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STAR student (Emily Jacobson) and STAR teacher (Audra Thomas).
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Stephen's Tea Towel Story
Stephen Jon is a Mask-Maker, performer and facilitator; that is what it says on his web-site. I first met him in December 2017; he was asked to facilitate a group of Over 55s, who are part of the Creative Learning Programme of Theatre Royal Nottingham, to take part in Nottingham's first Puppetry Festival in March 2018. Twelve of us signed up to join his Puppet-Making workshop with the aim of creating a 'Raggle Taggle Woof Pack'. The story of that 'journey' is called 'Too Many Tea Towels' but in the conversation about why I would want to create a puppet from tea towels, Stephen brought in his three favourite tea towels which all had a story to tell. Here is what Stephen has to say:
"My first image is of Edward Carpenter, a contemporary of Oscar Wilde, who lived and worked in Sheffield with his male partner. He wrote books, articles and songs about women's, and worker's, rights. He was a friend of the Fabians. He was a northern Mecca for progressive thinkers in Britain at the time. He is important to me because I had a mentor in Noel Greig, a director and playwright, who influenced both my political and artistic journey. He wrote a play called 'Dear Love of Comrade's' about Carpenter which was performed by Gay Sweet Shop, a company of which he was a founder member".
Edward Carpenter, I think, was an exceptionally good looking man. The Edward Carpenter tea towel is from, not surprisingly, the Radical Tea Towel Company. The other picture is of Stephen holding his towel in a classic 'Tea Towel Holding' pose which we all do; he has his other two tea towels hanging over his arm.
"My second and third images are of French Tea Towels which I bought in Corbridge, Northumberland. The north-east is a very special place for me, I call it 'my place of yearning'. I go there regularly, to empty my mind and if I have problems I just escape up-north and walk them away. I have close friends and family and have been visiting all my life. I have considered moving there but its real value is as a bolt hole which would no longer exist if I were to live there. So I remain in Nottingham which I consider my home. Having been brought up partly in rural Hampshire I still have a craving for the country and Northumberland gives me that in bucket loads".
These two French Tea Towels are reversible; the colours are so beautiful. Thank you Stephen for sharing the story of your tea towels. They are very stylish.
The Special Collections
Emma's Tea Towel Story

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


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Le Mouvement de libération nationale (Lëvizje nacionalçlirimtare en albanais, LNÇ), également traduit par Front de libération nationale, était une organisation regroupant des groupes de résistance à l'occupant italien et allemand en 1942-1943.

Histoire
Le , les troupes de Mussolini envahissent l'Albanie. À partir de 1941, la résistance albanaise s'organise autour du Parti communiste d'Albanie sous la direction d'Enver Hoxha et en liaison avec le mouvement de Tito en Yougoslavie.

Le 16 septembre 1942, la première Conférence de libération nationale, à Pezë, regroupe communistes et nationalistes de diverses tendances, dont le Balli Kombëtar et donne naissance au Mouvement de libération nationale (MLN), dirigé par huit membres dont Enver Hoxha et Abaz Kupi. Le MLN n'est qu'une alliance de circonstance entre communistes et royalistes.

Abaz Kupi, exclu du MLN en novembre 1943 quand le mouvement passe sous le contrôle exclusif des communistes, fonde le parti de la Légalité (Legaliteti en albanais), fidèle au roi Zog .

Voir aussi

Partisans célèbres
 Enver Hoxha
 Aristotel Samsuri
 Baba Faja Martaneshi

Articles connexes
 Bataille de Gjorm
 Histoire de l'Albanie pendant la Seconde Guerre mondiale

Notes et références

Réseau ou mouvement de la Résistance
Histoire de l'Albanie pendant la Seconde Guerre mondiale
Organisation communiste

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaWikipedia


Stay up to date with all our class procedures.
If you are interested in volunteering in our class you MUST attend the Volunteer Orientation on Sept 3 at 2:00 P.M. or the 10th at 2:00 or 5:30 P.M. Mrs. Rodriguez-Nunez will only sign the VIPS Form for those volunteers that attended the orientation.
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Ogdensburg and Massena men placed in the money at the New York B.A.S.S. Chapter Federation's first tournament of the year, the Susan Johnson Lake George Opener, June 19 in Ticonderoga.
A total of 192 anglers took place in this B.A.S.S. tournament.
Eight local Northern New York Bassmaster club members took part in the tournament competition including: Brad Paradis (Ogdensburg), Corey Palmer (Ogdensburg), Chris Flint (Canton), James Moore (Gouverneur) and Burnie Haney (Calcium) in the Boater division and Guy Durant (Massena), Eric Gibbs and John Flint (Canton) in the co-angler division.
Northern New York Bassmaster anglers Brad Paradis and Guy Durant placed in the money for the Federation tournament: Brad Paradis with 12.36 lbs for 12th place out of 96 boater anglers and Guy Durant with 9.22 lbs for 14th out of 96 non-boating coanglers.
The next two NY State Chapter Federation tournaments will take place on the St. Lawrence River - Massena Intake launch on Sunday, July 24, and Cayuga Lake Sunday, Oct. 2.
The federation Club Team Championship tournament will be on the Hudson River August 20-21.


