GhostOfHeraclitus fan club archive

by toafan

Rating: everyone
Tags:
Length: 6291

GhostOfHeraclitus is– well, he's a wizard. Simple as that. But so much of his wizardry is done in oddball out-of-the-way places, that it can be downright hard to find. Unless you know what you're looking for and where to find it.

That's where we come in. An archive of everything he's written that isn't available through the site's story function, all in one easy place.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2015-03-04 17:08:40 UTC

Origins

toafan asked:

Can I just, like, be you when I grow up?  Or even after that, reincarnation works too.  HOW ARE YOU SO AWESOME?

How am I so awesome? Well now. Thereby hangs a tale. You see, it all started a long, long time ago, near the beginning of the universe. There was heat in those days and, oh, the light, now, there was real light in those days too: searing, screaming light, the kind of light that makes a blazing sun today look downright dim. The sort of light, in short, that shines right through you, paying no never mind to whether you intended to be transparent that day or not.  The glory days, those.

Anyway.

This patch of atoms--we just recently got around to having some atoms, see, and we were quite proud of 'em--was just swirling around and I remember that the Second Presence spoke to me--well not spoke, not with sounds, this was before sounds--it spoke to me and said, "this will be a world."

"A world--what manner of thing is that" asked I. Well it was a new word to me. We hadn't yet gotten around stars at this point, but that's the Second Presence for you. Always with the clever plans.

"Yes. First we shall take these atoms and from a great multitude of them we shall fashion furnaces across the interstices of space. And in their bellies these furnaces shall meld atoms one into another until we have ever new ones. In time the furnaces will die, and spill their rich innards across the winds of space. And this will happen again and again until the dust of these eruptions mixes into vast disks."

"And these will be worlds then? These disc-worlds, if you will?"

"No. That's but a link in the chain. After we have disks, it shall be in the nature of matter to clump together. That which clumps in the centre shall be another furnace, that which clumps around shall either perish or be stable. If it is stable it shall gather more unto itself until it is a vast sphere. Some of these will be icy. Some will be gaseous. Some barren rock. But some, now, some will be worlds with wave and sky and things that grow."

"That grow? Like us?"

"No. We are first. We shall be last. But these things will pass. They will be brief."

"That's terrible!"

"It must be so. So it is written in the Records. So has the First Presence spoken. There is no recourse."

"Still..."

"Still. Those who grow and who speak and who shall live on the world that shall come from these atoms, still young and new, they will require help. Guidance. They'll need... awesome."

"Then it is settled. I will abide here for a while yet, and then as aeons flit by I shall shepherd this patch of atoms until it is a world, until it has wave and sky and things that grow and until those things tell tales and then I shall join them and become as them and bring them the gift of awesome so that they may know of it, and in time join us, beyond the rim."

And so it was. And so, I am here.

Let the awesome commence.

"Prince Lord Hierarch"; - or - GhostOfHeraclitus does the black-and-red alicorn fiction thing

Context, as it were

Thus shall be born the saga of Prince, Lord Hierarch Of The Nine Mysteries, General Sardonyx Ebonstone, PhD, MD, Ruler of The Seven-Pillared City, Master of the Gates of Horn and Ivory, and HERO OF EQUESTRIA! His mane is as fire, and his fetlocks as molten copper, yet the rest of him is the color of the void between stars. His heart is adamant, his mind a razor, and his eyes twin agates. All who see him tremble and despair.

He's also fictional. Which is inconvenient for world domination, but there you go.

It all started when Blueblood heard tell of the Feathered Serpent Quill, said to be the last gift of the Feathered Serpent to his people, plucked from his own resplendent and iridescent plumage. Legends say than anything written by that quill would become reality and many lives were lost looking for it.  It was found, eventually, by an expedition to the Coso region, but when eager hooves used it to write "An then a mountain of gold appeared!" nothing happened, and it was stuck in a display cabinet in the Canterlot Royal Museum of Ancient History for a hundred years. However, recently, an expedition financed by Blueblood[1] discovered a second component to the artifact--an ink made of crushed diamonds.

