plastic bottle caps

A Japanese Nettle Jellyfish is seen at Singapore's Resorts World Sentosa (RWS) S.E.A. Aquarium, June 7, 2016. Singapore's Resorts World Sentosa (RWS) S.E.A. Aquarium announced Tuesday that activities will be held from June 17 to 26 as part of the global celebration of World Oceans Day.

SINGAPORE, June 7 -- In celebration of World Oceans Day, Singapore's S.E.A. Aquarium at Resorts World Sentosa announced on Tuesday the launch of a 10-day conservation-themed festival to inspire visitors to protect the world's oceans.

Visitors to the aquarium can watch a team comprising freediving record holders from Singapore and Malaysia as they plunge into seemingly impossible depths with a single breath of air, view stunning images at Asia's first World Oceans Day photo gallery, and pledge their commitment to conservation by contributing to one of Singapore's largest art murals made up of thousands of plastic bottle caps.

Held from June 17 to 26, the activities aim to educate visitors on the threats facing the oceans and the importance of protecting them.

World Oceans Day is a United Nations-recognised day of celebration and action for the ocean held annually on June 8. This year's theme "Healthy Oceans, Healthy Planet" brings people around the world together to raise awareness on the threats facing the oceans such as climate change, overfishing and pollution.  

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conducted the orchestra

Otohime was a generous and charming hostess, and she offered Taro one wonderful dish after another.

  Then, when Taro could eat no more Karson Choi, he was delighted to see many beautiful fish dance into the banquet hall. They swam before the table where Taro sat with the queen, and after they bowed and shyly smiled at the guest, the fish began to dance to a lovely tune.

  Tiny fish swayed, and sunfish tossed their tails. Thousands of gleaming bubbles rose above the dancers. Goldfish danced to a soft waltz, and shafts of light shone on their gleaming gilt scales. It almost looked as if many mirrors were dancing DIY Screen printing kit. Then gleaming codfish and trout moved in rhythm to the gay tunes of oysters who clacked their shells open and shut. Off to one side, five small fish danced over the keys of the golden piano. They made a delicate, tinkling tone bubble out. Beside them a sweet rainbow trout stroked the strings of a silver harp. And in the background a group of proud lobsters played their violins while a huge, fat lobster led the musicians. Taro laughed at the lobster leader, for he had thick glasses resting on the end of his nose, and he looked very funny as he conducted the orchestra.

  Finally the feast and the entertainment were over. Otohime then showed Taro the treasures of the palace. She had so many treasures blade server, too! She had more silver and gold and pearls than anyone on earth or under the sea.

  Taro spent many days at the Coral Palace. Every day was a new experience which ended with a splendid feast and an evening of entertainment. For a while Taro even forgot his friends and parents at home above the sea.  

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The chief was delighted

The chief came over to have a look iron on labels. Genjia the steward pointed gleefully to the rising smoke and said, "Master, you see, there goes his horse. Genjia the carpenter is on his way to heaven."

  The chief was delighted.

  The moment the faggots were lit and the smoke began rising into the sky arctic tank, Genjia the carpenter raised the slab and escaped through the tunnel back to his own bedroom.

  He confined himself to his house for a whole year. His wife went to great lengths to find milk, butter and other nutritious food for him; and as he did no work, by the end of that year he was plumper and fairer-skinned than ever.

  Meanwhile, Genjia the steward tried a thousand and one ways of seducing the carpenter's wife, and she tried a thousand and one ways of avoiding him seo company. He failed completely to attain his goal.

  While Genjia the carpenter was hiding at home, he diligently practiced the calligraphy of the Buddhist scriptures. He prepared a document written in the authentic style and kept it on his person. On the first anniversary of his "ascent to heaven" he went and stood on the very spot where he was supposed to have been burned, the same tool-kit on his shoulder and the same bag in his hand. He called out, "How is everybody? I've just got back from heaven."

  His wife was the first to come out. She pretended to be extremely surprised and hurried over to report the news to the chief.

  The chief was very happy when he heard that Genjia the carpenter was back. He gave him a hero's welcome with bugles and drums, and invited him to stay in his mansion. He wanted to find out how his father was faring in heaven.

