Little Talks
Little Talks
Written by BronyDerp117
Preread by Zonfic and SilverDream
"How d'ya like your eggs, kid?" I asked her with my thick country accent. I was standin' behind the old and rotted wooden counter that separated the kitchen and living room in the worn down little shack I liked to call home. The kid was jus' sittin' at the kitchen table, watchin' every move I made like she was some dog watchin' her master grab a bag'a treats or somethin'. I didn't mind it. I kinda liked it, really. Reminded me of my little Hummingbird.
"Is scrambled okay?"
"Scrambled it is." I gave her a wrinkly smile—well, if she could even see it past my big ol' beard. My wife woulda killed me if she saw I let my beard grow out this much. Anyway, I turned back around and grabbed a rusty pan out of the dull and ancient wooden cupboard above me. It squeaked as I opened an' closed it. I let out a grunt as I picked up the cast iron pan with my mouth and set it down on top of the stove. My ol' neck and my ol' back made all kinds of poppin' sounds like I was a popcorn heap in a kettle. Or microwave. Whatever they use nowadays. I turned on the stove and cooked some eggs. Jus' about the only thing I know how to cook. I ain't complainin' though; it's food, it tastes good, and it makes me feel good. Jus' about all I can ask for at my age. I put a little under half of the scrambled eggs on my plate and the remainin' amount on the plate I got for the kid. First time in—what?—thirty years I got out more than one plate. I picked up the plates with my faded magic and walked over to the kid at the table. It looked like everything else in this little house: wooden, boring, old, and dark. Jus' the way I like it. I set down her plate with a little grunt 'fore I sat down at my chair opposite of the kid. My ol' withered joints screamed at me as I sat down in that chair. It was like a symphony of poppin'.
The kid thanked me an' started eatin'. Boy, could that kid eat! She musta been pretty darn hungry. Either that, or she was just a teenager that looked younger than she was. The sight actually got me to smile more than my normal thin upward line. I picked up a fork in my magic an' took a bite of my eggs and chewed it up slowly; I didn't have the jaw I used to have. I swallowed and looked up at the kid; she was already done and there I was, one bite in while she was already finished.
"You musta been mighty hungry, kid," I said to her as I took another bite.
"Um, yeah. But I feel better now."
"Good. That's good." She gave me a kinda funny look. Maybe it was my accent, or my beard, or my old wrinkly face, maybe even how slow I talked.
"So..." she said, trailin' off.
"So, you got a death wish or somethin', kid?"
She stood at the edge of the cliff. She didn't move a muscle. She just stared down the cliff face, not daring to step forward or step at all. She just stared. From the look in her eyes, I could tell she was thinking. I ain't never seen a filly think that hard before and since that moment. After a while, though, her face changed. It was like she got her solution. She took a step forward, but the rock was weak and crumbled under her...
"N-No!" she quickly rejected. She broke eye contact with me, lookin' to the right at the small room that was the entirety of my ol' shack. Ain't much of a sight; creaky, simple floorboards, an old ripped up green couch, some old windows, old walls, old roof, old ceiling, old this, old that, with some more old stuff. It was pretty dark in here, too, since I didn't own no lamps. The daylight was the light I got, an' it was overcast on this day. Gray light came filterin' through the nooks and cracks in the ceiling an' through the aged and rusted windows with dark spots on 'em. It's jus' your typical ol' wood cabin. Shack. Whatever.
"Only ponies with death wishes jump off cliffs, kid."
"I-I didn't jump!" she said real quick-like, her voice crackin' at the end. She had a pink blush on her already orange cheeks. Her eyes shifted over everythin' except mine. "I-I fell."
"A pony who's got the truth don't need no stutterin'. A pony tellin' a lie does, 'cause they got somethin' they don't like to cover up." I jus' sat in my chair and looked at her, giving her the same little smile I always had on my face. I never broke eye contact. Jus' what I was taught when I was young. Look me in the eye when ya'll talks to me, you little— And then my auntie would cut off my uncle right there.
"Well, I just—" She stopped and gave a little sigh of defeat. Slumped her little shoulders, too. I still jus' smiled at her. "So, um..."
"So, why'd ya feel the need to go an' jump off a cliff, kid?"
She fell through the air, the wind blowing back her mane and tail. In her eyes was a deep fear like no other; the fear that one has when one realizes they are about to have an untimely death; the 'I just made a huge mistake' factor. An ear-shattering, high-pitched scream came out of the filly, a scream so loud it didn't seem possible for somepony so small to be so loud. Of course I heard her; shoot, I could see her plummeting...
"I didn't mean—Er, I didn't want—" She gave another little sigh.
"Hmm?" I gave her the same smile. I think it was makin' her feel uncomfortable.
The kid shifted in her chair a bit. "Um, I just, er, um..."
"How about we start at me askin' 'why?'" I said.
"Why what?" she asked. She tilted her head a little. She jus' keeps remindin' me of my little Hummingbird.
