Pace of Onlyby Sunshine-SmilesChaptersSanctity Of Stars Situated On Desolate Void1456723Sanctity Of Stars Situated On Desolate VoidPositioned stage right lies Fluttershy, abandoned carcass to the ground. Still stirring. She looks to the right, let her look to the right. No right left. Fluttershy stares for what is left. Her fur is left, stringy and matted, eyes on the right. Especially on the right, she wrinkles her nose. Floor is increasing shade. There was a time light had been brighter. She likes to lay face to the floor, but there was a time the room had been better illuminated. Her hoof scrapes against the hardwood to remember. A sound, a knock at the door. Sometimes she hears knocks at the door, she’s learned it’s best to pretend not. Only scaled meddlers there, reaching their deathdying claws toward her. A breadth of opportunity. She decides not to raise up to open the door. On the ground, next to Fluttershy, lays a can. Tin etched rim, she feels the grooves. Sometimes a glance is given inside but she knows there will be no lentils. It is empty, she ate all her lentils a far time ago. Never did enjoy the mush taste anyhow. Yet she clutches the can to chest and sheds a few tears. In salute to the past. Fluttershy considers that important, it is why she bothers agitating the mind. Routinely she dredges the mind and pulls out a small count of fragments. Nothing much, certainly no smiles, no naivety for that. But a small count that contribute to the notion of better times time ago. Filthy fur and wretched accomplices. Scolding mother points toward dinner plate. Squinting unicorn stitches the hide. Frowning tiara. Row of rotted teeth. Blackening hooves. She spends little wonder on them, there’s no truth to any of it. Unless there is. No truth unless there is truth, she doesn’t know. She’s only Fluttershy. Only a pony. Meaning, worthless. She remains on the floor and shuts her eyes. Dark nothing. There’s a stretch where she does not move or think. It is preferred. Then her eyes open, the usual regret. Usual ashes, with belly on the floor she stretches the limbs. Shut them up, the ingrates. The itch of fleas is ever present. Her animals were so kind as to pass on all manner of illness decay. She’d been so kind as to let them rot. That explains the stench, somewhat. A moment of honesty, she confesses to being the prime culprit, laying in waste. Too general to carry meaning. The pegasus means, lying in her own waste. The shit she casts onto the world has returned, give a hug and warm meal. In some aspect seems fair, that matters little to her. All or rather all things she’s yet to encounter matter little to Fluttershy. This is why she lies in her waste. Again a knock at the door. Blackening claws rapping. Never a care for salesponies, living or dead. She will not answer. Again she pretends and dwells on soiled floor. As to why she produces waste, Fluttershy has no explanation. Or none satisfying if any time spent devising. But her lentils are gone. Dried up and choked down, she’s eaten them. That was a while ago. Drool spills from her mouth, leaks from both ends. Fluttershy is a pony that leaks from both ends. The light continues to dim. She congratulates herself on noticing. Here down and wasting, she takes the time to observe the light is going. Insignificant accomplishment, darkening being the natural course. She admonishes herself for boasting. Light fades at regular pace and soon will be absent. Fluttershy scowls and squints at the floorboards. Not angry, simply bitter as always, but devising faces for the floor is sufficient fun. A small pleasure to crease eyes and wrinkle the mouth for such unwilling unreceptive audience. A small progress her shyness no longer extends to the floor. Does not matter that is so exposed. Making faces at the floor will occupy her until the light goes out. There is no knock at the door. Light not yet out but only pained scratching behind the door. Gnarled ill claws meddling on wood, on the other side and irritating the wood. Her as well. Genuine scowl on her face now, this is worse than the knocking. Prolonged meddling, much longer than the knocking had been. Fluttershy turns her head but it remains. Reminds her of the piss, worse yet the drool, she leaks from both ends. Spilling her insides out from both ends as always. What a saint. Can she die now? Ah no, Fluttershy doesn’t end so remains on floor with a foul expression. The occasional drip before her right-turned face. Fluttershy is not the only thing that leaks. Muddy liquid drips from ceiling every some minutes, distanced enough as to make no difference. Surroundings now difficult to discern in muck. Dark, ever darker, light unable to endure. The drips endure, adding to noise. Noises from the door increase, the shuffling and rattling. Rattling, the door moving and knob jerking. Irritating and intruding her silence. It only increases and won’t stop. The door shakes harder, ruffling her feathers, her silence. Fluttershy raises her head and barks, “This isn’t your house, it is mine.” Nothing stops. The scratches go on, the drips, the dimming light, all goes on. She’s never been paramount to anything. 1You are not loved. You do not love those around you. You are death. You are alive. You are death to those around you. Being a pony has not gone well. Events have not gone as you intended. Didn’t have the good decency to cease when meant to Cannot speak. Has no voice. No mouth, nothing to speak with. No proof of a mind either. Only an empty shell. She spent much time enclosed in small spaces. Red sickness cascaded from her mouth. There was no end in sight. None of that. You knew when it began. Yes...but it is... different when still so far away. When you are young and eager to travel. To see so many sights. Too many. Always you to cast the first stone. There were a few things I never could believe. Not the table Please step away from the table. I can’t How so? I like this table. It’s done me good. She knew the rabbit was not blue, but blue this time was preferable to the alternate, such being red, and of course blue is always preferable to red, don’t you agree, so on with it, this neverending story