Zoraida Córdova's Blog: Zoraida Says, page 2

The Midpoint #4: Monster House Chapter 3

Welcome back to The Midpoint, my serial fiction section here on Substack! Thank you so much to my lovely new subscribers. If you’re new, and it’s okay if you are, I started writing a story about a house of monstrous girls living together in a retrofitted manor in the middle of nowhere, New Hampshire. It’s called Monster House. This is how it’s going to work:

There are 5 monster girls. Each one gets a novella. Part I will be written in sections for this newsletter. Unsure about the rest and not making any decisions on it since this is really an outlet for me to try a bonkers story for me, with the hopes there are others who would be drawn to the same summoning circle.

Part I - The Vampire « « « You are here « « «

Part II - The Mermaid

Part III - The Werewolf

Part IV - The Succubus

Part V - The Gorgon

I’m going to post a chapter every few weeks, though I hope to make it weekly when I’m done with my Rebel Angels deadline.

As you read, keep in mind this is very lightly edited and proofread. There’s something about this font that I can’t pick up typos after several reads.

Tell your friends! Tell your mom—but only if she’s into (sometimes weird) monster romance.

Don’t be shy with the comments. It won’t hurt my feelings, and I’d love constructive feedback on what you’d love to see from the characters. Like, choose-your-own adventure, though really more of a “suggest”-your-own adventure.

I’m writing this as Zoey Castile.

Happy reading. If you’re having fun, please share! If you haven’t started, well this is your invitation to Foxwood Manor.

What’s Monster House about?

Welcome to Foxwood Manor, a home built in the 19th century to one of the richest families in the region. After the bloody scandal that befell the original owners, it fell into the hands of Athena Hall, a real estate agent—and immortal Gorgon. She repaired the house, and accrued four roommates over the years. Each girl is a monster. A Miami vampire frozen at the edge before turning twenty one. A cursed mermaid who loves to cook. A Brooklyn werewolf living her cottage-core dreams. A succubus trying to get her groove back. And a glamorous Gorgon waiting for her past to come and get its revenge.

They say good fences make good neighbors. Every month, three of the girls go on a trip called the Fever Hunt. They stock up on supplies, run and swim in the wild, and then return to the safety of the manor. But this trip brings a surprise—their meticulously planned hunt is interrupted by a blizzard, and a bachelor party stranded on their hillside road.

Karli Perreira has been a vampire for thirty one years, and a vegetarian vampire for twenty five of them. The sordid details are not important. Turned in the 90s, she’s perpetually a day short of twenty-one. Like, total bummer. She’s made the most of it living in a decked out manor with her monstrous besties. Karli’s always been afraid of losing control again. Her recent cravings and the group of handsome strangers who seek shelter in the storm is about to test that self-control. Especially the charming Ryder Vega, a budding singer and disarming flirt. Somehow Karli feels like she’s known him all her life.

But as the blizzard snows them in, and delays their leaving, the monster girls of Foxwood Manor struggle to reign in their hunger. For Karli, it’s been so long since she’s fed on a human, but she’s on the brink of breaking every rule that keeps them safe. As Ryder pursues her through the halls of the manor, and she allows herself to open her heart, and her bedroom door, she’s starting to wonder—who is really the hunter, and who is the prey?

PROLOGUE: In which we learn the bloody history of Foxwood Manor

Chapter 1: In which we meet the monster girls getting ready for a hunt

Chapter 2: In which a group of very handsome strangers seek shelter from the snowstorm.

Chapter 3: In which playful drinking games take a terrible, violent turn …

The last time I played “Never Have I Ever” I was in my freshman year of college, and I found out way more than I ever wanted to know about my then-roommates. It feels childish and pervy and eager. Maybe it is. An excuse to confess things you might never speak out loud other wise. Back then I didn’t have much to confess except for a handful of awkward kisses and sex that was over almost as soon as it started.

I’m definitely aware that everyone is staring at me, waiting for me to say something shocking, say anything. Ryder’s steady gaze holds me in place. He offers me a crooked grin.

And I totally, utterly choke.

“Never have I ever gone skiing.”

My poor horny succubus groans. Mari and Raya snort. Athena suppresses a smile, but takes a pitying drink.

“I see what you’re trying to do,” Ben, the goth Latino librarian says, wagging his finger at me. “You’re trying to get us drunk because we’ve just come from the slopes. Drink up, boys.”

Ryder knocks back his drink, then refills everyone’s glasses.

Alia raises her hand and squeaks out, “my turn!” It isn’t since she’s on the other side of the circle, but we let her slide. “Okay, never have I ever been a voyeur.”

Ben starts to explain “voyeur” to Hans, and the Viking of a man threatens to leave him out in the blizzard for the night.

Alia’s face is devilishly sweet in the firelight as she watches everyone drink. Everyone except for Ryder. Heat skitters up along my spine, my neck. I remember the den of vampires I ran with in my wild days. There were nights I only remember in flashes—naked limbs, the sweet elixir of sweat and the wetness between thighs, open mouths dripping with blood. Sometimes I liked to watch our victims as they came, a vampire latched at the vein in their groin like a a greedy little leech. Perhaps I read too many Anne Rice books before I became undead, and it was a fantasy I’d always wanted to play act. There was this moment when pleasure and pain blurred, when each man would flutter his eyes open, realizing too late that I was drinking too much, too quickly. Then they’d fall, close their eyes. Never wake.

Now I take my shot, because I might be a lot of things, but I’m not a liar. The succubus releases a delighted yelp, and the torch passes on. I’m only half listening as Raya says, “Never have I ever fucked underwater” because Ryder leans in close.

“I can’t quite figure you out,” he says.

“You only just met me, why would you have me figured out?”

Ryder turns his body towards me, causing the couch to dip between us. Without meaning to, I slide into him. I can feel him shiver.

“Are you cold?”

I start to say no, but he’s already removing his sweater, leaving him in a tight white tank, and hands it over. And because I’m pretending to be a normal human girl, I put it on. The moment I do, I am overcome with the smell of him. The salt and delirious warmth of his skin. I want to bury my face against the broad muscles of his chest. Maybe if I have one bite. Just a tiny bite.

“Thank you,” I eke out.

It goes on for a while. Never have I ever been unfaithful. A few drinks. Never have I ever had sex for money. All of the guys drink, and I don’t know why I find that so surprising. Never have I ever taken part of an orgy. Been arrested, then been arrested for indecent exposure. Licked someone’s toes (Jesus Alia). When it feels like we’ve exhausted the locations and body parts we’ve fucked in, or had fucked, Thomas knocks over an empty bottle of whiskey and sets it to spin.

It lands on Raya. The mermaid climbs over Ben and leans in for a kiss. Thomas meets her halfway, his marbled hazel eyes are aflame, like he can’t believe she is real. Their lips touch, brushing in a soft exploration.

Alia makes a pleasant moan, while Ben watches on in almost studious delight. Or perhaps is considering joining in as he’s caught in the middle. But then Raya leaps back for a moment, shock widening her mermaid eyes.

“That’s impossible,” she says.

Photo by Klara Kulikova on Unsplash

Read more

The Midpoint #3: Monster House Chapter 3

Welcome back to The Midpoint, my serial fiction section here on Substack! Thank you so much to my lovely new subscribers. If you’re new, and it’s okay if you are, I started writing a story about a house of monstrous girls living together in a retrofitted manor in the middle of nowhere, New Hampshire. It’s called Monster House. This is how it’s going to work:

There are 5 monster girls. Each one gets a novella. Part I will be written in sections for this newsletter. Unsure about the rest and not making any decisions on it since this is really an outlet for me to try a bonkers story for me, with the hopes there are others who would be drawn to the same summoning circle.

Part I - The Vampire « « « You are here « « «

Part II - The Mermaid

Part III - The Werewolf

Part IV - The Succubus

Part V - The Gorgon

I’m going to post a chapter every few weeks, though I hope to make it weekly when I’m done with my Rebel Angels deadline.

As you read, keep in mind this is very lightly edited and proofread. There’s something about this font that I can’t pick up typos after several reads.

Tell your friends! Tell your mom—but only if she’s into (sometimes weird) monster romance.

Don’t be shy with the comments. It won’t hurt my feelings, and I’d love constructive feedback on what you’d love to see from the characters. Like, choose-your-own adventure, though really more of a “suggest”-your-own adventure.

I’m writing this as Zoey Castile.

Happy reading. If you’re having fun, please share! If you haven’t started, well this is your invitation to Foxwood Manor.

What’s Monster House about?

Welcome to Foxwood Manor, a home built in the 19th century to one of the richest families in the region. After the bloody scandal that befell the original owners, it fell into the hands of Athena Hall, a real estate agent—and immortal Gorgon. She repaired the house, and accrued four roommates over the years. Each girl is a monster. A Miami vampire frozen at the edge before turning twenty one. A cursed mermaid who loves to cook. A Brooklyn werewolf living her cottage-core dreams. A succubus trying to get her groove back. And a glamorous Gorgon waiting for her past to come and get its revenge.

They say good fences make good neighbors. Every month, three of the girls go on a trip called the Fever Hunt. They stock up on supplies, run and swim in the wild, and then return to the safety of the manor. But this trip brings a surprise—their meticulously planned hunt is interrupted by a blizzard, and a bachelor party stranded on their hillside road.

Karli Perreira has been a vampire for thirty one years, and a vegetarian vampire for twenty five of them. The sordid details are not important. Turned in the 90s, she’s perpetually a day short of twenty-one. Like, total bummer. She’s made the most of it living in a decked out manor with her monstrous besties. Karli’s always been afraid of losing control again. Her recent cravings and the group of handsome strangers who seek shelter in the storm is about to test that self-control. Especially the charming Ryder Vega, a budding singer and disarming flirt. Somehow Karli feels like she’s known him all her life.