Well, after a visit to a horrified jeweler and a confused chemist, Blueblood had the ink and, well, a noted patron of archeology like him could easily get the quill for display at a charitable ball he organized. Then it was a matter of scribbling a few lines, no more.

Yes! A mane of fire! And a mysterious identity! And great power! And being a hero, too! And Blueblood would become all this. Just write it down--dot the i's, cross the T's--oh, and marrying Rarity. A perfect wedding! That, too. Sure. Everything. Everything.

The final drop of ink spilled, the parchment blazed pure white, and then, from that glow came a personification of everything Blueblood wanted. Mane of fire. Coat of ebony. Great power, great fame, wings and a horn. And now that... thing wanted Blueblood's life. So it was written. So it must be. But, before it can dispose of the pallid original, it must fulfill that which was written. It must marry this 'Rarity.' And then, complete, it will banish Blueblood to orbital exile--short of the moon, as he was short of his aunt--and rule with an iron hoof. As is customary.

But! The misuse of the Quill draws attention from the newly formed Royal Librarian Guard[2]. Trained in combat librarianship and clandestine cataloging these elite forces quickly mobilize to counter this literary threat. A strike-squad assembles to assault Prince Ebonstone's Skull Tower Darkfort while his attention is occupied by Rarity's wedding requirements[3]. Luckily, Blueblood's writing specified a perfect wedding. And, as Rarity will tell you--even, or perhaps especially if you don't ask--you can't rush perfection.

Well, after fighting past Ebonstone's Doomguard[4] the Royal Librarian Guard found the original writing and altered it with ever more powers and ever more elaborations. Suddenly, Ebonstone was also Celestia's son. And Luna's son. And Discord's son. And also his own son. Because time-travel was involved. Only, it was a different dimension, so it's actually an alternative timeline him that's his father. Possibly. Oh, and also, he's the heir of Isildur. Whatever an 'Isildur' is. Possibly a desert topping.  And he's not just an alicorn, he's a alicorn-bicorn hybrid with two horns. Oh, and also he has cherubim pony ancestry and when angry he gets two additional pairs of wings (and he's always angry), oh, and also he has access to secret Qillin and Zebra magic, and he's the Dragon Emperor, too, because he has within him a part of a Dragon's soul, you see, and, and, and...

The length a written apparition has to complete the story and become fully real depends, in part, on how consistent it is and how simple to describe. Write a stone and it will be a stone for the end of time. But write a bicorn cherub dragon alicorn robot from the alternative future-past...

The explosion, it is said, was seen from Zebrica, though, curiously, nopony was hurt, though Blueblood was briefly launched into Low Epona Orbit. When reached for comment, he had this to say:

"Beep...beep...beep...beep..."

He was eventually recovered by a team of intrepid pony astronauts and extensive therapy managed to cure him of the firm belief that his name was Princess Laika Sputnik of Stalliongrad and get him to, more or less, normal, though he retained an irrational fear of feathers.

What's the moral of this story? Be careful what you wish for.

...

...what the hell did I just write?

[1] Well. An expedition he was subtly forced into financing to make up for a few remarks that gave the impression--utterly erroneous, of course, of course!--that he didn't realize that archeology wasn't the study of arches in architecture. To show how much he knew about archeology he was quickly remade in the public's eye as an avid patron of archeological studies. Dr. Spinning Top had heard, as a foal, that good little fillies didn't tell fibs, and so she generally stuck to great big whoppers instead.

[2] New princess, new Guard regiment.

[3] Twilight suggested they invent an implausibly long list of tasks for wedding preparations to keep Ebonstone occupied. Then she saw Rarity's actual wedding plans. All six thousand seven hundred and ninety five pages of them.

[4] They weren't even written in. He didn't recruit them, either. They just... showed up. The universe loves a good story, and you can't have a dreadfort without some suspiciously incompetent guards with face-concealing masks and impressive, yet strangely inefficient armor. Your know the sort.

Epic of the Word-War/Ballad of the Pre-Reader

Source

And lo!, shall the writer take up his word-honed sword with fire curled 1

and, thus, with terrible visage shall he ride forth from the Book Fort

on the grim business of war, and lo! shall there be a mighty slaughter!