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Red City Review
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Far From My Home Never To Return
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A daily short story project
So Fresh, so clean
George Stephens is a textbook curmudgeon. He avoids all human contact whenever possible. On the rare occasions he has to speak to another person he utters grunts instead of words; and every sentence ends in the addition of his catchphrase, "and stuff." Most conversations soun like this: "Mr. Stephens, I'm calling to inform you your electricity bill is still unpaid."
"Ahh, ugh, I'll, uh, pay it and stuff." Usually these conversations left the person on the other end more confused and less confident their message had been received.
His personality may be grating, but his appearance is down-right offensive. 400 pounds ago he would have been considered overweight, now he barely manages to wobble around. His legs and arms resemble bursting sausages, with diabetic wounds oozing in a constant state of half-healed ichor. He no longer showers, leaving every crevice packed with dead skin cells and solidified sweat. Unemployed, and doing odd-jobs to get by, George exists in a constant state of detox from alcoholism. When he has money, he buys cheap Canadian whisky by the gallon. Unable to ration himself, he drinks away his money faster than he can earn more. His body shakes from withdrawals or drunken tremors, and most never knew which it is.
George Stephens is a man on the edge and he can't take it anymore. He pawns his TV to buy one last bottle of booze and a cheap revolver. He sits in the darkness of his one-bedroom apartment listening to an old radio. His favorite songs from the 50's and 60's are playing on a local "oldies" station. He tips the gallon jug back and drinks the contents straight. His throat is scarred from years of smoking, drinking, and hungover vomiting; and the alcohol no longer burns when it goes down. He feels a comforting warmth in his belly, but that's it.
The whisky does its job, and after a quarter of the jug George gets the tell-tale dizziness that hearkens a blackout. On the edge of consciousness, George raises the semi-rusted Colt revolver to his head and pulls the trigger; finally ready for eternal darkness. The hammer clicks, but there is no explosion. "Dammit," George mutters. He fumbles with the chamber release and checks to make sure he loaded the damned thing. Inside, shining bright, are six bullets ready for the slightest urging to fly out and destroy. George replaces the chamber, aims the gun, and shoots at a dying potted plant. Instantly, the gun reports and the ceramic shatters, spraying dirt and pottery on the wall.
Too sober to try again George continues drinking from the plastic jug. He tosses the gun onto a coffee table and it lands perfectly in the center of a collection of water rings permanently staining the tabletop. On impact the gun fires and lodges a bullet in the wall just above George's head. "Seriously?" George says, both in disbelief at how easily the gun fires now, and how the bullet couldn't do him the favor of finishing what he couldn't.
He lays his head back, mouth full of whisky, thinking maybe he'll accidentally drown. Eyes closed and with a mouthful of cheap corn liquor, George hears the radio switch from The Doors Hello, I Love You to a commercial. Hey you! Yeah, you! The pathetic sack of fat and crap trying to off himself on his threadbare couch. Cut it out, will ya? George's head shoots up, the motion forcing the alcohol still sitting in his mouth to flow into his sinuses and causing an excruciating burning sensation.
That's better dumbass. Now, listen up because we've got a deal for you. Do you find yourself struggling with body image, confidence, and general wellbeing? Of course, you do, you're a fat, pathetic slob with no job and an addiction to the world's worst type of booze. But I've got a solution for ya. So Fresh, So Clean will wash away all your unwanted bodily features and make you into a person you can be proud of again. Want to know more? Call 1-800-SO-CLEAN to order now and you'll receive a travel size of So Fresh, So Clean free of charge; only pay shipping and handling. So, call now, that's 1-800-SO-CLEAN. 1-8-0-0-S-O-C-L-E-A-N. Don't live another day the way you are.
George doesn't believe what he's hearing. He stares at the radio waiting for someone to come on and say April Fools, or at least "Gotcha". Instead the radio speaks again, I'm waiting moron. Reach in front of you onto the table. George does as he's instructed, surprised to find his phone sitting there. Good. Now, dial the number. Wait, let me guess, you've already forgot. Okay, one more time, 1-800-SO-CLEAN. George begins punching in the numbers searching for the numerical equivalents of the letters. Yes, good job. Oh! What's this I hear? my phone is ringing. "Hello, thank you for calling So Fresh, So Clean, how may I help you today?"
George hears the voice on the phone and a half-second later on the radio. "Haven't you ever called into a radio show before dumbass? Turn off the radio!" the voice commands. George jumps at the sudden derision and fumbles the phone before dropping it. He stretches his arm to the radio and flips the power switch.
"Pick up the phone George," the voice says, though George is hearing it faintly from a few feet away. He wriggles and squirms his body to reach the phone, but his mass doesn't allow for much bending. Finally, he lays down on the couch and by letting his arm dangle off the side of the cushion he grasps the phone.
"Uh, hello. Who, ah, I mean, what's this? And stuff," George says into the phone.
"This is your lucky day George Alan Stephens. I'm off – wait, do your initials actually spell G-A-S? Even your name is disgusting," the voice says, cackling with delight. "Okay, back to it. I'm offering you a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to change everything you hate about yourself with no effort on your part. Sounds good doesn't it? It appears you aren't a fan of trying."
The shock is wearing off and George gets the sense this voice is mocking him. "Hey, just a, a – second now. I don't like the way you're treating me and stuff. What is this?" George says.
"Didn't I just finish explaining this? Let me try starting from the beginning. I represent Wash-A-Way, LLC., a limited liability shell corporation that sells questionable products to the consumer market. Today I'm calling to offer you our newest product, So Fresh, So Clean. It's a proprietary blend of…stuff, that allow the consumer to wash away the unwanted features of themselves," the voice says on the other end of the line. Immune to tone and context, George doesn't pick up on the exasperation oozing from every word the voice speaks.
"How does it work?" George asks.
"Ah-ah-ah, George. That's a secret. But I can tell you're intrigued. I'll tell you what, since we're becoming buddies, you say yes to an order right now and the first batch is on me," the voice says.
"Yes?" George says.
Before George can continue and ask what he's saying yes to, the voice jumps in, "Great! I knew I could count on you George Alan Stephens. I'm putting you down for one bottle of So Fresh, So Clean. And don't forget that free travel size bottle. Great for erasing blemishes on the go." The words escape in a torrent and while George's booze-addled mind tries to keep up the line goes dead.
"Hello?" George says to the dead line, "Are you still there? When, ah, do I get my bottle and stuff?" An ancient sounding dial tone answers on the other end.
George awakens the next morning with a faint recollection of a strange night. His dry eyes open slowly, and he blinks a few times to get the moisture back into his over-worn contacts. He sees the gun lying on the table and eyes is curiously. With immense struggle George lifts himself from the couch and turns around. He is eye level with a bullet lodged in the wall just above where his head had been. "What did I do last night?" George mutters to himself. "Guess I drank too much, and stuff. Wait, where the fu-f-f- hell's my TV?"
Running a hand through his few remaining hairs, George manages a half-way stretch and yawn. He walks to the kitchen and fills an old cottage cheese container with water and takes a long drink. Years before, when George did the same thing around his then-wife, he explained, "there's no sense buying special cups when we have dozens of containers just lying around." She hadn't seen the same sagacious wisdom in that statement as George, and later that day she bought a lovely set of cobalt blue drinking glasses. The same glasses George later shattered when he threw them at his wife's head during an argument. That was the night she took their only child, his son, and left for good.
Not used to admitting mistakes, George still bears the burden of losing his son. How old would he be now? George wonders. Got to be in his late 30's or early 40's by now. He shakes his head trying to remove the memory, but it still lingers deep at the base of his mind; a quiet voice reminding him, "Pathetic. You abandoned your son." The voice, George's oldest friend, often reminded him of his countless failures and shortcomings. "You're an obese nobody. If you died there would be no one to miss you. You can't hold down a job. You've failed at every undertaking." The voice could be a real dick, but its familiar presence keeps George company.
The voice always brought a friend too, a dark curtain that closed over George's eyes and mind. If he didn't shut the voice up it kept going until George passed out; the curtain completely drawn. A whistled rendition of the first few notes of Yankee Doodle came from someone knocking at George's door. Saved this time, I suppose, George thinks.
He waddles to the door and turns the handle. Outside is a small, brown package set perfectly in the center of his welcome mat. "Ugh, I have to, uh, bend down, and stuff?" George mutters. He drops to one knee, perpendicular to the door's opening. Then, he bends sideways and just manages to grasp the package. "Already down, might as well, uh, stay awhile," George says. He drops to his other knee then slips onto his butt. Sitting in the open doorway, fat rolls spilling over onto the floor, George rips open the package.
Inside are two bottles. One large, roughly the size of a 1 liter of coke, George thinks; the other is tiny, the size of a nail polish bottle. George also sees a folded piece of paper tucked inside the package.
To: George Alan Stephens,
On behalf of Wash-A-Way, LLC I would like to thank you for your recent purchase of So Fresh, So Clean, our newest product. Thousands of people around the world have seen their lives forever changed by our product and I truly believe you will as well. The results are spectacular, but the instructions are anything but. To use, simply replace your normal soap with our patented blend of astringents, oxygenators, and dehumidifiers. After a single use you should see those unwanted features washed down the drain. Wish you had a full head of hair like you did in high school? Simply wash your head with So Fresh, So Clean and like magic I guarantee that hair will grow back. Sick of an unsightly appendix scar? Wash your stomach and watch the scar slough off like dead skin. Wish you were more charming? We all do! Just wash with a little So Fresh, So Clean and soon you'll have more charisma than Charles Manson (his endgame may have been questionable, but the guy had game). Thank you again for your order of So Fresh, So Clean. We look forward to hearing how So Fresh, So Clean changes life for you. *No refunds, credits, or exchanges will be offered on used merchandise. All sales are final.
What the sh-sh-shi-heck is So Fresh, So Clean? George wonders. He looks on the box for any other distinguishing marks but finds none. A neighbor passes by George's door at that moment and says, "What have you got there George?"
"I, uh, don't, um know. Think I must've got it on some infomercial last night, and stuff," George says.
"Well, whatever it is, have fun," the neighbor says before continuing down the hall. I guess I might as well give it a try, George thinks. What's the worst that can happen? In just over twenty-four hours George would come to find he couldn't imagine the worst, even in his darkest dreams.
George flipped the switch in his bathroom and a single, bare bulb struggled to illuminate the cramped restroom. He took a lone step forward and pulled back a moldy shower curtain. Inside the cracked porcelain tub a spider attempted to climb the side and escape the permanent green puddle of stagnant water that lingered there. George turns the tap to the perfect temperature from memory and flips the lever to run the water through the head.
The spider struggles in the flow for a moment before washing down the uncovered drain. George raises a foot and wavers for a moment then steps into the scalding water and closes the curtain. His hands are trembling as he turns the bottle of So Fresh, So Clean over and over. Gazing at the logo with a fully clear head, brief memories of last night pop through.
The gun wouldn't fire, George recalls. Shit! I tried to kill myself last night. And then I heard something on the radio. Did someone on the radio make fun of my name? Then I said "yes" to something and now this package is here. What the hell? "The letter didn't sound too dangerous though. Maybe I should give it a whirl," George says.
He flips the bottle upside down and pops the plastic cap off. He squirts a small pool of the soap in his hand, the familiar scent of Irish Spring soap filling the shower. "Let's wash away this fat, and stuff," George says as he struggles to reach every part of his body. He nearly pulls a muscle reaching crevices and under fat rolls he hasn't touched in years. His breathing becomes shallow, almost hyperventilating, with the effort.
A pleasant tingling sensation races across his skin that soon turns to a deep burning. When George coached basketball, he used Icy/Hot every night and the sensation feels similar. The burning intensifies, just as Icy/Hot does, and George expects any moment the cooling relief will come. The cooling never comes. Instead, the burning intensifies and George screams as he rubs at the fat covering his body. Instead of soap and water, George's hands come away greasy and full of a gelatinous substance. Looking down George finds the entire tub is filled with a similar ooze. "What the fu-fu-shit!" George screams.
