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Guilt
The cheap rotgut whiskey burned like fire all the way down, and the mare savored the sensation of heat.
It was the only warmth she could feel anymore.
“Bartender! Another shot!” She slammed the empty glass onto the bar beside its numerous siblings, and her hoof barely shook. Once upon a time she would have taken pride in that fact.
Pride. Ha.
The bartender, a rough looking brown stallion, gave her a hard look before pouring her another shot without a word. Which was just fine with her. Silence and alcohol were what she craved.
With enough alcohol she might even silence the memories looping in her head.
“I don’t know boss. Shouldn’t we wait for the rest of the team?”
“There’s no time for that! Get your rear in gear and follow me in!”
The bar was a bit of a dive. Grungy, dimly lit, and sparsely populated. She’d had a long, painful walk getting this far out on the fringes of Canterlot. The doctors would probably be pissed at her for straining herself. They wouldn’t be too pleased with the drinking either. Well, to Tatarus with them.
It’s not like she ever listened to advice anyway.
“Let’s hit it from the East! If we drop the pressure there, we can divert the path...”
“Not enough! They’ll still get wrecked! We need to push at the core! Follow me in!”
Damned doctors hadn’t wanted to let her out today in the first place. As if they could stop her from attending. Her partner deserved that much from her. Deserved a lot more than that, no matter what everypony else told her.
“This is too much for just the two of us, Captain!”
It was the truth, and she knew it. But it was too late. They were committed now. She had committed them.
“Shut up and keep up! We’re going deeper!”
The dim lighting went a long way towards hiding her injuries. Her uniform had been better of course, but she’d ditched it right after the ceremony. She didn’t want to stand out. Didn’t want to attract attention. Didn’t want to deal with ponies offering their condolences. Their sympathy. Or worse, their accolades!
She couldn’t stand one more pony telling her it wasn’t her fault.
“We’re in too deep!”
“Just keep it together, damnit!”
The Everfree forest was unpredictable and uncontrollable. A reminder that ponies would never truly master Mother Nature. It was filled with monsters of both flesh and blood, and wind and water.
And sometimes those monsters slipped out.
They’d done it. It had taken every erg of wingpower they had, but they’d diverted the rogue cyclone. The disabled passenger airship would be safe.
The same could not be said for the pair of Wonderbolts.
Sometimes, bad things just happen, they told her.
As if she needed the reminder. She was Captain of the Wonderbolts! It was her job to stand between other ponies and bad things!
Including her subordinates
It was like being in Tartatus.
The wind screamed and howled, crying for blood. Fur and feathers were stripped away by windsheer. They were too far in to climb out. Too tired to ride it out. Too far from help to expect rescue.
She looked back at her wingpony, and saw her own expression mirrored back at her.
Fear. Despair.
Acceptance.
She never saw the tree branch that struck her.
They said she’d made the right decision. They said her actions had saved hundreds of lives. They said it wasn’t her fault. Said it was a miracle she survived. Said she was a hero.
Another line of fire traced its way down her throat. Another shotglass thunked onto the bar.
What did they know?
“Bartender! Another!”
The crusty old stallion looked at her, then down at the line of empty glasses. It wasn’t a short line.
“I think you’ve had enough ma’am.”
Spitfire narrowed her eyes and glared. She spoke slowly, her voice as cold as a glacier, clearly enunciating each syllable.
“Another. Shot.”
After a few seconds the bartender squirmed, then looked away.
“Fine. Whatever you say ma’am. It’s your funeral.” He grumbled, setting another shot before the mare.
“No it’s not.” Spitfire growled, snatching the glass. She tried not to remember the peaceful look on Soarin’s face as he lay there in the casket. Tried not to remember the look of fear when she’d last seen him alive.
“But it should have been.”
Even the burn of alcohol felt as cold as ice.
It was the only warmth she could feel anymore.
“Bartender! Another shot!” She slammed the empty glass onto the bar beside its numerous siblings, and her hoof barely shook. Once upon a time she would have taken pride in that fact.
Pride. Ha.
The bartender, a rough looking brown stallion, gave her a hard look before pouring her another shot without a word. Which was just fine with her. Silence and alcohol were what she craved.
With enough alcohol she might even silence the memories looping in her head.
