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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Booksie Classic
A surreal short story.

Submitted: July 21, 2011

A A A | A A A

Submitted: July 21, 2011



In a historic city, “Cisi-dipi-trin” was the daily chant of the

typographer well situated beside his hometown. All he did

was printing day in and day out, not for money but for the

affection he had for his job, and that was making the current

Gods very upset.

The more he did a good job and the more evolve the

typographer seem to be, and was also increasing in volume;

the laws where he lived were enforced by the upholsterer,

illicit and not permitted.

Sometimes the typographer was ironically cited like

something special, and a river of pride flowed inside of him.

One day he was ordered to give a name to a tower, and being

not an optimist, he followed his faith anyway and started to

think deep thoughts.

When the wind begun blowing, a figure moved among the

papers: it was the author of the tower together with a dummy

that showed exceptional endowment.

The correctness of the typographer engagements it was such

that seemed like a vehicle without wheels, ample and

without match, and at his side a river shrimp revealed itself

perennial father so not to lose courage, you know!

At this very moment, the typographer, that according to

legend was continually fixated on a famous play by

Aristofane, could not pass through other states nor could he

have dedicated himself to the loving care of Barbarians.

The city monarch, stripped by his abilities to govern the

place, demanded that the typographer would show himself in

front of him only with the use of his passport; failing to do

so the monarch would have requested the use of ambiguous

vaccines and the mandatory listening of the evocatively

Austrian Christmas song, very well known everywhere.

So...the typographer was under scrutiny, when he provoked a

poetic fight through annotations and documents that will hit

in the back even the most voracious silent movie lovers.......


Even though he had fairy hands, when he was punching he

wore gloves (which are frequent in April), but the Sicilian

camorra was not of the same rack and opignion; in fact, an

appetizing list infested the typographer's lab, and radiant

spot lights showed an harp and some guitars entitled “That's

right...Me”. The last letters from the typographer allowed

him to find a wagon full of cole, a door to the Mediterranean

and an expert of birds. Like you see here, the typographer

was not waisting his time with futile matters.

© Copyright 2020 camuspharna. All rights reserved.

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