Impossible Numbers' Flashfic Anthology, Volume Fiveby Impossible NumbersChaptersThe Dream World RecordFaster Than The Speed Of LoveThe Sun Is Just Another StarThe Song of InspirationHello: To His Unimaginative MistressMemories Worth Fighting ForYou Will Believe A Cherry Can FlyCompulsoryThe Dream World RecordThey tell legends of the Scootaloo Track. Scootaloo: first mare to circumnavigate the globe. On a scooter. She scooted until the scooter broke down; checkpoint unicorns repaired it. When the scooter finally shattered, breaking her leg, she moaned and whined but got up and limped the last few yards. So close. Most ponies clapped politely. One cheered. Not a good enough dream. Scootaloo negotiated with actual dream-keepers: she’d become the first pony to drive from one side of the dreamworld to the other. No one heard anything for days. Then weeks. Then months. Some ponies searched the dreams. Most reckoned she’d gotten lost in a nightmare. Gave up on her. Except one. That one was waiting for her at the finish when Scootaloo reappeared. Broken leg. Moaning. Whining. Limping. But still going. Thereafter, they built a road between dreams. Called it the Scootaloo Track. Made it out of a rainbow. Faster Than The Speed Of LoveEarly bird: gets the worm. Second mouse: gets the cheese. Which should he be? Bird? Mouse? Starry Eyes flew among birds. His heart flew higher. To the night, the twinkle, the shine. So did hers. Ah, but she was a Canterlot girl. White as class, meek as a secret donation, in love with the telescope and beauties beyond any bird. Once, he’d joined the traditionally masculine Wonderbolt Academy, solely to impress her. She’d kindly but merely congratulated her “sweet friend”. Later, he’d quit. Training was lousy: he’d crashed a lot. So how to really impress her? Whatever did they have in common? Then he’d thought like her. To his delight, she thought like him. One lunchtime, ever the sweet friend, he’d suggested it. She’d sparkled like a supernova: “YES!” They founded Ponyville's Astronomer's League! Attracted star-lovers! Success! …ultimately, he stayed her “sweet friend”. Through the telescope, he reached the stars. Behind the telescope, he failed. Never dared reach the star right beside him. Yet feared, someday, she would be someone else's love. Too much mouse. Never enough bird. The Sun Is Just Another StarEmpty inside, Celestia raised the sun. Please, she prayed. Dead desert. Black sky. A reddening star burned all. Celestia: the only soul left. She’d chosen daylight. Lived through history. Just when a century curdled, ponies always surprised her. She felt privileged to have met them. Blessed to have known them. Eventually, all ponydom perished. Animals disappeared. Plants withered away. Leaving only desert. Though it would cool and dim – earth would be left in darkness – the sun would still keep going. Celestia was tied to it. Eternally dying of boredom. Please. Her only hope: eternal sleep. Space was night. Moons didn’t matter: darkness did. The sun could only truly die if purest darkness swallowed it. A black hole. The night was everywhere: Luna had long since ascended to godhood. Celestia couldn’t: she’d chosen daylight. Daylight was limited. Please, Luna. Swaying weakly, she waited for her silent sister to decide. The Song of Inspiration“Oh Belle, Belle, Belle of the Ball, “The Beauty of Friends, the Envy of All: “Won’t you dance, Oh Belle of the Ball? “Oh, won’t you be my Muse?” The first song Sweetie Belle remembered hearing was Rarity’s lullaby. Read from a fairy-tale book, illustrated: moonlit balcony, handsome prince, his princess in awe beside him. Sweetie Belle thought she meant: “See this fairy-tale romance? Isn't it the greatest love in life?” Hence growing up, Sweetie Belle looked for princes. She also watched Rarity’s dressmaking life, close. Noticed her princes come and go, whereas friends stayed. All-loving Rarity loved her sister too from cradle to adulthood. Inspired, Sweetie Belle gave as good as she got. Admired Rarity. Together, they became the Belles of every Ball. Sweetie Belle reconsidered. Gave up looking for fairy-tale princes. Believed Rarity had meant: “Beauty, inspiration, generosity: won’t you show me yours, my love? Isn't this the greatest love in life?” One emotional gala, when they were both