Chapter 1
The stallion walked into the small village. He was tall, lanky, and thin. His appearance was unremarkable and vapid. Overall, nothing seemed out of place. He had his few possessions in his bags, clicking and chipping as he moved along. Overall, nothing seemed out of place.
The stallion found himself in the village center. He had little concern for the workings of the village other than that it was at peace. After all, peace was where ponies were least weary, least concerned, and most accepting. The stallion found himself speaking to a random resident. The conversation had been going on without his real attention all though the resident thought she had the stallion’s full attention.
“…with the price of carrots going down, I am not sure if I should sell now or hold off.”
The stallion answered in what he thought was a drawl–to reflect his boredom–but instead it came out fine, “My dear, the way that the markets are going, I recommend selling. Sell at least 72.3458% of your stock. Then, use the remaining stock later when prices will skyrocket by 30%. It is going to happen due to a shortage in rainfall. Sell your old stock at normal prices then, and make a killing. With such opportunity, I envy your position.”
The resident Carrot Top beamed. “Thanks for the advice. I just knew you were a genius at agriculture.”
After the resident left, the stallion looked back. He always wondered why ponies thought he was the best at what they did…all though, he was not quite sure what his cutie mark was.
“A plumber? What great timing!”
“I totally need a doctor. Please, help me!”
“We are going live in two minutes. Get up here!”
“I have got a job for you…”
The stallion decided to move towards the library. His eyes twitched at the site. He honestly thought the library's location and housing a tad absurd. He thought it would have been better off used as wood to build a proper house. Trees irked him
After gallantly, bravely, heroically, and stupendously opening the door, the stallion marched, galloped, strutted, swaggered–
‘All right, enough of that talk, voice. I can narrate my life just fine. I do not need you in my head.’
Honestly, the job of the narrator is to present a story where the character goes through a conflict and develops, leading to a moral and theme that the reader can apply to life. In fact, the narrator is the most important of all. After all, how do you have a story without the narrator.
‘…’
‘Had enough talking to the readers’
Of course not! Why I–
‘That is it. I am narrating my life. You are a completely ridiculous voice in this narrative. Honestly, what kind of pony, let alone a voice, narrates every single conceivable detail? Actually, only one that is the most intelligent, smart, astute, and pragmatic of all voices in the world!”
...
I decided to head to the homes. After my discussion with the voice in my head (I was getting worried glances from the librarian when I was just looking at the library’s books in a catatonic state), I decided to go find myself a new home. The thing is I need a home. I am just exhausted of always moving place to place. It is drudgery, after all. Dirt constantly on the hooves is irritating. Besides, the clacking in my bags just wants to finish its business, well, finished for twenty years at least.
I headed to the corner of Maple Street and Syrup Lane. Honestly, I believe anypony can think of better names than those. I saw the house that I saw in the brochure. It was great for my purposes.
I paid the owner a sum of money. I honestly did not care about the owner all though the lady kept asking me questions about music. She thought I was a kindred spirit who had an impeccable taste. Her roommate was also shocked when I displayed my knowledge in avant-garde music or as she calls it "wubs.” I ended up talking with them for five ho–
The stallion looked at the castle in front of him.
The stallion looked at the home in front of him.
The stallion looked at the mansion in front of him.
The stallion looked at the complex in front of him.
The stallion looked at the red barn in front of him.
–urs. There is being polite and welcoming, but this is ridiculous! The lady told me she would move out by the end of day. The money that I gave her honestly excited her. She mentioned something about moving to Canterlot. Whatever floats her boat. All though, I decided to be nice for once and recommended that she buy Apartment 34 in the Mason Building since I heard it was at a discount.
She seemed perturbed by this recommendation, but then stated the following, “Everything has to move on. You cannot blame a place for being what it is.”
I nodded faintly at her statement. The mare saw the empathic gesture then switched topics. She finally reassured me that she and her friend would be out by the end of the afternoon and would get a hotel room in the meantime. While immensely kind, I had to wonder if her action means she is being obsequious to me because I gave her some money. Maybe I should have count how much I gave her. Ah well, as long as I get the building.
