If Memory Serves
I trot up from the roadway and wipe my hooves on the doormat outside an elegant white stone building. This close to it, I can’t see the foothills on the other side, but the formidable mountain and the delicate spires of Canterlot still tower overhead. It’s a long hike from Ponyville, but I get good exercise this way. Like clockwork, every Tuesday, Thursday, and twice on the weekend. It was harder to find the time back when I was still in school, but in the year since, I’ve made it a regular thing.
I pull open the door, and the receptionist smiles back at me from behind her paneled desk. The lobby is rather eye-catching, with all its subdued lighting and plush chairs, but to tell the truth, it just comes across as sterile. And the chairs are pretty stiff, too.
The receptionist slides a visitor’s badge across the desk and prints my name in the logbook for me. “Good to see you again, ma’am.”
“Thanks. She in her usual spot?” I ask, already knowing the answer. Our routine has become… well, routine. The receptionist nods back, so I hang the badge around my neck and head down the hallway. Fluorescent lights, industrial art… At least they’ve painted the walls a nice, relaxing light blue. It makes it feel a little bit like being outside. A little.
Open doorways file past me, one after the other. Even after all the time I’ve spent here, I’ve never paid enough attention to learn which is which, at least on this hall. I glance into the third or fourth room—hoofball pennants cover the walls, and I think I hear an announcer previewing today’s Cloudsdale-Baltimare game on the radio. In the next, a fine cherry table holds a collection of crystal vases, each with a sprig of baby’s breath or goldenrod or some other wisp of color. Yet another has a bare mattress with a few suitcases piled on it… and a stallion staring blankly at the wall. I wave to him, but I don’t think he notices.
I push through the double doors at the end of the hall and cross the empty cafeteria. From the kitchen, clinking dishes and the low bang of stainless steel echo, and I can already smell a nice potato soup cooking. Some pasta sauce, too. Should be a good lunch today. But that’s still a few hours off.
Out the other side of the cafeteria, I walk onto a veranda, and I see those hidden foothills now: all wild and tangled. Just a few scrubby trees and a sea of tall, dying grass that waves in the breeze. And a cool breeze at that—the wind’s had a good nip of autumn in it for some time now. And above it all, Canterlot, with the morning sun playing off the castle’s stained glass windows. If I squint, I can just make out the ones honoring my sister and her friends. I think so, anyway.
I glance to the right, and at the end of the veranda, a mare sits there by herself at a cast-iron table. I walk over quietly and take the seat next to her, but her gaze never wavers from a stand of maples in the distance. “Rarity?”
She blinks a few times and jerks her head toward me. “Oh, I’m sorry, Apple Bloom! I didn’t notice you there.”
Back into the chair’s cushion I sink, and I point a hoof at her teacup. “How’s the brew today?”
“Oh, good, good. Darjeeling, if I’m not mistaken. It’s nice on a cool morning, but it should warm up later.” Her eyes go out of focus, and she returns to watching those same trees. “Beautiful colors this year. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen them so vivid.”
Yes, a few of them have turned early. Brilliant reds and oranges. I nod at her. “So, how has your day been so far?”
“I can’t complain, dear,” she says, flicking a hoof. “Making my rounds. I enjoy it, of course. Not too many of the patients up and about yet, though. I know they appreciate younger folks like us dropping by to make the place feel a little less stuffy, especially you. Your energy spreads around, you know.”
I laugh and pat her hoof. “I know, Rarity. It’s nice to help.”
“Well, I’m glad you could meet me for morning tea again, Apple Bloom.” Her eyes wander up to the spires on the mountain, and she breaks into a big smile that takes her whole face to contain. “Everypony from Ponyville makes it up here from time to time, but you and Pinkie Pie do the most—in fact, Pinkie had dinner with me just two nights ago, after my shift ended.”
“That’s great! And how is she?”
Rarity pauses to take a sip of tea and pat her mouth with a napkin. “Good, I suppose. Complained of a bit of arthritis again.” She purses her lips and wrinkles her brow at me. “I’m sad to see her get it at such a young age, but all those years of bouncing around must have played havoc with her knees. And yet she won’t stop!”
She giggles into her teacup, which still hovers up by her muzzle, and I have to answer with one of my own. “You always did love talking about all of them. Feel like sharing any more stories? You must have quite a few that I’ve never heard before. I wouldn’t have figured you for one to get into that much mischief.”
