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Temporis Viator
Starlight Glimmer couldn’t find Twilight Sparkle. She had been looking for her the whole morning, but the Princess had vanished. Her bedroom was empty and the clothes untouched, as if she hadn’t slept here. She wasn’t in the library either. That was strange, since Twilight had taken to keeping Starlight informed of her official trips.
Flummoxed, she had asked Spike if Twilight had anything on her agenda that day, but Spike had shrugged and pretended he didn’t know. So Starlight had carried on her quest on her own. In vain.
That is, until she decided to have a look in the basement. The basement was not a forbidden place per se, but Twilight had made it clear she would resent any unbidden trespassing: she considered it a half-private area. So Starlight descended the steps cautiously, if not reluctantly.
She was immediately rewarded. As she set foot on the floor, she heard a faint rattle, not unlike the hammering of a maul on a sheet of metal. Intrigued, she walked on along gloomy corridors, guided by the noise, until she found herself facing a closed door. A sliver of light oozed under it, and the pounding undoubtedly originated from somewhere behind.
She knocked.
“Twilight?”
No response. She knocked harder.
“TWILIGHT?” she shouted.
The pounding stopped, replaced by an approaching clop. A latch clanged and the door cracked open, revealing Twilight’s face. Her mane was tousled and her eyes shot with blood. The princess blotted out all the narrow field of view so that, except for vague metallic shapes, Starlight couldn’t make out any object in the room beyond.
“Twilight?” Starlight said. “Are you all right?”
“Err… Yes!” Twilight exclaimed in a semi-maniacal voice. “I’ve been working on a super-important super-secret project. It’s not ready now, but I’ll let you know as soon as it is. Err… That’s it! Thanks for coming! Goodbye for now!” She slammed the door and engaged the latch back, leaving Starlight, more perplexed than ever, alone on the threshold.
Starlight slouched in a deckchair, sipping from a glass of iced tea, basking in the late afternoon sun, when Twilight suddenly materialised in front of her.
"Starlight! Starlight!” she squealed. “Come to see! Quick! Oh, I’m so excited! This is so disruptive!” She didn’t wait for Starlight to answer, caught her in her magic and both teleported away.
The room was cramped. A single bulb set in the ceiling cast a crude, aggressive light all around the place. Blackboards – covered in arcane glyphs and equations – lined the walls. Clenches, hammers, screwdrivers and other tools and items littered the floor.
But the object in the middle of it was far more intriguing. Propped up on a plinth of marble, a single massive ring, about seven inches in diameter, stood there. Its shape, as far as the eye could judge, was perfectly circular. It was made of a smooth, golden like metal, only slightly whiter, on which the light of the bulb glanced off in iridescent rays. The eye was caught and mesmerised.
“Wow!” Starlight Glimmer exclaimed. “What is it?”
“Have a closer look at it!” answered Twilight, stotting around in Pinkie Pie’s fashion.
Starlight took two steps toward the ring. It looked marvellous, even that close. She brushed the metal: it was as the eye perceived it, smooth and regular, cold under the hoof.
“Can I?” she asked Twilight, gesturing a hoof through the ring.
“Of course, silly!” answered Twilight. “You must walk through it to find out its purpose!”
Starlight gingerly stepped up on the plinth, then tiptoed through the ring.
Nothing happened.
Once she was on the other side, she hopped down, took a step further and turned around. Undoubtedly, the ring was beautiful: an outstanding artwork, a masterpiece of staggering perfection. But outside of this, Starlight failed to grasp its primary function.
She scratched her forehead in puzzlement. “I don’t understand,” she said.
“What?!” Twilight replied in a half-offended tone. “But it’s so obvious!”
“Beats me!” Starlight shrugged in defeat.
“It’s a machine to travel into the present! Duh!” Twilight concluded.
Flummoxed, she had asked Spike if Twilight had anything on her agenda that day, but Spike had shrugged and pretended he didn’t know. So Starlight had carried on her quest on her own. In vain.
That is, until she decided to have a look in the basement. The basement was not a forbidden place per se, but Twilight had made it clear she would resent any unbidden trespassing: she considered it a half-private area. So Starlight descended the steps cautiously, if not reluctantly.
She was immediately rewarded. As she set foot on the floor, she heard a faint rattle, not unlike the hammering of a maul on a sheet of metal. Intrigued, she walked on along gloomy corridors, guided by the noise, until she found herself facing a closed door. A sliver of light oozed under it, and the pounding undoubtedly originated from somewhere behind.
