A valiant brony brought the gift of flashfics to an IRC channel. Here are some of one author's best.
Long long ago, a brave writer joined a pony IRC channel. He brought with him the gift of flashfics: stories to be written and edited in the span of thirty minutes, on predetermined, one-word prompts. They rarely reach a thousand words, if ever. The tales they tell, however, are just as great as any other.
Here are some of the more fruitful attempts of one particular author's work.
“You know, this is a pretty lame exercise. Like, it’s ungodly how unfair this is right now. I can’t think of anything to write about for these goddamn prompts of yours. They’re too vague, and every time I get an idea for them, it’s either horrible, not fitting, or something that I can’t word right.”
The teacher looks up from his desk, beady eyes poking into your soul as he slid his glasses down the bridge of his nose. To probe your brain for conformity, a thought springs up.
“Vague? Too vague for you? Would you prefer for me to come up to the board and tell you to write about ‘VERY LARGE PHALLIC OBJECTS THAT YOU LIKE TO HAVE IN AND AROUND YOUR MOUTH’?” he suddenly bursts out, as though possessed.
A student at the back of the class pipes up, “Why, that’s oddly specific. Any particular reason for that choice in subject matter?”
The teacher blushes—How in the hell does a wrinkly prune like him even blush, you think to yourself—rubs at a nonexistent stain on his green checkered sweater-vest, and looks back to the papers on his ever-cluttered desk.
The boy who spoken, a rather large African-Amercian teenager dressed in a basketball-themed hoodie, black gym shorts, and admittedly pretty damn stylish running shoes, snickers quietly, changes position a little in his slightly-too-small desk-chair hybrid, and begins to twirl his pencil absently as he looks up to the far corner of the room. Likely fantasizing about shooting some hoops and punching his black friends in the shoulder as they exchange random joking insults, you think.
Why do I always think of everything but writing at times like this, your brain quickly responds, and you grumble audibly. You choose to emulate the psuedo-gangster three rows down, and you let your eyes wander about the aging walls of the classroom.
“The night was... wet?”
“Fuck,” you think. Or, rather, inadvertently think aloud.
The scrawny green prune looks up at you again, this time with an air of condescension. “There’s no need for this sort of colourful language,” he says, sounding as though he should be wagging a finger at you while wearing a stern expression. You couldn’t care less, as it were, and just stared at your paper. “Maybe you should try and apply some of that language to your empty page,” he quickly adds.
Without looking up, or even missing a beat, you reply, “Maybe if there was some concept to apply it to, some shred of an idea that I could work with, instead of these stupid prompts.”
“The whole point of this writing thing is not to produce a story, but to work with your creative urges, and find a sense of calming peace as you write,” a soft voice proclaims from somewhere behind you. You turn around in your seat, to see that it’s the fourth person in the room, the quiet, shy girl who always hangs out with herself and wears dark clothing. “It’s not to produce a work of literature, really; it’s more to produce a sense of self.”
And what would you know, you’ve got too little self-esteem to even have any friends, anyway, you think, but say nothing.
“For example, look here: I’m writing about ponies. They make me feel good inside, so I write about them.”
The bell rang; I stepped up to the counter. My time to shine, bitches.
“The name’s Sharkpuncher. No, scratch that. Sharkfister. Yeah.” Now that’s badassery in a can.
“Sh-Shark... fister?”
“Yes, you heard correctly.” I put on my coolest-looking face, and smiled a carefully calculated, accidentally-on-purpose smile. “Sharkfister. Need me to spell it out?”
“Oh. Oh my. That’s...” The secretary pony at the counter looked on the verge of tears.
“That’s...?”
“That’s godly! ‘Sharkfister’ sounds like you could punch through a plane with your hoof by accident it’s wonderful and amazing and sexy and ohmygoshineedadrinkofwaterthistoomuch- excitementohmy...” The tears were flowing freely now, and she was trying to wave some cool air to her face before suffering a heat stroke.
