Spark Notes

Chapters

A Dash of This, a Dash of That
Verdict
Fantasy Hoofball
I Don't Think You're Ready for This...
Cinderarity
Light and Dark
May the Best Pet Win
Monsters
Soul Proprietorship
Scootaloo and the End
My Little Pony: The Movie: The Unofficial Fix-Fic
Cymothoa Exigua
Anagnorisis
Delinquent x Honor Student
A Pale Horse
Trixie and Pumpkin Cake Save the World
Prisoner in Pink
The Rabbit Hole

A Dash of This, a Dash of That

“And what exactly is this spell supposed to do?” Rainbow Dash asked.

They were in Twilight Sparkle’s brand new experiment room. For all the sadness that the loss of Twilight’s old tree-home had brought, at least the fancy new crystal castle had lots of space, and it hadn’t taken long at all for Twilight to designate one big empty room as a combination study and experiment space, furnishing the walls with shelves, setting up her potion-brewing apparatus across a few overloaded tables, and most importantly, moving in her sophisticated magic testing and measuring machinery.

Twilight looked up from the tattered spellbook she was currently studying, only to see Rainbow Dash idly toying with the oversized metal bowl over her head. “Don’t touch that,” she said, and Rainbow frowned as her hooves dropped back to her lap.

Truth be told, Twilight knew that it wasn’t really that important. In fact, unlike the bulk of her valuable testing equipment, the strange headpiece was just a metal colander she had borrowed from the kitchen (over Spike’s protests), with a few wires attached for extra authenticity. It was only there because Rainbow tended to be less fidgety when she thought she was hooked up to ‘sciency stuff’, as she called it.

“Well, the source text is so old that I haven’t been able to find any records of previous castings. I’m not entirely sure how it manifests, but—”

“Wait,” Rainbow interrupted. “You’re casting a spell on me without having any idea what it does?”

Twilight winced. “Technically speaking. But, if you take into consideration the general nature of the rest of the spells I’ve been able to identify in the book… Well. I mean, if you’d rather not, we can always move on to something else.”

“Hay no!” Rainbow Dash grinned widely. “That sounds awesome! What if it makes me fly super fast or something?”

“I don’t think that’s a possibility,” Twilight said dryly. “The section is titled Prifmatic Perfpective. Chances are it’s just another mild form of focusing aid, though the roots of the magic seem to have some connection to an odd branch of thumomancy. Ideally, there will be something I can tweak to incorporate into my own special blend of studying spells. There’s some integration of color-based divinations that are fairly inexplicable, as traditionally that’s more connected to empathetic constructs but everything else seems very grounded is psychological expression, and I can’t wait to see— You’re not paying attention to any of this, are you?”

Rainbow Dash jerked her head from where she had been staring out the window. “I was listening, I swear. You said—”

“Whatever,” Twilight said, annoyance creeping into her voice. “It’s fine. You don’t need to know the details, just sit still and tell me if anything feels out of the ordinary.”

“I really was listening,” Rainbow muttered, eyes downcast. She perked up to smile at Twilight. “And then, that’s everything, right? I was thinking we could take a break. Maybe go flying? We haven’t had a chance to really practice in a while, and it’d be a good opportunity…”

Twilight waved a hoof absent-mindedly, as she stared down at her book again. “I don’t think I can spare the time today. I need to write up a report on what we’ve done so far. Maybe next week.”

“That’s what you said last week,” Dash said, her voice sounding strangely despondent.

Twilight looked up and blinked. “Yes, well. You know, I really appreciate how much help you’ve been lately.” She didn’t notice the light blush across Rainbow’s face as Dash rubbed her hoof against the ground. “Most of the rest of the girls are too busy with their work. Or are Pinkie Pie. Or both.”

“You’re lucky I’m so good at weather duty that I can finish all my work in no time at all,” Dash exclaimed, grinning.

Twilight just rolled her eyes. “Yes. And so humble too.”

“I know!”

“Let’s just stick to the spell. Are you ready?”

Dash’s wings flared out. “Am I ever! Hit me, Twi.”

Twilight closed the book carefully, and set it aside. She took up a position in the middle of the room and inclined her horn down, pointing it straight at her pegasus friend. “Here goes nothing,” she said, and her horn lit up magenta as she carefully began constructing the complicated specifics of the spell.

A curl of glittery power started at the base of her horn and spiraled its way up, flashing through a variety of colors as it went. Then, when it hit the top of her horn, it burst outwards, a radiant beam that hit Rainbow Dash square in the chest, causing her to release a slightly startled ‘Eep!’ in response, one that she would undoubtedly deny if ever questioned about.

The light faded, and Twilight looked up, panting slightly from the exertion. The spell had drawn quite a bit more power than she had anticipated.

“Feel any different?” Twilight said.

Dash blinked. She flexed one wing, then another. “Nope!”

Twilight tapped a hoof against her chin. “Hm. The spell mentioned something about problem-solving. Try thinking about some kind of complicated problem or something.”

“Psh. Like I have any problems.”

Twilight sighed. “Please, Dash. Take this seriously?”

“I am!” Rainbow Dash leaned back, her brow furrowing. “Any sort of problem…?” she said, almost too soft for Twilight to hear. “Maybe…”

And then Rainbow Dash exploded.

Twilight found the room suddenly full of huge billowing clouds of smoke, swirled with all sorts of colors. She coughed and hacked, and pushed forward. “Rainbow!” she yelled out. “Rainbow!”

Her horn lit up and she used a simple wind spell to swirl the smoke around her and push it to the corners of the room as she dashed to where her friend had been seated. With a lead feeling in her stomach, she realized the only thing there was that stupid big colander that Rainbow had been wearing as a helmet.

“What have I done?” she gasped. “I… I… What if I killed her?!”

She forced herself to calm down. Forced herself to do that breathing exercise that Cadence had taught her. She realized that she was doing it at about ten times the normal rate and stopped, shaking her head. Maybe… maybe she had just teleported her somewhere? But she hadn’t felt the sort of spatial signal that would have occurred.

She felt tears well up in her eyes, making her vision blurry. “Oh, Rainbow,” she gasped.

In fact, her vision was so blurry that when the colander moved, at first she thought she had started hallucinating. When the edge then slowly lifted up and a tiny blue head poked out from underneath, she was almost sure of it.

But to make certain, she slowly, cautiously bent down, lifting the metal bowl, and alternately hoping and dreading what was underneath.

The sight that awaited her was unexpected, to say the least. Six tiny Rainbow Dashes looked up at her in varying states of confusion and dismay. She barely had time to register their odd appearances, each of the six having a solid-colored mane of a different hue, before they reacted.

Tiny trails of color went in every direction as the little Dashes rocketed off, clumsily flying around the room, bumping into books and equipment. “Ah!” Twilight shouted. “Wait!”

She scurried around the room, flailing her arms and wings out trying to catch the pegasi, even as they stubbornly eluded her grasp. One thumped an overloaded bookshelf too hard and with a dreadful creaking, the shelf came loose from its fastenings and crashed down, spilling books all over the floor. Another slammed into the complicated series of glass tubes that Twilight had been using to titrate a complex potion, and the beakers and flasks shattered as they hit the floor. A bunsen burner lit one of the books on fire and Twilight had to frantically dash over to blast it with a water spell, further spraying liquid across the floor.

“Stop!” she cried out desperately. “Hold still!” Her vision was suddenly taken up by a red-haired pony floating right in front of her, and she let out a sigh of relief. “There, now, let’s just—”

“Twitwi!” the little Dash chirped. “I love you I love you I love you!” And then the mini-pegasus attempted to hug the entirety of Twilight’s face, causing her to stumble back in alarm and almost trip over a soggy spellbook.

“Twilight, is something wrong?” Spike’s voice called out, as she heard the door open. “I heard— Whoa!”

With a high-pitched roaring, several colored blurs shot past him and out into the castle.

“Noooo,” Twilight moaned, trying to extract the overly-affectionate pony from her muzzle. She had a surprisingly strong grip for somepony so small.

Spike looked around the experiment area, still smoking slightly, scattered books and broken glass spread all across the floor. “And I was hoping we’d have a normal Tuesday for once.” He sighed. “I’ll get the broom.”

Author's Note

This is the first chapter from a TwiDash story that I was considering writing. It would have involved Rainbow Dash split up into six miniature versions, each representing one emotion/approach in resolving her feelings towards Twilight. And as Twilight tries to round all of them up, she slowly figures this out.

Then someone else wrote that exact story but with it being AppleDash instead (ew), and I abandoned it. (Perhaps more relevant, I couldn't quite nail down what I was going to -do- with certain Dashes. Other than the green one representing envy and repeatedly dive-bombing a very confused Flash Sentry patrolling the friendship castle)

Verdict

“...and while the evidence towards motive is circumstantial, you must agree the crime was not committed in the heat of passion. No, a grudge brought the defendant to our town. Her actions were purposeful, with malice aforethought. It is for this reason that I insist that the harshest punishments must be applied. In fact, precedent in Equestria v. Tirek indicates that in cases of treason and high crimes against—”

“O-objection,” a voice squeaked.

Twilight whirled to stare daggers at the yellow pegasus. Fluttershy sunk lower in her chair.

“Sustained,” the judge said. “Miss Sparkle, you will cease speculation on sentencing.”

“Yes, your honor.” She rested her hoof on the table, waiting for it to cease shaking.

“Over the past two weeks, we have presented extensive evidence, supported by expert testimony confirming the validity of our forensics. You have heard from multiple witnesses to establish the actions of the accused that day. Yet, despite the heinous nature of the crime, I would like to ask that the jury lay aside emotion, leave behind naturally inflamed passions, and deliberate solely on the grounds of logic. There is no room for revenge today. We simply want justice to be served.”

Twilight let the words hang in the silence of the courtroom for one long moment. Her eyes cut across, to the mare sitting next to Fluttershy. The defendant. Trixie.

Noticing the attention, Trixie’s lips curled in a sneer, but sweat beaded her coat. For once in the trial, a sliver of doubt cracked that facade of arrogance.

Twilight was so busy staring at Trixie that she barely noticed as Fluttershy stood and murmured something too rushed together to understand.

“Miss Fluttershy, please speak up,” the judge cut in, and Fluttershy screwed her eyes shut, shivering.

Her mouth opened and closed without making a sound. She finally worked up the courage to say, “The defense rests.”

Fluttershy was almost seated again when the judge’s gavel banged down and she jolted back upright, face aflame. As they all rose, Trixie glared, not at the judge or Twilight, but at the jury box, where a row of ponies watched impassionately.

“Very well,” the judge intoned. “The case is now submitted to the jury for deliberation. You will have as much time as necessary to come to a decision on the charges brought against the defendant, Trixie Lulamoon. You will consider only the testimony presented in this courtroom, and any communication or influence from outside parties is strictly prohibited.”

Twilight watched as the jury filed out of the room. One member caught her eye, and the corners of her mouth twitched up, ever so slightly, as Rainbow Dash’s head tilted in an equally circumspect nod.

It was something that Twilight had wrestled often over recent long nights. Was it worth compromising her integrity to make sure justice won out? She was all too familiar with the flaws of the judicial system, how innocent ponies found themselves punished yet guilty ponies walked free only to commit the same crimes again. She could easily justify each compromise to herself. Only a pony as kind as Fluttershy would have even taken Trixie’s case. It wasn’t a deliberate sabotage of the defense to guide that into happening. And Rainbow Dash? She had just as much right as any citizen to be on the jury. But still...

The jury filed back in even as she still wrestled with the doubts weighing on her mind. Her heart pounded. Surely, for a result to come that fast had to have meant it was a simple decision. As expected.

Rainbow Dash rose, facing the judge. “Your honor, the jury has reached a unanimous decision. We find the defendant, Trixie Lulamoon…” She stared straight ahead, not looking in Twilight’s direction. “Not guilty.”

Twilight didn’t hear the gasps and rumbling from the audience. She didn’t hear the jubilant braggadocio from Trixie or the murmured congratulations from Fluttershy. She sank down into her seat, her head resting on the table in front of her, unable to process anything in the shock of the moment.

That was where Rainbow Dash found her, long after everyone else had left the courtroom.

Twilight wouldn’t look at her. “Why?” she whispered. “I did everything right. I— I had the truth on my side. Is this punishment? For doubting that justice would run its true course?”

Rainbow Dash paused for a long moment, weighing her words carefully.

“Twilight,” she said, “I don’t think she lost the library book on purpose.”

Author's Note

5th Place in the January Writeoff, "All In".

No real changes made. It is exactly what it is!

Fantasy Hoofball

The rain coming down on the field was a steady drizzle, not any kind of real downpour but just enough of a constant cold presence to seep through a pony’s coat, to dampen the wings of the pegasi and keep them off balance, to turn the once-pristine grass into a swampy mess of mud churned up by oversized hooves.

The weather pegasi had really outdone themselves in making the day as miserable as possible. It was perfect for the Equestrian Hoofball Championship.

Tight Spiral sat on a bench at the fifty yard line, his helmet clutched in his hooves as he ground his teeth. The Stalliongrad Stompers were up by three and were moving the ball down the field, their earth pony back pounding it into the line over and over again. They weren’t getting far. The D line was holding their own against the onslaught, but it was bleeding time off the clock and this deep in the fourth quarter they didn’t have much to spare.

All Spiral could think about was that if he had been more effective earlier on, hit a few more passes, moved a little more under pressure, maybe he wouldn’t be stuck watching the championship slowly slide out of reach of his Fillydelphia Flash. But the Stompers had his number all game. Heck, they had been dominant all year. It was a classic matchup, one of what would probably go down as a historically great offense in the Flash versus what was definitely a historically great defense in the Stompers. And, as they say, defense wins championships.

Then, a miracle happened. After two more runs with little progress, the Stompers tried something new. Their quarterback ducked back, taking advantage of the expectation of more of the same to try a quick slant to pick up the first down. Just as he threw, a flash of lightning and thunder rattled in the clouds above and he put a little more into the ball than he wanted. Their receiver beat his wings mightily to try and make up the extra distance but it missed his hooves by a sliver.

...And fell right into the waiting embrace of Quick Pick, who had kept his eyes on the quarterback and read the play perfectly.

Spiral was up on his hooves yelling at the top of his lungs as Pick came trotting in, shedding his helmet. Pick flicked back his mane, one hoof thudding against Spiral’s with enough force that it would have bowled over a smaller pony. “I did my job,” he growled out. “It’s on you now. You gotta end it.”

Tight Spiral looked up to the scoreboard, to see only a hoofful of seconds remaining. “That’s what I’m gonna do.”

He jammed his helmet on, hooves pounding against the wet earth as he made his way to the huddle. His offense were waiting for him, their eyes sharp and expressions deadly serious. “We got one shot at this, boys and girls. You ready?”

“Yeah!” they shouted back.

“Then listen up. We’re tearing up the normal playbook. We don’t have the luxury of carving up these sons of mules piece by piece so we’re gonna do it fast. The knockout blow. And the one that’s gonna give it is… her.” His hoof shot out at the smallest pony in their huddle, their rookie receiver who had mostly served as a diversion all game.

“Y-you sure?” she said.

“Yeah. The secret weapon. Just like we’ve been working on in practice. You think you can do it?”

The rookie had the attention of everypony in the huddle, ten sets of eyes boring holes into her. She took a deep breath. “With all due respect… Hell yeah, I can do it.”

Spiral grinned, throwing his hoof forward. “Then let’s do this.” The rest of the team all put one hoof in and they let out a yell that shook the ground more than any thunder or lightning had all day.

When they trotted up to the line, Stalliongrad was waiting. The ponies facing them might as well have been carved from the rock of a mountain. But Spiral knew from experience that they came on like a landslide. He could only hope his offensive line could withstand them for long enough.

“Hike!”

And then the ball was in his hooves. He trotted backwards, swaying upright on his back hooves in a motion that had taken a decade of practice. The ball felt slick against in his grasp, and his horn lit to steady it against his hoof.

He didn’t know whether he was lucky or not that Stalliongrad had chosen not to blitz. They didn’t want to give him an easy throw, and had his receivers all locked up tight. But he waited, a calm fatalism settling over him like the chilling rain.

His offensive line held on with an otherworldly tenacity against the larger and stronger Stomper tackles, and Spiral began to count the seconds, just as he caught a flash of pink mane jitter around a defender thirty yards down the field. Tight Spiral’s eyes slid shut. He had made this throw a thousand times on the practice field and all the weather, the pressure of the situation, the shouting and noise of the field melted away. His hoof drew back and then shot forward again, as he gave one final bit of zip on the ball with his horn.

His eyes cracked open, watching the trail of the ball as it arced into the low-hanging clouds. Off to the side, the timer on the scoreboard ticked over to zero. A timeless moment later the ball appeared again, falling from the sky like a meteor dead center of the endzone, right into the waiting hooves of Hail Mary, their rookie, the fastest receiver in the western conference.

Spiral let out a breath as his fellow players began whooping and roaring. They swarmed downfield to lift Mary on their shoulders. She would be the heroine of the hour, and Spiral was fine with that.

Instead, he turned to the stands, and his smile flitted away. Once upon a time not too long ago, this whole stadium would have been packed with mobs of ponies, split between those cheering uproariously and those mourning a crushing loss. But all would have admitted it was a game for the ages. Instead, today, three dozen fans at best sat scattered across the length and breadth of the huge metal risers.

Quick Pick trotted over from the sidelines. “Didn’t doubt ya for a second. You still got a cannon for a foreleg, don’tcha?”

“Mmm.”

Pick followed his gaze. “Thinking about times past?”

“Thinking about how I read in the papers recently that there’s more hoofball fans than ever before.” His eyes drifted to the billboards rising up at the top of the stadium, emblazoned with ads for Fantasy Hoofball. “You’d never guess from the looks of things at a real game.”

“Time keeps on moving. Look on the bright side,” Pick nodded towards the stands. “There’s one fan of yours still out there.”

Sure enough, there was one elderly mare going crazy over in the stands, chanting, “Spiral! Spiral! Spiral!” and screaming at the top of her lungs. All eight of a group painted in Stalliongrad colors were shooting dirty looks at her racket.

Tight Spiral grimaced. “Yeah. That’s certainly reassuring. At least my mother still comes to the games.”

Lyra rang the bell again. She shifted, mentally gauging the weight of her saddlebag as she tried to remember if she had forgotten anything. Comprehensive statistics from last season? Check. Detailed player profiles? Check. Annotated mock draft results? Check. Snacks?

Lyra winced. The snacks. She was supposed to bring chips and salsa and she had forgotten. On the bright side it wasn’t anything important.

Lyra considered whether it was still worth going back home to pick everything up, but then ruled against it. What if something terrible happened, like if she was kidnapped by changelings, or if she fell in a hole and broke her leg, or if her house caught on fire and she had to heroically save Bon Bon and ended up missing the first round of the draft?

No, better to play it safe. Lyra gave up on the bell and knocked one hoof against the door.

Minuette opened it a moment later, a strained smile on her face. “You’re early.”

“Right,” Lyra said.

“No, I mean, I clearly said that we’d start at 6:30PM and it’s currently 6:27. Please stop it.”

Lyra groaned. “It’s close enough. Besides, I can see another pony in there.”