She knocked.
“Twilight?”
No response. She knocked harder.
“TWILIGHT?” she shouted.
The pounding stopped, replaced by an approaching clop. A latch clanged and the door cracked open, revealing Twilight’s face. Her mane was tousled and her eyes shot with blood. The princess blotted out all the narrow field of view so that, except for vague metallic shapes, Starlight couldn’t make out any object in the room beyond.
“Twilight?” Starlight said. “Are you all right?”
“Err… Yes!” Twilight exclaimed in a semi-maniacal voice. “I’ve been working on a super-important super-secret project. It’s not ready now, but I’ll let you know as soon as it is. Err… That’s it! Thanks for coming! Goodbye for now!” She slammed the door and engaged the latch back, leaving Starlight, more perplexed than ever, alone on the threshold.
Starlight slouched in a deckchair, sipping from a glass of iced tea, basking in the late afternoon sun, when Twilight suddenly materialised in front of her.
"Starlight! Starlight!” she squealed. “Come to see! Quick! Oh, I’m so excited! This is so disruptive!” She didn’t wait for Starlight to answer, caught her in her magic and both teleported away.
The room was cramped. A single bulb set in the ceiling cast a crude, aggressive light all around the place. Blackboards – covered in arcane glyphs and equations – lined the walls. Clenches, hammers, screwdrivers and other tools and items littered the floor.
But the object in the middle of it was far more intriguing. Propped up on a plinth of marble, a single massive ring, about seven inches in diameter, stood there. Its shape, as far as the eye could judge, was perfectly circular. It was made of a smooth, golden like metal, only slightly whiter, on which the light of the bulb glanced off in iridescent rays. The eye was caught and mesmerised.
“Wow!” Starlight Glimmer exclaimed. “What is it?”
“Have a closer look at it!” answered Twilight, stotting around in Pinkie Pie’s fashion.
Starlight took two steps toward the ring. It looked marvellous, even that close. She brushed the metal: it was as the eye perceived it, smooth and regular, cold under the hoof.
“Can I?” she asked Twilight, gesturing a hoof through the ring.
“Of course, silly!” answered Twilight. “You must walk through it to find out its purpose!”
Starlight gingerly stepped up on the plinth, then tiptoed through the ring.
Nothing happened.
Once she was on the other side, she hopped down, took a step further and turned around. Undoubtedly, the ring was beautiful: an outstanding artwork, a masterpiece of staggering perfection. But outside of this, Starlight failed to grasp its primary function.
She scratched her forehead in puzzlement. “I don’t understand,” she said.
“What?!” Twilight replied in a half-offended tone. “But it’s so obvious!”
“Beats me!” Starlight shrugged in defeat.
“It’s a machine to travel into the present! Duh!” Twilight concluded.
This has some really weird phrasing: a lot of passive sentences, awkward construction, and questionable word choices. (A good discovery shouldn’t be disruptive, light generally isn’t aggressive, etc.) I’m guessing English isn’t the author’s first language.
Okay, how did Starlight step through a ring that’s only seven inches in diameter? Ponies aren’t that little.
…
For proper effect, I want you to imagine me typing the periods in that ellipsis at a rate of about one per second. This was just disappointing. Clean up the language, making the opening less telly and storybookish, and… well, it still won’t be that impressive. That punchline just wasn’t funny, and I’m not sure how it fits the prompt.
Okay, how did Starlight step through a ring that’s only seven inches in diameter? Ponies aren’t that little.
…
For proper effect, I want you to imagine me typing the periods in that ellipsis at a rate of about one per second. This was just disappointing. Clean up the language, making the opening less telly and storybookish, and… well, it still won’t be that impressive. That punchline just wasn’t funny, and I’m not sure how it fits the prompt.
**Writeoff public service announcement**
I want to stop and take a moment to note that this particular observation came up for discussion a number of rounds ago, and that the consensus that emerged from authors was that we should avoid it as review feedback. For the authors for whom it was true, the observation didn't seem helpful, because it did not offer any route to improvement. For the authors for whom it was not true, it was a pretty disheartening insult, to say that they didn't sound like a native speaker of their own language.
(I'm definitely not trying to pick on you, FOME — It's just been a while since the discussion, and it's a lesson we should try to collectively remember rather than relearn. This post just happened to jog my memory.)
