#tribute communities centre

[townpostin]

J.R.D. Tata's 120th Birth Anniversary Celebrated in Jamshedpur

Chess enthusiasts and officials gather at JRD Tata Sports Complex to honor Bharat Ratna East Singhbhum District Chess Association members paid tribute to J.R.D. Tata on his 120th birth anniversary at the Chess Centre in Jamshedpur. JAMSHEDPUR – The JRD Tata Sports Complex Chess Centre in Jamshedpur was the site of the East Singhbhum District Chess Association’s celebration of J.R.D. Tata’s 120th…

[alavestineneas]

Glass and mirrors

pairing: young!coriolanussnow x fem!reader summary: There is one thing the world needs to know about her: she didn't become a star overnight. She was born to be one. warnings: canon-typical violence, mentions of mental illness, narcissism, blonde men who need therapy, unhinged women, people in shitty relationships and toxic industries word count: 4.6k PART TWO IS HERE

author's note: Hello and welcome to our small community of people who have fallen victim to the charming (and evil) blonde man! This fic is heavily inspired by the edits of models that pop up on my ticktock feed every day. Shout out to them and the talented editors who bless my eyes with their creations. As for YN this time, prepare to be on quite a ride because she, surprise-surprise, is evil! In my head, there has to be at least one victor who feels no remorse at all; they can't all be morally good (and relatively sane) people. Also, the obsession with beauty in this fic is, in fact, intentional, so bear with me. Feel free to comment or insult the author in the comments, but only if you are creative with it. Enjoy and see you in part 2!

In all of her short childhood, she always loved mirrors. Her grandma used to joke about it with her old friends while they shared lunch at the factory: ''That empty-headed child wants to do nothing but stare at herself all day.'' The women would laugh, their raspy voices making the glid, already filled with toxic fumes to the brim, hotter. YN didn't mind; she would pretend not to hear them, clinging to the machinery in front of her instead. She would get out of here sooner or later, and she'd see whose laughter would be left echoing all through the narrow streets.

She wasn't born to rot in this place like these people were; YN was sure of that. Not with a face like hers, with manners she taught herself from the bright magic box in their cramped commune apartment, where a few times a year the government played the show. It was supposed to be a punishment, YN reminded herself each time, but it didn't look like one. She watched the children eat more food than she had seen in a month and then cry on the stage in front of millions. She wouldn't cry if she was there, that was for certain. People die every day here, but none of them get to dress up in the jewels provided by the wealthiest people she has ever seen.

It was funny how they had all the money in the world and still chose to dress so horribly. Mismatched fabrics and smudged colours on their faces, like the colours of the lake near her house—the factories polluted it with dyes, turning the water green, purple, and sometimes even pink. That's how she got her old grey dress to be such a pretty lavender colour. It didn't matter that everyone at school laughed at her, even Miss Kyla; she was horrendously ugly anyway, her hair resembling the colour of unwashed underwear. YN wore her dress with pride, mimicking the voice of the funny multicolour-haired man on the screen, chatting with long o's and a's.

That's how she ended up here, on the first floor of the newly renovated training centre, with a drink in her freshly manicured hand. She had two hours before her stylists would need her again—a time designated for sleep, which she apparently so greatly lacks. YN doesn't care; she went without sleep for much longer than two days. Instead, she does what she loves the most—turns on a shiny screen and watches the golden letters appear: the 15th Annual Hunger Games.

It starts with reaping, as always, but YN skips that part—she doesn't like seeing herself in those dirty rags, although, as papers would later state, ''nothing could make this girl ugly, even if a potato sack was put on her body.'' She likes interviews better. Luckily, the wait is not very long; soon enough, her favourite host pops up, his hair shimmering with sea green.

''And now, our dear viewers, I am more than pleased to announce our next tribute from District 1—please let her hear how excited we are to meet her!'' His voice booms through the theatre as the crowd erupts into applause.

YN moves gracefully, a beaming smile on her face matching that of a host. Her gloved hands wave at the supposed people in front of her as if they were guests at her birthday party. But most importantly, dress. The one she chose herself, arguing over it with her stylist for the last few hours, the one that fitted her perfectly. Capitol enough to appeal to the audience, district enough to highlight that she isn't one of them—she is something new, undiscovered, and worth keeping an eye on. It's almost not a dress at all—the sparkling, sheer fabric of beautiful white, with stars gathering at her chest and bottom to finish the ''almost naked'' look. And the crowd goes crazy for it. People shout, and the splashes of the cameras blinding her create a new melody that is so unfamiliar to YN's ears. Admiration. The thing she craved for so long.

''Alright, alright,'' Lucky Flickerman smiles, gesturing for the crowd to settle down. ''We don't want to scare her off now, do we?'' He turns to her, a microphone in hand. ''What's your name, sweetheart?''

''YN Y/L/N. And I am afraid you can't scare me off, no matter how hard you try. The thing is, I am here to stay,'' she jokes, cocking an eyebrow at the man beside her.

''Oh, how I love your confidence! Now tell me—we heard you are a volunteer—the first in the history of District 1! Are there any special ties to the girl who was supposed to stand here tonight, or what's going on?''

''Well, I was dying to see you in person, of course—no pun intended.''

Oh, there weren't any ties to the girl, or the boy, for that matter. No, YN simply wanted to go at her peak chance of winning—countless years of secret preparation in the factory; working a night shift after school and full days of weekends; hours of studying every plant and animal known to mankind—all to ensure that she wouldn't waste her chance like most kids here did.

''That's an honour coming from your lips; we are happy to see you in the Capitol, Miss Y/L/N. Since you came here by choice, what strategy are you planning on using in the arena? Maybe something tied to your district's craft?''

''If you promise to keep this between us, I'll confess—I will use my charms to make everyone fall in love with me and watch them fight by promising the winner a kiss—and then I will take it from there.'' YN turns to face the lights, staring directly into the camera for a few seconds. The crowd laughs once more, some going so far as to cheer and whistle in excitement. ''But in all honesty, I think I have a fair shot—I would win in a day if it meant the unlimited supply of those amazing cupcakes with sprinkles on top.''

''Well, in that case, you should definitely get a good rest this night—you are not the only one who got your eye on them! Ladies and gentlemen, prepare for the Cupcake Games tomorrow, and don't forget to sponsor this lovely girl right here if you want to see her win! And now, a short word from our sponsors.''

Cupcake jokes are still funny to her, even after two years, although she got sick of them a week after her victory and was just as sick of all the titles papers came up with to fit her into the candy girl box. It served her well, for which she is grateful; the sponsors did send her a shitton of things, although mostly useless.

Next is the introduction of everyone else; YN doesn't care to look at it for more than just a few seconds, speeding it up to maximum. It's boring to no end—how do Capitolees watch it every year with such excitement? She stops to look only when her face appears on the screen, covered in crimson blood.

She counted six canons when she finally stopped to take a breath in and look at her surroundings. That was about right, although YN didn't count how many times she pulled a knife out of somebody's still-warm body and lurched into another nearby. The sand soaked up the blood fast, she noticed, stepping over the pile of what used to be her competitors and walking towards the cone-shaped something. Nobody in sight—each one of the ''better'' kids is now dead without a chance to kill each other, to kill her, and ''others'' will die like flies under the hot sun of what looked like a desert. YN noticed that some even left behind the given jackets; she collected them before stepping into the Cornucopia, claiming them as her own. Not everyone grew up in hot factories, she thought to herself, so they have no chance of knowing how cold it gets at night.

YN doesn't like how the uniform looks on her; the T-shirt hangs around her frame too loosely. It's evident that she didn't eat enough back then, but it was tolerable. The dried blood looked worse; with her stoic face and eye colour, the streams looked too grotesque, almost unserious; it didn't fit the look she was going for. Her hands itch to wipe it before YN remembers that it's non-existent now—the girl on the screen is just a recording. She forwards a little more, looking for the commentary of the first night from the hosts—their excitement and praise never get old—but hears knocking at her door just as she is about to press play. YN glances at the clock—it's too early for the prep team, so it must be someone else—and turns off the TV just to be sure she heard it right.

When the knocking continues, she shouts a quick ''Come in,'' after checking her reflection on the now dark screen. ''Ah, Maggie!''

''How many times do I have to repeat that my name is Mags, not Maggie? Not Mags with fangs either, to be clear. Just Mags.''

''But everyone calls you that! And I want to be special,'' YN whines, laying back on the sofa.

