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This photo shows some of the buildings of Calico Ghost Town. It is a former silver mining town in California.
Calico was founded in 1881 during California's silver rush and became a bustling mining town.
The town was abandoned in the mid-1890s when the price of silver dropped.
Today, it operates as a county park featuring shops, a mine tour, and a railroad ride.
It is located at a town called Yermo, California, and is a popular stop for travelers on historic Route 66.
Come devastare soldi inutilmente
How to waste your money :) #got #gameofthrones #ghost #spettro #pupazzi amzn.to/1id5SNf
Only exist a ghost but sometimes this is good and sometimes is bad. I always hear it when I go to sleep, although long ago I don't hear it. The "demon" is another personality , It is the voice of conscience, we are trying to save us.
Sólo existe un fantasma y éste a veces es bueno o malo. Yo siempre lo escucho cuando voy a dormir, aunque hace mucho no lo escucho. El "demonio" es otra personalidad, es la voz de la conciencia, somos nosotros tratando de salvarnos.
Another tough guy....!
Have a great time,thank you for visit.
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My ArtStation - www.artstation.com/noro8
These people where behind a translucent indoor window in Casa Battló (by Gaudi, in Barcelona)... but they look like ghosts haunting the house!
This picture has not been manipulated, this is what came out of the camera.
A GHOST SIGN ABOMINTION ~ Saint Joseph, Missouri - Heavy Handed Colorization by an Ignorant Hack with no skill or intelligence.
Ellipsoptera lepida—Ottawa, Ontario, Canada. Conservation Status: imperiled (N2N3) in Canada (NatureServe)
Monotropa uniflora (Indian Pipe, Ghost Plant, Corpse Plant) is a mycoheterotrophic perennial, meaning it recieves nutrients from a fungal network which, in turn, feeds off of photosynthetic trees. Monotropa is white because it lacks chlorophyll (and doesn't need it!). It flowers from early summer to early autumn, often a few days after rainfall.
Cette image pour illustrer ma vision photographique.
Derrière l'objectif on a une vision, un ressenti, une émotion lors du cadrage que l'on veut retransmettre en image, pas toujours évident!
Avant toute chose l'inspiration et surtout... l'OEIL feront la différences.
Strobist info: Strobist info: 430EXII full power thru Lastolite eazybox 60x60 triggered on cactus V4, right side
Twilights’ Ghost
Uncanny was an exclamation used a lot by my late grandPappa; I used to love to hear him say it, even though it was years before I knew its meaning.
Uncanny is also the best word I can use to describe the following story:
I’m not sure if what follows is a true “ghost” story. I always thought of ghosts as being wispy things that people always talk about seeing, but never
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
GrandPappa was the dean of English Prose, Chatwick college, but it was his wife, our Móraí who was known for her stories, one of which was even published.
They lived happily on campus in a small stone cottage that once had been the livery for the historically old estate that now made up the College’s main campus.
It was a medieval-looking cottage made for lighting the imaginations of young girls like myself.
One of the tales( not one she published) our Móraí Would tell was about the local highwayman for whom Abbot‘s Chase, the road bordering the campus, was named.
Craig Abbot held up many travelers along that stretch, including the coach that my grandmother's great, great aunt Sarah had been a passenger in….
As she told the tale I could almost taste the suspense in the air as the highwayman courteously ( for Craig was a gentleman by birth) had Sarah hand over her jewels.
When my Móraí reached the part where Aunt Sarah had her hand kissed and had pleaded with him not to take her emerald ring, which had been a family keepsake she had received on her 18th birthday, She would have us spellbound with apprehension as to what would happen next( although we would hear the story many times over, and knew the outcome, it was always the same feeling).
The highwayman had only smiled, slipping off Aunt Sarah’s rings, but had allowed her to keep the non-valuable rhinestone emeralds she wore around her throat.
Poor Aunt Sarah had loved that ring, and it was not a family secret of the grief it caused her to lose it.
But for me, the romantic endeavors of Craig that I envisioned always would overshadow reality, and my cousin and I would talk through the evening wondering what had become of such a dashing figure as the masked highwayman.
But it remained a story, and nothing more. I had always hoped that I would dream myself into one of our Móraí’s tales, but no dashing prince or romantic highwayman ever did enter that realm.
It was sometime later that I would learn that my romantic highwayman had met his fate by the old bridge on Abbots Chase and had been hung. Legend had it that he was buried in the ancient cemetery located in a small wooded corner of the campus estate where servants and other non-family members were buried.
