#Alva Rogers

[weirdlookindog]

Alva Rogers - Cthulhu, 1945

[cinematicjourney]

Daughters of the Dust (1991) | dir. Julie Dash

[moviesmoodboards]

Daughters of the Dust 1991 dir.Julie Dash

Requested by @lastdanceonmonday

[sandmandaddy69]

Alva Rogers

[abwwia]

Alva Rogers, Sandye Wilson, Candace Hamilton, Derin Young and Lisa Jones, 1986 | Courtesy of Lorna Simpson

[kmixon]

Over work for Wish

There more ripped off your show into a MOVIE TOO! Here there, YOU CHECK UP YOUR MOVIE!

King Magnfico, give up your wishes and show puppets what happens 😒😒😒

Different puppets, more than less, still count ripped off for show..... BETTER, A SHOW IS MUCH BETTER!!! DISNEY'S WISH....😤😤😤

[ultraozzie3000]

Legitimate Nonchalance

Above: W.C. Fields was a well-known juggler and vaudeville performer decades before he became even more famous in the movies of the 1930s. William Claude Dukenfield was a vaudeville juggler who distinguished himself from other “tramp acts” by adding sarcastic asides to his routines. Internationally known for his juggling skills, by the turn of the century the man who billed himself as “The…

[misforgotten2]

A book you very likely don’t have on your shelf #437

Cover by Alva Rogers -- 1945

[biggie-chcese]

oh your a fire emblem fan? Name every fire emblem character

bet.

Fire Emblem: Shadow Dragon and the Blade of Light (+ remake and sequel)

playable: marth, caeda, jagen, cain, abel, draug, gordin, wrys, ogma, barst, bord, cord, castor, darros, julian, lena, navarre, merric, matthis, hardin, wolf, sedgar, roshea, vyland, wendell, rickard, bantu, caesar, radd, roger, jeorge, maria, minerva, linde, jake, midia, dolph, macellan, tomas, boah, beck, astram, palla, catria, est, arran, samson, xane, tiki, lorenz (FE1), elice, gotoh, frey, norne, athena, horace, etzel, ymir, nagi

non-playable: mostyn, malledus, anna (and every following iteration that isnt playable), nyna, aurelys, anri, cornelius, liza, miloah, naga (let's slash out future iterations too), adrah, artemis, cartas, marion, iote, ordwin, ludwik, jiol, camus, michalis, gharnef, medeus, gazzak, gomer, hyman, bentheon, merach, emereus, harmein, kannival, mannu, zharov, khozen, volzhin, heimler, grigas, hollstadt, morzas, sternlin, orridyon, xemcel (me when i'm an incel with pronouns), rumel, rucke, gail, toras, dahl, yodel, eibel, willow, nehring

Fire Emblem Gaiden + Echoes

playable: alm, lukas, gray, tobin, kliff, silque, clair, clive, forsyth, python, luthier, mathilda, delthea, tatiana, zeke, mycen, celica, mae, boey, genny, saber, valbar, kamui, leon, atlas, jesse, sonya, deen, nomah, faye, fernand, emma, shade, yuzu, randal

non-playable: mila, duma, rudolf, massena, jedah, marla, hestia, dolth, jamil, desaix, slayde, barth, garth, lawson, gazelle, zakson, blake, wolff, grieth, mikhail, garcia, tatarrah, nuibaba, seazas, xaizor, magnus, mueller, jerome, gharn, hades, argentum, aurum, cerberus, naberius, liprica, halcyon, lima IV, irma, berkut, rinea, forneus, jarth

Fire Emblem: Genealogy of the Holy War

playable: sigurd, alec, naoise, arden, azelle, lex, quan, ethlyn, finn, midir, edain, dew, ayra, jamke, deirdre, chulainn, lachesis, beowolf, lewyn, silvia, erinys, tailtiu, claud, brigid, seliph, lana/muirne, larcei/creidne, scáthach/dalvin, oifey, diarmuid/tristan, lester/deimne, julia, fee/hermina, arthur/amid, iuchar, iucharba, shannan, patty/daisy, leif, nanna/jeanne, finn, ares, lene/laylea, tine/linda, febail/asaello, ced/hawk, hannibal, coirpre/charlot, altena

non-playable: oifey, arvis, shannan, mariccle, mananan, eldigan, grahnye, manfroy, sandima, kurth, victor, cigyun, lahna, dimaggio, gerrard, filat, munnir, cimbaeth, batu, imuka, eve, alva, eva, elliot, philip, boldor, macbeth, voltz, clement, zyne, chagall, jacobi, papilio, pizarl, dobarl, myos, daccar, annand, cuvuli, pamela, díthorba, donovan, lamia, slayder, vaja, byron, ring, andrey, lombard, reptor, travant, magorn, azmur, aida, lewyn/forseti, julius, manfroy, arvis, bloom, hilda, ishtar, ishtore, harold, schmidt, danann, liza, vampa, fetra, eliu, bramsel, jabarro, muhammad, ovo, brian, scipio, kutuzov, coruta, maikov, kanatz, disler, travant, arion, jake, musar, judah, ridale, morigan, zagam, robert, boyce, rodan, felipe, palmark, yupheel, fisher, daggon, baran, meng, maybell, bleg, mus, bovis, tigris, lepus, draco, anguilla, equus, ovis, simia, gallus, canis, porcus, loptous, forseti, salamander, gair, maera, heim, baldr, hoðr, od, njörun, dáinn, nál, ullr, fjalar, thrud, ced, bragi, yudu

Fire Emblem: Thracia 776

playable: leif, finn, eyvel, osian, halvan, dagdar, tanya, marty, ronan, lifis, safy, brighton, machyua, lara, fergus, karin, dalsin, asbel, nanna, hicks, shiva, carrion, selfina, cain, alva, robert, fred, olwen, mareeta, salem, perne, troude, tina, glade, deen, eda, homer, linoan, ralf, ilios, sleuf, sara, miranda, shannam, misha, xavier, amalda, conomor, diarmuid, saias, ced, galzus

non-playable: august, dryas, raydrik, veld, manfroy, julius, ishtar, reinhardt, kempf, bloom, seliph, julia, lewyn, travant, arion, altena, hannibal, coirpre, weissman, bucks, lobos, bandol, truman, aizenau, rumei, merlock, dobalzark, largo, gomes, oltof, cullough, baráth, seimetol, fraus, zaom, rist, baldack, paulus, makroy, codda, aihiman, brook, mua, nicolov, mueller, rinecok, palman, gustav, wolff, cowen, alfan, farden, coruta, zile, mus, bovis, tigris, draco, canis, porcus, yubel, romeo, carl

Fire Emblem: The Binding Blade

playable: roy, marcus, alen, lance, wolt, bors, merlinus, elen, dieck, wade, lot, shanna, chad, lugh, clarine, rutger, saul, dorothy, sue, zelot, trec, noah, astolfo, lilina, gwendolyn, barthe, ogier, fir, sin, gonzalez, geese, klein, thea, larum, echidna, elffin, bartre, raigh, cath, melady, perceval, cecilia, sophia, igrene, garret, fae, hugh, zeiss, douglas, niime, juno, dayan, yoder, karel

non-playable: damas, rude, slater, erik, dory, wagner, devias, leygance, henning, scott, nord, zinc, scouran, oro, robarts, morgan, ain, gelero, flaer, randy, maggie, rose, ohtz, raeth, narcian, windham, arcard, martel, monke, sigune, gel, roartz, teck, thoril, brakul, kudoka, maral, kabul, chan, murdock, galle, pereth, zephiel, brunnya, jahn, idunn, guinivere, mordred

Fire Emblem: The Blazing Blade

playable: mark, lyn, sain, kent, florina, wil, dorcas, serra, erk, rath, matthew, nils, lucius, wallace, eliwood, marcus, lowen, rebecca, bartre, hector, oswin, guy, merlinus, priscilla, raven, canas, dart, fiora, legault, ninian, isadora, heath, hawkeye, geitz, pent, louise, karel, harken, nino, jaffar, vaida, renault, athos, farina, karla

non-playable: eleanora, leila, elbert, kishuna, darin, nergal, uther, lloyd, linus, brendan, limstella, sonia, ursula, zephiel, guinivere, bramimond, batta, zugu, glass, migal, carjiga, bug, bool, heintz, beyard, yogi, eagler, lundgren, groznyi, wire, zagan, boies, puzon, erik, sealen, bauker, bernard, fargus, damian, zoldam, uhai, aion, teodor, cameron, oleg, eubans, jasmine, paul, pascal, kenneth, jerme, maxime, georg, kaim, denning, fire dragon, desmond, hellene, murdock, natalie, ephidel, jan, hausen, marquess araphen, helman, jake, igor, fae, sophia, roy, lilina, reissmann, roland, durban

Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones

playable: eirika, ephraim, seth, franz, gilliam, vanessa, moulder, ross, garcia, neimi, colm, artur, lute, natasha, joshua, forde, kyle, tana, amelia, innes, gerik, tethys, marisa, ewan, duessel, cormag, l'arachel, dozla, saleh, rennac, knoll, myrrh, syrene, orson, lyon

non-playable: fomortiis, vigarde, mansel, morva, pablo, klimt, dara, carlyle, o'neill, breguet, bone, bazba, bandit, saar, zonta, novala, murray, tirado, binks, gheb, aias, beran, saaga, nada kuya, melina, zethla, monica, zabba, mcgregor, caellach, riev, ismaire, selena, glen, hayden, valter, renais

Fire Emblem: Path of Radiance

playable: ike, titania, boyd, oscar, rhys, shinon, gatrie, soren, mia, ilyana, mist, rolf, marcia, lethe, mordecai, volke, kieran, brom, nephenee, zihark, sothe, jill, astrid, makalov, stefan, tormod, muarim, devdan, tanith, reyson, janaff, ulki, calill, tauroneo, ranulf, haar, bastian, lucia, geoffrey, largo, elincia, ena, nasir, naesala, tibarn, giffca

playable in a weird way: oliver, shiharam, petrine, bryce, ashnard

non-playable: black knight, caineghis, dheginsea, gareth, greil, izuka, kurthnaga, leanne, lorazieh, nealuchi, sanaki, sigrun, lotz, zawana, ikanau, havetti, maijin, dakova, emil, balmer, kamura, nedata, kotaff, danomill, mackoya, seeker, norris, gashilama, kimaarsi, kayachey, homasa, kasatai, schaeffer, tomenami, lillia, rikard, gromell, bertram, hafedd, heddwyn, ramon, lekain, hetzel, rajaion

