thinking about how idyllic the village of Alderhill is portrayed as in both Cillian and the Ronans' eyes. For the Ronans its the antithesis to a place that was never their home and they couldn't wait to escape. The Village is a spot they would vacation to in the summers of their youth. For all appearances, it's just a nice, quiet getaway from everything that ever troubled them (except themselves). Blissfully unaware of its real history and their grandmother's direct involvement with it.
To Cillian, it's something others have told him is (in the post-war social landscape at least) a bit of a taboo, dangerous place that he instead finds charming and harmless once he sees it for himself. The faction that made it so harrowing for the Hill-folk dissipated, and along with it, well known contempt for his kind. It's a little piece of rebellion he holds dear, and now that he's cut off from it for the time being, the grass on the other side only looks greener. But really, the main draw is the potential companions he could harvest from its grounds. It's a place of possibility.
In reality it's just another place. A peaceful one in present, a tapestry of people and their stories, lives, daily hustle and bustle. I'm sure you could find parts of it that are truly rotten if you dug deep enough, but the rose tinted glasses stay on for now.
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i love that I have seen the "I will not order takout" post circulating so much the last few days like everyone is chanting a spell collectively, including myself. Unfortunately I think a witch just cast a spell on me and I have ordered takout
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you know you’re in too deep when you’re introducing yourself to your Greek and Roman Lit class, and are asked who your favourite animated character was and (after giggling a lot, to which your teacher asks if the answer is embarrassing) you say “Ford Pines” and proceed to say that he is “the hot one. Hot old man.”
And the girl who asked the question looks him up and shows our professor who Ford Pines is
If I had a nickel for every time I’ve accidentally told a group of people that I’ve just met that I’m into Ford Pines and tell them he’s a “hot old cartoon man”, I would have at LEAST FOUR NICKELS and that’s just IN THE LAST MONTH ALONE.
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Imagine being mc, and you're just chilling in your kitchen cause you live alone. You're in your i-woke-up-to-be-here fit, glasses off and retainers out, hair out of the way messily yet conveniently. And you're just standing in the middle of your kitchen, small pot in your left hand and a wood spoon in your right.
Eating some pasta quietly with the same utensils you used to make the pasta so you didn't have to wash more dishes by putting it in a bowl and getting a fork. Then suddenly you're teleported somewhere that isn't your bland apartment kitchen with buzzing white lights above you. It takes you a minute to realise that anything has happened, shoveling your tasty homemade pasta into your mouth with a wooden spoon.
You look up, making eye contact with some dude with his arms crossed, his hair short and black, and standing about half a foot taller than you. At least that was what you could make out through blurry vision. Pasta strands hanging from your mouth, you eat them quickly while staring directly at this man whom you find conventionally attractive despite just meeting him, if you would even call this a meeting.
Your voice somewhat hoarse from not talking for about two and a half days and from eating off of a wooden spoon, you speak in a tone that is almost sarcastic, yet is questioning. You sound neutral, being caught like a deer in headlights in your most nobody's-gonna-see-me state.
"Who the fuck're you?" You'd say, blinking a few times and having to force your eyes to adjust to the shift in lighting that you had only now noticed, and your voice slightly muffled from the pasta sauce stuck to the roof of your mouth. Your organs rolling like a rotisserie chicken in confusion, almost making your stomach hurt.
You settle your right hand, loosely placing the wooden spoon into the pot, it being about half full of hot-n-ready pasta. Your left wrist feels sore from holding up the pot, but in your delayed confusion you barely feel it, doing mental gymnastics in order to figure out where the fuck you had ended up.
You just wanted some pasta. Now where were you?
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