of ours, let sail on and over the edge, under the tide, under the moon, come out the other side to the fishery, yes, that’s it, the priceless fishery of the moon. I love the fishery of the moon, fish and chips, of course there is no alternative to that, not chips and fish, oh that would just be silly, none of that tricky reversal here, not even particularly clever as such, so the fish, trout, always trout that’s the best, this trout would get up and walk on its fins just like legs, I’m sure you’ve already seen this somewhere in some unremembered cartoon, it would walk and walk like a little fish man, and why not, why shouldn’t it, equal rights distributed equally among all objects composed of matter, oh next it’ll be the dish soap or some such even more nonsensical, but that is not our current subject, no our current subject is the trout, and this trout would walk with a cowboy stagger, just like the old westerns, trouts love the old westerns ...hell, time to step away from the keyboard Couldn’t he do that? No. Why not? I don’t see why not. Give me a credible or legitimate reason to occupy the fingers and mind, that’s what’s necessary, my wheels are turning, always turning, I need the gears greased ever now and then to sustain efficiency. Life is not such a significant matter, whether living or dead Pinkie Pie did not care. She was living, so she’d go on. She also supposed she was addicted to cannibalism by now, but still did not mind. The taste of a raw organ was the greatest thing she could imagine, better than the sweetest candy. Even the soggy bladders, nothing could match. Lips perpetually stained with blood as though she were wearing the reddest lipstick. Pinkie supposed she’d be caught soon now, having lost track of the body count awhile ago, but this was yet another trivial issue as well. They weren’t particularly deserving to live anyway. For example, the remains of Fluttershy that lay at her feet. That had been a relief, removing such a sad sack from her life. No more frustrating visits with the feeble, no more trying to pry words out of those pathetic lips and when successful having to listen to empty drivel about animals. Oh her mane smelled like butterflies, Pinkie would give her that, but the pegasus always refused to let her smell it and it was a rare occasion she was able to receive the benefit of its flea-ridden aroma. On the whole, Fluttershy had been awful company and her death was no loss. Spindling about through the dark hills, dusty and dusk she moves on. Rarity does not recall her destination, walking for all known span, perhaps there is none, need only the travel as end. Let her be alive sometimes. This moment for instance. She was alive at this moment. Yes, it’s unfortunate, spare her some pity, yet it is understood to be necessary. So that she be not another rotting corpse, enough talking of those. On Fluttershy, she is in the kitchen. Much of her time is spent there providing food for herself or her creatures or sitting on the chairs. At the table, that was the important part, so that she might pretend to be civilized. Learned her lessons well, a pony must be civilized, a pony must eat at the table. Must use a fork even though all she has are hooves. Not for her to question, never for her to question. Fluttershy never did question anything. She’d been top of her class. 4Rarity looked aghast. “Are you sure that’s how you want to go about it?” “Are you sure we can go about it?” “Well...no. But the effort must be made.” “All there ever is. Always futile. In the end.” “We’re not talking about ends, it’s the middle. The thick of it!” Rarity kept her gaze adrift, as if lost in a dimming thought. Twilight Sparkle lay on her back. Staring at the ceiling. Guarding the cobwebs. The cobwebs were her allies in this matter. Someday she would cease and pass on to them, to home. The ivory tower that had once been her home, inspiration to shun out all else and dwell inert, spurning motion. No, she hadn’t been inert, she’d been stuffing the head with books. Even up to that point, she hadn’t altogether renounced motion. 5Two beings, fixed a short distance across from each other. Gray landscape in ruins about them. Staring at eachother, right in the still oculi, one at the other, and the other in return. Or maybe the first is returning the other’s initiative. So long it has been forgotten. They stare, motionless and still, never so much as a twitch or a sneeze. As if holding everyall short the heavens in place. Bodies decaying around them, not to mention the selves. Limbs tired and flabby from neglect. Muscles withered, spines hunched. Imagine the mouth must be dry. Perhaps this is the once source of movement. Drawn closed in a line, perhaps a tongue is hidden behind, slowly licking the cheek. In anticipation or thirst, no difference. It must navigate through searching for any morsel of liquid. But there won’t be any, won’t have been any in the memorable past. They will always stare. She sat in chair staring at the moon She lay in the mud staring at empty sky 6He stood proudly at his little doorway, in a manner resembling possibly an injured bird, though it is not sure how this analogy is reached. It was a futile exertion, this being potentially the one truth that may approach understanding, and it happened to be, as all other conceptions are, offensive. A squalid room burdened only with a chair and a chimney, door unremarkable and easily forgotten. The space seemed too confined, yet not enough. Never enough, continue. Twelve paces to, twelve paces from. Twelve paces to, twelve paces from. Half too many, She had a certain mission in her mind, the purpose of which she was uncertain on. But this did not phase the mare, for she knew that certain things must be done in certain places for certain reasons, and this undoubtedly fell within that scope. So she carried on without a lingering need for self reflection, snugly assured of routine. Nevertheless, pacing back and forth among the room was a chore, one she’d been bored of for an unknown period. Time was only one of many uncertainties. It seemed to her, if perception was to be relied on, which she felt must, for what else