#latino authors

[black-is-beautiful18]

And here we go again with the “I just can’t connect to Black characters 🥺” bs. Y’all don’t like Black ppl so that’s why you don’t like reading about us. No one cares if LegendBorn or Children of Blood and Bone are some of your favs, cuz what exactly is stopping you from finding books similar to them???? And then to say that Black authors should be more like Asian authors while also insinuating that we don’t have our own historical or cultural myths, especially when we exist on multiple continents and islands, is absolutely ludicrous. Not to mention that a statement like that feeds into racism and the fetishization of Asian ppl. Children of color are forced to see nothing but white ppl in every form of media all our lives and not once does not being able to connect to the characters stop us from enjoying that piece of media. You can empathize with dragons, elves, orcs, and witches easily. Anyone darker than dry glue however, needs to prove why you should read our stories and have sympathy for our characters. This is exactly why I don’t trust white readers regardless of if they read diversely or not cuz some of y’all don’t even read the books. You just get them for brownie points or judge them harshly cuz you still don’t see the characters as deserving of empathy.

[la-libreria-chula]

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Current reads that I finished last month and beginning September. Left out some none fiction books because I mainly scimmed those, I was just curious what they were about and said. Happy with these reads...

[jelly-o630]

In hindsight it probably shouldn’t have been surprising that a book where cannibalism is the norm and there is an industry surrounding the production of human meat is deeply terrifying and unsettling and yet here I am- internally screaming as I read in complete shock and surprise

[the-neverending-tbr-pile]

“Big Angel stood in the shadows of the living room, buffeted by stories of the past, things he remembered and things he had learned. Or maybe things he had dreamed. He could no longer tell the difference. The stories flew in like wind through an open window and whirled around him. He could feel them almost pull him off his feet. They seemed to come by their own volition, leaping over years, ignoring the decades. Big Angel found himself in a time storm. He saw it all as if the past were a movie in the Las Pulgas theater.”

[goformoony]

i need more latino james come on cough it up 🙃

[dreamersbcll]

A prompt for whenever you have time or feel like writing it: tara struggling with her sexuality and badly wanting to tell sam but she's scared she might not accept her just like her mother

“Tolerate It”

if it’s all in my head, tell me now

(a part two of this post)

——————————————————————————-

The art of subtlety was going to be the death of Tara.

After all the blood washed away and the bodies that littered her fears cleared, she didn’t really know what was next.

Sam was back. Her parents were gone. Amber was dead. Nothing was quite the way it should be.

Tara thinks that she is okay with that. Change was something that she was learning to be OK with— not like she had any choice. All she could do was move forward, afraid that if she dug her heels in, she would be left behind indefinitely.

Hell was hot enough. To be lonely before entering the depths seemed to be a death sentence in itself.

Yet there was this nagging voice in her head- one that told her she could be safe. That Sam would stay. And that she could be herself— her true self.

They had been through hell and back together, letting Tara get a taste of what her afterlife would be like. With Sam, it was a lot less scary. So maybe, just maybe, it could all be okay. She would be okay.

Tara knew there was no right way to go about something like this. Well, okay, that’s a lie. There was a proper way. Sitting Sam down, perhaps after dinner, and breaking the news to her gently. It was as if Sam was a wild animal that Tara had to break, and ease into the new role they would have to play from then on.

She packed her bags anyway and folded her sheets on her bed neatly for Sam to handle when she inevitably had to leave. That way, her sister would have no problems with getting rid of Tara’s stuff if need be.

Being gay was a liability. It was always something that could make or break a beautiful relationship, tainting the very foundations it stood on. Tara knew that well. She was never able to hold a perfect thing and not demolish it.

After New York and watching Mindy lose a lover of her own, Tara could feel the walls closing in. How could she hide a part of herself that she mourned daily? To die without being honest, honest of who she was and who she loved, and to let Amber die as just a murderer? How could she be so cruel, so callous to the one girl she’s ever loved?

She wouldn’t let Amber die like that. Even if the girl maimed her.

Even if Tara had killed her.

So when Tara got home from university after a long day of learning about queer rights and how to write about her pain, it was decided. She had to do it now, or it would never happen. And she couldn’t live with never.

Dumping her backpack off in the foyer, she wandered the apartment, looking for the person who could calm her fears with the touch of a hand.

Or ruin her once again.

There she found Sam, pacing the living room, one hand pressing her phone to her ear, the other clutching a wad of papers. The phone bill. Sam had been bitching about the prices for a while now.

Quietly sneaking up on her sister, Tara swallowed her pride and calmly asked for her sister’s attention. “Hey, Sam?”

Sam looked up, her stressed smile breaking into one of love and ease. Holding one hand up, signaling Tara to wait, Sam replied. “Hold on, baby. I’m on the phone.”

Her big sister returned to the call, arguing with the person on the phone.

Tara could feel the anxiety bubbling up in her stomach, constricting her throat, cutting off her air supply. Her ears were ringing, and all she could think of was shooting Amber in the head; all she could hear was the body of the one person who could ever love her like that, dying against the wooden floorboards. Forgotten. As if their love never mattered. As if it was never real.

“Sam,” she pleaded, tugging on her sister’s sleeve.

Sam glanced back at Tara, her eyes flashing with annoyance. “Tara, one second, please. I’m here, just gimme a minute,” she said, pulling away from Tara’s grasp.

Once again, without finesse or explanation, Tara blurted out her truth. This time, she did it with closed eyes, her body pulling back, expecting the fallout. The hurt. The pain. She waited for the shrapnel of all those things to dig into her skin, a death by a thousand cuts.

