TenthSpeedWriter

She's a little OP, but she has to make regular sanity checks in order to do anything rational. Sounds balanced to me.

Ah, here's one: A tongue-morphing joke that makes bitter things taste sour. I love my coffee and my beer and my chestnuts (and so on), but I can't stand sour stuff. x- x

Roll one for initiative. FIVE ENCOUNTERS IN A ROW! Been there, done that. o-o

Fingers the size of sausages.

The element...

To what extent and in what context is this generally enforced?The way I had envisioned it, the only prior relationships would be with characters specifically from that locale -- bar pre-planned roleplaying plots -- and would be at most casual acquaintanceship. No, really, I'm colorblind. Help me out here. .-.

Precarious plot plundering. Subtle butt bumbling. Guarded glute glee.

You seem like an electronic-savvy pony, so tell me true: VNV Nation or Apoptygma Berzerk?

AH-HA! I figured out what it was missing: Just a dash more character flaw. Should be more interesting now. : }

I am reading a blog about My Little Pony. In regards to your derision and petty harassment, let me direct you towards the following:

Yeah... Skippy is finally buckling down and writing an RP app. I'll be honest: I haven't done much active para-style roleplaying since I was in high school, but I do look forward to getting back into it, if only casually. My schedule doesn't leave a lot of room save for in the evenings to sit down and write, but I do pride myself on the quality of my short prose and I hope to contribute meaningfully to the movement of plot and overall character development. I have it marked as WIP until I can get some thoughts on it. If everything looks up to par with y'all, I'll go ahead and mark it as finished. Name: "Tinny" Tinsworth Anaheim Sex: Male Age: Young adult Species: Earth Pony Pelt Color: Tan Mane, Tail: Brown; mane trimmed short. Tends to wear a straw hat and a saddle blanket. Eye color: Bluish gray (Even though the pony-maker app I used was being heinously uncooperative in that regard) Physique: Lanky-legged, with a slight pot belly. Cutie Mark: A banjo with a snapped string, burning like a fuse. Origin: Tinny's family was one of those that went west with the Apple clan to help found the town of Appleloosa. The youngest of his brothers, he was only a colt when they made the move. The lush orchards and fields of the the fresh territory, not to mention the Apple family's hospitality, made it a fine place to come of age; but, sharing a single homestead with all his brothers could not last forever. Poblano, the eldest of the Anaheim brothers, had married and was ready to bring his new bride back home; but, the homestead could hardly hold the both of them -and- a growing family, and there were only so many mouths that the family's fields could feed. What's more, with the new lines in the dirt drawn by the deals with the buffalo, good farming land was hard to come by; there was, however, another option: the land near Ponyville that the family had once tended was quite unoccupied. Despite seeing a few tenants over the seasons, it had never been sold. It would only be a matter of time before the other brothers chose to plant roots as well; so, although it would mean a few years out on his own, Tinny offered to travel back himself and build onto the place. It was the Anaheim way to stick together, and making that space ready for his brothers to join him seemed like a fine thing to do. It would also mean a chance to get to know the folks of Ponyville; surely they'd not heard a good banjo pickin' since Grandpa Jalapa's day, he thought, and maybe he'd even take a few of Pa's potent ol' pepper seeds back with him. RP Type: Mane RP Occupation: Following up on family tradition, Tinny tills a few acres of his family's land about an hour or so from Ponyville, growing peppers of various sorts. Among them are the cayennes that he is known for drying and chewing on, as well as an old family breed of habanero from which he makes and sells his own "Anaheim Fire" hot sauce. He is also known to pass his time in Ponyville park, writing short rhymes and playing songs for tips. While it isn't necessarily a money-making venture, he also works to clean up his fields and to build onto the old farmhouse where he lives, expecting that his siblings might not be too long from returning there as well. Motivation: Tinny spends most of his free time playing folk songs and writing new ones to share. He enjoys playing with others, and seems to have a tune for most any occasion; while spice is his trade, his passion is in "makin' music that'll speak to folks." Tinny generally makes a point of avoiding others' business when possible; he will not often invest himself in arguments, even those he may have a stake in, unless there is a specific reason' of course; however, on the rare incident when his temper is provoked, it burns hotter than any pepper his family has ever grown. Hit: Writing rhymes and folk tunes; his banjo; hoedowns; peppers; cool spring showers. Miss: Trouble makers; humid heat; working in the morning; being rushed; bell peppers. Background: Once, when Tinny was still barely more than a