Tales of A Simple Clop

by Normal

Rating: mature
Tags: Slice of Life
Length: 1105

A story about the life of a simple pony, a simple writer, a simple outcast.

A story about the life of a simple pony, a simple writer, a simple outcast.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2013-12-25 22:10:05 UTC

Prologue: First Words

I was a writer.

That's all there was too it. I knew that fact to be true despite what other had to say. The words spit out by others, loaded with their own malice and disgust, those words meant nothing to me.

I knew what I was, and nothing was going to stop me.

But those words, they would follow me despite this. Even if I shunned them, if I boarded up my windows and nailed shut my door, they would find a way to get to me. They would be plastered across my mail, or spoken in hushed tones when I went out.

Those little ponies just could not help themselves.

But you know what?

I.

Don't.

Bucking.

Care.

I have heard every last word, every insult every ridicule they can throw at me. It's almost cute how each new pony thinks they're the first one to say so, to call out my flaws. Each one thinks they've discovered something new. But what I write? I have been writing since I was young. Young enough to understand the basics and old enough to dig for more. And since I started writing, with that very first story I wrote, I've been hearing the criticisms. And trust me, they are all the same.

"What if the foals see it?"

My answer, of course, is a blank look, eyes mirroring their own concern and a confused turn of my lips, and to ask them that very thing back.

No answer.

Their faces steam and their ears turn red. I remember one particular concerned parent figure that turned this lovely shade of violet around the tips. Though, on a horse of yellow I must admit it didn't particularly flatter her.

Ah, that first story...It really takes me back. I mentioned I was young at the time already and you know how youths are. Back then I was the one who would get flustered and start to turn red. I look back at it now and laugh but that doesn't mean it didn't hurt at the time. I went home that day after my classes in tears. I felt like my life had shattered around me and that there was no way a simple filly like I could fix it. I am ashamed to say my story, despite my original dedication to it, ended up in the trash, torn into my pieces just like my own soul. Look at me, getting deep.

Rest in pieces as the foals say.

I can see my story even now. Not in the figurative sense which I'm sure you readers assume, after all I haven't really set the scene very well for my own tale, that's something I'm holding out on for now. I quite literally can see it now though as I'm sure any mare or stallion could figure out by now. All taped up, some parts blurred by the thin, clear plastic, and stuck in a glass frame that I admit is nicer than the story deserves.

You see, back then I utterly sucked at writing. I sucked rancid donkey balls when it came to writing. In fact, reading about somepony sucking rancid, wrinkly donkey testicles would have probably been a more enjoyable read.

But I guess I shouldn't have been writing while struck by that particular...affliction.

I was young and in love.

It was maybe my freshman year of high school at the time, maybe even before that, and I was at the gawky stage all the non-popular fillies go through...what I wouldn't have given to have known the secret to the popular fillies's secret to grace. It took me years to realize my own solution was time while their solution was money and woefully temporary.

I bet you're waiting for me to say that the hunk of a stallion that my appalling teenage hormones led me to was  one of the handsome, sweep you off your hooves jocks. Perhaps you're thinking he was the captain of hoofball team and brought our school to the championships that very same year. I'm afraid you're reading the wrong story if that's what you're expecting.

True, my love interest was above me in the school's pecking order and I really was not noticed at all by her as you might expect but that's all. Oh, did you catch that? Why yes, I did say her. Let me pause now to laugh at what I imagine is going through your heads.

Ok, I think I'm done. I'm really getting a good laugh writing this. Yes. Oh, yes. I don't feel the need to share her name with who ever you may be, lest it sully her own reputation. She was one of the cellists in the band, one of the truly remarkable ones.

I realized now I might have lost you. This seems like I have gone off on some tangent unrelated to my story. Well, know how I said I was in love when I wrote my story? Let me just say, wincing of course, that I wasn't very subtle back then and had never heard the words "self-insertion" or "wish-fulfillment".

See for yourself, in all its youthful glory, I have no shame.

The glowing moon waxed softly over the castles courtyard as the noble lady looked out from her perch on her bedroom's balcony. It was a view she was well accustomed to and one that she would frequent often. Though she admitted it to few, it was her favorite spot of all her land. The way the light danced of the waxy leaves of the rhododendrons...

Hang on a sec...I forgot just how much pointless detail I went into with the court yard flora. Ugh.

Hmmm...

Alright, here's probably a good place.

The back shadow of the candle light glimmered off of my secret lover's shoulder blades as she turned around. Those eyes lowered slightly, resting their gaze to an area more secret to others than our relationship. I blushed and turned away, catching in my own retreating sight a glimpse of her hidden treasure. Widening, my eyes drank in the sight. Was she the one? I had never seen any other pony's special area.

I forgot how young I was when I wrote this. It is painful to read,  I mean would it have killed me to even use the technical terms for the genitalia. I'm one step away from calling it a no-no spot for Celestia's sake!

You know what, forget this story. You don't need to hear it anyways.

My name is Passion's Quill, I am a shameless writer of clop and this is my story.