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Pinkamena’s Wake
Ahem, awhoom, ahoum, a who?
A Houyhnhnm homonym I. A Pony and Pie, no lie!
And a dillydance I do, on this fine morn in town, updown the avenindues of my innuendous ways, in crusscarrants of herds of Ponyville hooftrotters, all a travel in ravellous teeming streams of comfortuitous equanity, amid which I pronk-a-pie, dancing and leaping in salmonpink upstreaming through the Ponyflow!
As I turn the south corner, upturn the corners of mouths. I fight the glums and glumes and I am vectorious with infectious glee. I pass blimpaloons to sillicolts and boldfillies, fold paper darts and kites, sing ditties in spindizzies that loften the harpes and spiracues of fronds and neigh-burrs as I greet the hourdes in passenage and ungdulate amung’em.
–Howdy? Very Dee indeed, thankee Berry! A tope of the marening to ye.
–How present to see you again, Turner! Many haply returns!
–What luck, a fresh bud for me? Aurora Rhodopli!
–Ho, Macintosh! Mac in Toffee? A fine candapple! Share in a cakecup, two bits!
So I prattlance a ringly round on streets run on lines laid down by G. Smith as she uptrod the road to market as a filly in years long by. Her courage echoes. Past dances perdure as I retrance their steps that show to me as hints of hooves in fiery action. I see bits here and there of what was distantdone to contect to the willandnow. None can see all; Discord tried.
Everything has the space intween, the gutter unmuttered, the shortest possileap parting the momuments that your eyes are too befunneled to see, but I a Pie can. I just try to sillip my way slithely into the justelly presized point between, and place a Pie right there. With so much space where I amn’t, how hard can it be?
And asudden, a doosiance disburbles my equulubrium, my ears swangle and tail swoops low to smack my bellyboobs and carmand my atension… Strangersense is ringling, burnsome and balefully… Eeek! A new hydra at the skirthems of town. We’ll have to convoke a party. A war party. A call to alarums, harum skarums and dispersions! But convergence is called, as the Parensis of Friendship herself, doubtless alarted by mapclap, sounds the call to all on lavendwing above, and so we convenerate about her. From blue sky and amber fields come our strengths steadfast and true, from town our alabestest elegarity and precision, from Froggy Bottom our gelben patience and understanding, and I, I was just pying pankly about so I simply chose to be already there, as our Brightest Brain selects the battle plan.
For this beastie despite its multiferous headlings has little graimadder to knockle between them, and is a natural boring meaniepuss of lowest water, and lacking all conceipts of cordialations cannot be made to accede to Friendship, even when foired from the collossalest Rainbowitzer powered with all the kilophilos my chums and I can muster. Thus The Good-Thinking-Egg has rightly-as-reignly construded that strapping on the ole spiked iron wharshoes is the best way of discompelling the infrequent Hydratic inscurgions. Cry avec and cut loose the Elephants of Harm! Fill it with Eire!
We find the Inhorifungurundulum by course of riverrun, acharge with multi-necked tilting to usward. Whydra? Could be miscarried crusade, extended snailhunt, foalish indiscrecense… but time to admonish later, with last thirty secs. for plainly-recited gold platitudes. But now we are in the thicavet and it is time to show what ponies are made of, not that we are tasty meatmorsels for rumbly monstummies, but that we have pointyshockyflappyhoofy bits that sting! Now Dashie hoofs up a cloud all darcoalish to fire flashzaps; Twi’s harn, redaglow, seizes serpenecks and renders then full windsors; AyJay loops swirly hydreads and Rarity and Shy direct silk ropes to entangle maloferous monster tootsies. And I… I sing, a morale chorale, as well I can with just one of my many on the deck, until I entract the intentions of a cross sour head on a low stumpbilly neck.
The longfanged visage descends at me to deliver a buss from its pus-spotted puss, and I buck back hard to deliver a boop to its snottydroopysnoot! But gnarled and snarly its mouth curls wide and its slicky slucky stinkery tongue forks forth and tangles my tail, and keryanks! And just in that manner, like a Bonbon popped into Lyra’s chasmous maw, I am ingusted. Tongundulations surge me past pointy unsizers and mushticators to mouthback, where I scrample at the edge of the throat, clinging at all to stop the fall, carpe uvula! But a gulp unglues my grip and down the hitchless hatch I go! Gashlorp! Grullop! Gwrlumph! and a Hey Nom Nom Nommy! Aslipperslide down the ewslophagunk with a slurbglomgollumorfmurfglump to the deep dank dump of its smellybelly! ALP! An I live, deplorable!
Down here, deep in bellumbeast, it is dark and sickery and ickhory beyond descreption, soured with acrid dribbles of digestives and vaulted with ulcerous maimbranes, amid which I am so ensaddered to see the askelerated remainders of several forest craytures to which the Hydrum had taken its fangsy earlier this diem. So saddened I that I cry for them even in the face of my own impending ending by blending, my imminent disPinkering and reHydration. And I cry in such volume that I cry myself away, per se, and ere digested give up my ghost.
Whither thou, ghost? So ghost I, with furred spurrited sprites of raccoon and bear and river otter, which beasties had shared with me the gravebog of the hydra’s stummy, we all soar out and away across Illusian Fields. Looking back at the discrant seen of the bitter baddle I see that my dear chooms, distrayed but undanted, have fraughtled the Hydra to the darsty ground, by Jacklasso and Twi’s-Brighty-Mighty-Lighty secured, and Dear Dynamo Dashie is hurling her mightenmane against the monster’s mausoleic middeln to force it to disgorge my corpus. But more I do not see, for shades of Hades bound are the craytures and me.
Now Hades is little like Tartarus, for those admittened here are such gentle souls that stones and Styx can never break, and truth bespoke it is a fair place to afterrest in many retrespectives. But I have promises to bake and friends to keep, and so I do not plan to tarradiddle long on the Blackwater shores. For if the UnderLaurd catches a hint I am there, he’ll want me to stay foreverevereverandever and try to take me for pomegranted, and no homebody I, but a Pie with a body at home, just lacking a filling for my crust at prestime.
But I sing sanguine, as I have a scheme, for when a pone larves a life of adventure and daring and baked awesomes and tightropely-plotted escapades, that pone needs to keep her bets well hedged in case of emergence dire. To turn Durance Vile to Endurance Viable, and gain gumption to gaggle the ghastlies, you simply pretread the dread-trodden ground, and… Quiz: what’s the usual salution to the hardest of all possible problems in Equestria? Make some friends, SillyMillie!