Another giggle, and now she’s blushing. “Oh, don’t go tarnishing my good name, now.” I close my eyes and envision her traipsing across some mountain range or through a swamp. As much as she tries to cultivate an image of refined beauty, she’s always relished the occasional adventure or chance to show she can do more than sit in front of a sewing machine. She’d never admit to it, of course, but I’ve known her long enough. Whatever Rarity does, it’s worth doing with pride, and that includes anything that might not qualify as dainty.
“Perhaps I can recall a tale or two,” she continues. “But first, let me offer you a drink. Can I get one of the staff to bring you some tea? It tastes rather good today.” She takes another sip from her steaming cup and savors it a moment before swallowing. “Darjeeling, I think.”
My shoulder twitches, and I squeeze my eyes shut. I take a deep breath before looking over at her. “Yes, but don’t you worry. I’ll ask a waiter when one comes by. I don’t want to trouble you.”
“Oh, no trouble, Apple Bloom! I’ll just pop inside and—”
“No, please,” I say, holding up a hoof. “I’ll just enjoy the conversation for now. So, you said you’d be willing to regale me with one of your tales of heroism?”
“Oh, Apple Bloom,” she says with a shake of her head and a polite chortle. “You make it sound so grandiose. Most of those old adventures occurred while we all still lived in Ponyville. They’re not exactly new to you.”
“It doesn’t matter.” I wave a hoof and lean forward attentively. “I like hearing them from somepony who lived them, and I know how you like to reminisce.”
“Yes. ‘Old’ tales. I can’t help but wish I had some new ones to tell.” She sighs and idly taps a hoof against the table’s edge. “The other girls still get about, it seems, while I’ve settled into my little corner of Equestria.”
I just wait for her frown to dissipate. It’ll happen soon enough. If there’s one silver lining, it’s that she always returns to happy. “What about the time you defeated that dragon?” I prompt.
“Um… Oh, yes. That um…” She chuckles and floats her cup back onto its saucer. “Yes, Pinkie Pie kept us in quite good spirits that day. We needed it, since there were more than a few arguments along the way,” she adds, raising an eyebrow and reaching for her teaspoon to give her drink another stir.
“About what?” The same old things they always argue about, I suppose, but I don’t mind hearing it another time.
“This and that, nothing important. But when we arrived—what even gets into Pinkie Pie’s head? Just picturing her in that ridiculous getup…” Rarity nearly bursts out laughing, but she settles for dabbing a napkin at the trickle of tea on her chin. And folding her ears back, at the indignity of being caught in such an unladylike moment, I’d guess, but when she checks, I’m conveniently looking the other way.
“Yes,” she starts up again, “Rainbow Dash kicked that dragon squarely between the eyes. And if there was any doubt—” she adds a sharp nod “—I gave him a stern talking to. We never saw him again.”
I enjoy a nice chuckle at her upturned nose. Yes, pride in everything, even something as unrefined as shouting down a dragon. Except I know… “I remember, too. Of course, I was still quite young at the time, but that black cloud over town will stay in my memory forever.”
Rarity nods gently, always the one to acknowledge a compliment graciously.
Her eyebrows shoot upward. “Oh! I apologize—I’ve been an inconsiderate host. May I offer you a drink?”
I sink into my chair a little farther and sigh. “It’s alright. One of the waitstaff will come by soon. Don’t worry yourself with it.”
A few long minutes of silence pass, just that grass hissing in the distance and a few birdcalls breaking it. I’ll try again. “Is that all you remember about that day?”
She shrugs. “Well, what more would I say about it, dear? We confronted the dragon, he left, end of story.” A few more minutes, and I begin to wonder if she’s fallen asleep, but when I look over, her eyes are following a bright orange leaf as it floats to the ground in fits and starts. She lets out a snort.
“What?”
“Oh, I was just thinking, Apple Bloom.” She rests her chin on a hoof.
“About?”
“The leaves just reminded me of the one time Rainbow Dash and Applejack decided they’d act like a couple of bickering colts, marking out their territory and crowing about it. It was during the Running of the Leaves, you see.”
“Oh, you were there? I didn’t realize.” I know the story, of course, but I’ve never heard her tell it. I sit up straighter and turn my chair a little toward her.
“Yes,” she says, drawing out the word as an arrow pointing at the jewel to follow. “I won because of those two. If they’d concentrated on running instead of sabotaging and one-upping each other, they’d have medaled. But there I was, slow and steady, as the saying goes.”
“I thought that was Twilight,” I say, squinting at her.
“Twilight…?” She searches the floral pattern on her teacup for some clue. “Oh, Princess Twilight. No, dear, the princesses don’t compete.”
I swallow and fiddle with my hooves. I know how she gets, but I press on. “She wasn’t a princess yet, Rarity.”
