Uma quarta- feira radiante para todos! Da série, escadas para o Ricardo!
Richard Avedon ha sido uno de los fotógrafos más importantes del siglo XX. Como bien afirmó The New York Times, «sus fotografías de moda y sus retratos habían ayudado a definir, en Estados Unidos, durante el último medio siglo, la imagen de belleza, elegancia y cultura».
Breksta's Academy by Natasha Quay is a captivating tale that begins with Breksta Vilkas' serene childhood abruptly disrupted by the ominous arrival of soldiers. Fleeing her home with her mother, Breksta is thrust into the harsh reality of the Academy, a place governed by cruelty and mystery. As Breksta navigates the challenges of this new life, a deep bond forms between her and her roommate Hestia, both yearning for freedom. The story takes an unexpected turn with a deadly disaster, unraveling secrets from Breksta's past that tie her destiny to the fate of the entire world. Quay masterfully weaves a narrative filled with suspense, intrigue, and a touch of magic, keeping readers on the edge of their seats. Natasha Quay demonstrates exceptional skill in crafting a compelling plot that unfolds at a perfect pace, keeping the reader engaged from start to finish. The action sequences are vividly depicted, creating a palpable sense of tension and urgency. The characters are well-developed, and their evolving relationships add depth to the narrative. Themes of identity, freedom, and sacrifice are expertly explored, enriching the story with profound meaning. Quay's writing is both evocative and seamless, seamlessly blending the fantastical elements with relatable human experiences. Breksta's Academy takes readers on an utterly mesmerizing and enchanting journey, transcending mere entertainment to intricately weave a narrative that not only captivates but also leaves a lasting impact, eloquently showcasing the author's prowess in the art of skillfully delivering a meticulously crafted and emotionally resonant story that resonates deeply with the audience's emotions and contemplations.
1913. október 22-én – ma 98 éve – született Friedmann Endre Ernő, akit később Robert Cap...
Maybe I’m getting old. But I don’t think so. Perhaps I just remember another time. A time when women who …Continue Reading
Jaqueline Alkema, The Netherlands. ArtisticMoods: posting on Facebook & Twitter.
Forbes has released its annual list of the 400...
Aside from not knowing where she came from and the feeling of something missing, the other constant in Jaqueline Doe's life has been the moving back and forth between the orphanage and various foster homes. Now she's landed herself another move, this time to the town of Smithfield Virginia, enrolled for a term in the school's program for troubled city teenagers. Her plan to toe the line, keep to herself, and just see the term through takes a twist when she mysteriously bonds with her mentor and fellow student, the somewhat clumsy yet handsome Ethan Chase. Together they discover an old journal apparently written by an immortal, with a cryptic prophecy on the first page telling of the Dark Lord's return. Sceptical of the journal's authenticity they decide to read through it and decipher the prophecy. As their friendship begins to lean towards romance, they are unaware that one of the evil beings described within the pages is closing in on them. Unknowingly and with limited time they set themselves on a pathway, one where Jacqueline will get more than the answers to the questions she has been yearning for. However, they will come at a cost and not just for her. | Author: Laura Ferretti | Publisher: Austin Macauley | Publication Date: Jul 21, 2023 | Number of Pages: 188 pages | Language: English | Binding: Paperback | ISBN-10: 1035806401 | ISBN-13: 9781035806409
My mom made these oatmeal banana cookies when I was young. Now my children like making them just as much as I did, and we quadruple the recipe to serve our large family. You can't eat just one of these goodies packed with chocolate morsels. —Jaqueline Wilson, Armstrong Creek, Wisconsin
Interlope by Kyle Meeker is a captivating sci-fi tale that begins with a scientist reverse-engineering alien technology and embarking on a journey to uncover its mysterious origin. Commander Victor Gray, burdened by the weight of responsibility, finds himself isolated and drifting to a newly discovered planet, battling inner demons while striving to thwart a new threat that endangers the delicate balance of his world. As Victor confronts the unknown, his wife, Elizabeth, and daughter, Allie, must grapple with the aftermath of his departure, attempting to rebuild their lives amidst the enduring wounds of abandonment. Kyle Meeker's writing skillfully weaves a narrative that draws parallels with the cinematic masterpiece Interstellar, infusing it with real-world events and intriguing dark twists. The plot unfolds seamlessly, with a well-paced rhythm that keeps readers hooked from start to finish. I absolutely loved how the action unfolded—it was like watching a thrilling movie in my mind. The characters are expertly crafted, each with their own complexities and vulnerabilities, making them relatable and engaging. Themes of decision-making, isolation, and the emotional toll of separation are explored with depth and sensitivity. Interlope is a skillfully crafted sci-fi novel that not only captivates readers but also prompts contemplation on the repercussions of our decisions, delving into the psychological breakdown and the impact of trauma on the human psyche. It raises thought-provoking questions about morality, challenging us to consider the fine line between ethical scientific pursuits and potentially perilous experiments. Meeker's ability to balance plot intricacies, pacing, action, well-developed characters, and thought-provoking themes makes this book a must-read for sci-fi enthusiasts and those who appreciate a compelling, emotionally resonant story.
robot-girl-Mysterious-Island-1929 - cyberneticzoo.com
Much to his delight James Smale finds his debut novel being edited by none other than Jaqueline Kennedy Onassis, but her suggestions are much more difficult than he ever imagined.