But as the blizzard snows them in, and delays their leaving, the monster girls of Foxwood Manor struggle to reign in their hunger. For Karli, it’s been so long since she’s fed on a human, but she’s on the brink of breaking every rule that keeps them safe. As Ryder pursues her through the halls of the manor, and she allows herself to open her heart, and her bedroom door, she’s starting to wonder—who is really the hunter, and who is the prey?

PROLOGUE: In which we learn the bloody history of Foxwood Manor

Chapter 1: In which we meet the monster girls getting ready for a hunt

Chapter 2: In which a group of very handsome strangers seek shelter from the snowstorm.

Chapter 3: In which playful drinking games take a terrible, violent turn …

The last time I played “Never Have I Ever” I was in my freshman year of college, and I found out way more than I ever wanted to know about my then-roommates. It feels childish and pervy and eager. Maybe it is. An excuse to confess things you might never speak out loud other wise. Back then I didn’t have much to confess except for a handful of awkward kisses and sex that was over almost as soon as it started.

I’m definitely aware that everyone is staring at me, waiting for me to say something shocking, say anything. Ryder’s steady gaze holds me in place. He offers me a crooked grin.

And I totally, utterly choke.

“Never have I ever gone skiing.”

My poor horny succubus groans. Mari and Raya snort. Athena suppresses a smile, but takes a pitying drink.

“I see what you’re trying to do,” Ben, the goth Latino librarian says, wagging his finger at me. “You’re trying to get us drunk because we’ve just come from the slopes. Drink up, boys.”

Ryder knocks back his drink, then refills everyone’s glasses.

Alia raises her hand and squeaks out, “my turn!” It isn’t since she’s on the other side of the circle, but we let her slide. “Okay, never have I ever been a voyeur.”

Ben starts to explain “voyeur” to Hans, and the Viking of a man threatens to leave him out in the blizzard for the night.

Alia’s face is devilishly sweet in the firelight as she watches everyone drink. Everyone except for Ryder. Heat skitters up along my spine, my neck. I remember the den of vampires I ran with in my wild days. There were nights I only remember in flashes—naked limbs, the sweet elixir of sweat and the wetness between thighs, open mouths dripping with blood. Sometimes I liked to watch our victims as they came, a vampire latched at the vein in their groin like a a greedy little leech. Perhaps I read too many Anne Rice books before I became undead, and it was a fantasy I’d always wanted to play act. There was this moment when pleasure and pain blurred, when each man would flutter his eyes open, realizing too late that I was drinking too much, too quickly. Then they’d fall, close their eyes. Never wake.

Now I take my shot, because I might be a lot of things, but I’m not a liar. The succubus releases a delighted yelp, and the torch passes on. I’m only half listening as Raya says, “Never have I ever fucked underwater” because Ryder leans in close.

“I can’t quite figure you out,” he says.

“You only just met me, why would you have me figured out?”

Ryder turns his body towards me, causing the couch to dip between us. Without meaning to, I slide into him. I can feel him shiver.

“Are you cold?”

I start to say no, but he’s already removing his sweater, leaving him in a tight white tank, and hands it over. And because I’m pretending to be a normal human girl, I put it on. The moment I do, I am overcome with the smell of him. The salt and delirious warmth of his skin. I want to bury my face against the broad muscles of his chest. Maybe if I have one bite. Just a tiny bite.

“Thank you,” I eke out.

It goes on for a while. Never have I ever been unfaithful. A few drinks. Never have I ever had sex for money. All of the guys drink, and I don’t know why I find that so surprising. Never have I ever taken part of an orgy. Been arrested, then been arrested for indecent exposure. Licked someone’s toes (Jesus Alia). When it feels like we’ve exhausted the locations and body parts we’ve fucked in, or had fucked, Thomas knocks over an empty bottle of whiskey and sets it to spin.

It lands on Raya. The mermaid climbs over Ben and leans in for a kiss. Thomas meets her halfway, his marbled hazel eyes are aflame, like he can’t believe she is real. Their lips touch, brushing in a soft exploration.

Alia makes a pleasant moan, while Ben watches on in almost studious delight. Or perhaps is considering joining in as he’s caught in the middle. But then Raya leaps back for a moment, shock widening her mermaid eyes.

“That’s impossible,” she says.

Photo by Klara Kulikova on Unsplash

Read more

My 16 year degree: Or, I finally graduated college!

I dropped out of college in 2009. By then, I’d been out of high school since 2005 and I was in a hurry to grow up, to be someone—or perhaps to simply be.

This is perhaps the reason I always caution writers who want to skip college or quit a job to be a full time writer. Think again. Wait a little bit. THIS IS NOT TO SAY YOU HAVE TO GO TO COLLEGE FOR WRITING OR STAY IN A JOB YOU HATE. (Sorry, I have Twitter PTSD.)

Let me expound. Book writing is either/both:

Commercial / Literary

Art / Entertainment

A dream / A career

One thing it will always be is a gamble. One of the biggest lessons publishing taught me is to take the gamble on yourself.

So when I was 21/22, I dropped out of Hunter College. I’d drop out of Hunter not once, but twice. Technically, the first time I transferred to the University of Montana in Missoula. I loved it, but I was lonely. It was also the first time I understood white Americans are not the same as spicy white New Yorkers from the boroughs and Long Izzy. I’m glad I went and love the beauty of the state and the friends I made. In the end, I returned home, and gave Hunter another shot. I got a job at a nightclub. I started writing again.

I had about a year and a half worth of classes left. It should have been a semester but I had stopped taking the required classes and picked literature classes I definitely would one day use in my career (you can read this dripping with sarcasm or excitement). These classes were Arthurian literature, the Gothic novel, every Jane Austen book ever, multi-cultural literature, surrealism and magical realism, etc.

I loved literary theory. I loved my creative writing classes. At the same time, I hated writing literary theory papers (though I never got less than a B+), and I hated being told in workshops that the magical/scifi-fantasy parts of my work were extraneous metaphors for immigration and self-discovery, so I should just writer “my” story.

At this time in my life I was making very, very, (I need another very even though you’ll never know the full spectrum of how bad these decision were) bad choices. One day, while working on the book that would be my debut novel at the back of my Latina Women class, I got in trouble for not paying attention. I made up a lie, went to my night job, and then decided that my time was better put toward finishing my novel.

I stopped taking the F train to 63rd street, and instead took it all the way to Coney Island where I wrote the majority of The Vicious Deep, which debuted in 2012.

I know I made the right choice for the person I needed to be at the time, even though I wish I’d had someone tell me I’d eventually regret it. That my trajectory was not an arrow steadily climbing upward like some of my contemporaries. That every few years would feel like a reset. Resetting, rebranding, “diversifying,” it’s exhausting. But you try telling a 22-year-old know-it-all a life lesson amirite.

Some careers are a straight line. Up, steady, or down. Others are indirect, constellations made of lines connecting big bursts. Or a cardiogram after I’ve had my daily double shot of sparkling espresso (don’t judge). But my motto is the same as Stan Lee and the State of New York’s—Ever upward. Excelsior.

I feel extremely lucky to have had the success (and failures) I’ve had over the last 13 years.

So, why, after all this time, did I wake up one day and decide to enroll back in school? It was a slow build. The following isn’t a critique on other writers, but over the years I felt some snobbery around education. The majority of these interactions have been stellar. Still. Colleagues would ask at events where I studied, and I would always reply honestly. I was never embarrassed, but something happened. The “oh, well that’s okays” and “oh, well good thing it worked outs” consolatory comments are the career equivalent of coupled straights asking if you’re still single and going, “oh, well, you’ve got time.” A former friend always reminded me that she went and graduated from a Fancy Ivy School, especially at lunches, dinners, and when she’d cry over losing at Scrabble. Some people have that need to keep reminding you, and I get it, getting into Yale and Harvard and NYU are socially and culturally big deals and you should be proud of yourself. I often talked myself out of these unfamiliar insecurities because this was a me-problem. And again #notallauthors.

You don’t need an Ivy league degree, or any degree, to succeed as a writer. You need voice, consistency, and an ergonomic desk set-up. [mutters about the current state of publishing]

Look. Being judged is a part of life. I judge everyone I meet and see on the internet. It’s automatic. I am my grandmother’s grandchild and there’s no one more judgy than an abuela. So I don’t care about being judged. I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished.

Some time in 2021, during the height of the pandemic, I had my yearly mental breakdown and started browsing what my options were to re-enroll. “This will fix all my problems,” I thought. (It hasn’t.)

I’m not going to lie, I’ve felt pretty lost over the last several years. The avenues for midlist writers are shrinking. I’m now too old to follow my dreams of being a sugar baby. The pandemic changed our society. Yes, I have my anchors—my friends and my family—but this is something that only I could help myself through.

In fall 2023 I ran away to Scotland where the gray winter sky matched the inside of my brain. Sometime during my stay in Edinburgh, I was working on my edits for ANGEL BOOK and thinking about the research I needed to do for a book I’ve been calling “600 Years of Solitude” and thought, “I might as well get my degree if I’m going to audit this many classes.”

So in December 2023 I enrolled back in school. The choice to return to Hunter felt almost as impulsive as the choice to leave it, but it wasn’t because I felt insecure or unaccomplished. I wanted to learn. I wanted to do something for me. At first, I took online classes, then in Fall 24 I went in person.

