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SDCC 2011 exclusive covers for Color Ink Book Volume 12 by Brandi Milne, Camillia d’Errico and Chris Ryniak!!!!
Volume 1 - Origin of Powerhouse: Issue #11
Flicker Fighters
After hearing about Sheila Baron hiring various villains to attack his Mum and her company. Ben decided to pay her a visit. He had to change out of his armour since the fire and then treat some of his burns. In that time he spoke with his Mum and told her what happened. Apparently, she decided to work from home the day of the fire. Guess Firelighter didn’t get the memo.
Ben decided he would have a talk with Shiela at Power-Up Pharmacies. See if they could come to an agreement of some sort. He knew someone who had access to hiring villains would have access to bribing cops. So, he figured that even if the villains who were apprehended admitted to her hiring them in court, she would still get away with it. Therefore, Ben had to negotiate with her. After saying his Mum was CEO of Imagine, Shiela’s secretary was more receptive to letting him speak with her. It doesn’t take long before he is called to her office. He enters the room and the two lock eyes. Ben clenched his fists and tried his best to give her a fake smile. It was obvious he wasn’t making an effort to show he didn’t like her. The look in his eyes was enough of a giveaway.
Shiela: “Ben, what a pleasant surprise. How are you?”
Ben: “Cut the crap.”
Shiela: “Ah, you’re one of those people. I like that.”
Ben: “What the hell do you want from my Mum? Why are you trying to destroy her business?”
Shiela: “I’m not. However, your Mum’s business is starting to gain the attention of some of my clientele. So, it’d be nice if she stopped.”
Ben: “So what, just because she’s better at her job than you, you’re trying to get her killed?”
Shiela: “Again, I’m not. Although, it’s my understanding your Mum did have plenty warnings before those events.”
Ben: “You mean death threats?”
Shiela: “I’m not aware of the details. So, I’m sure once you get your Mum to stop growing her business everything will be okay.”
Ben: “So, I get her to stop advancing her business and the attacks and threats will stop? Just like that?”
Shiela: “That’s what I would suggest. Do you think you could do that for her, Ben?”
Ben: “Erm, yeah. I uh, I think so.”
Shiela: “That’s great. So, if that’s everything you need. Then feel to let yourself out. It’s been a pleasure talking to you.”
Ben: “No.... no I’m not doing that. Actually, I have something else in mind.”
Ben takes a hand out from his hoodie pocket, revealing a silver glove. He clenches his fist and gradually it expands and builds itself up into an armoured gauntlet. Shiela stares at it intently as Ben storms towards her with his gauntlet hand raised, reaching out for her. She backs away out of her chair and he clutches her throat and chin in his armoured grasp. He doesn’t even feel her flesh in his metal grip. With a gentle squeeze his armoured fingers tighten around her, silencing the scream she was about to let out.
Ben: “How about this: you don’t harm my mum or her business and I don’t smash your head open like a watermelon?”
For emphasis Ben squeezes her throat a little tighter and roughly pushes her out from his grip, letting her stagger away. She throws herself over her desk clutching her throat and glares at him. However, he can tell there is a hint of fear and surprise in her eyes. She’s clearly not used to this. Perhaps, it’s her first ever physical confrontation.
Ben: “No matter how much villains you throw at my family, I’ll knock them right back down. I know who you are and I will always find you wherever you are. So, do we have a deal?”
Shiela: “Y-Yes. I’ll leave your Mum and her business alone. Just don’t ever let me see you again. Now, get the hell out of my building.”
Ben: “Gladly. This place sucks anyway.”
The 24th Monorail Monday - Volume 6 shot features Monorail Silver gliding through Future World at EPCOT Center.
If you post your Monorail Monday images to Google+, please add the tag #MonorailMonday
Walt Disney World | EPCOT Center | Future World | Monorail Silver
Thanks for looking. I appreciate feedback!
rail fence blocks sewn from PAPER and FOR YOU, both collection by Brigitte Heitland from Zen Chic for Moda
Part of Bristol Light Festival 2025
Anthems: Volume One is an immersive laser installation celebrating Bristol’s epic Drum & Bass legacy, created by artist Marcus Lyall, with a soundtrack compiled by Bristol DnB Collective, RUN. The installation fuses choreographed laser animation and a high-quality sound system to create a synaesthetic experience that brings some of Bristol’s best loved sounds to life. Taking over an empty shop near Cabot Circus, Anthems: Volume One is designed to be a thrilling but accessible experience, bringing together music and art lovers alike.
Artist: Marcus Lyall & RUN Collective
Quaker's Friars, Bristol
Please do not use my photos without permission. Feel free to contact me if you have a request.
From the writer of the successful modern love collection Vengeance Colt McClure is an increasing Mixed Martial Arts boxer bent on show that he has just what it requires a champ. Jo gets on the run from her one dreadful blunder. He identifies her possibility as when Colt drags Jo from a quarrel with road criminals
Every project seems to produce new scraps ... even scrap quilts. At least, I know what to do with the new white and cream scraps. I'll make Christmas presents: coasters, placemats, pouches, notebook covers. It doesn't matter what I make, as long as it is "low volume" because, as usually, I cut way too much squares and strips.
