View allAll Photos Tagged Horror
© Leanne Boulton, All Rights Reserved
Street photography from Glasgow, Scotland.
Previously unpublished shot from July 2019.
My life, as you know, has turned into quite a personal horror story for me over the past few months and that comes on top of the much longer slow-burning horror of living with C-PTSD.
Some of you have expressed a wish to help, financially, through this difficult time.
I have been reluctant to make the means available because I don't want to appear to be begging for help.
My thoughts are changed somewhat by something I was told today. That I share my "extraordinary" work here and that I enjoy encouraging and receiving encouragement from others. That perhaps there are many people here that would like to continue to see my photographs and help me to continue to share them.
When I am able I will obviously consider ways and means to rebuild my photography career from it's 2019 "pre-pandemic" peak. In the meantime I face costs that I can ill-afford just to maintain my love of photography. The biggest crux being expensive Internet options while I am in temporary accommodation.
With this in mind I have created a "Donate" function through PayPal.
You are not paying for a service or product. I guarantee nothing other than the promise that your donations will be used for my photography - to keep me online, to allow me to take new work, edit old work and to share it with you.
I don't expect you to donate and I will not favour those that do donate over those that do not.
Any donations, however large or small, will be very gratefully received. Please know, however, that I am equally grateful just to know that you care and that I am in your thoughts. You can donate with the link below:
Take care my Flickr friends.
Walking in to the lakeside foggy night these scene looks like a scene from a horror movie..
See more Photos from me at my blog
It might not be the most upmarket place we’ve stayed in this year, but George (presumably Anglicized for the overwhelmingly British clientele) and his team have given us a very warm welcome. The apartment is comfortable and clean and we don’t ask for more than that. If George is slightly disappointed that we don’t spend quite as much time or money at the hotel bar as most of his guests, he doesn’t show it. Maybe my rapturous approval of the house Village Salad has put a big mark in the credit column for the occupants of room sixty-six. But we prefer to explore a holiday destination rather than lounge about by the pool ordering pints of Mythos all day. Besides which, Ali only drinks water. Hot water or cold water are the only two beverages she needs in life. People don’t believe her at first - they think she’s just being polite. No really - no tea, no coffee, definitely no juice or sugary fizzy pop (you should see her face when I pour a glass of orange juice in the morning), and no alcohol either. I make up for these shortfalls - except for the fizzy pop. I don’t drink that stuff either. I’m quite keen on the Mythos though. Especially the way it’s served in frozen glasses. I’ve taken to putting my own beer glasses in the ice box for an hour before pouring one back at the apartment in the evenings.
Our holiday rep is young, shy and giggly. She’s also Swedish. I was in Sweden less than two weeks ago, and at the bar, as I pay for my Village Salad, I bore the poor girl to sleep about my adventures in her homeland. She agrees that the west coast is a beautiful part of the country. In turn I agree that we’re having a lovely time here in Rhodes. She grins. I think it’s the last time we’ll stay in a place like this though. For years we booked everything independently, but after the pandemic, and just so we could blame everything on the operator when things went wrong, we returned to the traditional package holiday. But it’s not really our thing. Neither of us like mixing with other people, and we really don’t need to be entertained in the evenings. We much prefer the sound of the cicadas at night to what we’re being served with here. So far we’ve been treated to Whitney Houston, Bob Marley, Lionel Richie, Billy Ocean, Rihanna, Wilson Pickett and Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. All of this as we sit out on the balcony each evening, whether we like it or not. Obviously not the actual artists. How much do you think we paid for this holiday? Besides which it wouldn’t be possible as a number of them aren’t with us anymore. What’s interesting is that all of the performers come from South Africa. We think it’s the same people coming back every two or three nights, each time wearing different wigs. The quizmaster isn’t from South Africa though. Essex I reckon. He was still reading out the questions after midnight the other evening. The majority of the other guests are several years older than us. Exactly how many Rihanna songs are they familiar with? I only know two and I’m a mere stripling compared to most of them. The artists are very versatile. They usually lapse into Earth Wind and Fire or Heatwave after they’ve played the only three songs that anyone knows. Two if it’s Rihanna. Nobody seems to notice.
And competing with all of this is the din from the bar just across the way. To my horror, someone in charge of the jukebox has just faded out Mark Knopfler’s legendary guitar break from “The Sultans of Swing,” the only thing that has quite literally been music to my ears as we sit out here on the balcony in the dark. Because apparently it’s karaoke night. And the most important thing about being a karaoke performer is that you need to be tone deaf. Take the hen party that’s shouting the words of Paul Heaton over the microphone. More like an Imperfect Ten really. I sigh and open the Booking.com app. I noticed there were some apartments in a village up in the hills near the Seven Springs that we visited the other day. Next time we’ll do it all independently again, just like we used to.
