• Published 16th Apr 2016
  • 1,440 Views, 61 Comments

Crackship in a bottle - Shrink Laureate

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Stranger than Fantasy

Author's Note:

Oliver’s recent Points Of Canon gave me a story idea, one I don’t have time to do justice to. Normally I just throw ideas like these on Discord, but this one’s fleshed out enough to make it worth posting.

I don’t have any idea where to take this story kernel from here, so if you’d like to adopt this story and take it places, it’s yours.

Anna put her pen down with a sigh. The words just weren’t coming today.

In truth, the words had been eluding her for some time. Since the publication of her first novel, she’d been starved of usable material, a situation not helped by the increasingly high-pitched squawking from her editor. “Strike while the iron’s hot,” he insisted as if it was that easy.

The iron didn’t feel particularly hot. It was clear to her now that she needed to take another trip, if she was ever to gather enough creative juices to fuel another novel. She just hoped her royalties would be enough to cover the air fair.

A flutter of feathers distracted her from her internal ranting, particularly when it was followed by a muffled thud of impact. “Is there another bird stuck in the chimney? Damn these old houses. Best let the dumb thing out.”

Pushing away from the desk and its accursed blank pages, she stood up ready to help the bird, but the fluttering had stopped. Instead she heard a clop of hooves from the direction of the front door. “What the... Is somebody here?”

She strode to the front door, but before she could open it she heard another flutter of wings, this time heading swiftly away. “Sounds big. An eagle or something?”

Whatever it was, it had gone by the time she hauled the big old wooden door open. She peered out into the dusk sky and down the forest trail, but saw neither bird nor horse nor visitor.

It was getting cooler at nights, cool enough that she was eager to shut the door, but as she did she noticed a package on her doorstep. “Is that for me?” Picking it up she found no address or postal marks. The envelope was fat, like it contained a thick ream of paper.

She brought it in and shut the door with a shiver, pushing the stubborn thing to with both hands. “I’ve really got to get that fixed. One more expense.”

The package was made of brown paper that felt old-fashioned, and wasn’t even glued shut but sealed with wax. She broke the seal and spilled its contents on the table. What emerged was a wad of pages, all slightly different sizes as if they were made by hand, and written in what looked like a fountain pen. The top sheet bore the title: Daring Do and the Quest for the Sapphire Stone, by A. K. Yearling.

“The hell... Is this fanfiction? They should know better than to stick my name on things.” It wasn’t the first time fans had sent her gifts, though the standard arrangement was to send them through her editor, not drop them off at her own house.

She tried to ignore the ignominy of knowing that an amateur had been able to crank out a second Daring Do book before she’d even outlined her own. She flicked through the story. It was written in a fairly close approximation of her own style, and a few of the turns of phrase even made her smile despite herself. Then her eyes caught on a few words that seemed strange.

“Daring Do stuck her tongue out. ‘Sorry, Caballeron, but I’m not that kind of mare!’ she called as the rope lifted her to safety. The stallion leapt for the bottom of the rope with a snarl, but his hooves weren’t able to find purchase…”

She flicked through the story again, finding more and more passages with references to hooves, wings and tails. “So what, this is some kind of crossover with a kid’s show? I mean, I’m flattered, but seriously?”

She checked the envelope again, and found the folded letter she was presumably supposed to have read first.

“Dear Miss Yearling,” she read.

“I hope this reaches the right person. The mailmare promises me she can deliver anywhere, even to Tartarus itself, but I don’t know how much stock to put in her confidence given the distance between us.

“I recently learned of your existence through correspondence with a fan who, it turns out, has trouble keeping secrets. Though we’ve never met, we have a great deal in common – more than you’d believe, if what I’m told is true. At the same time, I’m told you’re younger than I am, and your career is not yet as developed as my own – please forgive me if that sounds arrogant.

“Or rather, I should say careers…”

She dropped the letter as the next few lines spelled out her secret. This fan, whoever wrote this, knew about her archaeology field trip, about her unexpected adventure, the alter ego she’d assumed, and the scoundrels she’d defeated in that deserted temple. They knew just how much of her own life had made its way into her first book.

With trembling fingers she picked it back up to read the final lines.

“I’ve included the original manuscript of my own first novel, the first now of a successful series. Feel free to use it as your own, though it may need adapting to your world.

“I would be interested in reading some of your own work in return. This could be a productive arrangement for both of us. If you’re interested, simply leave a letter or parcel outside where the mailmare can find it.

“Yours, A. K. Yearling.”