giovedì 9 maggio 2024

🎙️New Podcast - True Crime & stories retelling 🎧

PODCAST 
TINKER TAYLOR STORY WEAVER

by Elda Oreto



Prepare to be captivated, enthralled, and forever changed as we embark on this clandestine journey into the heart of darkness, through the veiled realm of true crime, unsolved enigmas, and reimagined folklore, where the webs of deceit are spun with meticulous precision and the shadows of betrayal loom ever closer. In the realm of "Tinker, Tailor, Story Weaver: Chronicles of Faith and Betrayal," an image to John Le Carrè, nothing is as it seems, and the truth is a fragile thread that can be easily unraveled. Are you ready to step into the labyrinth of intrigue and unravel the enigma that lies at its core? The choice is yours, but be warned: once you enter, there is no turning back.


ITA/ENG


Preparati ad essere catturato, affascinato e cambiato per sempre mentre ci imbarchiamo in questo viaggio clandestino nel cuore delle tenebre, attraverso il regno velato del vero crimine, enigmi irrisolti e folklore reimmaginato, dove le trame di inganno sono tessute con meticolosa precisione e le ombre del tradimento si avvicinano sempre di più. Tinker Taylor Story Weaver Trae spunto dalla modalità narrativa di John Le Carrè rivolta a tessere un intrigo della mente in cui è difficile distinguere la realtà dalla immaginazione.

Sei pronto a entrare nel labirinto di intrighi e svelare l'enigma che si trova al suo cuore? La scelta è  tua, ma una volta entrato, non c’è possibilità di tornare indietro.


https://anchor.fm/clubmidnight






mercoledì 29 novembre 2023

A Study in Viridian Shadows ~ a short story by Elda Oreto

         

A Study in Viridian Shadows 

~

A short story by Elda Oreto

     Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and Neil Gaiman inspired me to embark on a literary exercise recently. What sparked it all? Two extremely stimulating Futurescapes’ workshops: one with Fran Wilde, which explored genre fusion pointing at Neil Gaiman's "A Study in Emerald," and another by R.F. Kuang, which focused on the subtle skill of impersonating prominent author's voices. This is my response to them.

This journey has birthed a tale of two detectives in a realm of conflict, kingdoms, lies and the eternal struggle for freedom. Here, the notions of good and evil aren’t opposing forces but intricately entangled together. However, before we go into the complexities of the story, let us honor the literary giants who came before us: Gaiman, Wilde, and Kuang, your impact is palpable.


Are you ready for a literary escapade, where murder and vanishing people clash, and mysteries echoes through the pages? 


Get a seat; we're going on an exciting journey that will be really spectacular. 🌟📖


                                                                            ~















And since sharing is careing, here there are two links to A.Conan Doyle's and Neil Geiman´s writings:


 here the link to the Pdf :


mercoledì 20 settembre 2023

Unpacking "Yellowface" by Rebecca Kuang: A Tale of Envy, Exploitation, and Injustice






In the realm of contemporary literature, "Yellowface" by Rebecca Kuang stands out as a gripping novel, a testament to the brilliance of its author. This compellin novel  tells the story of June, an unsuccessful writer who takes  a dangerous and dark turn after her famous friend Athena dies. June, consumed by jealousy and desperation, decides to steal Athena's novel in order to live a life of renown and wealth. Under the surface, though, June is a very sad and unhappy person.

Rebecca Kuang's skill as a storyteller shines through as she makes us look at the thin line between success based on social media and real creative desire. What do you desire if you wish to become a writer? Eternity or the web's endless forgetfulness. The story takes place in a world where social media platforms can be both addicting and used to trick people, making it hard to tell what is real and what is just an illusion. Through June's character, we are reminded of how important it is to find a balance between our online and real lives as we try to figure out who we are and what we want. "Yellowface" urges us to look at our digital presence and asks how much we are willing to be influenced by a virtual world where the line between fact and fantasy is often blurry.

June's unrelenting desire for fame and wealth is tainted by her constant dread of exposure. As the plot unfolds, we witness the tables turn as someone else subjects June to the same treacherous scheme she once perpetrated against Athena. Kuang shows how envy can be a subtle and manipulative force that makes people do desperate things out of fear of not being good enough.

However, at the heart of the story lies a critical theme—one that underscores a narrative of exploitation and injustice. The central plot device revolves around Juniper stealing a book that tells the harrowing tale of Chinese labor exploitation by Western armed forces during World War I. It's a chapter erased from history, a story silenced by the passage of time. What makes this central theme even more poignant is the fact that Juniper is not of Asian origin, whereas Athena is. In essence, Juniper is once again exploiting and not acknowledging the work of someone from a minority background in the West—an injustice upon an injusticeThe question here is not whether a white woman can or cannot write a story that belongs to another cultural context, but rather how she should approach it.

