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baliportalnews · 1 year

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Funworld & Kidzlandia Hadir di Living World Denpasar, Jadi One Stop Entertainment untuk Keluarga

BALIPORTALNEWS.COM, DENPASAR - Kidzlandia akhirnya membuka gerai Pertamanya di Bali, dengan mengusung konsep Fun & Edutainment berusaha untuk memberikan pengalaman yang menyenangkan bagi keluarga & anak-anak, khususnya bertempat di Lantai 2 Living World Denpasar. Marketing Communication & Sales Manager, Wawan Setiyono menjelaskan, selain Kidzlandia, Funworld juga membuka gerainya di Living World Denpasar. Funworld Living World Denpasar hadir dengan menyuguhkan kurang lebih 63 mesin permainan yang dapat dimainkan mulai dari usia Anak-anak hingga Dewasa. Adapun berbagai permainan yang ada diantaranya, Amberly, Mini Poli, Mini Bus, Ice Wheel Rainbow, Ponny Three King, Talking Tom, Rainbow Basket Ball, Cube World, Ticket Wheels, Crazy Clock, Magic Passport, Ocean Elf, Ins Cut, Cherry Box, Insquare Plus, Football Stars, Stroom Shoot, Mini 2, Photo Adventure, Pump It Up, dan lain sebagainya. “Salah satu keunggulan bermain di Funworld, merupakan tempat bermain one stop entertainment. Karena berbagai mesin permainan yang ada dapat memberi kesenangan untuk semua khalayak, serta Keluarga bisa berkumpul dan berekreasi di satu lokasi saja,” jelas Wawan didampingi Marcomm Asisstant Manager, Marthin A. Sihite dalam acara Grand Opening Funworld & Kinzlandia di Living World Denpasar pada Sabtu (6/5/2023) pagi. Kidzlandia merupakan tempat bermain anak-anak yang berisikan berbagai permainan edukatif yang dapat melatih tumbuh kembang anak-anak saat bermain, seperti pelatihan syaraf sensorik, motorik, dan kognitif. Target usia Anak-anak yang dapat bemain di Kidzlandia mulai dari usia 1 sampai dengan 12 tahun dan wajib didampingi dengan orang dewasa yang sudah memiliki kartu identitas (KTP/SIM/Passport). Wawan menambahkan, Kidzlandia Living World Denpasar memiliki kurang lebih 11 area permainan edukatif yang dapat dimainkan oleh Anak-anak, yaitu: Tube Slide, Wave Slide, Funnel Slide, Donut Slide, Trampoline, Reachman, Rotating Pakka Animal Chair, Sandpitt, Ninja Warrior, Ocean Ball, dan Roleplay. “Selain berbagai permainan tersebut di atas, Kidzlandia memberikan manfaat guna membantu perkembangan syaraf kognitif, seperti dengan mengikuti kegiatan Fun Activity bersama kakak-kakak Kidzlandia, yaitu coloring maupun dancing, yang diadakan diwaktu-waktu tertentu,” tutur Wawan. Jadwal untuk weekday (Senin-Jumat) berlangsung pada pukul 15.00 dan 17.00, sedangkan weekend (Sabtu-Minggu) pada pukul 12.00, 14.00, 15.00, dan 17.00. Ada pun Funworld dan Kidzlandia memberikan promo-promo seru di bulan Mei ini, yaitu AMEIZING Promo: - Funworld berupa promo tambahan Bonus Goldie 50%, yang berlangsung pada periode 1 s/d 31 Mei - Kidzlandia berupa promo Buy 2 Get 3 untuk Paket Bermain 1 Hari, berlangsung pada periode 2 s/d 31 Mei 20 - Funworld ada pula promo SEPESER (100% Seru), berupa tambahan Bonus Goldie sampai dengan 100%, yang berlangsung pada periode 18 s/d 21 Mei 2 Tidak hanya promo tersebut di atas, ada pula promo lain yang diberikan di lokasi Kidzlandia khusus pada 6 Mei 2023, yaitu Promo Buy 1 Get 1 khusus untuk 100 pengunjung pertama dan tunjukkan bahwa kalian sudah follow akun Instagram dari Kidzlandia yaitu @kidzlandia.id pada saat di kasir. Untuk dapat bermain di Kidzlandia, anak-anak wajib menggunakan kaus kaki anti slip/alas karet agar Anak-anak dapat bermain dengan lebih nyaman dan aman. Karena pastinya Anak-anak yang cendrung aktif akan berlari- larian ke sana ke mari dan mencoba semua area permainan. Maka, ada baiknya Kidzlandia mewajibkan dengan penggunaan kaus kaki anti/alas karet tersebut. Sedangkan untuk pendamping/Dewasa wajib menggunakan kaus kaki biasa. Kidzlandia menerapkan standar kebersihan secara berkala pada pagi hari sebelum jam operasional, disela-sela jam operasional, dan setelah jam operasional berakhir. Untuk berbagai kegiatan lainnya dapat diketahui melalui Official Account Instagram Funworld, yaitu @funworld dan Facebook Page Funworld yaitu Funworld Indonesia, serta Official Account Instagram Kidzlandia, yaitu @kidzlandia.id dan Facebook Page Kidzlandia yaitu Kidzlandia.(tis/bpn) Read the full article

#AMEIZING #BaliPortalNews #Funworld #Kidzlandia #LivingWorldDenpasar #OneStopEntertainment

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robocops-a-christ-allegory · 4 years

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I dont wanna assign the Ciaphas Cain books as being progressive but for 40k books written in the early 2000s theyre surprisingly not sexist and racist-

#Like Amberly Veil and Colonel Kasteen are good characters #I dont like how Cain always describes Kasteen as Attractive when shes first introduced that makes me uncomfortable #There was also that part in Caves of Ice where one of the side characters was a black woman and Amberly brought it up in the notes and it-#-sounded like Alex Stewart trying to make it clear that that wasnt Impossible Because Of The Lore and People In 40k Are Not Racist

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tullevamp · 6 years

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my bedroom window is broken my speech is arbitrary there's an elbow vein begging for the alleviation of a syringe I've cast out all unwelcome visitors into the blurring green and grey starlit alleys lead the way to ruin on a blanket to switchblades hidden in denim pockets to my jars and vials of dreams (go there) And I'll stay here And I'll cherish the vines that block the sun from my room I'll devalue the poisons they prescribe me Emptiness comes when there's no drugs left in their home in my sequined medicine chest tablets and capsules pink, white and blue the colors of a nursery the colors of my innocent sleep the walls of my room are broken I've destroyed the Eyes watching me from obscure angles (give me a field to lay in) Ice instead of summer heat a field of ice gone forever in blinding white

“Ice” by Amberly Willis

#ice #amberly willis #poetry #writing #drugs #eyes #fields #pink #blue #white #windows #sleep #starlit #poison #meds #sequins

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thelordofdarkreunion · 3 years

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Hidden Secrets

I am finally back! Sorry for the long delay without stories, but my life’s been rather hectic lately. I have hopefully compensated with a very interesting storyline I’ve wanted to write for a while now. Everyone has their secrets, and sometimes if they are revealed, things can come to a head...