Words shall fall by their thousands, and paragraphs shall cry out for aid,

but no aid shall there be, not from the heavens, not from the good earth, 5

for the Writers shall have puissance, such that none may stand against them,

be they ever so skilled with blade or bow, or ever so bent on exacting vengeance,

for was it not written, in grimoires of old, "The pen is mightier than the sword?"

And so, at the height of writerly might, at the apex of the ghastly wordwar,

just as the flower of slaughter had reached full bloom, watered amply by blood 10

the Writer came across figure, cloaked and hooded, standing, silent and menacing

in the middle of a dusty road. The Writer had forgotten silence, forgotten stillness

for he had grown all too used to the clamor of battle and the wild dance of the blade,

and the stillness and silence of the figure offended him, and so he took up his sword

and slashed at the figure with exulted yell, seeking to sweep it aside, as so many before. 15

The storied blade was quick, but the figure was quicker still, and with blinding speed

the sword was stopped -- caught in the hand of the figure, its bare flesh unmarred,

through miracle or magic or some forgotten art of the warrior, none can say.

And the Writer was sore surprised, for none before could withstand the terrible blade,

and so he spoke, with voice like the honing of a rusty edge, thick with menace, 20

"What manner of beast beest thou, that thou art not cut with steel, nor burned

with hellfire, but stand unmarred and unbowed, as would an unfeeling stone?"

And the figure replied, with a voice terrible like the rolling of distant thunder,

"No beast I! No man! But a thing that is not unto anything thou hast words for!

For thou art the Writer, and thine are the words, aye, thine but for a little while, 25

for thou art like unto an inconstant lover, and thy words are soon lost to thee.

While I, I am the First Reader, and the words lost by thee and thine, come to me

I am their steward  and their protector. And thou, proud Writer, hath taken up the blade,

and hath carved a mighty path for thyself, but attend Writer, hearken to my words,

thy path is an ill one, and leads to ill ends, for it shall take thee nowhere by down, 30

down into the Abyss, and the pain, misery, strife, and utter darkness withal!

Hear me Writer, for I am the sole thing that standeth between thee and it,

and much as I've guarded your words, I must now keep and guard thee."

And with those words, the First Reader removed his hood, looked the Writer in the eye and spoke:

"I mean for starters why on God's Green Earth is it an epic? Poetry? Really? You aren't any good at that. And that reminds me? What meter is that? Iambic I-can't-countemeter? Also what's with the Ye Olde Butcherede Englishe in the dialogue? Thee? Thou? I mean what? And another thing, what's with you and adjectives? Seriously. You are like HP Lovecraft on a dexedrine bender. You sound like the bastard child on the KJV and the Eye of Goddamn Argon! Exulted yell? Exulted yell? Do they have opaque lithe noses, as well? Good grief! And speaking of that, what's with the character of Writer? Is he a warior, what? What's a wordwar, come to think of it? And another thing..."

And there was much rejoicing.

]meta[fiction] (the idea)

>> horizon>> Skywriter

Okay you two. You want meta? Here's meta! :pinkiehappy:

GhostOfHeraclitus had an idea.

It was a fine idea, a magnificent one, if he could say so himself, and he certainly could and, at the least provocation, would. The sort of idea that hits you late at night, and you simply must get up and write it down, lest it disappear by morning. Like dew. Ghost liked that simile. Very poetic. Very nice. 'Like dew.' Perhaps he should have been a poet?

He heaved his spectral bulk from his bed and thought to himself, "The room was bathed in golden-white light, somewhere lighter, somewhere darker, like afternoon sunlight dappled by leaves."

And it was so.

The lovely thing about moving from dreary old reality and into a story is that you saved simply a fortune on your utility bill. Well, that, and godlike power, obviously. The worst think about moving into a story is that the others got the same deal. Not that he had anything against his neighbors, lovely peopl--ponie--entities every last one, but giving godlike power to a whole bunch of howling individualists with overactive imaginations (see also, writers) was a recipe for utter chaos. The first week they moved into the Crossroads Teahouse and Brothel for the Slaking of Intellectual Lusts was bedlam. Gravity kept changing, the skies burst with varicolored flame, and small orange miniaturized elephants kept appearing in people's clothing. It looked like Discord himself had set up shop next door, which was preposterous.

