Hey ghosts and ghoulies... those of us behind the veil are working carefully on our RIP Roswell event for 2026. As of right now we anticipate the event running over the weekend of Saturday 10/31 and Sunday 11/1.
We do plan to do things a little differently this year. Although there will be prompts as usual, and we welcome any input that you may have in choosing these prompts, we'll also be trying something new this year! Sometime over the weekend, we'll run a companion A/V chat where participants can either read their own short (thinking appx 100-1000 word?) fics.
If you're interested in joining, please feel free to hit us up through our askbox. You can also find us in the RnM 18+ server!
RIP Roswell is proud to announce we'll be back again this year with some more spooktacular features!
October 30: cabin in the woods
campfire stories, strange artifacts, lost signals, abandoned areas, eyes in the dark, hitchhikers, eerie animals
October 31: 28 days later
mysterious contagions, serums, botanical abominations, transformations and transmutations, cutting-edge science
November 1: midnight mass
ritual and religion, memory eternal, cults, communion, exorcisms, possession, miracles, fate and free will
November 2: idle hands
costumes, corn mazes, tricks and treats, parties, bonfires, pumpkins, turning leaves
As usual, all types of fan creations are welcome, all characters and pairings are loved, and deadlines are made up!
The magic is slowly fading, and the veil is dropping once again, but don't worry! You can submit spooky creations anytime. If we have missed any of your tumblr posts or fanworks, please feel free to @ us or DM us!
Thank you to everyone who's participated this year, either by creating or engaging with our works. You all make this event what it is! 💖🎃👽
I've been busy trying to write my @rnmbb fic the past few months and didnt dedicate something to @riproswell this year.
Instead, I think I've got a section of my fic that is how I want it enough to reveal. This section of my story involves violence, death, and alternate dimensions as well as miracles and the best of human (and non-human) kindness.
TW: canon adjacent gun violence, gore, and (temporary) death.
I'm going to say it fits with the "Midnight Mass" theme of RIP Roswell 2025.
So without further ado, I present a sneak peek of Quantum Entanglement.
“RUNNNN!!!”
An earsplitting bang vibrates painfully through Elizabeth Ortecho’s ribcage.
A noise so loud it abruptly kills the chaotic chattering typically heard amongst the dining crowd of the Crashdown Cafe. Not even the imperceptible battering of eyelashes dare make a sound as every eyeball widens in shock from the rude interruption of their midday meal.
Silence doesn’t belong in this place, she thinks in a daze. Life means noise in her house. It’s unnatural for its walls to be filled with anything other than the warm meeting of friends and the curious delight of traveling strangers who land themselves in Roswell, New Mexico.
Stoic figures clad in kevlar vests and silver badges don’t belong here either.
Not that she’d deny anyone respite if they were hungry. That’s her job after all. More than that, she promised her beloved father that his American dream would far outlive his ailing body.
The Ortechos welcomed these people into her colorful world of friendly green aliens reaching off the painted walls to proudly offer roasted green chilis to the masses. Ambient chicano fusion echoing from the glowing jukebox in the back of the house to dance with the savory aromas of cumin, smoked paprika, and cinnamon wafting in the air. Heat emanating from the kitchen galley and a warm welcome from the owner herself wraps a nostalgic comfort around the heart of every visitor.
Here, everyone belongs whether they call this tiny speck on the map home or just a detour, but not everyone sees the need for a safe space like this from the chaos of life’s noise. Not everyone considers her service a force of good in their community, nor the marginalized array of beings that are drawn to her. Some are just too afraid of the unpredictability of bridging worlds.
That’s how, amongst other disparate events beyond the scope of her current perception, the sharp burning smell of gunpowder now hangs in the air of this sacred place. It's an outlier to an otherwise mundane day, and an unwelcome precursor to the warm viscousness seeping down the front of her chest. Looking at the mess, she is fascinated by the fast pace in which bright crimson overtakes the once jolly mint green of her polyester uniform.
Her slow gaze transfixes on the reflective black almond eyes of the silver alien decal on her shirt. The little face stares blankly back at her in frozen horror as its home on her chest is eclipsed with the wet darkness. Her mind spirals with silly untethered thoughts that maybe the little alien will explain why the universe chose her to die today.
Answers better come fast, she thinks sluggishly, before the darkness closes in around her as well.
“Liza? Liza!”
She hears her childhood nickname called out loud, echoing past the ringing in her ears. This voice is strangely familiar and soothing despite the quaking fear leaking through cracks in its warm timbre. For a moment, the burning pain gripping her heart in a vice lets up a little with the realization of whom the voice belongs.
It's from a person that has chased away the darkness surrounding her life despite never fully stepping into it. Always there on the fringes. Just out of view, but still drawing her attention like a single star daring to shine first as dusk encroaches the horizon.