“They say the only way to actually understand people is to see things through their eyes. It won’t matter if they’re dead, though.” -Thomas Drake

“What’s so wrong with loving an alien? What is so wrong with loving someone, caring for them, being with them forever, so long as both parties are sentient? Is it really such a bad thing?” -Admiral Adam Vir, in a speech to the Galactic Assembly on xenophilia

“In all my travels to thousands of worlds, I have actually never met a xenophiliac. I have, in fact, seen more Chaos cultists than xenophiles. However, I can tell you this. Xenophilia is a crime of unimaginable proportions. It is almost as bad as selling your soul to the Dark Gods themselves. It is something that no one, of any species, save perhaps the most absolute perverse of the Drukhari would even think of. Even then, said Drukhari would most likely be spurned by their fellows. It is a crime of such monstrosity that death is far too fair a fate for its perpetrators.” -Inquisitor Amberly Vail of the Ordo Xenos

Aboard the Omen

Three figures sat around a table. All were relaxed, slightly slouching in their seats. The lights were not the uncomfortable brightness of the medical bays or halls, nor the dim-lit spaces of the engine rooms or hidden maintenance gantries. It was a comfortable, cozy light, illuminating the fake wood of the table and the three that sat around it.

“How the hell did we get on this topic of conversation?” asked Admiral Vir, his face swirling a myriad of colors: the green of his eyes, blond of his hair, black of his eyepatch, and currently, red of his face.

“I’m not precisely sure,” drawled Commander Shepard, “But I believe it has something to do with our good comrade Quill over there complementing extra-terrestrial hips.”

“Hey! There is nothing wrong with pointing out that your chief engineer, despite wearing a face mask and enviro-suit all the time, is pretty hot. Perfect, well-rounded figure,” replied Quill, grinning and adjusting his long, red-brown greatcoat. “Though, it’s just an observation. I’m already taken. By an alien with just as good, if not better, hips.” Vir buried his face in his hands, and Shepard just sighed. “What I don’t get, though,” he continued, “Is why the hell Vir here is attracted to Sunny? Listen, Gamora and Tali are hot. They have ass.” At this, Shepard groaned loudly and joined Vir with his head in his hands. “I don’t get why you’re attracted to an eight foot tall, four armed, beaked, carapaced alien. Unless you’re into some pretty… interesting… things.” Vir looked over to Shepard.

“This is how this conversation’s going to go, isn’t it?” he said. Shepard simply nodded.

“Yeah,” he replied.

“I mean, no judgement if you are,” continued Quill. “I’ve done it with aliens a lot weirder than Drev. If you’re into that sort of thing… whatever thing a Drev is, that’s fine.” Vir simply sighed again.

“Jesus, Quill.” He looked around, staring at the ceiling for a moment before turning back to his companions. “Alright. Fine.” He cracked his neck. “You know what? You want me to ‘fess up, I will. I…” He trailed off for a moment, working his jaw and wringing his hands before letting out a breath. “I… like…” He noticed the expectant looks of the other two at the table. “Okay, fine, love… Sunny.” He threw up his hands, face an even deeper shade of red, if at all possible. “There. Said it. Please kill me.”

“Well. No offense Adam, but I wasn’t expecting you to start off with that,” replied Shepard.

“Neither did I,” murmured Adam. He looked over to Quill once more. “It’s not that I like Drev. It’s just that I like… her. I… She… Well…”

“C’mon Adam. Spit it out.” Vir sighed again.

“I love her. No matter who or what she may be. Not because she’s an alien. Everything about her being… her. If that makes sense,” he finished lamely. Shepard and Quill, though, both nodded along sagely.

“Yeah. It does,” replied Shepard quietly. “I… feel the same way. In a way.” He laughed. “I guess tonight none of us are going to have a way with words.” He let out a large sigh, and his eyes went distant, seeing things that existed a thousand miles away. “I… think I do love Tali. I think I do… but I haven’t even told her.” He gave another laugh, this one much more bitter. “I’m telling this all to you, but I haven’t even told her. I… just… I don’t want to hurt her.” He looked at his own scarred hands miserably. “I’m a Spectre, and I’m running the most dangerous mission in the galaxy, on an unauthorized ship, and I just… don’t want anyone to hurt her. And I don’t want to hurt her. So I haven’t said anything,” he finished.

“Yeah,” replied Quill, much more soberly than his teasing before. “I know how you both feel. I was a bit of a playboy for a while,” he grinned. His expression became serious once more. “But, after I met Gamora, and… was in a world without her, for a bit, I finally understood. What it meant. To actually love someone.” He gave his cocky smile once again. “Despite, you know, her being a super-assassin who can and has kicked my ass on multiple occasions.” Both Vir and Shepard laughed.

“You know, it’s funny how just talking can make you see things differently. Make the world seem better,” said Shepard. He grinned at Vir. “Thanks for inviting us over.” Vir looked at him strangely, frowning.

“What do you mean? You invited us. You said you wanted to talk, and talk on my ship.” Shepard responded with an equally puzzled expression.

“No, I didn’t,” he insisted. “You invited us here.” Quill nodded in conformation.

“Yeah. You invited us.”

“No I didn’t!” shot back Vir.

“Well if you didn’t, who did?” asked Shepard. Their argument was broken by a new voice, filled with righteous hate and vengeance, as cold as an ice-world blizzard.

“I did.” Quill, Vir, and Shepard started. They hadn’t even heard the door open. The imposing figure of Commissar Ciaphas Cain, clad in his heavy black greatcoat, boots, and cap, swirled through the door, holding his laspistol at the ready. Vir, being the one in most contact with Cain (Cain was stationed aboard his ship, after all), had heard stories from the Valhallan infantry about Imperial commissars. They had all said how lucky they’d been to have Cain, as many commissars were hate-filled, imposing men and women who ruled through sheer terror. Vir had laughed it off. Cain was calm. Cain was understanding. Cain was always one to look for a solution to any problems, and prevent people from fighting. Even when they had first met, when the Imperials, so unused to aliens, had tried to pick fights with the Omen’s crew, Cain had calmed things down. He was the perfect officer.

But now, Vir remembered the Valhallans’ stories. Cain fit the description of a commissar perfectly now. His massive height, the dark uniform, the eyes blazing with a hate that was so un-Cain like and outstretched laspistol made him a figure of nightmares from a totalitarian and xenophobic government. Xenophobic… Shit! Apparently, all three men sitting at the table had the same idea at once, and made a motion to rise. Cain tightened his grip on the laspistol, and flicked it clearly at each one of them in turn.

“Ah, un uh. Sit back down,” he hissed. “Hands on the table.” The three complied, lowering themselves back into their seats slowly. Cain kept the gun pointed at them.

“Cain?” asked Shepard hesitantly. “What’s this about?”

“I’m no fool,” replied Cain, “Though I think you believe me one.” His gloved fingers tightened on the laspistol grip. There was a brief pause as Cain glared at the three.

What made both Shepard and Vir such good commanding officers was their ability to read people. They were experts at knowing what people were thinking, and how to react accordingly. What shocked them both was the expression of pure betrayal behind Cain’s cold eyes. That was an emotion neither of them expected.

“I’d heard rumors, of course. Some tabloid drama, accusing humanity's greatest heroes of xenophilia, of all things.” Cain scoffed. “Disgusting, I thought. How dare they slander you so!” Cain’s voice dropped from anger to pure fury. “But then,” he hissed, “Then I heard more official reports. I heard your speeches. I saw pictures. I heard rumors not from some disgusting two-bit reporter, but from your own crews. I am not blind, though you might think me so. And this?” He waved his pistol around the room. “You were humanity’s best.” His voice dropped into a whisper, resonating with hurt and betrayal. “I gave you a chance. I thought it could not be so. I thought that even though you served with aliens, they were subservient to you. To humanity. But now I have proof. Proof of your degeneracy. From your own mouths. You confessed. I gave you a chance to say otherwise, a second chance, but you… scum,” he finished, too angry for words. He noticed their glances at the door and gave out a dark laugh. “Oh, no. There’s no one here to save you, traitors. I made sure of it.”