What should we do instead? Exactly what FOME did in that same paragraph:
If you judge that a story's language use is poor, then citing specific examples of things which can be fixed is what will help both native and non-native speakers edit their story and improve their language use for next time. That keeps the criticism constructive and avoids any risk of accidental insult.
I’m guessing English isn’t the author’s first language.
I want to stop and take a moment to note that this particular observation came up for discussion a number of rounds ago, and that the consensus that emerged from authors was that we should avoid it as review feedback. For the authors for whom it was true, the observation didn't seem helpful, because it did not offer any route to improvement. For the authors for whom it was not true, it was a pretty disheartening insult, to say that they didn't sound like a native speaker of their own language.
(I'm definitely not trying to pick on you, FOME — It's just been a while since the discussion, and it's a lesson we should try to collectively remember rather than relearn. This post just happened to jog my memory.)
What should we do instead? Exactly what FOME did in that same paragraph:
This has some really weird phrasing: a lot of passive sentences, awkward construction, and questionable word choices. (A good discovery shouldn’t be disruptive, light generally isn’t aggressive, etc.)
If you judge that a story's language use is poor, then citing specific examples of things which can be fixed is what will help both native and non-native speakers edit their story and improve their language use for next time. That keeps the criticism constructive and avoids any risk of accidental insult.
>>horizon
I avoid commenting about this now as well, but in defense of those who do, it's hard not to: frequently it's such an obvious thing that would improve the story, so it stands out when I'm trying to locate issues.
But as you implied, non-English speakers already know about their deficit. It's better to isolate egregious or salient examples and offer corrections, than to effectively say "get a prereader who knows English better". You are a prereader who knows English better, so help them already. :twilightsmile:
I avoid commenting about this now as well, but in defense of those who do, it's hard not to: frequently it's such an obvious thing that would improve the story, so it stands out when I'm trying to locate issues.
But as you implied, non-English speakers already know about their deficit. It's better to isolate egregious or salient examples and offer corrections, than to effectively say "get a prereader who knows English better". You are a prereader who knows English better, so help them already. :twilightsmile:
>>horizon
My apologies to the author and my thanks to you for pointing this out. I'll be sure to avoid comments like that in the future.
My apologies to the author and my thanks to you for pointing this out. I'll be sure to avoid comments like that in the future.
I'm used to pronk, but stott is new on me. I think that degree of action needs to be supported by more than a single word, too: let us know she's bouncing around the lab, if she actually is.
I fear I don't get the point of the story. Is it comedy? Has Twilight lost her mind, or is she just being dense? Should I feel mirth or sadness? I can't imagine Twilight being this dense because she's too practical. What does this have to do with Starlight Glimmer, apart with 'somepony to share it with'?
It's a great idea with good execution, but the premise is so bizarre I'm a bit lost at the end about what the intent was. I'm going to guess comedy.
I fear I don't get the point of the story. Is it comedy? Has Twilight lost her mind, or is she just being dense? Should I feel mirth or sadness? I can't imagine Twilight being this dense because she's too practical. What does this have to do with Starlight Glimmer, apart with 'somepony to share it with'?
It's a great idea with good execution, but the premise is so bizarre I'm a bit lost at the end about what the intent was. I'm going to guess comedy.
And while I'm here, this story's on my slate, so let's drop a review.
"Show, don't tell" is overused advice that is not correct nearly as often as most people think, but this is a textbook example of when it would help. The first three paragraphs of this story tell us what is going on rather than showing us what is going on:
Both showing and telling have their place in writing, and the difference is in where you want to place your focus. The job of showing is to focus attention on things that are important to the story. The job of telling is to quickly gloss over elements, removing the focus from them. Readers will pay more attention to things they are shown, because the vivid details will keep them in the moment. This is the difference between "Twilight wasn't in the bedroom" and "Her bedroom was empty and the clothes untouched": the latter lets us see the bedroom, brings us into the search. Telling is, more or less, exposition.
Starting a story with a solid wall of telling, then, is a problem, because in the first few paragraphs it's critical to hook your reader — give them something to make them keep going. But the first 18% of your story by wordcount is (or feels like) exposition. Either Starlight's search for Twilight is important to your story — in which case, you should show it rather than tell, and drag us in right away — or it isn't, in which case telling lets you hurry through the material to get to the interesting bits, but it would be better yet to remove all this exposition and just start where the action does (with Starlight talking to her in the basement).
Anyway.