“I’m gay.”

Her big sister froze, pulling the phone away from her ear. “What?”

Tara swallowed hard, her eyes still shut. She could feel hot shame creeping up her neck, coloring her cheeks humiliated. Fuck. This wasn’t right. She fucked it up again. Her demise was something she had both hands in, constantly destroying every part of her without question.

“I’m a lesbian. Gay. I’m… not like you,” she forced out, her hands clenched into fists.

Another beat of silence passed, Sam’s uneven breathing being the only indication that she was still in the room. Tara shook her head slightly. She couldn’t wait like last time. She couldn’t hear her sister say those words.

She had to go.

“I’ll go grab my shit. Get a Taxi,” she murmured, pushing past Sam, beelining for her room.

Before Sam could grab her, Tara locked the door, barricading herself inside. She leaned against the door, letting her back slowly slide down until she was on the floor, her knees tucked into her chest. Hot tears slid down her cheeks, shame choking her throat. Stupid. She was so stupid. Nobody could love a fuck-up like her. She was such an idiot.

A hesitant but firm knock at the door snapped Tara out of it.

“Hey, let me in. Tara, I’m here. Let me in,” Sam softly whispered, her cheek pressed against the soft wooden door.

Tara shook her head, covering her eyes. “It’s okay. Mami didn’t want me. Papi didn’t. You, at one point, either. I know when I need to leave.”

“Tara.”

She screwed her eyes shut, pressing her hands against closed eyes, letting her vision go black. Alone. She was going to be alone.

“Sam, I’m scared of Hell. But being alone is worse, almost,” she whispered, pausing to swallow.

She shook her head. “It’s okay. I’ll find a new place to be from. I’m good at this thing called change. Leaving isn’t new.”

“Tara.”

Pausing, Tara heard the question in her sister’s voice.

Let me in.

And so she did.

She let Sam in and turned away from her big sister, crossing her arms tightly against her chest. She could feel Sam move in, her presence warm and soft. Beckoning Tara towards her.

But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t survive it.

Sam got behind her, gently touching Tara's shoulder, ignoring how her baby sister flinched.

“Look at me. Baby, look at me,” she coaxed, squeezing Tara’s shoulder.

Tara shook her head violently, pushing Sam’s hand off her shoulder. She turned to face her big sister, her eyes dark. “Don’t say it. I won’t survive it if you say it. I can’t hear you say it. Please. Just let me go, please. Let me go.”

Her big sister shook her head, pulling Tara in. She hugged her little sister to her chest, holding her tight. Sam just got her back. She wasn’t going to let her little sister go again.

Leaning down, she cupped her sister’s face, forcing Tara to look into her eyes. She gently wiped away tears with her thumbs, her own heart breaking at the betrayal in Tara’s eyes.

“Honey. Mi Cielo. Mi Vida. I love you. I love you for all you are and all you’ll ever be. Your sexuality doesn’t mean anything to me,” Sam paused, closing her eyes in frustration. “Not what I meant. I mean, I love you endlessly. Completely. You are my baby. My love. My life. Who you love doesn’t matter to me. All that matters is your happiness and your peace.”

Tara swallowed hard. This wasn’t right. Sam was supposed to leave, leaving Tara behind. There was supposed to be reconciliation or hint of kindness—only cold and darkness, solidarity and repenting.

Not this.

She looked up at Sam, tears blurring her vision. Her tongue felt heavy, too big for her mouth. Nothing felt right. This wasn’t right.

But this is what it was.

“Do you mean that? Mami didn’t want me. She told me that hell was waiting. I’m not ready for that,” she slurred slightly, her heart heavy.

Sam shook her head, silencing all of Tara's vices and fears. “Baby. I love you so much. What our mother thought doesn’t mean shit. She doesn’t mean shit. You are not going to hell. And if you are, I'm following you there. You and I always. I love you. I am so fucking proud of you. So proud,” she soothed, brushing hair out of Tara’s face.

It was too much. All too much. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go. But this was it.

Sam loved her. She still loves her. Even if Tara is a sinner, a sinner going to hell.

Why does she still love her?

Tara closed her eyes, tears still flowing. Her heart was heavy, her face warm, her chest tight. She didn’t know what to do, what to say. She didn’t know how to beg for forgiveness, for saving.

She tried anyway.

“Sammy,” she begged, her hands curling into Sam’s shirt, tugging.

Her sister planted a kiss on Tara’s forehead. “Tara. Look at me. I love you. I’m proud of you. I am so proud of you. I’m here, baby. I’m not leaving,” she whispered.

When Tara didn’t answer, for fear that she was making it all up, Sam continued.

“I love you. Te amo. Te amo. Te amo,” she said as she pressed kisses up and down Tara's face.

God may never forgive her. But Sam did. And that’s all Tara would ever need.

[dontspillthefrijoles43]

Lost Hero XVI - Breisa

Blizzards and Lore dropping (Trauma bonding)

Warnings: Teenagers being teenagers, terrible jokes, cursing, angst, demigod bullshit, Gaea being a bitch, Fluff (not a warning but ;) Word count: 4k+ Summary: Man you're pretty fucked up... So am I.... Are we best friends?

<<Prev

Next>>

-

Breisa was checking on Jason, again, when his eyes snapped open. 

“Cyclops!” He head butted her. 

“¡Maldito!”She rubbed her forehead. “Jason, would it Kill you not to swing that boulder attached to your neck?”