“So what now?” asked Shepard calmly, breaking the tension.

“Now?” replied Cain, laspistol still pointed at the three. “Now I kill you, as is my duty. I lock this door, and pretend there is some urgent conference I need you for. I tell Kasteen and Brocklaw to have Simone set a course to Watch Fortress Novus Galactica, and there the Inquisition will purge this ship, then return for the others. There is no escape.” Vir stood up, hands raised, fury on his face.

“If I’m going to die I’m going to get my say. I never did enough of that in life,” he said with a bitter laugh. He fixed Cain with an equally furious stare, looking at the double-headed golden eagles on Cain’s cap and lapels. Those eagles. Those god-damned eagles. “I’ve had enough of people like you. I’ve had enough of trying to explain myself. I’m not some sick fuck. I’m not a degenerate. I love an alien for who she is, not what she is. And if you kill me, then you kill me,” he spat. Cain smirked.

“So be it.” He was interrupted by a sound. A metallic click-click. A sound known by every member in the room. A sound known to almost every human and alien in existence. A sound known by all who ever watched human movies, or fought human armies. A sound that first came into existence in 1835 and was repeated every day, somewhere in human territory across nine galaxies ever since. The sound of a revolver hammer being cocked.

“Put the gun down, Commissar.” The voice of Thomas Drake was smooth. Unemotional, and uncaring at the drama unfolding in front of him. His matt-black revolver, held by his dark gloves, was pointed at Cain’s head. He was at a perfect distance, where Cain could not turn on him before being gunned down. Vir still stood, Shepard and Quill both seated, their hands still up or on the table. The only movement Cain made was to clench his jaw and extend his pistol arm farther.

“Drake,” hissed Cain. “I should have known. You knew all their secrets. You hid this from us!”

“Of course,” replied Drake. “Their actions are their own, though, and their secrets were not mine to give out.” Cain’s hand squeezed the pistol grip even tighter, his augmetic fingers balancing it through his rage.

“I can still kill them, Drake. I suggest you put your gun down before that happens,” he suggested, his voice tight. Drake laughed.

“Yes. One. Before I kill you. One squeeze of the trigger I can’t prevent. I can prevent two, though. But you won’t.” Drake’s voice was delighted, smiling wryly at a secret only he possessed. “You won’t because I know you won’t. You won’t because I know your secrets. I read your book! Your autobiography!” he announced with malicious triumph. “I know how your mind works, and I know that you don’t want to die on this ship, or anywhere else, especially for the life of one measly heretic. So you put your gun down, Commissar.” Cain struggled for a moment, his muscles clenching and unclenching, before he finally gave a disgusted snort and tossed his laspistol on the table. Vir, Quill, and Shepard let out breaths they didn’t know they were holding.

“So then,” sneered Cain. “What now, oh Captain Drake? You have already proven you won’t kill me, and they cannot be allowed to live,” he said. Drake merely smiled.

“Have you ever heard the phrase, ‘To understand someone you must see the world through their eyes’?” he asked. The other four occupants of the room nodded, unsure of where this was going. “Well, that’s precisely what’s going to happen. Let’s see if you’ll kill each other when you know precisely how you each operate.” He gave a dark grin and gestured with his pistol at Vir, Shepard, and Quill. “Now. You three. Put your weapons on the table,” he ordered. The three stared at him in shock.

“But… why?” replied Quill. “You saved us,” he said, as if that explained his reasoning. Drake simply laughed again.

“I like to be the only one in a room holding a weapon. Especially in a situation as intense as this. Now. Guns on the table. Vir, you aren’t carrying a weapon. Shameful,” he drawled. “Your pistols, Quill, and the knives I know you have in your sleeve and boot. Your sidearm, Shepard.” The three complied, Drake’s revolver now pointed at them as Cain scowled at the situation. “Wonderful,” said Drake. He took a step back, walking through the doorway, and gestured at the four men to follow him. They complied grudgingly, still shooting death glares at each other. Drake put a hand to the communications device in his left ear, not moving his gun arm an inch. “Beam us up, Scotty,” he said simply. With a whir and flash, the five disappeared from the Omen, only to suddenly see the hallways of the Enterprise around them.

“So. Kirk and the Starfleet officers are in on this as well. Why I am not surprised,” stated Cain, looking at his surroundings with grudging simplicity.

“Maybe. Maybe not,” replied Drake. He lowered his pistol, finger coming off the trigger. “No one’s here, either. No help from the crew here.” He tilted his head to a large grey door. “In that room.” Looking warily at his gun, trying and thinking how to take it from him all the while, the four followed Drake’s command. The room was an empty expanse of darkness. None of them could tell its purpose or how big it truly was.

“What is this place?” asked Quill.

“It's called a ‘holodeck’,” replied Drake. “It is a room that is, essentially, a massive virtual reality. It’s usually used for some sort of training simulation programs, but this time, I’ve made sure it can read memories. Oh yeah,” he grinned. “It can do that. And that is what’s going to happen. We are going to delve inside each of our minds, and see what makes us all tick. Maybe if you see someone else’s entire life laid out in front of them from their point of view you’ll be less likely to kill them.” Drake took in their apprehensive glances. “Oh yes. I know. All of us have secrets. And I’m sure none of you really trust this. That’s why I’ll go first. Let us begin.”

There we have it. Cain can tolerate a lot of things, including working with aliens, but absolutely not romancing aliens. I shall continue this story line, with all of these characters giving their own horrible memories. As always, I own no one except Drake, and all characters belong to their original rightful owners. If you have any criticisms, comments, concerns, questions, or requests, feel free to tell me!

#magnificent scoundrels #writing #my writing #crossover #crossover story #mass effect #empyrean iris #guardians of the galaxy #warhammer 40k

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dwellordream · 3 years

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Chapters: 34/40 Fandom: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death Summary: In the aftermath of the War of the Ninepenny Kings, Branda Stark, daughter of a mountain clanswoman and a wandering wolf, finds herself wedding a minor lord of the Stormlands, while her younger sister is betrothed to their cousin Rickard, heir to Winterfell. While Branda finds love in her 'lesser' match, taking up residence at the mysterious Amberly, Aerys Targaryen takes the throne, Rickard Stark begins to dream of a southern alliance, and Branda's adventurous children, always in the shadow of their cousins, find themselves scattered across a realm edging closer and closer to civil war.

#aouh #chapter update

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theolympusrp · 4 years

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OOC: +18

IC:

Nome terreno: Eleanor Green / Fan Qiayi. Nome mitológico: Delta. Faceclaim: Amberly - @bbyambi. Nascimento: 28 de fevereiro de 1996. Naturalidade: Shangai, China.

Ser: Lâmia. Tempo de treino: 15 anos. Nível: 03. Dormitório: Vulpecula (Ala 02) - Quarto 01.

Twitter: @delta_olp Ocupação: Aluna + Médica-legista.

Qualidades: Astuta, inteligente e hábil. Defeitos: Fechada, orgulhosa e hipócrita. Plots de interesse: Todos.

