#cover letter for college admission

[content-euphoria]

Making the perfect sample In your academic career, writing a PhD sop sample . Program is a crucial step. This article is a thorough how-to manual for writing a strong SOP that accurately reflects your academic goals, research interests, and unique perspective. Examine advice, tactics, and examples from the real world to create an SOP that stands out and appeals to admissions committees. Learn the subtleties of communicating your enthusiasm and suitability for doctoral studies to improve your chances of getting the desired Ph.D. spot.

[justforbooks]

Phil Baines, who has died aged 65 of multiple system atrophy, was one of the most distinctive voices in contemporary British graphic design. His work included books, posters, art catalogues and lettering for three important London monuments – the memorial to the Indian Ocean tsunami in the grounds of the Natural History Museum and the 7 July memorials in Hyde Park and Tavistock Square, commemorating the victims of the 2005 London bombings. These projects point to Baines’s defining attributes: a scholarly appreciation of letterforms, a deep-rooted respect for materials and a love of collaboration.

Such attributes can also be seen in Baines’s cover designs for the Penguin Great Ideas series (2004-20), works by “great thinkers, pioneers, radicals and visionaries” that gave him a canvas on which to display his typographic philosophy. The Saint Augustine – Confessions of a Sinner cover, for instance, uses ancient ecclesiastical letterforms and yet looks superbly modern. For Chuang Tzu — The Tao of Nature, Baines arranged letters to suggest a butterfly in flight. David Pearson, one of two art directors for the series, described how his “often-oblique approach gave the series a crucial added dimension”.

Born in Kendal, Cumbria, Phil was one of the three children of Martin Baines, a construction contract manager, and Joan (nee Quarmby), a horticulturalist. Growing up in a Roman Catholic household, he began studies for the priesthood at Ushaw College, County Durham. During the holidays from Ushaw he worked at the Guild of Lakeland Craftsmen, Windermere, and from there his interest and confidence in art grew.

At the start of his fourth year, he quit Ushaw, and in 1980 began a year’s study on the foundation course at Cumbria College of Art and Design. In 1982 he moved to London and enrolled on the graphic design course at St Martin’s School of Art (now Central Saint Martins), where he met Jackie Warner, whom he married in 1989, and where he was among a talented cohort, many of whom went on to study, as he did, at the Royal College of Art.

Richard Doust, then leader of the first-year course at St Martins, recalled the portfolio Baines submitted for admission: “I was so excited … I was sure he was going to be someone very special. He quickly established his individuality. He made typography and particularly letterpress his own territory.”

Baines was fiercely individual – he did not join schools of thought or align himself with fashionable camps. Instead, he built a creative practice based on his belief in the “humanist” qualities of the English typographic tradition.

His contemporaries were using the computer to bring a new complexity to graphic communication. Smart software allowed for the overlapping and interweaving of text in ways that echoed the ecclesiastical manuscripts that Baines admired so much. He was no Luddite, and used the computer himself, yet his work invariably retained an element of the handmade.

Paradoxically, his work was greatly admired by the new generation of digital designers. Neville Brody, for instance, included Baines’s work in his experimental typography publication FUSE, produced to demonstrate the malleability of the new digital typography. Baines’s work does not look out of place among the other contributors, many of them American typography radicals whose multi-layered layouts were driven by modish theories of deconstruction and poststructuralism.

In 1988 he returned to Central Saint Martins (CSM), as part of the faculty. In staff meetings his willingness to say the unsayable was a frequent cause for consternation among colleagues. To his students he preached a doctrine of “object-based learning”, a typically contrarian notion in the age of screen-based and virtual graphic design. He was appointed a professor in 2006 and retired in 2020 as emeritus professor.

Despite his commitment to teaching, Baines did not give up his work for clients. As well as designing books for leading publishers, he worked for the Crafts Council and the Ditchling Museum of Art + Craft, and designed the signage for CSM’s King’s Cross campus. He designed exhibition catalogues for Matt’s Gallery, south-west London, relishing the creative three-way collaboration that existed between the gallery’s director, Robin Klassnik, exhibiting artists and himself.

He wrote books that contributed to the understanding of visual communication: Type & Typography (with Andrew Haslam, 2002), Signs: Lettering in the Environment (with Catherine Dixon, 2003) and Penguin by Design: A Cover Story 1935-2005 (2005), the last of which helped establish Penguin cover art as one of the most important bodies of graphic art in British design history.

With Dixon, he co-curated the Central Lettering Record, an archive of typographic history housed at CSM, and in November 2023 his work was celebrated in an exhibition, Extol: Phil Baines Celebrating Letters, at the Lethaby gallery, CSM. He was appointed as the Royal Mint advisory committee’s lettering expert in 2016, and reappointed in 2021 to advise on the integration of lettering on new coins and medals, with consideration given to special issues and the accession of King Charles to the throne. For this work, in 2023 he was awarded the Coronation medal.

Baines was an enthusiastic runner and cyclist, and loved music, especially the Manchester post-punk band the Fall. He was a collector of signs, lettering, and railwayana, and built his own studios at his home in Willesden Green, north-west London. A few years before his retirement he moved to Great Paxton, Cambridgeshire, where he took up bellringing.

He is survived by Jackie and their two daughters, Beth and Felicity, and by his father.

🔔 Philip Andrew Baines, graphic designer, born 8 December 1958; died 19 December 2023

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[lovingsylvia]

!NEW RELEASE!

Title: Sylvia Plath Day by Day, Volume 1: 1932-1955

Author: Carl Rollyson

Publication date: 15 August 2023

Pages: 400

Publisher: University Press of Mississippi (UPM)

Image source (cover & description): https://www.upress.state.ms.us

About the book:

“A fascinating investigation into the life and art of one of America’s greatest poets       

Since Sylvia Plath’s death in 1963, she has become the subject of a constant stream of books, biographies, and articles. She has been hailed as a groundbreaking poet for her starkly beautiful poems in Ariel and as a brilliant forerunner of the feminist coming-of-age novel in her semiautobiographical The Bell Jar. Each new biography has offered insight and sources with which to measure Plath’s life and influence. Sylvia Plath Day by Day, a two-volume series, offers a distillation of this data without the inherent bias of a narrative.

Volume 1 commences with Plath’s birth in Boston in 1932, records her response to her elementary and high school years, her entry into Smith College, and her breakdown and suicide attempt, and ends on February 14, 1955, the day she wrote to Ruth Cohen, principal of Newnham College, Cambridge, to accept admission as an “affiliated student at Newnham College to read for the English Tripos.”

Sylvia Plath Day by Day is for readers of all kinds with a wide variety of interests in the woman and her work. The entries are suitable for dipping into and can be read in a minute or an hour. Ranging over several sources, including Plath’s diaries, journals, letters, stories, and other prose and poetry—including new material and archived material rarely seen by readers—a fresh kaleidoscopic view of the writer emerges.

Reviews                                                

"The details in Rollyson’s Sylvia Plath Day by Day, Volume 1: 1932–1955 are a dream come true for the reader, fan, and scholar of Sylvia Plath. The seeds of so much of her creative writing are present, but Rollyson deftly does not foreshadow how events impact Plath’s life and when she transforms experiences from life to art. He lets each moment stand on its own importance."

"Sylvia Plath Day by Day, Volume 1: 1932–1955 is a must-have book for any reader interested in Plath. Detailed yet highly readable, it paints a portrait of a young woman who would become, as will be chronicled in volume 2, one of the seminal authors in the twentieth century."

"Sylvia Plath Day by Day, Volume 1: 1932–1955 fills the lacunae of existing biographies and uncovers new insights into its subject, as when Plath writes about her experiences at Smith, hearing ‘nasty little tag ends of conversation directed at you and around you, meant for you, to strangle you on the invisible noose of insinuation.’ Or her months in New York at Mademoiselle, which grow less mysterious here. Again, Carl Rollyson has provided us with an indispensable book on Sylvia Plath." “

You can order the book through their website or from other online shops.

[voskhozhdeniye]

Westerners Have An Absolutely Psychotic View Of Airstrikes

Canadian online outlet The Breach has published a letter by CBC’s senior manager of journalistic standards Nancy Waugh which highlights perfectly the bizarre psychological relationship that westerners have with bombs and airstrikes in foreign countries.

In response to multiple complaints from a retired Humber College professor about the wildly biased language that Canada’s state broadcaster has been using to describe Israel’s war on Gaza, Waugh acknowledged that the CBC routinely uses words like “murderous,” “vicious,” “brutal,” “massacre,” and “slaughter” to refer to the October 7 Hamas attack while using far less emotionally charged words like “intensive,” “unrelenting,” and “punishing” to describe Israel’s actions in Gaza over the last three months.

Waugh defended this extreme discrepancy by saying that Israel’s attacks in Gaza differ from the Hamas attack on Israelis in that Israel’s killings are done “remotely”.

“Different words are used because although both result in death and injury, the events they describe are very different,” Waugh wrote. “The raid saw Hamas gunmen stream through the border fence and attack Israelis directly with firearms, knives and explosives. Gunmen chased down festival goers, assaulted kibbutzniks then shot them, fought hand to hand, and threw grenades. The attack was brutal, often vicious, and certainly murderous.”

“Bombs dropped from thousands of feet and artillery shells lofted into Gaza from kilometers away result in death and destruction on a massive scale, but it is carried out remotely,” Waugh continued. “The deadly results are unseen by those who caused them and the source unseen by those [who] suffer and die.”

I’ve written a number of essays trying to point at the baseless and irrational way westerners view military explosives as a far more civilized and humane way of killing human beings than bullets or blades, but I’ve never written anything that sums it up as clearly as this frank admission by the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation’s senior manager of journalistic standards.

Military explosives rip human bodies apart. They burn people alive. They trap them under rubble where they die excruciatingly slowly in one of the most horrifying ways imaginable. They leave people without limbs. They dismember and disfigure children for life. Many of the most agonizing deaths in human history have been caused by bombs.

There are thousands of Gazans who have yet to be counted among the dead because their bodies are still buried under the rubble of fallen buildings. Many of them would not have died instantly. Some are still alive, waiting for days in a state terror and searing pain for a rescue that will never come.

A UNICEF report released last month said that more than a thousand children had had one or both legs amputated since October 7 as a result of damage received by US-sponsored Israeli airstrikes, a number which would be significantly higher by now. We know that many such amputations have occurred without anaesthesia, because Israeli siege warfare has cut off Gaza’s healthcare system from the necessary supplies.

If this is not vicious, then nothing is vicious. If this is not brutal, then nothing is brutal. If this is not murderous, then nothing is murderous. But it doesn’t get labeled as such by the western press, because it is being done “remotely”.

The belief that these attacks should be considered less vicious and brutal because they are launched from a distance by people who won’t see their effects is as psychologically immature as a little girl who believes you can’t see her because she has covered her own eyes. An attack which kills and maims and tortures doesn’t cease to be brutal and vicious just because it looks like a blip on a screen to you. Human suffering isn’t made less acute or less significant by being far away.

But this is how most westerners see the use of military explosives these days. We’re so used to hearing about our government and its allies raining bombs upon the middle east and Africa that we’ve developed a kind of immunity to the psychological impact of exactly what that means in reality. The typical western mind has come to view bombings more like a weather event that simply occurs in those places, like how south Asian countries experience monsoons.

