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Trash The Dress I've been in the photography industry for five years. I run Kiss the Bride Wedding Photography out of Wilton, New Hampshire. My passion and drive is often inspired by trying out new and exciting things. I have recently found the same passion in a salon I work with called Water's Edge Salon in Derry, New Hampshire. They're always up for trying anything creative! Shelly and Sheri run the salon and come up with some incredible conceptual ideas. I've done some amazing photo shoots with Shelly and Sheri including one with an Avant Garde theme and a bridal theme. I found that the passion the three of us put together is amazing! Ever since I saw a fierce bride walk into the ocean knee deep in her dress, I have wanted to participate in a Trash the Dress shoot. The bride I was working with on her wedding day wanted to get a picture up on top of a giant rock. She went right into the water and climbed that rock, without any hesitation. I ran the idea by the salon and what transpired was amazing. We crammed five storylines into one day with five photographers. The models' and photographers' passion and energy was intense. It rained a lot that day, but we were out there with our umbrellas. We did different themes, including a bride playing with matches and a hot fireman. We had a mother and daughter finger paint on a dress, and throw water balloons on it. We had another bride on a motorcycle that ripped her dress to pieces. In the Coca Cola bride shoot, we had a bride sit with an adorable puppy looking very polished. She then steps up, and drops some Mentos into the bottle to make the beverage explode in the air. The last bride we worked with was in an antique Airstream. She turned her wedding dress into a cocktail dress by cutting the bottom half off with scissors. Allison Sica is a photographer based out of New Hampshire. She absolutely loves candid photography. She works as a wedding & portrait photographer. The Trash the Dress photo shoot was a blast! It was shot at Water's Edge Salon & Spa in Derry, New Hampshire. The Water's Edge team provided the hair, makeup, and the creative direction for the shoot. Allison Sica's company, Kiss the Bride Wedding Photography, was there to capture these images. #Unreal #Wedding #TrashTheDress #WeddingDress #Photography #Bride #DIY #Recycle #WeddingPhotos Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Cat Sitters The homeowners hired me to look after their cats for two-and-a-half months while they were away in some exotic country or other. The job didn't require that I stay in their house, just that I check in on the animals twice a day to feed them and tend to their litter boxes.
When I got to their cute yellow and white house for my first visit, I spent a few minutes trying to find the cats. I eventually located one of them under the couch in the living room. He had eyes the size of pepperonis, and I could see his coat was mostly white with a few black splotches sprinkled here and there. The other—fat and all black with a white mustache—appeared just as I was studying the first and playfully fell over on her back, cutting me open a sliver when I got too close. As I bent over to scoop a litter box in the hallway leading away from the front entrance of the home, I heard a key in the door. In walked a person I had never seen before. The woman had long brown hair, and she wore it straight down her back. Her black t-shirt read “Metallica” in large silver letters. She looked as startled to see me as I was to see her. She introduced herself as “the cat sitter.” That can't be right because I'm the cat sitter, I told her. I wondered if she was an impostor, but I couldn't well do anything. In the spirit of good faith, I suggested that we share the assignment. Right then, I heard another key in the entry, and in walked a second person I had not seen before. This person introduced himself as the “the cat sitter” as well. I looked at cat sitter #2, and we both shrugged. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
They Who Say By Cynthia Abdullah QuailBellMagazine.com They say I am beautiful, Who stare at my face, And gaze at my bare lips. They say the fine lines on my neck, When I raise my chin to speak, Take their thoughts away. That my hair, So full and natural, Reminds them of the mysterious bushes In the Kalahari desert. They say that in my voice is A melody. But they say these words with their mouths. #Unreal #Poetry #CynthiaAbdullah #ActionsOverWords #SkinDeep #Beauty Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Raccoon Religion #Unreal #DigitalCollage #DigitalArt #Raccoons #Cathedrals #Religion #SmallAnimals #BigReligion Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Chalk Dust By Deniz Zeynep QuailBellMagazine.com raise your hand and ask your question, your questions are the trigger. the chalkboard is black, and the words are white, take a step back, for an answer in plain sight. raise your hand and speak your peace: your words are your ammo. the chalkboard is black and letters are white. raise your hand for all to see, but please, don't shoot me. #Real #Poetry #JusticeForMichaelBrown #Eracism #America #DoubleStandards Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Butterfly Breast From afar he noticed her breasts firm and strong, yet pliable enough to move with the wafting of the wind. His heart leaped and raced, his thoughts suffocating, feelings, feelings new, feelings strange, catapulting him to desire intimacy and its warmth. Her breasts were cisterns that gave me life. Gushing elixir that nourished and sustained my soul, soft, supple, full of mystical power that could heal my heart, dry my eyes, and lull my troubled mind. Fierce breasts that created oceans of promise, hope, in a world where human hearts lack compassion and concern. Her breasts hung down, suffering from the gift of time. Like the leaves of a weeping willow they cry. Prodded, stretched, and pulled, worn by unselfish usage. Voices of malignancy whisper at the steps of death Radioactive waves Probe for life among the dead. Was the purpose realized, to arouse the desire for life, to create life, sustain life, and then die by decapitation? #Unreal #Poetry #KeithWallace #BreastCancer #Life #Female #Cycle #Transformation #Love #Breasts #MammaryGlands Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Lace in the Window When the sleeve of Susan’s wedding gown, which hung on the shower rod, moved, she was sure it was because the fierce July storm was forcing its way around Room 15’s closed bathroom window.