What followed was the most stressful six months of my life. I had wanted to finish my edits over that summer and get into copyedits so I could enjoy being a full time student with my lil backpack and glasses. But my revision didn’t land on my desk until winter 24, and by then, I had finals. I was in school full time, trying to balance freelance gigs, and going through the most anxious period I’ve ever experienced. Ever. Sometimes I think back to a time in 2014 when I said “I’ve never had anxiety” and laugh. And laugh some more.

Since January ‘25 I’ve been basically rewriting an entire novel, taking my last classes, and figuring out if I’ll be able to keep publishing books after the book I’m contracted for comes out in 2026 (ANGEL BOOK). Publishers, you know where I live.

Despite the chaos of the last couple of years, I am so happy that I finally finished. It only took 20 years since I graduated high school, but I have my bachelor’s degree. I didn’t tell a lot of people, only close friends and some family. I’ve called it “my other job” or “super secret project” here in the newsletter and on Threads. I’m sorry if you thought the secret was a new book.

When I’ve mentioned it, people ask “what is your degree in?” A surprise to no one: I have a Bachelor’s in English-Creative Writing with a focus study minor in Africana/Puerto Rican/and Latino Studies. 🤓

Most of my classes were math and science and other electives. Let me tell you, trying to math and science at 36 was HARD, bro. But I now know how much to put in a high yield savings account to have X amount of money by the time I retire, which, at the rate publishing moves, is never. Also, I’ve been walking around the city looking at rocks like:

🤓 🤓 🤓

If you’re reading this and thinking you need to go back to school—wait a minute. That’s not the point of this newsletter. You don’t have to go to college to be a writer, but I do think you have to find something to say. Sometimes that comes from taking a 16 year “gap year” and sometimes it comes from studying the most random historical or sciency or mythology thing that you find interesting. Never let a guy on a podcast whose daddy gave him start up money tell you that college is a waste of time.

You’ll know what your constellation looks like, but let it be you who shapes it.

20% of Latinas in this country have a bachelor’s degree [as of 2021] according to the UCLA LPPI Data Brief. It is an honor join those ranks. I have loved learning and absorbing and refreshing everything in my brain noodles. I also had the best time eavesdropping on 19 year olds who recently discovered 90s rock, and got a little ego boost when I’d tell youths I was 37 and they wouldn’t believe me.

I am not the first person in my immigrant family to get a bachelor’s degree. My cousins are all awesome science nerds. But in my small branch, where it’s just me, my mom, and my brother, I am the first.

This is something I had to do for myself. At the ceremony, I got to see over five thousand graduates (the largest ever for Hunter). everyone had small details: pins, flag stoles, decorated caps, hair accessories. These personal touches made it clear how beautifully diverse this city is, and how important the freedom to learn is. I got my stole from Etsy, made by a Guatemalan artisan, and we stopped by the Ripped Bodice after the ceremony since it was nearby.

I wrote “Write On” on my graduation cap because it’s something one of my first writing mentors, the poet Meg Kearney, used to say. She used to sign her emails and say it at the end of our chats at camp. It’s stuck with me 20, even 20 years later.

That’s it. That’s my secret project I’ve been referencing for the last year and change. I’m hoping the next secret project I tease will be a new novel. Wish me luck!

And write on.

Here's my A.I. Generated Summer Reading List

So the other day the Chicago Sun Times published a “summer reading guide.” I first saw this on Carmen Maria Machado’s Instagram, and then the Atlantic wrote up on how two newspapers recently printed A.I. slop. It’s not just that the CST and Philadelphia Inquirer went to print with artificial intelligence listacles that has me questioning very my decisions to be a writer; it’s that the editors didn’t even check to make sure of some of the books on this “reading guide” were real??? It feels like a silly thing to fact check, doesn’t it? I know Isabel Allende is a living legend and still prolific, but that title just sounds wrong?? She also has a real new book out, so why not include that one???

Snopes reported that the Chicago Sun Time staff didn’t use A.I. Another writer for another company did. They said, “A freelance writer for King Features, a company owned by media conglomerate Hearst, produced the content for distribution in various media outlets including the Sun-Times.”

I’m not in journalism anymore, though I did do some listacles for Buzzfeed, B&N Teen Blog, SyFy FanGrrls, Tor.com (Reactor), and more. That’s how I paid my bills in between delayed publisher payments, plus, it was great being able to keep on top of the hundreds of new books out each season. Publicists would literally follow you into a bathroom stall at the airport in Schenectady to make sure you got the latest book on their list.

Fine. That’s an exaggeration, but it was years after I stopped writing for outlets before the emails from publicists ceased. Galleys and ARCS (print or ebooks) are the standard minimum for a lot of publishers, so I don’t understand why this writer couldn’t have just picked from those books. I haven’t dug further to find out if he was overwhelmed like the rest of us and panicked like a college kid the night before a midterm is due, or if these companies simply don’t care. I am pretty miffed.

You l*** b**** want to use A.I. to write articles? Whatever. I’m not fighting with people over whether or not it’s stealing our books [it is], or that techbros are little whiny bitches ruining the planet because they were ugly in high school.

What I care about is this: Writers are constant told that our work is both powerful and worthless at the same time. Words change lives. Books change lives. I have to still believe that. If books didn’t matter, bored, repressed, unhinged housewives in Florida and Texas and Suffolk County wouldn’t be trying to ban books. If words didn’t matter the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey K K K circus that is the White House wouldn’t be acting like something out of the Pinochet regime every time a celebrity cries about forced deportations and disappearances.

Powerful, but worthless.

I mean they didn’t even bother to check if the book listed by TAYLOR JENKINS REID was the highly anticipated The Atmosphere or some random summary which actually does sound like something she’d write, so Taylor, write it. This author recently reported a 40 million dollar deal for five novels. RESPECT. [If you let Daisy Jones & the Six go, you SHOULD pay that much to win her back.] I’ve never even allowed myself to dream about that kind of money for my work. And yet, they “article” reads “The Collector’s Piece by Taylor Jenkins Reid - Reid continues her exploration of fame with this story of a reclusive art collector and the journalist determined to uncover the truth behind his most controversial acquisition. Expect the same compelling character development that made Daisy Jones & the Six a hit.”

From: Image courtesy of Reddit user xxxloveit/Snopes Illustration

So last night, I poured myself an American sized glass of wine and was like, “that sounds like a real book. I, too, could be fooled by the writing prompts of their A.I. software, which seems to be smoking the same shit I am.”

I started to realize—wait a minute, I’ve been having a pretty shitty year where I question every single decision I’ve made in life and things feel pretty bleak, my cousin was recently murdered and I couldn’t fly home to be with my family, and I have all this guilt about immigration, and I hate how publishing treats authors, and this administration and the people making money off them is disgusting, and I’m on deadline for a book that has frustrated me for professional reasons for 2 years, and I’ve had nothing but rejections professionally and academically, but sure I’ll make time to blurb this book or contribute to your fundraiser, but first, I have an idea for a newsletter.

I really am fine, thank you for listening.

Oh, I also won an award recently, and I’m alive so I should be grateful for that. But that’s for another newsletter.

So in conclusion, I had to shared some of the books that should be on your radar this summer, even if the CHICAGO SUN TIMES (ACTUALLY KINGS FEATURES FOR HERST) A.I. DOESN’T THINK SO.

Here is my summer reading guide. None of these books are made up.* OR ARE THEY?!

The Mercy Makers by Tessa Gratton - FORBIDDEN MAGIC???? FORBIDDEN LOVE?!?!?! It is the kind of beautiful, sexy, total Tessa Gratton epic fantasy I’ve come to expect. Also there’s a phallus in the cover that makes me giggle. Tessa could write a grocery list, and I have, in fact, read it as well. Out 6.17.25!

Star Wars: The Acolyte: The Crystal Crown (Set in the Era of the High Republic) by Tessa Gratton - I am still pretty pissed off that The Acolyte was cancelled so unceremoniously. Remember the time we went to our first hollywood premiere? Anway, The High Republic RULES and we should all have these books on our list, including the upcoming adult Vernestra novel by Justina Ireland which came out a few weeks ago! Wayseeker. The Crystal Crown is out 7.29.25.

Love Spells Trouble by Nia Davenport - A reluctant witch gets caught up in a fake dating scheme! I love Nia’s harder adult SFF, so I can’t wait for her charming YA contemporary fantasy. Out 7.8.25!

Along Came Amor by Alexis Daria - This is the final book in the Primas of Power trilogy and bro. It is Alexis’s hottest book yet. I was also there while she was writing it in our writer sessions, so I’ve seen the work she’s put in this and it is well worth the wait. Out THIS MONTH May 28! Get preorder goodies and also come see us at the Ripped Bodice (Brooklyn).

When Javi Dumped Mari by Mia Sosa - THIS is the “friends to lovers” I’ve been waiting for. It’s dual timelines and has some of Mia’s classic banter and humor. I loved this book. Out 6.24.25 (two days before my birthday!)

Can’t Get Enough by Kennedy Ryan - I remember listening to Kennedy read from this book at a Spotify valentines event in her honor, and it was honestly captivating. Also a tech mogul hero that I actually loved listening to! Out nowwwww.

Now, I might have hallucinated these, but something for your imaginary TBR!

Written by a distant cousin’s friend’s paper supply salesman who always wanted to write a novel, if one day his busy schedule would allow, Michael Scott Fitzgerald always wondered what happened after Gatsby was killed. (Spoiler alert.) Gatsby haunts Daisy and whatever her husband’s name was, it wasn’t in the Spark Notes I briefly looked at last night, and their descendants in a Long Island submerged beneath the murky waters of the sound in the year 2069.

The definitely true story, written under my 5th pseudonym, about the harrowing journey I had in Napa Valley, where I left my charger in a hotel and then—had to pay Stupid Tax (TM) at the airport to replace it. I’m still waiting for a publisher to pick up the hardcover only rights.