It's Mags. YN likes Mags. Mags is the only girl besides her on the victors' list. Mags is the one who is always down to eat lunch together or to watch the new collection in the magazines. She is funny and down to earth, and, most importantly, Mags doesn't take bullshit from anyone.

''Even more special?'' Mags smiles, opening the fridge to look for something edible. There isn't much; they both know that YN would never eat something to ruin her figure. ''I saw your photoshoot on the street today. It's beautiful.''

''Thank you,'' YN smiles. She doesn't remember which one of her campaigns was supposed to air today, but it doesn't matter. ''Are you here for the promo again?''

The curly-haired woman nods, not looking up from the shelves. ''I hate it. I wish they would just leave me alone, so I can go home and forget about all of this.''

YN is always weirded out by such comments from Victor from 4 but never says anything. Not everyone was born to be in front of the camera; if that were the case, her talent wouldn't be so special anymore. ''It's our job, Maggie. They'll never leave us alone.''

''I know.'' Mags sighed, planting her body on the sofa beside her.

They are different, but YN thinks it's better that way. They are the same age, both 20, and that's about the only thing that ties them together. YN watches as her friend's chest rises and falls as she stares at the ceiling, her long, curly hair in some type of twist. YN would never style it like that, but Mags doesn't ask, so she stares at her in silence, trying her hardest not to compare them. She knows what type of conclusion will sparkle in her brain, but she doesn't want to admit it. Mags is her friend, her only good friend, so something inside YN fights hard to leave her alone. It's an unusual feeling, almost foreign, but YN wants to make an exception. She thinks Maggie deserves it.

''Are you okay?'' the woman asks her, finally snapping out of her trance. ''You are less talkative than usual.''

''Oh, yeah—just a little tired from work, that's it.''

Work. It's not the type of work people can really get tired from, and if anybody thinks otherwise, they never worked a day in District 1. Sometimes, YN can still feel the burning cloud of steam hitting her face when she closes her eyes. The work she does in Capitol is child's play—photoshoots, interviews, promotional campaigns, and runways. She is the only one with this kind of hectic schedule, the only one who is interesting enough for the general public to want to see her everywhere they go. Multiple shows a day wasn't uncommon; photoshoots until five a.m. were basically her usual routine; she did so many of them that she never remembered the brand name for more than an hour.

''Well, I hope I don't interrupt your me-time,'' Mags notes. ''Panem knows you need it. ''

''You worry too much about me. Better tell me about how life is in 4—anything new?''

There is probably nothing exciting, but it feels nice to listen to somebody talk with such love for their home as Mags does. It's also a great opportunity. YN catches every subtle expression and every movement of her friend with attentive eyes, making sure to parrot them later. She noticed from the recording today that her speech misses a certain effortlessness.

-

Curl and twist, curl and twist—YN has learned the pattern by now, sitting in front of the gigantic mirror, surrounded by a team of stylists. Hair, make-up, nails, and toes—five people work hand in hand for her to appear for two minutes on the long podium. The backstage is loud, and a lot is going on—last-minute changes, alterations, and quick touch-ups. YN doesn't bother to look around; she closes today like a face of the collection, and after she is done with this podium, the day is finally coming to an end.

''Oh, YN, darling, here you are!'' The bald man in his forties appears on the horizon of her peripheral vision, clasping his unnaturally white hands together. ''How are you doing, my little star? Anything you need?''

She is irritated to no end; her team booked seven shows for her today; she hadn't had anything to eat in the past six hours; and the loud music makes her head throb. But she doesn't voice any of that—nobody really wants to know how she is feeling.

Just like she guessed, the man doesn't wait for her response. ''There have been some changes in the order today, sweetheart. Jenovia will be closing today, and you will walk in her dress instead,'' the man says, turning to face her styling team. ''Change the hair to fit, and take off the blue in her make-up—it won't match. Good luck!''

''Do what he says,'' YN announces, her mouth twitching just a little. She is furious. To have that blonde bitch Jenovia walk in the best dress of the collection YN inspired? Over her dead body. Or, should she say, over Jenovia's? She will figure it out but do so later. Now there are only four girls before her, so she needs to be ready.

''Three, two, one! Go, go!'' the stage coordinator shouts, opening the curtain for her.

Right and left, hip and hand, followed by the strong clicking of her five-inch heels. The music is even louder here, with the beets vibrating through the runway and pouring into her bloodstream. She doesn't pay any attention to the glass floor underneath her. Surprisingly, her training before games helped her model more than one could guess. YN doesn't see anyone but the blinding lights lining the podium—not that she needs to see the hungry faces of the spectators. It doesn't matter what piece of fabric covers her body; they are looking at who wears it. Final pose at the centre—no smile is her go-to. Hold and turn is the golden rule.

''Here you are!'' One of the seamstresses grabs her hand, pulling her into a small, curtained space with countless clothes on racks. ''Calio wants you to hold a purse for the backstage photo and lose the belt. Where the fuck is the golden belt?'' she shouts, searching for one. ''Wait here; I'll go find it,'' she finally announces, running away before YN has the chance to suggest anything.

YN looks around, carefully moving the laying rags with her foot. She mentally goes over the outfits labelled with names, rating them one by one, until her eyes stop on the white dress. The closing dress, the one she was supposed to model. Underneath it are velvety black high boots.

The idea comes to her mind quickly: she steals a needle from the nearby table and carefully places it inside the shoes, making sure it looks like an accident.

''Finally,'' the woman returns with a belt in her hands, oblivious to YN's half-smile. ''Put it on and go; they are already waiting.''

''Of course, thanks.''

YN isn't sure how much time has passed before she hears a scream, standing up from her place in the corner with a blanket around her exposed shoulders. Surely enough, Jenovia is on the floor, crying crocodile tears—a needle inside her heel deep enough to make a few of the girls around her gag.

''What the fuck happened?'' It's Calio, the boss here; he was ordering her around before.

''I don't know,'' all the blonde girl can manage before bursting into tears one more time.

''Well, can you walk?'' he asks, kneeling to take a look.

''No,'' Jenovia whispers, her hand holding her bloodied foot.

The bald man sighed, more annoyed than concerned. ''We need a replacement. You,'' he points at YN. ''Take it off and change into the dress. Quick!''

YN does what she is told in no time; she doesn't want to wait until Jenovia suddenly gets better or the man finds a better-suited girl to close. After a few minutes, she is almost ready; she only needs the lipstick to finish it off.

''We don't have time!'' the man roars, dragging her to the exit. ''Here!'' He puffs out her hair and adjusts the layers of fake pearls covering her neck. ''Three, two, one! Go, fucking go!''

And go she does. A few steps on the runway, and she discovers that lipstick is still in her hands. YN puts it in the pocket of the enormously large black coat that hides the gorgeous white dress underneath. Step after step, her long black boots draw patterns on the glass. She will have no choice but to buy them; YN doesn't care if it's stupid. They helped her, so she will have them.

It's time for the final pose: YN takes out the lipstick from her pocket and applies it with two swift motions, blowing a kiss to the camera. It will definitely be a hit with the photographers. YN throws one last look before turning around and returning to the curtained exit. On her way back, when the lights lower to follow her back, she can see a little clearer. In the sea of vibrant hair colours and clothes, the platinum-blonde hair and a simple black suit stood out too much not to notice. There is only one person who could afford to look so simple—YN knows it. An opportunity of a lifetime.

She makes another stop in the middle of the podium, right in front of his seat. The coat slides off her shoulders effortlessly, and YN catches it just when the fabric is about to hit the floor. The crowd goes crazy, clapping and whistling at her tricks, but YN has no wish to entertain them any further. YN pauses for a moment, her eyes meeting icy-blue ones, before turning away and finishing the show. There is one thing the world needs to know about her: she didn't become a star overnight. She was born to be one.

-

Since the last show, she has done fifteen more—day after day, opening and closing. Her little trick got her where she wanted to be, with more money than one person could need in a lifetime and nowhere to spend it. Even now, standing in the long hallway of the training centre, she wears nothing she bought herself; all are gifted, sent, or handed by the adoring fans. Like a rag doll, with no say in how she looks or what she does, YN hears everyone say that it was ''a price of fame''. She doesn't think so; she was told what to do long before she tasted real butter on her toast.

The sliding door to her apartment moves almost without noise. While most victors complain that the lock system reminds them of prison, YN is grateful to have it. The thought of some crazy fanatic waiting for her in the dark isn't the most pleasant one. The designer bag finds its place on the floor, soon joined by the coat—room service will clean it up later. The heels slide off her feet quickly, leaving bloodied marks on her skin, but YN doesn't care enough to do something about them.

