#marosa

[sapphicrnm]

Roswell, New Mexico Femslash Exchange 2024

Save a horse, ride a cowgirl!

Join us as the weather heats up to celebrate pride with the women of Roswell, New Mexico. Get yourself a glass of lemonade and settle in as you sign up for the exchange and get ready to have a good time as we celebrate this show's unabashed queerness.

Details:

Each participant will be assigned to create a gift for someone, and will receive a gift in turn. Gifts may be fic (at least 2000 words), art (at least 1 drawing/edit), gifset (at least 3 gifs), fanmix (at least 8 songs), or fanvid (at least 2 minutes or a full length song).

Assignments will be anonymous - please have your ask box set to receive anonymous asks in case your gift creator has any questions for you!

Gifts may not be created using generative AI.

As this is a femslash exchange, all works must have as their main focus a romantic and/or sexual relationship between two or more of the women of Roswell, New Mexico.

Dates:

Signups close: Sunday April 21st (midnight Roswell time)

Assignments sent out: Sunday April 28th

One month check in: Sunday May 12th

Final check in: Sunday June 2nd

Posting Date Assignments: June 16th

Posting dates: June 24th through 30th

Questions? Our ask box is open!

[rnmbingo]

👽2023 RNM Comment Bingo is here!🥰

Jan 14 - Feb 14 2023

Comment on fics - Fill out a Bingo board - Win prizes!

[Link to all bingo boards] by @bean-me-up

[Comment Bingo Rules]

[pencopanko]

I edited this a little bit just to make sure that it is still readable! Guess who is back on her Coco phase again

Define “Love”: A Coco Fanfiction

Author’s note: I would like to thank thefreedictionary.com for the Spanish definition of love. I am by no means Hispanic but I’m currently just starting to learn Spanish. If anyone can recommend me a good Spanish-only dictionary or a grammar dictionary that’d be wonderful. I also would like to thank Charles M. Schulz for Peanuts, specifically the episode Play It Again, Charlie Brown.

As you can see, this little ship has taken over my life. And so, I present to you what is probably the first Marco x Rosa (Marosa) fanfiction on this site. It’s loosely based on @slusheeduck’s fanfiction titled Sonance, so I recommend reading it first. But the gist is Marco Veracruz is Ernesto’s great-great-grandson who at first hated Miguel for exposing Ernesto but later on became Miguel’s friend. It is implied in the story’s ending that the boy visits the Riveras during the holidays after that.