schoolcolt, he found himself in a bitter fight with his next oldest brother, Ancho. He had scolded Tinny cruelly for taking off early from plowing, and running out of sight yet again. The spat culimated when Ancho threatened to take the banjo that Tinny wasted so much time on, the one Grandpa Jalapa gave him, then smash it on the ground and use it for a shovel. Instead of stepping down from his brother's frustration as he so often did, Tinny laid back his ears and bull-rushed past him, knocking Ancho off his feet and pushing his way into the house. With the elder colt still stunned, Tinny grabbed his instrument and took off into the planes past the apple orchards. He was gone for a full day and a half, longer than ever before, when Ancho gathered the nerve to explain to Pa what really happened. A party took off from Appleloosa soon after to try and find him, and Ancho was at the front of it. He searched high and low through the heat of the day, but with no luck. The afternoon came, and he found himself sitting on the crest of a little hill, seeing neither hide nor hair of his little brother. The weight of what he had done started to settle with him, and he fought back a tear as he slumped his head. As he sat there, though, something caught his ear: something on the wind, something plucking and twanging; something sharp and… tinny. Ancho shook his head - imagining things, he thought - but the sound was still there. Music, rolling through the gentle hills. He took off to find the source of it. Eventually, that sound led to the edge of a little ravine, dug out by a long-dry creek. Down at the bottom sat Tinny himself, propped on a tree stump with a couple of pebbles for picks tied to his hoof, rattling out a hoedown tune; around him, there were a half dozen buffalo calves dancing along and grinning from ear to ear, none of them more than half his age. Ancho sat for a time before the edge of the slope, watching from behind until at last the song finished and the calves ran off towards their own village. Tinny didn't turn around, but he knew he'd had an audience. "I didn' wanna hurt you none, brother. I'm sorry." Ancho walked up to him, irked. "This is where you've been goin', Tin? Playin' dances for buffalos?" "I ain't just been piddlin' around, you know. Buffalo folk work even harder 'an we do. Them calves have to scratch in the corn fields soon as they can walk. I just… I wanted to share somethin' with 'em, is all." "An' you just ran off without tellin' us not a word?" Ancho's temper began to come back to him. "Just thought you'd knock me down and disappear?" "This mattered, Ancho!" Tinny turned about with a shine of fire in his eyes. "Ain't Pa always told us, when what matters matters, y' gotta stand up an' fight for it!?" In all his life, Ancho had never seen him take on anything resembling an attitude; yet, now, his little brother stood up with his ears tensed back and stared him in the eye. "Well, this mattered to me. Them young'uns work harder an' we do all day long, an' what fun do they ever get t' have? Now, I'm sorry t' have left my piddly quarter acre for you an' Poblano t' till, but I want you to look at me. You see clear as day, I ain't got the shoulders for diggin' that y'all got, an' y'know I ain't near as good at pickin' as Pa or Cascabel, an' I ain't near as good in the kitchen as Ma or uncle Aji, but dadgummit, you know what? I can play." Tinny held up the hoof with his makeshift picks still tied around it. Ancho was red in the face, but was lost for words. "I can strum a banjo and I can sing a tune, and I can make a buncha kids that ain't got nothin' else to do but dig holes an' chase crows happier than they've ever been, and doggone it, if that's what I was put here to do, I'm gonna do it. Now I don't like fightin' brother, but you sure as as hay ain't keepin' me from it!" The two locked eyes in silence for a long while after. Ancho searched desperately for something to lash out with, but couldn't find a thing. Eventually, when the fire between them seemed like it was about to roast them both, Tinny took a single step back. "Like I said, brother. I didn' want t' hurt you, an' I didn' mean to." Ancho shook his head, partly in resignation. He had nothing left to say. "You didn'... you didn't hurt me none. Just…" he sighed, and put a hoof on Tinny's shoulder. "Don't ever scare me like that again, or I'll run your bony flank down so hard..." Pa gave the both of them a fierce tongue lashing the minute the search posse came back together, but he was every bit as happy to see that his youngest was safe and well, and that the two had made made amends. Tinny too, was pleasantly surprised that evening; when he finally shrugged off his harness and saddlebags back at the farm, there was a certain long-awaited mark on his flank: a banjo with a snapped string, the end of which burned like a fuse -- he had found his gift, and it turns out there was a dash of the old Anaheim Fire in him after all.

It's certainly long. xD 700+ pages, and there are five (soon to be six) novels in the series. I would have pretty much had to get it for kindle. The paperback edition would have made a splendid desk brick.

