And the Prairie Grass Blew

by Avid_Reader

Chapter Four/Contest Ending

The following day I reckoned that my family had waited long enough. After finishing up with the day’s harvesting, my new set of saddlebags was filled with a good portion of my gold, leaving the remainder in the old pair under my borrowed bed. Tipping my hat to the mares working in the kitchen as I made my way out of the house, I was reminded yet again to be at the dinner table on time. The trot into Ponyville passed much quicker than my thoughts, and I came into the town proper in an overall much-improved state compared to my first arrival.

Both my slightly better-groomed appearance and the fact that my staying at the Smith’s was known by now resulted in a much better acceptance by the town ponies. Covering my surprise at a few waved greetings by meeting each and every friendly face with one of my own, I found the desire to build a local reputation stronger the longer I stayed in Ponyville County. I contemplated how quickly the little town had grown on me as the door to train station swung upon freely, admitting me into the station’s surprisingly cool interior. Thankfully the small depot was empty of ponies, save for the aging flint-grey unicorn sitting languidly behind the main desk. Stepping up to the counter, the old salt tipped back his crumbled conductors cap and studied me through a pair of impressively thick eyebrows. “What can I do for ya, son?”

“I’d like to send out a telegram to Fillydelphia, and wire some money along with it.”

The rail pony nodded and rummaged under the counter for the required papers. “Fill them there forms out, an’ I get it sent out by the hour.”

I nodded and took up the proffered quill in my mouth, scribing out the telegram to my folks telling them my intentions in Ponyville, which I largely came up with as I wrote. Satisfied with the concise wording, I pushed the telegram form over and started on my wire transfer. The good old salt raised his bushy eyebrows in surprise at the length of my telegram, and began to open his muzzle in commentary until he caught sight of the amount I had down on the wire transfer. Sensing snarky comments inbound; I went ahead and reached back to my bags to start unloading the gold to back it. All perceived drowsiness was wiped from the stallion’s face as the bars began to stack upon his counter. “Damn colt, you rob a bank?” Taking up one of the nicked old bars in his magic, he studied the curious seals imprinted into each one. Half of each seal had been filed away in a past age, leaving only one alicorn of the old royal imprint intact. “A bank hundreds of years old, too, hmm? Lucky the ole bigwigs haven’t changed bar standards since whenever the heck these were made.”

“I consider them to be payment, and I will say that the bank was more of a Nightmare’s treasury.” I grinned at the old salt’s confusion. “And I will be taking the insurance with that wire.”

Stepping back out into the dusty street with an emptied set of saddlebags and content smile, I began making my way over to Barnyard Bargains. Haven taken no more than a few paces before the old Apple sense for abrewin’ trouble came up, I began to study the sparse afternoon crowd more closely. One old couple was sitting on the porch of their town home, intently watching a scene developing further on down Mane Street in the market. More ponies turned to watch as I briskly trotted up to the front of the forming herd.

---

“Granny”

“Granny Smith”

“Wake up, Gran!”

“Huh, wha?” The wizened old mare jolted upright and brushed away a prodding orange hoof.

“You done went and dozed off again Granny!” Granny Smith smiled at her chuckling grand-filly. A few blinks brought the rest of her family’s living room into focus. The fire sparked merrily as her other grand-foal prodded its logs, and the light snores emanating from a pile of blankets marked where the little one had nodded off, her bow quivering with each tiny lungful. Finally she regarded the visiting purple unicorn, quill still held quivering over a growing pile of parchment. Noticing the slightly disappointed face of the filly, Grainne silently wished that she had started these tales long ago. “Sorry time ran short on me, young un.’ I’ll make sure ta finish on the morrow.”

“That’s perfectly fine, Granny Smith, I just thank you for sharing all of this with me, its an amazing look into early Ponyville!” the grin on the young mare’s muzzle widened as she spread her fore hooves over the growing pile of papers surrounding her. “I may even author my own historical book series!”

Applejack patted her grandmother on the back, straightening out her signature shawl. “All thanks, ta you, Granny! The Apples really were sumthin’ back then.”

Grainne Smith’s thoughts turned once again to the yarn she was spinning. The Apple clan really had done a lot in shaping the new age of Equestria, and she was darn proud to have been a part of it. But as the elderly mare looked around at the results of a lifetime’s worth of care and love, Grainne knew that that made her even prouder. Granny Smith looked her grandfoal straight in the eye, taking a moment to admire the striking similarity they held with a certain stallion from years past “Ain’t nothing saying the current crop is any less admirable, filly.” 

Comments

[Avid_Reader]

4606028

Thank You for pointing that out!!! Please point out anything else that you might see, I'm about to submit this for the contest.

[Imperaxum]

An excellent first story, mate. Vocabulary is extensive and compelling, and grammar is fine. Much better than my first sloppy efforts. This story is solid outside the context of the contest; and just as good, that was the whole point.

All in all, great job. Looking forward to seeing more content from you in the future, if this is any indication.

[Avid_Reader]

4631587 cdn.derpiboo.ru/media/BAhbBlsHOgZmSSJVMjAxMi8xMi8yMi8yMF80NF8zNl8yODFfMTkwNjIyX19VTk9QVF9fc2FmZV9hbmltYXRlZF9ncmFubnlfc21pdGhfc3BvaWxlcl9zMDNlMDgGOgZFVA/190622__safe_animated_granny-smith_spoiler-s03e08.gif

Thanks for pointing that stuff out, I should've caught it...