It's a strange anomaly in the human mind that we block out the most obvious facts when under enormous stress. As the body and mind flood with hormones urging us to fight, fly, or freeze, we stop paying attention to reality. Like a soldier under fire, we only see the danger directly ahead of us. If George had taken a moment to evaluate his situation he would have noticed he'd lost roughly 400 pounds of pure fat, and in its place toned muscles had developed.
Instead of understanding his situation, George gave into the darkness that lingered at the back of his mind and passed out. He slumped forward onto his knees, and sunk waist deep in a tub full of rendered fat. He then fell to the side, draping his body over the tub's edge like a bathmat. Whether from terror, exhaustion, or confusion no one could say, but George slept that way for three hours. While he slept, the fat that once held his body prisoner oozed down the drain.
Later that afternoon George stands naked in front of his bathroom mirror. The shock hasn't worn off, but his new body is alleviating some of it. He had ab muscles, one for each of his six decades on this earth. His chest is swollen with strength. Each inhalation pulls in a lungful of fresh oxygen; a sensation George didn't think he'd ever experience again. An impressive set of genitals bulge from just below his waist. George couldn't remember the last time he'd seen his penis, much less the last time it had throbbed with power. "I'm a gr-gr-Greek statue," George says. He strikes a few comical poses doing his best Charles Atlas impression. Before leaving the bathroom, he snaps a solitary photo of his penis, "that might c-c-come in handy," George says.
He leaves the bathroom and rummages through his closet for anything that might fit. His shirts look like dresses now and there is no belt in the world that could synch his pants tight enough. He finally lands on a pair of his ex-wife's sweatpants he'd mistakenly grabbed when moving out, and a short-sleeved button-down Hawaiian shirt. His comically large shirt and old-fashioned ladies' pants made him look like a deranged clown but would do until he could get to the store for new clothes.
George's doorbell rings, and he walks to answer. Through the peephole he can see a woman in her 40's whom he does not recognize. Her red hair and tall frame form a striking figure, even through the distortion of his peephole. George opens the door slowly and stutters out a "hello". Instead of responding the woman bursts out laughing.
"What are you wearing?" she asks. "You look like you're on layover coming back from Maui."
"Umm," George begins to say before being cut off.
"I'm sorry, that is so rude. Sometimes I speak before I think. I keep meaning to stop," the woman says.
"Who are you?" George says.
"I'm Eve, but everyone calls me Evie," the woman says, sticking out her hand. George does not take it. Evie awkwardly lowers her hand before continuing, "I'm your new neighbor, sort of, I just moved in down the hall. I thought I'd try and meet all my neighbors today. So…hi!"
This time George takes her hand and shakes it once, formally. The human contact makes him uncomfortable and excited at the same time. "We-welcome. The Dunport is a nice apartment building, unless you li-li-like reliable amenities, and stuff," George says gruffly.
"Yeah, what's up with the water around here? Mine comes out in a trickle," Evie says
"You should probably call the landlord then," George says, then adds, "my name is George by the way."
"You're a strange man George. Very strange. But I like a little mystery. It's nice to meet you," Evie says before moving down the hall and knocking on the next door.
"You won't get an answer th-th-there," George says. "Mrs. Lindstrom is deaf. She won't hear you knocking. Ring the doorbell and it'll light up a strobe light in her living room."
"Thanks George. Hey, do you want to come with me? You seem like the kind of guy who could show me around," Evie says.
"Yeah," George says, "I think I'd like that."
George lays in bed with Evie, struggling to understand what happened. They were out walking around the building. Then, they found the street, a cute Italian restaurant, and before George could question anything they were kissing and walking back along the same route. In a single instant Evie appraised George's apartment and deemed it acceptable. She didn't say anything about the bullet hole in the wall, the shattered plant, or the cottage cheese tub half filled with water. Together they walked to George's bedroom and shared a night together.
To George it felt like his first time all over again. It had been years since a woman touched him, and many more years since one had wanted his touch in return. George fumbled with her bra which only elicited a laugh and an impressive feat of contortion by Evie to remove it herself. He hadn't lasted long, but the connection was explosive. George fell in love with this fiery-haired goddess. And George guessed Evie felt the same. At least, he hoped she does. But years of insecurity don't just wash away. He may have a great body now, but there is plenty more he would change. So, he does.
George rolls over and kisses Evie. Her hair is disheveled, and strands stick to her forehead. He brushes the stray hairs away and whispers, "I'll be back soon." In the bathroom, George gazes at himself in the mirror once again. "What does she see in you?" George whispers to himself. He lifts patchy strands of hair from his own forehead and tries to cover his bald spot with creative hair placement.
In the mirror, George sees his bottle of So Fresh, So Clean sitting in the shower. He warms the water and flips the lever from tap to shower head. George wets his head and rubs the soap in. The same agonizing burning rips through his scalp. He feels needles pushing through the skin and screams. George rubs his head and tries to rip the burning skin away. Instead, he feels hair growing. Despite the pain, George smiles.
Back in his bedroom Evie's already familiar shape is missing. "Evie?" George calls, leaving the bedroom and searching the rest of the small apartment. "Where did she go?" George wonders, not sure of the etiquette in this foreign situation.
George dresses quickly, pairing over-sized jeans with a jean jacket; an outfit his son would have called a Canadian Tuxedo. Around the corner is a small diner that serves greasy breakfast and still allows smoking inside through a legal loophole. George orders chicken fried steak, extra gravy, fried potatoes, and black coffee. He lights a cigarette and casually picks at his food. Lost in memories of the previous night, George swears he can hear Evie's laugh. Raising his head George sees Evie having breakfast with another man.
"Hi E-E-Evie," George says, approaching the table, "who is this?"
"Oh! Um, hi George," Evie replies. Her voice squeaks with the Oh, but she regains her composure. "What are you doing here?"
"Eating breakfast. I thought w-w-we would have done that after last night, and stuff," George says.
"What is this guy talking about babe?" the man across from Evie asks.
"Um. Nothing. He got drunk last night after showing me around the apartment complex and I helped him get to bed. Nothing serious," Evie replies. She fidgets with her napkin, tearing it into smaller and smaller pieces.
"No, Evie. We had sex last night," George says bluntly. "Do you not remember?"
"Are you kidding? I'm married! I would never sleep with you. And besides, I don't go for bald guys. That wig isn't fooling anyone," Evie says.
"Let's go babe," the man says, grabbing Evie's hand and pulling her from the booth. "Listen up, buddy. I don't know what kind of sick fantasy you've made up about my wife but stay the hell away from her." In his new form George has about six inches on the guy, and at least fifty pounds. One well placed punch would have knocked the heroin-thin guy into the next booth. But George does nothing.
"S-So-Sorry," George mutters. He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his denim jacket and shuffles out of the restaurant.
Outside, Evie says, "I'm sorry George, I-uh, I don't know what to say,"
"It's fine," George says back. He walks the half-block to his apartment building confused. "I know physically I look good," George says to himself, "maybe the problem is inside." George grabs the letter that came with his bottle of So Fresh, So Clean and reads it again. "More charm than Charles Manson, he was compelling," George says.
The magic of So Fresh, So Clean is confounding but undeniable. George reads the bottle and letter several times looking for clues on how to use it in the way he wants. "What do I want?" George wonders. "I would like to not st-stu-tutter, and be better with words. I wanted to lose weight so I rubbed it on my fat. I wanted hair so I rubbed it on my head. Maybe I should try rubbing it in my mouth."
George opens the bottle and moves it toward his face. The astringent scent of bleach stings his nostrils. "I can't eat this shit," George says. Already though, he is bringing the bottle toward his face again. With one hand George pinches his nostrils shut. With the other he tips the bottle back. A small dollop of clear gel drips from the cap and falls on his tongue. The now familiar burning starts instantly. It feels like a hole is burning through his tongue.
He is coughing, then gagging, and finally vomiting. Blood and black liquid fly from his mouth and mingle on the stained rug of his living room. Once again, the transformation is overwhelming and George slips into blackness.
Sometime later, George is awake and has cleaned up. His tongue hurts like he sipped a too-hot drink, but he can speak again. "Let's give this a shot," George says triumphantly. He marches to Evie's apartment door and knocks three times; quick, confident raps with his knuckle. "Evie, it's George. Can we talk for a moment?"
Evie cracks her door and whispers, "what are you doing here George? I thought I made it clear I didn't want to see you again."
"I think we both know that was for show this morning. Your husband was there, you had to make it look convincing. Great job, by the way," George says, winking.
"It wasn't for show George. He is here right now. Look, sleeping with you was a mistake. He and I were fighting. We're doing this trial separation thing. I was confused. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you," Evie says.
"Come on Evie. Don't talk like that. We had fun yesterday. We can keep having fun," George says. He begins forcing his way into the apartment and Evie tries to hold him back. "Besides, I don't think that husband of yours is really here."
"George, please get out. I don't want to do this. I thought you were a nice guy," Evie says, "but you're not. You're being an asshole and I want you to leave."
George stops pushing on the door suddenly, and Evie's weight forces it shut, catching her fingers in the crack. "Ouch! Damnit George. Just get out of here!"
"Fine. I'll leave, but I'm not done. I don't know what you want me to be, but I'm going to figure it out and become that person. You just wait, Evie. You'll be mine," George says.
He walks back down the hall to his own apartment and throws the door open. "Fuck! What does that bitch want?" George yells. He sees the bottle of So Fresh, So Clean sitting on the coffee table next to the revolver he never bothered moving. George strips off his clothes and stands naked in the middle of his living room. He pops the top on the bottle and pours its entire contents on his head, allowing the gel to run down his face all the way to his feet. The gel is both freezing and burning and it envelops George like a glove.
Without a clear picture in his mind, the mysterious soap makes the changes to George it sees fit. The flesh melts from his body revealing musculature and bones. His eyelids are gone, and the brightness of the morning sun stings his eyes. Tears don't come though, and his mouth is dry, like all the water in his body has been boiled away. One foot grows too large and the other falls off leaving a stump. The now-visible muscles on George's back and biceps swell to body-builder size before bursting into disconnected chords of meat and tendon.
George falls to the floor and scrapes his exposed flesh on the rough rug. He reaches for the phone and hits redial. A familiar voice, silky but harsh, speaks on the other end. "Thank you for calling So Fresh, So Clean. This is Wormwood, how may I help you?"
George speaks slowly, every word is painful to express. "Your soap is killing me," George says.
"Oh, hey Mr. G.A.S. Does your life still stink?" Wormwood says.
"I'm dying," is all George can muster.
"Yeah…I probably should have warned you about that. This product isn't exactly 'safe'," Wormwood replies.
"What. Do. I. Do?" George whispers into the phone.
"Sorry pal, there's nothing to be done. Best just to ride it out or end it quicker," Wormwood replies.
"Why did you do this to me?" George begs.
"It's nothing personal Georgie. I find weak people who would do anything to be someone else. Even if it means selling their soul. You seemed desperate," Wormwood replies.
"My soul?" George says, questioning his own sanity.
"It's kind of what us demons do. Buy souls, trick people, cause chaos. It's tough work but somebody's got to do it. When we spoke on the phone you entered into a verbal contract; and using our product equates you agreeing to the terms. Your soul is ours buddy boy," Wormwood says.
"Bullshit," George spits out.
"Listen George, I have to get going. My boss is starting to look at me funny for talking so long. I expect your arrival down here within the hour. I'll be there to get you acclimated to your new home and get you on the phones selling; just like me." Wormwood says.
The line goes dead.
George opens his eyes and sees a reflection of his body; his old body. The image is distorted, and George realizes he's seeing himself in a set of elevator doors. A soft dinging pulls his attention to a single lit arrow pointing down. The doors slide open and George is greeted by a man dressed in khakis and a tucked in polo "Hello George. I'm Wormwood. It's great to finally meet you."
Beth Keyser
I love it! Great descriptive writing and even a good lesson. Fun read!
Check back everyday for another short story and feel free to leave your feedback, Wondering what Sehnsucht is? Click on it for more information.


