Book 1 and Download The Summoning Darkest Powers Book 1 book full in PDF. .. Powers. Trilogy. Author: Kelley Armstrong. teshimaryokan.info | De darkest powers. the summoning darkest powers 1 kelley armstrong - the summoning darkest powers pdf best of all, if after reading an e-book, you buy a paper version of the. 2 Kelley Armstrong [PDF] [EPUB] The Darkest Powers is a series of paranormal novels by Kelley. Armstrong. The series revolves around The.
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The Darkest Powers Trilogy 03 The Reckoning. Read more · The Awakening Darkest Powers, Book 2 · Read more · The Awakening Darkest Powers, Book 2. The Darkest Powers Trilogy 02 The Awakening. Read more · The Reckoning Darkest Powers, Book 3 · Read more · The Reckoning Darkest Powers, Book 3. The Summoning. Darkest Powers (Series). Book 1. Kelley Armstrong Author Cassandra Morris Narrator (). cover image of The Summoning.
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No notes for slide. The Summoning 1. Kelley Armstrong: Twelve Years earlier. Chloe teetered on the top step, chubby hands reaching up to clutch both railings, her arms shaking so much she could barely hang on. Her legs shook, too, the Scooby Doo heads on her slippers bobbing.
Even her breath shook, puffing like she'd been running. Can you come down and help me? Chloe was sure of it. She closed her eyes and thought hard. Before Mommy and Daddy left for the party, she'd been playing in the TV room. Mommy had called, and Chloe had run into the front hall where Mommy had scooped her up in a hug, laughing when Chloe's doll poked her eye.
Has she rescued poor Aladdin from the evil genie yet? No basements for Miss Chloe. That door stays closed. Chloe peeled her fingers from the railing and stuck them in her ears. You're a big girl. The back of her throat hurt and everything looked fuzzy, like she was going to cry. She lay there, ankle throbbing, tears burning her eyes as she peered into the basement, with its creaks and smells and shadows. And Mrs. There'd been others, before Mrs.
Hobb scared them away. Like old Mrs. Miller, who'd play peek-a-boo with Chloe and call her Mary. And Mr. Drake, who'd ask weird questions, like whether anyone lived on the moon yet, and most times Chloe didn't know the answer, but he'd still smile and tell her she was a good girl. She used to like coming downstairs and talking to the people.
All she had to do was not look behind the furnace, where a man hung from the ceiling, his face all purple and puffy. He never said anything, but seeing him always made Chloe's tummy hurt. Miller and Mr. Drake and she didn't think about Mrs. Hobb at all.
At the bottom, she squinted into the near darkness. Hobb could sneak up on her.
Chloe could see the cold cellar door, though, so she kept her eyes on that and walked as fast as she could. When something moved, she forgot about not looking, but it was only the hanging man, and all she could see was his hand peeking from behind the furnace as he swayed. She ran to the cold cellar door and yanked it open. Inside, it was pitch black. Chloe clenched her fists. Now Emily was being really mean. Hiding on her - Footsteps pattered overhead.
You aren't afraid of the dark, are you? Emily didn't know anything. Just a stupid, mean girl. Chloe would get her Coke, then run upstairs and tell Mommy, and Emily would never baby-sit her again. She leaned into the tiny room, trying to remember where Mommy kept the Coke. That was it on the shelf, wasn't it? She darted over and stood on her tiptoes. Her fingers closed around a cool metal can.
Footsteps pounded across the floor overhead. It hit the concrete with a crack, then rolled against her foot, hissing and spitting, soda pooling around her slippers. Emily's, but not quite. Chloe turned slowly. In the doorway stood an old woman in a pink housecoat, her eyes and teeth glittering in the dark. Chloe wanted to squeeze her eyes shut, but she didn't dare because it only made her madder, made everything worse.
Hobb's skin rippled and squirmed. Then it went black and shiny, crackling like twigs in a campfire. Big chunks fell off, plopping onto the floor.
Her hair sizzled and burned away. And then there was nothing left but a skull dotted with scraps of blackened flesh. The jaws opened, the teeth still glittering. I struggled to recapture wisps of the dream already fluttering away. Something about a basement I couldn't remember ever having a basement -we'd always lived in condo apartments.
A little girl in a basement, something scary. But this one hadn't been empty. There'd been I couldn't remember what. A man behind a furnace. A bang at my bedroom door made me jump.
