Finnegans Cakeby cleverpunChaptersPinkieEnglishFinneganPinkieThe aroma blossomed silently out of the thick metal door, mingling with the lesser, commoner air thereforth, enrichening it against both wills, diluting and empowerment mingling together just as the ozone might with the sea. The thrust of it was undiluted temptation. Pinkie’s mouth might have watered, were it not for the scalding tray and oven mitt delicately balanced in her mouth and the preponderance of saliva therein. Stuff it into you, her belly advised. Restraint is a foal’s game, her mouth agreed, the clatter covering her thoughts as the tray landed upon the polished table, the oven thunking shut with more volume that seemed reasonable. Her mind, the grey matter therewith, told her otherwise. Temptation had always been foremost in the filly’s life, as her employment in an eatery attested. Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a particular party attended by the pink pony and at this party she had eaten stuffels tains and even ceans of all imaginable confection. The feeling that followed was not easily forgotten and she did not forget it easily. The afterfeeling, the mathematics of it all, were ingrained even more deeply into her psyche, for she had lost a dear friend in that torrent of tempestuous temptation. That immaterial companion was never beguiled from her not if she could evade such avoision and evert such aversion. On the wall of her bedroom hung a framed scroll, the certificate of her survival past the education of the sodality of the baked bread. Many lessons had passed through that unsightly hall with its pristine cleanliness and abrupt sterile aura. Not entirely all of their cult had been hogwashed crackers, she noted. At times like these, if there could indeed be solitary incitements of the feeling, her thoughts turned to that scroll and those lessons as well as to her previous moments of crippling weakness and startling efficiacy. The customer sprung to the centermost of her feeble attentions as she resolved to leave the pastries unmolested unraped unravaged and nubile. The door swung slowly open in that way it did a gentle tinklinking of bells absent but not inappropriate as the patron entered the established eatery. Their exchange was not unlike many that had preceded it on countless other days pregnant with warmth and expectation and yet benign and fallow as a fetid fetus on a cold mid-night. Finnegan was a workhorse dareIsay a workpony who well knew the dangers of punctuality and especially of promptness. His teeth hammered into the muffin like a hammerblow from Hephaestus striking his brother crude emotion and vengeance and desire and rage and longing with. Pinkie did not long wander ocular fully aware of her remaining duties and the promise they brang of further enjoyment her life work. She returned to the oven the forge of her soul the soul of her forge concealed within and quickly commenced to the fray. Author's Note Stuff us into you, the cookies pleaded. And Pinkie, sweet Pinkie, couldn't help herself when faced with such a desire. The progenitor, how-ever, was disagreement ponified, and rows of rows followed. EnglishThe smell of bread and cake wafted through the air. One of Pinkie’s trademark smiles crept across her face as she pulled another tray out of the oven. She carefully set it on the counter to cool, and took a deep whiff of the pastries melted to the metal. The door opened, and Pinkie’s smile shifted from “content” to “friendly”, the difference being about two rows of teeth. She spit the oven mitt out of her mouth and turned to the pony. “Hi, Finnegan! First customer of the day! What can I get ya?” The stallion’s brown coat matched the loaves of bread near the door. His eyes matched his clover cutie mark. “I’ll jus’ have the usual today, lass.” His smile matched Pinkie’s. “Okie dokie lokey! Coming right up!” Pinkie dove under the counter and reemerged with a strawberry muffin. “Right up, get it?” Her giggle was just loud enough. She slid the muffin across the counter, her muzzle still beaming brighter than a flashlight. “I’ll put it on your tab. Have a great day at work, Finnegan!” Finnegan chuckled softly. “Well how can’t I? I’ve got one of the best muffins in town to keep me going.” He winked playfully and trotted out the door. The window gave a perfect view of his first bite. The oven let out a soft ding and Pinkie’s ear flicked. She shook her head; she had been so distracted by Finnegan enjoying the muffin, she had nearly forgotten to put in a new batch. She grabbed her oven mitt with her mouth and turned back to the oven, one ear still waiting for the next customer. Author's Note This was really more of a writing exercise than a proper story. I wrote this regular English section first and then worked backward