Fire Emblem: Radiant Dawn (will avoid repeats from PoR)

playable: micaiah, edward, leonardo, nolan, laura, aran, meg, volug, fiona, vika, nailah, rafiel, heather, danved, lyre, kyza, skrimir, pelleas, renning, lehran

non-playable: agony, aimee, almedha, amy, ashunera, alder, ashera, burton, callum, catalena, daniel, djur, goran, isaiya, istvan, jarod, jorge, kezhda, laverton, levail, lombroso, ludveck, maiel, maraj, muston, nico, numida, pain, pugo, radmin, roark, rolf's mother, rommit, seliora, septimus, sephiran, sergei, silvano, tashoria, valtome, veyona, wystan, yeardley, yune, yuma, zaitan, zeffren, zelgius

Fire Emblem Awakening

playable: chrom, robin, lissa, frederick, sully, virion, stahl, vaike, miriel, sumia, kellam, donnel, lon'qu, ricken, maribelle, panne, gaius, cordelia, gregor, nowi, libra, tharja, olivia, cherche, henry, say'ri, tiki, basilio, flavia, gangrel, walhart, emmeryn, yen'fay, aversa, priam, lucina, owain, inigo, brady, kjelle, cynthia, severa, gerome, morgan, yarne, laurent, noire, nah

non-playable: validar, naga, grima, first exalt, garrick, phila, raimi, roddick, orton, victor, hierarch, vasto, chalard, campari, vincent, mustafa, dalton, ke'ri, gecko, jamil, xalbador, cassius, ruger, holland, nelson, morristan, gyral, dalen, nombry, ezra, ignatius, farber, cervantes, pheros, excellus, algol, mus, bovis, tigris, lepus, draco, anguilla, equus, ovis, simia, gallus, canis, porcus, zanth, ardri, old hubba

Fire Emblem Fates

playable: corrin, azura, felicia, jakob, kaze, silas, mozu, shura, izana, ryoma, hinoka, takumi, sakura, hana, subaki, saizo, orochi, rinkah, kagero, oboro, hinata, hayato, setsuna, azama, kaden, reina, yukimura, scarlet, xander, camilla, leo, elise, effie, nyx, arthur, charlotte, benny, beruka, selena (formerly severa), niles, odin (formerly owain), peri, laslow (formerly inigo), keaton, flora, gunter, fuga, kana, shigure, dwyer, midori, sophie, shiro, kiragi, caeldori, asugi, hisame, rhajat, mitama, selkie, siegbert, forrest, ignatius, nina, ophelia, percy, soleil, velouria

playable in a weird way: daniela, lloyd, llewelyn, haitaka, kumagera, nichol, candace, daichi, funke, senno, zhara, tarba, gazak

non-playable: garon, iago, mikoto, lilith, arete, sumeragi, anankos, kilma, hans, kotaro, omozu, anthony, zola, rainbow sage, katerina, ikona, layla, cassita, cadros

Fire Emblem: Three Houses

playable: byleth, sothis, edelgard, hubert, ferdinand, linhardt, caspar, bernadetta, dorothea, petra, dimitri, dedue, felix, ashe, sylvain, mercedes, annette, ingrid, claude, lorenz, raphael, ignatz, lysithea, marianne, hilda, leonie, yuri, balthus, constance, hapi, rhea, seteth, flayn, hanneman, manuela, gilbert, alois, catherine, shamir, cyril, jeralt, monica, tomas, jeritza, anna, aelfric

special little guys: gatekeeper, abysskeeper

non-playable: metodey, thales, solon, kronya, cornelia, myson, odesse, bias, chilon, pittacus, kostas, miklan, pallardó, acheron, baron dominic, baron ochs, christophe, claudia, count charon, count ordelia, count rowe, derick, duke gerth, emile, erwin, fleche, glenn, godfrey, grégoire, gwendal, holst, ionius ix, judith, klaus i, kyphon, ladislava, lambert, leopold, lonato, loog, ludwig, lycaon i, lycaon iii, margrave edmund, marquis vestra, matthias, nader, oswald, pan, patricia, randolph, rodrigue, rufus, tiana, volkhard, waldemar, wilhelm i, viscount kleiman, seiros, sitri, nemesis, indech, macuil, blaiddyd, charon, daphnel, dominic, fraldarius, gautier, gloucester, goneril, lamine, riegan, maurice, aubin, chevalier, noa, timotheos, luca, iris, chevalier, bernhard, gajus, wilhelm, marcelle, simone

Fire Emblem Engage

playable: alear, vander, clanne, framme, alfred, boucheron, etie, céline, louis, chloé, yunaka, alcryst, citrinne, lapis, diamant, amber, jade, ivy, zelkov, kagetsu, fogado, bunet, pandreo, timerra, merrin, panette, hortensia, seadall, rosado, goldmary, lindon, saphir, mauvier, veyle, jean, nel, nil, zelestia, gregory, madeline, rafal

non-playable: sombron, hyacinth, zephia, griss, marni, lumera, sommie, ève, morion, seforia, nelucce, teronda, rodine, abyme, mitan, totchie, tetchie, durthon, anisse, calney, pinet, sean, anje

while the emblems are said to be different from the canon version, i will be leaving them out since they're pretty much the same as the already listed characters

OCs from the Archanea Saga: frost, dice, malice, belf, roberto, reiden

OCs from the Cipher cards that aren't in the Echoes DLC: alice, valjean, niamh, poe

OCs from the warriors spinoffs not dividing them by playability because i dont care: rowan, lianna, darios, yelena, oskar, velezark, SHEZ!, arval/epimenides, berling, getz, lazley, simon, adrienne, jetz, baron gillingr, baron barnabas, viscount essar, viscount lochin, viscount hymir, viscount menja, viscount fenja, viscount mateus, viscount elidure, viscount gideon, count duval, marquis erebus, baron pryderi, baron mateus, viscount brennius, yvette, viscount enid, count geraint, baron müller, viscount siward, viscount albany, viscount burgundy, leif, anaximandros, dolofonos, the immaculate one, anselma, victoria, gunnar, krouffer, banfig, kite, morianne, laetitia, duke ifan, zoltan

OCs from that fuckass gacha game

playable in some way: kiran, alfonse, sharena, anna, gustav, henriette, askr, ash, bruno, veronica, letizia, embla, elm, nifl, fjorm, gunnthrá, hríd, ylgr, múspell, surtr, laegjarn, laevatein, helbindi, hel, eir, ymir, líf, thrasir, ganglöt, loki, thórr, peony, mirabilis, plumeria, triandra, freyr, freyja, eitr, ginnungagap, niðavellir, reginn, ótr, fáfnir, dagr, nótt, eitri, seiðr, heiðr, gullveig, kvasir, nerþuz, ratatoskr, heiðrún, eikþyrnir

non-playable: feh That Fucking Bird That I Hate, fehnix, hvergel, menja, angrboða, alfaðör, alfrik, billingr, dvalinn, grer, þjazi, veðrfölnir, njörðr, hræsvelgr, níðhöggr, læraðr

i am not listing the fucking alts. you get the point. never test me again.

[linkbofficial]

it's pride month

here's my favorite queer characters, Canon or otherwise (I was gonna put pictures but guess who didn't know you could only put 10

* Velma Dinkley [Scooby-Doo franchise]- lesbian (shown in recent canon and confirmed on Instagram by a showrunner for Mystery Inc)

* Fred Jones [Scooby-Doo franchise]- bisexual (headcanon)

* Daphne Blake [Scooby-Doo franchise]- demi-biromantic (headcanon)

* Shaggy Rogers [Scooby-Doo franchise]- genderfluid bisexual (headcanon)

* Luz Noceda [The Owl House]- bisexual (canon) genderqueer (heavily implied/popular headcanon)

* Amity Blight [The Owl House]- lesbian (shown in canon)

* Eda Clawthorne [The Owl House]- bisexual (symbolized in canon with her chest having a bi sticker)

* Raine Whispers [The Owl House]- nonbinary sapphic (shown in canon, addressed as they, dating Eda)

* Hunter [The Owl House]- bisexual (confirmed on Twitter?)

* Willow Park [The Owl House]- pansexual (confirmed in the same tweet as Hunter? it was either a live or on Twitter idr)

* Lilith Clawthorne [The Owl House]- aroace (confirmed on twitter)

* Dipper Pines [Gravity Falls]- trans demi bisexual (headcanon)

* Mabel Pines [Gravity Falls]- demigirl bisexual (headcanon)

* Wendy Corduroy [Gravity Falls]- bisexual (implied confirmation by Alex on Twitter, otherwise very popular headcanon)

* Ford Pines [Gravity Falls]- trans aroace (headcanon)

* Link [The Legend of Zelda]- nonbinary demiromantic (headcanon)

* Princess Zelda [The Legend of Zelda]- genderfluid demi-biromantic asexual (headcanon and a mouthful of one at that)

* Queen Elena [Elena of Avalor]- genderqueer aroace lesbian (headcanon)

* Naomi Turner [Elena of Avalor]- genderqueer bisexual (headcanon)

* Mateo de Alva [Elena of Avalor]- queer, both in gender and orientation (headcanon)

* Gabe Nuñez [Elena of Avalor]- genderqueer aroace (headcanon)

* King Roland & Queen Miranda [Sofia the First]- bi4bi (headcanon)

* Cedric the Sorcerer [Sofia the First]- trans gay man (headcanon)

* Charlie Morningstar [Hazbin Hotel]- bisexual (canon)

* Vaggie [Hazbin Hotel]- lesbian (canon)

* Alfred & Co [The Mysteries of Alfred Hedgehog]- biromantic (headcanons)

* Jesse [Minecraft: Story Mode]- genderfluid bisexual (headcanon)

* Lukas [Minecraft: Story Mode]- transmasc bisexual (headcanon)

* Petra [Minecraft: Story Mode]- lesbian (headcanon)

* Axel [Minecraft: Story Mode]- agender gay (headcanon)

* Olivia [Minecraft: Story Mode]- transfem aroace (headcanon)

* All Romanceable Palians [Palia]- bi or pansexual (canon through game play, character can be either or and they will all accept your romantic advances)

* Mulan [Once Upon a Time]- lesbian (canon)

* Regina [Once Upon a Time]- lesbian (headcanon)

* Emma Swan [Once Upon a Time]- bisexual (headcanon)

* Hiro Hamada [Big Hero 6]- enby aroace (headcanon but it mightve been confirmed don't quote me)

* GoGo [Big Hero 6]- bisexual (headcanon)

* Honey Lemon [Big Hero 6]- pansexual (headcanon)

* Wasabi [Big Hero 6]- enby bisexual (headcanon)

* Fred [Big Hero 6]- genderfluid gay (headcanon)

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖The Captain and the Rake

Rated: Mature

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Bucky Barnes

Word Count: 7338

Tags: historical romance, regency time period, slavery, racism (not from Steve of Bucky tho), period-typical attitudes, prejudice, mermaids, curses, internalized homophobia, historical fantasy drama, prostitution, period typical race relations and terminology ("colored," "mixed," and "black" are used)

Summary: After receiving a large inheritance, Steve must travel to the West Indies to figure out the origins of a mysterious letter.