“That’s Time Turner. He’s helping me set up and doesn’t count.”

“I still think we should have ditched him after last season.” Lyra frowned. “We talked about this.”

“Well…” Minuette shuffled her hooves. “I can’t just tell him he’s kicked out, you know?”

“I can,” Lyra said firmly. “Last season he spent the whole time whining and snidely talking about how Equestrian hoofball isn’t really hoofball and in Trottingham blah blah blah.”

“He’s family.”

“I wouldn’t claim him,” Lyra groused. “But fine. If he’s helping I can too.”

“Eating all the nachos before everypony else arrives isn’t helping.”

“It’s helping me.”

“Hey you two!” a voice called out. Berry Punch trotted across the front lawn, her saddlebags just as stuffed as Lyra’s were, but with a decidedly more clinky, bottley cargo.

“Minuette won’t let us in,” Lyra said.

“I will now,” Minuette said primly. “Because now it’s six-thirty.”

Lyra rolled her eyes, and trotted in. She made a beeline for the living room, in order to claim prime sofa real estate. It took her several minutes to unpack her bags, making a neat stack of papers on the coffee table of her draft notes, though taking care to reserve room for the delectable potential of future nachos.

By the time she was done, several of the others had drifted in. Magnum showed up first, his booming laugh making his presence known long before he ambled in from the kitchen. Lyra had always liked him. Underneath the fatherly exterior and silly straw hat, he was a whiz at hoofball fundamentals, having played out a short stint at quarterback himself before a back injury had sidelined him.

Caramel arrived next, nervously slinking in to hover around one corner of the room. Lyra took one look at him and wrote him off. He was the newbie in their league, and Lyra doubted he knew much of anything about the game.

Then came Pinkie Pie, more or less suddenly materializing in a fit of giggles from behind an easy chair. None of them even really knew how she had found out about the league. She had simply shown up at their first draft, explaining that given the presence of at least three balloons and more than four ponies it constituted a party and she had to be there. She had proven to be completely uninterested in the rules of hoofball and totally unconventional in her roster management, but infuriatingly successful despite everything else.

That left one more…

“Thunderlane,” Lyra spat out.

“Lyra,” he said, grinning a stupid grin with his stupid face. “A pleasure as always. Ready for another crushing defeat?”

He still hadn’t let up about beating her in the championship match last season. But this time things were going to be different. Lyra forced down the rising bile and gave him her sweetest smile. “Oh, I don’t know. We’ll just have to see how things go.”

Thunderlane trotted over to a seat where he could keep an eye on Lyra. “We shall.”

Thankfully, Minuette and Time Turner eased the tension by bringing in a few plates piled high with nachos and okra poppers and fried zucchini zingers and several other unhealthy things that Lyra couldn’t name but could most certainly eat.

That was the good thing about Minuette. Dependability. She had even assumed that Lyra would forget the chips and salsa and had pre-bought some herself, which was a little insulting but admittedly justified. And Minuette could be eminently trusted to pay all the league fees on time to the proper authorities, which was important because Lyra didn’t think she could live without fantasy hoofball, and most of the other leagues in town wouldn’t let her join out of fear that she would crush them underneath the weight of her brilliant and glorious knowledge.

At least that’s what she assumed, anyways. The last league to blacklist her hadn’t been very specific, other than some nonsense about Lyra not paying enough bits which was silly because she was clearly going to win the season and thus not need to. It was just saving everypony time and effort to have everyone else cover her dues from the beginning.

Of course in this league, even Lyra had to admit that winning wasn’t a certainty, and had grudgingly parted ways with the surprisingly steep entry fee in order to placate Minuette.

Minuette, who was presently clearing her throat in order to catch Lyra’s attention. Lyra shook her head, sitting up straight and relinquishing her grip on a nacho plate.

“Draft order has been randomly determined,” Minuette said. She pulled a sheet off of the posterboard set up in a place of honor in the living room. Lyra felt her stomach drop as she saw her name at the very top. “As always, it’s a snake draft, no trading of picks, and any pick challenged by another player must be ratified by a simple majority of the league.”

Lyra’s mind raced. She hadn’t expected the first pick. That was a lot of sudden pressure – and it meant she wouldn’t pick again until sixteenth, so if she didn’t get value out of the first round, she would be really sunk.

“Having problems deciding, Lyra?” Thunderlane smirked. She glanced up to see that his name was second, right next to hers. “Would you like some advice from someone who knows how to win?”

“Sure,” Lyra said, as she frantically flipped through her stack of papers. “But I think Magnum usually keeps things close to his chest.”

That got a booming guffaw out of Magnum, and an annoyed glare out of Thunderlane.

“We’re all here. Are you ready to start, Lyra?” Minuette asked.

Lyra took a deep breath and let her notes drop. “Yes. I take Princess Celestia for the position of quarterback.”

That raised some eyebrows around the room. Not that going for a quarterback early was surprising – they really formed the core of your team – or that Celestia was that much of a reach. She would be gone in the first round, definitely by pick sixteen. But commonly accepted knowledge was that alicorns were underperforming at the position.

Commonly accepted knowledge was wrong, though. Lyra had the statistics to prove it.

“I’ll take Princess Twilight Sparkle for the position of quarterback,” Thunderlane said. He nodded at Lyra and she frowned. He must have seen the research too, or else was just following after her. It had taken Lyra a lot of waffling to come down on Celestia over Twilight. It was an age and wisdom over pure talent kind of thing, and Lyra had eventually landed on superior strategy as better than raw potential.

Berry Punch must have figured that she got a steal at claiming Tirek with the third pick. At least she popped open a bottle of wine in celebration, but Tirek was seriously overvalued and Berry celebrated everything that way.

Caramel followed up by taking somepony named Tight Spiral. Lyra had to desperately search her player profiles, worried that she had overlooked some key prospect. She finally came across his name in the list of a scouting report on the Equestrian Hoofball League – Lyra had penciled him in as a potential very-late round backup – and breathed a sigh of relief. She glanced over to Minuette and they shared a look. Caramel really was new to this whole thing.

The rest of the round went more as expected, except for the never-expected Pinkie who took Discord… as a tight end. It wasn’t a bad position for him, given his general flexibility, but most good analysts projected him as a top QB, and Lyra didn’t know who Pinkie was going to claim for her real quarterback. Well, it wasn’t Lyra’s problem at least.

Magnum took a more obscure Qirin queen on the turnaround, and then immediately moved into claiming King Sombra at running back. It was a pretty smart call, as the sneaky royal made up for his smaller size with some pass-catching finesse and an uncanny ability to find holes. Lyra had him pretty highly ranked herself, given the dearth of strong options at RB.

The second round was much more scattered. The first Element went to Minuette at pick 12, taking Rainbow Dash as an obvious choice for wide receiver. Even with only average ball skills her speed kept her as a deadly threat. Applejack followed to Berry Punch at 14, but taking a linebacker that early was foolish, even given the mare’s pass rush.

Unfortunately, Thunderlane scooped Lyra with pick fifteen, stealing Soarin’ only inches from her hooves. Lyra grimaced. He was by far the most athletic Wonderbolt candidate for wide receiver, and she had been counting on being able to take him at the bottom of the second round.

“Spitfire at wide receiver,” Lyra said through gritted teeth.

She didn’t like having to double down on smarts and strategy versus physical talent, but she didn’t have much choice. Celestia and Spitfire would make for a strong QB-WR1 duo, able to gameplan for any eventuality and easily adjust on the fly.

At least on offense. If she really was going to seal the deal on a hyper-tactical team she needed a leader for her defense. She needed a pony who could read the entire opposing offense at a glance, with enough knowledge of the game and innate instinct to dynamically make a difference in constantly adjusting to be in the right place at the right time, all in the fraction of a second that modern hoofball required. Which meant a big reach, just because it was too much of a risk to wait all the way until the bottom of the fourth round.

“And for my next pick,” Lyra said. “I take Rarity, at safety.”

That got some murmuring out of the rest, but Magnum ran one hoof across his moustache, nodding slightly in her direction. Caramel barked out a laugh. “Wait. You’re not serious, are you?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Rarity the dressmaker? Has the fancy carousel shop thing in town? You want her to play hoofball?”

Now a few other ponies around the room were smiling too, but the sharklike grins were more in Caramel’s direction. Lyra stayed quiet. He’d figure things out soon enough on his own.

Most of the big names went fast after that point. The Wonderbolts were quickly stripped of all their marquee stars. Pinkie picked herself, and then picked a copy of herself as cloned by whichever magical gizmo had done it a couple of years ago, which only barely passed a challenge vote. And then only with the caveat that her team could field a maximum of two pink earth ponies. Everypony agreed that the thought of facing a team of Discord and ten rampaging Pinkies was far too dangerous to be allowed.

Shining Armor went to Magnum, a key tactical leader who could contribute on both sides of the ball. Berry Punch snapped up Iron Will at RB, disappointing Lyra who had really hoped he would fall to her. It particularly chafed having Thunderlane right before her, as he clearly relished the thought of stealing her picks away. Lyra noticed that he kept staring in her direction and got a devious idea. As he was pondering his pick at thirty-one, she neatly stacked her player profiles, leaving one on the top as she nonchalantly reached over to grab some nachos.

Thunderlane craned his head slightly, thinking she couldn’t see. “I’ll take Daring Do, at wide receiver,” he proclaimed, voice dripping with satisfaction.

“Oh dear,” Lyra said. “That’s unfortunate.”

“Sorry Lyra,” he said. “You win some, you lose some. Or rather, I win some, and you lose some.”

“Hm? I wasn’t talking about my next pick. I mean it’s quite unfortunate for you. I suppose you didn’t read the press release from A.K. Yearling that the next Daring Do book is delayed, due to Daring having broken her wing in the Temple of the Titanic Tapir. Oh, but I will be taking Ahuizotl as my next pick, at tight end please. And for thirty-three I’ll take Gisele the Griffon, who had an excellent showing at the recent Equestrian Games relay.”

She could practically see the steam rising off Thunderlane’s face as several of the other players joined in to rib him about his pick.

“I do think it’s your pick again!” Lyra happily chirped.

They went from there to some of the more obscure Equestrian athletes, and then into even stranger pastures. After round five or six things always did tend to get a bit more eclectic. Magnum took a hydra for his defense, and Minuette grabbed a phoenix to complement Dash at WR – she would have one heck of a speedster one-two punch there. Caramel even made either a particularly lucky or clever move in grabbing a manticore for defensive tackle. A few of the more notable dragons went off the board, and Lyra filled in with a herd of buffalo for her offensive line and a pair of changelings at cornerback – she normally preferred the speed and power of a timberwolf there, but given her strategy so far she decided to stick with a team that could communicate well and play smart.

Pinkie kept up the weird choices, finding some brilliance in between the insanity – one of her offensive linesponies was apparently her sister’s pet rock, and for a cornerback she took ‘that eagle from the one time with the river that was like swoooop and awwwwk! you know?’ which no, Lyra did not know. But she claimed Starswirl the Bearded at QB in round seven, which led to a heated argument around legality. It was eventually allowed, followed by an immediate run on historical figures. Lyra passed up the opportunity to grab Commander Hurricane, instead choosing to take a chimera as her running back. Her research hadn’t covered history and there was just too much of an unknown factor in play. Plus, Thunderlane had preemptively grabbed a windigo for his defense. Though Lyra hoped she wouldn’t regret the decision.

Caramel, apparently emboldened by Pinkie’s unorthodox picks, made a claim for a-parasprite-and-five-barrels-of-apples as his defensive line. It narrowly passed as well, but Time Turner turned around and took Fluttershy-the-one-time-she-was-a-vampire. At that point they were off to the races.

As everyone more or less solidified their starting lineups, that meant getting backups, where it usually paid to take a risk on something strange. And where the challenges and voting on legality began to get heated. Fantasy hoofball was in its way a game of politics, with a lot of unspoken quid-pro-quo going on as people tried to simultaneously downplay their egregious attempts to shatter balance while preventing anyone else from eking out more than marginal victories. Pinkie always voted yes on everything. Thunderlane and Time Turner almost always voted no. But the rest took some finessing.

Often that meant starting big and working your way down. There was no way anypony would agree on letting Magnum take an ursa major and he knew that – the dang thing wouldn’t fit on the field. But after the argument, his claim of an ursa minor went by without so much as a comment. Similarly, Time Turner made a case for a whole swarm of quarray eels but only wound up with one.

It was somewhere around round fifteen when things started to trail off into an exhausted, contemplative peculiarity. After passing Minuette’s request for ‘like two hundred breezies’ and firmly denying Caramel’s pick of ‘the cutie mark crusaders, at the position of they have to play for the opposing team’, Berry Punch looked forlornly at an empty bottle and claimed ‘that feeling of existential despair when you realize you’re out of red wine and will have to make do with white for the rest of the night’.

They just let her have that one.

Lyra could feel the moment come for her most harebrained idea of all. She took a deep breath. “I’d like to take Principal Celestia for quarterback.”

Minuette looked up from where she was sprawled out on the floor under the draft board. “You already got Celestia, remember? First round.”

“No, Principal Celestia. See, Twilight was telling me about this mirror world where there are these creatures called…”

Half the room groaned in unison, drowning her out. “Whatever,” Minuette muttered. “Next is… is. We’re done?”

Sure enough, the board was full up. Lyra glanced over her team, putting it together in her head. Not bad. Not bad at all. Of course, the real test was yet to come. She carefully went through her notes, collating the player profiles into the league’s teams, noting the potential strengths and weaknesses of each team, who she would be best able to target for future trades a few weeks in the season, who she would want in return considering the fit for her own team. She was halfway through sketching out a comprehensive plan in case of injuries to each of her most important players when she realized Minuette was shouting loudly in her ear.

“Lyra!” Minuette shouted again.

Lyra blinked. Everyone else had gone home. “Sorry, I kinda zoned out there, huh?”

“You could say that. Berry braided your mane while you were busy writing… whatever it is you were writing.”

Lyra flipped her head to the side. Huh. She had.

“Need any help cleaning up?”

“You mean, do I need anyone rooting through my fridge for leftovers to take home?”

Lyra’s stomach grumbled. “Maybe.”

Minuette sighed. “No. Magnum, Berry, and Caramel just left though. I think they’re headed to The Salt Lick for drinks. You could probably catch them if you hurry.”

Lyra got to her hooves, packing away her papers back into her saddlebags. “No thanks. Where’d Time Turner get off to?”

“Decided to turn in early.”

Lyra nodded. “Good. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a game to get to.”

“The season doesn’t kick off until next week,” Minuette said. “Sometimes I think you’re a little too into this. Unless… Lyra, did you pay extra for a preseason game?”

“Of course not!” Lyra said. “I made a wager, in which the loser will have to pay extra for a preseason game.”

“With who?” Minuette blinked. “Oh Celestia, with Turner, didn’t you?”

“What? He’s doing perfectly fine with his fancy-shmancy clock shop. He can afford chipping in towards a good cause.”

“Lyra!”

“Now if you’ll excuse me,” Lyra said, grinning. “I need to go home and go straight to bed. I have a game to get to!”

Princess Celestia flipped through the letters at her desk. She had lowered the sun about an hour ago, but as is always the case, Princesses rarely have the time and luxury to sleep. She flipped through her mail by candlelight, glancing across the addresses for anything that needed to be immediately dealt with.

One caught her eye, and she paused out of curiosity more than anything else. “Equestrian Hoofball League Player’s Union,” she read out loud. “Tight Spiral, Representative.”

Her horn lit up and a several pages slipped out of the envelope, followed by a crumpled set of thicker sheets signed front and back with names. The hoofwriting on the letter was careful and professional. She had to skip to the third paragraph to get past all the formal introduction business and down to the point of the letter and, apparently, petition.

“Dramatic decrease in interest in game,” she muttered. “Crisis for livelihood of athletes… Severe depression resulting from cutie-mark-driven dysphoria. Oh my.” She flipped to the second page, frowning slightly as she scanned through the letter. The next few sheets were submitted as evidence, some kind of official forms for league registration for Hoofball Fantasy Fantasy Hoofball Corporation Inc.

Celestia stopped, her brow creasing as she glanced at a sample team and noticed the names it listed. “Wait. How would they even play this... game?”

Then she took another look at the corporate logo on the entry form and let out a very audible groan. Celestia stood up and stretched, her back popping, before making her way out of her chambers and down the long hallway to the chambers at the other end of the palace.

She pushed the door open. “I think we need to have a talk,” Celestia said sternly.

Luna looked up from the pile of bits she was curled up on, almost bumping her head on the ceiling. Even her shifting sent a mini-avalanche of coins skittering down the pile. “Sister!” Luna said, voice booming. “Why didst thou not tell us sooner of the wonders of this thing you call ‘capitalism’?”

Author's Note

Bonus:

Principal Celestia blinked, suddenly unsure of where she was. She looked down to see grass beneath her feet. That didn't seem right. What had she been doing...?

The though flew out of her mind when she glanced to the side to see a strange yellow creature wearing a helmet and sunglasses. It nodded at her sternly, and Celestia turned to look forward, only to see a giant wall of brown. She reached one shaky hand up to touch it, feeling warmth under coarse hair. "What...?" she said.

"Hut!" the buffalo in front of her replied, and Celestia nearly fell back as a football hit her in the chest. She looked down at it, bewildered, only to look up and see the row of buffalo being knocked back like ragdolls as a giant three-headed dog burst through their ranks. Celestia screamed and took off running in the opposite direction.

"No," Lyra yelled from the stands. "Use your hands, use your hands! Can't you shoot lasers or something?!" She glowered as Cerberus chased Principal Celestia around the back half of the field, most of the rest of the players having stopped to watch. Cerberus finally pinned her, licking her face with a friendly set of tongues, and Celestia's screaming abruptly halted as she apparently lost consciousness.

"Well," Lyra said. "That was a bust."

I Don't Think You're Ready for This...

A lot of poets wax romantic about love at first sight, but I had never even thought twice about the concept before I caught sight of her at the Grand Galloping Gala. I understood then. A moment of pure awe hit me, causing my jaw to go slack and my chest seem as if it would burst under the tumultuous feeling swelling within.

I had been in the middle of a conversation with Fancy Pants, talking about the minutiae of his new investments in some berry orchards down south, and the vision of loveliness that had crossed my gaze and captured my heart left me speechless and staring. Fancy, model of the modern gentlestallion that he was, simply smiled when he saw where my gaze was directed, and ambled off to get another drink. I was left alone with the hammering of my heart.

It wasn’t the fashionable apparel or even those tantalizing green curves that had struck me so severely, I think. It was an aura of perfect presence. A projection of complete contentment and the harmony of living wholly in the present. Able to accept life no matter what may come, willing to enjoy every last bit of being alive – but not ostentatiously, no. Not Pinkie Pie exuberance, but a calm, restrained happiness that lifted my spirits just to watch. She was beautiful, body and soul.

She was currently preoccupied with Fluttershy, and I could only watch her for so long, lest by staring into the sun I risked burning out my eyes. I retreated to a table piled with canapés, sneaking the odd glance as I tried to determine the best way to introduce myself. I would need an opportune moment, and I began to work up my courage.

Of course, I am sure you are aware of how the rest of that night unfolded.