I knew it was a sweet-ass name, but I didn’t think it would be this effective.
“NEXT PONY, PLEASE. QUICKLY NOW, I HAVEN’T ALL DAY.” I took this as my cue, and quickly ripped the printed ticket from behind the counter, peering over at the now-unconscious pony.
As I trotted up over and up onto the stage, the lights seemed blinding for a fleeting moment, and I almost lost my nerve right then and there. But then I thought back at all the ponies that helped me get this far.
My friends, Car-Crash-Man and StrawberryEater—Picnic Bundle and Twiddleflower, respectively, because those first ones weren’t really their names, just personas. For all the countless times that we were chillin’ out, maxin’, and relaxin’ all cool. For inspiring me to do this. I couldn’t let them down.
And my trainer. Called himself Brewski. Never knew why. Heh. Regardless, he taught me all I know. Invested all that time in me; I couldn’t let him down, that’s for sure.
And Orange Dole. Him I couldn’t disappoint, oh no. That wouldn’t do. He was special to me.
And Sour Grapes, and ol’ Scribe, and Miss Cheerilee, and my parents, and him, and her, and her too...
I could do this. Just gotta believe. I am Sharkfister. I am THE pony. I can do this.
I stepped onto the stage, with newfound vigour. The pony at the front of the seats called out to me, in a somewhat bored and preoccupied tone..
“So, next pony is...” He stopped, and rubbed his eyes with his hooves. A second time. He blinked, and stared. “Shark... fister?”
“Yes,” I responded through my orange shades, “who else could I be?”
He started to say something, but I cut him off, now on a roll. Getting into a groove, if you will. “Who the hell do you think I am? I am no mere contestant. I am a champion, waiting to try my hand at the game I know I will win!”
I began to pace on the stage, calling out, like a true orator would. “I am none other than Sharkfister!” A large gasp from the direction of the fourth wall, but I was unable to see where it came from, or how many had participated.
“I am here to win! My resolve is matched only by my skill!”
A triumphant song began to fade into my mind, matching my footfalls on the wooden boards.
“I am unmatched! I am undefeated! And I am in no state of mind to let that change tonight!”
There were cheers coming from somewhere. Maybe the back of my mind. Maybe from a crowd.
“No, seriously, Harpie, I’m trying to focus here.”
“Well... watcha doin’?”
“By Celestia! I told you, I’m trying to write some music here.”
“You don’t write music, silly! You, like, play it or something... Right?”
The image of Pinkie Pie floated into Lyra’s head, the similarities to Harpie’s facial features highlighting and stand out. She pushed the image out with as much force as her irritation bestowed. Not surprisingly, it wasn’t enough. It came back, like some sort of horrendous ghost.
See, Harpie and Pinkie did have some similarities, yes. They were both scatterbrained, and had blue and yellow in their cutie marks. But that’s really where it stopped. Whereas Pinkie possesses this almost lovable randomness that made you feel like you’re best friends, even if you only talk every now and then on your way to work, Harpie was just stupid.
Like, her harp was probably more intelligent. Heh, Lyra thinks, I wouldn’t even be surprised.
“Look, Harpie, here’s the deal.” Harpie turned her gaze from the ceiling over to Lyra, rolling back onto her belly to get a better view.
“Bonbon and I are having our anniversary soon, and I need to make her a present. Wi--”
“So why aren’t you gluing and pasting things together at the crafts center, then?” she interrupts, leaving Lyra’s mouth hanging in a sort of stupor and her hoof sort of hanging weakly in midair. “Like, I mean, that’s what I do, and everypony loves my presents. You should know, you love them too!”
Lyra sighs deeply, accepting that she wasn’t going to get any work done with her around.
“A gift doesn’t have to be something tangible, Harpie. It’s not restricted to something you can actually hand to the person, is what I mean. For example, a hug is a gift; you can’t actu--” You pause, realizing you can actually give a hug to someone, but not in the usual sense. “Okay, bad example.”