“Sorry.” He muttered, and swooned downwards. 

“Whoa, sleepyhead.” Piper sat behind him on the bronze dragon, holding his waist to keep him balanced. 

Leo sat in the front driving. They flew peacefully through the winter sky as if nothing had happened.

“D-Detroit,” Jason stammered. “Didn’t we crash-land? I thought—”

“It’s okay,” Leo said. “We got away, but you got a nasty concussion. How are you feeling?”

Jason was in pain. Breisa could sense it faintly. “How did you—the Cyclops—”

“Leo and Breisa ripped them apart,” Piper said. “They were amazing. She was all mission impossible. He can summon fire—”

“It was nothing,” Leo said quickly.

Piper laughed. “Shut up, Valdez. I’m going to tell him. Get over it.” 

And she did.

How Leo was able to defeat the Cyclops family. How Breisa freed Piper and then Jason. As Leo had replaced the dragon’s wiring and gotten them back in the air just as they’d started to hear the Cyclopes roaring for vengeance.

Jason looked impressed. Taking out three Cyclopes with nothing but a tool kit and lock picking skills?

Breisa was glad there were no light bulbs around for her to blow up. She wasn’t necessarily used to being talked positively by people her age.

When Piper told him about the other kid the Cyclopes claimed to have eaten, the one in the purple shirt who spoke Latin. Jason looked like he was going to have an aneurysm. 

“I’m not alone, then,” he said. “There are others like me.”

“Jason,” Piper said, “you were never alone. You’ve got us.”

“I—I know ... but something Hera said. I was having a dream...”

He told them what he’d seen, with what the goddess had said inside her cage.

 So it was a vision. Breisa realized. “An exchange?” She said out loud. “What does that mean?”

Jason shook his head. “But Hera’s gamble is me. Just by sending me to Camp Half-Blood, I have a feeling she broke some kind of rule, something that could blow up in a big way—”

“Or save us,” Piper said hopefully. “That bit about the sleeping enemy— that sounds like the lady Leo told us about.”

Leo cleared his throat. “About that ... she kind of appeared to us back in Detroit, in a pool of Porta-Potty sludge.”

Jason asked, “Did you say ... Porta-Potty?”

Leo told them about the big face in the factory yard. Leaving the details of Breisa’s issues out. She thanked him mentally for that. He talked mostly how Gaea was taunting them. 

“I don’t know if she’s completely unkillable,” he said, “But she cannot be defeated by toilet seats. I can vouch for that. She wanted us to betray you guys, and I was like, ‘Pfft, right, I’m gonna listen to a face in the potty sludge.’ ”

“She’s trying to divide us.” Piper tensed.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I just ... Why are they toying with us? Who is this lady, and how is she connected to Enceladus?”

“Enceladus?” Jason asked. 

“I mean ...” Piper’s voice wavered. “That’s one of the giants. Just one of the names I could remember.”

Breisa felt that tug in her brain. Like she was leaving out more than she was saying. Almost as strong as reading Leo when he lied. 

Leo scratched his head. “Well, I dunno about Enchiladas—” 

“Enceladus,” Breisa corrected.

“Whatever. But Old Potty Face mentioned another name. Porpoise Fear, or something?”

“Porphyrion?” Piper asked. “He was the giant king, I think.”

Cause of Jason, Breisa’s empathy sparked again. She closed her eyes and saw flashes of that dark spire in the old reflecting pool—growing larger as Hera grew weak. 

‘Ow.’ She held her head as a migraine came on. Trying to focus her powers on something else.

“I’m going to take a wild guess,” Jason said. “In the old stories, Porphyrion nabbed Hera. That was the first shot in the war between the giants and the gods.”

“I think so,” Piper agreed. “But those myths are really garbled and conflicted. It’s almost like nobody wanted that story to survive. I just remember a war being mentioned.”

“Something about the giants being almost impossible to kill?” Breisa guessed. 

“Heroes and gods had to work together,” Jason nodded. “That’s what Hera told me.”

“Kind of hard to do,” Leo grumbled, “If the gods won’t even talk to us.”

As they flew west, Breisa could feel the racing thoughts passing between their friends. Their frustrations were stronger than ever. She rubbed her temples, trying  to tune it all out.

‘Tas bien?’ Leo’s thoughts rang out louder than the rest. ‘You’re squeezing me kind of tight.’

‘Sorry.’ She slightly let go of his waist. ‘Hearing everyone. It’s hard to control it. It’s like drilling in my brain. It hurts.’

‘Oh.’ He was thinking up something. ‘Well your MP3 thing? Doesn’t that help?’

‘The battery died.’ Breisa frowned. ‘It’s old anyways. All my stuff to fix it..I left it behind in Wilderness school.’

Leo was turning gears again, and then his brain started humming a song. It sounded like…

‘Really? El Chavo de Ocho?’ Breisa snorted. 

‘What?’ Leo cracked a smile. ‘It helps me zone out, when people are yapping.’ 

‘Can you pick a song that won’t make my migraine pound into my brain?’ 

He rolled his eyes and then thought again. The hum sounded softer. Felt just a bit smoother.

‘La La Lah-ah. Suavecito, mi linda. Hmn hmn. La la lah-ah. I never— no no yeah. La La lah lah Suavecito, mi linda.’

He couldn’t sing. And the lyrics seemed jumbled up. If he was singing for reals, it would have been terrible. But in the moment she appreciated it it was okay.