"Why ya jumped? Maybe why ya wanted to end yourself. I know you kids seem to have a phobia of the word 'die' or somethin'."
"I don't wanna die!" she exclaimed. Even seemed honest. She had a none-too-happy frown, too. I could see past it, though. Twas her eyes. They were a dead giveaway. Ain't nopony got eyes like them without somethin' weighin' heavy on them. So dull, so bleak. Filly her age oughta have bright an' clear an' happy eyes.
"Hmph. Ya sure? You jumped—slipped, whatever—and you're a pegasus, little filly. I didn't see ya sprout out your wings an' take flight."
"Well, that's because, er, um... Well, why should I have to tell you? I don't know you. How can I trust you?" she asked in a harsh sort of tone.
I made my ol' smile grow a bit. "You can't. But I don't know you either, kid. Yet I caught ya, stopped you from killin' yourself—don't gimme that look—brought ya here instead of makin' ya wander out in the cold forest, and I fed ya. I don't know you. How can I trust you?"
Suddenly, the falling filly stopped. I entrapped her in a field of my withered magic. Took a lotta strength to catch a filly fallin' so fast. Kinda hurt, too. She kept screamin' even after I caught her. I drifted her over right in front of my face, smilin' at her with the same smile I always had. She realized she had stopped fallin', and she opened her eyes real slow-like.
"Howdy."
"Wh-Who are you?"
"Jus' some old stallion takin' a mornin' stroll."
"Well—! Um... I guess you can't." She hung her head low. Made me feel a little bad for the poor thing.
"Called common courtesy, kid. It's somethin' this world really lacks. Shame, too." I shook my head, still with my ol' bearded smile, of course.
"Yeah. I agree with you there."
"So ya do got some sense. Good. That's good. So, if you ain't got no death wishes, why'd ya go to that cliff?" I asked. I could tell she was keen on strayin' from that question for as long as she could. The little hope in her eyes had a little and unfortunate death, an' her shoulders slumped again. Made me feel bad. She shifted for a few seconds, opened and closed her little mouth a few times 'fore she finally spoke with her little voice.
"I was really desperate to fly," she admitted with a pink blush. She rubbed the back of her neck with her orange hooves. Kid's tomcolt-like purple mane was much too short to get in the way.
"Filly your age don't know how to fly?"
"Nope. I don't really have anypony to teach me. Well, I kinda do, but it's still really hard for me to. I thought... I thought that if I just jumped off a cliff my body would just, like, go into a panic and make me fly."
I chuckled. So naive. Reminded me of my little Hummingbird. "Nopony to teach you, hmm? No mamma or poppa?"
"My dad is in the Royal Guard in Canterlot and my mom died giving birth to me." I could feel the regret in her voice. Poor kid. Sounded sad. Guilty. I know the feelin'.
"Who d'ya live with, kid?"
"My uncle."
"Ah. Good ol' Uncle, eh?"
"Um, sure? He's nice when he notices I'm home."
I chuckled. I know this poor little filly. How she feels. How she hurts. I can't even remember what hurt feels like anymore. I've grown immune to it. After a life like mine, and when you get this old, you learn to jus' not care. I looked the filly in the eyes and jus' continued my little smile.
"So why was you so determined to go flyin'?"
She traced her little orange hooves along the creases in the wooden boards of the ol' table we were still sittin' at. She kept swishin' her tail back-and-forth, real uncomfortable-like.
"I thought it could be my cutie mark. See, my friends and I have a club devoted to discovering our cutie marks; it's like a mission! I just... I thought this would finally be it. I rode my scooter all the way out here because I thought I could finally get my cutie mark." She stopped and hung her head real low with her chin actually touchin' down at the edge, looking down at the table. "I was really wrong. And... maybe I didn't really care if it worked or not."
"So ya do got a death wish, kid?" I asked.
"No!" she protested real quick, nervously runnin' her hooves through the creases in the old table. She jus' looked at her small hooves move, her eyes a little dimmer; her eyes a little sadder. Like some kinda fire of hope in her eyes got stomped out. But it's better than a wildfire, I'd say. "I mean—I dunno. I love my friends, my uncle's okay, I'm not bullied too bad. It's just..."
I jus' smiled at her. She looked up at me. My smile was peakin' through my ol' beard, my eyes soft and heartfelt behind the wrinkles around 'em. I knew how that filly felt. And I knew that all she needed was to get it off her chest. If she stopped bein' so stubborn like my Hummingbird, she'd feel better. But I jus' smiled and gave her a little nod to go on. "I'm jus' an old stallion who ain't got much left, kid. Ya'll can feel free to tell me anythin' ya want."
Kid gave me a slight nod. Some silence passed between us. She looked down at her orange hooves as they ran along the creases of the rotted wood of the table. The filly got the same look of thinkin' that she got at that cliff face. She furrowed her brow, blinkin' a little oddly an' takin' forced breaths. After some time, she finally got her words out of her head.