''Forgive me for joining you without an invitation.''

YN turns around, her hands grabbing the keys in her hands tighter. She mentally goes over her means of escape or fight—a mirror could easily be broken and used as a weapon; if necessary, she could also grab a nearby ottoman. The man in the chair doesn't look too impressed with her thought process. His lips curve into a smile, blue eyes staring at her with undivided attention. A suit, not very different from the one he wore at her show, was a deep brown colour.

''Mister President,'' YN breathes out, lowering her hand.

Coriolanus Snow. Light, almost white hair frames his face like a halo, with his suit hugging his waist just enough to highlight the broad shoulders. YN saw him on TV a couple of times, but seeing him in person was something entirely different. It's like the air shifts around him and changes with his presence.

''I believe we met before,'' he humours her, his eyes shining with mischief.

The light knocking on the door doesn't leave YN any time to answer. She presses a button near it, fixing her hair before opening it. YN tries to look as composed as possible without betraying her nerves—why was he here? ''Yes?''

''The dinner, Ma'am.'' the room service declares, pushing a cart in front of her.

YN nods, even though she didn't order one. ''Leave it here,'' she says, gesturing to the place nearby. When the door closes and she is alone with the man in her room again, her heart skips a beat.

''I took the liberty of ordering; I hope you don't mind.''

Even if she did, she knew better than to say anything. Instead, YN watched as the man stood up and took the dishes from the cart, placing them on the coffee table, before turning to her once more.

''Please, have a seat.''

She does what she is told, sitting down on her king-sized bed—the chair is already taken by him—and waits for the blonde man to start speaking. He doesn't right away, choosing to pour a glass of wine for her and himself.

YN watches the dark liquor pour into the glass, swirling with each drop. She isn't hungry—she rarely was—and the soup he ordered looks more like vomit than a dish, but she still takes the spoon and carefully places it into her mouth. Her lipstick stains the silverware with colour, leaving a small circle right at the end—that's when the man finally decides to speak.

''Dare I say I am a huge fan of your work ethic? Everyone who I've spoken to is very satisfied with your,'' he pauses, searching for the fitting word, ''dedication .''

''Thank you, Mister President,'' YN replies with a polite smile before returning to her soup. She watches him only from the corner of her eye. The way he cuts his steak with his ringed fingers and the way he places a small bite in his mouth before his lips close. There is a subtle roughness in his movements, a power play of some sort.

He catches her gaze and, for a moment, is silent. ''You probably wonder why I am here in the first place, outside of the amazing steak they cook here, of course. The thing is, Miss Y/L/N, that you are popular not only with the general public but with people higher in power as well. One may even say they fell in love with the way you present yourself.''

''I am pleased to know that, Mr. President, but I am only doing my job as a victor.''

''Then you will understand the weight of my dilemma. Those people who have served Panem all their lives faithfully usually don't ask for much recognition; they work because they want to build a better future for all of us. So, when they do ask for a small favour or two, I am more than happy to satisfy them. But recently, all they ask for is you .''

''I believe I don't quite understand. They want to meet me?''

''You can phrase it like that, yes. For a night or two, of course, with all expenses covered.''

It's heavy, the understanding of what Mister President really implies. The thought of someone's hand roaming her body brings her dinner up YN's throat. ''Why?'' Her voice is shakier than she would like, but she is more focused on composing the rising anger than noticing it.

''I am sorry, Miss Y/L/N, but I am afraid there is nothing I can do; I am greatly outnumbered. Unless,'' he starts but doesn't finish his sentence.

''Unless what?''

''Unless you are seen with me.''

His piercing blue eyes look at her, but there is nothing in them. Her chances are limited, and he knows it. There is something rogue in him beneath the veil of chivalry he offers. YN smiles at him. That's what this whole charade was about—he wants her. Coriolanus Snow, the most powerful man in the whole world, wants her.

''Of course, Mr. President. That's very generous of you.''

''Mister President is too official, don't you think, Miss Y/L/N? Perhaps we could find a more informal way of addressing each other?''

''Informal?'' YN asks, tilting her head to the side. If he wants her, he'll get her. ''What about Mister Snow?'' The buttons on her shirt are easy to manage—a few quick motions, and it slides off her shoulders onto the cream cover. ''Or, Sir Coriolanus?'' The pants are a little trickier, but YN learned that backstage, every second counts, so they soon also pool around her heels, the fabric hitting the floor with a slight thud.

The blonde man watches her intently, his eyes following every move of her hands. His legs are still spread wide on the lime-green chair as he slightly leans back. YN can't tell if he is enjoying her antics or not, but frankly, she doesn't care; she is enjoying it.  The way her shadow dances on the wall, the way the air shifts in the huge room, transforming it into a tiny stage. YN looks at him with mischief, with superiority, even. After all, she is the show here. Why not let Mr. Savior think it is for him?

''Come, Mister Snow,'' she says, throwing it in his face like a bone to the dog.

He doesn't have the haste to join her; on the contrary, he stands up painfully slowly. His tall figure almost seems to stretch as he raises, covering the floor lamp behind him fully. When he finally circles the table to stand above her, his presence is overwhelming. YN lets him stand between her legs, his unusually cold hand on her thigh.

''I prefer Coriolanus,'' he whispers in her ear, lowering himself enough to touch her ear with his velvety lips. He pulls away slightly, planting a kiss on her cheek instead. ''Have a most pleasant night, Miss Y/L/N.''

And then he walks away. YN watches as his figure disappears behind the sliding door before she lets out a breath she didn't realize she was holding. Her gaze instinctively finds her reflection in the nearby mirror; there is no reason to shine if no one watches her.

[notwiselybuttoowell]

By the 1980s, some women had had enough. After decades of struggling with prams and shopping trolleys, navigating dark underpasses, blind alleyways and labyrinthine subways in the urban obstacle course mostly made by men, it was time for a different approach. “Through lived experience,” wrote the Matrix Feminist Design Co-operative, when they launched their manifesto in 1981, “women have a different perspective of their environment from the men who created it. Because there is no ‘women’s tradition’ in building design, we want to explore the new possibilities that the recent change in women’s lives and expectations have opened up.”

A case in point is the Essex Women’s Refuge. The complex, designed by a male architect, had got basic things wrong, from the shared kitchen, which was far too small, to the location of the children’s play areas, which were completely separate from the main communal areas, with no visual or aural connection for passive supervision. Matrix worked on the centre in 1992. Using what became a regular tactic, they presented the women with big cardboard models of different spaces, which they could rearrange to test out different configurations, along with using ribbon marked like a ruler to measure their existing spaces, which were added to the plans as a comparison.

“These were all simple techniques,” says Jos Boys, a founder member of Matrix, “But they made the women feel part of creating the project. A key part of everything we did was to make the language and practice of architecture more transparent and accessible to non-experts.”

Boys describes what now sounds like an unimaginable heyday of community action, participatory planning, squatting, workers’ co-operatives and technical aid centres, with public money readily available. Much of what Matrix worked on was funded by the Greater London Council under Ken Livingstone, before it was abolished in 1986 by the then prime minister, Margaret Thatcher. Their projects included the groundbreaking Jagonari women’s educational resource centre in Whitechapel, east London. Working for – and with – a group of South Asian women, Matrix ran workshops with demountable models, asked the women to bring pictures of buildings from their home countries that they liked, and took them on a “brick picnic” walk to discuss what building materials and colours they preferred.

The result, completed in 1987 and now home to a childcare centre, incorporated a variety of Asian influences, deliberately not linked to any Hindu or Islamic imagery. It included decorative metal latticework over the windows, to provide both visual interest and security, mosaic patterns around the doors, squat toilets and sit-down sinks for washing large saucepans from communal meals. Every part of the building was fully wheelchair accessible too, a rarity in those days.

“They understood exactly what our requirements were without being patronising or judgmental,” wrote their client, Solma Ahmed, in a glowing tribute written three decades later, in support of an unsuccessful bid for Matrix to be retrospectively awarded the RIBA gold medal. “We said what we needed in that building: safety, security, childcare, sensitive to women’s cultural and religious needs while breaking some myths about Muslim women in particular. They were [the] perfect fit.”

