Burnt Orange Drapes

Burnt orange drapes – Digital cameras fast shutter speed.

Burnt Orange Drapes

burnt orange drapes

    burnt orange

  • The colour orange occurs between red and yellow in the visible spectrum at a wavelength of about 585–620 nm, and has a hue of 30° in HSV colour space. It is numerically halfway between red and yellow in a gamma-compressed RGB colour space, the expression of which is the RGB colour wheel.
  • This article is a catalog of notable tints and shades of the color orange.


  • (drape) curtain: hanging cloth used as a blind (especially for a window)
  • Adorn, cover, or wrap (someone or something) loosely with folds of cloth
  • Let (oneself or a part of one's body) rest somewhere in a casual or relaxed way
  • Arrange (cloth or clothing) loosely or casually on or around something
  • (drape) arrange in a particular way; "drape a cloth"
  • (drape) the manner in which fabric hangs or falls; "she adjusted the drape of her skirt"

burnt orange drapes – Velvet Embroidered

Velvet Embroidered Silk Taffeta – ROSE OF TRALEE COLLECTION – Burnt Orange
Velvet Embroidered Silk Taffeta - ROSE OF TRALEE COLLECTION - Burnt Orange
Embroidered flowers bloom into Velvet inside Satin Stripes on Iridescent Burnt Orange Silk Taffeta. 10.8″ repeat. Embroidered stripes measure 5.75″. 54″ wide. The ROSE OF TRALEE COLLECTION – A wealthy 19th century Irish merchant, William Mulchinock, fell in love at first site with Mary O’Connor, his maid. Mary was born in Broguemaker’s Lane in Tralee. Due to their different social class, their love affair never came to be. William left town and by the time he returned, years later, Mary had died. The Rose of Tralee is his love song to her. It is also now an international annual festival in Ireland.

Samantha Olivia Sanders

Samantha Olivia Sanders
It was hot.. Sweat dripped down my brow.. My hair was drenched.. Clinging to my cheeks.. and lips.. Draped over my eyes as if my vision wasn’t clouded enough.. Everything around me was charred and burned.. I have never smelt burning flesh.. But somehow I knew that was the revolting scent that filled my senses.. I couldn’t catch my breath.. I wanted to puke.. I started to dry heave as I fell to my knees as I witnessed the destruction around me..

We’ve all had dreams.. Dreams so real they make you wake.. Sweating.. With your heart beating so fast you thought you just ran a marathon. You may not always remember what you see.. You may not always like what you see.. But everyone dreams..

I see more than that.. Sometimes when I sleep.. Sometimes at school.. Sometimes just sitting here watching Lost.. It’s like those flashes.. And that sound comes.. And you know what’s coming.. With me there is no sound.. No telling when it happens.. It just does..

“Get the hell in line maggots!”

An old man with a face that had so many wrinkles it resembled a prune shouted out at a lounging group of soldiers in a crudely made bunker…

“Get that cigar out your filthy mouth Gudino! You think that smoke is gonna help you when your ass is sitting out in the middle of the desert!!?? For two weeks your worthless hide is out there.. The stress it builds up.. The tension.. Makes you clam up.. watching a prime target all that time.. And then.. You get that order across the board to kill that worthless heap! Then you notice it’s night.. It’s pitch dark freezing cold.. Your fingers twitch.. You don’t know if you can handle that trigger.. And on top of it.. Your vision isn’t what it was out there practicing on those ply board dummies! You gotta take that kill shot in the dark! Can you do it!!? PUT IT OUT!”

Any laughter or amusement that was slightly shown in these men’s faces were all but erased now as the cigar was put out in a nearby ash tray and the young men fell into line..

“So glad I could get your attention! So glad you could all -SPARE- some of this precious time for yours truly!” The Older man shook his head and ironically lit a cigar of his own, making sure to stop directly in front of the solder Gudino, blowing a good amount of smoke into his face before continuing..

“Now.. We have reason to believe.. That this base.. Is the target of a mutant based attack in the near future! Now don’t cry and reach for your tissues just yet sweethearts! You’ll be doing your part to protect and defend this lovely training ground of ours.. But not in the ways you think! Ammo detail! Lining the sand bags! Vehicle inspections! All of these things are -ESSENTIAL- to the well oiled machine that is the sweet mother of base to us all!”

This was all I had seen.. At first..

Throughout the day though more came.. More pieces to this odd and intriguing puzzle.. There was one thing that stuck out like a sore thumb.. But I couldn’t count on it alone.. Not yet.. I needed to see more.. I had to.. But how..? I gotta get to school.. At least I get out early today..


“Get to the god damn main line! MOVE YOUR ASS SANDERS!”

Oh that’s definitely the first thing I wanna hear in the morning..

Wait.. That voice.. Not the voice.. The -name- you fucking idiot!

“Sir yes Sir!”

That voice sounds familiar.. I mean.. not the old one.. Duh.. Of course it does its your-

“Do you think you have the time to be saying that get your ass to front line! There’s about fifty more sandbags that personally have your name written on them private GET A MOVE ON! SHOW ME THAT YOU CARE!”

Oh my god.. Kill me now..

“I hate this.. This ‘supposed’ attack couldn’t have come at a better time huh?”

It was Gudino.. From before, the one with the Cigar.. He had sided up with Sanders.. I mean with m-

Wait so.. I barely -ever- remember my dreams and.. I’m in the same one.. With this same guy and..

“Shut up! Do you really think I need anymore extra PT than what I’ve already got this week..?”

