Whiieeeuh! Pffrrrbbh. Haierrmmurmphm.

<clop clop> mrruierhm <clop clop clop clop clop clop clop clop> pphfiereph.

Neeigghh wheeingnhm! <snort>.

Down streets turned ashen in the early light, he wandered, wisps of fog curling and skittering around his ankles. Around him were dimly lit windows, each with a hunched figure bent over a table, scribbling or typing furiously.

His own hands bore blank sheets of paper.

He stared about. It wasn’t so much, he thought. Only four hundred, at the most seven hundred and fifty. Why was it so hard for him, always so hard? Some could write a tale about, say, that piece of filth in the gutter and make it work somehow. They knew how to engage the crowd, and the subject wasn’t important to them.

But he needed something more, and something that hadn’t been already written and rewritten, full of scraped holes like an old palimpsest. He cast his eyes to the remote hills, untouched by sun and as gray as his heart felt. Somewhere in the remote streets, a horse whickered. None of it was of any use. He would have to give it up this time.

His shoulders fell, and he turned, and there it was. A tattered poster, somehow catching more light than its surroundings. A woman in a red dress, dashing through a field. Something might have been pursuing her. What expression was that, on her haunting face?

He recalled that one café, the scent of jonquils on the breeze, the laugh that made his heart pause… There had to be some angle there he could use. He sat on the curb, spread his papers on his knees, and the vision poured out of him, scrawled roughly across the pages. He ignored the cold, the sharp hard stones beneath him, his hunger and thirst, as he lost himself in the flow of precious words.

He breezed through the beginning, the words spilling onto the paper as if already contained in his pen, but now the work began in earnest, and all his skill was needed to shape the emerging paragraphs to contain his intent. He left one difficult phrase behind and moved on. There was too much inside him, fighting to be recorded and preserved, and the beautiful thoughts were often the most fleeting, like dream fragments reluctant to be remembered or caught.

But he was fully captured by it now, and would not be stopped. He felt the crescendo approaching and started weaving his themes back together, finding a beautiful simile that captured the expression of that woman’s face on the poster. As the sun rose over the hills and the fog rose in lazy feline curls and the buildings were outlined in orange fire, he rushed against time, and finally he felt it all closing under his hands. That one metaphor was perfect, and he could feel the punch of the final line.

He drew a sharp breath, shivered, and stood on weak legs. There was just time to post it if he hurried.

As he ran, he read the crumpled pages, then shuddered in dismay.

He’d done it. His tale deserved a medal.

But sadly, he had a picture’s worth.

Hail, Author! Stand atop my slate!
With this reflect-review of mine,
I’ll not write off your effort fine.
‘tis clever work to thus relate.

The scheme that you select, forsooth,
From A to B and B to A
In smaller structure shows the way
The work at large is mirrored. Truth

Is herald to a higher scheme?
This retrospective cast we see
From mare to filly, obversely,
We hope to read more than there seems

For purchase in your prosody,
So densely cast we closely strive–
A task not fit for all alive,
Yet worth pursuit for those that see…

Yet worth pursuit for those that see
A task not fit for all alive,
So densely cast we closely strive
For purchase in your prosody;

We hope to read more than there seems.
From mare to filly, obversely,
This retrospective cast we see
Is herald to a higher scheme?

The work at large is mirrored. Truth
In smaller structure shows the way
From A to B and B to A
The scheme that you select, forsooth,

‘tis clever work to thus relate.
I’ll not write off your effort fine.
With this reflect-review of mine,
Hail, Author! Stand atop my slate!

writerrun, pastintenses and participulates, contrastants and inciparticipundits, all gatteround! From all semispheres, semaphores seem afore the way, and summerscribes from baskingsands and winterwrights from shiversnows conglamourate to vie vivant against uther aurothors.

Gerties and Lens, mark your toes and repare to toss your kayberds. If you loose your inspuration, write it off! A-scribe it to misastruss pasts, and peck up what you put down. Proseflows grow in verbrant rows. Plant your plots in comfy seights and surrange them to miximal efferfect.

In fine, hie thence and regale tales in the finest traducions of Anguish letterchore!

Here now the condutions:

Call whoe to Harsewords! With rigor, rig original. Hayfic is treyf-fic! Bepart from this, your subject is in prompt, you. Set say-all and steer by stars between Scylla of too-kay and Charybdis of hate-kay.

Cur-tail the loopfics thisaround, and Procrustrate your precious prose, lest wordcount halt you at the

Phoenish line. (whew!)

The forest was quiet, with still air and streamers of sunlight piercing the treetops. Nothing flew; not a single bird chirped. Through the unnerving silence, Pinkie tiptoed, keeping her lip zipped. For all she knew, it was a party game, and if so, she wouldn't be the one who spoiled the fun.

Finally, she spied a flash of familiar yellow in a distant bush, and homed in, deliberately stepping on a twig as she got near so as not to utterly startle her friend.

"Oh dear!" Fluttershy screamed quietly. "Oh, hi, Pinkie. Please keep it down, if that's all right with you..."

