Quick Quill's Review Reckoning
Quick Quill’s Review Reckoning
It was a lovely day in the capital of Trottingham when a large coach, pulled by a team of ponies parked at their station.
The passengers departed. And for the first time in many years, Quick Quill set hoof on the grounds of her hometown.
After collecting her luggage, she stopped on the concrete path a moment to take in the sights of the city she had grown up in.
Some signs over certain shops had changed, and the hoofpaths that bordered the streets were larger and more crowded than she remembered them being. But to Quick Quill, almost nothing had changed.
The chatter of the crowds, mixed with the successive beats of many hooves was like a song she had not heard in years, and was thrilled to hear it again. And when she started walking among them, she felt as if she were adding her own music to the harmonious choir of the city.
Hardly feeling the weight of her luggage that was hanging off of her side, Quill merrily walked to find a familiar street that had been embedded into her very being. A special street where she had spent many of the happiest times of her life as a filly. And to her greatest joy, the letter she received back in Canterburgh informed her that hardly anything had changed there. Including her favorite restaurant.
That was where she was going. Where she would regain what she had nearly lost when she left home all those years ago.
In passing down the street, Quill noticed a new sign that had not been there during her foalhood. In a small, hole-in-the-wall building which she had remembered as being vacant for many years, there was now a publishing office. But, not just any publishing office.
Quill’s eyes rolled nearly to the back of her head when she recognized the sign. In bold, abrasive lettering, superimposed over a garish cloud and rainbow emblem, was the name ‘Shine Magazine.’
While Quill felt it was wonderful for there to be a place that anypony at all could let their stories be seen, it dismayed her greatly that there was not a more strict screening process.
Literally any story could get published in Shine, no matter how abysmally written it was. And to make matters worse, whenever Quill needed some extra bits and volunteered her services as a reviewer, she was always assigned the worst of the worst stories to read. The last one she was to review was particularly torturous, and her skin crawled at the memory of it.
A pony called Scratch Scribble had submitted what had been by and large the worst story Quill had read. And of all the rotten luck, she had to read it multiple times in order to make a professional critique. By far, it was a close second to the worst experience of her life.
Not wanting to linger on the memory, and not keep her appointment waiting, Quick Quill continued on her way down the path.
Unknown to herself, as she walked away, she was noticed by a stallion inside the publishing office.
After trying (and subsequently failing) to flirt with the receptionist, the stallion delivered his story for publication and headed for the door.
On the streets beyond the glass, he noticed a very familiar face. A cinnamon brown earth pony mare with a red mane, and a cutie mark of a quill and ink pot next to a blank page.
With a sudden fire in his eyes, he darted out the front door, smashing the face of an unfortunate passerby as he did.
“Hey! Quick Quill!” he called.
Quill froze dead in her tracks. The last time a strange stallion called her name, some twisted magic had transported her to the same type of story that she would review for Shine.
“Bloody hayseeds! Not again!” Quill thought to herself.
The rapid approach of trotting hooves grew nearer, and Quill whipped around to face a blue stallion with a green mane.
“Quick Quill--” the stallion began.
“Stop right there!” Quill interjected. “I don’t know who you’re supposed to be, or how you’re supposed to know me! But, I’m going to make myself very clear, right now: I am not going anywhere with you! I’ve been on one farcical expedition, and I’ve no desire to do it again! And I am not automatically going to be your marefriend! Do you understand?”
The stallion stared dumbfounded at her, making Quill fear that he had not understood her.
“What are you talking about? I wanted to talk to you about your writing,” the stallion incredulously answered.
“Oh…!” Quill answered, feeling her cheeks turn a brighter shade of pink. “I’m sorry. I, um...I thought you were...somepony else.”
There was a moment of awkward silence between the two. The stallion opened his mouth to speak, but Quill spoke before him.
“Sorry. Normally, I’d be thrilled to talk with fans. But, as it is now, I’m previously engaged. Good day to you,” Quill said, before she walked on her way, eager to put the awkward incident behind herself.
Her pace quickened slightly, as she felt the eyes of the stallion locking on to her from behind.