But this story shows in a roundabout way that work is what matters most at the end of the day. The genuine beginning may be traced back to a well-written book. June's quest is more concerned with the events leading up to the book than with the book itself, even if it is motivated by the need for fame, recognition, and recompense for the inadequacies and hole left in her life by terrible occurrences. She hopes that, by being acknowledged and appreciated, she might finally feel whole, an emptiness she has felt since childhood. The sad part is that this cycle of never-ending envy is not finding even a moment's rest.

Without the fundamental creative object, the core creativity, there can be no real success, as "Yellowface" quietly tells us. The results of someone else's hard work can be copied, but they will never measure up to the original. What matters most is not how many words are in a book, but how much thought and care went into each one.

The complex web of jealously, manipulation, and imposter syndrome that "Yellowface" spins challenges us to examine who we are and what we hope to achieve when we call ourselves writers. It's a striking reminder of how difficult it is for humans to deal with aspiration, self-discovery, and the attraction of the digital realm.

In the end, "Yellowface" beckons us to ponder these questions and more, providing a literary journey that is both thought-provoking and hauntingly evocative. 📖✍️

Author                                                 R.F. Kuang

Title                                                      Yellowface

Format
329 pages, Hardcover
Published
May 25, 2023 by The Borough Press
ISBN
9780008532772 (ISBN10: 000853277X)


 

giovedì 14 settembre 2023

Berlin Art Week 2023: A Tale of Brilliance, Exclusivity, and Paradoxes - by Elda Oreto



  
Installation views at Isa Genzken, 75/75, at neue Nationalgalerie

I took a break from writing my next book to enjoy the chaos of Berlin Art Week, which was a fun break from my usual schedule. Contrary to what you might think, I didn't go into the galleries, even though they had interesting shows and events going on all weekend. 😀

Berlin Art Week was like a rush of artistic events, sometimes out of sync and spread over large areas. It seemed like it was fine-tuned to appeal to a small group of people. It helped young hipster artists get noticed, but other people got lost in the jumbled landscape.

In the middle of all this chaos, the Neue Nationalgalerie stood out as a lighthouse by the amazing show by Iza Genzken called "75/75." 😍

The director of the Neue Nationalgalerie, Klaus Biesenbach, and the elegant touch of Lisa Botti made this show a true spectacle. In addition to Genzken's works, it showed off the exquisiteness of the museum's collection and the spirit of Mies van der Rohe' s building itself.

The Neue Nationalgalerie also served as the center of a number of events. "Baumschule Kulturforum," which was put on by BAW Garten, turned the stark concrete of Kulturforum into a green haven. Under the artistic direction of Klaus Biesenbach and the landscape design company atelier le balto, this gardening project made a city dream come true. It was a plan like what the planner Hans Scharoun had for Berlin. During Berlin Art Week, more than 50 trees that lose their leaves were placed on the front of the Neue Nationalgalerie. This showed a taste of a better future both outside and inside the building. 🌳🍍🍌🍎

Chef and food artist Caique Tizzi made Berlin Art Week even more tasty. His "food intervention" was a trip through fruit that was inspired by the building of the Neue Nationalgalerie. "Edible Landscapes" were fruit trees around the Museum like a defense wall, but only they were welcoming the visitors. 

The 'Motus' project by Adrien Missika was a small gallery on a modified bike with a small carbon footprint. Artists like Jeewi Lee, Saadane Afif, and Kasia Fudakowski showed their work with it.

During Berlin Art Week, 'Videoart at Midnight' by Olaf Stüber found a new home at BAW Garten. It was like going to the movies outside, with pictures by artists like Yalda Afsah, Bani Abidi, and Annika Kahrs that looked at important problems of our time. 

Also there were talks and performances.

The famous "Cut Piece" performance by Yoko Ono was done every day inside the glass cube at Neue Nationalgalerie, which reflected themes of power and weakness. Also on shows, the hyped performer Goksu Kunak's "Venus," an art piece based on the idea of a car, looked at complicated problems.

Finally party,party,party. In fact, BAW Garten is known around the world for its wide range of music and DJ sets with good vibes, ambient sounds, and deep pop.

Still, it's important to note that events like these may unintentionally create an air of elitism by catering to a certain group, which could make other people feel left out. This obstacle was further complicated by the vast distances that separated the various locations, which highlights the fact that Berlin Art Week is primarily geared toward an exclusive clientele. 🤔

On a more positive note, "UNBOUND: PERFORMANCE AS RUPTURE," a show at the Julia Stoschek Foundation, was a personal highlight for me. With the help of Line Ajan, Lisa Long carefully put together a some of the most incredible performance artists on the field. Some of these innovative makers were well-known people like Panteha Abareshi, Eleanor Antin, Salim Bayri, Nao Bustamante, and many more. Together, their works explored the idea of performance as a way to shake things up by openly questioning established norms. 

