#everything the three of us built. | billy & lee

[chasingtitans]

tag drop!

[friendshiptothemax]

The Final Five, ranked by how much I love they’re one of the Final Five. This is NOT a ranking of how much I love them generally, just how much sense I think it makes that they’re a Cylon. SPOILERS OBVIOUSLY.

5. Ellen Tigh. Okay so here is where I am a fandom old and say I remember the period in which we did not know! I remember Christmas 2008 when it was very in vogue to have one of your livejournal icons be “All I Want For Christmas is for [x] To Be The Final Cylon.” For my part, I wanted it to be Billy, though I also stand by to this day that Dee would have been the best choice. Why didn’t she hear the music with the others? Who knows! But I digress. Ellen. I was actually living on a boat when this episode aired and did not have cable and I literally called home as soon as the episode finished airing and made someone tell me who the Final Cylon was, and after all that I was definitely like “eh.” Is it an interesting moment? Sure. I don’t hate it. I just feel like it doesn’t have much emotional resonance for anyone but Saul, and it’s a little manipulative that, oh, NOW we’re supposed to believe the Tighs are this transcendent love that surpasses lifetimes? And yes, what an interesting character turn that the Tighs are a transcendent love that surpasses lifetimes, but really? Those Tighs? I’ve met those Tighs!

4. Tory Foster. Okay, again, I’m not mad at it, but here’s my thing with Tory: we know very little about Tory before the Cylon reveal, and we know very little about Tory after the Cylon reveal. I do appreciate the scene when they first find out they’re Cylons when Tigh’s like “I will never betray the man I am, I will fight for the Colonies with my last breath, you guys are with me, right?” and everyone is like “Yes, mmhm, totally, we agree” and then Tory goes over to the Cylons the VERY FIRST SECOND SHE IS PRESENTED AN OPPORTUNITY TO DO SO. Like always a literal laugh out loud moment for me that D’Anna is like “Any Cylons, please, come with us” and practically before she finishes speaking Tory is like “I would like to come with you, for...um. Other reasons” and everyone is just like “Nothing suspicious about this at all, sure, go ahead.” Anyway, no shade to Tory, but I feel like she was always the “and Tory” of the Final Five and I wish the writers had done a little more with her.

3. Samuel T. Anders. My Sam. I love Sam. Sam may be my favorite Battlestar character?? It’s either Sam or Helo. And I think he’s up there with Gaeta and Baltar for top three biggest character transformations over the course of the series. He BECOMES THE SHIP y’all! So good. I love Sam. That being said, as a Cylon reveal, there are better (two in fact). Everything that happens to him after the Cylon reveal, I think, is gold, and I love him being a Cylon for all of that. But I feel like the before-the-reveal groundwork wasn’t laid as well for him as for the other two men. Sure, he was in the New Caprican resistance, and sure, he was on the tribunal, but so too were Galen and Saul, so while he adds to the overall “how funny is it that the entire resistance leadership was Cylon,” individually it’s a little bit overkill. But still, I love Sam, never change, Sam (or, I guess, do, your character arc is one of the things I love about you).

2. Saul Tigh. Is there anyone in the entire fleet who would have been more upset to find out they were a Cylon than Saul Tigh? I’d argue no. And his growling “It’s in the frakkin’ ship!” is iconic. And like, yes, Galen and Sam were in the resistance and the tribunal, but no one, NO ONE, sacrificed more for them than Tigh. I think it’s perfect that Tigh is a Cylon. I’ve seen it pointed out that Saul alone among every Cylon we ever meet, never uses any Cylon abilities at all, save the one moment at the end when they have to do the data transfer, and I love that for him. Him as the voice of “I choose the kind of man I want to be” is really great, and I think he gives the Final Five a good perspective. I also want to say, I know it SEEMS ironic that the resistance leadership is all Cylon, but I also think it’s a reveal that works with what we learn of their character and backstory later. They are opposed to war between human and Cylon, they saw their entire world wiped out, they stopped the Cylon War in the Colonies the first time, OF COURSE they would go to the fucking mattresses when their kids fucked up that bad, even if they didn’t know that’s what they were doing.

1. Galen Tyrol. Oh, Chief! I have a theory, which is that if Chief had been the Final Cylon, he would have been everyone’s guess. He’s PERFECT as a Cylon. I know they’ve said they didn’t decide who was a Cylon until fairly late in the game, but re-watching the series it’s hard to believe they weren’t keeping a Chief-is-a-Cylon as a reveal in their pocket for a rainy day. From the way he was drawn to Boomer, to the way he suspected it at various times in the series, to his conversation with Cavil about whether he’s a Cylon (admittedly the Cylons did LOVE to troll people about whether or not they were Cylons), to all the aforementioned resistance/tribunal stuff, to his mystic connection to the Eye of Jupiter... it all works. They’d also built in a good when-was-he-inserted story (being estranged from his fundamentalist religious parents) which I feel mirrored the key foreshadowing they’d done with the Boomer reveal in the miniseries and not something they pulled off as well with every Cylon (PROFESSIONAL ATHLETES DON’T JUST APPEAR OUT OF THIN AIR?? NO REPORTER EVER NOTICED CAPRICA BUCCANEER SAMUEL T. ANDERS DIDN’T HAVE A BACKSTORY? WHERE DID HE COME FROM??). In conclusion, Cylon Chief is perfect, thank you for coming to my TED Talk.

BONUS: People at the time I remember thinking could NOT be the Final Cylon: 1.) Lee Adama because Bill obviously knew him from birth and we had never been given any indication that the Cylons took over the lives of actual people, 2.) Karl Agathon because then Hera would be full Cylon and that seemed to take away from everything they were doing with that storyline, 3.) Gaius Baltar because he wanted it and no one on Battlestar ever gets what they want, 4.) MAYBE Kara Thrace because it was just so damn obvious. But maybe that’s why it would be her? But like they couldn’t spend so much time teasing us with the mystery and then it’s the obvious choice could they?? But like she did maybe resurrect?? Would they really do that??

BONUS BONUS: Kara Thrace is the daughter of the Daniel Cylon and RDM can pry that out of my cold, dead hands.

[wrestlingisfake]

Double or Nothing preview

Been a while, hasn’t it?

Jon Moxley vs. Brodie Lee - This will be Moxley’s second defense of the AEW men’s world championship since winning the title on February 29.  Impressively, Mox is already the longest-reigning champion in AEW history, holding the title for an incredible 823 days over the past three months.

The story is fairly basic: on May 6 Lee sent his stable, the Dark Order, to dogpile Moxley before he demanded this match and walked off with the title belt.  Lee has lots of backup, but Mox is too stubborn to back down.

Brodie Lee was formerly known as Luke Harper in WWE, where he was usually a member of Bray Wyatt’s cult, the Wyatt Family.  After a 2018 biceps injury, he was used very sparingly, and requested his release in April 2019.  WWE used him even more sparingly, but finally let him go in December.  In January the Dark Order began teasing an unseen leader known as “the Exalted One,” who was finally revealed to be Lee once his WWE no-compete clause expired in March.

Lee played a cult member for almost all of his WWE run, but it seems like his  strongest impression of how cult leaders act was not Bray Wyatt but WWE chairman Vince McMahon.  Everyone at AEW seems to deny a direct parody--and for all I know it really isn’t intentional--but it’s not subtle how his on-screen behavior resembles accounts of Vince’s off-screen idiosyncrasies.  Which adds an extra wrinkle to the story, given Moxley’s very public, very blistering criticism of McMahon when he left WWE last year.

AEW has claimed this show’s card is mostly what was planned before the pandemic forced them to move from Las Vegas to a closed set in Jacksonville.  Even so, I feel like this would have been a very week title match on any of AEW’s previous pay-per-views, and it’s hard to believe they were really going to headline with this in the MGM Grand.  My gut says that under normal circumstances this match would be given away on free TV.  But these aren’t normal circumstances, so I guess you might as well do this now and save a bigger match for when fans are back.

I think there is zero chance of Lee actually winning the title, so the only question is how much Moxley will have to do to retain.

Chris Jericho & Jake Hager & Sammy Guevara & Ortiz & Santana vs. Kenny Omega & Hangman Page & Matt Hardy & Nick Jackson & Matt Jackson - This is being billed as a “stadium stampede” match.  A ring will be set up in the middle of TIAA Bank Field, the home stadium of the Jacksonville Jaguars.  I’m guessing the match will start in the ring, but the rules allow the wrestlers to fight anywhere in the stadium, so I’m not sure why it matters.  The match cannot end by count-out or disqualification, and falls count anywhere.

This feud started in October when Jericho recruited Hager, Guevara, Ortiz, and Santana to form The Inner Circle, to help him oppose The Elite (Omega, the Young Bucks, Page, and Cody Rhodes).  The two teams were set for a ten-man “war games” style cage match on March 25, but to give Nick Jackson paternity leave he was “injured” and Matt Hardy was announced as his replacement.  The match was scrapped altogether in light of the coronavirus pandemic.  On May 13, Jericho proposed issued a challenge to the Elite for this match.  Since Cody is already booked on the card, Hardy is subbing for him this time instead of Nick.

Most of the people in this match have wrestled very sparingly since AEW started running closed-set shows on March 18, although the Inner Circle has been back at full strength since May 6.  Part of the intrigue is that Page and the Bucks were off AEW television in over two months, so Jericho is suggesting that the Elite barely exists anymore.  Ring rust will almost surely be a factor, as Matt Jackson hurt his ribs doing a spot in his big return on May 20.  So even though this match features some of the best talent in the world, I could easily see it getting “bowling shoe ugly” very quickly.

It’s almost lost in the shuffle that this is Hardy’s first real big match since jumping from WWE to AEW and reviving his “Broken Matt Hardy” gimmick from Impact Wrestling.  Hardy was originally in this to support his friends, but it became personal when Jericho “killed” his beloved quadcopter drone, Vanguard 1.  It’s pretty clear AEW wants to build to a high-profile Hardy-Jericho match, but the coronavirus situation has probably screwed up their idea of when that can happen.

I’d like to see the Elite finally settle the score with the Inner Circle, but I can’t help but think this feud must continue, and putting the heels over is the easiest way to do that.  However, I suppose the babyfaces could pin someone other than Jericho or Hager without really resolving the feud.

Cody Rhodes vs. Lance Archer - This is a tournament final to determine the first person to hold the new AEW TNT championship.  Cody defeated Shawn Spears and Darby Allin to advance to this match.  Archer defeated Colt Cabana and Dustin Rhodes.  Mike Tyson will present the title belt to the winner for some reason.

TNT is the name of the channel that airs Dynamite in the US, so this is basically a modern take on the old television titles.  In the days before pay-per-view specials, wrestling TV shows were designed to build to big matches at untelevised events, with the idea that you had to pay for a ticket to see the real big shows.  In that business model, televised title bouts were somewhat rare, so a television championship would stand out for being regularly defended on TV.  There’s a lot of nostalgia for the concept, but nobody’s really come up with a good way to make it work in the modern era.  (Hell, I barely understood the point of the WCW TV title 30 years ago.)  I know AEW management feels strongly about avoiding the stigma of a “midcard title,” so I’m curious to see what they come up with here.

Archer has been built up very well as the biggest and most monstrous of the big monster heels.  He really needs to win his first big PPV match in the company to maintain his momentum.  But at the same time, Archer’s manager Jake Roberts has been a huge dirtbag to Cody’s wife Brandi, so that really needs to be avenged.  It’s really impressive how AEW can build these matches up with really simple things that defy one’s “this guy has to win” logic, which makes the match more exciting.  My money’s on Archer, but I have to root for Cody.

Nyla Rose vs. Hikaru Shida - Rose is making her second defense of the AEW women’s world championship.  Shida earned this title shot by winning a four-way match on May 13.

This match feels a little cold to me, probably because both women were absent from TV for about a month.  AEW’s women’s division has always struggled to be relevant but it’s been hit particularly hard by the pandemic.  Between travel bans and wrestlers electing to stay home, a huge chunk of the roster has been unavailable.  Nevertheless, Rose still comes across as a big dominant juggernaut, and Shida still feels like the babyface they’ve been saving for a special occasion, so it’s like everything worked out in the end.

Shida makes sense as the next women’s champion, but it feels too early.  Even though Nyla has held the title since February, her absence in April makes it feel like she hasn’t had enough time to really make it her own.  I have to pick Rose to retain.

Casino Ladder Match - This is a nine-man match, where the winner will earn the right to challenge the AEW men’s world champion.  Like any ladder match, an objective (a casino chip in this case) will be suspended above the ring, and ladders will be provided for the participants to use and climb; the first man to retrieve the objective wins the match.  However, participants will enter the match gauntlet style, with two men starting and an additional man entering every 90 seconds.  In theory, the match could end before everyone has entered, but I doubt it’ll come to that.

The plan a year ago was to make the “casino battle royale” an annual tradition at Double or Nothing, but I’m guessing that wasn’t feasible this year.  Social distancing guidelines and battle royales (battles royale?) don’t go well together.  Then again, neither do nine-person ladder matches, although it’s possible the gauntlet stip will help limit the action to two or three people in the ring at any given time.

Eight participants have been announced: Orange Cassidy, Colt Cabana, Darby Allin, Scorpio Sky, Frankie Kazarian, Kip Sabian, Luchasaurus, and (as a late substitution for Rey Fenix) Joey Janela.  It looks like the ninth entrant won’t be revealed before the show, which is actually kind of exciting considering how many hot free agents are available at the moment.  I’m not saying it will be one of the people WWE recently released, but it makes at least as much sense as using Billy Gunn or something.

I don’t have a strong sense of who should win, because the winner is probably just going to lose to Jon Moxley on a free TV match.  I guess the question is, who would be the best opponent for Moxley in that situation?  I’m leaning towards Darby Allin, but not much.  If the mystery entrant is any good, though, that could change everything.

MJF vs. Jungle Boy - There’s not much of a story here.  MJF was riding high after a big win over Cody Rhodes on February 29, but then he was out for about a month, presumably due to the pandemic.  He claimed he was sidelined by a devastating hangnail, but I don’t know if I buy that.  Upon his return, he was told he’d be facing Jungle Boy here, and he wasn’t happy.  Since then, they’ve been kinda teasing Jungle Boy’s buddy Luchasaurus against MJF’s henchman Wardlow, so we’ll probably get more teases for that.

Listen, I’m not saying Jungle Boy is going to target the pinkie finger that had the hangnail.  I’m definitely not saying Jungle Boy is going to bite MJF’s finger, or that MJF will sell it like he’s been shot.  I’m just saying that would be a really good idea that would be worth the full price of the pay-per-view.

But I have a feeling MJF will win anyhow.

Kris Statlander vs. Penelope Ford - This was originally going to be Statlander against Britt Baker, but Baker suffered a knee injury on May 20.  I’m becoming a big Baker fan (I mean, boo, she’s mean, but y’know), so it sucks that she’s sidelined.  But it’s kinda cool that Ford gets to step up here.  She seems talented, but she hasn’t been pushed too hard except as Kip Sabian’s girl.  Then again, I like Statlander’s alien hijinx too.  Can I just bet that all the wrestlers will have a good time?

Shawn Spears vs. Dustin Rhodes - The entire heel gimmick for Spears is that he hates Cody Rhodes, which isn’t so great since he only fights Cody once every few months.  Anyway, he got eliminated in the TNT title tournament by Cody, and since then he’s been giving Dustin shit.  When Dustin was eliminated from the tournament in a bloody match with Lance Archer, Cody teased throwing in the towel but didn’t.  So Spears is trying to make big deal about Cody not rescuing Dustin, and Dustin being a washed-up has-been.  I’m pretty sure Dustin is just going to beat his ass and that’ll be it.

Chuckie T & Trent Beretta vs. Isiah Kassidy & Marq Quen - This is scheduled for the pre-show.  The winning team will earn a shot at the AEW tag team championship.  So I guess that means Kenny Omega and Hangman Page have to do the title match soon, which suggests Page can’t immediately go back to hiding in the woods.  Maybe?  I mean, good for Hangman staying at home.  I’m just saying I don’t have a clue what’s going on in the tag team division.  Anyway, Kassidy and Quen are cool and they’ll be big someday, but it’s pretty clear that AEW thinks “someday” is ways off.  The Best Friends are the clear favorite to win, although an upset isn’t totally impossible.

[rogerina-yee-haw]

“at least I’m one”

chapter 3: “- the broken rules and true affection”

sd!gwilym lee x reader

[the goodbye] [the sadness & tenderness]

summary: you and gwil met ten months ago; and he offered you to be his sugar baby almost immediately. you agreed at that exact moment, not knowing where it would get you.

warnings: badly written smut (again) sorry y’all; angst, fluff, cursing, cringy behavior, author’s spelling and grammar errors, typos

a/n: hey y’all ily!!! thanks for waiting!! i love you all!! I’m sorry it took me so long!! I’m dying at uni!! 

also, I wanted to thank you for 350+ followers like??? how did it happen?? I don’t deserve all of your pretty souls?? but seriously, you all are amazing and wonderful, and I hope you have a beautiful day <3

I :) hope :) this :) chapter :) isn’t :) a :) complete :) piece :) of :) garbage :) (it is imao sorry)

P.S.

there are three chapters left. 

As you follow your parents through the long and silent corridors of the hospital, you can surely say that you feel much better.

Becca gave birth to a beautiful baby boy; and you have never seen her happier. She and Jackson looked so felicitous with their newborn in Becca’s arms, that you couldn’t but shed a tear. For the first time during this day it wasn’t a sad cry; you were really happy.

Your sister needed rest after the tough night of labor; so you and your parents decided it would be better for you to leave. And now you are going home, back to your apartment, April and sorrows.

“Sweetheart, are you okay?” your mum lightly touches your hand; you give her a fake smile in response. You can’t tell her the truth; and was there ever even a slight bit of truth about you and Gwil? Everything your parents know about this relationship is built on lies. You can’t tell her that you fell in love with your sugar daddy but he proposed to another sugar baby, and that’s why you’re heartbroken. You simply can’t.

“Just tired”, you smile weakly. “Can’t even imagine how Becca’s still able to talk and, y’know; behave as a normal human being after having such an experience”. Your mum lets out a laugh.

“Becca is strong. And she likes being the center of attention, so her desire to talk is quite understandable”.

“Put it this way, love”, your father joins the conversation, “Becca just wants everyone to praise her. That’s her character”.

“She deserves that praise”, you say.

Your father smiles. “Of course she does. She’s a hero”.

When your parents offer to give you a ride, you refuse, saying Janet is supposed to pick you up; you lie, once again. You’re not ashamed of yourself – you wouldn’t survive if you never lied. That’s just another deception. Just another delusion for your parents and you to believe in.

No one’s here to pick you up. Janet is probably having fun at that party, Billy’s sleeping, and Gwil… You sigh deeply. You just can’t continue doing it to yourself anymore. One more thought about Gwilym, one more memory – and you’re sure you’ll jump off of some building. You won’t make it through the night if you continue thinking about him.

He’s gone. He’s engaged to Alice. He’s not yours. He has never been yours. That’s all that you have to know for moving on.  But you simply don’t know how; Gwil has been a part of your life for ten months, you can’t just move on. That’s not possible.

When you get into the cab, you’re on the verge of crying again; all the bliss, given by Becca’s baby boy, is gone. You look through the car window – the streets of London are full of people on this Friday night. All of them are having fun, laughing and just enjoying themselves; and even if they have some troubles in their life, they simply forget about them while drinking tons of alcohol. If you do the same thing, you’d end up on Gwilym’s doorstep. You know that for sure.

Almost twenty minutes later you come back home; it’s silent there, as usual. You don’t even turn the lights on – you don’t want to see what kind of mess your flat is now. “Probably as messy as I am”, you think when you sit down on the couch.