text:
Lonely On The Mountain
The Sacketts — Book 14
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Logan Sackett dead? I didn't believe it. He was too durned ornery to die. Besides, I'd seen him come through cuttings and shootings and clubbings like he was born to them.
Shanty Gavin? Any relation to Kyle Gavin?
Who was Shanty, and what did he want? For that matter, who was Kyle Gavin?
Pearson and his partner headed on east, back to the fleshpots and away from the gold fields. Fraser River gold was too fine, and the Cariboo was played out, or so they said, but we'd learned long ago to discount anything anybody said who was either going to or coming from a gold field.
"Any way you look at it," Cap said, "we're drivin' these cows right into trouble."
"I never seen any trouble a cow couldn't handle," Haney said wryly. "What I'm wonderin' about is us. What are we gettin' into?"
"Move 'em along," I said. "The time's gettin' short, and if we don't hurry, there'll be frost on the punkin before we get where we're going."
"I want to get there," Shorty said, "so's we can get out before the snow settles down. I'm a warm-weather man myself, born for the sunny side of the hill."
That was the night we left our carts behind. We divided what they contained into packs for four horses.
"We can burn them," Fleming said. "They'll make a hot fire for cooking."
"We'll leave them," I said. "Somebody may come who needs a cart. We'll push them back under the trees and leave them for whoever comes. Good hands made them, and I'll not destroy honest work."
Again we moved out, pointing our way into the darker hills. The forest was changing now, and ahead of us we saw peaks that were bare of growth, and some were covered by snow. Grass was scarce, and we watched for meadows where the cattle could stop and feed. Our travel was arranged to make the most of grass when we found it. There were firs among the poplars now and sometimes groves of stunted pine. We skirted a forest blown down by winds where the dead trees lay in rows like mowed grain.
Orrin was riding point when we met the grizzly. We'd been coming along a forest trail, the cattle strung out for a couple of miles or more and Orrin riding quiet, making no sound. Suddenly, the grizzly arose from the brush and stood tall in the trail. Startled, Orrin's horse reared, and Orrin kept his seat, drawing his pistol as he did so.
The first we knew of trouble was the sharp bark of his pistol, then three times more, rapid fire. Tyrel, Haney, Cap, an' me, we lit out for the front of the column.
Ever try to get through a trail jammed with cattle? It took time, too much time.
Cattle began bucking and plunging, trying to get into the woods and brush on either side of the trail, and we could hear the roaring and snarling of what was obviously a mighty big bear. We fought our way through, but getting there was tough.
We heard two more shots, and we broke through to find a big grizzly lying in the trail, crippled but still full of fight.
Orrin was just getting up off the ground. His hat was gone, and his buckskin jacket was ripped, and there was blood on his shoulder. He made it to his feet, staggered, and commenced jamming loads into his pistol. Me, I took my rifle from the scabbard and killed that grizzly with two good shots.
He would have died from Orrin's shots, we later saw. Two of them had hit him in the neck, and after going down, Orrin got two more shots into his spine, fired as the bear was turning. They had crippled him in the hindquarters, which kept him from getting at Orrin. He'd hit him one glancing swipe, knocking him tail over teakettle into the brush.
It taken us the rest of the evening to skin out that grizzly and get the best cuts of meat; then we had to get the cattle around the blood in the trail. The carcass we hauled off with that old plow horse of Brandy's.
Scouting ahead, Shorty found a long meadow along a winding stream, and we turned the cattle in there for a good bit of grass and water. We rounded up some of the cattle that got away into the trees, but there was a few of them we never did find and didn't take the time to hunt. One old steer came up the trail after us when we started the next morning.
All the following day we struggled through bogs, the cattle floundering and plunging, our horses doing no better, and the trail when it could be found at all was wide enough for one animal only. During the whole day, we made scarcely four miles, yet the next morning we climbed a low hill and then another and emerged in a forest of huge old poplars, scattered but with no undergrowth. Here and there, the cattle found a bite of something, usually a clump of wildflowers. We made good time and by nightfall had twelve miles of easy travel behind us.
We broke out into a plain at sundown, and the cattle scattered on the good grass there, and we found a camp up against some willows and near a small stream.
We were dead beat, and me an' Shorty were taking the first guard. I slapped a saddle on a dusty red roan and cinched up. I was putting my rifle in the scabbard when suddenly there was a thunder of hoofs, wild shrill whoops, and we saw a party of Indians swooping down upon us.
I grabbed my rifle back out of the scabbard, saw Tyrel hit the dirt behind a log, and heard Haney's pistol barking, and then they were gone and with them about fifty head of our cattle.
Well, I done some cussing, then apologized to Nettie, who came up from the campfire to see what had happened.
"Blackfeet," Cap said. "Count yourself lucky they wasn't war minded."
"Let's go get 'em!" Shorty suggested.
Cap just glanced at him, but that glance said more than a passel of words. "Blackfeet, I said. You don't chase Blackfeet, Shorty. You just count your blessings an' let 'em go.
"Those were young braves, just out for a lark. They wasn't huntin' scalps, but you go after them, and they will. We lost some cows. Let's move out of here."
"To where?"
"Any place but here. They might get to thinkin' on it and come back."
Tired as we were, we put out our fire, loaded our gear, and headed off up the trail. We found a meadow three miles farther on and bedded them down.
Nobody set by the campfire that night; nobody wanted a second cup of coffee. Everybody crawled into his bed, and only the night guard was left.
Day after day, we plodded on; we had lost cattle one way or another until at least a third of them were gone. Old Baptiste killed a mountain sheep, and we dined well, but it had been weeks since we had seen a buffalo. There was little talk now during the day. Fleming looked sour and discontented. He seemed to have been expecting something that did not happen.
"Overlanders have come this way," Cap said, "but it's been a while."
All the tracks we found were old, and we were getting more and more worried.
"Beats me where we're to meet Logan, if he's alive."
"That feller said he was dead," Fleming said, "that he'd been killed."
"He's a hard man to kill."
"A bullet will do it for anybody," Fleming said. "If he's hit in the right place, one man is no tougher than another."
"Seems like we've been pushin' these cows forever," Shorty said. "I wouldn't mind standin' up to a bar for a drink."
"Be a while," Tyrel said. "You boys set easy. Goin' back will be easy as pie."
"If we ever," Fleming said.
Nettie and Mary had been keeping out of the way. They knew this was a trying time, and they had done their best to help. Both of them had become good hands, although Mary — well, she'd been born a hand.
"If my brother is out here," Nettie asked Orrin, "where do you think he would be?"
Orrin shrugged. "There's Barkerville, and there's Clinton. I don't know many of the towns, but I can tell you this. If he's in this country or has been, some of those folks will know. This is a big country, but she's right scarce of people. A body can be away up yonder at the forks of the creek, and somebody will have seen him. There's nothing happens up here somebody doesn't know about."
Fleming chuckled. It was a dry, rather unpleasant, skeptical chuckle. Nobody said anything.
We'd been keeping our eyes open for sign. All three of us Sacketts expected it, and we knew the sort of sign one Sackett was apt to leave for another.
We found nothing.
We waded rivers, fourteen crossings in one day, and wove our way through some fir trees whose wet branches slapped us wickedly as we passed. The horses were game. They struggled through the muskeg, and finally we topped out on some reasonably solid ground.
Supplies were running low, and game was scarce. All day we had seen nothing. Ducks flew over, the Vs of their flight pattern pointing south. In the morning when we awakened, there was a chill in the air.
"Wonder what become of those Injuns we had followin* us?" Cap asked one day. "I kind of miss 'em?"
"Little Bear," I said, "now there was a lad."
"If we don't get something to eat soon," Lin suggested, "we'll have to slaughter a beef."
Now there's little goes more against the grain of a good cattleman than killing his own beef. But we'd left buffalo country behind, and we were fresh out of bear. Me, I was of no mind to tackle a grizzly unless he came hunting trouble, which they often did. A grizzly has been king in his own world for so long, he resents anybody coming around. Only man threatens his world, and whether he avoids or fights men depends pretty much on his mood at the moment.
Down San Francisco way during the gold rush, some of the gamblers used to pit bears in cages with lions, tigers, and most anything that would fight. The grizzly almost always won in quick time. In one particular case, a full-grown African lion lasted less than three minutes.
There were a lot of grizzlies in these mountains, but mostly they kept out of the way, not because they were afraid, but because they simply did not want to be bothered.
Orrin, who reads a lot, was reading me a piece in a magazine, Century or Atlantic, I think, about some explorers coming back from some foreign country where they'd been hunting some wild creature. They were busy hunting for a few weeks and came back saying there was no such thing. Now I've lived in panther or mountain lion country most of my life and never seen but one or two that weren't treed by hounds. Wild animals don't want to be seen, and it's sheer accident if you see them.
We were climbing all the while, getting higher and higher, and the nights were getting colder. Then, one morning, Tyrel come to me. "Tell," he said, there's a fringe of ice on the lake, yonder."
Well, that sent a chill through me. A fringe of ice — and we had some distance to go. I wasn't sure how much.
Now we were moving up some magnificent valleys, green and lovely with great walls of mountain rising on either side; often these were sheer precipices of bare rock, or with an occasional tree growing from some rock a body could no way get to. We caught fish, and one night I got three ducks in three shots with a rifle, two sitting, one just taking off. They were needed, as grub was getting low. We had flour, salt, and the like, but we needed meat.
Every morning now there was frost. The sky was gray often enough, and one night, when there were no clouds, we saw the Northern Lights, a tremendous display brightening the whole heavens. I'd heard of it but seen it but once before, in Montana, but never like this.
It was late afternoon, and Tyrel was riding point. It was an easy trail, across some green meadows and up along a trail through huge boulders and scattered clumps of fir. Me, I was riding on the flank when I saw Tyrel pull up short.
Well, my rifle snaked into my hands, and I saw Cap Rountree out with his, but Tyrel wasn't drawing. He was looking at a big gray boulder beside the trail.
Coming down off the slope, I rounded the head of the herd and pulled up alongside him. I started to say, "What's wrong, Tye?" and did say it before I looked past him and saw the mark on the face of the boulder.
Scratched on the face of the rock was CLINCH-S-Dease-?
"Well," Orrin had come up, "he isn't dead then."
"Who isn't dead?" It was Fleming.
Orrin an' Tyrel glanced at me, and I said, "We're losin' time, boys. We've got a far piece to go."
Fleming stared hard at the scratching on the rock.
"What's that mean?" he wondered. "It don't make no sense!"
"Doesn't, does it?" Tyrel said mildly. He turned his mount "Hustle them along, Charlie. We've a ways to go."
Reluctantly, Charlie Fleming turned away.
Nettie Molrone rode up with Mary McCann. "What is it, Orrin?"
"Just some scratching on a rock," he said. "We were wondering about it, that's all."
She looked at him quickly, her eyes searching his. She glanced at the rock. "It doesn't make sense. Except" — she paused, studying it — "there's a Dease River up here somewhere and a Dease Lake."
"There is?" Orrin looked surprised. "What d'you know about that?"
She looked at him again, half angry.
In the morning, Charlie Fleming was gone.