Happiness and good health are important parts of leading a satisfying lifestyle. Learn how to enjoy more balanced living by focusing on mind, body, and spirit.
Guaranteed berth in the 2016 Rio Olympics goes to winners of Pan Am Games synchronized swimming duet; Canadians Karine Thomas and Jackie Simoneau disdain pressure.
LONGLISTED FOR THE 2024 ANDREW CARNEGIE MEDAL FOR EXCELLENCE IN FICTION The acclaimed author of The Serpent’s Gift returns with this “deep and beautiful” (Jaqueline Woodson, New York Times bestselling author) story about a queer Black woman working to stay clean, pull her life together, and heal after being released from prison. Ranita Atwater is “getting short.” She is almost done with her four-year sentence for opiate possession at Oak Hills Correctional Center. Three years sober, she is determined to stay clean and regain custody of her two children. Ranita is regaining her freedom, but she’s leaving behind her lover Maxine, who has inspired her to imagine herself and the world differently. My name is Ranita, and I’m an addict, she has said again and again at recovery meetings. But who else is she? Who might she choose to become? Now she must steer clear of the temptations that have pulled her down, while atoning for her missteps and facing old wounds. With a fierce, smart, and sometimes funny voice, Ranita reveals how rocky and winding the path to wellness is for a Black woman, even as she draws on family, memory, faith, and love in order to choose life. Pomegranate is a complex portrayal of queer Black womanhood and marginalization in America from an author “working at the height of her powers” (Tayari Jones, New York Times bestselling). In lyrical and precise prose, Helen Elaine Lee paints a humane and unflinching portrait of the devastating effects of incarceration and addiction, and of one woman’s determination to tell her story. Product DetailsISBN-13: 9781982171902 Media Type: Paperback Publisher: Atria Books Publication Date: 01-30-2024 Pages: 368 Product Dimensions: 8.25h x 5.31w x 0.88dAbout the Author Helen Elaine Lee was educated at Harvard College and Harvard Law School. She served on the PEN New England board and on its Freedom to Write committee and volunteered with its Prison Creative Writing Program, which she helped to establish. She is a professor in Comparative Media Studies/Writing at MIT. She is the author of three novels: The Serpent’s Gift, Water Marked, and Pomegranate. Find out more at HelenElaineLee.net.Read an Excerpt Read an Excerpt Chapter One ONE February 2019 I live my life forward and backward. Seems like my body remembers what I can’t afford to forget. I’ll be carrying on, trying to choose right, and then the past comes for me, rumbling from my chest into my shoulders, pushing through my neck and up into my head. I try and answer its call, own where all I’ve been. Remember, even when forgetting feels like the only mercy. Four years of captivity, and here I sit on this hard plastic chair, surrounded by cinder block, about to leave Oak Hills. Waiting to be thrown back to the world. And I cannot get still. My knees jackhammer; my feet tap. They’ve got wills of their own. My interlocking fingers steeple and flatten and steeple. I try and empty my mind, but my Oak Hills life thunders to the surface and flashes before me, like those shifting pieces of colored glass in the tin kaleidoscope I had when I was six. Damn, really? On my out day, which is stressful enough. I choose a pomegranate and try to see myself holding it, broken open, in my hands. Leathery skin. Pointy stalk. Jeweled seeds. And I can just about feel the shape and weight of it again when I hear the shout, “Did I say you’re free to go?” and I’m surprised to find myself standing up. I look the overseer in the eye... why give him a name when all I am is inmate?... and rein in my anger as I sit my ass back down. It’s true what they say about time slowing down the shorter you get. These last few days have inched by, me hoping and praying I’ve got it in me to keep doing right. I wait to get back the belongings I came in with, wondering what my stuff will look like to me now. Clothes that no longer fit. Cheap pleather purse full of what? Lip gloss. Suspended license. Empty wallet. Two keys that no longer open anything. Dear God... dear Power Greater Than Me (whoever... whatever you are)... let me prove I deserve to be a mother to Amara and Theo. Let me handle my business, work my program, stay on track. Keep away from temptation, avoid the people who can pull me down. In here, meetings give you the fellowship that gets you through, and a place to say... to remember... you’re a human with a story that’s got a next chapter. Even if the confessing is excruciating, I’ll find a meeting and go every day if I have to. Own being powerless and powerful. Choose right. Behind the walls, in this concrete desert, everything’s regulated and decided for you. All the everyday stuff, the whats and the whens. Wake up and go to chow. Get your meds. Go outside and come back in. Take a shower. Go to sleep. Line up for this. Sit down and wait for that. And all those things that on the outside you do and pay no attention? Behind the walls they’re the high points of your day. Makes me feel