“Are you sure?” She holds a hoof up to her chin. “I remember seeing wings on her when Pinkie and I announced the race. I could see absolutely everypony from up there, and the view of those autumn leaves was simply divine!”
“How could you have won if you’d stayed up in the balloon with Pinkie?” It’s a delicate balancing act. Make her think, but don’t get her mad.
And she sets her jaw, a fire lighting behind her eyes. “Are you calling me a liar?”
“No, Rarity. I’m sorry.”
“Just because you’re the Element of Honesty doesn’t mean…”
I hang my head and try to regroup. It was going well, too. But one more thing… “That’s Applejack.”
“Oh. Yes,” Rarity says, immediately disarmed. For a second, she frowns at the scenery like she doesn’t recognize it. “Yes, of course. Applejack, your sister. H-how is she doing?”
Slowly, I draw a breath and hold it. “Still plodding along. I hear the farm runs great, and these days, I wonder if Granny Smith has found a way to stop aging. Strong as ever.”
“If only…” Rarity says under her breath, and a glint runs through her eyes, but only for an instant. The customary smile returns soon enough. Yes, if only…
Rarity tut-tuts and reaches a hoof over. “Well, don’t let me monopolize the conversation, Apple Bloom! How are you enjoying college?”
She asks me that every time, without fail. “I actually graduated last year. Do you remember attending the ceremony? You rode the train up with Applejack, Pinkie Pie, and Flutter—”
“Yes! I-I sat beside—I sat next to Flutter. Well, I say ‘sat,’ but she spent the entire time pacing up and down the aisle and fretting about the state of her finances. At least Applejack stayed quiet, but I don’t know why she insisted on toting that rabbit of hers all the way to Canterlot.” Waving a hoof around, Rarity nearly knocks her cup off the table. “I mean, Pinkie Pie I can understand, but can’t Flutter keep from making everypony tense?”
“Fluttershy,” I say.
“Y-yes, Sh-Shy. Fluttershy. Why, what did I say?” When she gets agitated like this, I don’t fight it. Just play along.
“You have it. That—that sounds right.” I force a smile, and her mood swings right back, laughter bubbling up from her throat.
“Oh, no matter how much they occasionally got on my nerves, I wouldn’t trade my time with those friends for anything.” She lets out a sigh. “Pinkie Pie visited two days ago, you know,” she adds, clutching her hooves to her chest.
“Yes, you said that.” I grin at her, more genuine this time. Pinkie’s a safe zone, for whatever reason. She won’t get mad.
“Oh… did I?” She gives me a half-smile in return and drains her teacup. “Well, how’s your career going along, then? Managing a construction company or some such, I imagine?”
I shake my head—I don’t exactly like explaining my lack of long-term employment every other day. Just as I open my mouth to reply, a waiter pokes his head out the door. I motion to Rarity’s teacup, and he nods, then disappears back inside. “It’s not quite that simple, fresh out of school. I mostly do odd jobs here and there, and I have a couple of internships lined up. Something permanent will probably come out of one of them.”
I glance down at the hoof she has resting on the table. By all rights, nicks and scores from needles should cover the whole thing, but she keeps herself so well groomed. No way she’d allow that. Another pride thing. In her place, I’d probably let it go—the state of my hooves wouldn’t make the difference in whether somepony respected me. But I guess membership in the Cutie Mark Crusaders certainly might have desensitized me to having less-than-immaculate hooves.
“We can’t all run our own businesses right off the bat like you,” I observe. I lean over to pat her on the shoulder, but the clink of china on the table draws my attention. An extra cup for me, a plate of lemon wedges, and a fresh pot to share—the waiter pours for us. I squeeze some lemon into my tea, then Rarity’s, but before I can toss the used wedge back onto the plate, she takes it with her magic and eats it. “I never understood how you could do that,” I say through my chuckling.
“Good for the coat,” she mumbles back, still chewing. “Natural oils in the rind.”
“Then just eat the rind. It’s not so sour.” She shrugs, and I enjoy a good laugh. Moments like these make it all worthwhile—moments when that sparkle returns to her eye, and I could forget—no. For using that word, I bite my lip. Hard.
I add a scoop of sugar from the bowl, and the spray of fake oleander in the vase next to it reminds me of the perfume Rarity always used to wear. Funny how smells form such a strong connection to the past. Running through the yard outside Carousel Boutique with the other two girls, the door banging shut repeatedly when we couldn’t make up our minds whether we wanted to go play inside or outside. And each trip gave me a fresh whiff of that perfume. I always found it elegant, but more than that, it became something that brought back that feeling of a simpler time, when only the most trivial things seemed so important. Sometimes, I’d give anything to be a filly again.