On the floor, right in front of you, there is a bag. The bag. You take a deep breath before reaching your hand to it; you have to look through the stuff you took from Gwil’s apartment. You had to do that to cope with your feelings, to try to move on. You can’t let yourself drown in your sorrows, not being able to throw away everything related to him. You need to get rid of the memories. You have to do that just in case. Just to realize if the pain is still that strong.

The red flannel shirt is the first thing that you put out of the bag.

And you can’t even comprehend how much pain it causes you. It makes your chest ache, and you feel like your heart is going to explode.

And there you have enough of your weak attempts in moving on.

You burst into tears, squeezing the shirt in your hands; it still smells like him. Because it’s his, it’s his shirt. The one he says he hates so much, that he didn’t even protest when you borrowed it. The memories of this day are still fresh, and you let yourself drown in them, you give in. You can’t fight, you’re not that powerful. You can’t move on, you’re not that strong to do this. You want to drown in your sorrows, because it’s the only way to be with him now.

Still crying, you put the shirt over your shoulders. “Looks good on you”, Gwil used to say when you wore it. “It was a lie”, you whisper while curling up on the couch; you keep sobbing and wrapping the shirt around yourself. “Another lie to play with me”, you say under your breath, tears still streaming down your cheeks when you doze off. Your sleep isn’t peaceful; you dream about Gwilym, again and again.

                                            ╰╮✾╭╯✯╰╮✾╭╯

                                                     September.

“So you agree?”

You looked into the contract one more time; you furrowed your brows just to seem focused. To be honest, you’ve lost the ability to concentrate the moment you saw Gwil inside of the restaurant. He looked like the fucking Adonis in his dark-grey three-piece suit, and you couldn’t get the image of him roughly lifting you up from your seat and fucking you right on this table till you see the stars. You kept reminding yourself that it wasn’t right, that you just met him seven hours ago. You had no idea who he was until he approached you in that posh shop.

At one point you started doubting whether you needed that or not; but then you realized one simple thing. This beautiful, heavenly looking man was offering you the life you could never afford. Alright, maybe if you worked yourself to death – maybe then you could afford buying expensive clothes and jewelry. Also being alone for a year and a half had its own influence – and by that you certainly meant a badly hidden desire to have sex with Gwilym right there and then.

You sighed deeply, as you looked through the rules. They weren’t bad; as they weren’t, by no means, crossing any lines in any way. They were normal. They were adequate. You couldn’t ask for more. That was your chance to get free cash and hook up with a pretty dude. You couldn’t miss such an opportunity.

“I do”.

                                           ╰╮✾╭╯✯╰╮✾╭╯

rule №7. no contact with each other’s families and friends.

                                                        March.

“Someone get this goddamn door!”

Your mother’s scream was able to bring dead back to life; but now it only made you realize that you might lose your hearing, if she shouted like that one more time.

“Haven't you people ever heard of closing the goddamn door?” Billy seemed to notice the way you winced when you heard your mother’s loud voice; and that’s why he decided to proclaim the song’s lyrics right into your ear. It made you growl, and you turned around to hit him on the shoulder.

“Idiot!” you said. “Go get the door”.

“I’m too busy to do that”.

You raised your eyebrows at him in disbelief; Billy was just messing around while his mother and you were helping your mum with preparing food and guests. Your dad and Becca with Jackson were of great help, too; everyone was doing something except for this dumbass. He grinned widely, seeing your frustration. “Besides, t’s not my house. I’m not allowed to open doors and, y’know, behave wildly”.

“Swift, for fuck’s sake, you’ve spent more time in this house than anywhere else”, you sighed. “And you certainly opened the doors for, like, million times”.

“But-“

“Billy!” his mother stormed into the kitchen “Stop wandering around and go get the door!” she took the bowl with fruits into her hands. “Or I’ll make you chat with Zelda!” she added before heading to the dining room. Billy’s eyes widened and he seemed to start trembling the second he heard your aunt’s name; so he left the kitchen immediately. You chuckled; this day was already a piece of work. Every time such a big family gathering happened, you knew that something would eventually be fucked up. Today was no exception, as it was your mother’s fiftieth birthday.

She wanted to have both her sisters, three best friends with their children and, of course, her own family present at such an important event. Three best friends included Mrs. Swift with her dumbass of a son Billy, Mrs. Johnson, and Mrs. Raymonds with her daughter Alexis and son James. 

James had been a pain in your ass today since the moment he entered the house. You expected to successfully avoid talking to him, but it seemed as if he wanted to speak to you more than anything. You couldn’t really understand why. You hadn’t communicated properly for four years, right since your breakup, and you didn’t really want to; firstly, because before you were too invested in your relationship and split with Luke, and now because of Gwilym.

You closed your eyes and let out a sigh. How you wished to have Gwil here now; you knew that with him everything would be so much better. And, moreover, if Gwil was here, James wouldn’t be bothering you. You couldn’t tell him to fuck off; you were too nice for that. Besides, you didn’t want to ruin the “normal” relationship that you two had – if it was possible to call it like that. 

He was not only your childhood friend, but your ex, your first kiss, your first sex and your first heartbreak. Every “first” that happened to you was connected to James; and no matter how much thankful you were to him for giving you a necessary experience, you couldn’t but regret your decision to date your mum’s best friend’s son at the age of fourteen. If you never saw him again, everything would be so much easier. All just because he was awfully clingy and tedious; it seemed as if he had never grown up and was still stuck in high school. And he was an idiot in high school.

“You need help?” As your back was facing the kitchen’s entrance, you couldn’t miss the opportunity to roll your eyes when you heard James’s voice. It took you everything not to tell him to fuck off, as you put a fake smile on your face and turned around to see him standing near the fridge. A couple of steps more – and he would be right in front of you. Disgusting.”No; but thank you for the offer, James”.

“Oh, Y/N”, he smiled and moved a bit forward; your fists tightened and you clenched your jaw, still smiling. “You’re always welcome”.

Please, dear God. Save me from this monstrosity.

Billy was humming the song about the poor groom and his whore-bride as he approached the door; he was happy enough to avoid talking to aunt Zelda for a while. She was the most annoying person he had ever met, and she also hated him to death; so opening the door was quite a good opportunity.

A tall dude in a suit with bouquet of flowers on Y/L/N’s house’s doorstep surprised Billy; as he was 5’6” himself, everyone taller than that seemed like a giant to him. And this really handsome pal was certainly intimidating. “You alright, mate?” Billy examined him from heat to foot; the suit was totally expensive and the man himself looked like a fucking duke.

“Is Y/N here?” his voice was deep and a bit husky; Billy furrowed his brows – he had no idea you were aquianted with someone from the Royal Family.

“Y/N!” he screamed. “That’s for you!”

When James was almost standing near you, Billy’s voice saved your day. “Thank God!” you shouted in response and flew out of the kitchen; no matter who was there, you were happy enough it happened. You saw Billy standing in front of the open door; leaning to the doorway, that was leading from the hall to the living room, you let out a sigh of relief. You didn’t even see who was at the door; and at the moment you didn’t care, as you stood there, panting, with your eyes closed.

“Fucking James”, you breathed. “I hate this fucking wanker so much, you don’t even know, Billy”.

“Oh no, I do, trust me, Y/L/N. ‘Cause I hate him more”.

“If I hear his fucking voice one more time, I swear-“

“Who’s James?”

You couldn’t believe it; did the voice that you heard belong to Gwilym? Your eyes went round; and when you finally saw him, standing on your parents’ house’s doorstep, your eyes lit up and your mouth curved into a smile. He was there.

“Gwil”, you mouthed. He beamed, and his whole face lit up when he saw you. Or maybe it just seemed to you that it did.

“Y/N”, he said, “hey”.

“I’m Billy!” he chimed in, resting his chin on your shoulder; your smile faded as your rolled your eyes at him.

“Swift, go to the kitchen and help our mums”, you said quickly. He huffed.

“And talk to Raymonds? No, thank you.”

As you kept maintaining eye contact with Gwil, you couldn’t but close your eyes and let out an exasperated sigh. “Billy”, you said through gritted teeth, “go and help our mums”.

“Y/L/N-“

“Billy!” you turned around; if it was possible to burn someone down with just one simple gaze, Billy would have been dead already. “Go and do it, while I’m asking you nicely!” you pinched his shoulder so strongly, that he jumped and let out a squeak.

“Alright!” he raised his hands. “I’ll do anything if you stop hitting and pinching me. Bloody woman”, he mumbled, while leaving.

“Sorry about him”, you looked back at Gwil; he was still smiling at you. “He’s just twelve, really”. 

“Is that your best friend you told me about?”

“Yeah”. Only then you noticed he was holding a bouquet of lilies.

“That’s my mum’s favourite flowers”, you said quietly. “How’d you know?”

His gaze was fixed on your face; and you couldn’t but look away because you felt extremely flustered.

“You said it once. I remembered”.

You melted like an ice-cream under the scorching sun. He remembered that? It took your father twenty-seven years of marriage to memorize his wife’s favorite flowers, and here was Gwil – remembering about it for some time. You didn’t even know how to react.

But then you realized one thing. He was not supposed to be here. He was your sugar daddy; and one of the rules was not to have any contact with each other’s families of friends. What exactly was he doing here?

“What are you doing here?” you asked. “You said you gonna have a business trip”.

He smiled. “I deferred it to the next weekend. Couldn’t leave my girl alone with her, as she says that, crazy family”.

My girl. Of course, you heard him say that million times; but something was different now, you could feel it in your bones.

You smiled like an idiot, while he was taking off his coat; he beamed at you back, and there you were – two grinning idiots, who stood in your parents’ house’s hallway. That was so much you wanted to tell him; how thankful you were that he came, but mostly you wanted to kiss him softly and whisper “I love you” in between kisses.

“You’re gonna regret it”, you say instead. “They’re embarrassing”.

He chuckled and took your hand; Gwil pressed a sweet kiss to your knuckles. “I will never regret a minute spent with you. Even if your family is embarrassing”. He pulled you closer, and you were perfectly safe and sound in his arms. The flowers, lying on the little sofa in the hallway, were long forgotten, as well as guests, food and the world. Gwil was warm and lovely, and you closed your eyes, resting your head in the crook of his neck. You would stay like this forever. You didn’t need anything, anyone else, but him, just him, only him. You had no idea why he was there, when he could be somewhere else, with another sugar baby, having sex and buying jewelry. But he was there, with you.

“You are stunning”, he whispered in your ear. “Red looks good on you”. You let out a chuckle against his neck. God, that was so silly.

“You bought me this dress, after all”, you answered quietly. Gwil hummed in response and kissed your hair; you pulled away from his neck, catching him staring at you in awe. You lost yourself in his blue eyes, lost yourself forever in his mesmeric gaze. Was this love? For you, yeah. For you, it was everything you ever wanted – it seemed that Gwilym walked into your life in that dark-blue suit at the end of the September right from your dreams. You didn’t even know when exactly you fell in love with him – but you knew it was more than just a simple arrangement now. At least for you.

“It’s not the point, baby”, his fingers traced different shapes on your back and Gwil could certainly feel you shivering under the dress. “You look good in everything”. He pressed a kiss on your forehead, and you both smiled. It was perfect.

“You must be the mysterious guy Y/N always talks about!” You let out a squeak and jumped back from Gwilym in an instant; your sister was leaning onto the doorframe and grinning impishly. You pressed a hand to your chest and cursed under your breath. “I’m Becca, her elder sister”, her and Gwil shook hands and you couldn’t but roll your eyes; Becca was up to something. You didn’t like the thought of it; any idea of your sister always turned out to be a disaster.

You all walked in the dining-room; and the whole place went from a loud chat to complete silence. Aunt Zelda, as you noticed, was examining Gwil thoroughly. You furrowed your brows and rolled your eyes; your aunt was evidently interested in a good-looking man who just walked in with you. You let out an exasperated sigh and rolled your eyes once again, this time thinking that they may just stay inside of your head if you do that one more time. You saw Billy barely holding back his hysterical laugh, when you sat down at the table; you stopped yourself from slapping your forehead and throwing something at Swift. Your attention was drawn to Becca and Jackson as they were having whispered conversation, while looking at you and Gwil. James looked confused, when you gave him a brief look; his opinion was the last one you were interested in. You were so invested in observing everyone’s reaction that you missed the main one – your mum’s.

“….boyfriend?”

You frowned hearing the scraps of the conversation; you turned your head and caught your mum and dad talking to Gwilym. You looked at them, being disoriented, as you heard him saying that. “Yes, I am. I’m Y/N’s boyfriend”.

You tilted your head, still furrowing your brows. Boyfriend?

“I’m Y/N’s boyfriend”, for fuck’s sake, what?

“Holy shit”, you almost mumbled, still staying bewildered; he didn’t just say what he said, did he?

Boyfriend? No. He was not your boyfriend. He was the exact opposite. He bought you expensive shit and fucked you into oblivion. He was your sugar daddy. He was providing you with money and taking you to luxurious resorts to spend the weekend there. He made an arrangement, came up with rules for both of you to follow. He had other women as his sugar babies, whom he fucked too. He was a boss in the huge ass company. He was a literal Disney Prince. He was this, and not your boyfriend.

But he took care of you when you were terribly sick after your romantic getaway in Aspen. He held you tightly when you were crying. He cuddled you until you fell asleep in his arms, both of you beaming. He praised every part of your body. He wrote you cute letters every day, saying how much he adored you. He told you he was proud of you when you got a promotion. He made you a bubble bath with candles lit around and sweet music playing on the background. He did facemasks with you while watching your favorite shows. He told you he didn’t want to let you go. He made you feel valued and protected, for the first time after two failed relationships. He made you feel as if it wasn’t just an arrangement. He made you feel like he loved you.

Your heart skipped a beat at this thought. Loved you? No, that was ridiculous. Gwilym couldn’t love you; he could love Alice, a small pretty thing with her piercing gaze and gracious movements; or his other sugar baby, Zoe, with her husky voice and plump lips. He could love someone much more skinnier than you, someone not that tall, and someone not that awkward. He was way out of your league; and still, somehow, he was there, at your family’s gathering, talking to your relatives and resting his hand on your thigh.  He was there, with you, not anywhere else. He was there. 

You exchanged glances, smiled at each other; throughout the whole evening he never stopped whispering into your ear about how beautifully you looked. He held your hand and kissed it, when there was an opportunity. Gwil was talking to your dad about science and business, like your father had a clue about any of those things; he even chatted with Billy for a moment, which made you smile lightly. It seemed to you that every time he looked at you, his eyes lit up.  And for a moment you knew - he was yours. Only yours.

                                          ╰╮✾╭╯✯╰╮✾╭╯

rule №2. accept every gift that is given.

                                                     February.

It was so good.

The sound of Gwil’s skin clapping against yours, the way he gripped your hips and sucked on the skin in the crook of your neck made you arch your back, your breasts pressing into his chest. He growled, and it sent shivers down your spine. His thrusts were now faster, as he was as close as you.

“You like it like that, right, baby?”

You were clinging onto him as if it was the matter of life and death; and it was, indeed. He was giving you what you needed. Finally. “Yes, daddy”, you mouthed. “I’m so close”, you were breathing hard and saying these words wasn’t very easy as well; but it was what he wanted – you spoke. Gwil thrusted into you harshly, burying himself inside of you so deeply that you could only scream his name in pleasure. It seemed that you both had forgotten about the little game you played. You were more than happy to realize that; even though you were terribly wrong about Gwilym.

He started moving slower in you and then pulled out; your eyes were wide open the second he did that. What the actual fuck?

You rose on your elbows; your brows drew together as you watched this asshole slyly grin. “You said…” you were panting. “You said…you…”

“That I’ll let you cum in the bedroom?” he replied. “That’s true”, he shrugged his shoulders. “But you didn’t catch one little thing, love”, Gwil was hovering over you again. “By that I meant master bedroom. And this”, he pressed a kiss on your lips, “This is certainly not the master bedroom”.

You looked at him with wide eyes and sighed loudly. In a master bedroom? “There are seven bedrooms in this house”, you mumbled, when you head fell back onto the pillows. He was kidding, right? He didn’t let you cum neither in the kitchen nor in the living room, and promised you’d come in the bedroom – but now, turned out that he was just messing with you? You covered your eyes with your hand and sighed deeply. This was going to be a long ride; and with Gwil’s desire to edge you until you were begging and telling him exactly what he wanted – you knew you would be exhausted as fuck.

“This can end very quickly, y’know it, love”, he hovered over you, you could feel it; your eyes were still closed and jaw clenched tightly. You didn’t want to give in. You didn’t start playing this game just to let him win in the end.

It wasn’t exactly a game, though. You were just rejecting his gift, and that’s all. The only thing was that not accepting the present was another violation of rules. And, also, that his gift was a fucking three-storied house. A freaking mansion with a huge garage, a back garden, and, like, fifty rooms. He just said, “It’s a simple gift, love”, and you jaw fell open at his words. Simple fucking gift; the one you never asked for. That was too much. Money, Cartier bracelets, diamond necklaces and designer clothes were great and amazing, but the house? You knew Gwil couldn’t get enough of spoiling, but he crossed the line here, even for a sugar daddy. Even for this type of relationship buying a house was too much.

But he, apparently, didn’t think so. He kept on insisting it didn’t mean anything, that he didn’t even spend that much money on it. Your blood was boiling, and you could feel your ass burning with anger. 

Now your ass was burning too, but because of how much Gwil was spanking you. You were ready to come undone just cause of it, but this asshole didn’t let you. He wouldn’t let you come until you accepted the gift. And even though you really liked the house, you couldn’t just agree on his terms and take it. No. It was too much. Even for such a rich dude like Gwil.

“I just have to accept your gift and shut up, right?” you said through gritted teeth. Gwil furrowed his brows, and took your hand from your face. Your eyes were open as you were looking at him irritably.

“I never told you to shut up”, his tone was serious as he was staring you in the eyes. “And it’s not what I meant. You know that”. He sounded offended; you suddenly felt guilty about your behavior. You were acting like a bitch the second you saw the house, and said some stupid shit, like “I hate this fucking house". He shouldn’t have bought it, but you shouldn’t be a brat about it either. He did  it not 'cause he wanted to buy you, no; he did it because that’s how he showed his affection. And it was part of your arrangement, part of then rules after all; he always sticked to them, unlike you.

“I do”, you cupped his face in your hands, looking at him softly. “I know that you don’t mean anything like that”, you pressed a lingering kiss to his lips. He kissed you back eagerly, putting his hands on your waist and pulling himself lower, closer to you. You both were naked, aroused and hungry for each other. You pulled away trying to catch your breath. “But I still can’t accept this gift, Gwil”.

Gwilym let out a loud groan as he rolled over to another side of the bed. “Why’s that, Y/N?” he tried to sound neutrally but you could feel irritation coming out of his whole body.

“Baby, I told you already”, you sighed tiredly. “The house’s too big, too expensive. I can’t accept it”.

“It’s a gift, love”, he ran his fingers through his hair. “You don’t have to think about its price”.

You rolled over to face him, but he wasn’t looking at you; he lied on his back, breathing heavily with eyes closed. Too annoyed to even speak to you. And even though he wouldn’t speak to you through his mouth, you knew through what he would certainly answer you. If he said “no” to it, you would never insist on keep going. You were both keeping each other comfortable, always.

He was still rock hard and you had to restrain yourself from moaning. He might have been a huge ass with the whole edging thing today, but you wanted him like crazy, always and constantly.

 He let out a groan when you straddled him. You tried your best to keep a straight face, but you were so fucking wet that no facial expression could save you.Gwil felt that; thinking that you were insisting on continuation of the sex, he put his hands on your hips, trying to make you move; but you had other plans for him. You took his hands off of you and put them on his sides. “What will people say when they learn I’m living in such a big house?” you traced circles on his chest with your fingers; he drew in a long breath, gripping the sheets. “No one would believe I’m able to even rent it. I’m not really rich, baby”, you kept maintaining eye-contact; him inside of you and neither of you moving.