And as Idleon I, with animule escort, appreach the docks, I am shurene and comfidant, for Charon and I have met before and reached a meeting of the miens, and as I hoof my way to the docked ferry and the cloaked ponsonage awaiting his toll, I bow for psake o’pomposity and spit out before him, not an obol, but a cupcake, freshwarmyum from my soulstove. His grimace acquires a curl at the tips, and his bright stareglare eyes tip me a wink.
I turn to take my leave of Lethe and am upshorted by soulful creyeturs wistfulling my way, which gives me not long to pause, for it is supersad that my bestest, bazom chums are missing me above, and I wish to return and reassure to them my resumption and ease their keenings! But these my Shadebound companions, they too are sad, and may be humbglum evermore unless they receive a stuperiffous Welcome to Hades party. And so I tarry just a’twhile, and from meangre scantlings asscrambled from shoredriftings and jetsam, I knock together a minispread of pleasure and fun, aidumented with cakage from my secret spaces and a spray of confruttage from my spiritual Partyretta. And so cheersome feels are spread among lost shoresouls, and Charon unbernds so far as to permit use of his ferry for playing at pirates. Aboom and avast ere I arroint, and splashing of cannolishot! (But always with the Pink slimbelly dodging the wettest splooshes, for unlike the Shadebound I am not ready to Lethe behind my recollects of the Livenworld.)
At party’s end, as Charon ferries them all to the farthest of all shores, I bywave across the waters to my new friends I will somedaway see again when my fineral has been funalized, and then I tack the track back, and point my solely soul to the wayhomehole.
No dillydance suits my escape; it is a dourdle of grimmy grimey slimey mishmesh through which I must thread, for as cupcakes must taste very good, and medications must taste bad enough to call for a cupcake chaser, a reroute from Hades must be frighted with pearils. I am on full duesy alertness for quivers of Tartar source, or brays from the Fae realms, all of which may mistract or sidetempt me. But I make of my innersoulf a bubble, a baulb of cheersome giggles, and so, swirled and chirled and turmled as I may be, yet I rise, roise, roister my way back from the shady layers to waird the wards, to yeastily yearn, to swell with japes of joy and touch the houter hair again. Surf is up! And like a cork from a grand green land, up I pop again…
To see nowt but black, an dark, and nowhere starlights! Luna’s dimshed the whole sky! She must not feel like twining or shinkling either. With her evening mourning me, I tread the streets over lines where G. Smith trotted home with bits in her bag long agos ago (her canter endures), sensing the layout of where I am laid out and walking without thinking as a horse will, and find myself approaching the Cake’s shop, and my happiness quavers and spectral eyes flood until the world quivers, for the town is there, spilling out into the streets, and they are all here and weeping together and all I see around me are friends, and my tears would run down the streets did I have my body back yet. It makes me so sad, straighthair sad, which is good because now I can tell sad me, you see? This is how they will truefeel should you go, and happme and sadme burst out crying together in my own of each other’s arms, for none other can touch me yet. So now I am sadappy, as I pass ghostly through their grieving flanks and enter the Cake’s side parlor where those dearest and nearest see me here, rest.
Inside, there is a press of ponies, and food and drink from near and far, for the Cakes have outpulled the stops and the Apples have unstopped the casks and the Davenports have supplied the fainting cushions and all around have brought at least a plate for the only Ponyvillewide party I have ever had the misfort to inaugulate in this manner. Twilight is sobbing in the midriff of her eulogizing which is elevendy pages long so she must be so upset and Dash and AJ vie to outcider all the outsiders and Shy is shy in a corner somewhere as Rares retales a story to Starlight and Spike which is half smiles and half sobs.
I ancroach the bier, where they’ve recovered my incorporation from the Hydra’s haggis, probably by aid of Zecora and her Hermetic emetics. I hope my poor bloody body buddy emerged from the less holesome end. It looks well enough, besconced in this supernaleato coffin, inlétaglioed with my fannyballoons. My mane is mainly matted and I see here and there points of broken combs and brushbrist whichby I surmuse that Rarity’d tried to tame my tangle, and with the amount of terreffort I put into manecare (not to mention all the random tchotchkes I put into it) I cast her no blame for giving it up as a capital Jay-ob. Pretty darned perfect for a Pinkawake.
My ghost eyes roll over my me, seeking the seemliest point of reentry, and at the distral end I seem to see the finale of be, where I see… ice cream, my only emperor, in a bowl at the table near my rear, and I perceive a kween jape, a once in alive-time prankapow, and I wait until Dashie is making her way past for another mug, and give her glazeyed puss a little hint of a Boo, and she falls backward onto the table and flips the bowl of creamice up over my restful head as I dive swiftly back in and reambulate the old pumps and unbink the foires. As they hoof her up and turn to me, I awake at my wake for sake of friends forsaken, and shake my head as they quake at my surprising arising. I stand under the bowl, whole, creamcold, and the old ticker recounts the seconds of my life and laughter as it didafore, and I spring in dillydance again among them and sing out:
“My love to you all, and did you think I was dead?”
And Whack! Hurrah! Thence, there was lots of fun at Pinkamena’s Wake. How could it ever be otherwise?
A Houyhnhnm homonym I. A Pony and Pie, no lie!
And a dillydance I do, on this fine morn in town, updown the avenindues of my innuendous ways, in crusscarrants of herds of Ponyville hooftrotters, all a travel in ravellous teeming streams of comfortuitous equanity, amid which I pronk-a-pie, dancing and leaping in salmonpink upstreaming through the Ponyflow!
As I turn the south corner, upturn the corners of mouths. I fight the glums and glumes and I am vectorious with infectious glee. I pass blimpaloons to sillicolts and boldfillies, fold paper darts and kites, sing ditties in spindizzies that loften the harpes and spiracues of fronds and neigh-burrs as I greet the hourdes in passenage and ungdulate amung’em.
–Howdy? Very Dee indeed, thankee Berry! A tope of the marening to ye.
–How present to see you again, Turner! Many haply returns!
–What luck, a fresh bud for me? Aurora Rhodopli!
–Ho, Macintosh! Mac in Toffee? A fine candapple! Share in a cakecup, two bits!
So I prattlance a ringly round on streets run on lines laid down by G. Smith as she uptrod the road to market as a filly in years long by. Her courage echoes. Past dances perdure as I retrance their steps that show to me as hints of hooves in fiery action. I see bits here and there of what was distantdone to contect to the willandnow. None can see all; Discord tried.