Also, Eva Fábregas's "Devouring Lovers" show at Hamburger Bahnhof, which was put together by Anna-Cathrins Gebbers, gave an interesting look at contemporary art, that embgace an aesthetical cannibalistic point of view. Are all of us going to be consumed and devoured by a system that is gluttonous and overweight?

In conclusion, Berlin Art Week showed both the good and bad sides of the city's contemporary art scene. Even though some events were brilliant and intellectually deep, the overall experience could have been strange for people who weren't in the event's intended audience. As we think back on this crazy week, it's clear that Berlin's art scene is in a state of flux, evolving slowly, hard to include new voices and ignoring others in its quest for change.

And, since we're talking about paradoxes in the art world, Fotografiska Berlin had one of its own. This gallery chain spaces, which also has locations in Stockholm and New York, is known in the art world as a mecca for neoliberal sprint. However, it launched its headquarters in Berlin with an exhibition by the usually critical Candice Breitz, bringing attention to the inconsistencies that exist in the art scene.😁💥🙊

In addition to this contradiction, Fotografiska wants to be more than just an art show. For a certain fee, it wants to be a gourmet diner, a night club, and a hub.  In a city known for its avant-garde approach to the arts, paradoxes are as important as bread to the artistic experience. I have no doubt that Fotografiska will prepare a three-star meal for us in the very, very near future 👀😘.

Even though Berlin Art Week is a whirlwind, let's not forget the ironies that remain under the surface as we enjoy the show and grandeur.

While we love the art, it's important to remember the heated debates of the past year, especially about how museums work and how public money is spent, which often implies taking advantage of women's postition in the system. It's disappointing to see that little has changed behind the shiny surface. Even though they have made mistakes and been criticized in the past, the same people keep doing what they are doing.

They try to throw a lot of people, artists, and places into a big pot and think that's what makes the magic happen. But nothing magical happens. The harder they try the worst and messy it looks.

This steadfastness, which is often confused for strength, has made it hard for people to grow and change.

We must remember that magic cannot be recreated any time we want. It works best when it is made in the moment by unique people in unique situations. Perhaps it's time to embrace change not only as a challenge but as an opportunity, allowing new voices and perspectives to flourish.

The week was full of these different events, each of which showed a different side of the art world. It was a time for me exploring, talking, and thinking, all set against the lively art scene in Berlin. As I work on my book again, I will remember this special week. It was a break from the usual and gave me new ideas and ways of looking at things.

💘💞

 IMAGES

 

                                                            Installation views at Isa Genzken, 75/75, at neue Nationalgalerie

~ ~ ~


 Installation view at Julia Stoschek Foundation

                                                                                            ~ ~ ~


                                         Installation views at Eva Fábergas, Devouring Lovers, Hamburger Bahnhof

                                                                    One of Fábergas´devouring creatures and me



mercoledì 28 settembre 2022

Short Story ~The Double ~ from the collection "Bright Nigtmares Horror Stories", 2021

 ~ The Double ~


Dear Editor,

I send you this story, hoping it may be of

interest to you. Fear, anxiety, horror,

desire, love, dreams and reality are all the

elements that, combined, make this story

so absurd but still sort of believable. I bet

you’ve never read anything like this before.

What I’m going to tell you here is not my

story, but something that happened to a

person very close and very dear tome—my

neighbor.

I live in a small town in the north of

Norway. It’s one of those places where

nothing ever happens, and people do lots of

sports and drink so much every weekend

that they can’t find the front doors of their

own houses.

Life here, for me, is extremely boring,

and it has been

that way for a long time. I’m a lonely

soul, and I like fine things: music, theatre

and art. This little town offers nothing like

that. My husband died many years ago,

leaving me without any kids and with a

grumpy old sick dog.

94

One day, luck seemed to knock at my

door. A nice young couple moved into the

empty house next tomine. The two houses,

mine and theirs, are so close to each other

that I could see them making breakfast in

their kitchen while I watched TV in my

living room.

Their life was very interesting tome; they

seemed almost perfect but also kind of

mysterious.

Thus viewed from a distance, they were a

perfect mix of fiction and strength.

However, I soon discovered something

extremely unusual about this couple. You

may not believe me, or you might think

that I’m a poor old deceived woman, ready

to get involved in the lives of others, but I

believe that this story must be told and

absolutely deserves to be published.

One fine morning, someone knocked at

my door. And there she was, my beautiful

and mysterious neighbor. She introduced

herself and her two beautiful children,

Doris and Lukas, to me. She said they had

just moved from a town on the mainland

and that she was there to finish a writing

project. Yes, she was a writer. What a funny

coincidence!

I invited them in, and I made pancakes

for the kids while we talked and sipped

coffee.

Her name is Beatrice, and she’s

thirty-nine years old, from Italy. When she

was eighteen, she moved to London, where

she studied Literature and Philosophy and

met her husband, Michael, a Swedish man.

They married very young and had two kids.

After a few years, they moved to Germany,

95

where she worked as a translator and editor

for a publishing company, and her husband

worked in IT as a freelancer.

