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Your Ta-da TeeI would like to share with you all what I will call the "Freezer Paper Stencil Method." This is the technique I use to create my own graphic tees. It is super affordable, requires little equipment, and produces great results! Advantages: What is great about this method is that it allows for floating "islands" in your design where, in a traditional stencil, you would use "bridges." Disadvantages: After it has been painted, the stencil becomes prone to tearing, so do not expect to efficiently mass produce using this particular stencil technique (much less paint a second shirt). Materials: Cotton/Cotton blend shirt Freezer paper X-Acto knife Cutting board/Self-healing mat Iron Board Foam brushes Fabric paint Container Step 1: Draw, transfer, or print your design onto the rough side of a sheet of freezer paper
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Cowboy and The WitchBy Robin Wyatt Dunn QuailBellMagazine.com The witch she’s dreaming she is sleeping I hold her in the dark Los Angeles night. The witch she is dreaming she is Hecate apostrophe on the king his crown she fucks us all harder than anything inside the metal door the Gnostic rite cut patched upside her monkly corridor the stew the bubble toil and trouble trembling turbled god-maned and god-housed, the mind the fluid and the terrible embrace of Dream, her own― My witch, if only you could be my witch, but you are never anyone’s... I hold her, feeling her far away as she sleeps. She’s beautiful for that reason, made of so many things, made anew. The violent door it holds my door, the violent door. The sky is far away and within me is violence but also, from whence it came. I bear its agency its rage and I carry, I am, in a sense, its past course. I am what violence was, and in this I become what I am, and what it is. Violence is a door and so am I; and it holds mine, trembling, honorably, forcefield beyond the world, the hurt the murk and then the work we shirk before we rake our faces for the blessing of the memory the sight, all the things we suspect we always knew, it’s there inside the fist― #Fiction #CreativeWriting #WitchAndCowboy #Witch
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Frame and Sequence Experimental #Film #FrameAndSequence #Experimental #ExperimentalFilm #AsiaHunt
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Self MeditationI am predominantly a portrait photographer and the process of choosing subjects and organizing time can sometimes require a break. These self portraits were taken during a time when I needed to focus on myself. It was very calming to not need to depend on anyone, because the only person I needed to take these images was me. Giving myself these blocks of time was a form of mediation and provided me with an uplifting freedom that I really needed. #Photography #JasmineThompson #Model #Bodyscapes #SelfPortrait #Meditation
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The Five PigsBy Sandra Scholes QuailBellMagazine.com A poor farmer owned five large pigs he kept in a sty, and, though he had no time to look after them himself, he had a handsome young farmhand that fed and looked after them while he was away. Each pig had a number on its flank, which let the farmhand keep track of which ones had been fed.
One morning while the farmer was out, the farmhand let the first pig out for a run around the field, and tossed some feed on the grass when he had got tired. The farmhand stood proud, gazing at how happy the pig looked, grunting away and enjoying the feed. Once the pig had finished, he urged the pig back into the sty, and carried on with his other chores. Three hours later, the farmhand let the second pig out, watching her run free on her trotters, and when she had stopped, he threw out some feed for her, for by now she would be very hungry after all that exercise. When she had finished her meal, he sent her back into the sty, setting about doing other tasks before tending to the third pig. After about three more hours, the farmhand let out the third pig, letting her roam around the field before feeding her. Just as he had done with the others, the farmhand fed her and put her back in the pen. Not long after, he let out the fourth pig and fed her, too. But before he had the chance to let out the fifth pig, something disturbed him. It was the lady from the mansion up the road. "What is a handsome man like yourself doing all alone on such a beautiful day as this?" she enquired, twirling a blonde tress around her fingers. "While my master is away, I am feeding the pigs." His eyes lit up at the mere sight of the young lady and she also admired his muscular physique. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Within The Fade Last Spring a dear friend of mine, returned. no souvenir in hand, but a tattooed wrist inscribed. “don’t try” Everyone's got that person in their life who can’t see the reflection of their own potential. reminding you that time is a clairvoyant kind of conveyor belt and how important it is to dodge mundane bullshit such as trash-talking exes more than once a week, and to be less obvious when it comes to sobering up that kinda friendship, that forces you to count your age. Anyways, her last goodbye, I do not remember. How easy she made leaving seem How heinous each hiatus, her anti tethered personality. A civilized hybrid, attempting to be a giant. not a calendar girl. Grandiose focus, a discredit to all other seasons. Flat footed and breathtakingly unattractive, by industry standards. I do remember How proud she was of herself. In a previous life, she was probably a pistol. A guilty product of divorce. who saw remorse as a vagabond excuse used to deny right now a fair chance. Too bad she knew, we would turn her into the noose. Like we always did, with people who stick around. Perhaps, she had better adjectives in mind than a cathartic scapegoat for privilege. Perhaps she was a mirage. not to be taken seriously. When I was five my mother took us to mass and on the car ride home we noticed what the gospel failed to mention. There is no better paradigm than an immoral, complex, and intelligent woman. consider that truth the next time your limited vocabulary has no better comeback than “that’s what she said” This is an effort to tie up loose ends. To make an exit out of a superficial wound. because you can’t be what you can’t see, and there just isn’t enough time to fix what hasn’t been broken yet I am learning there are no detours to places worth going. I am learning the path is paved with words said outloud and unspoken. Sylvia Jones is a college student living in Richmond, Virginia. She still remembers first impressions way better than television but consider both real and visceral. She is obsessed with eccentricity and language. How each can exist as intrinsic elements of culture while also convey a wide array of traditions. Furthermore, media literacy being used as a catalyst for word of mouth is an area that as a communications major she is most particularly invested in. #Poem #Poetry #CreativeWriting #WithinTheFade
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With the SnowstormBy Vladimir Ziniakov QuailBellMagazine.com “Her fault,” I whispered and saw my breath coming out in a milky cloud. “Her fault,” I said louder and shivered as the wind embraced me with its large snowy paws. I shook the flakes away and ran through the blizzard, without the courage to look behind.
Why did I bring the knife in the first place? I had heard some rumors about her—something that I started to suspect on my own, still not believing. I don’t recall the details. Everything before that fateful moment seemed to happen ages ago, although in truth, barely a few minutes could have passed. I ran, feverously seeking to escape the justice that I had brought upon my head. The wind howled, lashing me with myriads of pallid ice shards. Empty bottles and glass splinters tinkled under my feet. Drunkards grinned at me out of the windows of the numerous bars, glued together to an endlessly long building. I fled through Dumskaya Street, the shadowy heart of Saint Petersburg. That city of gloom and dusk and of never ending twilight—built upon the deadly marshes at the shores of the cold Baltic Sea—built upon the bones of its forgotten builders. Saint Petersburg had shadow everywhere, and it seemed that I could hide around every corner. The snowstorm helped, nearly blinding me—and, hopefully, anyone who might be following my trail. Would they search for me? True, somebody must have called the police, but are the cops as hasty as they ought to be? Violence is your closest companion on Dumskaya Street—that den of booze, of debauchery and of danger. Here, you could leave the troubles of the past behind, plunging into the chaotic present. You could end up in a pool of blood, with the snow falling down on your frozen open eyes. The bars spit the human mass back to the street, where the Sabbath rages on. Yeah, and there she was, despite all her hypocritical claims. That parody of a man was pawing her; heck, I don’t even remember his face. A flash of my blade cut through the flickering half-light, and her blood dripped on his fancy waistcoat. For a terrifying second, I became deaf. I don’t recall making it outside. Perhaps I pushed someone, then shouldered the bouncer... or rather slipped away from the bustling crowd. Away, I had to run away! Only now mattered. Away with the sound of the glass shattering underfoot, away from the chiseled, multi-eyed Dumskaya Tower! The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
A Colorful ProcessGrace is currently a senior at Virginia Commonwealth University majoring in Communication Arts with a minor in Art History. Her mind has always preferred to talk through the hand: drawing has always been her language of choice. In addition, she enjoys a good book, a warm environment, inspiring friends, and a mind-flushing run on terrain. #FeaturedSketchbook #Sketchbook #GracePopp #ProcessWork #Sketches #FigureDrawing
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The WordBy Holly Day QuailBellMagazine.com we pray that the signs are real and go about our day. the fields must be turned, the animals fed. we wake with the words in our heads and a choir in our hearts. children whisper about angels and ask if it’s true. sunrise, sunset, and the whispers grow louder the occasional ecstatic shout. people lock their doors leave homes full of the past behind as they climb the hills, set up camp. as the sun rises, one last time we make plans to meet God. Holly Day was born in Hereford, Texas, also known as “The Town Without a Toothache.” She and her family currently live in Minneapolis, Minnesota, where she teaches at the Loft Literary Center. Her published books include Music Theory for Dummies, Music Composition for Dummies, and Guitar All-in-One for Dummies. #Poetry #Poem #CreativeWriting #TheWord
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