Everything has the space intween, the gutter unmuttered, the shortest possileap parting the momuments that your eyes are too befunneled to see, but I a Pie can. I just try to sillip my way slithely into the justelly presized point between, and place a Pie right there. With so much space where I amn’t, how hard can it be?
And asudden, a doosiance disburbles my equulubrium, my ears swangle and tail swoops low to smack my bellyboobs and carmand my atension… Strangersense is ringling, burnsome and balefully… Eeek! A new hydra at the skirthems of town. We’ll have to convoke a party. A war party. A call to alarums, harum skarums and dispersions! But convergence is called, as the Parensis of Friendship herself, doubtless alarted by mapclap, sounds the call to all on lavendwing above, and so we convenerate about her. From blue sky and amber fields come our strengths steadfast and true, from town our alabestest elegarity and precision, from Froggy Bottom our gelben patience and understanding, and I, I was just pying pankly about so I simply chose to be already there, as our Brightest Brain selects the battle plan.
For this beastie despite its multiferous headlings has little graimadder to knockle between them, and is a natural boring meaniepuss of lowest water, and lacking all conceipts of cordialations cannot be made to accede to Friendship, even when foired from the collossalest Rainbowitzer powered with all the kilophilos my chums and I can muster. Thus The Good-Thinking-Egg has rightly-as-reignly construded that strapping on the ole spiked iron wharshoes is the best way of discompelling the infrequent Hydratic inscurgions. Cry avec and cut loose the Elephants of Harm! Fill it with Eire!
We find the Inhorifungurundulum by course of riverrun, acharge with multi-necked tilting to usward. Whydra? Could be miscarried crusade, extended snailhunt, foalish indiscrecense… but time to admonish later, with last thirty secs. for plainly-recited gold platitudes. But now we are in the thicavet and it is time to show what ponies are made of, not that we are tasty meatmorsels for rumbly monstummies, but that we have pointyshockyflappyhoofy bits that sting! Now Dashie hoofs up a cloud all darcoalish to fire flashzaps; Twi’s harn, redaglow, seizes serpenecks and renders then full windsors; AyJay loops swirly hydreads and Rarity and Shy direct silk ropes to entangle maloferous monster tootsies. And I… I sing, a morale chorale, as well I can with just one of my many on the deck, until I entract the intentions of a cross sour head on a low stumpbilly neck.
The longfanged visage descends at me to deliver a buss from its pus-spotted puss, and I buck back hard to deliver a boop to its snottydroopysnoot! But gnarled and snarly its mouth curls wide and its slicky slucky stinkery tongue forks forth and tangles my tail, and keryanks! And just in that manner, like a Bonbon popped into Lyra’s chasmous maw, I am ingusted. Tongundulations surge me past pointy unsizers and mushticators to mouthback, where I scrample at the edge of the throat, clinging at all to stop the fall, carpe uvula! But a gulp unglues my grip and down the hitchless hatch I go! Gashlorp! Grullop! Gwrlumph! and a Hey Nom Nom Nommy! Aslipperslide down the ewslophagunk with a slurbglomgollumorfmurfglump to the deep dank dump of its smellybelly! ALP! An I live, deplorable!
Down here, deep in bellumbeast, it is dark and sickery and ickhory beyond descreption, soured with acrid dribbles of digestives and vaulted with ulcerous maimbranes, amid which I am so ensaddered to see the askelerated remainders of several forest craytures to which the Hydrum had taken its fangsy earlier this diem. So saddened I that I cry for them even in the face of my own impending ending by blending, my imminent disPinkering and reHydration. And I cry in such volume that I cry myself away, per se, and ere digested give up my ghost.
Whither thou, ghost? So ghost I, with furred spurrited sprites of raccoon and bear and river otter, which beasties had shared with me the gravebog of the hydra’s stummy, we all soar out and away across Illusian Fields. Looking back at the discrant seen of the bitter baddle I see that my dear chooms, distrayed but undanted, have fraughtled the Hydra to the darsty ground, by Jacklasso and Twi’s-Brighty-Mighty-Lighty secured, and Dear Dynamo Dashie is hurling her mightenmane against the monster’s mausoleic middeln to force it to disgorge my corpus. But more I do not see, for shades of Hades bound are the craytures and me.
Now Hades is little like Tartarus, for those admittened here are such gentle souls that stones and Styx can never break, and truth bespoke it is a fair place to afterrest in many retrespectives. But I have promises to bake and friends to keep, and so I do not plan to tarradiddle long on the Blackwater shores. For if the UnderLaurd catches a hint I am there, he’ll want me to stay foreverevereverandever and try to take me for pomegranted, and no homebody I, but a Pie with a body at home, just lacking a filling for my crust at prestime.
But I sing sanguine, as I have a scheme, for when a pone larves a life of adventure and daring and baked awesomes and tightropely-plotted escapades, that pone needs to keep her bets well hedged in case of emergence dire. To turn Durance Vile to Endurance Viable, and gain gumption to gaggle the ghastlies, you simply pretread the dread-trodden ground, and… Quiz: what’s the usual salution to the hardest of all possible problems in Equestria? Make some friends, SillyMillie!
And as Idleon I, with animule escort, appreach the docks, I am shurene and comfidant, for Charon and I have met before and reached a meeting of the miens, and as I hoof my way to the docked ferry and the cloaked ponsonage awaiting his toll, I bow for psake o’pomposity and spit out before him, not an obol, but a cupcake, freshwarmyum from my soulstove. His grimace acquires a curl at the tips, and his bright stareglare eyes tip me a wink.
I turn to take my leave of Lethe and am upshorted by soulful creyeturs wistfulling my way, which gives me not long to pause, for it is supersad that my bestest, bazom chums are missing me above, and I wish to return and reassure to them my resumption and ease their keenings! But these my Shadebound companions, they too are sad, and may be humbglum evermore unless they receive a stuperiffous Welcome to Hades party. And so I tarry just a’twhile, and from meangre scantlings asscrambled from shoredriftings and jetsam, I knock together a minispread of pleasure and fun, aidumented with cakage from my secret spaces and a spray of confruttage from my spiritual Partyretta. And so cheersome feels are spread among lost shoresouls, and Charon unbernds so far as to permit use of his ferry for playing at pirates. Aboom and avast ere I arroint, and splashing of cannolishot! (But always with the Pink slimbelly dodging the wettest splooshes, for unlike the Shadebound I am not ready to Lethe behind my recollects of the Livenworld.)