“Fuck them”, he whispered. He made you feel like a goddess just by looking at you that lovingly and hungrily. You moaned at the thought, and Gwil took this chance to putting his hands on your hips again. You raised an eyebrow and brushed his hands off. He didn’t let you cum. Now you were going to torture him for a little bit as well.

“No touching, Gwil. You can’t do that unless I say so”.

He licked his lips and grinned, surprised by your sudden dominance. He liked seeing you like this: confident and naked. Gwil’s favorite moods of yours.

“Shit, Y/N”, he grunted. “You feel amazing. So tight and beautiful”.

You gasped; Gwil was well aware of the effect his words had upon you, and he smiled, no, he fucking grinned, looking at you, almost twirling in ecstasy already.

The smug look on his face vanished when you started rocking your hips against him. Moving up and down his cock, you moaned and clung on his chest with your nails. He hissed, gripped the sheets tightly but never touched you. You rode him fast and needy, trying to reach your climax sooner than he noticed. “Feels so good”, you whined. Sweaty, greedy, whimpering, with head tilted back and nails digging in his chest – just the sight of you like this could make Gwil lose control. He wanted to thrust into you harshly, touch you everywhere, run his fingers through your hear and caress your face as you rode you both to orgasm – but he followed your rules. Not only 'cause he liked that, but also because he wanted to show you that obedience wasn’t too bad. Although he would certainly disagree with it right now, when he couldn’t even kiss you. “Touch me”, you breathed, needing his hands on you. God, you needed him in so many ways.

“Finally”.

He squeezed your breasts immediately; you moaning echoed in the room, making him even more turned on than he already was. Your walls clenched against him, and no matter how much he wanted to continue your little game, he wanted to fuck you properly more. He wanted to hear you screaming, wanted to see your face when you cum. God, he wanted all of you just to him.

You felt your orgasm coming in any moment, and you bit your lip to hold back moans, so that Gwil wouldn’t stop. But he didn’t even intend to. Not this time. “Come on, baby”, he whispered, caressing your sides, “come for me”.

Gwilym’s words made you lose it, lose all the power you thought you had. You fell onto him, burying your face in the crook of his neck, as he was fucking you now, hitting that exact spot inside you that drove you crazy. “Gwil”, you panted against his neck; and  your hot breath sending shivers down his spine and making him thrust into you harder. “I’m gonna cum”, you said in an unsteady voice, while gripping his shoulders and digging your nails in there.

“Let go, baby”.

He let out a pure animalistic growl and suddenly flipped you over, so you were underneath him. He attacked your lips with his, giving you the most heated and loving kiss in your life. You wrapped your legs around his waist so that he could have a batter access to hit your g-spot; with your hands on his neck, you didn’t let him to break the kiss, deepening it, trying to fight for dominance. But dominance was his thing in bedroom.

He buried himself so deep inside of you that you two could only moan into each other’s mouths; you both reached your highs together, skin to skin, in unison, screaming one another’s names and grabbing the sheets. You both needed that.

Some minutes later, when you came down from your high Gwil left a delicate kiss on your forehead and got up; throwing the used condom into the trash, he turned around and saw you lying down with your hand covering your face. The blissful smile on your face and steady breathing told him that you were ready to nod off.

“Falling asleep on me, aren’t ya?” he lied down next to you; Gwil took your hand and pressed a kiss to it.

You took a deep breath. “Just give me a couple of minutes”, your reply was weak; Gwilym chuckled and smacked your ass playfully. You giggled and turned your face to him; you struggled to even open your eyes.

“Let’s get some sleep, love”, Gwil said quietly. He adjusted your pillows and put a blanket over the two of you; after he pulled your closer, your back on his chest, and his arms wrapped around you. He kissed you hair and you smiled sleepily.

“I still can’t accept your gift”, you continued your almost long-forgotten argument. Gwilym took in a deep breath and buried his face in your hair.

“I can’t argue with you anymore”, he mumbled, “I’ll accept any decision you make, Y/N”.

“Thank you”, you whispered. “But I love this house”, he chuckled at your words.

“I know. I did everything here like you love it. Just for you”.

You smiled lightly and hummed in response. “Wake me up in ten minutes”, you said leaning in closer to him. “I’ll be ready to continue till we get to the master bedroom”. Gwilym pressed a warm kiss to your shoulder.

“This is the master bedroom now”.

As you nodded off, feeling warm and safe in Gwil’s arms, you were beaming; when your mind was drowning in drowsiness, you felt a warm breath on your neck and heard Gwilym’s voice saying softly, “I love you so much, Y/N”. But you knew it was just a dream. Reality couldn’t give you something like this. Never.

                                         ╰╮✾╭╯✯╰╮✾╭╯

rule №6. no contact with other sugar babies.

                                                December.

“When you’re gonna be home?”

You locked your phone after texting Gwil; you didn’t want to bother him, but it was Christmas Eve and you weren’t amused by spending it alone in his empty penthouse. He was called for work, and promised you to come back in three hours. The clock struck five in the evening. Gwil left at ten A.M.

You sighed deeply as you looked at the served table. You wanted to surprise him by cooking a festive dinner; it wasn’t like you were a chef, on the contrary – you couldn’t cook for shit. But, as you planned this thing, you googled some recipes and tried to cook something simple, but yet delicious. You had strange desire to be domestic with Gwilym – to cook food, do laundry, clean the house, and take kids from school… You didn’t even know when you first started imagining you two living a happy, suburban life in a pretty house with three children. Before Gwil you didn’t want kids. Now you were questioning all of your life choices. You were never able to have hook ups and not catch feelings. And this was certainly just a “hook up”, as you thought in the beggining. Only now it was much more.

“Soon, baby. I promise”.

His text gave you hope; his “soon” could be in ten minutes. You looked over the table in panic, quickly lighting candles. You ran to the nearest room; looking yourself up and down in the mirror, you twisted a ring on your index finger nervously. This green dress was exactly what Gwilym liked: it was tight, giving a perfect opportunity to observe all of your curves, and also very short. The color wasn’t exactly in the style of Christmas, but red lace lingerie underneath the dress was quite in the mood of the holiday. You knew Gwil would have gone crazy the second he came back home. He gave you  so much during those months and you just wanted to get him a pleasant reward; and you were also head over heels for him. That was pretty simple.

Suddenly you heard heels clattering on the marble floor of the living room; you frowned, trying to understand who was there. Was Gwil wearing heels? You wouldn’t be surprised at that. Or was it Gwil’s sister again? Not that you didn’t like her, you just wanted him all to yourself tonight; even though you weren’t against spending time with his family.

“Heather?” you called while heading back to the living-room.

It wasn’t Heather.

It was a girl in a coat and high-heeled ankle boots; her eyes were gleaming in the dark as she was reading the note she took from Gwil’s plate.

“Unwrap your gift”, she said; she raised her head and looked at you haughtily. “Who are you?”

“And you?” you asked in confusion. “How did you come in?”

“The door’s was open”.

“No, it was not”.

You stared at each other, trying to burn yourselves with your glares; you had a strong feeling that it was one of Gwilym’s other two sugar babies.

“I assume you’re Y/N”, she sat down at the table, at Gwil’s place. “You got a nice dinner here”.

“Thanks”, you squeaked. You already felt helpless and hopeless in front of her; she was this black-haired goddess with a sly grin on her face. She was confident. You weren’t like that. “That’s actually…” you were speaking quietly. “That’s for Gwil”.

She huffed. “Of course, it is. I’m Alice, if you don’t know that”, it felt like you were supposed to know her name and whom  she was. It seemed like she was the one who was supposed to be there. You suddenly felt really uncomfortable in her presence; her whole behavior was telling you to get out.

And here you were again. Feeling unnecessary, needless, unwanted.

“I’ve been with Gwil since I was twenty-three, like you are now”, she took a sip from the glass with champagne. “We’re having three-year anniversary this year”, she said with a smug smile.

“You sound like you’re dating”.

“We do”.

“No”.

The sound of his voice was something you craved for. It was like oxygen in the room with no windows and doors. It was like a light in the darkness.

“Daddy!” Alice jumped from her seat and beamed. Oh god, you already wanted to leave. She was looking at him so hungrily that you didn’t even know what you were doing there. You were an extra one. Unwanted. “You’re back! Y/N was just leaving”, she glared at you and raised her eyebrows, giving you a silent order. And you, with your zero self-esteem and very high level of shyness, obeyed.

“I’ve gotta go”, you muttered, heading to the door. Gwil, who stood not so far from you, immediately reached out and grabbed you by the wrist.

“Y/N, no. Please. Don’t go. Please”. He begged you to stay. Gwilym wanted you there, with him. You. Not Alice. The realization of it hit you suddenly, as you looked in his eyes.

You nodded, and he let go of your wrist, now intertwining his fingers with yours. “Alice is leaving”.

“Now, I’m not!” she tried to object, but Gwilym had none of her bullshit.

“You’re leaving. D’you remember what rule number five is about?”

Alice lowered her head and mumbled, “Never visit each other without calling beforehand”.

“Exactly. You broke it. Now you’re staying without your monthly supply. And getting the fuck out of my house”.

You could have sworn she muttered “Bitch” under her breath as she was passing by you. When she slammed the door, Gwil went to close it quickly; then he approached you and pulled you into a hug. “I’m sorry it happened”, he whispered.

“T’s alright”. You were silent for a moment. “I made you dinner; was afraid she’s gonna eat it”.

Gwil laughed and pulled away, his gaze fixed on you; “Did ya, really?” he sounded surprised. You smiled and nodded; then you took his hand and leaded him to the table. “Wow”, he gasped. “You didn’t have to, Y/N”, your gazes met and you smiled at him one more time, your eyes sparkling like diamonds.

“I wanted to, Gwil”.

He pulled you in a desperate kiss; it seemed as if he tried to show his whole affection and gratitude through it. “Thank you, baby”, he whispered against your lips. “I don’t deserve you”.

You rolled your eyes, ruining the moment and walked to your seat at the other side of the table. “Don’t start this”, you said, sitting down. Gwil chuckled as he took his seat; some seconds later you caught him staring at you.

“What’s for dessert?”

You looked at him with raised eyebrow and a smirk on your face. “You will find out later”, you winked at him.

                                                         ***

                                                        May.

“Y/N, stop apologizing. I’ve already told you everything’s alright”.

You couldn’t stop saying “Sorry” and nervously play with your hair the entire time you were sitting in your flat with Zoe; it was the first time you met each other and you were extremely anxious. She looked dazzling, like a star; she was smoking already a third cigarette in the last fifteen minutes.

“Alice’s the one who has to apologize, if to be honest”, she looked at you. “This bitch fed me with ugly lies about the sweetest person I’ve ever met”.

“Are you talking ‘bout me?”

“Absolutely”.

A small smile settled on your lips; Zoe was really sweet and nice, despite what you had been thinking about her. There was something charming, mysterious about her. You could certainly say why Gwil liked her, even if it broke your heart completely. “So, where were we?” Zoe asked.

“You were telling me about what Alice told you”.

“Oh right”, she nodded. “Alice has like a friend, a source in the company, where Gwil works. This “source” finds out everything about him, dunno how. This person told Alice about Gwil’s ex, Stefanie. I was fucking heartbroken after I heard that story”, she lit another cigarette.

“What’s about it?”

“Oh, Y/N, there’s so much. They were engaged, been together since school. Apparently, he loved her too much to notice that she started getting expensive jewelry and clothes. He believed every word she said, when she lied, telling she bought it herself. It turned out that she had three sugar daddies. And if he could forgive her just getting the money from them, he certainly couldn’t forgive her sleeping with all of them. It’s been like seven years since it happened and he’s still too eager to spoil us so much so that we wouldn’t even think about having someone else”.

You sat down on your couch, looking at Zoe in a state of complete shock. But she continued her story. “Gwil talks too much when he’s drunk; that’s how this source knows all of it”.

“You are his first sugar baby, right?”

Your question hung in the silence of the room. “Yeah. Been for four years”.

“And he never told you this?”

Zoe furrowed her brows and she took another drag. “No. We don’t talk about stuff like that. We usually just have some kind of small talk. He just gives me money-“

“In exchange for sex”, you interrupted her, voice thick with jealousy. Zoe chuckled.

“No. Not anymore at least”.

Your eyes widened at her words. “Why?”

Zoe shrugged her shoulders. “I dunno. He called it off several months ago, actually, with both me and Alice. He still gives us money, yeah, but nothing more than that. And if for the reason why – I think it’s ‘cause he’s just as in love with you as you’re with him”.

You gasped; you didn’t expect her to say something like that. You frowned and crossed your arms over your chest. “I don’t-“, you stuttered. “I’m not-“

“Yes, you are”, Zoe huffed. “Come on, Y/N, you know it’s true. He wouldn’t call off two opportunities to fuck whenever he wants just ‘cause he’s bored. No. There’s something more. He loves you, you dumb bitch”.

“He doesn’t, Zoe. He doesn’t and he never will”.

                                        ╰╮✾╭╯✯╰╮✾╭╯

You are awoken by a loud, non-stopping knocking on your door. You take in a sharp breath, struggling with getting up; your head is throbbing violently, as you stand up from the couch. It’s already dark outside; and you wonder how much time you have spent sleeping. Twelve hours? Fourteen? No matter how many of them – you are still sore, sad and hurt. Everything hurts so badly.

But you’re still wearing Gwil’s shirt. The feeling of its fabric on your skin makes you somehow feel better. Warmer. Makes feel a little bit alive.

The loud knocking proceeds as you walk towards the door. You think that it’s probably your mum coming to see you; you don’t answer your phone as you’ve been sleeping for so long.

When you open the door you expect to see a middle-aged woman with brown hair and angry voice, who’ll start lecturing you immediately as she always does. But your expectations are nothing compared to reality.

With red swollen eyes (like he’s been crying), messy hair and a backpack, which is slowly falling from his shoulder – that’s what  he looks like standing at your doorstep. You don’t understand why he’s here, what he needs from you. You look at him as if he was a ghost, a phantom, a shadow, that will disappear at any moment. You can’t believe he’s here.

“Gwil?”

________________________________________________________________

wtf just happend am I right haha

“alio” taglist:  @majesticdiscodeaky @heartsarecompatible @all-my-friends-are-german @magicwithaknife @longing-hiraeth @thelondondreamer5 @roger-taylors-drumsticks @runningoutofwordstosay @chlobo6 @you-and-i-deserve-the-world @queenficarchive @murydedeus03 @alis-volat-propriiis @deacycomics @hollandspcter @gwils-bitch   @crazylittlethingcalleddub-step @painthatiusedto @kaylaylaylayla @rogerinastolemyheart @broken-pieces 

[thisisamadhouse]

I met you too late

A/N: This prompt came to me and wouldn’t leave me alone so it had to be written: “I’m the ghost who haunts the house you just bought, and for some reason you’re the only one who can see me.” Also this one from @onhowtobecrazy ���s Hamilton inspired prompts seemed fitting: #12 “Dying is easy. Living is harder.” Also big thanks to Manon for her feedback and encouragements. Some dialogue are borrowed from Season 4. AO3 link

The captain goes down with the ship, that’s what Commander William Adama has always believed. From the moment he joined the Colonial Fleet almost forty years ago during the Cylon War, he never thought he would live long enough to be retired. Yet there he is, in the suburb of Caprica City, putting down the last of his boxes in the living room of the four bedrooms, three baths, furnished house he has just bought for a ridiculously cheap price only a couple of weeks after the decommissioning ceremony of the old bucket of a battlestar he has started and finished his career on.

Despite having studied the house from roof to basement, to look for any defect that would explain the unexpected bargain, and after the silent, intense glare he treated his realtor with, to no avail, he just shrugged and signed his name on the check and the paperwork.

It could seem a bit big for a single man, but he has two sons and a daughter-in-law whom he hopes will visit, and a best friend with a wife who both tend to overdo it when they have a full bottle of alcohol in front of them, and he would rather not see them drive if he can help it.

He looks around the room with its warm walls and dark cherry furniture. Even if the house has been empty for over a year, it is almost in pristine condition, only a few scraps here and there that speak of a full life spent in a place built especially for, and looked after by, the family that occupied it for as long as he has first boarded a spaceship to go and fight the Cylons, at least that’s what his realtor told him. Most of the personal items are gone, but there is one picture left behind on the mantle of the fireplace, and Bill heads towards it, curious to know more about the people who stood there before him.

He is about to grasp it when he hears someone speak out behind him.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a feminine, low, soft lilt of a voice says, and Bill swirls around, his eyes rapidly sweeping the room, looking for the intruder who managed to sneak up on him unnoticed.

A giggle then, apparently coming from the couch... the very empty, devoid of any human presence couch. Bill frowns, wondering what kind of game this is. He approaches it carefully, searching for a camera, a speaker, anything that could explain it. “Don’t bother,” the voice utters, amused, and now he is certain that he has the right location.

He starts pulling apart the cushions, throwing them on the ground, pating the structure, until the voice protests. “Hey, that’s rude, I’m right there you know,” and this time Bill thinks he can feel a breeze of cold air onto his face. He straightens up and takes a step back, frowning. If he had had the chance to fill up his drinking cabinet yet, he would be worried that he had had one too many, and this seems a bit too sudden for an early onset case of dementia. There is another possible explanation though, and he isn’t sure he likes it anymore than the others.

“What the fr…” he starts to say when the phone rings. He hesitates, looking between the couch and the phone, before shaking his head and crossing the room to pick it up.

“Don’t,” the voice says, all playfulness gone, the tone all at once urgent and anxious, and Bill’s forearm becomes ice cold, frost forming on his skin in a pattern, fingers, a whole hand actually. The ringing stops and the answering machine takes over.

“Hello, you’ve reached the Roslin’s, if you’re looking for Edward,” the recorded message starts with a man speaking, “Judith,�� a woman follows, “Laura, Sandra, or Cheryl,” three younger sounding voices speak in rapid succession, and one in particular holds Bill’s interest as he listens to the rest of the recording, “please leave a message and we will call you back,” the family of five talk together in a perfectly synchronized way, the message ending with a collective laugh before the beep resounds.

“Huh, I hope I’ve got the right number. I guess you haven’t had time to personalize your voicemail yet, but you really should cause that was a bit creepy. Hi, Dad, it’s Zak, by the way, but you probably already figured that out. I just wanted to check up on you, see how the moving in is going. Kara and I have some leave coming up, and we thought we might come by, have dinner, visit for a couple of days even. I talked to Lee the other day, and he is almost done with his exams so he may be able to join us. Anyway, call me back when you can. Take care.”

Bill smiles as his son’s ramblings end with another beep. Things haven’t always been easy with his boys, his career robbed him of a lot of time with them, he missed a lot, and ever since the divorce he has been trying to make it up to them. It wasn’t easy to see Zak flunk flight school, his own then fiancée now wife deeming him unfit, but his youngest found a new calling as a deckhand and he is thriving. His eldest had more success as a pilot, but in the end Lee decided to go back to school and become a lawyer. Bill can’t say it doesn’t hurt not to have any of his children follow in his footsteps, but then he remembers that he has Kara, and his daughter-in-law is worth a dozen so-called hotshot pilots at least.

He shakes himself, he will have to return Zak’s call later, but right now he has a more pressing issue, because he can barely feel his fingers, and he is pretty sure that they are turning blue from being exposed to the cold for so long.

Just as he is wondering how to solve his predicament, whatever, or as he is becoming increasingly convinced, whoever is holding him lets go.

“Sorry,” a whisper in his ear, and the sound confirms what he thought.

