EL MICRO EN OTROS IDIOMAS

EN ITALIANO
http://narcogiraffe.blogspot.com/


C’era il pasto, a scadenze regolari, ma durava un attimo e urlava di terrore.
Il resto del tempo del Minotauro, nella sua prigione-chiocciola, erano giorni infiniti, notti interminabili.
Lui si stordiva con i sogni.
Nei sogni del Minotauro i muri cadevano, i fili si spezzavano — nessuna regina si cambiava in vacca.

Una volta il Minotauro sognò un mondo senza mostri: guardava in basso e le braccia e le gambe non avevano più dita.
Zampe potenti e zoccoli.
Zoccoli per martellare il mondo.
Fece il suo ingresso fieramente, con spavalderia. Tutt’attorno mille teste e mille voci gridavano insulti, acclamazioni — applaudivano, benedicevano gli dèi e li bestemmiavano.
Non le ascoltava.
Assaporò il sole caldo sulla pelle, i riflessi dei raggi nello specchio sminuzzato della polvere. Galoppò con frenesia fino al centro esatto dell’anfiteatro. Si bloccò lì, respirò le costellazioni che si congiungevano sopra le sue corna, rese grazie al Cielo. Niente più rancori — niente più memoria. Il cuore gli scoppiava dalla gioia. Era bellissimo.
Poi d’improvviso, con la coda dell’occhio, vide un movimento.
E un bagliore di metallo.
E sentì un fuoco che gli incideva il dorso.
E annusò l’odore acre, disgustoso, del suo stesso sangue.
Di colpo, come in un secondo labirinto, si scoprì esausto, col corpo gonfio e avvelenato di ingiustizia.
Poi sfolgorò un Teseo vermiglio — che lui sapeva uguale a tutti gli altri, letale e ingannatore come tutti gli altri.
E allora — precisamente allora — il sogno del Minotauro terminò.

 EN FRANCES

Jean-Pierre Planque

JPP
   Écrivain et poète de l'essentiel

   Bien que la plupart de ses textes soient classés Science-fiction, Jean-Pierre Planque explique : « La Science-fiction est l'outil littéraire le plus moderne pour renouer avec les contes initiatiques et symboliques, et faire que le lien avec les racines du Sacré ne soit pas rompu. » Il affirme être « aussi perfectionniste dans l'écriture que dans la vie » avant d'expliquer : « le travail littéraire est toujours solidaire d'une recherche poétique et spirituelle. » Et c'est exactement là qu'on retrouve l'essence de l'écriture de Planque ! Travailler et retravailler pour parvenir à des récits à la fois riches et légers où ne demeure que l'essentiel. Travailler jusqu'à ce que les mots soient bien plus que des mots, que le récit s'élève au rang de poésie et ouvre sans qu'on s'en aperçoive à d'autres dimensions de l'esprit. On sort ainsi de la lecture de L'Esprit du Jeu, L'Archipel, Le Vrai visage de Grégory, (pour ne citer que ceux-là) comme de rêves personnels, comme d'une plongée au fond de soi et de l'imaginaire humain.
(Ketty Steward)

   La Quête des racines

   Une quarantaine de nouvelles en un peu plus de vingt ans, ce n'est pas énorme ; mais nous sommes en France, pays où les écrivains vivant correctement de leur plume se sont toujours comptés sur les doigts de la main, pays où la production SF n'a jamais séduit véritablement le grand public – sauf peut-être dans les années '70 où l'on comptait pas moins d'une quarantaine de collections.
   Subsistant aux côtés d'éditeurs plus ou moins prestigieux, ne payant pas leurs auteurs, les fanzines de SF ( aujourd'hui, la micro-édition ) ont toujours permis –c'est même une de leurs fonctions majeures– aux écrivains débutant dans le genre de "se faire la plume". De grands noms ont ainsi fait leurs premières armes. On peut citer Jean-Pierre Andrevon, qui publia ses premiers textes dans « Lunatique », le fanzine de Jacqueline Osterrath très actif dans les années 60/70, mais ce n'est pas le seul.
   Jean-Pierre Planque suivra ce chemin. Comme beaucoup de ses confrères, il publiera ses premiers textes dans des fanzines et même en créera un avec sa compagne Johanne Marsais : « Demain », 6 numéros paraîtront entre 1975 et 1977. Fanzines, revues semi-pros, magazines l'accueilleront. Il donnera plus tard deux nouvelles à « Fiction » (Le Repas du Chasseur, sous la direction de Daniel Riche, puis Karma sous la direction de Alain Dorémieux) avant que ne commence l'agonie de cette mythique revue aujourd'hui disparue...
(François Membre, le 14 Août 1994)