By the end of the whole matter, it really felt far too gauche to simply stroll up and introduce myself. I did not think she was in the mood to much appreciate my presence. First impressions are paramount, as my father was fond of saying. It would be a tragedy for our first encounter to be awkward, or for her to believe I was not taking her seriously or worse, pitying her.

So the next day, after a long and restless night of thinking about my options, I paid an old friend a visit.

Discord is certainly not who many people would ever desire as a friend, but we have always gotten along well. We actually met after his first escape from stone, when he visited Ponyville to turn it upside down in a flurry of chaos. It is somewhat embarrassing to admit, but as he teleported here and there, looking for townsponies to torment, he actually caught me, well… in flagrante delicious, as it were. I expected the worst, but he was evidently amused by the entire situation, giving me nothing more than a hearty hoofshake and a tip of a hat before being on his way.

Once he had been more officially reformed by Fluttershy, we bumped into one another again on the streets of Ponyville. He recalled our previous meeting and invited me to his weekly poker night, along with Pinkie Pie and a blue-coated mare who seems to think she’s a dog. Of course, I found that poker night usually referred to either swordfights using fireplace pokers, and/or planning for the construction of an elaborate device to prod Twilight Sparkle in the back of the head whenever she’s studying, but between my time in my college’s fencing club and a general idea of how physics actually work, I think I’ve made quite a contribution. And sometimes we play cards, too.

Regardless, the point is I knew Discord well enough to ask a rather delicate favor. So after I had taken the familiar trek out to his house – second right after the bottomless pit, then left at the bog of eternal stench, watch for the occasional grappleglorp, etc. – I stood there at his door, shuffling my hooves. Despite my normal confidence and aplomb, even the idea of her truly made me feel like a nervous colt with a schoolyard crush once again.

Finally I made my decision, unable to stall any more. Discord opened the door, and I courteously knocked on it.

“Why, my friend!” he said, grinning widely. “What a pleasant surprise to see you here. Oh, do tell me there’s some horrific emergency that you need my help with.”

“Not exactly,” I said.

An eyebrow arched. “Then perhaps the problem is that Ponyville is too boring? Don’t worry, I’m certain I can whip up a suitably stupendous catastrophe. I am always happy to assist.”

I shook my head gravely. “I’m afraid this matter is personal. I… I was wondering if you could introduce me to a friend of yours.”

The ever-present mirth drained from Discord’s face. “Fluttershy?” he said, in an entirely casual manner that nonetheless sent chills down my spine.

“No, no.” I waved a hoof. “I already know her. I mean…”

“Oh?” He blinked. “Oh. Ohhh.” His eyes lit up, literally, as two bulbs of light replaced his pupils.

I rubbed one hoof against the other leg. “I mean, if… if you think she’d be fine with that. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just being silly. Maybe—”

Discord stretched one big paw out to wrap around my shoulders, and then snapped the fingers of his other hand. In an instant, we were somewhere else entirely. I glanced around, head spinning slightly, to find that it was a hallway in an modern-looking apartment building. Out the window I could see a skyline – Manehattan?

It certainly wasn’t where I was expecting her to live.

“Are you sure this is right?” I whispered. Discord was already knocking on the door. I hastily raised one hoof to slick my mane back. “Wait,” I said. “Do I look okay? Should I have gotten flowers?”

The door creaked open, cutting off my thoughts. There she was.

She was even more beautiful without the top hat and bowtie.

I gasped out a breath.

“Oh, Smooze,” Discord said. “I do hope we’re not bothering you. There’s a pony who is simply dying to make your acquaintance. I’m delighted to introduce you to my good friend, Hugh Jelly.”

Author's Note

Smoozilicious.

Cinderarity

Once upon a time, far away in the kingdom of Surrey-on-the-Shore, there lived a unicorn named Cinderarity who had the very worst possible life.

Oh, sure, her parents were both still very much alive, and they loved her quite a lot. This was probably the start of her problems. Her father was a haberdasher. Or at least, that’s what Cinderarity said, when pressed. Truth be told, he weaved straw hats for the tourists at a gaudy little tiki hut down by the beach, next to where Cinderarity’s mother sold tacky desk lamps with shells glued onto the shades. To add insult to lesser-but-still-grievous insult, they did quite well at their respective trades.

Enough to ensconce Cinderarity firmly in middle-class life. Right where she couldn’t quite arrange to move in the high-society circles she dreamed of, but yet also couldn’t work up a proper agony about being destitute and worthy of so much more. She had never heard of a princess coming from a nice split-level across the street from the park on Elm Avenue. And her parents were far too nice and supportive to be evil ponies who had stolen her away as a babe from her true father and mother of some distant royal line. They kept buying her things, like the sewing equipment she spent most of her time on.

And even her sister never managed to properly oppress her, unless you count the one time when Cindersweetie was eight and blamed Cinderarity for breaking their mother’s favorite mauve ceramic elephant teapot. Which, had she realized the punishment would be so light, she would have done anyways. No, her sister spent most of her time following Cinderarity around trying to help out, which was more adorable that properly tormentful, even if her suggestions for fashion designs combining orange and purple came pretty close.

All in all, it was a very poor start for a prospective princess, she was quite sure. Cinderarity would know. She had read all the literature, several times over.

Still, Cinderarity was a mare with a plan. For all of her life, she had dreamed of one thing, one chance to break out of her woefully intolerable life and into high society, into being a proper Princess. You see, every year in Surrey-on-the-Shore, the castle held a Grand Ball, one where eligible bachelor princes and kings from countries near and far all gathered together, to spend one night dancing and talking in the glittering ballroom, looking for a special connection. Seeking love.

And this year would finally be Cinderarity’s year. She had made all the arrangements. She had saved up all of her money, pouring it into making the perfect dress for the occasion, one to bedazzle the eyes of any suitable suitor. She had pulled all the strings she had access to, leveraging years of favors and straining all her connections in order to secure a ticket to the Ball. She had everything ready.

Until the day of the Ball, when disaster struck.

The problem really started that afternoon, when her sister in a stroke of well-meaning but profoundly misguided inspiration decided that Cinderarity deserved a tasteful saddlebag to go along with her dress. She knew how important it was for everything to be just right, how picky – or as Cinderarity termed it, discerning – her sister could be, and thus decided that she would simply bring the dress with her to the market, the better to make sure the colors would properly match.

Cinderarity had to piece all of this together after the fact. When she arrived home later that evening, she was met by her sister bawling her eyes out and rambling far too fast to understand about some bizarre sequence of events including fireworks, an enraged flock of geese, and copious quantities of tree sap. And what it all meant didn’t really hit her until she saw her father trying to extract her dress from the chimney.

It came out coal-black, covered in thick soot and thoroughly ruined. Even her sister’s tearful protestations that she looked good in black did not assuage Cinderarity’s cold fury. She did not speak a word as she dragged the dress upstairs to her room, leaving a black trail the whole way.

It was only a moment later that the family heard an earsplitting shriek. Cinderarity appeared downstairs in a flash, demanding to know what had happened to her room. Her mother worriedly explained that she had tidied up, transmuting the room from its normal seemingly tornado-struck state into something much more clean and reasonable.

It took Cinderarity several minutes to calm down enough to express that her mother had also thrown away her ticket to the Ball.

She was just gearing up to expound upon that injustice at length, when a knock sounded at the front door. Her father beamed, announcing that at least one thing had worked out today. He proudly walked to throw the door open wide, allowing in a scrawny stallion.

He had heard that Cinderarity was going to the Ball without an escort, and couldn’t bear to see his daughter unhappy like that, so he had pulled strings to get her a date with the son of the owner of the fried banana stand three tiki huts down. And even if the Ball was an impossibility, they could still have a nice night out.

Cinderarity was quite certain that her scream could be heard all the way at the castle itself.

Cinderarity slammed the door to her room shut. She stalked over to the single bookshelf in her room, packed full of thick volumes with spines adorned with tiaras and crowns and the occasional dragon. She reached for the thickest one, pulling it free with her magic and setting it down on the floor of her now surprisingly-empty room.

Sitting down to read, she flipped through to one bookmarked and thoroughly annotated passage in the middle. She read and read, until a tantalizing idea began to take shape.

Cinderarity was not a mare that gave up easily.

Most princesses simply sat around, waiting for things to happen. Not Cinderarity. She had always thought that fate helped those who helped themselves. She had been the type of filly who at a young age learned to be surprisingly good at trapping frogs from the nearby pond, even if none of them had ever yielded a proper prince.

So even though her idea was farfetched, and not particularly likely to work, it was something. She was going to try.

Cinderarity trotted downstairs, studiously ignoring her family members, each of which nervously stayed out of her way. She trotted all the way to the old dusty supply closet, fetching the item that she needed.

“Need help reaching something, honey?” her father tentatively asked, as she carried it back upstairs. She ignored him as well.

She slammed the door to her room shut, again. Then she propped up the short ladder she had brought against it. She looked around, frowning at the soot-stained dress lying in a heap, before trotting over to open her window up and look out at the stars.

Cinderarity took a deep breath.

“Woe is me!” Cinderarity exclaimed, most plaintively. “Agony! Despair!” She glanced back to her bookshelf, deciding if retrieving the thesaurus would be worth the effort. “Woe!” she cried again.

She staggered back, to fall against her bed, one hoof raised to her forehead. “I am beset by troubles.” She waved theatrically to the door and the ladder leaning against it. “For I have been cruelly oppressed by this evil, wicked stepladder and now I fear that I will never be able to attend the Ball and meet my prince!”

She let out a few more agonized groans, quite thankful for the acting camp her parents had agreed to send her to a summer previous. She was just about to launch into some fairly realistic weeping when she heard a soft plop, like a stone being dropped into a well.

She cautiously looked up to see a pony hovering in the middle of her room.

Her visitor was surprisingly young looking and quite beautiful, with a lustrous pearl coat and large gossamer butterfly wings, gently flapping to hold her aloft. But on a closer glance, the waves of amber hair were unfortunately frizzy, and dark bags lined the pony’s sparkling cerulean eyes.

“Yes, dear child, I am your fairy godmother,” the pony spoke in soothing tones. “Here to—” She stopped short at seeing the stepladder leaning against the door. “Wait, what’s all this?”

“Oh, good.” Cinderarity hopped up, smiling brightly. “You simply must help me. I believe the Ball will be starting shortly, and though I will of course be fine with arriving fashionably late, too late and all of the most eligible bachelors will be taken.”

“This is highly irregular,” the fairy godmother said, frowning. “And I am very busy, you know. I have an appointment with a prince who’s been turned into a mouse in fifteen minutes.”

“This shouldn’t take long,” Cinderarity said. “There’s just a few minor inconveniences to resolve.”

“Princesses,” the fairy godmother muttered under her breath. “Fine. Let’s do three wishes.”

Cinderarity frowned. “Isn’t that djinns?”

“Look, it’s easy, it’s threes and that’s symbolic, and again, I have places to be. Take it or leave it.”

“I’ll take it,” Cinderarity said. “First, I’d like a dress please.”

The fairy godmother nodded and with a soft poof, a ponnequin appeared in the room, with a luxurious deep green dress studded with emeralds draped across it. It came with a golden tiara twisted and inlaid with rubies, and four glass slippers that sparkled and shone.

Cinderarity stared at it, her mouth in a firm line. “Hm. I would like a good dress please. Let’s start with the worst and work our way back, shall we? Glass slippers? Really? Do you plan on having me cripple myself?”

“Glass slippers are traditional,” the godmother snapped back.

“So is burlap, and I’m not wearing that either. And really, emeralds in a green dress? The details are supposed to contrast. And not in the horrid way that green clashes with my mane, either. Or let’s talk the tiara. Do you not have anything in silver?”

“Is this another wish?” the fairy godmother said, somewhat testy. “Because I gave you a dress. You didn’t specify.”

“Fine,” Cinderarity grumbled. “I think I have some heels that will work and I can do something with my mane. Then second, I need a way to the ball, including transportation and proper entry, thank you very much.”

The fairy godmother trotted over to look out the window. Cinderarity heard another poof, and joined her to gaze down at where a pumpkin had transformed into a carriage. It was still quite bulbous and orange.

Cinderarity opened her mouth, ready to launch into a further complaint when the fairy godmother glared her into silence. “Third wish,” she said. “And let’s hurry. Traditionally, this is the one for some prince or another to fall in love with you.”

“I’m saving my third wish,” Cinderarity said, her nose upturned. “I need to find the proper prince first.”

“You can’t do that.” The fairy godmother rolled her eyes.

“Why not?”

“Because you can’t.”

Cinderarity frowned. “Fine. Then I wish that I had a fourth wish that I could save for later.”

The fairy godmother sputtered. “You can’t possibly—” There was a sudden flash of light and a small blue ball of light with wings appeared next to her, chiming away in some language that sounded like tiny bells ringing.

“Oh blast,” she said. “Breezie emergency. Fine, I’ll deal with you later.” One more poof sounded and Cinderarity found herself wearing a silver necklace with a crystalline heart attached to it. “Here, break this whenever you decide you want to make your last wish, and I’ll be along as soon as I can.”

“Thank you,” Cinderarity said, having been raised to be polite when people did nice things for you, even if they weren’t quite as nice as desired.

The fairy godmother sighed deeply, repeating “Princesses,” one last time before she vanished again in a cloud of pink smoke.

The Grand Ball was even more grand than Cinderarity expected. From the moment she was ushered into the ballroom she was bedazzled by the opulence on display. The great chandelier overhead sparkled and glittered. The dance floor beckoned, stately couples twirling across its polished surface. Even the buffet tables looked perfect, lined with tiny plates holding tinier samples of truly disgusting dishes that each had to have costed a fortune. She knew quite well – the proper prestige of a dish was inversely correlated to how likely any reasonable common pony would eat it.

Cinderarity swished in, her dazzling green dress turning more than a few heads, she was proud to see. She kept her head straight forward, nose lifted, not acknowledging the attention as she proceeded at a stately trot to an open area near the dance floor. They would come to her.

When they ended up being a balding old gentlepony who seemed quite enamored of her but entirely too reminiscent of one of her great-uncles, she changed her mind. After extracting herself from a conversation with him, she took to the offensive instead.

She caught sight of one particularly attractive stallion, with flowing locks of blonde hair and muscles that bulged under the surface of his well-tailored suit. He was in conversation with a pair of other flighty socialites, but Cinderarity knew she outshone them. She sidled up, demurely looking up through fluttering eyelashes. “Hello,” she said, voice purring.

He took one look at her and nearly dropped the drink he was levitating. She held back a triumphant grin. “Hello there,” he said, turning towards her.

The two of the socialites glared at her. One moved even closer to the stallion, brushing up against his side flirtatiously. “Oh, you were saying, about the gardens?”

“Later,” he said, wagging a hoof. “Tell me, what’s your name? From where do you hail?”

“I am Cinderarity,” she said, bending one knee in a shallow curtsy. “From… um. Here.”

The other mare raised one hoof over her mouth. “You mean…?” She turned to her friend, whispering, “A commoner. Scandalous.”

“Now ladies,” the stallion said, a deep frown etched across his face. “I won’t have you speaking that way. She has every right to be here.”

Cinderarity let out the breath she had been holding in relief. The stallion took a step away from the mare and the two of them stalked away, still shooting dark glances in Cinderarity’s direction.

The stallion trotted in a slow circle around Cinderarity as she blushed. He leaned his head in, ready to whisper some sweet nothing.

“After all,” he said, his breath warm against her ear. “I hear commoners are really freaky in the sack.”

She recoiled, trotting back and bumping into a serving table. Thankfully, it had a glass of punch on it just right for throwing in the stallion’s face.

He shrugged, unfazed, and moved off in search of the floozies from before.

Cinderarity had always planned to leave the ball early. Of course, she had planned to do so whilst being swept off her hooves by a dashing prince from a faraway land. Not because she was getting sick of stuck-up ponies making not very subtle jokes at her expense.

It hadn’t taken her very long to decide that royalty were not quite as nice in person as they were in the storybooks. The princesses all tittered in her direction, gossiping behind her back – even the ones that looked like they had been dressed by a colorblind mule who had ordered five crates of sequins and was determined to use them all. The princes were worse, loutish to a fault and using their high birth as an stand-in for any kind of manners or class. After several aborted attempts at romance and a rising dearth of glasses of punch to throw in deserving faces – the serving staff had really started to make sure and keep the trays of drinks away from her – she had given up and gone over to talk to the elderly pony that she had first met.

At least he was pleasant enough in his rambling way to allow her to kill some time and not feel like she was being chased out into the streets.

All in all, Cinderarity didn’t know what she disliked more, the thought of never fitting into those circles she had always dreamed about, or the thought of actually fitting in with those horrible, horrible ponies.

After finally giving up and slipping away into the night, she trotted through the quiet streets, forgoing the horrid orange carriage that was parked nearby. The long walk home gave her plenty of time to think, hopes and dreams and regrets buzzing around the inside of her head, fighting with one another. But upon arriving, she hesitated, not wanting to return inside, not to the life she had always dreamed of escaping, that stifling conformity of a family who never truly understood her.

But… as she stood there, outside, she could see a warm light still glowing in the windows of her house. Cinderarity imagined her father sitting up to wait for her return, idly dozing in his big easy chair in the living room. She thought of her mother, no doubt having baked a batch of her favorite cookies just in case they would be needed to soothe a potential disappointment. And she remembered her dear sister, likely having fallen asleep halfway through creating some tremendously outsized work of art as a heartfelt apology.

Three ponies who had never understood her, yes, but who loved her anyways.

She thought for a moment about what the moral of the night was supposed to be. That was important in any proper story, after all. To be content with her lot in life?

“Hm,” Cinderarity said, hoof touching her necklace.

Cinderarity thought that moral was pretty stupid. After all, her family had always supported her, and that meant supporting her dreams too.

Cinderarity trotted over to the park across from her house, standing in front of the fountain. She ripped the necklace off her neck and tossed it to the ground, stomping on it with a crack of shattered glass.

A moment later, the fairy godmother reappeared, her butterfly wings flapping as she floated above the fountain, groaning softly at the sight of the unicorn in front of her. “Alright,” she said. “Time for your last wish. What prince is it gonna be?”

“None,” Cinderarity said, standing straight and tall. “I’d like to be a fairy godmother, please.”

The godmother blinked. She looked at Cinderarity again, waiting there in her green dress. “I’m sorry?”

“You’re very busy, right?” Cinderarity said. “I can help, maybe a part-time assistant thing. I’m very good with fashion and would be excellent on the princess beat.” She gestured towards her dress. “See, you’ve got the stitching wrong here and the colors are hardly suitable. And you didn’t even ask to do my hair – which, I know, my hair is already fabulous, but a night like tonight merits something special, don’t you think? Trust me, allow me free rein and I can turn the homeliest peasant filly into a mare that won’t need extra love-spell help.”

“But…” the godmother said. “I don’t think…”

“I’ve read all the stories. You’ll find that I’m quite familiar with the standard rules and regulations, and am a quick learner for anything new. I can provide a stellar letter of reference from my summer job at the tiki hut that sells giant sunglasses on the beach, and I’m perfectly comfortable working with dragons and trolls. Though...” she shivered. “I’d prefer if you could handle the princes for the time being.”