mares, Sweetie Belle quietly confessed all this to Rarity. Whereupon Rarity laughed. “Well now, that moral works much better! Bravo, Sweetie Belle! Bravo indeed!” Hello: To His Unimaginative MistressHow to do justice via poetry? Justice to the one you love? Written Script, a unicorn with a Canterlot past… but Ponyville in his soul! Its grassy knolls, its whispering treetops, its homegrown ponies. Slick as a simile, burning with metaphor, imagery wherever he looked: seeing what was there, its soul, what was really there. Juxtaposed by: “Carrot Top”, farmer. She worked on a carrot farm. Farming carrots. To her, simile sounded similar to “silly”. Carrots were carrots, not “unsheathed swords of golden holiness”. They didn’t need a shower of words. They needed a rain of… well, rain. Yet Written Script needed her. In a world of illusions, she was as solid and nurturing as the planet that kept him from the existential void of space. And she – blind earth mole – needed his eyes. Eventually, he wrote the perfect poem. It began, “My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun…” Memories Worth Fighting ForFlitter’s oldest memory: her parents, tucking her in. She’d been a baby. Big sister Cloudchaser hadn’t. Anything else had happened far away, and then she’d been living with Cloudy. So Flitter pestered her. Their parents had “D-worded”, as Cloudy grimly put it, but how? Falling in battle? Cloudy, whose mane was so cool, writhed wounded. Flitter, with her prissy bow, grinned with bloodlust. A battle, Cloudy reluctantly said. Sorta. Fighting some ancient enemy!? Evil armies!? Rebels against Celestia!? No. Yet every time “fighting” was mentioned, Cloudy cringed. Flitter spotted it. Aha! So what had they been fighting? Eventually, Cloudy muttered, “Each other.” Monsterizing curses! Despair! Heroic sacrifices! How tragic! Flitter's imagination gasped in awe. Later, young Flitter figured out why Cloudy shuddered whenever married ponies argued; Cloudchaser fought her own memories. “D-worded”. Flitter never mentioned parents again. Suddenly, fighting wasn’t cool anymore. But Flitter’s warmest memory: Cloudy, tucking her in. You Will Believe A Cherry Can FlyRaindrops examined it, scientifically interested. “Ditching hot air balloons, then?” Grinning, Cherry Berry dropped the wrench. “Please. This represents progress.” “Uh?” Cherry scoffed. “Why should you pegasi have the skies to yourselves? I don’t remember being asked what tribe I’d like to be.” Me neither, thought Raindrops. “Something wrong with earth ponydom? Closer families, nature affinities, practical-minded.” “Ground-bound, bull-headed, single-minded.” “Unlike you, then?” “I can choose.” Cherry snapped her goggles and pedalled. Whirring, clanking, rattling, the whirligig rose arthritically. Raindrops admired it. Unlike most pegasi, she preferred hard mechanics to airy clouds. More… grounded. Cherry started cheering, then something pinged. She focused, grim-faced, sweating. After five minutes, gravity defeated her again. THUMP! She tore off the goggles, panting. “There!” She coughed. “Needs…” “Better torque ratio? Pedal's obviously too loose. Allow me.” Raindrops hefted the wrench. “I’ve studied.” “You!?” “Hey! Can’t I choose too?” “Well… yeah…” “Excellent. Shall we start?” “…sure.” CompulsoryLightning. More lightning. Networks. A skyful. Through constant strikes, rain fell. Brown drops soaked the soil. Pegasi managed all weather phenomena. Nitrogen-fixing, for one. Nitrates – nitrogen and oxygen cooked by the lightning – rained down, nourishing Sweet Apple Acres. Once a month. Compulsory. Thunder too. Indoors, baby Apple Bloom whimpered and burrowed deeper, tucked between young Applejack’s protective legs. The fireplace crackled. Stoically, Granny Smith and Big Mac watched the lightning outside. Apple Bloom clung tighter to Applejack. Heard the lie: "It'll get better soon." Compulsory. Thunder pained her ears. She burrowed deeper until Applejack’s voice rumbled through her chest: “Hurts, don’t it? Ah’m sorry. It needs doin’. Can’t dodge this one.” Applejack’s heart beat faster. Funeral directors. Yesterday. Compulsory. Applejack held on tight. “Don’t cry. Ah’m here for you.” Then, the thunder stopped. Cautiously, Apple Bloom let go. The clouds vanished. Sunbeams shone. Waiting, ready for new life...