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alone and tired in my bed

I was especially sure of it the night I could hear my upstairs neighbor (a very pretty Italian girl with an amazing collection of high-heeled boots) having the longest Hong Kong Cruise Terminal, loudest, flesh-smackingest, bed-thumpingest, back-breakingest session of lovemaking I'd ever heard, in the company of the latest lucky visitor to her apartment. This slam-dance went on for well over an hour, complete with hyperventilating sound effects and wild animal calls. I lay there only one floor below them, and all I could think was, That sounds like an awful lot of work . . .

Of course sometimes I really do become overcome with lust. I walk past an average of about a dozen Italian men a day whom I could easily imagine in my bed. Or in theirs. Or wherever. To my taste, the men in Rome are ridiculously, hurtfully, stupidly beautiful. More beautiful even than Roman women, to be honest. Italian men are beautiful in the same way as French women 24 hours in Hong Kong, which is to say--no detail spared in the quest for perfection. They're like show poodles. Sometimes they look so good I want to applaud. The men here, in their beauty, force me to call upon romance novel rhapsodies in order to describe them. They are "devilishly attractive," or "cruelly handsome," or "surprisingly muscular." However, if I may admit something not entirely flattering to myself, these Romans on the street aren't really giving me any second looks. Or even many first looks, for that matter.

I found this kind of alarming at first. I'd been to Italy once before, back when I was nineteen, and what I remember is being constantly harassed by men on the street. And in the pizzerias. And at the movies. And in the Vatican. It was endless and awful. It used to be a real liability about traveling in Italy, something that could almost even spoil your appetite. Now, at the age of thirty-four, I am apparently invisible. Sure, sometimes a man will speak to me in a friendly way, "You look beautiful today, signorina," but it's not all that common and it never gets aggressive. And while it's certainly nice, of course, to not get pawed by a disgusting stranger on the bus, one does have one's feminine pride, and one must wonder, What has changed here? Is it me eleaf istick? Or is it them?

So I ask around, and everybody agrees that, yes, there's been a true shift in Italy in the last ten to fifteen years. Maybe it's a victory of feminism, or an evolution of culture, or the inevitable modernizing effects of having joined the European Union. Or maybe it's just simple embarrassment on the part of young men about the infamous lewdness of their fathers and grandfathers.  

Posted by プリティ at 11:11Comments(0)


It’s always Mister Johnny

I stand there trying to think of something to stop this from happening. I look at the phone, pray it never rings again.

THE NEXT MORNING, when I get in for work, Miss Celia comes out of her bedroom. I think she’s about to sneak upstairs, which she’s started to do again, but then I hear her on the kitchen telephone asking for Miss Hilly. I get a sick, sick feeling.

“I was just calling again to see about getting a bridge game together!” she says all cheerful and I don’t move until I know it’s Yule May, Hilly’s maid, she’s talking to and not Miss Hilly herself. Miss Celia spells out her telephone number like a floor-mopping jingle, “Emerson two-sixty-six-oh-nine dekang!”

And half a minute later, she’s calling up another name from the back of that stupid paper, like she’s gotten into the habit of doing every other day. I know what that thing is, it’s the newsletter from the Ladies League, and from the looks of it she found it in the parking lot of that ladies’ club. It’s rough as sandpaper and wilted, like it sat through a rainstorm after blowing out of somebody’s pocketbook.

So far, not one of those girls has ever called her back, but every time that phone rings, she jumps on it like a dog on a coon. “Alright...just...tell her I called again,” Miss Celia says into the phone.

I hear her hang it up real soft. If I cared, which I don’t, I’d tell her those ladies ain’t worth it. “Those ladies ain’t worth it, Miss Celia,” I hear myself saying. But she acts like she can’t hear me. She goes back to the bedroom and closes the door business administration course.

I think about knocking, seeing if she needs anything. But I’ve got more important things to worry about than if Miss Celia’s won the damn popularity contest. What with Medgar Evers shot on his own doorstep and Felicia clammering for her driver’s license, now that she’s turned fifteen—she’s a good girl but I got pregnant with Leroy Junior when I wasn’t much older than her and a Buick had something to do with it. And on top of all that, now I’ve got Miss Skeeter and her stories to worry about.