She told me about the book she was

writing. It was a story of a little girl and her

family: her mother, her father, and her

younger brother. They lived in a sunny

apartment in Naples, in the south of Italy,

where the chaos from the street—things

unsaid and the fear of feelings—rose in

waves into their daily life.

The little girl's name was Susy. She was a

very nice girl, always helping her mother

with household chores. One day, she was in

the kitchen, setting the table for lunch. Her

mother was talking to her, but she couldn’t

remember exactly what she was saying.

Susy turned around to pick up some dishes,

and suddenly, a second later, her mother

was gone. In her place was another woman.

She was identical to her mother in

appearance, but muchmore evil. Susy knew

it; she could feel it.

The evil mother ordered Susy to do

terrible things. She told her horrible things,

and Susy was very scared. She ended up

doing what her mother wanted.

I asked if

there was something

autobiographical in the story. Beatrice

seemed perplexed, but in the end, she said,

“No, I wouldn’t say that, but there are

strange coincidences between a writer’s life

and what she might write.”

Since they’d moved, many things had

changed in their lives, she told me. When

they were in their previous home, she’d

been very busy with her work.

96

I can now say that Beatrice wasn’t a

conventional woman; even if her

appearance seemed okay—that is to say,

normal. Apparently, she behaved like a

woman of moderate habits, a person who

would never attract particular attention.

She was beautiful, that's for sure, active

and independent, a workaholic, always

ready to go anywhere andmeet anyone and

organize things, make things happen.

Translation and writing were her passions

in life, but travel and meeting people were

her pleasures. I must admit, I liked her a

lot.

When she’d started working in the

editorial field, she’d felt very excited. It had

been her dream to reach a certain level in

such a competitive field. She loved the job.

She felt fulfilled in it.

One day, her boss told her, "I have high

expectations for you. You’re an ambitious

person, but to get what you want, you have

to make sacrifices. But they’re sacrifices for

a good purpose. Make them for your family;

think about how your sacrifice will benefit

them.

“Your image cannot be compromised.

And somehow, they—your family, your

children—will be an obstacle to your

professional progress. They don’t match

the image that one has of you. To succeed

in this field, you must ... sacrifice a part of

yourself. Your image must be that of a

person aiming for success—independent.

To succeed, I don't say that you have to

neglect your family, but maybe hide it; put

it in the background for some time. Think

97

about it. After all, you’re doing it for them,

too”.

Poor Bea. I thought and thought about

those words for many days and nights. This

torment went on for weeks. Life had given

her an impossible choice. How could she

reconcile the two? But in the end, she

made a decision that she believed was the

wisest in the long run. Her family was

everything to her, but she couldn’t give up

on herself, on what she liked to do, on her

work, on her personhood. So she decided to

follow her boss's advice.

With great caution and attention, Bea

began a new life. There was the Bea who

went to work, who went to book fairs, who

met writers and agents, who traveled. And

there was another Bea who loved her

family, who spent time playing with her

children, who went for walks in the woods.

Bea led two different lives, which never

intersected except during the night, in her

dreams.

But they were more than dreams; they

were real nightmares. In those dreams,

horrible things happened, but Bea couldn’t

remember them once she was awake, lying

in a pool of tears and sweat.

Someone could probably call her feelings

a mix of anxiety and sadness, a form of

guilt, but it was impossible for Bea to

define them.

One night, she woke up as she had for

many weeks, soaked in sweat, terrified by

something vague and remote. She felt

exhausted and restless at the same time.

Suddenly, she felt a strong pain in her

chest, as if she had just received a straight

98

punch to the middle of her belly, at the

level of her heart. She got scared and

thought she was having a heart attack.

Then, she felt nauseous and quickly stood

up from the bed and ran to the bathroom

with an extreme urge to vomit.

She switched on the light and began to

breathe heavily; her retching breaths

became sobs. She again felt a strong

pressure on her chest. Bea put her hand

over her heart. She was bent over in pain

when, sobbing, she regurgitated something

from her mouth and into the bathtub,

nearly choking.

Stunned by fatigue and pain, Bea sat on

the floor near the tub. She didn't even have

the strength to get back on her feet and go

back to bed. Behind her, a strange figure

was rising from inside the bathtub; thin

white limbs stretched out and hung

alongside the tall, slender woman who

slowly laid a hand on Bea's shoulder. Bea

hadn't expected that and spun around.

What she saw scared her so much that she

screamed: the woman was herself, but a

monstrous version of herself, not in

appearance, because the woman was

identical to herself, but in her thoughts and

in her heart; Bea could read the woman

very well and interpret her, as a sister can

do with her evil twin.

When Bea woke up the next morning, it

took her a couple of seconds to realize that

everything was in the same place she had

left it the night before. It almost seemed to

her that the dream she’d had was real. Or

rather, for a moment, she was afraid that

99

after the previous night, her present daily

life would never be the same again.

