Just a story of islands

 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07JKFNCDG

Chapter 3

 

The entry was dark, but after closing the front door behind our shoulders, we noticed, on the left, an open door, which filtered a weak light. After we had gone through a poorly illuminated and narrow corridor, we turned into a staircase. There was not any sign of life all around. At length we found, still on the left, an open door and we leaned out to see.

" Come in, come in" said a voice from behind a disclosed glasses’ door.

And before we could do or say anything, a thin face appeared on the threshold and in a firmer and louder tone repeated:

"Come in, at last!".

He soon showed us two chairs in front of his desk and started watching us with questioning expression.
I also observed him with attention and curiosity.
He was the thinnest person I had ever seen in my life. You could rather say that he was made but skin and bones. He had prominent cheekbones and also the jaws, the temples and the front were very protruding.

If some incredibly brisk and extraordinarily green eyes had not filled his eyes sockets, I might have also believed that he could really be made of skull and crossbones.
But skulls and crossbones, usually, do not speak. Furthermore he wore some suits which let him to look like a normal man.

 "I am Mr Winningoes. What can I do for you?" –he said as soon as we had sat down.

 " We are looking for a job" - George immediately said after a brief pause.

" What kind of job are you looking for?"  said the man on his way. Despite of the appearances, his voice sounded like a perfect job’s agency employee.

 "Everything will be all right" I dared, in my difficult English, staring at George to ask confirmation of the agreement we had hastily reached, not to speak at all of Mr Joking.

" Ah!"  the man exclaimed "Let’s see, then."

With the thin finger he started pointing up the lines of some sheets leaned on a skin braid on his front. He mumbled, rather than leaked, without any sense and, from time to time, he fixed a careful look to one or the other of us and after, shaking his head, he started over reading.

He had finally arrived to the last sheet, and rather seemed that the finger already slipped from the sheet to the braid, and from this to the green glass that covered the plan of the desk, when the old man pronounced with vivacity: - “Here you are! Two intelligent young people, good health, bachelors and prepared to travel around, we are looking for easy and pleasant job. Good conditions. No references are required."

to be continued...

Just a story of islands

 

 

 

 https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07JKFNCDG

Chapter 2

 

That Friday, the 9th of November 1979, right the day we were going to meet that strange Mr Winningoes, as we had soon to discover, I followed him on the wide tree-lined roads. On the sidewalks, the leaves, fallen during the night, had formed a thick and soft carpet, on which George seemed to walk with special pleasure.

It was a colorless day, one of those typical London winter days where the diurnal light maintains the same slim intensity, from mornings to evenings, and the night comes up suddenly unexpected, when the pale and smothered reverberation of the sun, behind a thick blanket of clouds, has concluded its almost invisible cycle.

It blew a fresh and light breeze. But the wind, from time to time, became impetuous, and by means of violent gusts seemed to push us, like for joking or as if it wanted to encourage us to go straight ahead. And courage was exactly what we really needed, as our search of a job was becoming a serious and weary problem.

“I don't recognize the London's gone times anymore” George had told me, not later than the former evening, coming out from one of the many jobs agencies we had uselessly visited.

I followed him on his march, absorbed in the noise that our own footsteps produced on the leaves. The rhombus of an auto dissuaded suddenly my attention.

”Where are we going to?” I asked him.

” We will try to go this way along” he answered turning slightly back his head. “This way through we will rejoin the Maida Vale. There are plenty of job’s agencies up there.”

George knew a lot better than I that area, as he was living since a longtime. He had taken that one-room flat where we were living together, with a girl, now got back to Italy, like he fleetingly told me, not without a shade darkening sadly his eyes and I did not dare to ask him more of it. We walked silently. Sometimes we crossed some hasty passing or perceived, almost more than hear it, as a fleeting apparition, a car or a motorbike whose noise was spaced out slowly, as absorbed and diluted in the immensity of the surrounding silence.