I have pleasant news, my bronies: It is now fall. Not by any calendar, mind you, but the state of Alabama has decided to shift from 95F and humid to 70F with a deliciously cool breeze. So, naturally, I am defying reason and listening to the following: How's the weather where y'all are?

Ho'kay, so. The first book I'm getting is A Song of Ice and Fire - Game of Thrones, at the strong recommendation of a friend. That said, I'm taking notes from this thread for future acquisitions. : }

Awh mah gawdh. @_@ That story stole about five hours of my life when I first found it. Buttersc0tchSundae's work is like my crack.

Midday crawled atop Ponyville, quiet as a mouse and as hot as you please. Summer was here with a vengeance, and in spite of the heat, the earth ponies that tended the many farms near the town were out to work with shoulders back and spirits high. Among them this day, out on the skirts of Sweet Apple Acres, there stood a light-haired young stallion, turned beet red with sunburn, his gray eye glued to a surveyor's transit and wye. Next to him sat a covered wagon, its wheels now settled into the dry dirt, with a sign slung over its canvas roof: CHARTER'S CHARTS Land Measured, Deeds Written, Maps Made! Spread out before its proprietor was the object of his attention: a strip of lonely soil, baking in the sun, that would next year be home to yet another orchard of young apple trees. On a folding table beside him, there sat a stack of grid-lined pages upon which Charter had begun to record the intimate details of the place, and which he now leisurely refined. "Let's see… thirty seven by nineteen, you are…" -- He leaned even closer into the instruments -- "… down elevation by a quarter, so… six and a half hands." "Beautiful." In a mess of numbers, another detail -- the gentle hillside which kneeled down to the neighboring farm -- took on further shape amid his notes. He had paused to admire the little achievement when a surprise tap on the shoulder snapped him back to attention. Standing there with a smirk was the the pony who had hired him for this job. Applejack, he believed her name was. "Heh, didn't startle ya, did I?" She tipped her hat and pointed him down to a bucket from the well back near the homestead. "I came t' see how you were comin' along out here, and I figured you'd pro'lly be bakin', hot as it is today." "Why, I'm grateful, ma'am!" He jokingly saluted her. "Haw, now, don' start with that "ma'am" nonsense. You're makin' me feel old." In truth, she couldn't be more than a year or so older than he was, but it seemed right to him to be as respectful as he could to the pony paying for his work, however casual the case may be. "Yes, ma'am! I mean… aw, forget it. Ah… here's what I've gotten finished today." Charter passed his freshly drawn handiwork to his courteous contractee and all but threw himself into the water. The summer sun was not a gentle friend to anypony, and the coolness in his burnt brow was the first ounce of relief he'd had in a while. "Looks like y'all 'bout got it under hoof…" she said, trying to make sense of the mass of figures and contour lines. "Think we've got room for as big an orchard as we're wantin'?" Charter surfaced with a splash and gulped down one last mouthful. As he threw his head back, a little silver locket around his neck slid around and stuck itself in his damp mane. "Easily seems so. Maybe even for a few patches of hay. The ground isn't too soft, so it'll be a bit of effort to till, but…" he fumbled around for a second, trying to straighten the bit of jewelry, "it seems like… with a little elbow grease… ah-ha!" Catching a coffee-yellowed tooth on the brass chain, he tugged it back into place. "You should have plenty enough room, and the soil beneath is as rich as can be." "Well, that's some fine news," she answered, "'cause if there's one thing we ain't short of 'round here at least, it's effort!" Applejack gestured back towards her brother, just down the hill. Big Macintosh hauled a heaping cartful of fertilizer as easily as a load of laundry, while young Applebloom did her best to keep pace behind him with a wagon full of tools. Past them, in the shade of the homestead, worked Granny Smith. She swung her old hooves down on a coring press with surprising vigor, slicing apart the spring crop while her hired hoof Caramel stoked a fire outside to boil her preserve jars clean. Charter had to admire them. Ponies around here had a simple love of life, be it at work or play, that was hard to find elsewhere. He recalled his days of schooling in Canterlot, studying math and geography and the stars, with all the stuck-up unicorns and dusty professors who looked like they'd never had a touch of mud on their hooves; truth be told, he'd felt more in common with the old goats tending the gardens than any of them. Mom and Dad had always wanted him to take up medicine, or astronomy, or something else that came with a cushy office and some kind of tenure, but Charter never felt right being tucked away like that; his passion was in places like this, feeling the contour of the world and making something as substantial as the shape of the land itself. After finishing school, he had worked for a while in the big cities: Fillydelphia, Manehatten… sure, the business was good there, and there was certainly never any reason to be bored, but everypony was always running late for something, never taking time to enjoy life for what it was. His time there went from exciting to tiring in the shake of a tail. Worse than that though, the lights always hid the evening sky, and Charter terribly missed sitting under the full moon and sketching the constellations that gazed back at him from above. So it was that, after a bit of traveling and hunting for work, he found himself here in Ponyville. There was something about the town that seemed to fit him like a well-hammered shoe; he found a genuine community here, and no pony seemed to think they were above doing their fair share of work or play. Although he did miss the great study halls of Canterlot and the fabulous museums of the city, the little library here in town had more than enough books of every sort to both keep him entertained and continue his studies; and then, there was that sweet young mare who tended it. She had studied in Canterlot as well she told him, and since his arrival, Charter had gotten lost with her in many conversations about the magic of the stars and the mysteries of mathematics, much to their mutual pleasure; and, truth be told, he admired her for some time, at least until he met… well… With half a smile, he kissed the clasp of his necklace and straightened it again. Applejack surveyed her family's little operation one more time, a bit of pride gleaming in her eye. "Yessir-ee, we're gonna be doin' just fine come next plantin' season." She turned back to Charter, and saw him still piddling with the little silver heart. "Say… that's a right pretty little pendent you have there. Got yerself a sweetie, do ya?" Charter's already burnt-red face flushed further -- it was a little strange to him that his employer would wonder about such a thing -- but he nodded. "Heh… that I do." He tapped the latch on its side, and opened it up to show a photo of himself and another pony: a teal-haired filly with a cutie mark in the shape of an old fashioned lyre. They were flopped atop one another on the ground, and grinned like schoolfoals on class picture day. "She certainly is something else, let me tell you." Applejack lifted it up to look closer, and then turned back to him with a grin. "So, you're the fella that Miss Lyra's been so keen on, are ya?" Charter mustered a slight smile and replied, "Yeah, I… I suppose I am. Does she, er… does she talk about me much?" "You're only every other thing out of her mouth, sugarcube. Matter of fact, I think I heard her and that curly-maned friend o' hers carryin' on about ya at the waterin' hole up back up the road a lil' while ago. You ought to go see if they're still around!" "Really? You don't mind me taking off early?" A more earnest smile broke from Charter's face, nearly as wide and as goofy as the one in the picture. "Shucks, naw. I'll gather up your tools and bits; y'all go have yourselves a nice afternoon, y'hear?" Applejack patted him on the shoulder, and he took off in a high-stepping amble towards town.