to make the others. I've only ever read a few paragraphs of Joyce, but ineptitude and unfamiliarity has never stopped me before. FinneganRich aroma, loamly floating wafting racing across thous’nd crisp clasp grasp. Caressed a lass, ne’er wan’ring, e’er eware o’ that insufferable insurmountable indesirable compunction which canly be waned by desire, ’n’ tru shell all-ways go after. Dour dor; swshscreeecktptptptp. Finnegan, whose shen cud rare compare to thae comely constable. An’ Pinkie, her torches o’ feminity ’n’ grace en even lief isself a litehoose in that rocky shore of allday existin’. They too oft danced this selfsame dance—his very own profferences regurlay prefered at the squat penk building. The wurds, the re-quest, the very ordah writ by a far greatah writer than any av’reg. Th’ lass was prompt, tho this shock nor wet aithah part. A bite of bit, a whisper o’ prawn. This was as fleeting as the most ignoble brigand, and ne’er so crass or curmudgeon as such a shadow. The fluff isself was is as the very masterful work, the likes of Bacchus hisself woulda thirsted for its drink, hungered for its centre. Finnegan, brawly Finnegan, skinneh Finnegan, his teeth each a bolt of Zeus upon the Titan of flavor, each an Inquisition upon its sinful, heretical brogue. glasswindow glasswindow Finnegan again glasswindow glasswindow Pinkie Pie F 2 work Thirty-two after eleven, an ignoble number, for Finnegan knew what lay there, in that, most egregious minuet of thyme. Author's Note Ther rumer be Finnegan, dear Finnegan, is curse with de mens. Tho truth is innist mos' desirable nayture a fein mis'ress, to revel et would restrict thy reader's soliloquy and I do deah apologize.
PinkieThe aroma blossomed silently out of the thick metal door, mingling with the lesser, commoner air thereforth, enrichening it against both wills, diluting and empowerment mingling together just as the ozone might with the sea. The thrust of it was undiluted temptation. Pinkie’s mouth might have watered, were it not for the scalding tray and oven mitt delicately balanced in her mouth and the preponderance of saliva therein. Stuff it into you, her belly advised. Restraint is a foal’s game, her mouth agreed, the clatter covering her thoughts as the tray landed upon the polished table, the oven thunking shut with more volume that seemed reasonable. Her mind, the grey matter therewith, told her otherwise. Temptation had always been foremost in the filly’s life, as her employment in an eatery attested. Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a particular party attended by the pink pony and at this party she had eaten stuffels tains and even ceans of all imaginable confection. The feeling that followed was not easily forgotten and she did not forget it easily. The afterfeeling, the mathematics of it all, were ingrained even more deeply into her psyche, for she had lost a dear friend in that torrent of tempestuous temptation. That immaterial companion was never beguiled from her not if she could evade such avoision and evert such aversion. On the wall of her bedroom hung a framed scroll, the certificate of her survival past the education of the sodality of the baked bread. Many lessons had passed through that unsightly hall with its pristine cleanliness and abrupt sterile aura. Not entirely all of their cult had been hogwashed crackers, she noted. At times like these, if there could indeed be solitary incitements of the feeling, her thoughts turned to that scroll and those lessons as well as to her previous moments of crippling weakness and startling efficiacy. The customer sprung to the centermost of her feeble attentions as she resolved to leave the pastries unmolested unraped unravaged and nubile. The door swung slowly open in that way it did a gentle tinklinking of bells absent but not inappropriate as the patron entered the established eatery. Their exchange was not unlike many that had preceded it on countless other days pregnant with warmth and expectation and yet benign and fallow as a fetid fetus on a cold mid-night. Finnegan was a workhorse dareIsay a workpony who well knew the dangers of punctuality and especially of promptness. His teeth hammered into the muffin like a hammerblow from Hephaestus striking his brother crude emotion and vengeance and desire and rage and longing with. Pinkie did not long wander ocular fully aware of her remaining duties and the promise they brang of further enjoyment her life work. She returned to the oven the forge of her soul the soul of her forge concealed within and quickly commenced to the fray. Author's Note Stuff us into you, the cookies pleaded. And Pinkie, sweet Pinkie, couldn't help herself when faced with such a desire. The progenitor, how-ever, was disagreement ponified, and rows of rows followed.