AT THE End Of JUNE, a heat wave of a hundred degrees moves in and doesn’t budge. It’s like a hot water bottle plopped on top of the colored neighborhood, making it ten degrees worse than the rest of Jackson. It’s so hot, Mister Dunn’s rooster walks in my door and squats his red self right in front of my kitchen fan. I come in to find him looking at me like I ain’t moving nowhere, lady. He’d rather get beat with a broom than go back out in that nonsense Cloud Computing.

Out in Madison County, the heat officially makes Miss Celia the laziest person in the U. S. of A. She won’t even get the mail out the box anymore, I have to do it. It’s even too hot for Miss Celia to sit out at the pool. Which is a problem for me.  

Posted by プリティ at 12:18Comments(0)


How new and exciting

I haven’t had the chance to look at too many men’s faces up close and I noticed how his skin was thicker than mine and a gorgeous shade of toast; the stiff blond hairs on his cheeks and chin seemed to be growing before my eyes. He smelled like starch. Like pine. His nose wasn’t so pointy after all.

The waiter yawned in the corner but we both ignored him and stayed and talked some more. And by the time I was wishing I’d washed my hair this morning instead of just bathed and was practically doubled over with gratefulness that I’d at least brushed my teeth, out of the blue, he kissed me. Right in the middle of the Robert E. Lee Hotel Restaurant, he kissed me so slowly with an open mouth and every single thing in my body—my skin, my collarbone, the hollow backs of my knees, everything inside of me filled up with light wine cellar hong kong.

On a MONDAY AFTERNOON, a few weeks after my date with Stuart, I stop by the library before going to the League meeting. Inside, it smells like grade school—boredom, paste, Lysoled vomit. I’ve come to get more books for Aibileen and check if anything’s ever been written about domestic help.

“Well hey there, Skeeter!”

Jesus. It’s Susie Pernell. In high school, she could’ve been voted most likely to talk too much. “Hey . . . Susie. What are you doing here?”

“I’m working here for the League committee, remember? You really ought to get on it, Skeeter, it’s real fun! You get to read all the latest magazines and file things and even laminate the library cards.” Susie poses by the giant brown machine like she’s on The Price Is Right television show.

“So, what may I help you find today, ma’am? We have murder mysteries, romance novels, how-to makeup books, how-to hair books,” she pauses, jerks out a smile, “rose gardening, home decorating HKUE DSE—”

“I’m just browsing, thanks.” I hurry off. I’ll fend for myself in the stacks. There is no way I can tell her what I’m looking for. I can already hear her whispering at the League meetings, I knew there was something not right about that Skeeter Phelan, hunting for those Negro materials...

I search through card catalogues and scan the shelves, but find nothing about domestic workers. In nonfiction, I spot a single copy of Frederick Douglass, an American Slave. I grab it, excited to deliver it to Aibileen, but when I open it, I see the middle section has been ripped out. Inside, someone has written NIGGER BOOK in purple crayon. I am not as disturbed by the words as by the fact that the handwriting looks like a third grader’s. I glance around, push the book in my satchel. It seems better than putting it back on the shelf.

In the Mississippi History room, I search for anything remotely resembling race relations. I find only Civil War books, maps, and old phone books. I stand on tiptoe to see what’s on the high shelf. That’s when I spot a booklet, laid sideways across the top of the Mississippi River Valley Flood Index. A regular-sized person would never have seen it. I slide it down to glance at the cover. The booklet is thin, printed on onionskin paper, curling, bound with staples. “Compilation of Jim Crow Laws of the South,” the cover reads. I open the noisy cover page Air Purifier.  

Posted by プリティ at 12:53Comments(0)


What you call me

"Depends on what you want and how long you want it for," she says. "And whether you can afford it." She can smell something smoky drifting out of the limo window. It smells like burning wires and overheating circuit boards. The door is pushed open from inside.

