View allAll Photos Tagged Wounded
understanding the rewards of walks around blocks with bucks & hawk feathers for inc ent ive (he's part blackfeet so it's fine - he should have it & we know the hawk personally & she's fine with it)
Looks better pressing L
Thanks for your visit and comments.
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New dress set for slim MSD size bjds now at our Etsy store (link in profile).
Beautiful Elsie (belongs to Nena) soon will come back home, so we have created one of the lasts sets on her. Hope You will like it!
Elsie is DIM Laia on Withdoll 41cm girl body
Face-up by Greenwolfy
Outfit by us - Ayu&Ana Design
Week 18|52
"There are truths that are false; if it is true that it is easier to lie rather than to doubt, and the doubt is the is the blade of a wounded truth about to die, then, how would it lie the image that I [myself] have created of you?"
(personal)
Pictures and processing by me.
DO NOT USE WITHOUT MY AUTHORIZATION.
Gibson, James F.,, b. 1828,, photographer.
[Tending wounded Union soldiers at Savage's Station, Virginia, during the Peninsular Campaign]
[1862]
1 photographic print on stereo card : albumen, hand colored ; 3.25 x 6.75 in.
Notes:
Photo shows a makeshift field hospital with wounded soldiers sitting and lying on the ground while some receive care. Includes the straw-hatted Sixteenth New York Infantry who fought at Gaines' Mill on June 27. Most were captured when Confederates overtook the area during the battle of Savage's Station on June 29. (Source: Bob Zeller, Civil War in Depth, v. 1, p. 34)
Title devised by Library staff.
Forms part of: Civil War Photograph Collection (Library of Congress).
Card without hand-coloring published in: The Civil War in depth / Bob Zeller. San Francisco: Chronicle Books, 1997-2000, v. 1, p. 34.
Subjects:
Seven Days' Battles, Va., 1862.
Soldiers--Virginia--Savage's Station--1860-1870.
War casualties--Virginia--Savage's Station--1860-1870.
United States--History--Civil War, 1861-1865--Medical aspects--Virginia--Savage's Station.
United States--History--Civil War, 1861-1865--Casualties--Virginia--Savage's Station.
United States--History--Civil War, 1861-1865--Military personnel--Virginia--Savage's Station.
Format: Stereographs--1860-1870.
Albumen prints--Hand colored--1860-1870.
Rights Info: No known restrictions on publication.
Repository: Library of Congress, Prints and Photographs Division, Washington, D.C. 20540 USA, hdl.loc.gov/loc.pnp/pp.print
Persistent URL: hdl.loc.gov/loc.pnp/stereo.1s02416
hdl.loc.gov/loc.pnp/stereo.2s02416
Call Number: LOT 14044, no. 32
Irie is a Black Star rescue hen who was living a rough life in and around the local school bus yard. We rounded her up and adopted her in October 2007.
In February of this year, she left our safe, Great-Pyrenees-guarded pasture. A dog, not one of ours, attacked her and broke her wing. I took her picture when we got back from the vet.
Irie has recovered, though she can't fly anymore. She seems happy in the pasture with the other birds.
Irie is a tough old hen and a fitting Memorial Day bird.
Happy Memorial Day and Happy Feathery Friday.
Setseeker setup info in a comment below.
"Breaching" by Michael Greve
Lightpainting with friends at Sculptures by the sea during the week.
Lighting by EL wire and small torch.
War is hell, and what better way to illustrate this cold, harsh reality than to have your minifigs catch some shrapnel. Citizen Brick Wounded Torso and Wounded Head give your MOCs the gritty detail they deserve.
Made inspired by this story by Ernie Pyle-
We ran to the wrecked British plane, lying there upside down, and dropped on our hands and knees and peeked through a tiny hole in the side.
A man lay on his back in the small space of the upside-down cockpit. His feet disappeared somewhere in the jumble of dials and rubber pedals above him. His shirt was open and his chest was bare to the waist. He was smoking a cigarette.
He turned his eyes toward me when I peeked in, and he said in a typical British manner of offhand friendliness, “Oh, hello.”
“Are you all right,” I asked stupidly.
He answered, “Yes, quite. Now that you chaps are here.”
I asked him long he had been trapped in the wrecked plane. He said he didn’t know for sure as he had got mixed up about the passage of time. But he did know the date of the month he was shot down. He told me the date. And I said out loud, “Good God!”
For, wounded and trapped, he had been lying there for eight days!
His left leg was broken and punctured by an ack-ack burst. His back was terribly burned by raw gasoline that had spilled. The foot of his injured leg was pinned rigidly under the rudder bar.
His space was so small he couldn’t squirm around to relieve his own weight from his paining back. He couldn’t straighten out his legs, which were bent above him. He couldn’t see out of his little prison. He had not had a bite to eat or a drop of water. All this for eight days and nights.
Yet when we found him, his physical condition was strong, and his mind was as calm and rational as though he were sitting in a London club. He was in agony, yet in his correct Oxford accent he even apologized for taking up our time to get him out.
The American soldiers of our rescue party cussed as they worked, cussed with open admiration for this British flier’s greatness of heart which had kept him alive and sane through his lonely and gradually hope-dimming ordeal. One of them said, “These Limies have got guts!”
