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Organised by
RogerDodger
Word limit
400–750
Congratulations, You Are The Best
Fluttershy squinted, holding the paper at arm’s length, then nose length. A hoof stretched to the coffee table. The tiny brass knob squeaked on the oil lamp. She squinted again:
Oml ubon o –ne…
Her glazed eyes drifted down the page, then to the next and the next until at last in the middle of page forty seven:
an tem sudenly: pimabbles.
She looked from the pound of carefully smudged hoofwriting to the judging guidelines only to find that “volume” was not exactly mechanics, nor plot, character, or style. She nibbled the end of her green quill a moment before making a note about… originality. She did hope Cheerilee gave participation.
The story flumped on the coffee table. She grabbed a smaller stack of papers, adjusted her willow reading glasses, and once again began to read:
So I just woke up in… Funtasia! How cool is that right!? Except…. none of that matters because…… I TOTALLY! can shoot….. laser beams from my eyes! and like…………………….. control everything at a molecular! level. So I’m not saying I’m unstoppable!; but I’m pretty unstoppable.! Except for……….. the evil Maneiac!: who has mysteriously! woken up on the grass next to……. me!
Fluttershy traced circles on the couch with a hoof. Mechanics, plot, character, style, originality. Not energy. Her quill scratched. Another flump.
Filthy Rich kissed his marefriend Tiara Pearl on the cheek as they happily awaited the arrival of their date meal. They hadn’t even yelled at each other all day because they never did anything like that…
She scratched a note about character development, paused, scratched it out, paused for a very long time, then at last left a quiet note of encouragement and a separate note for Cheerilee about counseling. While it dried, she broke for some milk of magnesia.
As the wick reached for its dregs, the final story flumped on the stack, leaving her with a single slip marked with her name, five guidelines, and a stack of three little numbers. She pawed through the stories again, then again, wondering why there were no categories for animated, silly, or sweet.
After a few shufflings and some careful selections with her eyes closed, she managed to settle on three. But that still left the matter of numbering. Was perfect punctuation more deserving of ice cream than the part with the lawn mower? And did Rumble really need more ice cream in his diet? Thunderlane would have words.
In the end, stories tumbled into slots. The wick went to cinders. Cool night air lapped against her snug alpaca blanket carrying Fluttershy off to dawn.
As the rest of the class sat on the edge of their seats, Dinky’s head flopped to her desk.
Please not me. Anypony but me.
“And the winner of Ponyville Elementary’s Best Young Author goes to… Dinky Doo!”
Great.
“Awww…” half the class groaned in unison, drawing a sharp look from Cheerilee.
“Now that is no way to treat the winner of our competition. Let’s congratulate Dinky.”
Dinky’s neck prickled as she noticed the hundred eyes now trained on her. She jerked her head up with what she hoped was a grin in time to not look entirely awkward for the measured rumble of patronization.
“Make sure you see me after class for your free sundae at Sugarcube Corner,” Cheerilee finished. “Now if everypony could open to page…”
As one the eyes drifted away. Everything felt lighter. Cooler.
Then a wad of paper biffed off the back of her head and fell to the floor. She swept it under her seat without looking up. Another came. And another. She kept her focus on her book to the point that she did not hear the hoofsteps until it was too late.
“Passing notes in class, Dinky?”
Dinky’s heart dropped to her stomach and froze.
“N-no, Ms Cheerilee.” Dinky swept the latest wad under the desk. Too late, she realized her mistake.
“You’ve got to try a little harder to pull one over on me, young missy.” Cheerilee reached under and grabbed a note at random. Dinky's head flumped to the desk, hooves over her ears.
Cheerilee sucked in a breath. Paper rustled. But the reading never came. Just a gentle hoof on her shoulder and a whisper: “See me after class.”
Wordlessly, she swept up the rest of the notes. Hoofsteps trotted to the front of the class leaving Dinky alone in the sea of harsh, prickling, eyes.
It was going to be a long week.
Oml ubon o –ne…
Her glazed eyes drifted down the page, then to the next and the next until at last in the middle of page forty seven:
an tem sudenly: pimabbles.
She looked from the pound of carefully smudged hoofwriting to the judging guidelines only to find that “volume” was not exactly mechanics, nor plot, character, or style. She nibbled the end of her green quill a moment before making a note about… originality. She did hope Cheerilee gave participation.
The story flumped on the coffee table. She grabbed a smaller stack of papers, adjusted her willow reading glasses, and once again began to read:
So I just woke up in… Funtasia! How cool is that right!? Except…. none of that matters because…… I TOTALLY! can shoot….. laser beams from my eyes! and like…………………….. control everything at a molecular! level. So I’m not saying I’m unstoppable!; but I’m pretty unstoppable.! Except for……….. the evil Maneiac!: who has mysteriously! woken up on the grass next to……. me!
Fluttershy traced circles on the couch with a hoof. Mechanics, plot, character, style, originality. Not energy. Her quill scratched. Another flump.
Filthy Rich kissed his marefriend Tiara Pearl on the cheek as they happily awaited the arrival of their date meal. They hadn’t even yelled at each other all day because they never did anything like that…
She scratched a note about character development, paused, scratched it out, paused for a very long time, then at last left a quiet note of encouragement and a separate note for Cheerilee about counseling. While it dried, she broke for some milk of magnesia.
As the wick reached for its dregs, the final story flumped on the stack, leaving her with a single slip marked with her name, five guidelines, and a stack of three little numbers. She pawed through the stories again, then again, wondering why there were no categories for animated, silly, or sweet.
After a few shufflings and some careful selections with her eyes closed, she managed to settle on three. But that still left the matter of numbering. Was perfect punctuation more deserving of ice cream than the part with the lawn mower? And did Rumble really need more ice cream in his diet? Thunderlane would have words.
In the end, stories tumbled into slots. The wick went to cinders. Cool night air lapped against her snug alpaca blanket carrying Fluttershy off to dawn.
As the rest of the class sat on the edge of their seats, Dinky’s head flopped to her desk.
Please not me. Anypony but me.
“And the winner of Ponyville Elementary’s Best Young Author goes to… Dinky Doo!”
Great.
“Awww…” half the class groaned in unison, drawing a sharp look from Cheerilee.
“Now that is no way to treat the winner of our competition. Let’s congratulate Dinky.”
Dinky’s neck prickled as she noticed the hundred eyes now trained on her. She jerked her head up with what she hoped was a grin in time to not look entirely awkward for the measured rumble of patronization.
“Make sure you see me after class for your free sundae at Sugarcube Corner,” Cheerilee finished. “Now if everypony could open to page…”
As one the eyes drifted away. Everything felt lighter. Cooler.
Then a wad of paper biffed off the back of her head and fell to the floor. She swept it under her seat without looking up. Another came. And another. She kept her focus on her book to the point that she did not hear the hoofsteps until it was too late.
“Passing notes in class, Dinky?”
Dinky’s heart dropped to her stomach and froze.
“N-no, Ms Cheerilee.” Dinky swept the latest wad under the desk. Too late, she realized her mistake.
“You’ve got to try a little harder to pull one over on me, young missy.” Cheerilee reached under and grabbed a note at random. Dinky's head flumped to the desk, hooves over her ears.
Cheerilee sucked in a breath. Paper rustled. But the reading never came. Just a gentle hoof on her shoulder and a whisper: “See me after class.”
Wordlessly, she swept up the rest of the notes. Hoofsteps trotted to the front of the class leaving Dinky alone in the sea of harsh, prickling, eyes.
It was going to be a long week.