The fairy godmother squinted, looking her over carefully. “Provisional?”

“Certainly.” Cinderarity grinned. “Oh. And does the job come with a pair of those lovely wings?”

The godmother tapped a hoof against her mouth. “I think that can be arranged.”

And thus, Cinderarity learned that it’s always important to follow your dreams, even if sometimes those dreams change. And that was a moral she was much happier with.

Author's Note

Around a year or so ago, I had an idea to do a collaboration with a few other authors, involving a set of fairy tales retold by different members of the mane six. The plans more or less fell through, unfortunately, but I did write this story. And VioletCLM wrote this story which is really terrific. I'm retreating from the ponyfic realm for the time being, but I figured I'd at least put my story up too so it wouldn't be gathering dust. Hope you enjoyed it!

Light and Dark

“There is a sickness in this city.” Lord Meridian flung a hoof towards the open window of Celestia’s chambers. “What do you see out there?”

Celestia gazed outside, where distant ponies scurried like ants around incomplete ivory structures. “Canterlot,” she said softly. “A thriving city that not yet is, but soon will be. What is it that you see?”

The unicorn drew his cloak closer around himself. “Suffering. Just how many mudponies and featherflits have been brought in to help with the construction?”

“Earth ponies and pegasi,” Celestia said, emphasizing the words, “have been a tremendous aid.”

“There’s nothing wrong with... other kinds of ponies. They are certainly suited to growing food and managing weather. But this is no place for them.”

“Canterlot will be our capital. It is a place for everypony.”

“At what cost? How many unicorns must live on the streets, while their rightful employment is claimed by outsiders?”

“There is plenty of work to be done. That is the reason for the quotas, that the building efforts may be unbiased in their hiring.”

“Pegasi will work for nearly nothing. They cram entire families onto tiny clouds and live off scraps like rats. And earth ponies are far too simple to even realize they’re being exploited.” He sniffed. “I’m no racist. Honestly, I’m trying to help them.”

“All have been making sacrifices, but I am told that even the poorest are being cared for.”

“You’re wrong,” Meridian said bluntly. “I can find examples.”

“I’m certain you can,” Celestia murmured. “But at the moment, there is no sufficient cause to alter the quotas. Why don’t we table this matter for further investigation? I’m certain we can come across a solution that benefits all ponies equally.”

“We shall see.” He stomped to the door. “I will return with proof that your course of action is destroying the unicorn way of life.”

“I—” The door slammed shut and Celestia sighed deeply. She moved to the window, gazing out as her sun drifted down towards the span of the horizon. In the orange light, the half-finished pillars and spires glowed like flames reaching towards the sky.

“He’s not wrong,” a voice whispered.

Celestia started as her sister materialized out of the shadows. “Luna? You were here?”

“There is indeed sickness. Disharmony and greed, rotting away in the hearts of ponies like Lord Meridian. Why do you allow him to speak so?”

Celestia showed a tight smile. “They say you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.”

“And what do you do with captured flies?” A dark shadow crossed Luna’s face. “You kill them.”

“I don’t think that’s the intent of the metaphor.”

“Close enough. Allow me to resolve your issue.”

“In what way?”

“I have the means. A few drops in his morning tea and he quietly passes from this realm in peace. Simple and undetectable.”

Celestia recoiled. “I’m not going kill him!”

“You wouldn’t,” Luna said, voice dry. “I would.”

“That’s not any better.”

“Do you know why ponies are on the streets? Because he purchases large tracts of the poorer districts of town, raising rents and forcibly evicting those who cannot pay. Is that justice, dear sister?”

“Of course not. But there are other means. He has a daughter. She has been quietly meeting with a young pegasus. Soon, they will marry, and her father will be forced to reevaluate his prejudices. He will change his ways, in time.”

“In time,” Luna scoffed. “All the more reason to strike now, and allow this daughter to guide Meridian’s power to more beneficial ends.”

“I am not a tyrant.”

“Maybe you should be.”

“Excuse me?”

Luna glared at Celestia. “You focus so much on being loved by your little ponies. You miss that they do not love you in return. They see your weakness and take advantage, because you are terrified of being any less than saintly. If it were me—”

“Enough!” Celestia slammed both forehooves into the ground. “You overstep your bounds, Luna. We shall not act, and that is final.”

“So now you speak with force,” Luna said bitterly.

“There is a spark deep within every pony’s heart. And as long as that light burns, we must be willing to trust in their goodness.”

“Yes, sister.” Luna’s head bowed. “We will wait for that light.”

They stood together in silence as the sun crept beneath the horizon, the moon rising to meet it. Luna did not turn away until the light had faded entirely and darkness blanketed the sky.

Author's Note

This is a story I wrote for a writeoff last March. It's not one I'm particularly fond of... Honestly, Luna and Celestia and historical fics like this are not really my cup of tea, but I was giving it a try. The idea was to shade the Luna/Celestia interactions a bit more. Nightmare Moon coming just because Luna was jealous of her sister has always felt too pat and hollow to me, so I wanted to briefly sketch an alternate possibility, where Luna feels that Celestia is being too kind and allowing ponies to take advantage of her, to everyone's detriment. I tried to hint at that arc without being too explicit with it, but... again, not really a subject I even care to read about (or write about). Just not innately compelling to me.

May the Best Pet Win

Edwin waited until night, when the cacophony of the rest of the animals settled into gentle snoring. He spent the time mentally running through his preparations. There was only one element missing.

When his window of opportunity opened, it did so literally: a few dark, rodential figures slid open one of the cottage windows to creep inside. It wasn't any cause for concern—Yellowpony happily welcomed anycritter. But that normally meant a certain amount of embarrassing fawning, and some didn't appreciate being called cutesy or wootsey.

He waited a few moments before flaring his wings, carefully gliding past the cormorant cubbyholes and the wren roost without disturbing anybirdie. He came to a landing on the floor warily—even if Yellowpony trucerules meant nocritter would dare hurt him, certain felines enjoyed giving birds a good scare.

The coast was clear though, and besides, the crowd that hung out in this cottage corner didn’t take kindly to cats. Edwin fluffed his wings and made sure his plumage shined before he pecked at the mousehole’s little door.

The faint swing music that had been leaking out abruptly cut off. The door creaked open and a dapper-looking rat wearing a fedora sauntered out, only to lean against the wall and shoot Edwin a long, calculating look.

“Hey,” Edwin warbled, trying to come off as nonchalant. “I’m Edwin. Talked to your manager. We cool for tomorrow?”

The rat shook his head, squeaking derisively.

“What do you mean? We had a deal!”

The rat grinned. He squeaked more, pausing to raise a pair of pair of claws behind his hat.

“Of course Whiterabbit doesn’t know. That’s the point. You can’t back out now!”

The rat gave a single shrug that neatly expressed the depth of his concern with Edwin’s problems. With one final tip of his hat, he vanished back inside as the music started up again, even louder. Edwin’s further pecks on the door were in vain.

“Hoo hoo hoo,” somebirdie behind him laughed. Edwin leapt into the air, fluttering in brief panic as he saw the glowing yellow eyes.

“Fegrundius!”

The owl tilted his head. “You are playing with fire, friend. You? As favored pet?”

“Shh! Shh!” Edwin tweeted. “It would work. But… I need help. I need—”

A squeak in the key of psssst caught his attention, coming from a pudgy mouse in a trenchcoat. The rodent glanced both ways and opened its coat, revealing half of a dented harmonica.

“You! You have a band? You can play?”

The mouse nodded.

“As good as the Rat Pack?”

A mousy eyebrow floated up.

“Okay, okay. Too greedy. You’re better than nothing though.”

Fegrundius rolled his huge golden eyes. “Oh boy,” he hooted.

The circumstances were particularly lucky the next morning—Loudcolorpony had shown up earlier, talking about a lost kitten. That meant Yellowpony out of the house, and Whiterabbit too.

Edwin hastily arranged everything. The bouquet of posies had been easy: just a few words with a pair of whippoorwills. The cake was another story, involving brokering deals with several excitable chickens, a spectacularly demanding cow, and even Harry the bear for part of his honey supply. Thankfully, he just left the ingredients out in front of where Pinkbouncypony lived, and she had done the difficult baking all on her own.

Really, it was good that ponies were such simple creatures.

When Yellowpony returned, neighing comforting sounds to the scraggly cat curled up on her back, she had halted midstride at seeing Edwin’s display of devotion. Whiterabbit glared, but it was too late.

Edwin raised one wing high, getting Yellowpony’s attention and another whinny of appreciation. He signaled to where the rodent band had gathered on the table below, that all-important final touch.

It almost worked.

They got several bars into their song before the rodent playing a plastic straw as a flute had missed a cue and come in early, throwing off the mouse with the matchbox guitar. The music stumbled a beat.

And the cat on Yellowpony’s back let out a yowl, leaping forward to attack. In the ensuing chaos, birds and rats and critters panicked, stampeding all over the posies and sending the cake flying. Yellowpony fluttered around, trying to calm the critters down, but it was clear that the moment was gone. And Whiterabbit’s vengeance would be swift.

Edwin hid his beak under a wing, noticing Fegrundius watching the chaos from on top of an armoire.

“Don’t you know?” Feg hooted. “The less-played bands of mice, Edwin, often goad a stray.”

Author's Note

This was written for a writeoff under the prompt "The Best Laid Plans."

I'm so, so sorry.

The weird perspective stuff and voicing has to do with the type of animals. (I really wish I had been able to make it more laced throughout instead of very brief flashes of phrases like Yellowpony trucerules) I basically conceptualized birds as being able to speak to one another in a shared language, but not other animals. They can still communicate and understand other animals (and ponies) but in the same way that Fluttershy understands other animals without having direct verbal translation. It was all a setup for the last line though. So, so sorry.

Monsters

We were in the middle of a perfectly ordinary dinner when Father abruptly paused, turning from his half-finished squash casserole to steadily look at my younger brother and me and state: “I saw a changeling underneath your bed today.”

Mother frowned. “Stop it. You’ll scare them.”

“Don’t worry,” he continued, as if discussing the weather. “I’ll take care of it after supper.”

Sure enough, once we had finished eating, my brother so stunned that he finished his broccoli without requiring the normal parental urging, Father went to the hall closet and dug around in the back for the dusty bag that held his golf clubs. He selected one—a nine iron?—and clenched it firmly in his teeth.

He shut the door to our room behind him. My brother and I waited outside, unsure whether we should cheer or help or go hide in the attic. There was a grunt, then a thump. Metal pinged off metal and I winced at the sound of glass breaking. More thumps sounded, spaced further and further apart until one final strike caused the door to rattle. Father’s muffled voice came: “And stay out!”

He opened the door, and trotted back to the closet to return the now slightly bent club. “I broke your lamp,” he informed us. “Don’t go in until your mother can clean up the glass.”

Later that night, laying in bed with my brother curled up next to me, I couldn’t follow him in the normally effortless transition to sleep. Father had always been considered particularly eccentric. Nopony would say such to him directly, but I could not count the occasions in which, ignored by my elders, I overheard fragments of supplementary whispers and tactful explanations of his profession as an artist that inevitably preceded a: “Oh, that explains so much.”

I had also heard more than once from teachers and counselors that I had inherited his peculiarities. But he and I had an understanding, and I knew that his quirks were never arbitrary or delusions. He acted with purpose, simply in ways that the average pony could not grasp.

Perhaps it had been a ruse, intended to reassure my brother, who often found himself plagued by nightmares.

But another theory troubled my mind. What if my father had indeed seen a changeling, and approached the matter with his customary honesty? And, further, if that had been the case, it brought an unsettling doubt that I could not put to rest:

What if the changeling had won the fight?

I rose early the next morning, unable to find solace in my scattered dreams. Father was sitting at the table, eating an orange. I went to the refrigerator, not looking at him as I scanned the shelves.

I selected an apple that looked appetizing. We had plenty, and why not? It had always been Father’s favorite fruit and customary breakfast.

From that moment, I watched everything, cataloguing discrepancies and building my case. That afternoon, I painstakingly checked our room, finding a place on the wood where I could make out a faint difference, next to a chip where the golf club had struck. A stain of something imperceptibly darker. Was it still sticky? Red? Or green? I struggled to push the bed away from the wall, searching for anything left underneath but coming up empty-hooved.

Things changed, and I noticed. When he took a lunch break from his sculpture work, he trotted into the kitchen to give Mother a kiss before retreating to the sofa. She, of course, was delighted by the attention. In the afternoons, he acceded to my brother’s urgings to go and play ball in the yard where previously he might have complained of being too busy or tired.

I watched him. I noticed him watching me in return, eyes slightly narrowed in concern. I could disguise my suspicion, but I could not disguise the cold realization that had choked out my love towards what I began to consider the creature in Father’s fur. He crept closer and closer to Mother and my brother, and all the while more distant from me.

I canvassed my school library, then the public one, for information. I could not risk checking out books so I read in the aisles, picking through encyclopedias and bestiaries for relevant information. I knew that I could not go to the authorities. I knew that my father was already gone. I would resolve my problems on my own.

It took weeks to decide on a plan of action and find an opportune moment to act. Early in the morning on Father’s Day, I rose, trotting past Mother preparing breakfast in the kitchen and into Father’s studio. I nosed through his tools, to select the sharpest of his chisels. Then I made my way back into the house and into his bedroom.

He lay twisted in the sheets, breathing steadily.

I had chosen a sharp tool because I was uncertain if the chitinous exoskeleton would persist in disguise. As it turned out, the chisel sank deep into his chest with hardly any effort at all, and with but a trickle of blood flowing out. His eyes flew open, some word choking out of his throat only to die on his lips.

I waited.

The books all said that changelings revert to their natural form on expiration.

But of course, books could be wrong, too.

Author's Note

This was my attempt at a dark story for a minific writeoff. I am really really pleased with how it turned out. For a time I was considering whether I could adapt it to be nonpony (the only strict pony thing is the more clear preconception of what a changeling is) but ultimately didn't figure it worth bothering to do so. Given the way that Safe worked so well, too, I think minifics are potentially very well suited for a snippet of horror - you can get in and get out again very quickly, allowing the reader to fill in unsettling blanks without having the suspense or darkness overstay its welcome.

Soul Proprietorship

“And it turns out, Canterlot doesn’t even have a copy of Starswirl’s Second Treatise. Not even the modern printing! I can’t believe that nopony seems to know where to find it.”

“Mm-hmm,” Minuette said, distractedly.

Twilight’s head turned, observing the blue unicorn walking at her side. Minutte had been distant all day, and the prospect of fresh air brightening her mood had given Twilight the idea to take a walk.

Unfortunately, it hadn’t seemed to help. Minuette was staring off at a fixed point as they walked down the path, preoccupied with her own thoughts.

She shook her head slightly and gave Twilight a wan smile, jolted out of her reverie by the silence. “Sorry,” she said. “Go ahead, I’m paying attention.”

Twilight exhaled softly. “Tell me. What’s wrong?”

“N-nothing!” Minuette put forth a stronger attempt at a grin, but it was very obviously forced.

“You’ve been acting strange all week,” Twilight said. “And it’s only getting worse. Is it— Did I do something wrong?”

“No, that’s not it at all.” Minuette bit her lip, looking away.

“Then what is it?”

“Look, Twilight, I...” Minuette’s face lit up brightly as she pointed off to the side of the path. “Hey, what’s that over there?”

“Don’t think that’s going to work on— Hey!” Minuette had already trotted away, picking up the pace as she made a beeline for a pony sitting at a stand in the park.

Twilight head drooped as she followed, thoughts still abuzz at what could have been bothering Minuette.

Maybe she was just growing tired of Twilight? They had been going out for a few months now, and their relationship had slipped from exciting to… comfortable. Which Twilight found perfectly nice, as she always preferred a quiet evening at home curled up together reading, or talking, or drinking tea. But Minuette, on the other hoof, seemed to enjoy the romance and passion, and perhaps Twilight had slipped too far into being boring for her marefriend.

Twilight frowned. That did all make sense.

But if Twilight Sparkle excelled at anything, it was solving problems. And possibly reading books, but that could be considered a subset of solving problems, after all – it certainly was the answer to a surprising amount of the conundrums she faced on a daily basis.

Looking at it logically, there was no need to despair. She simply needed some kind of grand romantic gesture. Something big to bring the spark back.

But how? Minuette could be infuriatingly enigmatic sometimes, particularly when it came to talking about herself. It wasn’t like she was just going to up and announce—

“My heart’s desire?”

Right. That would be silly. Twilight would have to figure it out through careful—

Twilight’s head snapped to look at Minuette, suddenly realizing what she had actually said. The blue unicorn wasn’t even looking at her, instead gawking at the banner above the plain table in the park.

Twilight’s eyes followed Minuette’s gaze. “For Sale: Your Heart’s Desire,” she read aloud. “Affordable Prices!”

She turned to the pony sitting at the table, a deep red-coated pony with curly black hair and a suspiciously neat goatee. “Are you serious?” she asked.

“Absolutely,” he said firmly. “Old Scratch, at your service.” He raised a hoof outwards for a shake, but only Twilight’s eyes moved as she peered at the appendage and then back at him.

“Are you related to that DJ pony?” Twilight said, frowning.

Scratch scoffed. “I am a pony of wealth and taste. I hardly associate with that sort of crowd. But you’re not here to hear about me... You have something you want, and I can give it to you.”

Minuette smirked. “So, Mister Scratch. Say I wanted a sundae.”

He lowered his foreleg and steepled his hooves together, gazing over them. “Specificity is important in my line of work. Thus, I would enquire as to what flavor of ice cream you preferred.”

“And if I were to specify chocolate?” Minuette asked.

“Then I would question the proper amount of scoops,” Scratch said, a faint smile playing across his face.

Minuette’s eyebrow raised. “Let’s assume two.”

“Would the presence of hot fudge be desired?”

“Of course.”

“Chopped nuts?”

“No.”

“Strawberries?”

“Yes.”

“Cherry?”

“Two.”

Scratch’s eyes narrowed as he met Minuette’s challenging gaze. Suddenly, his face lit up with a smile and he reached under the table to reveal a delicious looking ice cream sundae, drizzled in hot fudge and bedecked with diced strawberries, capped off with a single cherry on each scoop of chocolate ice cream.

Twilight’s mouth fell open. She slowly leaned down to look under the table. As she had thought, it was a plain folding table, with nothing underneath other than the legs of the pony running the stand.

Her head jerked back up. “How did you…?”

“I’ve been around for a long, long year, Miss Sparkle,” Scratch said, his voice oily smooth. “I’ve gotten very good at what I do.” He tapped his hooves on the table, where two pieces of paper lay, each covered in copious amounts of tiny writing. “Of course, we have yet to discuss terms and conditions. I’m sure you will find it all very reasonable.”

Twilight turned to Minuette, only to see her happily humming to herself as she read the dense contract. Sighing, Twilight narrowed her eyes at Scratch again. “This is incredibly suspicious,” she accused.

“I assure you, the terms of the agreement are more than equitable.” Scratch smiled widely, baring a mouthful of gleaming white teeth. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Then why all this…” Twilight peered down at the contract in front of her. The letters got smaller and smaller down the page, until they seemed to wiggle around, preventing them from being read. “Why all this fine print?”