Why do I ship him with Rosa? I dunno, I guess it’s just the side effects. But I like it so here you go. Enjoy!

~~~~~

“Just a few more touches… Done! ¡Mira, what do you think?”

Marco held up his piece to Rosa who was sitting next to him as he was finishing up a watercolour study of Tía Carmen, his unknowing model, who was drawn carrying a basket of laundry. It was simple but there was a quiet beauty in it ― just like the model in real life, thought Rosa.

They were sitting in the dining room, staying away from the summer sun. It was a Sunday in June and the Riveras were having a day off from work, only going to the workshop for necessary repairs.

“I love it! And I’m sure Mamá would love it too”, she replied. Marco lit up as her words reached his ears. Why wouldn’t he? Back in México City, nobody at home would even take a glance at his artworks. His parents were either busy with handling the press and all that or were just too cold to even care. His manager only shrugged and said “Well, it’s alright I guess” before typing some messages on her phone again. Hearing such kind and encouraging words from someone truly felt good.

Seeing him lit up only made Rosa blush even more than she already had. ¡Ay, him and that smile of his! Qué injusto!

Miguel was off with Abel to help Abuelita with the groceries and to Rosa that meant spending more time with Marco. Starting last year, he had been visiting the Rivera family every summer–and Rosa had been enamored with the boy from México City ever since. Oh, sure, she was upset and angry that her cousin was treated badly by him at first, but after seeing him in person for the first time, she couldn’t help it. She was smitten.

At first, she nearly couldn’t tell them apart. But after taking a good look, she realized that her cousin and his new friend were as different as fire and ice. While Miguel was like cinnamon; heartwarming with a hint of sweetness, could be overpowering at times and a force to be reckoned with if angered, Marco was pure salt. Sassy, sometimes snarky, manipulative at times, and yet somehow without him things just felt incomplete like the time Tía Gloria forgot to add salt into the menudo for dinner last week. And, like her, her brothers, and her eldest cousin, he could be very determined.

Last year she didn’t get to tell him how she felt. She was too cautious last year, trying to test the waters. This time, she decided. This time I will tell him.

I will make him fall for me like how he made me fall for him.

“Marco?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you know what love is?”, she asked.

Marco paused and looked up from his sketchbook. He looked at Rosa, one brow raised. Love as a word wasn’t too hard to define but maybe she was testing her?

From what he knew, Rosa Rivera was the smartest out of all the Rivera children. Like pepper was she; adventurous, sassy, and could suit to all your needs, sweet or savoury. The ever-efficient, ever-reliable girl had a charm to her that Marco couldn’t put his hands on. But whatever it could be, he certainly liked it.

But this time, Marco was certain she was testing him. Definitely. She’s definitely testing my vocabulary, he thought.

And with a smug smile (that made Rosa instantly melt inside), he proudly said “Love. A noun. To be fond of. A strong affection for or attachment or devotion to a person or persons”.

Rosa looked at him as if he had said something odd. Rude, he thought. He looked around, and then back at her. “Uh, what?”, he asked. “Didn’t I just define it? Isn’t that what you want?”. Whatever game she was playing, he certainly didn’t know what the rules were. If only she would tell him!

That statement wasn’t what Rosa was expecting at all. Who defines love that way? Is this boy really that clueless? “Marco,” she slowly replied, “That’s… not exactly what I meant…”. She gave him a lopsided grin and let out a little chuckle.

Marco then realized he just defined love in English. Seeing Rosa’s expression (that was somehow really cute ― wait what) he decided to make it easier for the both of them.

By defining it in Spanish.

“Amor. Sentimienteo de afecto y pasión experimentado por una persona hacia otra. Vivo afecto o inclinación hacia una persona o cosa”.

He looked at her. She looked at him. And then Rosa laughed. Oh, how silly were they being! A girl in love with a boy who was painfully oblivious. It did hurt, but seeing his face somehow made up for the pain. And then he laughed too, her laughter being too contagious. The two of them laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

“No, tonto! I meant as a feeling!” Rosa snickered. Marco chuckled as their laughter died down. And with a sad smile, he replied “Ah, how could anyone define anything as a feeling if they’ve never felt it before?”