   Fanéditeur, puis microéditeur

   Il a dirigé et animé avec Johanne Marsais, sa femme disparue en 1979, la revue « Demain » et rejoignit, en 1984, l'équipe du fanzine « SFère » qui publia 24 numéros et permit de très nombreuses rencontres.
   On le retrouve, en 1996, dans le Vaucluse où il crée, avec Alain Artus, « La Fontaine de Pétrarque ». C'est un journal gratuit d'une dizaine de pages financé par la Société Littéraire des PTT et imprimé par la Mutuelle Générale de la Poste. Jean-Pierre Planque animera cette revue jusqu'en octobre 1998, une revue à laquelle collaboreront de nombreux poètes et écrivains locaux : Marc Maynègre, André Bonafos, André Pagès, Jean-Claude Rey, Hubert leconte...
   En février 1998, face aux difficultés rencontrées auprès des gros et moyens éditeurs, Jean-Pierre Planque crée Les Éditions du Haut Château et autoédite son roman Terraborn écrit avec Patrick Raveau. Un second volume, Émergence, réunissant deux longues nouvelles sera publié en avril de la même année. Ces deux volumes recevront de bonnes critiques et seront rapidement épuisés.
   En 2000, il quitte le Vaucluse pour la Guadeloupe.

   Animateur et Webmaster

   Jean-Pierre Planque a animé le site de l'association INFINI d'octobre 1998 à juin 2009. Il a, au fil des années, tissé de nombreux liens dans le monde du fandom SF et des amateurs des arts de l'Imaginaire. Que ce soit en France, en Belgique ou dans d'autres pays européens. Sans oublier le Canada et certains pays d'Amérique latine. Avec son ami Pierre Jean Brouillaud, il a notamment permis la mise en ligne de nombreuses nouvelles de qualité traduites de l'italien et de l'espagnol. Vous pourrez découvrir plus de 200 textes dans la partie Nouvelles du site.

ENGLISH 
SOUVENIR
Carlos A. Duarte Cano - Cuba

The sun was setting as She-hi-laa watched her parents dissolve into a haze (finally!) in their travel chamber. She slipped into her parents' room and opened her father's private panel with her "Decoder-V'. There, shining, the Cronifalcus she had been itching to use awaited.
She could barely control her shaking as she carried it to her room. She felt the thrill of the forbidden in every pore of her body. There was nothing that could compare to it, at least nothing that any of her dreary girlfriends would be doing on a Saturday night.
She put on her dress and the shoes she had carefully saved for these occasions. In front of the mirror she put some finishing touches on her makeup and put on the delicate tiara. She entered the password into the machine and then, with utmost care, the coordinates in six dimensions. The temporal whirlwind masked her features as it always did, with the effect vanishing within five seconds of her arrival. "Back in the saddle again," she thought. She hurried outside, climbed the scarlet carpet and entered the palace.
There she spotted him, sitting next to the throne, as handsome as though he were the only one in all of space-time. Leaning on a tapestry, she waited until, as on so many other nights, he would discover her and be entranced by her strange beauty. Then there was that spinning around together to the rhythm of the music, drinking in his eyes and ignoring the march of time in the euphoria of his love. In the garden, their lips had hardly touched with the timidity of two teenagers kissing when, as so many other times, she was caught unawares by the bells.
With no time left for anything more than running away from the astonished prince. Coordinates entered and then back home to put everything back in its place before her parents returned. Or nearly everything, because in her hasty retreat she had lost something.
In some parallel universe, one to which She-hi-laa could never again return, a handsome prince grasped within his inconsolable hands a shoe crafted of some strange glass.


THE DEATH OF CAESAR
João Ventura - Portugal
(From Conceição Cruz's translation to Spanish)

Laughing hysterically, Caesar, Brutus and three other senators bounded out of the Senate, stumbling, clearly drunk. One of them was telling an dirty joke that involved a matron, her daughter, and a Nubian slave. The sentries lined up and Caesar responded with a sloppy attempt at a military salute.
Brutus and Caesar continued walking, staggering, arm in arm. One of the others followed, drinking from a skin he was carrying, and the wine ran down the corners of his mouth, staining his white tunic violet.
The chronomobile, which had been set for a 15 minute interval that included the death of Caesar at the doors of the Senate, had activated the microcamera that recorded all the details.
Julius Caesar walked a few steps further, bent over and began to puke. The others laughed.

