Anne, a teenage girl who dreams of being a dancer suffers an obsession and becomes haunted by a ghost of a ballerina in the nineteenth century, who prefers to be called Tata, and who, like a rat, appears out of nowhere and goes beyond, literally, in a blink of an eye, twerking, trolling and twisting facts and factions, and who insists into contacting her in every possible way (even by cell phone and text messages) to tell her story. So she decides to write her story in the form of a play giving vent to her artistic vein, before the ghost dancer make her wiah to cutting the veins of them both, tormenting her from head to toe. As it were not enough many tangles and so many caveats and ties to untie the lies and laces from her Ballet shoes, here comes another ghost that looks like it came to torment her too. Giovanni, boyfriend and possible serial killer, and that also seems to have a deep relationship with the teenager proves to be helpful and kind to her, but everything seems to be just a clever way to conquer her world to dominate her and make she do everything he tells her to do, to insert her in their midst to be involved in the same case. Then he begins to tell the story from his point of view. Having two versions, in which one is she going to believe? And as she finishes her own story, will she be able to convey? She hopes to resolve the issue as soon as possible, before they devour or engage her further in a tangle of misunderstandings. Or she will start to disbelieve her own ears and lose herself in the path of her own acquittal tied into an emotional imbalance that at first reveals a tough ancestor line to tread. For this she will need all her courage thus find heroin in her veins, to be able to go face her faith... Or her dreadful fate.
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ACT 1
A Dream Inside a Dream
It was as if she danced with her fingers on the keyboard which gave her such a pleasure that she kept typing words without hesitation. Tipping her fingers over the board it was like swimming for her, as if she was dancing in the Swan lake with no swaying. She was not there to shillyshally anyway. Since that man came to visit her so mysteriously as he disappeared, she couldn't falter in her own instincts. She had to write her story, his story, their story.
Anne started to type in the computer the same afternoon. “His face was pale, he looked more like a buffoon in an old movie,” she wrote. The words came easily, a flowing river of emotions pouring down in her fingers and popping out in the screen. But she had to come up with a title.
“All is Vanity,” she said to herself. Then she searched on the internet to see if that name was available. It was not. There was another author who had the same idea as hers.
“Oh well,” she sighed, “after all, there is no originality when everything seems already invented.” She put both hands over her head and thought for a moment. She then wrote with only one hand, while she sustained her head with the left one. She took a deep breath and repeated to herself, “Love, yes, it is all about love. It has always been about love. Love, love, love!
“All is Love,” she repeated. Browsing over the internet she found no match.
“I can't believe there is no literary work entitled as 'All is Love'. Poet, where art thou the Bard?”
Anne continued typing two words, “A play”. That's how it all started. She would finish her play, before the characters could finish with her.
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Italian
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Already translated.
Translated by Monica R. Pelà
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Author review: VERY ACCURATE, SPLENDID TRANSLATOR, SHE MAKES THE WORK SEEMS LIKE A MAGICAL SYMBIOSIS. MANY KUDOS TO HER! |
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Portuguese
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Already translated.
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Spanish
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Already translated.
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