was there to grasp, that she had spent some eternities in this pattern of motion. It was a wonder she hadn’t traced a severer rut in the wood. Which led her in further speculations. If time was no certainty, she only had further questions of reality, in her search for a reference point. Had she exhausted more than a lifetime here? Then what had become of her, was she not among the living, as is typically understood? Then had she been assigned her task by some greater power, or chosen it for herself? She did not know if there had been a time before this, if she had ever been anything outside this pattern. It’s execution dominated her thought. But she must be something greater than it in order to reflect on it as she did now. Fair to say that was a sign of intelligent consciousness, if anything could be said on that matter. She couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if she wore her hooves down to nubs. What’d she do then? Too difficult to drag herself, the prime means of locomotion would be down to crawling or rolling. Might like a nice tumble, give her good view of the world then, always something to be said for a new perspective. Something about her surroundings seemed familiar, but she could not recognize any one thing. How had she gotten on for this long without observing the environment? Didn’t know. Too blinded by feelings to see the dawning agony. Spider. Spider! Fuck, where was her spider?! The damn thing was tardy and that made her very cross. It knew better than to agitate the superiors. Nothing to be done different. She couldn’t help but go forward. She turned her head as the door swung open, but remained pacing. Ma’am, it’s an entirely trivial spider. Too trivial to be labeled trivial! Somesuch selfsame Her mind decays and she gets blinded by routine. Misses her opportunity fretting over the spider, and the man leaves The man interrupts her Distracting! Fuck off, I need the spider. There used to be a chair there, it seemed to her. If she squinted her eyes, she could almost picture it. A nice mahogany finish and a deceptively leather seat. Deceptive, like all things in the end. Like this awful world that had told her such promises only to spit in her face. Mother gone, dad dead, sister a slut, and her leg numbing again. “What a bitch,” Rarity said with a giggle, then resumed pacing. Nothing other to be done. A hodgepodge beetle was lurking about and she’d really like to stomp its legs. An act worthy of making one swell with pride. What can you say for yourself? That’s the problem, there’s nothing I won’t say. A foul sort your kind is. She shrugged, ”Cut with the cloth you have.” 7Before there was, there was not. Before there was not, it was written there was. Thus smiled upon the Void the mother goddess, ye fabled triple bitch, Sourires-Soleil. The Void was infinite and the Void was her womb. For a time she dwelt as its maiden. This time came to end. So Sourires-Soleil rose and wrote creation upon the void. Then she birthed the gods and stars to fill it, for she is Matron. She stretched the cosmos from time to end and bound both away in her raven braids. And thus creation ever multiplies, for Matron is eternally fertile. She looked and it was adequate. So the Mother Goddess cast from her cunt the First Gods: Dugnai, Kameneoh, Coleredieu, Liivate, Kengura, Hercegna, and Mapc. Together did they partake in divine communion. So they walked among the cosmos and each claimed their own domain and purpose. They erected thrones and from them did spawn a further legion of gods, but these were lesser and prone to inactivity. Still the gods sowed their seed throughout the universe and rose up lower life to worship them. But after a time, Dugnai began to long for a worthy creation of his own. “It is not right I should be relegated to their level,” he said to himself. Dugnai, who was the eldest and brightest and saw no sibling or lesser god fit for him. So as they rejoiced in the anteroom of the Mother Goddess, he poisoned her wine and thus induced a millenia slumber. Thus Dugnai brought her to his palace and upon his wretched bed he had his way with her and produced a horde of offspring. Dugnai was proud of his horde and provided for them the best of all the planets the gods had made. However, in these days the gods were usually drunk and it was not much. So he placed them on their planet and watched with pleasure as his people squirmed through its soil and fled in terror from its hazards. Satisfied, Dugnai then sat aside to determine a worthy name for them. And as he thought, none other than Coleredieu passed by. Coleredieu, the Supine Chatterer who rambled and vomited peculiar ideas, bane to all that was quality. Coleredieu who was eager to gain favor. And so Dugnai dictated his beautiful names for his people and their planet to Coleredieu so that he would declare it across the cosmos. But Coleredieu has small ears and a volatile mind to all that does not concern him. Haphazardly then Coleredieu went amiss and announced to the cosmos and gods of the Men who live on Eqesruta. The other gods were displeased. That which Dugnai had desired to bestow so proud a title was the subject of mockery and scorn. And Dugnai grew enraged. “You shall deliver messages no more,” he spoke to Coleredieu and devoured his legs, then wept at his mother's feet. And when Sourires-Soleil awoke, she who held Time and End within her hair and now bore the seed of Dugnai, looked at Man and embraced Dugnai. Thus she declared he and his children the favored. Of the displeased, none was more covetous than Liivate, Bearer of Scorn, who was incapable of creativity himself. From the rigid realms, among convoluted lifeforms and his own amiss attempts, Liivate glared at Men. He decided they should be his. So he went unto the world as a false prophet. He walked upon their exertion and came upon Man, soiled their wells, so that he might deceive. And Liivate said, “I am the god of that which you do not name. Worship me so that you may know my bed.” Man replied, “Alas, I serve already two gods and and can serve no more. They have provided me all you see.” Liivate scowled in divinity and declared, “No. This