"I dunno. I have good friends, but we've been arguing a lot lately. My uncle's nice, but he doesn't really pay much attention to me. I get bullied in school, but so do my friends and we deal with it together. I just... I wanna live, I do! But..." Kid trailed off again. Little filly was tryin' to put her words together right. I understood. I jus' waited for her to piece it together. "Sometimes I just don't care, I guess. My friends and I had a really bad argument this morning, and my uncle didn't even say 'hi' to me today. I guess I just had a bad day."
"You wanna know what I think, kid?"
"Sure."
"I think ya care too much. Don't get me wrong, it's important to care, but ya can't let life get ya down so much. Friends are gonna argue; it's jus' a part of strengthenin' and seein' who your actual friends are. An' I don't know your uncle, but he could jus' be waitin' for you to talk. He might think you're gettin' into some kinda 'I don't need no guardian' phase."
"I guess I never thought of it like that before..."
"Maybe ya should start." I widened my smile and chuckled. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to laugh at ya. Ya just remind me of somepony."
That perked her up right quick. You can only talk to a filly about serious stuff for so long before they run outta things to say.
"Really? Who?"
"My little Hummingbird."
"Your little what?" she asked with a frown as she tilted her head to the side in confusion. Looked adorable. I couldn't help but make my ol' smile bigger.
"My daughter." I looked past the kid to the shelf behind her on the dull wall where a few dusty ol' black and white pictures were. It was a picture of my little Hummingbird, my sister, and myself. It was real strange lookin' at myself an' not seein' a thick Santa Claus-like beard.
"You have a daughter?" she asked. She began lookin' around the room like she was expectin' a small filly to come boltin' through the room.
"Used to. Used to have a wife, too," I said. I pointed to the picture behind the kid. She twisted her little back around to look at the picture. She sorta cooed at it. Then the kid turned back to me.
"What happened to them?" she asked, looking at me again.
"That mare there in the picture ain't my wife. She's my sister. My sister passed a few years back. My wife died givin' birth to my little Hummingbird," I said real stale-like. I don't feel too much hurt from that no more. When you get to my age, you sorta just grow stale to it. Immune. The filly sure wasn't, though. Her little eyes bulged and widened. I could almost pop them with a pin.
"Oh... I'm so sorry." Been a long time since I've received pity. Sympathy. It's why I moved out here in the middle of the forest: ain't nopony here to give me sympathy.
"That was around thirty years ago, kid. I've grown immune to the wounds."
"Oh..."
I chuckled. "You know who you remind me of?"
"You said your daughter."
"Yeah, and my daughter reminded me of myself." I still smiled at her.
"Really?" Her eyes showed honest curiosity. Don't see much of that these days whenever I visit town.
"Yup. Growin' up, I wasn't no rich pony. I didn't get no education, no money, no nothin'. My dad was an ex-soldier alcoholic and my mom died giving birth to my younger sister."
"Oh. Well, I don't think we're that much alike then. My life isn't really that hard. Just... a little hurtful, I guess."
"My life wasn't hard, kid. I grew up happy. My dad was the funny type'a drunk. He'd always have us—me, my sister, my aunt and uncle—laughin' our tails off. We preferred him drunk over sober. Old coot was boring sober. Though it did shorten his life by a lot. And I remember, when I was young and without a cutie mark, my head was always up in the clouds. I was always rushin' around, doing all kinds of reckless and stupid stuff."
"Hey, it's not stupid!"
"Let me ask you something, kid. When was the last time you just sat back and relaxed? Observed ponies as they walked by? Listened? Learned? When was the last time you stopped, breathed, and jus' went to the park in Ponyville and jus' sat there and watched?" I asked. She looked at me like I was some loony pony in a mental hospital at first. But then she stopped and seemed to actually put in some thought. It was a nice sight. She went back to them dim eyes and furrowed brow again.
"Well, never."
"And you wonder why you don't have your cutie mark. I was jus' like you. Then my pop died, and I was forced to stop. Jus' stop. Think. Breathe. Cry a little, too. It was when my pop died I realized jus' who I was. I spent all my time runnin' around, wastin' time when I coulda been home, hangin' with my pop." She looked down as I talked. I think I hit pretty darn close to home with the look she had. I could feel and smell the regret in the air like it was some type of perfume.
"So, what was your special talent?"
"Scooterin'."
"Wh-What?!" I ain't never seen a more surprised filly than her at that moment.
"I was amazin' on my little scooter. I could pull off tricks other scooter riders couldn't even dream of. It was amazin'. I even went on to be a pro." Ah, the golden days. Me an' my daughter, travelin' around, enjoyin' life. Such a perfect little dream.
"I-I have a scooter, too! Ponies say I'm real good on it. Hey, if you were a pro, why haven't I heard of you?"
