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Scorpion Days
Chiaroscuro pushed open the shop door with his shoulder and stepped inside. It was dark and smokey, and the transition from sunlight left him momentarily blind.
But he knew the smells – sandalwood, tobacco, oil, and metal. Each separate odor blended in his mind into the single flavor of days gone by. The scent of memory. He drew in a deep breath and held it, and tried to forget the years that weighed on his shoulders.
The cacophony of the Manehattan streets faded, replaced by the faint sound of steel scraping against stone. A conversation of snakes, interrupted, then the sound of hooves on creaking planks.
His eyes adjusted, and the dark shop lightened. Thousands of knives lined the walls, hanging from cords or balanced on pegs. Peelers, cleavers, razors and more all lay in ordered rows like soldiers. Sparks of lanternlight danced along their edges.
The curtain parted as the proprietor stepped through, his mouth already open in greeting. Instead he froze, and for a heartbeat they stared at each other.
The shopkeep, an elderly unicorn, his muzzle dusted with silver, spoke first. The ghost of a smile twisted his lips. “Cherry. Here to apologize?”
Chiaroscuro snorted. He reached up and pulled his lapel aside, exposing the badge pinned to his vest. “Business.”
“Ah. Well, then, welcome, Detective Chiaroscuro, to Falling Leaf’s Knives. What can I do for you?”
Slowly, with far more care than the act normally deserved, Chiaroscuro withdrew a slim envelope from his saddlebags and set it on the counter. Something inside clinked like coins. He stepped back, his lips wrinkling from the taste.
“Have you ever seen these?”
Falling Leaf tilted his head, his eyes darting back and forth between the envelope and the detective. When nothing more came, he shrugged and levitated the envelope. It was not sealed, and he unfolded the paper flap.
A pair of paper-thin blades dropped onto the counter. One landed on its corner and stuck, upright, in the soft wood.
“Hm.” Falling Leaf plucked the razor from the counter with his magic. “Marble Industries surgical-grade steel safety razor with platinum plating. High quality, for a disposable item. Somepony has good taste.”
“You sell them here?”
“I do.” Falling Leaf’s horn glowed brighter, and a small box floated up from beneath the counter. “Twenty bits per dozen.”
“You go through a lot of them?”
He shook his head. “Mind if I ask what this is about, detective?”
“Yeah, I do mind.” The bitter words slipped out without thought. He covered with a cough and continued. “Somepony’s been sticking them on railings, park benches, lampposts. Most are found before anypony gets hurts, but a few ponies have gotten cut.”
“Anything serious?”
Chiaroscuro shook his head. “Not yet. Lotta blood, though. You know how razors are.”
“I do.” Falling Leaf held the envelope still and began flicking the razor back-and-forth across it in a smooth, practiced motion. The blade passed through the paper with barely even a sound, and flakes fell onto the counter in a blizzard. Within seconds the envelope was gone.
“It’s happened before,” he continued. “Some colt, smaller than his fellows, a few years after his balls start to drop. Fascinated by knives, loves cutting things, maybe even himself. Then he discovers razors, and they are… amazing to him.”
Chiarscuro stared at the pile of confetti on the country. A bead of sweat ran down his temple. “Yeah.”
“Such a thin little thing.” Falling Leaf rotated the blade, and it seemed to vanish. “Like a piece of paper, but with so much power. That’s how the colt starts to think of himself. Small, weak, so easily bent, yet now dangerous.”
Chiaroscuro cleared his throat. “You see any colts like that in here?”
A long moment followed. Finally, Falling Leaf snorted. “Not lately.”
Ah. The years seemed to return to his shoulders, and Chiaroscuro slumped. He could already feel the summer heat outside, waiting for him again. “Right. Keep an eye out, will you? Let us know.”
“Of course.” Falling Leaf set the two blades atop the box, and deftly wrapped the whole affair in a sheet of oiled paper. “For your trouble, detective.”
“Right.” Chiaroscuro slid the package into his saddlebags. The oiled paper tasted like childhood. He turned toward the exit.
“Son.” The word stopped him cold. He turned to see Falling Leaf, looking so much older now, a plaintive expression on his face.