In reality, bombings are no less savage than attacks by guns, grenades, knives or machetes. In fact they actually allow for more savagery to take place, because they kill so much more efficiently, and because the troops who use them can keep killing and killing without losing morale and accumulating mental trauma from the horrors they have been inflicting upon their fellow human beings.

Dead is dead. Dismembered is dismembered. Pain is pain. Anguish is anguish. The unexamined assumption that the western empire’s prefered methods of killing are less brutal and murderous than those of an impoverished militant group is a psychological defense mechanism we have put in place to shelter ourselves from knowledge of our own brutality and murderousness.

In truth if you look at all the death, destruction, suffering and pain that Israel has inflicted on Gaza since October 7, there is no question that Israel is vastly more vicious, brutal and murderous than Hamas has ever been, and so are its allies who are supporting its actions. The only way to believe otherwise would be to psychologically hide away from the reality of what’s actually happening, which is as truth-based and mature as the kid with her hands over her eyes saying “Now you can’t see me!”

[periwinckles]

Please tell me you have a middle name - Epilogue

Epilogue 

(Prim)

I wake up with the sweet scent of cinnamon in the air. That’s Peeta’s doing. He knows how much I love cinnamon rolls, and always has them ready for me for breakfast on my birthday, even though he has to juggle it with all his morning work. 

The cinnamon buns will have to wait.

I cross the hall to Peeta and Katniss’ room, to recruit her for my inspection, but she’s not back from the woods yet. Living above the bakery is a lot more convenient for Peeta, and more comfortable for us, but a lot further from the fence, making her excursions longer.

I ended up moving in with them last year. Now that Rye works with Madge on the Justice building, Peeta and Katniss need help to keep the bakery running. Between schoolwork, helping out my mother and getting ready for my college admission in district four, I can still work a couple of hours on the bakery’s counter every week. They’ll definitely need to hire someone once I’m gone. 

I enter the bathroom and inspect myself in the mirror. Nothing out of the ordinary. I don’t even feel eighteen. I inspect every inch of my body, top to bottom and find nothing. 

What if I don’t have a soulmate?

Gale doesn’t have one and he’s totally fine with it. He even found himself a steady girlfriend in district 7, though I’m not quite sure on the terms of their arrangement because they spend months apart every year. 

But that’s not what I want for myself is it? Aren’t soulmarks supposed to reflect your heart's desire?

I’m about to give up when I lift my foot and catch it. Beneath my toe. A simple and unembellished R. 

Rory Hawthorne? 

Please no, the last thing I need is for my soulmate to turn out to be an ex boyfriend. 

Why, oh why? What have I done to deserve this? I’m a nice person, Universe! I do volunteer work in the community home once a week, I let Peeta think I’m the one pilfering the chocolate chips and I never go beyond the fence even though that’s technically legal ever since the rebellion two years ago!

I put on socks and silently hope Peeta doesn’t ask anything about it. Katniss surely won’t ask, unless I tell her. 

At least I have cinnamon rolls for breakfast. 

“… doing here? I specifically told you 7:30, it’s 7:05!”

Peeta has company in the kitchen’s bakery, and I tread with caution with my sock covered feet on the staircase. 

“She wakes up at 6:30, I know she does! I just want to know if Katniss gave her the letters already…”

“Katniss isn’t back yet, once she is…”

Both of them freeze when I finally appear on the bottom stair. 

“‘Morning Peeta! Reese!” 

“Prim! Happy birthday!” Reese greets me with an awkward smile. He’s acting strange though I can’t guess why. Being Peeta’s best friend makes him a regular visitor here. And Katniss adores him. Whenever he has dinner with us she smothers him with questions. I barely have the chance to talk to the guy. 

“You too!” I tell him. “I dropped by the sweet shop yesterday to wish you one, but you weren’t there.” 

“You must have missed me, I had to run some errands.” He says with a shrug. “I’ll be back later…” he adds. I’m not sure if it’s for Peeta’s benefit or mine. 

“If you don’t, I'll save you a slice of cake!” I call out after him, before he closes the door. 

Peeta extends me a cinnamon roll as he kisses my cheek affectionately. 

“Happy birthday, little sis.” 

“Oh, you’re the best brother I could hope for!” I tell him as I inhale the sweet scent. “You should make these every week.” 

“You’d be sick of them if I did.”

“Never!” 

I pop one in my mouth as I start collecting the fresh out of the oven pastries and rolls, to bring them to the front.

“You don’t have to work on your birthday.” Peeta tells me as he takes the trays from my hands. “You have a big day ahead.”

“How will you two manage the bakery and the Hob stand?” I ask with a doubtful raise of my eyebrows.

“We’ll manage.” Katniss says entering through the backdoor. “Happy birthday, little duck.” 

She opens her arms and I hug her as tight as I can. If there is one person who was a constant in my life, it was her. Every day of my life, she was always there.  “Thank you, Katniss.”

When we break apart I notice the unshed tears in her eyes. “Are you crying? Seriously? Over a birthday? What will happen when I go to district four in the fall?”

“Let’s not think about that, shall we?” Peeta says with a chuckle. 

Between the three of us we carry everything to the front. Just a few more minutes until opening time. 

“I have something for you. Here.”

My sister is holding a few envelopes in her hand. When I take them I notice they are all addressed to me. The handwriting seems familiar, though I can’t exactly pinpoint it. It’s not Katniss’ and surely not Peeta’s. 

“Read them in order.”

Without another word the both of them escape to the front, to finally open and deal with the morning rush, as I sit in a kitchen stool, with my cinnamon buns and a cup of tea. 

May 20, 2076

Primrose

Today I got my soulmark. It’s a small P, under my big toe. I have no idea if there’s someone with a matching one across the district, but I sure hope not. Because I’m hoping… oh I am hoping it’s you. 

If you were older I’d be at your doorstep in a heartbeat. But you’re not, so I've made up my mind to wait until you're ready. Please don’t be mad at me if I backpedal on our friendship. It’s the only way I’ll be able to keep myself accountable for the next three years. 

Hopefully yours

Reese Donner.

(You want to read the rest o Reese's letters? You know the drill. AO3 link)

[yunhsuanhuang]

You Look So Good In Blue | Y.H. Huang

Inspired by Child Ballad 16.

When a teenage fling mutates into something vast and terrifying, two seventeen year olds at a certain mid-tier college in Singapore make a desperate plan to control their future, earn their parents' love (or at least respect), and get the hell out of this school for good.

i. the daughter

It's whispered in the kitchen, it's whispered in the hall

The broom blooms bonny, the broom blooms fair,

The king's daughter goes with child, among ladies all

And she'll never go down to the broom anymore.

It's whispered by the ladies one unto the other,

The broom blooms bonny, the broom blooms fair,

“The king's daughter goes with child unto her own brother–

And they'll never go down to the broom anymore.”

Sheath and Knife, Maddy Prior

-

/r/sgacads

is st cecilia rly a pregnancy school?? [o levels]

/u/anxiousorange

hiii sorry for the 29583th school admissions post today lol but i just got my o level results back and they’re pretty ok ^_^ so i was thinking of going to st cecilia junior college since it’s near my house but the more i hear about it the more i want to reconsider… like apparently the people are very party type which is not really my thing?? and ofc everyones heard about how its got the highest pregnancy rate in sg o_0

is this true? or just say say one

comments (8)

/u/academicweapon

As a SCian it’s not true LOL none of us get bitches

/u/theatrekidaf

skill issue

/u/sharpsdisposal

we’re too busy failing physics :/

/u/zombiegrave

q: how many scians does it take to change a lightbulb?

a: none. they like it better darker 

/u/aw_bass34

Q: What’s the only test SC girls can pass?

A: Pregnancy test :P

/u/gregorythomas91 [s]

Damn old rumour, probably from 1990s, 2000s around there. But it’s not really unfounded. Especially with what happened in 2008.

/u/anxiousorange

what happened? im scared lol

/u/gregorythomas91 [s]

You haven’t heard meh? It was a big deal back then, I'm shocked they've covered it up that well. Let me try and remember. 

-

You never told me what really happened over those few blistering months in 2008, but I guess I wasn’t alone in that. Even when the newspapers shoved a mic in your face, even when you were being grilled by the lawyers, even when you were standing on that trap door, waiting for the drop– what really happened was a secret you’d bring to the grave.

So it’s all inference and extrapolation and linear correlation– sue me. How else am I going to make sense of that moment? How else do I come to terms with why you did what you did? Could I have known? Could I have stopped it? Was I even, when it came down to it, your friend– or was I just somebody who let you copy his lecture notes?

I don’t know. What I do know is this:

It was some mid-week mid-afternoon, indistinguishable from any other. The bell had just rung, and the whitewashed corridors were packed with sweaty kids rushing to PE, squeezing past those dragging their feet from class to class. We were part of the latter group, squinting against the September sun as we ambled across the quadrangle to home class. Above us, the school motto loomed in oversized light-blue letters: Remember you are in the presence of God. 

I was mentally calculating how long the Malay stall queue would be when you said, casual as always, “Eh, pass me your market failure notes later, can? I’m yellow-slipping after GP.”

I raised an eyebrow. You weren’t a stranger to leaving school early, but you’d been doing it more and more often lately, and at this point I hadn’t seen you stay for Shooting in ages. As your club captain, I was supposed to be concerned. As a friend– well, I was intrigued. Of course I’d heard the rumours, passed from homeroom to homeroom, Friendster account to Friendster account. Who in St Cecilia’s hadn’t?  “Is this related to whatever you and Camilla Wong have going on?” 

“Cam’s not my girlfriend,” you said, after a brief, completely unsuspicious pause.

I snorted. “She doesn’t let anyone in this school call her that but you, dumbass. ”

You ducked your head down to hide a smile, your dress-code fringe falling into your eyes. It was a strangely endearing habit. “Fine lah. We’re– seeing each other.” Then you continued, hurriedly, “But don’t let anyone else know, OK?”

“Fine, I'll write you off CCA for today. But don’t make it a habit, ar? Hold pen, not hold hand.” Despite myself, I grinned. Sure, the two of you made an unlikely couple. Wong was an ex-Convent girl and student councillor, all relentless energy and long hair tied so high it was prone to hit people when she spun, while the only time I’d ever seen you really alive was behind the barrel of an air pistol. Back then, I thought it was cute. Opposites attract– wasn’t that the backbone of any drama worth its salt?

I wouldn’t realise, until later, that despite how different the two of you appeared, at the core of it you were the same– pale and skinny and drowning in your school uniform, searching for exits the moment you stepped into a room. Always, always halfway out the door: of your school, of your body, of the life you knew.

But back then it was just a September afternoon, and we were only seventeen. You smiled back at me, all cheer, like you saw something I didn’t, like you saw something I never would.

-

In the end, though, this isn’t my story. This is yours. So let’s tell it your way.

-

The newly minted 1T26 trickled slowly from assembly into the classroom, chopeing the best desks and nervously rotating between the same few ice-breakers: orientation, secondary schools, O-Level points. As you entered, you cast a glance over the sea of blue pinafores and green pants. Still reeling from the sheer increase in the female population, you took a desk at the back, between the ancient, peeling noticeboard and the window looking out on the covered tennis courts. You were tall enough to see over all the heads, anyway.