(Regency manips made by @amarriageoftrueminds)

A.N. This fic was originally for the Stucky historical fiction event in 2023. I never was able to finish due to injury, but thought I'd brush it off for Mermay this year. This fic contains subject matter to do with the trans-Atlantic slave trade, so please heed the tags as they are updated each chapter. Racial descriptors used in this fic include: colored, black, and a couple instances of negro. I did my best to balance historical realism without getting too offensive to the reader.\ The name "Alva" was chosen before I knew about Alba, I swear to God 😂

Chapter 1. A Great and Grievous Rumbling

Steve emerged from his stateroom when a knock came at the door and a gruff voice called out, “We’ll be makin’ port within the hour now, Capt’n!”

Thank goodness. 

He’d been queasy the entire trip, ever since they’d first sailed from Charleston and the rocking of the boat set into his bones. Storms had delayed their progress halfway through, and the closer they got to the equator, the more unbearable the underdecks of the ship had become. As a paying passenger, Steve was afforded small but tidy accommodations, and Captain Odinson had merrily invited him to explore the ship at his leisure, but Steve had been reticent to engage with the crew. They seemed … not distrustful of him, per se, but perhaps disdainful. In the way that men with hardened hands often disdained men with soft ones. One look at Steve, and they’d made up their minds about him being a spoilt “fancy man.”

Steve could concede that he was a comely fellow, with short, fair hair and uncommonly bright blue eyes. He sported a strong jaw and handsome nose, but his mouth had always struck him as a bit too feminine, and his eyelashes didn’t help the matter. He kept no beard, and was better groomed than the men on Odinson’s crew. Tack on the fact that he dressed in the fashion of his peers, and he supposed he might seem a bit foppish to a bunch of hard worn, seagoing men. But his body was tall and strong, towering over most other men back in New York by several inches at least. 

That didn’t seem to make a difference to the crew, who’d readily laughed at a man whose constitution was weakened by seasickness. Steve had kept to his cabin, reading what little he could in between bouts of nausea. To be called up to set his eyes on land was a mercy. He was relieved that the journey was almost over.

Steve emerged above deck and squinted as his eyes adjusted to the light, the fresh air a tonic to his mood. It was late into the day now, the storms having swept away all traces of cloud cover. The tradewinds came in sharp and brisk, filling the ship’s sails and propelling them closer to the coast. Seeing the dark shapes of mountains swelling in the distance, Steve felt immense gratitude for land, and even greater excitement for the unknown. Nervousness, sure, it wasn’t all pleasant business that brought him halfway across the world. But he’d been going crazy back in New York. The pleasantries and mundanalities of society life having been twice as stifling after coming back from the war—and thrice as much since his inheritance. It’d been time for a change. 

“Got yer sea legs now, Capt’n Rosewater?” one of the younger cabin boys snickered as he passed by.

Steve waved him off with a gamely scowl and continued towards the port bow. He held firm to the banister and looked out at the churning waters below, then up to the land ahead. It was still too far away to make out all the details, but as the next few moments brought them closer, he could see more and more of the island: masses of trees and distant green hills, mountains beyond that, the white tops of breaking surf at the edges of the inlet, and then increasingly jewel blue tones of water that bled from pure azul, to aqua, to sparkling green in the shallows. It shocked Steve, how beautifully colorful it all was in comparison to the dull, muddy waters they’d left behind in Charleston. 

They sailed past a bar of land on the starboard. It jutted out far into the ocean, curling in like an arm, as if to cradle the ships come into harbor. Steve caught sight of stone ruins poking out of the water and strained to try and see more. Captain Odinson and his quartermaster—an imposing and impressive man named Heimdall—had spent their second evening at sea consoling Steve over his embarrassing queasiness, offering him drink and telling him fairy stories of the sunken pirate city of Port Royal. Standing in the just-setting sun, Steve had to squint to see. There appeared to be something left of the old town out on the sandbar, but not very much. Most of it must be underwater, Steve thought with disappointment. Earthquakes tended to do that. It sure didn’t live up to any of Odinson’s stories.

The sun was close to setting as they drew in, other ships in the harbor floating nearby with increasing frequency. There was one particularly massive frigate on the portside as they sailed, perhaps fifty yards away, and Steve noticed some of the crew shooting it dirty looks. He turned to watch as they passed. The other vessel was moored in place. It had thick, old rails with weathered paint up top and a pitch-blackened hull below, barnacles creeping far up the sides. No sails were rigged and no crew was visible, yet as he stood there, Steve began to hear something faint.

At first he thought he’d only imagined it, or that perhaps some of Odinson’s men were below deck, hauling heavy things about in their preparations for docking. But the sound came again, and Steve felt a chill on his skin as the sound grew unnaturally, filling his ears and consuming his senses to the exclusion of all else. Louder and louder it became, until he could feel it reverberating in his head, like the inside of a conch, like a pulse. Leaning harder against the rail, his fingers gripped the wood as he listened to the sound.

It was coming from the other ship, not theirs.

Steve glanced about, but none of the crew were paying attention. It was as though they couldn’t hear it. He couldn’t understand how that was possible, as the sound swelled to a grievous rumble that made his heart beat faster in fear. It sounded like a … like a machine, like some great and groaning monster was inside the belly of the other ship, producing a deep and steady pounding. Steve hadn’t a clue what on earth could make such a noise. They’d already passed the ship by, so the sound should be fading, not growing louder. It didn’t make any sense. Steve stood there, aghast and locked in place.

Until a hand clapped down on his shoulder from behind, and he all but jumped out of his skin. The roaring was sucked clean out of his ears, immediately replaced by the usual cadence of wind and boat deck chatter as Steve whipped around and blustered over the embarrassing yelp he’d given. “Oh! Quartermaster!” He straightened himself. “Um, forgive me. I didn’t hear you approach.”

The quartermaster’s eye twinkled as he stepped up to join him. His name was Heimdall. He’d seen where Steve was watching the other ship. Together they stood at the rail and observed the island that lay ahead of them. “That, back there,” he said, referencing the frigate.

“Yes,” Steve said, not quite wanting to look over his shoulder at it anymore. “What was that?” He meant the monstrous sound of it, but had an odd and chilling suspicion that he’d been the only one who’d heard the noise. “The ship,” he said. “Didn’t you … didn’t you hear it?”

“Hear what?” Heimdall peered at him strangely. “The Hannibal. A Guineaman, godforsaken craft.” When he could see that Steve didn’t understand the scorn in his voice, he told him, “That’d be one of the old slave ships, Captain.”

Steve felt his stomach drop out. “O-Oh?” Heimdall nodded. All of a sudden it seemed that he was doubly as black—and Steve doubly as aware of it. He bit the inside of his cheek as he wondered if Heimdall knew his business on the island. Steve had mentioned his inheritance to Captain Odinson, but no one else on the ship. He wasn’t exactly proud of it, and he hadn’t wanted word to get ‘round that he was a slaveholder. Assumptions might be made. No one here knew his character or his intentions, after all. Nobody knew about Sam, or Hamilton House back home in Brooklyn, or that Steve’s aunt in Utica often mailed him back issues from her subscription to the Emancipator. Steve frowned at the distant shoreline, resisting the urge to twist his fingers into his ears. They still held the echo of that phantom sound. “Ships like that still sail?” he asked. “How?”

“Sugar, molasses, rum.” Heimdall shrugged. “For less profit.”

Steve wasn’t an idiot. He knew how all three of those things were produced: sugarcane. He now owned a large plantation of the stuff. “I see,” he said stiffly. “Do you know what’s brought me out here, then?”

Heimdall looked over at him, and for a tense moment, Steve thought he’d say yes, but then the quartermaster’s mouth twitched up in a smirk of gentle disdain. “You’re from New York,” he drawled. “Only two things’ll bring a gentleman American out to this edge of the world: money, or a powerful need to run away from something.”

“Run away,” Steve murmured, thoughts instantly veering to the genteel form of Miss Alva Barclay. He fought not to wince. He wasn’t running, and certainly not from her. “Yes,” he said, wetting his lips as he realized that he could relax once again, because Heimdall had no ill opinion of him. The man obviously didn’t know. So, Steve joined him in staring ahead peaceably, watching as the edge of the world drew into clearer relief. 

“Jamaica at last!” Captain Odinson arrived happily at Steve’s side and threw his hand out at the town and the docks below. “Isn’t it beautiful? Just as I said!” 

No matter the topic, Odinson always seemed to say everything with a boom, his enthusiasm infectious. Steve nodded in agreement. “Indeed.” Even in the day’s waning light, everything seemed brighter here. Steve had never once seen an entire building painted egg yolk yellow. “I knew it would be warmer here, but not like this. I’m afraid my trunk won’t be suitable for such a climate.” When they’d departed Charleston, it had only just turned November. Now all he could see were palm trees and folks dressed in light cotton clothes or even with no shirts on at all. “Incredible.”

“Indeed. You may find your New York winters more difficult to bear, once you return.”