It took us almost an hour to get him out. We don’t know whether he will live or not, but he has a chance. During the hour we were ripping the plane open to make a hole, he talked to us. And here, in the best nutshell I can devise from the conversation of a brave man whom you didn’t want to badger with trivial questions, is what happened—
He was an RAF flight lieutenant, piloting a night fighter. Over a certain area the Germans began letting him have it from the ground with machine-gun fire.
The first hit knocked out his motor. He was too low to jump, so—foolishly, he said—he turned on his lights to try a crash landing. Then they really poured it on him. The second hit got him in the leg. And a third bullet cut right across the balls of his right-hand forefingers, clipping every one of them to the bone.
He left his wheels up, and the plane’s belly hit the ground going uphill on a slight slope. We could see the groove it had dug for about 50 yards. Then it flopped, tail over nose, onto its back. The pilot was absolutely sealed into the upside-down cockpit.
“That’s all I remember for a while,” he told us. “When I came to, they were shelling all around me.”
Thus began the eight days. He had crashed right between the Germans and Americans in a sort of pastoral no man’s land.
For days afterwards the field in which he lay surged back and forth between German hands and ours.
His pasture was pocked with hundreds of shell craters. Many of them were only yards away. One was right at the end of his wing. The metal sides of the plane were speckled with hundreds of shrapnel holes.
He lay there, trapped in the midst of this inferno of explosions. The fields around him gradually became littered with dead. At last American strength pushed the Germans back, and silence came. But no help. Because, you see, it was in that vacuum behind the battle, and only a few people were left.
The days passed. He thirsted terribly. He slept some; part of the time he was unconscious; part of the time he undoubtedly was delirious. But he never gave up hope.
After we had finally got him out, he said as he lay on the stretcher under a wing, “Is it possible that I’ve been out of this plane since I crashed?”
Everybody chuckled. The doctor who had arrived said, “Not the remotest possibility. You were sealed in there and it took men with tools half an hour to make an opening. And your leg was broken and your foot was pinned there. No, you haven’t been out.”
“I didn’t think it was possible,” the pilot said, “and yet it seems in my mind that I was out once and back in again.”
That little memory of delirium was the only word said by that remarkable man in the whole hour of his rescue that wasn’t as dispassionate and matter-of-fact as though he had been sitting comfortably at the end of the day in front of his own fireplace.
Took a spill on the scooter and this is the result. Needless to say I won't be shooting as much in the next few weeks... Maybe I'll get caught up on some of these pics I need to edit.
President Volodymyr Zelenskyy paid a visit to the wounded defenders of Ukraine undergoing treatment at a military hospital.
The militaries were taken to this medical institution with injuries of varying severity after the fighting in the Kyiv region.
The Head of State awarded the militaries with orders and medals for courage and dedication, as well as honored the hospital staff for exemplary work in difficult conditions.
Volodymyr Zelenskyy spoke with the hospital's management, asked about the needs of the institution and the special measures taken during the war.
In the dock areas of River City in the South Loop of Chicago, someone had wound up a rope that would be used to tie up a watercraft. Normally on a decent weather day, such as today, one would never find this.
He puesto mi piel en manos de SalaBoli... el daño ya está hecho...
... but, I know u don't wanna hurt me dude!!
Mejor con música ;) :
I didn't know yet what I'd know
when I was bleedin'
Knelt a puppet on a string
along the vortex weeping
lord have you heard
the roaring dragon eat the virgin
I didn't know yet what I'd know
when I was bleedin'
I seem to forget what I learned
when I was fallin'
I didn't know yet what I'd know
when I was bleedin'
Neon ghost in mask and coat
my heart is satellite remote
when my chemicals g wrong
murder the devil
take his song for my own
we sang
I didn't know yet what I'd know
when I was bleedin'
When I was fallin'
was I flyin'?
This sculpture is a Roman copy from the first imperial period (10 BCE - 10 CE), of the famous 5th century BCE Wounded Amazon made by the Greek sculptor Phidias.
The woman wears a light chiton that covers only one shoulder and thus reveals her left breast. The figure is leaning on the right leg; the left is flexed so that only the toes touch the ground. The raised right arm is bent at a right angle above the woman’s head and her hand grips a bow, the arrows for which are carried in a quiver worn at her side. She's been restored - both arms, parts of both legs, her bow (and quiver?), have been replaced; but the head, while not original to this statue, is apparently from another ancient Amazon sculpture (attached after 1775).
It is either this statue or the Amazon by Sosikles (Capitoline Museums Scu 637) that was found on the Palatine Hill in Vigna Roncone and sold to the Cardinale Ippolito d’Este in 1570, and taken to the Villa d'Este in Tivoli. It was then bought in 1753 and eventually gifted to the Capitoline Museum by Benedict XIV in 1753.
Roman, a copy of a 5th c. BCE Greek original, ca. 10 BCE-10 CE. Marble (with traces of polychromy?).
Musei Capitolini, Rome (inv. Scu 733)
photo taken in the butterfly house of the beautiful Missouri botanical garden, St Louis in 2012.
explored on 3/19/2013 #359
(IMG_0589_lr_neo_filtered2)