Impossible Numbers' Flashfic Anthology, Volume Oneby Impossible NumbersChaptersThe Psychology of the IndividualOverwhelming FireIt's The Memory That CountsTo Beg The CandleThe Hall of LaughsFuneral for a Fossil?Regal ObligationsThe Psychology of the IndividualTrixie flicked the card from hoof to mouth, and swallowed. “Voila!” she said, twirling her hoof to reveal… “Your King. And my horn never glowed once.” “Impressive,” said Starlight. “So let’s see: there’s a duplicate… under your hat? Your cape?” “No. I never touched either, so I could only teleport it out.” “Oh. Right.” Starlight tapped her chin. “A secondary source of magic…” “No,” said Trixie. “You’re thinking about this wrong. Prestidigitation isn’t about the magician.” “It’s certainly not as easy as I thought it’d be. May I examine the card?” “One ordinary card for examination. It’s about audience expectations.” “I see. There’s some pre-arranged spell hidden within the card, then?” “You’re sure you don’t want to go back to magical studies today?” “Compared with transfiguration spells, I think prestidigitation is something I can figure out. Just let me think… there’s another unicorn hiding somewhere…?” Trixie sighed and settled in. Overwhelming FireLakes bubbled and steamed: incoming demons, heralded by hellfire. Celestia absorbed more heat into her horn as the miner wailed he’d only wanted gemstones. Three thousand years ago, she’d coolly salved her sister’s twisted leg. Two thousand: shouldered an elderly mare while townsfolk poured out of smoking ruins. One thousand: stood between laughing tyrants and screaming nations. Blood simmered behind her smile. Every year, more ponies stumbled over darker treasures, ran into deadlier forests, awakened wilder spirits. Every year, Celestia threw herself upon a role that was fading like smoke. Now her reflection – already fragmented – vanished on boiling waters. Equestria would be next. Irritatingly, she had to do something. Had to. Ought to. Must. She bubbled and steamed. Please! Couldn’t she vanish too!? Frightened faces surrounded her… Alas… she wasn’t her reflection. Within, fury froze over. Hard as permafrost, surface white and cold, Celestia stood – self-immobilized – before those infernal mines. It's The Memory That CountsIn sweltering Ammonia, Pharaoh’s son raged. The servants emerged from the catacombs. “While our crops wither,” he muttered. “There’s more to ponydom than bodies,” said Pharaoh miserably. “Leaving good food to the dead!? They’re dead! We’re not! Yet.” “Food gifts are traditional,” said Pharaoh, sighing. One sigh too many. Sullenly, Pharaoh’s son departed. That night, he crept from palace to catacombs and soon found the bread. “For my subjects… friends…” Exactly, said a voice. He knew that voice. He turned around. Sweating. Shadow. Even now, I see your tears. “I-I’m s-still t-t-taking it.” He swallowed. “S-Sorry.” Me too. Take a message? Tell your father I’m honoured, but my subjects need it more. “Y-Yes. Of course! I-I will honour your memory.” He wiped his eyes. Good. At least someone will. Also tell him he clearly doesn’t remember me, the nincompoop. “Yes… Mother. I think I’ll leave that last part out, though…” To Beg The Candle“You won’t go out,” croaked Mr Waddle on the bed. “My friends wouldn’t let you. Warmth, light: perhaps if I’m quiet, I’ll hear you crackling, ever so slightly…” The flame went down almost to the desk. Rage burned through him. “How dare you go down on me!? You’re moving too fast!” Still, the candle wavered. Now Mr Waddle wailed. “Years of life! Playing! Artistry! Seeing new sights! Why should others ponies enjoy them, and not me?” The flame dwindled, uncaring. Sighing, he cooled. “Please. I can feed you more wax. Give me enough time to extend the wick. Let me find the matches.” Soon, there was hardly any wax left. He groaned. “Ah well… could’ve… been… worse…” The candle… went down… wavered… dwindled… And then someone took it away. A new candle, bright and alive, stood in its place. “Nurse Redheart!” He smiled. “Sorry I’m late. Now… where’s it hurting?” The Hall of Laughs“I’d show Fluttershy,” said Discord, “but her interests lie elsewhere. No, Pinkie, I rather think you should learn my secret.” The interdimensional door opened… “My Hall of Laughs!” he said. “I harness every single laugh I create!” “THIS! IS! AMAZING!” Pinkie bounced among the shelves. Laughter echoed every time she touched the walls. Only after several minutes did a dark thought creep into her