Post by riza on Sept 23, 2012 20:51:49 GMT -8
The sign read ‘Welcome to Clover Village!’. Twenty-two cherry white letters, a single congenial message, inscribed on a wide plaque above a well crafter public message board and some rather dismal population stats (not just his opinion, in his opinion). The message board was simply pleasant, in a way that it was simple and not over offensive rather than it caught the eye; Probably locally made, Alasdair decided, roving a critical eye over the well-made, but undeniably plain—read: boring—wood board.
Various slips of paper, most in mostly legible handwriting, were pinned to the board listing odd jobs and requests that people had posted; humble pleas laced with promises of fresh crops, sweet treats and/or other form of compensation….
…And that was it. That was all that it said, a simple ’Welcome to Clover Village’.
…It was actually a bit funny. Alasdair was kind of expecting something more than that. Perhaps some sort of public acknowledgement that he had hit rock bottom rather than the humble ‘help needed’ airing from some farmer that needed help sewing in the autumn crops or whatever. After all, his story was the heartbreaking tale of love, loss and really bad timing; Far more interesting than seasonal crop growing, in his oh so humble opinion. But there was nothing there, no scarlet lettered letter posted to air his dirty laundry or hint at the sordid past. There was just a single happy, faceless message that let him know the general location of where he was in Ivy Point.
So, there it was, as lovely as it was. ’Welcome to Clover Village’, his lone welcome to this small town hell he had just arrived in.
Ugh; Perfect.
Alasdair inelegantly slouched, ignoring the fresh wrinkles made in his poor shirt as he slipped his hands into the front pockets of his equally worn pants with a weary groan. Clover Village….
Alasdair couldn’t help but think that ‘Clover’ was a bit of a strange name to give a village. Oh, sure, it was quaint and possibly even charming (for a farming village, that is) but the name of an entire village should just be something… well, something that was more flashy. Maybe even something a bit exotic or foreign, like Chateaurous or Ville de Belle Rose (it even was about flowers, too!). Something that was just more of a romantic ka-pow, designed to roll off the tongue and into someone’s heart, like a first love born again. Something that was just more than plain old ‘Clover Village’, that was for sure.
Though, then again, half the reason that he was even in plain sounding ‘Clover Village’ was because of its’ quaint, plain charms with citizens who would randomly ask for help via fliers near town hall.
That and he needed a job.
Mostly the job thing.
So, without further ado, or even so much as a simple ‘ta-da’, here he was. In the middle Clover Village. Small town hell and rock bottom rolled altogether in one. His father and brothers were probably laughing at him.
Alasdair sighed wearily, pulling down the help wanted flier, studying it with a sick stomach. Then again, maybe his family wasn’t laughing. Maybe it was life.
Various slips of paper, most in mostly legible handwriting, were pinned to the board listing odd jobs and requests that people had posted; humble pleas laced with promises of fresh crops, sweet treats and/or other form of compensation….
…And that was it. That was all that it said, a simple ’Welcome to Clover Village’.
…It was actually a bit funny. Alasdair was kind of expecting something more than that. Perhaps some sort of public acknowledgement that he had hit rock bottom rather than the humble ‘help needed’ airing from some farmer that needed help sewing in the autumn crops or whatever. After all, his story was the heartbreaking tale of love, loss and really bad timing; Far more interesting than seasonal crop growing, in his oh so humble opinion. But there was nothing there, no scarlet lettered letter posted to air his dirty laundry or hint at the sordid past. There was just a single happy, faceless message that let him know the general location of where he was in Ivy Point.
So, there it was, as lovely as it was. ’Welcome to Clover Village’, his lone welcome to this small town hell he had just arrived in.
Ugh; Perfect.
Alasdair inelegantly slouched, ignoring the fresh wrinkles made in his poor shirt as he slipped his hands into the front pockets of his equally worn pants with a weary groan. Clover Village….
Alasdair couldn’t help but think that ‘Clover’ was a bit of a strange name to give a village. Oh, sure, it was quaint and possibly even charming (for a farming village, that is) but the name of an entire village should just be something… well, something that was more flashy. Maybe even something a bit exotic or foreign, like Chateaurous or Ville de Belle Rose (it even was about flowers, too!). Something that was just more of a romantic ka-pow, designed to roll off the tongue and into someone’s heart, like a first love born again. Something that was just more than plain old ‘Clover Village’, that was for sure.
Though, then again, half the reason that he was even in plain sounding ‘Clover Village’ was because of its’ quaint, plain charms with citizens who would randomly ask for help via fliers near town hall.
That and he needed a job.
Mostly the job thing.
So, without further ado, or even so much as a simple ‘ta-da’, here he was. In the middle Clover Village. Small town hell and rock bottom rolled altogether in one. His father and brothers were probably laughing at him.
Alasdair sighed wearily, pulling down the help wanted flier, studying it with a sick stomach. Then again, maybe his family wasn’t laughing. Maybe it was life.