Something about that song  sounded familiar but she couldn’t put her finger on. Maybe her dad sang it when she was little. That idea made her sad. But she shook her head and tried to focus on Leo’s thoughts.

--

Breisa wasn’t sure how much time passed before the dragon dove through a break in the clouds, and below them, glittering in the winter sun, was a city at the edge of a massive lake.

 A crescent of skyscrapers lined the shore. Behind them, stretching out to the western horizon, was a vast grid of snow-covered neighborhoods and roads.

“Chicago,” Jason said.

I’ll make sure she finishes the job. That was the last thing dirt-face had said. Of course that was in her mind now. 

“One problem down,” Leo said. “We got here alive. Now, how do we find the storm spirits?”

A spur of movement went by, just below them. At first she thought it was a small plane, but it was too small, too dark and fast. 

The thing spiraled toward the skyscrapers, weaving and changing shape—and, just for a moment it became the smoky figure of a horse.

“How about we follow that one,” Jason suggested, “and see where it goes?”

—

The ventus moved like ... well, like the wind.

“Speed up!” he urged.

“Bro,” Leo said, “if I get any closer, he’ll spot us. Bronze dragon ain’t exactly a stealth plane.”

“Slow down!” Piper and Breisa yelped. 

The storm spirit dove into the downtown streets. Festus tried to follow, but his body was way too wide. His left wing clipped the edge of a building, slicing off a stone gargoyle before Leo pulled up.

“Get above the buildings,” Jason suggested. “We’ll track him from there.”

“You want to drive this thing?” Leo grumbled, but he did what Jason asked.

After a few minutes, Jason spotted the storm spirit again, zipping through the streets with no regard—blowing over pedestrians, ruffling flags, making cars swerve.

“Oh great,” Piper said. “There’re two.”

She was right.

A second ventus blasted around the corner of the Renaissance Hotel and linked up with the first. They spun together in a chaotic dance, eventually free-falling back down the street.

“Those guys do not need any more caffeine,” Leo said.

“I guess Chicago’s a good place to hang out,” Piper said. “Nobody’s going to question a couple more evil winds.”

“More than a couple,” Breisa said. “Look.”

The dragon circled over a wide avenue next to a lake-side park. Storm spirits were converging—at least a dozen of them, whirling around a big

public art installation.

“Which one do you think is Dylan?” Leo asked. “I wanna throw something at him.”

Breisa slipped her hand into her bag and started to pull out a Chancla— when Jason pushed her elbow back into the bag.

The closer they got to it, the more Breisa was closer to a heart attack. 

Two five-story high-tech modules rose from either end of a long granite reflecting pool. The modules seemed to be built of screens, flashing the combined image of a giant face that spewed water into the pool.

Then the image on the screens changed to a woman’s face with her eyes closed.

“Leo...” Breisa said nervously.

“La veo,” Leo sweared. “I don’t like her, but I see her.”

Then the screens went dark. The venti swirled together into a single funnel cloud and skittered across the fountain, kicking up a waterspout almost as high as the monoliths. They got to its center, popped off a manhole, and disappeared underground.

“Did they just go down a drain?” Piper asked. “How are we supposed to follow them?”

“Maybe we shouldn’t,” Leo said. “That fountain thing is giving me seriously bad vibes. And aren’t we supposed to, like, beware the earth?”

As much as Breisa hated It, this was their only way forward. They had to find Hera, and they now had only a couple of days until the solstice.

“Put us down in that park,” Jason suggested. “We’ll check it out on foot.”

__

Festus landed in an open area between the lake and the skyline. 

The signs said Grant Park.

 The dragon's hot metal feet hissed as they touched down. Festus flapped his wings unhappily and shot fire into the sky, but there was no one around to notice.

 The wind coming off the lake was bitter cold. Anyone with sense would be inside. Breisa could barely see through the blizzard. Her braid was catching snow pallets onto her curls.

As they dismounted, Festus stomped his feet annoyed. One of his ruby eyes flickered, so it looked like he was blinking.

“Is that normal?” Breisa asked.

Leo pulled a rubber mallet from his tool bag Looney tunes mallet. He whacked the dragon’s bad eye, and the light went back to normal. 

“Yes,” Leo said. “Festus can’t hang around here, though, in the middle of the park. They’ll arrest him for loitering. Maybe if I had a dog whistle ...”

He rummaged in his tool belt, but came up with nothing.

“Too specialized?” he guessed. “Okay, give me a safety whistle. They got that in lots of machine shops.”

This time, Leo pulled out a big plastic bright orange whistle. 

“Coach Hedge would be jealous! Okay, Festus, listen.” Leo blew the whistle. 

The shrill sound made Breisa winced and cover her ears.

 “You hear that, come find me, okay? Until then, you fly wherever you want. Just try not to barbecue any pedestrians.” Leo patted Festus’ snout.

The dragon snorted—hopefully in agreement. Then he spread his wings and launched into the air.

Piper took one step and winced. “Ah!”

“Your ankle?” Jason caught her. “That nectar we gave you might be wearing off.”

“It’s fine.” She shivered.

Breisa felt awkward standing near them as she could feel their emotional interest bouncing off one another.

 “Let’s get out of the wind,” He finally said.

“Down a drain?” Piper shuddered. “Sounds cozy.”

They wrapped themselves up as best they could and headed toward the fountain.

—

On the plaque, this place was called Crown Fountain. 

They stepped to the center of the pool. No spirits tried to stop them. The giant modules walls stayed dark. 

The man hole was easily big enough for a person, and a maintenance ladder led down into the gloom.