He heard about the Roslin tragedy on the news last year. The wave of emotion generated after the successive passing of a whole family of well-liked teachers had reached even Galactica. A few of the younger Caprican members of his crew were taught by either Edward or Judith Roslin as children, some even had siblings, nieces or nephews who were in the daughters’ classes.

It started first with the death of the mother following a long, hard-fought battle against cancer, then the car crash with a drunk driver which claimed the father and the two youngest sisters’ lives, one of them pregnant with her first child, and finally the oldest daughter who drowned in a public fountain after hearing the news. From the look of things, it appears that one of them made it home after all.

He spent his childhood listening to his grandmother talk about the ghosts she could see and was trying to help. “They are stuck, Billy,” she used to say, the only one who ever called him that. “They are neither here nor there, but they can’t let go, they can’t move on, they try to cling onto their past lives but they can’t grasp anything. Everything is so cold and dark for them, we have to help them find the light and the shore. Treat them with respect, Billy, always.” Though why he would start seeing them himself now is the real question.

“Laura,” Bill says. “You’re Laura Roslin,” he looks down where the voice came from, and it suddenly seems like a veil has been lifted. Flaming, dark red hair, translucent skin, jade eyes that widen as he looks straight into them, a petite, slender but shapely figure with endless legs, the whole picture leaves him feeling rather robbed that he never got the chance to meet her while she was alive, and the thought instantly makes him feel like an oaf.    

She nods hesitantly, and it has him wondering how long it has been since she last heard her name being pronounced. “Yes, I am,” she says more assertively. “And you can see me, that’s new.”

Through her would be a more accurate term, but Bill is not sure he wants to voice that thought. “Believe me, no one is more surprised about that development than I am. I think I would have remembered if the realtor had told me that the house came with a roommate only I could see.”

Laura shrugs. “I have never had to worry about that before. People usually don’t hang around very long.”

Bill’s eyebrows rise. “And you have absolutely nothing to do with it, of course.”

She suppresses a mischievous smile, but he still catches it, and he wonders what kind of stunts she pulled to the poor fellows who ventured here before him. “It’s my family’s house, I have every right to be here. It’s not my problem if they can’t handle it.”

He can’t help but chuckle at the petulant tone from this prim and proper teacher. “Well, you’re going to need to learn to share, because I’m here to stay.”

She purses her lips. “You don’t seem overly surprised or concerned that you’re talking to a ghost.”

“My grandmother had the gift, that’s what she called it anyway. She could see and talk to ghosts, help them find their way,” Bill tells her, and she snorts.

“You’re one of those then,” she says disdainfully. “Thinking you know exactly what’s best for me, where I should go. One of the former buyers was some kind of priest, or exorcist, I’m not sure which, I didn’t care enough to find out. He thought he knew what was best too. He lasted a week before he ran screaming.”

Bill grins, imagining the scene. “As I said, that was my grandmother. As long as you stay out of my way, I’ll stay out of yours,” he concludes, finding nothing else to say, and she seems too stunned to retort. For some reason, it makes him smirk to have rendered her speechless. Something tells him it hasn’t happened often.

He decides to get started on putting together his bookshelves, and he can feel her presence lingering near as he works. She gets closer when he fills the shelves with rows and rows of hardcovers and paperbacks, looking over his shoulders to study the edges. When he turns back towards her inquiringly as he notices her longing look, she only shrugs and disappears from view.

It is a strange living arrangement that they have, but somehow it works for them. He has never minded being alone, and in between his children and Saul’s visits, that is the case more often than not, but after spending most of his life on spaceships full to the brim with soldiers or workers, even as a Commander with his own quarters, it is not something he is used to. Her presence, as silent or as loud as she wishes it to be, fills his existence and gives rhythm to his days.

It doesn’t take him long to notice her intense yearning for reading. The fact that she has already spent hours just looking at his collection was quite a clue.

“One can flicker lights on and off, break fragile objects, generally mess around the house, -and really, Bill, that’s no place to put spoons away, and by the Gods those wine glasses! I swear I will take everything out when you’re asleep and you will have to do it all over again in the morning-, but I can’t hold on to a book without it turning into a solid block of ice within minutes. How unfair is that?” She told him without batting an eye during his second day at the house, and he had to pause, two spoons in a hand, a wine glass in the other, before deciding to call her on her bluff and tidy up as he pleased. He found all the contents of his kitchen drawers and cupboards emptied on every available surface the next morning, Laura standing in the middle of the room with a smug expression, daring him to comment.

He didn’t and he has since learned to just roll with it and not cross her, it’s way too much work anyway. He has taken the habit, in the evenings, to pick out a book and read it aloud. He starts with the standard literary masterpieces, thinking about her education and her former occupation, but, even if she listens from her usual, self-proclaimed seat on the couch, she seems to lose interest rather fast and turns back to the TV that he leaves on during the day to distract her and only mutes as he sits down in his armchair to focus on his chosen volume.

It’s a gamble to extract one of his favourite mysteries from the bookcase, but it pays off. He has barely uttered the title that she swirls towards him, giving him her full attention. He pauses, looking at her over his glasses. “You know it?” He asks, and she shakes her head.

“Edward Prima? I’m embarrassed to say that it’s one of those classics I never got around to reading, despite my weakness for mysteries,” she says, biting her bottom lip, and he really should get a grip on himself, because he is not supposed to find this endearing, especially as he starts imagining the way she would have flushed…

He is doomed.

It’s in the little things, like lighting the fireplace year round even if he can barely stand it, because she can’t keep warm otherwise; like setting out two cups in the morning and brewing her favourite tea that he will never drink just so she can inhale its scent; like picking the sport pages out of the newspaper and neatly unfolding the political ones so she can read them and huff and puff at the stupidity of their leaders.

He asks her once if she would have ever considered a career in politics, and she laughs because she hates it as much as he does. It’s a shame, he thinks, with those legs in a power suit she could have convinced anyone to follow her anywhere, him included.

It’s in the reminders, when she gives him a lead for the crosswords he is stuck on, when she tells him that he has spent too much time home and he will become an hermit before long, “I will have dinner ready when you’re back,” she teases him, as she tries to push him out of the door to join his sons or Saul.

When she respects his silence and simply sits beside him, when she listens to his stories about the good old days, and when she shares some tidbit about her life to which he hangs on like a drowning man with a lifebelt, the boxing matches with her father, her paintings, and he can never get enough of seeing her light up when she talks about her work as a teacher.

It’s in the quiet moments, when she leans over the pots as he is cooking some traditional Tauron dish and confesses that she wished she had tried it when she could; when she watches him work on his model ship amused and intrigued in turns.

He is so used to her presence that he has to reign himself in each time he has a visitor and remember that it wouldn’t do to interact with someone only he can see, though he thinks he has spied Kara’s eyes following Laura’s mouvements once or twice, he can’t be sure and he certainly won’t  ask.

It hits him fully one day, as he is reading Love and Bullets by Nick Taylo, a pile of blankets on his lap and beside him, patches of ice here and there, where Laura rests her face.

“It started as it always did, with a body. This one was in the river, and I could tell that she had once been beautiful. But this, a bullet and fast current had taken away from her. All we are, all that we think we are, all that we are certain about is taken away from us. When you’ve worked the streets and seen what I have seen, you become more and more convinced of it every day.

Caprica City had been my teacher, my mistress. From the moment I open my eyes, she’s in my blood, like cheap wine. Bitter and sweet, tinged with regret. I’ll never be free of her, nor do I want to be. For she is what I am,. All that is. Should always be.”

He pauses, pondering the words. While he can’t associate them with Caprica City, he certainly can relate them to the woman occupying his thoughts, his space, his whole existence. He allows a chuckle to escape as he finally admits to himself that he has fallen in love with a ghost, and there is absolutely nothing he can do about it.

His movements make her stir from her comfortable position, and she blinks up at him, eyebrows rising in question, but he only shakes his head before continuing his narration. What good could it do to her to reveal the extent of his foolishness?

A couple of weeks pass, and his fingers skim the shelves in search of something new. He stops when he reaches Searider Falcon, not exactly new but it had never disappointed him before.

Laura smiles widely as he shows it to her, she hasn’t read it in years, she tells him, and can’t remember how it ends, and though it is his favourite he is not much help, he has never been able to finish it, he never wanted it to be over, like a lot of things in his life.

It is a short but intense story, it doesn’t take him long to reach the seventh chapter.

“I must warn you that I’m getting into the part that I haven’t read yet,” he says, and she grins.

“Oh dear, are you going to be able to continue?”

“The raft was not as seaworthy as I had hoped. The waves repeatedly threatened to swamp it. I wasn’t afraid to die, I was afraid of the emptiness that I felt inside. I couldn’t feel anything, and that’s what scared me. You came into my thoughts, you filled them, it felt good.” He falls silent, the words resounding deep within him.

“I wish there had been someone to fill my thoughts in the end, someone still left to miss, maybe it would have made it harder,” Laura says, still and tensed, turned away from him.

“Easier you mean,” Bill counters, but she shakes her head, turning on her back, looking at the ceiling.

“Dying is easy, living is harder. Finding a reason to continue when there is no one left, when it’s so simple to just drift away. I didn’t mean to die, Bill, but in that moment, in the water, with only my memories, I let go. I could see my parents, my sisters’ faces, and they seemed to be calling me, but once it was over, I realised that they would have never wanted that for me.”

“Is that why you couldn’t move on? Because you thought they would be ashamed if you joined them?” He asks, before holding his breath in anticipation. He has always avoided the question, thinking that it is none of his business, and she would tell him if she damn well pleases, but it’s the first time she has ever talked about her death and he can’t quite help himself.

He is certain he has gone too far when a long moment passes with no reply, but then she nods, her eyes shimmering, and he reaches for her hand, squeezing it, bearing through the cold to let her know that he doesn’t need to hear more.

She was right, he thinks, as he slowly opens his eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun and a breeze over his face that smell of sea air, it is easy to die. It was bound to happen, his ticker could only do so much after all. He has no regrets though, he has lived a good life, it has taken long enough but his relationships with both his sons have been fully mended, he has seen them both happy and fulfilled, and he is so very proud. He would rather leave on a high note.

He can distinguish the golden shore and a milling crowd is assembling there, he wonders who will welcome him.

A hand slips into his, and he doesn’t need to turn to know who it is. Still, he looks at her, and his breath catches in his throat: not only is it the first time he can touch her without fearing frostbite, she also has never looked more stunning, with full colours to her cheeks, the sun shining in her eyes in such a way it makes him realise he has never seen how green they really were, and her smile… If it were possible this smile would make his heart grow three sizes.

He smiles, threading his fingers with hers, leaning down to rest his forehead against hers.

“You didn’t think you could leave without me, Commander?” Laura whispers, and he chuckles.

“The thought never crossed my mind, Ma’am.”

[201908195caic2021]

Hollywood and race – Cinema Left Black and White in the Past, Will Hollywood Do the Same?

“Spike Leeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” exclaimed Samuel L. Jackson when announcing that Spike Lee had won his first Oscar in 2019 for the BlackkKlansman . Lee responded by jumping into his arms…It was the celebration of a long-awaited formal welcome into the Hollywood family, the culmination of an almost 40-year career in which Lee had been trying to carve out a space as a commercial filmmaker.

For so long Hollywood has had a race problem, seen all way back in 1915 with The Birth of a Nation and from then on forging stereotypes of African Americans into the American minds. Stereotypes such as the Mammy, the “magical Negro”, the “best friend”, the “sassy black woman”, the “violent gang-banger” which all have little interiority and only serve to further the main plot. Gone With the Wind is deeply embedded within American culture and is arguably at fault for the stereotype of the mammy, as well as the white celebrated saviour; whilst the black characters are racial props to boost white goodness also seen in The Birth of a Nation where heroes are the KKK. The Birth of a Nation is the foundation that American cinema is built upon, a film that screened at the White House, prompting President Woodrow Wilson to declare it “history written in lightning”. It was celebrated for its technological mastery of visual storytelling, yet its narrative is nothing more than racist propaganda. Hollywood’s role in disseminating such demeaning, dehumanized, stereotypical images can no longer be ignored.

Nancy Wang Yuen’s book Hollywood Actors and Racism explores African Americans in films and their disadvantage in achieving roles when up against their white opponents. “Despite having a greater presence, African American actors still face limitations. A significant number of film and television shows have no black characters. In 2013, the percentage of African Americans in more than half of the top-grossing films was smaller than in the US population, while nearly a fifth of these films had no African American characters at all. Similarly, 16 percent— 37 percent of all cinematic, television, or streaming stories in 2014– 2015 failed to portray a single speaking or named African American on screen.” At the 2015 Oscars which was hash-tagged OscarsSoWhite as not one person of colour was nominated alongside, racial tensions throughout the year such as the high-profile shooting of unarmed black men by the police which yet again provided fodder for discussions about race in Hollywood.

After the 2015 #OscarsSoWhite, Spike Lee along with Jada Pinkett Smith and Will Smith, planned to boycott the next ceremony in protest of the whiteness among the nominees. The New York Times calls for representation for African Americans stating; Hollywood continues to ignore the simple fact that people of color want to see their lives reflected in the movies they watch. Representation is not a lot to ask. If we’re going to boycott the Oscars, we also need to boycott the movie studios determined to ignore the box office success of movies featuring people of color. We need to boycott the people who are so reluctant to produce movies made by people of color. We need to boycott this system that refuses to acknowledge life beyond the white experience as rule and not exception. Hollywood has left us with little choice. In the article How to fix Hollywood's race problem from The Guardian in 2016 commented that one could argue that every year at the Oscars is a whitewash – only one woman of colour has ever won best actress (Halle Berry), and only 7% of best actor winners are men of colour (with nearly 40 years between two of the black winners, Sidney Poitier and Denzel Washington). Some commentators, such as Andrew Gruttadaro, have even suggested that it’s not the Academy’s fault that “this year, no black people deserved a nomination.” Despite the lack of representation of people of colour there were a lucky few who made it onto the screens; Idris Elba, Samuel L Jackson, Tessa Thompson, Michael B Jordan and Will Smith. The problem isn’t just a lack of recognition come awards season – it’s Hollywood’s staggering lack of representation across all of its films.

In 1988, Eddie Murphy said: “I will probably never win an Oscar for saying this, but what the hey, I gotta say it … I came down here to give the award, but I feel we have to be recognised as a people. I just want you to know that black people will not ride the caboose of society or bring up the rear any more.” Chris Rock, (hosted the Oscars in 2016) on twitter posted “The #Oscars. the White BET Awards” referring to the lack of diversity, for a second year not one black actor was nominated for main categories. Over a quarter of a century later, we have utterly failed to meet those demands.

Douglas Kellner’s book Aesthetics, Ethics, and Politics in the Films of Spike Lee (1997) notes that “Spike Lee’s films constitute a significant intervention into the Hollywood film system. Addressing issues of race, gender, and class from a resolutely black perspective, Lee’s films provide insights into these explosive problematics missing from mainstream white cinema.” Spike Lee’s film Do the Right Thing (1989) depicts flawed characters, not conforming to stereotypes or the idea that it is a black filmmaker’s responsibility to show African Americans in a positive image. Do the Right Thing also highlights America’s race issues which are still relevant today such as, police brutality towards African Americans evident by the shooting of Michael Brown in 2015 and George Floyd in 2020.

At the Oscars in 2019, Spike Lee is sat where Jack Nicholson was sat, who would notice Jack was gone when Spike Lee is sat in his seat, Lee is a lot more of a statement. What does it take to be nominated for an Oscar? Age and privilege? Race? whiteness, maleness, heteroness — in an industry that privileges all three, after several decades you acquire the kind of legendary status where you don’t stand on ceremony because everyone else is standing for you. At the 2019 Oscars the seats are no longer occupied solely by the old white men who once claimed all the accolades for building the industry. But now taking their seats are Spike Lee, Oprah, Cicely Tyson — not only for their own achievements coming up within a much less diverse industry, but for how they, like so many older people of color in so many other industries, have set the stage for the younger generation facing a less hostile world, built on the work of their predecessors. Remembering Kim Basinger’s speech in the 1990 ceremony mentioning Spike Lee’s Do the Right Thing, which she said told “the biggest truth of all.” Whether or not it was intentional, Barbra Streisand’s presentation of BlackKklansman as one of the best picture nominees this year echoed Basinger’s words. “It was so real, so funny and yet so horrifying because it was based on the truth,” Streisand said of the film. “And truth is especially precious these days.”

Though there has been little improvement in films representation over the past decade, television is seeing increased diversity within the Oscars. Three out of the four acting trophies went to people of color, while two black women — Black Panther’s Carter for costume and Hannah Beachler for production design — made history in their categories. As Lee alluded to, this is only possible through changing optics, the slow trickle of diversity into the establishment that builds, generation upon generation, toward a welcome deluge. The result is a new and improved Hollywood that reflects reality over antediluvian ideals, in a world that is moving in the same direction — from politics, to science, to tech, to everything. Indiewire’s Eric Kohn managed to freeze a symbolic moment after the Oscars in which Spike Lee, trophy in hand, asked Black Panther director Ryan Coogler how old he was — 32 to his 61 — before saying, “Man! I’m passing it to you.” It was Lee acknowledging his own legacy in the direct presence of its heir. As he had said during his speech earlier in the night: “We all connect with our ancestors. We will have love and wisdom regained, we will regain our humanity. It will be a powerful moment.”

Looking back at Hollywood movies throughout the years it is evident that the African American stereotypes have been fixed in the American minds. The film industry’s failure to represent people of colour runs far deeper than #OscarsSoWhite. The Bechdel test has been used to measure female representation in films; where two female characters would have a conversation on something other than men. Attempts have been made to use the Bechdel test when looking representation of African Americans and people of colour who talk to each other about something other than their race. Will this test encourage Hollywood to fix it’s race problem?

Guns! Violence! Swearing! Or maybe a comedic character, is this what we think when we see African Americans in movies? We grasped at the rare appearances of actors of colour – we loved badasses including Billy Dee Williams in Star Wars (cape!), Samuel L Jackson in Pulp Fiction (guns!), and Tina Turner in Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome (wig!). But more often, characters fell into tired stereotypes. Hollywood films may present a person of colour but they are mainly stereotypes or just there as a side character as seen in the Harry Potter film series where only six minutes are spoken by characters of colour, in American Hustle 40 seconds, Black Swan twenty seconds and in the Lord of the Rings trilogy forty-seven seconds, but only if you count the orcs as black.

Only three of the nominated films passed the racial Bechdel test, in 2016 The Big Short, The Martian and The Revenant which had representation of people of colour whilst the films; Bridge of Spies, Brooklyn and Spotlight didn’t have a single named character of colour. In 2015, only American Sniper and Selma passed. If you look at best picture winners over the past 15 years, six pass our test (including 12 Years A Slave, Slumdog Millionaire and Crash) but seven do not have a single named character of colour.

looking at these films we see that characters of colour are still in the stereotypical roles Hollywood has made for them. The Guardian highlights that; there are undoubtedly historical settings that might require very specific casting (though the erasure of people of colour from the historical narratives of films such as Suffragette is grating). We’re not going to insist on a black man being cast in Valhalla Rising any more than we would insist on a woman being cast in The Shawshank Redemption. But the whitewashing of Other narratives is an epidemic in Hollywood today.

These historical type films that feature racism such as 12 Years a Slave, even with its horror and brutality, serve as a comfort to white people seeking to feel a distance between the monster that is racism. HuffPost reminds us about how racism is still relevant today; “Progress!” we congratulate ourselves, proud that America has overcome its brutishly violent history. “We used to be horrible people that owned other human beings and now we don’t! We’re a post-racial society now! Go America!” But if we’re talking about reality, the reality of racism in 2013, a reality that generally doesn’t make it to the silver screen, we have to talk about things like environmental racism and structural racism in our systems of education, employment, criminal justice, and more. It is films like 12 Years a Slave, Selma, Malcolm X and more which remind us that racism is still relevant and we’d be foolish to ignore it.

