Confirmed: Fai half-heartedly brushed it off knowing that Kurogane wasn’t actually going to press him too hard about it.
Which, in a way, is another interesting glimpse into the fact that Fai only ever seems to the bare minimum of effort a task requires. If he knows a terrible lie will do the job, why bother with a convincing one? If he knows Kurogane isn’t going to ask him for the truth (yet), why bother coming up with excuses?
Is it because he’s too comfortable in his happy go lucky persona that he can’t bring himself to drop it - especially when he hates his actual self? Or is it because some part of him actually wants Kurogane to push him for answers?
Is he tired of the facade? Or is he increasingly desperate that someone shatter it and like him for real, the way he likes them?
How will he react when Kurogane actually does?
All these and More Unanswered Questions: endlessly rolling through my mind for all of the foreseeable future!
5.8.2017 // Master list of the rhetorical devices you may need some touch-up with~
Set Up 1. Rhetorical Device: Definition Examples
1. Ad Hominem: Attacking the opponent themselves rather than their argument. “I find your argument invalid because it is backed up with false information.” “Your face is invalid!”
2. Allegory:Symbolic story with a second meaning beneath the literal content. “Animal Farm” written by George Orwell is an allegory of the Russian Revolution.
3. Alliteration: repetition of initial consonant sounds in words. “I love a lilting line of lyrical alliteration!”
4. Allusion: An indirect reference to a famous event in history, literature, or mythology. “I don’t understand why she grounded me so harshly. It’s not like I bit into the Forbidden Apple or anything.” (allusion to biblical story).
5. Assonance: repetition of similar vowel sounds. “The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain”
6. Asyndeton: series of words separated by commas without conjugations. “…and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth” - Oscar Wilde.
7. Chiasmus: arrangement of repeated thoughts in the patters XY-YX “Don’t sweat the petty things, and don’t pet the sweaty things.“
8. Connotation: emotion associated with a word House vs. Home (house is more related to the actual building, whereas home gives the feeling of comfort)
9. Consonance: repetition of consonant sounds; not limited to the first letter of words. Some mammals are clammy
10. Denotation: dictionary definition of a word (it’s self-explanatory)
11. Enthymeme: syllogism (logical argument) in which the major premise is unsated but meant to be understood. - Argument: Pugs are mammals because they are dogs. - Unstated argument: All dogs are mammals.
12. Euphemism: mild word used to substitute an unpleasant or offensive. Instead of…"You’re FIRED!” It’s…“I’m going to let you go.”
13. Juxtaposition: placement of two things side by side for the purposes of contrast. “We must learn to live together as brothers or perish together as fools.”
14. Oxymoron: paradox that combines terms normally seen as opposites. Jumbo shrimp.
15. Parallelism: similarity of structure in a pair or series of related words, phrases, or clauses. “The coach told the players that they should get a lot of sleep, not eat too much, do some warm-up exercises before the game.”
Zedd and Liam have worked and created a pretty incredible song. I don’t know if people realise the naunces of layering that Zedd’s worked into, he’s definitely deviated from his usual style and he’s put up a banger. Liam’s vocals are just insanely magnificent here, so seductive but so chill at the same time. It’s so good to see two pros collaborating because Zedd brought out the versatility which Liam’s voice is blessed with while Liam brought life to Zedd’s ace lyrics. Every word has a new lilt, every line is sung differently. Zedd’s lyrics are so lovely and sexy and there’s nothing repulsive about it.
The hook “Get Low” is so uniquely enunciated and it adds so much to the dimensions of the song!! The way Liam has maneuvered his vocals throughout the song is so pretty. Of course that killer falsetto towards the end which just levitates the song so beautifully.
Endless quiet. Stella settles into the stale air of her kitchen surrounded by it. Tilting her neck, she attempts to relieve some of the tension living there.
Dust adorns the countertops in the wake of her absence and it bothers her, but not enough to wipe it clean. She’ll do that tomorrow. Or the next day, it’s not as if she hasn’t got the time. Realistically it’s only a week or so until she returns to work but from her spot on the stagnant kitchen stool, she might as well be looking for an oasis across a vast stretch of desert, the end of the week sparkling at the edge of the horizon, alluring and seemingly unreachable. She supposes she should be grateful for the reduced timeframe considering they’d wanted to give her two weeks. One week she can handle.
So she shifts in her seat and tries to get used to the idleness of having nothing particularly important to do, sips her wine, takes inventory of her surroundings, makes a mental list of things she’ll tend to the following day. Somewhere nearby her neighbor’s dog sounds off into the dark. It draws her back to the discomfort of her reality, sat uselessly in her flat tasked with the responsibility of taming her thoughts, which drift compulsively to Belfast without approval. Yanking the reins, she’s well versed in this dance, damming the deluge of her own mind.
