Lesser Tales (and Songs) from a Real Life Changeling

by HypernovaBolts11

Rating: teen
Tags: Queen Chrysalis, Other, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Changelings, Original Character, Second Person
Length: 2036

A collection of shorter stories, be they prose, poems, or incomplete. Anything too short for its own story that I've written and wanted to put out there is in here.

I, like many writers, don't spend one hundred percent of my time writing grand epics or fabulous tales. Sometimes I have to write smaller things, for the purpose of preserving a story idea for later or just as a way to sharpen my thinky bits.
A few of these will never be built upon, and that's okay. These are not all meant to become great things. Many of these will simply be forgotten altogether, and, while that hurts a bit, it's not a tragedy. Better for them to be remembered in spirit by a few rather than forgotten by me.
Many of these won't fit your definition of prose, and some may stretch your definition of poetry.

Explaination of the title:
If you do some background research on the changeling myths, you'll find that they were used to justify infinanticide against mentally difficient children. One of the disorders linked to the myth was phenylketonuria, which I have, and will have for the entirety of my life.
Thankfully, I am leading a normal (enough) life, and am proud to call myself my school's resident changeling. The way I see it, after mistreating my ancestors, and then teasing me for following my required diet, humanity owes me the rights to identify with whatever the changeling legend becomes.

Published 2016-05-11 23:30:01 UTC
Last updated 2016-06-30 16:28:13 UTC

Pink Hearts and Black Roses

Stomp the roses all you like,
they won't vanish from the light.
Care for the thorns.
Tend to the flowers.
Those who have horns
have no more powers.

No matter how you see things,
the thoughts of love aren't alike.
To stop the madness,
I don't intend.
Family matters,
otherwise, do not pretend.

Try you may to stop the fight,
memorial bells will still ring.
She who has waited will end the fight.
Your job to ensure she does what's right.

Author's Note

An old Discord riddle I wrote a while back. I hope it holds up better than most of my writing from ten months ago. Nightsong and Sweet Tooth were supposed to solve it.

Who We Are

Who are we, so tired and lost, that we must ask another for our identity?
How did we come to this, in a cold and quiet alley, waiting for an answer?
But how would the other know who we are before us?
We are beggars, orphans, youngsters and homeless.
We walk and wander through the streets, endless.
We are wealthy, greedy, dangerous and restless.
We take for what we wish, and ignore that which we have.
We are quiet, calm, collected and pious.
We preach and we pledge to that which we cannot see.
We are explorers, conquerors, empresses and kings.
We are prepared to borrow, maraude, enslave and slaughter.
We are philosophers, engineers, astronomers and scholars.
We are willing to learn, debate, research and discuss.
Who is to tell us who we are, but us?

The Rose's Fault

Do you fault the rose,

So fragile, and colorful,

For its razor thorns?

To another, this question seems trivial, meaningless, and obvious. To me, it must mean everything. This was a thought, built over months, in the back of my mind, where Chrysanthemum works her subtleties behind it all, producing single thoughts once or twice a month.

Many of her questions go answered with ease, but then something like this comes along, and I cannot decide for the life of me which of us is crazier.

Perhaps the meaning is obvious, purely literal, and without any further meaning than asking if I like specific flowers. But, knowing as much as I do about her, she would not spend her one monthly letter asking me if I like roses.

But I cannot provide a proper answer without being informed. But I can't ask her another question.

Our system of communication is like that of two pen pals, but letters can only be sent by boat, downstream.

So I ask you, "Do you fault the rose for its thorns?"

Author's Note

That isn't a rhetorical question.

How Changelings Love

The notions upon which you have been raised may be true, or they may not be. Perhaps you will find a different set of values, and they will become your reality. We cast aside beliefs and practices all the time, but we cannot live without them.

My struggle to understand love is not quite the same as yours. As an unspoken rule, normal ponies seem to understand love better than I. I am not as confused as my friend Kuno, but I can relate to her struggles.

I'd tried to avoid romantic love, dodging tough questions and pretending that I didn't even find people worth liking. I am still not physically attracted to the people around me, and I doubt that I ever will drop my asexuality. I don't find ponies physically appealing. I don't have to worry about hate directed at my orientation, because it just means that I'd be happy to grow old and die alone.

While I do have a significant other, it is a purely romantic attraction. I have no desires towards ponies, but I love her more than anything in the world.

She is my world, more than the stars in the night sky, and more than I can ever truly tell her, but I can always try, so I say, "I love you."

How Changelings Live

Hello to the poor souls of the lost, the fallen of us, and the tired ones who had suffered to ensure our existence.

Thank you to the nameless ones, who were burned, whipped, starved, all for being different.

Fare well to the old, who had been punished for simply existing as themselves.

Hello to the new, the hatchlings and the foals, the children of the bold, who had lost all for them.
Pardon me for my habits, pardon you for your ways.
Let's get on with this and that. Nowadays
we cannot bicker any longer for who's wrong or right.
But for those who were wronged, let us show the light.
How can you not care? Have you no sense of sight?
Nopony cared for us, but declared, "Creatures of the night!"

