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Organised by
RogerDodger
Word limit
400–750
The Calligrapher
“Papa! I'm home!”
It was spring, and Ivory Scroll pushed open the door to her father's home without bothering to knock. Although she hadn't lived under his roof in decades, memories of a childhood spent gamboling across these hardwood floors, ducking around laquered furniture with her sisters and rattling their mother's china had indelibly stamped these walls in her mind as her own.
She found Sans Serif in the study, bent over his worktable. Rivers of parchment overflowed the desk like waterfalls, curling in rapids along the floor. She brushed them aside with her hooves and stood beside him, careful not to breath too deep as she peered over his shoulder.
Like most earth ponies, Sans Serif preferred to write with his mouth, using his lips to hold a fountain pen that traced its graceful way across the yellowed paper. Faint graphite rules, placed with the aid of a straight-edge, demarked the exact lines and indents had chosen for this piece. When he was done writing they would be erased, leaving only the flowing script behind.
He couldn’t reply while writing, but his free hoof lifted from the desk to brush against her cheek. She smiled at the gesture and settled in to watch him finish.
The work was a poem, though not one she recognized. He had already filled the page with line upon line of whorls and dashes, fantastically rendered yet somehow still legible. Like most of his calligraphy, it wouldn’t have looked out of place in a museum.
San Serif was on the final line when the pen shook. The nib jittered, pressed too hard, and a tiny spray of ink spurted out onto the page. He paused, grumbled, and set the pen down, already reaching for the tiny razor he used to scrape away such mistakes.
Memories of the Summer Sun Celebration were only a week old when Ivory Scroll visited her father again.
He was in his study, as usual. Projects littered his desk and the floor around him, and she stepped delicately as she approached. His ears swivelled toward her, and she waited until he was between letters to place a quick kiss on his cheek.
“Good morning, Papa. How are you?”
“Good,” he mumbled around his pen. A frown followed. “Too humid, though. Ink takes longer to dry.”
“I’ll talk to the weather team,” she said. A quick glance at the page showed he was only a few words into this project, and already she could see a few tiny errors. Squiggles where there should be none. Straight jerks where there should be flow.
She convinced herself to ignore the pang in her stomach.
Fall came, and brought drier weather. When Ivory Scroll visited now, her father had cleared his desk except for a few large brushes. The broad strokes they left on the page hid the mistakes. His head and forelegs quaked with the faint signs of palsy.
He stared at the page, the brushes beside him uninked. She walked up behind him, neverminding the rustle of her hooves, and wrapped her forelegs around him in a gentle hug.
She could feel him shaking.
“I’m sorry I didn’t visit more.”
Her father waved a trembling hoof. “You were busy. The town needed you.”
Ivory Scroll sighed. “I’m just a manager, Papa. Ponies go to the princess with their troubles now.”
“Oh? So you just sit in your office all day, staring at the wall?”
Well, no. In fact, ever since Twilight Sparkle had arrived in Ponyville, her office had never stopped scrambling. Disasters, monsters, ceremonies, official visits – the more she thought about it, the more she realized just how full her plate had become lately.
She frowned. “No, but that doesn’t matter. I should have made more time for you.”
“I’m still here.”
“Yes, but…” She couldn’t bring herself to finish. In the next room, her father’s study sat unused. The brushes collected dust. “You loved writing so much. I loved watching you.”
“And now that’s gone, is it?” He glanced into the darkened study.
“It must be.”
“Hm.” He stood, and slowly shuffled into his old workroom. “Come here?”
Perplexed, she followed. He stood beside his desk, the chair pulled out, but not for him.
“Have a seat,” he said.
She did. A brush and page were laid out before her. He leaned over, grasped the brush in his lips, and passed it to her.
“This is how you form the ‘A’...”
It was spring, and Ivory Scroll pushed open the door to her father's home without bothering to knock. Although she hadn't lived under his roof in decades, memories of a childhood spent gamboling across these hardwood floors, ducking around laquered furniture with her sisters and rattling their mother's china had indelibly stamped these walls in her mind as her own.
She found Sans Serif in the study, bent over his worktable. Rivers of parchment overflowed the desk like waterfalls, curling in rapids along the floor. She brushed them aside with her hooves and stood beside him, careful not to breath too deep as she peered over his shoulder.
Like most earth ponies, Sans Serif preferred to write with his mouth, using his lips to hold a fountain pen that traced its graceful way across the yellowed paper. Faint graphite rules, placed with the aid of a straight-edge, demarked the exact lines and indents had chosen for this piece. When he was done writing they would be erased, leaving only the flowing script behind.
He couldn’t reply while writing, but his free hoof lifted from the desk to brush against her cheek. She smiled at the gesture and settled in to watch him finish.
The work was a poem, though not one she recognized. He had already filled the page with line upon line of whorls and dashes, fantastically rendered yet somehow still legible. Like most of his calligraphy, it wouldn’t have looked out of place in a museum.
San Serif was on the final line when the pen shook. The nib jittered, pressed too hard, and a tiny spray of ink spurted out onto the page. He paused, grumbled, and set the pen down, already reaching for the tiny razor he used to scrape away such mistakes.
Memories of the Summer Sun Celebration were only a week old when Ivory Scroll visited her father again.
He was in his study, as usual. Projects littered his desk and the floor around him, and she stepped delicately as she approached. His ears swivelled toward her, and she waited until he was between letters to place a quick kiss on his cheek.
“Good morning, Papa. How are you?”
“Good,” he mumbled around his pen. A frown followed. “Too humid, though. Ink takes longer to dry.”
“I’ll talk to the weather team,” she said. A quick glance at the page showed he was only a few words into this project, and already she could see a few tiny errors. Squiggles where there should be none. Straight jerks where there should be flow.
She convinced herself to ignore the pang in her stomach.
Fall came, and brought drier weather. When Ivory Scroll visited now, her father had cleared his desk except for a few large brushes. The broad strokes they left on the page hid the mistakes. His head and forelegs quaked with the faint signs of palsy.
He stared at the page, the brushes beside him uninked. She walked up behind him, neverminding the rustle of her hooves, and wrapped her forelegs around him in a gentle hug.
She could feel him shaking.
“I’m sorry I didn’t visit more.”
Her father waved a trembling hoof. “You were busy. The town needed you.”
Ivory Scroll sighed. “I’m just a manager, Papa. Ponies go to the princess with their troubles now.”
“Oh? So you just sit in your office all day, staring at the wall?”
Well, no. In fact, ever since Twilight Sparkle had arrived in Ponyville, her office had never stopped scrambling. Disasters, monsters, ceremonies, official visits – the more she thought about it, the more she realized just how full her plate had become lately.
She frowned. “No, but that doesn’t matter. I should have made more time for you.”
“I’m still here.”
“Yes, but…” She couldn’t bring herself to finish. In the next room, her father’s study sat unused. The brushes collected dust. “You loved writing so much. I loved watching you.”
“And now that’s gone, is it?” He glanced into the darkened study.
“It must be.”
“Hm.” He stood, and slowly shuffled into his old workroom. “Come here?”
Perplexed, she followed. He stood beside his desk, the chair pulled out, but not for him.
“Have a seat,” he said.
She did. A brush and page were laid out before her. He leaned over, grasped the brush in his lips, and passed it to her.
“This is how you form the ‘A’...”