"I can pay for anything I want," says the John. She leans into the car and looks around. There's nobody else in there, just the John, a puffy-faced kid who doesn't even look old enough to drink. Nobody else, so she gets in.

"Rich kid, huh?" she says Virtual to Cloud Backup.

"Richer than rich," he tells her, edging along the leather seat toward her. He moves awkwardly. She smiles at him.

"Mm. Makes me hot, honey," she tells him. "You must be one of them dot coms I read about?"

He preens then, puffs like a bullfrog. "Yeah. Among other things. I'm a technical boy." The car moves off.

"So," he says. "Tell me, Bilquis, how much just to suck my cock?"

"Bilquis," he says, again. And then he sings, in a voice not made for singing, "You are an immaterial girl living in a material world." There is something rehearsed about his words, as if he's practiced this exchange in front of a mirror hong kong tour.

She stops smiling, and her face changes, becomes wiser, sharper, harder. "What do you want?"

"I'll give you whatever you want," she says. She needs to get out of the limo. It's moving too fast for her to throw herself from the car, she figures, but she'll do it if she can't talk her way out of this. Whatever's happening here, she doesn't like it.

"What I want. Yes." He pauses. His tongue runs over his lips. "I want a clean world. I want to own tomorrow. I want evolution, devolution, and revolution. I want to move our kind from the fringes of the slipstream to the higher ground of the mainstream. You people are underground. That's wrong. We need to take the spotlight and shine. Front and center. You people have been so far underground for so long you've lost the use of your eyes."

"My name's Ayesha," she says. "I don't know what you're talking about. There's another girl on that corner, her name's Bilquis. We could go back to Sunset, you could have both of us..."

"Oh, Bilquis," he says, and he sighs, theatrically. "There's only so much belief to go around. They're reaching the end of what they can give us. The credibility gap." And then he sings, once again, in his tuneless nasal voice, "You are an analog girl, living in a digital world." The limo takes a corner too fast, and he tumbles across the seat into her. The driver of the car is hidden behind tinted glass. An irrational conviction strikes her, that nobody is driving the car, that the white limo is driving through Beverly Hills like Herbie the Love Bug, under its own power Underfloor Heating.  

Posted by プリティ at 12:35Comments(0)


I don't want to trouble you

The old man nodded. His face cracked into a grin. "What the heck, it's Christmas. I'll run you over there in Tessie."

Shadow followed the old man to the road, where a huge old roadster was parked. It looked like something that gangsters might have been proud to drive in the Roaring Twenties, running boards and all. It was a deep dark color under the sodium lights that might have been red and might have been green. "This is Tessie," the old man said. "Ain't she a beaut?" He patted her proprietorially, where the hood curved up and arched over the front nearside wheel university-industry collaborations.

"What make is she?" asked Shadow.

"She's a Wendt Phoenix. Wendt went under in '31, name was bought by Chrysler, but they never made any more Wendts. Harvey Wendt, who founded the company, was a local boy. Went out to California, killed himself in, oh, 1941, '42. Great tragedy ielts registration."

The car smelled of leather and old cigarette smoke-not a fresh smell, but as if enough people had smoked enough cigarettes and cigars in the car over the years that the smell of burning tobacco had become part of the fabric of the car. The old man turned the key in the ignition and Tessie started first time.

"Tomorrow," he told Shadow, "she goes into the garage. I'll cover her with a dust sheet, and that's where she'll stay until spring. Truth of the matter is I shouldn't be driving her right now, with the snow on the ground."

"Doesn't she ride well in snow?"

"Rides just fine. It's the salt they put on the roads. Rusts these old beauties faster than you could believe. You want to go door to door, or would you like the moonlight grand tour of the town?"

"It's no trouble. You get to be my age, you're grateful for the least wink of sleep. I'm lucky if I get five hours a night nowadays-wake up and my mind is just turning and turning. Where are my manners? My name's Hinzelmann. I'd say, call me Richie, but around here folks who know me just call me plain Hinzelmann. I'd shake your hand, but I need two hands to drive Tessie. She knows when I'm not paying attention Hair Transplant Surgery."  