On 19 February 2005, 37406 and 37416 pass the New River as they approach Ware on 1Z40, Pathfinders' "Buffer Puffer - Volume 3" tour en route from Hertford East to Liverpool Street.
Created with ChatGPT
The Books of Katarina by Adrian Keeley (Feat Kat Verde-Dillingham)
VOLUME 2
CHAPTER ONE
THE WHISPERING NAME 1920
Europe had survived.
Whether civilisation had survived remained another question.
Winter settled quietly across the Carpathian Mountains.
Snow gathered upon broken stone walls that no longer belonged to any kingdom. Frost filled the cracks between ancient graves whose names had long surrendered themselves to weather. Wind whispered through the collapsed roof of the ruined monastery exactly as it had when Katarina Verde had first climbed the mountain as a curious thirteen-year-old girl carrying far too many questions for Father Pavel to answer.
Nothing had changed.
Everything had changed.
Beneath the ruin, hidden behind stone older than memory itself, the Archive endured.
It had endured kings.
It had endured revolutions.
It had endured inquisitions.
It had endured two centuries of fear.
Most remarkably of all...
It had endured the Great War.
Katarina descended the worn spiral staircase slowly.
Not because immortality required caution.
Because reverence did.
Each step had been cut by hands whose names had vanished before England possessed a parliament, before France possessed a republic, before most of Europe understood itself as Europe.
She rested one hand against the cool stone wall.
It seemed impossible that so much silence could exist beneath a continent still mourning millions of dead.
The heavy oak door opened without protest.
Warm lamplight welcomed her.
The familiar scent surrounded her immediately.
Old parchment.
Leather.
Beeswax.
Oak.
Ink.
Dust.
Knowledge.
Home.
The Great Reading Hall stretched before her in perfect stillness.
Its vaulted ceiling disappeared into shadow high above endless galleries of books, manuscripts and carefully labelled cabinets. Great oak tables stood waiting beneath brass lamps whose soft light reflected from polished wood worn smooth by generations of patient hands.
No voices disturbed the silence.
No hurried footsteps crossed the polished floor.
For the first time in nearly six years...
Nothing demanded immediate rescue.
No telegram awaited decoding.
No monastery required evacuation.
No train departed before dawn carrying another collection away from artillery.
The silence should have comforted her.
Instead...
It unsettled her.
She walked slowly through the nearest gallery.
Her fingertips drifted lightly across familiar bindings.
The Roman Collection.
Marius.
The Byzantine Catalogues.
Pandora.
The Great Family Records.
Maharet.
The Talamasca Correspondence.
Anonymous.
Always anonymous.
She smiled faintly.
Even now neither organisation officially admitted the other existed.
Yet knowledge continued passing quietly between them like pilgrims exchanging candles in darkness.
Neither asked for recognition.
Both understood purpose.
She paused before another section.
Its shelves were newer.
The leather bindings darker.
The lettering had been impressed only months earlier.
THE LOST LIBRARIES
The title seemed heavier than the volumes beneath it.
She removed the first ledger carefully.
Leuven.
Ypres.
Reims.
Villages whose names history would forever associate with destruction.
Each page described collections that no longer existed.
Not copies.
Not replacements.
Memorials.
Every manuscript known only because someone had once described it.
Every monastery whose shelves had become smoke.
Every catalogue that ended not with completion...
But with absence.
Katarina stood without moving.
Her reflection trembled faintly in the brass lamp beside her.
"I still count them."
Lucien's voice carried softly across the chamber.
She closed the ledger.
"I know."
He had approached so quietly that she had not heard him.
She rarely did.
He stood exactly as he always had.
Calm.
Immaculately dressed.
Silver beginning to touch the dark hair at his temples—not through age, for immortality granted neither youth nor old age in any mortal sense, but through that peculiar timeless dignity he had always possessed.
His eyes travelled briefly across The Lost Libraries.
Then toward her.
"You visit this shelf often."
"Every week."
"I know."
She looked at him.
"You always know."
A faint smile touched his face.
"I pay attention."
They began walking without deciding where.
The Archive had long ago become too vast for destinations.
One simply walked until memory required company.
Their footsteps echoed softly beneath the vaulted ceiling.
For several minutes neither spoke.
The Archive possessed its own language.
Turning pages.
Quiet breathing.
The distant settling of ancient shelves beneath the weight of centuries.
Katarina finally broke the silence.
"Do you ever hear them?"
Lucien glanced sideways.
"The books?"
"The people."
Another few steps.
"Sometimes."
"I thought perhaps..."
She searched for the words.
"...after the war they might become quieter."
Instead of answering, Lucien stopped beside an oak cabinet containing parish records rescued from northern France.
He withdrew a small register.
Its leather binding remained scorched along one edge.
He opened it.
