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~Owner of Pit Row Tire and Auto~
One of the friendliness people you will ever meet. So refreshing to meet someone on a photo-walk like Tommy.
I was walking through a small rural town finding interesting buildings to shoot when I happened upon Tommy's business. He walked out of the shadows of his garage after one of his workers shouted that 'hey, someone is out here taking pictures!' I was prepared to be asked to leave. But it was the opposite. He even agreed to have his portrait taken.
[Marilou, IcyDoll FC by PolkaDollsFabrics]
Je ne n'avais pas repris cette poupette en photo depuis son arrivée, autant dire que ça date ! Mais c'est la seule doll de ma mère avec laquelle j'ai un peu de mal... Enfin *j'avais plus exactement, car à présent avec ce style je la trouve très mignonne ! ♥
Et vous, comment la trouvez-vous ? ^^
A reporter takes a phone call outside the secure perimeter of a recent political rally under the watchful eyes of snipers positioned to survey the woods beyond the grass parking lot of the small airport.
Brownie Hawkeye Flash with modified lens
Kodak T-Max 400
Ilfosol S developer 1:9 @ 6 mins
La neve possiede questo segreto di ridare al cuore un alito di gioia infantile che gli anni gli hanno impietosamente strappato.
(Antonine Maillet)
"Kate" Bolduan, American broadcast journalist for CNN based in New York City... and currently the host of 'At This Hour'.
"Sposi Reporters" è una equipe creata da "Franco Ferri Mala PhotoTeam". Un Team professionale per i Vostri servizi Fotografici. Siamo a Bassano del Grappa in Via Museo 35, Tel.0424.220798- Cell.346.8872914.
mail: francoferrimala56@gmail.com
www.facebook.com/Sposi-Reporters-654734891378196/
Realizziamo Matrimoni professionali Memorabili.
Modelo: Jon Kortajarena
Motivo: Gran Canaria Moda Calida 2009
Reportero y Medio: Mykel para CANARPRESS
Lugar: Lopesan Costa Meloneras Resort. Maspalomas, (Isla de Gran Canaria, Spain)
Fecha: 26 de Junio 2009.
y Twmpath (welsh)
The Mound in modern English,
Friday, October 24, 1931
2:00pm
Office of the local newspaper
A reporter, Michael, has been summoned to the office of his Editor
Micheal, a cocky gangly youth of 25 standing around 5’3, is feeling apprehensive as enters the office. He has been begging recently to be allowed to go out and report on a really “juicy” story.
His editor, a bulldog of a man who stands 6’3 who is not afraid to through his rather massive weight around, is talking on the phone as he looks up at the reporter.
He nods Michael to sit in a chair as he finishes up with. “Good, we’re all set then. He is here now. See you Saturday.”
He hangs up. Taking a lit cigar, the editor gives it several billowy puffs as he looks Michael over with a nasty grin before speaking.
“ Michael I’ve decided to give you that story you’ve been whining over.”
Michaels editor pulls the cigar from his mouth and points it at The reporter’s chest.
“Halloween is next weekend and the paper needs a solid, gripping story to lead into it. Something our competitors would not have. A first-person experience is what the story needs. And your just the man to do it.”
Michael cringes, not liking where this is going judging by the snide look on his editor's unshaven mug. He sighs and asks the question, already dreading the answer.
“Where will I find this story at?”
His editor grins wickedly with his answer
“The old Macmillan place On y Twmpath.”
Replacing his cigar the editor leans back and lets the words set in. Pleased with himself at the shock and horror that his reporter now has plastered on his face.
Michael is dumbfounded over the idea, and he attempts to come up with an alternative.
“What if I stayed overnight in a graveyard, or at the old insane asylum. Wouldn’t those make a better story?”
Michael watches as his editor slouches forward in his chair, the end of his smelly cigar just under the hapless reporter’s nose.
“Look lad, with this depression going on, jobless people need a really strong story to take their minds away from worries.”