This needs no summary or explanation. I heard it was a #1 NYT bestseller.

A confession from a group of overworked, underpaid publishing assistants as they prove to everyone that the industry isn’t just coffee trucks and flower pop up stands afforded to the top billing money makers. It’s also a lot of teaching your bosses what “dead ass” means and how it’s really New York slang. Featuring a “pretty much common knowledge” anecdote about a sff author who can’t keep his geriatric dick in his pants, and also how HarpeRandomBooks CEO thinks EVERYTHING IS FINE, JUST FINE!

But wait! I have a few other books, I’m 99.99999% positive are real and available for you.

These Summer Storms by Sarah MacLean - A wealthy Rhode Island family gets a reckoning in MacLean’s debut contemporary adult novel. Lots of friends have told me this is impossible to put down, and though it’s not Sarah’s signature historical romance, she knows how to make a book hot. Also, Sarah was one of the first romance authors to encourage me back in 2014 when I published my first romance novel, and I am glad that we get to fuck around with genre all these years later.

Space Broom! by A.G. Rodriguez - I got this one a little while ago, but got slammed with deadlines before I could finish. I love a comedic romp through space! It’s out NOW so you don’t have to wait for summer to be here.

The Romance Rivalry by Susan Lee - This book hit the USA Today Bestsellers list today and I couldn’t be happier for a fellow author. Susan has had some publishing hurdles, including her publishing team insinuating she was inflating her own event sales numbers. I mean. Come on guys. Even if she wasn’t a friend, I’d support it just to spite the publishing. Out now!

IN SUMMARY, I’m sad about the state of the industry, but books—real books written by real people—are a little light at the end of the tunnel.

I’m going back into the DEADLINE HOVEL/CAVE to finish up my ANGEL BOOK edits.

Thank you for reading my meltdown. Regular May edit coming soon. Your support means so much to me. I hope my little satirical rant gave you a little giggle. Though I am really looking forward to Confessions of a Publishing Assistant. ;)

BTW, I’m still working on Monster House, my substack serial. It’s a novella. You can read a sample over here and subscribe for the whole monster enchilada. It’s me trying to have some fun with a story and play around with an idea I’ve had for a few years. I will get back to uploading as soon as I survive this deadline!

On Editing: When the house is full of bees.

This is going to be a short update because I am in the deadline cave, which has honestly started to resemble more of a “deadline hovel.”

A few years ago, I was living in Astoria with my cousin. We’d accidentally rented out an apartment in a house that started to break down about 50 days into us moving in. I will always think about this house because there were a couple of coincidences. One of the neighbors was my friend’s ex. One of the other neighbors worked in publishing and we kept almost taking each other’s packages. I was writing CONVERGENCE at the time, and when it came to doing edits, I—of course—get covid leading up to the big deadline.

The day the house started to fall apart was around 2AM on by birthday. I didn’t want to do anything to celebrate because I was in editing hell, but my friends got together and sent me gifts to make it all better. So while I was working, I’m woken up by banging on the door. I realize there’s a fire truck, all spinning lights and everything, parked outside the house. Surprise it was the fireman I didn’t remember ordering. There was a carbon monoxide leak. I don’t remember if I asked for an extension, since at that point I hadn’t slept properly in days (deadline and being sick were not a good mix). In the morning we didn’t have hot water because of a dumb long story that can summarized with: my landlord cut corners. A few weeks later, they start construction, which runs these ugly pipes throughout the entire place. We have no stove. No heat (which didn’t matter until the the fall/winter months). And then one day my cousin texts me and was like, “we have bees.”

🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝🐝

I was like, “are you sure? are the windows open?”

We call pest control, and find out the bees have been tunneling into the side of the house, into her wall. The animal control guy said there was nothing he could do unless the landlord wanted to literally gut the wall and get the bees out. He did not. So they sealed any crack where the bees could come in through. (They missed my head though.)

I think is related to publishing in general. Maybe I search for meaning in something that is, at the end, meaningless. This is a hilarious thing to admit while I’m editing a book about angels and demons causing havoc in New York City. But back to my metaphor.

So there’s this house that’s falling apart. There’s the tenant. There’s the landlord. There’s the animal control. Then there’s the bees. The book is the house, naturally. Sometimes it needs a bigger lift. Things break that weren’t supposed to be broken. Wiring (see: plot points) that doesn’t make sense, but sometimes the lights still turn on. I started writing this thinking that the landlord is the editor, or the publishing machine. They’re the people who have invested in the work, after all. But I think the landlord is the writer. We have to make the decisions that open up the walls to expose whatever is inside, even if that is a giant fucking bee hive. Honey is good, so, also make of that what you will.

I feel pretty frustrated with the publishing industry. Over the course of thirteen years, my edit letters have gotten shorter (across publishers). My turn around times have gotten shorter, too, which doesn’t help while I job hunt, work freelance, and am in the middle of finishing my degree. So when do I actually get to think deeply and write? Why do publishers take so long, and then expect the authors to make up the time difference? How do I write about rebellion and love when most of my brain cells are consumed with anxiety over the state of the world, rent and bills, still being a good book friend to the community, donating another book to another fundraiser, fight off the demons that have a permanent resident in my head, keeping up with socials so the algorithm doesn’t forget you, etc.

I am overworked and burned out by this industry. But I’m still trying. And I am certain everyone at every level feels this to varying degrees.

I’m in the middle of rewriting half of this book from scratch because I don’t know what else to do and my house is full of bees. {Metaphorically this time.} I am still working hard on this, moving ahead because there is no rest for the wicked. I’m the only one who can get the work done for me, and though I wish the circumstances were different, I have to take this bird by bird. Or bee by bee. I just have to cry in the shower a little bit. It’ll be all right, angel, don’t worry.

And because I have to pause some other writing while I finish up Rebel Angel Book this month, I would like to share the first couple of pages with my monthly fiction subscribers! My monster wills will return SHORTLY.

🐝

From The Fall of Rebel Angels (2026)

by Zoraida Córdova

PROLOGUE

New York City, November 2022 C.E.

Rio Villalobos had stopped praying long ago, though not out of spite or anything like that. She was simply certain that among every bent and crooked soul crying out for mercy, she wouldn’t be heard in time. If there was some All-Mighty in the celestial shit-stain that was the Milky Way, then God was a kindergarten teacher trying to wrangle everyone else’s kids on a field trip; one inevitably got lost. Rio understood the improbability of a heavenly lifeline. She was too far down the queue and besides, miracles were for good girls, and she’d stopped being good so long ago.

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I went to Dartmouth for a specfic symposium and ate a lot of shrimp.

¿Cómo están, mis amores?

I’m entering full chaos gremlin mode*. The next two weeks are about to be quite demanding, so I’m trying to get this newsletter out so don’t lose my updating streak! Let’s gooooo.

CUARÓN CON, Or, I went to Dartmouth for a specfic symposium and ate a lot of shrimps.

The shrimp is not the important part. It was an incredible weekend, and the hotel’s restaurant with the delightful shrimps was just the sea cherry on top.

Let’s start with, what is CUARÓN CON? I should clarify, the symposium was actually called Children of Cuarón: Speculative Futures through Cinematic Fiction Conference. Cuarón being of course, Alfonso, the Mexican writer/director who has made so many incredible films. (Huge thanks to the Latin American, Latino, and Caribbean Studies Department with support from Dartmouth Arts & Sciences Dean of Faculty, Elizabeth Smith and the Dartmouth Dialogue Project for making this event happen.)

Now, I’ve been to a lot of conferences in my time. I was just searching for photos for my “Rewind” segment below, and I have tons of photos from cons and fests and signings and events. I had this out of body experience after sending a photo to a friend and said “were we ever really thing young?” But dramatic asides aside, it made me realize just how social I am as an author. Because of the con experience, I felt a little intimidated going to Dartmouth to talk about fiction through the lens of the film Children of Men. I honestly won’t be able to cover everything from the weekend.

I took the Dartmouth coach. It’s 5.5 hours each way, which was great because I wrote the entire time. GUESS WHAT I WAS WORKING ON? Hint: if you love me you’re reading it already.

Anyway, after the bus, I hotelified my room, worked some more on Rebel Angels, had lunch with a friend, and then went to the first event of the night: a viewing of Sleep Dealer, a scifi movie by Alex Rivera. I’d never seen it before, and I wish I could go back in time and tell college me to find a theater and watch it. The movie is 15 minutes in the future US/Mexico border, and follows a young Mexican man whose world is destroyed, and then has to find work n the US. In this version of the future, people don’t have to cross the border. They’re connected through a cybernetwork and implants. It is imaginative and tragic and absolutely human.

It’s only one of the four films that were featured and talked about during the weekend, but the imagery sticks with me. So does The Pod Generation by Sophie Barthes, which is more recent.

Children of Men is a movie that is distant from its source material, but it takes place in 2027. It’s hard to imagine a world in which two years from now the world is a desolate. But then I open up my Atlantic and AP apps and realize, hey we’re doing everything possible to head into that bleak, hopeless future.

People who are a lot smarter than me said a lot of brilliant things on the panels. In a discussion about borders, I recall someone asking something along the lines of “what can we do” with regard to what feels like a future. There were many differing answers. Some called for hope. Some for art. One professor simply said, “We need vengeance.” When we think about revolutions and revolts against authoritarian and fascist regimes, can it be done without vengeance?