It has taken a long time for Hollywood to represent African Americans and people of colour and in a non-stereotypical way, although now we see more diversity among white and black actors in the Oscars there is still little representation in films. To move past its race problem will Hollywood continue to move forward with more characters of colour represented in films?

[doomedandstoned]

Enter the Blues-Saturated World of The Great Sadness

~Interview by Billy Goate~ ~Photographs by Lord Fotog~

We first introduced you to THE GREAT SADNESS two years ago, when I gushed about their self-titled debut: "This has all the makings an American rock classic." Now, Cathy Cooper (vocals, guitar) and Stephen McNeely (drums) have brought us a second long-play, 'WEEP' (2017). Even nominal fans of the blues, I'm convinced, are going to find this a go-to favorite in their playlist and certainly want to add it to their collection.

WEEP by The Great Sadness

WEEP is a frank confessional, a journey into the stark realities of life, love, death, hope, alienation from the world, and hellish emotional storms. It shares a spiritual kinship not only with the blues greats of the past, but with contemporary songwriters like Scott "Wino" Weinrich (particularly his collaborations with Conny Ochs) and Screaming' Mad Dee Calhoun. We can count Cathy and Stephen among the great contemporary underground songwriters of our generation, though it may be a generation beyond us before their work receives the recognition it deserves.

It’s quite evident you two are in love with the blues. Where did this obsession begin for each of you?

Cathy Cooper: I’m a huge, huge blues lover -- mostly delta blues, like really, really dirty, grassroots, folk-based, Mississippi Fred McDowell, Sleepy John Estes, Bertha Lee -- that kind of stuff, you know. I like it because it comes from the gut. It’s kind of been a lifelong inspiration for me. That’s just where it’s at for me. You can’t get more raw then that.

Stephen McNeely: I think my love for the blues came to be an obsession after I met Cathy. It wasn’t something I was necessarily in love with or listening to everyday, but after I was introduced to more of it, it was definitely something I found highly interesting. For about four years now, I’ve been digging into an endless hole of great blues music.

How did The Great Sadness become a thing?

Stephen: We met five years ago. I played a single tom drum for Cathy for an acoustic set for a festival in Echo Park. After that, she asked me if I’d ever be interested in playing along with an electric guitar. Mind you, I had just met Cathy and been gifted a drum kit, so I said yes. I had no expectations whether it is a fun jam session. We had to see whether or not this was going to work out. Cathy invited me for a jam session at her studio with the entire kit. I brought the drum kit and she broke out the electric and an amp. It kind of melded into itself and we found a connection that worked, bringing together two perfectly good strangers. That she brought out the electric, The Great Sadness was born, and now here we are.

Cathy: It was on! (laughs)

All of your songs have one word titles. It gives it this certain aesthetic and philosophical outlet driving your songwriting.

Cathy: All you have to know in one word is, “I’m lazy.” (both laugh) I’m lazy about naming songs. I like writing the songs; I’m just not good at naming stuff. I don’t know if that’s just a slacker way of doing it. (laughs)

Stephen: I can sum this up as less is more, leaving more imagination to the brain to interpret in your own way.

'Weep' is your most ambitious collection of songs. They really sizzle. How long have you been working on them?

Cathy: A couple years, dude.

Stephen: These are songs we’ve been playing live in America and in Europe for about two, three years. "Desperate" is one of our older songs, but is on the new record, is one of the first songs we composed for our set.

Cathy: One of the songs we actually wrote in the studio. We wrote "Deserter."

Stephen: And "Deserter" was born out of sound engineer Joe Cardamone requesting that we write one on the spot. It ended being one of our keeper songs that we still play live. That’s on the new record.

Did you experience any cloudbursts of inspiration growing out of events in your life? I’m always interested in insights into the creative process, an area of enduring fascination for me.

Stephen: We think that this project was kind of inspired by events in our lives.

Cathy: I think it’s more personal, dude. It's really personal.

Stephen: But it’s personal to both of us. There may have been things that happened to Cathy that made her feel a certain way. You know, it might have happened to me in a different way, but we still ended up in the same emotional state. I think a lot of the songs when we first got together were fueled by emotions we were both going through that were personal and separate to our own personal lives, but definitely fueled the fire of writing. We were not necessarily in a great place emotionally -- you never are when you're inspired. You can be in a dark place, or you can be in a great place. Inspiration comes whenever it wants to.

Cathy: Everything comes from being on the planet and experiencing pain and guilt and fear and love and everything else. I’ve had my share of “whatever” relationships, anger at political situations, the death of my parents, the loss of friends, the joy of creation. Everything influences me. The more visceral the emotion, the better the connection with the song writing and the actual playing, you know? That’s stuff's really impactful. It's important to be really present. That’s what music is all about, man. It's just getting into it and just really putting it out there in a super aggressive, emotional way way.

Are the two of you pretty much in sync as far as musicians so you can jam on a song together, refine a song together, or do you and Cathy need away space to write new songs?

Stephen: Like I said, the day we chose to go into the studio and she chose to pick up an electric and we attempted a two-piece, we found that we were already synced up. Time-wise, I think we have the same time signatures in mind and deep in the heart was the love to count a 4/4 and sort of look at each other and see when the 1 is coming (laughs) and be able to stay synced at that.

Cathy has been writing songs for a really long time, way longer than me, so she had a lot of material. We talked about this earlier, but the song "Desperate" Cathy had already written guitar parts for so when it was brought into The Great Sadness it became a beast of its own. Cathy is responsible for all of the lyrics on this record. The way we did it from the beginning is that me and Cathy would get in the studio and just jam it and find a riff that we liked, and we would start breaking it down. We’d take a voice memo of it and Cathy would listen to that and she would write. More recently now, some of our newer songs that we're writing together and I’m singing on the new stuff that's coming out in the future.

Cathy: The way that we write has evolved, the more that we play. Stephen and I have a very intuitive way of feeding off of another when we play. It’s actually really enhanced the way that we write, because we can build songs a lot faster now, because we are more in sync. I feel the songs have actually gotten a lot better because we've built a style together. It’s kind of beefed up how we write, just because we're aggressive in the way that we do stuff. It’s made the sound a lot bigger and more in your face.

I’m sure our readers and listeners would love to know what inspires and moves you deeply, including, but not limited to, music and other influences.

Stephen: Cathy love Rupaul's Drag Race. (laughs). Me and Cathy are both artists on top of musicians. We both do a lot of artwork. We create whether it’s music or art every day.

Cathy: Stephen, what kind of artwork?

Stephen: I’ve always been drawn to dark artwork, anything and everything that has to do with seeking out the lies and dark truths of Catholicism. I highly enjoy the sabotage of that specific religion, so I like any kind of artwork having to do anything with that. The problem that I have with Jesus isn't with him; it's his fan club I have a problem with. (laughs)

I’m super inspired by music, mostly. I'm into a lot of stuff right now, we could go on forever. Me and Cathy recently fell in love on the road, when we were on our tour in Portland, with Bernelius. I believe he’s a one-man band. We don’t know where he’s from, either, but his music is fucking awesome. We also fell in love with The Devil And The Almighty Blues. Those are some guys out of Norway, I believe. They are fucking awesome. We also fell in love with Seasick Steve. He's awesome. We were also listening a lot of Guru Guru, like a lot of old German prog rock stuff. We also worship and pray and hope for the return of 400 Blows. I should get that tattooed on my ass. Skot, if you're listening, come back! We need you. (laughs) We want you back.

Thanks so much for visiting with me and the readers. Been wanting to do this forever. It's been a long time coming!

Stephen: Thank you so much for having us. I hope this gives you a little more insight into how Cathy and getting shit done and delivered to you guys.

Cathy: Most of all, seriously, we like donuts.

Stephen: Who doesn't like donuts? Except gluten-free people and vegans. Thank you again, Doomed and Stoned!

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[junker-town]

The best and worst of the 2019 Hall of Fame vote

The four players elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame were very deserving, and we should probably focus on that.

When you close the tab that holds this article, I want you to close your eyes and exhale, counting to four. Then I want you to inhale, counting to four. Repeat three times. You’re done with the Hall of Fame for months. You’re free.

Until then, eat your Hall of Fame content. It’s filled with fiber.

I have fewer thoughts about the Hall of Fame this year because the thoughts aren’t much different from year to year. Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens still aren’t in. I’m still very much into the idea of Edgar Martinez’s election. The only new wrinkles this year were Mariano Rivera and Roy Halladay, two players whose candidacy made me scream “YES” before getting to their second name. Maybe this is why I don’t have a vote. I was so eager that I would have voted for Mariano Duncan and Roy Face.

Still, there are bests and worsts from the 2019 Hall of Fame vote that deserve closer scrutiny. Unanimous votes! Michael Young! Edgar! EDGAR! Do you hear me? Edgar?

Best: Edgar!

The anti-DH bias — and to a lesser extent, anti-closer bias — has been one of the most obnoxious components of Hall of Fame voting for years. Baseball decided almost 50 years ago that half the teams in the league would get a position that could be filled by a hitter who doesn’t have to play in the field. Players adapted to this position. They built careers around it. Teams acquired players to play this position, in the hopes of making a better baseball team than their opponents.

There’s a whole ecosystem built around the DH, see. It’s incredibly silly to pretend that a position doesn’t qualify for the Hall of Fame because it’s an impure or unworthy position. Allow me to quote myself from an argument for Edgar Martinez from 2011:

There is a position called the designated hitter. It’s in the rules and everything. Therefore, those baseball players should be eligible for the Baseball Hall of Fame. You don’t get to remove the gannet from Olsen’s Standard Book of British Birds because they wet their nests, and you don’t get to eliminate DHs entirely from the Hall of Fame.

Mostly, though, Edgar Martinez’s induction is validation of a brilliant career. He was such an artist, such a savant with the bat for so long. If the DH didn’t exist, buddy, teams would have put him in center field if they needed to. And while that would have messed up his WAR and caused an entirely new conversation, the argument for his inclusion would remain the same: Dude was one of the best players to ever swing a bat.

Best: The logjam still exists, but it’s getting a little better

On Tuesday, because I’m bad at my job, I wrote a column about how the ballot was a little easier to navigate this year. I’m a-going back in to make corrections after this is finished, but I screwed up. At some point, I deleted a big portion of my list, whether because of a copy-and-paste mistake or fat thumbs, which means I thought that I had a list of 14 players who deserve induction, or at least serious consideration. But I had erased Gary Sheffield and Andruw Jones, both of whom should probably get in based on talent alone (even though I just learned that Jones was arrested for allegedly assaulting his wife, which certainly means the character clause comes into play). This means 16 players should have been on that list.

Except, wait, I also forgot about Lance Berkman and Roy Oswalt (I’ll have more on them in a bit). They deserved consideration, at the very least. I’m still curious about Billy Wagner, too. And Andy Pettitte deserves better than the Bernie Williams/Jorge Posada treatment, where writers overcorrect for brilliant Yankees players with ridiculously long and productive careers.

I wouldn’t vote for Omar Vizquel, but he belongs in the conversation, and I think you should click on this related link!

So there were 21 players who at least deserved serious consideration. Now there are 17 left. And next year, we get ...

Derek Jeter

Bobby Abreu

Jason Giambi

Cliff Lee

That’s one for-sure Hall of Famers and three probably-nots, but it pushes us back to an annoying ballot again. With Berkman and Oswalt falling off, though, it’s a little better, at least numerically. There will be 19 to consider next year, with 11 of those players probably getting my fake vote. Which means at least one person gets hosed.

But ... that’s not bad? Especially when that one person is probably Curt Schilling, patron saint of sitting in a corner and thinking about what he’s done.

The logjam is getting better. It’s about time.

Best: We can end the stupid unanimous debate

It’s less offensive to me that Babe Ruth and Willie Mays weren’t unanimous than it is that Joe DiMaggio needed four ballots (although that is a fascinating story of bumblescrewery and general weirdness), but people really had a thing about the idea of a unanimous ballot. My philosophy has always been that if you get 100 people in a room, one of them will believe that Tupac is still alive, another one will think we probably didn’t land on the moon, and another one will think that Derek Jeter’s defense should keep him out of the Hall.

That’s just how humans work. So when you get 400 writers sending ballots, there will be outliers. The Kubrick-directed-the-moon-landing of ballots, if you will. Don’t like it? Root for the robot revolution. I know that I am.

But some people just wouldn’t let this go. And they kept on about it. Is this guy the first unanimous inductee? Is this guy? WHAT ABOUT THIS GUY? It was tiresome.

Now we have a guy. Everyone agrees we landed on the moon, y’all. Finally. Mariano Rivera saved us, pun absolutely intended. We can stop talking about it.

Now we just have to deal with the debates about every subsequent candidate who should be unanimous. Will Jeter be unanimous? Albert Pujols? Mike Trout? Hopefully Rivera will ease the minds of weirdos who didn’t vote for obvious first-balloters because of Ruth and Mays. Now that the seal has been broken, maybe everyone will consider the candidates on their merits. Which is a strange concept, I know.

(I totally would have been the guy to leave Rivera off my ballot strategically to give a vote of support for Oswalt and Berkman, and my day today would have been absolutely ruined. It’s probably a good thing I don’t have a vote.)

Best-worst: Placido Polanco, Michael Young getting votes

I love these votes, if only because it reminds us that people can devote their entire lives to watching baseball and come to a remarkably different conclusion than all of us. Here’s an actual justification for the Polanco vote! It uses fielding percentage, sure, but it’s honest, and I appreciate the willingness to be aggressive with an unpopular opinion.

[whispers] Placido Polanco had a more valuable career than Harold Baines, according to Baseball-Reference.

Well, uh, yeah, but ... look, I don’t have an answer to that. Maybe Bill Madden is onto something. Let ‘em all in.

Still, I like the idea of voting your heart and letting the masses sort it out. If 75 percent of the people saw the same thing about Polanco, I’ll reevaluate. It beats taking whatever the Today’s New Era Game of Tomorrow Today Committee shovels at us.

My fix is this: a Today’s Era of Games Played Then Committee that’s 200 or 300 deep. They can have a nice conference somewhere, with presentations and cocktail shrimp. They can talk and mingle and lobby in the lobby.

But nothing is wrong with a writer throwing a stray vote to a definite non-Hall of Famer because he or she sees something. It gives me something to write about.

Best: Larry Walker is getting closer

I was a latecomer to the idea that Larry Walker is a Hall of Famer, partly because I had a longstanding bias against oft-injured players that was hard to shake. I wasn’t thinking about the 120 games in which they helped their team more than almost any one of their peers could have. I was thinking about the remaining 42, when their team was scrambling and playing someone fresh off the Triple-A shuttle.

Barry Larkin changed my mind, I think. Now I’m all about players like Walker, which is a group that includes Scott Rolen and Will Clark. The trick is they have to cram more value into their healthy days, which all of these players did. Billy Wagner in his prime was better and harder to replace than Trevor Hoffman, and we should adjust for that (while also adjusting for Hoffman’s reliability and longevity).

Walker jumped from 34.1 percent to 54.6 percent this year, which means he’s riding the Tim Raines express into his final year of eligibility. I’m not sure if he squeaks in, but his odds are much better than they were, and he’ll become the cause célèbre of next year’s ballot.

Walker played for the Rockies for 10 years, averaging 121 games with a 147 OPS+, which is significantly better than the OPS+ that allowed Nolan Arenado to finish third in this year’s NL MVP voting. That’s a decade of hitting at roughly an MVP level. So what if he missed a month, on average? Sports cars need more time in the shop, but they’re still freaking sports cars.

Worst: No Bonds, no Clemens, no progress

Pretty sure that at least 40 percent of the voting bloc is completely and irrevocably against the best hitter and pitcher from the last 50 years, if not ever, getting into the Hall of Fame. It’s not going to happen.

There’s no sense rehashing arguments I’ve made over and over again, but I hold firm that a museum that suggests Harold Baines is a major component of baseball’s living history and Barry Bonds is not is a dumb museum, and we should laugh at it.

(Also Bonds has also been accused of repeated abuse and Clemens reportedly had an extended affair with a 15-year-old girl, so maybe it’s okay to stop caring so much. Everything is awful.)

Worst: Lance Berkman and Roy Oswalt are off the ballot

Hall of Famers? Look, I don’t know. You can play the he’s-better-than-this-other-Hall-of-Famer game with both, of course. You take Jack Morris, I’ll take Oswalt, and my team will win more games. Same with Jim Rice and Berkman. It’s at least worth debating their merits.

Except, poof, both are off the ballot after one year. Do we not remember how good these two were? From 2001 through 2008, Oswalt averaged 203 innings with a 3.13 (139 ERA+), doing so in the thick of the steroid era while being much, much smaller than his peers. He finished in the top five for Cy Young voting five times in that span, leading the league in ERA, WHIP, wins, and strikeout-to-walk ratios in different years.

He didn’t last long enough to be a Hall of Famer, probably. Two more years, maybe three, and I’m beating that drum. As is, I get it.

We deserved to debate this a little longer, though. He was so very excellent. Now I’m almost sorry that I wasn’t the guy who omitted Rivera to cast a vote for Oswalt.

Berkman was merely one of the greatest switch-hitters of all-time. Sure, he was far weaker against lefties, but he made up for it by being a deity against righties. In nine seasons, he had an OPS over .900 (with an OPS+ over 130) and more than 500 at-bats. He had 10 seasons with more than 550 plate appearances, and he raked in absolutely all of them. His defense was, uh, galootish, which tempered his value substantially.

I’m not sure if Berkman is a Hall of Famer, but he’s kind of the answer to the question, “What would have happened if Edgar Martinez had to play in the field?” He was one of the best hitters of his generation, and his career deserved better than to fall off the first ballot.

This is worth bonus points, too:

Berkman is also an intolerant dingus, so good riddance in a way. Except I’m not someone who considers the Hall of Fame to be a reward given to a specific player, but rather a cataloguing of the very best players in baseball history. Here’s who helped their teams win the most. Here’s who made fans enjoy baseball games the most. Once we figure that out, we can stand in front of their plaques and call them intolerant dinguses, which seems more effective and educational than pretending they don’t exist.

Regardless, I would have liked to debate the on-field merits of both Oswalt and Berkman for longer. Both of them are close to Hall of Fame quality. Both of their careers deserved better. The curse of the overstuffed ballot struck, however, and there was no mercy.

Mostly, though, it was a fine ballot. Edgar, Halladay, Mussina, and Mariano are all no-doubters for me, which means that in two decades, I can look back at this class without cringing. They all belong. That’s almost certainly the best part, and we should celebrate it.

[dustedmagazine]

Dust Volume 3, Number 4

Jean-Michel Blais and Mike Silver of CFCF. 

We celebrate the “in like a lion” part of March with a blast of fresh Dust covering everything from pop diva post-disco (our first and perhaps only Robyn-related review) to a pair of tributes (Pharaoh Sanders and Bruce Langhorne) to a piano-and-electronics collaboration by Jean Michel-Blais and CFCF to hyper literate Americana from Frontier Ruckus.  This time around contributors included Bill Meyer, Ian Mathers, Derek Taylor, Eric McDowell, Justin Cober-Lake and Jennifer Kelly.  It’s an eclectic enough collection that, like the weather, if you don’t like something, stick around for 15 minutes, and it’ll be completely different.  