We were struggling with the sandbags.. Fuck they were heavy.. Or at least the-

“Look I just.. Don’t you think we should be a bigger part of the fight..? And not just the labor.. I didn’t sign up for this just to move stuff around.. You know..?”

“Quiet Jose! Jesus! Wait.. Did you hear that..?”

Wait.. Jose.. That’s..


The sandbags from our hands drop at the same time as we looked up into the clear blue sky..


I blinked as I glanced down as I saw my hugely overweight Art History book slam onto that filthy classroom floor. The sound of muffled laughter and giggles filled my ears, but I didn’t care.. I just wanted to go back.. Back to my dream..

“If you would -please- retrieve you book Samantha.. We could continue with our slides..?”

Fucking Dick.. Can’t he see there are more important things than these dull paintings to learn about..? Whatever.. I’ll pick up my fucking book..

I was irritated for the rest of the day, I didn’t have any more dreams.. I tried too.. I tried

Proof that Darwin meant well, but was just misunderstood

Proof that Darwin meant well, but was just misunderstood
Ota Benga in the Land of the Dead

by David Yost

"When the history of the Zoological Park is written, this incident will form its most amusing passage" –William Temple Hornaday, Director, Bronx Zoo

1. Forest

Ota Benga, flecked with shadow and besmeared with elephant dung, crouches at the base of a zebrawood tree.

He hears branches crashing down, liana tearing free of the canopy, and then his prey shoulders past: the elephant, the meat that walks like a hill.

He leaps from his cover and plunges his spear deep into her side, slipping it forward between her ribs and into the thick muscle of her heart.

She stomps and whips her trunk, but Ota Benga drops flat and it slams harmlessly into the tree behind.

The elephant smashes off into the brush, trumpeting desperately, spear-haft still jutting from her side.

Ota Benga wipes the sweat from his forehead, grabs another spear, and runs behind.

He follows her ragged trail through acacia and eucalyptus and blossoming flame trees, always watching for ambush by the others of her herd, but at last he finds her sprawled dead and alone, bleeding out into the ferns.

He bites back a shout of triumph, and as he jogs back to camp, he’s already rehearsing his story and imagining the night to come: the hurried move of the camp to surround the carcass and protect it from scavengers, the steaks he’ll present to his brothers and cousins, the smiles of his daughters as he carves a fatty slice of rump, the week of idleness as the band feasts and praises his kill.

But when he steps into the clearing, the huts are burned, the band dead, his wife dead, his children dead, their bodies stacked beside the huts, their hands severed and smoking like jerky above the fires.

Ota Benga turns to flee, but the Mongo and Kasai soldiers have legs twice the length of his and they run him down in moments.

Give us the rubber, dog-fucker, one of them orders, or we take your hand next.

But Ota Benga has no rubber and doesn’t even know the word, so they settle for scourging his back with a hippo-hide whip and selling him into slavery.

Ota Benga sits beside the Hutu giant and tugs again at the liana rope that binds their ankles.

They see you do again, the giant says in halting Tschiluba, they say, you die.

Ota Benga pretends not to understand.

If he gets free, he thinks, he’s not the one who’s dying.

The slavers may have guns, but they’re still villagers, and he is forest people.

If he can trick them into the trees, he’ll have spears in their throats by nightfall.

But the disfigured Kakwa is returning now, an albino walking at his heels.

The albino’s lips are freakishly thin, his body covered head-to-toe in clothing, and when he takes off his hat to fan himself, his hair shines like honey in the slanting light.

Ota Benga’s heard stories of these creatures, and now, at last, he sees one: the muzungu, the all-white men returned from the land of the dead.

This one, the muzungu asks in Tshiluba, noticing Ota Benga, is he Twa?

The Kakwa shakes his head. Mbuti, he says, but a Pygmy is a Pygmy.

The muzungu reaches for Ota Benga’s face and he flinches away, but the Kakwa grabs his head and holds it still as the muzungu peels back Ota Benga’s upper lip with a pale thumb and then smiles to see the filed points of his teeth.

It makes sense, Ota Benga thinks, that if he’s the only one left, the dead would come for him in person.

I’ll give you a pound of salt, the muzungu says.

It’s five times what Ota Benga’s worth, and the yaws-eaten face of the Kakwa twists into a smile.

He’s yours.

The muzungu turns back to Ota Benga.

My name is Samuel Verner, it says, its eyes malarial and crazed. I’ve come to free you.

Are we going to the land of the dead? Ota Benga asks, more curious than afraid.

No, the muzungu says, laughing. We’re going to, and here it lapses into the language of the dead, the World’s Fair.


What is it? Ota Benga asks a Kasai porter. Is it white all over?

Down to its dick, the man confirms, hacking a vine from their path. I saw it in the river.

Is it ashamed? Is that why it wears all these clothes?


Is it true that they feed on human flesh?

We haven’t seen it, another man says, waving the black flies from his face. But we think so.

Where did it come from?

It came from across the, and then the man stops, shifting his pack. There is no word for it in your language. We call it the ocean.

Ocean, Ota Benga repeats.

This could be hard to explain, the Kasai says.

Later, when the muzungu calls for a rest beneath an obeche tree, Ota Benga squats beside it.

What do you want from me? he asks.

We’ll travel across the big river and visit a giant village of muzungu, the muzungu replies. It uncaps its canteen for a long and desperate swallow.


They want to meet you. Because we are so different, you and I.

Ota Benga scratches his elbow, considering.

Was the land of the dead too crowded? he asks, thinking of his camp. Is that why you came?

burnt orange drapes

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