Imagine... a movement inspired by the arts to open the eyes of Americans to the plight of their own people. Imagine, through art, music and poetry, we are shining a much needed light on our own crisis: HOMELESSNESS
Art4TheHomeless was once a blog called Colors of Ink with Blogcharm, which closed down. Nutang, became the new home of Colors of Ink and was renamed Art4TheHomeless, by a really good friend, Samantha Medd. She is now the Co-Founder of Art4TH.
Now Art4TH is a 501(c)(3) Nonprofit Organization that unites artists of all venues to promote homeless awareness in the US.
Art4TH does this through the Art4TH Webzine, a monthly online magazine that features a musician whose music plays throughout the website, a feature artist, and a feature writer while also featuring a homeless relief organization. All artists featured retain their copyrights and all of it is free. If you would like to be a featured artist, musician, or writer contact me at email@example.com
Click here to go to Art4TheHomeless
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Art4TheHomeless Webzine December 2011
It's been a while
We poured MILLIONS into Haiti and every day we ignore the cries OF OUR OWN PEOPLE!
Meet Robin, a homeless mother
January Art4TH Zine is out!
Happy New Year 2010!
Homeless at Christmas, 1993
Art4TH has been featured in this blog
Monday. 6.29.09 6:58 pm
Sunday August 28, 2005
The air stuck everywhere like super glue and honey. Clouds slowly rolled in creating a sticky trap for residents who decided to ride out the storm. Anne wasn’t one of them. Footsteps and the sound of struggle weren’t new to this part of New Orleans. Anne paused and turned around toward the dark stranger coming to her. He held a gun and the deal he presented was ugly: If she returned, she would not be harmed; otherwise…
Anne shoved her blade into his side so fiercely she lifted him off the ground and pinned him against the cinderblock wall of the alley. Adrenaline flushed her cheeks and her cold violet eyes simply stared. Fear, strained with anger did not slip into her voice.
“Who sent you?”
Choking on blood, he rasped,
“You should know, Anne,” Blood spattered onto her face. She wiped it off. He began to laugh weakly and she twisted the blade in deeper. Thunder clapped throughout the city as a few cars raced away.
“Monsieur Lavache is willing to reconsider; he usually has his weapons destroyed once they have malfunctioned,”
Anne cracked a smile and spoke sweetly.
“Tell Monsieur Lavache that I shall pass,” Anne placed her foot on his body and kicked out the blade causing the bounty hunter to bleed more. Trembling, he murmured,
“You’ll regret this, Beaulieu,” he turned and staggered off.
Anne wondered if he would even live. She let him go and changed clothes behind a dumpster. It would cramp her style to go to the airport covered in blood. . She tossed the bloody clothes and left her blade behind. She couldn’t take it with her and all she had of value was her airline ticket. Katrina was coming and Anne had the last flight for Atlanta. She had a Tante in Atlanta—she hoped Tante Miranda would take her in. Anne didn’t have family in New Orleans anymore.
She found out that her adoptive Père, Andy Lavache, was behind her family’s gruesome murders fifteen years ago. Her Père had stolen money from the Lavaches so he paid for it with his life, along with her Mère, Sarah, and her younger sister, Elainè. Anne was only seven at the time and was also at a friend’s house. It was Saturday, early afternoon. When she walked in her home, it was one-eleven p.m. Anne remembered checking her watch before going in. She would never forget that day or the fact that ever since, that number, one-eleven, has followed her.
The Lavaches were supposedly good friends of the family and adopted her. Anais Keltin Beaulieu had had enough. She made it to Louis Armstrong airport just in time to board. She had no luggage; just a small pack that had one more change of clothes, a toothbrush and toothpaste, mouthwash, and deodorant.
The Lavache family insisted that Anne earn her spot in the family. They trained her to be an assassin; or rather her family’s murderer taught her the many ways to kill. Once she found out the truth, Anne made sure that he knew she was better than him by using the various ways or torture to kill him. It didn’t make her feel any better.
Anne became so good at killing that she was dubbed Maîtresse de la Mort or Mistress of Death. Anne hated it. Some did deserve to die; murderers, rapist, child molesters, child abusers, and such. As for the families she had to kill, Anne would pray, knowing that her crimes would be held against her one day. There were ways to kill without any pain to the victims. Anne would sing to the children she had to kill and would stay by their side until they died. Then she would kiss their rosy cheeks and cry.
“I am so sorry,” Anne would whisper and after every job well done, she would go to the confessionals crying.
“I killed a child today, Père,” she would confess.
“God still loves you, fille, and one day you will see that. For now, do what you must do. The Lavaches have control of this city and it means kill or be killed,” would always be the reply of the priest. Anne hoped that kind priest got out of the city in time.
Anne was fortunate that the police were in the Lavache’s pockets, and she did not have a rap sheet. There were no snitches brave enough to face the wrath of the Lavache family. Why did she kill? This question was the one Anne asked herself and only had one answer: She owed it to the Lavache’s for them taking her in. She went to private schools, had the best education provided her. She spoke eight languages: French, English, Spanish, German, Chinese, Japanese, Italian, and Russian, along with Latin, though she didn’t count Latin since it was supposedly a dead language.
She felt she owed them until she overheard a conversation she wasn’t supposed to hear: Dominic Lavache and his Père, Andy, were discussing Anne. Dominic insisted that his Père tell Anne the truth about her family. Andy insisted that he should have had Anne killed as well as the rest of the family. That was enough for Anne to plot her escape from the family.
Katrina came just in time to bail her out. Anne was twenty-one and it was time for her to see a lighter, brighter side to life. Anne wanted to use her skills to fight crime. When she realized that she didn’t owe the Lavaches, it was a hard truth to swallow that she killed many innocents in her lifetime. Anne hoped that God was truly a forgiving God and that maybe she could reconcile those crimes.
Anne thought of that handsome foreign man she danced with during Mardi Gras. He was a son of a duke. Dominic had made sure she known who he was after the party. Loukianos is a high ranking official from Greece who had a socialite twin sister whose beauty was such that all the women envied. He was strange, stuck up, handsome with vivid blue eyes and a dark complexion. He kept his hair long and tied in a pony tail. Loukianos looked as if he stepped out from the middle ages. Oh well, it doesn’t matter.
Anne would never see him again. It was strange though, that when she left him, it was one-eleven in the morning. That number was her personal symbol of death, depression, and anything else negative. And why did he pick her to dance with? She was on security duty that day.
Anne didn’t know she was dozing until a flight attendant woke her.
“Ma’am, would you like something to drink?”
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