We walked around and after an indefinite time, that desert of dry leaves seemed to stop against an iron handrail.

I brusquely handed at it, gasping and excited for the march and for a strange emotion that had suddenly pervaded me. From my point of observation, tall brushes of trees hid the horizon and I could only see, slightly swaying in the void, a green poster with the write “Winpey “in red- block dark characters.

I felt a pleasant excitement throughout my body. A feeling that immediately was of lightness. A desire to let my body flow in the air, toward that poster, flying the sky.

-” Let’s go down these steps”.

The George’s voice dissuaded me from my thoughts. As we went down the stairway, the view, under of us, revealed its real contours. That poster, that seemed like suspended in the air, was the summit of the tall pylon of a crane that laid in the center of an immense housing estate.

I watched again toward that write and noticed that it was hacked against a loaded leady sky with no change of tonality. A dark and heavy vault until my eyes could see.

”Are we in the morning or in the evening, George?” I did seriously.

”What difference does it make?!” he answered almost in a mocking way “However there seem that some people are working over there. Let’s go and see.” He added turning to a serious tone back.

We reached the site fence. Through the interspaced tables that bounded we saw numerous working machines: diggers, shovels, concrete mixers, kneaders, all laying like dead animals, in the most total silence.

"Are you sure there are some people working here? I can't see anybody."

George gave a look through the tables too, a little bending on them.

"They might be stopping for one of the so many "tea-times" English people like to do. Let’s look for the entrance and then we will see."

To find the access of the yard, that occupied a wide place in the center of a crossroad, we walked along his perimeter. The entrance was exactly on the opposite side. We entered.

Between working machines and shovels, heaps of sand and piles of sacks of cement, bricks, lumbers, irons and utensils, we noticed a small cottage of red plate, that was almost in the centre of the building yard. We were approaching there when a small door was opened out of the shed.

"Hello boys!" A gentleman said sorting out " Can I help you?"

His voice was cordial and happy. It seemed he was talking to well known persons.

" Is there any need of some workers?" - George did him without preambles and also laughing. We stopped a little closer and so I had the opportunity to better observe him: he looked quite a lot peaky, making a net contrast with the strong black of the hair. He dressed with elegance a brown suit on a white shirt with a red and black cravat.

" I would not mind at all " the man replied in the former jovial tone -" but our firm assumes only through the agency. Now I will give you the address so you can go and see there. There are good hopes. Follow me in to the office, please" he spurred us, seeing we were so undecided.

Just a story of islands

 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1687004994

That London summer 1979 had exceptionally been long and mild (London whether, at middle August, it is usually already cold). Such a whether allowed me to make profitably the ice cream sale. We sold them to the passer-bys, leaned out in the street with a freezing machine “Carpigiani” that, in the evening, after the sale, we located inside a shop of souvenirs along the Oxford Street. Working together had contributed to strengthen our knowledge and we became so good friends.

Of George I appreciated the self-confidence that showed in the practical and small things of everyday’s needs, as for instance knowing how to cook rather than to be skilful in the use of English language. This assurance of his, nevertheless, was oddly conjugated with his strenuous internal search that seemed finalized to understand the deepest sense of our life on the earth. That after all was the main reason which had pushed me in to London town.

These things I had realized through the great discourses that, alternate to long silences, we had along that time.

George was rather a reserved man, who didn't love very much to speak of himself, at least not in direct and explicit manner. Neither he seemed very interested to pick up the alien confidences.

He apparently gave the impression to have something to hide or have run away from someone he needed to forget, in a city where also a celebrity would pass unnoticed. But after a short time, I had realized that his silences, his reservation, his misanthropy were together the fruit of a shyness and the result of a reflexive and deep character, projected towards a spiritual search that, absorbing big part of his energies, detached him from the material things of daily life, except those strictly necessary for living through.