“Please, don’t follow me!” she thought to herself.
The crossing to the next curb was growing closer. Quill started to feel she was in the clear.
The moment her hooves reached the curb, Quill gasped when the crossing guard at the opposite end signalled to stop.
The sounds of rapid hooves approached her again
“I want to talk now,” said the stallion, as he stepped beside Quill.
“Remain calm. Refute any offer he makes you,” Quill thought. And with the most pleasant face she could manage, she returned her attention to the stranger. “Well, as it happens, I have a moment to spare now. What was it you wanted to talk about?”
“Your latest review,” the stallion answered.
“Ugh! Please, don’t dredge up that rubbish. The only thing worse than having to read that story was resisting to write a string of swear words to review it,” Quill chuckled.
Unfortunately, the stranger did not seem to share her lighthearted view of the matter.
“I want you to retract your review,” he said.
“I’m sorry?” Quill asked.
“You heard me. Retract your review, and write a new one. And make it sixty percent more positive.”
“You’re joking, aren’t you?” Quill said. “I can’t retract an honest and well thought out critique of an abysmally bad story, just because you don’t agree with it. It’s unprofessional. Not to mention unethical.”
“Then change your ethics. I always get fan replies saying how great my stories are! I don’t want ponies to think the story is bad!” the stranger said.
“Ponies outside of your little entourage wouldn’t need my review to think so. And why do you care so much anyway--?” And in Quick Quill’s mind, a thousand lights suddenly sparked, illuminating a terrible revelation. “Oh, bum...You’re Scratch Scribble.”
“Yeah. And I want a new review! Now!” Scratch demanded.
“Now? But, I haven’t any ink or parchment,” Quill lied, trying not to glance to her small luggage. “Even if I did, I simply can’t retract what I said. As a professional writer, I reviewed your story from a professional standard.”
The traffic director blew his whistle, and the crossing guard opposite Quick Quill signaled to go.
“How’s this: if you really want to talk about it, we’ll do so after I’m done with my holiday,” Quill said, hoping he would fall for it, without realizing that she had provided no contact information when her trip was over. To her, it seemed likely, since this was the stallion who wrote a scene that began with two characters corresponding from different cities, and ended with the same two characters leaving the same room together. And after only five lines of dialogue were spoken.
It was too much to hope for, as she swore she heard hooves once more rapidly approaching her from behind.
“Blend in, Quick Quill. Blend in,” she thought to herself, trying to get lost in the crowd.
Unfortunately, it was difficult to blend in when she was the only cinnamon brown mare in a crowd of candy floss pink, butter yellow and neon green. Cursing her distinct coloring, she heard the guard on the opposite curb blow his whistle, signalling the pedestrians at the curbs not to approach.
If Scratch was far enough behind her, he would be forced to retreat to the curb he started from, leaving Quill in the clear.
Her hooves touched the concrete curb, and she walked as fast as she could.
There were no disturbances, and just when she was beginning to feel she was free of her annoying company.
“Listen!”
“AUGH!!” Quill yelped, when Scratch suddenly appeared before her, reading from a magazine he took from the nearby stand.
“You said that none of my characters were believable to anypony! How can nopony believe my characters, when they’re written for ponies to read about?” Scratch demanded.
Resigning herself to yet another trying experience, Quill loosed an irritated sigh as she pinched the bridge of her nose. After recomposing herself, she laid out the facts.
“That’s not remotely how it works. The only way you related your character to the audience was to describe how tragic their entire life was for the first four pages of a twenty page story.”
“It wasn’t all tragic!” Scratch rebutted.
“Ah yes. You also described how your protagonist was a blackbelt martial artist in all known styles of the east, the offspring of a vampire and an alicorn, a world-renowned professor of archeology, genetics, folklore, paleontology, linguistics, biology, medicine, and was an entrepreneur in space travel. Honestly. You think anypony can look at that character and see themselves in them?” Quill said. “And that’s not to mention the atrocious dialogue that keeps anypony from immersing into the story.”
“Dialogue? What’s wrong with the dialogue?” Scratch asked.
