The golden age/Età dell’oro

The very first page of my novel to become the very best like no one ever was. Prima pagina del romanzo a cui sto lavorando. Celebrating my 50th post on this blog.

Part one: Good luck, Struggler (The Golden Age)


  • A kid who curses his fate
  • Takamura -A kid who has it all- Lawson
  • Lilith -A clueless girl who is looking for a fight
  • Jeff -A veteran lucky enough to have survived the war- Wells
  • An absent mother


  • Maid number three


In this world, is the destiny of mankind controlled by some transcendental entity or law? Is it like the hand of God hovering above? At least it is true that man has no control; even over his own will.Berserk by Kentaro Miura

I had to persevere because this was my life. This championship, this was the stuff I dreamt of all my life, and I wasn’t gonna be denied.” Mike Tyson



Crash (X3)

Boom (refrain)



Silence.              At last.

But it is still moving. Its mouth is vomiting red all over the road. It reminds me of the lava coming from the volcano I created for my science project. It wasn’t actually lava but a mix between baking soda, vinegar, and water. The legs are bent into 90-degree angles. I can see the bones standing out from the fur. It seems like those ancient Roman ruins I have seen in my art class. The wind is rising. It can talk to me. The wind, I mean. But I also mean the dog. I cannot understand a single word. I kick it (I am fairly sure it is a Boston Terrier) in the belly.

“What did you say? What did you say to me?!”

Now it also stopped moving. The wind passing through my new friend’s bones produces a strange kind of melody. There is a rhythm. There is passion. Way better than most of the songs I listen to.

Yeah… I would say the comparison between the carcass and the Roman ruins is appropriate. Ruins filled with the lament of ghosts. A dead body tormented by the indifference of the wind. I take a better look. The head is split open but there is no sign of the brain. I can only see parts of the skull. My hands are covered in sweat and my bat drops on the road. I barely notice the sound of it dropping on the ground. This is beautiful. This is beautiful for the only reason that is not beautiful. This is art. This is beauty. How was that old saying?

Beauty never comes from happiness.

“Did you want to tell me this? Is this what you meant before?”

The thing stopped vomiting blood. It looks peaceful now. No more pain. No more struggle. Just peace and love. Just like what I feel inside right now. The adrenaline is gone now. Yes, this is what he wanted to say.

“I forgive you.”

I can see my breath condensing into small puffs. I feel the wounds on my arms the dog made to me to defend himself. It’s going to rain very soon but I am only wearing a t-shirt. It’s cold but I am feeling so good. I am so glad I am alive. I carefully look around me. There is no one here around. I clean my hands on my jeans and I pick up my bat. First, however, I bow to the carcass of the dog (my personal, special, little pantheon), I touch the blood on the street and I put a finger in my mouth.

It is cold and delicious. Just as I thought. I notice a wooden collar around its neck. Axel. I smile. I have never seen such an appropriate name.

There is nothing for me here. I envy the people who would walk in my temple. I would not be here to see the surprise on their faces. But this is what being an artist means. Your creations will always survive you. Nothing you can do about that. I look at my watch. I raise my eyebrows. I am slightly late. Being late is a clear sign of indifference and disrespect towards my duties, my school, and my parents. I have to wake up earlier if I want to work on my art.

Time for school.