Inside...
Births.
Marriages.
Deaths.
Ordinary lives recorded in careful ink by an ordinary village priest.
Lucien handed it to her.
"What do you hear?"
She read one page.
Then another.
A little girl born in spring.
A farmer buried in autumn.
Twins christened beneath heavy rain.
Nothing remarkable.
Everything remarkable.
She closed the volume.
"They're still speaking."
"They always will."
He gently returned the register to its place.
"So long as someone listens."
They continued walking.
The galleries slowly changed around them.
Greek.
Hebrew.
Latin.
Old Church Slavonic.
Persian.
Arabic.
The languages shifted as naturally as seasons.
Each shelf represented another civilisation refusing to disappear.
Katarina found herself smiling despite the heaviness still lingering within her.
"I used to believe there would come a day when we finished."
Lucien looked genuinely curious.
"Finished what?"
"The Archive."
He laughed softly.
Not mockingly.
With affection.
"There speaks someone who was once twenty."
She laughed as well.
"I was never only twenty."
"No."
"You met me at thirteen."
"I met curiosity."
His eyes wandered across the shelves.
"The years merely gave it vocabulary."
She considered that.
It felt true.
When she had been a child in the Carpathians, she had devoured every book Father Pavel permitted her to borrow.
History.
Astronomy.
Medicine.
Languages.
Her mother had once complained that Katarina read while eating.
While walking.
While brushing her hair.
While pretending to help with chores.
She had wanted answers with the desperate hunger other children reserved for sweets.
Then came the Dark Gift.
The thirst had changed.
The curiosity never had.
Perhaps Lucien was right.
Perhaps immortality had merely given her enough time to ask larger questions.
They entered the oldest chamber of the Archive.
Here the shelves were lower.
Older.
Less ornate.
This was where everything had begun.
Not with grandeur.
With necessity.
A handful of rescued manuscripts.
One frightened fledgling.
One patient teacher.
One impossible dream.
Katarina stopped before the first catalogue she had ever written.
The leather had cracked with time.
Her own youthful handwriting filled the opening pages.
Precise.
Careful.
Almost painfully determined.
She traced one line with her fingertip.
"I truly believed I could save everything."
Lucien regarded the faded ink for several moments before speaking.
"No."
She looked up.
He met her eyes.
"You believed everything deserved saving."
The distinction struck her harder than she expected.
"Is there a difference?"
"There is every difference."
He rested his hand upon the old ledger.
"A collector wishes to possess everything."
His fingers moved lightly across the worn cover.
"An archivist wishes to lose as little as possible."
Silence settled between them.
"I still failed."
Lucien did not answer immediately.
Instead he closed the old catalogue carefully and returned it to its shelf.
Only then did he speak.
"You continue measuring your life against what was destroyed."
She lowered her gaze.
"How else should I measure it?"
Lucien looked out across the endless galleries disappearing into shadow.
"That," he said quietly, "is the wrong question."
Lucien began walking again.
Katarina followed.
The phrase lingered between them.
The wrong question.
Lucien had a particular talent for leaving doors half open and expecting others to choose whether to enter.
She hated it.
She had always hated it.
Which was why, of course, she followed.
They passed into one of the newer galleries, built after the war had forced every hidden room, tunnel, and sealed chamber of the Carpathian Repository into urgent service. The stone here was paler. The shelves smelled of recent carpentry. Labels were written in several hands rather than one.
Marius.
Pandora.
Three Talamasca copyists whose names appeared nowhere in the official ledgers.
A Jewish schoolmaster from Kraków who had saved eighteen family registers before dying of influenza in 1919.
A French nun who had hidden an entire parish archive beneath sacks of flour.
An Armenian priest who had carried baptismal books across mountains stitched into the lining of his coat.
Katarina stopped beside those shelves.
Lucien noticed.
"You've been spending more time with the older shelves."
Katarina glanced around the chamber.
"Have I?"
"You have."
"I hadn't noticed."
"No," he said gently. "You were remembering rather than observing."
She smiled faintly.
"Perhaps there is less difference than I once believed."
Then her attention returned to the labels.
Not to the books.
The labels hurt more.
"They were not helping us."
"No?"
"They were saving their own."
Lucien nodded.
"Yes."
He let the word rest.
Then added, "And that is why they succeeded."
Katarina looked at him.
He turned toward the shelves, his face half-shadowed by the lamplight.
"People rarely risk everything for an abstraction. Civilisation. History. Culture. These are grand words, and grand words are often useless at the moment of danger."
He touched the spine of the Kraków registers.
"But a grandmother's name. A child's baptism. The proof of a marriage. The record of a house that once stood. These things a man will hide beneath his coat while the world burns."
Katarina closed her eyes briefly.
There it was again.
Lucien's quiet correction.
Not cruel.
Worse.
Exact.
For years she had spoken of preserving history.
The war had taught her that history, in its truest form, did not know it was history while it was being saved.
It was simply love refusing to surrender evidence.