Mr. Tophat ft. Robyn — Trust Me EP (Smalltown Supersound)

Robyn may not have put out a proper solo album since 2010, but she’s kept busy. Interestingly, she’s mostly followed up on the premise of the Body Talk EPs she put out as a means of initially getting the LP of the same name out there, sticking to shorter lengths. However, she’s also been more explicitly/overtly collaborative, even as she seems to be moving further away from the pop structures she’s so famously good at. The Trust Me EP is no different; working with longtime friend and Swedish house producer Mr. Tophat and ABBA drummer Per Lindvall (as well as Lindvall’s bassist brother David), her blissed out vocals skim the surface of these three lengthy, sometimes introspective disco-based tracks, sometimes serving as a focus for attention but just as often getting out of the way.  

Robyn’s dance music bona fides are long established, and she brings a level of personality and charm to what could have been anonymous diva vocals, so whatever reason she has for wanting to take a less prominent role, it’s certainly worked out. At its very strongest, as in the swirling opening of “Disco Davato” or the honking breakdown in the middle of “Trust Me,” Mr. Tophat and the Lindvall brothers certainly prove more than capable of taking center stage on their own. The result is 35 minutes of enjoyable, sometimes vertiginous post-disco music that seems as suited for intense dance floors as for contemplation. Just don’t expect any “Call Your Girlfriend”s and you’ll be fine.  

Ian Mathers

Anthony “Crystalline Roses” Pasquarosa with John “Sunburned” Moloney—My  Pharaoh, My King (Feeding Tube)

My Pharaoh, My King by Anthony “Crystalline Roses” Pasquarosa with John “Sunburned” Moloney

The pharaoh in question actually spells his name Pharoah — Pharoah Sanders — and in this case divinity prompts inspiration but not imitation. There’s not much on this record that sounds like anything on any of the venerated saxophonists recordings; for a start, there’s no saxophone. If you want to find antecedents to this record, you need look no further than Sandy Bull’s experiments blending Middle Eastern string sonorities with jazz grooves. But where Bull and drummer Billy Higgins forged ahead like the middle channel of a river, guitar/oud player Anthony Pasquarosa and drummer John Moloney take their time stirring eddies that turn in upon themselves. With a cover like this LP’s you expect the sound to be pretty zonked, and the head rush that this duo delivers makes standing up quickly highly ill-advised. But they aren’t heavy-handed about it; in fact they aren’t heavy at all. Moloney tickles bells and brushes cymbals with a sensitivity that belies the weight of his recent tub-thumping with Thurston Moore, and there’s a lilt in Pasquarosa’s picking that’s as much high-on-life as high-as-a-kite.

Bill Meyer

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CFCF and Jean-Michel Blais—Cascades (Arts & Crafts)

Two experimental musicians join forces, Jean-Michel Blais best known for nouveau classical piano, CFCF’s Mike Silver for minimalist meditations in electronic sound (with occasional forays into new wave-i-ness, though no trace of that here). “Hasselblad,” a slow-blooming reverie in sustained piano, is one of Blais’, revisiting themes from two tracks on his self-titled debut. Shivering electronic atmospheres and flourishes hint at Silver’s participation, without overwhelming the essential piano-based-ness of this track. “Spirit” a rework of “Exercise #4” from CFCF’s Exercises album, hews closer to an electronic palette, layering long, variegated drones, some breathy and organic like a pipe organ, others pristinely electronic like a synth built to approximate an electric piano. Bits of actual piano come in, high and clipped over the tone-wash, like bird song drifting into a shadowy interior. The cut is pensive, moody, introspective and very beautiful. There is a reasonably faithful nod to John Cage’s “In a Landscape,” one of the modernist composer’s most piano-as-piano works; Blais revisits the composition’s languid sustained note auras, its lucidly simple melodic progressions, as recorded voices natter in the background. It’s as if two stations were tuned at once, one serene and removed, the other, faintly perceived but tinged with conflict and conversation. The best bit, though, comes in “Hypocrite,” new piece composed by both principals for this very album. Here runs and swells of post-classical piano are buoyed by adrenalized crescendos of massed electronic sound, neither Blais nor CFCF but something greater than its parts.

Jennifer Kelly

 Various Artists—The Hired Hands: A Tribute To Bruce Langhorne (Scissor Tail Records)

The Hired Hands: A Tribute to Bruce Langhorne by Paul Metzger

You may not have heard of Bruce Langhorne, but there’s a pretty good chance that you’ve heard about him. He was a session player ubiquitous among 1960s folk sessions, and Bob Dylan memorialized him in the song “Mr. Tambourine Man.” Langhorne’s also remembered for supplying the haunting, string-dominated soundtrack to Peter Fonda’s superb but barely remembered follow up to Easy Rider, The Hired Hand. If John Fahey and the Takoma crew are the sun and moon of contemporary cosmos-evoking guitarists, that soundtrack is their North Star. Sadly Langhorne is in failing health, and one of those younger guitarists, Dylan Golden Aycock, has joined up with Loren Connors and Suzanne Langille to put together a tribute record in order to help defray the cost of his care. You could tile your bathroom with disappointing tribute albums that sport promising line-ups, so the presence of names like Fahey, Connors, Nathan Bowles, Lee Ranaldo, Steve Gunn, etc., is no guarantee of success. But this record delivers in part because so many of the contributors distill and decant the wondrous sonic glow that Langhorne’s playing infused into the film.

Bill Meyer

 Happy Place — Northfield (Exit Stencil Records)

Northfield by Happy Place

In August 2015 drummer, composer, and PhD student Will Mason made his impressive and ambitious recording debut with Beams of the Huge Night on New Amsterdam Records. Whereas Beams was an expansive effort — quarter-hour sprawlers played by an ensemble big and bold enough to host oboe, vocals, and a second guitar — his late-2016 follow-up with his group Happy Place is a somewhat pithier and punchier affair. Pleasingly symmetrical, Happy Place comprises Mason and Austin Vaughn on drum sets and Andrew Smiley and Will Chapin on guitars. Northfield’s suite of barbed, mostly short tracks with excited titles like “Fork!” and “Nurture!” was written in a state of sleepless anxiety, traceable in the album’s relentlessly pumping drums and manic guitars. A student of music theory with a special interest in the French spectralists, Mason may namecheck the likes of Ligeti, Grisey, and Haas, but he’s also a killer drummer who keeps good company, so all you need is a pair of working ears to appreciate these inventively grooving, infectiously knotty compositions.

Eric McDowell

 Lisa Mezzacappa – avantNOIR (Clean Feed)

Crime jazz far closer in orbit to Alphaville than Peter Gunn, bassist Lisa Mezzacappa’s avantNOIR pulls immediate literary inspiration from Paul Auster’sNew York Trilogy and Dashiell Hammett’s seminal 1920s work, most specifically The Big Knockover and The Maltese Falcon. Mining the spectrum of vintage to postmodern caper fiction, the music is at once an invocation of rain-soaked and sun-bleached urban environments and the unsettled mindsets of a multitude of fictional tough guys from the iconic Sam Spade and Continental Op to the comparatively contemporary in Auster’s doomed protagonist Daniel Quinn. Mezzacappa uses a variety of invented devices and constructs including chromatic schemes and cognominal alphabetical notations to translate page-bound noir themes to organized aural interplay. A palette of tenor saxophone, electric guitar, vibraphone and drums joins her samples-laced bass and the kaleidoscopic electronics of Tim Perkis in the exploration of a multiplicity of plot-plucked hardboiled moods and scenarios. Some of it feels a shade excessive in its archness, but it’s still easy to conjecture the perpetually beleaguered secret agent Lemmy Caution grooving stoically to the end sounds. 

Derek Taylor

 Illegal Crowns — Illegal Crowns (Rogue Art)

Cornetist Tayor Ho Bynum asserts in Illegal Crowns’ liner notes that creative music affords the opportunity for individuals and collectives to realize artistic growth without stunting either. For this to happen, of course, the collective’s members have to understand their own growth at least partly in collective terms, and this quartet shows longtime mates Bynum, drummer Tomas Fujiwara and guitarist Mary Halvorson putting that notion to the test. They have a long history of playing together in the bands each musician leads, Anthony Braxton’s projects and the joint venture Thirteenth Assembly, their quartet with violist Jessica Pavone. Illegal Crowns swaps Pavone for a musician from outside that scene, French pianist Benoît Delbecq. He brings a similar understanding that the decisions you make in order for the collective to work can be creative acts in themselves. So while you won’t get to hear his more atmospheric side and he uses his piano preparations sparingly, there’s a lot to appreciate about how he deploys his instrument’s potential for sonic bulk. It’s especially intriguing to hear how Halvorson, who usually gets a lot of chordal space to herself, handles the situation; she and Delbecq both ease back just a bit so that the music is uncluttered yet quite full of event and surprise.

Bill Meyer

 Frontier Ruckus — Enter the Kingdom (Sitcom Universe/Loose Music)

Matthew Milia and his band battle loss and decay with a sort of pop formalism on Enter the Kingdom. Milia's lyrics spin across clever wordplay, internal rhyme and scattered vocabulary words. It would all get a bit twee if he weren't so often on, his boyish vocals feeling light while sounding the dark places. The band itself is a bit looser, with its Americana and indie-pop setting a gentle roll across suburban unemployment and shared disappointment. In the album's world, something seems to have shifted in the 1990s (possibly the onset of adulthood), with the Gin Blossoms and dial-up modems holding as tethers to a pre-fallen kingdom. Working a space between Okkervil River's mouth and Neutral Milk Hotel's eyes, Frontier Ruckus doesn't let the prairie world become a wasteland, as Milia finds “a vivid new infinity” with just enough propulsion to keep him moving forward. As the album title suggests, there's an entrance to somewhere else, but it's secluded, and it's secret and it doesn't open easily. But at least it's there.

Justin Cober-Lake

[jmsa1287]

Visually Stunning but a Slog, 'Altered Carbon' is a Sleeve of Great Sci-Fi (& the Future of Netflix)

i wrote about the new show “Altered Carbon” and how it’s the future of Netflix, whether you like it or not.

Earlier this month, Amazon made headlines when it announced that it canceled some of its small, quirky indie comedies, including out comedian Tig Notaro's "One Mississippi" and queer producer Jill Soloway's "I Love Dick." Before that, Netflix nixed the beloved "Lady Dynamite," a series from comedian Maria Bamford. And last summer, Hulu pulled the plug on Julie Klausner's "Difficult People," in which she starred alongside out comic Billy Eichner.

The cancelations come not long after Amazon CEO Jeff Bezos announced the company acquired the TV rights for the "Lord of the Rings" book series, a major play that signals Amazon wants the next "Game of Thrones." A recent piece from Vulture reporter Josef Adalian got to the bottom of this new trend of cancelations and Amazon's latest power play.

"They're starting to act more like traditional, mature programming services," an anonymous TV veteran exec said of the three major streaming services, Netflix, Amazon, and Hulu. "They're canceling shows which clearly weren't working for them."

Adalian adds: "[T]he recent wave of cancellations doesn't mean the days of risk-taking and niche shows are over at (most) streaming networks... But as streamers replace linear networks, they'll continue to refine their programming mixes, likely favoring shows with broader appeal as a more cost-effective way to keep subscribers happy."

Enter Netflix's new big blockbuster play: "Altered Carbon," a 10 episode series adapted from Richard K. Morgan's popular 2002 novel of the same name and debuting on the streaming service Feb. 2.

This glossy cyber-punk noir, starring Joel Kinnaman ("House of Cards," "Suicide Squad") is one part "Blade Runner," one part "Ghost in the Shell" and a dash of "Doctor Who." Set 300 years in the future, humans can digitally download their consciousness into disks called "stacks," allowing them to switch bodies, now called "sleeves," and avoid a natural biological death. The only way one can die is if their stack, located at the top of the spine, is physically destroyed.

Takeshi Kovacs (played by Will Yun Lee), the last of a special group of warriors with uncanny abilities. After being ambushed and "killed," he was put "on ice" - a kind of imprisonment where his stack was left in limbo for hundreds of years. He's finally awakened thanks to the nefarious and wealthy businessman Laurens Bancroft (James Purefoy), who enlists (and basically enslaves) Kovacs, now in a fancy new sleeve, played by Kinnaman, to help solve his own murder.

"Altered Carbon" is visually beautiful, with impressive graphics and lush set pieces. No expenses were spared here and the show's nods to "Blade Runner" and "Ghost in the Shell" are vibrant and visceral. It may be built around images we've seen before (rainy alleyways, holographic ads, sharp neon lights) - even recently with the reboots of "Blade Runner 2049" and the live-action "Ghost in the Shell" hitting theaters in 2017 - but the world-building gives the show a much-needed life and character.

"Altered Carbon" flounders nearly everywhere else, however. Like HBO's sci-fi thriller "Westworld" before it, "Altered Carbon" is slow as molasses as it asks what the show thinks are deeply thought-provoking and philosophical questions about mortality, technology, human nature, violence, identity and so on and so on. While some may find this hyper-violent, super-sexual and ultra-dark show a form of escapism, "Altered Carbon" is often too gratuitous to enjoy.

Above all else, "Altered Carbon," created for TV by screenwriter Laeta Kalogridis ("Shutter Island"), is a slog, bogged down by hours of exposition. This is partly due to the show's self-seriousness. There's hardly any levity here, and the only sense of "fun" the show offers is intense and gory fight scenes. There's no Han Solo-type character to act as an audience avatar to react to the absurdity of this futuristic hellhole and "Altered Carbon" believes it is a truly meaningful piece of work, mostly ignoring its opportunity to embrace its pulpiness.

Though Kinnaman has the makings of a great action star - he's handsome and very buff, not afraid to strip down to nearly nothing as he does in several episodes here - he's bland and dull. Kinnaman, who really plays the sleeve of Kovacs (who has been described as "of Japanese and Eastern-European descent" - Kinnaman, a Swedish-American actor, playing Kovacs is worthy of a conversation unto itself), is too good-looking to be the hard-boiled and scrappy detective. On top of that, he simply doesn't have the range to emote; everything is pure rage or flat reaction. This makes it hard for Kinnaman to sell the cerebral and philosophical package "Altered Carbon" is presenting. It's also not entirely Kinnaman's fault as the writing is full of that snappy pun-driven dialogue that's predictable and incredibly corny.

Over its exhaustive 10 episode run, "Altered Carbon," runs out of steam early on as the show burns through plot rather quickly. A smaller episode count (or maybe even a two-hour movie) would have likely worked better in telling this part of Kovacs' story. And there's likely more story to come as "Altered Carbon" is based on a series of books about Kovacs. Netflix, too, seems to be doubling-down on its bingable sci-fi cyberpunk content as director Duncan Cooper's new film "Mute" is set to debut on the streaming service later next month. (The two trailers look wildly similar.)

"Altered Carbon" is exactly what Netflix ordered, likely taking the space of three lo-fi indie comedies, and, with its broad appeal, will satisfy a good portion of the company's subscribers. Netflix isn't alone in doubling down on this kind of genre storytelling, as The Ringer's Alison Herman points out Peak TV is currently having a sci-fi boom. Whether this new era gives us any worthy series is still up-in-the-air and the very flawed "Altered Carbon" doesn't give fans hope. I never loved the queer sci-fi series "Sense8," which Netflix canceled last year before ordering a finale movie, but I respected it because it took chances and told stories that focused on themes rarely explored in the genre, like love, sex and unity. "Altered Carbon" is a sleeve of the influences it's leaning into.

[asianamericanart-blog1]

English Translation to Worldwide Living while kneeling, I rather stand and die; My success is filled with my morals so I’ll never let my head down Every night I create and make, Fell in love with music, that’s why I’ll never get stiff, I’m addicted This high seems like it’ll go on forever, my feelings are in a jumble, after few years Dok2’s already reached my level If we were to combine our sales for one year, we’d reach 2 million dollars 4 years ago when I won Music Bank, he was standing right beside me So instead of being jealous and envious, Illionaire looked fucking awesome Proud of AOMG, 1llie 1llie Rolls-Royce and two Bentley’s Think we’re gonna crash and burn? we gon’ get it get it forever hol’ up wait a minute minute we didn’t take any shortcuts Our pride and self-esteem INDEPENDENT You don’t have to like me, you don’t have to listen to my music, But admit what you have to admit, hustle that you can’t help but respect that’s me that’s me hol’ up wait that’s we that’s we It’s AOMG 1llie it’s AOMG 1llie Bastards trying to act strong, shit is child’s play So busy counting money that I stay up all night Push start the whip don’t need no key key key key key, my swag is overflowing from me and leaking Everything we do Everything we do Its worldwide homie worldwide Everything we do Everything we do Its worldwide homie worldwide worldwide worldwide worldwide no matter where we go, they all approve worldwide worldwide Our sound is ringing all around, worldwide worldwide Even if you try to block it out real recognize real if you have the potential, you’ll make it homie worldwide worldwide man this is AOMG & ILLY we so motherf*ckin HOT like chilli rockin’ thousand dollar jean like Billie If this is a dream I won’t ever wake up We started from the bottom, young Millionaires Travellin’ the whole world we be killin’ em But it’s still too early to celebrate because this is only another start Managing my time, I don’t need to be worryin’ about opportunities We’re so chill, baby tell me if you feel me Don’t worry, even if I became rich I’m still me these haters try na kill me god damn How dare you bastards try me it’s all about f*ckin money & the power Thank you for letting me have everything shout to AOMG whole world’s ours AMG make it f*ckin louder Listen, this is the sound of my success remember that this is the connection between us If my piling stack of money ever makes you feel bad, baby I’m sorry hah that’s my job, the ones with potential make it real recognize real we’re flyin again for an even better life mo money & hoes more than anything, ladies come for us I’ve been reachin’ the peak of my success, I’ll show you watch me I’ll show you some things rolex Watches I get money until I die I get money until I beat you, until god calls me, until god calls me woah Everything we do Everything we do Its worldwide homie worldwide Everything we do everything we do Its worldwide homie worldwide worldwide worldwide worldwide Wherever we go they approve worldwide worldwide The sound of our music is ringing out worldwide worldwide Even if you try to deny it real recognize real, people with potential make it homie worldwide worldwide worldwide worldwide aomg illionaire motha f*cka we dont need nothing What you looking at? Everytime we walk by everyone stares at us i aint mean mugging I made zero to a million im not a human being bruh im an illion Cha cha on the beat bitch Big things big dreams boy get rich that’s my job I’m already busy enough tryna live my job Whatever I say, they spread it all around Destroying all the barriers Illionaire zone Even if you rap for 100 days, you can’t even give your parents’ cash while I give them a stackload each month While we’re talented, we’re also kind, we don’t aim for other people’s things so don’t worry about it I Never had any hope for AOMG winning since 2010 We grew up like brothers Yes I remember back in the days Eating some meat, doing some bowling, and while we’re all playin around Sitting around and making Jay Park minialbum We used to not waste a penny, because of that now the three of us are here, Park Jaebum, Shin dong-gap Lee jun gyung Lets get this Money and dreams AOMG illy business doin good son We trust ourselves, this is deep, this isn’t easy, we trust some and we bite some Stop b*tchin come respect it Started from the scratch and we built it Stop bitchin come respect it Started from the f*ckin scratch and we built it Now we’re rocketing to space space, space, AOMG 1llie 1llie Now we’re rocketing to space space space worldwide worldwide Everything we do Everything do Its worldwide homie worldwide Everything we do Everything we do Its worldwide homie worldwide worldwide worldwide worldwide wherever we go people approve worldwide worldwide our music is ringing and blasting everywhere worldwide worldwide Even if you deny real recognize real people with potential make it homie worldwide worldwide

Source of translation: https://www.kpopviral.com/lyrics/jay-park-worldwide-lyrics-english-park-jae-bom-world-wide-romanized.html

[tozinhofernandes-blog]

ORANGE COUNTY CHOPPERS

Psychedelic motorcycles with high handlebars, thin tanks and tire in the front. The big difference is that they are thematic and for the few: they do not leave the workshop for less than US $ 40 thousand. The client list is starred. Lance Armstrong, Keanu Reaves, Ewan McGregor, Joe Perry (Aerosmith guitarist) and Peter Fonda are some of those who own an exclusive machine from ORANGE COUNTY CHOPPERS, a family owned company run by Paul Teutul, and his bad guy who makes millions of dollars selling rebellion and creativity on two wheels.