“I don’t know boss. Shouldn’t we wait for the rest of the team?”
“There’s no time for that! Get your rear in gear and follow me in!”
The bar was a bit of a dive. Grungy, dimly lit, and sparsely populated. She’d had a long, painful walk getting this far out on the fringes of Canterlot. The doctors would probably be pissed at her for straining herself. They wouldn’t be too pleased with the drinking either. Well, to Tatarus with them.
It’s not like she ever listened to advice anyway.
“Let’s hit it from the East! If we drop the pressure there, we can divert the path...”
“Not enough! They’ll still get wrecked! We need to push at the core! Follow me in!”
Damned doctors hadn’t wanted to let her out today in the first place. As if they could stop her from attending. Her partner deserved that much from her. Deserved a lot more than that, no matter what everypony else told her.
“This is too much for just the two of us, Captain!”
It was the truth, and she knew it. But it was too late. They were committed now. She had committed them.
“Shut up and keep up! We’re going deeper!”
The dim lighting went a long way towards hiding her injuries. Her uniform had been better of course, but she’d ditched it right after the ceremony. She didn’t want to stand out. Didn’t want to attract attention. Didn’t want to deal with ponies offering their condolences. Their sympathy. Or worse, their accolades!
She couldn’t stand one more pony telling her it wasn’t her fault.
“We’re in too deep!”
“Just keep it together, damnit!”
The Everfree forest was unpredictable and uncontrollable. A reminder that ponies would never truly master Mother Nature. It was filled with monsters of both flesh and blood, and wind and water.
And sometimes those monsters slipped out.
They’d done it. It had taken every erg of wingpower they had, but they’d diverted the rogue cyclone. The disabled passenger airship would be safe.
The same could not be said for the pair of Wonderbolts.
Sometimes, bad things just happen, they told her.
As if she needed the reminder. She was Captain of the Wonderbolts! It was her job to stand between other ponies and bad things!
Including her subordinates
It was like being in Tartatus.
The wind screamed and howled, crying for blood. Fur and feathers were stripped away by windsheer. They were too far in to climb out. Too tired to ride it out. Too far from help to expect rescue.
She looked back at her wingpony, and saw her own expression mirrored back at her.
Fear. Despair.
Acceptance.
She never saw the tree branch that struck her.
They said she’d made the right decision. They said her actions had saved hundreds of lives. They said it wasn’t her fault. Said it was a miracle she survived. Said she was a hero.
Another line of fire traced its way down her throat. Another shotglass thunked onto the bar.
What did they know?
“Bartender! Another!”
The crusty old stallion looked at her, then down at the line of empty glasses. It wasn’t a short line.
“I think you’ve had enough ma’am.”
Spitfire narrowed her eyes and glared. She spoke slowly, her voice as cold as a glacier, clearly enunciating each syllable.
“Another. Shot.”
After a few seconds the bartender squirmed, then looked away.
“Fine. Whatever you say ma’am. It’s your funeral.” He grumbled, setting another shot before the mare.
“No it’s not.” Spitfire growled, snatching the glass. She tried not to remember the peaceful look on Soarin’s face as he lay there in the casket. Tried not to remember the look of fear when she’d last seen him alive.
“But it should have been.”
Even the burn of alcohol felt as cold as ice.
I expected this sort of story from this prompt, but that doesn’t make this one any less well-crafted or impactful. Very well done.
With enough alcohol she might even silence the memories looping in her head.
This is pure tell, and the story is filled with it. Don't tell us things like this, show us. The story is fine, but the way it is told needs fixing. Push yourself to avoid telling the reader things directly, and find another way.
I don't like the exact use of the prompt drop, but it's more appropriate here than in any of the other stories I've seen it in so far so I won't push on that.
Started melodramatic to the point of feeling cliché -- lines like the one >>Trick_Question pointed out are just over the top, but she probably has the right idea of how to fix it -- but it did wind up hitting home in the end anyway. Not really sure where to put it.
Also, I was surprised Rainbow Dash didn't turn out to be a character. That's not a flaw because exposing their identities slowly is intentional, and the choices do fit the story well, but it seemed worth mentioning. (I'd go into more detail but I'm not sure if the spoiler tag is the same here as on FiMFic and I don't want to do my first test with live munitions.)