"Look at me, kid," I began, still with my little smile, "I'm old. Withered. When I was young, scooterin' was brand new. Unpopular. But it still paid, and a lot too. You know, if a lotta ponies tell ya somethin', it might be true. But it depends."
"On what?" she asked me. She was leanin' forward now. Made me chuckle, how much attention she was givin' me.
"You trust the word of those ponies? Depend on them to be honest?"
"Most of them, yes."
"Then when you leave, go to the park. Sit. Breathe. Relax. You might jus' walk away with a fresh cutie mark."
"You think so?!" Her face lit up like a Hearth's Warming tree.
"If ya stop and think for a sec'. I'm warnin' ya though, scooterin' your whole life will get ya to have old joints that creak like mine." I smiled at her with the same smile.
"Oh, thank you, thank you!" She zipped over to me like a fly and gave me one tight hug. I let out an "Oof!" from the force of that kid's little arms.
I chuckled and patted her back. "Easy there, you're gonna pop me." She giggled and went back to her old, dull and noisy chair. Some silence slipped between us. I jus' smiled. She smiled back. Was real peaceful-like. I actually felt good. Rare for me. Was nice to have somepony to talk to again.
"Um, Mister? You never told me what happened to your daughter."
For the first time in, oh, twenty years, my heart skipped a beat. I was still immune to the hurt, stale to it, but it did catch me off-guard. I took a deep breath and let out an elderly sigh, the kind a pony's grandpa makes when asked about an old story that's boring to them but as excitin' as a concert to everypony else. "My little Hummingbird, that's what I called her. She was a little orange pegasus like her mother. She'd flap her little wings so fast it was like a hummingbird. And when she was still in my wife's womb, whenever my wife hummed, she'd kick. So we named her Hummingbird. Good ol' little Hummingbird was jus' like me; jus' like you, too. But..." I trailed off, sighing. But I still smiled. "She died when she was a teenager." The kid's face took on a degree of shock. "Her and her friends were horsin' around on a cliff edge. They fell to their deaths. They couldn't open their wings fast enough."
The kid just stared at me. Her mouth opened. Purple little eyes widened. Shoulders drooped. Made me feel bad. Kinda sad. Strange, since I was immune to hurt for so long.
"So that's why you caught me," she said like she was uncovering some great revelation.
"Partly, yup. I saw a little orange filly fallin'. Reminded me of my little Hummingbird."
"I'm... I'm so sorry."
"Not your fault, kid. Jus' the way the world works." I looked at the clock, an'... an' actually felt something. I actually felt sadness. Was so strange. So foreign. It was like some vaccine I had constructed myself failed. Died. It was starting to get late, which meant the kid would have to leave. "I'm afraid it's getting late, kid. I'm sure your uncle is worried."
She looked at the clock an' the same sorta sadness came over her. Well, not the exact same, of course.
"Aw, I have to go. It was really nice talking to you, Mister..." She trailed off.
"You can jus' call me Mister Claus." My coat is a sorta faded crimson, and I got a thick white beard. I figured she'd think it was funny.
Kid giggled, got up, and trotted to the door, stoppin' at it to turn an' look at me. "Okay, Mister Claus."
"I never got your name, kid."
"Scootaloo."
"Well, Scootaloo, I hope to see you again someday." I smiled the same smile at her.
She nodded and opened the door. But before she walked completely out, she stopped and looked at me again. "Oh! Mister Clause?"
"Yes, Scootaloo?"
"During this whole time, you never stopped smiling. Even when you talked about your wife and daughter. Why?"
"When you get to my age, and you can't wake up without smilin', ya shouldn't be wakin' up." She absorbed what I said into her little head, her mouth hangin' open a bit with her eyes showin' some understandin'.
"Thank you, Mister Claus. Goodbye."
"Goodbye, Scootaloo. I enjoyed our little talk." She smiled at me and nodded.
Click. The door shut.
I smiled.
Ten years later
Somehow, I'm still kickin'. The kid visited me the next day with a fresh and pretty new cutie mark. Blue scooter, jus' like her actual one. Kid followed my advice. She came by every day and still does now. Even though she's now one'a the most famous scooter riders in Equestria, she still finds time to visit this ol' coot. And she credits me for it. Just last week in the paper, I read that she said I opened her eyes, got her her cutie mark, made her see the world different. Actually made me blush. Made me feel somethin'. Ain't nopony done that to me in a long time. I thought I was jus' immune to everythin' now. Everythin' was jus' dull like my shack. But that little filly was jus' like my little Hummingbird. She jus' got to me, I guess. Jus' the way we'd talk. She made an old stallion enjoy his twilight years.
And even after all these years, even if it's jus' for half an hour...
I enjoy our little talks.
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Ok. So. That was both depressing and adorable and to the point downright beautiful. In. Love.
Oh and please pardon the name. I'm going to go murder my cousin now for logging me out and logging himself in :)
2755779 lol, I'm so glad i have my own computers. use 12-16 character passwords for all my logins
also nice story
I partly expected Scootaloo to walk out and come back the next day to see an abandoned house. Then when she would ask somepony about it, they'd say that the stallion who lived there died thirty years ago. Or something like that.