They came at last to the great table where the Archive map had been spread during the war.
It was no longer there.
For five years that table had carried Europe upon its scarred oak surface: fronts marked in red, evacuation routes in black, destroyed repositories in ash-grey ink. Every movement of armies had been translated into danger to memory.
Now the table was bare.
The emptiness disturbed her.
Lucien drew out a chair.
She sat.
He remained standing.
That was deliberate too.
"You asked whether hope is enough," he said.
"Yes."
"It is not."
"I know."
"No," Lucien said. "You feel it. That is not the same as knowing."
Katarina's mouth tightened.
He continued before she could answer.
"Hope does not rebuild shelves. Hope does not copy manuscripts. Hope does not smuggle children across borders, or conceal ledgers in wine barrels, or memorise family names when paper has failed."
He looked down at her.
"Hope is not enough."
The words were harsh.
The tone was not.
"Then what is?"
"Duty."
She almost laughed.
The word sounded too human.
Too military.
Too small for what she felt.
Lucien saw the reaction.
"Do not dismiss simple words because priests and generals have abused them."
Katarina looked away.
The room seemed suddenly too large.
"Duty to whom?"
"To the dead," he said. "To the living. To those not yet born. To the truth when it can be known, and to uncertainty when it cannot."
Silence.
Then, more softly:
"And to the work."
The work.
Not glory.
Not destiny.
Not legend.
The work.
That, at least, she understood.
For a long while they sat without speaking.
The lamps burned steadily.
Far away in some upper passage, a door closed with a soft wooden sound. One of the human assistants, perhaps. Or one of the Talamasca copyists who never asked why the mistress of the Archive looked exactly as she had in reports written before their grandfathers were born.
Katarina folded her hands upon the table.
"I keep thinking of Repository Seven."
"I know."
"It should not matter more than the others."
"No."
"But it does."
Lucien sat opposite her at last.
"Because you saw it die."
The sentence was unbearable in its simplicity.
"Yes."
"You cannot grieve equally for every loss."
"Shouldn't I?"
"No."
His answer was immediate.
"If grief were equal, it would become arithmetic. It is not. It is recognition."
Katarina looked at him.
"You mourn what you touched."
"And what I failed to touch."
"Yes."
He leaned back slightly.
"That is why the Archive exists. To let others touch what would otherwise have vanished beyond reach."
She said nothing.
"You still believe you failed because the Archive lost one of its limbs."
"One of its hearts."
"No," Lucien said.
This time there was steel in the word.
She looked up sharply.
"No?"
"No."
He held her gaze.
"No single repository is the heart. I told you this during the war, but you did not yet believe me."
He placed one hand flat upon the table.
"The heart is not stone. Not shelves. Not keys. Not even the manuscripts. The heart is continuity."
He paused.
"And continuity survived."
Katarina wanted to argue.
She could not.
After a time, Lucien rose and crossed to a locked cabinet built into the far wall.
She had seen him open it only once before, during the first weeks of mobilisation. From it he had taken the map that revealed the hidden network in its terrible entirety.
Now he opened it again.
This time he removed no map.
Only a small bundle tied with faded blue ribbon.
He placed it before her.
Katarina frowned.
"What is this?"
"Your first journal."
She did not touch it.
For a moment she could not.
The cover was worn.
The corners softened by use.
The leather stained by age and smoke and something else—perhaps rain, perhaps blood, perhaps the careless handling of a girl who had not yet understood that paper could become sacred.
She knew it immediately.
OBSERVATIONS
The word remained visible across the first page, written in a hand that belonged to a thirteen-year-old child who still believed answers waited obediently beneath questions.
Katarina opened it.
Wolf stories.
Village disappearances.
Weather patterns.
Monastic symbols.
A list of names copied from tombstones.
Contradictory accounts arranged side by side with ruthless little notes in the margins.
She smiled despite herself.
"I was insufferable."
Lucien's expression softened.
"You were magnificent."
She looked up.
He rarely praised.
He never flattered.
The distinction mattered.
"I was a child."
"Yes."
"A strange child."
"Yes."
She laughed quietly.
"You might pretend to disagree."
"I might," he said, "but you would know."
She turned another page.
There, near the middle, was a crude drawing of the monastery door before she knew where it led.
The first door.
The first threshold.
The first time curiosity had become fate.
Lucien watched her read.
"Do you remember what you wanted then?"
"To know."
"What?"
"Everything."
"And now?"
She did not answer immediately.
The question seemed too simple.
Too dangerous.
At last she said, "To preserve enough that others may know after us."
Lucien nodded once.
"Then you did change."
She looked at him, startled.
He touched the old journal.
"Curiosity asks for itself."
His hand moved toward the surrounding shelves.
"Memory answers for others."
Katarina closed the journal and sat very still.
For nearly two centuries she had thought of herself as driven by the same hunger that had animated her childhood. A hunger for knowledge. A hunger that survived death, sharpened by the Dark Gift until books, blood, and truth all became forms of thirst.
But Lucien was right.