Jason went first. Piper and Leo climbed down after him. Breisa last. 

She inhaled the last of fresh air, braced herself for horrible sewer smells—but it wasn’t that bad. 

The ladder dropped into a brickwork tunnel running up and it disappeared somewhere downstream of the sewers. 

There was a bit of relief from the cold. The air was warm but dry.

“Are all sewers this nice?” Piper asked. 

“No,” Leo said. “Trust me.”

Breisa frowned. “How do you know—”

“Hey, I ran away six times. I’ve slept in some weird places, okay? Now, which way do we go?” 

Avoiding again.

She just dropped the subject.

Jason tilted his head, listening, then pointed south. “That way.”

“How can you be sure?” Piper asked.

“There’s a draft blowing south,” Jason said. “Maybe the venti went with the flow.”

It wasn’t much of a lead, but nobody offered anything better.

Unfortunately, as soon as they started walking, Piper stumbled. Jason caught her.

“Stupid ankle,” she cursed.

“Let’s rest,” Jason decided. “We could all use it. We’ve been going nonstop for over a day.“ 

He turned to Breisa and Leo, “Anything you guys can you pull? Leo, does that tool belt have food besides breath mints?”

“Thought you’d never ask. Chef Leo is on it!” 

They went aside,  leaving Piper and Jason to privacy. 

“Since when can you cook?” Breisa raised an eyebrow “In home ect you made burnt cookie bark.” 

“Baking is different from cooking.” Leo remarked, using a hammer to pull out a misplaced floor tile. “Baking is more precise, following a formula. Measurements, and all that bull. Even if you change it up a bit the same difference.” 

He pulled out bits of wood from his tool belt. Piling them up into a pit. Then he carefully lit the tip of his finger and turned it into a fireplace.

“Isn’t cooking the same thing ? You have to have a plan to know what you’re doing?” Breisa watched as he grabbed a pan, a glass dispenser of oil, a plastic bag with white cheese-like cubes, toritas and a cutting board. “The fuck are you houdini? Where’d you get all this stuff?” 

“Hey those rich assholes in Quebec weren’t gonna use this. So why waste it.” He waved his hand over the pan making sure it was hot. 

“I hope you’re hands are clean.”’ Breisa scrunch her nose in disgust. 

“Relax. I don’t cook with dirty hands.” Then Leo pulled up his sleeves to his elbows, and washed with soapy water from a plastic bottle. “What do ya feel like having?” 

Her stomach growled, “Anything really. I don’t care.”

“Tofu tacos coming up!” Leo grinned, and ripped up the weird cheese like cubes into meat chunks.

“Tacos— not stereotypical at all.” Breisa remarked dryly.

He scraped the ‘meat’ into the pan and rolled his eyes, “Hey tofu tacos. Not normal tacos. Besides who cares— everyone needs a little spice in their life.”

“Did you even think to bring spice?” Breisa looked through her bag. “If you’re going to be a stereotype, do it better.”

She managed seasonings of salt, pepper, all seasons salt, onion powder, and pico de gallo. Even some vegetables for salsa. 

“It can’t be all spice though. I’m not sure Jason can handle it.” Leo murmured. “We need something tangy to go with it.”

“Got it.” Breisa pulled out two lemons and an orange. 

“I wish we had a kitchen knife.” Leo huffed. 

“I’ll use my ax.” She pulled it out, smaller in size now, and wiped it down with rag and  the soapy water. 

“This all should be good.”  

He glanced back at Jason and Piper, Leo frowned at the serious looks and mutters of their conversation. “I hope it cheers them up.”

--

“And bingo!” Leo announced.

They came over with two plates stacked on each arm like waiters. 

“Pepper and beef tacos with chips and salsa.” Breisa said.  

“Leo,” Piper said in amazement. “How did you—?”

“Chef Leo’s Taco Garage is fixing you up! With the talents of miss Breisa here!” he said proudly. “And by the way, it’s tofu, not beef, beauty queen, so don’t freak. Just dig in!”

Breisa wasn’t sure tofu could taste as good as real beef. With one taste, she scarfed them down without a second thought. 

While they ate, Leo tried to lighten the mood and joke around. Breisa could feel the tension ease. She might’ve laughed at a joke or two. Surprisingly he was pretty funny.

After Piper ate, Jason encouraged her to get some sleep. Without another word, she curled up with her head in his lap. In two seconds she was snoring.

Jason looked up at Leo and Breisa, they were obviously trying not to laugh— too hard. 

They sat in silence for a few minutes, drinking lemonade Leo had made from canteen water and powdered mix.  

“Good, huh?” Leo grinned.

“You should start a stand,” Jason said. “Make some serious coin.”

“No pues wow!” Breisa laughed. “That wouldn’t be too on the nose.” 

“Hey, money is money!” Leo remarked. “If being a stereotype makes me money. Then sign me up!”

“Así eh? Con bigote y sombrero también?” She twirled her imaginary mustache, and tipped a fake sombrero. 

“Who says it’s going to be fake? I can grow a real

Mustache.” His voice cracked defensively. 

And Breisa laughed even harder. “Jason can you believe this?!” 

“You have to give him hope. His height is not doing much for him.”  

Leo gasped dramatically, “RUDE! What can you do other than be a blond plasma ball?!” 

“Not as much as you.” Jason shrugged, staring at the embers of the fire, something was bothering him. “Leo...about this fire stuff you can do ... is it true?”

His smile faltered. 

Breisa winced.