like that German shepherd of Jasper’s. He named him King and kept him in a chain-link corridor. Nobody ever played with him or loved on him. He lived to eat. Buff that floor. Scrape those plates. Sew labels into these T-shirts, one after another and then some more, and sew American flags for the folks who hate your kind to jab you with. Improve yourself with classes and groups. All day long you’re told what and when and how, and the cost of defiance, too. And you hear the echoes of ancestors, whispering that though the best chance of survival may be submission, that could also be the death of you. And love... affection... touch... the stuff that makes your heart keep beating? Contraband. Now who, I ask, can keep alive that way? Nothing much grows in here unless you go hard against the script. To keep alive, you’ve got to choose what you can, small though it may seem. Imagine yourself past the razor wire. Notice those trees and birds way in the distance. Look at the sky and picture it whole. You’ve got to see yourself free from the demon that rides you, believing something new, something clean, can happen, after all. Behind the walls, nothing’s small. And choosing, it’s something precious, and it means life just might have some mystery in store for you. I choose you, Maxine once told me, and you’re against the rules. Yesterday, at the end of my little leaving party, I stood there as she left the dayroom before me. All of my well-wishers were there. Gwen and her latest boo. Avis, crocheting her endless blanket. Eldora and the family she builds and mothers in here. Even my new cellie Keisha came, though she still thinks she can do her time solo. We ate the makeshift treats and canteen snacks they all chipped in, and everyone said what they’d do if it was them getting out. And when it was over, I watched Maxine’s proud, upright back fade away. Tender-tough Maxine. Along with her free-world walk and the way she breaks down the politics of just about everything 24/7, her ink and her no-nonsense way and her legal know-how, there’s a world of other stuff inside. She can talk up pomegranates and make me taste them. She can conjure grass or clouds or cornfields, tell Chesapeake riverbanks and make me feel the current and the muddy floor. I wanted to run after her, call out to her, touch her. I love that back, that’s what I was thinking. Its moles and scars. Its tats. Its defiant pride, no matter what she’s been through. Like most of us in here, the only sleep she knows is broken. Last night, I sat in my cell with the card everyone signed and the little in-spite-of gifts from the leaving party, so sweet and painful, and started counting down the last bit of time I owed. I could feel Keisha’s crying shake the bunk above me. Mostly we look away to give a little privacy. This time I stood and asked, “You alright?” Like usual, she didn’t answer. I’d seen her with a letter earlier and figured it must have been the kind that tells you something bad, maybe the kind that says you’ve been foreclosed. I made my voice as gentle as possible. “Word from home?” She sat up, pulled the envelope from the covers, and ripped it up. Then she threw the pieces to the floor, oozing angry and bitter, and said, “Where the fuck is home?” I didn’t even know what to say to that. Maybe it’s a good question for most of us in here, but I couldn’t answer and I couldn’t just go back to my bunk, so I stood there looking at the photos she’d stuck up on the wall with toothpaste. And I knew it was risky, but there’s one sure way to get a woman to open up. “That your baby girl?” She nodded, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. “Tyeisha. She’s almost three.” I was relieved. Pained, too, I’ll admit it, when she said, “She’s with my moms.” Some folks have mothers beside them through their thick and thin. Then I asked about her girl. Keisha kept her answers short, but I saw a light in her eyes come on. “She knows her letters and numbers. Her favorite color’s green.” She jumped down from the top bunk and walked across the torn pieces of her letter to get to the stingy window where she likes to stand, looking out at the sky. Something in me wanted to make her face reality, tell her even if she could find the drinking gourd up there, she wouldn’t be following it to freedom. And part of me wanted to hug her to me like she’s one of mine. But I’m out of here tomorrow, I reminded myself, getting my feelings in check as I turned away. Trying to ignore her, I got ready to rise up and go, come morning. Took my hair out of the cornrows I’ve been wearing these last few years, thinking on how I tripped when I first got here. No relaxers. No extensions. Barely any hair products at all. Easiest thing to do is either learn to braid or figure out something you can trade to someone who knows how, turn in your weapons, and forget about cute. I sat on the edge of my bunk, picking out my braids with the end of my comb, and it felt good as I freed up my hair, though when it was all loose I couldn’t help thinking how Mama would hav
Because, in the immortal words of Jaqueline Suzanne, "Once is Not Enough," The entire house was done in this exact shade! (Architectural Digest)
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