However, all around the room, she saw

the chest of drawers and the wardrobe, the

large mirror near the table, the chair and

the clothes that were just where she had

left them.

She got up from bed and went into the

living room; to be certain, she wanted to

see if the rest of the house was like it

always was. And above all, she wanted to

see if Michael and the children were still

there and were all right.

In fact, just like the day before and the

other days before it, Michael had gotten up

early and prepared breakfast for the

children and for her. Now, he was sitting at

the kitchen table, drinking coffee and

reading the newspaper while the children

played with their food.

“Hello,'' said Bea and went to the coffee

machine to pour herself a cup.

“Hello,” Michael replied.

The children ran over to Bea to hug her

and kiss her. Just for a moment, a sense of

terrible and inexplicable anguish assailed

her. "Today, I’ll be out all day. I don't think

I'll be back for dinner," she said a little

sadly.

"Don't worry. We'll spend time together

over the weekend. I'll be with the children,"

Michael said.

He was so supportive of her work, and not

a day passed that Bea did not consider

herself a lucky woman.

Suddenly Michael told her, "You talked in

your sleep last night."

100

Taken by surprise, Bea remained frozen

for a second at the idea of having said

something—something unmentionable.

"And what did I say?"

He looked at her, puzzled, and replied,

"Nothing that made sense ... You

stammered more than you spoke …”

"Ah, I had a terrible nightmare ..."

Just as Bea was starting to tell Michael

her weird experience of the night before, he

interrupted her to say, "Inmy opinion, you

shouldn’t stress too much."

He was laughing, so Bea gave up on her

story and answered him. "I'll try," she said.

"Now, I'm going to get ready."

“I’ll try,” she’d said, but she thought all

day about her nightmare and the unsaid

words mumbled the previous night to her

husband. Like a nail stuck in her head,

those thoughts went on and on and on. She

thought about the dream in the morning

while correcting proofs, at lunch and while

she ran in the afternoon. But what had she

said in the dream? Fortunately, at the end

of the day, just as she was getting on the

subway to go home, she realized she wasn’t

thinking about her dream anymore.

The obsession had finally dissolved.

But when she got home, she found

another surprise: The police were waiting

for her. They wanted to interrogate her

because, as they told her, she’d just

committed a crime. The problem was that

she couldn’t recall having committed it.

They said she had been seen entering an

antiques store, right next to her building.

She’d walked past the store every morning

on her way to work. Although she and the

101

store owner didn’t know each other

personally, they greeted each other and

exchanged courtesies and gestures of good

neighborliness.

Imagine the surprise of the shopkeeper

when that morning, he had seen her

stealthily enter the shop and reach out a

hand to a bird-shaped ornament—a

magpie,

to be precise, made of

porcelain—and run away with it. They

knew Bea too well to have any doubt about

who it was. She’d snuck in the entrance and

reached out and grabbed the porcelain bird

and escaped.

The police, after having been called by the

shopkeeper, had gone to the door of her

house without hesitating. They’d waited for

Michael, her husband, to come home after

picking up the kids at school. He remained

incredulous in the face of the police claims,

but he had not resisted, because he was

convinced that they were wrong.

When they had entered the apartment,

they hadn't had to search for long. In fact,

they hadn't had to look for anything; the

porcelain magpie stood serene in its

gleaming ceramic splendor at the center of

the dining table in the living room.

“This is a joke,'' said Michael.

They waited for Bea to return home and

offer the necessary explanations. She’d

found all three of them waiting for her

there, sitting around the dining table in the

living room, along with the magpie.

Bea apologized and said she didn't

remember doing such a thing.

Her husband said, "It's not like you."

102

Then, one of the policemen had tried to

arrange the pieces of the puzzle and offer

an explanation for what had happened.

"She woke up that morning and was ready

to go to work. That morning, she didn’t

take the kids to school. Toomuch to do. She

had an important meeting. Michael took

the kids. But before going to work, she

stopped outside the shop, near her home,

to wait for her husband and children to

come out. Then, she stole the object, went

home, placed it quietly on the table and

finally went to work.”

"But I don't remember any of that at all,"

said Bea, lost and confused.

"Maybe it was a moment of stress and

anxiety. You might want to take a few days

off. Kleptomania or memory loss can be

symptoms of somethingmore serious," the

other policeman told her.

“However, the shopkeeper has decided

not to file a complaint. He’s proven to be

very tolerant and understanding. But he

wants the bird back," the first policeman

said.

Bea looked at the object in question. It

wasn't even her style. How could she have

stolen it? And why?

That evening, Michael slept on the sofa

bed. He and Bea had argued after the police

had left. He thought Bea needed to slow

down a little with her work. All that work

was driving her out of her mind. She was no

longer the same. Bea, on the other hand,

felt that he had been distant. He was no

longer present.