Falling Leaf looked down. “Nevermind,” he whispered.
Right. Chiaroscuro did that, and left.
But he knew the smells – sandalwood, tobacco, oil, and metal. Each separate odor blended in his mind into the single flavor of days gone by. The scent of memory. He drew in a deep breath and held it, and tried to forget the years that weighed on his shoulders.
The cacophony of the Manehattan streets faded, replaced by the faint sound of steel scraping against stone. A conversation of snakes, interrupted, then the sound of hooves on creaking planks.
His eyes adjusted, and the dark shop lightened. Thousands of knives lined the walls, hanging from cords or balanced on pegs. Peelers, cleavers, razors and more all lay in ordered rows like soldiers. Sparks of lanternlight danced along their edges.
The curtain parted as the proprietor stepped through, his mouth already open in greeting. Instead he froze, and for a heartbeat they stared at each other.
The shopkeep, an elderly unicorn, his muzzle dusted with silver, spoke first. The ghost of a smile twisted his lips. “Cherry. Here to apologize?”
Chiaroscuro snorted. He reached up and pulled his lapel aside, exposing the badge pinned to his vest. “Business.”
“Ah. Well, then, welcome, Detective Chiaroscuro, to Falling Leaf’s Knives. What can I do for you?”
Slowly, with far more care than the act normally deserved, Chiaroscuro withdrew a slim envelope from his saddlebags and set it on the counter. Something inside clinked like coins. He stepped back, his lips wrinkling from the taste.
“Have you ever seen these?”
Falling Leaf tilted his head, his eyes darting back and forth between the envelope and the detective. When nothing more came, he shrugged and levitated the envelope. It was not sealed, and he unfolded the paper flap.
A pair of paper-thin blades dropped onto the counter. One landed on its corner and stuck, upright, in the soft wood.
“Hm.” Falling Leaf plucked the razor from the counter with his magic. “Marble Industries surgical-grade steel safety razor with platinum plating. High quality, for a disposable item. Somepony has good taste.”
“You sell them here?”
“I do.” Falling Leaf’s horn glowed brighter, and a small box floated up from beneath the counter. “Twenty bits per dozen.”
“You go through a lot of them?”
He shook his head. “Mind if I ask what this is about, detective?”
“Yeah, I do mind.” The bitter words slipped out without thought. He covered with a cough and continued. “Somepony’s been sticking them on railings, park benches, lampposts. Most are found before anypony gets hurts, but a few ponies have gotten cut.”
“Anything serious?”
Chiaroscuro shook his head. “Not yet. Lotta blood, though. You know how razors are.”
“I do.” Falling Leaf held the envelope still and began flicking the razor back-and-forth across it in a smooth, practiced motion. The blade passed through the paper with barely even a sound, and flakes fell onto the counter in a blizzard. Within seconds the envelope was gone.
“It’s happened before,” he continued. “Some colt, smaller than his fellows, a few years after his balls start to drop. Fascinated by knives, loves cutting things, maybe even himself. Then he discovers razors, and they are… amazing to him.”
Chiarscuro stared at the pile of confetti on the country. A bead of sweat ran down his temple. “Yeah.”
“Such a thin little thing.” Falling Leaf rotated the blade, and it seemed to vanish. “Like a piece of paper, but with so much power. That’s how the colt starts to think of himself. Small, weak, so easily bent, yet now dangerous.”
Chiaroscuro cleared his throat. “You see any colts like that in here?”
A long moment followed. Finally, Falling Leaf snorted. “Not lately.”
Ah. The years seemed to return to his shoulders, and Chiaroscuro slumped. He could already feel the summer heat outside, waiting for him again. “Right. Keep an eye out, will you? Let us know.”
“Of course.” Falling Leaf set the two blades atop the box, and deftly wrapped the whole affair in a sheet of oiled paper. “For your trouble, detective.”
“Right.” Chiaroscuro slid the package into his saddlebags. The oiled paper tasted like childhood. He turned toward the exit.
“Son.” The word stopped him cold. He turned to see Falling Leaf, looking so much older now, a plaintive expression on his face.