Soon, your home tutor arrived, a round-faced lady toting an oversized Cath Kidston duffle bag, and wrote her name on the board in neat block letters: Mdm Alvares. The class stood to greet her, chairs scraping hurriedly against the linoleum. She beamed back, her smile all teeth, and was busy setting up the visualiser when the door slammed open.

The class spun in their seats. “Sorry,” the intruder sheepishly said, leaning against the doorframe. Some of her hair had fallen half-out of her high ponytail, her pinafore already wrinkled at the hem. A dusting of freckles covered her pink cheeks. 

Mdm Alvares squinted at the girl, then the laminated name list. “And you are?”

“Camilla Wong.”

Mdm Alvares looked out over the class, scanning the rows, and her eyes landed on an empty seat in the corner whose sole occupant was your beat-up Jansport. Realising where this was going, you sighed, putting your bag on the floor.

Camilla smiled, made her way in–

and put her bag down at another empty seat, half a class away.

–

There was nothing in this world you hated more than 4PM Maths lectures. That day the aircon was actually working, which you would normally have been grateful for, except for the fact that that sharp, recycled wind was blasting directly at the very back rows of LT5, right onto your face.

You were trying so hard to 1) figure out plane vectors and 2) stop yourself from getting hypothermia that you wouldn't be able to recall, later, the exact moment that Camilla fell asleep on your shoulder.

When you realised this, you froze. Oh, you thought, and didn't know what else to think. On one hand, it would’ve been so easy to wake her. Just a poke from your pen, and she would’ve jolted up almost instantly. On the other hand, though, her long eyebrows brushed against her freckled cheeks, and her chest rose and fell in these small, slight motions, and–

Before, you had only ever seen her as a baby-blue blur in the corners of your sight, always in motion even in the earliest of classes. But Camilla, asleep, tucked in the crevice between your shoulder and neck–it felt fragile, thrumming, tense. Like something made of glass, nestled gently in your hand, that it would only have taken a squeeze to splinter.

The next twenty-two minutes were the longest twenty-two minutes of your entire life so far. Even so, when the bell rang and Camilla pulled herself upright, you found yourself missing it already.

– 

After that, it was like a switch had been flipped in your brain. It was only then that you began to really Notice Camilla, capital N, italics. You noticed her with her head bowed in mass, noticed her shoving fishball noodles into her mouth at lunch, noticed her arguing with your classmates over technicalities in GP. But you noticed her the most in Monday zeriod house meetings, when the artificial grass glimmered with dew and the syrupy dawn light made the whole world seem like a Hollywood coming-of-age movie. You watched her toss her braids over her shoulder, wipe the pearls of sweat off her flushed face. Her red, red shirt rode up as she stretched, revealing a sliver of pale flesh above the waistband of her shorts–

It took until then for her to notice you Noticing. Her eyes flickered over to you, she winked, and blew a kiss. 

You felt as if you’d walked out onto the PIE and been hit by a truck. It was a wonder every single smoke alarm in the school didn’t go off right that moment–a cacophony of ringing like firecrackers all strung up, exploding pop-pop-pop from the foyer to the science block to the hostel. It swallowed every other sound, every other thought. Then she turned away, a grin still lingering on the corners of her lips.

–

During one of your lunch breaks, Camilla pulled you out of class. She had to ask you something about your PW survey, she said. As far as you were aware, you weren't in the same PW group. You knew this. She knew this. The entirety of 1T26 knew this, too, so you headed down to one of the wooden picnic tables underneath Block D, the one tucked beneath the staircase next to St Pat’s room. Both of you hovered awkwardly around the bench for a moment, doing the calculations in your head–how close to sit? What to say? You shifted from foot to foot.

All of a sudden, Camilla slammed her hand down on the table. You jumped. “Walao eh. I legit can’t do this anymore. Is this a Thing? Are we having a Thing?”

You swallowed, eyes darting.

“Make up your mind, sia.” She rolled her eyes, laughing under her breath. “St. Francis boys, I swear.”

“No, wait, yes–” The words spilled, embarrassingly and pitifully, out of your mouth. You feared you were not beating the all-boys’ school stereotypes that day. “I mean, I did, but, um–” Just stop, your brain chanted. What're you saying? You're only making it worse. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself.

“So that’s a yes,” Camilla said, and surged forward to shut you up herself.

–

The next thing you knew, you were stumbling into the stairwell together, the door banging noisily shut behind you. “Why–” Camilla started, and you said, “Nobody ever uses Staircase 6. Now come on.” You pushed her up against the curved concrete wall, not caring that the low ceiling scraped against your head. There was that wild, exhilarated look on her face again, like she still couldn’t believe that she was actually doing this. Beautiful, even in the dull grey light. Her nails dug crescents into your skin. 

The air was all heat, sweat, too much cherry blossom perfume. You worked at your tie–quicker than you’d ever been able to in all your years of schooling–as she undid the buttons on her uniform shirt, revealing the freckles that dusted her pale shoulders like so many stars. As you unbuckled her bra in one quick motion, she gasped, then giggled. “Damn, Yeoh. You’re good at this. Is there anyone you haven’t told me about?” 

In between kisses, you came up for air. You could've made a joke about not having many opportunities to practise in St Francis, but the real truth was that your desperation shocked even yourself– this wasn’t the careful boy that your pastors, parents, teachers, knew. Your heart threatened to burst from your chest like the bullet from a gun. For the first time in sixteen years, it felt– really felt– like you were fully alive.

“Just you, Cam.” You dipped back down. “Only you.”

ii. the yew tree

He's ta'en his sister down to his father's deer park

The broom blooms bonny, the broom blooms fair

With his yew-tree bow and arrow slung fast across his back

And they’ll never go down to the broom anymore.

You made close acquaintances with every dark corner of the school. When June came, you merely shifted your meeting points closer to home– behind heartland malls in Tampines or in the nooks and crannies of Cam’s sprawling landed estate along Cluny Road. Neither of you were sure, yet, if you were doing it Right– things like bubble tea dates, strolls in Botanics, or mugging in NLB (god, you should have been mugging, mid-years were in a week and neither of you had cracked a book). But if it wasn’t capital R Right, why did it feel like it was? You thought you had developed a case of myopia–Cam in focus, everything else blurred.

All that to say: the holidays were closer to ending than beginning when you and Cam found yourselves in an overgrown grassy patch tucked somewhere in between a storm drain and the wrought-iron back gate of some minister’s landed property. It had sounded a lot more romantic in theory, but the cloudless sky was the same powder-blue as your school uniforms, and the sun beat down like it had a personal vendetta against you. There was nothing much for shade except for a single banana tree, which you lay crumpled under, sweat-sheened and reddened. The last of the endorphins were beginning to wear off.

Cam’s ringtone cut through the air, a chiptune rendition of some Green Day song.  She sighed, then propped herself up on one elbow as she picked up her phone. Her hair was loose, cascading down her back like smooth dark water. You fought the urge to run your hands through it.

“Ba!” she chirped. The cheer didn’t show on her face. “Ba, of course I'm still at the library.  I’m with Lucia. Yes, Ba, I’m sure. Don’t call her, can?” She flinched as though she’d been slapped– a familiar, instinctual tic. “Sorry, sorry. I’ll study hard, I promise. Byebye.” 

She hung up and sighed, leaning backwards. “I think I’ll need to go soon.”

“Soon,” you promised. You were lying flat on the warm grass, arms crossed over your chest like you were about to be lowered into the grave. 

“Soon,” Cam repeated. “Fuck, I hate that we have to sneak around like this, sia. I keep thinking that he’s going to jump out at me from any corner, that any random passerby can tell I’m not where I’m supposed to be. It’s like this whole island has eyes, and maybe it does.” As she lay back down beside you on the grass, her oversized t-shirt–Camp Veritas Counsellor 2007–drooped down to reveal the blades of her shoulder, the ones you’d kissed just moments ago. Her voice lowered. “You know ah, the moment we get our A-Levels back, I’m getting out of this city. Australia, London, LA, anywhere. There’s nothing here for me.”

“No leh.” She can’t say that, you thought, pettily, awfully. She had a mansion and a scholarship and a real iPhone. She had the freedom to just leave. To go somewhere without worrying about the money. You had– what? Parents on the edge of divorce and a bankrupt family business? So much for inheritance. So much for a glorious kingdom. Then you had banished the thought from your head. “You have me.”

“I guess I do.” There was a pause. Then she asked, quick and soft and desperate: “Hey, if I asked you to do something, you’d do it, right?”

You reached over, squeezing Cam’s hand tight in yours. The leaves of the banana tree shivered. “I’d do anything for you,” you told her, and it was true. It was really true.

–

Your grades wobbled, then declined, then plummeted, and you found, to your surprise, that you couldn’t care less. You’d made a lot of bad decisions in your life. Try as you might, you couldn’t count Cam among them.

This, then, might have been why you were lying on your bedroom floor, squinting at your Nokia at four AM on a Monday morning. An empty can rolled lazily from your hand, on an epic journey across the glossy faux-marble floor. The house, for once, was still. Even your parents’ screams had petered off about an hour ago. The silver light from the HDB corridor fell through your windows in slits, providing just enough light for you to see the tiny phone screen. With the phone’s small buttons and your clumsy fingers, it took a long time for you to dial the number, but none at all for her to pick up. 

“Cam,” you whispered, “Want to see you.”

“Jesus, Yeoh, it’s a school night.” Her voice was gorgeous like this, low and blurred. She only ever used this voice with you: when her raw-bitten lips were pressed against your chest, your ear, your– You shifted. It didn’t help. 

“Cam, Cam, Camilla.” Her name rolled off your tongue like a litany, sharp and needy. “Can talk a while or not?”

“Are you drunk again?” she teased you. On the other end, her sheets rustled as she sat up.  Although you hadn’t ever been in her house before, you could reconstruct it well enough from the blurry webcam pictures she’d sent you: piles of assessment books, porcelain cross, ceiling fan. And she– beautiful, beautiful, feet kicked up against her headboard, black hair spilling over the flowery sheets, the smile evident in her voice. “Help lah. How–”

“Miss you,” you murmured, by way of an answer.

“I miss you too.” 

“Want to meet you. Want to talk to you.” Then, because you were three cans of beer deep and loved making (aforementioned) bad decisions, you charged on: “You and I, we never talk.”

“I know we haven’t met in a while. It’s not my fault I was sick–” Her voice wavered a little, then bounced back to its chirpy cadence. “But we talk all the time, though. We literally talked in class yesterday. I’m talking to you now.” Cam laughed. Her laugh still sounded to you like the first day of the month– every church across the island breaking into bellsong, light and birdlike in the hot blue air. It was cliché, you knew. You didn’t care. Perhaps you were in too deep to care.

“No,” you insisted, but you didn’t really know what you were saying, or why you were saying it at all. “We don’t.”

“We don’t,” she said, then fell silent.

The funny thing about the two of you was this: Over the past few months, you had seen each other stripped bare, worn to the bone with want, more times than you could count. But the both of you knew, all right, that there were things that you couldn’t– that you didn’t say. Things that were secret even to yourselves. The scars on your forearm, the bruises on hers, the way she looked at you when she thought your mind was elsewhere. Those three words, weightier than any false promise you’d whispered against each other’s skin.