is not so good. Renounce your world and I will bestow upon you the untold.” The man said, “I cannot imagine a joy greater than this. I do not wish to leave.” “If this world is what you desire, then do not you desire more of it? Worship me and I will bring your kind to serve and indulge you as that you were a god yourself.” But again man dismissed, “I do not know what I would do with more. I have been given plenty already.” He could not outwit Man. Liivate shouted to shake the mountains with his blasphemy and pronounced Man a faggot. Thus Liivate cursed Men to forget their history and become Ponies. When Dugnai the Sire came upon Eqesruta he saw what had become of his work and cried out in anguish. By treachery and incompetence he had been doubly defeated. And so did he retire to his throne and exercise his divine right to stop giving a fuck. No more did Dugnai partake in the prospering of creation and he came to be The Jaded One. However, Kengura overheard Liivate’s declaration and decided it was good. So he left his tabernacle of orgies and came unto Ponies, showing all manner of devancies and weird pleasures. “I will satisfy your penises beyond all measure,” he spoke and with all his divine inspiration did Kengura invent vices for them. Unto them he taught love not between stallion and mare, but between stallion and stallion or mare and mare. He taught introduction of strange objects and bodily fluids and other insertions into their genitals. And yet more, fornication between pony and beast! But it was not good. For Ponies were not as perverted as Kengura and could not dare rival his fetishes and lust for critters. So it did corrupt their hearts and bring anguish to their cities. Ponies gave away the sermons of their priests for the orifices of pigs, and sacred temples for hovels where they could copulate in secret. Holy monuments were torn down and replaced with foolish obscenities. Civilization deteriorated. They forgot the love of Sourires-Soleil, and so she withdrew it. - -Colerediu and Hercegna’s feud where she divides the universe Legless Coleredieu, the Supine Chatterer, came to dwell in the pit of the ephemeral where fantasy rules and substance is fleeting. Here he lay in the heart with closed eyes free to spew his mad jabber, a torrent of words conjuring mammoths and mountains only to destroy just as soon. Indeed nothing is constant in these realms but Coleredieu and his inane symphony. But the meddling of gods is constant in all realms. With bitt Lo! The mother goddess is a wrathful bitch and so she claimed her title as Crone and cast Hercegna away. Thus Hercegna roams forgotten in the third realm, never to be worshipped again. - -Mapc And the god said, “Beware! He who gives the least fucks shall be the eternally blessed, for when the time comes that he approacheth the gate and his soul be weighed, he shall be filled with the most shit.” - -LoLoLo! Of Kameneoh much can be said. Lo! Kameneoh, whose realm was that of song and dance, liable to provide at every opportunity. Kameneoh, whose temperament was prone to flattery and who preferred the company of lesser beings to that of other gods. Who had spent millennia constructing a shanty of verses. Lo! From his stool of horsewords did he watch with merciful eye as Eqesruta’s patrons abandoned and dwindle interest in Ponies. For a hundred years did he watch as they were left to their suffering. As lesser gods and spirits took to the world and enacted their whims did Kameneoh to ponder to intervene. And so did he send a vision to a prophet, of strange chants and rhythms. Lo! This is what he said: “Hear mortal, for I have sent you a gift from the heart. Tell me, was my blessing to your liking?” And the prophet cried out, “Oh Great Lyricist of So awed was the prophet that he erected a monument in Kameneoh’s honor. Kameneoh was pleased. And as they came to praise him and erect temples in his honor, greater and greater odes did he send unto them. Yet the hearts of Ponies are fickle and so did they soon tire of his gifts. Ponies soon returned to their fire dances and worship of spices. As Kameneoh watched his worship decline he ask, “Have I not given you great enough gifts? What must I give Thus one day the Mother Goddess’s good will dry up and so Eqesruta shall end. —------they all forget about earth earth,wind,fire,air The Celtic path virgin maid ponies on earth jealous daughter argues with Coleredieu, divides universe into astral levels alicorn sisters The mother goddess, who dwelt in the bright realms, was thus able to walk upon the earth no longer. is too pure and thus cut off from the lower realms Eqesruta, the physical plane the spirit plane The Dreaming Astral Plane 2Luna had not meant to bind herself to a boulder at the bottom of the sea. Well yes, she had brought rope and had intended to tie herself to the rock. But it had been entirely above sea level at the time. She meets mermaid while Celestia tries to find her, eventually enlisting vampires. 3Cycle of lessness for the void Luna has growing hunger for souls, leading to the collapse of all life The corpse lay before her shriveled, exuding an metallic aroma. Luna looked on with firm eyes yet mixed expression. She knew she really shouldn’t, it was the third this week, yet the princess just couldn’t bring herself to feel guilty. Perhaps it was time to admit she had an addiction, she just loved the buzz of consuming souls. Trotted to mirror She was developing a deathly aura. While she felt the pinnacle of health on the inside, her coat was looking rather sickly. Her rich indigo had been fading to a dull beryl. Yet little matter, she was the princess. One of them. Her only concerns were the others, Twilight Sparkle and her keen sister especially. The fact that she’d gone this far without discovery was only a testament to her own domain of secrecy. Didn’t wish to stop, didn’t know if she could. Her private ritual was an affront to Equestria. The matter lay before her unfolding itself like a wounded cicada. She’d have to seize the issue, take the initiative and halt Celestia before she came upon it on her own. Had always been frigid, or somewhat serious, since her return.