“...What does ‘tangible’ mean? Like, it sounds like ‘tentacle’, but you did it like an adjective, so I’m like, ‘huh, what is this, I don’t even,’ you know?”
“‘Tangible’ pretty much just means existing. An object is tangible if you can touch it with your hooves or see it and be able to physically measure things about it with tools.”
“So, like, the piece of paper you’re writing on is tangible, but the song you’re writing on it isn’t, right?”
Lyra blinked. That’s got to be the smartest thing she’s ever said, she thought. Slowly, not wanting to ruin the moment, Lyra responds with a careful ‘yes’.
She then decided to push her luck with Harpie. “Would... would you like to help me write it?”
“Sure!” she said as she got up and walked over to the table Lyra sat at. “Hey, what are all these lines, though? I thought you were writing music!”
“No, you’re supposed to put it in like THIS, and once you have it in the box THEN you can have the sorter start it up, NOT like you tried to do just NOW and...”
Patience was wearing thin, on both ends.
Ditzy Doo was not a clever pony, but she knew how to do what she was told. The head manager of the carrier company was a very meticulous pony, but was very vague with explanations: a combination that always had Ditzy on the receiving end of a condescending and oft-parroted lecture on how to perform the task at hand. Ironically enough, it was only then that Ditzy was actually able to get the full story on the matter, to be able to do the task proper.
“...and so you’re telling me you can’t handle a task as simple as that?! It’s not even that hard! IT GOES IN THE BOX FIRST, AND THEN OVER TO THE...”
But really, there was a point when it gets to be too much to bear: one shout too many, one insult too far. A wellspring of emotion, like a bed of kindle, ready to be lit. Each harsh word a stroke against a flintstone, threatening to set the mass ablaze.
“... and THAT’S how you do it! Do you hear me? Are you capable of understanding what I’m saying, now, for once, or are your ears just as messed as your eyes?”
The fire ignited.
“So you’re telling me that all of your problems are because I’m disabled? You hire me to effectively take advantage of the fact that I’m cheap labour that gets you government benefits, but have the GALL to blame me for it?!”
The manager jumped back, startled enough to release the magical grip on his pencil and clipboard. An expression of pure horrific shock adorned his face, as though Ditzy had grown another set of wings and brandished a cleaver.
“You can’t even tell me my job right! The only reason I end up doing it wrong is because YOU CAN’T EVEN EXPLAIN ANYTHING! You couldn’t tell someone to open a jar without an hour and a sem-ney-ar!
“Day in and day out, I come back to work because I need some extra bits to feed my daughter, only to face ever-growing piles of steaming, abusive MANURE—” the gruff manager jumped again, ruffling his hair and nearly making him trip over a length of cable on the ground, “—at the hooves of what has to be Equestria’s least competent employer in the history of WHENEVER!”
Ditzy began to advance on the larger pony, wing flaring menacingly, making him shy backwards and contorting his look of horror to one more reminiscent of fear.
“So you know what? You can take your filthy boxes, and your moon-destined sorting machine, and your pretentious aww-dut-ing clip board and shove them right down your muffin hole!”
“B-But—”
“NO!” Ditzy swiped an angry hoof at a pile of debris on a nearby table. “I QUIT! Take this as my RESIGNATION, you can of managerial hoof-polish!”
This elicited a whimper from the now nearly-crouching pony.
“You hear me? RE-SIG-NA-TION! OH, NEED ME TO SPELL IT OUT?! R-E-S-I-N-A-S-I-O-N!”
Ditzy turned on a hoof and made her way towards the exit, each step a crash against the ground or a kick of yet another pointless gadget of the multitude scattered on the floor.
She smashed the exit door open, knocking another workpony to the ground, scattering cardboard boxes full of wooden trinkets all over the dusty path outside. With a mighty leap, she launched into the sky and out of sight of the managerial colt, who was now scrambling to pick his jaw up off the floor.