That happened the next week.

Anyway, in order for any writing to get done at all, a deal was struck with the Landlady and godlike power turned into somewhat less than godlike power. You could do a lot to your room, PrettyPartyPony made hers into an eleven-dimensional library haunted by metaphysical ghosts of unthought ideas, for instance, but the corridors and common rooms were pretty much fixed. And you couldn't create matter either, not outside of approved areas, lest we have another repeat of The Watermelon Incident.

The reader thought to himself, "Stop digressing you wordy bastard. What was all of that in aid of, I ask you?"

But Ghost wrestled away narrative control and wrote: "Keep your pants on. It's to explain the next bit. Now let me work you impatient ungrateful little...ahem."

This all explained why, when he sat at his writing desk with his official writing fez on his head and realized that he was entirely out of tea, he cursed quite so loudly. He couldn't make any. Well. He could, just not here. He sighed, put the Writing Fez on its little stand, and ambled out in search of the kitchens. You could create foodstuffs there, and the Landlady had installed a parasprite-powered disposal unit just so we don't have the Watermelon Incident again.

Walking along the corridor that, almost disappointingly, was entirely and depressingly consensus-normal with fixed gravity and muted colors and the whole dreary 'reality' mess, he heard, from afar, strands of menacing music. Ghost wasn't an expert on music, but this sounded like Verdi's Requiem as adapted for thermonuclear detonations, and the screams of the damned. With each step the sound grew louder, and, recognizing it, Ghost braced himself.

"I AM BAD HORSE! FEAR ME!" said Bad Horse, who was, indeed, Bad Horse and who wanted to be feared. His voice was thunderous and, since Bad wanted yet more terror etched into every syllable, it did that choral thing you hear demons do so often. Must be a course somewhere in Dis. Anyway, the two effects didn't really harmonize, and so he sounded like a thunderstorm arguing with itself.

"Hullo, Bad. How have you been, then?"

"I WAS SUBJUGATING THE INSOLENT KORX IN THE GALAXY OF WONDERMENT!"

"Good. Good. Keeping busy, I see."

"AND NOW I HAVE RETURNED! I REMEMBER WELL THE DEFEAT AT YOUR HANDS, AND AM HERE TO EXACT VENGEANCE!"

"...are...are you talking about Scrabble? Because, honestly, mate, if you want a rematch..."

"SILENCE! I DO NOT TAKE DEFEAT LIGHTLY! NOW PREPARE TO HAVE YOUR BONES FILLED WITH BURNING SULFUR AND YOUR VERY MIND CLOVEN ASUNDER WITH RUINO--"

"Good. Fine. Sounds lovely. Can we reschedule? I need to get some tea."

"OH. OF COURSE. NO PROBLEM. WE ALL KNOW HOW YOU GET WITHOUT YOUR TEA."

"I...I just get grouchy."

"OF COURSE."

"It's not like it is an addiction."

"NO. OF COURSE NOT."

"I can stop anytime I want!"

"YES. NATURALLY."

"Right, so, I'll be off then. Have a lovely evening."

"THANKS. YOU TOO. UM..."

"Yes?"

"WANT TO PRE-READ THIS THING I WROTE?"

"Oh, sure! Sure! Just slip it through the slot in my door, I'll get around to it when I've had my tea."

"THANKS!"

"No problem."

The Reader threw his hands up. "Goddamn it, Ghost," she said, "that had no point whatsoever? Is it just for the Bad Horse cameo? Really?"

Ghost got back control over the Narrative again, and wrote, peevishly: "I like Bad Horse. He's cool. Now shush and read the story. These interruptions are unbecoming."