Steve grimaced, remembering the past two winters and how exceptionally harsh they had been. When he’d departed for Charleston, there’d already been snow on the ground in New York. One of the crew members called out to the Captain, and he excused himself from Steve’s company. Steve decided to remain where he was until the work of unloading the ship died down a bit, as he didn’t want to be in the way. He spent the time watching the docks below, fascinated by the scenery.

Despite the unsavory nature of his inheritance, Steve was still very excited to be in Jamaica. Already it seemed amazing, and he’d only stood there on the ship looking at the ruddy docks, not even yet ventured into the town! He took in all the action of the street: carts and chickens and sailors cursing at one another. There was so much green. The forest beyond seemed lush and dense, the wilderness of it curling in at the edges of the town and creeping to fill up empty spaces. And oh, with the sunset just beginning to cast its colors, Steve’s fingers itched to find a paintbrush. The people bustling about were of such variety and comport that he instantly knew a day in Kingston could never be dull. 

There were far more people of color than Steve had ever seen in one place. The ship captains and many of the crewmen were white, but not all, and out on the street there were many colored merchants and dockworkers. Groups of black and mixed-race children loitered about, looking hopeful for either mischief or play. Steve inhaled deeply, figuring that he’d continue to feel odd and out of place no matter what he did, but certain that he’d feel better once he’d visited his solicitor.

Mr. Coulson was due to arrive on the island within the week. Steve had corresponded with him before he’d departed from New York. Coulson had been to the West Indies many times, and had suggested they arrange for their travel schedules to align. He was the one who knew the most about Steve’s property in Jamaica, as he’d worked for and been closely acquainted with Steve’s late uncle, back in England. Steve hoped that Coulson would be there soon, as this was far from a leisure trip for him.

Coulson had warned Steve that there would be numerous steps to take, both legal and practical, before his end goal for the estate could be achieved. Nothing would be done in a day, little in a fortnight. It would take time, and both men had agreed to make themselves available on the island for not less than two months—and more, if need be. Steve himself had half a mind to winter over here and not return to New York until the spring. 

It took a while before the ship was fully unloaded. Steve disembarked and stood by his trunks as he waited for his ride. He was to be picked up by a man from the estate, so he kept an eye out for anyone who might be looking for him, and in the meantime bought a sweet bread from a street vendor and sat eating it next to his luggage. Wiping his hands clean, he reached into his breast pocket and retrieved the letter which he’d received in the post several months ago—the letter that had started this whole journey. He unfolded the paper and read the words that he all but knew by heart, at this point:

꘏ Mister Steven Rogers,  I hope this letter finds you well, and I send my condolences for the loss of your uncle. We are not acquainted, and indeed I’m sure you’ve never so much as heard my name spoken in conversation, as I have not spent time in New York in many years. I am writing in regards to what is going on at your property here. As I am sure you are aware, since the passing of your relation, Mr. Charles Cleland, the house of Shield Hall and all of its materials, peoples, and lands have come into your possession. As a fellow landowner on the island, I feel it is my duty to inform you that the operation which your uncle upkept in his lifetime has quickly deteriorated into a state of chaos and disrepair. The property is currently being mismanaged by several hired men, none of whom are keeping care of their charges, the land, or the profits that the land is meant to yield. Since this property is part of your estate, and your estate pays these very men’s wages, I felt I should write you.  There is a great manor house which sits functionally abandoned, with hardly a single man watching over it day and night. Vagrants have had to be chased away more than once. Your working men and women number close to two hundred, and they all have been treated harshly and unfairly by the overseers, often deprived of suitable conditions. The harvests of this past year were summarily affected by these happenings. Word of the disorganization and abuse has reached many in the community already, and rumors abound of the great discontent brewing amongst your slaves. I have received only general description of you from my aunt in New York, but am sure that you are a fine man and will agree with me that it is our Christian duty to treat all of God’s children with dignity and fairness, including the negro man in bondage. I urge you to come at once and see for yourself, for only then can things be put right. Your respectful neighbor,  J. Buchanan ꘏

Steve blinked down at the page, looking once more at that elegantly scrawled name: J. Buchanan. Only an educated and moneyed man would have such excellent penmanship, lending credence to the writer’s claims of who he was. But the letter was signed only with “J. Buchanan,” with no other identifying information given. It had arrived several months ago, posted from Kingston, Jamaica, but with no return address. Its author claimed to be a fellow landowner and wrote “neighbor” as his salutation, but when Steve had looked at records of land holdings on the island, he’d found no history of a Buchanan family.

Still, the stranger had thought the situation serious enough to contact Steve, and so whether the letter’s claims were true or not, Steve felt he should investigate. That was the only respectable thing to do, since it was his property now. The very land that made him rich.

That in itself was still novel. Steve had never owned much of anything, other than his house in Brooklyn which he’d inherited from his mother. He’d grown up privileged but not overly so, within the bounds of New York Society but never pursued the way that more moneyed gentlemen were. That had all changed once his uncle had passed and word got out that Steve now owned a large sugar plantation and all of the wealth that came with it. He’d spent the past twenty months fending off eager mothers and their daughters. Two seasons’ worth of balls, courtships, and fripperies had been useful in warding off the loneliness, but they were exhausting at the end of the day. 

And then there was Miss Barclay, who was one of the many ladies being continually foisted upon him. Though she was the most agreeable, Steve still felt that his lungs could take in twice the amount of oxygen now that he knew he was a thousand miles away from her—an ungenerous sentiment, perhaps, but nonetheless true.

Steve hadn’t yet spent much of his newfound fortune, the habits of a widowed spendthrift mother having been ingrained in him since boyhood; but the one thing he had indulged in, was the singular luxury of a private box at the opera house. A veritable bidding war had commenced when the next box over came up for sale not long after. That was how Steve had gotten to know Alva over the arias of Fidelio and Silvana, her mother always looming nearby like a hawk searching out prey.

Though Steve enjoyed Miss Barclay’s company as well as any other lady’s, it’d been months of these not so subtle overtures, and he feared he would soon wind up engaged if things continued on the way they were. Traveling to Jamaica now, he’d narrowly avoided the crux of this year’s winter season. It was his hope that this sojourn would send the message of his disinterest without him having to actually turn the poor girl down. Steve was only twenty-eight, after all. He wasn’t ready for all of that.

Both his solicitor in New York and Mr. Coulson in London had told him not to worry about the details of his inheritance and the running of the estate in Jamaica, insisting that others were handling it and his bank account would remain well-padded without any direct interference. “Nasty business, sugar,” Coulson advised, pointing out that Steve’s late uncle hadn’t visited the island himself in decades. It was a common arrangement that absentee landlords would hire competent men to manage the operations of their plantations. The hired men at Shield Hall would continue to do so, Coulson had assured, whilst Steve continued to reap the benefits. Steve had believed it for a time, and had been sufficiently distracted by the demands and complications of his sudden shift in New York Society. But as soon as the letter from J. Buchanan had arrived, everything had changed. 

Steve couldn’t ignore “the slave problem” anymore, and he had the exact excuse he needed to make a quick escape from the burgeoning weight of high society and all its expectations of him. He was grateful to J. Buchanan, whoever he was.

Carefully, he refolded the letter and tucked it back into his breast pocket. J claimed that conditions at Shield Hall were abusive. Steve couldn’t fathom a reason for a stranger to fabricate such a story. So here he was to see for himself. He was absolutely dreading it.

“There you are. Ha, I’d thought we’d lost you!” Steve looked up and saw Odinson approaching from across the cobblestone in long strides. “We’re nearly finished,” he said, eyeing up Steve’s luggage approvingly. “You pack light for a gentleman. You must have a sense of adventure!”

Steve gave a good-natured grimace. “I’d have said not, nineteen days ago, and yet here I stand.” He illustrated his meaning by looking about the wharf. Not even away from the docks yet, and already he’d seen a parrot with more colors in its feathers than any single living thing in Brooklyn. He scratched behind his ear. Life had been in color before, hadn’t it? Surely, New York wasn’t as dull and gray as his memory was now painting it. He said as much to Odinson, who agreed and noted the closest building’s bright coral stucco. That was when Steve caught sight of a crewmember lugging out his crate of painting supplies. “Oh! Over here! You can put that one just here. Thank you.” When Odinson raised an eyebrow, Steve explained, “Well, my easel and things. I paint. A bit.”

“An artist! Good for you.”

Steve blushed, but he could tell that Odinson meant no harm. Other men in Steve’s life had contrived plenty more obvious ways of telling him that it seemed foppish and silly for a man of his status to spend so much time on such a frivolous hobby. “Yes,” he agreed. “Subjects will be in no short supply, in this place.”

Captain Odinson bid him farewell once Steve’s helper arrived and made himself known. A large and competent man named M'baku had come from the estate with a carriage. Steve shook his hand and M'baku looked at him sternly and then announced that he would be Steve’s man whilst in town. (Steve feared that he might also be his property, but hadn’t yet gotten up the courage to ask.) “Erm … shall we be off?” he asked.

M'baku took the lead and indicated the carriage. He gruffly refused Steve’s help with the luggage, and sat up front on the bench while Steve rode as lone passenger. Since Shield Hall was located a ways outside of the city, and evening was nearly upon them, they sought out local accommodations. M'baku asked Steve what sort of place he wanted to go to. “Do you want a big room? Company?” he asked, a distinctive island accent clinging to his vowels. “There are a couple of places to choose from. Different.”

“Eh, anywhere will do,” Steve hemmed, adding offhandedly that he wouldn’t mind the company of others.

So M'baku drove them to the Royal Naval Hotel. It seemed a handsome establishment, lively even, with quite a few people loitering about the downstairs. Steve checked himself in and had his luggage sent up, then he walked to the lounge with M’baku by his side. There were many fine couches and tables for the hotel’s patrons to use. Steve and M'baku spoke together for a moment, discussing their plans for the next day, when they would meet again and depart for Shield Hall.

With that settled, M'baku seemed eager to leave, and Steve could see a fancily dressed woman standing in the doorway leading into the next parlor, hiding behind a partially tied back velvet drape. She was peeking out at M'baku and Steve with narrowed eyes, looking none too pleased. 