Sanctity Of Stars Situated On Desolate VoidPositioned stage right lies Fluttershy, abandoned carcass to the ground. Still stirring. She looks to the right, let her look to the right. No right left. Fluttershy stares for what is left. Her fur is left, stringy and matted, eyes on the right. Especially on the right, she wrinkles her nose. Floor is increasing shade. There was a time light had been brighter. She likes to lay face to the floor, but there was a time the room had been better illuminated. Her hoof scrapes against the hardwood to remember. A sound, a knock at the door. Sometimes she hears knocks at the door, she’s learned it’s best to pretend not. Only scaled meddlers there, reaching their deathdying claws toward her. A breadth of opportunity. She decides not to raise up to open the door. On the ground, next to Fluttershy, lays a can. Tin etched rim, she feels the grooves. Sometimes a glance is given inside but she knows there will be no lentils. It is empty, she ate all her lentils a far time ago. Never did enjoy the mush taste anyhow. Yet she clutches the can to chest and sheds a few tears. In salute to the past. Fluttershy considers that important, it is why she bothers agitating the mind. Routinely she dredges the mind and pulls out a small count of fragments. Nothing much, certainly no smiles, no naivety for that. But a small count that contribute to the notion of better times time ago. Filthy fur and wretched accomplices. Scolding mother points toward dinner plate. Squinting unicorn stitches the hide. Frowning tiara. Row of rotted teeth. Blackening hooves. She spends little wonder on them, there’s no truth to any of it. Unless there is. No truth unless there is truth, she doesn’t know. She’s only Fluttershy. Only a pony. Meaning, worthless. She remains on the floor and shuts her eyes. Dark nothing. There’s a stretch where she does not move or think. It is preferred. Then her eyes open, the usual regret. Usual ashes, with belly on the floor she stretches the limbs. Shut them up, the ingrates. The itch of fleas is ever present. Her animals were so kind as to pass on all manner of illness decay. She’d been so kind as to let them rot. That explains the stench, somewhat. A moment of honesty, she confesses to being the prime culprit, laying in waste. Too general to carry meaning. The pegasus means, lying in her own waste. The shit she casts onto the world has returned, give a hug and warm meal. In some aspect seems fair, that matters little to her. All or rather all things she’s yet to encounter matter little to Fluttershy. This is why she lies in her waste. Again a knock at the door. Blackening claws rapping. Never a care for salesponies, living or dead. She will not answer. Again she pretends and dwells on soiled floor. As to why she produces waste, Fluttershy has no explanation. Or none satisfying if any time spent devising. But her lentils are gone. Dried up and choked down, she’s eaten them. That was a while ago. Drool spills from her mouth, leaks from both ends. Fluttershy is a pony that leaks from both ends. The light continues to dim. She congratulates herself on noticing. Here down and wasting, she takes the time to observe the light is going. Insignificant accomplishment, darkening being the natural course. She admonishes herself for boasting. Light fades at regular pace and soon will be absent. Fluttershy scowls and squints at the floorboards. Not angry, simply bitter as always, but devising faces for the floor is sufficient fun. A small pleasure to crease eyes and wrinkle the mouth for such unwilling unreceptive audience. A small progress her shyness no longer extends to the floor. Does not matter that is so exposed. Making faces at the floor will occupy her until the light goes out. There is no knock at the door. Light not yet out but only pained scratching behind the door. Gnarled ill claws meddling on wood, on the other side and irritating the wood. Her as well. Genuine scowl on her face now, this is worse than the knocking. Prolonged meddling, much longer than the knocking had been. Fluttershy turns her head but it remains. Reminds her of the piss, worse yet the drool, she leaks from both ends. Spilling her insides out from both ends as always. What a saint. Can she die now? Ah no, Fluttershy doesn’t end so remains on floor with a foul expression. The occasional drip before her right-turned face. Fluttershy is not the only thing that leaks. Muddy liquid drips from ceiling every some minutes, distanced enough as to make no difference. Surroundings now difficult to discern in muck. Dark, ever darker, light unable to endure. The drips endure, adding to noise. Noises from the door increase, the shuffling and rattling. Rattling, the door moving and knob jerking. Irritating and intruding her silence. It only increases and won’t stop. The door shakes harder, ruffling her feathers, her silence. Fluttershy raises her head and barks, “This isn’t your house, it is mine.” Nothing stops. The scratches go on, the drips, the dimming light, all goes on. She’s never been paramount to anything.