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Awards March 2, 2016 American Theatre Editors Leave a comment
3 Playwrights Receive 2016 PEN Literary Awards
Lynn Nottage, Young Jean Lee, and Branden Jacobs-Jenkins were the winners in the drama category.
By American Theatre Editors
Lynn Nottage
NEW YORK CITY: The PEN American Center has named the winners of its 2016 PEN Literary Awards, which celebrate writers in fiction, science writing, essays, sports writing, biography, children's literature, translation, drama, and poetry. This year's winners in drama are Lynn Nottage, Young Jean Lee, and Branden Jacobs-Jenkins.
Annie Baker, Kirsten Greenidge, and Tracy Letts served as judges in the drama category this year.
Lynn Nottage (Ruined, Intimate Apparel, Sweat) has won the Master American Dramatist Award, which comes with a specially commissioned piece of art. "In 2004, Ms. Nottage was awarded the PEN/Laura Pels International Foundation for Theatre Award for an American Playwright in Mid-Career, but since that time her influence in the American theatre has widened and deepened and her awe-inspiring body of work demonstrates that she is truly a Master American Dramatist," the judges said in a statement.
Young Jean Lee (Straight White Men, The Shipment) won the American Playwright in Mid-Career Award, which comes with a cash prize of $7,500. "Young Jean Lee's work has been challenging and thrilling audiences since her first play opened in 2003," the judges said in a statement. "By tackling themes and projects that initially strike her as nightmarish, Ms. Lee writes and directs theatre that has a raw, honest vulnerability that the judges think is unprecedented in the American theatre."
Branden Jacobs-Jenkins (An Octoroon, Appropriate) won the Emerging American Playwright award, with a cash prize of $2,500. "Though Mr. Jacobs-Jenkins has certainly emerged, we see his career as being filled with abounding promise," the judges said in a statement.
The PEN American Center is a literary organization, dedicated to protecting the free speech of writers worldwide.
Support American Theatre: a just and thriving theatre ecology begins with information for all. Please join us in this mission by making a donation to our publisher, Theatre Communications Group. When you support American Theatre magazine and TCG, you support a long legacy of quality nonprofit arts journalism. Click here to make your fully tax-deductible donation today!
PEN American Center
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Week four already. Wow, time flies when having a good time. So, my short film is progressing along. The time is catching up to me, but I'm still on schedule, barely :) Brets feedback in the weekly e-critique are awesome and I'm now working on refining the 2nd and 3rd thirds of the film.
Animation Mentor co-founder Carlos Baena is interviewed this week by CG Node. This guy is an huge inspiration and an awesome animation ninja, so go on and check it out.
Found a link to some real gold. Walt Stanchfield taught the animators at Disney and some of his notes can be found at Animation Meat, but here they are in a single PDF file. Walt Stanchfield - Gesture Drawing for Animation.
The Ratatouille release date is approaching and more behind the scene stuff is showing up. Here's a short quick-time Ratatouille Behind-the-scenes - Technical Incrediences. Also, check out iTunes Podcasts for more behind the scenes.
AM graduation invitation are received and our airplane tickets are ordered! Kari and me are going to spend almost a month in the U.S. from mid-July until after the Animation Mentor Graduation ceremony and Siggraph 2007 in August. We're gonna visit San Francisco, Los Angeles and San Diego. It's gonna be soooo cool!!
There's some really great shorts coming from the students of Animation Mentor and each month some of them are featured in the monthly newsletter. If you haven't already, sign up (put your email in the bottom left corner) :) The newsletter contains lots of cool stuff.
Keith Lango has some really interesting views on inefficiency in his blog. First part here and second part here. Really interesting thoughts. Check it out.
Yay!! Made it to class 6 :) Wow!
New class and new mentor. Lots of new people in this class too, but also some familiar faces. We had our first q&a on Thursday and everybody was introduced. The class is really great and I'm super excited about this final term.
I'm sooo happy with my mentor this term. Pixar's Bret Parker. She seems really really nice and has worked on, among others, Monster Inc, Bugs Life, Toy Story 2, The Incredibles, Jack Jack Attack, Mike's New Car and Finding Nemo. She's probably best known as the voice of Kari, the babysitter in The Incredibles, which she animated as well. Awesome!
Came across some behind-the-scene stuff from Ratatouille (which Bret also has worked on, I guess). Check it out. Brad Bird talks about the film.