I'm the housekeeper, not your nanny. If you're late again, I'm calling your father. He'd murmur a vague "Yes, I'll see to it when I get back" and forget all about me the moment he hung up. I turned on my radio, cranked it up, and crawled out of bed. I pulled the sides of my hair back in clips, glanced in the mirror, and shuddered.
The style made me look twelve years old. I'd just turned fifteen and servers still handed me the kiddie menu in restaurants. I couldn't blame them. I was five foot nothing with curves that only showed if I wore tight jeans and a tighter T-shirt. Aunt Lauren swore I'd shoot up -and out-when I finally got my period.
By this point, I figured it was "if," not "when. I tried not to think about it too much, but of course I did. I worried that there was something wrong with me, felt like a freak every time my friends talked about their periods, prayed they didn't find out 1 hadn't gotten mine.
Aunt Lauren said I was fine, and she was a doctor, so I guess she'd know. But it still bugged me. A lot. Not bad. When I turned my head for a side view, the clip slid from my baby-fine hair.
I never should have gotten it cut. But I'd been sick of having long, straight, little-girl hair. On the model it looked great. On me? Not so much. I eyed the unopened hair color tube. Kari swore red streaks would be perfect in my strawberry blond hair. I couldn't help thinking I'd look like a candy cane. Still, it might make me look older I grabbed the tube of dye, stuffed it in my backpack, and threw open the door.
The building might change, but my routine never did. The day I'd started kindergarten, my mother held my hand, my Sailor Moon backpack over her other arm as we'd stood at the top of the landing.
We'd run down the stairs together every morning all through kindergarten and half of first grade and then. I paused at the bottom, touching the necklace under my T-shirt, then shook off the memories, hoisted my backpack, and walked from the stairwell.
After my mom died, we'd moved around Buffalo a lot. My dad flipped luxury apartments, meaning he bought them in buildings in the final stages of construction, then sold them when the work was complete.
Since he was away on business most of the time, putting down roots wasn't important. Not for him, anyway.
This morning, the stairs hadn't been such a bright idea. My stomach was already fluttering with nerves over my Spanish midterm.
I'd screwed up the last test -gone to a weekend sleepover at Beth's when I should have been studying-and barely passed. Spanish had never been my best subject, but if I didn't pull it up to a C, Dad might actually notice and start wondering whether an art school had been such a smart choice.
Milos was waiting for me in his cab at the curb. He'd been driving me for two years now, through two moves and three schools.
As I got in, he adjusted the visor on my side. The morning sun still hit my eyes, but I didn't tell him that.
My stomach relaxed as I rubbed my fingers over the familiar rip in the armrest and inhaled chemical pine from the air freshener twisting above the vent. You know, lots of guns, things blowing up.
A real shoot-'em-down movie. My favorite subject. When Milos had to take a call from his dispatcher, I glanced out the side window. A long-haired boy darted from behind a cluster of businessmen. He carried an old-fashioned plastic lunch box with a superhero on it. The driver behind us, and the one behind him, laid on their horns, a chain reaction of protest.
What's wrong? Just an empty lane in front and traffic veering to our left, drivers flashing Milos the finger as they passed. If you get jammed, take another route, my speech therapist always said. Consider your words first. I thought I saw someone jump in front of us.
I think I see someone, but there's no one there. My stomach hurt again. Until I got at least one question out of my head, focusing on my Spanish test was out of the question. So I called Aunt Lauren. When I got her voice mail, I said I'd phone back at lunch.
I was halfway to my friend Kari's locker when my aunt called back. I had this dream and it's bugging me. I'm not surprised you don't remember. It was -" "Bugging you, I can tell. Must have been a doozy of a nightmare. I'm ashamed of myself. What -? Fellows, please report to station 3B. Is everything okay, Chloe? You sound off. I freaked Milos out this morning, thinking I saw a boy run in front of the cab. Not outside my head, anyway. High tea at the Crowne. We'll talk.
I shook my head and ran to catch up with Kari. Not much to say about it. People think art schools must be different, all that creative energy simmering, classes full of happy kids, even the Goths as close to happy as their tortured souls will allow. They figure art schools must have less peer pressure and bullying.
After all, most kids there are the ones who get bullied in other schools. It's true that stuff like that isn't bad at A.
Gurney High, but when you put kids together, no matter how similar they seem, lines are drawn. Cliques form. As a theater arts student, I was lumped in with the actors, where talent seemed to count less than looks, poise, and verbal ability. I didn't turn heads, and I scored a fat zero on the last two. On a popularity scale, I ranked a perfectly mediocre five. The kind of girl nobody thinks a whole lot about. But I'd always dreamed of being in art school, and it was as cool as I'd imagined.