“Yeah, well ...” Leo opened his hand. A small ball of flame burst to life, dancing across his palm.

“That is so cool,” Jason said. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

He closed his hand and the fire went out. “Didn’t want to look like a freak.”

“I have lightning and wind powers,” Jason reminded him. “Piper can turn beautiful and charm people into giving her BMWs. Breisa can slice people with a battle ax and she has wicked magic—”

“My magic isn’t that good.” She interjected dismissively.

“Bullshit.” Leo remarked. “Your brujería is really cool….Like almost X-men level cool.”

Breisa cleared her throat, hoping her powers wouldn’t act up. “The point is you're no more a freak than we are.”

“And, hey, maybe you can fly, too.” Jason grinned, “Like jump off a building and yell, ‘Flame on!’”

Leo snorted. “If I did that, you would see a flaming kid falling to his death, and I would be yelling something a little stronger than ‘Flame on!’”

“So not a fan of the torch?” Breisa asked. 

He rolled his eyes. And then continued, “Trust me, the Hephaestus cabin doesn’t see fire powers as cool. Nyssa told me they’re super rare. When a demigod like me comes around, bad things happen. Really bad.”

“Maybe it’s the other way around,” Jason suggested. “Maybe people with special gifts show up when bad things are happening because that’s when they’re needed most.” 

Leo cleared away the plates. “Maybe. But I’m telling you ... it’s not always a gift.”

Silence filled the space for a moment.

 “You’re talking about your mom, aren’t you? The night she died.” Breisa murmured. 

Leo didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. The fact that he was quiet, not joking around—that told enough.

“Leo, her death wasn’t your fault. Whatever happened that night—it wasn’t because you could summon fire.” Jason reasoned.

“This Dirt Woman, whoever she is, has been trying to ruin you for years, mess up your confidence, take away everything you care about.” Breisa added, “She’s trying to make you feel like a failure. You’re not. You’re important.”

“That’s what she said.” Leo looked up, his eyes full of pain. “She said I was meant to do something important—something that would make or break that big prophecy about the seven demigods. That’s what scares me. I don’t know if I’m up to it.”

Power was a scary thing to have. Breisa barely understood her own. This burden terrified her. It has made her lose control before. Holding herself together was hard enough, what if she just let all her frustration out.

 Chaos. That’s what it is. Breisa thought, feeling the coolness of her pendant. That’s what I am. 

If you asked most kids, “Hey, you want to summon fire or lightning or magic or makeup?” they’d think it sounded pretty cool. 

But those powers went along with hard stuff, like sitting in a sewer in the middle of winter, running from monsters, carrying emotional burdens, watching your friends almost get cooked, and having dreams that warned you of your own death.

Leo poked at the remnants of his fire, turning over red-hot coals with his bare hand. “You ever wonder about the other four demigods? I mean ... if we’re four of the ones from the Great Prophecy, who are the others? Where are they?”

“Four?” Jason asked. 

“Yeah.” Breisa raised an eyebrow, “Did you not hear the prophecy right? Or are you losing your memory again?”

Leo looked at him, concerned.  

Jason frowned and shook his head. 

“I don’t know,” he said at last. “I heard the prophecy somewhere. Wherever I’m from, I could have swore the prophecy had Seven heroes. I guess the other four will show up when the time is right. Who knows? Maybe they’re on some other quest right now.”

Leo grunted. “I bet their sewer is nicer than ours.”

The draft picked up, blowing toward the south end of the tunnel. 

“Get some rest, guys,” Jason said. “I’ll take my first watch.”

“Dude—” Breisa started to protest.

“Nope. You guys need it. I clocked out for a while so I’m good.” Jason promised, though Breisa was feeling guilt and confliction from him.

She put a hand on his shoulder, “Look, don’t feel like you have to make up for the Warehouse. You can’t see everything and be everywhere at once.” 

“I wish I could.” He mumbled.

“Don’t be too hard on yourself. Dwelling won’t do you any good either. We go with what know and what we have. And we got each other.”

Breisa swore she was able to send her comfort into Jason. He relaxed as much as he could. 

“Thanks, really…” Jason smiled half-heartedly, “But you guys should get some rest. Really. You guys need it more than me.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice.” Leo said, setting himself into his sleeping bag. 

“Leo!” Breisa scolded.

“What? I’ve been driving us for the past couple of days. And I cooked for y’all!” He huffed, “Pero no, nadie ayuda a Leo. Leo que trabaja en un dragón y una hornilla caliente.”

“You’re immune to heat.” Breisa replied impassively.

Leo murmured out something else before he turned over and fell asleep.

Jason snickered as she rolled her eyes. “You guys are like an old married couple.” 

“Watch it blondie,” Breisa warned, “Just because I’m sleep deprived doesn't mean I can’t hex you. El mal de ojo.”

Jason just smiled knowingly.

—

Breisa tossed and turned a bit, grumbling in frustration. 

The others were peacefully slumbering. Even Jason who held his sword ready in his sleep. Freaky.

‘Just sleep’ 

She sighed and closed her eyes. 

Breathing in and out. Steady.

 Listening to the sound of sewer water drip down into the tunnel canal. 

‘Just close your eyes and let dreamland come to you. Fluffy clouds.

Sleep. Sleepy time.. Mi-mes.’

And…nothing

Breisa groaned frustrated and tossed with frustrated kicks in her sleeping bag. 

“Some of us would like some peace and quiet.” Leo murmured. 

“Some of us should shove it up their ass.” She hissed.

