Returning home, even to family, isn't always easy, especially after years of silence, lies, and disappearances. Francesco decides to take the plunge, perhaps because he feels he has no other options. When he reunites with the family he suddenly left four years ago, he has long hair, a gaunt body, and a lost gaze. At his side is Aria, an enigmatic girl with a delicate smile and a secret in her eyes. She accompanies Francesco on the most difficult journey: that of redemption.
Even the house Francesco left has changed in the meantime. Francesco's family has learned to survive his absence: his mother still laughs with the same tenderness, his father speaks little but cooks as if it were a way to mend relationships, and then there's Gillo, the older brother who once would have given everything to protect Francesco. But Gillo has changed today. He's built walls to defend himself, he's chosen silence, he's sworn to himself that certain things are unforgivable. Thus, between the walls of his home and the fireworks factory that sealed the family's fate and where scialacca (a resin used in fireworks) is processed, latent tensions resurface. Old grudges, unspoken words, and a love that has never truly stopped burning. Because sometimes, returning isn't enough. You need to find the courage to stay, to mend, and to redeem yourself.
In Scialacca (Sperling & Kupfer, 2025, 320 pp., also available as an ebook) , Kristine Maria Rapino tells a story of anger, disappointment, family and spiritual fractures . A story that is also a journey of rebirth and redemption. We asked the author what inspired her new novel:
My stories are born from fractures. From question marks. They follow the ascending tone of doubt. The inspiration behind this novel comes from a complex origin. There's my experience as a volunteer among the homeless in Pescara. One of them was named Francesco, like Scialacca's protagonist. A drug addict, he chose to end his life three days before entering the community. I tried to write a different epilogue for him: returning to his family, dealing with his guilt. Can forgiveness really open a new path?
Your novels are set in Abruzzo...what connection do you have with your homeland?
It's never just a backdrop. In my first novel, Fichi di marzo (March 2022), there was a pasta factory at the foot of the Majella; here we ideally move to the Vasto coast: dunes held in place by tufts of sea chamomile, unable to resist the wind that shapes them and forces them to change shape. Abruzzo still retains a wild, untamed nature, and in this strength I recognize my own urges. I keep traditions alive, I love my dialect. But I also have a coastal vision, open to modernity, along with the 2,912 meters of hope of our highest peak, the Corno Grande. The gaze of an Abruzzese always finds a peak to cling to.
Which of the characters in your book are you particularly attached to and why?
"To Francesco. He is the one who gives flesh and face to the invisible people to whom I dedicate this book. On the street, we get used to seeing them as a category, not as people. Francesco reminds us that behind every face lies a deviant trajectory. And that the worst evil is not realizing it."
And the other characters?
There's Gillo, his brother, who created a fireworks company: a profession that brings joy to people, but also very dangerous. Years ago, a woman, wife and mother of two victims of a bomb blast, told me: 'Among fireworkers, death is a given.' I thought about it for a long time. How much can you risk for the happiness of others? And then there's Aria, with oculocutaneous albinism. A character born from a fragility of mine: the difficulty exposing myself to the sun after a melanoma. I approached the study of albinism out of curiosity, and a transformation ensued. During my research, I met the Albinit association. People capable of transcending their limitations. Perhaps fragility isn't a lack, but another way of interacting with the world?
What does the fireworks factory represent for Francesco's family?
For Gillo, it's a Promethean dream: to give the earth a light equal to that of the sky and the sea. Yet, 'for a stoker, only darkness matters,' he often says, because it allows him to enjoy the light created by the gunfire, for which even darkness is useful. 'Artifice' doesn't just refer to the device, but also to the device used to create illusion. Fireworks are this: a way to believe that even pain can shine.
What does writing represent for you?
"For me, writing is tying together threads. When intertwined, they create fabric. You no longer know where your thread begins and the other's ends. Writing helps us recognize our similarities. To understand that no one saves themselves alone."