Steve turned back to M'baku and thanked him again for his help, eager to not have the prim hotel ladies complaining to management about him so soon. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he said in parting, and M'baku left as sternly as he’d arrived. Steve chanced a glance towards the draped doorway again, but the lady had turned away to converse with a gentleman. The backside of her gown faced Steve; a fine India silk and muslin, as was the fashion, but it was the amount of skin permitted to show which stood out. She wore no gloves, and Steve couldn’t keep his eyes from honing in at the low dip of the neckline which was nearly below the lady’s shoulder blades in the back. 

That tantalizing stretch of skin continued up her back and slim neck, to the mass of dark curls piled atop her head. Steve hadn’t realized it when she was peering out from the shadows before, but she wasn’t white. His own gaze narrowed at her in distaste, finding it odd that she of all people would take issue with a colored manservant being briefly inside the room.

Not that it was any different in New York. Indeed, Steve had tried—and failed—on an occasion or two to get Sam in with him to a certain place or another. Sometimes, if enough money was being spent and the proprietors were the right sort and employed discretion, there wouldn’t be much of a fuss made over who Steve wanted to have with him. But in many places, other patrons would eventually complain. However it was normally white people doing the complaining and looking down their noses.

The lady in the fine gown reacted to something her companion said, drawing Steve’s attention to the sound of her laughter that was like a little, tinkling bell. His eyes flicked up, and over her shoulder he caught the gaze of the gentleman with whom she was speaking. The man was easing off from the grin of a joke he’d told, and his still-laughing eyes locked intently on Steve. For a split second, it was electric, something in the man’s glittering eyes stealing the breath from Steve’s lungs.

Steve hurriedly looked away, feeling caught out. He thought he’d seen the man’s mouth twitch up there at the end, but he hadn’t the courage to turn back and check. The man was very good looking, in a rakish sort of way, with an unshaven jaw and murky blue eyes set in a handsome face. He kept his hair longer than was the fashion, but pulled back in a way that suited his features. He looked older than Steve’s own twenty-eight years, perhaps a man of twenty and fifteen or more, and he moved with the loose sort of confidence that a man did when he knew himself to be attractive. He was the exact type of fellow whom Steve avoided looking at or being around any more than was strictly necessary, lest he look or linger too long.

He turned away and ambled over into the next parlor, where he leant against the bar top and found his reprieve. He told the barkeep he’d have some good sort of rum, and took his drink off to another of the downstairs parlors, planting himself on a velvet settee where he could be out of the way and still observe the room at large. The place grew more crowded as evening drew in, and Steve saw enough to become convinced that the Royal Naval Hotel was not just a hotel: It was a bawdyhouse.

In the span of an hour, he witnessed no less than five different girls, interacting indecently amorous with seven different men, before taking said men’s hands and leading the grinning dopes away. Steve couldn’t see where they went once out of the room, but he could make an educated guess. None of these ladies wore gloves, either.

Incredible, he thought, as he watched one of them returning to approach her second gentleman within the span of forty minutes. The game began all over again, and Steve felt shocked and yet fascinated by her practiced movements and speech. It was like watching a ballet: scandalous and still elegant, the girl comporting herself with grace and impropriety all at once. Steve felt his cheeks heat as she left the room with her newest suiter, and he went back to the bar to get himself another pour.

A piano took up in one of the rooms, heard throughout the place, and more men came in. The number of women multiplied as well, but at a ratio which substantially favored the men. There were a number of British naval officers present, and Steve felt even more uncomfortable about that than he had been being led around by M'baku. He’d never hurt a negro man before, after all. He had killed English soldiers, and quite recently at that. 

The last time Steve had fought had been in Canada, less than two full years ago. Niagara, dead Indians just as plentiful as all the uniformed red-and-whites, bodies bleeding into the snow. Steve suddenly remembered that he’d resolved to not make his nationality overly apparent whilst visiting Jamaica—a very British colony. And he certainly wasn’t planning on letting anyone know about his recent military service. He hadn’t a clue what the English soldiers’ attitudes towards Americans were, but back in New York, no known Brit was yet tolerated in polite company, even these twenty long months after the war had ended. Steve was certain that he’d be treated poorly at best, pickpocketed or accosted in the street at worst. 

Unsurprisingly, about half of the men who filled The Royal Naval Hotel’s downstairs parlors wore the royal naval uniform. Some of them sat in groups and drank together and laughed, others played cards, their behavior for the most part unremarkable. But the ones who were there for other services made their interest plainly known as the evening wore on, and the ladies of the room would respond and float over like swans bobbing to breadcrumbs on a pond. It was not possible to miss that all of the crumbs were white, and all of the swans were black. 

They were black, and less black, light skinned, and very dark indeed; as exotic and varied as any man could want. Much like the very first lady whom Steve had observed, they all wore luxurious clothes in the current fashions, with their hair piled high and woven through with decoration, sweet silk shawls draped about their arms, necks left bare of any jewelry, bosoms powdered and presented. It really was a bit like watching the ballet, and as the evening wore on and Steve sat there drinking a second and then a third round of what the barkeep called “grog,” he found he couldn’t tear his eyes away from their dance.

They spoke and whispered into the men’s ears with cultured English and sometimes French, and they moved and walked like true ladies of society (at least when they weren’t sneakily sliding their hands into places they oughtn't be). Many of the men seemed respectful at best and besotted at worst, but Steve did catch a few dark glances that they would share amongst themselves when they thought the women weren’t looking. The way they looked made Steve uncomfortable—less so for the impropriety of it all, and more so for how it made him recognize his own lack of such interest.

For a moment, he thought again of Alva, back in New York. She was a pretty and tolerable girl, well-mannered and quick-witted even, with an interest in the theater and the arts that, while not matching Steve’s own, was robust enough to hold a conversation. He had no real objections to her other than that he didn’t love her, which in itself wasn’t uncommon between couples courting engagements. The thing was though: Steve had never loved any girl at all. He’d never felt the real and pressing temptation that other men seemed to harbor deep within themselves. He lacked that natural inclination which made men’s eyes linger and their gazes go dark behind ladies’ backs. 

Steve squirmed in his seat, agitated when he tried and failed to view the various prostitutes as the other men saw them: alluring, desirable, lustful. He thought they were very pretty and graceful, of course, but in the way that birds were pretty and that cats were graceful. He felt nothing more towards them. Certainly not the things that the British naval officers clearly felt. … Certainly not the things which Steve had been known to feel about certain men.

He felt his cheeks go hot as his mind strayed to the unbidden memory of a crowded house: Bleecker street, dark rooms filled with smoke and drink and chatter, people in less and less clothing the further in one went. A broad back, two men pulling off shirts, their squared jaws kissing against a couch. Steve had nearly dropped his brandy glass when he’d walked in on it. He’d always fraternized with the bohemian types through his interests in the arts, and parties in the Village were undoubtedly of a different ilk, but he’d never imagined that any man could just … would just … 

And right there in the middle of an unlocked room, no less! With others not even ten paces away who might look, might see—who had seen, and had simply looked the other way. 

The drapes in that Molly house had all been heavy and drawn.

Steve squinched his eyes shut to try and knock the memory from his mind. Perhaps he should choose a woman, he thought. Try and pretend for a night, maybe even awaken the desire inside himself that he was supposed to have. Steve had never been with a woman, so perhaps his perversion was only due to inexperience. Perhaps he could change, if only he put in some effort and sought out a beautiful, soft body.

He drank the last of his rum and kept hold of the glass, keen on going to the bar for another pour. Three miserable weeks at sea and not a drop had passed his lips. He was overdue to indulge in one way or another. And since he wasn’t likely to work up the nerve to actually pay a woman for her company, he thought he might as well drink. The rum was sweet, after all. 

Just as he was about to stand, a dress’ hem appeared in his field of vision, the tiny white points of a lady’s satin slippers peeking out from the bottom. Slowly, Steve let his eyes trail up. Oh. It was the same girl as before, the one who’d observed Steve and M'baku with meanly narrowed eyes. She didn’t look quite so peevish now. Her dark hair was curled and styled to frame her face, her cream-in-coffee skin on prominent display in the shelf of her bosom against the dress. Her features were graceful and classically feminine, but she had a prominent forehead and a dimple in her chin that elevated her from simply pretty, to handsomely striking. Really, she seemed a girl of hardly twenty, but her perceptive eyes hinted that she might be older.

“Hello,” she said, stepping even closer, until Steve could smell her perfume. “I saw you alone over here and thought I’d come to say hello. Maybe even cheer you up.”

“Cheer me up?” Steve breathed, then sat there like a dummy, speechless for long seconds. He hadn’t entertained the possibility that any of the working women would focus their attentions on him. Not when there were so many other eager breadcrumbs fellows in the middle of the room. “Well, I’m uh, I don’t need … cheer,” is what he eventually said, the words coming out weaker than intended. He watched as the girl’s features pinched in a polite sort of titter at his expense. Steve could hardly blame her. He sounded like a regular moron.

She perched herself daintily on the cushion beside him. “Don’t be silly. Everyone needs company.” Her voice, Steve noted, was fluid and viscous, like warmed honey. She lacked the island twang and in its place there was a hint of French. “I’m Rebecca,” she introduced, holding out her hand.

Steve took it, grazing lips to the backs of her scandalously bare fingers. He let it go, and she placed it on his shoulder rather than back in her own lap. Steve gulped. Now he felt less like a breadcrumb and more like a worm on a hook. “I … I’m only just arrived,” he rasped, feeling the need to excuse his antisocial behavior. “Not staying long. I was about to go to my, um, room—to sleep, that is! Go to my room to sleep.” He coughed. “I, erm, have some business in the morning.” 

Rebecca tilted her head, eyes glittering. “Don’t we all. But you must tell me your name, Sir. I’d remember if I’d seen someone who looks like you at the Royal Naval before.” She touched her finger to her chin, as if putting great effort into guessing. “Mm. You’re American?”

Steve hemmed, overly conscious of where she was still touching his shoulder. Never in his life had he experienced such forward attentions from a woman, not even from Miss Barclay and her mother. “Um, yes,” he bumbled. “American. I’m … am.” She giggled at him and Steve shook his head. “I’m not planning on making any public announcements about that, you know. I don’t want trouble. I'm only here because I’ve inherited land.” An American veteran in British territory, not even two full years since the war? Yes, discretion would be prudent. “I’m Steven Rogers,” he hastily added, realizing that he hadn’t returned the introduction. “Of New York.”