This paper presents the combination of linear Model Predictive Control (MPC) with Constraint Satisfaction Problem (CSP) for the operational control of drinking water networks. The methodology has been divided into two functional layers: First, a CSP algorithm is used to transfer non-linear pressure equations of drinking water networks (DWNs) into linear constraints, which can enclose feasible solution of the hydraulic non-linear problem during the optimizing process. Then, a linear MPC with added linear constraints is solved to generate control strategies which consider control objectives. Finally, the proposed approach is simulated using Epanet to represent the real DWNs. PLIO, which is a generic operational tool for controlling water networks that uses non-linear MPC, is used for validation. The Richmond water system is used as a case study.
CitationSun, C.; Puig, V.; Cembrano, M. Combining CSP and MPC for the operational control of water networks: Application to the Richmond case study. A: World Congress of the International Federation of Automatic Control. "Proceedings of the 19th IFAC World Congress, 2014". Cape Town: International Federation of Automatic Control (IFAC), 2014, p. 6246-6251.


After 15 yrs + the chocomilo still tastes as good as i remember it. I have been requesting for golden morn for yearsssssss. My sweet friend finally got me some :))) Hopefully, it's as good as i remember it.
For sure Myne, na me and you get am.
Really? Didn't know there was golden morn here. I never go to African stores though, so maybe that's why i didn't know that.
This. I was going to mention this too.


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A New and Accurat Map of the World Drawne...
The item illustrated and described below is sold, but we have another example in stock. To view the example which is currently being offered for sale, click the "View Details" button below.
1627 John Speed
A New and Accurat Map of the World Drawne according to ye truest Descriptions lastest Discoveries & best observations yt have beene made by English or Strangers. 1626.
John Speed
A nice full color example of Speed's map of the world, based upon William Grent's map of 1625. This is one of the earliest attainable world maps printed in English. The map shows California as and Island, an unusual NW Coast of America, conjectural Magellanica or The Southerne Unknowne Land and extraordinary early detail throughout the map. It is surrounded by smaller celestial hemispheres, figural representations of Water, Earthe, Aire and Fire, a number of celestial phenomena & portraits of early explorers. Includes several lengthy notes on the South Pole & Straits of Magellan. Faint printer's crease at centerfold, else excellent full color example, with nice full margins and fine hand coloring. The 1651 edition is one of the rarer editions of the map.
John Speed Biography
John Speed (1551 or '52 - 28 July 1629) was the best known English mapmaker of the Stuart period. Speed came to mapmaking late in life, producing his first maps in the 1590s and entering the trade in earnest when he was almost 60 years old.
John Speed's fame, which continues to this day, lies with two atlases, The Theatre of the Empire of Great Britaine (first published 1612), and the Prospect of the Most Famous Parts of the World (1627). While The Theatre ... started as solely a county atlas, it grew into an impressive world atlas with the inclusion of the Prospect in 1627. The plates for the atlas passed through many hands in the 17th century, and the book finally reached its apotheosis in 1676 when it was published by Thomas Bassett and Richard Chiswell, with a number of important maps added for the first time.
Antique Maps / World
Antique Maps / World / World
Antique Maps / Curiosities
Antique Maps / Celestial Maps


The White House wants the National Security Agency to get out of the business of sweeping up and storing vast amounts of data on Americans' phone calls.
The Obama administration this week is expected to propose that Congress overhaul the electronic surveillance program by having phone companies hold onto the call records as they do now, according to a government official briefed on the proposal. The New York Times first reported the details of the proposal Monday night. The official spoke on condition of anonymity because the official was not authorized to discuss the plan.
The White House proposal would end the government's practice of sweeping up the phone records of millions of Americans and holding onto those records for five years so the numbers can be searched for national security purposes. Instead, the White House is expected to propose that the phone records be kept for 18 months, as the phone companies are already required to do by federal regulation.
According to a senior administration official, the president will present "a sound approach to ensuring the government no longer collects or holds this data, but still ensures that the government has access to the information it needs to meet the national security needs his team has identified." The administration official spoke late Monday on condition of anonymity because he was not authorized to publicly discuss the proposal before it was officially announced.
The president's plan, however, relies on Congress to pass legislation — something that has so far seemed unlikely.
Details of the government's secret phone records collection program were disclosed last year by former NSA systems analyst Edward Snowden. Privacy advocates were outraged to learn that the government was holding onto phone records of innocent Americans for up to five years. Obama promised to make changes to the program in an effort to win back public support.
In January, President Barack Obama tasked his administration with coming up with an alternative to the current counterterrorism program and suggested that the phone companies option was the most likely. However, he also said that option posed problems.
"This will not be simple," Obama said. An independent review panel suggested that the practice of the government collecting the phone records be replaced by a third party or the phone companies holding the records, and the government would access them as needed.
New drone has no pilot anywhere, so who's accountable?