Biografia:

(Trigger Warning: #TWSNG e #TWCNB)

Muito pouco poderia ser dito sobre a criatura que havia chego no instituto. Os professores e responsáveis do local tinha conhecimento das lâmias e de seus poderes mas uma nunca havia chego no instituto e não sabiam bem como proceder dali. A menina de cinco anos parecia ter treinado suas habilidades enquanto longe do local de ensino e por isso surpreendia os deuses que faziam o possível para esconder dos superiores a existência de uma criatura banida dali.

Lâmia não era bem vista pelos Três Grandes, ora por ter dormido com Zeus ou por ser uma criatura da qual os reis dos mares desprezava. Suas filhas também eram vistas como seres vis e iam contra aquilo o que os professores tentavam pregar no instituto entretanto, não poderiam simplesmente abandonar a criatura. A sua forma híbrida se mostrava aos poucos também, adotando os olhos puxados e o rosto arredondado sempre que se sentava para poder pintar figuras e aprender aos poucos a ler.

Com quinze anos e após uma longa noite de treinamento, Delta resolveu deixar o instituto para poder conhecer melhor o mundo humano e o que este poderia oferecer. Era curiosa e tinha plena consciência que aquilo poderia dar errado de diversas maneiras mas, em sua cabeça a ideia ainda parecia boa e por isso, apenas arrumou uma mochila para deixar o local e foi. Não esperava que fosse durar apenas dois dias na rua até o serviço social da cidade a forçar para ir a um orfanato e isso tornava nulo alguns de seus planos. Era um lugar fétido e úmido, nada parecido com o instituto e não esperava um contato de sua mãe. A criatura era uma das mais bonitas que já havia visto e em sua mente infantil, era parecida com uma princesa que ia guiá-la para fora dali.

A mãe explicou para ela suas condições e também o que aconteceria: Seria adotada por uma família chinesa e ia treinar ao lado da filha deles que também era uma semideusa ou criatura. Era um plano estranho e com muitos poucos detalhes mas aceitou. Não quis questionar os motivos que ela tinha para ter a deixado para trás uma boa parte de sua vida e novamente, arrumou a sua mochila para deixar o que já era sua segunda moradia. O homem sempre levava a família para viajar e não sabia dizer qual era a profissão do patriarca. Aprendeu com o tempo e vê-los como família e os treinamentos eram intensos, sempre podendo aprender mais e evoluir suas habilidades. Foi com eles que descobriu o seu prazer pelo sangue humano e como conseguir sem que ninguém notasse matar alguém e deixar o corpo irreconhecível.

Com dezesseis anos e após uma longa conversa com sua família, entrou em um internato apenas para mulheres na Coreia do Sul e o local era interessante, aprendia sobre história, exatas, a língua do local e afazeres domésticos. Não demorou a se formar e passar a estudar para o vestibular, passando em uma das mais prestigiosas de Seul e se formou em Medicina. Era uma boa maneira de conhecer o corpo humano afinal e também, um acesso infinito de sangue e carne.

Habilidades:

1 - TRANSFORMAÇÃO REPTILIANA: Assim como todos os répteis, a lâmia é capaz de trocar sua pele e, com isso, alterar sua aparência. É capaz de assumir qualquer forma que já tenha visto antes, e por mais que consiga fazer tal coisa com facilidade, dura apenas doze horas. Se trocar de forma com um semideus também não irá possuir suas habilidads.

2 - CHARME: Para alimentar seu apetite por carne, precisa atrair as presas que serão seu alimento. Para isso, emana um doce perfume que é capaz de encantar e aturdir quem sentir o aroma. A vítima fica incapaz de se mover ou reagir a qualquer possível ataque, tendo a duração de alguns minutos até que a criatura seja capaz de se alimentar.

3 - GARRAS AFIADAS: Ao retrair os dedos, a lâmia adquire longas garras que são capazes de dilacerar carne com muita facilidade. Precisa de mais força para cortar materiais mais duros e resistentes, porém materiais duros como diamante, por exemplo, podem quebrar as garras da lâmia e estas não poderão ser utilizadas até crescerem novamente.

4 - RIVALIDADE ANCESTRAL: As lâmias serão capazes de causar uma briga intensa entre semideuses de pais rivais como Poseidon e Atena e Afrodite e Perséfone. Os semideuses podem até mesmo ser amigos e a briga será desconexa, acontecendo por trinta minutos.

5 - METACOGNIÇÃO: Enquanto estiver perto de pessoas com poderes psíquicos e persuasão, a lâmia consegue notar quando tais habilidades agem perante outras pessoas. Apesar de não conseguir ver o que as pessoas vêem, pode ver se uma pessoa está sendo manipulada ou não.

6 - EMPODERAMENTO CANIBAL (#TWCNB): A lâmia é capaz de se tornar mais poderosa e aumentar consideravelmente seus atributos (como força, resistência, velocidade, etc.) ao se alimentar de suas vítimas. Apesar disso, o efeito é temporário e o desgaste em seu corpo após isso requer horas de descanso.

7 - SELO MÁGICO - Capacidade de criar selos com diferentes focos em suas próprias mãos. Podem aprisionar demônios, limitar poderes, entre outros. Quanto mais forte for o feitiço realizado, mais energia irá utilizar. Se vier a ser ferida durante a conjuração, fica incapacitado de usar a magia novamente.

8 - BEIJO MORTAL: Além de se alimentar das vítimas que atrai, a lâmia é capaz de sugar a vitalidade de seu alvo com um beijo e assim se manter sempre jovem. Não é capaz de matar sua vítima, mas a deixa incapacitada por muito tempo até que recupere a vitalidade novamente e, quando isso acontece, a energia que havia sido roubada se esvai e a lâmia precisa de outra vítima para sempre manter sua aparência jovial.

9 - ARMAS MÁGICAS: a lâmia é capaz de criar armas mágicas ou de ser possuidor delas, usando-as em combate para favorecê-lo ofensiva e defensivamente. Por serem armas, elas concedem um uso facilitado de capacidades mágicas a guerreiros hábeis em usá-las, porém tem um tempo de duração de cerca se vinte minutos até que se desfaça.

10 - VAIDADE FATAL (#TWCNB): A lâmia pode enfeitiçar uma pessoa para ficar mais atraente, chamando a atenção de semideuses e criaturas com sua sensualidade e personalidade. A maldição porém não funciona de maneira coerente e desperta até mesmo no mais forte semideus a vontade de devorar o amaldiçoado. A maldição tem duração de duas horas.

#aceitos #membros #eleanor green #amberly #lamia #vulpecula

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ramajmedia · 5 years

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10 George R.R. Martin Stories That Would Be Impossible To Bring To Screens

Thanks to HBO’s landmark adaptation of A Song of Ice and Fire that’s better known as Game of Thrones, author George R.R. Martin has become a legend in modern popular culture. Before publishing the first chapter of Westoros’ epic history in 1996, Martin was primarily known for writing Science-Fiction and Horror stories that are just as intriguing and compelling as a Stark’s adventures.

RELATED: 10 BTS Facts About The Making Of The Thing

But as interesting and well-received as some of these books may be, not all of them could be adapted like Game of Thrones was. Whether this is because of the story’s massive scale or other factors, here are 10 books written by George R.R. Martin that would be impossible (or at least very difficult) to adapt today.

10 Fevre Dream

Bored seafarer Abner Marsh gets the deal of a lifetime when the mysterious traveler Joshua York commissions him to captain The Fevre Dream, the greatest steamboat ever made. Things seem to be going great for Abner except for one thing: Joshua is a thousand-years old vampire.