When people have encountered Matrix in the past, they have sometimes asked what exactly feminist design looks like. How would a city designed and built by women be different? But, in Boys’ mind, that misses the point. They weren’t promoting a feminist aesthetic, but a way of looking, listening and designing that takes account of people’s very different needs and desires, one that embodies “the richness of our multiple ways of being in the world”. It’s about who gets to build it, too: a large part of Matrix’s work was devoted to publications, manuals and events, explaining routes into the building trades and running training courses.

As Matrix write: “Consciously or otherwise, designers work in accordance with a set of ideas about how society operates, who or what is valued, who does what and who goes where.” The question is who gets included, whose values we prioritise, and what kind of world we want to create.

[thenuclearmallard]

"Native smile from a Khanty girl,

Khanty Mansia, Northwest Siberia

The Khants are indigenous to north-west Siberia in the Khanty-Mansi and Yamal-Nenets Autonomous Districts that are located in the Tyumen region of the Russian Federation.

They are calling themselves Khanti, Khande, Kantek (Khanty) which is derived from the combination "Khondy-Kho" (in the Khant language "man from the river Konda") and it has also been explained as meaning "Khan (King) people" and connected with the name of the ancient Huns.

(Milittary expeditions by the Russians took place in the 16th century, so they also started to strengthen their power over the Khants' lands.

The Khant elders managed to retain their position and began to collect tribute from their subordinates. Gradual Christianization continued. The Khants have officially been regarded as 'Christians' since the year 1715 after the extensive baptisms of monk Fyodor. Nevertheless, the ancient spiritual belief of their forfathers ('shamanism') have persisted, even to this day.

The Khants were also economically subjugated. With the help of liquor the Khants were commercially exploited by Russian traders eager for cheap furs. The predatory policy of Russian merchants and officials was so efficient that by the end of the 19th century the Khants, harassed by economic difficulties, were broken and close to ruin. The colonizers had seized their best lands as well as their incomes, and had brought along dangerous diseases and destructive habits (liquor being the biggest curse). It was commonly thought that the Khants would survive for no more than a couple of decades...

The arrival of Soviet power was accompanied by great promises and expectations for the Khants and other northern peoples. In 1925 a Northern Committee was founded with the intention of leading the Khants, Mansis and Nenets along the road of progress. In 1930 the Ostyak-Vogul National District (renamed in 1940 the Khanty-Mansi National District) was formed. This new life was no less disturbing to the Khants, causing only fear and bewilderment. The establishment of collective farms followed accompanied by severe repressions. By attacking the traditions of the people the new ideology of communism incited the persecution of shamans and the destruction of sacred groves and burial grounds. Khant children were forcibly removed to boarding schools. The largest outburst of resistance, led by the elders, became known as the Kazym rebellion. The opposition was ferociously suppressed by the Soviet-Russian army;

Khant villages were burnt and much of that connected with the culture of the Khants was destroyed altogether. Cultural centres and 'red tents' were built to propagate the Soviet way of life and its accompanying customs. From then on, anyone who took part in the customary bear funeral rites could be subject to ten years' imprisonment. Bear hunting was also forbidden. (The Bear Celebration is being celebrated occasionally after a successful hunting of a bear. The bear celebration continues 5 or 6 days. Over 300 songs and performances occur during a Bear Celebration)

In the 1950s and 60s the Soviet-Russians discovered vast gas and oil reserves in western Siberia. The Khants, hardly recovered from the blows of communism, now found themselves at the mercy of technocrats. The piratic economy has been ruthless and greedy. Oil has polluted pastures and waters once filled with fish, the gas and oil lines have blocked the paths of the reindeer, wildfires have destroyed forests.

Still, every year 20,000--25,000 tons of oil pollutes the soil, spilled in technical failures (at least one accident every three days). 50 % of the natural gas is simply consumed in senseless burning brands. Industrial pollution reduces the fishing grounds by about 10,000 hectares every year. In the district of Nizhnevartovsk alone a fire destroyed 260,000 hectares of forest in 1989. At the same time there has been an explosive increase in population (mainly due to urban migration). In 1969, 289,000 inhabitants lived in the Khanty-Mansi Autonomous District, by 1979 the number of inhabitants was already 596,000 and in 1989, 1,268,000 (a growth of one million in 20 years). The frailty of the northern biosphere and its resources has been totally ignored.

The overwhelming pressures of industry and alien ways of life have cast doubt on the further existence of the Khants as a nation. As early as the 19th century, M. A. Castrén and K. F. Karjalainen were recommending that the Khants should be educated in a native spirit and in native surroundings, teaching them to respect their people and customs. In fact, the authorities have "developed and raised" the level of the Khant's economic and cultural life but taking into consideration only the authorities' own needs. This has deprived the Khants of any self-confidence of determination and furthered their decline.

Economic, cultural and linguistic discrimination of the Khants has taken the form of public harassment. They are referred to as dogs, and derisive remarks are made about their dark skin. They are not allowed to work in the mines in case "they break something" or "earn too much". The rapid regression in the living conditions of the Khants is reflected in the decline of industry and in heavy drinking which has an all too common tendency to lead to suicide...)"

[theadamantium]

Harri's Concert Photography // Queens of the Stone Age // Tribute Communities Centre, Oshawa // April 2024

www.adamrharrison.com

[theresattrpgforthat]

THEME: The Locked Tomb

I’m in love with The Locked Tomb Series by Tamsyn Muir, and I know I’m not the only one! For that I am extremely grateful, because there’s quite a few ttrpg designers who also love The Locked Tomb, and have designed games meant to evoke the themes or setting of the novels. Here’s a few of my favourites!

The Serpent and the Spider, by Junk Food Games.

The Serpent and The Spider is a tiny ttrpg for 2 players. One player takes the role of The Serpent, a charismatic sword-wielder. The other player takes the role of The Spider, a highly intelligent necromancer.

Your souls are bonded together. You will fight against corrupt corporations and explore your relationship.

Note that this game has references to violence, death, combat, and implied self-harm. To play the game, you need something to write with, two 4-sided dice, and two 8-sided dice.

I’ve talked about this game before as a duet game. This is probably the best game for exploring the relationship between a necromancer and their cavalier, because it’s designed to be played just between two people. It includes 9 session prompts (again, a tribute to the Nine Houses), and presents you with a setting that is inspired by The Locked Tomb while still allowing you as a pair to fill in details that will make the game work for you.

Thirsty Space Necromancers, by Understory Games.

Thirsty Space Necromancers is a Thirsty Sword Lesbians supplement based on The Locked Tomb books by Tamsyn Muir. It's Gideon the Ninth as a Powered by the Apocalypse RPG.

You play as Necromancers and Cavaliers in a space-faring culture. Paired and trained to fight together, you will solve mysteries and fight ghosts, and probably other necromancers, as you explore new planets. 

This is a game that requires another game to run, but considering the tagline of Gideon the Ninth as “Lesbian Necromancers in Space”, Thirsty Sword Lesbians sounds like another great match for this kind of game. TSL focuses on love and relationships, and is also great for telling grand, epic stories. I’m interested in the additional rules to add the Dead to your game, as well as how the game plays when each player has a counterpart that they’re responsible for and/or devoted to, especially since multiple players can choose The Cavalier, while each Necromancer playbook is separate.

(Understory Games also has a collection of Locked Tomb fan rpgs, where I got most of my recommendations from!)

Heart of the Emperor, by deathmeetauthor.

Heart of the Emperor is a hack of Monsterhearts 2, centred in Tamsyn Muir's The Locked Tomb series. Rather than playing a cohort of teenagers who are secretly monsters, you may be playing a soldier of the Cohort, a teenager, or openly be a monster—perhaps even all three!

The characters of Gideon the Ninth etc. are lonely, brokenhearted, and struggle to communicate their needs and feelings, all of which are perfect for a Monsterhearts game. As with many Powered by the Apocalypse games, the focus is on how the characters relate to each-other, whether that means getting into fights, horribly misinterpreting what your crush/rival says, or uncovering deliciously horrifying secrets that will fundamentally change how you see the world. The scope of this game will be more personal than Thirsty Sword Lesbians - the future of the world isn't quite as important as your future with the the people around you.

The Empire Undying, by Glaive Guisarme Games.

You climb aboard the shuttle which is intended to convey you off this dingy planet. Embedded in the metal walls of the shuttle are bones, sun-bleached and carved with innumerable runes of protection. The only seats in the shuttle seem comfortable enough, although they have the familiar texture of human-flesh leather, tattooed over and over in a crabbed, spiky hand.