The editor pulls out his cigar and looks it over as he continues…
“And there are plenty of others out there looking for work. So you want a job and I want a story, this story! So now, will you (jabbing the cigar at Michael) be the one to get it for me, or will you be the one reading someone else version on the unemployment line?”
Michael, feeling like a mouse cornered by a tomcat, nods his head reluctantly.
“Good then. It’s all set. The caretaker and his child stay days on the grounds. He will meet you there tomorrow at 5:00…”
So at dusk on that Saturday our newspaper reporter, Michael, finds himself at the large, high wrought iron gates that lead onto the property.
A little solemn-faced girl is standing at the open gate, staring at him. Pale-faced, wearing a faded white frock, she does not answer when he questions where her dad would be!
Just turns her head to look back at a truck parked in front of the stone cottage built from bricks scavenged from the old church.
Then he turns his attention back to the strange young girl. With a jump, he realized she was no longer there, or anywhere as far as he could see.
Shaking his head, the reporter passed the gates and drove up to park alongside the truck.
With a heavy sigh, Michael gathers his things and makes his way to the cottage.
The Caretaker waiting at the door for him, speaks it with an impatient voice.
“Cutting it a bit close ain’t ya laddie?
Couldn’t pay me to stay here past dusk. Was getting ready to leave now, wasn’t I!”
Michael apologize, then asked if the electricity had been put on for him?
“No electricity son. Need to use candles Dontcha? Now, My son and I usually don’t stay this late so I’ll collect him and be leaving. The house door is unlocked. You can have the run of the place. Just try snd not break anything.”
With that, the old caretaker turns snd goes back inside. Shutting the door in Michael’s face.
Michael took the hint and went to the wooded pathway that led from the stone cottage up to the Macmillan mansion.
Suddenly it occurs to him, as he made his way up to the looming old mansion, that the old caretaker said his son.
Could have sworn a girl definitely had been at the gate waiting? Waiting for … him?”
He reached the mansion, eerily outlined in the fast-approaching nightfall.
A storm was beginning to form, dark ominous clouds gathered quickly overhead.
He had brought a torch and now turned it on, locating the front door.
He walked up the rickety stairs to the porch and made his way inside.
Closing the door behind him he stood in the large foyer A pair of stairs sweeping upstairs along either side. There was an uncanny quiet about the place. A dead silence that made him feel, with prickly goosebumps, that the house was holding its breath, waiting to see what this intruder wanted here.
Like one sees in ghostly movies, all the furniture was covered in old white sheets. Resembling spooks sitting or standing in place.
A wind, the foretelling of the approaching rainstorm, began whistling around the mansion. Through unseen cracks a breeze came in, making the sheets slightly move.
Michel shook his head clear of thought, no one here but himself. He must keep that in his head.
He walked through the foyer and turned into the first room on his right.
It was an old study. Ceiling high shelves were still loaded with mouldy old tomes.
Long windows were covered by heavy red velvet drapes, making the room totally black except where the narrow beam of his torch lay. There was a pair of sheet-covered high-backed padded chairs placed in front of a fireplace. A lamp in between, looking like a person standing under the sheet. Michael thought it resembled an old butler waiting to serve whoever was sitting there.
Michael saw that there was wood in the fireplace, paper, and matches laying out on the stone hearth.
He went over and was able to start a small flickering fire.
He went to the chairs and pulled off the sheet from one. It was red plush velvet, matching the curtains. He sat down. Then got quickly back up. He had looked over at the other chair had envisioned in his head a person was sitting there under the sheet.
He pulled off the sheet from that chair, and then the lamp.
Satisfied he sat back down and pulled out the journal he had brought to write notes for his story.
Michael had decided that there was no need to be wandering alone in the old mansion. Who knows what floorboards were rotten where a foot, or body, could fall through?
Besides, the house was sleeping, and he didn’t want to wake it.
He froze the hair prickling up along his spine. What in God’s name had put that haunting thought in his head?