Better yet, my father had promised that I could stay until I graduated, no matter how many times we moved. That meant for the first time in my life, I wasn't the "new girl.
Gurney as a freshman, like everyone else. Just like a normal kid. That day, though, I didn't feel normal. I spent the morning thinking about that boy on the street. There were plenty of logical explanations. I'd been staring at his lunch box, so I'd misjudged where he'd been running. He'd jumped into a waiting car at the curb. Or swerved at the last second and vanished into the crowd.
That made perfect sense. So why did it still bug me? Ask him if he's going to the dance. How tough can that be?
She reached over my shoulder, grabbed my bright yellow lunch bag from the top shelf, and dangled it. It's practically neon. Beth rolled her eyes. Brent glanced over. My face heated and I clutched my lunch bag to my chest.
Kari's long, dark hair brushed my shoulder. He just doesn't like me. Can't help that. You're fifteen, Chloe. You have to take matters into your own hands. Miranda only shrugged. He never said it. You just keep telling yourself that. Normally, I'd have jumped in and made them quit, but I was still upset over Miranda's embarrassing me in front of Brent. Kari, Beth, and I used to talk about guys, but we weren't totally into them.
Miranda was -she'd had more boyfriends than she could name. So when she started hanging with us, it suddenly became really important to have a guy we liked. I worried enough about being immature, and it didn't help that she'd burst out laughing when I'd admitted I'd never been on a real date.
So I invented a crush. I figured I could just name a guy I liked and that would be enough. Not a chance. Miranda had ousted me -telling him I liked him. I'd been horrified. Well, mostly. There'd also been a little part of me that hoped he'd go "Cool. I really like Chloe, too. Now he sat two rows away, like I'd suddenly developed the world's worst case of BO. We'd just reached the cafeteria when someone called my name.
I turned to see Nate Bozian jogging toward me, his red hair like a beacon in the crowded hall. He bumped into a senior, grinned an apology, and kept coming. Did you forget Petrie rescheduled film club for lunchtime this week? We're discussing avant-garde. I know you love art films. And I'll tell Petrie you aren't interested in directing that short either.
Maybe not. So I'll tell Petrie -" "Gotta run," I said to my friends and hurried to catch up with him. Food wasn't allowed in the auditorium. We discussed the short, and I was on the list for directors -the only freshman who'd made the cut. After, as everyone else watched scenes from avant-garde films, I mulled through my options for an audition tape. I snuck out before it ended and headed back to my locker.
My brain kept whirring until I was halfway there. Then my stomach started acting up again, reminding me that I'd been so excited about making the short list that I'd forgotten to eat.
I'd left my lunch bag backstage. I checked my watch. Ten minutes before class. I could make it. Whoever left the auditorium last had turned out the lights, and I didn't have a clue how to turn them on, especially when finding the switch would require being able to see it. Glow-in-the-dark light switches. That's how I'd finance my first film. Of course, I'd need someone to actually make them. Like most directors, I was more of an idea person. I picked my way through the aisles, bashing my knees twice.
Finally my eyes adjusted to the dim emergency lights, and I found the stairs leading backstage. Then it got tougher. The backstage dissolved into smaller areas curtained off for storage and makeshift dressing rooms.
There were lights, but someone else had always turned them on. After feeling around the nearest wall and not finding a switch, I gave up. The faint glow of more emergency lights let me see shapes. Good enough. Still, it was pretty dark. I'm afraid of the dark.
I had some bad experiences as a child, imaginary friends who lurked in dark places and scared me. I know that sounds weird.
Other kids dream up playmates -I imagined bogeymen. The smell of greasepaint told me I was in the dressing area, but the scent, mingled with the unmistakable odor of mothballs and old costumes, didn't calm me the way it usually did. Three more steps and I did let out a shriek as fabric billowed around me.
I'd stumbled into a curtain. Exactly how loud had I screamed? I really hoped these walls were soundproof. I swept my hand over the scratchy polyester until I found the opening and parted the curtains. Ahead, I could make out the lunch table. Something yellow sat on the top. The makeshift hall seemed to stretch before me, yawning into darkness.
It was the perspective -the two curtained sides angled inward, so the hall narrowed. Interesting illusion, especially for a suspense film. I'd have to remember that.
