Behind him, he had his past nipping at his heels, driving him forward at a breakneck pace, and stretched before him was his future, the great unknown. Not just his future, no, his daughter’s future. Buttermilk’s future. Everything hinged on this moment. What sort of pony was he? The sort that pulled through in a pinch, or a failure? This wasn’t about winning, but providing.

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The air reeked of vinegar, dill, but the other faint aromas were lost to the scent of brine. A pickle eating contest was soon to begin and registration was still open. Registration cost a few bits—a pittance, really—and all of the money collected went towards charitable causes. Sniffing, Copperquick looked down at Buttermilk beside him, and realised that he very much wanted to watch her eat pickles.

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Copperquick awoke to a punch in the snoot followed by a demanding, “Foosh.” This sort of awakening fell well outside of the boundaries of normal, and because of this, it took his sleepy brain some time to process and determine exactly what had just happened. He never reached his conclusion though, because there was another punch, a harder one this time, and then came the command again, only angry: “Foosh!”

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Teatime was a ritual that summoned the fine spirit of calm. On the floor, a fat, lazy foal was a fuzzy, sleepy lump with her legs all askew while she slowly succumbed to the siren’s song of slumber. Hovering near the stove, a small, slight pegasus that was fresh out of the shower appeared pensive, her wings buzzing like some industrious, but inattentive bumblebee. She watched the teakettle, this pegasus, thus challenging the long-held notion that it would refuse to boil beneath these

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Copperquick was watching. Copperquick was watching and Buttermilk revelled in having captured his attention with such a mundane task. Never believing herself to be a looker or a pony of great beauty, Buttermilk was almost intoxicated with the very notion that Copperquick was watching and she allowed herself to explore every new sensation for being an object of adoration.

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Allow me to demonstrate.

Kids, don't try this at home, I am a professional.

Copperquick’s ears perked at the sound of Buttermilk’s voice because her mood had changed—again. “Mister Orange, I don’t want to hijack your project, but I had an idea on finishing this piece. A lot of negativity has been brought up… I thought maybe we’d end on a more positive note.”

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So, I have decided to spill the beans.
Butter Fudge's reaction to Seville's arrival has a deep and profound meaning, but I debated on whether or not to share it.
What it boils down to, more or less, is public perception. She is all too aware that the community watches everything that goes on, and gossips, because she does it too.
She knows how vicious some ponies can be because she is one of them.
And Seville, being a male, arrived when her husband was away.

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Spring Broke was delayed due to some rather upsetting (to me) content. I agonised over how to write it, and in the end, I chickened out. The current chapter was fleshed out to full chapter size, without the upsetting content. The next chapter will be dealing with it. This makes the story a little longer, which concerns me, but it also fleshes the story out, I feel, which makes it better.

An old friend from other stories has shown up in Spring Broke. Guess who?

Buttermilk’s every touch was electric and Copperquick was almost drunk on love. After the visit to the Faucet, something was different with himself, but he was unable to determine what it was. Now, it was almost as if he was floating, as if his body was a balloon, and he wasn’t careful, he would do like the water dripping from the faucet did: fall upwards into the sky, never to be seen again.

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When Buttermilk returned home, she found Copperquick asleep on the kitchen floor, and some kind pony had covered him with a blanket. Esmeralda was awake—though she was struggling—and her father had one foreleg wrapped around her. Buttermilk could see the foal looking at her with pleading eyes and inches away on the floor, out of reach, was her pacifier.

Sometimes, life was tragedy.

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As the big mare strode away, Copperquick’s eyes fell upon Esmeralda, and in much the same way that he had seen Buttermilk in a new light, he now studied his daughter. She too, was a vessel of hopes and dreams, his hopes and dreams, but what hopes and dreams did he have? He didn’t know. Esmeralda was his gift to the future, his time traveller that would brave an uncertain future that he might not see. Within an eyeblink, Esmeralda became infinitely precious to him, a fragile, wonderful,

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“Esme, you’re killing me,” Copperquick said to his daughter, sighing out the words. “It’s almost midnight and you’re not showing any signs of being sleepy. I have schoolwork I need to do and I didn’t get anything done today. Why can’t you be sleepy?” Reaching out with his hoof, he poked her right in the pudge and got an indignant glare in response.

“Nyuh!” she whined as she waved her front legs about and her face became stormy.

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Love. Perhaps of all of life’s great mysteries, love was the greatest. It had been lust, not love, that had been the force of creation for Esmeralda Verde. His fling with Cielo del Este was just that, a fling, a conquest, a meaningless act done to satisfy juvenile pride. It was the worst sort of sex, done for the worst sort of reasons, and while it had felt good at the time, it was ultimately unfulfilling—unrewarding beyond the sense of conquest.

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Esmeralda had this to say: “Foosh.” She delivered this statement with as much aplomb as she could muster, still looking rather distraught, but there was something else in her eyes that could only be described as devious intelligence. She was, as her father was quick to point out, a manipulator, and she knew how to get her father’s attention.

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Ripple Rusher was not at all as Buttermilk Oddbody remembered her and the young mare standing on the skiff having a break appeared as though she had aged far more than the years that had passed by since seeing her last suggested. Three foals huddled together in a small pen near the rudder, with the oldest being a well-developed yearling and the youngest looking very much like an infant.

“Ripple Rusher, it’s me… Buttermilk.”

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TSpring Broke

• MLP: FiM
• Romance
• Drama
• Slice of Life

Copperquick is broke, flat broke, but he's got seven free days.

• Sex
• OC

kudzuhaiku · 109k words  ·  297  21 · 2.5k views

Also, this paragraph somehow wrote itself. I don't know how these things happen. It is entirely too silly.

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