little nore

To turn aside from the anger of Black women with excuses or the pretexts of intimidation is to award no one power–it is merely another way of preserving racial blindness, the power of unaddressed privilege, unbreached, intact. Guilt is only another form of objectification. Oppressed peoples are always asked to stretch a little nore, to bridge the gap between blindness and humanity. Black women are expected to use our anger only in the service of other people’s salvation or learning. But that time is over. My anger has meant pain to me but it has also meant survival, and before I give it up I’m going to be sure that there is something at least as powerful to replace it on the road to clarity.
—  Audre Lorde
The First and Second Lakes of the Rom ~ Progress Post.

This tale will get re written as we go.

As always, the new text and changes will be put into BOLDFACE TYPE to make them easy to find. The text of the original draft that I am working on is done in ITALICS to show what is being recast as story.

For those who have read my Writing, a Manual for Story Creation, this is a salvage from my junk files. It has many good solid points and can become a good story explaining the origins of the Rom and their strange (to ponies) customs.

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The First and Second Lakes of the Rom

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

©2015 by Glen Ten-Eyck

39767 words presently written. This is a WORK IN PROGRESS!




In the town of Tadast’s Wells, the dying fig tree gave precious little shade to the small band of horses gathered about the well. They wore the headstalls with bits that all slaves were required to wear.

A roan filly, watching with despair as the bucket dropped, shook her head in disbelief. “Is it really true, Rom Ina Callin? Did the Master truly cast us out? We are good slaves. All of our work has been done as well as any work can be.

“It is no fault of ours that the crops did not grow. There has been no rain. Even the waters beneath the ground have dried up.”

The painful answer echoed up from the well itself. The hollow thump of the bucket hitting the dry bottom of yet another abandoned well.

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Nore’s Choice: Origin of the Rom: MLP Fan Fiction
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Nore’s Choice

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)


29000 words


© 2015 by Glen Ten-Eyck

Writing begun 08/09/15


All rights reserved. This document may not be copied or distributed on or to any medium or placed in any mass storage system except by the express written consent of the author.

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Blog holding members of Tumblr.com may freely reblog this story provided that the title, author and copyright information remain intact, unaltered, and are displayed at the head of the story.

Fan art, stories, music, cosplay and other fan activity is actively encouraged.

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The sere wind blew from the baking stones and slithering sands of Celestia’s Anvil, the great desert to the east of the poor, withering town of Tadast’s Wells. The town was suffering under more than just the the heat. The drought was unrelenting.

A group of seven horses huddled in the tiny shade offered by the crumbling walls and dying fig trees of the abandoned farm. Hurt, puzzlement and shock in her voice, a chestnut roan filly, nearly grown, looked to the leader of the band.

He voice trembling, she asked with formality, “How can it be true, Rom Ina Callin? Can we really be cast out by the Master? We are good slaves. All of our work has been done as well as any work can be!

“It is no fault of ours that the crops do not grow. There has been no rain at all. Even the waters beneath the ground are failing.”

Taking a deep breath to steady himself and retreating into formality himself, for the strength of tradition, Rom replied, “It is true, Nore Bel Morin. All that you say is true.

“The Master was clear on that. The fault is not of our doing at all. If he felt that he had any choice, he would have kept us all. He has chosen to keep the last of his well’s water for himself, his mares and foals.”

Two of the band’s four grown mares, big Phapa and Malit, nearly as large as Phapa, finished shifting the shrunken boards of the well cover aside. The wood was so dry that part of it cracked away.

Sarel, a dapple gray mare, cast down a bucket that they had found abandoned by the farm’s collapsing house wall. The rope was stout enough to bring up water but all that came out of the well was a hollow thump as the bucket hit bottom.

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