24.media.tumblr.com/856cd79de6fd8fd938b2d4b28fd04ef3/tumblr_mk8ss7kMMK1ranhnao1_500.gif
2755772 Thank you very much! And lol at your cousin xD
2756318 Gracias
2756516 Whoa, that would be freaking creepy. Nothing like that ever crossed my mind, though. Hmm, that's actually a pretty cool idea.
2756852 I'm guessing that's a good thing. If so, thanks.
And wow, I can't believe this is featured.
2757340 It is...
2757340
I actually thought that was going to happen until he said "Easy there, you're gonna pop me.". Now from what I know, Ghosts can't feel another pony touching them and if he was a ghost, Scoots would just fall through him. Unless he's a cursed spirit that is doomed to walk the earth forever until he helps some random orange filly earn her scooter cutie mark after saving her from her death at the bottom of a very high ravine.
2757888 That's a very interesting idea.
Alright, I'm back with my critiquing and grammar fixes! First of all, I enjoyed this story very much. I thought you wrote Scootaloo's character fairly well, and the OC is different than most others, having his own personality and backstory.
Rating: 5/5
Now, it's time for the grammar fixes and little things that I nitpick at, such as word use.
...grab a bag a treats or somethin'. –Maybe add an apostrophe after the second "a" to show a difference between the two.
I gave her a wrinkly smile, well, if she could even see... –Replace the first comma with a dash possibly.
...scrambled eggs on my plate, and the remainin' amount... – Does not require comma. Cannot compute.
Ain't much of a sight. Creaky, dull floorboards, an old ripped up... –Should replace the period with a semi-colon. Trust me; it works.
She had an pink blush on her already orange cheeks. –Should be "a" and not "an".
Her eyes shifted over everythin' except mine. "I-I fell" –Add either a period or an ellipsis at the end of the dialogue.
...high-pitched scream came out of the filly, a scream so loud... –Replace the comma with a semi-colon.
I could see it past it, though. –Take out the first "it".
Was her eyes. –Honestly, I don't really have a problem with this. I just think it would look better as a "'twas" than "was". It's your story, though.
Filly her age outta have bright an' clear an' happy eyes. –Should be "oughta" and not "outta".
She realized she had stopped fallin' and she opened her eyes real slow-like. –Add a comma before "and".
I looked at the filly in the eyes and jus' continued my little smile. –The "at" is unneeded.
She looked down at her orange hooves run along the creases of the rotted wood of the table. –This sentence seems a bit odd. Perhaps try replacing "orange hooves run" with "orange hooves as they ran".
She furrowed her brow, blinkin' a little oddly, an' takin' forced breaths. –Take out the last comma.
"I dunno. I have good friends, but we've arguing a lot lately..." –Put the word "been" between "we've" and "arguing".
Friends are gonna argue, it's jus' a part of strengthenin' and seein' who your actual friends are. –Replace the comma with a semi-colon.
I couldn't help but makin' my ol' smile bigger. –If you use the "but", change "makin'" to "make". If not, take out the "but" and leave it as is.
"Oh. Well, I don't think we're that much alike, then. My life isn't really that hard. Just... a little hurtful, I guess." –Remove the comma before the word "then".
Observed ponies as they walked by? Listen? Learn? –Change "Listen" and "Learn" to past tense.
Hey, if you were pro, why haven't I heard of you? –Insert an "a" between "were" and "pro".
I was still immune to the hurt, stale to it, but it did catch me off guard. –Add a hyphen to connect "off" and "guard".
...the kind a pony's grandpa makes when asked about an old story that's dull to them, but as excitin' as a concert... –Take out the comma. It's correct without it.
Her mouth open. Purple little eyes wide. Shoulders slumped. –Rewrite that as "Her mouth opened. Purple little eyes widened." Make it all in the past tense.
Kid giggled and got up, and trotted to the door, stoppin' at it to turn an' look at me. –Replace the first "and" with a comma.
"When you get to my age and you can't wake up without smilin', then ya shouldn't be wakin' up." –Add a comma after "age", and take out the word "then" completely.
The kid visited me the next day with a fresh and pretty and new cutie mark. –Take out the second "and".
She came by everyday, and still does now. –Remove the comma, and put a space between "everyday".
Just last week in the paper I read that she said I opened her eyes... –Add a comma after "paper".
I found a lot more errors than I did in "Great to be Different", but I took more time to look this story over. Also, the story is over 4K words. That makes a big difference.
2759814 You wanna be my third pre-reader? XD I'll get to fixing those once my Internet stops being a derp.
2760091 Sure? Lol. That would at least give me something to do during the long wait until BronyCon and afterwards. I'd be happy to be your third pre-reader if that wasn't a joke (I'm not exactly sure if it was or wasn't
). Also, I've yet to check out your other works like I had said I would. I'll get on that soon.