It fucking sucks. Just an abysmal experience, and the chairs make your ass hurt after like ten minutes. But if you’re going to be a necromancer there’s a whole, like, aesthetic to deal with. 

Hope you like skulls, fucker.

There are two sorts of people that matter in the decrepit star empire: the necromancers who create the undead abominations upon whose skeletal backs civilization rests, and the knights whose sword duty is to defend the necromancers from undead abominations which aren't behaving right now. 

In this game, you will play a group of necromancers and knights, stuck in some corner of the vast empire, attempting to solve a mystery that is, in turn, attempting to kill you all. The bad kind of "kill," the sort you don't bounce back from. Explore ancient sites and forgotten ruins, unravel conspiracies which have endured for millennia, and make out with one another, because you are hot and hurt and surrounded by bones so you have to get that tension out somehow. 

Tone-wise, this game slaps. Mechanically, I like that it’s not too complex (it borrows from Lasers and Feelings) while still leaning into the number 9, which is heavily significant in The Locked Tomb. It has players explore relationships, while not necessarily expecting them to pair up - instead, you have to decide how another person’s character has power over you, which also feel so much like The Locked Tomb (think about Dulcinea’s relationship to Gideon, or the relationship between the Fifth House and the Fourth House). There’s so much to this game and it’s not even that big! If you want something that feels like it was written by Gideon herself, I’d definitely recommend checking this out.

In Extremis, by Keganexe.

In Extremis is a tabletop roleplaying game designed for 2-6 players, about fighting back the man using necromancy, that uses the LUMEN system by Spencer Campbell. Inspired by The Locked Tomb trilogy, players take on the role of exceptionally powerful witches who use their mastery of life, death, and the human condition to keep them and their own safe from other planetary invaders who want to steal their land.

As a Necromancer, you are one of a handful of hideously powerful death witches that protect the planet Hecate, the final holdout for The Coven, from the ever encroaching war of the Corvus Dominion. 

In Extremis differs greatly from some of the games on this list because it focuses on combat, rather than on relationships. The game is inspired by the Locked Tomb, but doesn’t seek to replicate it. All of the players are necromancers, and all of the players are built for combat. You will go up against a terrible, powerful foe, while you yourselves are small in number, although extremely powerful. I appreciate the attempt to make this legally distinct from The Locked Tomb - there’s enough here to absolutely appeal to fans of the series, but the creator has given themselves enough license to focus on the themes of this series that appeals to theme - particularly the theme of kicking ass.

Games I’ve Recommended in the Past

Tomb Candles, by deecity. (A hack of Ten Candles)

[thepastisalreadywritten]

King Charles III views the flowers and tributes outside the Atkinson Art Centre Southport to meet members of the Southport community following the July 29th knife attack in the town, during which three young girls were killed.

20 August 2024

📸: Owen Humphreys / PA Images via Getty Images

[queersilcozine]

[Image ID: a set of 4 images, all with a black background and golden art deco graphics in the four corners. The first one features an altered screenshot from Arcane - Silco sitting in his office with his profile to the camera. Behind him is the large circular window. An inclusive LGBTQ flag is superimposed behind the window and colourful rays of the rainbow spread over the image in low opacity. Golden text in an art deco font reads: OUR VISION. The rest of the images feature white art deco font text that read the text featured in full below. The last image features the SILCO QUEER ZINE logo in gold and rainbow colours and art deco font on the bottom centre. /end if ID]

FULL TEXT:

OUR VISION

Transgender rights activist Mara Keisling tells us that the most important thing any queer person can do is tell their story.

For decades, zines have acted as vehicles of awareness and engagement within niche subcultures and marginalized communities, amplifying voices spoken over or absent altogether from more mainstream publications. Even today – in a time when many such self-published projects have expanded beyond their printed roots and into the frontiers of the modern, digitized landscape – zines remain an important and accessible form of activism, expression, and self-definition.

To make a zine, therefore, is to take ownership of our own narratives, to seek connection with each other and with our world, and to pay modest homage to those who came before us.

So – let’s make a zine.

This month, we are opening applications for contributors to the maiden voyage of the Queer Silco Zine; and would like to invite the Arcane fan community to join us at the figurative table. Together, we aim to create a feast of unabashed queer existence, using the character of Silco as the lens of our collective thematic focus.

The goal of this project is not to limit or rigidly define the meaning of the term 'queer'; nor will we profess, or even foolishly aim, to document every possible nuance nested beneath the broad umbrella of queer identities and experiences. Rather, the Queer Silco Zine is a passion project by and for queers – as well as by and for the people who love us – simply to share our space, tell our stories, and pay tribute to the vibrance and variety of our queer lives. While we can’t hope to portray every facet of our community’s collective experiences, we hope at least that others will see pieces of themselves reflected in the finished zine’s pages.

We hope too that that will be as valuable to them as it is to us.

Silence is death; and to exist proudly is to resist loudly. We believe that, in sharing community, we persevere and thrive -- brothers and sisters (and siblings) back to back against everything the world throws at us.

[brian-in-finance]

The actress Caitríona Balfe, center, taking her seat at the table. Photo: Rich Gilligan

T ENTERTAINING WITH

In Belfast, a Celebration of Art, Community and Pizza

In October, on the second floor of a former spinning mill in east Belfast, the visual artist and author Oliver Jeffers, 46, hosted a candlelit dinner for a group of Irish and Northern Irish artists and friends. The Portview Trade Centre, as the building is called, stopped producing textiles in the 1970s and is now home to 54 artists’ studios and creative businesses, including Jeffers’s, and his neighbors made up a large portion of the guests and the organizers. The occasion was a personal one — the launch of his 20th book, “Begin Again” — but he also wanted to celebrate his wider creative community. Accordingly, the evening combined tributes to both Belfast, where the artist has a home in the Holywood area, and Brooklyn, where he lived until recently and still has a studio.

VIDEO 📹 The author and illustrator Oliver Jeffers invited friends to toast his new book at a dinner in a former textile mill.

Jeffers is perhaps best known for his philosophical, understated children’s books, including “The Book Eating Boy” (2006) and “The Heart and the Bottle” (2010). And true to his style, “Begin Again” is curious, warm and quietly profound. “Not for kids, but not not for kids,” Jeffers says, the book is a vibrantly illustrated exploration of the climate crisis that attempts to lay out a hopeful future for humanity. “It offers an idea of slowing down, of using what’s near us — of starting over,” says Jeffers, “with the realization that we cannot do anything until we start to act with a sense of unity, to tell ourselves new stories that are defined by what we want.”

Jeffers, center (in tan jacket), sat beside the film director Lisa Barros Da’Sa, at left. Photo: Rich Gilligan (and Caitríona Balfe, at right… BIF)

Pearson Morris, the head chef of the Belfast restaurant Noble, pan-fried wild halibut in a makeshift kitchen set up not far from the table. Photo: Rich Gilligan

While guests gathered for drinks, the sun could be seen setting over the city; on the north side of the building, hills rolled down toward the sea. The food too — a collaboration between the local bistro Noble, known for its unpretentious ingredient-led dishes, and Flout, an American-style pizzeria on the ground floor of Portview — was unmistakably rooted in Belfast. Despite a limited power supply and a lack of running water in the room, dishes were assembled and cooked in situ using three portable pizza ovens and a small stove. The table was lit with clusters of white candles and, after the sun finally went down, said Jeffers, it glowed with “the warmth of a hearth at home.”

The dinner table stood at the center of the 10,000-square-foot room. Photo: Rich Gilligan

The attendees: Jeffers celebrated with his wife and business manager, Suzanne Jeffers, and a group of Irish and Northern Irish artists, including the actress Caitríona Balfe, 44; the portrait artist Colin Davidson, 55; the electronic musician and composer David Holmes, 54; the husband-and-wife film director duo Glenn Leyburn, 54, and Lisa Barros Da’Sa, 49; and the writers Glenn Patterson, 61, and Jan Carson, 43. “Everybody at this dinner,” said Jeffers, “was interested in the power of narrative, the impact of what they do and how it makes other people feel.”

The table: Guests sat at two long tables — pushed together to create a more intimate arrangement — in the middle of the otherwise nearly empty 10,000-square-foot room. The events stylist Rachel Worthington McQueen, 30, sourced an Irish linen tablecloth in the same navy hue as the book cover’s background. Mismatched dishes in traditional Blue Willow patterns (originally bought from secondhand websites for Worthington McQueen’s wedding two years ago) held squat candles, and food was served on simple white plates brought over from Noble. Seasonal blooms — including deep burgundy dahlias and pale pink spray roses — echoed the rich palette of the book and were provided by the local, sustainable flower farm Sow Grateful. Each display was tied with bright pink twine, sourced by Suzanne Jeffers to match the exact Pantone color (number 812U) of the book’s title.