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Baby born out of wedlock must be adopted - to save her from honour killing by her own Muslim family
Unmarried mother ran away after becoming pregnant because she feared what her father would do
One-year-old baby girl will be adopted by Muslim family
Natural father wanted child to live with him and his wife
By Sam Greenhill for the Daily Mail
A baby girl born out of wedlock must be adopted to save her from the risk of being slaughtered in an 'honour killing', a court ruled yesterday.
If the unmarried Muslim woman's father found out about the child, he would feel such 'unimaginable shame' he could unleash a vengeful bloodbath by killing the baby and his whole family, three senior judges agreed.
So they made the extraordinary order to have the one-year-old girl – known as Baby Q – adopted for her own safety.
Safe: Baby Q has settled well with her adoptive parents (picture posed by models)
She will now grow up with adoptive parents and, when she is older, they will explain to her why she could not have been brought up by her biological parents.
It is believed to be the first time an English court has ordered an adoption to prevent a murder.
The baby's maternal grandmother told police that if her husband ever found out about the little girl, 'he would consider himself honour-bound to kill the child, the mother, the grandmother herself and the grandmother's other children', the court heard.
The identities of all those involved have been kept anonymous to ensure the girl can grow up safe from her apparently murderous grandfather – who still has no idea his daughter was ever pregnant.
Teenage mother was 'stabbed to death and thrown into a canal after bringing shame on her family'
The astonishing background to the case was set out at the Appeal Court in London yesterday.
The baby's mother – referred to as M – conceived the child at the end of 2009 when she was having an affair with a married man, known as F.
Neither the mother nor the father were born in the UK and both came to live here separately within the past ten years. They are both Muslims, but from different cultures.
At the time of his infidelity, F's wife was still waiting for permission to join him in the UK, though she is now here.
Lord Justice Munby and Mrs Justice Black, pictured left and right, along with Lord Justice Kitchin said that the child must be adopted
When M suspected she was pregnant, in the spring of 2010, she was so 'terrified' of how her 'traditional Muslim' father would react that she concealed her pregnancy by wearing loose clothes.
She continued living at home and was confident her growing bump would not show unless someone 'was looking'.
She travelled to 'the other side of town' for her antenatal care, to avoid her parents finding out, and only had her pregnancy confirmed at 23 weeks.
Eventually she confided in her mother and a sister, and they hatched a secret plan that when she went into labour, someone would call her father away on a pretext, to ensure he never found out.
'It would be a matter of intense, almost unimaginable shame to him and his family'
Mrs Justice Parker
She also told social services she wanted the baby to be adopted straight away.
Baby Q was born in the autumn of 2010. At just a few hours old, baby and mother were parted as M was discharged from hospital and baby Q was left in the care of nursing staff.
By December, she was placed in the care of the Muslim couple who are now about to adopt her. The court case came about because the baby's natural father, F, discovered he had a daughter and wanted to take custody of her himself.
But a High Court judge, Mrs Justice Parker, rejected him as unsuitable in July this year, and said the baby would still be 'at risk' of an honour killing because 'two and two might easily be put together' by the maternal grandfather or someone who knew him.
The baby was 'quite obviously' not the child of F's wife, the judge said, adding: 'If the grandfather's community were thus to find out about the relationship between M and F, it would be a matter of intense almost unimaginable shame to him and his family.'
There was a 'very significant risk' he might launch a violent attack to preserve the family's honour.
Adoption: The Court of Appeal ruled the risk was so grave that the baby could not be looked after by her natural father
The court heard Mrs Justice Parker had been 'persuaded by the evidence of the police' that the mother and baby Q could be at 'a very high level of risk' if the baby's birth was to become known in the wider community.
The police force in question was not identified, nor the social services department involved in the case. But the court was told that social workers, police and the mother of baby Q were all in agreement that she should be adopted.
Still hopeful of taking custody of his child, F launched an appeal, but this was rejected yesterday by three senior judges, Lord Justice Munby, Lady Justice Black and Lord Justice Kitchin.
They agreed with the first judge that there were several good reasons why F and his wife – who now have a baby of their own – should not be allowed to bring up baby Q.
Among them was the 'tension' that would be caused by F's wife looking after her philandering husband's illegitimate child as well as her own.
Both F and his wife also lacked 'empathy and insight', and were criticised as being incapable of dealing with the little girl's feelings as she grew older and wanted to learn the details of her 'very unfortunate start in life'.
The judges concluded: 'The risks – physical, emotional, short and long term – are too great for Q to be brought up by her father.'
Although F and his wife's 'care and warmth' towards their own child was taken into account, the judges concluded there was 'a high likelihood' they would feel differently about baby Q.
By contrast, baby Q had quickly developed a deep attachment to her adoptive parents, known as Mr and Mrs A, Muslims who live in the UK but come from the same country as the baby's mother.
They had a 'high degree of empathy, sympathy, insight and maturity', and the judges said they had 'absolute confidence in Mr and Mrs A to give Q information about her background, her life, what happened to her mother, the feelings of her father, her father's wishes for her, and the fact she has another family.'
Mr and Mrs A have taken baby Q 'into their family and community...and into their hearts', it was said.
Every year in the UK, officials estimate that at least a dozen women are victims of honour killings, almost exclusively within Asian and Middle Eastern families.
A 2006 BBC poll for the Asian Network in the UK found that one in ten of the 500 young Asians polled said that they could condone the killing of someone who dishonoured their family.
Baby born to Muslim mother after affair must be adopted 'to keep her safe from honour killing attempts'


I was born and bred 5 mies south of the border. I am aware of how the North operates and I am also aware of how the south works. FF are a cancer and if you think getting cancer is the cure for your ills you are sadly mistaken.
My point is peripheral to the RHI scheme really. What I found strange was that an elected a politician was getting "approval" from non-elected people for even the most mundane decisions.
It presents two likely scenarios. The first is that he is completely incompetent. The second scenario (one which would be grist to the mill of Shinner critics) is that shadowy figures in the background are running the show.
The DUP have made such a fcuk job of things, the Shinners could get away with that without a whimper from the press.
It's bewildering to watch it from outside but I guess both parties have massive electoral mandates which they can point to as justification.
Who do we need then FG?
If Fianna Fail are a Cancer, Sinn Fein are the black plaque.
Did your da get knee capped or something?
I see in the latest Sinn Fein/DUP carve up the Belfast City councillors voted down channelling the £500k to an anti-poverty initiative so it could be given to Feile, so we can safely assume Jackie McDonald and his cohort of "community workers" will be getting a similar rate payer funded windfall soon, with Sinn Féin's full backing.
They don't even try to hide it any more.
Maybe with global warming we can grow bananas.
Purely coincidentally an identical sum of money has been made available for bonfire initiatives.
Yup. That about sums it all up.


I am a writer from Destin Florida.
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text:
Arne Hodalič, slovenski fotograf, biolog, popotnik, novinar, potapljač in jamar, * 10. julij 1955, Ljubljana.

Življenjepis
Počitnice je od šestega leta preživljal na taborjenju na Kornatih. Oče, zdravnik Milan Hodalič, je zgradil majhno jadrnico in nekaj let kasneje še majhno hiško na Kornatih. Od tod njegovo veselje do morja, jadranja, potapljanja. Leta 1975 je končal Poljansko gimnazijo v Ljubljani in leta 1980 diplomiral na Biotehniški fakulteti na oddelku za Biologijo - pedagoška smer in pridobil naslov profesor biologije.

Že pred diplomo je začel z aktivnim razstavljanjem fotografij in sodelovanjem v Foto grupi ŠOLT.

Po diplomi sta s prijateljico Meto zgradila jadrnico, leta 1984 pa sta s prijatelji začela s prvim čarterjem na Jadranu.

Leta 1986 je postal ustanovni član in aktivni sodelavec Trajne delovne skupnosti »BRUT Film« v Ljubljani, kjer je sodeloval pri snemanju večjega števila reklamnih spotov (Unior, Gorenjski tisk, Lek ...) in pri neodvisni ŠKUC-ovi art produkciji. Leta 1987 se je vpisal v razvid samostojnih kulturnih delavcev Republiškega komiteja za kulturo kot poklic: Likovna dejavnost - delo fotografa.

Leta 1988 je začel sodelovati s fotografom Bojanom Brecljem. Leta 1989, po petih poslovno uspešnih letih sta se z Meto naveličala čarterja, vse skupaj prodala in se tudi razšla. Januarja istega leta sta se s prijateljem fotografom Bojanom Brecljem odpravila v Indijo. Najela sta čoln in plula približno mesec in pol po Gangesu. Tukaj se je začela njegova profesionalna pot fotografa. Iz potovanja po Indiji sta pripravila osnutek fotografske monografije in odšla na Frankfurtski knjižni sejem. Založnika nista našla, spoznala pa sta urednika švicarske revije Animan, ki jima je predlagal, da gresta poslikat reko Nil, in pot tudi financiral. Nato sta za isto revijo šla še na reko Sepik na Papuo Novo Gvinejo. Arne je potem za njih naredil še dvajset različnih reportaž po celem svetu.

Leta 1990 se je preselil v Lausanne v Švici in začel delati v Parizu. Istega leta se je tudi ožje specializiral za podvodno fotografijo in video snemanje. Na svoje prve jamske potope je povabil svetovnega rekorderja v jamskem potapljanju Olivierja Islerja, kjer je napravil tudi nekaj posnetkov človeške ribice in leta 1991-1992 objavil reportažo v revijah v tujini. Reportažo je opazil tudi francoski režiser Christian Zuccarelli, s katerim sta nato leta 1998 o proteusu posnela tudi krajši dokumentarni film.

Leta 1991 je postal novinar IFJ (International Federation of Journalists). Istega leta je postal tudi član agencije »Gamma Press« iz Pariza (do leta 1993). Prvo veliko naročilo je dobil leta 1993, zgodba ob 30. obletnici atentata na John F. Kennedya, ko gresta z novinarjem pariške agencije GLMR raziskovati v Ameriko – Dallas.

V letih od 1993 do 1995 je bil gostujoči predavatelj za fotoreporterstvo na Parsons School of Design v Parizu. Leta 1994 se je preselil v Slovenijo in pričel sodelovati z domačimi mediji.

Med letoma 1994 in 1995 je poročal iz Sarajeva in Mostarja kot vojni reporter. Od leta 1995 je jamar v jamarskem klubu DZRLJ in JK Gregor Žiberna/ Divača.

V letih 1995-2004 je bil član agencije »Saola press« in Explorer« iz Pariza.