The search of an ideal world, through dimensions and experiences untied from the normalcy and the usualness of everyday life, had been soon the point of contact and more important welding in our relationship. Furthermore, apart all this, I had found on him a disinterested support, without which my London adventure would have soon ended up. Then the summer, suddenly ended, and slowly but surely, also vanished the savings put aside in the ice cream season.

to be continued...

 

The Essence of Life

 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B07JKFNCDG

Chapter 1

George and I

 

I had known George, just in the summer of  1979, in a little snack bar, in the beginning of my London stay. A snack-cafe not so far from Piccadilly Circus, where they made a slightly drinkable coffee. I used to go there, because it was the only place where the coffee was served in the small, classical, Italian cups, and even if it was served with no cream, it was still better than that watered black soap that almost all barmen sell off for coffee in England.

The snack-bar premises were in a large rectangular room. On the right of the entry there was the counter with the coffee-machine, while both on the left and  the opposite wall, in front of   the entry-door,  there was a wood bench, lined in brown colored plastics and, straight above, lined in the identical way, a narrow shelf, plenty of sugar-bowls and ashtrays.

The left wall, for the whole length of the bench, beginning from the shelf and finishing to the originally white-painted ceiling, was made of a thick transparent glass that, giving brightness to the place, allowed the visitors to enjoy a wide outside sight where, just in front, was well visible the entrance of a theatre with an ample and luxurious atrium. It was there that George seemed to stare up his look, over the round glasses (like John Lennon’s, I had thought).

His olive complexion, the chestnut hair and the black moustaches didn't make him certainly look like a probable Queen‘s subject, but I questioned him, this not less, in English. Also because, after all we were in London. What other idiom was I supposed to speak?

He burst into laughter, hearing  my question. Not immediately, but after turning his head to look at me, with a funny expression on his face, while with my hands I repeated my request for fire, rubbing, at the same time, my right forefinger on the palm of the left hand.

After lighting his own cigarette, as I stood close and steady, much more interdict than angry, because of his crazy laughing, he told me in a strongly stressed, though smooth, Italian language:

 “Sorry for laughing, but Italian people do make notice of them, when they speak English. You come from Rome, don’t you?” -, he suddenly added, smiling with satisfaction to my sad, affirmative answer.

The place, beside the two of us and a girl sitting on the other side of the bench, was empty. The barkeeper, behind the counter, was preparing a great copy of sandwiches, with cheese and tomatoes, lettuce and meats and a few others with all four ingredients together, according to the best English taste.

 “And you, where do you come from?” - I asked him in some annoyed tone for that reference to the Italian’s accent and particularly to that of the Romans, whose noble descendants I am still proud to belong.

-” I am not Italian” - he answered to me with peaceful voice “but I have lived quite a lot of years in Italy. So I know your customs quite well, and also your accent” -, concluded laughing again tastefully.

This time his laughing, however, didn't upset me at all. Those few words had been enough to make my anger fade away; or maybe I was just only glad to talk to someone without squeezing my brain to translate my thoughts from Italian into English language.

To recognize nationalities through the English speaking accents, was only one of the so many eccentric aspects of George’s personality, as I had the opportunity to discover thereafter.
But what struck me mostly among them, determining the consolidate of our friendship, was his passion, shared by me, for the esoteric philosophies. Actually ‘till then, I had reputed them exclusive knowledge of the eastern cultures, while George, rightly in the period we met, was studying at one (whose study he had to introduce me, later on), that he granted to the Huichols, a direct descending people of the ancient pre-Colombian populations that in the present state, according to what at that time he told me, were still living in the north western mountains of Mexico.

...to be continued...

The Dreamer: a romance of madness and love

 

 

 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0CQDFK2JW

Chapter 8

How had succeeded, that strange old man, in transporting those visions down our sights, below the windows? The same visions I had still in my mind, being so fresh and real, we had just lived right that Friday of 9th November 1979 I was relating to!

We walked silently. Sometimes we crossed some hasty passing or perceived, almost more than hear it, as a fleeting apparition, a car or a motorbike whose nose was spaced out slowly, as absorbed and diluted in the immensity of the surrounding silence. Turning around several times, after an indefinite time, that desert of dry leaves seemed to stop against an iron handrail.