I shake my head and wrench my mind back to the present. “And you? Keeping busy?”
That spark in her eyes only grows. “Absolutely! I stay current with the designs coming out of Canterlot, and I do so love making my creations.”
And I have to say she’s lost nothing there. Her clothing and accessories still have that special quality that has only made them even more popular over the years. She can’t keep up the same volume as before, but that just means she can charge more, so Carousel Boutique has no trouble staying open, though the building itself doesn’t do much except sit there. Not even as a place for the cat—Opalescence isn’t around anymore. Rarity never mentions her—best not to bring it up.
Who knows why some things stay firmly lodged in her mind? She never forgets Pinkie Pie—really, who could? “Pinkie Pie this” and “Apple Bloom that,” the two names that she’s never at a loss to find. The rest take a bit of prodding to dredge up. But start with one of those or with clothing, and I can sometimes tease things out, on a good day. “Tell me about the time you attended Twilight’s first sleepover. Do you recall spending the night there with Applejack?”
She blows across her tea and rolls her eyes upward. “Twilight? P-Princess Twilight? No, no, I never…”
“The huge thunderstorm? You got all soaked.”
Rarity glares at me through half-lidded eyes and breathes in some of the steam from her cup. “Certainly not. That would be unladylike.” With a sharp nod, she adds the punctuation.
“You dared Applejack to wear a girly dress,” I say, the corners of my mouth curling up. Her own smile answers—once again, clothing provides the spark to light up her thoughts.
“Yes, of course. Your sister. She looked rather sophisticated in it, if I do say so myself.” She turns her nose up and smirks. “The Gala dress I made for her later did suit her better, I suppose, but there was just something interesting about seeing that rough-and-tumble mare looking positively feminine. I thought it lent a certain strength and confidence to her. Oh, well.”
She snickers into her hoof for a moment and glances at me out of the corner of her eye. “And if you ever get into a pillow fight with her, she plays dirty. Do not—” she jabs the same hoof at me “—allow that so-called ‘honesty’ to lull you into letting your guard down.”
I giggle at her and give her a knowing look. “Oh, don’t you worry about that. I’ve gotten on her bad side more than once.”
For a moment, Rarity keeps up her warm smile, then she scrunches her nose up. “Well… I exaggerate. She’s a particularly steadfast friend and, I imagine, a wonderful sister.”
“Yes, I can say from experience.” And I notice that I’ve been absentmindedly stirring in the sugar for quite a while now. I set down my spoon and give my drink a taste—Darjeeling it is. “I believe she taught you a thing or two as well.”
She blushes again. “Y-yes, I… That was when I-I…” Her smile fades, and her eyes focus on the tabletop.
“It’s alright, Rarity. Think your way through it. The Sisterhooves Social, right?”
“Yes…” She looks back up and knits her brow. “I was… I r-ran with…”
Another little prod. I’ll try clothing again. “You had Applejack’s hat on.”
“Yes… yes! I waited in that horrid mud pit. And I ran with… with Apple Bloom—with you! And Applejack ran w-with… She ran with…” She sets her jaw and blinks a few times. “We won, I think. We must have. Applejack finished… No, she didn’t run. She—”
Her hoof starts to tremble, and I cover it with my own. I turn a sympathetic smile on her, but she’s already gotten distracted by a vee of geese in the distance. Heading south, and early at that, past the trees that have changed color so soon. Poor Pinkie, her knees just not able to keep up with her enthusiasm anymore. Too soon, all too soon.
My parents were older than Rarity is now when they had me. She should be in the prime of her life, but she lost some grotesque cosmic lottery. In perfect health, not gone, but not here. Almost here. Almost as cruel as gone, maybe more.
It started simply: a few missed appointments, not recognizing an occasional acquaintance, neglecting to lock up when she went shopping, repeating herself… Later, forgetting to feed Opal for three days, completely blanking on lyrics during a Ponytones concert, not showing up for Fluttershy’s birthday party. Getting lost on the way to the library to visit Twilight, right in the town she’s known all her life. We—we couldn’t ignore it anymore.
And now… “She’ll be fine,” the doctor said at her last evaluation, a few months ago. “I doubt she’ll ever improve, but she responds well when you visit. In my professional opinion, the work you’ve put in with her has been as effective as any of her other therapy in keeping her from getting any worse. You and Pinkie Pie both. She’s really latched on to you two.”
“Rarity,” I say to break the silence. I always like seeing her reaction to the news I have, but I only wish it would stay with her. “I’m getting married next week. Do you remember?”
