This is a test of the Emergency Broadcast System. Do not be alarmed. This is just a test. Should a real emergency occur, citizens are advised to flap their arms like a bird and run around the streets like idiots.
In other words, this is a TEST
of my thing-a-ma-bob. It's also midnight. Again. Midnight happens a lot around here, apparently. Who knew?
IN OTHER NEWS. I have done the system and checked the thing-a-bob in the who's-a-what's-it and pulled it all together into something.
If you are prone to seizures, hemorrhagic liver, eyeball strain, LUS high blood pressure, glaucoma, PURE RAGE, or colon-clenching at the slightest offense to STORY, CHARACTER, or GRAMMAR/MECHANICS in any form or fashion, please look away now. Preferably, you'll be running. Running far, far away.
Hm… I think that's sufficient warning.
What I did today:
Y’see that pony right there? ya, that’s me. Not much of a looker, eh? I guess it’d be kind of ovbious: I’m not that important. Heck, I can’t even get a decent picture of myself around these parts. Eh, id on’t patter that much anyway—I’ve got things to do, places to be, all that stuff. ANd maybe a little more. So, you might be ascing yourself, for someone such unimportnat as me, why do anything, eh? Well, I’ll tell you why: everypony’s importnat. Every Celestia-be-damned one. That’s what I beleive, anyway. Heck, I’ll thak that to my grave and back again.
Maybe that’s just me deluding myself. Maybe I’m a nobody and I’ll stay a nobody. Maybe the world won’t change and maybe itll just be the same as it was yesterday, even after I die. So be it. At least I tried. Well, tri. Give it a bit of time. It might not be these children, it might not be their children, it might not be ther grandchildren. We’ll get there eventually. We a lways do.
What am I talk ing about anyway? Ah, yes! Of course, the children. Now, I must admit, there is something which has entertained my couriousity to no end, ant that thing is children. Moreover, and also, there is a pecular tradition among the folk of Canterlot to have their christaning exactly three months after birth, and to have their child stay in their house for another month, and another month, and another month. Oh, they have visitors, on the occasion. Mostly it’s just well-wishers, that kind of thing.
AFeter their first year, they can come out. That’s how it goes, y’know? Gives me the willies, that does. I have a habit of asking them what does go on in them houses in them months. The parents yusually give me a funny look. Doesn’t matter much, though. trhe children alre always nice nuff.
It was one day late last October that my iquires led to a few… shall we say, unexpected results.
I was tending the garden of SIr de Fluffy Wuffles when, out of the blue, some old hag pucnhed me squar e in the gut.
“Get the hell away from th— our children, you frackle-smacked, spiffity ruffsack!”
Alarmed, and in pain, and on the ground, I looked up at her.
“The buck is wrong with you, woman?” Noting my lingual faux pas, I turned my fance to the dirt. “What do you want!? I ain’t harmed nobody, m’aam.”
As if this had come from the mouth of a haeinous beast in her mind, she harumfed away. Left degecticed, conmfused, and generally all-about pined, I stood up.
My immediate reaction, then, aws of course to head to the nearest mantion and inquire the mistress there why the names of lanskas or, rather, in it, there were maurading mares picking up brawls with unsuspecting and law-abiding bystandards.
That particular didn’t recieve many answers, so I huffled to the next house, and the next house, and the next house. ‘Twasint the best of plans, no, but eventually I was presented so some for m of an answer.
In madame Lis’s house, the ubutler told me that there had been a threat agtainst Chillworthy’s dearest and nearest and (interesting enough) youngest daugher. Someone wanted to kill her.
Now, I see the logic in assuming that the guy who likes kids is going to go on a rampage and start murdering little fillies for no reason, I get it—
Er, well, maybe not. And especially not the logic behind assaulting said guy unprovoddk.
So it was.
Now, the most interesting particular of all—my!—was the fact that this un known assailent was giong to go about murdering this child by stealing them away in the night, while they slept, and living behind a changeling. A changeling! What a novelty. And I was punched for it.
C’est la vie.
Now, should I look into this rationally, it is really quite chilling. There would be little way to tell if that very creature was indeed reall at all. Ughblugh. Just the gthought is enough to maki me want to run.
I never did hear the end of that particualr story… I guess it ended well enough. I’m still alive, eh?
Though, actually, I did find out later why they kept the children in those so many months. An old legend, regarding some runes and maybe a god or two. Cant remember oall of it today. Maybe another time, thjen.
Now, a few rules that I followed:
I swiped a no-backsies rule from Ion's thread (the opening scenes one, iirc), so I was unable to correct mistakes I made. ONLY FORWARD, NO BACKWARD. (This rule is subject to change during the real thing.)
2. No closing FocusWriter until it was ALL DONE.
3. This one had a 750 word limit, so it's just a wee bit shorter than the ones that I'll be doing for the real contest.
4. A character, a personality, and a theme were chosen by a random roll from random.org's random integer generator. I'm still working on fixing these particular mechanics.
5. I'm posting this here—in full—not just because I'm a masochist. Rather, it's a genuine attempt to use pubic exposure to increase the likelihood that I'll writer better as time goes on. We'll see how that works out.
Hopefully it will for the better.
And that's all!
Good night and good dreams,
This post was edited by its author on .