View allAll Photos Tagged Wounded
Monarch butterfly face. He is aged and his eyes are battered, but his tube-like tongue or proboscis in good shape and all wound up in a coil.
This baboon mother and her cub stayed aside from all the other baboons and had deep cuts in the face. Probably the others did not accept her. Zoo in Augsburg
MA SHA ALLAH
There are no seven wonders of the world in the eyes of a child. There are seven million.
(Walt Streightiff)
kami.pk photography & Digital.
Exif:
f/5.6
SS/1/250
ISO/800
retouch in PS cs6 extended
This common dolphin was injured, but those five wounds are oddly different from each other. They don't seem to have been made by a propeller.
They don't seem to be the result of a pseudorca or shark attack either because they don't look like bite marks.
This leaves little room for other explanations. Maybe they are of human origin.
5/52
From the most annoying shoot ever, I give you this photo. I could not have done it without my amazing sister. Not only did she press the shutter release for me, she also helped me get all the fake blood off afterwards!
I learned from this shoot that not everything can go the way you want it to. The weather was terrible, I didn't shoot enough for the expansion, and I leaned too far down and had to edit parts of it I didn't originally plan on editing. Overall, I'm happy with the finished image.
Mack's arm seems much better. It's much less swollen and although he's limping, at least he's using it to walk. Yesterday he hid under a bed and today he wants to go outside. I'm afraid that he's going to have to stay in today.
We're going to have to do something about that dastardly bad black and white cat.
Explored August 12, 2013
For some Flickr theme-based group, December 2019. Lit with studio strobes, please see tags.
Voigtländer Nokton 58mm f/1.4 manual focus lens on the Z7 via FTZ adapter. There were probably several focus-stacked shots involved, but I have kept no record of this.
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.
Issue#15 "Wounded"
I grimace clutching my wounds the water demon cut me bad with its spiked armour but I gouged out its beady eye and swam out if it's murky bottomless pit. I stumble through the night streets as the blood oozes through my suit, my vision blurs and I groan falling to the ground crawling towards the bustling market opposite trying desperately to fathom the words to cry out but I'm too weak. I notice a large heavyset man approach me, his large meaty arms scoop me up and I hear a slight chortle as he breathes. "H...Help...me..." I mutter as the man squeals seemingly with delight, then everything goes black.
I begin to regain consciousness and peel open my eyelids, it takes me a movement to realise I'm upside down and stripped from the waist up. I also seem to be swinging side to side slightly. I groan in pain feeling my wounds ache and the familiar rattling of a Jain coiled around my leg suspending me. I look around the room seeing tons of tools littered on the tables below me, they all look very menacing. I see a familiar heavy set figure waddle up to me snorting, he seems to be wearing a bloodied pigs head. I stare alarmingly at him and swing my clenched fists at him but I'm too far out his reach."Dr. Hog will make Mother complete, Mother needs muscular arms!" he squeals lifting up a cleaver from the table wiping the crusted blood off on his apron. I grimace trying to move but the pain seeps Into my skin like fire from my wounds, I close my eyes tight expecting the worst but instead I hear a grunt and a thud. I open my eyes slightly and see a hooded female figure stand over the incapacitated Dr. Hog.
I can't seen her very well because of her mask but I can tell she's wondering how to get me back down on the ground without breaking the chain and having me fall and snapping my neck. I notice Dr. Hog getting to his feet and I muster the words weekly "Behind...you" The woman quickly turns around seeing Dr. Hog lunge at her but she swiftly rolls to the side letting him sprawl out onto the floor squealing. He clambers to his feet swinging at her with a wild right hook but she lifts up her staff smacking his fist downwards and brings up the other end of her staff connecting it with the bridge of the mans nose breaking it. He cries out in pain as she sucker punches him to the floor knocking him out. "Who...are you?" I mumble softly watching the woman "I'm Spoiler. Now hurry up us heroes are leaving Gotham, Amanda Wallers orders." She replies. "Huh what? Wait...how did you find me?" I murmur as she loosens my chain letting me drop slowly to the ground, she grabs me helping me up to my feet "I've been tracking this sicko's activities for some time. He's trying to do some Frankenstein thing to recreate his Mum." She spits holding my arm over her shoulder, I frown "Why are...the heroes leaving Gotham? I say breathing heavily through the effort of speaking. "Amanda is saying this City is on the brink of war and we need to evacuate or she's going to release 'The Big Gun' before it escalates any further."
The male who was sleeping with the female proved victorious. He stopped on the beach forefront having seen his challenger off into the ocean waves. If you look closely you can see a deep cut on his forward shoulder. Another battle scar to show the ladies...
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.
320/365 (4,734)
Shot through the double glazed glass of my back door, and this poor little Great Tit has a wound above its eye. Hopefully the wound will soon heal.
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.
De steenloper was door de branding tegen de stenen gekwakt en was versuft. De eksters en meeuwen ruikten hun kans op een extra maaltje. Het was zo mooi om te zien hoe de steenlopers zich er naartoe snelden, hun soortgenoot insloten en deze zo de tijd kreeg om bij te komen. Een half uurtje later zat hij weer normaal op een steen.
The turnstone was slammed by the waves against the rocks and was dazed. Magpies and gulls smells their chance of an extra meal. It was so beautiful to see how the wounded turnstone was closed in by the group and get's some lifesaving rest to get back normal.
A self-portrait that expresses the temporary wound that some separation may cause. Just let them go away.
21/365
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.