Rosa looked at him, confused. Have never felt love before? How is that possible?

“But” she retorted, “surely you’ve felt it! I mean, don’t your parents-”

He shook his head. “They are cold towards me”, he said in a low voice.

“All they see is the boy whose job is to keep his great-great-grandfather’s legacy intact. The moment I rebelled by performing with Miguel and showing interest in something other than music, they basically lowkey disowned me.”

“How about crushes?”, Rosa continued.

Yet all she received was a shrug.

“Miguel was the very first actual friend I’ve ever had. I’ve never had an actual friend before, let alone a girlfriend”, he continued. He then looked at Rosa to see her eyes were that of pity. And what looked like affection? But maybe it was just the heat.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “I don’t need your pity”. His words only made Rosa pity him even more. Oh, how she wanted to hug all that hurt away! That smile of his suited him much more, anyway.

Rosa sighed. And with a soft smile she placed her right hand on his left shoulder. Marco looked at his shoulder and then Rosa. For some reason, he liked it. And he didn’t want her to let go. But why?

The girl next to him then smiled and said “To me, love is like a really good book. You just don’t want to let go of it”. Looking at little Socorro being carried by Tía Luisa, with Tío Enrique following close behind, she then continued.

“Love is like a warm hug or a cool bed. Or a really fluffy blanket. Or a cup of champurrado”.

Then she looked at Benny and Manny, who were singing some theme song from a superhero cartoon. “Sometimes,” she continued. “Love is like a song. It gets stuck in your head and that’s all you can think of.

"But,” she then added. “Love is also more than all that.”

Marco looked at her, confused. “More than all that?”, he asked. “Then, what is love?”

Rosa shrugged. After a few moments of silence, she looked at the ofrenda room and finally continued. “Love is a feeling you find in the most unexpected of places and or people.”

“Like Héctor Rivera and Mamá Imelda?”, Marco wondered out loud. Rosa looked at him with a smile and said, “Si, just like the two of them”. From their photo alone one could see how different they were (and are) in nature. The ever-serious, no-nonsense Imelda Rivera one day met the goofy, gentle-hearted músico named Héctor. And somehow love blossomed between the two.

“Don’t worry, Marco,” Rosa said gently. “I’m one hundred percent positive you’ll find love one day.” Marco smiled. He truly felt grateful for this talk of theirs.

Without realizing it, Rosa’s lips had already met Marco’s cheek. Gone was her previous ambition. All she wanted now was to see him happy. Marco gasped but before he could say anything, Rosa seemed to have realized what she had done. Embarrassed, she ran to the workshop, blushing like never before.

It felt weird being kissed by her but… it felt good? Pleasant, even. He didn’t know exactly how to react but deep down he felt happy for some reason. It certainly wasn’t like how those “tías” and “señoras” (who probably marinated themselves in their sickly perfume, he might add) would peck on his cheeks with lips overloaded with lipstick during events and important dinners like hens pecking on grains and worms.

This one had actual emotion put into it.

And suddenly all that confidence he knew he had felt like it suddenly vanished and now he felt a little bit shy.

He touched his cheek and wondered whether love could be found here, in this family after all.

Meanwhile, two boys were hiding in the ofrenda room, trying their best to stifle their laughter as Marco defined love to Rosa. Before anyone noticed, they ran to the older boy’s room and slammed the door shut before they both fell to the ground in a heap of laughter. But little did they know that something else happened after that.

While Abel and he were cackling like no tomorrow, Miguel also made a mental note to write to Papá Héctor and the rest for Diá de Muertos. He was absolutely certain that Tía Rosita would absolutely love it, the romantic that she was.

Oh, he thought. They would love to know about this!

[silvervanadis]

Marosa Vetalda, Arteloth 'Loth' Beck & Dranghien Lakseng from The Priory of the Orange Tree by Samantha Shannon

[majestativa]

It’s the night of the white lilies. About ten o’clock, the flowers lightly move to and fro. Nocturnal butterflies pass with brilliant little stones on their wings and they make them kiss the flowers.

— Marosa di Giorgio, Contemporary Uruguayan Poetry: A Bilingual Anthology, transl by Ronald Haladyna, (2010)

[razorsadness]

"The bats arrived"