Having survived his encounter with the Despoiler of the Noosphere, The Scourge of the Outer Regions, The (as of late) Subjugator of the Korx (whoever they were), the mighty and terrible Bad Horse, Ghost continued on. The path was long and winding, The Crossroads being, naturally, much bigger on the inside in order to contain all the many writers and devoted Hoardsmiths. He passed by the plush-upholstered, red-lit, handsomely decorated and (perhaps most importantly) soundproofed doors leading to the inner sanctum of SleeplessBrony who was, almost certainly, not asleep. He walked, with some caution past the vast slumbering form of Varanus, asleep on a bed of unreleased Composure chapters. Each a searing meditation of emotional turmoil but, more importantly, very, very comfortable. At last he saw the huge common room, past which, he knew, were the kitchens and blessed, blessed tea.

He entered the vast common room, made his way past the pre-reading area, taking care to avoid the splatters of blood, and was just about to make a beeline to the tiny kitchen doors when he suddenly was written by someone else. Hello there Ghost. Why are you up so late?

Ghost shook his head and with some effort he...

..managed to get back to writing himself.

"Skywriter," he said, "fancy meeting you."

Hi there! I see you have an idea, what is it about?

"I didn't tell anyone about the idea. How do you know?"

Pfft. I read the beginning of the chapter, silly.

"Oh! Oh. Well. Yes. It's a sort of an idea for a meta story, you see."

Meta? Isn't that more my thing?

"Well...yes...but I had this idea and..."

No, no, no problem. You let us play with footnotes, after all. I look forward to reading it. Then again, I already have?

"What does that mean?"

Silly Ghostie. You aren't thinking meta enough!

"You know you are right. I...I'm not nearly as good as you. I--I don't know what I was thinking. I think I'll just go, if you'll excuse me, I'll just--"

Oh no you don't! Bad Horse warned me about this. Ahem.

Ghost decided then that he ought to write the story, that it deserved to be written. And so, with forceful strides he walked past Skywriter, waved to him, and stepped into the kitchen, ready to conjure up some particularly fine tea.

Disoriented, Ghost shook his head, getting used to having control of his own narrative. He'll have to get back to Skywriter somehow for that little stunt. Maybe he'll put him in as a character when writing his idea! Yeah. That'll teach him to write someone else out of a scene like that!

Still, he was in the kitchens, and he might as well get some tea. Just as he was thinking about which sort, he heard the flap of wings behind him and the click of hooves on the marble floor. He turned, and saw the alicorn form of their collective Landlady.

"Ah. Hello madam Faust."

"Ghost. You are up late," she said. In this place, by Consensus, she wore her accustomed form of the God-Empress of Ponykind, and was rarely seen without her pet dragon. Outside the Crossroads, the dragon was vast and powerful, and she but a speck on its shoulder, but in here, by some virtue of this place, the dragon was tiny and fast asleep, occasionally snoring and letting loose a tiny gout of flame.

"Indeed. I...I had an idea for a story."

"That's nice. What about."

"Well," said Ghost with considerable enthusiasm, "I'm thinking of writing a story that's about me having an idea for a story! And I'd talk to my author friends and then sit down and write it, you see, but I wouldn't tell the reader what they idea was until the very end."

The Landlady smiled.

"Thinking of writing it? Ghost, you silly pony, you already wrote it."

And then you woke up.

-THE END-

An Extraordinary Adventure of Baron Bad Horse

Derpmind asked Bad Horse:

Is it true, Baron Bad Horse, that you not only bested two score professionals, but escaped the convention with thirteen new hats?

GhostOfHeraclitus replied:

No, sir you are--

--no! It can no longer be kept a secret. It's time the world knew! I've had the details given to me by a trusted associate, whose name I cannot possibly divulge, except to say it is one regarded with uniform respect and admiration in all the courts of Europe.

Baron Bad, I've been given to understand, not only bested two score professionals (not one of them French--a true gentleman would not count a victory in a battle of wits against an unarmed opponent) but also won such admiration from several crowned heads of Europe who were in attendance--incognito of course, but simply everyone knew--and such was their respect for his proficiency with the cutting remark and the sharply stabbing question, that they saw fit to give him extraordinary gifts including, it is said, an exquisite tricorn of black sable, decorated with jet and obsidian.