The discussion had gone on for hours and

hadn't gotten them anywhere. As had been

103

happening more and more frequently, Bea

felt like she listened to the conversation

from outside herself--like her her head

was separate from the rest of her body

Now Michael was on the couch, trying to

sleep, and the more he tried, the less he

could sleep. At three o'clock in the

morning, when he’d finally fallen

half-sleep, he saw a shadow crossing the

arched doorway that led from the bedroom

corridor to the living room. Quickly and

surreptitiously, the shadow went around

the table and the television. And although it

had an unusual shape and way of walking,

there was no way that Michael could be

mistaken; there was no doubt that the

shadow was Beatrice, his wife. But there

was something about the figure that was

different, unrecognizable. In a moment,

Bea was at the foot of the sofa.

Michael looked at her. In a single

movement, she took off her turquoise silk

nightdress and slipped under the rough

wool

blanket—an

uncomfortable

requirement for camping overnight in the

living room—her naked body next to his.

At 05:15 the alarm sounded, as it did

every morning. Bea was standing there

making coffee, as she did every morning.

Michael looked at her, but she looked

indifferent—almost

irritated by his

presence, there in the kitchen, hampering

the morning preparation ritual, disturbing

her concentration. She looked like a

different person from last night. They took

leave of one another with a quick kiss in the

front doorway, one of those kisses where

104

they grazed their lips as though afraid of

actually touching each other.

Bea checked her agenda on the train. She

had a very long, busy day ahead. That

morning, Michael would also take their

children to school. Bea wouldn't see them

all day.

With meeting after meeting, the day went

by very quickly and was tiring; it ended late

at night, after the last meeting, which had

taken place at dinner. Bea had been

drinking that night, but she wasn't really

drunk. She only felt a little tipsy.

After dinner, outside the restaurant,

there were no taxis, so Bea decided to walk

a bit to clarify some ideas she had. She

walked to the taxi station around the

corner, but there were no taxis there,

either. She had to wait. She was cold and

felt tired and upset, when she saw

something that terrified her.

Her boss was just coming around the

corner, probably to get a cab, too, when he

was assaulted, brutally and for no reason,

by a woman who had run across the street

holding a stick. She hit the man on the head

and in the stomach with it several times

before he fell to the ground. But even then,

the woman, caught up in her savage

wickedness, didn’t stop. She kicked the

poor man until he was no longer breathing.

Bea was wordless with shock. She

couldn’t say or do anything. She was

immobilized by a feeling of deep anguish. It

was like being imprisoned in a block of ice.

Her voice had stuck in her throat. Then,

fear took over.

105

The murderess, whose identity had been

a mystery up until then, turned to look at

her.

Bea felt ice stream through her veins, and

it then turned to fire. She recognized the

murderer instantly. It was herself, or rather

the evil twin version of herself—the same

one she had seen a few nights earlier in the

bathroom of her apartment.

The woman started laughing. She laughed

louder and more and more and with the joy

of her own laughter—as though a hilarious

comedy show were unfolding before her.

She bent over with laughter. Bea looked

herself up and down, to figure out why her

twin was laughing so much. But there was

nothing wrong with Bea. She was just

standing there.

The woman suddenly stopped laughing

and started running in the opposite

direction. Bea thought of following her, to

learn where she’d been hiding. But

something stopped her. If this was the

situation, no one would believe such an

absurd story—a diabolical double who was

haunting her and had just killed her boss.

So Bea decided she had to do something to

cover up the evidence of the murder and

make sure it couldn't be traced back to her.

She took the walking stick that the

murderer had left behind and hid it under

her coat. She had to destroy it.

In the meantime, she would go home and

think about what to do. After a long walk,

she found a taxi and reached the door to her

apartment building. There was her double,

waiting for her, with a hysterical evil grin,

as always. When she saw Bea get out of the

106

car, the double opened the front door and

started to go inside.

Bea chased her. The double ran up the

stairs, opened the door to Bea’s apartment

and entered. Bea was just in time to grab

the open door and slip into her apartment.

Everything was dark. Everyone was asleep.

Bea walked in and made her way into the

living room and the kitchen, then into the

hallway, looking in all the rooms to find the

intruder. But she was gone. She’d vanished

into thin air.

From that day on, Bea started to feel

secretly persecuted by her double.

The identity of the violent murderer of

her boss was never revealed. This did

nothing but create terrible distress for Bea.

She began to feel that her colleagues

secretly suspected her, and she felt guilty,

not only because she knew who the killer

was, but because she had helped her to hide

the evidence. Oddly, the terrible and sudden

death of her boss had caused an unexpected

advancement in her career.

The most horrible thing was that Bea

couldn't share her secret with anyone, not

even with Michael, because she knew

nobody would ever believe her. Maybe she

really was under stress, exhausted. So she

decided to cut back on work, even if it

significantly affected her career, and spend

more time with her family.