From my point of observation, tall brushes of trees hid the horizon and I could only see, slightly swaying in the void, a green poster with the write “Winpey “in block red-dark characters.

I felt a pleasant excitement throughout my body. A feeling that immediately was of lightness. A desire to let my body flow in the air, toward that poster, flying the sky.

 As we went down the stairway, the view, under us, revealed his real contours.

That poster, that seemed to me like suspended in the air from my previous point of view, was the summit of the tall pylon of a crane that laid in the center of an immense housing estate.

I watched again toward that write and noticed that it was hacked against a loaded leady sky with no change of tonality. A dark and heavy vault until my eyes could see.

To find the access of the yard that occupied a wide place in the center of a crossroad, we walked for a half along his perimeter. The thick tables that bounded it were interspaced by half an inch, around through numerous working machines were glimpse: diggers, shovels, concrete mixers, kneaders, all firm, as dead animals, in the most total silence.

The entrance was exactly on the opposite side of the inn from where, for the first time, I had perceived the pylon of the crane. We reached it, after a quick and silent walk. Between working machines and shovels, heaps of sand and piles of sacks of cement, bricks, lumber, irons and utensils, we noticed a small cottage of red plate that was almost in the centre of the building yard. We were approaching there when a small door opened out of the shed.

«Hello boys!» A gentleman said sorting out. « Can I help you?»

His voice was cordial and happy. It seemed he was talking to well known persons.

«Is there any need for some workers?», George did him without preambles and also laughing.

We stopped a little closer and so I had the opportunity to better observe him: he looked quite a lot peaky, making a net contrast with the strong black of the hair. He dressed with elegance a brown suit on a white shirt with a red and black cravat.

«I would not mind at all», the man replied in the former jovial tone -«but our firm assumes only through the agency. Now I will give you the address so you can go and see it. There are good hopes. Follow me into the office, please» -, he spurred on, seeing us so undecided.

The office looked like a building field. As matter of fact inside there were numerous buckets full of hammers, chisels, pickets, water levels, trowels and other mason utensils.

Once inside, Mr. Joking (that was the name he had introduced himself, asking us in turn our names) immediately passed beyond a desk loaded on with papers, different samples of colored tiles and some minute utensils. He scrutinized us for a long while.

« Where do you come from?» He asked after a careful examination, dissuading his look.

«From Italy» George promptly responded, preceding me.

We seemed to overcome his examination, because he smiled in a satisfied way.

«Here is your agency’s address» he said after scribbling some lines on a piece of paper, - «and good luck!», added while handing the note to George!

We had not even had the time to read it that we heard a strong aloud voice:

«Old Pat doesn't stand people pronouncing his name and that of his Agency in a wrong way and above all he doesn't bear to be told any lies. If you do it, you won't have any job from him».

Then, turning to Mr Joking he added:

«Sir Patrick the Hanger Winnin’goes again, doesn’t he?» Only later on we had to realize that the big man we saw rudely laughing, turning a look back on our shoulders, was not misgiving English language at all, as he willingly wanted but to stress the wrong verb, like he really did.

George stood perplexed, with the note in his hand, now looking at the big man, who was still laughing, now Mr. Joking, who seemed rather embarrassed than enjoyed.

I walked closer when I saw him reading the note. On a single line the note said:

"Pat Winningoes - Gehenna Geld", and nothing else.

«Strange names, the last two. They sound quite German», George exclaimed in a low voice.

«He has not even put the telephone number. Shall we ask for it?» I said.

«We might take a look for it on the telephone guide. Still if it really does exist»,

George murmured. putting the note in his pocket while sorting out the cottage. We walked out without even greeting, with fast and nervous footsteps. Before reaching the exit of the yard, nevertheless, we heard a man’s call.