Her eyes gleam, and she gapes at me. “A wedding!” She clasps her hooves to her chest. “I love weddings! I wish I’d known—I would have made you something.”
“I gave you a card several months ago so you’d keep it with you and see it. I hope you’ll attend.”
“Of course I’ll attend! A card…?” She glances down to her flanks for her saddlebags.
“On the ground,” I say, angling my head toward them.
She peers over the edge of her chair and frowns at the canvas bags lying there. “Thought I left these behind,” she mutters, and then she levitates out a bundle of carefully folded cloth with a card tucked into it. Slowly, she spreads out the cloth over the table as I push our tea out of the way, and when she has it all unfurled, she gasps.
I can’t help holding a breath of my own. What an exquisite dress! I’ve seen it every few days for weeks now, a little more finished each time, and it always chokes me up a bit. That talent will never go, if there’s any fairness in life. It’s been a part of her too long, too deeply—it’s in her bones.
“This is for you!” Rarity blurts out. “Yes, I recall we did a fitting, what, two, three weeks ago? Yes, yes. I gathered it a bit more at the withers like you wanted, then added the ruching around the waist. Just a bit of embroidery left to do, and then sew on the pearl accents.”
She snaps a nod and has a sharpness I haven’t seen in her eyes for some time. “I’ve made good progress on it whenever I sit out here for my morning tea. I can get quite a bit done before I go around and help out with the patients. They appreciate a new hat or scarf every now and then, the poor dears.” She runs a hoof down one of the lines of stitching.
“The poor dears,” she repeats, pursing her lips and shaking her head. “But I bet they love having you here too.” She falls into silence and takes my hoof. I just smile back.
“So, the wedding,” I finally say. “I’ve gotten approval to take you. It’s important to me to have you there.”
“I appreciate that, Apple Bloom. I look forward to it.”
I frown, pat her hoof, open my mouth to say something, and pat her hoof again. On the second try, I find my voice. “Rarity, do you remember the Cutie Mark Crusaders?” She squints at those same trees and draws her eyebrows together. “Always racing around your shop, knocking your dress forms over, so sure of what our purpose in life would be, which somehow changed every five minutes?”
“I-I don’t…”
Right. The clothing. “We always wore those silly capes.”
“Oh! Um… Oh, yes! You and—and Scoops, a-and… another? Were there three? Or just the two? Apple Bloom and Scoops and…” Her frown deepens while her stare bores a hole in the table.
Of all ponies, why does that name come so easily to her? I-I’m going to try again. It doesn’t usually go well.
My voice drops almost to a whisper. “Rarity, describe me.” She starts to look over. “No. Close your eyes. Focus on those fillies rampaging through your shop, the capes they have on, how they look, how they sound. Tell me—” I gulp “—what comes to mind when you think ‘Apple Bloom’?”
She does as I ask, her eyes shut tightly and her head lowered. “A bow. An enormous red hairbow that she always, always has on. Red mane and tail, pale yellowish coat. I think.” She breaks into a grin. “Yes, a little angel and a little terror. I’m so proud of how you’ve turned out, and I know your sister must feel the same way.”
“That’s right,” I say. That sweet smile. I hate to see it go. “Rarity… open your eyes.”
She slowly swivels her face to me. Her gaze first falls on my white coat, then my two-tone mane, and finally on my horn. Her lip quivers, and a suppressed sob catches in her throat. I hate doing this to her. I think I need it more than she does, and it just makes me feel selfish and callous. Half the time, it doesn’t work anyway. But the doctor says to keep trying.
Rarity draws a shuddering breath, and she has that panicked look, like she’s gone on a trip and just realized she left the tickets at home. She keeps breathing heavier and heavier while her mouth works at saying something. “You… My…” She shakes her head and holds her hooves to her temples.
I get up, rush around the table, and lock her in a tight embrace. “Yes. I love you, Rarity. I love you so much.” I should be grateful she has it as good as she does. For the most part, she’s happy, and she still makes such gorgeous dresses. But I can’t help reaching for more. I want more for her.
Without letting her go, I kneel down beside her chair to put us on the same level, but she backs out of the hug with a coy little smile. “Is it really…?” The smile doesn’t last, and her eyes glisten. “How…?”
She sniffles a bit, then the dress catches her eye, and she’s off fiddling with it again. For one glorious moment, I had it. I had my sister for one glorious, painful moment. But just as quickly, it’s gone, and she’s occupied with something else. Probably for the best.