I decided in the meantime to head out. While I was walking, I noticed three fillies. Actually, the only one of interest was the one with the red hair and the red bow. Also, I had no idea what they were doing.
After watching the curious bunch, I realized they were trying to figure out their cutie marks. Some of the ideas were impressive: water-skiing, skydiving, mail mares (I shudder to think of them trying to fly an air balloon), pyro-technicians, engineers, terrorists–wait what?–oh, veterinarians among others.
I heard them deciding to head to their friend’s house to help her with her–ack!–animals.
After they made their exit towards their misguided mission, I decided to continue walking. As the cobbled road turned muddy, I let my mind saunter.
The stallion, thus, walked. He ambled through the village in a peaceful manner, much to the narrator’s displeasure. However, that is neither here nor there. As he walked, he observed the gradual change from urban to bucolic.
The stallion struggled through the rain. The muddy trenches he had to march through were halting but pointless. Despite the onslaught of rain and thunder, the stallion arrived. He looked at the red barn in front of him. Overall, nothing was out of place.
I shocked myself back into awareness. Clearly, I had let that sonorous, pleasant, soothing, wonderful voice come back to annoy me again. I had to find a way to get rid of it. As I walked, I found the hard dirt road easy to navigate despite a couple of falls here and there. Eventually, I reached my destination. My attire was unkempt due to my small walk.
I looked at the red barn in front of me. It was the good, old, classic, stereotypical coloring–red walls with the support beams painted white and a navy blue roof and red walls. The barn also had the raunchy smells of animals. "Smelly", "acrid", and "pungent", these words kept popping into my head as my olfactory system registered the smells of–ugh!–animals.
I noticed a tree house off into the distance.
I decided to just observe the trees filled with their bountiful fruit. I have heard of farmers doing well, but these farmers shamed those farmers with the sheer number and quality of their fruit. I will not say anything, but if I did not see the farmhand using manure and doing the farm-work manually, I would have suspected artificial means.
A couple of ho–
I entered the red barn.
He made sure his entrance was silent.
I knew that the majority of the occupants were gone.
He also knew that the important ones were here.
I moved into the third room on the left.
He saw the foalish decorations.
I looked in.
–urs passed me by. I watched the farmhand pat the earth with reverence and care. I–
The child looked back at me. I knew that it did not have any memories. Yet, it looked my own daughter–so soft and warm and comforting. I picked up the little daughter and went to the room across.
–felt at peace. It was stable and unchanging.
The farmhand noticed that I was watching, so he came over.
“Whatcha doing here, stranger?”
I tilted my head, “It is peaceful and unchanging here. It is nice to see.”
“Eeyup,” the farmhand agreed.
I went into the parents’ room.
His bags were clacking.
I saw the parents.
His clacking woke them up.
I rested upon the post. I motioned to the farmhand to come closer,
“I will not enter your land without permission. Do not fear an intrusion by me.”
He finally left, looking askance at me. I finally could go back to watching the land. The land has no memories, so as far as I am concerned, it needs no help.
I looked back at the muddy road. I noticed a red bow bouncing up towards me unaware.
He brought the parents to their own cellar. He continued to carry the little daughter. He took out the knives in his bags. The clacking continued into the night. He was strong. He knew how to deal with the farmers. He felt empty but successful. Unwittingly, he fulfilled their last request as he left the child. The rain flooded the cellar. It was red with wine.
The filly walked up the road. Her latest yet unsuccessful antics to discover her cutie mark dragged her legs down. She was unaware. In fact, the narrator has to unfortunately mention that she just bumped straight into our protagonist.
“Ah! Ah’m sorry fa bumping into ya,” she turned her head up.
His eyes bore into hers. Neither was sure what to make of the other.
Chapter 2
Eyes widening, heart thumping, the child could not understand why she felt panic. He stared back at her lazily. Screaming suddenly seemed more desirable to her.