The bats arrived, attached to the coats of calves, gazelles; when I could, I plucked one off. And others, tamer, hung in the kitchen with their heads upside down; papa gave them wine, cigarettes. The women, dreamier, set out roses and orange blossoms, so that the intense perfume of blood and sugar in those flowers would calm them. One day, one bit me; but I carried on unscathed. I hear, yes, that “the children of the night make their own music”; but I don’t participate in the feast. I am like a witness. Or I do participate, and I don’t know

—Marosa di Giorgio (translated from the Spanish by Sarah María Medina), from Poetry Magazine (March 2024)

[adiosalasrosas]

De súbito, estalló la guerra. Se abrió como una bomba de azúcar

arriba de las calas. Primero, creíamos que era juego;

después, vimos que la cosa era siniestra. El aire quedó

ligeramente envenenado. Se desprendían los murciélagos

desde sus escondites, sus cuevas ocultas caían a los platos,

como rosas, como ratones que volvieran del infinito,

todavía, con las alas.

Por protegerlos de algún modo, enumerábamos los seres y las cosas:

"Las lechugas, los reptiles comestibles, las tacitas...".

Pero, ya los arados se habían vuelto aviones; cada uno, tenía

calavera y tenía alas, y ronroneaba cerca de las nubes, al alcance

de la manos pasaron los batallones al galope, al paso. Se prolongó

la aurora quieta, y al mediodía, el sol se partió; uno fue hacia el este,

el otro hacia el oeste. Como si el abuelo y la abuela se divorciaran.

De esto ya hace mucho, aquella vez, cuando estalló la guerra,

arriba de las calas.

—Marosa di Giorgio, DE SÚBITO, ESTALLÓ LA GUERRA

[themuseoftheviolets]

why am i thinking about a marauders priory au as if that would be in any way shape or form easy and feesable

[yemadetinta]

La hija del diablo se casa. No sabíamos si ir o no ir. En casa resolvieron no ir. Ella paseaba con la trenza brillando como un vidrio al sol. Vestido celeste. Y las pezuñas delicadísimas, cinceladas y de platino. Con los ojos un poco redondos, insondables, se paraba frente a cada uno, como publicitando, invitando, o, consciente e inconscientemente, amenazando. La hija del diablo se casa. Cerraron las puertas de mi casa. Pasado el mediodía resolví huir. Crucé por arriba de los jardines de fresias y junquillos tratando de no trozar ni uno de los ramos amarillos, de los que vivíamos; por ocultas veredas; creo que hice tres veces la misma senda, me perdía, y tuve miedo que, desde la casa, estuviesen espiando mi inútil vuelo. ¡Al fin toqué las puertas de los hornos! Pasaban platos con todas las escenas del amor erótico. "Invitan con la Carne", dijo una voz que me pareció de una vecina; miré y, si era, estaba embozada. Y también servían niños no natos, cubiertos con azúcar. "Son riquísimos". El tam tam celebratorio apareció adentro de la tierra y en un perpetuo crescendo, anuló las conversaciones y llegó al colmo. La hija del diablo, de pie junto a la pared, el pelo igual que el sol, entreabrió el vestido, las piernas, las pezuñas. Su himen cayó roto (se oyó un leve bramido) y corrió como una margarita entre nosotros. Alguien gritó: -¿Y el novio? -Se va por aquí. Es chiquitito. Cerré los ojos. Creo que cayó un aguacero. Huí arriba de los jardines, de los ramos amarillos; entraba en cada cueva y salía aterrada. Entré en mi casa. Mamá estaba fija en el mismo lugar, haciendo el mismo encaje. Sin levantar los ojos, comentó: -Pero, ¿qué haces? Andas por el jardín con estos aguaceros.

-Marosa di Giorgio 

[cinemaslife]

#124 Las Brujas de Dumpling Farm (2018)

Mark Griffith (Duncan Casey) tiene que volver a casa después de que su matrimonio fracase y se sienta perdido, además abusa del alcohol y sustancias de manera demasiado fácil, por lo que cree que volver a sus orígenes, con sus viejos amigos, hará que todo se calme. Encuentra que en la vieja granja de Dumpling alquilan una habitación y lo hace su viejo amigo Ian Pickering (Justin Marosa). Lo que Mark no sabe es que las cosas ya no son como antes, y que Ian, no es la persona que conocía.

Ian cada vez se comporta más extraño y las mujeres del pueblo no se lo ponen fácil. Mark desde que llega tiene pesadillas con que unas brujas o demonios quieren cazarle.

Para celebrar que ha vuelto al pueblo deciden hacer una fiesta de bienvenida con todos sus amigotes, toda la droga posible y todo el alcohol que tienen. Lo que en principio parece una fiesta brutal, llega Ian con algunas chicas de pueblo que seducen a los amigos de Mark y él empieza a rayarse por lo que deja de beber y drogarse porque empieza como una broma, luego no lo era tanto.

Las chicas llevan al grupo de jóvenes dentro en el bosque y ahí se transforman y los atacan, lo que hace que Mark salga corriendo y se esconda en el bosque.

Cuando terminan de asesinar a sus amigos, le huelen por el bosque y lo persiguen. Mark llega a su coche y se escapa por los pelos, pero acelera a toda pastilla para alejarse de allí.