Bells rang out in a cacophony of clanging inside her head. It was time for all-out panic attack, but it was the moment when a cool head would help the most.
And keeping a cool head was what Vinyl did best.
She had known that it was not going to be the most legal of rave parties, but Vinyl’s not one to turn down a chance to get a crowd pumping, regardless of age, species, or, in this case, legality.
She wasn’t even totally informed on why the guard was likely to bust the joint: the only thing she knew she had to do was split the moment they arrive. She was paid fully in advance for the gig, double the normal rate, so that was a pretty great incentive as well. And a weasel Vinyl was not. So she showed, and she played, and as expected, they arrived, with magically projected voices and stunners.
Vinyl ducked behind the stock decks that she was scratching on as soon as the windows in the auditorium smashed, instinctual training almost instantly taking the reins from irrational surprise and shocked bewilderment. Quickly, but with meticulous and practiced movements, she removed the current disc from the left turntable and slid it away to the hard case, closing the lid shut. The record on the right was her own, so she levitated it, packed it in her custom sport-saddlebag, and peeked out from behind the turntables.
The guards were advancing using a standard tactical maneuver, straight from the textbook. Exits that she could use lit up in her vision as she recalled the layout of the building. Sparing no more than a second to make a decision, she jumped behind a curtain on the stage and took off in a silent gallop that was no less second nature than jamming at her tables.
Turning corner after corner, making sure to stay out of site of the roaming recon teams, she made her way to a back door. Ducking into a side corridor to dodge a visual sweep by a guard at the end of the hall, she paused, and noticed her heart rate was unusually high. Her rate of breathing was tending to more of a pant than anything else. She sighed, and tried to calm down.
As the hooffalls started back up and then began to quiet, Vinyl peeked back out, the trained eyes behind her goggles making use of the now-active night-vision capabilities. No guards were in sight, so she tentatively slid out and continued towards her destination.
Turning the final corner, her intuition finally got through to her, and she slowed to glance out a window by the exit door. Chariots everywhere, magical sirens ablaze; a sweep of the door showed a hastily-applied Royal Standard alarm wire, likely designed to alert them of an attempted escape.
Looking around quickly for something—anything—to use to escape, Vinyl noticed something glowing brightly through the high windows in the room behind her. Her curiosity getting the better of her, she leapt up onto a high table to peek inside.
Even from what little information had registered in her head from her glance into the windows, she knew that this was not just an ordinary growth op or underground market site. This was BIG. She had to get out, now, and silently retreat into the night. Hell, screw silently, she could outrun the guards. She just had to not get caught. Not here.
Quickly levitating a metallic folding chair, she whipped it at the window beside the exit with ferocious speed, and leapt out as soon as was possible, not even caring for the large, bloody gash on her hindleg, that she just acquired from the jagged remnants of glass.
The branch snapped, a mighty, resounding crack echoing with a volume beyond normal.
Time slowed down. Every moment felt about the length of a minute. Minuscule details, like the gathered morning dew on a blade of grass below jumped out at me, embedding themselves into my memory during this state of hyperawareness.
The binoculars, cheap ones that had been produced in New Colt City—New Colt City, of all places!—slipped from my magical grasp, spinning slowly in mid-air as my hooves flailed around like wet socks.
The sudden disappearance of footing set me off balance, and I tilted even further forward, to the point where my head was beneath my hindlegs. A witness to event later claimed that my eyes had bulged out at this moment in an almost comical expression, and given the way I felt at the time, I had every reason to believe them.
I tumbled forward, and the contents of my saddlebags achieve temporary weightlessness due to the sudden downward acceleration. I would later note finding items as far as ten meters away, if this gives you any sense of the heights I’m talking about.
The sense of falling in mid-air, looking back, was both terrifying and somehow beautiful at the same time. It was a wonderfully terrifying—a terrifyingly wonderful— experience. I suppose this is what pegasi feel like, gliding about in the air, only more prolonged. The wind in their faces, the bits of clouds dispersing as you popped through one of them.