Of the stories listed here, Martin’s reflective take on vampire fiction is the most plausible for a live-action adaptation. The only problem is that vampire movies are a bit passé today following the subgenre’s oversaturation in the early 2000s, making the case for a new vampire movie a bit difficult.

9 Tuf Voyaging

Tasked with terraforming entire planets and remaking their ecologies, the reclusive and no-nonsense genius Haviland Tuf and his psychic cat Mushroom search the galaxy for planets and solar systems to discover, visit, and reshape.

While the idea of Star Trek starring Spock may sound discouraging to some, there’s a nice audience out there waiting for more meditative sci-fi stories like Arrival or Annihilation. But because that target audience is rather small, it’s unlikely that a major studio would finance a galactic procedural anthology such as Tuf Voyaging.

8 The Ice Dragon

Often mistaken for being a part of the world of A Song of Fire and Ice because of its frosty eponymous creature, Martin’s novella followed Adara when she meets the best friend she could ever ask for: an ice dragon. This is also Martin’s debut into children’s fiction.

RELATED: 10 Pre-Lord Of The Rings High-Fantasy Movies That Are Still Worth Watching

The Ice Dragon is basically Dragonheart or The NeverEnding Story but told by the guy who dreamt up The Red Wedding. There’s nothing bad about this fairytale, but it’s too similar to older movies that already told the premise well. It could, however, work as an animated feature on Netflix.

7 Sandkings

When businessman and exotic animal aficionado Simon Kress gets bored of his current pet collection, he finds enjoyment in his newest addition: the Sandkings. Though they treat him like a god at first, they become murderously uncontrollable when get sick of his abuse.

If Gremlins removed all of the comedy, Sandkings would be the outcome. It’s because of this similarity that this particular horror story won’t be adapted any time soon – especially since there are rumors of a third Gremlins being in development.

6 Windhaven

In a world of storms and islands, the young Flyer Maris of Lesser Amberly sets out to change the unjust world she lives in. But as the years pass, she learns that reform isn’t as utopian as she hoped it would be.

If Windhaven were optioned during the height of the Young Adult Dystopian’s popularity, it wouldn’t have been able to stand out. Now that the genre’s dead, there’s currently little hope for Maris’ story to come to life. That, and her adventures may remind people a bit too much of a certain notorious bomb named Waterworld.

5 Dying of the Light

Set on the planet of Worlon, the story focuses on Dirk t’Larien when he visits the (literally and culturally) dying planet to answer his former lover’s request. Learning that his ex Gwen is trapped in an abusive marriage, Dirk goes to save her even if it means driving Worlon further into the brink.

There’s a current need for new space operas that another Star Wars installment can’t fill, but this novel may not exactly be the best candidate. Basically Game of Thrones set in space, Martin’s debut novel is too large in scale to adapt into live-action.

4 In The House Of The Worm

This collection of novellas and short stories can be described as H.G. Wells’ The Time Machine mixed with H.P. Lovecraft’s Cthulhu Mythos, with the cast of characters starting out on a journey for revenge only to meet the horrifying subterranean truth behind their ancestral religion.

RELATED: 10 B-Rate Horror Movies From The 80s Everyone Needs To Watch

The narrative and themes of Martin’s send-off to Lovecraftian lore would make for ambitious entertainment, but there’s a reason why none of Lovecraft’s most famous stories haven’t been adapted. Studios tend to avoid existential horror like poison, so a tale about the Legendary White Worm simply won’t fly.

3 A Song For Lya

Following the telepathic explorers Rob and Lyanna when they visit the mysterious planet of Shkea, the two stumble upon a strange religion filled with human converts. To their horror, the sect’s god isn’t a mythical figure but a physical Eldricth monstrosity.

Much like In The House Of The Worm, a book about an existentially horrifying religion would be an unlikely story for studios to pick up. If something as iconic as Lovecraft’s At The Mountains Of Madness has been languishing in development hell for years, imagine how difficult it would be to adapt Martin’s religious horror about a giant parasite.

2 The Armageddon Rag

Aging journalist and former hippie Sandy Blair finds the case of a lifetime when an infamous rock band promoter is found brutally murdered. Nazgul, the band at the center of it all, may be using its music to bring about the apocalypse.

RELATED: Every Upcoming Music Biopic

Not only is the concept of rock music being evil (or at least being intertwined with the supernatural) outdated but the book is considered to be Martin’s worst. Even Martin himself acknowledges its failings, though he’s still proud of giving his experimental writing a shot. It’s unlikely that any studio would adapt the celebrated author’s weakest tale.

1 The Real Song Of Ice and Fire

HBO’s former pride and joy Game of Thrones was mostly based on Martin’s A Song of Fire and Ice, directly adapting most of the first four books before diverging from the source material and leaving out the upcoming The Winds of Winter and A Dream of Spring.

But thanks to an abysmal eighth season that tanked the show’s critical and audience appeal, Game of Thrones’ reputation has been forever tarnished. While HBO will still air the prequel, it will be years before someone revisits Martin’s magnum opus to adapt it with the respect it deserves.

NEXT: 5 Things Lord Of The Rings Does Better Than Game Of Thrones (& 5 Things Game Of Thrones Does Better)

source https://screenrant.com/george-r-r-martin-stories-impossible-to-bring-screens/

#screenrant

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laytonesqueautistic · 6 years

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I don't like when media uses a character's mental illness to explain why they are the bad guy. Yes, Hyness is a mentally ill villain character but I'm sure if he wasn't a villain he would still be mentally ill. Yes he supposedly is abusive to the mages but all we get is pause descriptions (which can be vague and erroneous) and just one clip of him slapping her away. Plus it perpetuates the stigma that everyone who has a mental illness is a bad person. An example of this would be Split (where the main villain has DID and his alters are all evil when that's usually not the case). And don’t get me started when characters are called burdens because of their mental illness or the movie only exists to be sympathy fodder for ““”martyr””” caregivers. Or those movies that only show the “bad” side of autism and intentionally mislead people. Or that one fucking Autism Speaks video where a mom says she would rather jump off a bridge with her daughter rather than put her in a school. However, I can point out good examples. N-Gin is mentally ill BUT it's played for laughs and he's not shown to be abusive or evil cause of his mental illness and he can be sympathetic towards some. Plus even if he is insane there is a) a good reason why b) he was always evil since he went to Madam Amberly's. Ice King is another great example because the crown is in a way a metaphor for dementia and he has a side of humanity. He's well written and again, sympathetic.

I also hate how some people act as if you were abusive you can’t change. People are constantly changing. People can own up to their mistakes and learn. People can realize that they were awful and apologize. People can change for the better or for the worst. Plus all we know is Hyness doesn’t remember Zan’s name and “treats her poorly” which doesn’t always mean physical abuse, plus the slap only happened ONCE. And when he drained the generals he was at a breaking point, obviously having lost his grip with reality. It's not an excuse, but its a reason!

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ambcrly-blog · 8 years

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❛ hope softens the rough edge of every promise. ❜

But hope can also kill. It can keep someone holding on for days, weeks, months, years, that what they hope for will come true – that things will get better, that they will love them back, that there is a light at the end of the tunnel.

Hope is addictive. It’s a waste of time.

At least, that’s what the world wants everyone to believe, isn’t it? That hope is a waste of time, that holding out for something better (things will get better, they always get better, never, ever, lose hope) is such a colossal waste of resources.