« Hey, wait a moment, please!», Mr. Joking came rushing slightly breathing towards us.

«Do not pay attention to Big Joe, please! He is a joker» he added gently, smiling like he had made the first time, with a tone of reassuring voice.

«Come over with me, please» , he said, driving us over the exit.

«You cross the road in that direction and take the avenue you have in front; then, taking the third street on your left, that can’t be wrong, you will see a big door in dark wood. There is the agency. Go in….. and...... good luck»!

He had spoken all of a breath and in such a convincing way that we had already forgotten Big Joe and his strange former laughing. The avenue that Mr Joking had pointed us, was really the third crossroad on the left. It was a blind, wide and short alley.

At the bottom a massive dark wood doorway was standing out, occupying all the breath of the street..

More than the entry of a job’s agency, it seemed to be the entrance of a rich and luxurious residence. A few steps in marble lead to an extraordinarily glimmering atrium, to whose sides were risen, also in marble, two mighty columns.

George, walking the steps, almost was very close to stumbling. He restored his equilibrium immediately, murmuring an annoyed "My goodness!" and looking on the bottom of his shoes, like searching for the cause of the accident.

The wind was blowing more insistently, and formed in the alley a strong eddy, violently shaking above the front door a rectangular poster which was bestowed with some scotch tape, held out against the wind on a unique side. With my right hand I stopped it on the front door. We read there, in a clear handwriting and cursive characters:

"London Trickery and Illusion Centre."

«But where the hell did they send us?» said George looking at me.

«I do not know!», I answered, releasing the side of the poster, which retook immediately to wave.

«They made a joke of us, those two braggarts!», I told him with an angry voice. Then turning to my companion - «Didn't we make a mistake by wrongly counting the road crossings?», I said returning back on our steps to check in.

«Come soon to have a look, please!», cried George in that while, with an excited tone of voice.

I quickly returned to my footsteps and drew close to him. With the right hand he stopped the poster on the front door and surprisingly I could read on it this time - "Pat Winningoes - Geenna Geld Agency - 1st Floor."

«What devil of history is this? »-, I told George, who was looking at me in a mocking way, with the right hand still fixing the poster on the door.

-« The history is all here» , he answered. And with emphatic gestures as a conjurer who discloses an amazing trick to the public, he turned the poster from one side to another, showing the different writings we had read on it just a little before. I turned it a couple of times, to make myself convinced, while George was already pushing the other half of the front door.

to be continued...

The story of Mr Winningoes - 12

As you certainly know all our mental energy springs by a simple chemical reaction that is continuously produced in our brain. Such reaction, that the physicians define with the name of “synapse”, is originated by the reaction between the liquid whose any  brain is imbued and the cells it copiously contains.

In practice this liquid, that has equal molecular structure in every man, works as a tracing detector of the cerebral process, whose action is, instead, what countersigns a man from another.

The intimate reasons for such different action of the cerebral processing, have seen divided for a long time the humanity.

Manhood has however been until now incapable to intend the true reason for the difference of the beings of its species.

A human being, from the scientific point of view, it is only a product of a casual connection of the basically chemical mixtures that are contained in the cells. And all its activity is coordinated by the cerebral cells.

To succeed on obtaining a distillate of those cells, meant therefore to dispose of a substance of inestimable value.

You can of course imagine, what such an emotion I felt when I injected those drops that were deposed on the fund of the test-tube, to a rat guinea-pig.

The result was amazing, greater and more meaningful than I had been able to foresee myself. The mouse, a normal mouse of averages age and greatness, after spending twelve hours asleep, wakened up again.

Apparently he seemed to be the same as before the injection, but actually he moved in a different manner however.

He had, in a few words, a different air. He slowly started walking and moving its tail upwards, in a way quite unusually for a mouse; furthermore he sniffed and smelled the air and the ground of the cage. And I was much more surprised when I saw him stretching its legs towards and backwards,  forming a tall hunch with his backbone,  then sitting down leaking his pawns and finally resting in leisure with a sleepy way. Its limbs still looked like those of a mouse, but they behaved as belonging to a cat! That was the exceptional result!

