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Nth rejection.

Nth rejection.

Nth rejection.

Vincent rubbed the letter and threw it away.

He rose from the couch closer to the dining room table. He took a folder and opened it. A photo and a sheet with instructions. A nickname, a fictional character, an author to be demolished, the names of other members of the group assault, strategies and techniques of manipulation.

All very simple.

Finally, the Queen had decided to move to phase two of the project. The demolition of the reputation and talent of the writers who do not write with dignity. The destruction of art of all those who do not respect the rules of the manual. The annihilation of those who are opposed to visual art, the image, what matters more than anything else in entertainment: the eye of art.

We will not tell mouths, which summarize, condense it, that will reduce our perceptions. We want other eyes to see, eyes that describe and explain, that leaves us the task of explaining what they show us. We want that our requirement is erga a universal law, that it becomes an indelible mark on the meat as art.

Show, do not tell.

The only technical and the only choice.

No chance of hybrids, no artistic freedom.

The shit is shit.

Vincent took the laptop and went to sit in the chair. I place the PC on the legs. He reached his left hand toward the floor, looking for something. An oblong black helmet with a visor chess. Put it on with amusement.

The show begins.

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shutters lowered to half prevented the light the sun to illuminate the interior of the room. Intrusive shadow stretched its line along the white walls.

Luana, surrounded by some chairs Plastics collapsible, moving back and forth, kicking his feet with subtle micro-movements. The his disciples seated in chairs awaiting instructions in silence.

memories of adolescence readings assailed his mind. The harassment of writers harassed every night. Pieces of metal dipped in ink on the cheap. Words deformed hands and stubby black, toothless adverbs, adjectives hot, morbid metaphors, similes like ice water.

Luana stopped. He folded the corners of the mouth upward. He opened the envelope in her hand. He took the photos, each of which had a note attached with staples. He walked toward the center of the circle. He looked into the eyes of everyone present. Future writer forged by the mark of the manual and technology.

"Now is the long awaited moment. You're in or out? "

Each of the disciples stood up saying" Inside, "and sat down at his feet.

Luana raised his hands up, stretching your fingers to hit something of the atmosphere semi-darkness of the room.

"Go, you know what to do."

The disciples got up and left in single file. A long tentacle began to meander out of the den.

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Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 1

Vincenzo clutched a cold beer, sitting on a chair in the living room. The television broadcast "power games" a new reality show, a format adapted to the Swedish context morally abject Italy.

"I can not believe it. We fell for them too. They also believe that can write "he told the empty room.

He took a sip.

"Shit!", Took the remote from under the seats and increase the volume.

" Many believe that we must have the knowledge to post. The classic recommendation sovereign overlooking our society at all levels. All bullshit, if you allow me the time. Who is able to obtain a contract with, say, a large publishing house, worked hard and hard for years for recognition of its value. "

"So she says that there are no recommendations in an absolute sense?"

"Certainly. It is obvious that in some cases, say, for there may be an exchange ... please? Favor? This is what is reprehensible. But make this a malpractice universal law, well I find, honestly an idiot. Unfortunately in this country, the habit becomes the unwritten law. Consequently, even the mental habits. "

Vincent bent his lips upward. He took another sip. "Funny!"

" My last book comes full circle. Originally, the story had come out in a single volume, but ... "

" The base money got the better ... " said Vincent.

turned off the TV and threw the remote on the floor. "Cursed magic box. A house for drug addicts. A safe place to peddle their ideas viral ".

Only Internet could function as an antidote. Unfortunately, the virus lies were infecting the network. And they were stronger because they had relationships with power.

He took another sip of beer. He put his hands on the long hair. He put the beer on the floor with his hands and shrugged his temples.

A letter of shiny metal. Small splashes of blood rotten at the base of the letter. A city. Small buildings. Flocks of crows. The tower. The black prison of his heart. Then everything becomes cumbersome. The tower gaping its foundations. The tip bends and twists bends to the left of the landscape. The buildings devour space. The walls. The terraces. The doors. A swarm of kids from the lips tightened the joker smiles burst forth like a river in flood. They tattooed on the forehead in the letter. Blood and metal. And he, Vincent, is at the center, surrounded. The crows swooping and their heads are transfigured. Have her face. The face of the writer of the letter. Red blood cola from his hands. Vincent looks down. He no longer has hands. The laughter of the crows invade his mind.

He rose from his chair, taking in an inner order . Only I know. I'm only aware of what causes his lies. Only I know the rot and horror. Only I carry it in my heart.

He went to the wall to his right. A series of photographs, hung with duct tape, decorated the wall. The writer of the nightmare that received awards. The writer of the nightmare in the foreground, smiling and satisfied. The writer nightmare in hand with his novel.

Vincent pulled a dart from the dartboard on the wall. He took a few steps back, took aim and shot. The arrow hit the target. The left hand of the writer of the nightmare.

"Hit! You have left little to write. Now the connection ".

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Andrea is disconnected. Lowered the monitor of the laptop and put his elbows on the desk. The hand on thinning hair. Baldness was doing his job. I looked out the window. A long stretch of mountains served as the backdrop to a small cluster of houses with red bricks and pitched roofs. This extensive line which constrain his vision had the power to feed his imagination. Beyond the mountains could be anything.

His art was a stubborn fight against the architectural barriers of nature and reality. He was the author, the agent of freedom, escape from prison. He was the author of amalgam, alchemy between chaos and order, between imagination and reality. He knew the truth.

Many, however, were not yet ready to implement his message, the ultimate meaning of the word transfigured in his works.

Andrea stood up and forcefully pushed his chair. A grinding noise invaded the solitude of his room.

The presentation of his latest novel was a devastating experience. The players, thousands of them, asked, demanded an explanation, asking questions, the hooker. Why this and because this one. Questioned him on the text!

The Messiah reads the word to the apostles, silent and obedient. His words in their minds and they come with a receptive mind and accept it and perceive the Truth. The ultimate meaning and origin of living things. Shit, so he had to go!

Fortunately there were still small group of intelligent and sensitive readers, who idolized and appreciated his work. A dying breed. Then there were the indifferent, the readers most of all admired, who I like , I do not like . One that leaves him free to express themselves.

The fight against the popular imagination it was a difficult and dangerous because new factor was added to the hostility of the readers. Perhaps this was due to hostilities by invading bloody and merciless of this new factor. The technical factor. The new Bible. The red text. Metaphor for the totalitarianism that you definitely wanted to bring the creativity of being human. Technical and market needs.

Every player wore on his right hand a manual technique. Read and write. Learned. It posed questions and find answers in the manual. Each player was efficient. Each player was writing.

could count them one by one. Crazy machines with their hands in manual. Machines with the crooked mouth screaming and gnashing of teeth, a dull metallic sound, which raised his arm up and threw this book against him. Then from the palm of the hand other hand gave birth to hurl against the writer. Repeating the gesture infinity.

However, the manuals had forgotten to bring a decisive element in alchemy: the talent.

A novel without talent is like a human being without a soul.

Andrea knew " There's a war taking place. Is this war affects us all. "

dragged the chair to his desk, picked up the monitor and the laptop connected to the network.