thousand and more times. No metal has been born pure. Nor it is you, Mahir”.

Upon hearing those words Mahir’s pride intensified, just to quickly lead him to confusion and then desolation.

“But then tell me, beloved Master, what shall I do to overcome my pride? Because this pride squeezes me, like a bug under a shoe. Yet, I know there must be more. I have seen it in the past!”.

“You shall dance, Mahir”, stated the Master, “with your right palm asking for mercy and your left offering the world the blessings you’ll receive. In your dance you shall rotate, to remember that all in this world is a cycle in God’s will”.

From that day Mahir started to dance. He danced and danced and then he danced some more. He danced so much he could not remember his name. He danced so much that even his feeling of pride fell off. He danced until there was nothing else in this world apart for the dance itself.

Mahir finally became that dance, and the people looking at that dance, and impulse leading that dance. He became everything and only because Mahir was no more.

When the dance finally stopped Mahir returned to be who he was. He returned as Mahir, the dervish, with a hearth filled of gratitude. He knew in his hearth that that was just the beginning. The beginning of a wider dance in which to give roots to what he saw in his whirling bliss…

 

 

 

 

 

Kasia’s bus. Immigration stories.

London bridge

 

Kasia and her young daughter Ada are both are on a bus waiting to get digested by central London’s traffic.

Kasia is looking around. Her expression is clear. She is asking herself how will she be able to give to her daughter, Ada, the same few opportunities which life offered her as left-overs.

Kasia doesn’t have an answer to this question, just some few more doubts.

Did it made sense for her to insist on staying in this town which seem to have sucked her life away? And what to say about Ada’s father who, as a good-bye gift, left her the weight of a responsibility he was not willing to take?

Kasia is tired. Luckily her stop arrived, distracting her from the tedious attempt to answer all of those questions.

In the blink of an eye, Kasia is again in the streets, finally out of that two-levelled red shell which every day scamper her around like an insane roller coaster. Ada is always there, holding her hand with a look in her eyes a bit hopeful and a bit confused.

Now Kasia is left with just a short walk to reach home, feed the little one and then put her to bed. Then everything will be easier again. All of those questions that now are echoing in her head will soon be sucked back again from sleep together with her consciousness. She knows that.

Once again for Kasia sleep will arrive. That same comforting dream-free sleep that in the last few years seemed to have been the only promise that her destiny seemed to be able to maintain.

Kasia needed that sleep. It was the only hope for her to get enough energy to survive another day on that soul draining town. If not for herself, at least for little Ada.

 

Beyond the restlessness

Victoria and Albert Museum

Could it be that the answer Jacke waited for so long was finally answered? Yes, Jacke finally got permission to relax and be himself completely. This permission from the biggest authority on his life Jacke could think of: himself.

The beginning of this story started not so much time ago, it started twenty eight years ago to be precise. Under some unknown circumstances (unknown to himself!), Jacke was born.

Jack always had a discrete memory of the events that concerned his life. But how it all started, why and on decision of whom he could definitely not remember. The only thing that Jacke could remember is that since, he had memory Jacke was searching for something. What that something entailed Jacke was not quite sure.

This thing Jacke had been looking for for so long seemed to constantly changing shape, taste or even position in his utopian imaginary. At times it was a desire to create, other times it was a desire to be recognised. At other times it was a desire to be safe, at other to go for risky adventures.

Jacke was constantly looking, and looking and looking. He looked into so many different sources: music, writing, art, careers, relations. Nothing was exactly able to give him the sense of peace he was really looking for. Restlessness was seemed to be the subtle state that characterised him for so many years.

This state of being was a very subtle one, like a habit that Jacke learned to embed so well that he was now able to deceive everybody around himself. Jacke was in fact a  nice a friendly person on the outside. Nothing of himself could let another being guess that his mind was always on the move, always trying to provide an answer to humanity’s most timeless question: “why are we here?”.

It was only one day, as he was walking around the corridors of the beautiful Victoria and Albert Museum in London that he could give an answer to himself. There is no particular reason why we are her and yet all we do is meaningful. But let me articulate some more to explain you the meaning of what Jacke grasped on that sunny Sunday.

To get his point you need to know that Jacke was walking around the beautiful statues of the ancient Greece. For how much he could appreciate those statues from an artistic perspective, he realised how much the message that was embedded in those statues had influenced his life.

“Symbols, this is what those statues are!”. Looking at all of those statues that he saw so many times, Jacke could finally recognise that all of those mythological stories were what they were: stories. In other words they were desire and expectations developed by people, eating a breathing just like us in the past to try and explain life around them.

Those statues ver indeed exceptional, the treasure that the most talented people of previous generations left us. But there was no embedded archetype in those statues that was not already present in Jacke’s experience of ordinary life. The excruciating simplicity of his insight shook his whole body and soul in what for him seemed like a wracking of the ceiling, but which appeared as a quiet snigger to the people around him. Life around him was enough. There was no authority out there who could tell him how to live and what to value. His intuition and his presence was enough. There was no need to master any art nor discipline. The only art to master, if any, is to master one-self, be fully open and present to what one is, beyond every teaching from the past and beyond every restlessness.

This is what Jacke realised in a moment. All the mythologies, stories and traditions did not matter. Life was joyfully unfolding, and nothing more.

p.s.

If you manage to go and visit the Victoria and Albert Museum. It has a beautiful “Ideal sculpture” room which is particularly enjoyable on a Sunday afternoon.