“Steven,” she cooed. “Oh, how lovely. Steven from New York. May I call you Steve?”

“Um,”

Her lashes lowered demurely. “I’m Rebecca. Rebecca Beauchêne Proctor-Polgreen.” 

“That's a mouthful.”

She laughed and winked. “Oh, I don’t mind a mouthful.”

Steve felt his cheeks flame at the double entendre. He cleared his throat and looked down at his lap. Her hand was still on his shoulder, and he hadn’t a clue as to how he should politely inform her that he had no intention of paying for her services. Suddenly, he thought of how M'baku had phrased his question earlier: if Steve would like to stay in a place where he could find “company.”

Oh. Steve realized that he was an utter dolt. “Um, well. I appreciate your welcome, Miss, um …” 

“Just Rebecca,” she teased.

“Right. Miss Rebecca. You’ve been most kind, but my travels have left me tired and I wasn’t particularly seeking the … the company of a lady this evening.” He waited, and sure enough, her hand was soon removed from his shoulder. He nearly sagged in relief.

“Oh,” Rebecca said. “Oh yes, well you wouldn’t know, being new to town and all. I ought to have said. I serve in a managerial capacity here, Steve.” She grinned. “I take care of the girls, you understand? I’m afraid it is the rare gentleman whom I invite up to my private quarters, these days.” As Steve’s face continued to reach new levels of heat, she stood again and went to take his empty glass from the table. “A welcome is all I had on offer for you, handsome as you are. That, and any of my flock whom you might fancy.” Her eyes skimmed brazenly up and down Steve’s form. “I daresay they’ll fight each other for a chance at you.”

“Pardon,” Steve spluttered. “I shouldn’t have assumed.” He could see it now: how much more expensive her dress was than the other girls’, how fine the combs in her hair, the gold dangling from her ears. “Madam,” he said, “You have my apologies, please.” She waved him off, obviously unoffended and perhaps even amused. Steve realized that he was wasting his good manners, blundering and blushing the way he was.

Rebecca gestured at him with his empty cup in hand. “Don’t stress, Steve from New York. You’re on Caribbean time now. ‘Eaze and breeze’.” Her voice picked up the lilt of the island accent there at the end, and she sauntered back across the parlor to hand Steve’s glass over to the barkeep to be refilled. 

Steve felt glued in place until she returned with yet another helping of rum, which he was sure he didn’t need. “Thank you,” he managed, sipping it only to be polite. Between his previous three rounds and the thinly-veiled obscenity of the atmosphere, he felt drunk already. Luckily, Miss Rebecca seemed to understand his discomfort and soon left him alone, though not without giving him one last wink and a pointed nod in the direction of her company of girls. 

Steve wilted, watching as she went about that parlor and the next, stopping to chat with different groups of gentlemen—some with girls in their laps, and some without—never staying in one place for long. Steve felt foolish for not having realized her as the madame that she clearly was. It was so obvious now, as he watched her in the dance of the room and its ladies. She was the prima ballerina in a sea of coryphées.

After some time had passed, Steve felt himself quite literally falling asleep in his chair. Dear lord, he needed to go to bed. He abandoned his cup and stood, heading back out towards the main lobby. Tomorrow would be a productive day, he resolved as he went up to his room. He could start on what he’d come out here to do in the first place, not sit around bawdyhouse parlors making a fool of himself. 

He’d just turned at the top of the stair when he caught sight of Rebecca again. It was dark and she didn’t see him, facing the other way. But the gentleman with her did. It was that same man with whom she’d been speaking before, downstairs when Steve first arrived with M'baku. 

Steve gulped and stood very still, not wanting to be noticed and drawn into conversation. The man seemed to know this, as he smirked secretively in Steve’s direction but continued on in his murmured conversation with Rebecca. The two of them stood just outside one of the doors of the long upstairs hallway, and Steve pressed himself back against the wall in an attempt to be unobtrusive.

If the fellow was going to pay to spend the night with her, why didn’t he just get on with it already? They remained there speaking for long enough that Steve had ample time to appreciate the man’s features all over again. He was as tall as Steve, which was in itself uncommon, with a straight nose and shapely lips, not to mention a strong, unshaven jaw that all but had Steve’s mouth watering in a way that he was loath to admit. He held his breath as he was shot another leer from over Rebecca’s shoulder. If Steve didn’t know any better, he’dve said the man seemed almost amused at him.

The man bent to kiss Rebecca on her cheek. He took her hand and opened the door to the room, leading her through before himself. And when he turned to close it from the other side, he paused and stared long enough to make Steve’s blood stir, before shutting himself away behind the wood. 

Steve was left feeling unsettled, and not sure that he’d entirely imagined the heated look in the other man’s eye. This fellow, he surmised, must be one of the ‘rare gentlemen’ who merited invitation into Miss Rebecca’s private quarters.

Steve put himself to bed hastily that night, aroused and frustrated as to the cause of it. And despite his long-held resolve to never touch himself to the thought of another man, he was soon reminded that even he couldn’t control what things crept into his dreams.

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[quoththeowl31]

I think I just Thunk...

So Roger Barriere tries to recreate the games. He would need sponsors and people who could get him out of being locked away.

The sponsors of the 1930's games?

The Eye of Darkness Cult.

Since the games years before, the cult has grown since then and Oletus Manor's new Baron is Alva Lorenz with Roger acting as a figurehead.

[nem0c]

Vietnam War - Galaxy Science Fiction Magazine, June 1968

Sourced from: http://natsmusic.net/articles_galaxy_magazine_viet_nam_war.htm

Transcript Below

We the undersigned believe the United States must remain in Vietnam to fulfill its responsibilities to the people of that country.

Karen K. Anderson, Poul Anderson, Harry Bates, Lloyd Biggle Jr., J. F. Bone, Leigh Brackett, Marion Zimmer Bradley, Mario Brand, R. Bretnor, Frederic Brown, Doris Pitkin Buck, William R. Burkett Jr., Elinor Busby, F. M. Busby, John W. Campbell, Louis Charbonneau, Hal Clement, Compton Crook, Hank Davis, L. Sprague de Camp, Charles V. de Vet, William B. Ellern, Richard H. Eney, T. R. Fehrenbach, R. C. FitzPatrick, Daniel F. Galouye, Raymond Z. Gallun, Robert M. Green Jr., Frances T. Hall, Edmond Hamilton, Robert A. Heinlein, Joe L. Hensley, Paul G. Herkart, Dean C. Ing, Jay Kay Klein, David A. Kyle, R. A. Lafferty, Robert J. Leman, C. C. MacApp, Robert Mason, D. M. Melton, Norman Metcalf, P. Schuyler Miller, Sam Moskowitz, John Myers Myers, Larry Niven, Alan Nourse, Stuart Palmer, Gerald W. Page, Rachel Cosgrove Payes, Lawrence A. Perkins, Jerry E. Pournelle, Joe Poyer, E. Hoffmann Price, George W. Price, Alva Rogers, Fred Saberhagen, George O. Smith, W. E. Sprague, G. Harry Stine (Lee Correy), Dwight V. Swain, Thomas Burnett Swann, Albert Teichner, Theodore L. Thomas, Rena M. Vale, Jack Vance, Harl Vincent, Don Walsh Jr., Robert Moore Williams, Jack Williamson, Rosco E. Wright, Karl Würf.

We oppose the participation of the United States in the war in Vietnam.

Forrest J. Ackerman, Isaac Asimov, Peter S. Beagle, Jerome Bixby, James Blish, Anthony Boucher, Lyle G. Boyd, Ray Bradbury, Jonathan Brand, Stuart J. Byrne, Terry Carr, Carroll J. Clem, Ed M. Clinton, Theodore R. Cogswell, Arthur Jean Cox, Allan Danzig, Jon DeCles, Miriam Allen deFord, Samuel R. Delany, Lester del Rey, Philip K. Dick, Thomas M. Disch, Sonya Dorman, Larry Eisenberg, Harlan Ellison, Carol Emshwiller, Philip José Farmer, David E. Fisher, Ron Goulart, Joseph Green, Jim Harmon, Harry Harrison, H. H. Hollis, J. Hunter Holly, James D. Houston, Edward Jesby, Leo P. Kelley, Daniel Keyes, Virginia Kidd, Damon Knight, Allen Lang, March Laumer, Ursula K. LeGuin, Fritz Leiber, Irwin Lewis, A. M. Lightner, Robert A. W. Lowndes, Katherine MacLean, Barry Malzberg, Robert E. Margroff, Anne Marple, Ardrey Marshall, Bruce McAllister, Judith Merril, Robert P. Mills, Howard L. Morris, Kris Neville, Alexei Panshin, Emil Petaja, J. R. Pierce, Arthur Porges, Mack Reynolds, Gene Roddenberry, Joanna Russ, James Sallis, William Sambrot, Hans Stefan Santesson, J. W. Schutz, Robin Scott, Larry T. Shaw, John Shepley, T. L. Sherred, Robert Silverberg, Henry Slesar, Jerry Sohl, Norman Spinrad, Margaret St. Clair, Jacob Transue, Thurlow Weed, Kate Wilhelm, Richard Wilson, Donald A. Wollheim.

[tecontos]

O pai pagou para que eu tirasse a virgindade do filho dele.

By; Cristina

Te Contos, eu virei garota de programa há pouco tempo, uso o nome de Cristina, tenho 24 anos, 1,72 de altura, pele alva (detesto tomar sol), bem peituda, cabelos castanhos longos e lisos, e sempre nos anúncios, digo que tenho rosto de boneca e ninguém até hoje disse que era propaganda enganosa…

Depois de seis meses posso dizer que já me considero uma profissional razoável. Pode parecer pouco tempo, mas para mim, foi uma eternidade. Muitos homens usaram meu corpo, confesso que gozei muitas vezes, em outras me foi indiferente, fingindo orgasmos e tive momentos extremamente ruins que prefiro esquecer. Acredito que se eu narrar todos programas que fiz, muitos vão achar sem graça. Várias rapidinhas com parceiros querendo apenas gozar na minha xaninha, tirar a camisinha cheia de esperma, tomar uma ducha, se vestir, pagar e ir embora. Na ânsia de faturar, teve um dia que foi o recorde: Tive oito cacetes diferentes dentro de mim! Fui para casa com a grutinha ardendo, mas com a bolsa cheia de reais!