She hated the country. Wind, dirt, rain, bugs, sleepless nights from strange animal noises and sticky, just like in that God-awful summer camp her parents had sent her to every summer. It didn’t help that she knew the Howe Caverns attraction and its adjoining motel had been hit hard by inflation. But this was the price to pay for a wedding the social pages were devouring. As an actress who hadn’t worked in awhile, her agent and publicist had insisted that she do something to create headlines. She wouldn’t be working again anytime soon if she didn’t. She’d been planning on marrying Larry somewhere swank and glamorous back home in the city, maybe the Waldorf. But being the first to wed at Howe Caverns in 38 years—the last wedding had been in 1938—was getting her a spot on something new called “Page Six” in the New York Post. Thunder shook the thin walls. Despite her room’s avocado-mustard décor, she could tell from the structure’s motor-court style it had been built well before she was born. It might have even been the kind of place her parents had stayed in on their wedding night—and the brutal rains weren’t helping, as everything was clammy and the air smelled faintly of wet grass, despite the staff’s overuse of lemon freshener. Perhaps inflation hadn’t been the only contributing factor to the place’s precarious position. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Awe Watching for that moment When She’ll do it. Waiting patiently When It doesn’t happen. Swift, One-handed motions Wielding the edge of her fork Like the blade of a sword or The knife lying untouched on her Napkin As she cuts her steak, Eyes hard and intense as she slices, As if she can intimidate the meat Into submission. #Unreal #Poetry #Poem #NaomiYung #Focus #Awe #Wonder #Meat #Eating Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Chain Gang 1958 Nashville, Tennessee
A thunderstorm cleared half hour before. Water slithered off the top of the truck as it creaked to stop. A heavy white man called Wyman in short sleeve shirt and khaki trousers stepped out from the cab. He moved to wait confidently by the tailgate holding a worn twelve gauge pump. In cadence, Bowers the white driver with a silver badge on his shirt and billy club in his belt came around with the key. He turned the key and twisted the hasp. The door flapped open. An unbound and indigo-faced man in a stained denim outfit hesitated at the portal. Barely five feet tall. Ash hair. Jimmy the trustee carried a roughly made wooden block for the routine. He jumped down to place the block below the door. Next he unhooked two water cans with dippers off the sideboard for both the gang and the guards. Another black man in a dusty uniform appeared in the daylight. Mechanically and slowly he stepped down followed by nine more. All black faces. They formed a line. Each man was chained at his ankles. The ten were connected by a longer measure of steel that threaded between their legs. Bowers called out each man's name. He check marked the convict number on a manila form held tightly by his clipboard. Like good children of another time the men spoke out loud only when spoken to. Last in the column was Walter Hyde. Walter blinked in the bright light and gazed at the guard. He thought to himself. "Whoa, lookee here. This cracker some trouble. Walter, Walter. Just be jailbird. Man, you know how." The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Betty & The Mortician The papers said she was a small-town girl from Massachusetts, an aspiring actress with the looks of Hedy Lamarr or Norma Shearer. The boys, they liked her minced walk-- those black curls and tight black dresses-- but it was the smile that won you-- an aphrodisiac painted deep red. The picture didn’t do her justice. I examined her body-- black curls, upstairs and down, matted with dirt and blood. Body, cut clean in half. I bent over to get a look at those eyes-- death had yet to dull their blue. Folks say she didn’t care for school, but studied movies religiously. She was determined to be known by the world--one day, with bags and ambitions, she fled to California. Reporters called her a vagabond amongst other Lost Angels. No permanent address, though her mother received letters every week. When the cops brought her in to identify the body, I pardoned the girl’s condition; I had not yet stitched up the sides of her mouth. I hear the leeches got to the daughter first, Calling up the poor mother with some cockamamie story that her Little Betty had won a beauty contest. The mother answered their questions proudly, never the wiser, never knowing she was ghostwriting her own daughter’s obituary. Betty’s pretty picture was soon plastered across headlines and the evening news-- I could still hear the mother’s shrill screams from a few hours before. I had kept the girl’s severed body draped, to give her some dignity, but I couldn’t hide her Glasgow smile. #Unreal #Poetry #JessyRenrut #Death #Beauty #Perfection #Dreams #Ideal #WannabeMovieStar #YoungActress #DieYoung Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. |