The first of many spectacles of the evening came in the form of the Kardashian-Jenner clan filing out to their seats dressed in all-white ensembles adorned with crystals and floor-length fur coats. They looked like a troupe of glittering Liberaces in contrast to the stark Yeezy 3 collection that was worn by 200 or so models and took center stage. They were decidedly unglamorous, standing solemnly in, around, and on top of two dilapidated structures that kind of gave off a vibe of a favela. (For the third time in as many seasons, West partnered with artist Vanessa Beecroft for the performance piece, hence the stoic poses.) In his third collection for Adidas, West seemed a bit more comfortable in his role, or at least he seems to be listening to some of his loudest detractors. Sure, there were bodysuits, leggings, and sweatsuit combos — his usual fare for Adidas — but for the first time, there was also an infusion of color! Muted shades of red, orange, and yellow. And instead of seeing models wearing nude asexual Spanx-like bodysuits, there were knit leotards. Naomi Campbell, Veronica Webb, Liya Kebede, and Alek Wek even made an entrance in all-black jumpsuits with long fur coats which was odd but amusing. A cropped shearling jacket in a tangerine hue caught our eye as did a long olive green duster in suede.
Not everyone was as into the scene though. There were the complaints, of course that the music was too loud (which was accurate, West played The Life of Pablo at such a deafening volume that it caused many top editors and retailers to flee almost immediately). And then there was the setup itself, which while technically considered “art” made the models look like a bunch of refugees, a highly sensitive topic at a time when the people of Syria and other war-torn countries are fleeing for their lives. The contrast was real: Kardashians sitting there dripping in gold and diamonds, West is yelling how Adidas “paid for this whole thing.” It didn’t help that the models had been standing under a giant tarp for at least an hour while people took their seats or that they were instructed to not to smile, dance, make eye contact, or look at the Jumbotron. (That last one was a big no-no.)
Those who are keen on Yeezy 3 are in luck. West was in such a good mood that he announced to the crowd that he’s lowering his prices. (He must have realized that no one was going for that $500 brown sweatshirt.) “We’re gonna lower prices,“ he said. "That’s just learning curves whenever you start [a brand].”
Of course, as per West’s wont, he soon contradicted himself by saying that he wanted to take over the world’s most luxurious fashion house. “I told this to Anna [Wintour] backstage, my dream is to be the creative director of Hermès,” West told the crowd, which caused them to jeer and the rapper to retort, "Oh, that’s a bad idea?“
In Kayne’s world anything is possible. I’m sure it will look good on his résumé for POTUS 2020.
Amber was just taking a walk–to nowhere in particular. At least that’s what she told herself. She knew where she would end up even as she cursed herself for the way her legs automatically led, no pushed, her there. The lighthouse was ominous in the darkness and she sighed deeply as she walked towards it, her heart speeding and her face hot. She heard shouting before she reached the doorway and she paused nervously. What if she’d interrupted something?
Amber swallowed her doubt and walked into the dilapidated building. “E-erik?” She called meekly. No one else would’ve been here in the middle of the night but he had distinctly been shouting at someone else. She was surprised to see him pacing with bugged out eyes, clenched fists, and an aggressive stance. She almost turned to leave but her fear and concern held her there. “What’s going on?” She asked casually somehow managing to keep her voice calm.
On the outskirts of New York lies a derelict building known as Letchworth Village. Although dilapidated and vacant now, it was once home to some 4,000 asylum patients and was considered one of the most prestigious “Madhouses” in the country. It proudly claimed to be the hospital where the first ever Polio vaccine was performed in 1950. Coincidentally, staff failed to disclose that the patient was an 8-year-old mentally challenged boy, who was strapped down and forcefully injected.
Rumours of malpractice started to circulate as early as the 1920s, but were quickly ignored by officials who were already inundated with work. Thousands of patients would be crammed into tiny, unhygienic rooms without proper care. All patients were neglected in one way or another and, sadly, many of them were both physically and sexually abused by the nurses and doctors. It’s not surprising that Letchworth Village remains one of the most haunted buildings in New York, with thousands of souls still wandering it’s walls, desperately looking for a way out of the hellhole.
A/N: It’s been awhile, but I finally wrote something! I’m…not even sure what this is? I had this nagging idea of what Killian might think when he first sees Emma in the Underworld, and finally managed to get it written down. Speculation but no spoilers. Title shamelessly stolen from Gilbert Parker. ~1200 words.
They’ve combed the entire town twice over, splitting up and meeting and splitting up yet again. The more logical places – the docks, her (their) home, Granny’s, the library – are empty, dark and smelling faintly of ash.
The Jolly is a ghost ship, its sails blackened and the once-pristine deck stained with soot, the paint chipping and the wood rotting. It’s the third time she’s searched it but the first time she’s allowed her heart to break at the sight of it, pausing to look around the deck as she climbs out of the dilapidated captain’s quarters.
Everything here is wrong, broken in some way. And if Killian –
She pushes the thought away before she can finish it, steeling herself as she leaves the ship to meet with her family once more, to come up with a new plan of attack. Emma isn’t sure how long they’ve been here; there’s no day or night, no need to sleep, and time…. it feels wrong, too, just like everything else, elastic and nebulous and useless.
Looking at the dilapidated buildings and overgrown equipment of this apocalyptic wasteland, it’s hard to believe that the Sleighton School, PA was only abandoned in 2001. Founded in 1826 before moving to its current location in Glen Mills in 1910, the school was originally an alternative school for girls who were troubled or had a criminal background. Students were sentenced here by court order. In 1975, the school became coed. By 1998, the school ran into some financial trouble, and at the end of the 2000-2001 school year, it closed its doors forever.
The abandoned school consists of multiple buildings and sits on 300 acres of land. Their are classrooms, dormitories, a gym, and a chapel, all of which now sit void of human life. There is something utterly haunting about the current state of this former institution. It’s as if on the last day of school, students and faculty simply walked out the building, leaving everything behind. Schoolwork and books litter the desks, shelves, and floors that are slowly falling apart. A janitor’s cleaning supplies still sit in the broken-down bathroom. Motivational posters and 2001 calendars hang on the walls, and food and personal items still lie on tables and in drawers in the cafeteria area and dorms. Since 2001, nature has reclaimed this former school for troubled teens. Paint peels from ceilings, walls crumble, and windows shatter to expose the school to the elements. Vines grow on and in every building, and trees and other plants grow up and in between the bleachers and cracks in the macadam.
Although there were never any major incidents at the school while it was still in operation, there is still something very dark lingering there. Perhaps it is the energy of the troubled students, who worked and went to school for long hours every day. Visitors report seeing a humanoid black mass following them on the school grounds. It is opaque and moves quickly. People often feel overwhelmingly sad at the school, and some sort of lingering presence can be sensed. Whether there’s something paranormal going on at the school is unclear, but there is still something very sobering in seeing the names of former students scrawled across composition books and test papers still sitting on their desks. Parts of a few buildings have been lost to fire over the years.
So, daily soaps… Indian television is filled with ‘n’ numbers of daily soaps which has canopied the prime hours of the ‘Idiot box’ as well as the household of almost every Indian family.
From what little I have seen I can insinuate that it is the origin of Coincidences. I feel like those melodramatic scenes are an indication towards to the ‘seed of love’ whereas that is not even a mile near…