To escape from all of this we’ve hired a car, just like we always do on these holidays. This time it’s a white Suzuki Celerio with a squeaky clutch pedal and a remote key fob that has a dead battery. Mostly we turn right at the bottom of our road, heading along the strip and out of town towards wherever we’ve decided to retreat to. Each time we do this, our first hazard is a bend in the road that I’ve unaffectionately named Poo Pong corner, a reference to the fact that it evidently sits over the town’s sewage drain, and upon which someone has opened a restaurant called Flames. Oh the irony! Surely it would only take a lit cigarette on an especially noxious day for the Flames to go up in, well, flames? It never seems to be that busy there. I love Greek food, but not when there are competing aromas coming from a river of floating effluent just a few yards away that’s come from the inner workings of a couple of thousand overindulgent tourists.
Occasionally though, we turn left instead of right, and drive a mile or two down the road to the tiny beach at the edge of the next town. This is a little piece of the Greece we love, with quiet water lapping at the shoreline, the flat warm sea such a gentle contrast to the drama we’re used to at home. And one evening as the sun sunk over the hills in the west it delivered the first worthwhile picture. Strangely, taken along the holiday strip rather than in some remote wild area. Later, back on the balcony, as someone from the raucous bar squawked to everyone within a half mile radius that they were simply the best, I had a quick go at it on the little laptop that comes with me on every holiday these days. I decided to award myself a small glass of ouzo. And promptly changed my mind in favour of a slightly bigger one. I needed to do something to drown that karaoke out.
OBSERVE Collective
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(1) My sister, Elizabeth, is missing. She was last seen taking a carriage to Whitechapel to meet up with a secret lover.
Yesterday I received a note, “Come to Whitechapel if you want to see what happened to your beloved Beth.”
I located the carriage that drove her, demanding he “Take me to where you took my sister.”
The driver scowled, “Miss, ya dunnt be wantin to go there.”
I tossed him a heavy coin purse and he took me to the wretched area. The scent of filth, fish, and destitute filled my nostrils. The chill overwhelmed as I wished I had my cloak to shield me from the creeping fog. But I was determined. flic.kr/p/2mJPej5
(2) I’m terrified. Not just for myself, but for my beloved Beth. I pray that I find her before it’s too late.
I wandered carefully through the streets, grime and filth everywhere. Muffled voices in the shadows, eyes following me as I searched for my beloved Beth.
My body soaked from the damp air; every step echoed through the cobblestoned streets. I began to breathe faster, feeling as if I was getting closer. flic.kr/p/2mJFNJj
(3) I dared to step into an abandoned courtyard. There she was, my beloved Beth, dead, mutilated on the cold uncaring ground. A scream built up inside my throat, unable to escape from the shock and horror. I needed to vomit, insides heaving. flic.kr/p/2mJN2t6
(4) Suddenly strong hands grab me from behind, and I was dragged into a dark alley. I’m frozen with fear when a man’s voice whispered in my ear… “See what happened to your beloved sister? Now you will join her.” Cold steel pressed against my throat, I’m unable to scream. Searing pain rakes over me as a blade repeatedly thrust into my body. Slowly I fade away.
(5) I fade away. flic.kr/p/2mJQc4A
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Photo taken at maps.secondlife.com/secondlife/Cloud%20Lake/110/85/41
Tattoo from Tattoo Islay - Horror Islay (ADD ME) @ The Darkness Event from 05/06.
ED. Alma Black @ Kinky Event
DOUX - Lulu hairstyle [DELUXE HUD]
Pose
Bauhaus Movement - Full Metal Panic 45
[Yomi] Baby Baphies // 13 @ Arcarde
***LeLUTKA Ceylon Head 3.0
Maitreya Mesh Body - Lara V5.0.1
Credit
© All rights reserved. Do not use without written permission from photographer.
02 de agosto de 2012-IMG_6526 collage completo photoshop
Unfortunately for the spider, it is doomed. The parasitoid wasp grub already has its head buried into the spider's abdomen. There is no way back for the spider. It is like something from a space scifi film and it is ever present in the invertebrate world.
FORTY-NINE
Right after I took this picture those little beady eyes turned to look at me. I moved on. Quickly.
"Just cause you got the monkey off your back doesn't mean the circus has left town."
George Carlin
I wish I’d have been here in 1972 when the cult horror film the ‘Wicker Man’ was being filmed. This beautiful cottage is the Old Schoolhouse at Anwoth, near Gatehouse of Fleet in Dumfries and Galloway, Scotland. It was used as Miss Rose’s schoolhouse in the film as was the Old Kirk, directly opposite. Anwoth is the most beautiful and atmospheric little hamlet and every time I go there, I am transported back to the film! The Old Schoolhouse is now a holiday cottage.
Para el Reto de Enero "Renacimiento" y porque ya no tenemos aquel grupo de Horrores de Panoramio, que si no, ya me diréis qué hacen los pobres osos como reclamo de una taberna. Siejkeeee
Third in an occasional series of frightful photos......
Others: www.flickr.com/photos/boblyp/2221355345/in/set-7215760136...
www.flickr.com/photos/boblyp/1572038575/in/set-7215760136...
Explore: 392 7.3.08
Let's start that Halloween party!!!
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Lel Evo X Horror Tattoo for 50L!
marketplace.secondlife.com/p/Barbiecide-Skate-Assault/240...
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