Falling Leaf looked down. “Nevermind,” he whispered.
Right. Chiaroscuro did that, and left.
It was dark and smokey, and the transition from sunlight left him momentarily blind.
Chiaroscuro
Heh.
Whilst the story is well written, it fell a little flat to me. The emotional beats of the story are supposed to fall around the implication that Chiaroscuro himself used to mess around with his father’s razors as his father described, but the implication carries too little emotional weight; the scene would work better in a larger work, where you have more time to develop emotional investment with the persona prior to this scene.
Unfortunately, the story as it stands doesn’t quite develop enough of a connection for its twist to have much of an impact. Which is unfortunate - as it was an otherwise well-written scene.
I feel like this is modeled off of something. If not then at least Chiaroscuro's character is. Hm... this is going to bug me.
Right. Story. It was a little too vague for me to get behind. Imagine a canapy. Imagine it's pouring down rain. Imagine this story is under the canapy, and the center of the story is out in the middle of the rain. Several times, this story sticks its foot in the rain, and even takes a few steps out, but it seems to retreat and nothing really gets established.
I don't know this fic just doesn't do a whole lot to me.
I got the overarching metaphor, I think. But even with me getting it, this fic just didn't go anywhere for me.
This fic isn't bad. It just didn't work for me, unfortunately. Good work though, and i'd love to read this after some revisions!
Right. Story. It was a little too vague for me to get behind. Imagine a canapy. Imagine it's pouring down rain. Imagine this story is under the canapy, and the center of the story is out in the middle of the rain. Several times, this story sticks its foot in the rain, and even takes a few steps out, but it seems to retreat and nothing really gets established.
I don't know this fic just doesn't do a whole lot to me.
I got the overarching metaphor, I think. But even with me getting it, this fic just didn't go anywhere for me.
This fic isn't bad. It just didn't work for me, unfortunately. Good work though, and i'd love to read this after some revisions!
I think you need to hit your beats a bit sooner, or lay your foreshadowing a bit deeper. There's some great work here, especially in how cleanly readable this all is, but the 'son' bit is very nearly a stinger, and without that context the 'not for a while' line made me think Fallen Leaf was talking about himself.
This is definitely going up my slate. I just wish it didn't take quite so long to get going, before it's over.
This is definitely going up my slate. I just wish it didn't take quite so long to get going, before it's over.
This story tries to go in two directions at once and end up walking into a signpost. There’s just not enough room for both the investigation and the personal drama. The story wants to focus on the latter, but begins with the former and thus makes it distract the reader throughout. The reminiscing and bad blood would be intriguing on their own, but when combined with an unsolved crime, I wasn’t sure where I should focus. A lot goes unsaid, and too much of it is left out of the subtext.
In all, there’s definite potential, but you’re going to need to let us in on some more of the mystery before we can follow along.
In all, there’s definite potential, but you’re going to need to let us in on some more of the mystery before we can follow along.
There's really nothing in this story that would justify making it a pony fic (especially since the characters are all OC's); you could just change a few phrases, change hooves to feet and horn-magic to hands, and it'd be indistinguishable from a work of original fiction. I'm not sure if it can be considered a flaw, but personally I find this kind of fanfics rather annoying.
That said, it's a well-written story and would probably work well as an actual whodunit, but the ending feels weak. So the detective (it is implied) was quite a razor fiend himself as a kid... so what? Does it have anything to do with the investigation? As others pointed out, we're not invested enough in the character to really care that much about his past. However, the twist of the shopkeeper being the protagonist's father (and thus their dialogue taking on a whole new dimension) is really good and satisfying, but goes nowhere.
...Also, how do you stick a razor into a lamppost? Aren't they usually made of metal? [EDIT: Oh. Sticky tape.]
That said, it's a well-written story and would probably work well as an actual whodunit, but the ending feels weak. So the detective (it is implied) was quite a razor fiend himself as a kid... so what? Does it have anything to do with the investigation? As others pointed out, we're not invested enough in the character to really care that much about his past. However, the twist of the shopkeeper being the protagonist's father (and thus their dialogue taking on a whole new dimension) is really good and satisfying, but goes nowhere.