Whatever could be woken up here? The original inhabitants were long gone. Weren’t they?
Michael admonished himself…
“That will be enough of that rot. “
The rains started then, with rumblings of thunder off in the distance.
“To work now lad.”
So, with the fire crackling, Michael place the torch between his neck and shoulder to illuminate the journal and began to write.
Taking a writer’s liberties and embellishing on what he had so far seen and encountered….
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
There were feet making noise upon the floor overhead. Voices could be heard murmuring from the top of the stairs above the foyer. Micheal tried to rise from the chair to investigate but found he could not move.
But he saw them.
Two malnourished young girls in wrinkled servants' uniforms. Girls whose skeletons could be clearly discerned protruding from dry stretched skin. Their eyes were sunken in like from lack of sleep. Their hair is a very premature shade of grey. They were looking down over the banister, speaking in hushed scared tones that he could somehow overhear.
“That was her I tell you, coming inside.”
“Where do you think she went, the master's study?”
“Someone is in there, sure enough, but not the master, he disappeared outside
And never came back, after looking for our mistress.”
“It was she that did it, or that thing possessing her. She was never right after becoming lost in the woods. Mistress found her, curled up in the middle of the circle on top of the mountain. Wasn’t in her mind when they woke her, talking with that hoarse voice, sounding like that of a man.”
“That was no man's voice. It was a demons I tells ya. Because then the bad things began happening. It wasn’t her, but what poss….”
CRASH!
Michael jumped as the sound of lightning ripped through the house.
2:30 am He must have fallen asleep and had had nightmares.
The thunder must have been the parting shot of the storm. It had stopped raining.
The house had again grown silent.
But not totally. For from somewhere in the house. Coming up echoed through the floor register, he heard the unmistakable humming of a child.
Michael reached to the floor for his fallen torch.
“Bloody Damn” he swore as he clicked the switch. The batteries had died. And he had left the spares in the auto.
But the sound was real and not showing signs of stopping.
Michael rose and went to the foyer. A full moon had come out, giving just enough light to see his way.
There was another floor registry just at his feet. And up through it still came that hauntingly eerie child’s humming.
He looked up half expecting to see the figures of those two gaunt servant girls looking down.
But nothing was there. It had been a dream. Michael said that to himself but had trouble convincing himself that it had been just that.
But from where was that blasted humming coming from.
Curiosity overtook common sense.
Instead of turning around and leaving right then and there, Michael approached the stairs and slowly began walking up.
As he reached the top snd peered down the long darkened corridors, he realized the humming coming out of the registers was now louder.
He moved on into the depths of the house stopping at each door for a listen. But not opening any.
The doors were all closed, save one that he could make out at the end of the corridor.
When he reached the end, in the murky light, he could see that stairs led up to the attic floor above.
At the top was where the humming could be headed quite clearly.
Now throwing caution to the wind, the reporter walked up the stairs.
At the top of the stairs were four doors.
Three were closed. One was opened and it was from here the humming appeared to be coming from. Strands of moonlit came out into the Corritore.
He could see a shadow outlined on the floor, moving the rhythm with the humming
He was not alone here.
Michael walked up to the room and peered around the corner to look inside.
The room is a child's Nursury with old rickety toys, freaky-looking dolls, and other bits and bobs that a child would collect.
I’m the centre is a child’s drawing desk. And seated hunched over, her back to him, is the creepy girl that had met him at the gate.
She is busy drawing something on the board, humming that weird little tune he had been following to its source.
He walks up and sees a quite good picture of the front of the old mansion that had been drawn. Dark clouds are above it, yellow streaks coming out, a childish attempt at drawing lightening
She is currently drawing the backside of a rather bent figure in a long brown coat looking in at one of the mansions' third-floor windows. Hovering in the air.
He asks the girl without thinking,
“whose that”
The humming abruptly stops as The girl looks up past him then slowly lifts a hand and points
He follows her finger to an outside window.