Max Evans is here, drawing her out of death’s gravitational pull like an anchor. “NO, NO, NONO!”
The desperation in his voice hurts worse than the bullet in her chest, but knowing someone she trusts is here to catch her fall washes a sense of peace through her body that kills all the pain.
Liza gives into the void.
All at once, or possibly in no time at all, there’s no more feeling. No hard linoleum beneath her body propping her up on the surface of a sharp cold world. No panicked screams of the shuffling crowd around her; nor the bellowing yell of a different male voice, flustered and trying to regain control of the situation. The radio on his shoulder cuts static in and out as orders are shouted back and forth over all the noise.
Liza floats along, dissolving with everything else into the soft and distant static of empty space.
Until her body is tethered back to reality by a gentle touch.
“You have to look at me, please.” Max whispers earnestly into her face.
She doesn’t have the strength to do it. A wet guttural groan is all she can manage, but yet, her eyes slit open enough to lock onto his.
Max should know there’s nothing that’s going to save her now, she thinks sadly. Why, even now, does she heed his mere call? She figures with every misfire of her dying brain, her survival instinct is taking over. Max always had that effect on her since they were kids. Every tug on her hand and shy smile from him would hush all the outside noise crushing her until she could hear her own innermost voice again.
“Ya… llovió?” The slow words croak past her weak lips from an innate need to see him smile again.
Logically, none of this makes sense, but there’s something different in the way he is looking at her now that gives her hope. Maybe she’s confusing his comforting presence in the moment of her death as a miracle; or maybe, somewhere her innermost voice is trying to tell her this is not actually the end.
She can feel the floor connected to the earth beneath her again as Max’s firm hand emanates warmth into her frozen veins. It awakens a sudden fleeting memory; fuzzy, distant, and somehow everlong as the cosmic microwave background noise of the Big Bang. It's an undeniable truth that coalesces in her consciousness like dissonant particles coming from the stars themselves: This has happened before, and it will again.
She tries to keep her focus on Max despite the light from his hand on her chest overwhelming her vision. It’s almost too bright to see his face except for another pair of eyes peering inconspicuously over Max’s shoulder. Golden brown orbs, invitingly gentle yet piercing in their curiosity unsettle her with an unblinking resolve to watch this private moment between the two of them on the ground. Hands pushing and pulling the stranger doesn’t break their connection with Liza.
Her body alights into full awareness of another truth deep within the molecules of her bones: Though those eyes do not belong to her, they are intrinsically her own.
Check back in December for the full story of mixed AU travel between the worlds of Roswell High (book series), Roswell (1999 tv series), and Roswell New Mexico (2019 tv series).
Jesse wants to summon a demon. Alex is the perfect human sacrifice.
Rating: Mature
Fandom: Roswell New Mexico
Relationship: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Tags and Warnings: Demon Summoning, Jesse Manes is His Own Warning, Blood and Gore, Non-Graphic Violence, Child Abuse, it starts out rough but it gets better i swear
Thanks as always to @beautifulcheat for being a sounding board and beta.
Alex and Michael had lapsed into silence. The only real sound was of Michael, shifting samples around and the scratch of his pencil as he took down notes. He sat still for long periods of time before shifting to adjust another sample, peering into his microscope with a tense determination.
There wasn’t much else to do, so Alex commandeered some paper. Sketching little doodles here and there, lines that could maybe turn into song lyrics.
Michael shifted, reaching over to him, his arm settling on Alex’s arm with firm, gentle pressure.
Alex’s breath caught in his throat and he looked up at Michael. “Everything okay?”
The brilliance of sunrise was fading into a washed-out white blue sky, the heat of the day just starting to come up as Liz knocked on Max’s door.
The door opened before she knocked more than twice. “Liz,” Max said, a little thickly, standing with his hand on the door handle, awkward, as if he didn’t know if he should let her in or shut it in her face. He was half-dressed - uniform pants and undershirt. Behind him, his uniform shirt was draped over the back of a chair.
“Max.” Her voice sounded too soft, and she cleared her throat. “You mind a little company?”
His brows gathered in an undecipherable swirl of emotions. She thought she read confusion there. Suspicion and anger, too. He also looked about as exhausted as Liz felt. There was something comforting in that.
The silence ticked by until Liz spoke up again. “Max?”
He took a deep breath, and stepped aside. “You didn’t leave.”
“You’re not surprised. ” Liz set down her purse, full with as much equipment as she could feasibly carry and not draw suspicion.
“No. Disappointed.”
She looked over her shoulder at him, shaking her head. “You’re not that, either.”
Then why don't you go back to your lab and save your boyfriend? The one that let everybody think that I'm a murderer. Who lit me on fire, who watched when people threw bricks at our house and didn't come clean. You remember him? The guy that you chose to love?