At party’s end, as Charon ferries them all to the farthest of all shores, I bywave across the waters to my new friends I will somedaway see again when my fineral has been funalized, and then I tack the track back, and point my solely soul to the wayhomehole.
No dillydance suits my escape; it is a dourdle of grimmy grimey slimey mishmesh through which I must thread, for as cupcakes must taste very good, and medications must taste bad enough to call for a cupcake chaser, a reroute from Hades must be frighted with pearils. I am on full duesy alertness for quivers of Tartar source, or brays from the Fae realms, all of which may mistract or sidetempt me. But I make of my innersoulf a bubble, a baulb of cheersome giggles, and so, swirled and chirled and turmled as I may be, yet I rise, roise, roister my way back from the shady layers to waird the wards, to yeastily yearn, to swell with japes of joy and touch the houter hair again. Surf is up! And like a cork from a grand green land, up I pop again…
To see nowt but black, an dark, and nowhere starlights! Luna’s dimshed the whole sky! She must not feel like twining or shinkling either. With her evening mourning me, I tread the streets over lines where G. Smith trotted home with bits in her bag long agos ago (her canter endures), sensing the layout of where I am laid out and walking without thinking as a horse will, and find myself approaching the Cake’s shop, and my happiness quavers and spectral eyes flood until the world quivers, for the town is there, spilling out into the streets, and they are all here and weeping together and all I see around me are friends, and my tears would run down the streets did I have my body back yet. It makes me so sad, straighthair sad, which is good because now I can tell sad me, you see? This is how they will truefeel should you go, and happme and sadme burst out crying together in my own of each other’s arms, for none other can touch me yet. So now I am sadappy, as I pass ghostly through their grieving flanks and enter the Cake’s side parlor where those dearest and nearest see me here, rest.
Inside, there is a press of ponies, and food and drink from near and far, for the Cakes have outpulled the stops and the Apples have unstopped the casks and the Davenports have supplied the fainting cushions and all around have brought at least a plate for the only Ponyvillewide party I have ever had the misfort to inaugulate in this manner. Twilight is sobbing in the midriff of her eulogizing which is elevendy pages long so she must be so upset and Dash and AJ vie to outcider all the outsiders and Shy is shy in a corner somewhere as Rares retales a story to Starlight and Spike which is half smiles and half sobs.
I ancroach the bier, where they’ve recovered my incorporation from the Hydra’s haggis, probably by aid of Zecora and her Hermetic emetics. I hope my poor bloody body buddy emerged from the less holesome end. It looks well enough, besconced in this supernaleato coffin, inlétaglioed with my fannyballoons. My mane is mainly matted and I see here and there points of broken combs and brushbrist whichby I surmuse that Rarity’d tried to tame my tangle, and with the amount of terreffort I put into manecare (not to mention all the random tchotchkes I put into it) I cast her no blame for giving it up as a capital Jay-ob. Pretty darned perfect for a Pinkawake.
My ghost eyes roll over my me, seeking the seemliest point of reentry, and at the distral end I seem to see the finale of be, where I see… ice cream, my only emperor, in a bowl at the table near my rear, and I perceive a kween jape, a once in alive-time prankapow, and I wait until Dashie is making her way past for another mug, and give her glazeyed puss a little hint of a Boo, and she falls backward onto the table and flips the bowl of creamice up over my restful head as I dive swiftly back in and reambulate the old pumps and unbink the foires. As they hoof her up and turn to me, I awake at my wake for sake of friends forsaken, and shake my head as they quake at my surprising arising. I stand under the bowl, whole, creamcold, and the old ticker recounts the seconds of my life and laughter as it didafore, and I spring in dillydance again among them and sing out:
“My love to you all, and did you think I was dead?”
And Whack! Hurrah! Thence, there was lots of fun at Pinkamena’s Wake. How could it ever be otherwise?
Here's a little summary for those of you whose reactions were/will be "too Joycean; didn't read": Pinkie gets eaten by a Hydra during a big fight and dies, goes to Hades (again) and throws a short party for everything that's waiting to cross the Styx, and then returns to find all of Ponyville holding a wake for her so she returns to her body and wakes up.
Author, my first reading suggests that I'm going to like this at least a little, but it's going to take me a little while to dig through it all and discover all the little secrets you've hidden in those portmanteaus. Whether I end up liking it a lot remains to be seen, but for what it's worth I think this has some pretty great moments already. Expect a more detailed comment from me when I've had time to reflect on this (in the next few days, most likely.)
Author, my first reading suggests that I'm going to like this at least a little, but it's going to take me a little while to dig through it all and discover all the little secrets you've hidden in those portmanteaus. Whether I end up liking it a lot remains to be seen, but for what it's worth I think this has some pretty great moments already. Expect a more detailed comment from me when I've had time to reflect on this (in the next few days, most likely.)
At first I was all 'Oh sweet Luna, not again!' in thinking I was going to have to fight and struggle and wrestle to understand this.
And yet, as I went on I began to more and more fiddle away at the odd turns and twists of phrase and find myself unlocking the meanings here.
Firstly, Horizon, j'accuse! I know you are being flippant in your general comment but this is totally the sorts of shenanigans you pull.
Secondly, it turns out I did find this rather delightful, and my only real complaint is that Pinkie-ghost had the ice cream dump on her head, when what she SHOULD do is reanimate as the bowl flips towards her face and everypony is all 'OH NO DASH you've desecrated the corpse imminently' only for great pink mouth to yawn open and gulp it all down, swirl and swallow and leap up and then SURPRISE IM NOT DEAD.
In short? Yea, its a bit of a struggle to read through but when you get into the right headspace for it, it's joyful wordplay. Won't be surprised if this one medals one bit.
Tier : Top Contender.
And yet, as I went on I began to more and more fiddle away at the odd turns and twists of phrase and find myself unlocking the meanings here.
Firstly, Horizon, j'accuse! I know you are being flippant in your general comment but this is totally the sorts of shenanigans you pull.
Secondly, it turns out I did find this rather delightful, and my only real complaint is that Pinkie-ghost had the ice cream dump on her head, when what she SHOULD do is reanimate as the bowl flips towards her face and everypony is all 'OH NO DASH you've desecrated the corpse imminently' only for great pink mouth to yawn open and gulp it all down, swirl and swallow and leap up and then SURPRISE IM NOT DEAD.
In short? Yea, its a bit of a struggle to read through but when you get into the right headspace for it, it's joyful wordplay. Won't be surprised if this one medals one bit.
Tier : Top Contender.