I’m not going to answer that right now, but it definitely makes me tailspin into what this all* means. All* is, of course, this life, this writing job, this calling to create outside of myself. What is my job as a writer? What can I say with my voice? Who even needs to hear it? How will it create positive change? How do I tell the truth about the world? What does my vision of the future, and reimagining of the past, look like? Art is a mirror of the world around us, and that world is shaped by politics. Pretending otherwise is a choice. During one of these panels, someone pointed out that a lot of early SFF was very conservative. In the book world, we like to think this is a solely liberal place. After all, we love books! We love free libraries! We love education and school! Dystopia shows a world that has ended. Romance says you deserve a happily ever after. Scifi takes us to space or futures we can only speculate through science. Fantasy gives us a magical realm. What does that mean when you live in a marginalized body? What does dystopia look like if you come from a group of people whose world already ended in 1492 or 1948? What does romance mean when a “hero” in a story makes a throwaway comment while picking grapes, and wonders if “people with questionable visas” should be the one doing that labor? How can we imagine exploring other galaxies when we are destroying our own? And who gets to write the definitive vision of a fantastical world? Vanessa Angélica Villareal does a lot of this work in her thoughtful and delightful book of essays about the intersection of pop culture and being Latina. If you want a non-fiction read, it is great.

As you can tell by now, this short weekend in February led to a lot of conversations. I was on an author panel with Carmen Maria Machado, and Vanessa Angélica Villareal, moderated by Marcela Di Blasi. We talked about our relationship to the film, our own work. I have a notebook full of notes, and I wasn’t the only one. Everyone in the audience was furiously jotting down quotes from the panels.

It felt really good to talk about why words and stories matter. And no, I’m not saying every books has to have all the answers to every problem and be ultra politically correct and only show good people doing good things. It was just refreshing to be able to spend a weekend deep diving the impact of one film and one version of a future that is a stone’s throw away, with people who definitely didn’t agree on everything, but had thoughtful answers for questions that might actually be unanswerable. Wait, is this what it’s like to have a conversation outside of the fucking internet where everything is reduced to hot takes without context?

Have I mentioned it was an incredible weekend? I’m still buzzing with ideas and wishing I could be in a group chat with everyone to be like, “hey, latinos in scifi. do we exist without earth? discuss.” Just. Incredible.

Also, the shrimps at the Hanover Inn. 10/10.

Because I was having so much fun, I did not take any pictures! Except of the José Clemente Orozco mural at the Baker library.

This one went a bit long, so I’ll talk about some of the other events and my take-away from them in another update. For now, please enjoy these graphics I made to procrastinate the 4 jobs and 1 life event I’m balancing.

February: took the train to DC and back to see Adriana Herrera and Kristina Forest launch their new books at East City Books. They should still have signed copies if you’re looking for some good romances. Also, lots of espresso martinis, a Spotify romance event celebrating Kennedy Ryan, and I was wrong, I did get some photos from Cuarón Con: my fit and this plant at the local bookstore.

March-ish: I had an event at Santa Clarita and this incredible reader gave me a bedazzled copy of Orquídea Divina! I signed books at Mysterious Galaxy (they ship!!), and learned to drive. LOL, jk. The wonderful team at the New Children’s Museum in San Diego made this adorable photo booth of the Scourge from Valentina Salazar is Not a Monster Hunter.

As you can see from my libro prograss bar: no progress on Heroes and Hotel books. One of the plus sides of so much long travel, including 3 weekend trips to California, means I’m getting a lot of writing done. I need silence to edit. I need chaos to write. I can’t explain it and I’m set in my ways. So from planes, trains, and fancy buses, I’ve written about 10k of Monster House, my substack first serial fiction. It’s a novella. You can read a sample over here and subscribe for the whole monster enchilada. It will be a little weird, a lotta smutty, and just me trying to have some fun with a story and play around with an idea i’ve had for a few years.

Speaking of monsters … here is a bingo book card for all you monster lovers fuckers.

Reading: Magical Realism by Vanessa Angélica Villarreal. I started this before the con, and am working my way through the essays. Some I relate to so much, and others are a reminder of how different all Latinx experiences in the US. It’s so sharp and deeply researched.

Watching: This show is ridonculous. Philippa Soo from Hamilton fame? JOSHUA JACKSON? It’s like Grey’s Anatomy was on luxury cruise, only the medical crew is only 3 people. How much drama could they have? All of it. I wish the romance felt a little more streamlined. Right now it feels like they don’t know which way the sea is blowing, heh, but I’m still having a good time. You had me at BIG DECK ENERGY.

Listening: I haven’t stopped listening to the new Bad Bunny album. Apologies to anyone who has had to be in an adjoining room with me in the hotels. This album has been on full blast. Every song I listen to a little more carefully, and right now VeLDÁ is on a loop. The drop is just so sexy.

Okay, I’m getting the “too long for email” Substack warning. That’s it for now. I’m not currently on Instagram or Threads. The apps are off my phone, but I log in once a week or so because I truly hate not replying to messages. So if you want to hear from me, write me a letter. A love letter, preferably (platonic unless you’re Pedro Pascal).

As always, write on, and let me know what you want to see from me here.

The Midpoint #3: Monster House Chapter 2

Welcome back to The Midpoint, my serial fiction here on Substack! Thank you so much to my lovely new subscribers. I’m always awed when someone supports my writing. Truly never gets old. March updates are coming in a separate newsletter, but I did want to talk a little but about what writing this collection of stories is teaching me.

If you’re new, and it’s okay if you are, I started writing a story about a house of monstrous girls living together in a retrofitted manor in the middle of nowhere, New Hampshire. It’s called Monster House. This is how it’s going to work:

There are 5 monster girls. Each one gets a part of the novel.

Part I - The Vampire « « « You are here « « «

Part II - The Mermaid

Part III - The Werewolf

Part IV - The Succubus

Part V - The Gorgon

I’m going to post a chapter every two weeks, though I hope to make it weekly after April when I’m done with my Rebel Angels deadline.

As you read, keep in mind this is very lightly edited and proofread. I want to use this space to experiment and write something that is truly just fun for me, and hopefully you. It might not make sense, but it will fuck.

Tell your friends! Tell your mom—but only if she’s into (sometimes weird) monster romance.

Don’t be shy with the comments. It won’t hurt my feelings, and I’d love constructive feedback on what you’d love to see from the characters. Like, choose-your-own adventure, though really more of a “suggest”-your-own adventure.

I’m writing this as Zoey Castile.

If I finish it at the end of the year, I will either self publish it or see if a publisher wants my monster smut! But, you’ll be able to read it here first and only here through 2025.

SO WHAT DID I LEARN?

While I was drafting this, the characters got away from me a little bit. There are a lot of characters in this book. Five monster girls. Four stranded human men. On the first draft, I went in writing what everyone was doing. Because I’m so used to working in third person past these days, and this story came to me in first person present, when I started losing track of where people were, I slid into my comfort POV. If this happens to me, I’m always afraid I went wrong and now have to change the entire POV. It’s not just about changing tenses. The literal POV has to change. Everything in Part I is from the point of view of the resident vampire, Karli. On my re-read, I looked out for the moments where I slip into things that Karli couldn’t possibly know. This feels like creative writing 101, but it’s always nice to have a refresher. After all, writing is never something I want to master, because it is not the kind of crash where you will ever be done learning something. Whether that’s something new about you or your story. I am not a writer in search of mastery or perfection. That is a fruitless, joyless task. I am in search of a story that feels good, honest, and true to who I am. In some ways, this makes things easier to write. In others, like as I edit my Angel book, I still wonder if being true to who I am is enough. I have to believe it is.

So, this when the chapter starter getting out of my control, I found what was a natural scene stop. Then I recalibrated, and figured out the choreography of where everyone was. What were they doing? What did it accomplish? I am bringing them together, trying to naturally see which characters have chemistry. I am not woo woo enough to believe that my characters are behind the wheel. They’re not. I do what I want. However, once I know who I’m writing about, it becomes that much more instinctive to understand the actions and reactions each character will have.

Happy reading. If you’re having fun, please share! If you haven’t started, well this is your invitation to Foxwood Manor.

What’s Monster House about? Welcome to Foxwood Manor, a home built in the 19th century to one of the richest families in the region. After the bloody scandal that befell the original owners, it fell into the hands of Athena Hall, a real estate agent—and immortal Gorgon. She repaired the house, and accrued four roommates over the years. Each girl is a monster. A Miami vampire frozen at the edge before turning twenty one. A cursed mermaid who loves to cook. A Brooklyn werewolf living her cottage-core dreams. A succubus trying to get her groove back. And a glamorous Gorgon waiting for her past to come and get its revenge.

They say good fences make good neighbors. Every month, three of the girls go on a trip called the Fever Hunt. They stock up on supplies, run and swim in the wild, and then return to the safety of the manor. But this trip brings a surprise—their meticulously planned hunt is interrupted by a blizzard, and a bachelor party stranded on their hillside road.

Karli Perreira has been a vampire for thirty one years, and a vegetarian vampire for twenty five of them. The sordid details are not important. Turned in the 90s, she’s perpetually a day short of twenty-one. Like, total bummer. She’s made the most of it living in a decked out manor with her monstrous besties. Karli’s always been afraid of losing control again. Her recent cravings and the group of handsome strangers who seek shelter in the storm is about to test that self-control. Especially the charming Ryder Vega, a budding singer and disarming flirt. Somehow Karli feels like she’s known him all her life.

But as the blizzard snows them in, and delays their leaving, the monster girls of Foxwood Manor struggle to reign in their hunger. For Karli, it’s been so long since she’s fed on a human, but she’s on the brink of breaking every rule that keeps them safe. As Ryder pursues her through the halls of the manor, and she allows herself to open her heart, and her bedroom door, she’s starting to wonder—who is really the hunter, and who is the prey?