The hunger had altered.
The child had wanted to know because not knowing was intolerable.
The vampire had learned that knowledge alone could become vanity.
The Archivist had learned something more difficult.
Knowledge must be kept for those who would never know her name.
That was the difference.
That was the burden.
That was the freedom.
"Do they know?" she asked.
Lucien tilted his head.
"Who?"
"The others."
"Marius? Pandora? Maharet?"
"Them. And the Talamasca. The younger ones. The immortals who send journals without signatures. The monks. The scholars. The widows. The people who hide things in walls and graves and bread ovens."
Her voice lowered.
"Do they know what they are part of?"
Lucien smiled faintly.
"Rarely."
"That seems unfair."
"It is history."
She accepted that.
History had never been fair.
Only survivable.
Sometimes.
Lucien rose again, but this time he motioned for her to follow.
They left the reading hall through a narrow passage leading into one of the most recent chambers.
Katarina knew the room well.
It contained donations received after the war.
Not from great immortals.
Not from famous families.
From strangers.
A diary carried by a nurse through three field hospitals.
A packet of letters written by a soldier who died before posting them.
A synagogue ledger copied by a boy of sixteen and sent anonymously through three countries.
A painter's sketchbook.
A priest's list of villagers buried without coffins.
A Talamasca field report with the name deliberately removed.
There were also newer items.
More unsettling ones.
Journals from younger immortals.
Not fledglings exactly.
Not elders.
The restless middle creatures who had survived enough decades to understand that immortality did not automatically become meaning.
Lucien removed a slim leather journal from one of the newer shelves.
"This arrived three months ago."
Katarina opened it carefully.
Most of the pages contained nothing remarkable.
Travel.
Observations.
Names of cities.
Small reflections written by an immortal scarcely a century old.
Then one paragraph caught her attention.
Some claim an ancient Roman has visited the hidden shelves.
Others insist such a place cannot exist.
Still... I have begun keeping better records.
She looked up.
"No names."
"No."
"No certainty."
"None."
She closed the journal.
"Only possibility."
Lucien nodded once.
"Possibility travels further than certainty."
Katarina looked around the chamber.
Shelves disappeared into darkness.
Countless lives rested behind leather and oak.
She spoke almost in a whisper.
"They're speaking about us."
Lucien quietly shook his head.
"No."
She looked at him.
A long silence settled between them.
Then he gestured slowly toward the endless shelves surrounding them.
"They're speaking about the possibility."
She frowned slightly.
"I don't understand."
"A place where memory survives."
His voice was almost lost among the lamps.
"People need that idea."
Another silence followed.
"Whether it is true is almost secondary."
They stood together for several minutes without speaking.
Beyond the stone ceiling, Europe continued rebuilding itself.
Cities cleared rubble.
Families searched for missing names.
Churches reopened.
Libraries welcomed readers once more.
Life, as it always had, continued.
Beneath the mountain, the Archive waited with quiet patience.
Not demanding.
Never calling.
Simply remembering.
Katarina finally broke the silence.
"Do you think they'll ever find us?"
Lucien looked slowly across the endless galleries disappearing into shadow.
His answer came almost as a prayer.
"I hope they never need to."
The words settled gently into the silence.
Katarina understood.
If anyone came searching for the Archive, it would mean the world had once again begun to forget itself.
She looked once more across the countless shelves.
Not with pride.
With gratitude.
Then, without another word, the two archivists resumed their quiet work beneath the mountains, while above them a wounded century struggled to remember what it had survived.
--------------------------------------------
Image Prompt - Ultra-photorealistic IMAX cinematic photograph, 16:9. Deep beneath a ruined Carpathian monastery, the vast windowless Archive stretches endlessly through vaulted stone galleries lined with towering oak bookshelves, antique catalogue cabinets, ladders, manuscript stacks and warm Victorian gas lamps fading into darkness. Katarina, an immortal archivist with long golden-blonde natural curls, porcelain skin and elegant refined features, walks beside Lucien, tall with olive complexion, strong classical masculine features and shoulder-length dark wavy hair brushed back. They wear authentic early-1920s scholarly attire—Katarina in a fitted deep-plum Edwardian coat over a high-collared cream blouse, dark gloves and long skirt; Lucien in a black wool overcoat, waistcoat and tie. They walk slowly through the endless aisles in quiet philosophical conversation, both looking at one another rather than the camera. Around them lie centuries of preserved books, maps, journals and carefully labelled archival drawers. Warm amber gaslight reflects from polished stone floors, creating dramatic depth and intimate atmosphere. Museum-quality historical realism, Netflix production design, Unreal Engine 5.5 realism, HDR cinematic lighting, 70mm lens, razor-sharp focus, rich textures, subtle volumetric light, immense sense of scale, no daylight, no windows, no text, no logos, no watermark.