1You are not loved. You do not love those around you. You are death. You are alive. You are death to those around you. Being a pony has not gone well. Events have not gone as you intended. Didn’t have the good decency to cease when meant to Cannot speak. Has no voice. No mouth, nothing to speak with. No proof of a mind either. Only an empty shell. She spent much time enclosed in small spaces. Red sickness cascaded from her mouth. There was no end in sight. None of that. You knew when it began. Yes...but it is... different when still so far away. When you are young and eager to travel. To see so many sights. Too many. Always you to cast the first stone. There were a few things I never could believe. Not the table Please step away from the table. I can’t How so? I like this table. It’s done me good. She knew the rabbit was not blue, but blue this time was preferable to the alternate, such being red, and of course blue is always preferable to red, don’t you agree, so on with it, this neverending story of ours, let sail on and over the edge, under the tide, under the moon, come out the other side to the fishery, yes, that’s it, the priceless fishery of the moon. I love the fishery of the moon, fish and chips, of course there is no alternative to that, not chips and fish, oh that would just be silly, none of that tricky reversal here, not even particularly clever as such, so the fish, trout, always trout that’s the best, this trout would get up and walk on its fins just like legs, I’m sure you’ve already seen this somewhere in some unremembered cartoon, it would walk and walk like a little fish man, and why not, why shouldn’t it, equal rights distributed equally among all objects composed of matter, oh next it’ll be the dish soap or some such even more nonsensical, but that is not our current subject, no our current subject is the trout, and this trout would walk with a cowboy stagger, just like the old westerns, trouts love the old westerns ...hell, time to step away from the keyboard Couldn’t he do that? No. Why not? I don’t see why not. Give me a credible or legitimate reason to occupy the fingers and mind, that’s what’s necessary, my wheels are turning, always turning, I need the gears greased ever now and then to sustain efficiency. Life is not such a significant matter, whether living or dead Pinkie Pie did not care. She was living, so she’d go on. She also supposed she was addicted to cannibalism by now, but still did not mind. The taste of a raw organ was the greatest thing she could imagine, better than the sweetest candy. Even the soggy bladders, nothing could match. Lips perpetually stained with blood as though she were wearing the reddest lipstick. Pinkie supposed she’d be caught soon now, having lost track of the body count awhile ago, but this was yet another trivial issue as well. They weren’t particularly deserving to live anyway. For example, the remains of Fluttershy that lay at her feet. That had been a relief, removing such a sad sack from her life. No more frustrating visits with the feeble, no more trying to pry words out of those pathetic lips and when successful having to listen to empty drivel about animals. Oh her mane smelled like butterflies, Pinkie would give her that, but the pegasus always refused to let her smell it and it was a rare occasion she was able to receive the benefit of its flea-ridden aroma. On the whole, Fluttershy had been awful company and her death was no loss. Spindling about through the dark hills, dusty and dusk she moves on. Rarity does not recall her destination, walking for all known span, perhaps there is none, need only the travel as end. Let her be alive sometimes. This moment for instance. She was alive at this moment. Yes, it’s unfortunate, spare her some pity, yet it is understood to be necessary. So that she be not another rotting corpse, enough talking of those. On Fluttershy, she is in the kitchen. Much of her time is spent there providing food for herself or her creatures or sitting on the chairs. At the table, that was the important part, so that she might pretend to be civilized. Learned her lessons well, a pony must be civilized, a pony must eat at the table. Must use a fork even though all she has are hooves. Not for her to question, never for her to question. Fluttershy never did question anything. She’d been top of her class.
4Rarity looked aghast. “Are you sure that’s how you want to go about it?” “Are you sure we can go about it?” “Well...no. But the effort must be made.” “All there ever is. Always futile. In the end.” “We’re not talking about ends, it’s the middle. The thick of it!” Rarity kept her gaze adrift, as if lost in a dimming thought. Twilight Sparkle lay on her back. Staring at the ceiling. Guarding the cobwebs. The cobwebs were her allies in this matter. Someday she would cease and pass on to them, to home. The ivory tower that had once been her home, inspiration to shun out all else and dwell inert, spurning motion. No, she hadn’t been inert, she’d been stuffing the head with books. Even up to that point, she hadn’t altogether renounced motion.
5Two beings, fixed a short distance across from each other. Gray landscape in ruins about them. Staring at eachother, right in the still oculi, one at the other, and the other in return. Or maybe the first is returning the other’s initiative. So long it has been forgotten. They stare, motionless and still, never so much as a twitch or a sneeze. As if holding everyall short the heavens in place. Bodies decaying around them, not to mention the selves. Limbs tired and flabby from neglect. Muscles withered, spines hunched. Imagine the mouth must be dry. Perhaps this is the once source of movement. Drawn closed in a line, perhaps a tongue is hidden behind, slowly licking the cheek. In anticipation or thirst, no difference. It must navigate through searching for any morsel of liquid. But there won’t be any, won’t have been any in the memorable past. They will always stare. She sat in chair staring at the moon She lay in the mud staring at empty sky