Years later, after my grandparents had both passed on, and their old stone cottage a distant, but still warm memory, I attended Chatwick college with no direct plans or purpose to be there, other than to walk the same halls as my grandfather had.
My uncanny experience happened while I was at college, one evening while attending a Masque Ball for Oxfam on a blustery Halloween‘s eve.
The Ball was being held at the posh old Ryder house in Chatwick Parish. My Girlfriend, Tallie, did not want to go alone, as friends are want to do, and convinced, or rather conned, me into going. I had a final to cram for and had planned on spending the weekend attacking that issue.
I found an old green satin bridesmaid's gown with a matching sash, from which a long brooch dangled, being a relic from my cousin’s wedding. I removed the satin sash and bow and it became a rather respectable little gown. I was also wearing the old, but still very shiny emerald necklace that we had found tucked away among my Grandmother’s things. It was pretty, with glittery emeralds surrounding a petite diamond pendant that sparkled like the real thing.
So anyway, there I was, attending a rather posh event, all dressed up, bored to tears as the saying quite correctly goes, and of course, no male seemed to notice me…
And I was much too shy a Lass to ask someone to dance.
I remember watching Tallie off-dancing with a handsome bloke wearing a prince charming outfit. Figures that my charmingly pretty friend would be the one to find a prince.
As I was snickering to myself over an image placed in my mind concerning Tallies’ dance partner’s green nylon pantaloons, someone stepped onto the hem of my long gown.
Whipping around I tripped into a tall, bearded, rather saturnine looking man sporting a black tri-corner hat and mask.
He deftly caught my fall and twirled me onto the dance floor.
He was really light on his feet and had these intense, icy eyes staring from his mask. “An executioner?” I joked to him, knowing full well he was dressed like my Móraí’s quixotic highwayman Craig Abbot.
He did not answer, only looked me over with those wistful eyes.
“Silent type ?” I remember remarking to him, trying to force a smile, but it did not work. He just grinned, remaining mute and mysterious Thinking back I realized that he had never really said anything the whole time we danced. He spoke to me through his eyes, sad and morose; it said everything that I had needed to know. And It had strangely been enough.
He kissed my hand when the dance was finished, and still not uttering a word, turned and made his way towards the black oak doors leading to the old estates’ proper English Gardens.
On a sudden whim, I followed him
He stopped at the steps outside…turning, looked back at me, then, with me following, turned and walked down the stairs.
The walk through the deserted moonlit Garden was surreal, like being in one of my Móraí’s romantic tales.
Coming to a break in the hedge, he went through. I followed, walking right into low-hanging broken strands of a cobweb spanning the opening. I bent over to free my long hair from the sticky web, I looked around, that quickly he had deserted me.
My highwayman was gone, like a phantom in the night, or more likely a will o wisp of my imagination. But he had seemed real enough, so I did not dwell on the subject, just turned and headed back inside, my skirts swishing along the cobblestone.
I walked back to the hall and rejoined my girlfriend, who was sitting with her frog prince. As she introduced me to him she stopped, and placed a hand to my throat, asking me where my necklace had gotten off to. With a start, I realized that it was gone, and we spent the rest of the evening fruitlessly tracking it down. But it, like my masked highwayman, had disappeared.
After the affair started to die down, I had declined my friend Tallies’s offer to join her and her boyfriend Charles( forever the frog prince to me), to go out after the party.
Instead, I went back to my room, and still in the gown, picked up a text that some professor actually thought a normal being could make sense of and started to half heatedly study. I found my thoughts drifting back to the party and my dance with the mysterious highwayman.
I must have fallen asleep, for I had a dream, one which I still vividly recall.
I was alone, walking along the mist-lined Road Abbot’s Chase.
My long gown again swishing against the stones. Just ahead of me just visible in the darkness, sat a mounted masked figure, shrouded in mist.
Steam emits into the chilly night air from his horses’ flared nostrils.
The horse shakes its head awaiting its master's orders. The cloaked figure looks left, then looks down into a tree-lined valley. The distant sound of horses carries up, and a lone coach soon comes into view
The carriage horses have just strained to come up from a small valley, the driver cracks his whip to keep them moving. He does not sense that there is someone up ahead , like his horses, who began to slow down. He assumes their neighs are in answer to his whip.