EnglishThe smell of bread and cake wafted through the air. One of Pinkie’s trademark smiles crept across her face as she pulled another tray out of the oven. She carefully set it on the counter to cool, and took a deep whiff of the pastries melted to the metal. The door opened, and Pinkie’s smile shifted from “content” to “friendly”, the difference being about two rows of teeth. She spit the oven mitt out of her mouth and turned to the pony. “Hi, Finnegan! First customer of the day! What can I get ya?” The stallion’s brown coat matched the loaves of bread near the door. His eyes matched his clover cutie mark. “I’ll jus’ have the usual today, lass.” His smile matched Pinkie’s. “Okie dokie lokey! Coming right up!” Pinkie dove under the counter and reemerged with a strawberry muffin. “Right up, get it?” Her giggle was just loud enough. She slid the muffin across the counter, her muzzle still beaming brighter than a flashlight. “I’ll put it on your tab. Have a great day at work, Finnegan!” Finnegan chuckled softly. “Well how can’t I? I’ve got one of the best muffins in town to keep me going.” He winked playfully and trotted out the door. The window gave a perfect view of his first bite. The oven let out a soft ding and Pinkie’s ear flicked. She shook her head; she had been so distracted by Finnegan enjoying the muffin, she had nearly forgotten to put in a new batch. She grabbed her oven mitt with her mouth and turned back to the oven, one ear still waiting for the next customer. Author's Note This was really more of a writing exercise than a proper story. I wrote this regular English section first and then worked backward to make the others. I've only ever read a few paragraphs of Joyce, but ineptitude and unfamiliarity has never stopped me before.
FinneganRich aroma, loamly floating wafting racing across thous’nd crisp clasp grasp. Caressed a lass, ne’er wan’ring, e’er eware o’ that insufferable insurmountable indesirable compunction which canly be waned by desire, ’n’ tru shell all-ways go after. Dour dor; swshscreeecktptptptp. Finnegan, whose shen cud rare compare to thae comely constable. An’ Pinkie, her torches o’ feminity ’n’ grace en even lief isself a litehoose in that rocky shore of allday existin’. They too oft danced this selfsame dance—his very own profferences regurlay prefered at the squat penk building. The wurds, the re-quest, the very ordah writ by a far greatah writer than any av’reg. Th’ lass was prompt, tho this shock nor wet aithah part. A bite of bit, a whisper o’ prawn. This was as fleeting as the most ignoble brigand, and ne’er so crass or curmudgeon as such a shadow. The fluff isself was is as the very masterful work, the likes of Bacchus hisself woulda thirsted for its drink, hungered for its centre. Finnegan, brawly Finnegan, skinneh Finnegan, his teeth each a bolt of Zeus upon the Titan of flavor, each an Inquisition upon its sinful, heretical brogue. glasswindow glasswindow Finnegan again glasswindow glasswindow Pinkie Pie F 2 work Thirty-two after eleven, an ignoble number, for Finnegan knew what lay there, in that, most egregious minuet of thyme. Author's Note Ther rumer be Finnegan, dear Finnegan, is curse with de mens. Tho truth is innist mos' desirable nayture a fein mis'ress, to revel et would restrict thy reader's soliloquy and I do deah apologize.
