#clare rojas

[thunderstruck9]

Clare Rojas (American, 1976), Untitled (Boy with Quilt at Home in the Woods), 2004. Mixed media collage, 15 ¼ x 12 ½ in.

[wallsandtrains]

Barry McGee - Clare Rojas - Amaze Cincinnati - 2014

[topcat77]

Clare Rojas

[contemporaryartsgallery]

Clare Rojas

[killyridols]

black bird bunny by clare rojas, 2021, oil on linen, 17 × 15 inches

[warhead]

[lemuseum]

[chatsyoyevsky]

I once thought they were fat Mexican woman sitting on Chinese man’s neck and so it was they never spoke together. Never did she speak.

[madyanimal]

[berkelygenerator]

Seems intuitive to thonk

It was since childhood

I think about present

Tha ks

[5280customframing]

Custom framed print by Clare Rojas custom framed using acid-free matting, UV glass and frame by AMPF Moulding!

[illustrationartgallery]

Clare Rojas

[miamaimania]

"Untitled" (2016) by Clare E. Rojas - oil on linen. Black leaf forms dance across a beige canvas, intersected by delicate yellow lines.

[its-time-to-write]

chapter 8

I wish I could explain to you the absolute feat it was to complete these chapters. I’ve been having a TIME lol but like,,, not a bad time? Just a busy one. I’ll probably be gone for a bit (but who actually knows) since I’ve got a few end-of-year projects that have been taking up my time and brain. And I don’t recall if I mentioned before, but I’m on a 2-year medication that causes SUCH bad brain fog. anyway. That’s enough over sharing. Here’s the rest of were you sent by someone?

table of contents

i’m not pretending in the way you are

It becomes a routine, Jamie coming over. It doesn’t help that Madeline (the fucking traitor) vaguely endorses the whole thing after girl’s night at Keeley’s. 

“I genuinely think he’s trying,” she says. “He goes to therapy, for fuck’s sake. That’s got to mean something.”

“Fuck you,” you reply good-naturedly and Madeline just poses for another selfie with Clare. 

But she’s right. He is trying, trying in a way he didn’t when you were together. He’s almost reliable, although you’d never say it to his face. He shows up with flowers, doesn’t push boundaries, and more often than not he makes dinner. 

And he’s fucking brilliant with Clare. It’s almost unfair how good he is, with no practice whatsoever. She loves him, smiles whenever she can see him and giggles when he holds her.

You take her to a game, once. Madeline comes too, wearing an oversized Rojas kit and a miniskirt. You just wear a red shirt and jeans, but Bean has a Tartt onesie. You see Keeley Jones from afar and barely dodge having to talk to her. Jamie finds you after the match and Madeline takes a picture of the three of you. Jamie has his arms wrapped around you and you’re smiling. It’s a real smile too, and the picture ends up on your fridge. You’re not sure how because you definitely didn’t put it there, but Madeline and Jamie are there often enough that it could have been either one of them. 

Most dinners devolve into fierce arguments between Jamie and Madeline about who love Clare the most, but you aren’t complaining. She’s sleeping through the night now, so you let them argue while glued to your computer.

Jamie has taken to holding your hand whenever he can manage it. He always was one for physical touch, and it’s nice. He hasn’t made a move beyond that and you’re not ready for that but whatever you have right now is working.

Georgie visits, and that’s strange. You’d only met her twice before, and now she’s in your house holding Clare while Jamie sits on the couch next to them. It feels like intruding almost, the way they all have the same face and the same smile, so you disappear upstairs. They won’t notice, you’re positive, but there’s a tap on the door to your room and instead of looking up to see Jamie, it’s Georgie. She comes in and sits at the end of your bed at your invitation and says, “Are you all right, love?”

You smile, the one you use for photographs. Not fake, but not real either. “Of course,” you reply. “I’m glad you could come meet Clare. You’re welcome back any time.”

Georgie squints. “It must be strange for you,” she says, “going from being all alone to having the other side of Clare’s family. It was hard enough for me when Simon came ‘round, much less Jamie. And Jamie was older, too, so the poor baby was always worried Simon was going to leave.”

You nod. You’re quite familiar with the story. You still aren’t sure Jamie trusts Simon, but maybe he wouldn’t trust anyone with his mum.

Which begs the question, do you really trust anyone with Clare? Jamie’s been lovely for a whole month, but a month isn’t long enough to really tell. You wonder if the threat of him leaving will always loom over your head.