Pic, Prompt and Story by Adrian
This was one of those days where the scenery never stood still. Storm clouds would roll in, then blues skies would follow. They kept switching, going back and forth. With so much shore and scenery here. We got alot of great images. We never did get rained on though :)
I really like when conditions are constantly changing. Makes for a great challenge of how to capture what we are seeing. There were a few times that were somewhat frustrating. Which made the images that came out great, that much more rewarding.
Minnesota is not on many peoples, come see lists.. For something different though. Lake Superior is quite the site to see. Lake Superior has a surface area of 31,820 square miles (82,413 km2)[1], which is approximately the size of South Carolina. It is huge! There are a few times in the year when people come up to surf the waves on this lake. Superior also has some of the best clear water wreck diving in the world and is quite amazing during the fall.
One thing I want to point out about this image is the orangish/brownish water is from the spring run-off from the hills. There was a ton of rain right before we showed up. We went and shot Gooseberry falls and the falls are brown right now. I actually really like what it has brought to these shorefront images.
Some Lake Superior facts for those that want to know.
Surface Area: 31,820 square miles
Water Volume: 2,934 cubic miles of water
Shoreline length: 2,726 miles (including islands)
Population living around the lake: 474,150 (Unites States) 155,675 (Canada)
Land use near the lake: 68 percent forest
Mineral rich area: iron, gold, silver, copper, zinc
Gemstone rich: agates, amethyst, greenstone, thomsonite and even some diamonds
Canon 50d
Sigma 10-20
B&W F-Pro CPL
Lee Filter holder
Hi-Tech 0.6 Soft Grad ND
Hi-Tech 0.3 Soft Grad ND
Sinlge RAW exposure @ 10mm
ISO 100
f/11
0.8 second
Best Viewed Large - farm5.static.flickr.com/4072/4634376442_0054af8bbf_b.jpg
Northamptonshire Fire and Rescue New Dimensions High Volume pump / prime movers WX54VTG PM172 WX54VKU PM029
My grandma asked me to make her what I would call a couch runner -- she wanted a quilt to cover just the cushions of her couch. She also asked that it go with the pale beige colour of the couch.
I was inspired by the Thimble Blossoms pattern Summer (which is really just an interesting arrangement of Road to Tennessee blocks.) I had three different low volume bundles from Pink Castle Fabrics which I thought would work well with the beige couch.
Grandma loved it. The funny part is that she loved the backing fabric so much (a print from Serenade by Basic Grey with music all over it, chosen because she is a pianist) that she actually is using the quilt reversed, with the backing showing. I'm just happy that she loves it and it's her quilt so she can use it however she wants!
Title: Low Volume Couch Runner
Pattern: "Summer" by Thimble Blossoms
Fabrics: Three different low volume bundles. There are 24 different low volume fabrics in the blocks. The binding is a print called "Faux Bois" from the line Les Amis by Patty Sloniger.
Quilting: Overlapping swirls and circles as taught in Angela Walter's Craftsy class Machine Quilting Negative Space. I used Connecting Threads Essential Cotton Thread in white.
Batting: Hobbs Heirloom Premium 80/20 batting.
Finished Size: 24" by 72". Each "circle" block is 6" square.
Started: November 2013
Completed: December 2013
I have to say that Angela Walter's Craftsy class is fantastic. I wanted to heavily quilt this since it would be sat on a used often and I always wanted to try the overlapping swirls and circles design that I've seen quite a bit. The class taught it very clearly and I feel like a total superstar for being able to do it!
(Also: Holy moly it is hard to take a picture of a low volume quilt in the depths of a Canadian winter!)
Created with ChatGPT
The Books of Katarina by Adrian Keeley (Feat Kat Verde-Dillingham)
VOLUME 2
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE OLYMPIC MASK 1936
Berlin, July 1936
The train reached Berlin shortly after sunset.
By the time Katarina stepped onto the platform the city had already become a theatre of electric light.
Fresh paint covered buildings that only months earlier had worn soot-blackened stone. New banners hung from almost every public building, their red cloth moving gently in the evening breeze. Flower boxes decorated railway stations. Uniformed attendants smiled politely as foreign visitors arrived carrying expensive luggage and cameras.
Everything appeared immaculate.
Almost beautiful.
Lucien paused beside her without speaking.
She watched a porter help an elderly English couple descend from the train.
The man removed his hat and smiled.
"Remarkably orderly," he said.
His wife nodded.
"I had expected something altogether more severe."
The porter bowed.
"Welcome to Germany."
They disappeared into the crowd.
Katarina remained motionless.
"It feels..."
She searched for the word.
"...prepared."
Lucien looked across the station.
"It is."
"For the Games?"
"For the world."
They walked through Berlin beneath a warm summer night.
New floodlights illuminated monuments that disappeared into darkness only a year before.
Trees had been carefully trimmed.
Fresh paving stones gleamed beneath recent rain.
Cafés remained open long after sunset, their terraces crowded with foreign visitors speaking English, French, Dutch and Swedish.
Music drifted through open windows.
Photographers laughed.
Young athletes filled restaurants.
For a moment...
Berlin looked peaceful.