Thus he is totally unprepared when the horseman, cloaked and masked, rides out from the trees and points a sword at him.
He pulls to a jerking stop. “Stand and deliver” is the command he hears, The man’s voice is muffled from beneath his mask.
Dismounting, the rider strolls casually up to the carriage door and invites the occupants to step out. The passengers do so….
A gentleman comes out first.
An older man with the detached look of a sour judge. A bright gold chain encircling his waist, diamond cufflinks glint in the moonlight.
Behind him, still in the shadows of the carriage, emits the pleasing, to the masked figure, sounds of a rustling dress.
Behind the “Judge”, the open carriage door is bathed in moonlight. A wisp of satin precedes the pretty lady that enters into view.
The rider dismounts then strides purposefully up to the carriage.
“Easy does it.” The masked rider says as he helps her down, his words rolling pleasantly with a kindly Northern Welsh accent.
“I shall.” She answers head held proudly.
His eyes focus on her necklace as it lays glistening along her throat.
In my dream, this is the same necklace That I had found in my Móraí’s jewel case.
She steps down into a pool of moonlight, revealing the shimmering silver frock that adorns her pretty figure, the gown's long skirts come cascading out as she steps down to the ground. Her hair is up, and a set of drippy emerald earrings sway freely, twinkling merrily about its forlorn wearer. Diamond rings, one a bright emerald sparkle along with her slender gloved fingers. Emerald Brackets lay clasped around her wrists.
Nice of you to come dressed up this lovely evening, my pretty lass.” He smiles gallantly in her eyes, she blushes.
“What do you want,” the “judge” now
asks in a commanding voice.
With a twinkle in his eyes, the bandit answers…
“Well, the problem is, you see, my steed. I need your valuables to purchase his feed. That right Rapskellian?”
He says this to the horse behind him, who snorts upon hearing his name and tosses his head, mane flowing.
The Highwayman approaches the “Judge” and holds out his hand, fingers beckoning.
At a sign of hesitation, the sword is produced and pointed at his waist. He hands over his fat wallet, gold watch, and chain. His diamond cufflinks and emerald pin are also given over... The booty is placed y the highwayman in a pocket of his riding cloak.
“Thank you, sir..” the highwayman says in an almost civil manner.
The Highwayman then moves to the pretty lady in silver. The moon is seen behind her, framing her face casting the light through so very soft long hair.
With puppy sad eyes she looks into his, her heart-melting.
He moves forward, his sword drawn, and he brings up his gloved hand, lifting and earring up…
“Yes, this for starters!” He whispers genially, before adding in a sterner tone…
“Your jewels, then, miss.”
He asks her with a daunting voice. The look he is giving the area where her diamonds lay upon her throat, just above her ample bosom, is one of lustful desire.
Her mouth pursed in a whimper, she sadly lowers her hands, reaches up, and
fumbled for her earrings, they explode into dazzling light as she pulls them reluctantly free and lays them upon the outstretched palm. She slides the bracelets off each wrist, then looking sadly at her shimmering rings, she pulls off the two diamond ones from her gloved fingers.
She stops at the emerald ring, she looks up at him pleadingly…
“Please sir, may I keep it?”
“My lady”… he says, taking her hand up in his and pulling off the emerald ring…
‘I cannot let you keep it, though I can tell it has meaning to you.”
“I will let you keep your necklace however my lady, so that you may continue to sparkle this evening.”
Realizing he will not bargain, she steps back and watches miserably as her pile of jewelry glistens in his palm. Her hand reaches to the necklace at her throat, the only jewellery she wore that evening that wasn’t real. The cunning devil had known that!
The horse comes back into view, his head moving up and down, snorting. The highwayman, sheathing his sword, leaves the group and walks back to the horse.
“I thank you my good gentleman and fine lady, your contribution this evening is greatly appreciated.”
The “Judge” looks at him with scorn, the pretty lady smiles a sad little smile The figure on foot remounts and rides off.
Suddenly a cold wind comes howling down the road, I tried to wake, but felt paralyzed as The Highwayman rides off…
I am standing in a different spot now, by the river, on a small hill looking down over the stone bridge that crosses over it.
I see the highwayman galloping down the road to the bridge that I now recognize as being the one we now call the Kissing Bridge on Abbots Chase.
Soon after soldiers on horseback emerge from the woods and come thundering after him down the road.