“ Hopeis the thing with feathers – That perches in the soul - And sings the tune without the words - And never stops - at all - And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard - And sore must be the storm - That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm - I’ve heard it in the chillest land - And on the strangest Sea - Yet - never - in Extremity, It asked a crumb - of me.“

#rebursting #;; ic | 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒻𝓇𝑜𝓂 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓁𝒾𝓅𝓈 𝓈𝒽𝑒 𝒹𝓇𝑒𝓌 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒽𝒶𝓁𝓁𝑒𝓁𝓊𝒿𝒶𝒽 #hope is the thing with feathers is by emily dickinson uwu #and probably one of amberly's favourite poems tbh

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halloweenvalentine1997 · 6 years

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I know I am a handful sitting on my throne lobotomized queen on a hill writhing under coils and smoke like angel wings and ice dead stars fall from skies Nothing can change me now in my place of mystique outside of the city forget the iron fence that barricades the spike that struck my head You can be sure that they all want me dead You can be sure my innocence is lost in the autumn leaves Asylum wounds opened on a lobotomized queen

Amberly Willis

#poetry #mine #pseudonyms #one of my names #this poem is gay but i had to write it

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brielleinstitutehq · 6 years

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AMBERLY JACOBS is a 21 year old PATIENT in the MEDICAL WARD. She has been diagnosed with a BRAIN TUMOR and suffers SHORT TERM MEMORY LOSS and looks a lot like Troian Bellisario.

MAYBE THEY’RE HIDING

Amberly Jacobs was everything that every parent had ever wanted their child to be. She was beautiful, humorous and ever so clever that she could have lit up the world with her knowledge. The Jacobs family weren’t necessarily anything special; they were average parents that led very average lives - they held two normal jobs and that was that. But Amberly? She was an overachiever. She had goals and she knew exactly what she wanted to do with them. As long as she pushed herself, then she was capable of anything - even bagging herself a scholarship to Harvard University. Nobody was quite prepared for the news that Amberly had to spill when her letter came through the door, after being scouted at school but her family couldn’t have been more proud. She was the first person in the family to ever attend university; even her older siblings hadn’t entertained the thought of it. They quickly made their own lives and settled into it but Amberly was always willing to push herself that little bit extra.

WE HOPE THEY ARE PLAYING A GAME

After seven months of studying at Harvard and falling in love with each piece of her degree that she fell into, Amberly’s entire life became clear. She was planning for the future already; thinking about what it was she wanted to do in life and just how she was going to get there. She was a little ball of energy - unstoppable and excited to see what the world had to offer but she was a little too eager at times... On a trip home to visit her family, there was something serious that happened - something severe that was going to shape Amberly’s life forever. As her car wrapped itself around a twisted oak tree on the drive back home, Amberly was sent into a long term coma - leaving her unconscious for three weeks. Although at first it appeared to be a set of broken bones, Amberly’s list of things that were going wrong had begun to grow... At first, she developed a brain tumor - all because she slipped on some black ice and her tyres couldn’t take it. And then soon after, it was determined that she would suffer from short term memory loss. She still remembered the car crash as clear as day, which made it that little more heartbreaking for herself and her family... But they didn’t call her their determined beam of sunshine for no reason. Amberly WANTED to go back to university and despite how much the doctors urged her against it, she was going to complete her first year. She had what it took beforehand, so why should some accident that never should have happened get in her way?

BUT THIS IS REALLY HAPPENING

Feeling hopeful and encouraged with the support of her parents, Amberly set her mind to her biggest goal yet - finish the next two months and then she could wait to continue until she recovered. No matter what happened, the Jacobs family felt proud that she was even willing to try - she really was the strongest person within the family. Although Amberly tried her hardest to keep up, especially after missing two months worth of work, the brunette just couldn’t store all of the new information that was being given to her. It was lke her brain was working overtime - desperately trying to catch up and yet, struggling to dod so. It then became apparent just how serious Amberly’s brain tumor really was. Every little target and dream that she had ever set herself was slowly being torn from her grip - but she wasn’t ready to let it go, not without a fight and not without kicking and screaming. She took it upon herself to do her own research - to find out where was BEST to deal with her condition... And that was where she found Brielle Institute. In the whiteboard nailed to her bedroom wall, Amberly created a list of every hospital that seemed fit and each day, she came back to Brielle Institute - the reasons why it seemed perfect as clear as the black pen that stained the white. Volunteering to admit herself into Brielle with the hope that she could return to Brielle once she had recovered, Amberly waved her parents off at the doors whilst a nurse took her through reception - ready to welcome her to the institute.

Connections: None

Fortunately, Amberly is OPEN!

#pretty little liars fc #pll fc #Troian Bellisario #troian bellisario fc #asylum rp #female #patient #amberly #open #of #ofp #op

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rhetoricandlogic · 6 years

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LIMESTONE, LYE, AND THE BUZZING OF FLIES

KATE HEARTFIELD

ISSUE: 16 FEBRUARY 2015

4185 WORDS

LISTEN TO THE PODCAST

The summer we were twelve, nobody asked my best friend Tom and me to wear bike helmets, because it was 1989. If they asked where we were going, we just said, “Bike ride.”

They would just nod and go back to whatever it was they were doing. My dad would go back to the bar; my mom would go back to staring at the TV. Tom’s mom would go back to screaming at Tom's older brother.

So we would ride fast in the sunshine. River Road had a few honest-to-goodness hills, a wonder in rural Manitoba. We used to kick our legs out wide and put our hands in the air and let our bikes rattle down, around the curves, knowing there might be cars coming but there never were.

We always went to the same place: our little kingdom. A green slope between the highway and the river, with a limestone fort squatting on it.

When we got to Lower Fort Garry, we’d park our bikes and walk in through the back gate. Nobody ever made us pay. Nobody swore or wailed at us. It was the one place we knew where we got to choose whether to talk to people. You walked up and talked to the pretend fur-trader or the pretend shopkeeper, or you didn’t. We would sit on the grass and listen to the crickets, or watch the lazy Red River until our eyes hurt from the sun glittering on it.

I think that’s why we heard what others did not hear, saw what others did not see. Something whispers in every silence and there is writing on every wall. One of my sisters said that to me, once, when we were chained together in a dungeon barely larger than a grave.

No—that is the wrong memory. That didn’t happen. Not to me.

I was a girl in 1989, in Manitoba, and my friend Tom and I would go to our fort. At times when there was hardly anyone else around, we would walk inside the square fort itself. We would sit on the barrels in the fur-storage room, stick our tongues out at the pelts that still had snarling faces attached, and try to make things out of trap wire. The pimply girls in their heavy nineteenth century dresses would give us ice cream sandwiches out of the staff freezer and one of them taught me how to smoke a Player’s cigarette.

The only one who never broke character was the blacksmith. If a visitor said something about TV or telephones he would pretend not to know what we were talking about. It was always 1850 for him. I never knew his name. The smithy was just outside the fort walls and I hated going in there because a fire was the last thing I wanted on a July afternoon. But Tom liked to go there to get nails for his collection. So I would lean against the shoeing apparatus just outside the door, and listen to the smith bang and hiss and twist.

“Now you be careful of this one, young sir,” the blacksmith said to him once when they were on their way out into the sunshine. I flipped my sunglasses up onto the top of my head so I could see them in the darkness. The smith had his thumb cocked at me.

Tom blushed and I rolled my eyes.

The blacksmith talked about the fire a lot: how hot it should be, what kind of wood, that sort of thing.