Katarina stopped before a shop window.
She frowned.
"Something is missing."
Lucien did not answer immediately.
Finally he said,
"The signs."
She looked again.
The familiar notices had vanished.
No declarations excluding Jews.
No slogans.
No insults painted across glass.
Only polished windows reflecting lantern light.
"They removed them."
"For a while."
"Why?"
"So visitors will not ask questions."
Inside the Archive, reports had already begun arriving from every corner of Europe.
Some came from diplomats.
Others from journalists.
Many from ordinary travellers.
Talamasca observers submitted careful descriptions rather than conclusions.
Their reports all carried the same quiet observation.
The hostility had not disappeared.
It had merely stepped out of sight.
Katarina turned another page.
Restaurant owners instructed to hide discriminatory notices.
Police advised to avoid unnecessary public confrontations.
Certain arrests delayed.
Street violence temporarily discouraged.
The performance had begun weeks before the opening ceremony.
Lucien watched her reading.
"They have discovered something."
"What?"
"Power is easier to export when it smiles."
Three evenings later they met David Rosenfeld.
He arrived carrying two battered leather cases filled with photographic plates.
He looked older than his twenty-four years.
His uncle, Professor Elias Rosenfeld, had once filled university lecture halls with students eager to study history.
Now his lectures had ceased.
David set one case upon the table.
"I've been photographing the city."
Katarina smiled gently.
"The Olympic stadium?"
He laughed quietly.
"Everyone photographs the stadium."
"What do you photograph?"
"The streets afterwards."
He opened the case.
Inside lay dozens of carefully wrapped negatives.
Children chasing pigeons.
Flower sellers.
Market stalls.
Old men playing chess.
A violinist beneath a railway bridge.
Nothing remarkable.
Everything irreplaceable.
"I don't understand," Katarina admitted.
David looked at her.
"They want photographs of Germany."
He paused.
"I want photographs of Germans."
The opening ceremony unfolded beneath a flawless summer sky.
Katarina did not attend.
By daylight she remained hidden within the Archive's Berlin refuge.
Only after darkness fell did she and Lucien walk through streets still echoing with celebration.
Every newspaper displayed identical front pages.
Magnificent stadium.
Perfect organisation.
International friendship.
Historic success.
Foreign admiration.
Lucien lifted one paper.
"They have accomplished exactly what they intended."
Katarina folded another.
"The world believes it."
Lucien looked toward the brightly lit boulevard.
"Because tonight it wishes to."
During the weeks that followed, David continued bringing photographs.
Not the official ones.
The forgotten ones.
A Jewish bookseller quietly packing volumes into wooden crates after receiving notice that his lease would not be renewed.
A Roma violinist performing beside the River Spree while two policemen watched from a distance.
An elderly disabled veteran feeding sparrows in a public square.
A classroom.
Children laughing.
One desk empty.
David placed the final photograph upon the table.
"I nearly didn't take this."
Katarina studied it.
A bakery.
Nothing unusual.
Except...
One family entering through the front door.
Another waiting until they had gone before approaching.
The hesitation occupied only seconds.
History often entered quietly.
One evening Katarina and Lucien crossed a residential district after midnight.
The streets had emptied.
Rain had begun.
They stopped outside a tailor's shop.
A man emerged carrying a ladder.
Without speaking he climbed carefully toward the shopfront.
He nailed a wooden board across the window.
Not because anyone had ordered him.
Because he expected they soon would.
He climbed down.
Looked once toward the empty street.
Then carried the ladder inside.
Katarina watched until the light disappeared.
"He is preparing."
Lucien nodded.
"Fear always arrives before violence."
The reports arriving at the Archive changed.
New names appeared.
Detentions.
Transfers.
Protective custody.
Political prisoners.
Numbers.
Always numbers.
Not yet thousands.
But increasing.
Katarina placed another folder beside Anna Weiss's file.
"I thought they wished the world to believe everything was improving."
"They do."
She looked at him.
"And these?"
"They are simply learning which doors to keep closed."
The Archive created a new collection that autumn.
Not of kings.
Not of governments.
Not of treaties.
Of ordinary lives.
Family photographs.
Shop receipts.
School exercise books.
Recipes written in fading ink.
Letters between sisters.
Children's drawings.
The title upon the first ledger read simply:
Witness Collection
Lucien watched Katarina carefully catalogue each item.
"No one will display these in museums."
"No."
"No historian will call them important."
She closed the volume gently.
"They will when everything else has gone."
Late one evening David returned carrying a final parcel.
"I've developed these myself."
Inside lay twelve photographs.
The Olympic Stadium filled with cheering crowds.
Athletes marching beneath brilliant flags.
Visitors smiling.
Fireworks reflected upon polished stone.
Beautiful images.
Then came the thirteenth.
No stadium.
No banners.
No ceremony.
A family removing the painted name above their own shop.
The father balanced upon a ladder.
The mother held it steady.
Their daughter watched from the pavement holding the last shopping basket bearing the family name.