This is sort of an ascended nitpick, but "seven-inch diameter" really threw me. Diameter is the measurement of a circle (or ring) from one side to the other. It sounds like what you're talking about is the thickness of the material? It does seem odd that you would describe the ring as generically "massive" and then specify the metal thickness, though. If you had provided both measurements, or neither, it would have read more smoothly.
And, well … the punchline. I've already written a small essay on this entry; anyone else want to take a stab on why the humor doesn't land, and how to fix it? My first stab would be something like "nothing in the rest of the story's build-up foreshadows it, and jokes are about subverting expectations," but I think that's not 100% it.
Sorry I don't have much positive to say, author. Take heart: You put yourself out there and spent the weekend writing, and the mere fact of committing words to screen means that you automatically beat everyone who didn't work up the nerve or the creativity to enter. Though this story has some flaws, figuring out what could be better is the first step in editing this into a stronger presentation, and whether or not you do, you'll learn things from this that will improve your writing. My own writing career has 20+ years of stumbles like this; the big difference is that I shook most of them out of my system early, so that the average story I write these days does a pretty good job of saying what it means and engaging with audiences in an entertaining way. The failures are an integral part of that process — we don't learn anything from praise, only from exploding exciting new textual landmines and figuring out how to dodge them next time.
Tier: Needs Work
"Show, don't tell" is overused advice that is not correct nearly as often as most people think, but this is a textbook example of when it would help. The first three paragraphs of this story tell us what is going on rather than showing us what is going on:
Starlight Glimmer couldn’t find Twilight Sparkle. She had been looking for her the whole morning, but the Princess had vanished. Her bedroom was empty and the clothes untouched, as if she hadn’t slept here. She wasn’t in the library either. That was strange, since Twilight had taken to keeping Starlight informed of her official trips.
Flummoxed, she had asked Spike if Twilight had anything on her agenda that day, but Spike had shrugged and pretended he didn’t know. So Starlight had carried on her quest on her own. In vain.
Both showing and telling have their place in writing, and the difference is in where you want to place your focus. The job of showing is to focus attention on things that are important to the story. The job of telling is to quickly gloss over elements, removing the focus from them. Readers will pay more attention to things they are shown, because the vivid details will keep them in the moment. This is the difference between "Twilight wasn't in the bedroom" and "Her bedroom was empty and the clothes untouched": the latter lets us see the bedroom, brings us into the search. Telling is, more or less, exposition.
Starting a story with a solid wall of telling, then, is a problem, because in the first few paragraphs it's critical to hook your reader — give them something to make them keep going. But the first 18% of your story by wordcount is (or feels like) exposition. Either Starlight's search for Twilight is important to your story — in which case, you should show it rather than tell, and drag us in right away — or it isn't, in which case telling lets you hurry through the material to get to the interesting bits, but it would be better yet to remove all this exposition and just start where the action does (with Starlight talking to her in the basement).
Anyway.
This is sort of an ascended nitpick, but "seven-inch diameter" really threw me. Diameter is the measurement of a circle (or ring) from one side to the other. It sounds like what you're talking about is the thickness of the material? It does seem odd that you would describe the ring as generically "massive" and then specify the metal thickness, though. If you had provided both measurements, or neither, it would have read more smoothly.
And, well … the punchline. I've already written a small essay on this entry; anyone else want to take a stab on why the humor doesn't land, and how to fix it? My first stab would be something like "nothing in the rest of the story's build-up foreshadows it, and jokes are about subverting expectations," but I think that's not 100% it.
Sorry I don't have much positive to say, author. Take heart: You put yourself out there and spent the weekend writing, and the mere fact of committing words to screen means that you automatically beat everyone who didn't work up the nerve or the creativity to enter. Though this story has some flaws, figuring out what could be better is the first step in editing this into a stronger presentation, and whether or not you do, you'll learn things from this that will improve your writing. My own writing career has 20+ years of stumbles like this; the big difference is that I shook most of them out of my system early, so that the average story I write these days does a pretty good job of saying what it means and engaging with audiences in an entertaining way. The failures are an integral part of that process — we don't learn anything from praise, only from exploding exciting new textual landmines and figuring out how to dodge them next time.
Tier: Needs Work
>>horizon
Update: Just read a blog post from bookplayer that takes a good run at my thoughts about the punchline. To wit:
That's not necessarily true all the time — I mean, feghoots are a thing — but I think the best feghoots hit that sweet spot between expectations and surprise; the best/worst puns are the ones where it's instantly obvious that the story was building up to it the whole time, even though you never would have expected it from what you were reading.
Update: Just read a blog post from bookplayer that takes a good run at my thoughts about the punchline. To wit:
A story needs to set up expectations for the audience and then pay off, preferably a way that both surprises and feels right. "Finish the story you began." If you're writing a comedy with what you think is a hilarious climax, you have to also write the rest of the comedy.
That's not necessarily true all the time — I mean, feghoots are a thing — but I think the best feghoots hit that sweet spot between expectations and surprise; the best/worst puns are the ones where it's instantly obvious that the story was building up to it the whole time, even though you never would have expected it from what you were reading.
Yes, that punchline definitely needs to be anchored more in the narrative. Part of that will relate to how you foreshadow and build up to it, but the other part is in ensuring its presence makes sense and is believable. Twilight has built a very un-Twilight device, and I struggled to accept it, because there's nothing present in the narrative which allows her to behave in this way. Exaggerate some elements: Set up Twilight earlier as being sleep deprived or suffering the after-effects of winning Sugarcube Corner's 24 hour cupcake eating competition and you make the punchline more believable. Of course, you've still got some more work to do—giving Starlight a reason for being there, ensuring the story relates to the prompt—but the moment you start giving your characters motivations and rules then these other things might start to fall in place a little easier.
Thanks for sharing your story, and if you choose to revise it I look forward to seeing it again.
Thanks for sharing your story, and if you choose to revise it I look forward to seeing it again.
This is sort of weird. For starters, this feels totally unrelated to the prompt. I get that there are lots of ways one can interpret various prompts, but the whole 'time machine to present' deal doesn't really feel like that. It doesn't help either that it doesn't really fit Starlight or Twilight's characters (admittedly, Starlight's character is sort of lacking in the show, so it's hard to tell), but this doesn't really feel like something Twilight would try to build, nor does her method of going about it really feel like that. In many regards, it more feels like something Pinkie would be involved in, as opposed to Twilight. My other major issue is that Starlight doesn't really feel like she belongs in this. I guess you might have just picked her because she seems to live at the tree, but aside from that it feels like she could just as easily be replaced with any other pony.
This, uhm - I guess my question is 'Why?'. Like, why is Twilight so stunningly proud of something so entirely useless? Solve that question and you can make your punchline work. Maybe.
But as is, right now it doesn't, I fear! Apologies!
But as is, right now it doesn't, I fear! Apologies!
Temporis Viator - C+ - Not bad, just not good. There’s no unifying plot other than the Thing In The Basement, and the characters just seem to wander around until the reveal. Still, the descriptions are fairly good, even though there are some weirdities with the way they are done, such as a seven-inch diameter ring being able to pass a pony.
I apologise to those who read this story.
This story is an adaptation of a comics called Leonard which you can find all relevant information on following the given link. The strip adapted here is literally this, Leonard’s disciple inventing a machine to travel into the present (the disciple is presumed to be really dumb). Well, okay, this is a form of absurd humour I do like, but it seems I’m the only one. :P To be straight-up I read this several years ago, but it still endures in my memory, probably because it is a sort of parody of all the time machine stories.
I threw into that frame one of my favourite headcanon character, mad science Twilight (being the master and Starlight being her disciple). I didn’t come up with many ideas for this prompt, or maybe it has to do with an increasing inability to write about ponies, but it turned out all that I could find to write about this time where whacko ideas, toeing the trollfic line.
Unsurprisingly, this one came across as totally random of course.
>>horizon
Okay, there was a few bloopers around. The most egregious one is that ‘six inches’ instead of ‘six feet’. No, Horizon, this has nothing to do with me confusing between diameter and thickness, but rather being totally unfamiliar with your f*** units system :P So, you’ll say, why didn’t you write ‘a two-meter diameter ring’? Because using the metric system is like a signature. The moment you read ‘two-meter’ you know I’ve authored the fic: so much for the anonymity. No one in the anglo-saxon world would write this, at least outside a scientific article. But inches and feet are so alien to me I didn’t even twitch when I proofread that text twice.
Also Horizon, thanks for mashing up my two stories. Did you guess they both were mine, or was it mere coincidence?
>>FanOfMostEverything
Apologies accepted, captain FoME… :P
Seriously, no offense taken, and you were right. But if you want me to forget about it ( :) ), then please tell me where you spotted the awkward constructions.
>>Trick_Question
You’re far too lenient Trick :heart:
>>Mordred
>>Morning Sun
>>georg
Yeah, that piece was dreck. Disposable. It’s like a bad pun: you know it’s bad, but you still do not resist the temptation of piping it out. Thanks Georg for finding it mid-range.