“Staircase. Tomorrow. I need to tell you something.”

–

That night, you dreamt of flying.

You weren’t a bird, weren’t yourself– just bodiless, incorporeal, sweeping through the hallways of the college like a ghost. You phased through the auditorium doors to see the loose ceiling tile, the one that had been hanging over your heads like a guillotine all term, topple to the ground in one fantastic crash, sending students fleeing out the doors and into the foyer. You fled with them, but the ceiling fan in the foyer was spinning just a bit too hard, just a bit too fast, and the students screeched to a halt just in time to catch it falling, an angel with clipped wings. It broke in two over the staircase railing, knocking down the tables and the notice boards, pulling down the ceiling with it. Then the chapel was the next to go, the shattering stained glass catching the light in a thousand colours. As you raced up the corridors, the destruction raced up, up, up, alongside you, past the staff room and canteen to the lecture halls, the classroom blocks, the PAC, every single building in the college folding in on itself like so much wet paper. Block J detached itself cleanly from its precarious perch, tipping head-over-heels into the field. You couldn't hear a thing, but you could imagine what it sounded like: the earth itself breaking, rapture the other way around. 

Then you crossed the lower quadrangle, where two little blobs of baby blue lay pressed against each other’s bodies. Even without descending, you already knew who they were. It was strange to watch yourself like a movie. When you were younger, you'd thought that this was how God saw the world, top-down, like a player peering at a chessboard. When you’d failed an exam for the first time, you'd cowered under a table-cloth to escape His wrath. You’d stopped believing in a lot of things as you grew up, but you could never kick that instinct to flee, that inescapable, intrinsic fear that the presence of God really was everywhere: under a table, in a school, in every splitting cell.

The boy on the ground turned his face towards the girl, tucking a strand of hair back behind her ear. She smiled infuriatingly, endearingly, back at him.

The school came down on them.

–

Most of the morning was taken up by this awful college event that you’d totally forgotten was happening, all cheering and sweat and thirty-eight degree heat. It was only when the day was coming to a close, then, that Cam and you could sneak away past the computer labs and guitar room into Staircase 6. As you entered, Cam pulled out something from the pocket of her sweater–an admin key–and latched the door behind her with a deliberate click. You blinked. “How’d you get that?” 

Cam didn’t say anything, just tucked the key in the pocket of her oversized school hoodie. There was something strange and tense about her, stranger and tenser than she had been all term. She walked up to Level 4, where the sky through the grilled window cut long slices of light onto the concrete floor, and sat down on the top step. You sat down next to her. 

She breathed, imperceptibly, in and out, looking straight ahead. The question rushed out in a gasp.

“You told me you’d do anything for me, right? I need you to kill.”

iii. the arrow

And when he has heard her give a loud cry,

The broom blooms bonny, the broom blooms fair

A silver arrow from his bow he suddenly let fly.

And she’ll never go down to the broom anymore.

-

WONG CHIEN PING 

The New Paper, 1998

WONG: To me, family– family always comes first. My kids always come first. You know ah, I’ve got five children. Four boys, one girl. 

INTERVIEWER: Wow.

WONG: [Laughter.] Can be a handful at times, lah, but what can you do? As I was saying, right, when I look at my kids, I’m thinking about everything they could be. Lawyers, doctors, maybe even MPs like me. [Laughter.] And I think about how Singapore’ll change in ten years, fifty years, a hundred years. My youngest, Camilla, she’s going to graduate from university in the 2010’s. In a new century. What’s Singapore going to look like then?

INTERVIEWER: Mhm. 

WONG: I want to make Singapore a place where my kids can grow up safely. Where they can have a future. 

-

For a moment, all you could do was laugh. Then you stopped, of course, but the echo lingered. “Cam?”

Without meeting your eyes, she lifted up her sweater. The first thing you’d thought was that she’d forgotten to bring her house shirt– she was still in uniform. Then you realised that her shirt was unbuttoned at the bottom, and her skirt was unlatched, and there was a solid, unmistakable, swell to her stomach.

The world tilted on its axis. There was no way this was happening. This was a really terrible prank. She’d stolen a prosthetic from Drama. It had to be something, something other than this, something other than a child– You made an inelegant noise, some spluttered form of protest. “Oh.” 

“Oh,” Cam agreed, unhappily.

You instinctively reached out to touch her bump, like you’d seen in the soapy Mediacorp dramas Ma always watched. You didn’t feel anything. Wasn’t there supposed to be some sort of parental instinct singing to you; love, love, love all through the water and the flesh and the blood? 

“Didn’t you listen in Bio? You can’t feel the heartbeat yet. Not for a while, but not for long, either,” she said. “Not until I can’t hide it anymore.”

“Oh.” You didn't know what else to say. You pulled her into your arms, and she pressed herself against you, body against body. Like stragglers hiding from the cold, except it was thirty-five degrees outside, the air the same dull dead warmth that school air always was. She turned her face away, but you could still see her eyes go glossy, hear her take those shallow breaths. "I'm so sorry."

You couldn't begin to imagine what she was feeling, how much she'd lost in that instant when she knew she was carrying a life that wasn't hers: the scholarship, the law school, the clear American sky she'd never see. The future rushed out before you, a landscape vast and desolate, and you found yourself unable to picture it except for your mother's face, crumpling in on itself, her world imploded in a single moment. Thinking: all you had to do was study hard. We gave everything for you, pinned every hope on you, and this is what we get? Saying: stupid boy. Stupid, stupid boy.

You don’t know how you say what you say next, but you do. “So. You want to- to kill it?” It, it, it. Still an it. 

Cam laughs wetly. “Almost there. Kill–” the pronoun trips off her tongue–  “me.”

-

ST CECILIA’S JUNIOR COLLEGE

CAMERA 235

12:28:03

YEOH shoots to his feet. WONG does too.

YEOH: You can’t just say that–

WONG: Just shut up for a moment and let me explain, can?

YEOH shuts up.

WONG [with a wince]: Sorry. But you know my father lah. You know how he is. He’ll have my head.

YEOH: What’s the worst he can do ah? Pack you off to some boarding school overseas?

WONG takes a sharp breath.

WONG: It’s not about that. It’s about the fact that he’s worked his whole life for this position. If he ever finds out what we’ve done, his career jialat liao, just like that. Every single day for the rest of my life he’ll look at me and only see a disappointment of a daughter, a stain on the family name. I snuck around and I lied to his face and I bribed my friends for alibis but at least for seventeen years he didn’t know better. He called me his princess, his golden girl, and he meant it. Now all of that’s gone. Or will be gone, I guess. I don’t know how I’d live without that.

YEOH: He doesn’t need to know. You understand that, right? There are ways to get rid of it, I mean, there has to be some way–

WONG: That’s the fucking problem!

WONG turns away, stifling a sob.

WONG: Before I formed you in the womb I knew you–

YEOH [instinctively]: And before you were born I consecrated you. 

WONG: This is our child, Yeoh. This is a human life. 

YEOH: Better any other life than yours.

A long pause. 

WONG [overlapping]: You can’t mean that.

YEOH [overlapping]: I can. I do.

YEOH ascends one step. YEOH stares at WONG as if he’s daring her to say something, until WONG begins to cry. YEOH freezes for a split-second. He reaches for WONG, whispers something inaudible in her ear. WONG reaches up and kisses him in response. After a while, WONG extricates herself with an expression that seems almost like a smile. She walks over to the railing and leans against it. YEOH follows her.

WONG: I’ve always told myself I want to be a good person, but maybe the real truth is that I didn’t want my dad to figure out otherwise. Maybe all of that hiding was for nothing. Maybe it was only a matter of time before he found out who I really was, deep down: rotten. Impure. That woman Jezebel, who calls herself a prophetess. 

WONG: And, sure, I can sneak away to a clinic, God knows we can afford it, I can do whatever it is girls do in movies with the clothes hanger or the back alley. But if my life after this is all an act– what’s the point, if I already know where I’m going when I go? I’m tired of keeping secrets, trying so hard to keep this part of my life from him– when one day I’ll slip again, I know it, and the whole house of cards is going to come crashing down. If I die now, all my sins are going to die with me. He’d be happy, and I’d be loved, and you– 

WONG [almost envious]: You’d never understand.

YEOH tilts his head downwards, fringe falling over his eyes. He starts to say something, then stops.

YEOH: I do understand.

-

Like so many other people you knew, you never meant to go to St Cecilia’s. Everyone said you could make Temasek, maybe Victoria. Tampines at the very least. And you'd believed it, too, until you didn't anymore, until the college you were going to became the least of your worries. 

When did you stop believing you’d ever have a future? It wasn’t a single moment so much as it was a series of them: stepping over the yellow line when waiting for the train, trying to find footholds in the railing of every overhead bridge, your eyes always flicking to every exit you could take. The words you said under your breath in prayers weren’t Our Father who art in heaven but a litany only you knew: I don’t have to do this. I don’t have to keep going. I can leave any time I want. For as long as you remembered, you’d already been halfway gone. 

It was a comforting hypothetical, until it wasn’t, and suddenly you found yourself on the bathroom floor at three in the morning, a week before prelims. The cool white light bounced off the tiles, the mirror-cabinet above the sink hung ajar like it was beckoning you, and you were so, so exhausted. Why were you trying so hard? What were you even studying for? No matter what college you went to, the future would always be blurry and grey. Test after test after test, then onto– what, exactly? You’d never been able to imagine yourself past sixteen. You’d never be able to imagine yourself more than half-alive.

You’d tell the psychiatrist later that you didn’t remember the rest of the night, but that wasn’t true. You remembered the pills. You remembered the blinding, fluorescent pain– and through the pain, your father’s face, your mother’s voice. 911 on the cordless telephone. The ambulance. Changi Hospital. When you’d finally woken, there was a split-second where all you could see was white, and all that came to you was a rush of relief– until the white coalesced into white walls and white sheets and a ceiling spotted with air-conditioning vents, and you could almost laugh at yourself for expecting anything different. If you’d succeeded, anyway, it wouldn’t have been white.

So you failed both at dying and at Chemistry. That was fine. You took the two points off for affiliation.  You took the 5AM bus. You took the desk at the corner of 1T26. That was fine too.  You swore you didn't care about any of it, and you didn’t, you didn’t. Then Cam happened, and suddenly you did.

But you couldn’t shake the memory of that night in the hospital, your parents whispering next to your bed when they thought you were asleep. For once in their life, they weren’t at each other's throats. What’s wrong with him?  your father demanded in Chinese, betrayal running like cracks through his voice. I don’t understand why he would do this to me. In response, your mother only sighed. Stupid boy. Stupid, stupid boy.

-

The story came uneasily to you, like writing an exam for a subject that you hadn’t touched in months. Once you were done, Cam turned to you. If it was anyone else, they would’ve said something benign, something untrue, like, I’m sorry or I’m glad you didn’t die. Instead, because this was the Cam you’d always known, she asked, “How much did it hurt?”

You thought about the answer for a long while. Then you said, “If you do it right, only for a moment.”