David turned the photograph over.
On the back he had written only one sentence.
Three streets from the stadium.
Katarina stared at it for a long time.
The world would remember the spectacle.
The Archive would remember what stood beyond the edge of the camera's frame.
Outside, Berlin still celebrated.
Inside, another page of memory was quietly preserved before history could decide it had never existed.
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Image Prompt - Ultra-photorealistic cinematic still life, 16:9, museum-quality realism. Overhead view of a large dark walnut archivist's table illuminated by warm candlelight and a brass desk lamp. Scattered across the table are authentic 1936 black-and-white photographic prints documenting the Berlin Olympics: a packed Olympic Stadium filled with cheering crowds, athletes marching beneath rows of brilliant national flags, smiling international visitors, grand ceremonial architecture, and fireworks reflected across polished stone plazas. These optimistic photographs are partially covered by one larger, sharply focused photograph laid diagonally across the centre, becoming the unmistakable focal point. It depicts a quiet street just three blocks from the celebrations: a father balanced on a wooden ladder carefully removing the painted family name from above his own shop, his wife below holding the ladder steady, while their young daughter stands silently on the pavement clutching the family's final shopping basket bearing their surname. The joyful Olympic photographs remain visible beneath the edges of the central image, creating a powerful visual contrast between international spectacle and hidden persecution. Surrounding objects include archival folders, handwritten catalogue cards, fountain pen, inkwell, leather-bound ledgers, magnifying glass and softly glowing candle. Rich sepia tones, subtle photographic ageing, razor-sharp detail, dramatic chiaroscuro, emotional storytelling, Netflix prestige historical drama aesthetic, no people outside the photographs, no text overlays, no watermark.
Pic, Prompt and Story by Adrian
In creating this work in Paris in 1908 Matisse was probably inspired by watching the Parisians playing the traditional French game of boules, and certainly the boys are very concrete individuals, the artist's sons and nephew. The arrangement of the figures, the incline of the heads, the schematic facial features, all give us some idea of what each player is feeling: there is the total concentration of the boy about to throw his boule, the expectant interest in the result of the other boy, the calm of the seated figure.
But at the same time there is something strange, sad and mysterious in the composition. Some kind of primeval silence in which the earth, water, sky and man, the central elements in the world, are all sunk. The game is to be perceived as one manifestation of man's creativity. The "game" is in the highest sense a form of cognition, an instrument to use in understanding the "codes" of life. Matisse turns to man's mythological past, to times when the mystery of being was more central to everyday life. The participants in the "action" seem to have frozen, each "held" in the surface, although the sense of volume and mass has not totally disappeared.
[Oil on canvas, 115 x 147 cm]
gandalfsgalleymodern.blogspot.com/2011/08/henri-matisse-g...
🍃 #STAND Volume 6 arrive Thailand.✨
🌿🌸 Available to view for FREE online, just click the covers below.
To purchase a copy of the book, please visit our bookstore at
Louis-Thibaud Chambon – Photographie
contact(at)ltchambon.com
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The 13th Monorail Monday - Volume 3 - shot is of Monorail Teal just as it makes its way into EPCOT Center. I usually compose these types of shots from the right hand side of Spaceship Earth. I changed it up to the left side to see what the difference in the sun angle would do to the shot.
If you post your Monorail Monday images to Google+, please add the tag #MonorailMonday
EPCOT Center | Future World | Monorail Teal
Part of Bristol Light Festival 2025
Anthems: Volume One is an immersive laser installation celebrating Bristol’s epic Drum & Bass legacy, created by artist Marcus Lyall, with a soundtrack compiled by Bristol DnB Collective, RUN. The installation fuses choreographed laser animation and a high-quality sound system to create a synaesthetic experience that brings some of Bristol’s best loved sounds to life. Taking over an empty shop near Cabot Circus, Anthems: Volume One is designed to be a thrilling but accessible experience, bringing together music and art lovers alike.
Artist: Marcus Lyall & RUN Collective
Quaker's Friars, Bristol
Please do not use my photos without permission. Feel free to contact me if you have a request.
The New Faerie Zine, Volume 2, Here is a preview of the cover of the 2nd issue of the zine. This zine will be around around 70 pages long. It will include color pages and black/whites of good quality!
This issue will include:
Houdinimania (Harry Houdini Info)
The Magic Society
Spiritualism and Fairies-The Link!
Goldilocks, The Full Story!
Carmel, California-The Fairytale By The Sea!
Artists Spotlights, Gallery, Showcases from altered art to primitve art to doll art, to pop art, digital art, etc.
Julia Margaret Cameron
Pandora's Box
Merlin
Altered Art Projects ( Lanterns, Jar Fairies, Etc.)
and Techniques.
Recipes: Green Curry Chicken, Lemon Lavender Cupcakes, etc.
The Legend Of The Fiji Mermaid
Side Shows and Carnival Magic
Short Stories and Much, Much More!
Hugs! Magic! Joy!
LISA KETTELL aka MOONFAIRES!