Antes de esto, se da cuenta de que el plan de las brujas siempre ha sido darle caza a él, y que lo han conseguido gracias a Ian. Mark asesina a Ian y a dos de las brujas antes de salir huyendo en su coche.

Por mucho que huye, la bruja suprema le da caza y lo encierra de vuelta en su guarida y le encierra bajo llave, nadie va a ayudar a Mark a salir de esta.

[sunswallowedsky]

one of the weirdest post-book feelings is when you really enjoyed the story as a whole, and it was well worth the time commitment, but the ending is so unsatisfying that it lingers in a very haunting sense for a week after finishing it

that’s been me with the priory of the orange tree

[spoilers below since a few friends plan to or are currently reading]

my biggest issue was that the ending felt so rushed. for so much of the book, there had been a slow build of dread and tension for the nameless one’s return, but the fact that the return happened and ended in the same chapter was disappointing, considering some of the other scenes like loth’s foray into yscal, the parade ambush, and tané rescuing her dragon from the pirates held more weight and length that the main battle did.

some of it came across very orchestrated as well - I could suspend belief to an extent, but when it came down to the sword just happening to land perfectly back on the ship instead of the sea, and then tané’s dragon who’d been missing just happened to show up in time to catch her out of the air, and so on, it broke the immersion a little to show the author’s hand in moving along the plot.

I also really wish that loth had been sent south along with margret so that a perspective of that ‘battlefront’ would be present while letting him continue to have importance, since after his negotiations, he ended up sidelined. it would’ve added some depth to the battle - how horrifying would it have been to witness the human vs human combat in the homeland of people possessed by or scared of fyredel rather than offhand at sea? - and wrapped up loth’s arc by returning to find marosa as he’d been worried about through his chapters, and perhaps find closure about kit, too. and if the perspective had been added amidst the sea siege, it might’ve helped the pacing not feel so hasty.

my smaller complaint is that niclays’ desire to change as a person felt more forced than natural. after how long he’d been selfish, and made even more embittered by loss and his exile, then hinged so much on being a Not Grandfather to truyde, I fully expected that he would’ve gone off the deep end after discovering what happened to her.

I could probably pick at more about the ending that left me unsatisfied with it, but aside from that, I very much did enjoy the book as a whole. the worldbuilding was wonderful to settle into for a while (and as I said in another post, leaving it behind for another book has even been a struggle), and the characters had so much depth that made it fun to read each point of view, especially in how intertwined they were, too. and overall I’m very glad I finally listened to the encouragement to read!

[redshoes-blues]

There’s going to be a new, mini-sized Roots of Chaos project and I’m so excited!!

So far we know three things about this project, and I think they give us some good hints into what this could potentially be about. Fyredel will feature (or be mentioned), it will look at three secondary characters from Priory, and it will be shorter in length than the typical TROC books—novella length, maybe? With a shorter length, my guess is that we might only see one or two places, as opposed to three or four.

Because of all that, my guess is that the project will give us a closer look at Yscalin during the period when Fyredel took over and they left Virtudom. It’s a period we know a little about, and it would be fascinating to see that angle. What was going on in those characters’ heads when their enemy took over and so forth. And maybe the Donmata Marosa will be one of those three characters?!

[ciudadkitsch]

le preguntan a Marosa ¿cuál es el lector ideal?

creo en el lector-autor dice aquel que al leer recrea crea de nuevo con placer lo que el autor dijo

a su vez el autor es un lector recreando lo que otro autor dijo o le hizo sentir así como lo humano recrea la vida repite cada día una operación de lectura y escritura del mundo y así la cadena de hipo e hiper híbridos que según Beatriz Sarlo la inventó Borges

eso y la literatura argentina de la primera mitad del siglo XX la de la segunda la inventó Saer

digamos que la vida la inventó Borges así como lo humano lo inventó Shakespeare según Harold Bloom

y así la cadena del canon y los críticos fans y los críticos haters los que encarnan la pretensión de objetividad no existen por suerte

