#max slobodda

[lionfloss]

Max Slobodda

#Max Slobodda #art #nature #photography #pink #magenta #fields #trees #flash photography #surreal #dreamcore

[theleoisallinthemind]

Max Slobodda

#Max Slobodda #blue

[epellucid]

via

#u #max slobodda

[nevver]

I see green, icy blue - Max Slobodda

#image modified

[urtopia]

Max Slobodda

[thedeadbelle]

"Stranger Things"

Max Slobodda

#forestcore #goth art #fantasy photography #art photography #contemporary art #contemporary photography

[sourcherrymag]

two pieces by e.m foster (she/her)

We Will Always Be Monsters

We look up one day—look up and observe the lithe sunrays, as they prance in bedazzled morning splendor. We pretend we can’t hear the earth splintering—turning raw and bloodied—when we dance along, beside our crimson wildfires. In our Paradises, childlike hearts pale and open, we praise the flowers that grow there, even while knowing the truth. 

Miniscule parades blind our nostalgic eyes. We breathe in winds filled with hating whispers. The birds cry over our anointed heads, in dulcet tones we can’t hear, saying how good it is to be alive. The desperate luster of our eyes traps the sunset in cages, leaving a burning in our throats. We dance in the pulsing dark. 

We adore the sky, its gossamer comfort. Our hands can reach without contaminating. We live on the scraps of life. We are the stars that no one names, the foreboding of the mountains. We are the gloom of storm clouds, cloaking the battered earth. We are the dust of chiseled marble, blazing wildfires ascending the hills. We live in our own ruins, content the sky still loves us. 

Made of Bones

We found the scattered bits of bone lying in our minds, sharp and jagged as the tears on our faces. All around us, there are clay sculptures of the innocents, smooth and plump and rounded, touched by the fingerprints of heaven. We took the scraps. We heard the voices scream. None of them our voices. We held the pieces to our withered hearts, but the lucid glow of Them taunted us, saying listen to the souls you have eaten. We feel our insides breaking.  

Their tongues are made of gold, their eyes the constellations God resides in. They shut up our mouths in the name of honor, until there is no meaning to words. And now my nerves are numbing. Please. I’m drowning in the dirt of Myself. Someone let me live.

Emma Foster (she/her) is a fiction writer and poet from Florida. Her work has appeared in Sledgehammer Lit, Aurora Journal, Antiheroin Chic, and others. You can find her portfolio at https://portfolioemfoster.wordpress.com/ and her blog at https://fosteryourwriting.com/. 

Image by Max Slobodda

#shortstory #fiction

[destined666]

© Max Slobodda

[these-summer-nights-in-december]

Max Slobodda

#Max Slobodda #art #photograph

[marcalcockedit]

Max Slobodda

#Max Slobodda #stranger things

[soliloquist-trapeze-artist]

Max Slobodda

#max slobodda #photography

[lionfloss]

Max Slobodda

#Max Slobodda #nature #photography #green #plants #trees #art #lime green #flash photography

[theleoisallinthemind]

Max Slobodda

#Max Slobodda #red

[epellucid]

via

#u #max slobodda

[nevver]

Oracles, Max Slobodda

[iconist]

Max Slobodda

#max slobodda #contemporary art #photographer #photography #photograph #surreal #contemporary #art