He is far ahead and I see him cross the bridge, he dismounts and slapping Rapskellianon on the flank.
The horse gallops off down Abbots Chase.
The masked highwayman darts under the bridge.
As the soldiers cross the bridge in hot pursuit, he boldly salutes them from his hiding spot.
As I watch, he then goes up and works one of the flagstones loose on the bottom of the bridge, creating a little hallow.
It is here that he places his ill-gotten gains.
Then, moving the stone back in place, he moves onto the road, suddenly he turns around, looking back.
I start to look also, but then am aware of a key turning in my door. Reluctantly I tried to hold onto my dream as I hear my roommates call.
As I woke, I found my hand searching in vain for the necklace I had lost, the one he had said I could keep in my dream.
Of course, it is still gone.
>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
The next day after my exam I met up with Tallie and her new boyfriend after her class lecture. We discussed in detail last evening’s events, including my dream.
Charles “The Frog Prince” suggested we should visit the old bridge and look for the loose flagstone. I chided him for his silliness; it was only a dream, after all, a remnant of one of my Móraí’s stories.
But after they left, I had a sort of odd, haunting feeling. I remember feeling my throat again for the necklace that I had worn. I decided that I needed to see for myself, and I felt I should do it alone.
I rose and walked around the campus until I reached Abbots Chase.
It was almost surreal as I walked down it.
The sun disappeared under some blustery autumn clouds, it grew colder, everything around me took on a colorless pale. Off to one side, I soon saw the old cemetery, and for the first time in my life, I went into it, looking over its crumbling gravestones, reading faint names of those long ago forgotten.
I found it off in a corner by itself.
A long tall stone, with carved writing, faint with age.
Craig Abbot
Below that was what looked like the word hung and a date, barely visible.
With a start, I realized that the date he had departed from this earth was chilling, the date of yesterday, the day of the dance, and the evening when I had my dream.
I thoughtful ran my fingers along the etchings, pondering.
Then I rise, still, in somewhat of a daze, I went back to the old road and drifted to the bridge a short ways off.
Upon reaching it, I remembered in vivid detail the stone he had pried away in my dream.
I went to it and attempted to move it.
It did not budge at first, but to my surprise, started to wobble, then it comes down, exposing a small cavity.
Wondering what it meant, I reached inside and felt around.
My fingers curled around a small, cold object.
Pulling it out I discovered it was a ring, upon further examination it was an emerald ring, one just like the one taken from the pretty young lady in my dream, similar to the one my Móraí had said my Aunt Sarah Had lost to Craig Abbot.
^^^^^^^^^^
As I finally write this down from my memory, I am wearing the ring I discovered hidden away... It is very old and very pretty.
What connection, if any it has with my story, I am unsure, but obviously, there are many to be made.
So was the highwayman I had danced with on that fateful evening I had lost my necklace: a ghost, a figment of my dream, some materialization of the late, Craig Abbot?
Or merely a flesh and blood rogue whose identity I never will discover? And the ring I am now wearing, could it possibly be Aunt Sarah’s?
But, much like a ghost, the real answer may never be found.
And therein lies a rub...
Monotropa uniflora. Azo paper, 20 minute exposure in morning sun. Approximately 4" x 6". Remarkably bright colors. Unfixed and unedited.
Ghost is an unknown to the Resistance. It hasn’t been seen by many, but those who have rarely are in no condition to talk. The only way we know of his appearance is cameras have caught him infiltrating key Resistance bases. He is most likely affiliated with the nation.
This ghost sign is the only remnant of a long forgotten business in New Westminster British Columbia Canada
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Oh, these ghosts of our past, they’re everywhere, all around us. Existing, and living on, in their own pocket of time. They can diminish our happiness if we continue to yearn for all we have lost, wishing to be who we once were, wishing to be them. To live, to be happy now, we must let go. Let go of all we once were, let go of all we once thought we could have been, let go and be who we are.
I won’t be a ghost of a memory, and a future that can no longer be – I am so much more than that. I'm letting go a little more each day.
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© Graham Daly
This minimalistic style image was captured down near the town of Youghal which is located within County Cork on the south coast of Ireland while I was leading a 1x1 Landscape Photography Workshop with a client who had travelled over from the United States.
There was a very heavy sea fog and low lying cloud cover present when shooting this image which allowed for the boats, the horizon and the headlands in the background to disappear and become less distracting leaving just these two boats to be the main focal point and subject matter.