New Haven-style mussels pizza by Peter Thompson, the founder of the pizzeria Flout, was served alongside Noble’s halibut. Photo: Rich Gilligan

The food: To start, Noble’s co-founder and head chef, Pearson Morris, 34, served crab and lobster from nearby Bangor Bay dressed with homemade mayonnaise and his Bloody Mary tomatoes (heritage tomatoes steeped overnight in a mix of vodka, celery and Tabasco sauce) on Flout’s blackened focaccia. “I bake things so you think they’re burned — that’s flavor for me,” said the pizzeria’s founder, Peter Thompson, 45. Next was a take on the classic New Haven-style clam pie made with steamed Galway Bay mussels, alongside which Morris served pan-fried wild halibut with a fish head sauce. Then came Flout’s Detroit-style pepperoni pizza and a salad featuring locally grown baby gem lettuces. Dessert was Noble’s chocolate delice — jaconde sponge cake topped with salted caramel, dark chocolate parfait and a chocolate mirror glaze — accompanied by a salted caramel ice cream with Flout’s sourdough chocolate cookies tumbled through.

The drinks: Noble’s front-of-house manager and co-founder, Saul McConnell, 38, oversaw the drinks, which ranged from a vibrant Blanc de Meunier champagne for arriving guests to an amber passito-style Liastos wine from Lyrarakis, Crete, for the dessert course. The Boundary Brewing Company, Belfast’s first tap room and one of Jeffers’s neighbors in the building, provided an alternative aperitif: a full-bodied English bitter called A Certain Romance, a favorite of Jeffers’s studio team.

Jeffers illustrated the evening’s menus. Photo: Rich Gilligan

Noble’s chocolate delice, a jaconde sponge cake with salted caramel and a chocolate mirror glaze. Photo: Rich Gilligan

The conversation: Many artists talked shop, swapping notes on the production problems they encounter in their respective industries, and conversation also turned to global events. “There’s always been a comparison between the conflict in Northern Ireland and the conflict in Israel-Palestine,” said Jeffers. “We talked about the divisive rhetoric that’s going on right now.”

The music: Jeffers enlisted the Irish producer and D.J. Marion Hawkes, who runs the record store Sound Advice in Portview, to create a playlist, which ranged from classic folk to contemporary electronic tracks.

The recipe for Noble’s mayonnaise: It’s hard to beat fresh, homemade mayonnaise, says Morris, and it’s a quick, thoughtful addition to a dinner at home. But despite its few ingredients, it’s deceptively difficult to make. He recommends starting with equal parts white wine vinegar and egg yolk (approximately 2 teaspoons of vinegar to two yolks), which prevents the eggs from splitting as you very gradually beat in 250 ml of oil, then season with 5 grams of sugar and 5 grams of salt. Morris likes to use extra-virgin rapeseed oil for its neutral flavor, and an electric mixer for ease.

The New York Times Style Magazine

Remember… there’s always been a comparison between the conflict in Northern Ireland and the conflict in Israel-Palestine. We talked about the divisive rhetoric that’s going on right now. — Oliver Jeffers

Anon: Thanks… didn’t see your message until 10 minutes after posting. 🙁

[leonsliga]

Bri 🥺 what are we gonna do now? 🥺 it’s official, he’s leaving 😔

Honestly, words are failing me right now. Nothing seems to come close to how much this news hurts. This was a goodbye message I was hoping I wouldn’t have to write this year. Losing Marco was bad enough, but losing Marco and Mats in the same season is unbearable. Much like Marco, Mats is a BVB legend in his own right, and despite what the media may sometimes try to suggest, his stint at Bayern did not, and will not, taint his legacy. He is, and will remain, German football at its very best. He will go down as one of the most gifted centre-backs of his generation, maybe even of all time. Mr. Reliable—a hallmark of German efficiency.

All too often in football, strikers and goalkeepers get the glory. And yet, without the security and stability defenders provide (often thanklessly, I might add), success of any kind would be a mere pipe dream. See, defenders may not need the glory (or even ask for it), but that doesn’t mean they’re not deserving. And I can think of few more deserving than Mats Hummels.

See, Mats was the footballer who taught me that defense can be an art. Anticipating danger with the accuracy he does is nothing short of exceptional, as is the ease with which he sweeps balls out from under advancing strikers. There’s a beauty in the certainty he brings—in his quick-thinking and natural intelligence. He’s a crisis-averter to his core, extinguishing fires before they have a chance to spread with the help of a pinpoint pass or a decisive slide tackle. Not only that, but he’s turned back the clock time and time again, proving that age truly is just a number. Even this season, at age 35, you’d be forgiven for thinking at times that he was a footballer in his prime.

I like to consider Mats the Bundesliga’s diplomat—the man who represents the best of its elite clubs: Bayern and BVB. After all, he taught us that you can retain your winning mentality, ambition, and leadership without losing touch with the community—without forgetting the fans who stood by your side through it all. Through him, we learned you can stay down-to-earth while reaching for the stars.

Sure, Mats may have started his career at Bayern and returned there for a time, but I think it’s safe to say BVB was the love of his life—his found family. If BVB is a stronghold, he is its garrison. And now, although the yellow wall has lost its bricklayer, he will not be forgotten. The foundation he built over the course of his career will remain. The dreams he chased and the relentlessness which which he pursued them will be reborn in those who succeed him. And something tells me that even though he’s leaving BVB, the club will remain close to his heart, no matter where life takes him.

So today, even though we may have hoped for a happier ending, we pay tribute to an icon of the German game: Borussia Dortmund’s scrappy, unrelenting foot-soldier—the inimitable Mats Hummels. Best of luck in your future endeavors, Legende. Just know we’ll always have your back, the way you’ve had always had ours 🖤💛

[themisfitshistorian]

ESSAY NUMBER ONE: SIMON BELLAMY AND THE EXPANSION OF THE MISFITS UNIVERSE; WHAT YOU MAY NOT KNOW

Misfits, created by Howard Overman, aired its first episode on November 12th, 2009; what followed was a wild and unpredictable ride of a series, unlike anything that TV had ever seen before. With a cast of unique characters who get even more unique superpowers just minutes into the first episode, this show’s thirty-seven episode run would be unforgettable for most audiences. However, there is MUCH more to this series which lies below the surface.

If you’ve watched Misfits in its entirety, you may think you know everything there is to know about the series, but there is much more to be discovered. Below the surface, deep into the Misfits waters, you’ll find online shorts, long-forgotten vlogs interrupted by superheroes from the future, sinister confessions, deleted scenes within forgotten scripts, abandoned Twitter accounts, Flickr photography, and even evidence of lost media. A huge reason why I enjoy this show so much is because of how insanely deep its lore actually goes once you look past the original series. There’s an entire world of Misfits to be discovered, and in my first essay, I hope to introduce you to some of that content, provided by our beloved Simon Bellamy.

The in-character shorts uploaded online during the run of seasons one and two, shot from the perspective of the reclusive Simon, are more on the relatively well-known side of things. On YouTube, a search for “Misfits online films” brings up multiple playlists containing DVD-exclusive shorts recorded by Simon and various security cameras throughout the community centre. These shorts provide a small insight into what the characters’ lives are like outside of the episodes we know and love, and they serve to exist as sweet little extras for curious fans who just can’t get enough of the show. This isn’t all that Simon contributes when it comes to giving us the extras, though; in fact, many of these entries are directly tied to him and videos he’s made. For example, his YouTube channel contains his full tribute video to Nathan, and his Flickr account provides insights into his mind, as well as some images that casual fans may not have seen before. He also had a Twitter, as did the rest of the main cast! I find these accounts to be fascinating, as they provide a beautiful insight into what life is like for the characters outside of what we all saw on screen.

Another video of Simon’s includes a cameo from Superhoodie, who briefly interrupts his tribute to Nathan, along with a separate video, which I have yet to find again, in which Simon confesses to killing Sally in a rather sinister manner. I’ll update this post with more resources later; for now, I just wanted to appreciate Simon’s contribution to extending the Misfits universe.

Edit #1: Simon's confession can be found here! Big thanks to @merrilark for replying with the link, I don't think I would have been able to find it on my own :)

[coochiequeens]

A 15 year old girl is dead because a 17 year old boy couldn't accept that his relationship with another girl is over.

