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Organised by
RogerDodger
Word limit
400–750
Babel
The alarm clock on Carrot Cake’s nightstand was set to four in the morning. Today, like most days, he was already awake when it began to buzz, and he switched it off with a light tap of his hoof.
“Munsilasii…” Cup Cake mumbled beside him. It sounded like either tired or shower. “Amaashli,” she continued, and rolled onto her side, pulling the covers back up over her shoulder.
Tired, then. Probably. Carrot gave her ear a little kiss and absconded to use the shower.
Bakers were the first to rise in Ponyville. They had to be. When Carrot emerged from the shower the house was already filled with the warm scent of fresh bread. He toweled his mane and headed downstairs.
The first trays were in the oven, and Cup sipping coffee at the table. She smiled and indicated the counter, where the pot was still bubbling. “Anum?”
“Thank you.” He poured himself a cup and sat. “Shower’s yours, if you want.” He mimed turning the faucet and holding his head under the spray.
She nodded and set her mug on the table. “Shiikgi adi, shami ushash shirman. Gar!” She gave him a kiss and headed upstairs.
Pinkie Pie joined them shortly before opening. She bounced over to the counter and opened up the displays, pulling out the trays to ready them for the treats. “Zel Cake trealop!” She paused and bit at her lip, and then slowly spoke again. “Good...morning… Mister Cake!”
“Trealop,” he said, and walked over to give her a fatherly hug. Learning even a few words of another pony’s language was a sign of immense commitment, and every time she greeted him it was like a warm candle had lit within his heart. Of course, Pinkie was close to being able to greet the entire town. How she could remember all those words, much less who they belonged to, baffled him.
Cup joined them, her mane still damp from the shower. “Pinkie! Trealop.”
“Zal Cake trealop! Weepeggle?” Tones, at least, hadn’t changed, and the up-inflected ending was clearly a question.
“Nii gi e gik.” Cup ruffled Pinkie’s mane, and they walked into the kitchen, speaking to each other in quiet voices that said nothing, but somehow still meant everything.
Twilight Sparkle was one of their first customers, as she was most days. The Princess of Friendship was also an early riser.
Also as usual, she was wearing one of her experiments: a wire necklace with a flickering jewel in the center. It was encased in an array of thin metal fins, which Carrot took to mean it generated a fair amount of heat.
Her horn glowed, and the gem lit up with an inner fire. “Hello Mister Cake! I would like four—” the gem sparked and went out with a puff of smoke. “—kiraric par rede.”
“Seven words! That’s getting better,” he said. “Four of what?” He mimed pointing at the treats in the glass display between them.
Twilight’s ears drooped, and she motioned toward the eclairs. He gave her five, in hopes of seeing her smile.
It worked. She glanced around, as if to make sure they were alone, then leaned over the counter to give him a peck on the cheek. Then, cheeks aflame, she darted out the door.
Pound Cake was the last of the family to rise. He fluttered downstairs and settled into a chair, mane still a mess, feathers all afluff.
“You’re late,” Carrot said. “Pumpkin already left for school.”
“School’s stupid,” Pound said. “All we do is math. Why couldn’t Discord have screwed up everypony’s numbers, too?”
“Princess Twilight says that’s impossible. Math is universal,” Carrot said. He enjoyed speaking with his children – like most foals, they quickly learned their parents’ languages, and often served as translators in the family.
“It’s boring!” Pound thumped the table with a hoof.
“You’ll be glad in a few years when the princess fixes things. Now, off to class!”
It was late when Carrot settled into bed. Cup was already beneath the covers, drowsing, and he snuggled up behind her.
“Love you,” she mumbled.
It had been seven months since Discord’s Curse, as Carrot called it. He assumed everypony else called it the same thing in their language. Only the word "Discord" was the same.
It was impossible to learn enough to speak with everypony. One had to choose carefully. To decide what mattered. And, he reflected, that wasn’t so hard.
“Ane khimshuk,” he whispered.
Love you.
“Munsilasii…” Cup Cake mumbled beside him. It sounded like either tired or shower. “Amaashli,” she continued, and rolled onto her side, pulling the covers back up over her shoulder.
Tired, then. Probably. Carrot gave her ear a little kiss and absconded to use the shower.
Bakers were the first to rise in Ponyville. They had to be. When Carrot emerged from the shower the house was already filled with the warm scent of fresh bread. He toweled his mane and headed downstairs.
The first trays were in the oven, and Cup sipping coffee at the table. She smiled and indicated the counter, where the pot was still bubbling. “Anum?”
“Thank you.” He poured himself a cup and sat. “Shower’s yours, if you want.” He mimed turning the faucet and holding his head under the spray.
She nodded and set her mug on the table. “Shiikgi adi, shami ushash shirman. Gar!” She gave him a kiss and headed upstairs.
Pinkie Pie joined them shortly before opening. She bounced over to the counter and opened up the displays, pulling out the trays to ready them for the treats. “Zel Cake trealop!” She paused and bit at her lip, and then slowly spoke again. “Good...morning… Mister Cake!”
“Trealop,” he said, and walked over to give her a fatherly hug. Learning even a few words of another pony’s language was a sign of immense commitment, and every time she greeted him it was like a warm candle had lit within his heart. Of course, Pinkie was close to being able to greet the entire town. How she could remember all those words, much less who they belonged to, baffled him.
Cup joined them, her mane still damp from the shower. “Pinkie! Trealop.”
“Zal Cake trealop! Weepeggle?” Tones, at least, hadn’t changed, and the up-inflected ending was clearly a question.
“Nii gi e gik.” Cup ruffled Pinkie’s mane, and they walked into the kitchen, speaking to each other in quiet voices that said nothing, but somehow still meant everything.
Twilight Sparkle was one of their first customers, as she was most days. The Princess of Friendship was also an early riser.
Also as usual, she was wearing one of her experiments: a wire necklace with a flickering jewel in the center. It was encased in an array of thin metal fins, which Carrot took to mean it generated a fair amount of heat.
Her horn glowed, and the gem lit up with an inner fire. “Hello Mister Cake! I would like four—” the gem sparked and went out with a puff of smoke. “—kiraric par rede.”
“Seven words! That’s getting better,” he said. “Four of what?” He mimed pointing at the treats in the glass display between them.
Twilight’s ears drooped, and she motioned toward the eclairs. He gave her five, in hopes of seeing her smile.
It worked. She glanced around, as if to make sure they were alone, then leaned over the counter to give him a peck on the cheek. Then, cheeks aflame, she darted out the door.
Pound Cake was the last of the family to rise. He fluttered downstairs and settled into a chair, mane still a mess, feathers all afluff.
“You’re late,” Carrot said. “Pumpkin already left for school.”
“School’s stupid,” Pound said. “All we do is math. Why couldn’t Discord have screwed up everypony’s numbers, too?”
“Princess Twilight says that’s impossible. Math is universal,” Carrot said. He enjoyed speaking with his children – like most foals, they quickly learned their parents’ languages, and often served as translators in the family.
“It’s boring!” Pound thumped the table with a hoof.
“You’ll be glad in a few years when the princess fixes things. Now, off to class!”
It was late when Carrot settled into bed. Cup was already beneath the covers, drowsing, and he snuggled up behind her.
“Love you,” she mumbled.
It had been seven months since Discord’s Curse, as Carrot called it. He assumed everypony else called it the same thing in their language. Only the word "Discord" was the same.
It was impossible to learn enough to speak with everypony. One had to choose carefully. To decide what mattered. And, he reflected, that wasn’t so hard.
“Ane khimshuk,” he whispered.
Love you.