She laughed, then, throwing her head back with the force of it. For a brief, blasphemous second, you’d never seen anyone so beautiful: fair as the moon, clear as the sun, terrible as an army all set in battle array. It was the kind of beauty wars were fought over, the kind any man would get on his knees for– to be knighted, to adore. And she’d chosen you (you of all people!) The fact made you dizzy with its weight.

“So.” Her voice brought you back to reality. It was casual as anything, like she was discussing essay outlines or Physics solutions instead of– whatever this was. “I was thinking about the stairs, right? If you pushed me, hard enough, it’d look like an accident…”

Below you, the concrete staircase looped in on itself, down, down, down. Tall, yes, but only three stories, not enough to kill. Not if you wanted to be sure. When you told her as much, she frowned, swearing in Chinese under her breath. The two of you bounced around a few more ideas, but none of them seemed to stick. You fell silent, tapping out meaningless rhythms on the rails, as you considered what you’d been dancing around since she’d asked you to kill. A competition-grade air pistol, a shot at just the right angle– it’d be, well, if not easy, at least simple. Less up to the fates. 

There was only one problem with that plan– it’d no longer be an accident. There’d be police, lawyers, fuck, maybe even journalists. Your juniors would whisper about it for camps and camps to come. You couldn’t feign innocence with a shotgun, couldn’t frame the act of pulling the trigger as anything but what it was.  

So, fine, they’d hate you. They’d shred all your certificates, put your photos face-down, pretend they’d never had a son. So what? Boy hung from his bedroom fan, boy hung from the prison beam. Whatever formula you used, the result was still the same: you’d be gone, and they’d be free. Besides, there wasn’t any way St. Cecilia's reputation could possibly be worse than it already was.

“I think–” you started, suddenly, “I might have a solution.”

iv. the grave

And he has dug a grave both long and deep,

The broom blooms bonny, the broom blooms fair

He has buried his sister with their babe all at her feet.

And they’ll never go down to the broom anymore.

INTERVIEWER: You didn’t notice the keys were gone meh? I thought you were the captain.

THOMAS: The captain doesn’t carry the keys, sir. Um, he was the armourer, sir, he’s always had them. Since the beginning of the year. 

INTERVIEWER: So you weren’t aware that Yeoh and Wong entered the armoury at 12.39 PM and retrieved a [pages ruffling] .25-calibre Baikal air pistol. 

THOMAS: Of course the alarm went off, lah. To notify the teacher-in-charge. But he told Miss Judith he forgot his water bottle inside, and she was in a hurry anyway–

INTERVIEWER: She believed him?

THOMAS: Miss Judith’s always had a soft spot for him, sir. And we all trusted him. That’s why we made him the armourer. Of course he was quiet, um, but in a calm, reliable sort of way. Out of all of us we thought he’d be the last person to do what he did. [laughter] I trusted him– oh god– 

INTERVIEWER: Calm down, boy.

THOMAS: Sorry, sorry.

INTERVIEWER: Can continue or not?

THOMAS: Okay. Can. Go on.

-

Laughing the loud and triumphant laugh of the already dead, you and Cam crashed back into the staircase landing like you’d done so many times before. How many giggling, short-lived couples had this place borne witness to? The seniors who’d winked and nudged you in its direction must’ve learnt it from their seniors, who’d learnt it from their seniors in turn– back and back it went, a story in two-year cycles, mutating each time it was told. A haunting, a myth, a folk song.

Cam, leaning back against the wall, ran her hands along the sleek pistol. She looked, still, beautiful: even after the run, after the tears, despite the baby. If you hadn’t seen her before, you couldn’t have guessed that she was the kind of girl who would ever cry. “It’s like I’m a spy.”

“I mean, we kind of are, right? People are going to start getting suspicious soon. We should do this quickly.”  You shot a furtive glance through the window in the door. The corridor, as always, was dark– the lightbulb had been busted for a long, long time. 

“Soon. Won’t take long, right? Just–” She aimed the gun at her temple, mimed pulling the trigger with a grin. Miss Judith had trained you well– your first instinct was one of sheer panic, of tripping over your own feet in your haste to rip it from her hands– but you didn’t do any of that. 

Instead you only swallowed, shifted. “Just like that I don’t think is strong enough. It’s not real ah. Can’t do that much damage. Um, can I–”

Downstairs, someone shouted. Cam shoved the gun in her hoodie pocket. You stopped breathing. Something clunky was being dragged across the floor, chatter following in its wake. But no one had opened the door yet, so when the clamour finally died down, Cam removed the gun from her hoodie and passed it to you. 

In your hands, the pistol was cool, familiar, deadly in a way it had never been before. It reminded you that despite any pretences to precision or skill or patience, this sport was, at its roots, a killing sport– drawing blood and blood and blood again. 

You’d only been a shooter for a few months. You'd always been a chess club kid in secondary school, and in St Cecilia, you’d even applied for Strat Games before you walked into the interview, saw an old classmate, and walked right back out.  At least shooting was a singular sport. No emotions involved, no one to fool, no one to ask you what happened.

About a week or two past orientation, you’d hit bullseye for the first time.  You didn’t notice, at first, still reeling from the ricochet, until Greg shouted and the club gathered round and you saw that tiny wound on that tiny target, fifty whole metres away. In another few weeks, it’d become routine, but you never forgot that first time: the breath held, the trigger pulled, the bullet sailing through the air. The gun like an extension of yourself.

She must’ve sensed something had shifted, because she hurried out, “If you don’t want to do this, just say, OK? If you really want, we can– I don’t know, figure something out.”

You’d do anything for me, right? 

Okay, so maybe you were helping her because you knew what it was like to be so tired that you wanted nothing more than to be gone. You knew what it was like to fail– your mother’s eyes avoiding yours, the flat stinking with shame, cut fruits slid under your door like an apology– and you knew, you knew, out of all the people in the world she didn’t deserve it.

But maybe you were helping her because you’d never known anyone who could go to their grave with a smile quite like her, brilliant and foolish and brave. It was your hand brushing hers under the desk and her laughing with her head thrown back and the two of you sharing earphones on the bus. It was the fact that in life or death, you’d never wanted anyone but her. 

So, fine. The moment you’d opened your eyes in a hospital bed, you couldn’t find it in you to care about Heaven or Hell or anything in-between, couldn’t care about a God who’d turned his back to you as you were bleeding out. But even the staunchest of atheists could admit that it was nice to believe that you’d been brought back for a reason; that more than any grade you’d ever gotten or any target you’d ever hit, the greatest achievement of your time in college– okay, your entire short and sorry life– was this: to love her, to kill her, to be loved, impossibly, in return.

You kissed her like it was an answer. Maybe it was. You’d never know.

–

Just like you’d predicted, it wasn’t easy, but it was at least simple:

The muzzle dimpling her button-down shirt. Her heart beneath the gun, frantic and wild. Her smile– smug, inscrutable, like she was getting away with some great and treacherous heist, like she’d stolen something you’d never notice missing until it was too late. Coloured-in Converse perched on the edge of the top step.

A moment to aim. Less to fire.

A crack. A body arching backwards, falling, falling, falling. A body against concrete. A body with its neck all wrong– no, that wasn’t right. Two bodies. One body. But what was the difference, really?

Somewhere, someone was singing.

–

I got tired of waiting

Wonderin' if you were ever comin' around

There was a boy at the edge of the canteen, that isolated corner where the cafe used to be before it went bankrupt and left neon-yellow wreckage in its wake. I could just barely make him out through the other kids who’d swarmed like moths around the speakers we’d looted from the grandstand, a do-it-yourself rave all our own. We were seventeen and free from Promos and knew every word to every song on the radio and there was nothing in this world to worry about, nothing at all.

My faith in you was fading

When I met you on the outskirts of town

My voice faltered as I tried to peer over the heads, earning myself a poke in the ribs from Joshua from 28. The boy was tall, in uniform–on the one day we were allowed to wear house shirts? He’d be sweltering hot. He stared off at something I couldn’t see, collapsing on a bench– and the moment I saw the fringe, I knew who you were.

“Xavier!” 

I painfully extracted myself from the knot of students, making my way over to you. You didn’t seem to notice me, didn’t seem to care. There was something red on your face, probably some failed attempt at Go SC! It seemed like the sports leaders had gotten to you. Funny. I’d never thought you were the type. 

You turned to me. 

“Xavier?”

I broke into a run.

I keep waiting for you, but you never come

Your hands were shaking, your eyes wet.  There was red on your shirt, red on the corner of your lips. Shit, there was so much of it. “Are you hurt?” My brain was going at thirty miles a second. “What happened? Did you– are you–”

“I’m fine. I just–” You broke off. Slowly and carefully, like you were explaining something to a very small child, you forced out two more words: “--lost something.” 

I cast desperate glances around the canteen. There was something wrong here, something I couldn’t even begin to comprehend, like standing on the edge of a cliff with a sea below you. “It’s OK, bro,” I muttered out, stupidly, awkwardly, “You’ll get it back, whatever it is. Um. You need me check with the GO? Call teacher?”

Through the thin walls, a scream rang out. The singing died a quick, violent death, but the music, still, played on.

I talked to your dad, go pick out a white dress

“No,” you said. “No need.”

It's a love story, baby, just say yes.

-

After everything– after the police, after the trial, after the drop– Wong’s father swept in and gave half of St Cecilia’s a dizzyingly long contract that boiled down to Don’t tell a soul this happened or I’ll kill you myself. Of course I’d signed it. What else could I have done?

In the years to come, I’d want to tell you about so many things: The times we’d instinctively turn in our seats to ask you about homework or classes or anything at all. The two empty desks we’d dodged for the rest of the year, even after we switched classrooms, even after they struck out your names from the class list— as if long before that October afternoon, you were already gone. The shiny, upgraded surveillance system, a threat, an eulogy, as much acknowledgement as they’d ever give you. 

Now, though, I want to tell you about the staircase.

When I stepped back into St Cecilia’s for the first time in ten years, so much of it remained the same. The same old coat of paint, the same wobbly tables, the same starched blue uniform. The only thing that’s changed is the kids– how young they seem now, how they call me Mr Thomas when I’m listening and ‘cher when they think I’m not. In the spaces between classes, when the halls are full of chatter, I’ll overhear snippets of their conversation: I’m yellowslipping for Taylor tickets or Walao, my stats really CMI, like this how can pass or Wah, are you going to take her to Staircase 6? That last one’ll be invariably followed by a wink, a nudge, and loud, boisterous laughter, the kind that only teenage boys can summon up. I can’t blame them much for it. Weren’t we once seventeen too?

The staircase isn’t particularly hard to avoid. For the kids, it’s more of a novelty than anything– a quick selfie at the door during Orientation, then it’s out of their minds for the rest of the year, too far from the classrooms to be of any use. Soon enough, though, exam season rolled around, and I was on my first night study shift of the year. I didn’t have to do much– just make sure nobody escaped the well-lit confines of the library, which was just as crowded and chilly as I’d remembered it. But the campus seemed different after dusk, every flickering light a blinking eye, and I felt myself being led down the concrete corridors, past the office and the hall and the lockers, past the bulb they’d never fixed, and I unlocked the door.