“Jamie called me, you know,” Georgie says. “It was right after he met Clare. He wanted to know how to un-fuck up everything and I told him he might not be able to. He was a right little shit, I heard. I just told him what I would have liked when I was in your shoes, but I know it doesn’t magically fix everything.”

And that… that makes sense. Not that Jamie couldn’t have figured out how to make things better on his own, but he did it almost perfectly. It makes sense why everything he did seemed to anticipate all your needs. He’d asked someone who’d been in your shoes, and hadn’t gotten the help she might have wanted. 

“He loves you, you know,” Georgie continues. She doesn’t seem to feel the need to pressure you to speak, which is good because you don’t have much to say. “I mean, he really, truly, spectacularly loves you. He speaks about you in all of our conversations, always going on about how amazing you are at your job and as a mum.” That’s interesting. You hadn’t known Jamie spoke to Georgie about you, much less what he might have said. You know Georgie can be many things, but she isn’t a liar. 

She hesitates for a moment. “You don’t have to treat me like your mum, but I’d like to treat you as my daughter. I always hoped Jamie would choose someone who’d make him want to be better. He’s a sweet thing, he is, but he gets funny in the head sometimes, you know what I mean?”

You smile. “Jamie? Funny in the head? Say it isn’t so.”

Georgie laughs. “Ah, that Clare is going to have quite the sense humor between the two of you I’m sure. You’ll have to come ‘round up north when you can manage it. I know Simon would be absolutely delighted to meet you both.”

Your eyes flicker. That’s a big step. A very permanent, potentially painful step.

Georgie catches it and leans forward. “Love, I’m not just here because of the baby. I’m here because you’re someone Jamie cares about. Simon and I want to be a support system for you.” She smiles. “And of course, we don’t want to step on your toes. James’s parents were always trying to take Jamie, and I fucking hated it.”

You hear footsteps on the stairs and Jamie appears with Clare. “Oi,” he says, “you lot having a chat about me?”

“No,” you and Georgie chorus and Jamie just squints. “Fucking lying, you are. Can always tell.”

You hold your arms out for Clare. At this rate, the kid won’t be on the floor long enough to learn how to crawl.

“Cruel,” Jamie continues, and you roll your eyes. So dramatic, he is. “Anyway, came up to see if you’d like to go out to eat tonight. I can’t do the fuckin’ dishes. I need a break.”

“Lazybones,” Georgie says, and it’s different now than it was downstairs. It feels like family.

—

Georgie’s been gone a week and you’ve been roped into dinner at Jamie’s with Roy Kent and Keeley fucking Jones.

Thank fucking god Madeline’s there as well with her on-again off-again boy toy who’s probably her soulmate and who she will most likely marry when she’s in her forties because otherwise you’d lose your fucking shit.

It’s a strange dinner without the fact that you can’t stomach Keeley, because Roy fucking hates Jamie.

You’re pretty sure he tolerates you, and he definitely likes Clare because he holds her most of the night before you put her down in her room to sleep. 

The feeling’s mutual, because she cries the moment you take her from him.

You say, “You’re good with kids,” and Roy just shrugs.

Back at the dinner table, Madeline’s had to dig her nails into your thigh. She’s definitely going to leave crescent fingernail marks, but if it stops you from being rude, you won’t wiggle away.

Jamie’s oblivious. He just seems happy not to be alone in his giant, far too quiet house. It’s a relatively uneventful evening, although you’re not the biggest fan of the way Keeley tells stories about Jamie like he belongs to her, somehow. Or like you don’t exist.

By the time she and Roy leave, you’re exhausted. The last thing you want to do is wake Clare, drive her home, and try to get her to sleep again.

Madeline and Isaiah (aforementioned boy toy) leave soon after, and you call, “Use protection!” as they walk down the steps.

“Worked well for you, did it?” Isaiah asks and you flip him off, but you aren’t mad. Like you said, you’re relatively certain he’s Madeline’s soulmate and he’s been around long enough that he’s allowed to joke like that.

The door finally closes behind them and you’re ready to collapse. You turn to find Jamie with a similar expression and without conscious effort, you make your way into his arms.

You close your eyes and sigh as you rest your cheek on his chest.

He asks, “You tired?” and you nod. “Want to spend the night? Can make up the room next to Clare’s. Won’t take long.”

You shake your head, and you feel him deflate a little. “I don’t want the room next to Clare’s.”

Jamie pulls away a bit to gauge your expression. “You mean-?”

You nod. “I hate sleeping alone. It’s cold and stupid.”