“Everything! Entire conversations are made of non-sequiturs, there’s no inflection or syntax in any sentence spoken. And every character uses the same vocabulary, as if they’re all the same pony with the same personality!” Quill said, somehow knowing that nothing she said was reaching this abysmal author.
Looking down the street, she saw she was growing nearer her destination. Though it seemed so near, it felt like it was far beyond her. Her only comfort was that in a few short steps, she would be rid of Scratch.
“Dialogue is only supposed to make the story move! It’s the story that matters! Anypony who likes the story doesn’t care about how characters talk to each other! It’s just jerks who think they know how to write better that care!” Scratch said.
Quill felt her temple start to throb. Such a flippant, irreverent attitude to her and to her profession normally did not bother her. But, when such an attitude was so brazenly intruding into her life, the notion got right under her skin.
“Dialogue is supposed to help progress a story along, and to immerse readers into the story. And I stand by what I wrote in my review: no amount of grammar checking, proper punctuation, capitalization or dialogue editing could help your mess of story,” Quill said, staring ahead to her destination, trying to keep calm.
“The story’s not a mess! It’s a slice of life! What do you know about the lives of the ponies I write about!?” Scratch rebutted.
“More than you do. The whole bloody story was just the protagonist jaunting from place to place, with no narration in between to explain how he got there, just so different mares could fall in love with him!” Quill said, trying not to recall a particularly stomach-churning part of the story she reviewed, wherein the protagonist successfully flirted with two high school seniors.
“It’s what ponies like that do! They go all around town trying to get mares! He’s supposed to be the cool guy who gets them all!” Scratch nearly shouted.
“‘Ponies like that?’ No, no. Ponies, like the one you clearly wish you were like, are repulsive to any pony in their right mind. If you ever tried to pull a mare by using hoof puppets, you’d be turned away. Or in the worst case, you’d be bucked. Hard. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a fan of puppetry as much as any other pony. But, to try and get a date by theatrically mimicking what you would do? That’s…” Try as Quill did to come up with a word, there was none foul enough to describe the severity of what she wished to say. Maintaining her silence, she continued walking on her way.
“What’s wrong? You can’t think of any reason why it’s wrong for my character to do what he does? I knew you didn’t know what you were talking about! You're just no good!” Scratch said, almost victoriously.
“Right!” Quill said, through clenched teeth, stopping abruptly. “I tried being civil! But, I guess a civil exchange doesn’t penetrate that shield of narcissistic egotism! So, I’m going to spell it out for you plainly: you have no bloody business demanding me to change my review, after you so directly requested one! You were just unfortunate that the magazine paid me to give it a once over, instead of some half-witted dunce from your personal echo chamber! And as it so happens, I have a life beyond you and your miserable attempt at a story! I am about to go see my father for lunch, who I have not visited in a very long time! I’d very much like to move on about my life, without you in it! Unless you want my father to review your story for you, then you’re welcome to come along! But, I warn you, he is much more candid in his appraisals than I am. That’s my final word! Good day to you!”
And with one last huff, Quill carried on her way. Always listening for approaching steps, she kept an eye on the nearby police officer, ready to report harassment should Scratch try talking to her again.
The rest of the walk happened without incident. And to Quick Quill’s great delight, she saw the familiar restaurant sign and patio that warmed her heart in a way that she had not felt since she left home.
The nearer she came, the more she could hear a new noise among the city chatter. There was loud laughter sounding from the restaurant. A low, wheezing chuckle that she recognized from nearly every day of her foalhood.
Rounding to the front of the restaurant patio, she followed the source of the laughter to a table near the front. There, with an open magazine and four empty glasses on the table, sat a stallion of deep tan with a yellow and grey mane. And in a moment, the stallion glanced up and saw Quill walk through the patio gate.
“Quick Quill!” he greeted, loud enough for the whole patio to hear him. He stood up and stumbled toward her.
“Hello, fa--ther--” Quill said, suddenly finding herself in a death grip of a hug.
“Ah, lass, it’s been a donkey’s ear since I las’ saw ya! How good it does me ta have ya here!” the old stallion said, cradling his daughter in his grip.
