Soap Box asked if we could have some sort of practice/dry run, and I think that's a good idea. It'll help to iron out any wrinkles with the setup, as well as giving those who are new to the flashfic game a place to get used to how these things work. In short, the idea is to write a very short piece of MLP fiction (no longer than 150 words) inspired by the prompt given. As with all Flashfic 150 contests, participation is entirely optional.

Here are the full rules; the main ones also apply in this thread: 150 word maximum, no crossovers (except EqG), nothing above Teen rating, etc. However, for this practice thread only there are a few changes:

1) You may post as many fics as you like, so feel free to experiment. Poetry, odd layouts, whatever.
2) This is a non-competitive thread, and as such there will be no formal judging or winner.
3) There is no deadline. This thread will stay open, to allow future members the same opportunity.
4) Leading on from the above, anyone may request or offer feedback at any time.

Prompt: Waiting Time
Maximum 150 words

Edit: Please post your fics as comments in this thread. t makes things much easier.

Carry on!

5838381 One question before I post what I wrote, how should I present it? I mean, Gdocs, link to something here, write it out in the comments?

Edit: Twas write out in comments. Therefore, have at thee! Slight formatting change to save space:

I am waiting.
Can it be time?
No, it is not time, I must wait longer.
I have been waiting for years upon years.
I am no longer sure what to do.
All I have left are my thoughts.
Such lonely thoughts.
Sometimes they speak to me, those thoughts. I know because I can hear them. The voices in my head. But they never tell me just what they mean.
I wish they would speak clearly, those little thoughts. Those betrayers, those worms. They tell me to have hope one moment, and that I am forgotten the next.
Stupid thoughts. I want them out of my head!
But no, I must wait with them. They are my only company in this void of waiting. This vacuum of wanting.
I must wait longer. Wait for someone to open the door and invite me to leave. To leave these thoughts behind.
Soon.

5838467 Write it out in the comments. It's the way many other flashfic contests have done it. Good question, though! I'll add it to the rules.

Sprout focused, listening intently to her headphones.

Please, she thought, don’t be another stallion ogling butts.

Her prayer was answered: the mental voice of her favorite pony, Libra, filled her ears. Sprout put her quill to paper and transcribed Libra’s thoughts.

Libra was in her dentist’s waiting room. As was her custom in times like this, she thought about The Novel. It was vivid in her mind: the mystery, the thrilling chases, the sexual tension. Surely it would be a best-seller …

The reverie ended as she was called into the office.

Sprout set the form aside for filing. Perhaps Libra really would write The Novel someday. Perhaps not. Either way, there would always be a piecemeal version recorded here, in the archives of the Bureau Of Musings By Waiting Ponies.

The thought made Sprout smile, as she herself waited for the next transmission.

'kay, my first ever piece of flash fiction and -wow-. That was hard. Er. Sorry for terribleness?

The season, contrary to most ponies opinions, were not a thing that could be rushed.

Forecast leaned close, peering through glass that was starting to ice over. Every now and again the beaker would glow, lit by a tiny bolt of lightning.

Thundersnow, she thought. That was a rare vintage. She made a note of the flask number of her notepad.

Layponies called this a weather factor, but that wasn't quite right. Pegasi could whip up a cloud in a snap, but it wouldn't last any longer than a couple of hours. To make a season required diligence and careful measuring. It was less a factory, and more like a distillery.

Forecast looked down the hall, at the snow storms and snow showers and foggy mornings and evening mists and icicles and snowflakes. She loved brewing winter. Only two hundred forty three days to go. She could hardly wait.

5838381

Okay, here we go. One 137 word Flash story based on the prompt.

There were worse things than this, Flash Sentry reminded himself. Money is money, and he certainly needed it after what had happened. And it wasn't like anywhere in Canterlot would be willing to hire him now. Still...

He couldn't drag this out any longer, though. His new boss was glancing in his direction and tapping one hoof impatiently. He slung on the apron and trotted over to the nearest table.

"My name is Flash Sentry, and I'll be your server. What can I do for you?"

"Blueberry waffles!"

He wrote it down on his pad.

"And to drink?"

At least this should be a simple order.

"Orange juice! And the hashbrowns, a small fruit salad, some rolls..."

Flash sighed and kept writing as the customer went on and on. It was going to be a long day.

--Sweetie Belle

5846547

I'm glad I avoided that joke now

5846547
Why is it that I and at that...

5846547 There's always one.

5846713
5846994
5846809

I couldn't resist, and waiter!Flash Sentry seemed like fun.

--Sweetie Belle

5838381

Just a more serious one, since we can have more than one entry in this thread. It should be exactly 150 words.

He stood there, at the end. The wind whipped at his beard as the ticks of his watch slowed. Hoofsteps came from behind. He knew who it must be.

"Your majesty?"

And she was there next to him, aged but still regal, even with nothing left to reign over.

"It is time?"

He nodded at the watch. "Almost."

"It was a good world, wasn't it? I did as best I could."

"It was a universe, like any, with a beginning and an end. Everything must eventually pass."

"So many good places, good times, good ponies, and now it's down to just this. And my sister—"

The sand blew more fiercely.

"Yes, there were good times, but to have them, there must be this, to complete things. It's almost done."

"One last time?"

He nodded.

As the watch ground to a halt, she lowered the sun, for the last time ever.

--Sweetie Belle

5838381

Well, any excuse for a flashfic attempt. Admittedly, the waiting theme doesn't feature until the end, but it is a major plot point (insofar as 150 words can be said to contain a plot), and I think it works on its own. Here goes:

Lyra: born to play music. Unfortunately, on a potato farm.

Her parents promised she’d be a cultured lady playing the harp, if she wanted. They farmed together, scrimping, saving. Until eventually, unbelievably, wonderfully, Lyra reached Celestia’s School. Canterlot!

She was OK at music, but treasured the harp. The angel’s instrument. Unwisely, she told a more classically trained student.

A harp! An idle fashionista’s prop! No serious musician would treasure it. No one would compose for it. Its purpose: to look pretty and gather dust. Harpists were nothing.

Later, Lyra dropped out. Didn’t dare move to Canterlot, or return home in disgrace. She settled for some quiet town and hid away, busking. Good for nothing else.

Her parents tracked her down. Agreed to send letters and money. Their little angel merely had to wait for her big moment.

Among friendly strangers. Among appreciative regulars. Among praising friends.

Smiling.

She could wait.