Also, I was surprised Rainbow Dash didn't turn out to be a character. That's not a flaw because exposing their identities slowly is intentional, and the choices do fit the story well, but it seemed worth mentioning. (I'd go into more detail but I'm not sure if the spoiler tag is the same here as on FiMFic and I don't want to do my first test with live munitions.)
You know, I was going to complain about the prompt drop, which is almost never a good idea, but then this one redeemed itself with Spitfire's response. That's kind of the linchpin of the story here, comparing and contrasting the two different prompt interpretations and rejecting the colloquial one in favor of something deeper. The melodrama did nothing for me (and there's a lot of it), but that one exchange feels like it elevates the piece. Right at the end, too, where you're able to close strong. I don't think I can stamp this one "Solid" when I spent the vast majority of the story waiting for something to break out of the cliché and surprise me, but I'm still going to look at it pretty favorably if it's on my slate.
>>pterrorgrine
For my part, I'm not certain what is gained by the slow reveal of the characters' identities. I mean, they're pretty much exactly who we expect them to be from MLP context and story context. That's my main problem with this piece, honestly: up until the ending this feels awfully paint-by-numbers. YMMV.
(And yes, the Writeoff.me spoiler tag is [ spoiler ], same as Fimfic.)
Tier: Almost There
>>pterrorgrine
For my part, I'm not certain what is gained by the slow reveal of the characters' identities. I mean, they're pretty much exactly who we expect them to be from MLP context and story context. That's my main problem with this piece, honestly: up until the ending this feels awfully paint-by-numbers. YMMV.
(And yes, the Writeoff.me spoiler tag is [ spoiler ], same as Fimfic.)
Tier: Almost There
Spitfire blames herself for the death of a teammate which happened while they were dealing with an Everfree storm (or possibly, a monster creating a storm).
>>Trick_Question
I actually don't think that line was problematic - it was entirely reasonable in context, and I didn’t think it was excessively telly.
I do think that this story suffered a bit from being overly cliché. The one bright spot was the ending, and while it was a bit cliché too (I’ve seen this exact thing in other stories), the ending felt well-executed. There wasn’t really anything wrong with this story per se so much as that it was very by the numbers and failed to really do anything exceptional. It was what it was.
I’m also not really sure if the gradual reveal of the characters’ identity actually matters all that much, save perhaps to make it ambiguous whether or not the person drinking was in charge or not – but I kind of got the impression that it was the person who was in charge from the start, so… yeah, I dunno. I suspect that when you put this on FIMFiction, the identity of the Wonderbolt drinking will be very obvious, and the character tags will probably give it away.
>>Trick_Question
I actually don't think that line was problematic - it was entirely reasonable in context, and I didn’t think it was excessively telly.
I do think that this story suffered a bit from being overly cliché. The one bright spot was the ending, and while it was a bit cliché too (I’ve seen this exact thing in other stories), the ending felt well-executed. There wasn’t really anything wrong with this story per se so much as that it was very by the numbers and failed to really do anything exceptional. It was what it was.
I’m also not really sure if the gradual reveal of the characters’ identity actually matters all that much, save perhaps to make it ambiguous whether or not the person drinking was in charge or not – but I kind of got the impression that it was the person who was in charge from the start, so… yeah, I dunno. I suspect that when you put this on FIMFiction, the identity of the Wonderbolt drinking will be very obvious, and the character tags will probably give it away.
I'll make a confession because it's relevant to my feedback on the story: I couldn't resist mentally finishing all of the flashbacks with some variation on, "...that's what she said." :-P
Yes I know; it's bad and I should feel bad (and I do). But the thing is, the way the flashbacks are currently written opens them up to those kinds of shenanigans by jarring the reader out of the scene. It might work in a movie, where we could have the lines being spoken while the camera stays fixed on our hero; but in print, the switching back-and-forth needs to be a lot more selective. I think that condensing all the lines into a single short but vivid flashback would have more impact; and it's possible that cutting them entirely might work, too.
There's some strong stuff here, though. With a few tweaks it could be brought back from the realm of melodrama.