“It’s alright,” I whisper. If I speak any louder, I might—I sniffle and wipe my eyes dry. She’ll ask. If she sees, she’ll want to know why, and she never understands. So I hold back until my throat aches, take a deep breath, and square my shoulders.
It is alright. I’ll never give up, but when she needs it, I can be Apple Bloom for her.
“What’s that, darling?” she asks, an eyebrow arching, but she doesn’t avert her gaze from the dress.
“Nothing. I love the gown. Will you come to see me wear it at my wedding?” I often wonder which hurts her more: blissful ignorance or realizing what she’s lost. I don’t know how to answer that for her.
Life goes on, I guess. I return to my seat. Only a few minutes until the patients and staff start showing up for lunch, and we’ll lose our privacy. “You’ve clearly put a lot of work into it.”
She nods, but then flicks a dismissive hoof at what had mesmerized her just seconds ago and what represents months of meticulous labor. It’s never been about the effort for her. “Oh, you’re getting married, Apple Bloom? That’s wonderful, dear! Congratulations.”
That’s enough for one morning—I don’t have any more in me. We’ll have a nice afternoon, wherever her fancy takes her. I’ll try again in two days. And again on the weekend. And again and again and again. It’s never been about the effort for me, either. I just love my sister, even if she doesn’t know it.
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Oh, my. This is nice....in a sucker punch to the solar plexus sort of way.
Is there any particular reason this story hasn't been published yet?
EDIT: Never mind, it is now. New question: you sent it in to EqD before you even published it?
Wow.. I got to the end and found my tears coming. That was so sad. :( I know what it's like, my grandmother and my mother both went through this.
That story was so sad, but towards the end when I found out that it was Sweetie Belle, not Apple Bloom, talking to Rarity... I almost lost it.
heahea.org/img/389-Impossibru.jpg
How is this keep happening! Good story btw as usual
Such feels. <3 Wonderful job.
Amazing, and far too realistic for me to not be hit by this. I think now I'll have to do something else for a while to help get this out of my head. Beautifully done.
Very beautifully done.
A really impressive story. The twist hurt at the end.
I don't have any experience being around people with this disease, but I can tell you have and it's really poured all over this story. Great work.
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A story does not have to be published or visible on fimfic to be moderated and approved by Equestria Daily. Publishing it only upon EqD approval (and knowing roughly when the story will be featured on there—pre-reader's privilege) is sort of a surefire way to get a story featured on Fimfic.
I personally feel like it's cheating the system, but it's the optimal way to gain the most exposure.
4339462 Sorry, I probably should have articulated myself better. I was more of a question why than how, but you answered that question too.
Oh this was....this was....wow.
I have trouble finding the words. Beautiful, heartbreaking, and devastating.
This hits far too close to home. You, of course, write like someone who's watched as a loved one mentally slipped away. I'm going through it with my grandfather at the moment. As terrible as it sounds, I think it'll be something of a mercy when he finally passes on. It's hard to watch him suffer and decline because of his Parkinson's disease. And losing my mental faculties is one of my greatest fears when old age hits. More than anything, I think that'd be the worst.....let alone it happening to someone like poor Rarity here, who's still relatively young. She would be what, early 40's? And poor Sweetie Belle....well. I had suspected that it might actually have been Sweetie Belle, since I didn't think Apple Bloom would visit Rarity. It's funny what sticks in one's head when they're otherwise fallen victim to the clutches of dementia.
Damn Pascoite....you are the grand master of an emotional kick in the gut.
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I can't tell when the story's going up. Only people with posting privileges can do that. I leave it unpublished in case it gets rejected and needs revision, since I don't want it visible until it's good enough. Then I publish it once I see it appear on the blog. Sometimes I notice quickly, and sometimes it takes me hours to notice. It's not an unusual thing to do. We get plenty of story submissions that are unpublished or even password protected.
Fantastic work. One of the most well-written short stories I've ever had the pleasure of reading.
You know I was curious about how she was able to stir her tea and talk so casually, I just assumed it was magnetic hooves like in the show. That was a beautiful bit of subtly.
This story. Man this story was a thing of beauty. Fave and thumb!
I was a bit suspicious because it seemed odd that Apple Bloom of all ponies would visit Rarity, and how she didn't seem to have any accent.
Then the ending came.
I think the word I'm looking for is sublime.
Thank you for sharing this with us.
It was sad enough as it was, but that reveal at the end...that sucked all the air out of me. Hit really close to home.
Dang, right in the heart.
OH MY GOSH..!
How can you do this to me, man? I can't take the feels..! 