“You would be surprised at the lengths some ponies will go to in order to get out of a perfectly legal and binding contract. Just covering my bases.”

Twilight rubbed her eyes with her hoof and then used her magic to lift the sheet of paper and float it up to her face. “Usual terms and conditions apply… limit one per household… not to exceed five years but no less than three… the aforementioned signee hereby agrees to transfer possession of one (1) immortal soul, upon receipt of agreed purchase… Wait.”

Twilight’s eyes snapped back in horror to that last phrase. “You are asking ponies to sell their soul? You can’t do that! Who would even agree to that?”

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Scratch said.

Twilight looked up, mouth agape to see Minuette slip something into her saddlebags as Scratch rolled up a signed contract. Minuette shook his hoof with a smile.

“Minuette!” Twilight said. “You— You just sold your soul!”

Minuette rolled her eyes. “Seriously Twilight? Don’t be such a drama queen. I’m sure that’s just legal mumbo jumbo they have to throw in. You can’t expect them to actually try and enforce it.”

“That’s where you’d be wrong, my little pony,” Old Scratch said, his voice growing deeper as an acrid stench began to fill the air.

Twilight took a step back in shock as the red pony banged one hoof against the table and a pitchfork appeared in a flash of crimson fire.

Had there been stubby horns poking out of his mane this whole time?

Had his eyes always shone bright red with the fires of Hades?

“Give it back, Minuette!” Twilight whispered. “I don’t know, tear up the contract!”

“I’m afraid it’s too late for that now,” Scratch said, his voice booming across the park. Everything had gone dark, the sun suddenly hidden behind dark clouds. “You belong to me now, and I intend to claim what is mine!”

Twilight stepped in front of MInuette, her wings spreading out protectively. She racked her mind, trying to come up with some sort of appropriate spell, but came up blank.

She knew she should have finished that book on Demonology, no matter what Spike said about her speaking in strange deep voices in her sleep. But if there was one thing she remembered, it was that rule of law was tremendously important, and in this case… they didn’t even have that on their side.

Twilight gritted her teeth. She needed some sort of miracle...

“This soul is beyond your control!”

Minuette turned to look at Twilight. Twilight turned to look at Minuette. Their eyes met in confusion, both having assumed the other had been the one to object. Then the ground suddenly began shaking.

“E-earthquake?!” Twilight gasped.

A chasm split the ground and both ponies stumbled back. With a resounding roar, a huge hulking figure burst up from the earth, rising between them and a surprisingly unperturbed Old Scratch.

“The blue equine shall not be thine!”

Twilight blinked, staring up at the back of a huge minotaur, jet black in coloration. Both horns spiraled and twisted, jutting a great distance past the creature’s head before curving up into wickedly sharp points. He had to be at least three times any of the ponies’ height.

“Do you know this guy?” she whispered, but Minuette blinked and slowly shook her head.

“You know the deal,” Scratch said, his voice short with annoyance. “She signed the papers. Her soul belongs to me.”

“Your petty writings have no pull to the Lord of the Pit, Beelzebull!” The minotaur raised both brawny arms over his head, and sharp spires of rock shot out of the ground on either side, only for him to punch straight through the solid rock to smash them back into dust.

“Look, B. I don’t want trouble here.” Scratch pursed his lips. “Knock it off with the power rhymes and let’s talk. I’ve got a signed contract, what gives you the right to get in my way?”

The minotaur sniffed. “You may not claim this prize… Because the blue pony’s soul already belongs to the diabolical and demoniac Beelzebull!”

Old Scratch blinked. As did Twilight. Minuette suddenly found herself on the receiving end of two confused stares.

“What?” she said. “I’m pretty sure I have no idea what he’s talking about.”

“Foolish equine! Do you not remember pledging your soul to the service of the terrible and mighty army of Beelzebull? The sacred ritual of corruption, the black mass of the seventh hell?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Twilight said. “There is absolutely no way that…”

Minuette had planted one hoof against her face. “You have got to be kidding,” she muttered.

“Minuette!” Twilight said sharply. “W-what did you do?”

Minuette sighed deeply. “Look. I was young, right? And going through a sort of rebellious, experimental phase. And there was this minotaur guy who… well, he was an idiot, but he was in this band, and most importantly he had a body that was just—” She caught sight of the glare from Twilight and her mouth snapped shut. “Eh. Ahem. It was just a fling, but… I might have gone to a devotional with him once or twice…?”

“Service to the fearsome and horrifying Beelzebub can never be revoked!”

“Traditionally, service to a first-order demon is signified by participation in a blood-orgy,” Scratch chimed in.

“Wait, what!?”

“Whoa whoa whoa,” Minuette said. “I don’t remember any of that. There were lilac candles! And some stallion with long hair and a guitar! We had a singalong and someone brought brownies!”

Old Scratch cocked an eyebrow at the minotaur.

The minotaur grunted sheepishly. “Beelzebull, the magnificent and malevolent, has been forced to adapt to competition in today’s tough religious marketplace.” He cleared his throat and straightened up tall again. “Nonetheless. It has been done. This soul belongs to me!”

“Ridiculous!” a voice shouted out. Scratch, Minuette, Twilight, and Beelzebull all looked in surprise as a pony wearing a vest and green visor trotted up.

“Mr. Adjustable Rate?” Minuette said in a wavering voice.

“You know him?” Twilight asked. She peered at the new stallion, who wore a pair of spectacles and had his mane styled in a comb-over that fooled no one.

“He’s… he’s my banker.”

The pony’s mouth was a thin line as he glared sternly at the two. “Yes. I am in charge of Ms. Millénaire’s accounts at Ponyville First Bank and Trust.” He switched his disapproving glance to Scratch and Beelzebull. “And I’m afraid I will have to stop all this right here. Neither one of you are claiming this pony’s soul.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Scratch said.

“Beelzebull the cruel and mighty can crush you like a grape!”

“You most certainly will not,” Rate said.

Twilight breathed a sigh of relief, still somewhat amazed at help coming from such a strange place, but not wanting to question it.

“...Because we own Ms. Millénaire’s soul, according to the terms of her mortgage.”

“What?!”

Rate ignored her. “And I believe you will find that the paperwork has been signed and notarized, and on file with all the proper demonic authorities. We hold superior legal precedent in this case and any court in Tartarus will clearly judge in our favor.”

“B-b-but you— She— You’re not a demon! You work for a bank,” Twilight sputtered.

Three pairs of eyes focused on her. Old Scratch smirked.

“Who exactly does tiny pony think runs the financial sector?”

Scratch stomped a hoof. “This is getting ridiculous. I will agree that both of you possess some measure of claim to the soul in question, but in the case of conflict, I come first, due to recency.”

“No! Historical priority trumps recency!”

“Strict legality overrides both of your attempts to confuse the issue.”

“Recency!”

“Priority!”

“Legality!”

“Recency!”

“Priority!”

“Legality!”

“Clarity!”

All three stopped shouting, noticing for the first time a newcomer. Another pony had appeared, colored a shiny blue and mane a deep green. Upon closer inspection, her coat was more akin to scales than fur, and her mane writhed and twisted, made up of tiny living serpents.

“No,” Adjustable Rate said firmly. “No, no, no, no. No succubuses worming their way into this one.”

“Ssshut up,” the new pony said. “I posssesss just as much right as all of you. No.” She smiled, showing two large fangs. “More.”

“Succubus,” Twilight said. She paused a moment, as a thought caught up to her, and turned to Minuette, her face darkening. “Succubus.”

“Whoa.” Minuette held up both hooves. “Okay, this one I don’t remember at all.”

“Allow me to sssshow you,” the pony said. Her mane suddenly lit up with a sickly emerald glow, the snakes coursing one over another, as the park around them faded away into a starry landscape.

Scratch grimaced. “Tell me next time before you start with the illusion magic. These things always give me motion sickness.”

“Ssshusssh! Obssserve!” A planet appeared, growing larger and larger as they zoomed quickly down towards it. Scratch closed his eyes, looking a little green, as the ponies hurtled down into the atmosphere.

Twilight saw all of Equestria, clothed in the veil of nighttime. One bright dot stood out, and they quickly approached it. As the bright spot separated into many thousands of tiny lights spilling forth from ivory towers, Twilight suddenly recognized where they were headed: Canterlot. They moved faster and faster, the ground rushing up to them until suddenly, without even any sense of inertia, they had stopped.

They stood in a dark street in Canterlot.

“Uh oh,” Minuette said. Her hoof found her face again.

Twilight turned to her, mouth opening and a question on her lips, right as a door burst open. Light and noise spilled out into the street and a mare stumbled out, taking only a few steps before collapsing into a heap.

It was another Minuette. Twilight peered closer. She did look a little different, mane cut a bit shorter. And of course, Twilight had made it a point to be firm on Minuette not getting anywhere near this drunk.

The illusory Minuette rose up again, hooves bravely rediscovering the proper motions to carry her onwards. She made it a few more steps, swaying first to the right, then wildly veering to the left before smacking right into a lamppost with a clang.

Twilight winced in sympathy, just as another mare trotted out of the shadows. She was tall and shapely – the figure of a model, complete with a silky, flowing mane and long, dark eyelashes. It was only from the matching color scheme that Twilight could identify the pony as the succubus standing near her.

“Hey there,” the pony said in a sultry whisper, focusing in on the ungainly pile of Minuette.

The illusory Minuette looked up, her eyes still spinning. “Smhflxpl?”

“My beauty does have that effect on poniesss. Does someone like what she sssees?”

The Minuette shook her head sharply to clear it. “Icxlbrtsprg.”

The disguised succubus sighed airily. “Don’t try to hide it. I can feel your deliciousss desire burning brightly. We just have to ssspeak of payment.”

Minuette’s face lit up. “Zmr—” She stopped and coughed, clearing her throat. “Mareican Express?”

“No, beautiful. I want something much more valuable. Your soul.”

Twilight stared very sternly at the real Minuette, who had sat down to cover her reddening face with both hooves. “I can’t believe… You don’t even—”

“Ugh,” she said. “Just watch.”

The illusory Minuette had broken out into a particularly goofy smile. “Izzat all? Shgood, caush I think I losht my wallet.”

The succubus blinked. “Your immortal soul.”

“Yesh, you said that.”

“Ssselling it. To me.”

“What’sh the problem? I c’n throw in uh. Uh.” Minuette stopped to hoof blindly through her saddlebags, coming up with a wadded crinkle of tinfoil. “A shtick of gum.”

The succubus raised one immaculately sculpted eyebrow as she peered at the already-chewed piece of gum. “No, that’sss okay.”

“Suitsh yourshelf,” Minuette said, as she reverently placed the gum back in her bag.

The succubus cleared her throat, eyeing Minuette suspiciously. “Ssso, that’s your sssoul, freely given, in exchange for—”

“One triple decker hayburger, extra barbeque saucsh.”

The succubus went silent, staring at Minuette.

Everyone else also stared, this time at the real Minuette, who flushed even more red.

“...Come again?” the succubus asked.

“Triple decker, exshtra barbeque. An’... an’ no onions!”

The succubus looked down at her expertly-crafted form and then back up at Minuette. “You don’t… want…”

Minuette had followed her glance, and narrowed her eyes at the succubus’s appearance. “Wait jusht one minute. Don’t you poniesh normally have a pushcart thingy? An’ a little paper hat?” Her eyes sprung open widely and she gasped. “That meansh! No!”

The succubus grimaced slightly.

“You don’t have hayburgersh?”

“Thisss is highly irregular but…” She sighed. “I’ll get you a hayburger. We just need to ssshake to complete the—”

She was cut off by Minuette leaping forward to enthusiastically shake her hoof, almost knocking her over in the process.

“Fine, then…” In a blast of dark magic, a triple-decker deluxe hayburger appeared, floating in the air, dripping with sinfully decadent barbeque sauce.

Minuette didn’t even hesitate to launch face-first at the meal, and the succubus took a few steps back from the ensuing carnage, the noisy smacking and chewing sounds enough to put anypony off their appetite.

“Pleasssure doing… uh. Businesss with you?”

“Mrph,” Minuette replied.

Suddenly her face turned a pale green, and the burger fell to the street. Beads of sweat broke out on her forehead and she wildly turned her head, finally focusing in on a gutter at the side of the street to stumble towards.

The succubus watched, eyes wide, as Minuette emptied the contents of her stomach, retching up the bit of hayburger she had managed to swallow along with quite a lot of the liquids she had been previously partaking of.

After a few final moments of dry heaving, Minuette’s head turned up once again, a line of vomit still dripping from her mouth.

Her bleary eyes caught sight of the other half of the hayburger sitting in a puddle of some unidentifiable liquid. She smiled brightly and began to trot forward.

It was at this moment that the succubus fled in terror.

The illusion around the ponies – and demons, and minotaur – faded away, and they found themselves back in the park.

Silence fell, all those present still staring at a flushing Minuette.

The succubus coughed. “Yesss. Ssso as you can sssee, a clearly ssstated agreement takes precedence over your trickery,” she insisted.

Adjustable Rate sniffed. “Hardly. A legally-binding document outweighs mere verbal contracture, technically speaking. The best kind of speaking.”

“No, I have the most recent agreement,” Scratch said, desperation creeping into his voice.

“The impatient and cranky Beelzebull grows weary of this! Does nodemon respect the sanctity of first dibs?”

As their voices began to rise, Twilight felt teeth yank on her tail. Minuette was gently pulling her away.

“See?” Minuette whispered. “Like I said, no problem. Can’t sell what you’ve already sold, right?”

“I hardly think that’s a responsible way of looking at things!” Twilight frowned. “This is a huge problem!”

Minuette rolled her eyes. “C’mon. Let’s just go. It’s not like they’re ever going to come to an agreement on—”

“Then it’s settled.”

“Acceptable.”

“Fine.”

“Yesss.”

They turned to see the motley collection of demons in the process of shaking hooves.

Scratch turned towards the two and cleared his throat. “Your situation is unprecedented, Miss Minuette, but we have reached an agreement. Your soul will split time between the respective domains of control, two days a week each, with Sundays to alternate.”

Minuette raised a hoof. “Uh—”

“Unfortunately, given the circumstances, we will have to insist on claiming your soul right now. There’s only so much eternity to go around, after all.”

Minuette’s eyes widened. “Uh!” She began to backpedal rapidly.

A circle of flames burst into being, circling her and Twilight.

“Now, now, now… no running away.”

Twilight’s wide eyes met Minuette’s. But then Minuette grinned impishly. “Chill, Starsy. I still have one trick up my sleeve.”

With an abrupt wrenching, both ponies flew backwards through time, the last few moments rapidly coming undone in a feeling that Twilight had experienced firsthoof more than once, but still found it hard to be truly accustomed to.

Twilight found herself standing in front of a plain table, a red stallion seated behind it. Everything looked peaceful once again, a normal day in Ponyville Park.

Minuette turned to smile at her. “See? No big deal.”

In front of her, Old Scratch frowned.

Behind them, a whooshing sound signaled the arrival of three figures. A pony, a minotaur, and a succubus.

Minuette bit her lip. “Uh oh.”

“All our contracts are strictly temporally-resistant, Ms. Minuette,” Scratch said. “You would be amazed at how many ponies try time spells to get out of their poor decisions.”

He nodded at the minotaur, who snapped his fingers. Heavy black chains burst from the ground, wrapping around Minuette’s legs and torso.

“Twilight!” she cried out, for the first time sounding a little bit scared.

Twilight tried to jump forward to grab her, but a ring of flames sprung up tightly surrounding Minuette and the heat knocked Twilight back.

“Minuette!” she yelled, scrabbling to get back on her feet and charging up a spell.

But in one yank, the chains pulled downwards, sucking Minuette into a black vortex as she screamed.

Twilight fell to her knees. All that remained of Minuette was a patch of burnt ground and the acrid smell of sulphur.

Adjustable Rate frowned sternly at Old Scratch. “I trust from hereon out, you will file proper permits before posting bill of sale?”

Scratch rolled his eyes, but nodded. The succubus turned with a huff and stalked away, as Adjustable Rate trotted off in the opposite direction.

“Poker still on next Wednesday?”

“Yeah. You bring the chips.” The minotaur bumped his fist against Scratch’s hoof, and dove back into a fissure in the ground, a short earthquake closing it back up entirely.

Twilight was left alone in the park with the red stallion.

“You— I—”

She stopped to collect herself. When she looked up again, her eyes were wet with tears, but blazing in intensity.

“You are going to bring back my marefriend this instant.”

“Now, now, Princess.” Scratch grinned. “I’m sure we can work something out. And since you’re royalty, I think I could be persuaded to cut you a deal.”

“I’m not giving you my soul,” Twilight growled.

“Oh, of course not. But how about one teensy little favor? You agree to owe me one, and then one day, probably a very long time from now, I’ll call you up and redeem it. Who knows? Maybe it’ll never come up at all. That’s not a whole lot to ask, now is it?”

It was tempting. All Twilight wanted was to see Minuette again, to know that she was safe.

But the logical part of her brain quickly chimed in. It was too easy. There was no telling what this favor would be… perhaps something that could spell ruin for all of Ponyville, if not even more. She couldn’t put all of Equestria in jeopardy for the sake of one pony, even one pony she loved.

For the first time in a long time, Twilight really hated the logical part of her brain.

“No,” she said, quietly, as her heart broke.

“Well, if you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

Twilight sniffed again, staring down at the ground.

She looked up at Scratch again, her mouth a grim line of determination. “You know what? You’re right. I do.”

She turned, lifting her head high as she trotted away from the table. Her mind was already buzzing with the inklings of a plan.

She couldn’t risk all of Equestria. But she could, and would risk herself.

Twilight Sparkle was going to Hell.

Author's Note

This was a Minuetteventure I had been sitting on for a while. The plan was to write a second half wherein Twilight and the Mane Six went into a very greek Hades, with some jokes about Sisyphus tricking Applejack and Rainbow Dash into having a competition to roll his rock up the hill for him, and Fluttershy having tea and couples counseling with Prometheus and the eagle that eats his liver every day. And then Twilight would find that Minuette had managed to ascend to upper-middle management in the bureaucracy of hell, but need Twilight's help as hijinks ensued and they got back out. And then Minuette would reveal that she was trying to sell her soul for a super rare book to give to Twilight for their anniversary and it'd be sweet. The second part never really materialized and I didn't like the first half a whole whole lot, so it got shelved for forever.

Scootaloo and the End

Unlike the other colts and fillies, I always liked the end: that one last week before school started in August when the summer heat still pressed down like a sweltering weight on your back and the only reasonable response was to flee to the river. There the splashing and roughhousing in the cold water took on a certain kind of urgency, as if trying to wring out every last bit of uninhibited freedom from the dying season. Only when Celestia painted the skies orange would we slow down, unspoken understanding drawing us into languidness, floating in the cool water as we watched the sun set and the stars spread across the sky. On our way home, we’d trot so close our coats would brush against one another, whispering trivial secrets in-between muted giggling as fat fireflies blinked and buzzed in the humid air.

