Hey! It looks like you're new here. You might want to check out the introduction.
Organised by
RogerDodger
Word limit
400–750
Aspirations
The front door opened, and then slammed shut with enough force to rattle the windows on the second floor. Rarity flinched, pricking herself with a needle. Another door slammed, and another. The moment of quiet that followed was broken by the sound of shattering glass and a high-pitched squeal.
Rarity sighed. Sweetie Belle was home.
It was too much, she supposed, to expect to finish her dress in peace. A shame, really. It was one of her better works. It rested on the manikin like spidersilk on a breeze. When she moved her head, the dress appeared to shimmer and ripple, like seagrass in the tide. It was to be the headliner of her Ocean Floor line.
She felt tempted to continue working. But no, that would be unwise. Best to deal with her sister before grumpiness became a tantrum.
She left her workroom and hurried downstairs.
The kitchen was a mess. Glass shards – the remains of a jug – glittered on the floor. Sweetie Belle was attempting to sweep them into a pile, but stopped when Rarity entered.
“It’s not my fault,” she said, eyes puffy. “I didn’t mean to do it. It was fine until my stupid awful horn—”
“Stopped working?” Rarity said, suppressing a sigh.
Her sister’s head fell. “Yeah.”
“Well, as jugs go, it was rather gauche. I don’t think I’ll miss it.”
“Liar,” Sweetie said, downcast.
Rarity huffed. “Sweetie, dear, that’s what we call ‘a way out’. In future, I suggest you take it. Now, why don’t we clean this up, and then you can tell me what’s bothering you?”
“Nothing’s bothering me.”
Rarity smiled. “Liar.”
Sweetie Belle groaned, but didn’t deny it.
They swept and mopped the floor together, and checked for any stray shards. Finding none, Rarity poured them each a glass of lemonade and led Sweetie to the lounge.
“Now,” said Rarity once they were seated, “are you going to talk to me, or will I need to go to Applejack?”
“I’m not fighting with Apple Bloom again,” Sweetie Belle grumbled. “It’s Diamond Tiara. She says I’m broken.”
Luckily, Rarity had not been sipping her drink. If she had, she might have spit it.
“She said what?”
“My magic’s always going funny, so she says I’m not a proper unicorn.” Sweetie rolled her glass between her hooves. “Cheerilee told her off, but . . .”
“But you think she was correct?”
Sweetie Belle hesitated, then nodded.
Rarity pressed a hoof to her temple. Wonderful. Not only was Sweetie being bullied, but the poor filly was beginning to believe it. She needed to have some hard words with Filthy Rich.
“Sweetie, your magic has certainly been a . . . struggle, but this is not uncommon in our family. Aunt Misty couldn’t channel a simple levitation spell until—”
“—she was two years older than me. I know. But I don’t want to be like Aunt Misty! I want to be good at magic.”
Rarity chewed on her cheek and hummed. “Have I ever told you that when I was a filly, I wanted to be a painter?” she said.
Sweetie shook her head.
“Well, I did, but I had no talent for it. My lines were crooked. My colours clashed. I couldn’t do anything right.
“It made me so unhappy that mother stopped buying me paint. She told me to try other arts. So I did. I tried many things, but soon I found that I enjoyed making dresses the most, and, more than that, I discovered that I had a talent for it.”
She smiled softly, remembering, then shook her head. “My point, Sweetie, is that passion is the best cure for what you are feeling. Find something that lights you up, and then pursue that. You may even find it unlocks your magic, for magic is strange like that.”
“You’re saying I should give up?”
“I’m saying you should do what makes you happy.”
Sweetie toyed with her glass. “I like singing.”
“Then sing, dear. Find someplace to practise and sing until you can sing no more.”
Sweetie smiled. “I can do that.”
“Hurry along, then. It is sunset in a few hours.”
Sweetie Belle finished her lemonade and headed for the door. She paused on the doorstep, and said “Thanks, Rarity.”