The animal seemed restless and took on turning around the cage with his feline behavior. He was surely looking for some food.

I gave him his usual mice food but after he had smelled it for a long time, he started over turning around visibly more nervous and hungrier. I opened a cat tin food and with my great surprise he devoured that meal in a flash.

He grew up constantly in the following days, assuming a double massive structure compared to the same aged of his own race, then his growth seemed to halt.

His epidermis had not suffered either big mutations;  nor  the bony structure, at least externally, showed to have acquired any peculiar characters, except for the moustaches and the legs, that seemed to have changed for a most congenial use to cat’s needing.

In the movements and in the external behavior he moved as a cat though having the semblances of a mouse.

A serious question had bothered me since the first days of the experiment: how would that animal relate with another mice? And how would other cats relate with him? In his more inner instinct had he become a cat or he had remained a mouse?

With much trepidation I moved him to captivity with other mice: they started to squeak very afraid; it was evident that those small rodents had immediately warned the hostile presence.

He had a good time pursuing them and grabbing them as cats make with mice, and at long, exhausted and satisfied, he rested quietly on a side of the big cage, while the little mice, remained farther all afraid and trembling.

He didn't show any interest to pursue them, more than joking  in that way, perhaps because he was not hungry or even because something inside prevented him from doing it.

The thing, after all, didn't interest me and I transferred him afterwards with a real cat, and also there the success arose to me: they behaved as two bosom and jovial friends.

At the beginning I thought to try his reproduction, but actually this would have been only an interesting and suggestive detour from my principal aim.

In order to reach it I had to gather all my efforts, and the results of that first experiments constituted the base of my following job.

First of all it was clear that the cerebral muscle, under particular conditions of temperature and environment, like those which took accidentally place that prophetic day in my laboratory, released a particular, liquid and dense substance, containing the fundamental geniuses, that I call primaries; those which are responsible of the most intimate and  proper characters of the race.

It was also evident that such substance appeared able to be moved into another brain,  creating there a new habitat in which to regenerate its cells and with them  repurchase its functions and its aboriginal characters.

I verified more times the exactness of these hypotheses, but only in a direction, that I define evolutionary. The experiment only succeed if the essence of a superior animal, in the steps of the evolutionary chain, was introduced in the brain of an inferior animal, while in the other way down, the phenomenon took place in a lesser and very attenuated tone,  deprived of significant consequence.

I baptized the liquid essence ‘nouchefalon ', and I prepared hence myself to develop in the foreseen direction my experiments.

What would it happen if I  transfused some ‘human nouchefalon ' in to the brain of another man?
12. to be continued...

The story of Mr Winningoes - 11

My studies would get a great advantage from this new decisive financial impulse. But why didn't I feel any sorrow for my father’s death? Yet I had loved him, in the cheerful days of the infancy; and he had loved me.

Thinking about the years of my infancy and the coasts of beloved and distant Cornwall, I finished to consume my poor meal, then I returned downstairs.

I immediately noticed that something strange had happened during my brief absence.

In the test-tube the brain of the cat had dried, acquiring a grey and pale color.

I extracted it with the pliers: it seemed a dry sponge without neither weight nor smell. What devil had it happened?

 It was a gust of wind which answered to me.

In that underground where I secretly developed my experiments, I had not left but a small window, that I wanted surfaced to the level of the ground.

It had slightly disclosed, quiet enough to allow the passage of a provident ray of sun which, intruding the optic circuit of the microscope, had poured in with all its mighty energy, dehydrating completely the object of my experiments.

But my light, initial disappointment had soon to be transformed in high exultation, when I closer observed the test-tube that had served like furnace to that unforeseen experiment. On its fund rested some drops of a dense and glimmering liquid! I had a lightning, an intuition that afterwards had to be exactly revealed.