Get a refresher on the Prologue and Chapter 1…

I was turned into a vampire at a pop concert afterparty. There are people who’d say I had it coming. My skirt was too short. My lips were candy pink. My shoulders bare. I remember being so excited earlier that evening while getting ready with my cousin, Nayeli, and her friends. She was sixteen, the youngest of our group of five. We crowded around her vanity, dipping stained makeup brushes into pots of glitter and tracing them across naked eyelids, collar bones, sun burnt shoulders and the apples of our high cheekbones. We left the room a wreck. All these years later, and I still feel a little guilty that I never helped clean up like I’d promised. I never came home, either, but I’ll get to that later.

I volunteer myself for kitchen duty while my roomies get our guests settled in the living room. One of them was hopping on one foot, so Mira is assessing his injury. In the rare instances we’ve had to entertain overnight, the protocol is simple—act human, keep outsiders corralled in their designated area, and get them back down the hill as soon as possible. It’s a seamless process, which has only gone south a couple of times. Once, when a party of deer hunters clearly had never learned the word “no.” (They’re still out in the statue garden). Another time, well, let’s just say it involved the leader of a fitness cult who vanished in a skiing accident. Before my so-called vampiric life, I wasn’t aware of anything to do with cults. But there’s something about the seclusion and woods of New England that really bring out the weirdos.

There will be no accidents tonight, though. Part of the reason I volunteered for my least favorite task is to pour myself another glass of blood. This time I don’t dilute it with cherry juice or wine. I drink it in greedy, ravenous gulps. My belly is full and the warmth of it radiates through my entire body. If we’re going to have four meat bags around—I’m sorry, four human men—I’m going to need sustenance. I know what you might be thinking. Karli, you just ate. You are not in control. But I am in control; that’s why I’m getting my fill before I play sweet hostess. I’m just going through a phase, like when I was really into ice skating after watching The Cutting Edge or when I took a photo of Jennifer Aniston during her FRIENDS days and got the signature haircut all throughout my senior year of high school.

A phase, I repeat, setting a pot of water to boil. A horny, hungry phase. I stack eight teacups on top of each other, grab a pot of honey, some cream, and a mix of little herbal envelopes for them to choose from.

“You all right, my darling?” Athena’s cool voice startles me.

I fumble with the last teacup, the delicate porcelain a hot potato in my hands. So much for my vampire reflexes. It’s my gorgon housemate who snatches the fragile thing by the handle before it smashes on the floor.

“Yep,” I say. “Peachy.”

“Karli.” Athena sets the cup to on the tray. She holds my face with her palms, cold as marble. Beneath her glamour, I can hear the susurration of her serpentine hair. Their gem-like irises are harmless, as long as the gorgon wants them to be. “We can all sense your distress. You can lie to yourself, but not to us. I mean, suppose you can lie to us as well, but I would not advise it.”

Athena has done so much for me. She took me in when I was at my most volatile and murderous. She got the group of amateur vampire hunters off my trail. She helped me disappear so my family would stop searching for me. I can’t be the reason she loses the sanctuary she created for us just because my appetite is suddenly ravenous and I eat one of the men seeking refuge from the snow storm.

So I say the most honest thing I can think of. “I’m worried we’re lower on our reserves than we should be. We can stretch this month, but that’s really it.”

“Is that all? You were perfectly fine with those lost hikers,” she said. “What’s different?”

“I don’t know. Can I throw Alia and her sexually frustrated psychic dreams under the bus?”

As if waiting for her name to be uttered, our resident succubus poofs into the kitchen.

Athena’s eyes widen. “What the fuck? The first aid kit is in the storage closet not—”

“That’s what I’m doing! Don’t worry. No one saw me,” Alia says, her big eyes blink with that pretty fringe of purple lashes.

I shake my head. “You went to the bathroom just to poof in here? Why not just walk? It’s equidistant.”

Alia grimaces, but Athena breaks up the oncoming dust-up of our most benign, eternal argument, “to walk or to poof,” before it can get started. “I just came to remind you to bring some sweet snacks. Pretty please. Thanks love you byeeee.”

I reach, as if to strangle her, but she vanishes in another fragrant purple cloud. The kettle screeches, and Athena pads over in her silk slippers to turn off the dial.

“Two of our new friends are injured. One sprained ankle and a minor burn. The skin is not broken, but this is my hen mother warning. I want you to promise me that if you need help,” she tells me, “you will call for me, or one of the girls.”

“I will.” I look into her eyes to reassure her, brushing my thumb along my inner wrist where I have the tattoo all five of us share: a small cluster of five foxglove bells. I will. That’s a promise I can keep.

When we return to the living room, it is aflutter with our strangers and resident monsters. Werewolf Mira tends to the injured guest with the help of his brooding friend. I mentally dub them Man One and Man Two. Meanwhile, number Man Three gathers all of their belongings, and Man Four makes himself at home, admiring the antique decorations Athena has collected over the years. I follow behind her, carrying trays of snacks and refreshments.

“This place is incredible,” Man Four says, peering into a wooden cabinet which contains some of the original Birch family’s artifacts. Thimbles and creepy dolls and ivory hair combs and shit like that. He’s got Labrador energy despite his square red glasses and goth Latino librarian outfit. He yanks off his black beanie, and ruffles damp raven hair matted to his temples. He smells like spearmint gum and old books.

“Don’t just stand there, Professor Pain in the Ass,” says Man Three, the largest them. He’s built like a viking line backer, and the only one who seemed dressed for the weather, what with his waterproof pants and giant hooded jacket. His copper beard is a work of art, kept so neat it accentuates his sharp jaw. He shoulders all their duffle bags and coats, waiting for Athena to show him where to put them.

“Oh, sorry, let me help,” Professor Pain in the Ass says, rushing to my side to take the tray of teacups and fixings from me.

Athena has already set her tray down and turns her attention to Man Three. “Let me show you to your rooms.”

“Much obliged,” he says, locking eyes with the gorgon for a beat too long before either of them move.

Am I imagining the eye-fucking that just happened? The other girls are busy with the injured men, which, fair. Still, I try to catch Athena’s gaze, but she is her elegant self, leading her guest down the only lit corridor.

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The Midpoint #2: Introducing Monster House

Welcome! Everything is terrible, so I started writing a story about a house of monstrous girls living together in a retrofitted manor in the middle of nowhere, New Hampshire. It’s called Monster House. This is how it’s going to work:

There are 5 monster girls. Each one gets a part of the novel.

Part I - The Vampire

Part II - The Mermaid

Part III - The Werewolf

Part IV - The Succubus

Part V - The Gorgon

I’m going to post a chapter every two weeks, though I hope to make it weekly after April when I’m done with my Rebel Angels deadline.

As you read, keep in mind this is very lightly edited and proofread. I want to use this space to experiment and write something that is truly just fun for me, and hopefully you.

Tell your friends! Tell your mom—but only if she’s into monster romance.

Don’t be shy with the comments. It won’t hurt my feelings, and I’d love feedback on what you’d love to see from the characters. Like, choose-your-own adventure, though really more of a “suggest”-your-own adventure.

I’m writing this as Zoey Castile.

Happy reading.

What’s Monster House about? Welcome to Foxwood Manor, a home built in the 19th century to one of the richest families in the region. After the bloody scandal that befell the original owners, it fell into the hands of Athena Hall, a real estate agent—and immortal Gorgon. She repaired the house, and accrued four roommates over the years. Each girl is a monster. A Miami vampire frozen at the edge before turning twenty one. A cursed mermaid who loves to cook. A Brooklyn werewolf living her cottage-core dreams. A succubus trying to get her groove back. And a glamorous Gorgon waiting for her past to come and get its revenge.

They say good fences make good neighbors. Every month, three of the girls go on a trip called the Fever Hunt. They stock up on supplies, run and swim in the wild, and then return to the safety of the manor. But this trip brings a surprise—their meticulously planned hunt is interrupted by a blizzard, and a bachelor party stranded on their hillside road.

Karli Perreira has been a vampire for thirty one years, and a vegetarian vampire for twenty five of them. The sordid details are not important. Turned in the 90s, she’s perpetually a day short of twenty-one. Like, total bummer. She’s made the most of it living in a decked out manor with her monstrous besties. Karli’s always been afraid of losing control again. Her recent cravings and the group of handsome strangers who seek shelter in the storm is about to test that self-control. Especially the charming Ryder Vega, a budding singer and disarming flirt. Somehow Karli feels like she’s known him all her life.

But as the blizzard snows them in, and delays their leaving, the monster girls of Foxwood Manor struggle to reign in their hunger. For Karli, it’s been so long since she’s fed on a human, but she’s on the brink of breaking every rule that keeps them safe. As Ryder pursues her through the halls of the manor, and she allows herself to open her heart, and her bedroom door, she’s starting to wonder—who is really the hunter, and who is the prey?

Once, the house on the hill was called Foxwood Manor. Built in 1838 by Atticus Birch, it comprised of thirteen bedrooms—one for him, one for his wife, and the rest split among their dozen children as well as the constant guests who appeared at their magnificent doors. The guests in question enjoyed the Roman baths and ice plunging pools made of marble quarried across the river in Vermont. The men stalked the forest and ladies followed the paths of neat gardens and manicured mazes. The grand ballroom was the show stopper, hosting exquisite parties for friends and business partners and those lucky enough to be in the same orbit as the eccentrically handsome and handsomely eccentric Atticus Birch.

Once, the house was full of life. Long dinners and balls. Champagne and wine spilled from Waterford glass and down wanton lips. Music echoed from the west to east wing. Servants washed and folded, dusted and polished; grounds keepers chopped wood and plowed winding roads through the forests to have better access to the town at the bottom of the hill and surrounding universities.