6He stood proudly at his little doorway, in a manner resembling possibly an injured bird, though it is not sure how this analogy is reached. It was a futile exertion, this being potentially the one truth that may approach understanding, and it happened to be, as all other conceptions are, offensive. A squalid room burdened only with a chair and a chimney, door unremarkable and easily forgotten. The space seemed too confined, yet not enough. Never enough, continue. Twelve paces to, twelve paces from. Twelve paces to, twelve paces from. Half too many, She had a certain mission in her mind, the purpose of which she was uncertain on. But this did not phase the mare, for she knew that certain things must be done in certain places for certain reasons, and this undoubtedly fell within that scope. So she carried on without a lingering need for self reflection, snugly assured of routine. Nevertheless, pacing back and forth among the room was a chore, one she’d been bored of for an unknown period. Time was only one of many uncertainties. It seemed to her, if perception was to be relied on, which she felt must, for what else was there to grasp, that she had spent some eternities in this pattern of motion. It was a wonder she hadn’t traced a severer rut in the wood. Which led her in further speculations. If time was no certainty, she only had further questions of reality, in her search for a reference point. Had she exhausted more than a lifetime here? Then what had become of her, was she not among the living, as is typically understood? Then had she been assigned her task by some greater power, or chosen it for herself? She did not know if there had been a time before this, if she had ever been anything outside this pattern. It’s execution dominated her thought. But she must be something greater than it in order to reflect on it as she did now. Fair to say that was a sign of intelligent consciousness, if anything could be said on that matter. She couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if she wore her hooves down to nubs. What’d she do then? Too difficult to drag herself, the prime means of locomotion would be down to crawling or rolling. Might like a nice tumble, give her good view of the world then, always something to be said for a new perspective. Something about her surroundings seemed familiar, but she could not recognize any one thing. How had she gotten on for this long without observing the environment? Didn’t know. Too blinded by feelings to see the dawning agony. Spider. Spider! Fuck, where was her spider?! The damn thing was tardy and that made her very cross. It knew better than to agitate the superiors. Nothing to be done different. She couldn’t help but go forward. She turned her head as the door swung open, but remained pacing. Ma’am, it’s an entirely trivial spider. Too trivial to be labeled trivial! Somesuch selfsame Her mind decays and she gets blinded by routine. Misses her opportunity fretting over the spider, and the man leaves The man interrupts her Distracting! Fuck off, I need the spider. There used to be a chair there, it seemed to her. If she squinted her eyes, she could almost picture it. A nice mahogany finish and a deceptively leather seat. Deceptive, like all things in the end. Like this awful world that had told her such promises only to spit in her face. Mother gone, dad dead, sister a slut, and her leg numbing again. “What a bitch,” Rarity said with a giggle, then resumed pacing. Nothing other to be done. A hodgepodge beetle was lurking about and she’d really like to stomp its legs. An act worthy of making one swell with pride. What can you say for yourself? That’s the problem, there’s nothing I won’t say. A foul sort your kind is. She shrugged, ”Cut with the cloth you have.”
7Before there was, there was not. Before there was not, it was written there was. Thus smiled upon the Void the mother goddess, ye fabled triple bitch, Sourires-Soleil. The Void was infinite and the Void was her womb. For a time she dwelt as its maiden. This time came to end. So Sourires-Soleil rose and wrote creation upon the void. Then she birthed the gods and stars to fill it, for she is Matron. She stretched the cosmos from time to end and bound both away in her raven braids. And thus creation ever multiplies, for Matron is eternally fertile. She looked and it was adequate. So the Mother Goddess cast from her cunt the First Gods: Dugnai, Kameneoh, Coleredieu, Liivate, Kengura, Hercegna, and Mapc. Together did they partake in divine communion. So they walked among the cosmos and each claimed their own domain and purpose. They erected thrones and from them did spawn a further legion of gods, but these were lesser and prone to inactivity. Still the gods sowed their seed throughout the universe and rose up lower life to worship them. But after a time, Dugnai began to long for a worthy creation of his own. “It is not right I should be relegated to their level,” he said to himself. Dugnai, who was the eldest and brightest and saw no sibling or lesser god fit for him. So as they rejoiced in the anteroom of the Mother Goddess, he poisoned her wine and thus induced a millenia slumber. Thus Dugnai brought her to his palace and upon his wretched bed he had his way with her and produced a horde of offspring. Dugnai was proud of his horde and provided for them the best of all the planets the gods had made. However, in these days the gods were usually drunk and it was not much. So he placed them on their planet and watched with pleasure as his people squirmed through its soil and fled in terror from its hazards. Satisfied, Dugnai then sat aside to determine a worthy name for them. And as he thought, none other than Coleredieu passed by. Coleredieu, the Supine Chatterer who rambled and vomited peculiar ideas, bane to all that was quality. Coleredieu who was eager to gain favor. And so Dugnai dictated his beautiful names for his people and their planet to Coleredieu so that he would declare it across the cosmos. But Coleredieu has small ears and a volatile mind to all that does not concern him. Haphazardly then Coleredieu went amiss and announced to the cosmos and gods of the Men who live on Eqesruta. The other gods were displeased. That which Dugnai had desired to bestow so proud a title was the subject of mockery and scorn. And Dugnai grew enraged. “You shall deliver messages no more,” he spoke to Coleredieu and devoured his legs, then wept at his mother's feet. And when Sourires-Soleil awoke, she who held Time and End within her hair and now bore the seed of Dugnai, looked at Man and embraced Dugnai. Thus she declared he and his children the favored. Of the displeased, none was more covetous than Liivate, Bearer of Scorn, who was incapable of creativity himself. From the rigid realms, among convoluted lifeforms and his own amiss attempts, Liivate glared at Men. He decided they should be his. So he went unto the world as a false prophet. He walked upon their