We just have to choose to remember by Pierre Matile

Published in Freedom

 In memory to all the victims of atrocities in so many cities in so many periods in time. Their ghosts haunt our towns. I have been very impressed by the humanity of President Biden's speech for the 100th anniversary of the Tulsa massacre. His words resonates. We just have to choose to remember to prevent us from committing the same crimes over and over again.

The complete transcript of the speech is available on:
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That and Tupac by Trystan Mullins

Published in Frontpage

It was a summer afternoon in the heart of the city, the heat was almost unbearable. Most were taking shelter in the shade of there persianas, finishing a long lunch or already enjoying a little siesta.

My head pounded, sweat poored down my forehead and cheeks as I squinted my eyes, but I was there, alone and making the most of it. A light breeze made skating just about bareable to get through my flat land repertoire before feeling completely subdued and having to retreat back to the comfort of the shade. It was a challenging time of the day to skate but the peace and stillness I got from it were motivation enough for me to preserve. That and Tupac.

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The Renaissance by Jozef Maudry

Published in Frontpage

Translations that don't make any sense. Thousands of words, yet subject is the same. Infinitely touted phrases from tirelessly boring representatives of a society that already sees the bottom of the Abbys. There, in their service uniforms and convinced of their eloquent uniqueness.

A buzz in the head, rambling about saving values, preaching on dirty pretended and 1984 times tangled morality. Complete take over - goodbye logic and compassion! White over yellow and black. Glazing through the microscope of life, ignorantly taking charge of melanocytes, the true and only determinants of color.
Lo and behold! Another piece in our grand collection. A few species less, a few tenths of a degree more, but exactly 144 meters higher…at least some numbers make sense. They calm us down, mitigate the pain and avert the suicidal tendencies.
They come. As fragments or waves, they come. Some go unnoticed, others take whole cities with them. And as we accelerate, we forget. More efficiently, quietly. Time is on the loose, let’s repeat everything, over and over again!
Learning is the mother of wisdom after all. And yet mothers forgive their naive children and tyrannous men. It would be naive to think that nothing will change - after all - everything will be as before. Beautiful grey rainbow.
The Renaissance, but without new beginnings of modern age, humanism or empirical cognition.
The Renaissance' where I play a song, but no music can be heard. Unobtrusively, so as not to disturb you from your epistemic orgasms. In greyness they were born, in greyness they stand. Days, months, centuries, millennia - in parallel layers, thinking how it might be.

Let me draw you my perception of the world…

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The bitter Taste of the End by Luciana Barros

Published in Frontpage

A glass of wine and the truth comes out. So many years together and today they don't recognize each other anymore. They were too young when the romance started. They had the same dreams: traveling the world, having children, building a family, a home, a successful career.

Yes, she was the ideal woman. And he swore eternal love, in joy or sadness, in health or in sickness. And suddenly, before the glass of wine, the promise broke.
Many promises, words that are worthless. Words come and go with the wind and melt away on the horizon. Spoken words, which were not written or recorded, are useless.
He didn't want it to be that way. But he now loves someone else and cannot go on. It's the end. Nothing else will be able to bring back the feeling that once brought them together.
He says it is her fault. She, who has always dedicated herself to her family, is now bitter about the words of the one who swore it would be forever.
Nothing, nothing in this world, can last forever. We were born doomed to the end. Whether we like it or not, the fate of the union is separation. Whatever the reason, whoever is to blame, one day everything comes to an end. Next to the wine in the cup, which, at the last drop, leaves the bitter taste of the end.

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The professor by Miguel Moniz

Published in Frontpage

Robert walked into the dusty gallery and found the old bookstore at the end of the corridor. It only sold used books. Rare first editions and out of print titles, as well as past encyclopaedias, law compendia and other academic texts. As a history professor at the local university, he had a keen appreciation of this type of disappearing establishment. An endangered species in the world of commerce, but one with an important role in the preservation of knowledge. As his mentor – from his days as an undergraduate – used to say, civilisations that forget the ideas of the past cannot understand their present nor see clearly what their future will be like. 

As he walked into the bookstore, he was immediately hit by the earthy, musty smell of the old books and their slowly decaying paper. He went to one of the shelves and found a leather-bound compendium on 19th Century philosophy. He recognised many of the authors mentioned in the index, but a few he hadn’t heard of. He picked up his smartphone and googled their names. There were several pages of irrelevant search results. After a few attempts he gave up on the online search.

He went over to the old man who had managed the store for decades, persevering in his dwindling business, forked over a few euros, put his new old book under his arm and went home.

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An unwanted interruption by Nicolas Komninos

Published in Frontpage

Finally, he has some time for himself. It’s been so long since his last 50km bike ride. Too much time, wasted really in daily chores, stress and that odd health scare he had last year.

He pumps some air to the nearly flat tires, then finds his cycling helmet and slowly wipes the dust off. He has put on some weight so the cycling clothes barely fit him. He takes off and navigates as fast as he can through the city roads, relishing at the cold air flowing through his face and clothes, so very refreshing. He vows to do this more often.
Then, his phone rings. His first reaction is to ignore it. Let it ring. He does not want to interrupt this perfect moment. But, he can’t do that. He just has to answer. It’s not polite if he doesn’t. He will not be able to enjoy the rest of his ride while carrying a phone with a missed call. What if this call is urgent? What if it the person on the other side of these airwaves gets worried when he doesn’t pick up?
He scolds himself for not leaving the phone behind, at the house. Not that this would have been a real option. He stresses when he stays unconnected. What if something happens to his family or friends while he is away? He would be riding in his ignorant bliss, completely unaware of the things that people would be calling him to report. Just the thought of this would force him to turn his bike around, cut his ride short and return. He does not have the power to force himself to disconnect for any length of time.
The phone is still ringing, interrupting his long-awaited ride, the only time which he devotes to himself. But he has no choice. He has to pick it up. Back when he got his first-ever mobile phone, some 25 years ago, everyone reveled at being connected all the time. Back then, no one realized that once you cross that line, there’s no turning back.
He slows down, but does not stop. He will pick up, but he will do it while the wheels of his bike are still turning. This is his last line of defense. He takes one hand off the steering wheel and bites the edge of his riding glove, slowly removing it. He finds his smartphone in his pocket and lets his finger make contact with the touch screen. He swipes.

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