Harry’s dream – A spider tale-

Clissold_Park

It was a dark night at the small pond of Clissold Park. It was one of those nights with lights, flashes and lots of rain. It was really not desirable for a lady like Madame Agnette to go out there and get wet. Nonetheless there are times where a mother’s instinct simply takes over and drives a lady, like Agnette, into choices that a rational mind would discharge. This seems to be the case especially when offsprings are involved. An offspring was indeed what drew Agnette’s actions into that awful night. She saw him there, all alone right at the bottom of the big tree. Agnette immediately understood what the consequences of all that water would have meant for that poor creature. Although she knew that bringing unknown kids into one’s own household might one day  have lead to trouble, she could not refrain her motherly instinct. More than an instinct, to Agnette the instinct to save that small creature felt like an order she could not refuse. She just hoped that the poor creature would have grown up robust and healthy in her house, together with her hundreds other kids.

Harry was a spider who always had one dream: To walk on water.

That little fellow did not know where that crazy and uncommon dream came from. What he knew was that he always felt an impulse to master that unpredictable liquid element. He also knew that pursuing his dream would have probably not had taken him anywhere in life. Harry knew this because all his peers were interested only in becoming good web builders. None of them showed the minimum interest in water and less interest was shown for the idea of walking on it! This, however, was not good enough of a reason to stop him trying to pursue his dream.

Every day, after his web school classes (not a school about social media, but an actual school to create spider webs), Harry went all by himself near to the small pond outside the spider village to experiment new ways of achieving his dream.

Harry tried many different approaches: he put leaves under his tiny feet to balance himself on the surface, he tried to roll down a hill and then enter the pond as fast as he could and he even tried to experiment with explosives to get enough propulsion power. All of these attempts resulted in failures, one escaped drowning, a lot of laughs from his fellows and a deep worry from his mother Agnette. Yet nothing seemed to be able to distract Harry from his desire. Everyday he learned something more about the nature of water and about his own body. He was sure that all of these efforts would one day lead him to finally make his dream come true.

As years passed by all of Harry’s fellows became good craftsmen in the art of webs. Also most of them were already having few hundred offsprings. Harry.. Well Harry was just able to explain all the rules of hydrodynamic by heart (an useful skill in the human kingdom, less so among arachnoids), he developed a good knowledge of his own body, about nature, the wind, and seasons. Harry became a fast learner and most of all a person, oh excuse me, a spider, who was able to listen to the talk of the wind. In other words Harry was becoming more and more content of himself, yet, the secret of walking on water was still something beyond his grasping.

One day Harry had what he called: “The Golden Summer”. The golden summer resulted in a period of intense intellectual activity and inspiration. In a few months Harry was able to create many incredible inventions: the bubble machine deluxe, able to create protective air bubble, the leg-accelerator-2000, which moved legs incredibly quickly and the people mover, a complex system of leaves and lianas able to move people around. It is needless to say that none of those invention brought him nearer to walk on water. Most of them turned out to be useful for other uses, and they made the spider some profits as those machines turned out to solve many of his villagers’ problems.

All of this gave Harry a more comfortable life, allowing him to leave his crooked web and move to a comfortable house. Even his fellows now started to respect him and to show some signs of appreciation (even though to be seen to be near to Harry was still socially challenging!).

Nonetheless Harry dream was yet to be fulfilled…

The Golden Summer was turning to an end and Harry knew in his heart that if he wouldn’t be able to walk on water during that summer then he might as well have said goodbye to his attempts. For the first time Harry became aware that his dream might not have turned into a reality at all. For how sad this might have felt he was finally ready to accept this truth.

Harry was immersed into those thoughts as he was walking alone one day in front of the small pond of Clissold Park at the sunset. He so immersed in those reasonings that the voice he heard came with a big surprise. “Have you ever tried to just walk on it?”. Harry never heard that voice, yet it sounded as the sweetest thing he ever heard. It required just an instant to move around and see those beautiful eight eyes looking straight at him. Harry did not know what he felt in that moment. He just remembered the feeling of being overwhelmed he had the first time he almost drowned. Yet this time it was much sweeter.

Carolina, that was the name of the beautiful lady. Well you know how many stories go. Between the two it became love at first sight. She turned out to be just as gentle, smart and beautiful as you might imagine. More than everything Harry was in love with the fact that she was always able to show him how everything could be seen from a different perspective. As you can imagine Carolina made him completely forget about his dream to walk on water. This time, however, Harry had absolutely no regrets about it, on the contrary, he never felt happier in all his life!

Harry’s dream fell away completely from his consciousness until one day in which he was walking again near the pond with Carolina. They were speaking about living together, having kids and starting a family. Harry was so happy he could barely keep his smile. It was like that, without him even noticing, that Carolina made him realise that he was actually walking on the surface of the pond. It took Harry a while to recover from the surprise! He was actually walking on water! He, Harry, the little spider was finally walking on water! Without even noticing Harry made his dream come true!

How funny dreams are. At time they make little sense already to us and even less sense to others. Perhaps in reality they do not make much sense. Nonetheless there is something in dreams, in the ones that are coming straight from our hearths. They make us happy, they make us dream and especially, they give us an excuse to start a journey on which we grow, we develop and we exchange our lives with the one others, stepping into treasures were we could not possible foresee that there was one in the first place.

Well, now you know Harry’s tale. It is a true story, you know. I haven’t added any fiction in it. Ok, maybe just a little. Yet it is important every now and then to be remembered that it is good to dream, but that the best dreams are the ones we share with the people we love. And now, if you don’t believe in the Harry’s story, you can ask about it to the ducks in Clissold Park. They would be more than happy to tell you their version of it!