When Atticus Birch disappeared, more rumors than truth followed his legend. They say he was lured out of his bed in the middle of the night by a banshee, but banshees were messengers, not avenging angels. They said it was his business partner, Elias Sanderson, who’d coveted Mrs. Francine Birch, but Elias was found, half eaten by wolves, in the forest a few months later.

They said all of the wealth Atticus Birch had amassed was on behalf of the devil himself, and his life was the price. No one truly knew, because the winter after the disappearance, disease spread through the neighboring towns, slowly making its way up the hill to the great house, claiming the life of every person within its walls. Only the groundskeeper survived.

And so, too haunted to live in, the house passed on to a distant cousin who sold the property on day one.

Foxwood Manor remained hollow, gathering dust and mold and spiderwebs. Only the bravest, foolhardy locals broke the rusty chains keeping the gates shut. Only reckless lovers snuck into the ancient master bedrooms to fuck and party and squat in the place which nature had started to reclaim.

[Photo by Nathan McDine on Unsplash]

But all of that stopped in 1970 when the land was bought by the mysterious Athena Hall. The real estate mogul refurbished every nook and cranny, firing each contractor at her whims, which changed like the New England weather. There was talk she’d turn the place into condos, or sell it to the universities, but when every repair and addition was made, the doors remained closed.

Athena fortified the iron agates and installed “PRIVATE PROPERTY” signs at every road that led to the driveway. She added security feeds and traps in case they were ever attacked. She kept the world out until the townsfolk, and would-be ghost hunters, and nosy neighbors gave up trying to break in.

New rumors surfaced. They said Athena Hall was a witch. That she was a monster and each of the four women who were allowed entry through the front doors were her coven. That they howled at the moon. Sacrificed men in Atticus Finch’s wine cellar. They said they were demons. Cannibals. All who entered were doomed a fate worse than death.

“Do not go Foxwood Manor, monstrous women live there,” wrote a local priest in the paper. But wasn’t “monstrous women” redundant?

The town had one thing right. The five residents of Foxwood Manor were monsters. And that’s why Athena had fortified her fences, because the real danger always came from the world below.

My dreams are never pink, not unless Alia is at the wheel. My succubus roomie has this sick ability to psychically connect, which I’d normally be pretty stoked about, but it comes with an annoying side effect—it only happens when she’s horny, and after what she’s been through, she’s always horny.

Look, I love loving myself. I do. But I also love sleep. I know, I know. Karli, you’re a vampire, you can sleep for, like, ever. Blah blah. If we want to be technical about it, yes. But I’m still a walking, talking, sentient—however dead—creature. A body needs rest. My body specifically.

In my very pink-lit dream, I’m in my bedroom which is, albeit, already very pink. Raya, our resident mermaid, once called my suite’s decor “if Barbie had a cloaca.” I don’t really get underwater humor. Anyway, I’m brushing my hair at the vanity. Ever since I got turned, I’ve been frozen in time. Sometimes it surprises me all over again. I always took care of myself. Latina home remedies and tithing half my paycheck to creams that sounded more like witch’s brew than cosmetics. Ingredients include: frozen placenta (species irrelevant), dessert rose cold pressed oil, shea butter left out to absorb full moon beams. That type of stuff. If I’d known I’d die, and then come back as something more and less human, I would have saved my paychecks. Still, I continue to have an extensive skincare routine. I’m dead, but I’m still not getting younger.

My dream reflection looks up at the man who enters my room. He’s got a human body, jacked in all the right places. Though, instead of a human head, he’s a retro tv. You know those ones from the 70s? With the dial and the plastic mint green cover. His face is the static of dead air, threaded by pixilated colors. His body is smooth, with a tuft of hair snaking down his abdomen.

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Writing Baddies, Comics, & Other Updates

We meet again. ¿Como estas?

I’ve been fairly social this past month. Now more than ever, it’s important to be in community with each other. The other night I was at an author drink’s night here in NYC. The usual bar we go to ended up being shut down for business. It was hard for it not to feel like some symbol from the universe. Some sort of bygone era. Changing times. Equally as symbolic, we went across the street to a new spot and had a lovely time.

The night flew by, as did most of January. I have been working on that secret personal thing I’ll eventually talk about. It has gutted my writing schedule, which is frustrating, but there’s nothing I can do but pivot. I keep using that word. Talking to writers about being frustrated in [Genre TK] “pivot to [New Genre TK].” Talking to myself in the mornings when I want to throw in the towel for whatever new disappointment the publishing industry comes up with next. Pivot!

I know, sometimes there’s nowhere to go or pivot. This business makes you feel like you’re one FRIENDS rerun away from a mental breakdown. One of my work wives and favorite humans, Adriana Herrera found out that Barnes & Nobles isn’t going to carry her historical romance, A Tropical Rebel Gets the Duke. It’s fucking sexy and follows a rebellious Afro-Latina doctor and the rakish Duke who would give up everything to be with her. It is ROMANCE. Publisher’s Weekly literally said: “A female doctor in 1880s Paris becomes entangled with a duke in Herrera’s breathless final Las Léonas romance…Herrera infuses their romance with her trademark sensuality while using their story to probe themes of racism, sexism, and abortion access. This is a worthy finale.”

Adriana has literally done everything authors are supposed to do. She’s had her covers completely changed “for the market.” She meets her deadlines and She’s uncompromising in her vision to write about Black Latinas and marginalized folks getting HEAs. She’d going on her first ever tour. And yet? Barnes & Noble comes to stomp on her progress.

This whole thing started with me leading up to talk about villains, but maybe the way publishing treats my friends is MY villain origin story. Anyway, if you love romance and historical or just want to support a writer doing something special, pick up the book from an independent book store when it comes out tomorrow!

SO, VILLAINS. I swear I had a point.

I’m juggling lots of projects, including my big edit for Rebel Angels. Every time I work on a book I tell myself it has to be the best version of me. Sure, this comes with some pressure, but I love the pressure of the deadline. Now that I know deadlines can shift and I have an agent I’m comfortable openly communicating, I don’t have as much of the negative part of stress. Of course, I don’t WANT to move by deadline, or feel like I’m letting my team down. I just know I have a safe place to land. So what I’m left with is the deadline adrenaline and pressure. Can I really “be all you can be” myself into a novel that sticks the landing? What does the best version of me even look like? I don’t think I will ever get there. Writing is not something I want to master because then it means I’m done learning. And I love to learn.

That brings be back, once again, to villains (specifically in fantasy and science fiction). As I’m trying to write Best Book Ever, I find myself revisiting my old work. I am proud of all my books, but I think villains are my weakness. Not because I fall in love with them but because in the past, I have punked out in how bad they can be. I know I have to give them motivation and dimension, but I struggle with villainy in general. Maybe I’m too focused on heroes. On the people who want to save the world. On the ones who are supposed to be perfect. The Superman. The Captain America.

This is crazy pants because I LOVE a well done baddie. I love Cardan and the Darkling and Regina from OUAT. Literally one of my favorite books last year was Long Live Evil by Sarah Rees Brennan, and I think it was in part because it was 1) hilarious and 2) deeply layered. We love a well done baddie. I also don’t think that the answer to this is how hot the bad guy is, like those Blood Bunnies, (is that what they’re called?), who love hot serial killers. No judgement. I’m not that horny. (Or maybe just horny for a monster with a heart of gold.)

Why do I struggle with this? Back in the Harry Potter craze, I was never interested in the Slytherin/Malfoys. In Star Wars, I truly believe in the Rebellion and Resistance, even though light and dark are binaries. Maybe, deep deep down, I get stuck thinking about who gets to be a villain in the real world, and who gets to be one in fiction. Aside from superior aesthetics, what am I rooting for? What does it mean to do something heinous and cruel? What does it mean to take a life? What does it mean to destroy? I come from communities that are currently villainized by the government. The history of my ancestors is full of true terrors, so maybe I am holding back in some way. Or maybe I’m over analyzing something simple I can fix with craft. The answer isn’t as straightforward.

I’m not sure, but I am currently trying to untangle this knot within the bounds of fiction.

Perhaps it’s also a side effect of getting older. I wrote my first urban fantasy between the ages of 20-24. I didn’t know anything about anything, so good and evil was a binary. Now I want to dig deeper into that delicious gray area.

I want a hero who is dipped in the “darkness” the way Achilles was plunged into the river Styx by his ankle to shed his mortality. I want the weakness to be all the good, whatever way it manifests. I want to sit and examine this gray area. Admitting to myself that I have punked out with some villains, is helping me shape a lot of the action in Rebel Angels, and other projects I’m working on. I am also remembering the best parts I love about this ruinous process. When I was writing The Inheritance of Orquídea Divina I kept telling myself Dig deeper. Go there. Take a swing, even if it doesn’t work. So I’m going to listen to myself, for once, and dig deeper, go there, take a swing with these complicated and unruly characters I’m trying to shape. I want to believe that’s true for all of us in this on-going writer journey.

In other release news, I published my first ever Star Wars comic! Star Wars: The High Republic Adventures Phase III Annual

✨ I got to write a one shot called THE ADVENTURES OF CHURO THE HUTT AND THE HEART OF EROUDAC. It’s in the Star Wars: The High Republic Adventures Phase III Annual and includes some brilliant stories from The high Republic authors. In mine my best lil’ Hutt goes on an adventure to the planet Eroudac because he wants to SAVE THE GALAXY. See? Heroes.

If you have read any of my STAR WARS books, then you’ve heard this world mentioned before. It’s topography is inspired by South America 🇪🇨, but by way of A Galaxy Far Far Away.

It’s illustrated by the excellent @juansamuart. Letters by Comiccraft’s Tyler Smith and Bobby Bradford.