Oh, yes, I have one small nitpick : I feel it could be strengthened, perhaps, if Pinkie's few bits of real-world dialogue actually came out as natural dialogue, to highlight the difference between inner-Po and outer-Ny.
Ah. Joycean prose. To be fair, if there’s any voice that works as a canoe in Pinkie’s stream of consciousness, it’s this one. The free association and wordplay gives her a nice air of Shakespearean jester.
If for some reason you’re reading this review and you haven’t yet read the story, I strongly recommend you read it out loud. It’s incredible fun.
In all, magnificent work. I may even record a reading. And I agree with >>Morning Sun; play up the contrast between conventional conversation and meandering museilation.
If for some reason you’re reading this review and you haven’t yet read the story, I strongly recommend you read it out loud. It’s incredible fun.
In all, magnificent work. I may even record a reading. And I agree with >>Morning Sun; play up the contrast between conventional conversation and meandering museilation.
*HEAD EXPLODES*
Sorry, I can't. I can't. Joyce and I have a bad relationship. I can't keep reading this. I'm so sorry; that's a disservice to this author and the time and care that went into this story. I'm sure it's an achievement, but I have to abstain.
Sorry, I can't. I can't. Joyce and I have a bad relationship. I can't keep reading this. I'm so sorry; that's a disservice to this author and the time and care that went into this story. I'm sure it's an achievement, but I have to abstain.
Genre: Making me regret not reading Joyce (or, wishing this author had written Joyce instead of Joyce writing Joyce)
Thoughts: I've never read anything quite like this. I could see the style wearing out its welcome very quickly, but the effect in this story was to keep pulling me along, smiling all the while. There was lots of clever stuff embedded throughout. The actual story was pretty good, too.
Also, the line that confirmed this was gold for me:
Tier: Top Contender
Thoughts: I've never read anything quite like this. I could see the style wearing out its welcome very quickly, but the effect in this story was to keep pulling me along, smiling all the while. There was lots of clever stuff embedded throughout. The actual story was pretty good, too.
Also, the line that confirmed this was gold for me:
take me for pomegranted
Tier: Top Contender
The Great
Technically very well-written, with some excellent wordplay.
The Rough
This one is... awkward for me to talk about, since despite being an English major, I'm not actually that familiar with Finnegan's Wake. I'm a medievalist. I ran from "modern" literature as hard and fast as I could. As such, I feel this leaves me with precious little room to actually comment or criticize as I simply don't have the knowledge base necessary to decide how well it spun off the source.
Technically very well-written, with some excellent wordplay.
The Rough
This one is... awkward for me to talk about, since despite being an English major, I'm not actually that familiar with Finnegan's Wake. I'm a medievalist. I ran from "modern" literature as hard and fast as I could. As such, I feel this leaves me with precious little room to actually comment or criticize as I simply don't have the knowledge base necessary to decide how well it spun off the source.
E - Pinkamena’s Wake — A+ — A certain Alice In Wonderland vibe here, mixed with more puns than I can pick out. You just have to float along in the current and enjoy the ride. It takes a master far greater than I to write this goofy, and I have a suspect.
>>Posh
Ditto.
I'm too heavily biased against Joyce to give a fair review or rating.
Although, credit where credit is due. I may not be a fan, but I still commend you for tackling such an endeavor, author.
Ditto.
I'm too heavily biased against Joyce to give a fair review or rating.
Although, credit where credit is due. I may not be a fan, but I still commend you for tackling such an endeavor, author.
I promised I'd come back and write something a little more detailed about this one, and unfortunately I've been called into work every day since so I'm only getting around to catching up with that now. Sorry for the delay, author!
I want to start by talking a little about the style of prose this is written in. Finnegans Wake (sometimes known as the "nightbook" to see it as an alternative work to Ulysses, the "daybook") is essentially a dream sequence, and the style and language Joyce pioneered for that book is designed to mimic the "language" of dreams, in which everything has a double-meaning and nothing is really concrete. In this style, words are often fused together into portmanteaus, and the general idea is to treat each word as if it means all the meanings of the words it's made up from. I like to think of this as a bit like Lyra reading the alethiometer in Northern Lights:
—Northern Lights, Philip Pullman
Just like how Lyra sees different layers of meaning, and then tries to see them "all together", so too must we imagine all the different meanings of each word in this prose together at once to see the true meaning of the piece. It's not an easy task—Joyce famously claimed that anyone who read Finnegans Wake in less time than it took him to write it (seventeen years!) was simply lying. And frankly, even with the few hours I've set aside for it, I don't think I can claim I've fully read Pinkamena's Wake yet, either: there's still so many words I haven't figured out all the meanings of!
Now, Pinkamena's Wake has done a very good job of emulating Joyce's style. Like Joyce's prose, it seems to revel in references (particularly to Greek mythology, though don't think I didn't spot that Gulliver's Travels reference!) and adds more to the layers of meaning by making allusions to other texts and stories. It also does a fantastic job of adapting that style to match Pinkie's rather unique narrative voice, though at times it did feel like a rather rough transition between pure Joycean prose and pure Pinkie stream of consciousness—I'd have much rather seen the whole piece united in a single voice, but that's certainly something that can be tidied up with further editing. On a technical level, this story is simply superb, and the actual story you're telling is engaging and very well characterised.
But I really, really need to ask an important question: why is this piece written in the style of Finnegans Wake? Don't get me wrong, writing in that style for the sake of giving it a go is a worthy achievement, and I thoroughly approve of trying it just as a writing exercise, but I can't really find any in-story justification for using this style. After all, Finnegans Wake is intended to be read as a dream, so far as I understand it; I can't see anything in this story that makes much use of anything dream-like, and no real indication that this is meant to be a dream aside from the style, and that leaves me a little confused. If your intent had been to treat Pinkie's experience of being dead as dreamlike, why use this style before she is dead? If your intent had been to capture the stream-of-consciousness that is Pinkie's thoughts during the day, surely adopting one of the many styles from Ulysses would have been more appropriate (in fact, I'm working on something like that myself at the moment, so I can state for certain that it is very appropriately Pinkie).
This for me is where Pinkamena's Wake falls apart—though it tells a lovely story, and does an excellent job of mimicking Joyce's prose, there doesn't seem to be any real reason to tell this story in this style. To me, the suggestion that this entire story is just a dream adds absolutely nothing to the story—in fact, it quite possibly takes away from it, so I'd much rather try to find some kind of justification for this style that doesn't fall back on that. Unfortunately, I can't.