It looked, obviously, like any other staircase in the school. The floor was grey, the walls white. I went up to the top floor and to the railing, the security camera swivelling as I walked. Over the railing, the stairs went down, down, down. Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t find any part of it that suggested your presence. No pale figure, no blur of light. I felt, suddenly, foolish– what answer was I seeking? Even if you’d lingered, even if you’d somehow escaped where I’d most feared you were, this was the last place you’d want to stay. 

Maybe I would never really understand why you did what you did. But I’d known you, even still, and so I could say this with certainty– if there was any justice in this world, you weren’t here. You were somewhere edgy kids couldn’t gawk and giggle at you, somewhere the camera couldn’t find you. Somewhere only you knew.

An engine growled beyond the gates. Sweet and heavy in the air, the scent of flowers lingered. 

I closed my eyes.

-

And when he has come to his father’s own hall, 

The broom blooms bonny, the broom blooms fair

There was music and dancing, there were minstrels and all.

And he’ll never go down to the broom anymore.

O the ladies, they asked him, “What makes you in such pain?”

The broom blooms bonny, the broom blooms fair

“I’ve lost a sheath and knife I will never find again

And I’ll never go down to the broom anymore.”

“All the ships of your father’s a-sailing on the sea

The broom blooms bonny, the broom blooms fair

Can bring as good a sheath and knife unto thee.”

But they’ll never go down to the broom anymore.

“All the ships of my father’s a-sailing on the sea

The broom blooms bonny, the broom blooms fair

Can never ever bring such a sheath and knife to me

For we’ll never go down to the broom anymore.”

[sailorplutoirl]

You know what just for that one person who liked it, here's some Swords & Snakes lore!

Swords & Snakes is the ship name for Halle x Jamil! (aka SnakeArmor if you were on a particular server with me)

These notes like, cover a backstory for them!

-Halle and her family, the Carters, would go on trips to the Scalding Sands when they could afford it.

-They met likely a little before they were teenagers. Likely middle school age? (This could change)

-They would trade stories of their siblings. Jamil about Najma and Halle about Aeros.

-One memory that particularly stood out to Jamil was Halle pushing him into a nearby fountain so he would not catch on fire. Jamil was upset and angry at first but ultimately forgave her and he really felt important in that moment. Important enough to protect.

-Halle has heard Jamil sing before during these visits. To her, it got better and better each time she came.

-Jamil also taught Halle some dance moves that she ALMOST got. Solid 6/10.

-Jamil had a copy of a limited edition comic that Halle gave him but it was lost to time.

-Halle has sworn that one day she's take Jamil over to her farm. She is aware Jamil likes to travel.

-Sometime later, Halle is no longer able to go to the Scalding Sands because her family could not afford it. But Halle and Jamil did write letters. Sometimes they would write each other things that that they may not tell others.

-The letters become less frequent as the years go by due to Jamil's responsibilities with Kalim.

-Halle experiences a horrible tragedy. She was rendered unable to write about or speak about what happened. So effectively, she didn't send a letter in a while. She didn't even realize so much time had passed since she last wrote to Jamil.

-Halle gets a very late admission into Night Raven College in the second semester. She does write to Jamil about it, not realizing that Jamil goes to NRC.

-Halle does see the VDC concert and recognizes Jamil, at least a little bit.

-They do semi recognize each other but not fully. Jamil sort of sees her passing by. She's hard to miss with her big orange hair.

-Their first interaction is Halle asking for directions. He does give them to her but sort of waves her off. He sort of sees her as this happy, hotheaded person with no substance.

-She tends to ask for directions frequently. It eventually slips that her name is Halle Carter!

-They do spend time catching up slowly! Halle is invited to movie nights in Scarabia, and Jamil and Halle can be grouped into a pair.

-During one of the movie nights, Halle has a meltdown over hearing a gunshot in a film. She screamed so loud. Like someone who was in pain. It was unannounced and she sort of rocks back and forth while holding her arm. Jamil is the one to calm her down. After this Jamil does tell her if a movie will have a gunshot before it starts or five minutes in advance.

-Halle does seems to talk about what happened since they were apart, but sometimes, it looks like she wants to say something, but she seems too hurt to and changes the subject.

More will be revealed when I post more about them! I love them so much you don’t understand

[religion-is-a-mental-illness]

By: Zack K. De Piero

Published: Dec 23, 2023

Looking for a job in today’s politicized job market?

Prepare to submit a résumé, cover letter, references — and a Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion Statement: A page-long explanation of how you intend to bring those three seemingly benign principles into the workplace.

DEI statements have become standard practice in academia, but a tide might be turning: UNC and UMass Boston recently un-required mandatory DEI statements for student admission, employee recruitment and faculty promotion. 

Here’s hoping this sets an industry precedent — a step towards reining in DEI in every sector. 

When I taught at Penn State Abington from 2018-2022 as an English professor, their obsession with DEI created a hostile work environment teeming with discrimination.

Case in point: writing faculty were subjected to a video called “White Teachers are a Problem.”

After making my opposition known, I was retaliated against.

My perceived insubordination was branded on Affirmative Action Office notices, and I was sanctioned by HR as well as on my annual performance review. 

Penn State’s stance was clear: Blind loyalty is required by the DEI machine. 

The premier job board across academia, HigherEdJobs, shows how deeply entrenched compulsory left-think has become.

Whether you want to teach French at SUNY Oswego, Dance at Chapman, Soil Science and Nutrient Management at Colorado State, or Mechanical and Aerospace Engineering at Syracuse, your prospective employer will expect a DEI statement, so prepare to bend the knee. 

Even if you aspire to become the Beef Center Assistant Manager at Washington State University: Yep: DEI statement.

And these are just a few random examples posted since Thanksgiving.

It’s an epidemic. 

Make no mistake, the DEI machine has always been about toeing an ideological line — never any meaningful change.

Consider the case of Dr. Tabia Lee — a former faculty member of De Anza Community College in California.

While facilitating a “Decentering Whiteness” event featuring a BLM co-founder, Lee (who’s Black) made waves by allowing students to ask unscripted follow-up questions. For doing so, her tenure was sabotaged.

Despite being “diverse,” it turns out that Lee’s actual diversity didn’t gel with De Anza’s agenda.

A commitment to actual diversity requires respecting diverse viewpoints.

But wrong-think isn’t tolerated by the DEI Industrial Complex. 

Fortunately, federal law has something to say about that: neither De Anza nor Penn State has the authority to suppress Dr. Lee or my speech, nor can they discriminate on the basis of race.

That’s why she and I — supported by the nonpartisan group, the Foundation Against Intolerance & Racism — are bringing lawsuits against our former employers. 

Pull back this sacred academic curtain, and see the emperor’s new clothes for yourself.

In 2021, Pennsylvanian’s taxes and students’ tuition went towards workshops on microaggressions, intersectional feminism, anti-racism, and white privilege led by the Penn State Abington DEI grifters.

Its leader’s Juneteenth email directed white faculty and staff to “stop talking,” “find an accountability partner,” and “stop being afraid of your own internalized white supremacy.” 

Such DEI efforts ooze with divisiveness, so yes, DEI statements are clearly a form of compelled speech, and thus, a violation of First Amendment free speech protections.

[ Dr. Tabia Lee says her tenure-track position at De Anza College in California was derailed after she failed to conform to DEI orthodoxy. ]

What’s worse, though, is the type of educational environment that DEI-ified initiatives create for students — and the culprit is the “E”: Equity. 

Here’s how “equity” played out in the misguided minds of my DEI-obsessed former colleagues. A former supervisor, who endorsed the view that “reverse racism isn’t racism,” also announced that “racist structures” exist “regardless of [anybody’s] good intentions” and that “racism is in the results if the results draw a color line.”

The apparent guiding subtext here: students should be graded on the basis of race so all achieve similar outcomes.

Suppose you deflated the grades of Asian-Americans — a group that often disproportionately excels — much like Harvard deflated their acceptance rates until the Supreme Court put a stop to race-based admissions.

That’s somehow acceptable in the name of “equity?” Of course not, but disagree with enforced equity in education and in the eyes of antiracist activists, that makes you – you guessed it — a “racist.” 

Alternatively, performative equity could be achieved by inflating everybody’s grades — straight A’s all around! 

Harvard’s almost there: in 2020-2021, 80% of all grades were A’s, according to an October article in the Harvard Crimson. 

The road to equity is paved by the soft bigotry of low expectations.

And in a world where grit, labor, and integrity win the day, academia’s obsession with “equity” breeds a “survival of the weakest” mindset. 

Nevertheless, the DEI machine continues to reign supreme.

Over a five-year span, Ohio State’s DEI annual budget bloated to $20 million with nearly 200 DEI bureaucrats who cite the leftist scripture of Ibram X. Kendi and Robin DiAngelo.

But before we can enter their church, us natural-born sinners must repent by issuing performative DEI statements?

Yeah. No thanks.

Paradoxically, the more elite institutions obnoxiously virtue-signal their allegiance to DEI, the less committed they are to actual diversity and inclusion — and the more they obscure actual equality in the process. 

These institutions aren’t hiding what they’re doing.

Even in the throes of my lawsuit, Penn State Abington has doubled down on DEI: there’s now a sister office — the Office of Inclusive Excellence — complete with its own cabinet-level director. 

Folks: this isn’t going away unless you take action.

Here’s a start: if you’re ever asked to submit a DEI statement, don’t bend the knee to their “E” — Equity.

Reframe their game, and tell them how and why you stand up for the honorable “E”: Equality. 

Zack K. DePiero (Ph.D, M.Ed) teaches writing at Northampton Community College. 

[dhampiravidi]

Shadow & Bone College AU IDK if I even want to RP this but…

College AU where Aleksander Morozova is Ravka University’s most renowned history professor. He’s also the head of the GRISHA (Grand Ravkan Intellectual Scholarship Honors Admission), who select a small percentage of the students from each class to participate in a rigorous academic career with the goal of earning good grades & rec letters from big businesses. In the past, David Kostyk, Genya Safin, Ivan Kovalev, Nina Zenik & Zoya Nazyalensky all were part of the program, mentored directly by Prof. Morozova himself. He suddenly finds himself drawn to the sophomore (yeah, she’s 18+) Alina Starkov, who wows the student body with her humility, talent for the fine arts & genuine interest in learning. Meanwhile, the international showcase is coming up & Fjerda’s won for the last 7 years. It looks like the GRISHA might lose their funding, especially since there’s whispers that Prof. Morozova has constantly pulled strings to rig the entire school system in favor of his favorites.

Yeah, so Jayn’s a former GRISHA who works as an adjunct (or maybe in admin, IDK), wondering why tf her sort-of-friend Aleks is hardly trying to cover up his affair or his past actions. Nikolai is the scandalous school president’s son who has a knack for conceptualizing & presenting in general.

[ghnosis]

getting a PhD in Ghost 1: prehD

I keep getting questions so here’s my life thus far! getting a PhD is a long road, so I’d like to break this into sections. I’ll edit this post with links to the rest of em as I write em

ACADEMIC HISTORY:

4 years BA in Music Industry, fail out of that college a semester before graduation bc I got mono and then became extremely depressed! being 20 is hell!

3ish years combined MA/BA program in Gender & Sexuality Studies - an MA is not always required for a PhD, but it helped in my case. I am in the US and I am getting my PhD from a school in the UK, which has different admission guidelines

gap years to live life, get a full-time job, and assess future goals/research directions/identify WITH WHOMST I wanted to do my PhD, and on what. you have to come into the PhD application with a pretty solid idea of what you want to study, how, where, with who, and why it matters!

THE PhD ITSELF: GETTING IN

December 2020: attend information sessions about the university and PhD process specific to that uni

January 2021: submit an Expression of Interest, a form provided by my uni with all the basic info you’d expect as well as: 

research themes

where I planned to get funding

outline of my research (proposed title, proposed research question, subject area, aims, objectives, historical, contemporary, and theoretical context, proposed methodology, ethical dimensions of research, indicative bibliography, supplementary evidence, academic qualifications and other relevant experience)

January 2021: heard back from my thesis advisors on feedback on the EoI. again, the EoI is specific to my school

January 2021: submitted formal application - the EoI was a (very useful) pre-step there specific to my uni. the formal app included: 

3 letters of recommendation

my transcripts

same sort of project-specific info as the EoI, but fleshed out bc I’d worked with my advisors at that point

March 2021: invited to interview. for my interview, I needed to prepare a presentation covering: 

my research question

how my project makes a contribution to knowledge (this is what a PhD is. brand new information.)

the broader context of the project

the methodology

the impact/importance of the research (aka why does someone else care)

April 2021: offered a place to study with the university but did NOT get a scholarship lololololol

April-July 2021: bureaucratic hell! this probably won’t happen to you but it happened to me so I’m documenting it!

July 2021: officially put a deposit down and registered

September 2021: officially began program

part 2 of this post will be explaining a lot of the academic terms I used in this and also the milestones specific to my school. feel free to ask me questions though my case is quite unique in some ways!

[bixiebeet]

Title: I Think We’ve Met Before

Summary: The Ghostbusters’ new secretary wants to get her college degree. The team is eager to help with her application—and in the process, they realize that they’ve all crossed paths before.

Chapter 1–450 words.

Clack, clack, clack. Fuzzy green letters filled Janine’s computer screen. She told herself that it was kosher to finish her resume during her lunch break. After all, she was allowed to use the computer for non-official purposes.

All things considered, it was work related. She desperately wanted—and needed—training that her bosses couldn’t provide. In her first few months as the Ghostbusters’ secretary, she’d become their de facto office manager, legal department, and chief financial officer.

Her mind was set: she’d go back to school.

Truthfully, Janine felt embarrassed about lacking a degree. She worked for three of the most highly educated men in New York City. In a city of nearly 16 million people, that was no small feat. She lost count of how many degrees Dr. Spengler had, much less the whole team.

With the ghostbusting business booming, she had a steady income to afford classes. Plus, societal norms had changed since her childhood. This was the 1980s! Modern women could pursue careers and higher education.

Janine had a copy of her high school transcript for her application. She hoped that a resume and cover letter might bolster her chances of admission. Maybe being an older student wouldn’t be so bad; she had lots of real-world experience to offer.

“You seem busy,” Ray said as he walked by.

“Oh, not really,” Janine said shyly. “Whaddya need, Dr. Stantz?”

“Call me Ray,” he said with his usual warm smile.

“Sure…Ray,” Janine said as she slowly smiled back.

“We accidentally destroyed a city bus. Again,” Ray sighed. “It wasn’t our fault. Another damn ghost driver. We need a letter for the mayor…”

Janine searched for a notepad on her desk. That’s when Ray got distracted by her other papers.

“Is that an NYU brochure??” he asked.

“Uh, yeah. I’m thinking about taking a few business classes. No big deal,” she said. She worried that any perceived distractions could get her fired.

Ray’s face lit up. “What a great idea!!

“I’d work normal hours. It’d be night school—wait, what?” Janine said. “You don’t mind?”

“You may notice that we don’t have the best business acumen,” Ray admitted with a chuckle. “Don’t let Peter know I said that. But he could use help.”

Janine beamed. “I went to secretarial school a few blocks from NYU in ‘72. It’s my dream to get a real diploma.”

“Small world! Spengs got his parapsychology degree at NYU in ‘72. We hung out there a lot,” Ray said. “Did you ever go to campus?”

“Every week,” Janine said. In fact, her high school best friend had been an NYU student. Janine started to wonder if she’d ever crossed paths with the Ghostbusters before…

[60b3r]

Catching up with life.

It's been over five years since I graduated from university, and here I am, once again, applying for jobs like a robot. I have sent over 4 to 5 job applications per week, tweaked my CV individually once a month, and hand-crafted my cover letter uniquely for each jobs I applied to. To top it off, I have been doing this for 2 years combined. Assuming that is not an overstatement, I have been sending over 300 job applications to different schools, universities, and even across other industries. With this overkill—yet seems to useless—Masters degree, it does not serve as a selling point, since it is being considered inconsistent with the common practice prevalently found in Indonesian universities, that one's Masters degree should be linear in order to work in academia as a lecturer. I even had to consider dropping my Graduate degree and went with my Bachelors degree to apply for jobs. People kept saying that biotech is the future, that the sciences are dawning all over, technology grows at light-speed, but all I experience is frustration and anguish. People kept telling that I am overqualified, that there's no way I am always between jobs with such emotive motivation and carefully curated skills and my beautifully AI-tweaked resume. I’m seriously starting to consider giving up this life and trekking into the wild to make my new life, Randall Clark-style. Here I want to reflect back on my past few years' endeavor and remind myself that job-seeking is such a dehumanizing process and something must be done to fix this. But before that, a quick background on my life so far. Consider this as a short, catching-up telltale.

Right after graduating in 2018, I was so motivated to fix the education system. I applied to teaching jobs and got myself a first formal job teaching Biology and caring for a dormant Science Club back in my alma mater. Why not apply for the industry sector, you ask? There's not enough room for Biotech graduates in Indonesia, and despite what people say about the unique nature of the niche, most of the positions can either be filled with Chemical Engineering graduates, or just General Biology graduates. There's not enough value created by pursuing Biotech degree, apart from continuing in academia as a researcher. After one year, I didn't renew my contract and decided to pursue for higher education, which I thought it was necessary to create a bigger impact. I thought back then, "Here I am, teaching young generation Biology and the art of life, some of them might be doctors or environmental engineers, yes, but majority of them won't even need these stuff." I said that to myself, exactly like I was thinking back then when I was their age and learning mathematics. it was 2019 when I decided to pursue MSc/PhD Biotechnology abroad, to allow myself to engage with wider masses upon completion. This time, high-schoolers, next up, college students, or so I thought. But life is a bitch, and then we all gonna die anyway.

Luckily at that time, right after my resignation was granted, I got myself three Letters of Admission: from two different universities in The Netherlands and one from Sweden. I'd then applied for several scholarships program, one of them being the notorious LPDP. The task of simply qualifying for the first round of paperwork selection was very tedious and stressful. It was my first time dealing with a plethora of documents to prepare, and I could say the tears and blood was even worse than the process of getting an LoA from the three campuses. After two more selection stages, long story short, I didn't qualify after the interview process, and I plunged myself in depression. A month later, I collected myself to start over, and this time, applied for jobs in the edtech startups. My thoughts were somehow I could work for a while, save enough money while still creating impact, and fund my Masters off my own deposits. Well again, fortunately I told myself at that time, some unicorn companies contacted me, and somewhat early that year, precisely February 2020, I was called into one of the big edtech company to attend an interview. I scrambled to book a ticket and a homestay for 2 days and... Oh boy. Three days before my departure, Jakarta shut down the borders and Covid ruined my lifelong dream of studying abroad. Interview cancelled, plane ticket burnt, and that hotel bed never touched my back. No job, no credit, eat shit. All 2020 I cried myself to sleep.

The anxiety caused by the uncertainties was so dreadful, I fantasized going for a program—the one in the Netherlands—anyway. Talk about coping using unrealistic expectation. So I emailed the admissions office and requested to postpone my first semester to October 2020 or March 2021 (they granted the former but refused the latter). I even paid for the dorm room in the Netherlands, when I was very certain that this was just another viral outbreak that's gonna resolve on its own after several months (that was also a false hope). Then, my family business took a major hit due to lockdowns imposed by the local government, and everyone went nuts. All plans go bust, and out of nowhere, suddenly, all homeschool students I have been teaching stopped responding to my calls. All types of businesses from across all sectors took a hit. Purchasing power bottomed out. Monetary circulation grounded to a halt. In the midst of all this blazing hellfire that is a financial crisis, it was in the middle of 2020 when I applied for student loan to get myself into a campus in Jogja. I thought "Well, it can't be that bad, right, I can still go to Jogja and pursue another Masters here, domestically, without going abroad and waste lots of money." So did everybody else thought, when we all first had our online classes in October 2020. But fast forward to early 2022, It's like everyone skipped two years of their life, staring at the screen for several hours drying out eyeballs and get nothing from classes other than just one or two classes that are actually elective subjects, not among the core courses.

I greeted 2021 with much hope, a hope that someday I will be able to meet my classmates and hunt for Jogja food later in the day after classes. I would have scoured through the libraries of the renown, and I would have also joined several student councils during my studies. But no. Not even once we got a call from campus saying our classes would go from distanced learning to on-site learning. I spent 2021 lurking around Malang trying to find a closure, visiting many natural places where I used to enjoy, gulping so many unhealthy foods down my throat to ease the numbing pain, even engaged in some risky behavior of ████████████. The year ended with more student debt, an unfinished thesis proposal, a broken heart, and still, no single job interview landed. Yes, I even went through Masters fully online (including all of the phases of research). I spent all 2021 mourning the hundreds if not thousands of what-ifs while drafting my thesis proposal. A small ember light up in the darkness, I got myself a job replacing a science teacher in Surabaya during her maternity leave. I got the contract extended just before I finished my thesis defense, and I am stuck in Surabaya for another year of inconsecutive work experience. Not even a single time I ever stepped my soles on campus grounds in Jogja during my enrollment there. The only chance I got to be closer than ever to my supposed campus building is during my awards ceremony where I returned my graduation robes.

I got paid three times the amount I got when I was working in my alma mater. I got myself a small room not too far away, and after selling my family's car, I even got a small discount since I am not using the provided parking space anymore. Plus, after over half a year, I can save more than I could usually save because there are no more gas-hungry beast that is my 1.5L turbocharged CVT Medium SUV. The school itself was decent, I got mediocre lunch everyday and to be honest there are less paperwork than the previous jobs I had been working on, but oooh the lab equipment and the learning materials are very lacking. I requested for some upgrades here and there, and they didn't even bat an eye. I have to struggle and come up with weird hyper-crearive plans to deliver the lesson, which by the way are not just biology, but also physics, chemistry, and geography. I enjoyed most of my time teaching, but considering a majority of students would leave the school and continue somewhere else, the school management decided to cut over half of the staff earlier this year. By the time of writing, I still need to finish my contract, though. Fortunately, I got some leeway since there are less classes to teach now after Cambridge exams has passed. This is where the fun begins. Not another job hunting. So, wish me luck friends.

[medicawing]

NEET PG Counseling 2024? Understanding the required documents is crucial for a smooth admission process. Here's what you need to know.

Preparing for NEET PG Counseling 2024? Having the right documents is key to a smooth admission process! Here’s a quick guide to help you get organized.

The Medical Counseling Committee (MCC) manages the NEET PG admissions, covering 100% seats in deemed and central universities and 50% in government medical colleges.

Allotment letter from MCC

Admit card from National Board of Examinations (NB)

Result rank letter from NB

Proof of date of birth (high school/birth certificate)

MBBS mark sheets for each professional exam

Degree certificate

Internship completion certificate (before August 15)

Medical Council registration certificate (MCI/state)

Valid ID proof

Reserved category candidates must bring relevant certificates according to central government norms, while NRI and OCI candidates need sponsorship and affidavit documents.

For a complete list of required documents, refer to the MCC information booklet and ensure a smooth counseling experience.

#NEETPG2024 #MedicalAdmission #NEETPGCounseling #MCCAIQ #MedicalStudents #FutureDoctors #MedStudentLife #AdmissionProcess #MBBSJourney #MedicoLife #AllIndiaQuota #NEETCounseling #medicawing

[ashokaschools]

Guide to MBA Admission in Hyderabad: Eligibility, Process, and Top Colleges

Pursuing an MBA can be a transformative step in a professional career, offering skills, knowledge, and networking opportunities that help in tackling complex business challenges. Hyderabad has emerged as one of India’s premier destinations for MBA education, hosting numerous top-tier institutions and specialized programs in fields such as Artificial Intelligence (AI), marketing, finance, and more. This guide covers all the essentials: eligibility criteria, the admission process, and a list of Top MBA colleges in Hyderabad to help aspiring professionals choose the best path forward.

Eligibility for MBA Admission in Hyderabad

Each institution may have its own criteria, but generally, the eligibility requirements for MBA admissions in Hyderabad are straightforward and consistent across most colleges:

Educational Background: Candidates must hold a Bachelor’s degree in any discipline from a recognized university with a minimum aggregate score, typically around 50%. For reserved categories, the minimum score is often slightly lower.

Entrance Exams: Many Top MBA colleges in Hyderabad accept scores from national or state-level exams, such as CAT, MAT, XAT, GMAT, or ICET. Some institutions may also conduct their own entrance exams.

Work Experience: Although not mandatory for most general MBA programs, work experience of 1-3 years can be an advantage, particularly in executive MBA programs or fields like Artificial Intelligence admissions in Hyderabad, where practical knowledge can enhance learning.

English Proficiency: Some colleges require proof of English proficiency, especially for students who completed their undergraduate degree in non-English-speaking institutions.

MBA Admission Process in Hyderabad

The admission process typically involves several steps, from application submission to interviews. Here’s a breakdown of what applicants can expect:

Application Submission: Candidates must first complete the online or offline application form, providing academic and personal details. Some colleges may also require essays, a statement of purpose, or letters of recommendation.

Entrance Exam: After submitting the application, applicants need to appear for the required entrance exams, if applicable. This score is an important determinant in getting shortlisted by the Top MBA colleges in Hyderabad.

Shortlisting and Interviews: Based on the entrance exam scores and other eligibility criteria, candidates are shortlisted for the next rounds. This often includes a group discussion (GD) or a written assessment test (WAT), followed by a personal interview (PI).

Final Selection and Admission Offer: Final selections are made based on exam scores, performance in GD, WAT, PI, and sometimes academic records or work experience. Once selected, the candidate is offered admission and must complete the admission formalities.

Specializations Offered by MBA Colleges in Hyderabad

Hyderabad’s leading MBA institutions offer a variety of specializations to cater to diverse interests and career goals. Some popular options include:

Finance: Focuses on corporate finance, investments, and financial analysis.

Marketing: Specializations here cover branding, advertising, consumer behavior, and digital marketing, making these programs highly sought-after in MBA marketing colleges in Hyderabad.

Artificial Intelligence (AI): AI-focused MBA programs train students in machine learning, data science, and automation, allowing them to apply AI concepts in business scenarios. The rise of Artificial Intelligence admissions in Hyderabad highlights the city’s emphasis on tech-driven business solutions.

Human Resource Management: This specialization emphasizes recruitment, training, organizational behavior, and labor law.

Operations Management: Focuses on supply chain management, quality control, and logistics.

List of Top MBA Colleges in Hyderabad

Hyderabad is home to numerous prestigious institutions offering high-quality MBA programs. Here are a few Top MBA colleges in Hyderabad that provide excellent programs, experienced faculty, and great placement opportunities:

Indian School of Business (ISB): Known for its top-ranked global programs, ISB offers a one-year MBA that is especially attractive for experienced professionals.

Osmania University College of Business Management: A well-established institution, Osmania offers affordable MBA programs with specializations in finance, marketing, HR, and more.

ICFAI Business School (IBS): Known for a strong curriculum and practical exposure, IBS offers an MBA with specializations in marketing, HR, and finance.

Institute of Public Enterprise (IPE): IPE provides PGDM and MBA programs with cutting-edge curriculum in finance, operations, and business analytics.

Symbiosis Institute of Business Management (SIBM): SIBM Hyderabad offers an innovative and practical MBA program that draws students from across the country.

Choosing the Right MBA Program in Hyderabad

Selecting the right MBA program can be influenced by several factors, including curriculum, faculty, infrastructure, industry exposure, placement records, and tuition fees. Specializations such as Artificial Intelligence admissions in Hyderabad and MBA marketing colleges in Hyderabad offer excellent career prospects due to their relevance in today’s market.

Additionally, consider factors such as campus location, extracurricular activities, and alumni network when making your decision. Programs with strong industry links often provide students with internship opportunities and direct recruitment by top companies.

 Conclusion

Hyderabad’s MBA programs offer a diverse set of specializations and career opportunities that can provide the foundation for a successful business career. With numerous Digital marketing services in Hyderabad and growing business networks, the city is well-suited for graduates looking to make a mark in the business world. The Top MBA colleges in Hyderabad offer not only a solid educational foundation but also support in placements and networking, ensuring that graduates are well-prepared to lead and innovate in their chosen fields. Whether you're interested in Artificial Intelligence, finance, marketing, or any other specialization, Hyderabad’s business schools provide a promising gateway to a successful future.

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Everything Indian Students Need to Know About Study Visas: Requirements, Types, and Application Process

Planning to study abroad? This complete guide on study visas for Indian students covers everything—from visa types and application steps to fees and benefits. Learn how to apply for a student visa from India and make your study abroad dream a reality with HelloVisa!

What is a Study Visa for Indian Students?

A study visa is a temporary visa allowing students to pursue education in a foreign country for a specified period. For Indian students, it’s the essential first step to studying abroad, enabling them to reside legally in the chosen destination and attend academic programs.

What is a Student Visa?

A student visa is an official permit issued by the destination country’s government, granting permission to live and study in that country. These visas generally come with conditions, such as restrictions on work hours during the study period and the type of institution or program eligible under the visa.

How to Apply for a Student Visa in India?

Applying for a student visa from India involves multiple steps and varies by country. Here’s a general overview of the process:

Acceptance Letter from a Recognized Institution: You must secure admission to a recognized university or college abroad. The admission letter is essential for the visa application.

Check Visa Requirements: Every country has different requirements. It’s critical to verify the specific requirements on the official immigration website of the country you plan to study in.

Prepare Required Documents: Assemble necessary documents, such as proof of acceptance, financial support evidence, and your passport.

Submit Your Application: Fill out the application form, pay the applicable fees, and submit it either online or at a visa application center.

Attend a Visa Interview (if required): Some countries mandate a visa interview at the consulate or embassy.

Wait for Visa Approval: Processing times vary, so it’s best to apply early. With HelloVisa, you can streamline your application and improve your chances of success.

Student Visa India Cost:

The cost of a student visa depends on the destination country and duration of study. Generally, fees for student visas range from $100 to $500. Besides the visa application fee, you may also incur costs for documentation, medical tests, and travel insurance.

At HelloVisa, we help you understand the exact visa fees for your chosen country and guide you in budgeting for the process.

What Does a Student Visa Do?

A student visa allows Indian students to:

Legally reside in the destination country for educational purposes.

Enroll in a recognized academic program.

Obtain part-time employment in some countries, helping to manage living expenses.

Apply for post-study work visas in specific countries, potentially leading to permanent residency opportunities.

What are the Types of Student Visas?

Student visas can vary depending on the level of study, duration, and program type. Common types include:

Short-Term Student Visa: For courses lasting up to six months, often language or certification programs.

Long-Term Student Visa: For degree programs like bachelor's, master’s, or Ph.D. courses.

Vocational Training Visa: Issued for students enrolling in vocational or technical training courses.

Exchange Student Visa: For students participating in academic exchange programs between institutions.

Curious about the best student visa options for your career goals? Consult HelloVisa for tailored guidance!

Documents Required for a Study Visa:

Here are essential documents Indian students need for a study visa:

Valid Passport: Must be valid for six months beyond the study period.

Acceptance Letter: Proof of admission from a recognized institution.

Financial Proof: Bank statements, scholarship letters, or sponsorship documents showing you can cover tuition and living expenses.

Visa Application Form: Completed application for the respective country.

Photographs: Passport-size photos meeting embassy specifications.

Medical Clearance Certificate: Some countries require proof of health.

Language Proficiency Test Scores: IELTS, TOEFL, or other language certifications as needed.

With HelloVisa, get a personalized checklist for the documentation required for your target country.

Why Choose HelloVisa?

HelloVisa has a team of expert consultants dedicated to simplifying your student visa journey. Here’s why Indian students trust us:

End-to-End Assistance: From application preparation to visa interviews, HelloVisa guides you through each step.

Country-Specific Guidance: We offer up-to-date insights on student visa requirements and documentation for top destinations.

Higher Approval Rate: With our attention to detail and application support, we help maximize your chances of approval.

Personalized Services: Whether you need help selecting a program or understanding visa costs, HelloVisa provides tailored advice.

📞 Ready to start your study abroad journey? Contact HelloVisa for expert support!

Frequently Asked Questions (FAQs):

Q:-1 How long does it take to get a student visa?Ans: Visa processing times vary. For example, it may take 4-12 weeks for Canada and 2-4 weeks for the UK. We recommend applying well in advance to avoid delays.

Q:-2  What is the cost of a student visa for the USA?Ans: The USA’s F1 student visa costs around $160 USD. Additional fees might apply, such as SEVIS charges. Check with HelloVisa for updated fees.

Q:-3 Do I need IELTS for a student visa?Ans: Many countries require proof of English proficiency, such as IELTS or TOEFL scores. However, some countries may waive this requirement if you’ve previously studied in English or can prove language proficiency.

Q:-4 Can I work while on a student visa?Ans: In many countries, international students are permitted to work part-time during their studies, typically up to 20 hours per week. HelloVisa can help you understand the work policies of your target country.

Q:-5 What happens if my student visa application is rejected?Ans: If your application is rejected, you’ll typically receive a reason. HelloVisa can assist you in understanding and addressing any issues, allowing you to reapply with a stronger application.

This blog aims to provide all the information you need to make your study visa process smooth and successful. For personalized advice and support, reach out to HelloVisa today and start your journey toward studying abroad!