Just Another Pony

I’m there. The late afternoon sun begins to taint the sky a withering orange as Celestia’s ball of fire threatens to sink beyond the horizon. I set up my art things. I might have only an hour at most before the sun fully sets and therefore only forty minutes before it’s too dark to finish my painting. I hear the ducks converse amongst each other, gossiping with sounds like honking horns.

As I put the paintbrush to the canvas, filling in the bill of a duckling, I look out to the pond to spy on a duck to get a better idea of the beak's color. I instead catch glimpse of a dainty yellow pegasus on the other side of the pond. She leads a family of ducks into the water, where she tells them to enjoy the rest of their evening.

I remember her. She’s a freak—a pegasus who either cannot fly or refuses to. She speaks in a voice that reminds me of kittens cuddling under a blanket, using only tones you hear out of a patient mother. She doesn’t ever visit my shop, which is fine by me, but there’s something about her I just dislike.

Then it hits me. I dislike her because she is willingly friends with the pink thing. Or—no!—I dislike her because she spends more time with animals than she does with other ponies, trading socializing for playing with stupid pets. Or—no, better yet!—I dislike her because she is a pegasus that does not honor her own species. Pegasi belong in the sky. For her to disobey nature itself is just—just—just—!!!

She is a creature that refuses to be studied. I cannot understand her odd quirks or her odd looks or her everything, everything, everything I hate.

My paintbrush gets set down. The duckling on the canvas can live without a beak for today. Instead, I blink. Again, I enter my fantasy world.

In it, I’m once again playing the starring role. My fantasy becomes more of a stage play—no one in the audience but me—and me—and me—and me—and me, row after row after row. They watch, interested, as I sneak up behind the pegasus freak. She bids her ducks to enjoy the rest of their day in that soft, downy voice of hers.

Before she has a chance to turn around, up goes my hoof, into the back of her head, right where her head meets her neck. With my other hoof, I reach up and shove her head downward, into the water. And there, I hold her. Her body spasms as she bounces out of her spell, and she begins to struggle—and I feel her squirm—and it feels delicious. It’s a response, a plea for her tormentor to let go and let her live and breathe again. The fun part is that I could. But I don’t. I keep her there, under my power, under my ignored option to save her.

Finally, after the thrashing and confusion, there's one last choke and her body goes limp. That feeling of everything this mare was—the freak of nature who wouldn’t fly and lived amongst dumb beasts—finally coming to an abrupt final stop. I let go, her body falling into water with a loud splash and floating about, being carried along by the malleable pond. I breathe deep. My audience of clones applaud my performance, their cheering a series of sounds like honking horns.

I open my eyes, and the freak walks away, back to her lonely cottage on that lonely hill where she’s probably lonely without any pony companionship. She’ll die alone in that cottage—or perhaps she’ll die in my fantasies, where she is a victim in my stage play. But either way, she’ll die, she'll die alone, and she’ll do it a million times—to the sound of thunderous applause and honking horns, she’ll die.

I blink, and once again I allow my imagination to fill me. I feel my walls contract and open, allowing its thickness inside me. Filling me up. Thrusting inside me. Fucking me with details. The initial impact of my hoof against her neck—grabbing her mane and forcing her downward—the thrashing—the splashes of water as she fights—the sudden limpness—and as my imagination climaxes, screaming at the ceiling and seeing blinking stars dance before his ecstatic eyes, filling me with his hot seed, I hear the honking horns of ducks as I settle into a state of afterglow.

The sun is on her way down now. Guess I better pack my art things and go home.

So I’m on my way home. The art things are in my backpack. The apple orchard is quiet—and I suppose the hick has retired for the evening. But my apartment lies deep within Ponyville, past all the obnoxious bags of useless flesh and whining voices. I sigh in dismay as I begin my trek towards this hive of inconvenience and bustling bodies.

I hear a sound above me, a whoosh, a tear against the sky above. I look up and catch a glimpse of prismatic colors zipping about like a lightning bolt. She stops for only a second, and I recognize her as that pegasus who hangs out with the freak and the pink thing occasionally.

I remember her. Her voice. That awful squealing noise that her vocal chords routinely offend the world with. Her unwarranted self-importance. She treasures her wings and her misplaced awesomeness. I can tell from the glances she gives her friends that she’s a lesbian. She streaks across the sky, her colors trailing behind her like a comet tail as she dips and doodles and chucks and dives and cheers in that voice—that squealing noise—that everything everything everything I hate.

I blink, and I once again let my fantasies take me away. I am once again in the lead role, the main character, the star. Instead of a stage play, I am cast in a movie. I can see the grain upon the silver screen as I walk up to the lesbian as she performs, waving a hoof to call her down. In the seats are once again rows of me, and I can smell the butter of popcorn as I earn their rapt attention with each masterful movement I make.

I call the lesbian down. She lands and asks me, with her horrendously screeching voice, what it is I want. Change camera. New shot. Focus on the saddlebag at my sides as I pull out some spare paper I keep for sketching. Move the camera upwards, following me as I ask her for an autograph. Close-up on the lesbian. She slips into an ego-stroking monologue as she gladly signs the sketch-page, misspelling her own name.

She looks up to me with a smile on her face as she pushes the sketch page back to me. Her monologue ends abruptly. She looks down.

The camera angle changes again, this time a close-up of the lesbian's chest. Focus on the knife I keep in my saddlebags—the knife I drew while the lesbian was not looking—the knife I drew while the cameramare was not looking—the knife that’s stuck in her chest now—the knife that cuts through her flesh so easily and pierces her heart.

All right, another camera angle shift. This time I want something a little more intimidating—an edgy artistic statement, if you will. I want my audience to be here with me on the other side of the silver screen—to understand that they are here, right here, with me, with the lesbian, with the knife.

I want them to see the paling look on the lesbian’s face as her breath is stolen right out of her lungs and I want them to smell her as she urinates in fear, that acidic and salty odor filling their lungs. I want them to hear her final, choked gasps as she falls to her side, as the knife slips from her flesh and onto the ground and I want them to feel the knife as it clatters to the ground between myself and the lesbian. But most of all, I want them to taste everything, in order—the lost breath, the urine running down her legs, the cold metal of the knife, the warm thickness of the blood as it spills and spills and spills.

I want the camera to zoom in at each of those points—to zoom in and violate every single one of my audience’s five senses, as if they were there themselves, watching me as I cut open the lesbian’s chest.

But most of all, I want them to stand and cheer—which they do with thundering hooves that rattle the entire theater, and the honking horns erupt from their lungs as they praise my artistic vision. As they appreciate me.

I open my eyes. Then once more, I blink. I'm now in the very back rows of the theater watching my movie. I am making bedroom eyes with my imagination, and he is ravenous. His member stiff and hot, it finds its way from the vagina of my soul to my asshole. Without any preparations, without any pretense, he penetrates me from a commonly-assumed exit.

It thrusts with monstrous force this time, eliciting a whine from my soul as I’m brought back to each detail. The knife—the blood—the silenced gasp—it clatters—on the ground—and—oh—oh—oh my—uhhhhhhh…

My imagination sighs as he feels the tight vacuum of my mental anus sucking at his member. He’s a beast, but for now he’s content—his seed spilling into my anus and causing my soul to cry out half in animalistic ecstasy, half in unbelievable pain. We both climax as the knife hits the floor. The afterglow comes as the credits roll and the lesbian lies dead. I breathe deep and smile.

Cut. Print. That’s a wrap.