"Fine by me," whispered Pinkie. "What game are we playing? Hide and seek? Statues? Outraged Conscience?"

"Oh, no, it's not a game," said Fluttershy. "It's that time again." She gestured with a wing, showing the bush and the nearby tree full of birds of all kinds: eagles, peacocks, finches, robins, chickens, a forlorn emu, all huddling together and looking mournful. Not a peep came from a single one of them.

"There's some sort of writing competition going on," said Fluttershy. "The participants have to write a story of two to eight thousand words in just a few days. They're all trying to win these medals that you can't even wear, because they're just illusions, or something like that. It's rather confusing."

"Well, that sounds like fun!" said Pinkie. "What's the problem?"

"Well... the writers go through a lot of quills. First Quills and Sofas sells out, then Barnyard Bargains, and after that they come looking for the birds. It's dreadfully upsetting, so my little friends are all hiding here. Nowhere else is safe."

"Oooh, Let me help," said Pinkie, drawing forth a cannoli-zooka. "No cute little bird is gonna get hurt on my watch--"

But it was already too late. From behind the bush, a stealthy limb reached forth and clutched at Fluttershy's wing, yanking out a large yellow tertial feather.

She uttered a piercing scream that echoed through the forest and leaped into the sky, followed by a whirlwind of shrieking and flapping birds, spiralling into the bright blue heavens.

Nowhere was safe.

Once Upon a Burning Sky, Cross My Heart and Hope to Fly, Young Mare Came In from Hunting, Faint and Weary Of Light and Shadow.

“I’m Not Going to Miss You.” Tips and Tricks, The Price of Magic. The concept of sawing Florida off and pushing it out to sea–The Missing Piece. Dangerous Magic, Fill in the Blank.

“Is it because I’m—” Me Among the Mighty, Just For Fun, But you touch one butt, and suddenly it’s a big deal! Everyone Poops–All The King’s Horses! Ass Capades! Princesses’ Clusterfuck. Diplomatic Disaster, Light Treason, Rules of Engagement… “—Rumbly in My Tumbly?”

“End the Suffering.” The Reign of Mortals. Day By Day In a fictional world, What Could Possibly Go Worng? How Can Mirrors Be Real If Our Eyes Aren’t Real?

“I’ve Got Your Back.” It’s The Journey, Not The Destination Over the Moon. Lie Me a River.

The Kiss, Lamp Twice as Bright Among the Clouds. Horses’ Shadows Touch and Go. Resolutions, In Other Words.

DON’T FORGET ME

She sits upon her subjects, the Mistress of the Sun.
They fight to breathe but she is only having fun.
There’s nothing brightly shining beneath her thunder buns…
Her blubber will not yield to force
Her meals are eleven-course
Fat Horse
Fat Horse...

Once Upon a Time, Mike Pence, Princess of Equestria, [REDACTED] Government Subsidized Outrage Tabloids Beyond the Grave, Bending the Bridge Back to Basics–The Red and the Black Tunnel of Love.

Those Who Wait Roll for Initiative. The Long Game! Moments, Divided. An Impromptu Visitor That Is Not Dead–The Lady who Knows Everything. A Different Side of Me! Everybody Wants to Rule the World.

Not All Heroes Wear Capes. Me Among The Mighty Monsters of Horror, Where the WiFi is Usually Free. Living with Lycanthropy: This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things. It’s the Halloween Spirit! Autumn is for Apples.

The Cart Before the Horse. It’s Just a Figure of Speech. And Then, Things Got Worse. Night in the Woods; Don’t Look Behind You… That’s One Way to Start Your Morning. What The Heart Craves After the Storm, Among the Clouds. Wind Beneath my Wings, Oh, the Places You’ll Go!

Winter Wrap Up Wubbed the Wrong Way. Luna Blue, Counting Stars, Horse Latitudes, Cold Comfort.

Spooky Scary Skeletons! William Antonelli Is Afraid.

The Way They Smile Nailed It.

Ashes of Civilization, Falling With Style. Snake Swallowing Tail Among the Clouds At the Edge, Skyflight. Blue Blood Supermoon; The Lunar Trifecta.

“Superhero? Slayer of Giants…?”

“Weekend Warrior. I Tried to Save Them.”

“When Everyone’s Special, No One Is. Glory is Fleeting but Obscurity is Forever.” We’re Still Submitting. Prompts Don’t Try to Vote, You Idiot.

“Freedom of Choice, Into the Unknown with Both Feet.” Don’t Quote Me On That.

“The fox guarding the henhouse… The One who sees His shadow.”

“We Have Met the Enemy, and They are Us. Final Feast.”

“This Broken Fence, Between Past and Present Tense…”

“Fuck Binaries! Break Time! Ask not for whom the bone bones, it bones for thee.”

“Innuendo?”

“Serendipity. Picture This… Writing on the Wall.”

“Whatever You Would Do, Do It Now.”



Under the Surface… Doomed.

Everything Is Perfect. Heaven Is in the Sky.

Loved to Death, Pain is Game.