la Biblioteca de Alejandría consumó el sueño de Alejandro un coleccionista ambicioso construyó el centro universal del conocimiento con los libros del mundo

como Google

la literatura es la invención de una potencia estética lo humano es una potencia estética los clásicos mueren reencarnan en otras escrituras en sucesión de rapsodas

confluimos en el fenómeno del texto confluimos en el fenómeno del sexo en el fenómeno del arte un diálogo en el espacio de la eternidad

las tecnologías imponen su velocidad nadie puede manejar una bicicleta lentamente nadie puede navegar por internet lentamente

la lectura nos impone un ritmo la escritura nos lo imprime

mi cuerpo dice madurar también es ponerse cínico con la vida no confundir instinto con prejuicio a fuerza de insistir desperdiciar emociones porque todo es impermanencia y tránsito incluso lo que parece estable solo está cambiando a otra velocidad

para proteger las emociones uno debe estar en control de sus ficciones que significa necesariamente saber cuándo herir a alguien

ser social es saber perdonar escribe Robert Frost en el poema The Star-Splitter

diáfano dédoublement escribo yo la obsesión con el orden es obsesión no orden recordar es arrojarse a la alucinación la dramaturgia crear un lector un lector-autor de uno mismo uno que no se censura porque la censura va acompañada de la ignorancia de un miedo o un cinismo absurdo frente a la posibilidad de un pequeño cambio en el mundo

manejar el vértigo el humor para subvertir valores pequeño burgueses el cambio social no es algo que se espera sino una acción que arranca con el cuerpo de uno mismo con el sexo con el texto

con la política y la poética de la vida cotidiana de mierda

[flyoverkushtaka]

I went to Hot Springs a few weeks to, among other things, borrow a collection of Chika Sagawa's poems from a friend who lived there. He threw in Marosa di Giorgio's I Remember Nightfall (Jeannine Marie Pitas's translation) as some complementary lagniappe, and I must say I'm very glad he did so. There's something like a festoon of glittering little jewels threaded throughout di Giorgio's work, only you look closer and some of the jewels are jewel bugs, all emeraldine and sapphiric and wriggling, others are shards of broken glass, glinting unconsciously. One thing transforms into another when your attention on it starts to lapse, just like in those dreams where you're walking through the Minneapolis Skyway System and you hear a sudden thumping sound behind you, so you turn around and now you're in concrete shack in the middle of the woods, walls painted shock white, poor ventilation, an iron door set into a recess shut and lock-status unknown, and you know you should know where you are, for how else do you know about the woods outside?

My friend's always gifting me little things: a sunbird token from his stay in Nepal, a tiny figurine of the Buddha for prosperity, a postcard, a map, a bottle of wine, an opportunity while we're at his girlfriend's house watching Over the Garden Wall (which my dumb ass had assumed up until that point was a movie) to sit on the couch next to his girlfriend's handsome nonbinary roommate and let our hands gradually brush against one another for longer and longer throughout the show until one by one everyone retreated to their bedrooms, and we did so as well, and, as I rode some sweet they/them dick on a bunk bed, occasionally thumping my head against the ceiling on accident from the height, think about how to cultivate a personal image of a masc bottom. He's always been very considerate like that.

[lavidaenunvochitosinfrenos]

Todo se da con naturalidad absoluta. Es que es así o no es de modo alguno. En esta franja, la creación, imposible forzar las cosas. Se notaría, y el producto sería ríspido y no habría encanto; es decir, no habría creación. Ángeles, liebres, animales de subtierra, etcétera, por suerte, no terminan de visitarme, y parecen tener, traer, cada vez más, más brillos y misterios, más diamantes, más pétalos.

Seguramente, se harán muchos asedios, estudios, críticas. Y lo psíquico no podrá dejar de estar presente. En la mesilla de inspección. Pero quedará algo inatrapable. Que yo veo y no puedo describir. Ni lo intento.

Marosa di Giorgio

[majestativa]

She gave off a continuous resplendent humming; it was like a great perfume of Arabian jasmine that could be seen and heard. I could have run and told the others; but they would have come, cut her down, put her out, burned her, they would have taken her away, enclosed her in a jar, for her to flutter her wings and shine there all night long, and the kids would shout: “We’ve tied up a fairy. We’ve caught a fairy!”

— Marosa di Giorgio, Contemporary Uruguayan Poetry: A Bilingual Anthology, transl by Ronald Haladyna, (2010)