The story The concept of motorcycle choppers originated in the United States was disseminated throughout the film "Easy Rider", released in 1969, in which actors Peter Fonda and Denis Hopper interpret the two motorcyclists who travel by America about their incredible machines. The movie's bikes, which had a name (they were called: Captain America and Billy Bike), may be the most famous Choppers in the world today. Another famous film of the time that featured the choppers motorcycles featured was "The Wild One", played by the heartthrob Marlon Brando. With their powerful bikes, Hollywood stars inspired many young people in the 1960s and 1970s.

It was in this context, from the fever of motorcycle choppers of Hollywood movies, that the American Paul Teutul, owner of an unmistakable and big mustache, tattooed arms and face of bad, had his love awakened by the machines of two wheels. However, the origin of the business of the Teutul family was another. In the 1970s, Paul started a steel framing company called Orange County Ironworks (known as OCI) in Montgomery, New York. At the time, the firm's address was the bucket of Paul's van and made from apartment stairs to car bodies. At the same time that the OCI was thriving, the entrepreneur developed the idea of ​​using his passion for motorcycles to create a new business. It was the success of the pioneering OCI that allowed Paul to develop the dream of riding motorcycles in the off-hours with the help of his son, Paul Jr.

At only 12 years old, Paul Jr. spent most of his school holidays at his father's company, learning everything about using steel, which would later be used to assemble motorcycles. While still attending the gym, he participated in the Cooperative Educational Service program, improving his assembly skills. Soon after graduating, he went to work with his father at Orange County Ironworks, becoming head of the railing and grille session. In 1999, with three factories of his own, the entrepreneur decided to transform his hobby - the assembly of "chopper" motorcycles - into a new company located in Rock Tavern, 130 kilometers from New York: the OCC (ORANGE COUNTY CHOPPERS). That was when Paul Jr.'s talent came on the scene, leaving OCI to head the design and manufacturing of the newly created company. ORANGE COUNTY CHOPPERS took the initial step in the world of custom machines at the Daytona Motorcycle Festival, known as "Biketoberfest", in 1999, featuring the "True Blue" motorcycle, manufactured in the basement of the family home.

The creation of the team, formed by father and son, caused a great interest in the consumers. Other themed motorcycles came next, such as "Spider Bike" (in red tones, with fenders imitating cobwebs), drawn from the comic book character Spider-Man and bought by Wyclef Jean from The Fugees.

The fate of the small and familiar company would change in 2001 due to the huge success of the famous reality shows. Because of the success of custom-built car shows like "Monster Garage," Sean Gallagher, development director for the Discovery television channel, intended to expand this genre with a different kind of "reality show" that portrayed a manufacturer of motorcycles with excellent design and talent. In the search for motorcycle manufacturers, the director found the OCC website. The Teutul family had a distinctive talent in the manufacture of custom-made motorcycles. From a list of more than 20 motorcycle shops he had in mind, the relationship between a father and his son, working together on a successful family business, attracted the interest of the producer and the OCC was chosen to make the program . On September 29, 2002, the first installment of the AMERICAN CHOPPER series was broadcast on the BBC's People + Arts and Discovery Networks, a lifestyle channel.

The grand balcony of the program and the Teutul family to make rapid success was to explore American patriotism at a delicate moment in its history. The TV program, no wonder the word "American" at the beginning of the name, became extremely popular when Paul Jr. invented a motorcycle to honor the firefighters killed in the tragic terrorist attack on September 11. Then came a model for soldiers fighting in Afghanistan and another called "Air Force One" (like the United States presidential plane). Not surprisingly, at the company headquarters was posted a plaque sent by the Pentagon, with the words: "Orange County Choppers - True American Heroes." The tension between the members of the program and the public's fascination with the super machines ensured the program's audience.

Taking advantage of the success, Paul Teutul did what almost all the stars of the American media were doing: he lent his image to products. From there came the miniature motorcycles, manufactured by Matchbox, and even the colony aftershave. The series established a connection with viewers because the Teutul family represented the true hero of the American working class: they came out of nowhere, set up shop and are on TV. Driven by success in television the company began to stand out worldwide as a reference in the manufacture of motorcycle choppers. In 2002, OCC was recognized by American Iron Magazine as one of the 12 best motorcycle manufacturers in the world; as was quoted in the book Haute Motor: The Art of Chopper (November 2003), among the 19 best automakers. The bikes of the workshop were also covers of renowned magazines such as "American Iron Freeway" (France), "Norsk Biker Journal" (Norway), "Street Chopper" and "V-Twin Motorcycles".

The success of the program, and consequently of the company ORANGE COUNTY CHOPPERS, can be measured when Teutul family revenues reached $ 360 million. Of this total, only about a little more than 10% came from custom bikes. The remainder came from the contract with Discovery and the sale of products licensed under the OCC brand. At that time, the phenomenon had already taken over the world. So much so that the store of licensed products receives orders from Japan, Russia, South Korea, Nigeria and even Brazil. Among other famous models built and created by the company are "The Comanche" (that has as reference the helicopter Bell RAH 66, used by the American army); the futuristic "I Robot" (inspired by the film "I, Robot" and commissioned by actor Will Smith), two of the most famous machines, whose constructions were exhibited in episodes of great audience of the program; and "The Original," a black and silver bike with blue details and a 1638-horsepower S & S (Smith and Smith) engine. In addition, in 2009, OCC presented SMART CHOPPER, its first electric motorcycle, built in partnership with Siemens, which provided battery technology, engine and recharging system. The motorcycle went on auction in 2010 to raise funds for a charity project.

The company's customer list has several famous names. At a cost between $ 35,000 and $ 150,000 (a traditional Harley-Davidson costs an average of $ 20,000), the company's choppers have already been sold to stars such as cyclist Lance Armstrong, rocker Tommy Lee, actor Will Smith and host Jay Leno.

The Reality Show

The initial idea of ​​the program (seen in more than 170 countries) was to centralize actions in the creation and assembly of motorcycles, which was almost left in the background when watching what was happening on the television screen. The members of the family had an intense and explosive relationship and this jumped in the eyes of the directors of the program. AMERICAN CHOPPER has become less about motorcycles and more about the dynamics behind manufacturing them. In the relationship between Paul Teutul and Paul Jr., his work styles are contrasting (they were always struggling with problems in building motorcycles or even for small reasons, such as a lost drill or dirt in the workshop), but note a series interesting "father-son" conversations, while striving to meet, with delivery deadlines seemingly impossible to accomplish, a high-quality job that represents the OCC. Each week, they created a new model and presented throughout the program the entire process of designing the bikes. Thematic designs are trademarks of the family. In addition to Paul Teutul and Paul Jr., Michael Teutul (the "Mikey") was also featured in the show's plot. In the United States, each episode of the show has attracted an average of four million viewers. In Brazil, the attraction was also a resounding success of pay-TV audience. At Orkut, there are more than 70 Brazilian communities dedicated to the program and its characters. In 2010, the program ended early in February, as a result of the final fight between Paul Sr. and his son, Paul Jr., to have been taken to the New York State Courts. He continued with OCC and his son opened his own company. Well, it was not long before the two returned to work in one program, only with separate recordings. The program, dubbed "Paul Senior Vs. Paul Junior ", was recorded with two production teams, independent and without any form of communication between them, where father and son entered a dispute building different motorcycles, which compete with each other.

[anthonypaulh]

THE QUEEN is DEAD, LONG live THE QUEEN.

As I write this item the World prepares to say it’s final goodbyes to Aretha Franklin the Queen of Soul. Born in Memphis Tennessee on March 25th 1942 she died on August 16th in Detroit, Michigan after succumbing to pancreatic cancer. She had been battling illness since 2010. Ironically the date of her death was the 41st anniversary of the passing of Elvis Presley.

The Queen of Soul title bestowed upon Aretha back at the end of the 1960’s doesn’t even come close to describing her talents nor her importance musically and culturally. She transcended music and became an icon for so many reasons. Her voice was undoubtedly one of the finest ever to be recorded. Although best known for her contribution to soul music, she would have been the equal of anyone in the field of jazz should she have wanted to focus on it more keenly and she was an incredible blues, Rand B and pop singer. But, for me and probably many others, her real musical greatness was as a Gospel singer. Aretha came from the church, it pervaded everything she did and it underpins her musical contribution and legacy.

Her amazing, distinctive voice meant that Aretha had very few peers. As far as female vocalists are concerned, I would place her with Billie Holliday, Ella Fitzgerald and Mahalia Jackson with possibly Mavis Staples and Nina Simone to complete that elite line up. But aside of music Aretha became an icon, a torch bearer for so many causes and a personal representation of the African-American experience. Her life reflected all that was good, bad and sometimes very, very ugly with modern America. When Aretha sang you just knew that she was laying herself bare and that it was all so real. It is extremely doubtful that we will ever see or hear her like again. We are very, very fortunate that she was a part of our lives and lucky indeed to have her music to serve to remind us.

Everything about her amazing career emanated from the Church. It was the foundation for everything that she would go on to achieve over her 60 years in music. For any woman born in the South of the United States at the time she was, three things would have defined her early life… Church, Cotton, and Segregation. They were facts of life and in the stories of so many great American music stars, growing up at that time, in that part of the country they are evident. Look at the lives of Elvis Presley, Johnny Cash, Carl Perkins, Ray Charles, Sam Cooke, Jerry Lee Lewis, James Brown, Al Greene and many others and you see these common features to one degree or another. Listen to an early Elvis recording of “Peace in The Valley” or Johnny Cash singing “Swing Low Sweet Chariot” and you get the picture.

Aretha Louise Franklin was born in Memphis to her Mother Barbara and Father C L Franklin in 1942. Her Mother left the family home when Aretha was just 6 years old and her Father became the major influence in her young life. It would make her musical destiny inevitable. The family had moved to Buffalo, New York when she was just 2 but before her 5th Birthday they moved to Detroit, where her Father took over as Pastor of the New Bethel Baptist Church. Aretha continued to see her Mother even after her parents separated but it was her Father that took the leading role in her upbringing after their 1948 split.

Her Father was a hugely charismatic preacher and the young Aretha accompanied him during many of his performances in Church. It was to be the catalyst for her beautiful career. Her Mother had been a pianist and Aretha taught herself how to play piano by ear but it was her singing voice that would mark her out from a very young age as something very, very special indeed.

Her Father, C L Franklin ( Clarence LeVaughan) preached every week at the New Bethel Baptist Church in Detroit but also travelled the country on numerous Gospel caravan tours. When Aretha was aged 10, her Mother died on March 7th 1952. He Father recognised very quickly that Aretha had incredible talent and he encouraged her to sing at his appearances in Church. He had built up such a reputation for his preaching that he became known as the “man with the million dollar voice” He released over 70 of his sermons on Chess Records. He was a superstar preacher.

At the tender age of just 12 Aretha fell pregnant and had her first child Clarence. She had her second child aged just 14 years old, and named him Edward. She would later go on to have 2 other sons, Ted White Junior in 1964 and Kecalf Cunningham in 1970. Both of her first 2 children were looked after by her sister Erma and Grandmother Rachel, as Aretha continued with the Gospel tours.

Through her Father it was inevitable that Aretha would eventually turn to pursuing a career in music. She undertook numerous appearances on Gospel Caravan tours meeting iconic figures like Sam Cooke and Mahalia Jackson along the way. She signed her first recording contract at aged 14, secured of course by her Father on the J V B record label in 1956.

Her first album to be released in 1956 was a live Gospel recording of a concert at the New Bethel Baptist Church. Aretha sang and accompanied herself on piano with 9 songs, and it became the album entitled “ Sprirtuals”.  The record would subsequently be re-released on Battle Records in 1962 then again on Checker Records entitled “Songs of Faith” in 1965 with extra tracks added. It was the start of a magnificent & prolific recording career.

During the Gospel caravan tours it was inevitable that Aretha would start to broaden her range and musical ambition. She sometimes travelled with the “Soul Stirrers” featuring Sam Cooke and she spent Summer’s on the circuit with Mavis Staples in Chicago. The jazz sensation Dinah Washington advised Quincy Jones very early on that Aretha would be the next huge music star. She could confirm this with some authority as Aretha had taken singing lessons from her many times when Dinah and Reverend James Cleveland visited the Franklin family home. At the age of 16, Aretha went on tour with Dr Martin Luther King Junior and she would subsequently perform at this funeral in 1968.

It was the success of Sam Cooke in the pop music arena that inspired Aretha to summon up the courage to persuade her Father to allow her to try her hand at recording secular songs. At the age of 18 she finally talked her Father into allowing her to move into pop music and he agreed to become her Manager and seek out a contract. A two song demo tape was made and her Father attracted the attention of Columbia Records who signed Aretha in 1960. There had been some suggestion that she may have been attracted to the label Sam Cooke was signed to R C A or the fledgling Motown label in Detroit under the auspices of Berry Gordy. But it was Columbia Records who get the vital signature.

Her first single for Columbia Records was “Today I Sing the Blues” and it reached number 10 on the US R and B charts. On her debut Columbia album she was accompanied by Ray Bryant and his combo. The record was very jazz slanted and had a few standards on it including “Somewhere over the Rainbow”. It sneaked into the Billboard top 100 but it was a much smoother record than her Gospel work. In truth, during the first half of the 1960’s Columbia Records didn’t really know what to do with Aretha Franklin. They were not sure how best to showcase her obviously remarkable talent, and although she recorded 9 albums for them, the relationship was never quite right.

So at the end of 1966, Aretha left Columbia Records to sign for Atlantic and it was here that she found her real voice. The most productive period of her career was about to begin and she launched into a series of recordings that would see her achieve huge commercial success and widespread critical acclaim. By the time that she signed for Atlantic, Aretha was 24 years old, married and had 3 sons. She had been recording and performing for over 10 years and it meant that she had already lived a lot.

The view that the team at Atlantic took was that they needed to take Aretha back to her Gospel roots and allow her to simply be herself. That was the environment that would bring out the best in her. How right they were.

In January 1967 Aretha recorded the single and album  “ I Never Loved a Man, the Way I Loved You “ and it was a huge hit. One part of the recording of that album often gets overlooked however. The record was initially recorded at the Fame Studios in Muscle Shoals Alabama, with the peerless Muscle Shoals rhythm section and a horn section hired by them. The horn section were an all white team and the best way to describe them is to say that they were not pro Civil Rights. So Aretha and her Father insisted that the entire recording of the album be switched to New York. The album was re-recorded in New York with the Muscle Shoals rhythm section but with a completely different horn section .

Both the single and album reached number one in the US R and B chart and it began a series of 5 straight number one singles hits in one year. The second single from the album was a cover version of the Otis Reding hit “Respect” and it went onto become an anthem for both the Civil Rights and feminist movements.

In January 1968 her 14th studio album was released as “Lady Soul” and included iconic tracks “Chain of Fools’ and the Carole King  & Gerry Goffin song “You Make me Feel Like a Natural Woman “. Soon after that her next studio album “Aretha Now” followed. It continued an unprecedented run of major hits with “Think” and “ I say a Little Prayer “ written by the legendary Burt Bacharach and Hal David.

In April 1968 Aretha sang “Take My Hand Lord” at Dr Martin Luther King Junior’s memorial service and it confirmed her alignment with the Civil Rights movement. Her father had helped organise the Walk to Freedom with Dr King and he also sang Thomas Dorsey’s “Precious Lord” at Doctor King’s memorial service. Aretha was a passionate supporter of Civil Rights and the feminist movements throughout her career and used every opportunity to publicise these causes. She was also a high profile campaigner for raising awareness and funds for the Elton John AIDS Foundation.

Aretha divorced her first husband in 1969 but continued to have hits including “Bridge Over Troubled Water “ and “Spanish Harlem”. A return to her Gospel roots came in 1972 with her album “Amazing Grace”, a live recording which sold 2 million copies which turned out to be the biggest selling of her career.

During the 1970’s Aretha received 8 consecutive Grammy awards and in 1979 a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. But in 1979 her Father was shot in his home during a robbery and he never fully recovered. Aretha moved back to Detroit to look after him and she signed a new recording contract with Arista Records in 1980 to pay his healthcare bills. Sadly her Father died in 1984.

Measuring the incredible career achievements of Aretha Franklin is easy enough to do if you just tot up the awards and numbers. Over 100 singles to have charted on the US R and B charts, 18 Grammy Awards, 75 million records sold, 77 entries on the US Billboard Hot 100, 20 number one’s on the US R and B charts, and the award of the Presidential Medal of Freedom (the highest US civilian accolade ). But all this is just a part of the story. Aretha was much, much more than that. Here was someone who transcended music, someone who made a difference and who made us see our story through her experiences. Aretha was the voice of a generation, her experiences were our experiences and she gave us a highly vocal outlet.

As she is laid to rest on Friday August 31st in the Woodlawn Cemetery in Detroit, perhaps the best summary of her immense musical contribution comes from Barrack Obama who on news of her death in a joint statement with his wife Michelle Obama said -

“ Aretha helped define the American experience. In her voice we could feel our history, all of it and in every shade- our power and our pain, our darkness and our light, our quest for redemption and our hard won respect. She has helped us feel more connected to each other, more hopeful, more human”.

I couldn’t possibly have put it better. 

Aretha made her final live performance on November 7th 2017 at the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine in New York to mark the 25th Anniversary celebration of the Sir Elton John AIDS Foundation. Her tireless support for the things that really mattered mark her out as so much more than one of the greatest singers of all time.

Far more than any awards or accolades can measure, Aretha Franklin was someone who quite simply made a difference, she was somebody who stood up for good and made so many lives much, much better. She will forever be remembered as a musical and cultural icon but more importantly she was a wonderful human being. We are all better people for having shared our time and some great music with her.

Rest easy Aretha, you will never be forgotten.

[gardnerffox]

Read chapter One from Rebel Wench

Chapter One

The key turned in the lock and the door opened on the room he had not seen for more than four years. The low ceiling, slanting slightly where it reached out toward the gable window, the faded pattern of the Chinese wallpaper, the big spool bed with its crazy-quilt covering, all were as he remembered them. Gray dust lay thick over everything, as if to hide his secret from the world.

The man moved into the room and closed the white pine door softly behind him. A smile tugged at the corners of his wide mouth. Ben Leap had oiled the hinges, as he had been told to do. The man paused a moment, his eyes sliding to the heavy iron-banded chest that stood below a long Elliott mirror on the wall. Then he was striding to the dormer window, lifting the shade, letting sunlight come into the room. He set the long Kentucky rifle he carried gently on the floor.

The sunlight gilded the white buckskin hunting shirt he wore, with its fringes at sleeves and back, and slid across the green sash about his middle that marked him for one of Morgan's Rifles. Under the sash was a wide leather belt that held his shot pouch and long knife. He was a tall man, and lean. The breadth of his shoulders stretched the buckskin tight to the muscles that rippled as he lifted the hunting shirt and threw it from him.

He knelt and worked at the lock on the big chest. Dust rose in a little cloud as he threw-back the iron-bound top and revealed the blue velvet jacket and breeches and lawn shirt, the riding boots and frilled jabot. A smile twisted the corners of his mouth as he drew out the frock coat and held it up.

Billy Joe Stafford felt a twist of regret for the might have been. Four years in the North, fighting in Morgan's company against the English lobster-backs, from Quebec right down through Monmouth and the seemingly endless little fights that followed that debacle. That long, endless winter in Valley Forge. His arm twitched where a white scar marked it: the scar a British saber had put in his flesh on Christmas night of '77. Four years! Four years without Laura Lee in his arms, without her wide, moist mouth to spot he away his hurts and hungers, without her pale body to entice his senses in the great bedchamber at Stafford Hall.

