incest of ideation
by Cristiano Cardone
“I see. Well, we still need to evaluate him. Could you show us—?”
Sharon turned to him.
“Thanks for your time, Terry. We’ll let you know next week.”
The man sighed and left the stage.
“Am I crazy, or should we be judging them by their acting skills,” I asked, “not political leanings, hobbies, or other stuff?”
Silence filled the room. The Studio representative stared at me, then at the letter I’d given them.
“I don’t get it, Maria. Do you just want to air your grievances, hoping for publicity by angering the public? Because you sound like an old lady yelling at clouds.”
The director looked straight ahead—his heavy eyelids betraying fatigue, as if something inside him had broken long ago. He mumbled:
“Continuing like this, all love gets lost. The sacrifice of repressed impulses is in the past—why must we suffer so much? Everyone wants the highest companionship in status, or fame, or appeal. This generation of branded individualists has reduced relationships to profit factors—no stable families, no real environments for the future, fewer children, and then…”
The representative snapped his tongue, trying to cover the director’s rant. “Look, the depot auditions were diverse enough to fit John’s script, based on Emily’s pitch.”
“Sir, the script needs serious revision,” I said, “and as for Christopher Lee—”
“Disney used his likeness last year for the fourth official Star Wars trilogy; we can do the same. We have the right to fair use. His nieces signed the release. I don’t see the problem. Maria, these statements of yours go against our vision.”
My throat felt raw again. I drained the glass of water on the table, running damp fingertips over my sweating face. Bullshit. When numbers rule, creativity dies—and not even death can erase the faces of nostalgia. Advanced AI and zero ethical standards brought them all back, performing for the Studio’s whims. If I checked the agenda for the next financial meeting, I’d probably see more dead actors slated for cameo appearances.
“I went there to file a complaint and ended up getting scolded.”
“Poor thing,” Elizabeth said. “You really need a break. Maybe we could plan a vacation together? What about visiting your parents?”
My sore throat prevented me from yelling, so I swallowed my anger and closed my eyes.
“When does production on this massive turd start? No, Elizabeth, I don’t want a vacation. I want it done right.”
She gave me the same empty comfort she always did when she was too lazy for real conversation. She lay on the sofa this Monday night, unbothered and passive. I was so fed up. When was the last time she genuinely confronted me or cared for me in any way that wasn’t just to soothe her conscience?
This stupid job was constantly haunting me. I locked myself in the study and decided to sleep on the sofa, choosing the stiff leather over her touch. I was furious; a bottle of cold water sat by my feet, and the more I drank, the more physically exhausted, yet mentally alert, I became. I could feel my stomach turning. After several bathroom trips, I decided to mix water with something else: vinegar. I recalled how the Romans drank posca. The taste was bearable, but even adding honey didn’t help much—it still tasted like old blood.
Finally, I collapsed, my mind restless. I glanced at the bookshelf. Marcuse's One-Dimensional Man stood out with its bright red cover. I flipped through the pages with half-closed eyes. I flipped through the pages with half-closed eyes. To avoid oppression, anything that appears beautiful or artistic must be negatively engaged against “spiritualized coercion.”
Spiritualized coercion. That phrase put me to sleep.
We had been filming for a week. I’d brought my posca kit with me, but I still felt my insides churning to the same dreary rhythm as my overworked brain. All of it—empty water. The production felt lost at sea, too. We’d already had to order more materials, new props, and reestablish contacts in Tunisia for additional scenes. I watched the set expand from the driver’s seat—like Adana’s dolled-up, clueless face seemed to get bigger and bigger in my mind.
Was her nose always like that? Enough. I adjusted my skirt and sat next to the director. Thankfully, we were in a shaded spot, and he had a proper video village set up so I could manage fewer calls today. My linen shirt clung to my skin—an apt reflection of the clumsy, disconnected line deliveries.
So, that was the actor playing Finn’s son, Jake. He was so muscular he could barely move without panting. Of course, Antilla would have a crush on him. Of course, he would be killed by the pale, ghostly Sith villain. Of course, the heroine would be idolized, even though her actions would ultimately ruin galactic peace. My skin itched from dryness and the occasional sand gust.
I rummaged for my posca kit, eyes glued to the set—everyone was screaming Look at me! Look at me!. Yet I was part of this. I was complicit and guilty.
Rebel Pilot: “You know, the Alliance isn’t simply about taking down the Sith family. It’s about ensuring that every sentient being—no matter their species, origin, or Force sensitivity—has a place to belong.”
Antilla: “Exactly. If we’re not fighting for equality and justice for everyone, then how are we any better than the Empire?”
Virtue-signaling death-spiral. No nuances and subtle as a brick – did those political themes serve the story? Was that really remodeling the franchise for modern audiences? Wasn’t this for a sort of anti-audicence? I felt nauseous. The director glanced at me.
“Everything okay, Maria?”
“I need to sit down a moment.”
“Alright, we’ll finish this scene and then take a break.”
The instant I sat, my stomach churned hard, and I had to fight not to vomit. My back stuck to the chair; I slipped on a cardigan to hide my clammy skin and to protect me from the sudden breeze. I looked up to see Adana smile at me. I returned a look of disgust, her expression changing as she turned away. A flicker of regret hit me—poor kid. She was only trying her best, like everyone else. What did she do wrong though? It was people like me who made all this happen, people like me who greenlit what I despised.
I excused myself and headed to the van the studio had rented for me. Inside, I smashed the posca bottle against the bedside table—old blood, old life, old ways.
“Hi.”
“Hi, Adana. You’re really amazing.”
“Uh…thank you?”
“Here. I wanted to give you a gift. I’m sending it from my heart; I put my whole self into it. My whole self.”
Golden glitter shone on her perfect cheeks. Her scandalously glossy lips parted in a slight smile, maybe whispering a quiet “thank you.” Perhaps I only imagined it as I lay there bleeding out.
It would have been the perfect image for her VIP profile! I slunk back like a shadow to my trailer, retreating there to die. As I clasped the shard of glass from the bottle, I pictured her with my gift during the director’s cue: a little piece of my constipated colon. She opened it, lifting it, touching its thickness with satisfaction as if to indicate how wonderfully full it was.
Full of shit. Shit for the spectacle. Photos of her horrified face, then the wave of online sympathy. I was tired of that game. If I had become spite itself, I had to christen the new spite—new blood must suffer. “Old blood has to die,” I thought. And, so, I gave it, with a final, trembling breath.
***”Incest of Ideation” is a short satirical metafiction exploring the creative bankruptcy of modern entertainment industry, examining how commercial pressures and cultural repetition drain artistic integrity and personal passion.***
Photo of Cristiano Cardone
BIO: Cristiano Cardone, born in Naples in 1997, has published two novels—Fecola di Neve and Etimasia. In 2019, he published his first comic, CFBT, a thriller cyberpunk trilogy. He is currently publishing short stories in Don’t Submit and Apocalypse Confidential, with more on the way. Another novel is slated for release in summer 2025.
Cardone earned his BS in Literature in 2019, then moved to Norway, where he completed an MS in Ibsen Studies in 2021. He is now finishing a second master’s degree in Library and Information Sciences at OsloMet.