exertion and came upon Man, soiled their wells, so that he might deceive. And Liivate said, “I am the god of that which you do not name. Worship me so that you may know my bed.” Man replied, “Alas, I serve already two gods and and can serve no more. They have provided me all you see.” Liivate scowled in divinity and declared, “No. This is not so good. Renounce your world and I will bestow upon you the untold.” The man said, “I cannot imagine a joy greater than this. I do not wish to leave.” “If this world is what you desire, then do not you desire more of it? Worship me and I will bring your kind to serve and indulge you as that you were a god yourself.” But again man dismissed, “I do not know what I would do with more. I have been given plenty already.” He could not outwit Man. Liivate shouted to shake the mountains with his blasphemy and pronounced Man a faggot. Thus Liivate cursed Men to forget their history and become Ponies. When Dugnai the Sire came upon Eqesruta he saw what had become of his work and cried out in anguish. By treachery and incompetence he had been doubly defeated. And so did he retire to his throne and exercise his divine right to stop giving a fuck. No more did Dugnai partake in the prospering of creation and he came to be The Jaded One. However, Kengura overheard Liivate’s declaration and decided it was good. So he left his tabernacle of orgies and came unto Ponies, showing all manner of devancies and weird pleasures. “I will satisfy your penises beyond all measure,” he spoke and with all his divine inspiration did Kengura invent vices for them. Unto them he taught love not between stallion and mare, but between stallion and stallion or mare and mare. He taught introduction of strange objects and bodily fluids and other insertions into their genitals. And yet more, fornication between pony and beast! But it was not good. For Ponies were not as perverted as Kengura and could not dare rival his fetishes and lust for critters. So it did corrupt their hearts and bring anguish to their cities. Ponies gave away the sermons of their priests for the orifices of pigs, and sacred temples for hovels where they could copulate in secret. Holy monuments were torn down and replaced with foolish obscenities. Civilization deteriorated. They forgot the love of Sourires-Soleil, and so she withdrew it. - -Colerediu and Hercegna’s feud where she divides the universe Legless Coleredieu, the Supine Chatterer, came to dwell in the pit of the ephemeral where fantasy rules and substance is fleeting. Here he lay in the heart with closed eyes free to spew his mad jabber, a torrent of words conjuring mammoths and mountains only to destroy just as soon. Indeed nothing is constant in these realms but Coleredieu and his inane symphony. But the meddling of gods is constant in all realms. With bitt Lo! The mother goddess is a wrathful bitch and so she claimed her title as Crone and cast Hercegna away. Thus Hercegna roams forgotten in the third realm, never to be worshipped again. - -Mapc And the god said, “Beware! He who gives the least fucks shall be the eternally blessed, for when the time comes that he approacheth the gate and his soul be weighed, he shall be filled with the most shit.” - -LoLoLo! Of Kameneoh much can be said. Lo! Kameneoh, whose realm was that of song and dance, liable to provide at every opportunity. Kameneoh, whose temperament was prone to flattery and who preferred the company of lesser beings to that of other gods. Who had spent millennia constructing a shanty of verses. Lo! From his stool of horsewords did he watch with merciful eye as Eqesruta’s patrons abandoned and dwindle interest in Ponies. For a hundred years did he watch as they were left to their suffering. As lesser gods and spirits took to the world and enacted their whims did Kameneoh to ponder to intervene. And so did he send a vision to a prophet, of strange chants and rhythms. Lo! This is what he said: “Hear mortal, for I have sent you a gift from the heart. Tell me, was my blessing to your liking?” And the prophet cried out, “Oh Great Lyricist of So awed was the prophet that he erected a monument in Kameneoh’s honor. Kameneoh was pleased. And as they came to praise him and erect temples in his honor, greater and greater odes did he send unto them. Yet the hearts of Ponies are fickle and so did they soon tire of his gifts. Ponies soon returned to their fire dances and worship of spices. As Kameneoh watched his worship decline he ask, “Have I not given you great enough gifts? What must I give Thus one day the Mother Goddess’s good will dry up and so Eqesruta shall end. —------they all forget about earth earth,wind,fire,air The Celtic path virgin maid ponies on earth jealous daughter argues with Coleredieu, divides universe into astral levels alicorn sisters The mother goddess, who dwelt in the bright realms, was thus able to walk upon the earth no longer. is too pure and thus cut off from the lower realms Eqesruta, the physical plane the spirit plane The Dreaming Astral Plane
2Luna had not meant to bind herself to a boulder at the bottom of the sea. Well yes, she had brought rope and had intended to tie herself to the rock. But it had been entirely above sea level at the time. She meets mermaid while Celestia tries to find her, eventually enlisting vampires.
3Cycle of lessness for the void Luna has growing hunger for souls, leading to the collapse of all life The corpse lay before her shriveled, exuding an metallic aroma. Luna looked on with firm eyes yet mixed expression. She knew she really shouldn’t, it was the third this week, yet the princess just couldn’t bring herself to feel guilty. Perhaps it was time to admit she had an addiction, she just loved the buzz of consuming souls. Trotted to mirror She was developing a deathly aura. While she felt the pinnacle of health on the inside, her coat was looking rather sickly. Her rich indigo had been fading to a dull beryl. Yet little matter, she was the princess. One of them. Her only concerns were the others, Twilight Sparkle and her keen sister especially. The fact that she’d gone this far without discovery was only a testament to her own domain of secrecy. Didn’t wish to stop, didn’t know if she could. Her private ritual was an affront to Equestria. The matter lay before her unfolding itself like a wounded cicada. She’d have to seize the issue, take the initiative and halt Celestia before she came upon it on her own. Had always been frigid, or somewhat serious, since her return.