The Supreme Council of Historians listened to the Time Traveler's presentation. One of the council members asked, "So there was no assassination then? Brutus was innocent?"
"Precisely. Attempting to straighten up, Caesar had fallen flat on his face. The others tried to help him get up, but they were too drunk to manage. He drowned in his own vomit..."
"And you, colleague, what do you intend to do with this information?"
"Write an article for the International Journal of Verified History, of course."
"That's what I was afraid of," the Council President said and, pointing a laser pistol at the Time Traveler, fired a single shot.
As the cleaning robots carried off the body, he sighed, "The nerve. Trying to change History by checking the facts in loco....!"


THE THREE CAVEMEN
Diego E. Gualda - Argentina

Three cavemen find three objects left behind from the future: a laptop, an inflatable doll and a large mozzarella pizza. One of them develops an upset stomach. Another turns into a babbling loon. The third one evolves into the first modern human. The question is: which one grabbed what?


THE BOOK
José Vicente Ortuño - Spain

"Mr. Wells," the stranger said, "I have something very important to tell you."
"I'm very busy, Mr...."
"Professor Polycarpus Uchronus," the man said. "I'm from the Polytechnical University of Valencia.
"I've never heard of that university," Herbert George Wells said as he tried to put further distance between himself and the strange character who had been following him.
"Well it's just that... well, the way I'd put it is," the professor stammered, "it's just that it doesn't exist yet."
"Ah, well!" Wells exclaimed. "Then send me a note when it is to built; I would be enchanted to deliver an inaugural address. Good-bye, good day."
"Allow me to tell you something," the professor insisted, "then I'll leave you in peace. I promise."
"All right," Wells conceded, tired. "Let us sit on this bench for a few minutes. Then I must return to work, you know."
"Thank you, Mr. Wells, I won't take any more of your precious time than necessary." Professor Ucronos laughed as though he had said something funny.
Once seated, the scientist from the future began to explain, "Look, Mr. Wells, I come from the future, from the Twenty-fifth Century. I happen to know that in 1895 you will publish a book entitled 'The Time Machine'. This novel will become the inspiration for generations of scientists.
"Really?" Wells said with an interested look.
"Of course. I myself, having read it as a child, became obsessed with attempting to construct a similar machine. Finally I succeeded, and I have come to meet the person responsible and to thank him."
Wells rose, smiling, and extended his hand to the visitor from the future.
"Thank you professor. I thank you for having bothered to come from so far... from the future. I will think of you as I write my novel," he said amiably, and he walked away with long strides.
Professor Ucronos, satisfied with having turned one of his dearest dreams into reality, returned to the 25th Century. Wrapped in an aura of scientific bliss, he sat down at his desk, on which he had left a copy of "The Time Machine". But his satisfaction turned to dismay as he examined it. The title had changed. The cover now read: Cooking recipes for refined persons.


Word Problem
By Bruce Hollnad Rogers

    Stan has traveled 29.3 kilometers from his home in Toronto to the home of his friend in a Mississauga high-rise. Before he gets out of his car, Stan puts on a surgical mask, leather gloves, and sunglasses.
    Stan wears the mask because he is worried about Severe Acute Respiratory Syndrome, a disease which has a global case fatality rate of between seven and fifteen percent -- estimates vary. He is also worried about Ebola haemorrhagic fever, which has a global case fatality rate of about 90%. Two nearly-recovered patients with SARS are presently 47.2 kilometers away from Stan in Toronto General Hospital. The nearest Ebola patients are in Africa, 12,580 kilometers from Stan.
    Stan is not worried about Mrs. Imelda Foster, who is cleaning a penthouse apartment. If Stan even knew about Mrs. Foster, he would appreciate her enthusiasm for bleach as a disinfectant. Mrs. Foster's eyesight is not what it used to be, and she compensates by going over the same surface repeatedly.
    Stan wears gloves because he is worried about spider bites. The only venomous spider in Ontario is the northern widow, Latrodectus various, which produces venom fifteen times as toxic as the venom of a prairie rattlesnake. Although the spider injects much less venom than a snake with each bite, nearly one-percent of L. various bites are fatal. Fatalities are concentrated in the very young and the very sick. Stan is thirty-seven years old and in good physical condition. Still, he does not put his hand where he cannot see, and he wears gloves just in case.
    Stan is not worried about Tanya Scott, the four-year-old girl who lives in the penthouse apartment where Mrs. Imelda Foster is cleaning. If Stan knew of little Tanya's existence, he would appreciate Mrs. Foster's diligence with the vacuum cleaner everywhere in the apartment, even on the balcony. There are zero spider webs in the penthouse apartment.
    Stan wears sunglasses. The sun is expected to radiate peacefully for another 5 billion years, but in the course of that time its luminosity will double to a brilliance that Stan finds alarming.
    Stan does not worry about a glass swan figurine weighing 457 grams. Yesterday Tanya Scott moved the swan from its place on the coffee table to the balcony railing where she could see it in the sunlight. Tanya left the swan on the railing. Mrs. Foster does not see the swan when she brings the vacuum cleaner out to tidy up the balcony. She knocks the swan from the railing with the vacuum cleaner wand.
    At the moment that the swan begins its descent, Stan is 38 meters from a point directly below the falling swan. He is proceeding toward that point in a straight line and at a steady pace of 3.2 kilometers per hour. A falling object accelerates at the rate of approximately 10 meters/second/second. The railing is 112 meters above the sidewalk.