Mas também aconteceram coisas bem estranhas que eu mesma, se não tivesse vivenciado elas, se alguém me contasse, eu diria na mesma hora que era mentira. E uma dessas situações vou narrar agora, acredite quem quiser…

Certa vez recebi uma ligação de uma pessoa que queria apenas conversar comigo. Apesar de parecer constrangido, a pessoa denotava certo nível, pela forma de falar e termos empregados. Estranhei o papo e educadamente, recusei. Ele insistiu e disse que pagaria o preço do programa apenas para conversamos. Bastante desconfiada, fui ao seu encontro num barzinho tradicional da minha cidade. Mal entrei, um senhor próximo dos cinquenta anos de terno e gravata, sentado numa mesinha, fez sinal me chamando. Me aproximei, estendi a mão e disse:

- “Prazer, sou a Cristina!”.

O homem retribuiu o cumprimento e disse que se chamava Paulo. Seu olhar penetrante, me medindo da cabeça aos pés, incomodou. Parece que gostou do que viu. Tirou do bolso duas notas de cinquenta reais dobradas, colocou na mesa e empurrou para mim. Perguntou o que eu queria comer e beber. Pedi apenas um Martini…

Então começamos a conversar…

- “Cristina, não é? Um amigo falou de você. E você é exatamente a pessoa que eu procuro!”…

Me animei, pensando: “Poxa! Lá vem uma proposta de emprego decente!”.

E perguntei: - “Procura para que?”.

Ele suspirou, ergueu o tronco se apoiando mais forte no encosto da cadeira, deu uma bebida na caneca de cerveja, pensou um pouco e disse:

- “É o meu filho! Acabou de passar no vestibular da Federal e ainda é virgem!”. E continuou a história: “O meu filho mais velho que me contou que o Robson nunca transou. Roger, o mais velho, é muito esperto e sempre se virou sozinho. Já o Robson, quase nunca sai de casa e com dezenove anos nem namorada teve! Você não pode quebrar o galho dele?”… “Só de tentar, te pago o dobro! E se acontecer, te dou outro tanto!!!”.

Fiquei muda pelo inusitado da proposta. Lembrei de um cliente que ia comigo para o motel, pedia para eu ficar só de calcinha, soutien e sandálias de salto alto. Ele apenas beijava meus pés, dedos, lambia os saltos, baixava a calça e cueca, sentava na cama e pedia para eu, de pé, pisar na sua coxa e acariciar seu pau com o sapato. Ele se masturbava cheirando minha xoxotinha, enquanto com a outra mão, acariciava meu pé e perna. Gozava no papel higiênico, se limpava, agradecia, pagava e íamos embora. Pode?

Cada louco! Mas aceitei a proposta.

No dia seguinte, encontrei Paulo e o filho, Robson. O rapazinho era gordo, bem mais de cem quilos, mais baixo que eu (o salto alto dos meus sapatos aumentava a diferença), feição estranha onde se destacava os grandes olhos azuis, que me fitavam tímidos e curiosamente. A cabeça raspada (talvez pelo trote da faculdade) deixava o rosto mais redondo do que já era.

E o garoto pelo jeito gostou de mim… Talvez pela expectativa de transar pela primeira vez, o pai já tinha tudo preparado e planejado. Me deu um envelope e chamou um táxi. Falou para o motorista levar eu e o Robson para o melhor motel da cidade. Abriu a porta para mim. Entrei no banco traseiro e sentei. Paulo quase empurrou o filho para dentro do táxi. Quando ele entrou, o veículo até balançou.

No trajeto, um silêncio total, afinal o garoto era muito tímido! Olhei dentro do envelope que estava aberto. Nele havia dinheiro e um bilhete:

- “Quinhentos reais para você, os táxis e o motel. Aguardo no mesmo local. Se acontecer, te dou o restante prometido. Assinado: Paulo!”.

Aquilo me tocou, veja a que ponto chega um pai pelo seu filho!

Chegamos no motel. Paguei o táxi e entramos no quarto. Dava para notar seu jeito constrangido. Para quebrar o gelo, falei para ele sentar na cama. Para suportar esta vida, em todos clientes procuro algo de bom neles, algo que me motive e excite. Em Robson, o seu olhar puro e a expressão desejosa me tocou…

Liguei a TV e coloquei no canal de filme pornô. Aumentei o som ambiente e procurei uma rádio com música sensual. Comecei a dançar lentamente, simulando autocarícias nos seios volumosos, quadris largos e pernas compridas. De início, tudo profissionalmente, para ganhar o extra. Mas passados alguns minutos senti que minha bucetinha se umedecia de tesão. Fui descendo as alças do vestido, desnudando os ombros e revelando o soutien preto, que contrastava com a brancura do colo e parte do ventre. E requebrando ao ritmo da música, comecei a erguer o vestido, mostrando minhas coxas torneadas, adornada pela cinta liga.

E subindo vagarosamente, mostrando agora a calcinha vermelha fio dental. Sempre dançando, me virei rebolando a bundinha cheia, redonda e o pequeno triângulo de lycra que esticadinho, ocultava o centro do meu reguinho.

Tirei o vestido e joguei para o Robson. O garoto, com os olhos arregalados, nem piscava! Tirei os sapatos de salto alto, cor preto verniz, um de cada vez, e depois fui soltando a liga e enrolando lentamente e para baixo, cada meia escura e transparente. Dei um beijo molhado nele, que retribuiu desajeitado e ardorosamente. Fiz com que se levantasse, desabotoei e tirei sua camisa. Tentei desafivelar o cinto, em vão. Robson apressadamente, arrancou os sapatos sem se abaixar, pisando nos calcanhares, baixou ele mesmo a calça e numa agilidade surpreendente tirou as meias.

Ficou apenas com uma cueca samba-canção branca, enorme. Baixou ela também. Nu, o garoto parecia mais gordo ainda. Tão jovem e as banhas faziam três dobras no abdômen! Olhei para seu pau e ví a cabeça inchada, escondida nos pentelhos loiros. Tive de esticar a mão para pegá-lo. Estava duro como pedra! Era bem grossa e parecia de bom tamanho.

Peguei um preservativo, me ajoelhei e posicionei cobrindo a cabeça da rola. Abocanhei e com os lábios, desenrolei até a metade. Minha testa parou na barriga. Acabei de cobrir tudo com a mão, sentindo a rola pulsando. Nessa hora tive certeza que a tarefa de desvirgina-lo ia ser moleza.

Iniciei um boquete, atrapalhado pela barriga. Robson começou a gemer e estocar rápido na minha boca. Parei com medo, pois se ele gozasse iria estragar tudo.

Fiz o garoto deitar na cama com a barriga para cima. Tirei a calcinha e tentei ir por cima. A posição era muito desconfortável. Para ficar de cócoras tive de abrir bastante as pernas para enlaçar a largura da sua cintura. Segurei seu pau e fui descendo.

A cabeça entrou forçada… Um membro grosso sob controle sempre é prazeroso. Soltei meus 58 quilos. Foi até a metade. Meio torta, iniciei o sobe desce. Robson gemia de prazer! A sua pica entrava mais e mais, e descobri que era bem mais comprido do que eu tinha avaliado. Sua extensão estava escondida e embutida pela barriga. A posição que estávamos era cansativa! Resolvi mudar… Deitei eu de costas, coloquei um travesseiro sob a bundinha, entreabri as pernas e pedi para ele vir por cima. Infeliz ideia! O cacete do rapaz entrou ainda mais. Mas o peso da sua barriga pressionava meu ventre. Queria que ele gozasse logo, acabando aquele tormento, mas nem rebolar direito eu conseguia.

Ele estava todo torto na cama, com o pau enfiado na minha xaninha e as pernas apoiadas na cama envolvendo as minhas, bombando e gemendo sem parar. E eu me sentido penetrada e prensada por inteiro. Normalmente consigo controlar o corpo numa transa, mas naquela eu estava totalmente imobilizada. Já estava difícil até para respirar. Pedi para o garoto tirar um pouco, enquanto tentava inutilmente empurrar seu peito com as duas mãos. Olhei para seu rosto e vi uma expressão de quem estava vivendo um sonho, como se não acreditasse que estava trepando com uma mulher.

A saída dele foi um alívio só! Ergui mais as pernas e mal as apoiei no ombro dele, o menino já veio metendo novamente. Nessa posição de franguinho assado, o pau entrou mais profundo ainda, com a barriga empurrando a parte de trás das minhas coxas.

E logo Robson começou a estocar bem mais rápido, meio arfando e bufando. Me beijou alucinadamente. Correspondi com ardor para apressá-lo, soltando grunhidos. Estranhamente a foda estava ficando gostosa.

Mas mal comecei a movimentar as ancas, senti que ele gozou quando parou e soltou seu corpão relaxado sobre o meu, só o pau pulsando a cada esporrada. Novamente profissional, acionei os músculos vaginais, mastigando com a buceta, o pau que amolecia…

Quando Robson tirou o pau, notei que a camisinha estava cheia de porra, até pendurada na ponta, devido ao peso de esperma acumulado por anos. Pensei até em levar ao pai, como prova do feito! Com poucos clientes eu tenho orgasmo. Na maioria das vezes eu simulo eles. Como era a primeira vez do menino, não achei correto que ele tivesse uma falsa lembrança. Como a posição de franguinho assado tinha sido a mais confortável e prazerosa, dei mais uma vez e consegui me satisfazer um pouquinho.

Voltamos e Paulo, o pai do “ex virgem”, me recompensou generosamente. É de verdade aquela famosa frase: “Puta sofre, mas… Goza!”.