Breathing in, she opened her mouth…only for the stranger to cover her mouth with his hand.
He was disturbingly fast.
He decided that they needed a private, secluded place to talk. The tree house from earlier seemed viable.
The narrator shut his metaphorical mouth (to avoid further retorts) as the stranger began to speak, “Little girl, don’t scream.”
“What d’ya mean ‘don’t scream’? Ah’ve every reason to scream!”
“Look at me. I do not really care what you think. I am just here to finish a task I should have completed a long time ago.”
The girl was shocked but surprisingly steeled herself to rebuke him, “Ya’ve no right. As soon as ah scream, mah brother’ll come here and stop ya.”
“Harsh words for a child.”
“Weak words for a murderer.”
The man was nonplussed, “What makes you say that?”
“Ya don’t look like no one who wants ta do nothing.”
“I guess I honestly do not care. But the clacking insists that I must do it.”
“Well, ah don’t hear no sounds, so maybe ya shouldn’t. In fact, why don’t ya just let me go.”
“If you are really going to manipulate me, try harder.”
“Look. Ya don’t look like ya really inta…hurting me. Maybe ya shouldn’t be doing this. Also, what’s ya’r talent?”
“I have to do this. And my talent? What? I–doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter! Ah’ve been trying to figure mah’n out for a while. Even you should know how ta help me.”
“I believe that that is a most pathetic attempt to use a red herring to stop this conversation.”
“Well, frankly, ya are making the most pathetic excuses to…hurt me.”
“Clearly, this is going nowhere.”
“Ah concur.”
“…”
“What? So, ah learn words from mah sister’s friends. Doesn’t mean Ah’m stupid.”
“I say you are.”
“Why so?”
“Easy. Your friends and you are trying to do so many activities with little merit.”
“They totally have merit!”
“No, they do not. They do not have any merit to you. I will concede that all people who work with animals have jobs with no merit.”
“Mah sister’s friend would resent that last statement. Honestly, Ah do too. All though, what do ya mean those activities have no merit to me?”
“My dear, you have potential, a potential to do all those activities. You just do not invest any reasonable time into those activities to develop that skill.”
“All right then, then how much?”
“Seriously, you are having me quantify the time it takes to be talented at something.”
“Eeyep.”
“An eternity for you is the truth.”
“What!”
“You asked me a stupid question, so I gave you the stupid answer.”
“That’s no fair. Ah want a better answer!”
“Look. For example, I hurt people. Hurting people takes a lot of practice. It is meaningful practice to me because I know what it is. I see it. I feel it. I smell it. It takes time.
“You, on the other hand, just put in an iota of effort, scraping a surface that has no meaning unless you put in an effort to understand it. Imitation is the first step. But, toe dipping is not the first step.
“That is why it will take a lifetime for you to develop your talent. Because, nothing you have done has meaning. You develop no memories! No memories! Nothing! Nada! Zippo!”
The girl was rather struck by the passionate response. It is uncommon when our protagonist is genuinely passionate.
“…Ah didn’t think ya cared ‘bout anything.”
“Maybe not,” he began to grab at his bags, “but it will not–”
“Well, how ‘bout ya help me?”
“What? You sure have some obsession problems.”
“No ah don’t.”
“You do”
“Ah don’t”
“Your arguing with your future murderer for help on finding your talent.”
“Ah don’t think so. It’s perfectly normal.”
“I am not getting back into that argument. Besides, I proved my point.”
“So, whadya want ta talk about.”
“You know, you are making this feel pointless and poorly done.”
“Well, it is. For a person who hurts other people, ya are reasonable.”
“You know that that is a compliment.”
“Ah guess, but it is true. Why, try not practicing for a change. You know. Take a break? Do something nice.”
“Killing you would be nice.”
“Ah just mentioned not to do that.”
“Point taken, but I cannot leave you out of my sight.”
I realized that we were both at an impasse with the circular conversation. I just stared at her. She stared at me with those orange eyes tinged with red.