So... I decided to scrap the piece I was working on before. I found that it's a lot more difficult than I expected to create an out-of-genre piece (especially gothic suspense) focusing only on one character and still expect to transition from the canon tone fluidly. THAT SAID. I have another idea, and this one actually seems feasible. Below, I'm posting a working opening segment. At the moment, it functions only as a character introduction for the chief OC and the context of the story, but right now, that's all I really need from it. What I need from y'all, are suggestions for possible elements of tension and drama using the introduced character and the fanon-accepted personality of the characters introduced to this point, with the ultimate goal of creating a situation seen by the chief protagonist as lonely and personally crushing. (Ain't I terrible?) Shoot me with any suggestions you have, as well as any stylistic critique you might want to chip in.

So, guys. Guys, guys, guys. I got a Kindle today. I trust y'all's opinions. With what literary goodness should I load it?

Spoilered: My full review and literary critique of Cupcakes.

Y'know... I dig it.

Plausibly deniable pooter play.

Bashful booty bopping. Unrecognized rump bumping. Discrete derriere delight.

And if you don't know what I'm talking about, consider yourself fortunate. xD

So, there's a party in the works at my dorm right now for a Season 2 viewing party. As part of the festivities, I agreed to live up to my nickname (Chef), and bake a couple batches of cupcakes. I was originally thinking red velvet with pink frosting; however... There's a terrible, terrible voice within me that suggests I use rainbow-patterned frosting instead. What do y'all think?

Spell I see in these functions, these well-defined relationships the beauty of the divine. In our crude symbols of algebra, we imagify the scenes written by gods hands We delve into great magics understanding the many faceted workings of reality and like daring Sorcerers we learn their mystery and engineer fantastic spells to fill our gray-faced cities with under-appreciated wonder.