Jamie says, “Hm,” and uses one hand to brush hair away from your face. Your gaze flicks to his lips for a moment, but he definitely sees it. You have just enough time to say, “We’re not having sex,” before he’s kissing you, and you think that maybe forgiving him isn’t such a terrible idea after all. 

But you’re too tired to explore that idea further so when he breaks away to get some air, you pull him upstairs and to his room where you both collapse on the bed and fall asleep intertwined.

[secretosdeblackthornhall]

THE LAST KING OF FAERIE ADELANTO

Durante el tour de Reaping King se dieron folletos de este adelanto 🖤

Por favor comparte esto con discreción. No debería hacer falta decirlo, pero todo esto pertenece a Cassandra Clare

CAPITULO DOS [un extracto]

En el sueño, Kit estaba en medio de la guerra.

No era la primera vez que él estaba en batalla. En Idris el había tenido que pelear en los Campos Impredecederos. Había visto hombres y mujeres, Cazadores de Sombras y Hambres lobos, brujos y fae, muriendo en el pasto cubierto de sangre. El escucho sus lamentos.

Pero esta guerra, la guerra del sueño, era diferente. Parecía tomar lugar en el fin del mundo.

Era una tierra devastada. Sin agua, sin tierra suave, ni árboles. Solamente tierra agrietada y desértica frente a Kit, por kilómetros y kilómetros, y la tierra estaba dispersa con cuerpos. No había sonido, ni viento, el único movimiento era un parpadeo de luz a la distancia.

Kit se movió hacia el en su estado de sueño. Él sabía que estaba soñando y estaba agradecido por ello. No pensaba que su mente despierta pudiera crear tal escena de desolación (charnel-house??); la arena estaba empapada con sangre, y en caso de que no fuera un sueño, estaba seguro, el hedor seria horrible.

Camino entre enormes rocas de granito, y entro a un espacio más pequeño, presionado entre dos altos acantilados. Allí estaba un hombre vestido de negro, con una capa negra y a su lado había una espada de plata, su hoja roja de sangre. A su alrededor se arremolinaba visiblemente la magia, hilos negros y grises que parecían encapsularlo y disolverse en el aire.

Su espalda estaba hacía Kit. Pero Kit lo conocía, con la certeza que es posible solo en sueños, que era ÉL. El que había causado todo esto, toda la muerte, todo el baño de sangre. La ira se elevó dentro de él. No podía deshacer tanta muerte, pero al menos podía terminar con este monstruo antes de que causara más destrucción.

— Date la vuelta —, dijo, su voz haciendo eco en las paredes de roca. — Date la vuelta y enfrentame.

El hombre se piso rígido y luego se dio la vuelta. Su capa obscura giraba a su alrededor como la magia; su cabello caía hasta sus hombros, y su rostro lleno de cicatrices estaba pálido.

Unos familiares ojos grises miraron a Kit

— Has venido—. Dijo Ty Blackthorn.

Kit se sentó jadeando, aferrándose a sus mantas. Su corazón acelerado, y el pánico parecía presionarlo, con miedo pesado y obscuro. Tambaleo su mano derecha salvajemente y conecto con su mesita de noche, enviando un disparo de dolor por su brazo. El dolor aclaro su cabeza. Kit arranco las sábanas enredadas lejos de su cuerpo, sus pijamas estaban atascadas en el por el sudor, y rodo fuera de la cama. Su cuarto estaba obscuro, pero había suficiente luz desde la ventana para que pudiera navegar por el espacio familiar. Cama, tocador, cortinas, carteles en las paredes. Estaba en su habitación en Cirenworth, no en una tierra desolada llena de cadáveres. No estaba en la batalla; no lo había estado durante años. Muchas cosas habían cambiado desde entonces.

— Pero no todo—, dijo una pequeña voz en la parte posterior de su cabeza —. Aun sueñas con Ty.

Kit le dijo a la pequeña voz en su cabeza que se callara, y fue a agarrar una chaqueta del gancho junto a la puerta. Pateó sus pies en un par de zapatillas, y casi azotó su salida del dormitorio antes de recordar que el ruido podría despertar a Mina. Cerró la puerta en silencio detrás de él.

No era la primera vez en que había tenido un sueño como este. Mientras Kit se abría paso por el pasillo que conducía a la escalera principal, recordó haberle contado a Jem sobre sus sueños problemáticos; Jem había respondido que muchos cazadores de sombras tenían pesadillas, y él había tenido las suyas propias cuando era joven, soñando con un Londres destruido, criaturas de metal y fuego mortales. Le había recordado a Kit que la destrucción de Londres no había llegado, y que esos sueños no eran profecías.