2761527 Kinda both, really. My current pre-readers catch the stupid mistakes I leave and give me good advice, but they'll tell you themselves they're not grammar whizzes. If you'd be up for it, PM me.
2761527 He's right, I'm far from a grammar whiz
2761654 Hi BronyDerp
2762163 Why not just say "Hi" on Sk-- Whatever, hi. XD
2762174
Hi :D
Hello
Hello dear
Hi BronyDerp. Aw I don't get a picture Zonfic?
But there aren't any and... fine I'll go find one
pinkie.ponychan.net/chan/files/src/133592937156.gif
There happy?
Very
Why does she get the big picture?
OH FOR THE LOVE OF! Guys this is a place for comments on how good this story was! Not complaining about pictures!
Says the brony that started this by saying hi
... touche...
2762163 Well, at least you're honest about it.
2764695 Also congrats on becoming his third pre-reader
2765901 Thanks! We'd better take this conversation elsewhere, though. I don't want to fill up this story's comments section with whimsical nonsense.
i feel like he's her grandfather or something.
2768092 I thought of doing that, but decided against it.
I like this story. It's cute in a sad way, and Scootaloo needs more sorta heartfelt stories anyway.
Though i do feel like Equestria needs to invest in training some midwives by the sound of things. What, every mare mentioned having kids died doing it?
But still, it was a good read and I enjoyed it.
2797658 It was just those two. They relate easily because they've both been through similar experiences.
2797724
Scoot's mom, narrator's mom, narrator's wife.
Unless I misread it?
2756516
I was kinda expecting that as well.
2797989 Er, those three. I meant they both had that experience, the narrator just experienced it twice. It makes Scootaloo relate better to the narrator.
2798040 Thank you!
I liked it, though it always bugs me when ponies eat non-herbivorous things like eggs.
General writing quality is up to what I'd expect for an EqD-published story, but for me it was far too light on the meat: all skin and bone leaves nothing to get invested in. There's an idea here, but it's woefully underdeveloped.
Thumbs down from me.
-Scott
2886605 If you could explain to me what you think the story needs, I'd appreciate it.
2893831 Whoo! It’s long answer time. That just so happens to be my favorite time of day!
Now, obviously I can only speak for myself—what I have learned and how I feel reading stories—but with that in mind, I can certainly explain what I thought was missing.
Telling a story is like telling a joke. Lead ‘em in one direction, then pull the rug out from under ‘em. For a short story, you can do it just once, but with practice and longer stories you can do it time and time again, filling your world with mystery and wonder. For me, that’s the fundamental difference between a story and an idea.
The way I was taught to look at it was to break each portion of a story down into the conflict contain within. Conflict can be as simple as a character misplacing their toothbrush—it’s just a method of making sure one or more characters want something all the time. For each such conflict, figure out what the emotional drive is, figure out how the conflict resolves, and figure out how any involved characters feel about that conflict. A character should almost never get exactly what they want, and ideally, this disparity of desires generates the next conflict and so on and so forth. Each time a character doesn’t quote get what (s)he wants, you have a chance to draw a reader into empathizing (even sympathizing) with him.
Here, we seem to have an idea. What if Scoots fell and was saved by an old unicorn who could dispense some much-needed advice? By the end of the story, we haven’t really grown or altered from that premise in any way. It’s just expose, expose, expose, and more expose—no twist, no dilemma, no revelation, no-one to root for. Using Scoots means that most of the assumptions that the story makes can safely be made by the reader ahead of time, so there really isn’t anything surprising, and there’s no payoff for the story being told. There’s no expectation and no tension. Without that it’s just an idea writ large.
Possibly the best short story I’ve ever read for displaying the kind of construction necessary was just a few thousand words long. It started with a woman getting a phone call to say that her husband had been killed in a car crash. Needless to say, she was distraught, and we follow her around her house as she thinks about all the changes to her life that are about to happen. She starts to realize how many ways she’ll be free to try new things, meet new people, and recapture some of her youth. By the end, she is actually feeling open minded and positive about the future until the phone rings again and a voice explains that there was a mistake and her husband is alive after all. The woman is utterly distraught.
So you see, at the start, the woman cried because her husband is dead, and at the end she cried because her husband is alive. The switch-up is the payoff because you don’t see it coming. Whilst the ways at which something similar can be achieved are near infinite, I get no sense of having anything similar in your story; in fact, there is almost no conflict at all. To me, that makes it feel pretty wishy-washy and not at all satisfying.
So for my money, what it needs is not to be a linear path from start to end.
-Scott
While there doesn't seem to be much on the surface, there is a surprising amount of depth in this story when you stop and think about it, and I really like the implications of Scootaloo's transformation. The characterizations and dialogue were very effective, and the last section was particularly touching.
In a way, it kinda reminds of a more showy version of a The Descendant fic – the overall flow of the narrative is kinda similar, but the voice is different.