The panic as you tense up, just before hitting the ground. That last one I was no stranger to.
Managing to do half of a front-flip, I landed on my flank, in a very awkward pose. My ears were ringing right about now, so I couldn’t hear a snap, and I don’t think I felt one, but I couldn’t be sure. Since I had fallen a little forward as well as down, and onto a slanted hill, my top half proceeded to whip forwards and down, my neck making contact with the ground again. This ever-present momentum lifted my hindlegs, followed by the rest of my body, upwards and over my head, pressing my neck into an admittedly very awkward pose.
This continued for another one or two (I’m no longer sure of the number) “flips” before i settled into an awkward roll down the rest of the hill. Directed straight at the picnicking couple below. The one I was spying on.
A piece of cold toast, spread with jam, stuck to my face. My left hindhoof landed in the dressing, and the pile of hay got into my mane. Two shocked ponies leapt up, one yelling, the other gasping. When my momentum finally faded and I settled down with all four of my legs spread out, I heard the voice of the stallion, faded, as though distant. “...inoculars? Wha... ...s that all ab...”
Just before I lost consciousness, I heard the cynical voice in my head, crystal-clear.
Real subtle job, there, pal. Real subtle.
I gave into my aching body’s cry for relief, and blacked out.
“Wait, what did you say was in here?” Dash asked, noting something not right with the taste.
Pinkie Pie laughed her unmistakable giggle, and began listing things. “Oh, well, there’s tomato juice, and some celery, and some carrot juice, and some flower petals—for the taste—some alcohol, rohyphenol*, tea leaves...” She broke off, putting her hoof to her chin as her gaze turned upward. “And something else. The gruff pony called ‘el-ess-dee’, which was kind of funny, because I knew a pony whose named was Yooess Dee, so it was like that one time that we went waterboarding with that gol—”
She was abruptly cut off as Rainbow Dash fell onto her with a crooked smile and an inebriated giggle, before rolling over and landing on the ground with a thud.
* * *
When Rainbow Dash hazily came to, she found the sky to be a pale vomit-green, adorned with clouds with hints of pink. This was not entirely disconcerting, for some odd reason, but still something to note.
She got up and looked around and saw a bright yellow barn with purple siding just a stone’s buck away. A short fence ran around the area, and some small plant fields stood in front of a deep nay blue backdrop of bulbous, yet regular, growths. They were on bright red stalks, and had olive green specks on them, and the word ‘tree’ came to mind.
Pondering what this could mean, Dash tiptoed around, hoping for another clue. Finally, coming around the other side of the enormous yellow building, she saw a large, olive green sign that said something about sweets and acres.
Suddenly, a voice called out, simultaneously sweetly and tauntingly, “Oh, Daaash~!” Rainbow Dash turned to see a bright read pony, wearing a pastel blue hat not unlike Applejack’s. The mane and tail were turquoise, but braided into a style that also reminded her of her longtime rival.
“It’s me, Rainbow~!”
Familiar still was the voice, though it had taken on a tone Dash had not heard yet. She turned, slowly, the other direction, only to find that same pony’s rump pointed right up at her face.
She heard the words, “You know you want me, Dashie~,” and she suddenly found the name for that tone. Seductive.
“Oh my Celestia what are you doing!” Dash managed, kicking her forelegs out and stumbling back, falling into the arms of another pony. Another ‘Applejack’.
She let out a yell and took off into the sky, launching for the nearest cloud. Instead of popping through it with a poof, it seemed to be completely solid, and Rainbow Dash had crashed into it headfirst.
Rainbow plummeted downwards, the ground jumping up to meet her.
* * *
But it never came. She fell into the hooves of a normal coloured Pinkie Pie, in a normal coloured world.
Pinkie raised a hoof to her lips and said, in a deep voice, “IT’S A SECRET TO EVERYPONY.”