...Also, how do you stick a razor into a lamppost? Aren't they usually made of metal? [EDIT: Oh. Sticky tape.]
Chiaroscuro pushed open the shop door with his shoulder and stepped inside. It was dark and smokey, and the transition from sunlight left him momentarily blind.
Opening your story with a blatant visual arts pun? Oh deer. Don't get me wrong: it's exceptionally clever (and provides strong hints about who you are, author), but it doesn't quite fit the rest of the story. I'd probably choose a different name for the detective, something which un-subtles the ending for the average reader (read on).
Anyway. This is an excellent story with fantastic writing, but I think you're just a touch too subtle on the backstory.
I got it, though I had to reread the last third of the story just to be certain my interpretation was the intended one. I'm not trying to sound like a self-praising douche, but I suspect not all of your readers will be perceptive enough to figure out what's actually going on here. It's brilliant, and I'd expect something like this from an established master author who can expect to have their works overanalyzed; but it's just a hair too camouflaged for a general audience.
If there's any way you can add a little more clue here it would help. Changing the detective's name (even though I like it very much) is one simple possibility.
EDIT: I'd agree with the "is this a pony story" comments, but the names of the characters can at least provide some pone-ness to it.
ALSO EDIT: I don't care for the story title.
THIRD EDIT: Wait, what the buck does this story have to do with the prompt?! :pinkiegasp: Come clean, author—you didn't just plagiarize a noir story written many years ago and add unicorns, did you? :ajbemused: (No, I don't actually think that! But I don't see how the prompt could have generated this story, and I'm trying to not allow it to affect my ranking. It probably won't. Story is just too good.)
>>Trick_Question So, I'll give you three rationalizations for how the prompt could have produced this story, because stories being docked (or potentially docked) for 'promptness' has always kinda bugged me.
Please vote how you like, and please don't feel I intend to demean you; I hope these are friendly and interesting suggestions, not a condemnation of how you think or act.
1. This is the morning after somepony reported being cut by razors and the case was assigned to Chiaroscuro, prompting him to visit his father.
2. Chiaroscuro is the interplay between light and dark; if the young and foolish pony was 'dark' Chiaroscuro, the current one is the 'light' Chiaroscuro, after some sort of sun rose in his life - the metaphorical 'morning after' his chequered youth if you will.
3. Neither of them are over whatever happened in the past; this interaction is an extension of that. It shows their sorrow, and unwillingness to turn away from it; it's them 'mourning after' that relationship, though neither is willing to acknowledge it.
Any or all of these interpretations could be true, I think. Or something else entirely; I find this sort of thing ludicrously easy to do (which is also part of why I tend to distrust it, but that's a different discussion.)
Please vote how you like, and please don't feel I intend to demean you; I hope these are friendly and interesting suggestions, not a condemnation of how you think or act.
1. This is the morning after somepony reported being cut by razors and the case was assigned to Chiaroscuro, prompting him to visit his father.
2. Chiaroscuro is the interplay between light and dark; if the young and foolish pony was 'dark' Chiaroscuro, the current one is the 'light' Chiaroscuro, after some sort of sun rose in his life - the metaphorical 'morning after' his chequered youth if you will.
3. Neither of them are over whatever happened in the past; this interaction is an extension of that. It shows their sorrow, and unwillingness to turn away from it; it's them 'mourning after' that relationship, though neither is willing to acknowledge it.
Any or all of these interpretations could be true, I think. Or something else entirely; I find this sort of thing ludicrously easy to do (which is also part of why I tend to distrust it, but that's a different discussion.)
>>Not_A_Hat
For the record, I almost never dock for promptness, even if I can't possibly imagine how the prompt would have generated a particular story.
(Maybe never, entirely; can't recall.)
For the record, I almost never dock for promptness, even if I can't possibly imagine how the prompt would have generated a particular story.
(Maybe never, entirely; can't recall.)
>>Not_A_Hat
That said...
I think (2) is the only one that makes sense, even though it's highly abstract. Something very similar to that was my current best theory. It's a metaphorical "new day" for one of the characters, in a sense... although on the other hoof, it seems like there's a lot of contrast with the things that haven't changed.