Don't get me wrong, author: I have enjoyed this a lot, and I suspect I will continue to enjoy it a lot as I dig through it and try to make sure I understand (almost) every word. It's been an absolute pleasure to read, and there are some fantastic gems hidden in there (>>CoffeeMinion pointed out one of my favourites, though I should probably also put forward "from town our alabestest elegarity and precision" as a contender for best quote. Also, "her evening mourning me" was delightful.) I am impressed and delighted with this entry. Don't take my criticism of your choice to write this story in this style too harshly, because there's absolutely no reason why you shouldn't—I merely mean to point it out as food for thought, something to maybe think on as you tidy this up (as I truly hope you do!)
Thank you, author, for writing this. It takes a brave soul to write Joycean prose for a writing contest, and it's been a blast; I'm only sorry I've not had too many specific complaints here. (If you'd like something a little less deep to think about: I don't think you need the mid-word capitals in "my imminent disPinkering and reHydration". It comes across a little heavy-handed, to me.)
I want to start by talking a little about the style of prose this is written in. Finnegans Wake (sometimes known as the "nightbook" to see it as an alternative work to Ulysses, the "daybook") is essentially a dream sequence, and the style and language Joyce pioneered for that book is designed to mimic the "language" of dreams, in which everything has a double-meaning and nothing is really concrete. In this style, words are often fused together into portmanteaus, and the general idea is to treat each word as if it means all the meanings of the words it's made up from. I like to think of this as a bit like Lyra reading the alethiometer in Northern Lights:
“And how do you know where these meanings are?”
“I kind of see ’em. Or feel ’em rather, like climbing down a ladder at night, you put your foot down and there’s another rung. Well, I put my mind down and there’s another meaning, and I kind of sense what it is. Then I put ’em all together. There’s a trick in it like focusing your eyes.”
—Northern Lights, Philip Pullman
Just like how Lyra sees different layers of meaning, and then tries to see them "all together", so too must we imagine all the different meanings of each word in this prose together at once to see the true meaning of the piece. It's not an easy task—Joyce famously claimed that anyone who read Finnegans Wake in less time than it took him to write it (seventeen years!) was simply lying. And frankly, even with the few hours I've set aside for it, I don't think I can claim I've fully read Pinkamena's Wake yet, either: there's still so many words I haven't figured out all the meanings of!
Now, Pinkamena's Wake has done a very good job of emulating Joyce's style. Like Joyce's prose, it seems to revel in references (particularly to Greek mythology, though don't think I didn't spot that Gulliver's Travels reference!) and adds more to the layers of meaning by making allusions to other texts and stories. It also does a fantastic job of adapting that style to match Pinkie's rather unique narrative voice, though at times it did feel like a rather rough transition between pure Joycean prose and pure Pinkie stream of consciousness—I'd have much rather seen the whole piece united in a single voice, but that's certainly something that can be tidied up with further editing. On a technical level, this story is simply superb, and the actual story you're telling is engaging and very well characterised.
But I really, really need to ask an important question: why is this piece written in the style of Finnegans Wake? Don't get me wrong, writing in that style for the sake of giving it a go is a worthy achievement, and I thoroughly approve of trying it just as a writing exercise, but I can't really find any in-story justification for using this style. After all, Finnegans Wake is intended to be read as a dream, so far as I understand it; I can't see anything in this story that makes much use of anything dream-like, and no real indication that this is meant to be a dream aside from the style, and that leaves me a little confused. If your intent had been to treat Pinkie's experience of being dead as dreamlike, why use this style before she is dead? If your intent had been to capture the stream-of-consciousness that is Pinkie's thoughts during the day, surely adopting one of the many styles from Ulysses would have been more appropriate (in fact, I'm working on something like that myself at the moment, so I can state for certain that it is very appropriately Pinkie).
This for me is where Pinkamena's Wake falls apart—though it tells a lovely story, and does an excellent job of mimicking Joyce's prose, there doesn't seem to be any real reason to tell this story in this style. To me, the suggestion that this entire story is just a dream adds absolutely nothing to the story—in fact, it quite possibly takes away from it, so I'd much rather try to find some kind of justification for this style that doesn't fall back on that. Unfortunately, I can't.
Don't get me wrong, author: I have enjoyed this a lot, and I suspect I will continue to enjoy it a lot as I dig through it and try to make sure I understand (almost) every word. It's been an absolute pleasure to read, and there are some fantastic gems hidden in there (>>CoffeeMinion pointed out one of my favourites, though I should probably also put forward "from town our alabestest elegarity and precision" as a contender for best quote. Also, "her evening mourning me" was delightful.) I am impressed and delighted with this entry. Don't take my criticism of your choice to write this story in this style too harshly, because there's absolutely no reason why you shouldn't—I merely mean to point it out as food for thought, something to maybe think on as you tidy this up (as I truly hope you do!)
Thank you, author, for writing this. It takes a brave soul to write Joycean prose for a writing contest, and it's been a blast; I'm only sorry I've not had too many specific complaints here. (If you'd like something a little less deep to think about: I don't think you need the mid-word capitals in "my imminent disPinkering and reHydration". It comes across a little heavy-handed, to me.)
Speaking as one who never got past the first book of FW, but who loves puns and puzzles, I thoroughly enjoyed this story. It is nowhere near as dense with allusions and wordplay as its inspiration, and is much more accessible. Author, I’ll give you another seventeen years or so to see where you go with it. :twilightsnarkle:
I do detect other literary references of varying obscurity, but will leave what I found undescribed for others to discover. Well done, Author! And congratulations on having caused so much contention regarding your identity. :pinkiegrin:
[what do you mean contention we all know horizon totally did it]
I do detect other literary references of varying obscurity, but will leave what I found undescribed for others to discover. Well done, Author! And congratulations on having caused so much contention regarding your identity. :pinkiegrin:
[what do you mean contention we all know horizon totally did it]
Fun, fun, fun:
A few suggestions, though, because that's apparently what I do. "comfortuitous equanity": maybe "comfortuitous equinimity"? And maybe "shades of Hades" could be "shadies of Hades" just for those of us who pronouces "Hades" all properly disyllabic? "But I have promises to bake and friends to keep": would something about "smiles to go before I sleep" be too obvious? "spit out before him, not an obol, but a cupcake, freshwarmyum from my soulstove": maybe try for a Pinkie Promise reference? A "cupcake from my eye" or some such? After all, she's been sticking those cupcakes in there for all these years: she's gotta take 'em out sometime!