Yes I know; it's bad and I should feel bad (and I do). But the thing is, the way the flashbacks are currently written opens them up to those kinds of shenanigans by jarring the reader out of the scene. It might work in a movie, where we could have the lines being spoken while the camera stays fixed on our hero; but in print, the switching back-and-forth needs to be a lot more selective. I think that condensing all the lines into a single short but vivid flashback would have more impact; and it's possible that cutting them entirely might work, too.
There's some strong stuff here, though. With a few tweaks it could be brought back from the realm of melodrama.
Not bad, but tugs somewhat at the heartstrings.
I won’t say like the others that it is clichéd, but it is certainly not an original idea. Your treatment of it is fair, but there nothing really new. I mean, I’m thinking about the last round “Space Time” fiction. This could be a logical follow-up in the land of ponies.
A good rendition of the scene, though. Much better than many fics I read this round (mine included). So, high on my slate.
I won’t say like the others that it is clichéd, but it is certainly not an original idea. Your treatment of it is fair, but there nothing really new. I mean, I’m thinking about the last round “Space Time” fiction. This could be a logical follow-up in the land of ponies.
A good rendition of the scene, though. Much better than many fics I read this round (mine included). So, high on my slate.
This was a good one. A people story told in ponies in a way that still feels very much pony.
I'll echo Trick_Question here: nothing about this story was vivid, and while some of the inner monologue was fine ("Pride. Ha." was a good line), things like "It was the only warmth she could feel anymore." were rather cringeworthy.
I did't mind the gradual character reveal since I didn't really care whose survivor's guilt this was. What I do mind though is the nature of the flashbacks. Flashbacks are a tricky thing to write I guess, I can't recall a story where I've read any that were actually beneficial to it, but these injections of this apparently action-scene-like dialogue without any context or imagery do nothing but interrupt the mood the other parts of the fic try to set.
I can't say the fic did much for me. Sorry.
I did't mind the gradual character reveal since I didn't really care whose survivor's guilt this was. What I do mind though is the nature of the flashbacks. Flashbacks are a tricky thing to write I guess, I can't recall a story where I've read any that were actually beneficial to it, but these injections of this apparently action-scene-like dialogue without any context or imagery do nothing but interrupt the mood the other parts of the fic try to set.
I can't say the fic did much for me. Sorry.
Like others have said, possibly too melodramatic and cliché for its own good, but it made up for it by feeling heartfelt, and with its really strong ending. The prompt drop was used incredibly effectively.
If I had to say something about the actual writing itself, it’s that I wasn’t a fan about the way italics were sometimes used here. I mean, I understand the urge to draw attention to certain words and make sure that they’re read in a certain way – it’s something I’m often guilty of in my own stories – but this story was a reminder of why that isn’t always necessarily a good idea. ‘Or worse, their accolades!’/ ‘A reminder that ponies would never truly master Mother Nature.’ / ‘Said she was a hero.’ In all these examples, the italics drew me out of the story. It felt like hand-holding, a subtle way of telling the reader exactly how they should be feeling instead of having the confidence to let them figure out the emotions for themselves. I think these would all read perfectly fine just on their own, without italics. (For the record, ‘What did they know?’ was a much more effective use, since it really drove home Spitfire’s bitterness).
Don’t get me wrong, I’m being totally nitpicky here, and overall this was a fairly strong entry. But I think that it’s something worth thinking about.
If I had to say something about the actual writing itself, it’s that I wasn’t a fan about the way italics were sometimes used here. I mean, I understand the urge to draw attention to certain words and make sure that they’re read in a certain way – it’s something I’m often guilty of in my own stories – but this story was a reminder of why that isn’t always necessarily a good idea. ‘Or worse, their accolades!’/ ‘A reminder that ponies would never truly master Mother Nature.’ / ‘Said she was a hero.’ In all these examples, the italics drew me out of the story. It felt like hand-holding, a subtle way of telling the reader exactly how they should be feeling instead of having the confidence to let them figure out the emotions for themselves. I think these would all read perfectly fine just on their own, without italics. (For the record, ‘What did they know?’ was a much more effective use, since it really drove home Spitfire’s bitterness).
Don’t get me wrong, I’m being totally nitpicky here, and overall this was a fairly strong entry. But I think that it’s something worth thinking about.