Michael feels his blood draining, turning as white as a ghost.
For, looking back in at them from that window is.
Something not quite human, and quite terrifying.
It possessed a white face, with large round black eyes with no pupils, no hair, or nose. A gaping mouth full of crooked, jagged teeth. And a red substance was dripping from its lips.
Michael stands there horror-struck as he looks at the terror on the outside of the window.
The girl rises and walks to that window…
And to the reporter's horror, begins to open it.
Long green bloated fingers with scraping claws grip the window seal from the outside.
Michael turns and flees the room, running down the stairs.
Reaching the corridor he looks back up over his shoulder. Nothing is there. But he knows it is coming after him.
For he had been seen!
That thought entered Michaels's head for no reason, nor did he understand why. But he believed it.
Flying along the corridor he reaches the stairs leading to the foyer, out of the corner of his eye there appear to be two shapes huddled in a dark bedroom doorway.
He did not stop to look, instead ran full tilt onto the upper landing.
Not able to catch jus breath, heart pounding like it had never had before Michael takes the stairs three at a time. The at the bottom vaults to the door.
Sure that something quite evil is in hot pursuit
Michael hurls open the door and runs out into the cold darkness of the night.
>>>>>>>>>>>!
The next morning the caretaker sees they Michaels auto is still there.
Having his son(a strapping lad of 16) wait guard by the reporter’s auto, he slowly walks up to the house.
>>>>>>>>>>
On the following Friday, the late addition of the newspaper carried the story written above.
Michael’s bloodstained notebook had been found several kilometers up the hill.
The scribbled words within used to write the story.
According to the last pages Michael had made it back to the auto and locked himself inside.
There, feeling somewhat safe, wrote his story down while it was still fresh.
It ended with a final unfinished scribble
“Damn, she is …..”
No sign of the reporter Michael’s body was ever found
The story appeared under the title
A nightmarish night on y Twmpath
It ended with the final line
Happy Halloween
1931
And cheers to yours.
Aracaju - Barra dos Coqueiros
Sergipe - Brasil
mais imagens: álbum/set Arquitetura + Externas =>
www.flickr.com/photos/wilsonhouck/sets/72157645781378601/
mais imagens: Álbum Foto-Repórter =>
www.flickr.com/photos/wilsonhouck/sets/72157634629050510/
mais imagens: google-panoramio =>
"Sposi Reporters" è una equipe creata da "Franco Ferri Mala PhotoTeam". Un Team professionale per i Vostri servizi Fotografici. Siamo a Bassano del Grappa in Via Museo 35, Tel.0424.220798- Cell.346.8872914.
mail: francoferrimala56@gmail.com
facebook: business.facebook.com/Sposi-Reporters-654734891378196/?bu...
Realizziamo Matrimoni professionali Memorabili.
This was processed with Photomator and Topaz Denoise AI.
Reference: L1030105-photomator-denoise-standard.jpeg
Bought in Tintin's hometown, Brussels, this keyring has travelled all over Europe with me and now looks a little worse for wear. He hasn't quite clocked up as many miles as his comic book counterpart, but there's still time!
mais imagens: álbum/set Arquitetura + Externas =>
www.flickr.com/photos/wilsonhouck/sets/72157645781378601/
mais imagens: Álbum Foto-Repórter =>
www.flickr.com/photos/wilsonhouck/sets/72157634629050510/
mais imagens: google-panoramio =>
"C. Gerald Fraser, Former Times Reporter, Dies at 90" by SAM ROBERTS via NYT t.co/Iph7MAHg2E (via Twitter twitter.com/felipemassone/status/674674725017264128)
Here is our local bird reporter testing out his microphone before he interviews the local birds about the upcoming annual seed festival. Which will be held here in Oberon this year. Lol
O Teatro Solís, da cidade de Montevidéo (Uruguai), foi inaugurado no ano de 1856 na presença do presidente Gabriel Antonio Pereira, com a representação da ópera Ernani de Verdi. Tem o nome do navegante espanhol Juan Díaz de Solís, que foi comandante da primeira expedição européia a penetrar no Río de la Plata.