All admired this truly extraordinary hat, when a rival--a small bitter man who was not French, for all that everyone suspected it--made an indiscreete comment about how only that gifted hat saved the good Baron from ignominy. You see, the Baron had arrived to the convention hatless which, this was, remember, during the time of Prince Gumpert's Obligatorischehuttragenschaft policy, which meant that appearing without some sort of hat was the height of gauche and possibly punishable by forceful bissonomy. This was not to fault the good Baron, or to imply any stain on his character, he had started off his trip to the convention for scientific romance wearing a perfectly serviceable black silk hat of fine manufacture, but lost it in Barcelona during an abominable affair with the one-eyed circus knife-thrower, the panther, and the Bishop's niece. The world--alas!--is not yet ready to hear the details, but I can divulge that parts of Montjuïc still smell faintly of vanilla.

Well, such an insult could not stand unchallenged, and Baron Bad Horse challenged all comers to play once more, but this time using their hats as stakes. Well, few were willing to risk ignominy--not to mention bissonomy--especially against so skilled an opponent of the Gentleman's Game, but since no Frenchmen were in attendance, all accepted gladly. The battle was joined, and the standard of play was such that it is said that nothing in Europe had equaled it since. By the evening's end Baron Bad Horse was the only one to be wearing anything on his head at all, even though he had been forced to wager away two corners of his magnificent hat. However, such was his personal charm, the glory of his victory, not to mention thirteen brand new hats he held at his side as trophies of battle--latter he would have them bronzed and mounted--that the new look was immediately copied and even to this day the particularly rakish and fashionable are known to sport this 'unicorn' style.

Or so I heard it. You'll have to forgive my imposition here, but the good Baron doesn't like to talk about this event. Understandable, of course, utterly understandable. Even the most bloodless recital of the bare facts of the matter would sound as the most extravagant hubristic boast, after all, and Baron Bad Horse is nothing if not modest.

footnotes

You don't wish to mess with the Ghost

[5] A footnote alone. Unconnected. What might happen in this stagnant linguistic-typographical backwater, in this little petri dish of words, what strange and exotic hybrids and mutants may caper, cavort, and gambol? Look, yon goes 'remorsel,' the smallest possible unit of guilt, and tither slithers mimsy, with slithy in tow. And these are merely the closest part of the Footnote Alone, the Fields We Know, in fact. Think what strange amalgamations might dwell deeper, nameless things like q7wr*, a word in search of a meaning, or Chmmr, a name in search of a vowel. Deeper still, the shortest poem, one character long--one that does not appear in any book, on any keyboard--dwells as king of a strange land of typographical innovation, where new and odd symbols swarm on the ragged sea-edge, warmed by a dying Sun. And beyond that, the Ocean of Meaning lapping softly at the shores of the Wordless isle where the three sisters, Tip-of-My-Tongue, Um, and Ah dwell in perfect silence. And below the waves? On the silty ocean floor? What man can say? What man can imagine?

The Importance Of Meanings

"And then I told him that if he didn't clear out right now I'd defenestrate him! You shoulda seen him run! It was awesome!"

"Defenestrate! Wow, Rainbow, all that reading's paying off, isn't it," said Twilight, smiling, "bit of a serious threat, though? Wasn't he an earth pony?"

"Gross, Twi! I wasn't actually going to do it! I just knew he was gonna run off 'cuz he was afraid for his fenestras."

"That's not... what?"

"Oh! Does that word have an egghead plural again? Fenestri? Fenestrae? Fenestrim?"

"No it's just that... I mean nopony would want damage to their fenestrae. I certainly wouldn't. Even if the temporal ones are closed, but... "

"What! You... you don't have those. Right. Because you are a... you know. Mare," Rainbow said, whispering the last word and casting a furtive look around and putting two hooves on Spike's ears. Or where Rainbow thought Spike's ears were which, as it happened, was a few inches off and, by sheerest coincidence, quite close to his fenestrae.

"Of course I do! One, anyway. So do you."

"What?! No I don't! Who told you that?"

"Everypony does!"

"I have two! Temporal. Open ones, too," said Spike smugly, batting away Rainbow's forehooves.

"Oh, well done Spike! You did read that Cladistics for the Curious book I got you," said Twilight with a bit of a hop, clapping her forehooves together.