Question: Is Stan worrying about the right things?


About the author:
Stories by Bruce Holland Rogers have won two Nebula Awards, the Bram Stoker Award, and a Pushcart Prize. Some of his work has been published in over a dozen languages. His short-short stories are available by email subscription at www.shortshortshort.com. Rogers lives in Eugene, Oregon.



SOUVENIR
Carlos A. Duarte Cano - Cuba

The sun was setting as She-hi-laa watched her parents dissolve into a haze (finally!) in their travel chamber. She slipped into her parents' room and opened her father's private panel with her "Decoder-V'. There, shining, the Cronifalcus she had been itching to use awaited.
She could barely control her shaking as she carried it to her room. She felt the thrill of the forbidden in every pore of her body. There was nothing that could compare to it, at least nothing that any of her dreary girlfriends would be doing on a Saturday night.
She put on her dress and the shoes she had carefully saved for these occasions. In front of the mirror she put some finishing touches on her makeup and put on the delicate tiara. She entered the password into the machine and then, with utmost care, the coordinates in six dimensions. The temporal whirlwind masked her features as it always did, with the effect vanishing within five seconds of her arrival. "Back in the saddle again," she thought. She hurried outside, climbed the scarlet carpet and entered the palace.
There she spotted him, sitting next to the throne, as handsome as though he were the only one in all of space-time. Leaning on a tapestry, she waited until, as on so many other nights, he would discover her and be entranced by her strange beauty. Then there was that spinning around together to the rhythm of the music, drinking in his eyes and ignoring the march of time in the euphoria of his love. In the garden, their lips had hardly touched with the timidity of two teenagers kissing when, as so many other times, she was caught unawares by the bells.
With no time left for anything more than running away from the astonished prince. Coordinates entered and then back home to put everything back in its place before her parents returned. Or nearly everything, because in her hasty retreat she had lost something.
In some parallel universe, one to which She-hi-laa could never again return, a handsome prince grasped within his inconsolable hands a shoe crafted of some strange glass.


THE DEATH OF CAESAR
João Ventura - Portugal
(From Conceição Cruz's translation to Spanish)

Laughing hysterically, Caesar, Brutus and three other senators bounded out of the Senate, stumbling, clearly drunk. One of them was telling an dirty joke that involved a matron, her daughter, and a Nubian slave. The sentries lined up and Caesar responded with a sloppy attempt at a military salute.
Brutus and Caesar continued walking, staggering, arm in arm. One of the others followed, drinking from a skin he was carrying, and the wine ran down the corners of his mouth, staining his white tunic violet.
The chronomobile, which had been set for a 15 minute interval that included the death of Caesar at the doors of the Senate, had activated the microcamera that recorded all the details.
Julius Caesar walked a few steps further, bent over and began to puke. The others laughed.

The Supreme Council of Historians listened to the Time Traveler's presentation. One of the council members asked, "So there was no assassination then? Brutus was innocent?"
"Precisely. Attempting to straighten up, Caesar had fallen flat on his face. The others tried to help him get up, but they were too drunk to manage. He drowned in his own vomit..."
"And you, colleague, what do you intend to do with this information?"
"Write an article for the International Journal of Verified History, of course."
"That's what I was afraid of," the Council President said and, pointing a laser pistol at the Time Traveler, fired a single shot.
As the cleaning robots carried off the body, he sighed, "The nerve. Trying to change History by checking the facts in loco....!"


THE THREE CAVEMEN
Diego E. Gualda - Argentina

Three cavemen find three objects left behind from the future: a laptop, an inflatable doll and a large mozzarella pizza. One of them develops an upset stomach. Another turns into a babbling loon. The third one evolves into the first modern human. The question is: which one grabbed what?


TEXTICULOS

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