“This is no ordinary fire,” the blacksmith said, the last time we visited. “It began from a spark struck off the anvil of the first Scottish smith to work on this spot, in 1815, and has never gone out since.”

“Really,” I said, humouring him.

He nodded. “It’s a need-fire. It protects this place. So long as there is a smith to tend it.”

“Protects it from what?” Tom asked.

“The smith’s wife. She came here first, tried to claim this place and all the souls in it, but he followed her from across the ocean. As long as he has this fire and red iron in it, she’ll never have dominion here.”

“But she’s long dead,” I said. “She might even be dead in 1850. Do you mean her ghost or something?”

He shook his head. “As long as there’s a smith there’s a smith’s wife.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well, what if the smith isn’t married?”

“It’s just a story, Daphne,” Tom said.

We had all the history plaques memorized and when it got too hot we would go into the museum and watch the twenty-minute heritage movie just so we could sit in the air conditioning. The fort was built in the 1830s by the Hudson’s Bay Company, which controlled the fur trade in those days and was pretty much the government of Canada back then too.

There was a lot of history they didn’t tell us: like the fact that Governor Simpson had eleven children by seven women and insisted on having a personal bagpiper with him when he circumnavigated the globe in a birchbark canoe. Or that Louis Riel’s secretary Honore Jaxon, a wannabe Metis who was born a white Methodist, was locked up in Lower Fort Garry’s isolation chambers in the 1880s after the Red River Rebellion, when the place became an asylum.

They showed us maps and dramatizations and pretended like all these sad, weird white people were so brave for snowshoeing or paddling out into a wilderness where they weren’t wanted. Like they weren’t all running with dogs at their heels.

The summer we were fourteen, Tom and I got jobs. We didn’t go to the fort anymore.

I worked at the hot dog diner near the locks. I sold slices of soggy cherry pie that we were supposed to say was homemade if anyone asked, and ice cream out of big plastic tubs, and bait worms. I came home at night with my uniform smelling of hot dogs and pine cleaner. My fingernails were brown from cleaning the grill and my wrists were sticky because the fishermen liked to put nickels in the bottoms of their Coke glasses and watch me fish them out.

The spring when we were sixteen, Tom and I didn’t hang out much anymore but his locker was close to mine.

“How do you like waitressing, Daphne?” he asked one day when the hall was empty because we were both late for class.

I shrugged. “How do you like the gas station?”

“I hear they’re hiring for the summer at Lower Fort Garry.”

“For what job?”

“You know, dressing up and talking to the tourists. Acting or whatever.”

I had never thought of that as an ordinary job, as a job that I could do. But Tom was right. They hired us and even paid a few cents over minimum wage. We could hardly believe our luck.

Tom got hired as the assistant to the very blacksmith who used to make him nails. I filled in wherever they needed a girl. The first week, I baked bannock and bread in the oven at the back of the governor’s mansion. I hated the heat and the flies there, the buzzing always in my ears, and the sun glaring off the limestone. If I listened for a few minutes, the buzzing seemed to fall into a pattern.

Joanne, a woman in her forties, played Anne Maxwell Colvile, the governor’s wife, mistress of the Big House. Joanne was always tired because her kids were brats. One day I was listening to the flies and kind of humming along to myself, and Joanne had to ask me three times if I’d seen her parasol.

Then one of the girls who worked in a settler house got mono and I asked if I could move there. The settler houses and teepee were outside the fort, just down the white-stone path from the smithy. It was quieter and cooler there. I could pour beef-fat candles into tin moulds, in the shade of the farmhouse doorway, while visitors watched. I memorized how the line of the shade would move from the doorstep to the carrot patch over the course of my shift: my own personal sundial. I could almost hear a ticking in it. I’d watch the line and say to myself: One o’clock, two o’clock, three o’clock, four?

I made a little game of it. One o’clock, two o’clock, three o’clock, four. Rattle the windows and knock on the door.

My clothes smelled of lard and lye and I learned the ways to make things.

My first day in the settler house, Tom wandered onto the path when there were no visitors around, and I wandered over to say hi. My skirt swished as I walked and I could see myself as he must see me: an image, a sunlit woman against a green and blue background. He smelled like fire.

We said things like “hello” and “how are you finding it here?” We talked differently to each other, in costume. Me in my leaf-green dress, with my hair all done up under a cap, and he in a loose white shirt and trousers that tied at his waist and a blue cloth tied around his dark hair. We were dressed up like a man and a woman and we talked that way, like we were in a play, even though I tried not to.

The blacksmith watched us from the doorway, with a poker in his hand.

The next day, he went away somewhere and they made Tom head blacksmith. Tom had been watching for years. He knew what to do.

The pretend-wife in the other farmhouse was an eighteen-year-old named Amberly. Her fake name was Mrs. Grant. She was nice but she couldn’t get the hang of things. I offered to show her about candles on a slow, grey afternoon.

“You have to pour it smoothly, like this,” I said, showing her. As I filled each tin tube, I said a little rhyme to keep my work in rhythm:

Mulleins and murrain Candles and kine Gone is the leman Who once was mine

“What’s that?” Amberly asked.

“I don’t know. I must have read it somewhere.”

My hand started to shake but I managed not to spill the tallow. I kept saying the rhyme to myself, to keep myself grounded, even though it scared me. I hadn’t read it anywhere. I didn’t know what half those words even meant. But I knew that each word came with a mark on the flagstones where my shadow-dial ebbed and flowed. That crack was mulleins and that weed was murrain. The shadow taught me the words.

Amberly asked me to teach her the words and I did.

After that, Amberly came to me for advice on just about everything. She pinned her cap with two hidden safety pins just like mine. She broke up with her boyfriend when I told her to.

Soon I had rhymes for many things. The butter churning had a fast rhyme that I learned from sunlight on limestone. The bread kneading had a slow one that I learned from the buzzing of flies. When I planted the late carrots, I knelt down looking at the river beyond, the quick ripples of the waves.

I taught the other girls. Nobody had ever listened to me before. But somehow I seemed to remember, like the memory of a dream, that girls had once listened to me, had once taken my advice, had begged for my secrets. Those were not real memories; those were not these girls.

Once they had learned the words to any of my rhymes, once they had repeated the words to me, they would listen to whatever I said. They would follow my advice. Even Joanne, the pretend governor’s wife. I told her to loosen up about her daughter’s curfew and she did.

I liked the patterns in my mind; I told myself I just liked to make up things while I sat and thought. There was plenty of time for sitting and thinking, there, after all.

Tom got an assistant blacksmith, older than both of us. Gareth was a quiet man with a big beard. He looked the part. He looked like he ought to be carrying an axe or a tree trunk all the time just in case it was ever needed.

One quiet morning when it was still cool, just before we opened, Tom and Gareth came by the little willow stand where we demonstrated things for the kids. It was close by the smithy. I was getting things ready, putting out the sticks for fire-starting. The willow trees were bending as if they were doing a little dance for me, teaching me.

“What’s the coffee can for?” Gareth asked.

“Making charcloth. When you light a fire with a stick and a board, you need something to take the spark. So you burn the cloth, see?”

I held out a bundle of squares of off-white linen.

“But you don’t want the cloth to actually catch fire. So you put it in the coffee can, and nestle the can in just the right spot, and leave it there for hours. You have to make sure that there isn’t much air in the can, too, so you can’t be checking it all the time. Kind of like making rice.”