There was a lengthy silence during which Rainbow looked up, left, right, sideways, back, and in several new directions she invented on the spot. She brushed the back of her neck with a hoof. Finally, gaze firmly fixed on the ground and blushing furiously she spoke.

"Um... guys," she said, voice cracking, "I'm gonna level with you. I don't think I know what 'fenestra' means. 'cuz I don't think it means what I, uh, thought it meant."

Voluntary Search

Leafy didn't wear spectacles. This was generally a good thing—Dotty was forever losing, breaking, mangling, or dissolving his—but sometimes it was a bother. Right now, for instance, he really wanted to have spectacles so he could look over them in the pointed way Dotted used to put the Fear of Celestia into provincial officials who made him tetchy. He settled instead for rubbing the bridge of his nose with one hoof while gesturing with another.

"Run this past me again."

"Well, um, Mr. Permanent Secretary, sir, the idea was to ask ponies nicely to let us search their homes. Nothing wrong with that." The Phillydelphian Chief Superintendent—a broad faced stallion teetering unwillingly on the lip of middle-age—positively radiated keenness and a professionalism, though it would have perhaps helped the latter if he hadn't tied his tie in what appeared to be a hangmare's knot.

"No, indeed. Quite according to the charter. Polite, even. But the question I am driven to, Chief Superintendent, is... why?"

"Well in case we find proof of crime, sir."

"Proof of which crime?"

"Just... y'know sir. Crime in general. Daggers with bloodstains on 'em. Suspicious hoofprints. Bottles of poison that are all black, sir, with a skull and crossbones on 'em. You know sir. Clues. "

"And this will help crime in Fillydelphia, will it?"

"Oh, yes, sir. Can't solve a crime without clues. Stands to reason." The Chief Superintendent gave a vigorous nod that threatened to unseat his dress uniform hat.

"You seem to have thought this out quite thoroughly."

"Thank you sir."

"One question, though."

"Sir?"

"These ponies with clues in their homes, why exactly would they invite you over?"

"Sir?"

"Presumably they've committed the crimes in question and have decided, against all reason, to keep the grisly evidence of their criminality, possibly on some sort of decorative plinth, yes?" Leafy hadn't had lunch. In fact this emergency meeting was taking place in the hallowed time when he ought to be having the sandwiches he brought along. He could see the packet, from where he was sitting. Taunting him.

"Um... well sir—"

"So I am... what's the word... baffled. Yes, baffled as to why these ponies would then invite the police over to see if there's any sign of their criminality hanging about."

"Well sir we—" The Superintendent was red-faced now, and had taken the hat off and was busily compacting it into a ball.

"Is this perhaps targeted at the forgetful criminal who has preserved clues of their own misdeeds but has forgotten that they have done so or has perhaps lost these mementos and wishes for police help to recover them? Do you get many absent-minded villains in Fillydelphia, then?"

"Nossir. But, well, might be that these clues are in homes where the ponies aren't criminals per se, sir. They just have clues hanging about. And we just offered to come 'round and see if there are any around. Can't be too safe. Dangerous things, clues. It's like the pony flu."

"The pony... do they infect houses and then multiply?"

"They might, sir. Nopony's seen 'em do it, sure enough, but they might."

Leafy leaned forward. He had nearly forgotten the sandwiches now (though not quite—they had bell pepper relish on!). In morbid fascination he prodded onward, as one might pick at a scab.

"I see. Preventative policing?"

"Yessir! Nail on head, sir. We are standing on the forefront of the fight against infectious clues menacing the good people of Fillydelphia."

Leafy Salad rubbed his forehead, willing his headache away. Sarcasm didn't seem to be having any visible effect.

"And how do these clues come to be at ponies' houses, then, if they are not criminally inclined? Are you under the impression that there exists an evidence fairy that leaves the stuff around?"

To Leafy's fascinated horror, the Superintendent leaned in, and spoke in hushed conspiratorial tones.