Also, you've got quotation marks around Pinkie's pronouncement at the end, author, while you use the Joycean dashes for the spoken lines at the beginning of the piece. Other than that, though, I hurtled along with it quite nicely.
Mike
A few suggestions, though, because that's apparently what I do. "comfortuitous equanity": maybe "comfortuitous equinimity"? And maybe "shades of Hades" could be "shadies of Hades" just for those of us who pronouces "Hades" all properly disyllabic? "But I have promises to bake and friends to keep": would something about "smiles to go before I sleep" be too obvious? "spit out before him, not an obol, but a cupcake, freshwarmyum from my soulstove": maybe try for a Pinkie Promise reference? A "cupcake from my eye" or some such? After all, she's been sticking those cupcakes in there for all these years: she's gotta take 'em out sometime!
Also, you've got quotation marks around Pinkie's pronouncement at the end, author, while you use the Joycean dashes for the spoken lines at the beginning of the piece. Other than that, though, I hurtled along with it quite nicely.
Mike
Anaonthor, your brainscribbinglings are impressivario. Some kenknowings cut cleverclose; t'cake ponygranate, frinstance. Vocabulation layered like brainbows.
Still, pageagraphs latesome, howcome wordfun turns lumpsome? Perhapsome is/n't nonsensitum, or some misstoodunder on Not_My_Thinking_Cap's part. Or your timescome&wordsum?
Personalality, fiddlediddling meannuts from knotcabulary doesnut excittract me. Yet, I can compreken the clevercall some readudience mightyfeel unfiddling kennwrightly. Too time and tired, though.
Clearver as mud, amiwrite?
Still, pageagraphs latesome, howcome wordfun turns lumpsome? Perhapsome is/n't nonsensitum, or some misstoodunder on Not_My_Thinking_Cap's part. Or your timescome&wordsum?
Personalality, fiddlediddling meannuts from knotcabulary doesnut excittract me. Yet, I can compreken the clevercall some readudience mightyfeel unfiddling kennwrightly. Too time and tired, though.
Clearver as mud, amiwrite?
>>Posh
Because your tears are delicious?
More seriously, I apologize for inflicting that on you. After reading the story, I wanted to try the style to see if it was as difficult as it looked.
It wasn't quite, (although my interpretation likely doesn't follow the style correctly either) but it's a bit of a trick to twist your mind around. I still don't think I'm interested in reading it much, but I do have a better appreciation of it after giving it a test drive.
I'll admit, I've only read about fifty pages of Joyce, and that was Ulysses. If Finnegans Wake is closer to this, I might enjoy it more. Part of what bothered me so much about Ulysses was that that there didn't seem to be any meaning in it at all, no matter how hard I tried to look below the surface. And it was scarce enough on the surface, too! It was like smoke and mirrors, but without even being interesting to look at. I remember finding one phrase that actually seemed like it might be meaningful, googling it, and discovering that Joyce had invented a nonsense 'riddle' and inserted it just to mess with people I guess. I dropped it in frustration after that.
I think my problems here are different from what annoys me about that sort of 'literary stuff'. While I think it's very easy to put style over substance, this almost goes the opposite direction, layering in variations of 'substance' so deeply as to make any attempts at stylization outside its word-salad nearly meaningless.
Instead of having lots of 'meaningful' things without any real meaning attached, dazzling the reader with chintz but refusing to back it up, there's so many references here to attach meaning to the brain just kinda collapses under the load. The effect is interesting, but not, I think, one I particularly enjoy for it's own sake, and definitely not enough to spend the time properly untangling it.
Which, I think, is the prerequisite to really get into this sort of thing; you've got to be willing to put in the time trying to crack at least the first layer of meaning. This story didn't bury it too deep, and I do at least think it has significant meaning layered further in - so if I spent time trying (unlike the hollow shell I judge Ulysses to be) I could probably uncover some interesting things. But... I'm just not interested in reading one book for seventeen years; I guarantee you the plot isn't good enough to keep me engaged that long, and I've never been a completionist.
I'll stick to the song.
Because your tears are delicious?
More seriously, I apologize for inflicting that on you. After reading the story, I wanted to try the style to see if it was as difficult as it looked.
It wasn't quite, (although my interpretation likely doesn't follow the style correctly either) but it's a bit of a trick to twist your mind around. I still don't think I'm interested in reading it much, but I do have a better appreciation of it after giving it a test drive.
I'll admit, I've only read about fifty pages of Joyce, and that was Ulysses. If Finnegans Wake is closer to this, I might enjoy it more. Part of what bothered me so much about Ulysses was that that there didn't seem to be any meaning in it at all, no matter how hard I tried to look below the surface. And it was scarce enough on the surface, too! It was like smoke and mirrors, but without even being interesting to look at. I remember finding one phrase that actually seemed like it might be meaningful, googling it, and discovering that Joyce had invented a nonsense 'riddle' and inserted it just to mess with people I guess. I dropped it in frustration after that.
I think my problems here are different from what annoys me about that sort of 'literary stuff'. While I think it's very easy to put style over substance, this almost goes the opposite direction, layering in variations of 'substance' so deeply as to make any attempts at stylization outside its word-salad nearly meaningless.
Instead of having lots of 'meaningful' things without any real meaning attached, dazzling the reader with chintz but refusing to back it up, there's so many references here to attach meaning to the brain just kinda collapses under the load. The effect is interesting, but not, I think, one I particularly enjoy for it's own sake, and definitely not enough to spend the time properly untangling it.
Which, I think, is the prerequisite to really get into this sort of thing; you've got to be willing to put in the time trying to crack at least the first layer of meaning. This story didn't bury it too deep, and I do at least think it has significant meaning layered further in - so if I spent time trying (unlike the hollow shell I judge Ulysses to be) I could probably uncover some interesting things. But... I'm just not interested in reading one book for seventeen years; I guarantee you the plot isn't good enough to keep me engaged that long, and I've never been a completionist.
I'll stick to the song.
>>Not_A_Hat
Yeah, I'd say:
Twenty-two hundred words of this with a discernible beginning, middle, and end is just about right. I've never been able to imagine a set of circumstances that would get me interested in reading Finnegan's Wake, but then I don't like doing crossword puzzles, either...
Mike
Yeah, I'd say:
Twenty-two hundred words of this with a discernible beginning, middle, and end is just about right. I've never been able to imagine a set of circumstances that would get me interested in reading Finnegan's Wake, but then I don't like doing crossword puzzles, either...
Mike
>>GroaningGreyAgony You know, you were actually my first guess on this, but you managed to throw me off with this comment. :P
Congrats on the win!
Congrats on the win!
Many thanks to everyone! It will take me some time to respond to all commenters, so please don’t take offense if I don’t reply to you right away.
I have medaled in things we were not meant to ken, at least not easily, and I am enormously pleased. My thanks to all for comments, criticism, and votes. Herewith begin my responses:
>>Morning Sun >>Morning Sun
I also was surprised to discover that Horizon didn't write this. ;) Seriously, I was a bit nervous because I was talking about Pinkie's stream of consciousness on the first page of comments. I'm glad it wasn't that obvious.
The ice cream suggestion is spot on! I did it the first way because in the original ballad, the liquor is spilled on Finnegan in that manner. But it makes much more sense for Pinkie to eat it, particularly as she triggered the event, is expecting it, and would never let good food go to waste. Adopted, and thanks!
As to making all her spoken dialogue normal Pinkish… I rather like it the way it is. But since you and FoME both mention it, I'll consider it as I prepare the story for posting on Fimfiction.
>>FanOfMostEverything
Thank you for your praise and advice! You may certainly record this work; I suggest that you wait until I have the polished version done.
>>Posh
>>Zaid Val'Roa
I appreciate your candor. FW takes a special kind of weird to enjoy. Thanks for understanding that this weird deserves to be expressed, regardless.
>>CoffeeMinion
Thank you very much for your praise!
>>AndrewRogue
Don't put yourself down; the study of literature is broad enough to have specialties, and people have legitimate preferences on top of that. Thanks for recognizing the technical virtues!
>>georg
Thank you for the explicit and implicit praise! May I ask whom you suspected?
>>GroaningGreyAgony
Thanks, buddy! I couldn’t have done it without you.
>>Morning Sun >>Morning Sun
I also was surprised to discover that Horizon didn't write this. ;) Seriously, I was a bit nervous because I was talking about Pinkie's stream of consciousness on the first page of comments. I'm glad it wasn't that obvious.
The ice cream suggestion is spot on! I did it the first way because in the original ballad, the liquor is spilled on Finnegan in that manner. But it makes much more sense for Pinkie to eat it, particularly as she triggered the event, is expecting it, and would never let good food go to waste. Adopted, and thanks!
As to making all her spoken dialogue normal Pinkish… I rather like it the way it is. But since you and FoME both mention it, I'll consider it as I prepare the story for posting on Fimfiction.
>>FanOfMostEverything
Thank you for your praise and advice! You may certainly record this work; I suggest that you wait until I have the polished version done.
>>Posh
>>Zaid Val'Roa
I appreciate your candor. FW takes a special kind of weird to enjoy. Thanks for understanding that this weird deserves to be expressed, regardless.
>>CoffeeMinion
Thank you very much for your praise!
>>AndrewRogue
Don't put yourself down; the study of literature is broad enough to have specialties, and people have legitimate preferences on top of that. Thanks for recognizing the technical virtues!
>>georg
Thank you for the explicit and implicit praise! May I ask whom you suspected?
>>GroaningGreyAgony
Thanks, buddy! I couldn’t have done it without you.
>>QuillScratch
Thanks for the summary, and thank you very much for the kind praise, here and in the succeeding comment! Fuller reply below.
>>QuillScratch
Okay, here we go… But first, I need to make a confession.
A friend of mine, viewing a draft, observed to me that it must have taken a tremendous amount of effort to compose this work. The truth is… it was relatively easy for me, and lots of fun.
Now, what I said in my fake review comment is actually true: I love FW more than it loves me, and I have never made it very far through the novel; nor have I made a study of the body of scholarship packed around it like Talmud commentary. [I respect the fact that you and others have done so.] I just happen to be good at writing Wake!Joycean, and I love to do it. But there are so few occasions that call for it! (If anyone reading this does know how to earn some cheese sandwiches thereby, please let me know.)
So, as you say, I could just plead the case that if I can’t write Joycean for fun in a writeoff, where in the sevine helvens can I do it?
Or…
It’s almost canon that Pinkie has more than one personality. There’s Straight-hair Pinkamena, her randomness suggests multiple thought processes happening at once, and her experience with the mirror pool is also suggestive.
While one personality of Pinkie is on deck and controlling the body, the others are likely in a semi- or subconscious state. Perhaps some go so far as to dream, with external events informing the state of that dream.
So perhaps the story is really the record of one of Pinkie’s internal dreams, or several of her dreaming personalities observing together…?
Or…
Nuclear option: I hereby declare that my version of Joycean can be used for other purposes if I choose. Finnegan’s Awake! :)
Thank you very much again for your kind words. I am very pleased that you enjoyed my little effort.
Thanks for the summary, and thank you very much for the kind praise, here and in the succeeding comment! Fuller reply below.
>>QuillScratch
Okay, here we go… But first, I need to make a confession.
A friend of mine, viewing a draft, observed to me that it must have taken a tremendous amount of effort to compose this work. The truth is… it was relatively easy for me, and lots of fun.
Now, what I said in my fake review comment is actually true: I love FW more than it loves me, and I have never made it very far through the novel; nor have I made a study of the body of scholarship packed around it like Talmud commentary. [I respect the fact that you and others have done so.] I just happen to be good at writing Wake!Joycean, and I love to do it. But there are so few occasions that call for it! (If anyone reading this does know how to earn some cheese sandwiches thereby, please let me know.)
So, as you say, I could just plead the case that if I can’t write Joycean for fun in a writeoff, where in the sevine helvens can I do it?
Or…
It’s almost canon that Pinkie has more than one personality. There’s Straight-hair Pinkamena, her randomness suggests multiple thought processes happening at once, and her experience with the mirror pool is also suggestive.
While one personality of Pinkie is on deck and controlling the body, the others are likely in a semi- or subconscious state. Perhaps some go so far as to dream, with external events informing the state of that dream.
So perhaps the story is really the record of one of Pinkie’s internal dreams, or several of her dreaming personalities observing together…?
Or…
Nuclear option: I hereby declare that my version of Joycean can be used for other purposes if I choose. Finnegan’s Awake! :)
Thank you very much again for your kind words. I am very pleased that you enjoyed my little effort.
>>Baal Bunny
In regaldance to the pre-posed altarcarations…Mayhap, maybe. Devisions are underweigh.
–That was my error. Fixed. Thanks!
In regaldance to the pre-posed altarcarations…Mayhap, maybe. Devisions are underweigh.
–That was my error. Fixed. Thanks!