The whole atmosphere felt charged with a certain kind of subtle electricity that could at any moment burst into being and change us forever in some mysterious, unknowable way, even if we knew all too well that nothing would ever really happen. As the hours trickled away, we marched inevitably towards a too-familiar return to routine. The words on the papers and posters on the walls might differ, but we’d be hunched over the same old and splintering desks in the schoolhouse, wondering again how they could have shrunk half-an-inch, maybe a full, since we had seen them last. But all along there was the powerful sense of an impending shock, that the knowing glances and wry smiles that some of the adults increasingly directed at us meant that some huge milestone of growing up was about to strike right out of the blue, like a second cutie mark that we’d only be able to see once we had stumbled across it.

By the time I had realized just what form the end would take, it had already snuck up on us in a thousand creeping ways. There was no shocking twist or dramatic reveal, just tiny slivers of meaning piling up underhoof, never noticeable enough to require a conscious adjustment until you realized the ground you were standing on was abruptly a strange and foreign thing. I don’t think I even realized it myself, up until after Sweetie had already left. The particular chain of events had been so subtle as to be invisible, stretching back to when she had gotten cutie mark, if not before. It’s not like I could fault her – what kind of place was Ponyville for a singer? She could have joined the Ponytones, but everypony knew she was destined for a bigger stage. She never would have been able to completely mask the resentment had she stayed, just like she could never quite keep from slipping into what I mockingly called her ‘Rarity voice’ when the conversation turned to Canterlot, which happened increasingly often as we approached the cusp of adulthood.

And so when I recognized that the end was already upon us, when I finally admitted to the crackly tang in the air that any pegasus knew in their bones as a building storm, Sweetie had already departed a week prior, and Apple Bloom was days away from doing the same. I rolled it over in my head as I trotted down the path to Sweet Apple Acres, trying to twist the feelings inside of me into some recognizable shape, something simple that I could put words on. No easy answer came though as I walked between the neat rows of apple trees, watching them progress from thin saplings to heavyset, hulking things with gnarled trunks the closer I got to the farmhouse.

I caught a glimpse of yellow and red as the building came into view past branches heavy with fruit. Bloom had been watching from her room, the white shutters thrown wide to let in what air the occasional breeze stirred up, but by the time I arrived, she was already trotting down the steps to meet me in the yard.

She kept her thick, cherry-red mane long and untamed, and wore a green bandana loosely cinched around her neck. On another pony, it might have come across as rustic at best and country bumpkin at worst, but Apple Bloom possessed a kind of put-togetherness, a confidence in herself that shone through in her bright eyes and easy smile.

She turned that smile on me and I found myself instinctively looking down at the lawn instead. “Hey Scoots. Was beginning to think ya weren’t coming over to see me today.”

“Maybe I’m still not,” I shot back breezily. “Maybe I’m here to see Applejack.”

She let out a snort and when I looked up, her eyes had crinkled around the edges in that familiar way that meant she had already won. “Oh? I think she’s out harvesting in the north orchard. I’m sure she’ll be thrilled about having a set of fresh hooves for a few hours bucking.”

“Okay, okay, you got me.” I scrunched up my nose, rustling my wings and hoping she didn’t catch the nervous electricity that I felt running through my system. “How’re you? How’s things?”

“Boring. I trust ya got some crazy stunt for us to go try?”

I glanced off to the side. “Not really. I’m all out of ideas today.”

“Well, there’s Cutie Mark Plan X...”

That was our inside joke, from years and years prior, back when we had met together at the clubhouse after school one afternoon and made up an entire list from A to Z of different occupations we could try and get our cutie marks at. We ended up sticking to it far longer than I think any of us actually expected, spending most of a month running from one end of Ponyville to the other in pursuit of one hare-brained scheme after another. Up until we got to X, that is, and between Apple Bloom’s doubt that ‘xylophonist’ was actually a word and a mutual utter bafflement about where to find one, we had decided to take the day off, lying around the clubhouse and shooting the breeze. There had been a lot of ‘Cutie Mark Plan X’es since then, days when we had collectively agreed to take a break and just sit around discussing everything or nothing. Just enjoying the company of friends.

“Cutie Mark Plan X sounds pretty good right now,” I said, meaning it. I bit my lip, doubt still churning in my stomach.

“Great!” Apple Bloom didn’t seem to notice. She turned and took a step towards the orchard, towards the path that I knew led to the grove where our clubhouse lay nestled in the branches of one particularly big tree.

“Wait.” I took a breath. “I was thinking… Why don’t we go to the barn instead?”

Apple Bloom halted, one hoof frozen in the air, and from that angle I could just barely catch a glimpse of her face, her eyes wide and mouth parted. She recovered in an instant, turning her head further away so I could no longer see her expression. “Sure,” she said.

I don’t know what I really expected. It wouldn’t have surprised me to have gotten no reaction at all, or maybe that slight head tilt and flat stare when she thought I was being silly. But that had confirmed it.

She knew what I meant. It wasn’t just me. She remembered, too.

The day that I met Apple Bloom wasn’t the day of Diamond Tiara’s cuteceñera. It wasn’t the night of the previous Summer Sun Celebration either, of which I can only recall a brief flash of terror huddling under a table with some other fillies, followed by hours of grownups pointlessly yelling and arguing about what to do, at least up until Rainbow Dash and the others saved the day. Pun intended.

No, I first met Apple Bloom nearly a whole year before, back even before our cutie marks were a matter of concern. The memories have always stuck with me, at least the beginning and end. I can still smell the wet bouquet of earth – I was digging a hole in my front yard, though I can’t recall whether in pursuit of some imaginary treasure or just as an expression of typical childish spite towards at my preternaturally patient mother. Either way, my only real achievement was covering myself in damp dirt, and I remember looking up from my shoulder-high hole to see my mother standing at the picket fence, exchanging gossip with a neighbor. And that’s when I heard her quiet, “Oh my,” and realized that something bad had happened, though I registered it only through the intense self-interest of a filly: I knew without a doubt the cherry pie she had spent all morning baking would be going somewhere else.

And that’s what happened, as was my mother’s usual habit with her carefully constructed baked goods. On a lucky day, her pies or tarts or turnovers would last to grace our dinner table, but far more often somepony else’s need would be judged superior, and our pastries would be carefully carried across Ponyville, to the doorstep of somepony unfortunate. My mother considered that her special talent – I saw it a grave dereliction of duty towards her perilously dessert-deprived daughter.

And that was how I saw it then, too, even if I experienced some brief guilt once she relayed word about just what the Apple family’s loss was. But then she started speaking of their daughter who was my age, and how I was expected to accompany her and try and ‘cheer the poor dear up,’ and that laid my ears flat once more. Over my protests and through a hasty bath that I fought hoof and tooth, she dragged me across town to Sweet Apple Acres, that sweetly tempting cherry pie firmly planted between the wings on her back and out of my reach.

It wasn’t that I had anything against the Apple family. I didn’t even know them. I was simply wrapped up in the casually cruel self-interest of a twelve-year-old. We passed by one of the Apples on the walk in, a teenaged colt who was already bigger than my father, kicking trees out in the orchard that didn’t even have apples on them. But when my mother raised her voice to call out, he stomped off further into the orchards without a single word. We saw the next oldest when we got to the farmhouse. She answered the door on the first knock, red rimming her eyes and strands of straw-colored hair askew from the ponytail she compulsively tugged at as she talked with us. She took the pie to place in the middle of a kitchen table I indignantly noted as being already full of casseroles and other pity pies, and then ushered us into the living room as she called for her sister to come down.

It would have been nice to say that I thought I saw something special in Apple Bloom from the very beginning. I didn’t. What I saw was a shrimpy little filly – as if I could talk there! – wearing a horribly old-fashioned bow and an expression of unconcealed antagonism, as if I had personally insulted her recently departed parents, if not caused their demise to begin with.

“Lemme guess, you’re here to say how sorry you are for me?” Apple Bloom said, the twang of her voice not softening the venom.

“If I do, are you gonna start crying all over everywhere?” I shot back.

Our respective family members immediately stepped in, chiding the both of us for our lack of manners in that awkward disapproving stage-whisper common to parents..I remember glancing up at Apple Bloom and being surprised to see her facade of hostility crack for a minute into a wry grin that I couldn’t help but mirror.

And that, as they say, was that.

We were inseparable from that point onwards. I had never met a filly like her. When we galloped across the orchards in impromptu races, if I won, she wouldn’t sulk or make excuses like the colts did. She’d just stick her chin out, give me a steady stare, and challenge me to something different, like catching frogs. We were constantly testing one another, pushing one another, and she could hold her own against me and then some. It got to be that I’d get out of bed, shovel down my breakfast, and dash away first thing in the morning, heading to Sweet Apple Acres with me head full of Apple Bloom and the next crazy idea for us to attempt. I think my mother only allowed it because she still felt sorry for the Apples, but we were both all to happy to use that to our benefit.

I don’t know how long that time lasted. In the haze of childhood, it seemed like forever, one glorious golden summer of adventure spent with someone who had come out of nowhere to claim the place of my irreplaceable best friend forever. In less-poetic reality, I know now it had to be a month at most, probably less, but that demonstrates the impact Apple Bloom immediately made on me, and what I can recognize now as my childish infatuation with every aspect of her.

And then things changed.

We were in the upper loft of the barn, transforming it through our imaginations into the deck of a pirate ship as we took turns forcing each other to walk the plank and fall the short distance into a pile of hay below.

Author's Note

This is the most fragmented of the pieces I ended up releasing, and the one I most wished I had ever completed. It's written outside my normal style, mimicking a YA novel. I got the bug to try that out after reading The Miseducation of Cameron Post, which I recommend, at least if you like YA coming-of-ageish things. My intention was to write a very bittersweet romance thing between Scootaloo and Apple Bloom, with Scoots kissing Apple Bloom slightly after this point and AB pushing her away and growing very distant, at least until they came together as the Crusaders later on, with Sweetie serving as a sort of bridge but some walls still in place. They're both extremely young, and don't really know what the feelings mean or how to handle them. And then back to the present/future scene, where Scoots and AB talk briefly about it from a bit more mature of a perspective and reflect on what could have been, even as they realize it's not a thing that's going to be able to happen. And they move on with their lives. And that's it.

I really really wish I had managed to finish it, even though the style is admittedly overwrought and that third scene is by far the super hard part. Oh well.

My Little Pony: The Movie: The Unofficial Fix-Fic

To be honest, the thought that Twilight Sparkle could have defeated the seaponies with a song about the power of friendship was always ludicrous. It was always just a setup, getting ready for what would happen after—after the colorful bubbles had cleared, and the schools of silvery fish ceased their swirling patterns, and all of the hermit crabs had drifted back into their hideyholes in the coral reef, dragging behind their tiny castanets.

After the song, the seaponies looked stunned, luxuriating in the lethargy of a musical done right. That's when Twilight shot a magical signal from her horn, alerting the boats on the surface above.

The seaponies didn't even react until the light vanished, the ships casting long shadows across the seafloor. That's when a few realized something was amiss, and piscine eyes lost the dull sheen of complacency. Razor-sharp teeth were bared once again, and their Siren Queen opened her mouth, preparing yet another sonic assault meant to render Twilight and her friends immobile and defenseless.

But Tempest Storm's fleet had already begun to drop the depth charges, custom-made maximum-strength party explosives, courtesy of Gunnery Sergeant Pinkie Pie-rate. The effect of the blasts was only magnified underwater, a shattering series of crashes that sent seaponies flying in all directions and completely disrupted the Queen's vocalizations.

"The Pearl!" Twilight cried out, and Rainbow Dash took off in a blast of prismatic color, heading straight for the magical artifact. Hammerhead roared, and attempted to pursue her, only to find his way blocked by Rarity and Applejack.

"This one's for Fluttershy!" Applejack yelled out, before kicking the giant shark right in the snout.

"And this is for my dress!" Rarity chimed in, fire in her eyes as she grabbed his fin in a judo-hold, twisting it until Twilight could hear a distinct *snap*.

Twilight did her best to help in the confusion, as pirate-ponies in diving suits entered into a full-fledged melee against the seapony navy. The seaponies still had a massive numerical advantage, but they were confused and scattered, and the pirates fought dirty.

It was close. But the landponies were winning.

And then Twilight felt the razor of a fin slip close against her neck from behind. A silky voice whispered in her ear, singing a liquid song with words that she didn't know but understood. Words about how she would call off the attack. She and her friends would submit. They would return to their prison cells of cold iron, forged in chasms at the bottom of the sea. They would be prisoners forever for their Siren Queen, and be happy while doing so.

Twilight fought it, as best as she could, but she already knew that she was no match for the Siren Queen's magic. But she could hold out. She could resist just long enough to…

The sea went quiet, the depth charges suddenly ceasing. Twilight heard an intake of breath from behind her, as the Queen prepared to seize this lull and broadcast her song loudly once again to rally her troops and drive her foes into chaos.

But before she could sing out, a different set of notes pealed out, in three-part harmony. Above, a trio of silhouettes appeared, framed against the rays of sunlight that pierced through the blue-green water.

Adagio Dazzle, Sonata Dusk, and Aria Blaze descended, in their true forms once again. But now the reconstituted gems around their necks shone with the warm blue light of friendship. The day would be won by a song, after all, but it was never Twilight's place to sing this one.

"Hello, mother," Adagio said, and then they sang.

Author's Note

I'm just as confused as you are.

This comes from Exuno telling me to write movie spoilers when I haven't seen the movie and all I know is that there are seaponies and someone named Tempest something involved.

Cymothoa Exigua

Blinky always wanted wings. Life was hard for an earth pony colt in Cloudsdale. His parents loved him, but Dad's job at the weather factory didn't pay well enough for a fancy cloud house with cloudstone floors. Instead, they lived in one of the shabby houses in the shadow of the city.

It was all Blinky's fault, really. His sister Winky told him that once, when he had made her really angry. And even though she apologized afterwards and looked really sad, he knew it to be true.

So that's why every night before bed, Blinky would stare out at the bottom of Cloudsdale, and imagine the stars shining on the other side of the clouds. He'd always make a special wish that one day he would get his wings. He dreamed about it constantly. When he had his wings, he'd be able to fly around wherever he wanted, and wouldn't need special help to get to school, and his family could move on up to a deluxe apartment in the sky.

One morning, Blinky woke up feeling different.

He felt all sweaty, but shivery at the same time too. His tongue tasted like spoiled milk and he itched all over, especially on his sides. Mom made him stay home from school that day, and told him not to scratch himself. But she had to go to the Diner for work, so he had to stay home alone. And even though he tried, he couldn't stand the itchiness.

He had to crane his head around in a weird way that hurt his neck to gnaw at the fur on his side. But that helped a little. He chewed and chewed, and it felt really good, up until he bit a little too hard and tasted something gross and metally. He dragged himself out of bed to find a band-aid and hoped Mom wouldn't be too upset.

But by the time she got home, he was feeling so woozy that he hardly even understood what she was saying. Instead he slept.

For three whole days, it turned out. And when Blinky woke up, he had wings!

Kind of.

Well, there were hard bumps on his side that hid under his fur and moved kinda weirdly when he poked with a hoof. Mom said they were getting him a doctor, but since without many bits they were on a waiting list and it'd be a while. She also said that she wasn't working at the Diner anymore, so now she could stay home with him.

Blinky wasn't scared though, even though Mom and Dad whispered to each other when they thought he wasn't listening. He knew the truth: he was getting his wings! Just like he had always wanted.

He waited until Mom fell asleep in the chair next to his bed to start biting at his sides again. It felt even better this time, and the metally stuff didn't taste so gross. He could feel his wings trying to flap. He just had to get them out from under his sides, first.

It only got weird when he got all the way down and felt his teeth click right up against something hard. At first it felt super satisfying. And then it hurt really really bad and he started crying and Mom woke up and screamed.

Two weeks later, his sides had mostly healed, and his wings were much larger. Blinky was excited, because they were almost big enough to fly.

They weren't like Mom's or Dad's though. Or even his sister's wings, which were smaller and didn't have all the primary feathers.

Blinky's wings didn't have feathers at all. They had a hard covering that protected a thin flappy bit. They were brownish-blackish-clearish-green, not light blue like his coat. And they usually stayed closed. He couldn't really control them very well at all. But he knew he'd figure it out in time. Sometimes they flicked and buzzed and felt funny, and also pushed a lot of air around!

Blinky had lost a lot of weight, but that was just his body adapting to the wings. He'd need to be lighter, then he'd be the best flyer in his class.

He tried to tell Mom that, but she just went really quiet. And Dad's work must have been busy, because Blinky hadn't seen him in at least a week. The doctor was supposed to come soon, though.

Blinky couldn't wait to show off his wings.

Author's Note

From the Writeoff, October 2017, "Cold Comfort."

There's more discussion of this story on that site that explains the intent a little more. But I'll leave it ambiguous here. Happy Halloween!

Anagnorisis

smiled as she set down her pencil, looking at her story with pride. Miss Cheerilee would like it, for sure! And then, Twist thought, she’d feel much better.

She carefully put away her school supplies and made sure not to step on Snails, who was napping on the floor. Instead, she made her way to where the Crusaders were standing at the classroom door.

“I wrote a thtory about my aunts!” Twist proudly said.

Scootaloo and Sweetie shared a worried look.

“I can hear Mith Cheerilee out in the hall! Let’th open the door and—”

“No!” Bloom said. “She— Uh—” She trailed off into silence.

Scootaloo glared, but Scootaloo was usually angry. Sweetie was the one who finally spoke up. “Diamond Tiara is out there too, and we don’t want her to say anything mean.”

Twist could hear Diamond talking with Miss Cheerilee, alright. She shrugged, trotting back to her desk. Maybe she could draw a picture too? Of her and Sweetie and Scootaloo and Apple Bloom—

grimaced as she watched Twist walk away.

“We should tell her,” Scootaloo muttered.

Apple Bloom let out a sigh. “You think anything we could say would matter?” She thrust a hoof towards Snails’s body. “I don’t know where in her head she’s at, but it’s gotta be better than here. Let her be.”

“I’m more worried about us,” Sweetie said. She glanced at the barricaded classroom door, behind which they could hear the groans of their former teacher and classmates.

“We’ll be fine,” Apple Bloom said. “We stay here, wait it out. The Princesses will come.”

Scootaloo bit her lip. “If they’re alive.”

“They are. They—”

A hoof burst through the wood, grabbing Sweetie. She shrieked in terror, until the jaws of a zompony caught her in the neck, cutting off the screen. Apple Bloom backed away as the door burst inwards, more zomponies pouring in.

“No!” Bloom cried out. “They were supposed to save us! Princess Celestia! Princess Luna—

banged on the window of the schoolroom. The Tantabus had erected some shield of darkness that kept her at bay, and she was forced to watch as the nightmare closed upon Apple Bloom and then reset once again.

“Foul beast,” Luna muttered. “These children are under my protection!”

She flew back, charging up a blast from her horn to hopefully pierce the wards. She had checked everywhere else, and the Tantabus had to manifest physically in the dream. It must be within that classroom.

No matter how it hid, she would find it. She knew the taste of its dark powers, and could sense it, even when it took on the form of another, much in the way that Queen Chrysalis—

looked down upon the pulsing cocoon that held the Princess of the Night. “You are certain that you can maintain the false reality?” she asked.

The drone nodded.

Chrysalis sighed, stepping over to look out the window of the spaceship and into the starry reaches beyond. “We must have her to power the main reactor. We are lost without it, and this is our only chance for survival. We must find a new planet for our species, somewhere out there.”

The drone bowed over the console, reaching out to touch the control crystal—

stared at M.A. Larson like he had grown a third head. “Are you kidding me?”

“Look, Crystal, this comes straight from Hasbro. Some cross-promotional business with Transformers. We’re doing space-changelings and that’s that.”

Crystal threw the folder of concept sketches across the room. “This wrecks everything we’ve been doing! My entire season eight arc!”

“You’ve only been here a year. Trust me, this is not bad at all.”

“I want to talk to them. I want to talk to Hasbro.”

“Good. Let’s talk,” a voice said in a dull monotone. A man walked into the meeting room, and began striking the printer with his briefcase.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting coffee,” the man blandly said.

“You’re doing it wrong!”

“You’re the one who wanted me to play. Come on, Lyra—

threw her favorite brand-new Humie™ doll down, right in the middle of her Hasbro Office Fun™ playset.

Bon-Bon frowned at her. “Don’t be like that.”

“You never take this seriously,” Lyra complained, crossing her forelegs. “You always mess up my carefully-constructed stories!”

“Because they’re ridiculous.”

“Are not!”

“Are too! You ignore everything about character and consistent plot, all because you want it to end in some kind of unbelievable gimmicky twist—

Author's Note

This is from a Writeoff in 2015, and fell between the cracks and never got posted on fimfic.

Which is a shame because I really like it a whole lot and it deserves to be read.

Delinquent x Honor Student

Twilight Sparkle had a lot of plans for senior year. As the leader of three different major student organizations and the current valedictorian by 2.3 grade points, she had a lot of responsibilities to live up to. But she felt supremely confident in her ability to manage those tasks and had already carefully planned out her schedule to make sure she was ready for almost any problem that might arise. Twilight Sparkle was good at handling problems. At least most problems.

There was one, however, that had remained stubbornly constant for all three years of high school so far.

This problem’s name was Sunset Shimmer.

Twilight took a deep breath and let it out slowly before she pushed the door open and walked out onto the roof. She could immediately see Sunset—well, at least her back? Sunset was sitting on the short railing that bounded the roof, her legs dangling dangerously over the three story drop as she stared off into the more literal sunset.

Twilight was momentarily taken aback by the sight. The setting sun had painted the sky with a palette of oranges, but it also caused the gold in Sunset’s hair to gleam like a halo. Which was a particularly ironic image, given the girl in question’s long-established history of delinquency and petty crime. Twilight still had to purse her lips and shake her head slightly to clear it of the image though. Honestly, it wasn’t quite fair for someone who was the constant source of so much trouble to also be so casually beautiful.

Stepping softly, Twilight approached Sunset, planning on waiting until the last moment to clear her throat loudly and score an invisible point over her number one high school nemesis. And of course, barely a moment before she could, Sunset spoke up.

“Hey Princess.”

“Don’t call me that!” Twilight reflexively snapped.

Sunset rolled her shoulders in a shrug, sending waves through her glimmering hair. “Miss Student Council President? Same thing basically. You’re the one always telling me to be more respectful.”

“I don’t know why I try on such a lost cause. You could make the most formal greeting in the world still sound somehow shameless.”

That caused Sunset to finally look back over her shoulder, the normal ever-present smirk in her eyes. “Only for you.”

Twilight didn’t even register the words. Her eyes were glued to the cigarette loosely hanging from Sunset’s lips. “I knew it!” she accused. “Smoking again. And on school property, too.”

Sunset’s smile only deepened. She swung her legs over the railing to sit facing Twilight. “Oh, is that against the rules?”

“You know it is!”

“And you’re going to report me?”

Twilight clenched her hands into fists at her side. “You don’t leave me any other choice, now do you?”

“Well gee,” Sunset said airily. “That sure would be embarrassing.”

“Then maybe you should have thought before—”

“For you.”

Twilight paused, caught off guard. “…I’m sorry?”

Sunset flipped a box out of her pocket, tapping it such that a white cylinder slid out the end. She held it out to Twilight. “Try one.”

The look Twilight gave her in response was obviously answer enough, as Sunset barely bit back a laugh.

“Chill,” Sunset said, rolling her eyes. “They’re not real cigarettes. They’re candy. See?” She tilted the box towards Twilight so the text on it was visible: Sugarcube Camels.

“You mean…”

“Yep!” Sunset said. “So sorry, but I think this time you got nothin’ to report.”

Twilight let out a breath of frustration through gritted teeth. “You are absolutely insufferable.”

“Only for you, Princess.”

Twilight froze. Something in her head clicked. And her brain, so used to quantifying and classifying and organizing until a trend in observed data blossomed into a provable theory, suddenly engaged on a subject she had never fully considered. I mean duh Twilight sort of had a thing for Sunset. Sunset was hot as the boiling point of tungsten, but that data had been considered and carefully filed away because she was also the worst and totally straight so. But…

“Huh. Out of curiosity, why exactly do you have candy cigarettes?”

Sunset raised an eyebrow, clearly a little suspicious of Twilight’s abruptly cool tone. “I’m trying to quit. You know. Helps with the… oral fixation.”

“Okay,” Twilight said, ignoring the clear attempt to get a rise out of her. “Since when? Why? That seems rather out of character.”

“Uh…” Sunset’s eyes abruptly slid away, gazing off into the distance. “You know. It’s kind of an unhealthy habit. As a certain someone has loudly complained to me about on numerous occasions.”

“Me. That’s me.”

Sunset snorted. “No kidding.”

“So. You’re quitting because of me?”

Sunset’s eyes flicked back to Twilight. “What? No.” Her voice came out too sudden, too loud, lacking its usual liquid confidence. Her smirk dropped away, too, like she had realized she was caught in a trap that she hadn’t seen coming.

Twilight realized that Sunset also looked extremely cute when she was thrown off and uncertain.

Twilight took a step forward, and Sunset swayed backwards before she realized that there was just air and a long drop that direction. “Um,” she said.

“I do think I want a cigarette after all,” Twilight said.

“S-sure, here—”

Twilight reached out and plucked the cigarette out of Sunset’s mouth. The two of them were very close now, and Sunset’s eyes were glued to the stick of sugar as Twilight put her own mouth right where Sunset’s had just been. Twilight’s tongue flicked out for the briefest second. Was it wetting her lips? Or…

With a crunch, Twilight’s teeth bit down on the cigarette. “Yup,” she murmured, her eyes staring into Sunset’s. “Just candy alright.”

Sunset’s face was a bright red now that almost matched the color of her hair. Twilight leaned forward, their faces so close that they could feel one another’s breaths on their lips.

“Just so you know,” Twilight said. “I’m still watching you. In fact I’ve always been watching you. So…”

Silence stretched out until finally Sunset responded with “Y-yeah?”

“So I’d be careful if I were you. Because if you break any more rules, I’d have to… deal with it.”

When Twilight stepped back, Sunset instinctively leaned forward. Twilight’s expression showed that she had clearly noticed, too. Now she was the one with a smirk, and this one was positively predatory.

Twilight turned on her heels, and waved one hand in the air as she strolled to the door to the stairwell. She could feel the heat of Sunset’s gaze on her the whole way, and she put a little extra sway in her hips as she walked.

It was only as the door closed behind her that Twilight let out a breath.

Senior year had just gotten a lot more complicated.

Twilight couldn’t wait.

Author's Note

I dunno, sometimes you write something short and indulgent in an afternoon just because you want to.

A Pale Horse

Discreet Deliberation could pinpoint exactly when he realized that he was being followed. Twelve forty-seven PM on Tuesday, July thirteenth. He was certain of the time. He had just finished his properly-scheduled thirty-five minute lunch with some time to spare.

He had always enjoyed that park. It provided a reasonable but not strenuous amount of exercise in walking the two blocks from his office, and tended to attract lots of happy ponies, no matter what the season or weather. In winter, joggers cantering by, puffs of their breath frosting out into the cold. In the rain, foals stomping around in their rain boots, trying to find the biggest mud-puddle to splash into. And in the spring and summer? He sometimes couldn’t even find a bench to sit on, with so many ponies out and about, frolicking in his little patch of green tucked away in a corner of Manehattan.

He had finished off his daffodil-and-mustard sandwich and allowed himself an extra minute of peace as he watched a colt and a filly romp across the grass, tossing a frisbee back and forth. Then he had stood up, brushed some crumbs off of his crisp red tie, and started the walk back to the office.

It was a warm and sunny day, and he was quickly surrounded by a press of other ponies, all bustling by in the mid-day rush. That was when the feeling blossomed in his head, like a weed growing through the thin cracks in concrete, pushing its way up to the surface.

Somepony was following him.

He blinked and almost stumbled, bumping into another businesspony in an expensive suit who shot him a dark glare. Stopping right in the middle of the sidewalk was out of the question, so he kept walking, even as the prickling across the back of his neck grew.

Who would be following him?

Discreet Deliberation wasn’t exactly the type of pony to make enemies, in public and private life both. He had to admit that he had never been exceptional, or even interesting, though he always preferred to think of himself as regular and well-adjusted. He was just another stallion on the street, another worker crunching numbers in a cubicle, another husband with a loving wife and a pair of occasionally exasperating but perfectly normal children.

In other words, not a pony to arouse much interest or attention. More worryingly, the shiver down his spine said that his follower wasn’t somepony struck by idle curiosity. There was malice involved. He didn’t know how he knew that, but it was a further realization that only grew in clarity as he trotted along.

He ducked to the side as he approached his building, stepping back from the sidewalk traffic to straighten his tie in the mirror of the glass walls. His eyes darted back and forth, trying to catch a glimpse in the distorted reflection of somepony who might be staring at him. It was hard to tell. All he could see was bright flashes of color as ponies trotted back and forth behind him, not pausing for an instant.

And then he saw a small blurry oval of a face, from all the way on the other side of the broad street, still in the midst of the chaos for a fraction of a second.

He whipped around and stared across the street with wide eyes, craning his head, trying to catch a better glimpse.

There was nopony there. At least nopony with the color he had seen, a green so pale as to be white. Only more workers marching forth to lunch and back, a taxi driver on break reading a newspaper, a filthy brown pony sitting in front of bowl with a paltry amount of change.

Discreet Deliberation closed his eyes took a deep breath, letting the faintly acrid city air fill his lungs before exhaling slowly. He turned and pushed through the revolving doors into the office lobby. He knew he was being silly. He also, very definitively, knew that he was still being followed.

The feeling didn’t go away.

It persisted as he sat in his cubicle, double-checking the finances for a potential acquisition of a smaller company. The feeling slowly burrowed through the normal dull layers of work-related frustration, becoming more and more intense and certain. He eventually turned his back to the cubical wall and his calendar of lighthouses of the eastern seaboard above the narrow desk. He could barely manage to keep all the paperwork sorted in his hooves as he watched the opening, apprehensive of anyone suspicious walking by.

That worked, for a short time. Even if he found himself looking up and losing track of where he was in the numbers every time he heard the muted whisper of hoof against carpet.

Then the rumble of a soft voice reached his ears from behind, unintelligible but ominous. His head slowly swiveled back. The thin cubicle wall greeted him, bare except for the tiny square photo of Baltimare’s Shoal Point Light.

It was an awfully thin wall. He had to think about what was on the other side, the simple knowledge slipping out of his grasp in the chill of the moment. The answer finally came: it was the water cooler, the small public area that ponies sometimes visited for a break or to chat with others.

Anypony could have been there. A particularly tall pony could even have been standing on their hind legs, peering over the top of the cubicle walls as Discreet had been unwittingly watching his cubicle’s entrance.

No one was there now, of course.

He shoved the papers into a desk drawer, uncaring that their disarray meant he’d have to re-sort them later. He wasn’t getting anything accomplished anyways, and he had the three o’clock meeting in… another forty-five minutes.

Well, punctuality was always important.

As he entered the familiar environs of the conference room, a smile spread across his face at the sight of the heavy oak table at its center. He trotted over to the head of the table, standing there for a moment as he felt the tension drain.

Meetings always calmed him down. They were, after all, his special talent. He happened to own a signed first-edition of Orderly Rule’s Rules of Order, and kept not one but two additional copies, appropriately annotated with some of Paradigm Shift’s more recent developments in the field of interpersonal decisioning.

Unfortunately his current position didn’t allow him to actually implement any of those new ideas. They had him buried in drudge-work, even as his strengths and motivations all perfectly aligned with a managerial position – though as he told his wife Lilac, any day now, one of the executives would read one of his memos about proper process prioritization and he’d shoot right up the ladder. But even stuck in his current rut, the order and rhythm of a well-run meeting seemed like just the ticket to get his mind firmly back on track.

He mentally pushed back that tingle still jangling the nerves in the back of his mind and got to thinking about the meeting to come. They would just discuss their project statuses, and, to be honest, with his inability to concentrate this afternoon, he wasn’t going to have good news on that front.

He hooves moved on their own as he paced slowly, thinking to himself. His supervisor would not be happy, but on the plus side, it’d be a decent opportunity to work on conflict resolution. He would just need to—

As he reached one end of the table in his pacing and turned to move towards the other, a flash of light caught his eye, sunlight bouncing through the window from the building across the way. He trotted forward, staring, as he saw a flash of movement from an office opposite the conference room.

For a second, before the blinds across the street had been rapidly pulled shut, he had seen a green-white figure peering out in his direction.

He was on edge for the entire day. Through the meeting, where he made a disastrous showing, too preoccupied with glancing out the window to recognize when his boss had directed questions his way. Through his walk to the transit station, the ponies filling the sidewalks each carrying a new and mysterious potential danger. Through his train ride to the suburbs in the evening, his gaze flitting from face to face amongst the other commuters, searching for any signs of ill intent.

Even when he arrived home, walking up the path to their modest house, to a fresh cabbage casserole and the warmth of his family, the feeling remained. He nodded distractedly through the young son’s jumbled account of trying to get a frog-catching cutie mark with his friends. He smiled wanly as his older daughter spun a tangled web of teenage drama when asked about her day. He ate his casserole and considered how easy it would be for a pony to creep into their backyard, make their way across the moonlit grass, and silently watch them all through the kitchen window.

That night, after he kissed his wife, but before he settled into their large, comfortable bed, he made a circuit of the house, closing each and every window, locking every door. Once satisfied, he slipped under the covers, next to his already blissfully-dozing wife, and stared at the ceiling, counting the minutes until the sun had risen once again.

One day became another. Somehow he survived. Persisted. It became his life. It was such a short time in one sense, but before long he couldn’t even a remember a time without that constant weight pulling him down.

He was being followed.

He kept expecting the feeling to fade, to be some passing fancy or idle mood that had descended inexplicably and would lift again just as suddenly.

It didn’t. It was a cancer that had lodged itself in some deep recess of his mind, hardening from a thought to a worry to a crippling anxiety. He began to view his life as made up of long, horrifying stretches of pure helplessness, broken up by brief moments of bitter resignation and the occasional patch of despair.

He started to avoid mirrors, in part because he couldn’t bear to constantly check behind himself to no avail, and in part because he was terrified that he would see something again, catch a glimpse of that flash of greenish white.

His wife noticed, commenting on his increasing lack of sleep. He had started to see the pale pony in his dreams, never clear enough to make out, never doing anything other than watching. He fed her a story about stress from his work, but could see in the pain in her eyes that she saw through his flimsy untruths.

His children noticed, most of all after his son had casually darted up to hug him from behind and Discreet had knocked him to the floor, rearing back with terror and anger flashing in his eyes. They began treating him with caution, as if he was made of china and apt to break. He started to avoid them in turn, worried that prolonged interaction might lead his stalker to take interest in them too. In his darker moments, he wondered if that might not be worth the cost if it meant he was left alone.

His work noticed, boss putting aside the normal grouchy demeanor to inquire about his health with a veiled concern and suggest he take some vacation days, maybe talk to a counselor. The latter was the idea he eventually seized upon when he began to realize he was drowning, that he would never again feel safe in any situation, never have a moment where he felt truly alone.

He walked right into a psychiatrist’s office from the street. He couldn’t risk making an appointment. His watcher would have known, of course, and had too much opportunity to interfere or sabotage or even worse. He argued with the receptionist for ten minutes before the shrink had poked her head out to see what the fuss was about. She agreed to see him. He wished he thought it make a difference. He had stopped feeling any hope three days prior.

“I’m very glad that you’ve made the decision to seek help. I’m sure that you’ll find the little changes we can make to our personal outlook can often have drastic— Are you okay, Mister Deliberation?”

He jerked his head back towards her, away from the windows behind him, and forced a smile. From the taut stretching of his lips against his teeth, he was sure it was closer to a grimace. “Sorry,” he said. “Thought I saw something.”

“Sit down,” she said, gesturing towards a plush couch. He took one last look over his shoulder, walking forward and making a slow circle in place before taking his seat. “Tell me,” she said, “what do you think you saw?”

“You’ll think I’m crazy,” he said. “Maybe I am. That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think you’re crazy.” Her voice was smooth, soothing. She took a seat behind her desk, her horn lighting up as a pencil floated in her telekinesis. “Everypony has problems now and again. I’m here to help.”

“To use magic, or… or pills, to make the feelings go away.” His eyes widened, distrust being replaced by a dawning realization. “Can you do that?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think that will be necessary. What you need, Mister Deliberation, is a friend to talk to. Let me be your friend. Tell me what’s wrong.”

He took a deep, shuddering breath, checking back one more time, only to see a light-blue wall decorated with a framed degree from a medical school. “Someone is behind me,” he said.

Her eyebrow arched. “I don’t see anypony.”

“I know. I don’t either. Not… usually. But I know he’s there.”

“Does this pony ever speak to you?”

He shook his head violently. “No. Not like that. I’m not...”

She met his eyes steadily.

“He’s just there,” he said weakly. “Constantly. All the time.”

“He’s not interacted with you?”

He ignored the scritching sound of her pencil on paper. “No. But I think he wants me to know he’s watching. He… he wants to hurt me somehow.”

“What makes you think this?”

“I just know, okay? I can’t sleep. I can’t function. He’s always there, watching me, judging my every move.”

She was silent for a long moment, still staring at him with her head tilted ever-so-slightly. He shifted in place on the couch, tried to resist the urge to check behind him one more time.

“Tell me,” she said, "how do you feel about how you’re treated at work?”

He blinked. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“Humor me.”

He stood, shaking his head as he moved towards the door, a bitter anger in his voice. “I came to get help with a problem, not to spend an hour talking about things that don’t even matter.”

“Please,” she said, with a forcefulness under the soft tone that stopped him in his tracks. “The mind of a pony is a complicated thing. Trust me. Let me help you?”

He paused for a moment before realizing that he certainly didn’t have anything to lose. He trotted back towards the couch but didn’t sit, instead taking to pacing back and forth in the small room. “They’ve treated me fairly enough. Well, I certainly thought I’d be further along at my age. And I really do wish that they’d be a little more open to some process-changes. At times I feel like the higher-ups don’t even know I exist. I’ve submitted so many memos regarding…” He turned to her and frowned. “Are you sure this is important?”