"Well sir, we've no solid leads in the Evidence Fairy case, but we know what's what in Fillydelphia, oh yes," he said, trying to tap his nose knowingly and missing, "We've all been leaving magnifying glasses under our pillows for weeks now just in cas—"

"You are fired. I've half a mind to fire the whole Fillydelphian police department and replace it with blocks of wood painted blue, just to see if it even affects the crime rate."

In which GhostOfHeraclitus attempts to write self-depricating fiction

I happen to like Shakespeare, but I'm fairly certain he's been the victim of altogether too much hype and analysis. I mean, if you think about it, he's in a similar position as MLP in a way. Old Bill just wanted to write some decent plays and earn a bit of money, and then some of the cleverest people in the world over a period of four hundred years invested each line, each character, each subtlety with portentous significance. Faust, blessed be her holy hooves, just wanted to write a decent girls' show and shift some little horse figurines, and then a whole bunch of incredibly clever people (and me, I guess) descended onto what she made and spun a thousand tales from the most minor of features and turned the relatively simple characters into tortured and complex beings, or damn-near-religious symbols of hope and self-sacrifice, or a hundred other things.

Vault

From There goes the neighborhood...

Deep past the vast steel door, down the corridor lined in obdurium, across a narrow bridge spanning a chasm there is a stair. It is a long stair, hewn from diorite, by the Stonelords of old, and it looks today as it may have done back in those halcyon days, save for flickering electric lights. They are alien there, wrong, unwelcome, not for their modernity, for what does stone care of human ages, but because any light would seem alien in this place. Alien and weak, as it beats ineffectually against the darkness.

Past many steps, at the bottom of the endless stair, is another corridor. Stone again, but the work of the Stonelords has been reinforced by modern hands, and concrete and steel cross-beams strengthen the ancient masonry. The corridor is lined with doors--elaborate things, of steel and circuit, and adamant and rune. They, too, look alien, but not weak. Not weak at all. Past one of these doors there is darkness. But inside the darkness there is a small patch of something that isn't darkness, not quite. Not completely. Darkness that, somehow, remembers the light and an open sky.

It's so feeble a thing, so lacking in substance, that hardly any room would hold it. It would slip past most walls, through locks and wards, like they weren't even there. But the walls of this room admitted no crack, and the door had no locks. No wards. Once closed, the door would remain closed. An oubliette that permitted no escape. But massive though the walls might be, and pitiless though the door may be, a thought--a single thought, is still past their reach.

So the thought emerged from the darkness that wasn't quite darkness, and whisped past the walls and the doors, it left the hidden and terrible guards of this place behind, heedless of its passage, it crossed the chasm, and left through the massive steel door. Then, stealth and caution thrown to the winds, the thought raced, for it had a purpose, it had a goal, it had a target.

A thousand miles away, Kobalstromo awoke with a start from uneasy dreams. He was unsure what he dreamed of. Dark upon dark. A closed place, away from the sun, hidden from the sky. And words. Two of them. I remember.

The scientific accuracy of love poetry

Your eyes, my beloved, are like twin stars blazing with light

because they remind me of two fusing masses of hydrogen

whirling around a common barycenter, alone in the night

Countless ages hence, their fuel spent, tired, they'll then

spiral inward, final fate decided by the Chandrasekhar limit

(Black holes, I hope  because massive stars sparkle like your wit)

Darling my heart doesn't burn for thee—because that's utterly impossible, it's too soggy to ignite. I mean possibly you could dry it out or something but I'd be long past being 'me' at this stage, so saying it is my heart is a bit—Though it is not beyond imagining that some psychosomatic increase in core temp might be possible due to intense affect, love and whatnot. Hm. I'm not sure the heart would be affected... possibly? We may be looking at an increase of as much as one or two degrees centigrade, in extremis. So, really, darling, my heart's temperature is slightly elevated for thee. Possibly. Obviously the cardiac muscle doesn't react like any other in the body but, on the balance of things and what with the zeroth law of thermodynamics, and all, I'm fairly sure that if I were to determine my body temperature using the axilliary method, say, I would register an increase which must translate to a suitable increase in all applicable tissues including the cardiac. With... 80% confidence, I should think. Obviously an experiment would be difficult. Well. Fatal, most likely.