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// Scene 1 
// Story: Mothers and Daughters 
// by Rekter 
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	She is often sitting upstairs, in her room, at times when she has to be at home, however she would rather be elsewhere. She is almost at the age of 16, though her breast size still humble, a mare’s mind indignantly captive in the frame of that of a child. I love to stroke her soft and fuzzy fur, but I do not dare to do such a thing. Just the other day, she came down with a case of the flu, and I gave her a gentle back massage to comfort her, as I did I marveled at her small and nimble body. 

She is so graceful, yet when she sleeps she sweats like a stone in the wall of a well. She strives for perfection. This is what makes her want to destroy us, for we are too fat, too jocular, too sloppy, to affectionate, too grotesque in our ways of unicornism. Her father smokes his pipe too much. Her younger brother chews with his mouth wide open, getting food all over his snout and mane. Her older sister puts on the most revealing and erotic of dresses to impress the stallions around Ponyville. 

Everyone in the house talks of nonsense. She would be a better mother than her mother, but time has tricked her, and made her a daughter. After an argument or fight, if she is not allowed to go out practice her flying techniques, she goes off into the corner of the house and sinks into the beanbag chair in an attitude of strange torpor. We overtire her without meaning to. 

She takes interest in the newspaper now, reading of races that will part take soon in celebration of the 1000st Summer Sun Celebration.