Thinking about the corridor as a movie set calmed my nerves. I framed the shot, the bounce of my step adding a jerkiness that would make the scene more immediate, putting the viewer in the head of our protagonist, the foolish girl making her way toward the strange noise.
Something thumped. I started, and my shoes squeaked and that noise made me jump higher. I rubbed the goose bumps on my arms and tried to laugh. Okay, I did say strange noise, didn't I? Cue the sound effects, please. Another noise. A rustling. So we had rats in our spooky corridor, did we? Time to turn off my galloping imagination and focus.
Direct the scene. Our protagonist sees something at the end of the corridor. A shadowy figure - Oh, please. Talk about cheap thrills. Go for original. Take two. What's that she sees? A child's lunch bag, bright yellow and new, out of place in this old, condemned house. Keep the film rolling. Don't let my mind wander - A sob echoed through the silent rooms, then broke off, dissolving into a wet snuffling. From my movie. The protagonist sees a child's lunch bag, then hears eerie sobs.
Something moved at the end of the hall. I flung myself forward, racing for my bag. I grabbed it and took off. Three "Chloe! Hold up! I turned to see him edging sideways through a group of girls.
The bell sounded and the hall erupted, kids jostling like salmon fighting their way upstream, carrying along anything in their path. Nate had to struggle to reach me. I wanted to ask if you're going to the dance.
Um, yeah. See you there. I stood there, staring after him. Had Nate just tracked me down to ask if I was going to the dance? It wasn't the same as asking me to the dance, but still I was definitely going to need to rethink my outfit. A senior whacked into me, knocking off my backpack and muttering something about "standing in the middle of the hall. I snapped upright and stood frozen before taking a tentative step.
Oh God. Had I actually wet myself? I took a deep breath. Maybe I was sick. My stomach had been dancing all day. See if you can clean up and if it's bad, take a cab home. In the bathroom, I pulled down my pants and saw bright red. For a couple of minutes, I just sat there, on the toilet, grinning like an idiot and hoping that the rumor about school bathroom cams wasn't true.
I balled up toilet paper in my panties, pulled up my jeans, and waddled out of the stall. And there it was, a sight that had mocked me since fall: I reached into my back pocket and pulled out a five-dollar bill, a ten, and two pennies. Back into the stall. Scavenge through my backpack. I eyed the machine. Drew closer. Examined the scratched lock, the one Beth said could be opened with a long fingernail.
Mine weren't long, but my house key worked just fine. A banner week for me. Getting short-listed for the director spot. Nate asking me about the dance. My first period. And now my first criminal act. After I fixed myself up, I dug into my backpack for my brush and emerged instead with the tube of hair color.
I lifted it. My reflection in the mirror grinned back. Why not add "first skipped class" and "first dye job" to the list? Coloring my hair at the school bathroom sink wouldn't be easy, but it would probably be simpler than at home, with Annette hovering. Dying a dozen bright red streaks took twenty minutes. I'd had to take off my shirt to avoid getting dye on it, so I was standing over the sink in my bra and jeans.
Luckily no one came in. I finished squeezing the strands dry with paper towel, took a deep breath, looked. Kari had been right. It did look good. Annette would freak. My dad might notice. Might even get mad. But I was pretty sure no one was going to hand me a twelve-and-under menu anymore.
The door creaked. I shoved the towels in the trash, grabbed my shirt, and dashed into a stall. I barely had time to latch the door before the other girl started crying. I glanced over and saw a pair of Reeboks in the next stall. Should I ask whether she was okay?
Or would that embarrass her? The toilet flushed and the shadow at my feet shifted. The stall lock clicked open. When the taps started, though, her sobs got even louder. The water shut off.
The towel roll squeaked. Paper crumpled. The door opened. It shut. The crying continued. A cold finger slid down my spine. I told myself she'd changed her mind, and was staying until she got things under control, but the crying was right beside me. In the next stall. I squeezed my hands into fists. It was just my imagination. I slowly bent. No shoes under the divider. I ducked farther. No shoes in any of the stalls.
The crying stopped. I yanked my shirt on and hurried from the bathroom before it could start again. As the door shut behind me, all went silent. An empty hall. I didn't recognize him. He was maybe my dad's age, with a brush cut, wearing our school janitorial uniform. A temp, filling in for Mr. Get back here. I want to talk to you. My footsteps. Why couldn't I hear his?