Pero eso sólo ayudó un poco en la oscuridad de la noche, cuando las sombras se cernían como una tela oscura y pesada. Kit se detuvo en la puerta de la habitación de Mina y miró dentro. Ella estaba dormida bajo su manta con patos, con el pulgar en la boca, y por un momento él se limitó a mirarla, permitiéndose sentir el amor protector que siempre experimentaba cuando estaba con Mina, y la disminución de la ansiedad que venía cuando veía que ella estaba bien.

Pero la inquietud lo alejó, pasó por la habitación de Jem y Tessa y bajó las escaleras. Salió por la puerta principal y se encontró afuera, en el aire primaveral. Era fresco y húmedo; Inglaterra era mucho más húmeda que Los Ángeles, donde había crecido y olía a tierra y pasto. Empezó a caminar por el jardín delantero, atento al fantasmal golden retriever que a veces lo acompañaba en sus paseos.

A lo lejos, al final del jardín, antes de que se convirtiera en un camino de tierra, podía ver el tenue resplandor de las barreras que protegían a Cirenworth. Que lo protegían a él. Si no fuera quien era, si viniera de un linaje diferente, si tuviera una herencia diferente, no habría peligro allí.

Kit a menudo deseaba haber nacido con otro nombre, con antepasados ​​diferentes. Sabía que por derecho había heredado una magia poderosa, que desafortunadamente no era muy útil cuando no sabías cómo usarla o ni siquiera para qué servía. Si fuera otra persona, ahora mismo estarían hablando de que fuera a la Academia de Cazadores de Sombras como Dru, pero esa nunca había sido una opción para él. Se sentía bastante mal por poner en peligro a su familia adoptiva. No estaba dispuesto a hacerlo con toda una escuela. Había llegado al pie del jardín, donde las barreras zumbaban, emitiendo su tenue resplandor. Más allá de ellos había un camino rural y otro prado, salpicado de bosquecillos de árboles. Kit había caminado por allí con bastante frecuencia, pero no de noche. No solo. Por mucho que quisiera atravesar las barreras, sería una tontería hacerlo.

En el borde del mundo, la luna estaba baja y saturaba los campos con una luz plateada. Cuando Kit, con las manos en los bolsillos, miró el paisaje, algo le llamó la atención.

Se acercó un poco más a las barreras, lo suficiente para que emitieran un crujido de advertencia. Entrecerró los ojos y vio que habían colocado algo sobre la hierba del prado. Montones y montones de… bellotas, al parecer. No era la temporada para ellas, pero allí estaban, ordenadas en líneas, bucles y espirales. Cuando Kit dio un paso atrás, se dio cuenta de que estaban ordenadas en letras.

Letras que deletreaban un mensaje. Una sola palabra, en una lengua muerta.

INCIPIT.

Kit se quedó muy quieto, con el corazón palpitando con fuerza. Sabía latín; a todos los cazadores de sombras se les enseñaba esa lengua, junto con el griego antiguo. Sabía que ese mensaje era para él. Él era el que tenía sangre de hada, y las hadas a menudo enviaban sus mensajes a través de bellotas. Aunque tal vez esto no fuera un mensaje en absoluto, pensó Kit, con la boca muy seca. Era algo más.

Una advertencia. Susurró lentamente la traducción, en voz baja:

—Está empezando.

Texto original de @cassandraclare ©

Traducción de @carstairsa ©

[cabeswaterdrowned]

top 5 books for the ask thing

top 5 standalones:

• Emma by Jane Austen

•Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier

•Black Iris by Leah Raeder

•Plain Bad Heroines by Emily M. Danforth

•hmmm I’m struggling to decide on just one tbh but it’s either a Megan Abbott book (Give Me Your Hand + Dare Me + The Fever are the main contenders) or Blanca & Roja by Anna-Marie Mclemore or it’s My Dark Vanessa. one of those

top 5 series (I have an easier time committing to and ranking these vs the stand alones)

The Raven Cycle by Maggie Steifvater

The Diviners by Libba Bray

Daughter of Smoke and Bone by Laini Taylor

Six of Crows duology by Leigh Bardugo

The Infernal Devices trilogy by Cassandra Clare

I could go into honorable mentions for both but this post could get very long then so am keeping the lists simple <3