>>This anthology issue collects five tales of Republic bravery and Nihil treachery from across the galaxy! Featuring Jedi Knight Vernestra Rwoh, Jedi Younglings Jon, Bree, and Toko, Churo the Hutt, the sly Nihil Driggit, and the sinister Baron Boolan as they navigate the perils of the impending Battle of Eriadu! Brought to you by some of the most influential creators of the High Republic saga, including @justina.ireland, @crashwong , @cavanscottwriter, meeee, and @charlesdsoule and Rosemary Soule! • Illustrated by fan-favorite artists Liana Kangas, Nick Brokenshire, Andy Duggan, My girl @dianasousaart on some colors, and more!

I went to Forbidden Planet NYC with my friends and we each got a copy. I hope you do too!

Speaking of launches. Here’s a rewind to the first day of the rest of my life. (Que dramatica.) Making slow but steady progress on WIPs. Wrote a weird short story for a Latinx horror anthology edited by .

Speaking of villains, I am deep in a Dexter first-timer binge and I need to write about it soon. Also, went to watch my brother play live (check out his new song!), saw my agent, celebrated Little Ukrainian Christmas hosted by my bestie and had delicious horseradish vodka shots. Forgot to take a lot of photos at other events like the SCBWI party, where I bumped into my anthology editors for the Untold Legends series! [pictured below].

This is a long one. Thank you for reading. Let me know if there’s any writing or publishing topic you’d like to see from me in the next newsletter. This month’s fiction in The Midpoint #2 will be some monster romance. Definitely another venue for me to explore my dark side.

Love, love.

'The Midpoint' #1 - Novelizing a short story

Welcome to THE MIDPOINT. This is my monthly series in which I will share original fiction, including snippets from what I’m working on, genres I want to experiment with, and more.

This month, I want to talk about novelizing a short story. I love a short story, even though I don’t write them as often as I used to. When I was a teen writer, and then in college, this was the way to get your feet wet and experiment with voice. On an episode of Deadline City, the podcast I used to host with Dhonielle Clayton (one day we’ll bring it back!?) we talked about short stories. It’s been a while, but I think I said something like, “a short story is a a slice of a pie. A novel is the whole pie.”

In hindsight, this no longer feels as true. Not always. In my experience writing (mostly Young Adult) short stories, the perception is that this scene can be a novel, but not every moment can go on for 323 pages. Some moments are simply that, moments. Readers in YA and adult Romance in particularly are the ones who leave comments like, “this needs to be a whole novel!” “two stars because it was only 15 pages long.” Or something like that. Some moments are simply that, moments and I’d like to start thinking how to write more of these pieces of flash fiction.

Heh, even calling it a “piece” of something feels like it should be part of a bigger whole. Maybe it’s me, I’m the whole of it.

The first instance in which I novelized something was when I wrote The Inheritance of Orquídea Divina. The original was called “Divine are the Stars” and it was published in Toil & Trouble: 15 Tales of Women and Witchcraft. It followed a young woman named Marimar Montoya. (For the Millenial Latinas, yes, she was named after Thalia’s character in the telenovela Mari Mar.) My Marimar Montoya was returning home with her cousin to witness her grandmother’s passing. I started with an image: A woman transforming into a tree.

My first editor at Atria bought an idea of a novelization. And let me tell you, it was hard to do. I knew I wanted to expand on this moment, but what if it was just a moment? Instead, it became like a bread starter, this mother dough blob of promise. (I am not a bread baker so wtf am I even talking about.) What followed was. figuring out where the story was going and where it came from. I zoomed out, not just in the scope of the setting, but through the lives of every character. It evolved from the first 15 pages of text. Character names changed, the setting changed completely, new timelines were required, and by the end of it, it felt like an entirely different entity.

Pinterest vibes

This is my most successful novel, and so it worked. I don’t think I could do this for every short story I’ve published. They don’t all need it. But there is one that I keep thinking about after its 2022 publication in Reclaim the Stars (I really like stars okay?) an anthology I edited. This story, unlike Orquídea, isn’t an idea that evolves into a different shape. Instead, it goes back to my first metaphor. It’s actually a slice of the pie. The biggest and only real change is character names. Maybe I had the world building more solidified it. Maybe it was less vibes. Maybe I became a stronger writer during the four year gap in which these two anthologies were released. Whatever it was, I put together the first few chapters and a proposal, which is out on submission right now with editors. It’s crossover fantasy. A gender-bent Hades & Persephone by way of a South American inspired kingdom. A farm boy willing to unleash an ancient darkness, all for true love. The short story is a condensed version of parts of chapter 1 and what is now Act II-part I, so I was able to fill in the blanks. To be honest, my short story clocked in at 15,000 words and my editor helped me trim it so it felt like that slice.

I want to share with you some (a prologue and two chapters) of what this story is now. But first, some vibes and house keeping.

I’m running a promo on my monthly fiction, so support if you can. It’s all appreciated. February’s THE MIDPOINT will feature a monster romance.

A serial monster fucker romance…

Now…to this month’s fiction.

TAME THE WICKED NIGHT

BOOK 1

by

Zoraida Córdova

SUMMARY: A gender-bent Hades & Persephone meets The Princess Bride. When twenty-year-old Leonidas Saturnelio offends rejects a marriage alliance from a powerful family, he must set off on a quest known as “taming the wicked night,” to restore honor to his family. The quest requires him to bring back the head of a mythical beast, something no one has returned from—dead or alive.

PROLOGUE

This isn’t the story of war, though the kingdom of Lutríste has been clashing on some distant border for decades with no signs of stopping. Nor is it the story of the worst drought ever experienced by the provincial town of San Miguel de las Palmas, though it does play a part in the events. No, this is the story about the boy who would unleash an ancient power for the desperate sin of true love.

I was that boy.

My name is Leonidas Saturnelio and I am to be executed at dawn. This is my confession.

ONE

Leonidas

I have a collection of bad days, but on occasion, I’ve had a few bad years. There was my eldest sister’s wedding day, when I vomited all over her dress. In my defense, I was merely ten months old, but I’ve heard about that incident going on twenty-one years. There was the day my classmates stole my clothes while I swam in the lake, which might have been a hilarious prank if I hadn’t had to walk, naked, through the town square, all the way home. Then there was the entire year I turned fifteen, followed by my disastrous courtship of Rosalinda Nuñez. Now, my twenty-first year could go either way. Time will tell, though I may be running out of it.

I’d like to make it clear that I did try to have good days. (Who wants the opposite?) So when it was my turn to work my family’s farm stall on the eve before the Feast of San Mercurio, I hoped, at the very least, for an uneventful one.

The market was empty while every good citizen sat through a long afternoon sermon in the holy cathedral. Each family in our parish was required to send at minimum one person to mass or draw notice from the deacons who served the High Priest. My sister Marcella represented the Saturnelios that weekend, while our parents ran the household in preparation for the following day’s festivities. Though I would much have preferred sweating and kneeling on a wooden pew in reverent silence than making small talk with the whole town.

As it had for three hundred and ninety-nine years, the feast heralded the beginning of spring and consumed every aspect of life in our town. For days leading up to it, the market square overflowed with decadent bouquets and gas lamps strung in magnificent arches. Tourists from all over the kingdom descended on San Miguel de las Palmas to buy artisanal glass baubles, glittering gems, fine leather sandals, lace hand-made by the cloistered nuns in the Order of Perpetual Mercy. Revelers queued up for local goat stew said to cure all ailments, gorged themselves on buttery caramel, and downed vials of our famed burnt rum. More betrothals were announced on record than any other day of the year, and the maternity ward always prepared for overcrowding in exactly nine months.

The quatercentenary meant every extravagance would be quadrupled accordingly, and so would every family’s yearly tithe. But the drought had ravaged through every corner of the Kingdom of Lutríste going on two years, forcing many stalls and shops, restaurants and cantinas to shutter. Even luceres mass had low attendance as families risked moving closer to the capital citadel for work, despite its proximity to the front lines. As fortune would have it, my family’s stall was open because despite the scorching sun, and lack of rainfall, our farm thrived. Our trees were always in bloom, our grass never yellowed, our crops never spoiled, and our well spring never dried out. It was as if by a miracle, but my family’s legend told us we were blessed by the saint himself.

As the cathedral bells signaled the middle of the day, and end of mass, the gilded doors opened to let out the parishioners. I readied for the oncoming rush by finishing my tepid, bitter cafecito. I tucked my tunic into the waistband of my linen trousers and straightened my leather suspenders. I finger combed my black waves, damp from the heat, before plopping my wide-brim straw hat back on. Then I tossed my pile of orange peels on the cobblestones as a snack for my helper—Pulga the Immortal—my scruffy goat, then faced my first customer of the afternoon.

“Buen dia, Leonidas!” Don Teodoro shouted, plopping his basket down between us, loaded full of fruits and a few heads of purple corn. He was deaf in one ear, from his turn at the draft. Thin scars spread from his ear like an intricate spider web against his bronze, brown skin. He jabbed at his hip and said, “Haven’t seen you were yay tall. Shot up like a palm tree, didn’t you?”

I had, in fact, seen him at luceres mass the previous week, but still, I humored him, and accepted the handful of sucres he handed me. “Just trying to catch up to you, señor.”

“Oh, you’ll have a crackin’ good time tomorrow night, I bet.” He wagged an arthritis-swollen finger at me, and smirked like we were in on the same joke. “Take it from me, take a step back before you jump into marriage.”

“I’d have much to think of before jumping anywhere,” I said, and handed him his wicker basket back. The season made everyone, even old veterans, speculate about the impending matches coming up. No one had to worry on my part. I’d proposed to one person two years before, and after quite the public rejection, I was not in a rush to try again…

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