mind. “Waaaaaiiiiiiit… Why are you showing me this?” said Pinkie suspiciously. Discord whispered in her ear. The words, though softly spoken, roared like thunder around her skull. “ME!?” “The signs were obvious,” he said, shrugging. “One day, you’ll make a better Spirit of Chaos; you make other ponies laugh, not just yourself. This place won’t be able to hold the sheer power!” The flattery rolled over Pinkie’s head. “But I’m just a pony!” Discord grinned. “How do you think I got started… my little chaos apprentice?” Funeral for a Fossil?Once, someone asked Petunia why she cared about dead bones. She shrugged helplessly. Beforehand, when Petunia visited the graveyard, she found a marble tombstone, fresh and white. On it was carved: “Here lies Azalea. Born to sow smiles. Died peacefully in her sleep.” When Petunia dug into the Hill Park hill outside Ponyville, she unearthed the bones of an “Amborella Dynasty” pony. Consulting her guidebook, she learned the bones were blackened with plague. When Petunia visited the Unnatural History Museum of Manehattan, she examined the Clubmoss tribes-pony skeleton. Covered with spear marks. Disappointingly, the museum only displayed a cast; real fossils were too delicate. And when Petunia read books on dinosaurs, ancient fish, and trilobites, they all seemed to kill or to be killed. None had museums, or parks, or graveyards. Again, someone asked Petunia why she cared about dead bones. Being a foal, she didn’t know. She just cared. Regal ObligationsThey made Clover kneel on the marble. “Your Majesty,” she cried, “I… my friends… they needed…” “Arrogance! Subversion! Treason!” bellowed the nobles. “That land was property of the crown, valued at 500 sterling plus Regal-Class tithes! Not for charity or lowly squatters!” Clover sparked with outraged fear; above, the queen was ice. I should've asked you, but we've both… had disagreements. Have your memories since melted away? “Please.” Clover wilted. “Kindness isn’t treason. Imprison me, but please spare my friends.” Crop failures. Plagues of wild storms. Livelihoods drowned. This shouldn’t be the future. Once, mages overlooked, even trampled, the throne. Clover’s horn flared furiously… Then dimmed. No. “I'm sorry.” Silence. “I feared you'd changed. Remember why you became ‘the Great’? You once tolerated me, trusted me. I bled for you.” The queen melted. “We remember. Behold, lesser nobles! The future is not yours! It is hers!” Tears. Thank you, Platinum.
The Psychology of the IndividualTrixie flicked the card from hoof to mouth, and swallowed. “Voila!” she said, twirling her hoof to reveal… “Your King. And my horn never glowed once.” “Impressive,” said Starlight. “So let’s see: there’s a duplicate… under your hat? Your cape?” “No. I never touched either, so I could only teleport it out.” “Oh. Right.” Starlight tapped her chin. “A secondary source of magic…” “No,” said Trixie. “You’re thinking about this wrong. Prestidigitation isn’t about the magician.” “It’s certainly not as easy as I thought it’d be. May I examine the card?” “One ordinary card for examination. It’s about audience expectations.” “I see. There’s some pre-arranged spell hidden within the card, then?” “You’re sure you don’t want to go back to magical studies today?” “Compared with transfiguration spells, I think prestidigitation is something I can figure out. Just let me think… there’s another unicorn hiding somewhere…?” Trixie sighed and settled in.
Overwhelming FireLakes bubbled and steamed: incoming demons, heralded by hellfire. Celestia absorbed more heat into her horn as the miner wailed he’d only wanted gemstones. Three thousand years ago, she’d coolly salved her sister’s twisted leg. Two thousand: shouldered an elderly mare while townsfolk poured out of smoking ruins. One thousand: stood between laughing tyrants and screaming nations. Blood simmered behind her smile. Every year, more ponies stumbled over darker treasures, ran into deadlier forests, awakened wilder spirits. Every year, Celestia threw herself upon a role that was fading like smoke. Now her reflection – already fragmented – vanished on boiling waters. Equestria would be next. Irritatingly, she had to do something. Had to. Ought to. Must. She bubbled and steamed. Please! Couldn’t she vanish too!? Frightened faces surrounded her… Alas… she wasn’t her reflection. Within, fury froze over. Hard as permafrost, surface white and cold, Celestia stood – self-immobilized – before those infernal mines.
