• Published 27th Apr 2014
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Friendship Harder: Collected Microfiction - KwirkyJ

Collection of stories too short to publish individually. There is ostensibly no consistent underlying theme.

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Bad Balloons [Sad]

Fluttershy slid into bed surrounded by the likeness of her cutie mark: balloons. On the bedside table, draped over the lamp, were colourful streamers and confetti; at its base a pair bouncy-balls kept company with a moustached set of lensless spectacles. Friendly, welcoming banners - each custom hoof-painted - clamoured high at the ceiling, weaving this way and that; mementos of a life of smiles.

It was what Fluttershy did, what she had always done. Fluttershy made ponies smile; Fluttershy made them laugh.

But not today.

Fluttershy was a pony of delight and frivolity. She lusted for a laugh; she swooned for a snigger; nothing was beneath her when it came to bringing life and laughter to Ponyville. Singing songs, cracking jokes, planning (and performing!) parties, even vaudeville were fully within her repertoire.

If other ponies were happy, Fluttershy was happy.

But not today.

Fluttershy clutched a balloon-rabbit to her chest and blew out the lamp. The moonlight became the brightest feature in the room. She rolled onto her side, curled tightly around the form, and sniffled.

Maybe it was the songs, she thought, that they didn't like, and should have done a waltz rather than a polka. Or maybe, even, the silli-string was was it - some ponies just won't take a substitute for true paper streamers, and she had misread ponies' preferences before.

No, she thought, it must have been the balloons themselves - Diamond Tiara must have wanted translucent balloons, not shiny opaque!

Her bunnyloon made a sickly squeaking noise as her damp cheek rubbed against it.

Tomorrow, she thought, tomorrow she would make ponies laugh again.

After all, it was what her Cutie Mark was telling her.

Some hours into the dark, each balloon creation that inhabited the room either in her limbs or pressed tightly against her body, Fluttershy finally slipped into a dreamless sleep.

Author's Note:

Written for the daily prompt: "It is a poor craftsmare indeed who blames her tools."

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