Enviado ao Te Contos por Cristina

[indiesole]

THE 236 GREATEST PERSONALITIES IN THE ENTIRE KNOWN HISTORY/COLLECTIVE CONSCIOUSNESS OF THIS WORLD! (@INDIES)

i.e. THE 236 GREATEST PERSONALITIES IN WORLD HISTORY! (@INDIES)

Rajesh Khanna

Lionel Messi

Leonardo Da Vinci

Muhammad Ali

Joan of Arc

William Shakespeare

Vincent Van Gogh

Online Indie

J. K. Rowling

David Lean

Nadia Comaneci

Diego Maradona

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart

Meena Kumari

Julius Caesar

Harrison Ford

Ludwig Van Beethoven

William W. Cargill

Fritz Hoffmann-La Roche

Samuel Curtis Johnson

Sam Walton

John D. Rockefeller

Andrew Carnegie

Roy Thomson

Tim Berners-Lee

Marie Curie

James J. Hill

Cornelius Vanderbilt

Roman Polanski

Samuel Slater

J. P. Morgan

Cary Grant

Dmitri Mendeleev

John Harvard

Alain Delon

Ramakrishna Paramhansa (Official God)

The Lumiere Brothers, Auguste & Louis

Carl Friedrich Benz

Michelangelo

Maharishi Mahesh Yogi

Ramana Maharishi

Mark Twain

Swami Sri Yukteswar Giri

Bruce Lee

Bhagwan Krishna (Official God)

Charlemagne

Rene Descartes

John F. Kennedy

Bhagwan Ganesha (Official God)

Walt Disney

Albert Einstein

Nikola Tesla

Alfred Hitchcock

Pythagoras

William Randolph Hearst

Cosimo de’ Medici

Johann Sebastian Bach

Alec Guinness

Nostradamus

Christopher Plummer

Archimedes

Jackie Chan

Guru Dutt

Amma Karunamayi/ Mata Parvati (Official God)

Peter Sellers

Gerard Depardieu

Joseph Safra

Robert Morris

Sean Connery

Petr Kellner

Aristotle Onassis

Usain Bolt

Jack Welch

Alfredo di Stefano

Elizabeth Taylor

Michael Jordan

Paul Muni

Steven Spielberg

Louis Pasteur

Ingrid Bergman

Norma Shearer

Dr. B. R. Ambedkar

Ayn Rand

Jesus Christ (Official God)

Luciano Pavarotti

Alain Resnais

Frank Sinatra

Allah (Official God)

Richard Nixon

Charlie Chaplin

Thomas Alva Edison

Alexander Graham Bell

Wright Brothers

Arjun (of Bhagwan Krishna’s Gita)

Jim Simons

George Lucas

Swami Sri Lahiri Mahasaya

Carl Lewis

Brett Favre

Helen Keller

Bernard Mannes Baruch

Buddha (Official God)

Hugh Grant

K. L. Saigal

Roger Federer

Rash Behari Bose

Tiger Woods

William Blake

Jesse Owens

Claude Miller

Bernardo Bertolucci

Subhash Chandra Bose

Satyajit Ray

Hippocrates

Chiang Kai-Shek

John Logie Baird

Geeta Dutt

Raphael (painter)

Bhagwan Shiva (Official God)

Radha (Ancient Krishna devotee)

George Orwell

Jorge Paulo Lemann

Catherine Deneuve

Pierre-Auguste Renoir

Bill Gates

Bhagwan Ram (Official God)

Michael Phelps

Michael Faraday

Audrey Hepburn

Dalai Lama

Grace Kelly

Mikhail Gorbachev

Vladimir Putin

Galileo Galilei

Gary Cooper

Roger Moore

John Huston

Blaise Pascal

Humphrey Bogart

Rudyard Kipling

Samuel Morse

Wayne Gretzky

Yogi Berra

Barry Levinson

Patrice Chereau (director)

Jerry Lewis

Louis Daguerre

James Watt

Henri Rousseau

Nikita Krushchev

Jack Dorsey

Dev Anand

Elia Kazan

Alexander Fleming

David Selznick

Frank Marshall

Viswanathan Anand

Major Dhyan Chand

Swami Vivekananda

Felix Rohatyn

Sam Spiegel

Anand Bakshi

Victor Hugo

Bhagwan Sri Sathya Sai Baba (Official God)

Steve Jobs

Srinivasa Ramanujam

Lord Hanuman

Stanley Kubrick

Giotto

Voltaire

Diego Velazquez

Ernest Hemingway

Francis Ford Coppola

Michael Douglas

Kirk Douglas

Mario Lemieux

Kishore Kumar

James Stewart

Douglas Fairbanks

Confucius

Babe Ruth

Raj Kapoor

Titian aka Tiziano Vecelli

El Greco

Francisco de Goya

Jim Carrey

Mohammad Rafi

Steffi Graf

Pele

Gustave Courbet

Rani Laxmibai of Jhansi

Milos Forman

Steve Wozniak

Georgia O’ Keeffe

Mala Sinha

Aryabhatta

Magic Johnson

Patanjali

Leo Tolstoy

Tansen

Henry Fonda

Albrecht Durer

Benazir Bhutto

Cal Ripken Jr

Samuel Goldwyn

Mumtaz (actress)

Panini

Nicolaus Copernicus

Pablo Picasso

George Clooney

Olivia de Havilland

Prem Chand

Imran Khan

Pete Sampras

Ratan Tata

Meerabai (16th c. Krishna devotee)

Queen Elizabeth II

Pope John Paul II

James Cameron

Jack Ma

Warren Buffett

Romy Schneider

C. V. Raman

Aung San Suu Kyi

Benjamin Netanyahu

Frank Capra

Michael Schumacher

Steve Forbes

Paramhansa Yogananda

Tom Hanks

Kamal Amrohi

Hans Holbein

Shammi Kapoor

Gerardus Mercator

Edith Piaf

Bhagwan Shirdi Sai Baba (Official God)

[avzva]

Fin de las mermeladas. Comienzo de un recuerdo.

Leo y no Di Caprio

Cada año en la escuela en la que iba teníamos que hacer un "Speech". Nuestros papás no podían ayudarnos a hacer la investigación ni los "visual aids". Obvio mi mamá terminaba haciendo el de mi hermana y el mío, tanto la investigación como las maquetas.

Hubo un año en el que no es muy de speech, pero recuerdo que me tocó ser una parte del ojo, el cristalino. Con este puedes enfocar objetos cercanos y lejanos. Vea no'mas qué belleza.

Ahora sí, mi primer speech fue el de polar bears. De este fue divertido ver como mi mamá hacía la maqueta y al momento de ponerle uhu (un pegamento con el que hacías bolitas y olía genialmente adictivo) al unicel, éste se derritió todo. Tuvo que improvisar. Esos huecos fueron los ríos donde los esquimales sacaban los peces para comer.

Los siguientes años no recuerdo muy bien el orden, pero recuerdo haber hablado de crocodiles. Esa no fue maqueta, solo fue un papel cascarón con un dibujo muy bien hecho, obvio, por mi mamá.

Hablé de Egipto el año siguiente. Ese fue mi primer orgullo, yo hice el dibujo, no la investigación, pero ya iba mejorando. Hice un camello con un mono de unicel de papeleria pegado sobre el camello. Era horrible. Pero de verdad yo me sentía muy bien.

Intermedio.

Cabe mencionar que la maestra nos decía que el Speech no era de memoria, qué solo era un texto para basarnos, que prácticamente teníamos que explicar lo que estaba ahí. Pero no era verdad, nos calificaban cada palabra. Y nos bajaba puntos. Y la ayuda visual tenías que utilizarla sí o sí, no podías dibujar un alegre camello que no te ayudaba a recordar absolutamente nada, solo era un camello que te recordaba que tenías que olvidar el estrés de ese momento.

El estado de Veracruz. En 5to de primaria. Muy lindo bla bla bla y muy bonita imagen. No me representaba en lo absoluto.

Intermedio 2

Otro dato, como yo era la última de la lista, (ZV) siempre me tocaban las sobras de los temas. O bien tenía que pensar en algo que jamás se les ocurriría, salir del montón.

Volvemos. 6to de primaria. Tema: personajes famosos. Alguien (la #2 de lista, apellido empieza con B) escogió John F. Kennedy. ¡Mis bolas! ¿Eso qué? Suena como de escuela gringa, niño orgulloso de la nación. Yo quería que alguien hablara de Roger Waters, o de Jaques Cousteau (creo que yo hablé de él en algún otro año). Peor aún, niño barbero, "yo quiero hablar de Thomas Alva Edison", mis bolas x 2. Así se llamaba la escuela. O andaba de barbero o de plano no se le ocurrió nada. Y yo? Ya casi llegaba el 36 de la lista, o sea yo y todavía no tenía tema. Y de repente me vino a la cabeza. Oh si, Leonardo da Vinci! No sabía en que me estaba metiendo.

Este hombre hizo que me metiera a hacer mi Speech. Obvio mi mamá ayudó. Pero investigué demasiado por mi cuenta. Era un genio! Era un artista! Era un ser humano! Que para mi era totalmente fuera de este mundo. En mi speech no pude mencionar que era gay, ya era demasiado revolucionario mi tema. Realicé mis visual aids. La mayoría eran impresiones, reprimí mi yo dibujante después del speech de Egipto. Le hice unas grecas fluorescentes al rededor de todos los papeles cascarón. Vino la prueba y por fin me tocó a mi, presenté y me dijeron que era muy vistoso mi trabajo. Que le quitara las grecas. Y yo, what? Asquius mi? De mis grecas no estarás hablando? A lo que respondí, "está bien".

En la noche le dije a mi mamá que me habían dicho que cambiara eso, pero yo sentía que iba en contra de Leonardo da Vinci! El me enseñó a no seguir lo que toda la gente piensa que está bien. Mi mamá me dijo que hiciera lo que yo quisiera. No lo cambié.

Al otro día me vestí con unos pantalones beige claro con varias bolsas. Una blusa amarillo claro media manga con orilla en el cuello blanca. Y una chamarra del mismo color del pantalón. Con tenis, always tenis. Ah, y mi coletita de caballo que me caracterizaba. Tenía que ir arreglada. Para mi, eso significaba arreglada. Vi en el fondo a la coordinadora de inglés moviendo su cabeza diciendo "no" cuando me tocaba pasar. Yo tenia excelente promedio. Supongo que un borreguito se le escapó. Calificación final 7. Mi 7. Mi esfuerzo. No el de un trabajo sin grecas y con ideales pisados.

Gracias Leo.