It's The Memory That CountsIn sweltering Ammonia, Pharaoh’s son raged. The servants emerged from the catacombs. “While our crops wither,” he muttered. “There’s more to ponydom than bodies,” said Pharaoh miserably. “Leaving good food to the dead!? They’re dead! We’re not! Yet.” “Food gifts are traditional,” said Pharaoh, sighing. One sigh too many. Sullenly, Pharaoh’s son departed. That night, he crept from palace to catacombs and soon found the bread. “For my subjects… friends…” Exactly, said a voice. He knew that voice. He turned around. Sweating. Shadow. Even now, I see your tears. “I-I’m s-still t-t-taking it.” He swallowed. “S-Sorry.” Me too. Take a message? Tell your father I’m honoured, but my subjects need it more. “Y-Yes. Of course! I-I will honour your memory.” He wiped his eyes. Good. At least someone will. Also tell him he clearly doesn’t remember me, the nincompoop. “Yes… Mother. I think I’ll leave that last part out, though…”
To Beg The Candle“You won’t go out,” croaked Mr Waddle on the bed. “My friends wouldn’t let you. Warmth, light: perhaps if I’m quiet, I’ll hear you crackling, ever so slightly…” The flame went down almost to the desk. Rage burned through him. “How dare you go down on me!? You’re moving too fast!” Still, the candle wavered. Now Mr Waddle wailed. “Years of life! Playing! Artistry! Seeing new sights! Why should others ponies enjoy them, and not me?” The flame dwindled, uncaring. Sighing, he cooled. “Please. I can feed you more wax. Give me enough time to extend the wick. Let me find the matches.” Soon, there was hardly any wax left. He groaned. “Ah well… could’ve… been… worse…” The candle… went down… wavered… dwindled… And then someone took it away. A new candle, bright and alive, stood in its place. “Nurse Redheart!” He smiled. “Sorry I’m late. Now… where’s it hurting?”
The Hall of Laughs“I’d show Fluttershy,” said Discord, “but her interests lie elsewhere. No, Pinkie, I rather think you should learn my secret.” The interdimensional door opened… “My Hall of Laughs!” he said. “I harness every single laugh I create!” “THIS! IS! AMAZING!” Pinkie bounced among the shelves. Laughter echoed every time she touched the walls. Only after several minutes did a dark thought creep into her mind. “Waaaaaiiiiiiit… Why are you showing me this?” said Pinkie suspiciously. Discord whispered in her ear. The words, though softly spoken, roared like thunder around her skull. “ME!?” “The signs were obvious,” he said, shrugging. “One day, you’ll make a better Spirit of Chaos; you make other ponies laugh, not just yourself. This place won’t be able to hold the sheer power!” The flattery rolled over Pinkie’s head. “But I’m just a pony!” Discord grinned. “How do you think I got started… my little chaos apprentice?”
Funeral for a Fossil?Once, someone asked Petunia why she cared about dead bones. She shrugged helplessly. Beforehand, when Petunia visited the graveyard, she found a marble tombstone, fresh and white. On it was carved: “Here lies Azalea. Born to sow smiles. Died peacefully in her sleep.” When Petunia dug into the Hill Park hill outside Ponyville, she unearthed the bones of an “Amborella Dynasty” pony. Consulting her guidebook, she learned the bones were blackened with plague. When Petunia visited the Unnatural History Museum of Manehattan, she examined the Clubmoss tribes-pony skeleton. Covered with spear marks. Disappointingly, the museum only displayed a cast; real fossils were too delicate. And when Petunia read books on dinosaurs, ancient fish, and trilobites, they all seemed to kill or to be killed. None had museums, or parks, or graveyards. Again, someone asked Petunia why she cared about dead bones. Being a foal, she didn’t know. She just cared.
Regal ObligationsThey made Clover kneel on the marble. “Your Majesty,” she cried, “I… my friends… they needed…” “Arrogance! Subversion! Treason!” bellowed the nobles. “That land was property of the crown, valued at 500 sterling plus Regal-Class tithes! Not for charity or lowly squatters!” Clover sparked with outraged fear; above, the queen was ice. I should've asked you, but we've both… had disagreements. Have your memories since melted away? “Please.” Clover wilted. “Kindness isn’t treason. Imprison me, but please spare my friends.” Crop failures. Plagues of wild storms. Livelihoods drowned. This shouldn’t be the future. Once, mages overlooked, even trampled, the throne. Clover’s horn flared furiously… Then dimmed. No. “I'm sorry.” Silence. “I feared you'd changed. Remember why you became ‘the Great’? You once tolerated me, trusted me. I bled for you.” The queen melted. “We remember. Behold, lesser nobles! The future is not yours! It is hers!” Tears. Thank you, Platinum.