“I think so. I think it is exactly what we need to talk about.” She smiled gently, and for the first time in what seemed like ages, he felt something other than the crushing anxiety he had grown accustomed to. He felt like maybe, just possibly, she might have an answer for him.

Discreet felt like he could have burst into song as he cantered out of the psychiatrist’s office. He looked up at the fluffy white clouds dotting the blue sky and beamed out at the world around him. It was a beautiful day in the city. It was a day to be enjoyed.

He trotted down the street, stepping high as he considered where to go to next. To work? Maybe not – he did have those vacation days saved up. Why not stop by home and surprise the missus? Maybe they could go pick the kids up from school and have a picnic this afternoon.

“Spare some change, mister?” a gravelly voice piped up. He jumped for a second, a flash of the old alarm returning to jitter through his thoughts, but he jammed it back down. His gaze drifted down to a brown pony wearing dark sunglasses, sitting against the brick wall of an office building. The pony shook a cup in his general direction, and Discreet heard the jingle of a pair of bits bouncing together.

“You know what?” he said, smiling in relief. “I’d be glad to. I’m celebrating!” He dug through a pouch for several bits and didn’t even look at the denomination before allowing them to clink together in the beggar’s cup. “A psychosomatic construction!” he muttered to himself in awe.

The pony looked up at him, showing a toothless grin. “Thanks. You’re alright by me, mister. Whatcha celebrating?”

“That I’m not crazy.” Discreet paused to think. “Or, I guess, that I’m a little crazy, but in a way that can be fixed.”

The beggarpony began making a burbling sound, and it took a moment to realize it was laughter. “I hear ya on that one.” A hoof darted within the pony’s dirty jacket and came up with a flask. “And I’ll drink to it.”

“Turns out it’s all a projection. It’s…” He reached back for the proper words. “‘Only natural that the feelings of stress and a perceived functional invisibility built up over a prolonged duration could manifest in a psychosomatic construct.’ And that – just knowing that there’s a logical explanation – is what I needed, the way for me to actually fight back against the problem. That’s the cure I’ve been looking for.”

The beggar responded with a belch, having finished a long swig from his flask. “Sounds alright to me, brother.” He held the flask out, hoof wavering in Discreet’s direction. “You want a drink a’ this?”

Discreet shook his head, before realizing the beggar probably couldn’t see him. “No thank you,” he said, feeling a little foolish. “I need to be on my way pretty soon. I’m just… just so happy that there’s a reason for this. That it all makes sense somehow. I mean, it should have been obvious that it was some kind of mental block. I was just too paranoid and trapped in my head to realize that it could never have been real. How else could you explain—”

“How ‘bout your friend?” the beggar butted in.

Discreet glanced down at the pony, then up and down the street. The nearest pony was all the way down at the other end of the block. “I’m sorry?”

“The fella behind ya. Does he want a drink?”

“No thanks,” the voice whispered, an inch behind Discreet’s ear. “Not while I’m on the job.”

Author's Note

14th place in the Writeoff's December prompt: Behind Closed Doors. (The same competition that Rough in the Diamond is from) I never felt like this piece gelled quite as much as I wanted it to, primarily because the central idea isn't particularly unique. More than anything else it was an attempt at a different style/genre than normal for me. There have been a few minor edits from the original submission, but I wasn't happy enough with the concept to really put a lot of work in and make it worth publishing as a standalone one-shot.

Trixie and Pumpkin Cake Save the World

There’s something about the desert that makes a pony want to drink.

And I don’t mean water. It’s not a simple being-thirsty thing. It’s those long, long days of crushing heat, where you all you can do is stare out into the dunes in the distance as the shimmer of the air plays tricks on your eyes.

The desert just has a finality to it. You’re here. It’s hot. There’s sand. Those things aren’t going to change.

You’d think being in Las Pegasus would be different, what with all the glitz and glamour and sparkling nightlife. What you forget is you wake up the next day and you’re still in the damn desert. Take one step out of the magically-cooled casino strip and you’ll remember soon enough.

When you’re in town for a vacation, it’s easy enough to brush aside, but when you live here? It doesn’t take long for the shine to rub off of this particular imitation diamond. You find a way to deal with it.

For me, that was drinking. Turns out it’s a pretty popular pastime ‘round here.

When I stumbled into the Bruised Lizard it was a little after noon. I had left my hat behind and chosen a plain purple cloak, keeping my identity clear without drawing unwanted attention. The darkness inside the bar was a thankful relief from the glaring sun, and I could already feel my headache softening. Either from the dim light or anticipation of what was to come. Best hangover cure’s always the hair of the dog, or so I say.

The Liz is more of a dive than a bar, a far cry from the fancy clubs on the strip. You don’t show up here for the ‘ambience’ or in hopes of seeing a celebrity. It’s a place locals go, on those regular occasions when you’re confronted with the problem of not-being-drunk and find the best course of action to be seriously tackling the issue head-on.

In fact, there were a few ponies already hunched over the bar. My eyes ran across them, subconsciously categorizing and filing away the information. Stallion, indentations in his coat around the neck, hooves rough and dusty – a long freight hauler passing through town and familiar enough to not be bled dry in the casinos. Mare, far too thin, twitchy, and vaguely attractive without being beautiful – backup dancer for one of the shows. Stallion, bunched muscles in the haunches, hard hat on his head – too easy. Construction worker on one of the new hotels that kept sprouting up like weeds. They’d wither away in a few years, and a new, bigger monstrosity would pop up in their place. There was always construction in Las Pegasus.

The first step in being a good magician is seeing the things that other ponies miss. It’s a nice little trick to drop in my act when I use an audience volunteer, but more importantly, it’s gotten me out of more than a few sketchy situations long ago when I was on the road. And by now, it was an old habit hard to break.

I trotted up to the bar and perched on a stool a fair distance from the rest of them. It’s not unfriendliness. No one’s there to talk. I raised a hoof to flag down Full Mug, the bartender, and when he turned to me, he had his namesake in hoof and ready.

“Trixie,” he said in way of greeting.

I nodded and devoted my attentions to the beer. I drained the mug in one long pull, barely registering the taste. When I looked up, Muggy was still standing there, a dopey smile on his face. I knew what that meant.

“Nope,” I said. “I’m not working. You can come to my show like everypony else.”

“C’mon Trixie.” His grin widened. “Nothin’ fancy. Just a little trick, and the next one’s on the house.”

“It’s not a trick. It’s an illusion.” His head tilted sideways, eyes still imploring and I sighed, putting a little more begrudging resignation into it than I was actually feeling. Best not to give him the impression I’d do this all the time. “Pour.”

As he did, I slipped a pair of bits from a pocket sewn into my cloak, setting one on the table while keeping the second hidden, balanced in the crook of my left foreleg. My eyes shot over to the other ponies to see if we had a wider audience, but they kept their muzzles planted in their drinks.

Easier, but a little disappointing.

He set the refilled mug down in front of me and I flipped the bit on the table up in the air to spin a few times before landing in the beer with a plunk. I scooped the mug up with my right foreleg, turning aside and flinging my left out theatrically as I made a show of chugging the drink, squirreling away the bit to the side of one cheek as it passed my teeth. My eyes were open just a shade, enough to see as Full Mug leaned forward, enraptured. His eyes, of course, were on the mug.

Yeah. Too easy. I knew at least three different ways to do something showy, but settled for the simplest.

With a barely visible motion, the bit slid down the length of my left foreleg and I flipped it up to lightly toss it forward into the pocket on his apron. He didn’t notice a thing, his eyes still on my face and horn.

I slammed the mug down loudly, that finally getting a surprised glance from the mare a few seats down. “Too many free beers, my good barkeep,” I said, my voice taking on a richer intonation as I veered into performance mode, “and you may find your customers drinking away your profits.”

I turned the mug upside down and a few specks of froth dripped, with no bit left behind. His muzzle moved to frame a question, but I beat him to it, the bit swishing to settle under my tongue before I opened my mouth and revealed it as apparently empty.

He blinked, and I let the moment last just long enough to build the anticipation. “Maybe your money is closer to your heart.” My foreleg reached out to tap him in the chest, right on that apron pocket, and he gawped as he put it together. His hooves fumbled, but the bit came out to clink against the wooden countertop.

His eyes flickered between the bit and myself, and I rolled a hoof in the air in a bored flourish. That got a big smile out of him, and he stomped his hooves against the floor in applause, causing the others to look up at us.

Far too easy. I used to get such a rush out of performing, no matter when or where. The idea of making other ponies gape in awe was a driving force, leading me on to bigger and better things. I reached up with a hoof to wearily rub my face, filching the bit from my mouth to stow it away in my cloak again with another motion.

Now look at me, playing hide-the-bit for free beer in a dive bar.

It made me feel tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. I sighed and slumped forward, pressing my forehead against the cool counter. “You ever wake up one morning, Muggy, and realize that somehow, without ever noticing it, you’ve gotten old?”

“You’re only as old as you feel, so they say.”

I paused for a moment to consider his words. “That doesn’t help.”

His smile melted away, replaced by a look of concern. “You alright, Trix? You’re not normally this down when you’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk. Maybe that’s the problem.”

“Is this about the new magician down at the Fillagio? Hey, I bet he can’t hold a candle to—”

“What?” The question came out flat, a statement of disbelief rather than an inquiry.

Full Mug rubbed one hoof at the back of his mane. “You hadn’t heard? There’s a new act in town. I’m surprised you didn’t see any of the banners, they’ve been advertising all over the strip.”

I wanted to snap back at him that I didn’t go on the strip. That it was for tourists. Instead I kept silent, my glare still drilling holes in his head.

“Some earth pony named Silverlea. Silverlea the… Super? Surprising? Some fancy S word.” He shook his head. “Like I said though, I’m sure your act is much better. I mean, you’ve been doing this for what, years and years?”

I could feel my teeth grinding together. “Which means I’m old hat, and he’s new and exciting. And an earth pony? That’s going to draw a crowd.”

“Have to admit I’m a bit curious myself,” Full Mug said. He raised an eyebrow at the expression on my muzzle. “Let me pour you another.”

I put my hoof over the mug. “No. I’ve got somewhere to go.”

“Oh?”

“The Fillagio, right?”

“You’re not—”

I stood up, swirling my cape around myself, and storming towards the door.

As I left I heard Full Mug calling out after me. “Don’t do anything stupid, Trixie!”

“But I don’t wanna be the cupcake!”

I was going for passionate insistence from a thoughtful young lady. When the words squeaked out of my muzzle, I realized instead I had accidentally hit full-on whine.

I heard Pound snickering beside me and I shot him a dark look. He stuck his tongue out and I kicked him in the leg hard where Dad couldn’t see. That shut him up.

“Listen, sweetheart, we’re very busy today what with Syrup out on vacation and your mother having to teach Diamond Mint how to run the register.” Dad tried to put on a cheery smile. “So we’re all gonna have to pitch in and do our parts. And that means a very special job, just for you!”

Yeah right. I got to dress up in a hot, uncomfortable cupcake costume and hand out free samples to tourists. It was my duty partly because I could fit in the suit, but mostly because Mom and Dad didn’t trust me to do anything else.

Shows what they knew. I was going to prove them wrong.

“Then let me help bake!”

Dad reached up to fiddle with his paper hat, a sign I knew all too well as nervousness. “Sweetie, remember last time we tried that…? We’re already stretched thin as it is…”

I deployed my secret weapon: maximum-strength puppy eyes.

“And… and…”

Critical hit! ...Ugh, I spending too much time around Pound and his nerd friends.

He closed his eyes and sighed. “Okay. You can help in the kitchen, but you have to do exactly as you’re told. No improvising!”

I straightened up to stand at attention. “Yes sir!”

“Pound, you’ll be at the back door. We’re expecting a shipment of ingredients and I need you to bring those in as soon as they get here.”

He snapped off a salute, and leaned over to whisper “Don’t screw up,” in my ear. I kicked out at him again, but he took off with a flap of his wings and fled the kitchen, only pausing to make sure I saw him sticking his tongue out one last time. Ugh.

Dad had already trotted over to the counter, and I dragged over the stepstool so I could see all the way over the top. He bit his lip as he looked at the ingredients spread out, ready for the day’s work.

My eyes scanned them too. Marshmallow-Mint-Muffins, from the bowl of fluffy marshmallows and pre-mixed dough. I nodded to myself, cause I knew the recipe. But I knew all the recipes, of course. I just needed to prove I could make them, without any completely explainable and out-of-my-control disasters or explosions.

I had a good feeling about it this time!

“Okay, sweetie, how about you… stir the dough.”

I stifled a groan. That was hardly baking. More like a chore – where was the excitement, the magic, the creativity? But… it was better than nothing.

I grabbed the spoon with both hooves and put my all into attacking the dough. It was still pretty thick, so it took more effort than you’d think. Dad watched me carefully for a moment before turning away to start getting something else ready.

I kept on, trying to keep from slinging dough everywhere and mostly succeeding. What would a stirring cutie mark look like, anyways? A spoon or a whisk? Lame, but at least it’d be something to do with baking. Ever since Pound had gotten his last month, he had been even more insufferable than usual.

It was totally stupid. We were twins! We were supposed to get these things at the same time! Instead, he’s got everything figured out and there’s Mom and Dad, fawning all over him. Not to mention he could fly and I couldn’t even—

I realized my stirring had gotten a little more violent than necessary, and backed off. I reached out to discreetly wipe some of the more visible globs that my attack on the bowl had flung across the table. Dad had his back to me, and hadn’t noticed.

The door to the main restaurant flung open with a bang, and Mom stuck her head in. “Dear, we—” She caught sight of me and frowned. “I thought Pumpkin was going to—”

“I’m baking,” I said firmly.

Her eyes narrowed. “Carrot, honey, didn’t we have a discussion after the… pistachio incident?”

I felt heat rising in my face. “Mooooom! I’m doing fine.”

“Just… just don’t—” Her eyes lit up. “Oh! But I need you out front, Carrot. We’ve got a VIP asking to meet the head chef. Straighten your bowtie!”

“On it!” Dad tugged at his bowtie and lifted his hat to slick back his hair before darting out the front.

Five, four, three, two—

Both of them popped their heads back in at the same time. “And don’t move from that spot, Pumpkin!”

I groaned loudly, and kept stirring. They disappeared again and I was left alone in the kitchen.

Jeez. You would think they’d trust me! They let Pound bake by himself, after all.

At this rate, I’d never get to get a chance to get my cutie mark. It was obvious, really. Just a matter of finding the right recipe, some sort of super awesome surprise combination that would taste great and be our number one seller and would show up right on my flank to let the whole world know my skills.

It happened for Dad, after all. And Mom. And Pound.

But if they wouldn’t let me even try… Ugh.

It was then that my eyes caught the bowl of chopped strawberries that Dad was getting ready for something. That gave me an idea.

A brilliant idea.

Strawberry-Marshmallow Muffins. It sounded… hm. A little odd. But in a good way! I think.

It was certainly worth a try.

The only problem was that they were all the way on the other side of the table, and Mom and Dad had very emphatically said not to move. But if I didn’t move… if they came to me instead. Well, then. That would be perfectly fine!

I took a deep breath, knowing that the next step would be the difficult one. I was confident I’d be able to handle it, but it’d take a lot of concentration.

I swallowed and closed my eyes, feeling the odd sensation of magic flickering to life around my horn. Levitation was supposed to be easy peasy lemon squeezy. I didn’t even need to lift the bowl, I could just sort of… drag it along the countertop. Any filly my age should be able to manage that much at least.

It simply takes a light touch. Very, very light. I could feel the shape of the bowl in my mind as my magic settled around it. I gave it a tiny tug, and could feel the bowl vibrate ever-so-slightly.

Perfect. A liiiiiiitle smidge harder and…

“She’s doing magic! Hit the deck!”

My eyes flew open to see Pound standing in the back doorway, one hoof flung out at me and his mouth hanging open in horror.

I could hear the thudding hooves coming from the front, and Dad burst into the room, just as I felt my grasp over my magic slip.

no no no no no

I clenched my teeth and sent another jolt to try and get it back under control, but I could feel the power sucked away as the glowing around my horn intensified.

Okay! No! I knew what to do. I had drilled it into my head in the aftermath of the last surge. Calm thoughts! Blank mind!

Don’t think of anything, even though it’s really hard cause when you try not to think about something, all you can think of is—

Definitely don’t think of pistachios.

I needed something neutral. My eyes flickered around the room, seeking something bland and unthreatening. The light blue sparks around my horn started crackling loudly.

Marshmallows! Safe, white, bland marshmallows. I let out a puff of relief. Okay. Now I just think about marshmallows and ride out the surge. Nice marshmallows. Big fluffy marshmallows.

A bolt arced out from my horn to slam into the bowl of marshmallows.

Wait. Not that big.

The marshmallows in the bowl weren’t always that big, right? Marshmallows aren’t supposed to be the size of softballs!

Uh oh.

I screwed my eyes shut around the time they swelled up to beachball-sized, but I could hear the gurgling sound intensifying.

I held my breath, cause I knew what was coming next.

To my credit, this time it wasn’t an explosion.

More of a really loud ‘plorp’ followed by a titanic wave of sticky goo.

I raised one hoof to wipe marshmallow gunk off my face and survey the damage. The entire kitchen was completely covered in white goo. The table and all the ingredients lined up on top weren’t even visible under the sea of white. It looked like there had been a freak blizzard in the middle of the kitchen. A sugary one.

As I watched, a large drip fell off of one of the cabinets with a wet plop. I swallowed and turned to see Dad’s eyes looking at me from beneath a pony-sized pile of marshmallow.

He didn’t even look angry. Just… disappointed.

That was kinda worse.

“I’ll go get the cupcake costume,” I said.

Author's Note

This is a first chapter to a story very vaguely set in the same continuity of Einhander's Royals. The idea was to have Trixie mentoring an older/young teen Pumpkin Cake in the art of ~Magic~ (wherein actual magic is approximately the least important thing possible. It's all about showmareship!). Her parents would obviously not approve, but Pumpkin would sneak away and help Trixie rediscover her love for her craft, even as they put together a wonderful new act in which Trixie would (faux) huffily try to perform while Pumpkin endearingly 'messed' it up, only to all come together in the end to the delight of the audience. I sort of lost steam after putting this together and it didn't go anywhere, but I liked this first chapter a lot.

Prisoner in Pink

Author's Note

Very early on in my pony-writing career, I got an idea for a retelling of The Prisoner with Pinkie as the protagonist. I really love this idea, and had some great things to do with it down the line but got bogged down and stuck, and it never really got completed. The first two chapters are all that were finished, and I didn't want to publish it until it was done. And really, it really should have existed in the window close enough after Too Many Pinkie Pies for that to be in the reader's minds. But for the sake of completeness, I'm adding a link to the unpublished story here: http://www.fimfiction.net/story/104311/prisoner-in-pink

(password is pink)

The Rabbit Hole

Author's Note

On second thought, no.

The Rabbit Hole

’Twas ???????, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand;

Long time the manxome foe he sought—

So rested he by the Tumtum tree

And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,

The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,

And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through

The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

He left it dead, and with its head

He went galumphing back.

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?

Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”

He chortled in his joy.

’Twas ???????, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe

........................................................................................................................................................................................................