Od leta 1997 je član agencije »Navalon« iz Züricha in član multimedijske agencije »Corbis« (Microsoft), ki je bila ustanovljena na pobudo Billa Gatesa. Od leta 1997 do 1999 je bil podvodni fotograf za tovarno ur Sector No Limits za fotografiranje svetovnih rekordov v jamskem potapljanju (Olivier Isler) in potapljanju na dah (Deborah Andollo). Od leta 1998 je imel več fotografskih delavnic predvsem za poklicne fotografe in študente na temo »Barvna fotoreportaža in njene osnovne zakonitosti«. 1998 leta je postal tudi član agencije IPAK. Leta 2001 je izdal knjigo Potovanje v navidezno ogledalo.

Od leta 2003 je pripadnik specialnih enot ministrstva za obrambo v enoti tehničnih potapljačev.

Med arheološkimi raziskavama v Ljubljanici, kjer so našli najstarejše ostanke človeka na Slovenskem (stare 9500 let) je napisal reportažo, ki so jo odkupili v National Geographicu pod naslovom A River's Gifts (objavili januarja 2007 ). Leta 2006 je postal urednik fotografije pri slovenski izdaji revije National Geographic. Poleg tega pa je postal predavatelj  na Fakulteti za družbene vede v Ljubljani. Dve leti kasneje je dobil časni naziv docenta na Akademiji za umetnost. Od leta 2009 pa predava tudi na prvi šoli za fotografe, in sicer Visoki šoli za storitve (VIST) v Ljubljani.

Posebna znanja
 potapljač CMAS -*** special diver
 potapljač UDI (United Diving Instructors - zveza profesionalnih inštruktorjev potapljanja )-*** special diver
 potapljač IANTD (International Association of Nitrox and Technical Divers) - Technical Trimix diver in Advanced Nitrox diver
 potapljač ANDI (American Nitrox Divers International) - Rebreather diver,
 mornar motorist
 pomorski radiotelegrafist.

Delo

Odprave (fotograf in dejavni udeleženec)

 prečenje Sudanske puščave v čolnu po reki Nil (1989)
 prečenje Papue Nove Gvineje (1500 km s kanujem po reki Sepik) (1990)
 Hunan 96 (francoska jamarska ekspedicija na Kitajskem) (1996)
 Oman 97 (slovenska jamarska ekspedicija) (1996)
 »L'esprit de Bouganinville« (eno in pol letna francoska znanstveno-jadralna ekspedicija v jugovzhodni Aziji) (2000-2002)

Fotoreportaže

V regijah in državah : Evropa, Združene države Amerike, Rusija, Avstralija, Argentina, Kolumbija, Bolivija, Paragvaj, Afganistan, Pakistan, Gruzija, Armenija, Azerbajdžan, Kuba, Egipt, Sudan, Kamerun, Tanzanija, Madagaskar, Oman, Dubaj, Abu Dhabi, Gaza, Irak, Zanzibar, Indija, Andamanski otoki, Kitajska, Tajska, Nepal, Filipini, Indonezija, Bali, Papua Nova Gvineja, Irian Jaya, Kambodža, Šri Lanka, Maldivi.

Objave - tujina

Najpomembnejše objave v naslednjih revijah v tujini: National Geographic, Figaro Magazine, GEO (Nemčija, Koreja, Francija, Brazilija, Španija, Grčija), Paris Match, Marie Claire (tudi v šestih mednarodnih edicijah iste revije), VSD, Newlook, Cosmopolitan, Stern, Liberation, Life (USA), Die Zeit, Grands Reportages, Cousteau Junior, Gala, Animan, Airone, Espresso, L'Illustré, Oggi, Sette-Corriere della Sera, Gioa, Qui Touring, The Earth Magazine, Nature, UWF, Mer et Océans, Océans, Apnéa, Echo, Grand Air, Geodes, Science et Vie-Junior, Yachting, Tauchen, Unterwasser, Plongeurs International, Kosmos, Dictionnaire Robert, Atlante, Aqua, Historia, Abenteuer Natur, Volta ao Mundo, No Limits, Photo Image, Here, Hola, Hello Magazine, Altair, Integral, Wins-Japan, Ferenczy, Quo, Mail on Sunday, Das Tier, TI Magazin, Grands Espaces, Geografica Universal, Weekend Express, Physis, Nordfoto, Intermon, Blanco y Negro, Al Wasat, Saudi...

Objave - Slovenija

Najpomembnejše objave v slovenskih tiskanih medijih: Adria Airways inflight magazine, Delo, Sobotna priloga, National Geographic Slovenija, Mladina, Dnevnik, Glamur, Gloss, Ars Vivendi, Gea, Jana, Formart, Viva, Adrenalin, Grif, Pil, Flaneur, SBR, Playboy, Ona, Svet in ljudje, Horizont, ...

Fotografske razstave

 samostojna razstava v galeriji Rotovž v Ljubljani, 1979
 Venus Varšava 1985
 Nikon Live galery - Zürich 1992
 serija potujočih razstav po Švici organizirana pod pokroviteljstvom Fotovision iz Lausanna (CH) 1995
 samostojna razstava v Studio Medico v Švici 1998
 samostojna razstava v Mali galeriji v Cankarjevem domu 1999
 samostojna razstava v galeriji Avla v Ljubljani, 1999
 samostojna razstava »Jamski svet« v galeriji BTC v Ljubljani, 2000
 samostojna razstava v galeriji knjižnice Prežihov Voranc, 2001
 samostojna (dobrodelna) razstava v galeriji Lek v Ljubljani, 2001
 skupinska razstava ob 40 letnici »Grupe Šolt« Cankarjev dom, 2003
 samostojna razstava »Ukradeno otroštvo« v Mali galeriji v Cankarjevem domu 2004
 samostojna razstava »Ukradeno otroštvo« v galeriji Stolp v Mariboru 2004
 samostojna razstava »Ukradeno otroštvo« v galeriji Herman Pečarič v Piranu 2004
 samostojna razstava  »Barve Indije« na bregu Ljubljanice maj 2005
 samostojna razstava »Barve Indije« v Kud France Prešern maj 2005
 samostojna razstava »Barve Indije« v galeriji Stolp v Mariboru maj 2005
 samostojna (dobrodelna) razstava »Pogledi« o popotresni obnovi Pakistana v City Parku (Ljubljana in Celje) januar – februar 2006

Knjige

 Soavtor in idejni vodja za knjigo »Proteus anguinus - skrivnostni vladar kraške teme« (1993).
 Soavtor knjig: »The Ilustrated World's Religions« (1994) založbe Huston Smith, »Saints - The Chosen Few« (1994) založbe Labyrinth in »Mangroves« (1996) založbe Tropical Press
 Fotomonografija »Potovanje v navidezno ogledalo« (2001) založbe Didakta, .
 Fotografije za tri knjige »L'Odyssée de La Boudeuse« (Au-dessus des volcans, Les Mystere de Sungai Bai, Les 33 Sakudei) JC Lattès Publishers april 2001.

Film

 Podvodni snemalec, ko-scenarist, idejni vodja in organizator za dokumentarni film »Človeška ribica - skrivnostna prebivalka temin«.
 Sodelovanje pri francoskem dokumentarnem filmu »V deželi Kogijev«, Kolumbija (2000).
 Podvodni snemalec in ko-scenarist za dokumentarni film »Potopljeni darovi Ekorne« o arheoloških najdbah v reki Ljubljanici. (2004-2005)

Priznanja
 Nagrade

Nagrade za fotografijo

Fotografija za koledar Lutkovnega gledališča iz Ljubljane nagrajen z zlatim MM'99 (1999)
Plakat za Škocjanske jame nagrajen v Tokiju

Nagrade za film »Človeška ribica - skrivnostna prebivalka temin«.

 Posebna nagrada žirije na festivalu dokumentarnih filmov v Antibesu 1996.
 Nagrada mesta Toulon na festivalu v Toulonu 1996.
 Nagrada za najboljši novinarski dosežek na filmskem festivalu v Trentu 1997.
 Nagrada za najboljši profesionalni film na mednarodnem festivalu La Chaux-de-Fonds v Švici 1997.
 Nagrada za najboljši znanstveni dosežek na festivalu Tabaraka 1997.

Glej tudi

 seznam slovenskih popotnikov in raziskovalcev
 seznam slovenskih fotografov

Viri

 Arne Hodalič
 National Geographic Slovenija (z dovoljenjem Arne Hodaliča)

Zunanje povezave

 Osebna stran
 Intervju v Mladini
 Dokumentarec RTV Slovenije: »Poklic: Arne, dokumentarni portret«

Živeči ljudje
Slovenski novinarji
Slovenski fotografi
Slovenski popotniki
Slovenski jamarji