This was when the real nightmare began

for Bea. She realized that her cruel twin was

taking her place in her life. Maybe she’d

already started a long time before. Bea

noticed it in this way.

107

One Friday morning, Bea decided to pick

up her children at school. She was almost at

the entrance to the kindergarten when she

saw her double. The other Bea stepped past

her, ignoring her and with a brisk step,

reached the glass door before her.

Bea was astonished. There was

something uncanny about all

that

naturalness, all that ease. Her double had

done this before, many times. It was like a

habit.

Finally, Bea saw Doris and Lukas leaving

with her double. At

that moment,

undecided about what to do, Bea crossed

the road and hid behind an ice cream truck

parked by the opposite sidewalk. From

there, she could see what was happening.

She saw the three of them walking

together, and they seemed happy. The

children spoke and smiled at her double.

Bea felt overcome with loneliness, and then

a terrible rage assaulted her—an anger

against herself.

From that day on, Bea ran into her double

in different situations,

several times,

always with her family, taking Bea’s place.

The double wasn't always present,

though. She appeared and disappeared

suddenly. She came forward in Bea’s

absence. For example, on weekends,

Michael went with the children to the park

or the zoo, and Bea stayed at home to tidy

up and get ready to meet them; at that

moment, the double would appear and

replace her. So when Bea finally caught up

with her family, she’d find her double with

them.

108

Then when they went back home, the

double would vanish and Bea could resume

her role within the family.

The same thing happened at work.

When Bea went to the bathroomor maybe

even when she was sitting at her desk, she

would see her double come into the office,

greet her colleagues and move around like

nothing had happened, as though Bea

didn't exist.

Sometimes, the double would even enter

Bea’s office. Bea saw her sitting there and

laughing, mocking her. She threw paper

planes at Bea. But she never said a word to

Bea.

The situation had become unbearable for

Bea, until one day, when she got home

from work and she found her double on the

sofa, mending Bea’s son’s clothes. Bea was

in the kitchen, and she went into the living

room to speak to her double. The double

was lounging on from the sofa, looking like

she had no intention of moving.

Bea stopped. She had no idea what was

happening. This person didn’t exist; she

was a figment of Bea’s imagination, her

disgust, her distress. Yet now, she was

there, sitting on the couch, cuddling her

children, sleeping with her husband and

taking the glory for Bea at work.

Bea didn't have the courage to say a word,

to take a step. She turned, opened the door,

went down the stairs and began to walk

aimlessly. Myriad thoughts crossed her

mind. A sense of suffocation choked her.

Tears ran down her face. That night, she

slept in the street and did so for many more

nights.

109

Many weeks passed.

From that day on, Bea wandered

aimlessly in the streets. Now, her days

consisted of reaching certain places at a

certain time, not for interesting business

meetings, but to get food, clothing and

shelter. Wandering gave her a lot of time to

think, but she couldn’t reach a clear

conclusion about what was happening to

her.

Bea would go home secretly, from time to

time, stealthily, to bathe, to change and to

eat, but she always slept in the street.

Everything at home was perfect—the light

coming in through the windows, the

garden with the walnut tree, her children’s

fragrant clothing.

Finally, Bea decided what to do. It took

her many weeks and many days, but she

finally decided to face her cruel twin and

defeat her, at any cost. She came up with a

plan: she would hide in the living room and

wait for a moment when she could be alone

with her double. Bea had begun to think of

her double as “Bea Number 2” and of

herself as “Bea Number 1.”

One morning, after Bea’s husband and

children had gone out to play soccer, Bea

Number 2 was preparing lunch and

cleaning up. Bea Number 1 jumped out from

behind the sofa by the window. Bea Number

2 was a little bit surprised, but she didn't do

much, as though she’d seen a distant

unwanted relative.

Bea Number 1 had a kitchen knife with

her, and she said, "I don't know who you

are or where you came from, but I want you

out of my house and my life immediately."

110

She was trembling all over as she spoke;

trembling, with the dagger felt ridiculous.

Bea Number 2 didn’t flinch. She entered

the room and sat on the couch, the same

one where Bea had seen her the first time.

She crossed her arms and said, "What do

you think you're going to do with that

knife? Kill me? You put me here. You

wanted me to be here. Don't you

remember?"

"What do you mean?" answered Bea

Number 1. She felt lost and confused. She

lowered the knife and looked around, first

at the room, at the furniture, and then at

herself. Everything suddenly seemed

foreign to her—even her own hands, her

legs and her feet.

"It’s absurd for me to have to tell you

this,'' said Bea Number 2, “but you created

this whole thing. I’m your real fear, your

hidden desires, your anxiety released. You

made your own rules ... You want to be

perfect and still be yourself. What did you

expect? Accept reality, as it is now. Live in

the shadows—the shadow you have

become."

Bea listened in silence, then looked out

the window and found the strength to react.