“I’m not a bottom.” Leo remarked. He breathed as he sat up. “What’s wrong?” 

“I can’t sleep.” She muttered, “Not exactly used to sleeping on cold sewer tiles. Wood floorboards maybe.”

She hoped that she didn’t sound whiny.

“I had the luxury of sleeping on cold tile floors, so you're in luck.” Leo leaned over yawning, “What do you need?”

Breisa grumbled, “A bed would be nice or a heavy blanket.”

Leo flopped onto her.

“Ow, why are you so boney?” Breisa grunted. “Are you trying to kill me?”

“Shut up and go to sleep” Leo grumbled.

“I—” She tried to protest.

“Sleeep.” He hushed her and started snoring. Using her middle as a pillow.

She scoffed and laid back down. It was hard to thrash around with him holding onto her.

He was really warm, comfty, and somehow the smell of motor oil/ pine was pleasant. 

Her eyes began to grow heavy, and she was out.

--

“Don’t be fooled by pleasantries, Niña.” An old voice croaked. 

Breisa looked up as she held the cotton of an old woman’s dress. 

“It’s what tricks us the most.” She rasped as Breisa began suffocating.

Tags 🏷️

@fvckmnstrs @coquettemouse @crazypenguinstudent

@kristenwell @thiccthumb23

A/N: I picked who’s the most active with me or my blog recently to the tags. Not to exclude or include anyone unwillingly. So Let me know if y’all want to be added/removed from tags. Also I don’t have much to say abt this chapter— other than it was a pain to write and rewrite, and edit. But yay! Content!! Hope y’all survived the drought!)

[fivepercentgodsandearths]

Saladin Allah

www.atlantisschool.blogspot.com

[have-you-read-this-short-fiction]

[black-is-beautiful18]

Fourth Wing never was and never will be a BIPOC book. Stop saying that cuz trying to insinuate that white books are BIPOC is honestly insulting. What part of Black, Indigenous, People of Color don’t y’all understand??? If the author falls under that category then then it is a BIPOC book. Percy Jackson isn’t BIPOC. If the author is white then it is not BIPOC!!!! Iron Widow, LegendBorn, The Blood Trials, So Let Them Burn, The Poppy War, Gods of Jade and Shadow, Looking For Smoke, A Blade So Black, Tristan Strong Punches A Hole in the Sky. Those are BIPOC books. Y’all need to get it together and quickly.

[shespeaksinsongs]

Too gringa, demasiada latina

When I say I’m from Venezuela, sometimes people misunderstand me.

“Minnesota? Oh, cool! I hear it’s nice there this time of year.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes, because

I wouldn’t want to meet the stereotype of being “feisty,” 

(Not that there’s anything wrong with that, Sofia Vergara)

and I repeat.

Other times, they look at me through furrowed brows,

Unaware that there are countries that speak Spanish other than

Mexico and Spain.

They tell me to prove it, but how?

How do I prove wearing yellow underwear every New Year’s Eve, 

For good luck?

Where are the records saying that 

I am a certified quinceañera?

Who documents how often I eat

Arepas?

Where are the diary entries from the week that I spent,

Pent up in my room,

Afraid that la llorona would get me at night?

And even though they wouldn't know a thing,

About how it feels to have your identity constantly questioned,

I worry that they're right.

I can’t recite the Venezuelan anthem like my dad proudly does, before each fútbol game,

I can’t bake a quesillo like my mom does, for each birthday.

And if you asked me what “carcacha,” meant, I couldn’t tell you,

But I could sing that song by Selena if you needed me to.

After my parents are gone,

And all that is left of them is my Spanish and my drooping nose,

Who will carry their legacy?

Most days,

When it is dark and everyone else is asleep,

I ask my ceiling what language my children will speak,

And if they will be able to dance salsa,

Or if they will know what a torta de guayaba tastes like,

Or if they will ever be able to gaze up at the billowing yellow, blue, and red flag,

Complete with eight stars for the eight provinces,

(Barcelona, Barinas,

Caracas, Cumaná,

Guayana, Margarita

Mérida, and Trujillo)

and be able to say,

“That’s mine - es mi país.”

I wonder if they will see this all and grasp it - 

Hold it in the palm of their hands,

Or if they will be just as lost as I am.

-

guys this was my first poem on here!! i wrote it for my english class. the theme was identity. i hope you like this, and even more, if you can relate to this, i hope i could give you at least the smallest bit of comfort. my dm's are always open if you want to discuss these kinds of things... and even if you don't - they're still open <3 i love chatting, so text me!

my biggest thank you's to @definitelymustard and @marcela6malfoy for proof-reading and critiquing! <33

shespeaksinsongs ©

[la-libreria-chula]

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Even during the day this book gives me the creeps 😳 anything that has to do with cults gives me the creeps and this book is doing a great job with it lmao so far I recommend it, but it is a thick mama, almost 600 pages

[pennyserenade]

watching booktok realize all these authors they love are actually the worst is satisfying me to no end bc i’ve been in the hater olympics for a long time now and i can tell when a bitch is rancid and so many of those ones i’ve known about for a hot minute

[expendablemudge]

HOW WE NAMED THE STARS is a sweet first novel about first love, its pains, its lessons, and its triumphs over fear and adversity via Tin House.

[dreamersbcll]

Chinese Satellite

instead i look at the sky and feel nothing

1/4 - inspired by this

——————————————————————————

Tara didn’t need anybody’s help. It was just her, the vacant bodies beside her, and an empty echo that made its home in her head. Over and over again. Repeat until death.