I walked faster. A blur passed me. The air shimmered about ten feet ahead, a figure taking form in a custodian's shirt and slacks. I wheeled and broke into a run. The man let out a snarl that echoed down the hall. A student rounded the corner, and we almost collided.
The janitor was gone. I exhaled and closed my eyes. When I opened them, the blue uniform shirt was inches from my face. I looked up. He looked like a mannequin that had gotten too close to a fire. Face burned.
One eye bulged, exposed. The other eye had slid down near his cheekbone, the whole cheek sagging, lips drooping, skin shiny and misshapen and - The twisted lips parted. As I flew past one classroom door, it opened.
I kept running. All the stupid heroines go up! I veered across the landing and hit the next set of stairs. The custodian limped up the flight below, fingers clutching the railing, melted fingers, bone peeking through - I barreled through the doors and raced along the main hall. All 1 want is five minutes -" I swerved into the nearest empty classroom and slammed the door. As I backed into the center of the room, the custodian stepped through the door.
Right through it. That awful melted face was gone, and he was normal again. Now will you stop screaming and talk to -" I darted to the window and started looking for a way to open it, Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer http: At least thirty feet. It was the vice principal, Ms. Waugh, with my math teacher, Mr. Travis, and a music teacher whose name I couldn't remember. Seeing me at the window, Ms. Waugh threw out her arms, blocking the two men.
Travis shot past Ms. Waugh and tackled me. As we hit the floor, the air flew out of my lungs. Scrambling off, he accidentally kneed me in the stomach. I fell back, doubled over, wheezing. I opened my eyes to see the custodian standing over me. I screamed and tried to get up, but Mr. Travis and the music teacher held me down while Ms. Waugh babbled into a cell phone. The custodian leaned through Mr. Can't get away. They only held me tighter. I vaguely heard Ms. Waugh calling that help was on the way.
The custodian pushed his face into mine and it changed to that horrible melted mask, so close I was staring into his one bulging eye, almost out of its socket. I chomped down on my tongue so I wouldn't scream. Blood filled my mouth. The more I fought, the harder the teachers restrained me, twisting my arms, pain stabbing through me. Get him away from me. Get him away! I continued to struggle, to argue, but they held me still as the burned man taunted me.
Finally, two men in uniforms hurried through the door. One helped the teachers restrain me while the other moved behind, out of my sight. Fingers tightened on my forearm. Then a needle prick. Ice slid through my veins. The room started to sway. The custodian faded, blinking in and out.
Don't you understand? She can hear me. I only want to. It rose, swaying. I'd rode one once, with my mom, at the zoo, and my mind slipped back there, Mom's arms around me, her laughter - The custodian's howl of rage sliced through my memory. I need her!
The elephant swaying. Mom laughing. That was the best explanation for what I was hearing. I could also chalk it up to delusional, but I preferred dreaming. Aunt Lauren sat beside me, holding my hand. My eyes went to the nurses gliding past in the corridor. She followed my gaze, rose, and shut the door. Through a glaze of tears, I watched her and pictured Mom instead.
Something inside me crumpled, and I was six years old, huddled on the bed, crying for my mother. I rubbed my hands over the covers, stiff and scratchy, catching at Create PDF files without this message by purchasing novaPDF printer http: The room was so hot every breath made my parched throat tighten.
Aunt Lauren handed me my water, and I wrapped my hands around the cool glass. The water had a metallic taste, but I gulped it down. The walls seemed to suck the words from my mouth, like a sound stage, absorbing them and leaving only dead air. And somehow, this seems harder. This is the only way we're going to get you there, hon. She'd wanted to raise me after my mom passed away, spare me a life of housekeepers and empty apartments.
She'd never forgiven my father for refusing. Just like she'd never forgiven him for that night my mother died. It didn't matter that they'd been sideswiped in a hit-and-run -he'd been driving, so she held him responsible. Unless you spend two weeks undergoing evaluation in a group home, it will go on your permanent record.
You mean violence? B-b-but I didn't -" "I know you didn't. But to them, it's simple. You struggled with a teacher. You need help. The second time, my father was in the doorway, watching me. The third, he was sitting beside my bed. Seeing my eyes open, he reached over and awkwardly patted my hand.
His eyes were bleary, the wrinkles around his mouth deeper than I remembered. He'd been up all night, flying back from Berlin. I don't think Dad ever wanted kids. But he'd never tell me that, even in anger. Whatever Aunt Lauren thinks of him, he does his best. He just doesn't seem to know what to make of me. I'm like a puppy left to him by someone he loved very much, and he struggles to do right by it even if he isn't much of a dog person.