My only real complaint is that there are way too many coincidences, and some that aren't even necessary for the story (such as his daughter having a similar coloration, or all the deaths at childbirth). They kinda break immersion, which brings the story down a notch.
2920177 Thank you for the criticism. I appreciate it.
2895620 While I understand your feelings about this story lacking any real conflict, I have to say that expecting every story to have conflict, or to contain some sort of surprise or twist for the reader is a bit stringent. It's like expecting all music to have a drum beat. Yes, most major songs have percussion, but sometimes a violin solo can be just as beautiful as a full band. Stories like this are, to me, what embodies "slice of life". There is no conflict, no great plot, no big reveal. Its just a simple scene with some basic emotion behind it. A friend once coined the phrase "paint by word" for such things. Don't get me wrong, if it's not to your taste, that's fine, and I certainly bear no malice to you for it. But that doesn't mean it's less of a story or "only" an idea just because it doesn't contain a particular element (of the dozens or hundreds out there) of which stories are composed.
Now, that I've defended what isn't in the story, I must criticize what is.
I do have to agree with Soge that there were too many coincidences which weren't necessary to the story, and that definitely jarred me out of the scene a bit. Also, the "10 years later" bit at the end feels out of place, and tacked on to force a more certain (happier?) ending. Per my above comments about slice of life, I think this was strong enough to end with just the one scene. We know Scoots got good advice and is going to be great someday... we don't have to be told directly and as an afterword.
Lastly, when I read this, the narrator sounds exactly like the one from Bastion in my head. I bet I'm not the only one.
2950073 Stories are defined by having conflict. 'I went down the shops' is a statement, but 'I went down the shops but they were out of ice cream' is a story in it's most basic form. I remember an anecdote from a friend where a smarmy classmate of his submitted the following as his short story coursework:
.
It got an A+, the git, because it follows the basic concept of what a short story is. Which is, of course, not to say that this work is in any way invalid; it just struggles to be included in the definition of story. It's still fiction, it's still ponies, it's obviously liked by many: these are not relevant to the point I am making.
Thus, 'expecting every story to have conflict' is a tautology. The issue revolves around the relaxed use of story to mean pretty much anything posted on this site versus the textbook definition of story:
Even #5 qualifies the narration as being an anecdote or joke, which correlates to exactly what I said previously. The format is rarely so clear is in Jimmy Carr's 'shortest jokes' skit:
What you need to understand is that those three lines are examples of conflict: it doesn't just mean grandiose differences of opinion or dangerous encounters. Any time you have a discrepancy of perception you have a kind of conflict, and that's why telling jokes and telling stories is fantastically similar.
The point, in all this, is that this is a fanfiction site. Works that make no attempt to be functional stories are perfectly fine here as long as they follow the noted requirements I mentioned before: ponies, fiction, word count, basic grammar. With that in mind, I didn't say is 'this is shit''; instead, I expressed the reason why it held no interest to me. As such, your comments about slice of life requiring no conflict ignores the greater truth that most slice of life does have conflict for a reason; I suspect your definition of conflict may be far more specific than is appropriate to the discussion.
Lastly, so assert that my requirements are 'a bit stringent' is like saying that going to the hardware store and asking for nine inch nails is 'a bit stringent' when I went to the hardware store explicitly for nine inch nails. It's a non-sequitur.
-Scott
P.S. If this seems overly confrontational, it's because I believe your statement to be detrimental to the development of the very authors on this site and a direct challenge is in the community's interest.
2950334 No worries, I assure you I take no offense at all. Likewise, I hope I didn't come across as hostile either. I never felt you were insulting the story/narrative/author or anything like that. While you said you personally didn't like it, I appreciate that you gave logical and well informed reasons as to why. Civil literary debate and discussion (which this is) is always a good thing. Besides, this is pony, we're all friends here!
Now, disclaimers out of the way... it seems we're basically down to a semantic debate here. Interestingly, I think we're both motivated by the same thing. I made my comments as I felt your assertion that story requires conflict was a disservice (the same reason you said you responded.) I spoke up because there other story forms besides conflict-driven plot, and to me, they are no less worthy of being called "stories." Please note, I do realize that "conflict" is a much broader thing in literary terms than it is when we talk about it in general (e.g. "the conflict in the middle east".) Even with that in consideration though, and with an acknowledgement that many in the literary community hold the same opinion as you, I still feel that it is only an opinion, not a fact. There are many authors and literary critics which do not think conflict is a requirement for something to meet the definition of a story. Below I've linked a couple of (short) essays on my side of the debate.
http://www.ursulakleguin.com/SteeringCraft_57B.html
http://stilleatingoranges.tumblr.com/post/25153960313/the-significance-of-plot-without-conflict
Also, while I normally hate to bring dictionaries into debates, as this one is about the definition of a word, I feel I'd be remiss if I didn't point out that even your own quoted "textbook definition of story" doesn't include the word "conflict" (or any synonyms for it) in any of the 5 definitions given. Nor does "conflict" appear in the definitions at the Merriam Webster, Cambridge, or Oxford dictionaries, nor at Wiktionary, or Wikipedia (including the disambiguated page for "Narrative"). However, conflict does show up quite a bit in the wikipedia entry for "plot."