[Sinclare]

This review is brought to you by Zero Punctuation Reviews

...As I sat here, tapping the tip of my pen lazily atop the tinged paper of mine, I felt completely content as I lounged and stared without aim. Wondering to myself, when I would ever try and mount the horse. “I suppose later.” I grumbled, picking up a controller, for which to wreck the noobs at the latest installment of Call of Battlefield IX. I smiled, tearing through wave after wave of racist 12 year-olds screaming profanity through their-Hello Kitty-headsets, while I cackled madly, spewing death everywhere and on everything.

Enough of that mindless dribble; And the Prairie Grass Blew is a thinly woven yarn used in the ill-fated loom that would eventually commit suicide-like a fat-man's trousers. This slice of stinky, french cheese tells the tale of a romance-lusting Granny -Grainne- Smith. Whom, of which, is charmed by a wayfarer of the Apple Clan, known as Quick Pick.

Said wayfarer, is fresh from the Palomino—the so-called desert of red sand. He arrives briskly in the newly emerging little town of Ponyville. Due to his disheveled and robust appearance, (and the giant wanker of knife hanging from his neck) Grainne decides that this is the kind of colt she wants snacking on her apple. After almost making a giant bullock of herself, she promptly does the most womanly thing in the world: drops the heavy pack of nopony-gives-a-fuck onto the poor bloke and drags him back to her house, where she proceeds to introduce him to her parents. And then after enough dicking around under the light of cliché romantic setting. They finally part ways, he leaves the next morning without as so much of a say-so, and at some point during the walk from the orchard to town, he decides to stay.

The massive ocean of middling this [story] treads water in, just seems to expand with every unhallowed word and sentence uttered by a similar demographic. Not a lot is wrong with the story despite the fact that it's a classic cookie-cutter cliche, found sitting at the check out of the nearest Hastings, hoping to be a cool, impulse buy. Let's not forget the rather apparent fact this man seems to have failed all his high school english classes.

Exempli gratia:

His mane, tail, and fetlocks had obviously got uncut for a goodly amount of time.

WTF is goodly? I don't remember my english teacher prattling on about the use of such a word in the english language. Perhaps I missed such a day, whilst I was surrounding myself with the clear-cut diamonds of ignorance, instead letting my head sink beneath the putrescent waters of knowledge. Shall I let you teach me basic arithmetic, next? I pray to the sun during the lesson you don't mix up the add and multiply symbols, as well as the divide and subtract. Or shall you teach me the correct way to blow my nose into my sleeve, then slap it onto piece of paper, and call it a story?

Where commas seem to be most appropriate, a dash replaces it. Oh, the turgid pike off annoyance! Its jamming itself into my head. It hurts… “Dashes are occasionally used to set off and emphasize information. Jessica Mitford wrote a scathing critique of the funeral industry—and touched up an uproar.” He said with a posh tone, his thumb and fore-finger pressing precariously upon the barrel of his fountain pen, as he looked down at you with the parental and educator, patented, eyes of discontent.

The diction is short and concise just the way I like it. Even though I am a man of many syllables as well. Though that does not mean I prefer reading the scientific name of every part of the body e.g. dong, also known as the dicikus flabbus.

Now onto grammar. Correct... er mostly. I realize as a writer myself that it is easy to overlook your own mistakes. Mine include the romance in Gradus Simplicis, the first version of The Harper's Rose, now known as Sigh No More, and every prior version of Comeback Story. Enough of my mistakes, lets focus on yours.

"What was that, colt?!" came his expected explanation.

Soon we had fallen into a good working rhythm, filling the west end of the orchard with the satisfying sounds of trees being bucked and apples tumbling into baskets, the ladder long forgotten.

I'm going to assume you meant to write the words, expression and latter. For someone like me who can overlook the slightest of typos, without so much even a glint of annoyance. However, this is a misdemeanor. Im not going to let it slide, but I'll sure as hell give you tartarus for this transgression.

Also mister writer, sir!

“Yes?” You say smugly, holding your coffee cup with two hands like an asshole.

I have a question.

“Well what is it my boy? Speak up and I shall answer your question.”

Oh, well... it's just...

“Yes? Yes? It's what?”

What the fuck is this?!

“Um... Excuse me?” You asked. Your face now contorted with confusion.

This, for the love of all that is shiny and bright! The goddamn perspective changes! It feels like my consciousness is cheap, sidewalk prostitute, constantly switching from Quick Pick, to a third-person limited standpoint. I mean you if want a first-person perspective, by all means, have a first person perspective from both Granny and Quick Pick. But by no fucking means change to a third-person. Also how the fuck does a dream have active cognition in the first place?

For the love of god if you can miss even the most glaring errors, then you must have your entire head shoved so far up your own ass, to the point of which your own head could come out of your own throat.

As I sit here now pretending that I have a rudimentary understanding of what romance is like, even for a lonely bugger such as myself. You, my friend, take that cake from me. Way to buy the cheap polyester of romance, and knit the goddamn thing to Luna's moon and back again.

I'll give you a props on all the things you managed not to fuck up: spelling, and how to put a glass over a flame. Single-handedly ruining the slight glimmer of light, representing the small amount of hope I have for finding a heaven-high romance on this faust forsaken website. As for the matter of applause, I believe you deserve no more than a unrequited poetry-slam symbol of endearment… otherwise known as a light snap of the fingers.

[Avid_Reader]

6050200

That was great, and surprisingly not too harsh for what this is. Thanks?

[Sinclare]

6050253 Well, I suppose I could have been way more sarcastic, snide, and just a downright douche... but hey, you have the honor of being my first review. My pen is not as sharp as twitterdicks... but it will be.