She raised her knife, angrily and

menacingly,

and

said,

screaming

hysterically, "I won't let you take my life. I

won't let you do this." She took two steps

toward the sofa to attack Bea Number 2 but

had to stop immediately and back away a

little. Bea Number 2 had eased herself off

the sofa, and slowly her body had changed.

It was slowly stretching. In her black

trousers, the legs had grown and bent

111

backward at the knee, like the broken

branches of a tree. Her arms in the white

pullover had become thin legs. Her back

and her trunk had lengthened and widened

to make room for a huge mouth with rows

of teeth, while the little head and face

remained where they were, on the neck.

"Now, you force me to do what I don't want

to do. But at least we’ve reached the end.

Soon, all this will be over. We’ll return to

being one," said the monster who was Bea

Number 2.

The huge, thin-legged creature moved

over poor Bea Number 1 and swallowed her

piece by piece until nothing remained but

the knife.

The monster slowly recomposed itself

into the human form of Bea Number 2,

which was now the only Bea left, since it

had swallowed the first.

And it went on again and again over time,

feeding on the lives of other women

without ever stopping.

My young friend had finished telling her

story and was quite downcast. I understood

that this story had touched her very deeply,

but I didn't know the difference between

reality or fiction.

From the window upstairs, I watched her

leave and reach her house. When I looked

again, I was struck with a shudder of

horror. I saw her at the window, her eyes

turned toward me, the thousand legs and

the two heads. The alien monster was

behind the window, looking straight at me.

Maybe I wouldn't be able to escape, either.


Elda Oreto


~ from "Bright Nightmares  ~ Horror Stories", 2021

Bright Nightmares: Horror Stories: Oreto, Elda: 9798701485653: Amazon.com: Books

domenica 28 agosto 2022

Elda Oreto – Bright Nightmares - Book Reading - 23.9.22 @ Hall Gallery, Gothenburg, Sweden




 


Elda Oreto – Bright Nightmares
23.9.22
@ Hall Gallery,
Kustgatan 15, 
Göteborg

We are happy to announce a book reading with the writer and art historian Elda Oreto. Oreto will be reading from her new novel “Bright Nightmares” on occasion of the Gothenburg Book Fair.

’What would you do if an evil Spirit unleashes itself from Hell to take possession of your life and steal your world? What the hell is the Demon coming from? What if it is saving you from your damned life?’
 
Elda Oreto is an art historian and writer from Naples, Italy who lives in Kiruna, Sweden. Oreto has her Bachelor in Philosophy and her Master in Art History from the University Federico II of Naples. Currently, she is writing for different magazines and newspapers in Italy as well as her own blog Artspleen. 

Between 2011 and 2013 she founded and ran the contemporary art gallery Club Midnight in Berlin. Her first Novella, The Secret Lodge, was published in 2015. 

The Event is supported by The Cultural Unit of Region Norrbotten. 




domenica 21 agosto 2022

Poetry Corner ~ Only Today ✍︎︎


Flying Test, Falknerei Pierre Schmidt,  January 2020


✍︎︎ Only Today ~


I have almost felt shame of this, then. Because that's not what is expected of a woman like me. 
You are expected to climb. To surrender. To subdue. In a world where you are supposed to act as a social climber and to do anything to become famous, become object, passively suffer,
keeping quiet, 
having a passion like this consigns you to exclusion. However it is also an index of resistance. 
I don’t say I did not try. To change what was around. To believe I was wrong. To deny reality. In the end it could not be so bed if other people accept this. Perpetual humiliation. Being manipulated. But for me  too much is too much.
I could not allow myself to be used and thrown to an unwanted course of things, in the illusion, always disappointed, that one day, maybe, who knows, maybe tomorrow I will get...You will not get anything like this. I can tell. I saw so many others before you. You will go the same way as all these other desperate delusional. I've been watching them for years. They are all destined to pass without leaving a trace. 
Jumping right down into the oblivion pitt. And then trying to climb to the top through a slippery surfaces until the nails get stuck into the walls; and then fall, even lower, deep into the pitt, where you throw yourself.
Instead.
I Choose. 
Say "I'd rather not to". It is also a liberation as well as a freedom.
Feel life slowly being born within. And a sense of presence. Speaking an unknown language with a being who is not even of the same specie; and not only understand each other perfectly but also trust each other, respect each other. Partnership  is based on mutual respect. We help each other to make this living a tiny bit more sustainable. Exciting. Then look into the mirror and smile if there is an extra line or a white hair. Accepting time. New challenges. Pursuing childhood dreams. Without thinking of an hypocritical tomorrow. Or what people will think about. They don’t know me. They don’t know you. Who are you? Who you really are? 
Only today. And just for pleasure. Then, instead, to win all the races, unexpectedly.
I tried in every way I tried. To love and be loved. To be as they wanted me to be. They have tried even harder, in every way, to make me be who I am not. Who I did not want to be. I didn't succeed. They did not succeed. 
I won.

Elda Oreto 

January 2020 - August 2022