At the end of the day, I'm not determined to convince you (or anyone) that I'm right and you're wrong. Really, I just want to make it clear that there are other (informed) opinions out there. It is still just a semantic debate though, and one could argue that what LeGuin calls "plot" is what you mean by "story" or that the "twist" or "non-sequitur" in Kishōtenketsu (from the second essay) is included in the broader definitions of "conflict."
The only reason I argue things even this far is that the word "story" is important to a lot of people, in ways that more technical terms like "narrative" or "plot" aren't. Saying something isn't a story is dangerously close to saying something isn't "art" to a lot of people. While there are technical arguments on all sides of the "what is art?" debate, I personally feel that the moment someone is excluded with an argument (no matter how well intentioned or technically defensible) like "That's not art... it's just graffiti." is when the larger community has lost something.
Please understand, I'm in no way accusing you of this. Your argument came with the full technical details, and it was quite clear from your tone that you meant no disrespect to the story/narrative/fiction or the author. Not everyone is always as thorough however, and that's why (to me) it's important to be careful how we define words, especially words that mean a lot to those in this community. I think "story" is one of those hot-button words in any community of writers, and that's why I argue for the broadest and simplest definition: "Story: an account of incidents or events." Likewise I feel that what you're describing with required conflict is the most popular form (conflict-driven) of plot which is itself the most popular form of story. But, that is, and I emphasize this... only an opinion. I completely understand and respect that many will disagree.
Bottom line is that if I can't call the above narrative a story, then I think the definition has lost touch with everyday life, and should probably join the word "coup" in whatever literary prison the politicians have hidden it in.
Lastly, thanks to BronyDerp117 for hosting this debate. Aren't you glad your writing could inspire such passionate literary discussion?
2954255 Thank you for your response. You summed it up perfectly here:
These are indeed forms of conflict and the exact reason I said I suspected your definition of conflict was far more specific than the one I was using. Likewise, the jokes show how conflict can be in the mind of the reader (as in a twist), rather that in the experience of the characters.
You could certainly make a case for western literature being too inflexible in its implementation of conflict, but I'd need examples of effective conflict-less stories to believe they were even possible, let alone common. I've certainly never read one.
-Scott
2955687
Perhaps that's the fundamental disconnect between our points of view... You're not convinced such a thing even exists, yet I feel we're literally commenting on such a story right here and now. By (I assume) your own definition of conflict, you said that in this narrative called "Little Talks", "there is almost no conflict at all" and that seemed to be the main reason you didn't enjoy the piece. I completely agree with you on the lack of conflict. The difference is that I don't feel that detracts from my enjoyment of the story, or reduces its effectiveness (or "storyness") in any way. As such, I'm afraid I've no further points to try to argue or defend.
As an aside, I just wanted to say this debate has made me dredge up all sorts of academic lessons and more formal modes of thought I haven't used directly in quite a while. Most "debates" on the net tend to devolve into name calling or worse long before any sort of actual intellectual exchange takes place. It feels curiously good to flex those mental muscles again, even though I know I'm not likely to win you to my point of view. Regardless, just wanted to say I've enjoyed being forced to think critically and seriously by the arguments you've put forth, so thank you for that. I'm still surprised on a regular basis by how a fandom for candy-colored cartoon ponies brings out the best in people.
2950073 Thank you for the criticism. And I really enjoyed reading your and InquisitorM's debate. I get good criticism from two different people with different opinions, you get to "flex those mental muscles again," and InquisitorM got to show his/her opinion in a civil way with another civil person. Everyone wins.
HI there. I hope you don't mind, but I liked this fic so YouTube.
This was such a sweet story. Great job to you, sir.
There are the trappings of a great story here, but unfortunately they're wrapped up the convenient coincidences of the situation, and the narrator's unbelievable self-awareness. The repetition of his smile was particularly irritating, not to mention needless, given that Scootaloo draws attention to it at the end. That could have worked as a nice revelation instead of just a restatement of what we, the readers, already know.
4721201 Wow, thank you so much for making that masterpiece! Like, seriously, the voice you did of Mister Clause was the exact voice I heard in my head. Spot on. Just... so well done. Thank you very much for making me smile and laugh at how perfect it was!
4781806 i agree with you. your fic is great and the reading just as much. it felt like the kind of thing scootaloo would've need to learn how to get her cutie mark.
however, about you comment to scribbler. i must point out that, because of how much her voice was knackered from some other works, she didn't actually voice anything but the words Little Talks at the beginning and the end blurb. the credit for narration all goes to Illya Leonov, though editing and the fact the reading was done at all does go to scribbler.