She wasn’t always like this. Cynical. Cold. Careful. Withdrawn. There was once a sweet little girl inside her, one who lived and breathed for family, bedtime stories, and sleepovers with her friends.

There wasn’t a particular moment where Tara realized that everything had changed— that everything wasn’t exactly what it seemed. She was a good girl, obedient, even to a fault. All she wanted to do was please her family and be just like her big sister.

Sam was an excellent big sister. She made Tara dinner every night and kissed Tara’s face all over. Nothing was better than the ages of five and ten, innocent to the world around them. Mothers could be good. Fathers could stay. Everything was going to be alright.

But around Tara’s sixth birthday, she suddenly understood and grew a conscience. Her father wasn’t always there, and Mami wasn’t all that nice. She understood why Sam had her listen to music on her iPod at night and why she never spoke to her father until he spoke to her.

The most confusing part was how everything was smoothed over, a rug over a million little toys. The Carpenters never spoke of their irregularities, their lack of proper family. They barely talked to each other in kind language, as the house was divided into three groups: the father, the mother, and the prodigal daughters. Tara didn’t understand why they weren’t the parents she thought she knew. She also didn’t understand why they didn’t talk about it.

Yet the Carpenter family was good at doing one thing together, and that was going to church. They went to church on Sunday, and the girls went to bible study every Wednesday.

There were so many rules. So many hymns. So many confusing messages. Tara was overwhelmed each time she crossed the threshold, her body tensing and her breathing growing ragged.

Somehow, Sam could see Tara’s cowardice and her fears, so her big sister took care of her. The two learned how to talk to God, how to pray, and how to listen for the voice that they yearned to receive.

Together, never alone. Two sets of bony knees hit the wooden floor, two sets of elbows pressed against unforgiving pews. Two heads bowed in unison, and two mouths moved quietly to words they hoped would save them one day.

Soon enough, Tara knows the rules inside and out. She must keep her head bowed and let the stiffness of her body in prayer become a permanent fixture in her body and mind. Eyes averted, preferably closed, but at least turned away from God’s sight. She wasn’t worthy of his glance.

However, it was the last part of prayers she was awful at. No matter how hard she tried, it always ended in numerous Hail Marys and lashings from her mother, all for the sake of correcting Tara’s sinful behavior. God wanted her arms up, hands grazing the heavens, close enough to touch but never meant to be touched.

Tara thought that was ridiculous. She knew better. It was all about making sure God knew that she was raising everything in her life up to God, letting him know that her piggy bank, her teddy bears, and even Sam were all offerings of surrender to God. She raised her hands to God, hoping he would reach down and touch her, even bless her sinful skin.

It didn’t make sense. She can’t touch God.

She’s not sure she would, even if she could.

But she couldn’t deny the hold that religion had on her. The comfort and safety of something that would always be there, even when Tara turned her back on it. Nobody would ever stay with her like religion had, as her father soon left two years later, taking Sam’s heart with him. She soon realized that her mother was never her friend, and she couldn’t depend on her comfort once Sam decided that Tara couldn’t worship her anymore.

Religion would always have her. God would always be there. Or so she thought.

God, to her, was Sam. It was the way Sam smiled at Tara when she did something right. Or how her big sister’s hands could soothe Tara’s worries and fears with the touch of a hand. God shined through Sam and bathed Tara in light and unconditional love. Sam loved her the way God was promised to love her— even though he never could rival her big sister’s love.

And then Sam leaves in the middle of the night, vanishing into the unforgiving darkness she would never be able to fight through.

Tara’s suddenly alone, no one else around her to care for her or love her.

Her Mother tried to reason with Tara, and tried to force her to understand that Sam’s departure was actually a blessing in disguise.

Christina would find Tara in the dead of night, staring out the window to a starless sky, trying to find her light. Her mother would wrap a hand around Tara’s shoulder, nails digging into the skin that she made.

“You don’t need your sister anymore. She is a sinner, and sinners choose their destiny. Do not follow her down the devil’s path. That only leads to pain and destruction,” she whispered, her mouth grazing the edge of Tara’s ear, forcing goosebumps to grow down her body.

“Samantha made her choice, mija. It’s time for you to choose now: God or the Devil. You know what the Devil wants. You know where he lives. Don’t be stupid. Ve con Dios.”

Tara tries to ignore her mother’s relentless demands and efforts to force her down the path she lived. She knows that God isn’t real because why would someone like that strip Sam away from her? Why would God take away someone that Tara believed in more than him?

The answer was clear. God wasn’t there. The Devil wasn’t real.

But damn it to hell, she would be lying if she said she didn’t pray anymore.

God ripped it all from her hands, all her hopes, dreams, and love, and swore it was all gone. She only had him now, and she had to trust in him if she ever wanted to feel loved again. Nobody else would ever love her unconditionally as he did. Tara had to give in. It was all she had left.

God ripped out all she had just to say that he had won.

God won.

But she gave him all.

And it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough.

Religion was futile. It was an echo. Nobody was there. Nobody was going to save her. Why bother? Why pray for her sister to return when Sam left her just like God did?

Yet, Tara still finds herself at the mercy of the book and a chain of heads dangling from her hands.

She knows, and she knows well, where this path leads her. An echo in her head, words falling on ears that were never there. Always the disciple, never the divine. Always the believer, never the chosen.

And yet, she still sank to her knees and lowered her head, signing her fate away to someone who wasn’t listening.

[starboy-21]

New chapter! Some Spanish learning in this one hehe