And it works, if only for a moment, as she forces herself to take in the pitiful sight of the lifeless flowers before her, resigns herself to collect the petals scattered and shriveling at the base and toss them into the bin. Even the small task is exhausting so afterwards she sighs, washes her hands and returns to the comfort of her wine. Logically she knows she needs this time, needs the rest, her bones feel like lead. But as she slides carefully back into her seat, it’s already buzzing in her ears, inching up her spine. Belfast thrums through the stillness of her existence, irritatingly persistent.
A/N: This was inspired by the day that was. I’m not sure if
this is the start of something bigger, or just its own weird thing. I
just felt like writing it instead of the myriad of other things that I
should be doing.
a day that begins like any other. Another day where Killian Jones is
cruelly ripped away from his dreams by the blaring of his alarm, loud
enough to startle him away from fanciful delirium, right back to cold
hard reality. He could have sworn he set his clock radio to radio the
night before, instead of alarm, but he must have forgotten. He always
seems to forget, because no matter what, it’s always the same bloody
soundtrack of bugles with which he wakes to greet a new dawn.
Perhaps the contraption is simply broken? Maybe it’s not broken enough, his inner voice snarks. If he had any sense, he’d take a mallet to it. He is a bar owner, for chrissakes. If he can’t sleep in, who can?
that isn’t how it works. It’s 6:30am and he is already dragging himself
towards the shower, guided by something greater than his desire to stay
His morning routine never really alters. Scrambled eggs
and bacon cooked over his ancient stove. His toaster manages to burn his
toast to a crisp, as always. He always means to buy a new one, but
truthfully, he never really seems to remember until the next morning
magically arrives, and once again, he’s already back to scraping the
charred parts off anew with a butter knife. Breakfast is eaten in
perfect silence as he peruses the morning’s edition of the Storybrooke
Mirror, making a commendable stab at the crossword. He never gets it all
right. Pop culture trivia remains his downfall. He doesn’t remember the
last time he rented a movie.
Next is the to-go coffee procured
from Granny’s on his way to the docks. There’s no real reason for this
detour, as he watches the local fishermen unload the morning’s catch. He
can’t argue that it’s on his way to work, what with the bar being
directly below his apartment. There’s just something about the glint of
sunlight on the waves, the stiff breeze off the water, the briny taste
of salt on his tongue when he licks his lips. It’s consoling to him,
somehow. He lingers on his familiar bench until long after the fishermen
are gone. When it’s just him and the gulls and the Atlantic Ocean, the
sun rising higher and higher into the sky. And then he feels that
familiar pull, the one leading him back into town. Back towards his
responsibilities. Back to the bar.
Rabbit Hole is a bit of a dive, he admits. There isn’t much of a wine
list, and even near a decade after the law changed, everything in the
place still reeks of cigarette smoke. He’s tried everything. New
wallpaper. New paint. New carpet. The smells lingers on, as if it is
clinging to the very foundations; the Ghost of Smokers Past. And to be
clear, the stupid name wasn’t his idea. The Rabbit Hole. It’s not an
entirely erroneous description of the place, what with the way the main
stairs descend below street level, or the way the townspeople like to
take advantage of its darkened corners for their lascivious misdeeds.
Not that he’s one to judge. But if he were, he’d sure have plenty of
No, the name was not his idea. It had been called that
long before he took over, and it’d surely be called that long after he
was gone. He’d considered changing the name once. Something nautical, he
thought. More in line with the town’s heritage. More in line with his
interests. He’d failed to take the small town mentality into account.
There was a petition circling by noon. By dusk, Madame Mayor herself had
swept down from her ivory tower to quote some obscure Town bylaw his
way. There would be no changing the name.
He opens every morning
at 11, like clockwork. More dependable than clockwork, actually, if the
town’s notoriously unreliable Clock Tower is anything to go by. His
empty to-go cup wedged into the crook of his elbow as he draws his ring
of keys from his pocket, his prosthetic hand wedged again the frame to
provide the necessary leverage. One day he’ll ring the locksmith, and
get a front door lock which doesn’t stick. One day he’ll-
pulled out of the familiar pattern of his thoughts by the foreign crunch
of glass underfoot. He freezes, wondering for a moment if he imagined
the sound, so out of place in his usual routine. But when he shifts his
weight back to his left foot, he knows he isn’t imaging it. He lifts one
boot off the ground, and sure enough, the ground all around where he is
standing is littered with broken glass. He looks down at the mess,
frowning. Did one of his boozy regulars break a bottle out here? He
hadn’t noticed last night, when he’d closed up. But the glass isn’t
brown, or green, like the bottles he stocks inside. It’s dark. Tinted.
Much like the-. He looks up and curses, noticing for the first time that
the small glass window in the front door is no longer there. Because
naturally, it’s too busy currently littering the sidewalk. Fearing the
worst, he places his palm flat on the door, and gives it an experimental
shove. The door swings open with little fanfare, and Killian Jones
feels a jolt way down in his stomach as his entire life skips off its