Admirably exact, my friends! I had found the way to extract from the muscle that includes our life, from the brain that contains all the knowledge of a human being,  its own essence. An extract, a summary, that is the same, but free from the physical brain’s encumbrance, from the grey mash that comprises it. Free from the flesh as a soul is free from its body as an idea from his thinker,  as a thought from its action!

11. to be continued...
If you want to read more of this please go to the link below.

https://kdp.amazon.com/self-publishing/edit-book/one?digitalItemId

The story of Mr Winningoes - 10

A beautiful day, in fact, while I was observing under the microscope a cat’s brain, ulterior, fortunate guinea-pig, subtracted to the deprivations of its life for the glory of the Science, an amazing account happened to me.

I had set the small feline’s organ in a cylindrical open neck test-tube and I was continuously thinking about it, looking as usual for a sprout of understanding on its complex and mysterious composition. At a certain point, needing something to eat, I went upstairs. I left unwillingly open the microscope’s focus. I was going to have a cup of tea, with my daily survival meal, when I heard some beats on the door. The circumstance was quite unusual. Nobody ever came to find me and

Soledad, the Mexican housemaid who was in charge for homework, as an invisible angel, entered in the house using her own key.

As I opened the door a young man introduced himself as an emissary of the English legal study “Heirs and Heirs” .

He was coming to inform me that my father had died and I had been named his only heir. He also told me that he had brought with him some letters of attorney to allow his fellows to look after the most urgent matters of administration.

I signed those proxies without not even reading them. On the financial plan I would have been now stronger than ever.

10. to be continued...

https://kdp.amazon.com/self-publishing/edit-book/one?digitalItemId

The story of Mr Winningoes - 9

I resolutely threw myself heart and soul into brain’s study. I felt that I had to create a super brain in order to be reproduced and form a race of super-men able to drive on the right direction this dregs of humanity that inhabits the world.

After some rough attempts of surgical engineering, that occupied me for different years, whose initial success and following disappointed bitterness, almost led me to abandon the whole project, it was the fate to intervene showing the right way to me.

Which kind of proof  would I more need to wait for? The same celestial stars directly showed me the way!

9. to be continued...

If you want to read more of this please go to the link below.

https://kdp.amazon.com/self-publishing/edit-book/one?digitalItemId

The story of Mr Winningoes - 8

He cried, my old father, seeing the medals that I had conquered in the hot skies of Europe. With pride he told me that he knew of my heroic deeds, and now that his name, the glorious lineage of Winningoeses had been fully rehabilitated, he could happily die. I wished to him a very long life, leaving his medals as consolation of my not dilatory departure. My books, my studies attended me again, in the United States, for a new thrilling issue on the walk of truth.

Taking back to my searches I considered that I had to continue in a forced direction, if it were true, as it is true, that the brain of every living being contains, even though modified by the evolution, the original matrix of our existence.

8. to be continued...
If you want to read more of this please go to the link below

https://kdp.amazon.com/self-publishing/edit-book/one?digitalItemId

The story of Mr Winningoes - 4

The burst of the second world war caught me surprised on this walk of studies and searches.

Bitterly I was forced to consider that human beings pursued their premature end, rather than search for the truth.

But at that time I hadn't yet understood that every human action, even the most iniquitous and bestial, has however its own reason to be done and for me, that war, would have been another fundamental step on the way of comprehension.

When Germany, violating the international agreements formerly undersigned, moved war to England, attacking London, I realized that the right moment had come for me to show that the Parnells loved to fight for freedom, under any flag and against whoever oppressed its exercise. I went to England and enlisted, as a volunteer,  in the Royal Air Force, despite I have to confess you that, after the betrayal of my father, I felt more Irish than English, also considering that in those days, as it is today, Ireland was divided in two parts, with a part still under the British dominion.

4. to be continued...
If you want to read more of this please go to the link below

https://kdp.amazon.com/self-publishing/edit-book/one?digitalItemId