“Think nothing of it,” Rarity replied.
After her sister left, Rarity lingered a while longer, then cleaned up and returned to her workroom, where her dress waited, rippling and shimmering like the sea in summer.
Rarity sighed. Sweetie Belle was home.
It was too much, she supposed, to expect to finish her dress in peace. A shame, really. It was one of her better works. It rested on the manikin like spidersilk on a breeze. When she moved her head, the dress appeared to shimmer and ripple, like seagrass in the tide. It was to be the headliner of her Ocean Floor line.
She felt tempted to continue working. But no, that would be unwise. Best to deal with her sister before grumpiness became a tantrum.
She left her workroom and hurried downstairs.
The kitchen was a mess. Glass shards – the remains of a jug – glittered on the floor. Sweetie Belle was attempting to sweep them into a pile, but stopped when Rarity entered.
“It’s not my fault,” she said, eyes puffy. “I didn’t mean to do it. It was fine until my stupid awful horn—”
“Stopped working?” Rarity said, suppressing a sigh.
Her sister’s head fell. “Yeah.”
“Well, as jugs go, it was rather gauche. I don’t think I’ll miss it.”
“Liar,” Sweetie said, downcast.
Rarity huffed. “Sweetie, dear, that’s what we call ‘a way out’. In future, I suggest you take it. Now, why don’t we clean this up, and then you can tell me what’s bothering you?”
“Nothing’s bothering me.”
Rarity smiled. “Liar.”
Sweetie Belle groaned, but didn’t deny it.
They swept and mopped the floor together, and checked for any stray shards. Finding none, Rarity poured them each a glass of lemonade and led Sweetie to the lounge.
“Now,” said Rarity once they were seated, “are you going to talk to me, or will I need to go to Applejack?”
“I’m not fighting with Apple Bloom again,” Sweetie Belle grumbled. “It’s Diamond Tiara. She says I’m broken.”
Luckily, Rarity had not been sipping her drink. If she had, she might have spit it.
“She said what?”
“My magic’s always going funny, so she says I’m not a proper unicorn.” Sweetie rolled her glass between her hooves. “Cheerilee told her off, but . . .”
“But you think she was correct?”
Sweetie Belle hesitated, then nodded.
Rarity pressed a hoof to her temple. Wonderful. Not only was Sweetie being bullied, but the poor filly was beginning to believe it. She needed to have some hard words with Filthy Rich.
“Sweetie, your magic has certainly been a . . . struggle, but this is not uncommon in our family. Aunt Misty couldn’t channel a simple levitation spell until—”
“—she was two years older than me. I know. But I don’t want to be like Aunt Misty! I want to be good at magic.”
Rarity chewed on her cheek and hummed. “Have I ever told you that when I was a filly, I wanted to be a painter?” she said.
Sweetie shook her head.
“Well, I did, but I had no talent for it. My lines were crooked. My colours clashed. I couldn’t do anything right.
“It made me so unhappy that mother stopped buying me paint. She told me to try other arts. So I did. I tried many things, but soon I found that I enjoyed making dresses the most, and, more than that, I discovered that I had a talent for it.”
She smiled softly, remembering, then shook her head. “My point, Sweetie, is that passion is the best cure for what you are feeling. Find something that lights you up, and then pursue that. You may even find it unlocks your magic, for magic is strange like that.”
“You’re saying I should give up?”
“I’m saying you should do what makes you happy.”
Sweetie toyed with her glass. “I like singing.”
“Then sing, dear. Find someplace to practise and sing until you can sing no more.”
Sweetie smiled. “I can do that.”
“Hurry along, then. It is sunset in a few hours.”
Sweetie Belle finished her lemonade and headed for the door. She paused on the doorstep, and said “Thanks, Rarity.”
“Think nothing of it,” Rarity replied.
After her sister left, Rarity lingered a while longer, then cleaned up and returned to her workroom, where her dress waited, rippling and shimmering like the sea in summer.