I braced myself. When you run screaming through the school halls after dying your hair in the girls' bathroom, the first thing people say -well, after they get past the screaming- through-the-halls part-is "you were doing what?
Not for girls like me. And bright red streaks? While skipping class? It screams mental breakdown. I nodded. He paused, then let out a strained chuckle. If you like it, that's what counts.
She's found one she thinks will be okay. Small, private. Can't say I'm thrilled with the idea, but it's only for a couple of weeks. They had me talk to a bunch of doctors and they ran some tests, and I could tell they had a good idea what was wrong and just wouldn't say it. That meant it was bad. This wasn't the first time I'd seen people who weren't really there. That's what Aunt Lauren had wanted to talk to me about after school. When I'd mentioned the dream, she'd remembered how I used to talk about people in our old basement.
My parents figured it was my creative version of make-believe friends, inventing a whole cast of characters. Then those friends started terrifying me, so much that we'd moved.
Even after that, I'd sometimes "seen" people, so my mom bought me my ruby necklace and said it would protect me. Dad said it was all about psychology. I'd believed it worked, so it had. But now, it was happening again. And this time, no one was chalking it up to an overactive imagination. They were sending me to a home for crazy kids. They thought I was crazy. I wasn't. I was fifteen and had finally gotten my period and that had to count for something. The Lasso Selection tool works well when the irregularly shaped object you want is well separated from other parts of the image.
For such situations, Preview offers the Smart Lasso tool, which offers some assistance. When you drag, you see a thick red line instead of a thin white line — draw that around the object you want to select and Preview tries to construct the selection intelligently. It will take some experimentation to get the desired results. Use Command-C to copy the selection, so you can paste a copy into this or another image. One technique we frequently employ is obscuring part of a screenshot by copying a chunk of its background color and pasting it over the part of the image we want to cover up.
The Instant Alpha tool is the second button in the Markup Toolbar. Click it, and then click and hold on the colored area you wish to select. In the screenshot below, I first used Instant Alpha to select the background, which I deleted.
A few quick clicks and the background is history. These tools are essentially identical to those that first appeared in iPhoto many years ago. Click the Auto Levels button to get a suggestion of how to reset the white and black points. The rest of the sliders are at least labeled, but we still recommend experimentation to see how each affects a given image.
Remember, you can undo your adjustments at any time with Reset All. This slider lets you control the difference between the lightest and darkest areas in a photo. This slider reveals detail in the brightest points of a photograph, which can be useful for making clouds more visible, for instance. More generally useful than the previous one, the Shadows slider throws light on the darker parts of a photo, revealing detail that was previously hard to see. Use this slider to adjust how saturated the colors are.
Moving the Saturation slider all the way to the left makes the image grayscale, which can be a useful effect, while sliding it to the right makes colors practically explode off the screen.
If an image seems a little dull, try increasing saturation just a bit. With this slider, you can make the image cooler more blue or warmer more yellow. While the Temperature slider lets you make an image more blue or more yellow, the Tint slider does the same with green and red. To make it easier to use, Apple provides a dropper next to it; select it and then click a part of the image that should be a neutral gray or white. That sets the Tint slider automatically.
Click the dropper in a few different spots to see how they differ; the best way to evaluate how well it has worked is to look at some skin tones. This slider is a one-trick pony; it reduces the saturation of the photo using sepia tones instead of grayscale. This slider can make your image blurrier or sharper. Unfortunately, because it was an overcast day, it looks less like a celebration and more like a funeral procession.
First, I clicked Auto Levels to establish a baseline, and then I moved exposure up a bit to brighten the image. But increasing exposure blew out some of the clouds, so I darkened the highlights to make it look more natural, while also lightening shadows a bit to add more brightness.
Then I upped the saturation to make the bright colors in the photo more vibrant. Finally, I bumped up temperature, tint, saturation, and sharpness just a bit to round things out. One last note about color. Preview supports color profiles, which define how different displays or printers can output color. Happily, Preview makes it easy to rotate images: Less commonly useful than the Rotate commands are the next two in the Tools menu: Flip Horizontal and Flip Vertical.
They rotate the image too, but around a horizontal or vertical center line. Flip Vertical is useful when you need to flip a photo upside-down. Preview can also rotate PDF pages, which is only very occasionally necessary.