This is sad. ¿What happened to her brain at such a young age? ¿How did the staff stop the deterioration? It is too bad that one cannot backup memories. In the end, our brains stop working and the structures encoding our memories deteriorate. This reminds me about something from high school:
Ms. Tower had an human brain in jar on her desk. Back then, I wondered whether the donator might have accidentally cheated death. I figgured that in a few decades, we might have the technology to scan the brain and extract the memories. I imagined the donator regaining consciousness, a century after dying, in a computer. What we now know makes that unlikely:
The process of dying and the harsh chemicals used for preservation severely damaged the memory-holding structures. It probably is not possible to extract memories from that brain.
That was a trip down memory-lane. This story makes me think, remember, and feel. It is well done.
THE FEEEEEEEEEELS
I read this story last night...and...my God....
I have an aunt who has the exact same thing Rarity's going through (she's in England so it doesn't affect me as much but it still makes me sad. She's not doing too well.)
...anyways...This is a masterpiece, well done!
I read this a few days ago, and it's taken this long for me to mull it over and craft a response. There's no denying that it's well written, and there's no denying the impact of the story. I have to admit I saw the twist coming, but that didn't lessen the experience at all. It hurt so much to see the characters in this situation, which of course was the point. Well done.
Oh, wow... you got me good with this one. At first I thought the visitor was Rarity, but then it started to make sense, kind of... then it made more sense, then more sense and then the tears came. Crap, well written story
Having had a grandmother who was (both fortunately and unfortunately) quite a bit aged when this condition afflicted her, this really got to me. You did a good job describing the pain one might feel during a time like this, but not exploiting that. It's a very bitter-sweet story and clearly comes from the heart.
I noticed one error. It's either an error or a stylistic choice:
Rarity nearly bursts out laughing, but she settles for dabbing a napkin at the trickle of tea on her chin. And folding her ears back, at the indignity of being caught in such an unladylike moment, I’d guess, but when she checks, I’m conveniently looking the other way.
Perhaps that should be a comma there rather than a period. If it's a stylistic choice, then I dig
Good job :)
Ung...these kind of stories always hit me right in the feels...
What is the condition Rarity is in called?
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Typically, dementia.
4346067 Memories are stored via an electrochemical potentiation of various neutotrasmitter-gated ion channels. Chemical fixation destroys the potentials, erasing all information stored there. There are quite a few other things fixation does to the tissue; but simply put, once a tissue is fixed, its irrevocably biologically inert.
This is such an accurate portrayal of dementia, it's quite heart-rending.
I've seen the diseases of the mind run their courses quite a number of times.
The most recent has been my mother, though her case is different as its onset was sudden and has severely damaged cognition and gait centers while leaving long-term memory almost totally intact. Exactly what caused it is still unknown; testing has revealed nothing even suggestive of the etiology.
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Although it is probably too late to extract memories from the Brain of Miss Tower, if one had a fresh brain, one, hypothetically, could destructively scan it —— ¡one only gets 1 chance for each brain!
Although each brain only has about 10^14 synapses, scanning it at sufficiently high resolution to image the synapses and determine the wiring diagram probably would generate an greater than an exabyte-file. After figuring out the synapses and their wiring, one can reduce the file-size to a a few petabytes for simulating the brain. If we can extract the memories and store them as files and emulate cognition, we can reduce the file-size to less than a petabyte, so we can store an whole human in a petabyte-disk-image.
This is very hypothetical and we are nowhere near the ability to do so. When we die, our data probably will go to the metaphorical bitbucket, although the digits in memories seem to be multivalued, so the more generic digitbucket is more accurate, but does not role off of the tongue.
In Friendship Is Optimal, a videogamecompany creates an AI (CelestAI) to run MMO-type game called EquestriaOnLine. The CelestAI determines that the best way to immerse the humans in the game is to upload them (they awaken as ponies in the game) and convert the entire crust of the Earth into a supercomputer. This leads the complete destruction of the biosphere and renders physical humans, and every other species, physically extinct:
Friendship Is Optimal
4482790 The other big issue remains even if we can store the raw data: does the personality necessarily go along with it?
We can't be sure if a person's character is simply a sum of memories and information or something more obscure and tenuous.
We do know that small regions of damage in the prefrontal cortex radically change a person's behavior, while leaving memory intact... so does that imply that personality is segregated from memory and it's possible to retain a personality without the memories? Or is there a subtle interplay between the two involving neural physiologic mechanisms that simply cannot be replicated in an inorganic system?
Quantum computing may come closer to the nebulous state of synaptic potentiation, but even than it's not a perfect functional replication.