Hero schoolgirl, 15, was stabbed to death on Croydon bus in horrific rush-hour attack 'when she stepped in to protect her friend who got into row with her ex-boyfriend when he turned up with flowers and love note': Emotional tributes are paid at the scene

By JAMES FIELDING and RORY TINGLE, 

A 15-year-old schoolgirl who was stabbed to death this morning on her way to school was trying to stop a fight between her friend and her ex-boyfriend, witnesses have claimed.

Tonight the girl, who was a pupil at Old Palace of John Whitgift School in Croydon, has been named locally as Eliyanna. She was attacked at 8.30am - less than a mile away from the school gates. 

Locals say they saw a group of schoolchildren getting off the No 60 bus outside the Whitgift Centre, where a row between the girl, wearing a green school blazer, and the boy - in a black blazer - 'spilled out' on to a street busy with pedestrians. 

It was previously claimed that the girl had been attacked after she 'refused to go out' with the boy and 'rejected his offers of flowers', but it has now been claimed he was in fact trying to speak with her friend.

The friend had been trying to hand the boy back a bag of his belongings while he tried to give her flowers when the fight broke out, seeing the victim attempt to intervene, witnesses said.

This afternoon, a love note with the words 'special girl' and 'princess' written on it, along with blood stained red roses, were being examined by forensic officers. The note was then removed from the scene.

Chevanice Thomas, whose friend claims to have witnessed the stabbing, said the girl had rejected flowers from the boy moments before he attacked her with a knife that resembled 'a sword'. Another witness claimed she heard a girl saying she 'didn't want to go out with him any more'. 

The bus driver and a passenger tried desperately to save the girl's life but she died at the scene at 9.21am. Community worker James Watkins said the girl's 'devastated' family were summoned to the scene this morning but were 'unable to make it' in time to say goodbye to their daughter.

Officers arrested a 17-year-old boy in nearby New Addington at 9.45am. Metropolitan Police Chief Superintendent Andy Brittain said police are not looking for anyone else in connection with the incident. 

Old Palace of John Whitgift School is a selective independent day school for girls aged three to 18. It is consistently ranked as one the best in London and is a sister school to Whitgift School for Boys. It is not yet clear which school the boy attended.

One witness to the attack claimed she saw a boy and a girl arguing, with a girl saying she 'didn't want to go out with him any more'.

The woman, who asked not to be identified, continued: 'There were about seven or eight children who got off a bus which stopped outside the Whitgift Centre.

'There was a young girl and young boy arguing. He had flowers with him and they were arguing about the girl breaking up with him yesterday.'

Those who knew Eliyanna said she had a bright future ahead of her, on track to pass all of her GCSES later in the school year.

Anthony King, chair of the My Ends organisation which works with the Met Police in Croydon said: 'The victim was absolutely incredible with a very bright future. A very comedic young lady. 

'The word I think that was used was jovial. She was on track to pass all of her GCSEs. She was very articulate.'

The girl's family had tried to rush to her side upon hearing that she had been hurt, but tragically arrived to late.

Mr Watkins, who works at the youth prevention and intervention programmes at Mainz World, added: 'It's disgusting, when we look at these children being killed that are from the borough it hurts you in the heart. These could be our kids, it's devastating.'

Amongst those who witnessed the stabbing were two girls, said to be the victims best friends.

Mr King added: 'Two 15 year old girls were absolutely devastated by witnessing their very close friend being stabbed. They're still being interviewed by police.'

Michael Fyffe, who witnessed the attack, told Sky News: 'I turned around and could see that someone was trying to resuscitate her.

'There were loads of people who had just come off the bus and then I think two of the girl's friends came out and they were trying to rush over towards the body.

'So myself and a few of the other people tried to hold her back and just say, ''Look let them try and help your friends" and she was just screaming, "Is my friend dead? She's my best friend".'

Speaking to journalists at the scene, Metropolitan Police Chief Superintendent Andy Brittain said officers were not looking for anyone else in connection with the incident. 

'This is every parent's worst nightmare, and I know the officers who responded this morning, along with our emergency service colleagues, are devastated at the victim's death,' he said. 

'This is an emotion I share and I know people across Croydon will be feeling the same.

'The victim's family has been informed and our thoughts are with them at what must be an incredibly difficult time.

'We carried out urgent inquiries to find the suspect and within 75 minutes of the incident happening a 17-year-old boy was arrested in New Addington. He remains in custody and will be questioned by detectives.

'We remain in the early stages of our investigation, however based on what we know so far we believe that we are not looking for anyone else in connection with this offence.

'From our initial inquiries, we believe the suspect may have known the victim. However, we're not in a position to release the victim's identity at this time.'

A mother-of-two, who asked to be named only as Bridget, said: 'I was on the bus before and came off and walked back down, I saw them resuscitating her.

'The driver was holding her, and a lady. The emergency services were already here when I walked back.'

She said two other schoolgirls, believed to be the victim's friends, were trying to get back through the police cordon but were held back.

Victor Asare was on a bus on the way home from a night shift as a security worker when he said he saw a boy in a black blazer stab a girl in the neck with a knife which was 'black, thin and about a foot long'.

The 50-year-old said: 'The boy wore a black blazer, the girl wore green. It looked like the girl didn't want the boy to come closer.'

He then described the boy stabbing the girl in the neck with a black knife.

'A lot of people came, everyone came off the bus,' he said. '[The boy] ran away. Everybody was crying and screaming. The girl was on the floor.

'We tried to catch him and a lot of people tried to save the girl. I was so shocked, I was shaken. It's somebody's daughter.

'I finished work but couldn't sleep, so came back, I wanted to see if the girl was OK.'

Croydon MP Sarah Jones attended the police press conference alongside Croydon mayor Jason Perry.

See complete article

[iwantoseeafrigatebird]

the orkney trip

part 5

Day 5

Visiting the local sights of Kirkwall then take the afternoon ferry to Westray. I decided to do one north isle (westray) and then one south isle (that is, Hoy).

John Rae, they really love him up here. He's also not the only one there with a Franklin expedition connection. A lady called Catherine Wishart was buried there who was the widow of Thomas Work commemorated here, who was an AB aboard Erebus.

Gotta be one of the most impressive cathedral I've ever been to, someone was painting in there and played a bit of music on the piano that's perfect for the atmosphere. Interesting church bells. The inscriptions of the graves were interesting to read, such as:

"At even and at the cockcrowing, at midnight and in the morning, the master of the house knocks, for death who spares none has but lately carried off from one and the same house young people, people of advanced age and people of middle age"

"oh death how harsh, how grevious are thy laws, if there were no death how happy everyone would be. death waits us all, the hour none knows"

or my favourite here: "Death hastens, no flight avails to pay the tribute of mortality... But more I lament the loss of time, material damage everyone can make good, none can make good the loss of time"

Baikie is also here, the explorer of the Niger.

Onward to Westray. A very informative heritage centre they have, with the bones of a sperm whale laid out in the yard. Inside was also a wall full of graffiti from a hundred years ago interred here from a barn where people used to gather for dances and things. The graffiti is very nautical, with names, fairly accurate drawings of ships (two of which were in fact identified) and even mathmatical calculations. The type of historical graffiti in Orkney is another fun subject, from the persian script "I sat here for two nights and learnt patience" inscribed onto the dwarfie stane on Hoy in the 19th century, the westray graffiti, the viking graffiti im maeshowe saying "this is the highest the graffiti in this house". to the pecking marks in the magnus cathedral perhaps being medieval pilgrims marking their visits. One of them examples that humans never really change.

Swapping auks is the funniest thing.

Westray is insane. They have a whole ass castle and just let you poke around. I went near the closing of the day and inside was very dark. The kitchen felt like a cavern and the ceiling could not be seen. When I stepped inside I also disturbed the pigeons on the top floor, I was seriously spooked by this.

Beautiful spiral staircases. The main staircase was what, two metres wide? Here are the two smaller ones, one of which leads up into the unfinished top floor.

Camping on Westray is bit of a problem, as they said that the island is basically a working farm (mostly cows). Cycling uphill in Orkney also means that you spend a lot of time looking at cows looking at you. On one particularly long slope, there were two cows standing in two fields separated by the road, one black one white, they stared at me as I was struggling up creeping forward while peddling furiously. Then they *exchanged a glance* that seemed to have communicated a thousand human words and returned to looking at me. I have never felt being so mocked and judged by lady bovines.