“Lovely--Father, would you be so kind?” Quill said, trying to prise her father’s hoof from around herself.
“Ah-ha. Sorry aboyt t’at,” said her father, who let go of her. “They got great cider here! Mighty grand! An’ ya know how yer ould da gets when he’s had a pint’r two. Have a seat, an’ we’ll have another round.”
In all those years, nearly nothing about her father had changed. And for the first time, Quill was happy to see him raising a row in public.
Taking her seat across from her father, Quill noticed then what he was reading before she arrived.
“Hang on,” she said, marking the page with her hoof, and turning to the cover. “This is last month’s ‘Shine.’”
“Yup. I read yer review in this month’s. An’ thought I’d have a gander at the story ya gave a once over.”
A devious smirk twitched onto the corner of Quill’s mouth.
“And? What did you think?” she asked.
“Oh-hoo-hoo-hoo! Where do I bloody begin?” her father chuckled. “I don’t know what this fella’s on aboyt, but this bog he’s wrote got a place in this world loike wings have on me bum! Loike this sentence here: ‘He was feelin a bit tired in the head so she have heer his drinks of and burn his mouth.’ Ha! I’ve a feelin’ the lad what wrote this is a mite touched in the head to t’ink that’s what a sentence looks loike!”
Even though Quill was aware that everypony inside and out of the restaurant could hear them, she did not care. Hearing her father laugh so heartily made it all worthwhile. And he was not done tearing into the story.
“Fair turns me stomach to read aboyt t’em poor ladies,” her father continued, looking back to the pages, “How dumb were t’e mares this eejit dated to t’ink any mare would fall for a line loike, ‘If we halfs to spun for whole film will be awokes for all night until morning!’” T’ick as manure, they’d hafta be! An’ probably half as useful!”
“I’m not sure the author’s dated any mares. No less spoken to any in a decent manner,” Quill replied.
The waiter came over.
And just before Quill placed her order, her father boisterously interjected.
“Look at this! T’e lad’s supposed ta be some koind o’ warrior monk. An’ he has his head hoofed to him by a chimera what tried pullin’ one o’ his mares!” the old stallion guffawed. “An’ all he does aboyt it is tell them both how he’s used to it, since he was whipped an’ tortured by his parents!”
“Hang on. I know this one!” the waiter said, his face gleefully lighting up. “That’s the one where right after he gives that ‘dramatic’ monologue, he goes back to his flat with all the mares he met. And then the chimera commits suicide, because he feels so bad for the hero, right?”
“Right!” Quill’s father answered. “Celestia above! What bugger-headed monkey wrote this? I’ve a pet chicken back home, who’d make a better story if she dipped her feet in ink an’ scratched for food on a sheet o’ loose leaf!”
“I think this one was a...Mixed Message, I’d bet,” the waiter said.
“Scratch Scribble,” Quill corrected.
“That’s the one! I know his work slaps the face of all things good about fiction, but I hope he never stops writing. Blokes like him are always good for a belly laugh.”
“Believe me, you’d never be able to get him to change, no matter how hard you tried,” Quill said.
Unnoticed by everypony, except Quick Quill, a blue stallion with a green mane stormed away from the restaurant. And with a satisfied smirk, Quill returned her attention to her present company.
“Now, I think that I’ll have this lovely apple and walnut salad. With a side of rose petals,” Quill said, after glimpsing at the menu.
“Same fer me. But, make me soide a basket o’ tatty skins. Oh, an’ bring me an’ me daughter a pint o’ cider each,” her father said.
The waiter left, and Quick Quill spent the next hour at the restaurant happily catching up with all that she had missed since she left home. In turn, she told him all about her blooming career as an author, her misadventures with magic, and her close encounter with the diabolical Theronicus Rex.
Somewhere in her mind, she knew that she had not heard the last of Scratch Scribble. Likely, he would rear his head again by publishing an opinion piece or a column, trying to demonize her. But, Quill knew that only a pitiful few would ever believe such drivel. And that as long as she had her own quality work, a loving and intelligent audience, and an adoring and supportive father to boot, her life would be glorious.