I do not hold that sort of regret,

for I am a changeling, and shall not forget

the wrongs and attrocities commited upon

the same peoples to whom you belong.

For get not the answer until the question is known

and cast away history, to go make your own.
Do you not understand the world of hurt
that you did inflict upon those of a different sort?
Challenges placed upon our backs,
that we could not answer, for words we lacked.
But now, a voice I do possess,
and with it I shall make you recall
the good in us that you have lost,
the faults that made you fall.

Cower not before us, oh, lost one,

but take our hands for help,

and let us show you, hope is not gone

all brought upon you by a whelp.
A vile monster I am not,
for I have hope that all will hold
a single strand of perfect gold,
and hand in hand, we will decide,
that all are good on the inside.

And call upon the many of the lost,

to take for us this one last cost,

that you were wrong, and past is past,

for I am a changeling, proud at last.

Dear Writers (of MLP)

Dearest Writers,
Thank you for throwing your hats in the ring with this amazing show,
for all the memes and references we've come to know,
that we've continued to drive into the ground at your expense.
But I promise that from all of us, we send our compliments.
And sure, some episodes were not your best,
but we all have our bad days, and tactical missteps.
And with each score, we all adore,
that one show worth fighting for.
With every story we wait and smile,
we laugh and say, "See you in a while."
When it's all done, and while not everyone agrees,
we've all had fun, so what's next, please?
Thank you for your silly charm,
and this fanbase that meets with open arms.
Sure, we have our flaws, our misunderstandings, and our angst
but we also have our greatest thing, that unity the show does bring.

Author's Note

Sorry the last part doesn't rhyme. I know that none of the staff will see this, but it's worth remembering what makes this world great in such a time as this, and the show has been, for a whole year now, making me laugh, cringe, and smile. If that isn't something great, then nothing is.

How Love Works

Author's Note

This is a complementary poem to my story of the same title.

How Love Works

How love works its silly ways, weaving its tales and spinning its gears. It sings to us, the finest music to our ears.
Like a grand clock, it creaks and clicks, turns and ticks.
When it has reached the end of its story, of this day, it is wound again by all of us, to tell such tales to the newer age.
Every generation, every people, will see the same stories of love, told as vigorously as if they are the first to hear it.
History tells us the same woes, epics, and dramas.
We laugh and smile. We cry and dream.
We all let love sing the same lullabies and hymns again and again. We all know that it will sing, for another day brings new dawn, life, life that will listen.
It brings new minds, all of which will be taken with the stories. We are people, made of subtly, born of passion, and wanting glories.
We are creatures awash in infinite complexity, and for that we are cursed, if uniqueness is a necessity.
Can not we try, though we will fail, to learn one another, despite such ail?
We are young, and still imperfect. But we are bold. We are afraid of being different. And we are old.
We love one another until the sun sets, and all are left to hold our regrets.
Alone we must die, but not without a single thought; that we have loved, and that means a lot.

To Be

Pride is for the good, and the glee for those who receive help.
Power is for the honest, and the home is for the family.
Hope is for the dreamer, and the joy for the innocent.
Knowledge is for the curious, and fame for the kind.
Fortune is for the worker, who never stops working.
Life is for the pony, changeling, griffon, diamond dog, zebra, dragon.
Love is for all, the world is its home, and Life is its parent.
We are its slave, for we must love, or we must die.
One must love, even if only a small bit, or a small thing.
If one does not love, one does not live.
If one does not live, one wants life, and hence, loves.
But, mistakes are made, and loving dead cannot live again.
Do love, for without Love, life is gone.
With no Love, but life still persisting, can more life be made, lest they be missing?
Who is this Love, for whom we all are slaves?
To Life, we are children, the still growing kind, who watch and play and dance with Love.
All while Life watches, smiling from above.

However Lost

However lost a pony is, I will help them.

Perhaps you misshear what others say, for challenging goodness is up to them, but was I there when you met them?

And was it my fault for your belief, or that of yours to be so brief?

I see not a house of lies, but one cut by more divides. Do not harm those who wish, for only a simple dream of this.

Not one, not two, not three, but all are at fault, for these lies of me.

I am no mystery to be untangled, but your eyes are foggy and very mangled.

Tell me not who I shall be, for being flawed is what you see.

I am not a fading cardboard cutout of your mind, but a cross section of things behind.

None of us are truly bad, but all have minds to be bettered. And binded to ourselves we always are, for I am not a smudge of tar upon the world to be wiped away. You are lying, but not to me, for you tell yourself that I'm not here to see.

I am alive, awake and sound of mind. I am no wolf to you, but a helpless sheep, nor am I.

We are stuck, amid this world we are a husk, to be carefully cut into a shape, of those pipes they do still make.

I will not be carved away, lest hope and faith of mine be led astray. I will not allow my mind to lay, upon the bed of final day.

We will not submit, not to the endless torrent, nor to those who tell us to die,

I will do what I have always done, in the face of insults, pestering, and exclusion,

I will continue to walk. I will walk with more pride than I ever have, for I am willing to admit when I am in the wrong, and I can see myself for the proud continuation of my legend.

I am a changeling, and here I'll stay.