The Dream World RecordThey tell legends of the Scootaloo Track. Scootaloo: first mare to circumnavigate the globe. On a scooter. She scooted until the scooter broke down; checkpoint unicorns repaired it. When the scooter finally shattered, breaking her leg, she moaned and whined but got up and limped the last few yards. So close. Most ponies clapped politely. One cheered. Not a good enough dream. Scootaloo negotiated with actual dream-keepers: she’d become the first pony to drive from one side of the dreamworld to the other. No one heard anything for days. Then weeks. Then months. Some ponies searched the dreams. Most reckoned she’d gotten lost in a nightmare. Gave up on her. Except one. That one was waiting for her at the finish when Scootaloo reappeared. Broken leg. Moaning. Whining. Limping. But still going. Thereafter, they built a road between dreams. Called it the Scootaloo Track. Made it out of a rainbow.
Faster Than The Speed Of LoveEarly bird: gets the worm. Second mouse: gets the cheese. Which should he be? Bird? Mouse? Starry Eyes flew among birds. His heart flew higher. To the night, the twinkle, the shine. So did hers. Ah, but she was a Canterlot girl. White as class, meek as a secret donation, in love with the telescope and beauties beyond any bird. Once, he’d joined the traditionally masculine Wonderbolt Academy, solely to impress her. She’d kindly but merely congratulated her “sweet friend”. Later, he’d quit. Training was lousy: he’d crashed a lot. So how to really impress her? Whatever did they have in common? Then he’d thought like her. To his delight, she thought like him. One lunchtime, ever the sweet friend, he’d suggested it. She’d sparkled like a supernova: “YES!” They founded Ponyville's Astronomer's League! Attracted star-lovers! Success! …ultimately, he stayed her “sweet friend”. Through the telescope, he reached the stars. Behind the telescope, he failed. Never dared reach the star right beside him. Yet feared, someday, she would be someone else's love. Too much mouse. Never enough bird.
The Sun Is Just Another StarEmpty inside, Celestia raised the sun. Please, she prayed. Dead desert. Black sky. A reddening star burned all. Celestia: the only soul left. She’d chosen daylight. Lived through history. Just when a century curdled, ponies always surprised her. She felt privileged to have met them. Blessed to have known them. Eventually, all ponydom perished. Animals disappeared. Plants withered away. Leaving only desert. Though it would cool and dim – earth would be left in darkness – the sun would still keep going. Celestia was tied to it. Eternally dying of boredom. Please. Her only hope: eternal sleep. Space was night. Moons didn’t matter: darkness did. The sun could only truly die if purest darkness swallowed it. A black hole. The night was everywhere: Luna had long since ascended to godhood. Celestia couldn’t: she’d chosen daylight. Daylight was limited. Please, Luna. Swaying weakly, she waited for her silent sister to decide.
The Song of Inspiration“Oh Belle, Belle, Belle of the Ball, “The Beauty of Friends, the Envy of All: “Won’t you dance, Oh Belle of the Ball? “Oh, won’t you be my Muse?” The first song Sweetie Belle remembered hearing was Rarity’s lullaby. Read from a fairy-tale book, illustrated: moonlit balcony, handsome prince, his princess in awe beside him. Sweetie Belle thought she meant: “See this fairy-tale romance? Isn't it the greatest love in life?” Hence growing up, Sweetie Belle looked for princes. She also watched Rarity’s dressmaking life, close. Noticed her princes come and go, whereas friends stayed. All-loving Rarity loved her sister too from cradle to adulthood. Inspired, Sweetie Belle gave as good as she got. Admired Rarity. Together, they became the Belles of every Ball. Sweetie Belle reconsidered. Gave up looking for fairy-tale princes. Believed Rarity had meant: “Beauty, inspiration, generosity: won’t you show me yours, my love? Isn't this the greatest love in life?” One emotional gala, when they were both mares, Sweetie Belle quietly confessed all this to Rarity. Whereupon Rarity laughed. “Well now, that moral works much better! Bravo, Sweetie Belle! Bravo indeed!”
Hello: To His Unimaginative MistressHow to do justice via poetry? Justice to the one you love? Written Script, a unicorn with a Canterlot past… but Ponyville in his soul! Its grassy knolls, its whispering treetops, its homegrown ponies. Slick as a simile, burning with metaphor, imagery wherever he looked: seeing what was there, its soul, what was really there. Juxtaposed by: “Carrot Top”, farmer. She worked on a carrot farm. Farming carrots. To her, simile sounded similar to “silly”. Carrots were carrots, not “unsheathed swords of golden holiness”. They didn’t need a shower of words. They needed a rain of… well, rain. Yet Written Script needed her. In a world of illusions, she was as solid and nurturing as the planet that kept him from the existential void of space. And she – blind earth mole – needed his eyes. Eventually, he wrote the perfect poem. It began, “My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun…”
Memories Worth Fighting ForFlitter’s oldest memory: her parents, tucking her in. She’d been a baby. Big sister Cloudchaser hadn’t. Anything else had happened far away, and then she’d been living with Cloudy. So Flitter pestered her. Their parents had “D-worded”, as Cloudy grimly put it, but how? Falling in battle? Cloudy, whose mane was so cool, writhed wounded. Flitter, with her prissy bow, grinned with bloodlust. A battle, Cloudy reluctantly said. Sorta. Fighting some ancient enemy!? Evil armies!? Rebels against Celestia!? No. Yet every time “fighting” was mentioned, Cloudy cringed. Flitter spotted it. Aha! So what had they been fighting? Eventually, Cloudy muttered, “Each other.” Monsterizing curses! Despair! Heroic sacrifices! How tragic! Flitter's imagination gasped in awe. Later, young Flitter figured out why Cloudy shuddered whenever married ponies argued; Cloudchaser fought her own memories. “D-worded”. Flitter never mentioned parents again. Suddenly, fighting wasn’t cool anymore. But Flitter’s warmest memory: Cloudy, tucking her in.
You Will Believe A Cherry Can FlyRaindrops examined it, scientifically interested. “Ditching hot air balloons, then?” Grinning, Cherry Berry dropped the wrench. “Please. This represents progress.” “Uh?” Cherry scoffed. “Why should you pegasi have the skies to yourselves? I don’t remember being asked what tribe I’d like to be.” Me neither, thought Raindrops. “Something wrong with earth ponydom? Closer families, nature affinities, practical-minded.” “Ground-bound, bull-headed, single-minded.” “Unlike you, then?” “I can choose.” Cherry snapped her goggles and pedalled. Whirring, clanking, rattling, the whirligig rose arthritically. Raindrops admired it. Unlike most pegasi, she preferred hard mechanics to airy clouds. More… grounded. Cherry started cheering, then something pinged. She focused, grim-faced, sweating. After five minutes, gravity defeated her again. THUMP! She tore off the goggles, panting. “There!” She coughed. “Needs…” “Better torque ratio? Pedal's obviously too loose. Allow me.” Raindrops hefted the wrench. “I’ve studied.” “You!?” “Hey! Can’t I choose too?” “Well… yeah…” “Excellent. Shall we start?” “…sure.”
CompulsoryLightning. More lightning. Networks. A skyful. Through constant strikes, rain fell. Brown drops soaked the soil. Pegasi managed all weather phenomena. Nitrogen-fixing, for one. Nitrates – nitrogen and oxygen cooked by the lightning – rained down, nourishing Sweet Apple Acres. Once a month. Compulsory. Thunder too. Indoors, baby Apple Bloom whimpered and burrowed deeper, tucked between young Applejack’s protective legs. The fireplace crackled. Stoically, Granny Smith and Big Mac watched the lightning outside. Apple Bloom clung tighter to Applejack. Heard the lie: "It'll get better soon." Compulsory. Thunder pained her ears. She burrowed deeper until Applejack’s voice rumbled through her chest: “Hurts, don’t it? Ah’m sorry. It needs doin’. Can’t dodge this one.” Applejack’s heart beat faster. Funeral directors. Yesterday. Compulsory. Applejack held on tight. “Don’t cry. Ah’m here for you.” Then, the thunder stopped. Cautiously, Apple Bloom let go. The clouds vanished. Sunbeams shone. Waiting, ready for new life...