mais imagens: álbum/set Arquitetura + Interiores =>
www.flickr.com/photos/wilsonhouck/sets/72157644751055648/
mais imagens: Álbum Foto-Repórter =>
“Bassano Sposi Reporters" è una equipe creata da "Franco Ferri Mala PhotoTeam". Un Team professionale per i Vostri servizi Fotografici. Siamo a Bassano del Grappa in Via Museo 35, Tel.0424.220798- Cell.346.8872914.
mail: francoferrimala56@gmail.com
facebook: business.facebook.com/Sposi-Reporters-654734891378196/?bu...
Realizziamo Matrimoni professionali Memorabili.
Chargé de réaliser les prises de vues lors du reportage à l'école Diderot de Troyes, ce JRI travaille pour France 3 Reims.
It's been a couple of years since I posted any photos from Vancouvers drug use mayhem.
1 of 2 from Chinatown.
There is an article by Vancouver Sun Reporter Peter mMcMartin about the situation posted in August 2025.
Every time I visit Chinatown and the downtown east side (daily) his article comes to mind so this is a way to share his viewpoint that I agree with.
In the 30+ years I have lived nearby, the situation has only deteriorated.
The law protects the rights of the most vulnerable among us to live in filth and despair
Pete McMartin: I'm tired of how homelessness and addiction take up so much oxygen in the social discourse.
Published Aug 03, 2025
In 2014, Vancouver Sun reporter Lori Culbert and I wrote a weeklong series of stories identifying the government social welfare programs — and their cost to taxpayers — in Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside.
Over 100 programs existed just for housing. Thirty provided health care, 30 offered family services and a miscellany of another 100 services — including a food bank for pets — brought the total to 260 social welfare agencies operating solely within the eight square blocks of the DTES.
Those 260 programs served just 6,500 clients.
Five years earlier, in 2009, Province reporter David Carrigg also did a survey of the programs available in the DTES, and he identified 174 social welfare agencies offering services to about 5,000 clients.
In other words, in the five years between Carrigg’s survey and Culbert’s and mine, not only had the number of people needing help grown but so had the number of agencies serving them.
And the cost to taxpayers?
Over $360 million annually.
Article content
That astounding figure — almost a million dollars a day — did little to satisfy the DTES’s voracious appetite for tax dollars. More to the point, it did nothing to eradicate the misery and living conditions of the people who lived there.
Rather than winning the war on poverty — and what a quaint phrase that seems now — governments engineered a truce, with the unstated understanding that if they couldn’t solve the problem or spend their way out of it, they could contain it. Those 260 social service bureaucracies weren’t solutions to an intractable problem; they were barricades. They ghettoized their impoverished clientele by concentrating the services on which they depended.
And let’s be honest: The public was complicit in this, and content for it to continue as long as the misery stayed confined within the borders of the DTES.
And yet here we are. The squalor spreads. It corrodes a once-vibrant downtown core. It infiltrates the suburbs. Daily acts of random violence and vandalism have become normalized, while a cornucopia of drugs — some decriminalized, some tolerated, many deadly — act as accelerants.
In 2016, a year after our survey, provincial health officer Dr. Perry Kendall declared a public health emergency under the Public Health Act due to the alarming rise in opioid-related overdose deaths. Since then, over 16,000 people have died from those opioids. That’s not progress. It’s a plague.
Nothing, absolutely nothing, has worked. Over the decades, the problem has been studied to death — admittedly, a poor choice of words — with consultants and academics and the legions of poverty industry advocates offering up solutions that ultimately fail. They fail because they’re predicated on two simple criteria:
1. Give us more money.
2. Give us more of everything — housing, hospital beds, food banks, drugs, injection sites, counselling or — and this is always implicit — empathy, with a side order of collective guilt.