This story is an adaptation of a comics called Leonard which you can find all relevant information on following the given link. The strip adapted here is literally this, Leonard’s disciple inventing a machine to travel into the present (the disciple is presumed to be really dumb). Well, okay, this is a form of absurd humour I do like, but it seems I’m the only one. :P To be straight-up I read this several years ago, but it still endures in my memory, probably because it is a sort of parody of all the time machine stories.
I threw into that frame one of my favourite headcanon character, mad science Twilight (being the master and Starlight being her disciple). I didn’t come up with many ideas for this prompt, or maybe it has to do with an increasing inability to write about ponies, but it turned out all that I could find to write about this time where whacko ideas, toeing the trollfic line.
Unsurprisingly, this one came across as totally random of course.
>>horizon
Okay, there was a few bloopers around. The most egregious one is that ‘six inches’ instead of ‘six feet’. No, Horizon, this has nothing to do with me confusing between diameter and thickness, but rather being totally unfamiliar with your f*** units system :P So, you’ll say, why didn’t you write ‘a two-meter diameter ring’? Because using the metric system is like a signature. The moment you read ‘two-meter’ you know I’ve authored the fic: so much for the anonymity. No one in the anglo-saxon world would write this, at least outside a scientific article. But inches and feet are so alien to me I didn’t even twitch when I proofread that text twice.
Also Horizon, thanks for mashing up my two stories. Did you guess they both were mine, or was it mere coincidence?
>>FanOfMostEverything
Apologies accepted, captain FoME… :P
Seriously, no offense taken, and you were right. But if you want me to forget about it ( :) ), then please tell me where you spotted the awkward constructions.
>>Trick_Question
You’re far too lenient Trick :heart:
>>Mordred
>>Morning Sun
>>georg
Yeah, that piece was dreck. Disposable. It’s like a bad pun: you know it’s bad, but you still do not resist the temptation of piping it out. Thanks Georg for finding it mid-range.
>>Monokeras
Don't. It's insulting to those of us who enjoyed it.
I apologise to those who read this story.
Don't. It's insulting to those of us who enjoyed it.
>>Monokeras
Ironically, despite living in America, I make an effort to use "meters" etc. in pony stories, because Equestria has always felt like a utopia to me, and any country that well-run should have a unit system that makes goddamn sense. :V
I don't think I've ever used "foot" (as a unit of measurement) in a pony story, except once in the Writeoffs when I did it deliberately to throw people off my writing style. I'm also overly fond of "cubits", which has the dual benefit of: A) sounding archaic enough to fit in with Equestria's schizo-technology; and B) being archaic enough that I have to use a unit converter, which forces me to get the numbers right.
Coincidence — unless you deliberately titled your two stories similarly! I mashed them up because the "Viator"/"Aviary" correspondence worked rather well.
Because using the metric system is like a signature. The moment you read ‘two-meter’ you know I’ve authored the fic: so much for the anonymity. No one in the anglo-saxon world would write this, at least outside a scientific article. But inches and feet are so alien to me I didn’t even twitch when I proofread that text twice.
Ironically, despite living in America, I make an effort to use "meters" etc. in pony stories, because Equestria has always felt like a utopia to me, and any country that well-run should have a unit system that makes goddamn sense. :V
I don't think I've ever used "foot" (as a unit of measurement) in a pony story, except once in the Writeoffs when I did it deliberately to throw people off my writing style. I'm also overly fond of "cubits", which has the dual benefit of: A) sounding archaic enough to fit in with Equestria's schizo-technology; and B) being archaic enough that I have to use a unit converter, which forces me to get the numbers right.
Also Horizon, thanks for mashing up my two stories. Did you guess they both were mine, or was it mere coincidence?
Coincidence — unless you deliberately titled your two stories similarly! I mashed them up because the "Viator"/"Aviary" correspondence worked rather well.
>>horizon
Okay. Next time I shall use the metric system and avoid those stupid blunders. On the other hand, if I read a fic where ponies put on two kilometer bangles, then I will know who wrote it! :P
Ironically, despite living in America, I make an effort to use "meters" etc. in pony stories, because Equestria has always felt like a utopia to me, and any country that well-run should have a unit system that makes goddamn sense.
Okay. Next time I shall use the metric system and avoid those stupid blunders. On the other hand, if I read a fic where ponies put on two kilometer bangles, then I will know who wrote it! :P