I used my bright steel Zippo to get a fire started, flipping the Zippo’s top on and off a few times, idly, just like I had seen the smokers at school do. Then I put the square of ivory-coloured linen in the coffee can, setting it just in the right place, with a little singsong:

Here is the hill and here is the dell Here is heaven and here is hell.

“Here,” I said, holding out another coffee can. “You do one, Gareth. But you have to say the rhyme.”

He laughed a little, nervously.

“You don’t really have to say the rhyme,” Tom said. I liked the way his shoulders looked in that olden-days shirt but even thinking that made him seem like a stranger. I didn’t know what had happened to the skinny kid who used to park his police-auction bike out at the gate next to mine.

“You do so have to say it,” I argued. “Come on, Gareth. It won’t work otherwise.”

Gareth laughed again, because he was shy.

Mrs. Boggs the missionary, whose real name was Stacy, came by with my Coke from the machine.

“Is there anything else you’d like?” she asked.

I shook my head. Tom watched her. He put his hand to his forehead to keep the glare out of his eyes. We weren’t allowed to wear sunglasses and he didn’t get a straw hat because he was supposed to be in the smithy most of the time. He looked at Stacy in her lace yoke. He looked at me.

It just made sense that if I was doing the work to get the fire-kits ready that someone who didn’t have any set-up to do would bring me a Coke. It’s not like I was asking her to do all my homework for me or throw herself into the river or something. It wasn’t like that at all.

Amberly and I did a bannock tea for Canada Day in July. We set up the tables in one of the store rooms and put out china tea cups and little dishes of jam.

“Did you go on that date with the shopkeeper?” I asked. Sometimes we called each other by our pretend-jobs instead of our names, because we were so used to being in character.

She shook her head. “I got back together with Keith.”

“No,” I said. I put a butter dish down on the table. “I hate that guy. He’s no good for you. Dump him. Call him tonight and dump him.”

She shook her head, not looking up from the table. She kept putting little silver knives down, clink, clink, clink.

“Amberly,” I said. “Say you’ll do it.”

She shook her head. Clink, clink, clink.

I whispered, looking up at her, waiting for her to join in.

A hooded crow on a frosty night Sold me a child with an eyeball bright Husha, husha, sang I to him Dance while you can ere your eyes grow dim

She kept her pink-stained lips together. She pulled something out of her apron pocket and rolled it around in her fingers. A black iron nail.

Soon everybody had one. Joanne kept hers on a loop around her waist, which looked ridiculous. Gareth had one on a chain under his shirt. All I could see was the chain and the shape of the nail but I knew what it was. Stupid heavy things to carry around.

I walked into the smithy on a July day, passing right under the horseshoe because I wasn’t superstitious.

“Why are you turning everyone against me?”

He was alone, as if he was waiting for me. He had a bar of iron in the fire.

“Nobody is against you. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“You could have fooled me.”

“They aren’t yours, Daphne.”

“So whose are they? Yours? This was always my place. I found it first.”

I had. I remembered. We were rivals before we were lovers. Smiths have always thought it their business to hunt my sisters and me. He had wielded his accursed craft in that Scottish hamlet long before I turned up there, singed and hoarse from the flames, the screams of my dead sisters in my ears. I only wanted a quiet life, a safe place. I feared the iron but I loved him, and he said he would not harm me. He said God would forgive me.

When our baby was born blue, I said a little rhyme over him. Just one little song, a bluebell song for my bluebell boy. My husband snatched him away and put me in iron, weeping over me as if he were driven to it. I had cheated death before. I freed myself and I sought a quiet place.

Tom shook his head as if he was trying to get the memories out. “Would you like me to make you something?”

He pulled the bar out of the fire; it was red at the end. I took a step back, into the sunshine.

He dropped the bar on the ground with a clang and he grabbed my wrist with his gloved hand.

“You will not shackle me!” I yelled. I remembered the cage of black iron, how it had burned and bitten. I hung from that gibbet for far too long, exposed to all foulness, before I found the words to burst those broad black bands gilded with weather. It was a wonder I had survived, after a fashion.

I ran from him before the blacksmith could cage me again.

On the August long weekend, the staff held a bonfire.

I got there late but they had still not set it alight. There was still enough light to see by. Tom was telling people where to put the wood, where to set up the coolers and mosquito coils.

Everyone obeyed him.

“Hi, Amberly,” I said.

She looked away as though I had said something awful. He had turned them all against me.

My fortress by the river still whispered to me but it no longer needed to lend me words. I could not make them repeat the old rhymes after me, not with his iron binding them. But I could get into their heads.

I sang the first tune that came to my lips: "Bizarre Love Triangle" by New Order. Amberly giggled. The iron nails grew heavy; they twisted and bent; some of them went red.

Joanne was a woman of experience. She knew when to let go. She untied her nail from the bit of rope at her waist and threw the horrid thing into the wood pile.

The others threw theirs, then. They were free. I freed them.

Tom pleaded with them but I did not hear what he said. He moved his lips like an actor in a silent movie. One by one they came to stand at my side and stare at Tom, and sing. We all knew the words. In our dresses and trousers we sang, as if the song were an old song. I made it an old song. I pulled my Zippo out of my pocket and flicked it a few times. I walked toward the pile of wood.

Then Gareth approached, a silhouette against the last light of the sky. He was carrying a long poker before him, and on the far end of the poker was a flat piece of iron, like a paddle. And on that iron rested an ugly pile of coals. Coals from the need-fire.

I stopped singing. We all stopped.

I remembered the screams of my sisters, their hair curling crisp while their legs cooked, their coughing and weeping.

If they could not cage me they would burn me.

Open ground under a Manitoban sky at twilight has its own kind of silence, a silence loud like the hum of an airplane. I ran headlong in that silence, under that grey sky, feeling as though if I stopped running the world would keep moving anyway.

But I did stop, when I reached the back gate. No one came after me. No one made me pay. I disentangled my bike from the others. I had to hike my skirt up to my hips, because Daphne—I—did not ride a girls’ bike. I had no time to change. I had to get away, to safety. I had to get away from the fire.

I rode fast. When I came to the hills I did not lift my feet. I pushed until my pedals spun and whacked my bare shins.

This time, there was a car at the bottom.

Tom visited me in the hospital, in jeans and a T-shirt. It was one of those wild dark days that come to the prairies in August and the rain lashed wordlessly against the wide hospital window.

It seemed like nothing more than a campfire story. But Tom and I couldn’t look at each other. The silence between us was uncomfortable, filled with the gentle beeps of machines, the nattering of nurses in the hallway. A sterile silence with no memory in it. Nothing to listen to, except the unspoken words in our minds.

“Gareth is taking over,” he said. “I’m going back to the gas station.”

I nodded. “Will they get another girl to play Mrs. McTavish?”

He shrugged. It didn’t matter. I—she—would find someone: Amberly, Joanne, hell, maybe governor Colvile himself—Matthew—or Ben the shopkeeper. Maybe she didn’t even need to be a woman. Or maybe she’d find a way to get far from the need-fire, far from the smith.

I doubted it, somehow. I’d left her behind. When I got free she didn’t come with me. I wondered how the smith had found a way at last to cage her, to keep her there, with him.

My head ached. Tom frowned. He seemed to be thinking of the right words to say, and I was just hoping he wouldn’t say it. I was listening hard to the rain.

That’s how I remember us, when I remember us, now. I moved to Montreal and Tom moved to Vancouver. Opposite directions. As if to show each other we had no intention of ever seeing each other again.

#Kate Heartfield #Limestone Lye and the Buzzing of Flies #short story

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