So I asked the old lady at the desk of the heritage centre if she might know some wild camping spot, who recommended me the kelping green (a flat grassy area where the kelp harvesting industry once thrived) and said that if I can't find no place to fall I can camp on her land by the ruin of a house. She came from the westside and lived on the island all her life. I asked her about camping on the westside cross kirk which is now a ruin but with a functional graveyard, i read online that someone camped there once. She said oh I should really see the kirk again since I'm very connected to it, but I rarely go that way now, I married and moved away. She proceeded to point to me her current address, which was about three miles as crows fly. I decided that camping in a kirkyard would be fun, and I would like to camp in a different place every night and it would be great if it's by the sea. So on I went and cycled to the old kirk.

The trail to the cross kirk, although marked out prominently on the map in their tourist information sheet, is practically nonexistent if you approach from the southside, which I did. It's a stripe of horrendously overgrown coastal grassland skirting the enclosed grazing land on the right and a rocky beach on the left, the trail is where the grass grows slightly shorter than the rest. I had to leave my bike, get half of the stuff and go sound out the kirkyard, then double back for my tent and the other half of stuff. (I felt very much like a victorian sailor doing this, had to do the same thing in the morning so that was 6 trips along that stripe of land, which in the morning was turned into a grassy ditch filled with dew and my boots were soaked).

the ruin. there was a bit of a roof left over the chapel where the altar perhaps once was, I sat up my mattress in there and had dinner. Also read the little book of local stories I bought from the heritage centre. Thing is, there're ghost stories in there... especially one about unbaptised infant without a name haunting people as they can't go to heaven. And there's a child's grave near where I set up my tent. Considering the kirkyard was in use since the 11th/12th century until the present day, I was probably sleeping on bodies. It was unexpectedly the warmest and most comfortable night of sleep i had, although I am a superstitious person and apologised profusely when I hammered the pegs into the ground and gave one of the grave a cookie in the chinese tradition. Played music late into the night, i don't care about battery i care about not thinking about seeing an unbaptised infant floating around.

About hedghogs. I told someone this and I don't want to repeat myself.

... And just the day before I camped on a graveyard huh. In the graveyard I dreamt of seeing layers and layers of bones being buried beneath me but nothing eerie.

the heavens and my ancestors i thank you. yes I did invoke my grandfather's spirit and asked him to protect me from spirits.

the moon that night was silver, it was in fact the mid autumn festival in china which i forgot about completely. By folk tradition it was supposed to be the day when the moon is to be the fullest and brightest. I was going to cut a round piece off my pemmican and make a pemmican mooncake but i couldn't be too bothered. i mean... a cookie is round.

[ukrfeminism]

3 minute read

The family of a charity worker stabbed to death in a random attack while returning home from buying her mother a gift has described her as “beautiful and kind-hearted.” 

Johanita Dogbey, 31, is said to have been on the phone to her grandmother who heard a “terrible scream” when she was attacked from behind during the attack near Brixton’s O2 Academy on Bank Holiday Monday.

Ms Dogbey’s family described her as a “smart and loving girl who always helped anyone”.

“We are devastated by the news of the passing of our daughter,” they said. “She hasn’t got one bad bone in her body. She wouldn’t hurt a fly. We can’t believe a senseless crime like this has happened as we can’t imagine who would do this to her.

“Our hearts are completely broken and will not understand why someone would take our beautiful girl away from us, she will forever be in our hearts as we will carry on living life as gracefully and beautifully as she did.”

Police believe Ms Dogbey was attacked from behind by a stranger at around 4.04pm on Monday in Stockwell Park Walk. She was found with stab wounds and pronounced dead at the scene. 

A 33-year-old man arrested in connection with the murder remains in custody.

A neighbour of Ms Dogbey said the 31-year-old had gone out to buy a present for her mother and was on her way home before she was attacked yards from her door. 

Ms Dogbey’s father Yao told MailOnline: “We have no words at this moment. My daughter was beautiful and kind hearted.”

Ms Dogbey’s younger brother Maurice told the site: “We are trying to understand what has happened and are completely broken. As far as we know there was no link between my sister and the attacker. We are waiting to meet with the police to get a full update.

“This whole thing has left us devastated. It’s too much for us.”

Ms Dogbey was the founder of the Odette Foundation, a charity which supported people with sickle cell disease in Ghana and Togo.

Detective Chief Superintendent Seb Adjei-Addoh, local policing commander for Lambeth, said: “I am in regular contact with officers leading the investigation into this brutal attack and my thoughts continue to be with the woman's family and friends as they come to terms with this awful news. We will do everything we can to support them at this unimaginably difficult time.

“I recognise that the community will be experiencing worry and considerable concern and we have extra officers out in the community to answer questions and provide a visible presence.

“My police neighbourhood policing teams have visited local community centres and businesses taking on board concerns and to ensure we are having the right conversations with local people at this time.

“I would also ask people to share anything that they feel might help the investigating detectives.”

Police on Wednesday were granted more time to question a man arrested on suspicion of murder on Tuesday. 

The 33-year-old can be held in custody for a further 36 hours after officers applied for a warrant of further detention at Croydon Magistrates’ Court on Wednesday.

[anachronism-ahitzine]

[Current Progress: Finished!]

Anachronism is an all ages digital release fanzine for the game Hat in Time! Anachronism celebrates the game which has brought us together as a community. All forms of creativity are encouraged, whether that’s creating a comic, writing a short fic, or something in-between! The zine will be free upon release with a planned release.

a·nach·ro·nism - a thing belonging or appropriate to a period other than that in which it exists, especially a thing that is conspicuously old-fashioned

Mod Alex: Hey guys! I’ve been active in the Hat in Time fandom for going on 3 years now, although I played a few years before! My favourite character is Hat Kid and my favourite areas are Nyakuza Metro and Dead Bird Studio. I’ve participated in a few zines before as an artist and an editor. I’ve been wanting to do one for AHIT for a while now. I hope everyone has fun! You can find me @subterra-rose

Mod Mei: Hiiiiii, I'm Meilani but you can call me Mei! I've been in the fandom for a couple years now and I really enjoy the game and the characters in it a lot! I'm Alex's co-mod for this zine so I will be here to help moderate, answer questions and ensure that everything runs smoothly. I have some moderation experience from running a Multi Animator Project in the past and this is my first time moderating a zine. I hope we all have lots of fun and I know this zine is gonna be an awesome tribute to this beloved game. :] 💖

Please check the FAQ and guidelines before you send a question! [Under Cut]

FAQ:

Will there be a physical release of any sort?

Not at this time. Due to costs of printing, unless there is significant interest in a physical copy, the zine will remain digital. We make see if any artists are interested in selling their pieces as individual prints, but that will be done closer to the publication date!

Can I create for my OC/AU?

You can, but the mods do request that the canonical characters remain the centre point of the piece. If the characters are still recognizable within your AU, you’re fine as well.

[Guidelines]

[pooma-today]

The National UN Volunteers-India

World Blood Donor Day - 14 June 24

Shristi English Medium School gathered to celebrate World Blood Donor Day on 14th June 2024, a day dedicated to honour the remarkable individuals who selflessly donate their blood to save lives. This day is not just a reminder of the importance of blood donation, but a heartfelt tribute to those heroes who give a part of themselves to ensure the well-being of others.

Beginning with the blessings from Almighty makes any occasion an auspicious so we began the celebration with a beautiful prayer by our students.

Some of our faculty members Mr. Rikesh Shelat, Mr. Jagdish Vasava , Mr. Yogesh Vasava donated blood and then Rikesh Sir spread awareness among students about the World Blood Donor Day and the importance and significance of Blood Donation.

Our President madam Ms. Madhumita Jana shared a testimonial how the recipient benefited from blood donation and how crucial it was to make it available at that time. She also informed the students about the blood donation process, safety, and eligibility criteria followed by dispelling the common myths and fears associated with blood donation.

We also organized a drawing competition based on the theme of World Blood Donor Day which was both engaging and educational for the students of 6 to 8 grades.

The theme 'Raktdaan Mahadaan' particularly was the centre of idea for today's drawing competition. This initiative was taken by Art teacher Mr. Yogesh Vasava whose involvement and enthusiastic approach inspired our students.

A Heartfelt Gratitude to Blood Donors around the world who donate blood and save many lives .

It is our duty to foster a spirit of generosity and community care in our students. Together, we can ensure that when someone needs blood, there will always be a helping hand, a hero, ready to donate blood.