The thought of Laura Lee Stafford, that sultry beauty who was his wife, put a tempest of impatience in his blood. He stood and worked at the green sash, at the wide leather belt and deerskin leggins. Naked, he bent to the chest and drew out linen shirt and cravat, breeches and boots.

He dressed, remembering the day in 73 he had brought Laura Lee Moulton to Stafford Hall, which his grandfather had built in 1723. Lord, but she had been a temptation in her nightrail, laughing and running from him, bringing him-French wines in a crystal beaker and goblet, standing like that in a shaft of revealing moonlight, maddening him. For three years, he and Laura Lee had been lovers. Then word had gone south from Lexington and Concord: The colonies were in rebellion. He himself had been eager to get away, to ride to Fredericksburg and join the company Dan Morgan was gathering: Virginia rifles, and each man of them a sharpshooter. His wife refused to let him go. Laura Lee was a royalist, a Tory.

Her white face swam before his remembering eyes. Her full mouth was pinched to a thin red line and her dark eyes blazed hotly at him. Her voice was rasping. "You're insane. Insane! You know that, don't you?”

Her ringed hand gestured, making him see the pillared majesty of the Hall, its white outbuildings with their blue roofs and trim, the fields of wheat and cotton, the sleek, fast horses in the west meadows and the herds of cows that would be ambling now through the early dusk, back to their big, clean barns.

"You'd give up all this to ride with a pack of ragamuffins to fight against your king! With a rag-tail mob! And what for? To find yourself face down someday on a field or in a ditch, with your blood oozing out! Dying! You don't expect to gain anything from this little rebellion?”

His smile had been a patient thing. In the years of his marriage to Laura Lee, he had learned patience. “The King taxes us blind. His ministers come stalking with their noses in the air, arrogant as peacocks. They take our pride as they take our money. Our English agents conspire with each other to short-change our every shipment. They treat us worse than we treat the slaves!"

She flung mocking laughter at him. "Tell the rest of the world all that, Billy Joe. Tell me the truth! Tell me that the Stafford blood runs hot in your veins! The same blood that drove your grandfather into seven duels, until the eighth one killed him. The same blood that haunted your father through the last two wars with France, in '48 and '56! That gave him the chest trouble that killed him.”

He-said softly, "Because of all that, you find yourself mistress of the richest plantation in the Dan River country.”

“And I want to keep what I have, Billy Joe!s Not just the plantation, but you as well!”

She had thrown herself into his arms then, and the weight of her soft, fragrant flesh and the touch of her hungry mouth had silenced him. He had been a coward. He had crept from her bed in the early hours of the morning while she lay sleeping placidly, had donned this blue velvet riding suit and written her a letter, then ridden off on one of the plantation's big stallions to his room at Ben Leap's ordinary.

Now he was coming back, unheralded and unannounced, four years later.

Billy Joe Stafford stared at his reflection in the mirror on the wall. He had put weight on his chest and arms and legs in those four years. His shirt and jacket and breeches were tight to bursting with his added bulk. The pale yellow of his hair seemed almost white against the dark mahogany of his tanned face. The Stafford nose, high and thin, and the Fairfax blue eyes and dimpled chin, which were an inheritance from his mother, mocked at his beating heart.

Will she be waiting? The words that came up from his very depths, in answer to each throbbing heartbeat, taunted him. He knew the pride that ran in Laura Lee. He had hurt that pride by running away. Now, in this November, 1780, he was coming home, to learn if her pride was still as fierce.

With steady hands he set the gold-laced tricorn more firmly on his head, then paused for one last glance about the little room that had been his since his sixteenth birthday. His father had paid a year's rent on it, giving it to him for a birthday present, telling him a man needed to get off by himself once in a while, away from his troubles. He had sat on the edge of that big canopied bed, staring as he saw his first woman undress for him, remembering the bayberry candle hanging on a rung of the ladder-back chair where his foot was propped, casting shadows across her slender thighs. Beyond it in a nook under the slanted ceiling, was the writing desk where he had sat for three hours the day his father died. It had been on that desk that he had first composed the letter he had slipped under Laura's pillow, the night he ran away. Aye, he told himself bitterly, the room was filled with memories for him, but it was not those memories that held him here. It was the fear in his middle, the fear that made him linger.

He was afraid to face Laura Lee. “What will she be like?” he whispered. “Will she welcome me back or turn me over to the Tories? Is the plantation a ruin? Did she go back to Charles Town, where I married her?”

A hand on the knob of the door, a wrench, and he was out in the hall, breathing harshly, feeling the lawn shirt cut into his shoulders from its tightness. “She's my wife!” he told the heavy canvas floor cloth on the hall plankings. Then the stair was underfoot and he was leaping downward, anxious now to see her, and to learn what was waiting for him at Stafford Hall.

He came into the taproom from the inner hall, not seeing the huge brick fireplace with its brassland irons and fire back gleaming from their years of polishing, the long fowling piece and carved powder horn on leather thongs and wooden pegs above it. A few fiddle-backed rockers stood between the hearth and a large trestle table in the middle of the room. In the west corner, taking up more than half the wall, was the planked bar, its slatted corner railing reaching upward to the beamed ceiling.

Stafford moved through the room and out onto the stone slabs that served as steps to the entry door. Early afternoon sunlight showed him the road stretching off toward the Dan and Stafford Hall. Bermuda grass and low evergreens made a sea of green beyond the road, as far away as the Blue Ridge Mountains. The sound of trotting hoofs and the whinny of a horse made him turn and come down onto the graveled carriage drive.

Ben Leap, who ran the Black Thistle ordinary, came around the corner of the house, the reins of a big bay stallion in his large hand. A grin distorted his plump cheeks. His white head bobbed, but not before Stafford saw a fresh bruise on his lined cheek.

"A new horse every month,” he told Stafford. "Brought by Old Gem, who comes every week to curry him, and exercise him on the road yonder.”

Stafford smiled to cover the lump in his throat. Old Gem had been slave to his father and his grandfather before him, and had taught him to sit a saddle and handle a frisky mount. It would be like Old Gem to keep coming back, week after week and month after month for four years, certain that his master would return someday.

He was reaching for the black leather rein when a man shouted with laughter inside the tavern. There was something lewd in the manner of that laugh. It was followed by a sob and the sharp cry of an angry woman.

Ben Leap flushed. The bruise on his cheek stood out darker against the tide of blood. When he caught Stafford's inquisitive glance, the old man grimaced. "A damned Yankee. Roaring drunk last night, sir. Put this mark on my phiz with a beer cup when I asked for manners.”

The woman screamed, and Stafford relaxed his grip on the rein. He said softly, staring at the door of the ordinary's long room, "There's teacher's blood in me at the moment, Ben. I've a mind to show this Yankee how we behave to a woman this far south.”

The old man said, "He's a mean one, sir. Big and heavy. With a slant to his eye that I mislike.”

Stafford nodded. "I've seen his kind before. First to join when the battle is won, first to go when the fighting gets rough.” His hands rose to his blue velvet frock coat. He removed it and put it across the saddle. As he walked toward the long-room door, his fingers worked busily, rolling up the sleeves of his lawn shirt.

He came into the long room, with its twin fireplaces and small trestle tables, ladder-back chairs and hanging Betty lamps. A blonde girl in a homespun dress of green wool that was ripped from a white shoulder and torn halfway up her leg was sprawled across the knee of a big man, whose fleshy face was thrust deep in her throat. His big hands were fondling the girl even as her fingers clawed at his shoulder. Her right hand left his arm and tangled its fingers in his thick black hair, tugging savagely. Her breathing was hoarse and frantic.

Whether it was her hand in his hair lifting his head or the sound of Stafford's top boots on the floor that stayed the man, Stafford never knew. The big man raised his head and stared at him, and his loose mouth sneered. He was fleshy, with tangled black hair and pig eyes, and his teeth showed rotten when he sneered.

"A gentleman farmer come to save your virtue, girl. As if you've any left to salvage!”

He pushed the girl from him, thrust her rolling across the floor with a foot. With a curse for Stafford, he brought his big pewter beaker to his lips and swallowed noisily. Before he was finished drinking, he took the beaker from his mouth and hurled it in a movement curiously fluid for such a big man.

Stafford heard the girl scream as the beaker caught him at his cheek and gashed a bloody furrow. Then the big man was coming for him, rolling the table from his path with a big hand at its edge, his feet pounding dust from the floor boards as he came.

Stafford slid aside from the bullish rush, and his fists went out, left and right, slamming into the big man at jaw and belly, turning him around to face him. A fist brought blood from the wide nose and opened the corner of his lips. The fleshy man blinked a little stupidly. Slowly, the stupidity of surprise gave way to a rush of anger that mottled his cheeks. He roared and lowered his head and charged.

The Staffords were big of bone, with thick sinew on them, but this Northern giant outweighed Billy Joe by twenty pounds. He was fat, but the ease with which he had swung the table from him showed he was strong under his blubber. Stafford rode before his rush, fighting as he had fought in camp fights from Canada all the way to New Jersey. He used his fists as a duelist uses his point. He jabbed until blood trickled from an eye and gushed from a nose. He flailed at the man's belly until he fought for breath, wetly, bent far over.

The big man was a knowing fighter. He gave out punishment too, so that Stafford felt on fire where a huge fist raked the side of his face, and where an iron poker tore a gash in his side as the man swung it wildly.

Vaguely Stafford was aware of the blonde girl, crouched on the floor and staring at them with wide eyes: Once he saw her rise to her knees, when two right-hand blows doubled up the big man. Her fingers fell from the torn green gown they held together over her bosom to ball into a fist, and he caught a flashing glimpse of a thin golden chain and the locket it suspended.

“Kill the pig!” he heard her whisper. “Kill him for what he did to me!”

Stafford did not kill him, but he beat him to his knees, and when the big man stood again he felled him with a left hook that almost broke his jaw. Standing-over him, fingers slowly unclenching, he gulped at the air.

"You'll find a pistol in my room, Ben,” he told the old man, who had sidled in to watch the fight with awed eyes. "Load and prime it. If this beast isn't gone when he's washed off the blood, put a ball between his eyes.”

"Aye, sir. That I will, with pleasure!"

The girl was at his elbow then, a dirty hand reaching out to touch him fearfully. As he swung on her, she recoiled, blase eyes shading themselves behind long yellow lashes. She was a pretty thing, with a thick mass of blonde hair spilling across white shoulders, her hips straining the Lindsey-Wolsey of her dress. Her features were grimed by a splash of dirt from ear to mouth and a smear of oil lay above her left eyebrow, but her mouth was ripe and red, and there was a creamy texture to her skin that made his eyes dip to the torn bodice where her breasts pressed their roundness into the homespun.

Thank you, sir. Thank you for saving me from—from that."

He had seen camp trulls before. They followed the armies from camp to camp, and waited for the men, sometimes, within smelling distance of the cannons. This one was a cut or two above most of the wenches who knew the blackberry clumps and buttercup fields with such easy familiarity. Something inside him answered when she let him see her blue eyes fully, for the first time.

“I don't require your thanks.” He smiled, staring at his torn sleeve and blood-spattered shirt. How could he ride to the Hall-like this? He said almost unconsciously, "I did it for Ben, it you must know.”

Her gasp told him he had been rude. He flushed and explained, "At first I did it for Ben, because he hit him. Then, later on—“

Her chin tilted. There was pride in those blue eyes, he was discovering. "Just the same, I thank you.”

The big man stirred, groaning, and the girl trembled and stared down at him. She moved closer to Stafford, and now he could sense the fright in her. "He'll be after me again, soon's he comes to his senses. After you go, he'll get me.” The girl put a grimy hand on his wrist. "Please, sir, could I go along with you, for just a little way?”

“I’ve only one horse. I'm sorry.”

“I could ride behind you!” she pleaded eagerly. "I've done that before. Ridden behind a man on a horse, without a saddle under me.”

"Yes, I rather suppose you have.” Stafford was staring at the big man on the floor, and so he did not see the deep-red flush that slid from her throat into her cheeks. He said reflectively, "He'll be vicious when he comes to. His kind always are, after a beating. Perhaps you'd best come with me, after all.”

Her gaze was steady on his face. "You'd take a dog with you, to save him from a beating, wouldn't you?”

Stafford was surprised. “Why, I suppose I would. Yes.” For a moment, he thought she was about to slap him. Then she whirled on a heel and moved toward the door. For the first time, Stafford saw that she was barefoot. He wondered, idly if she wore anything at all under that thin Lindsey-Wolsey thing. He turned to Ben Leap.

"Get the pistol, Ben Put it handy when he washes up.”

"I will, sir. And—it's good to have you home again.” The girl was standing beside the stallion waiting for him, smoothing its nose with a palm, speaking to it in whispers. Grimy though she was, with a trace of the street urchin about her, the sunlight on her golden hair and face seemed to soften the dirt with an earthy honesty. Her slim white ankles made him curious as to the shape of the legs the green homespun skirt hid. His eyes traced her round hips and slim waist, and the firmness of her bosom.

When she felt his eyes on her, she slid away from the horse.

"Mount up,” he told her gently. "I'll walk beside you.”

"No," she whispered, letting him see the gratitude shining in her eyes. "No, I won't let you do that. I'd rather ride behind you.”

Stafford put on his blue velvet jacket and studied himself. The coat would hide the tears in the shirt and the blood that flecked it. Then his toe jabbed the iron stirrup and he rose easily into the saddle. He bent and grasped the girl by her wrist and helped her swing behind him.

She straddled the stallion, skirt pulled to mid-thighs. As he turned back, Stafford reflected that the promise of her slim ankles was fulfilled in the shapeliness of the legs she bared by her action.

"Hold to me,” he told her gruffly, and felt slim brown arms creep about his waist. A toe moved the horse into a Canter.

They rode through the Virginia afternoon with the cry of a blue heron in their ears, with the scents of fall wildflowers growing in little bunches beside the dusty road touching their nostrils. The sunlight made a haze of the Carolinas to the south, and dappled the forestland stretching as far away as the mountains with golden splinters.

The girl was warm and soft behind him. His back was aware of her unbound breasts prodding it, and his waist tightened against the occasional tug of her young arms when the stallion broke stride to avoid a rut in the road. Once a thick yellow strand of hair brushed like a soft whip across his face, its perfume faint and disturbing. Against the back of his neck, he felt her soft breath.

She was a camp trull, though the most attractive one he had ever seen. If he wanted, he could turn the horse aside into the flanking forests that made this southern edge of Virginia a vast woodland and draw her down and enjoy her. She would not put up such a fight as she had with the big man—in the ordinary. There was tenderness in the clinging of her arms around him, and a hidden hunger in the sudden hardening of the breasts on his back that told him she might even be eager for the caresses he could give.

Stafford thought of Laura Lee in the Hall, hoping she was waiting after four years to welcome him home, and put such thoughts from him. He urged the stallion to a faster pace.

When they came at last to the crossroads between the Dan road and the Carolina settlements, he turned in the saddle and smiled at her. “Where will you go now?”

“To Charlotte Town.”

Charlotte Town. That was where Dan Morgan, recently made a brigadier general by the Continental Congress, was gathering the remnants of the army Horatio Gates had allowed the British to smash at Camden. A camp girl like this one, with her pert face and comely body, would find good pickings there. Men from the Maryland and Delaware regiments, mountaineers with their long Deckard rifles, and the army moving south with Nathaniel Greene would furnish her with an unlimited clientele.

She was very near. An arm hooked about her waist would crush her softness against him. Those full lips, pouting a little under his regard, would taste sweet to his starving mouth. As if sensing the hunger in him, she sat waiting, breathless, her blue eyes locked with his gaze. Four years is a long time, he told himself.

And then the moment was gone, and she was sliding ground-ward, her skirt lifting nearly to her hips. She paused on the ground, shaking out her dress, ignoring the fact that her bodice gaped where it had been torn. Her smile was bright as she raised her head, and he fancied that her blue eyes mocked him.

"I wish you luck, sir,” she said softly. "All, the very best of luck.”

Then she was moving away, with the dust rising in little puffs about her bare feet, her hips twitching to each stride, the long yellow hair falling almost to the small of her back. Stafford stared after her, motionless, until she was gone out of sight around a bend in the road and under the sheltering branches of the towering pines.

He sighed and toed the stallion to a gallop. Eagerness beat in him with a rising pulse. Less than a dozen miles from here was Laura Lee, and home.

Ezra Whipple bent to the wash pan, sloshing cold well water onto his bruised face, Fire ate in him, a roaring flame of hate and frustration that called on his pride for vengeance. No man ever before had stood to the thud of his meaty fists. He had fought fair and foul more times than he could remember, with all manner of men. Once his thumbs had gouged the eyes from a Pennsylvania farmer. Once his teeth had chewed off the ear of a New York merchant in a Fly Market tavern.

He did not like the taste of his bruises. He toweled his face gently, aware that Ben Leap watched from the planked bar, a long-barreled horse pistol primed and cocked in his hand. The old man had taken the pistol from an upper room, from a room that belonged to the man who had beaten him so savagely.

“A good man, that one,” he said grudgingly to Ben Leap, pretending affability. “At another time, I might have been his friend."

Ben Leap spat across the bar. “No friend of yours, you scum. He's a plantation man, a gentleman. The Staffords have been here in Virginia for near a century.”

"Still and all, he's a man. A good man with his fists. He never let me get close enough to hug him once. If he had, I could have snapped the ribs of him like dry sticks. A good man.”

“They come no better.”

Whipple chuckled, and held his shirt aloft. "Tore it to tatters with his knuckles. Now where'll I get me another?" Ben Leap eyed the big man curiously. He was an ordinary keeper, and his trade was buying and selling. He said slowly, "I could sell you one, for a shilling and tuppence.” The big man put a hand in his breeches pocket and brought out some coins. Placing them carefully on a tabletop, he backed toward the stair. "Fetch me one. There's your money. I'll stay near the stair, to prove I mean you no harm.”

Ben Leap reflected. The grip of the pistol in his hand was reassuring. "I'll fetch one from the storeroom. No tricks, mind. I'd as leave shoot as not. I may be old, but I can use a firearm still.”

Whipple laughed. “No tricks.”

When the old man was gone, Whipple whirled and went up the stairs, three treads at a time. Impatiently he hunted, opening bedroom doors until he came to the room with the slanting ceiling and the dusty furniture. With the instincts of the burglar he once had been, in New York town before the war, he knew this for the room he sought. On silent feet he went to the mahogany dresser, opening and closing drawers and finding them empty. He turned to the writing table, but abandoned that after a glance. His eyes touched the iron-bound chest, slid away from it, and then returned.

He knelt. The lock was open. As his hands pushed up the chest top, he gasped. A hunting shirt and leggings, a carved powder horn marked with the Stafford name, a green sash and moccasins lay piled before him.

Wonderingly he lifted out the white buckskin hunting shirt. "One of Morgan's men! Ah, now why should he be so sly about the fact, unless he wants to keep it secret?”

Ezra Whipple knew the South was torn apart by strife between Tory and rebel. Fathers fought sons and daughters fought mothers. It might be that Colonel Billy Joe Stafford—the fringes on the hunting shirt told Whipple his rank—would be hurt by having his secret exposed.

The big man rolled the powder horn under the hunting shirt and tied them both with the green sash. His loose mouth twitched in a grin. Moving to the window, he tossed his little package out onto the grass of the side yard. He would cozen Ben Leap into telling him where the Stafford plantation was located. After that, he'd trust his ears and his tongue and his nimble wits to turn this secret to his advantage.

His fingertips touched the swollen bruises on jaw and cheeks. Billy Joe Stafford would pay for the beating he had given Ezra Whipple, in the way that would hurt him most.