I'm also not entirely sure (in the story) why the son would need to apologize to his father directly, because I don't see how a problem childhood would lead a parent to feel "personally wronged". It's fine, it just feels like "apologize" isn't the right word here. Maybe "make amends"...
Eh, I'm getting unnecessarily picky. Again.
That said...
I think (2) is the only one that makes sense, even though it's highly abstract. Something very similar to that was my current best theory. It's a metaphorical "new day" for one of the characters, in a sense... although on the other hoof, it seems like there's a lot of contrast with the things that haven't changed.
I'm also not entirely sure (in the story) why the son would need to apologize to his father directly, because I don't see how a problem childhood would lead a parent to feel "personally wronged". It's fine, it just feels like "apologize" isn't the right word here. Maybe "make amends"...
Eh, I'm getting unnecessarily picky. Again.
I suppose the colt who played with blades is prolly the father himself. Could be the son, the coroner/inspector, but I wouldn't bet on it.
I agree with FoME here. The idea of the blades duct-taped on various objects to cause harm is fine and the police inquiry justified. However, you intermix that with a personal affair, and we don't get to see how both are related. We get there is a felony being investigated by an officer who's had a hard time with his father, but how the two strands twine together to form a string is not clear, nor probably even evoked here.
The idea is interesting, but it needs much more space to shine.
And I agree this piece is neither pony nor prompt related. As such, it could be Cassius’s.
I agree with FoME here. The idea of the blades duct-taped on various objects to cause harm is fine and the police inquiry justified. However, you intermix that with a personal affair, and we don't get to see how both are related. We get there is a felony being investigated by an officer who's had a hard time with his father, but how the two strands twine together to form a string is not clear, nor probably even evoked here.
The idea is interesting, but it needs much more space to shine.
And I agree this piece is neither pony nor prompt related. As such, it could be Cassius’s.
>>Monokeras
I do see what you're getting at, and I hadn't noticed that before.
Still, I don't think that quite jives with the emotional responses in the story. The father expects the son will ask for forgiveness, and he speaks about playing with razors in a very negative way that demeans the pony who does such a thing. The son sweats when the father pegs that psychology.
I think if this were a foal-abuse scenario, the emotions expressed would be very different on both sides. That's just my interpretation, though.
I do see what you're getting at, and I hadn't noticed that before.
Still, I don't think that quite jives with the emotional responses in the story. The father expects the son will ask for forgiveness, and he speaks about playing with razors in a very negative way that demeans the pony who does such a thing. The son sweats when the father pegs that psychology.
I think if this were a foal-abuse scenario, the emotions expressed would be very different on both sides. That's just my interpretation, though.
Hmm... This is something, but... it's not pony, and it's not "the morning after" either, at least to me. The phrase "after his balls start to drop" stood out as pointlessly crude as well. I'm no prude about language, but it makes this suddenly a lot "grittier" for no reason, and takes the tone to a dark place. That'd be fine if the story then delivered something properly "dark" but it doesn't. It just peters out, making the dark overtures pointless. Overall, this felt a bit like a writing exercise where the teacher said "masculine noir" and so razors and detectives got smashed together in a bit of a haphazard way.
Okay, this one really should have made the cut. I agree the poni tie-in was a little weak, but the story is great and the writing was (as always) masterful.
Trembling also (of course) had five-star writing, but it needed plot... so that one I can understand. This one had both, and both were excellent. I'm very surprised.
I really hope this didn't get a low score for prompt-relatedness. I didn't see it, but inspiration doesn't always make sense.
I know CiG is probably the last author who needs defending here, but ponies who put this in the bottom half of their slates are just wrong. :derpytongue2:
Trembling also (of course) had five-star writing, but it needed plot... so that one I can understand. This one had both, and both were excellent. I'm very surprised.
I really hope this didn't get a low score for prompt-relatedness. I didn't see it, but inspiration doesn't always make sense.
I know CiG is probably the last author who needs defending here, but ponies who put this in the bottom half of their slates are just wrong. :derpytongue2: