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Paintbrush
I’d like you to paint a picture with me, okay? Not in inks and brushes, but a canvas that is the quiet place in your mind.
Consider sunset. The last rays of the day spill shadows throughout the palace. Each day, there comes a time sun surrenders to moon.That time of day has always been special to me. Why would it not? It is my namesake.
But I digress. Picture me walking through my castle. My hoofsteps echo about the corridors, a steady, slow drumming, each step promising relief from another day spent too-long amidst meetings, petitions, and pageantry.
When I was little, I wanted to be Princess Celestia, you know? I wanted her grace, her wisdom, her sense of purpose, how the entire world seemed to center upon her.
Had I realized how dreary much of ruling would be, I suspect I’d never have left my library to ensure I would never grow wings.
Still.
Still. I don’t think this story is going to come out the way I first intended. I could go on, and I’m sure if you tried hard enough you could hear me talk for ages. I’m prone to lecturing after all, and in a way this is just one long lecture! Blink and you’ll miss the flash cards!
No, no, there are no flash cards. Turns out even the most bookish of princesses learns to improvise a speech or three given time. I can’t quite say I miss my more panicky days, but I do look back on them with a certain wistful charm.
We’ve gotten away from the picture, though. So see the darkened halls, empty but for me walking. I'm not the young mare I once was, believe it or not, no. I’ve grown in the intervening time. Picture Celestia, if you would. Go on. Now make her purple. Give her my mane, yet let it sparkle and flow and twinkle just as Luna’s did when you beheld her in days gone by. It’s funny to do it that way, isn’t it?
Do you have it in your head? Almost? Not there yet? Okay. I’m not walking tall and proud. No, my neck is down. My eyes focus on nothing in particular save making sure one hoof leads the other. My wings droop. My tail? Well, I suppose that still has some energy to it, but these days like my mane it has a mind of its own. I hardly think that counts.
Do you see me, now? Your princess, stooped with fatigue, walking away from her woes and worries towards the safety of the bedchamber ahead. Listen as my steps quicken, as the cadence of hooves goes from limping walk to slow trot.
Then hear the gallop from behind, a panicked courtier rushing up. ‘Princess Sparkle! Princess Sparkle!’ he shall call, or some variation thereof.
I grant him a half-minute of precious time. Long enough to listen. Then, quite firmly and pointedly ask the time. And then despite protests and pleas, inform that this too may wait till morning, that Equestria will not burn if the markets dip, or a noble has their feathers ruffled.
My staff has been instructed that these hours are mine. They try again and again, yet I hold fast. Yes, if Tirek returned, or the Swarm boiled out of the badlands, or the Deepdwellers rose once more, yes, I would respond no matter the hour. But not for this.
Close your eyes once more. See my horn glimmer, see it gently draw open the crystal doors. It is not my magic but my hooves that betray my entrance as I draw near a bed too small to be comfortable. Yet I would rather be in this bed than any other in the world.
Sheets are already drawn down in anticipation of my arrival, and as I settle into place, I smile.
I smile at you.
I tuck you against my wing, my most precious treasure, and there I cradle you close to me and tell this story. And now we are done. You want more? Then, another it shall be.
This is one of my favorites, after all. It is from long, long ago. Long enough ago when Spike was still just a baby, believe it or not! Yes. He was even tinier than you, once.
Oh, yes, you can have a kiss, dear. All my kisses in the world are yours. Ready, now? Good.
“Once upon a time, in the magical land of Equestria…”
Consider sunset. The last rays of the day spill shadows throughout the palace. Each day, there comes a time sun surrenders to moon.That time of day has always been special to me. Why would it not? It is my namesake.
But I digress. Picture me walking through my castle. My hoofsteps echo about the corridors, a steady, slow drumming, each step promising relief from another day spent too-long amidst meetings, petitions, and pageantry.
When I was little, I wanted to be Princess Celestia, you know? I wanted her grace, her wisdom, her sense of purpose, how the entire world seemed to center upon her.
Had I realized how dreary much of ruling would be, I suspect I’d never have left my library to ensure I would never grow wings.
Still.
Still. I don’t think this story is going to come out the way I first intended. I could go on, and I’m sure if you tried hard enough you could hear me talk for ages. I’m prone to lecturing after all, and in a way this is just one long lecture! Blink and you’ll miss the flash cards!
No, no, there are no flash cards. Turns out even the most bookish of princesses learns to improvise a speech or three given time. I can’t quite say I miss my more panicky days, but I do look back on them with a certain wistful charm.
We’ve gotten away from the picture, though. So see the darkened halls, empty but for me walking. I'm not the young mare I once was, believe it or not, no. I’ve grown in the intervening time. Picture Celestia, if you would. Go on. Now make her purple. Give her my mane, yet let it sparkle and flow and twinkle just as Luna’s did when you beheld her in days gone by. It’s funny to do it that way, isn’t it?
Do you have it in your head? Almost? Not there yet? Okay. I’m not walking tall and proud. No, my neck is down. My eyes focus on nothing in particular save making sure one hoof leads the other. My wings droop. My tail? Well, I suppose that still has some energy to it, but these days like my mane it has a mind of its own. I hardly think that counts.
Do you see me, now? Your princess, stooped with fatigue, walking away from her woes and worries towards the safety of the bedchamber ahead. Listen as my steps quicken, as the cadence of hooves goes from limping walk to slow trot.
Then hear the gallop from behind, a panicked courtier rushing up. ‘Princess Sparkle! Princess Sparkle!’ he shall call, or some variation thereof.
I grant him a half-minute of precious time. Long enough to listen. Then, quite firmly and pointedly ask the time. And then despite protests and pleas, inform that this too may wait till morning, that Equestria will not burn if the markets dip, or a noble has their feathers ruffled.
My staff has been instructed that these hours are mine. They try again and again, yet I hold fast. Yes, if Tirek returned, or the Swarm boiled out of the badlands, or the Deepdwellers rose once more, yes, I would respond no matter the hour. But not for this.
Close your eyes once more. See my horn glimmer, see it gently draw open the crystal doors. It is not my magic but my hooves that betray my entrance as I draw near a bed too small to be comfortable. Yet I would rather be in this bed than any other in the world.
Sheets are already drawn down in anticipation of my arrival, and as I settle into place, I smile.
I smile at you.
I tuck you against my wing, my most precious treasure, and there I cradle you close to me and tell this story. And now we are done. You want more? Then, another it shall be.
This is one of my favorites, after all. It is from long, long ago. Long enough ago when Spike was still just a baby, believe it or not! Yes. He was even tinier than you, once.
Oh, yes, you can have a kiss, dear. All my kisses in the world are yours. Ready, now? Good.
“Once upon a time, in the magical land of Equestria…”
Aw, that was sweet. This Twilight is definitely a slightly different characterisation of that from the show, but it's one that's consistent throughout and it works, given her explanations about her life. Things have changed. She's grown.
What I'm a little confused about is... the timeline? It seems a bit odd to tell a story and then say "And then I told this story" and then continued on from there. This is but a small detail, though; on the whole, I like the narrative device of Twilight telling this to her child.
What I'm a little confused about is... the timeline? It seems a bit odd to tell a story and then say "And then I told this story" and then continued on from there. This is but a small detail, though; on the whole, I like the narrative device of Twilight telling this to her child.
It was a dark and stormy night, and Johnny said to the captain, “Captain, tell me a story.” And this is the story the captain told: It was a dark and stormy night…
In any case, the tone here feels confused. The hints of what Equestria is like in the far future are interesting, and Twilight improvising as she goes would explain the rambling, disorganized nature of the narrative. However, the topics she covers and asides that seem solely for the benefit of the reader don’t feel appropriate given her apparent audience. Why would her child need to imagine how she looks, especially when she’s right there?
This needs another go-over to make it work. It can work, but you’re going to need to think about what Twilight’s in-story audience knows and balance that against the reader’s knowledge going into the story.
In any case, the tone here feels confused. The hints of what Equestria is like in the far future are interesting, and Twilight improvising as she goes would explain the rambling, disorganized nature of the narrative. However, the topics she covers and asides that seem solely for the benefit of the reader don’t feel appropriate given her apparent audience. Why would her child need to imagine how she looks, especially when she’s right there?
This needs another go-over to make it work. It can work, but you’re going to need to think about what Twilight’s in-story audience knows and balance that against the reader’s knowledge going into the story.
So Twilight lyrically tells the reader to imagine that she's walking down a hall to a bedroom to meet with us and tell us a bedtime story?
Without a doubt the language is very pretty. It also feels like the author was as perplexed by the prompt as frankly I was, if written much prettier than what I put together. It's a story that's not really a story. It's ultimately just an explanation that Twilight loves the reader and needs private time with said reader, who I think is her child.
It's pretty but it needs work.
Without a doubt the language is very pretty. It also feels like the author was as perplexed by the prompt as frankly I was, if written much prettier than what I put together. It's a story that's not really a story. It's ultimately just an explanation that Twilight loves the reader and needs private time with said reader, who I think is her child.
It's pretty but it needs work.
This is assuredly a beautiful piece, and I do like the concept. The biggest issue here is that there isn't really a story here as much as a pretty set of words, and there isn't enough oomph in the minific limit for me to really get into the narrative. It's fairly good as is, but needs some work and length.
What the others said. To extend the story's opening analogy, the brushwork here is exquisite, and the finished product is a mess of clashing strokes. The "you" of the story appears to explicitly be the "you" who Twilight begins a bedtime story for in the last line, which makes the maternal relationship with the young-child "you" jar greatly against the deep metaphors and complex concepts of the core of the story, and that slams me to a halt while trying to parse this in any way that allows me to approach the deeper meanings.
... actually, I think that maybe, maybe, the framing of the story everyone sees is wrong. The ending isn't the frame. The ending is within the picture. The first line is the frame. The audience is "you" the reader, who is not a young pony; that's just the image Twilight is trying to use to convey her emotions. But if that's the case, the unreliable narration of that final section is asking a great deal of the story, since once we introduce unreliable narration it's equally plausible to do what everyone here is assuming and throw out the first bit. Perhaps returning to the original frame at the end rather than recursing would properly identify the meta-levels here.
Tier: Almost There
... actually, I think that maybe, maybe, the framing of the story everyone sees is wrong. The ending isn't the frame. The ending is within the picture. The first line is the frame. The audience is "you" the reader, who is not a young pony; that's just the image Twilight is trying to use to convey her emotions. But if that's the case, the unreliable narration of that final section is asking a great deal of the story, since once we introduce unreliable narration it's equally plausible to do what everyone here is assuming and throw out the first bit. Perhaps returning to the original frame at the end rather than recursing would properly identify the meta-levels here.
Tier: Almost There