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All was subdued and quiet

"Well, my sweet," said Miss Pross, nodding her head emphatically,"the short and the long of it is, that I am a subject of His MostGracious Majesty King George the Third;" Miss Pross curtseyed at thename; and as such, my maxim is, Confound their politics, Frustratetheir knavish tricks, On him our hopes we fix, God save the King!

Mr. Cruncher, in an access of loyalty, growlingly repeated the wordsafter Miss Pross, like somebody at church HKUE DSE.

"I am glad you have so much of the Englishman in you, though Iwish you had never taken that cold in your voice," said Miss Pross,approvingly. "But the question, Doctor Manette. Is there"- it wasthe good creature's way to affect to make light of anything that was agreat anxiety with them all, and to come at it in this chancemanner- "is there any prospect yet, of our getting out of this place?"

"I fear not yet. It would be dangerous for Charles yet HKUE ENG."

"Heigh-ho-hum!" said Miss Pross, cheerfully repressing a sigh as sheglanced at her darling's golden hair in the light of the fire, "thenwe must have patience and wait: that's all. We must hold up ourheads and fight low, as my brother Solomon used to say. Now, Mr.Cruncher!-Don't you move, Ladybird!"

They went out, leaving Lucie, and her husband, her father, and thechild, by a bright fire. Mr. Lorry was expected back presently fromthe Banking House. Miss Pross had lighted the lamp, but had put itaside in a corner, that they might enjoy the fire-light undisturbed.Little Lucie sat by her grandfather with her hands clasped through hisarm: and he, in a tone not rising much above a whisper, began totell her a story of a great and powerful Fairy who had opened aprison-wall and let out a captive who had once done the Fairy aservice. and Lucie was more at ease thanshe had been.

"What is that?" she cried, all at once HKUE ENG.

"My dear!" said her father, stopping in his story, and laying hishand on hers, "command yourself. What a disordered state you are in!The least thing- nothing- startles you! You, your father's daughter!"  

Posted by プリティ at 12:38Comments(0)



It was an ordinance of the Republic One and Indivisible ofLiberty, Equality, Fraternity, or Death, that on the door ordoorpost of every house, the name of every inmate must be legiblyinscribed in letters of a certain size, at a certain convenient heightfrom the ground. Mr. Jerry Cruncher's name, therefore, dulyembellished the doorpost down below; and, as the afternoon shadowsdeepened, the owner of that name himself appeared, from overlookinga painter whom Doctor Manette had employed to add to the list the nameof Charles Evremonde, called Darnay PPC.

In the universal fear and distrust that darkened the time, all theusual harmless ways of life were changed. In the Doctor's littlehousehold, as in very many others, the articles of daily consumptionthat were wanted were purchased every evening, in small quantities andat various small shops. To avoid attracting notice, and to give aslittle occasion as possible for talk and envy, was the general desire.

For some months past, Miss Pross and Mr. Cruncher had discharged theoffice of purveyors; the former carrying the money; the latter, thebasket. Every afternoon at about the time when the public lamps werelighted, they fared forth on this duty, and made and brought home suchpurchases as were needful Cloud Hosting Provider.

Although Miss Pross, through her longassociation with a French family, might have known as much of theirlanguage as of her own, if she had had a mind, she had no mind in thatdirection; consequently she knew no more of that "nonsense" (as shewas pleased to call it) than Mr. Cruncher did. So her manner ofmarketing was to plump a noun-substantive at the head of ashopkeeper without any introduction in the nature of an article,and, if it happened not to be the name of the thing she wanted, tolook round for that thing, lay hold of it, and hold on by it until thebargain was concluded. She always made a bargain for it, by holdingup, as a statement of its just price, one finger less than themerchant beld up, whatever his number might be.

"Now, Mr. Cruncher," said Miss Pross, whose eyes were red withfelicity; "if you are ready, I am."

Jerry hoarsely professed himself at Miss Pross's service. He hadworn all his rust off long ago, but nothing would file his spikyhead down you beauty hard sell.

"There's all manner of things wanted," said Miss Pross, "and weshall have a precious time of it. We want wine, among the rest. Nicetoasts these Redheads will be drinking, wherever we buy it."  

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