I’ve seen this in my own newspaper.
In one recent opinion piece, the author laments that it has been the public’s and governments’ norm “to daily bypass our downtrodden, our homeless, our addicted or mentally ill on the street as though they are either invisible or merely equivalent to lampposts” — to which I have to reply: ‘Are you f—ng kidding me?’
The public and its governments have done exactly the opposite and, short of bathing their feet with Christ-like piety, have directed billions of tax dollars not only to ease the suffering of the homeless, the addicted and the mentally ill, but also to make them completely dependent upon those dollars.
Another Sun story — this one again by Culbert — examined the merits of involuntary care through the experiences of three addicts who underwent the process, and while two saw it as beneficial and helped them get clean, the third condemned it as “dehumanizing” and a cause of her PTSD. Though she no longer does drugs, she said that if she relapses she would prefer to take her chances with street drugs that could possibly kill her rather than be readmitted to hospital against her will.
Well, OK, I thought, ‘You’re an adult. Good for you for having the honesty to express that choice, however idiotic I may find it.’
But what I thought was missing in her testimonial was (a) any appreciation of the monumentally expensive efforts governments and the public had tried to make on her behalf, however ill-informed she may have believed those attempts to be, and (b) her failure to recognize the destructive effects that a relapse would have not just on her own health and family, but, more importantly, also on the collective health of the public, who would be asked to offer up yet more money, and deal yet again with her relapse — providing she survives it.
Finally, in The Sun, there was another column, this one by Sam Sullivan, who wrote that, after 52 years, it was time to end the DTES “experiment” and the restrictive housing policies that he believes led to the homelessness and violence bedevilling it.
Funny thing about that.
Between 1993 and 2005, Sullivan was a Vancouver city councillor, and for three years after that, he was mayor. Yet despite the fact that his 15-year tenure at city hall placed him in the midst of that DTES experiment, if not close to its helm, it is only now, 20 years later, that he publicly declares the experiment to be a failure, and — as far as I could tell from reading his opinion piece — without taking any responsibility for it.
I will refrain here, in my own column, from claiming to speak for the public or with any inkling of what popular sentiment might be.
But this is how I feel:
My patience is Exhausted.
I’m tired of the endless, self-regenerating calls for more studies and more funding when all I see is a colossal waste of money and effort leading to no improvement. I’m tired of how homelessness and addiction take up so much oxygen in the social discourse. I’m tired of civil rights that supersede my own, and treat the right to defecate in the streets with greater regard than my right to be offended by it.
Finally, I’m tired of a social welfare system that not only encourages dependency, but refuses, out of moral timidity, to also admit its complicity in it, and which shies away from asking hard questions about personal responsibility and the consideration of measures more draconian than safe injection sites — measures like a return to complete drug criminalization, a higher threshold of minimum sentences for trafficking, the establishment of rehabilitation centres or work camps exclusively in wilderness areas far from the temptations of cities, the discontinuation of any efforts that facilitate drug use, and yes, the robust expansion of an involuntary care system.
It’s also my opinion that none of these measures, given the current legal climate, will become reality, at least for the foreseeable future. Under our Constitution and the Criminal Code, the law, in its majestic equality, protects the rights of the most vulnerable among us to live in filth and despair, and, as so often happens, bring about their own deaths.
How enlightened we have become! What progress we have made! We’ve reached that point when now sleeping under bridges, begging in the streets and stealing one’s daily bread are no longer evidence of a system’s failure.
They are the system.
“Bassano Sposi Reporters" è una equipe creata da "Franco Ferri Mala PhotoTeam". Un Team professionale per i Vostri servizi Fotografici. Siamo a Bassano del Grappa in Via Museo 35, Tel.0424.220798- Cell.346.8872914.
mail: francoferrimala56@gmail.com
facebook: business.facebook.com/Sposi-Reporters-654734891378196/?bu...
Realizziamo Matrimoni professionali Memorabili.