SISTERS OF ST. ROCK BACKSTORIES (AND OTHER TALES)

  ROLLING STONED - JULY148 ✍️ by Vanda Velvet, Senior Writer & Reluctant Existentialist There are songs that whisper to you. There are songs that scream. And then there’s “Rime Baciate, Con La Lingua,” which leans in, smirks like a drunk Petrarch, and French kisses your consciousness. Green Peace — former botanist, current CEO of St. Rock Entertainments,  and professional cloud-watcher — delivers a track so bizarrely poetic, it defies genre, gravity, and possibly decency. Let’s begin with the opening: “La trebbia... mentre rollo…” A clear agricultural metaphor, until you realize he’s talking about rolling a joint in a wheat field. Art. Pure, blurry art. Verse two takes a Shakespearean left turn and climbs a tower to encounter what scholars might call a lone passerby , but Green simply dubs “’na gran ficaaaa.” It's both crude and oddly romantic, like if Giacomo Casanova had joined a commune. By the time we get to verse three , we’re migrating to Rio with pettico...

  In fact, he wasn’t born with a name at all. He was the result of an ego-fueled experiment — one of many — by a Turkish man who considered himself both an artist and a businessman. His canvas was DNA. His business model? Impregnate women, sell the children, and walk away. No strings, no guilt, no paperwork. Green’s biological mother, a Finnish woman, may have been paid. Or maybe coerced. Maybe she was just a vessel, maybe she was a clone. No one knows — and Green’s never found her face in a single photograph. She died shortly after giving birth. Mysteriously, of course. As if she were never meant to survive him. He was adopted as a baby by the Colonnas — Olimpia’s family. Rich, elegant, and always in need of a charitable act to flaunt at dinner parties. They never let him in the house. Never called him figlio. But they sent money, lavishly, and told themselves they were generous. That money? Pocketed by a woman who kept him fed and clothed, but never kissed his forehead or as...

   (written in black ink, half of it smudged like someone shut the book with dirty hands) I hate this. Writing. Feelings. Diaries. Vomit on a page. But Olimpia left hers open on the kitchen table again. Like a dare. Like a trap. I read it. Of course I did. I always do. She knows. She wants me to read it. Like she wants to poke the sleeping dog and see if it bites or cries. So fine. Here. Here’s  my  version. I’m not normal. Never was. I like blood. Fights. Real ones. None of that polite drama school stuff with a slap and a faint. I mean teeth-on-the-floor, scream-until-your-lungs-collapse kind of fights. They make sense to me. They have rules. Win. Lose. Bleed. But love? No thanks. That word’s a straight-jacket. People say “I love you” like it’s supposed to fix everything, like it’s duct tape for a broken soul. I hear it and I want to punch someone in the throat. Olimpia says it with her eyes. Worse. I can’t shut them out. She was everything I hated: rich, pampered, ...

  OLIMPIA DIARY ENTRY (Undated, stained with wine and eyeliner thumbprints) Letizia is a psychopath. I say that with love. Or something like it. She’s pure chaos in boots—wild, violent, impossible to pin down. She laughs at broken bones and doesn’t believe in hearts. Hates the word  “love”  like it’s a slur. Says it makes her itch. But she’s mine. She always has been. She was my first real friend. My first  anything,  really. The first time I felt like I was choosing something for myself instead of being assigned it at birth like a cursed heirloom. I was born Narcisia Olimpia Eleonora Maria Isabella Colonna Aldobrandi Normanni of Anguillara Sabazia. Exhausting, right? My name alone needs a goddamn tour bus. My childhood was all pearls and piano scales, posture correction, and perfectly monogrammed nightmares. I knew how to curtsey before I knew how to cry. Freedom was a word we read about in books but never said aloud at dinner. And then Letizia exploded into my...

  Tragedy struck the Sisters of St. Rock not with a bang, but with a suspicious silence and the faint scent of hairspray. One morning, Gloria and Victoria—once the thunderous backbone of the band—vanished without a trace. No dramatic farewell tour. No poetic final note. Just… gone. Disappeared. Rumors spread like spilled eyeliner in a mosh pit. Some said they’d been swallowed by a black hole that opened up during a guitar solo. Others swore they’d seen the two boarding a seaplane to an uncharted island where rockstars go to forget fame and find inner peace. Kunto, ever the visionary, insisted they had been abducted by the same aliens who once erased his memory in Morocco. The truth? No one really knows. What is known is that without them, the Sisters began to slow. Momentum wavered. Tours were postponed. Some recordings mysteriously went unbooked. A new single was ready but mysteriously stayed on someone’s desk. The Sisters slipped from the top of the charts to the shadows of t...