4486047
We would need to emulate cognition (preferably with extensions for logic, fixed-point mathematics, and floating-point mathematics). I imagine that creatards would not want the logic-extension because then they could not be creatarded anymore. The emulated cognition, along with the memory, would recreate an approximation of the mind.
4486100 And then there's a 404 error...
4486272
We need copy-on-write and hashes of everything so we can catch bitflips.
Further to my comments on Chris's blog, I wanted to elucidate my experience here:
It could be a side effect of having certain expectations about your writing ability, but during the first half it felt blindingly obvious that you were actively avoiding saying anything that might imply who the character in question was. These are the kinds of things that I felt were necessary to feel engaged with the story, and not having them left me feeling extremely disconnected, sort of, 'if he can't be bothered to write about it then I can't be bothered to invest in it'. Understanding why this is the case doesn't really justify it, for me. The construction, almost be definition, compelled me to remain unattached to the main character, and, perhaps merely because I can't not analyse as I read, it made the switcheroo at the end feel belaboured and obvious when it seemed like it was supposed to be a surprise.
I'm sure, given that experience, that you can appreciate why this one missed me by quite so much.
4531008
For as long as this has been going on, you'd actually want to have her state this issue up front? I don't understand this opinion in the least. It's become the norm for her, so it doesn't even register with her until something else happens to make it a problem. The narrator doesn't try the same tactics every day, and she's already said it doesn't always work. For all she knows, the conversation might not even go that way today, and implying that this sort of determinism should be incorporated into the narration is completely opposite how a present-tense narration should operate. She could say that she planned something, but plans don't always work out, so she's going by the spur of the moment, and laying out her agenda beforehand would be hugely out of sorts with her mindset.
As to what Rarity keeps saying to the narrator, why would she react to it? She's learned to roll with it, and she's not going to deal with that until she's felt out the situation first and decided if it has a chance of working that day. Why cause her that pain if it's doomed to fail? So she just lets it slide by and remarking on it at all suggests a self-awareness that someone's listening to her thoughts, but they're hers alone. Having her say something like that to herself completely changes the tone.
It's fine if you didn't like the story. But this is one time I'm completely comfortable with not worrying about it.
Should probably get around to favoriting this story, since I couldn't do that when I read it in the write-off. A great piece here.
Would you be so kind as to let me and my friend Sweeite-Bot-Error do a reading/review of this amazing story? Please?
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I appreciate your asking, but you're free to read and review whatever you like around here. Have at it.
4566831 Awesomesauce!! :D I will tell my friend ASAP!
4533825 Dammit, I knew I'd forgotten something.
Okay, if I gave you the impression that I thought you should have revealed the main character at the beginning, then I apologise. That wasn't what I meant at all.
Rather, it is common practice that a story in limited third person will – if not outright say – at least hint at who the focus character is through the little things: turn of phrase, opinions, physical characteristics – pretty much show vs tell at work. For this story, there was a noteable lack of that, obscuring the main character and causing me to wonder who it was. Essentially, this was my 'hook'.
The problem with that comes when the distraction crops up. It made no sense to assume it was correct, otherwise obfuscating the focus character would have been pointless, and therefore what turned out to be the 'twist' was, in fact, by far the most obvious option available, reducing much of what transpires afterwards to simply 'going through the motions'.
If, on the other hand, the introduction had used some points of reference applicable to both characters I might not have had reason to assume that the diversion was exactly that, at which point I can really see the story working. Yet, I can't really see why anyone would assume the diversion is true – short of being a zombie – and that's really what my issue is. It's like you didn't even give me a chance to enjoy it as intended.
But like I said before, maybe that's literally just me.
I have Alzheimare's, but at least I don't have Alzheimare's.
As someone whose 78 year old grandfather's mind is slowly starting to go (not quite to this level; he's still 95% there, he just forgets words every now and again, like he'll call me his nephew, but it's slowly getting worse) this really hit close to home. Very well done.
This was really hard to read. I remember my grandmother slowly disappearing like this. Even I lose words, events, directions. and I'm only 30. Beautiful piece. 10/10 would cry again.
Oh my gosh, S...Sweetie Belle?
...
I love and hate that rug-pull maneuver. Just... awh!
I thank Dr. Wolf for leading me here and I thank you for writing this.
Jeezus Christ.
You're a saint, with chops.
4809577 I wish I cried. Does that mean I'm heartless, or I'm just made of sterner stuff?
4946630
Just means you're a different person with different experiences who experiences their emotions in a different way. Absolutely nothing wrong with that.
Another touching story from Pascoite. Issue is handled well, great work. Greenthumbed.