Cloud's Odyssey

It’s truly amazing how time flies when I’m actually enjoying an eight hour train ride for once. I found myself waking up in the comfort of my booth after dozing off. I see that Lemon Tart’s head is leaning against the glass window with his eyes closed. Even when he is sleeping he still carried the briefcase full of shoes on his hooves. I take a look at my watch to find out it is exactly 4:20 pm. I stop a train attendant who was just passing by our booth.

“Excuse me,” I begin to ask, “how long will this train arrive in Ponyville?”

“In the next forty minutes,” she answered. “Would you like some refreshment while you wait?”

“A cola please,” I said. In any situation I would have asked for a cold cider, but I figured I’ll just save it for later once I find a good bar in Ponyville. On the right side of me I hear a yawn followed by small groans. Lemon Tart, the shoe salespony, had just emerged from his slumber. As he rubbed his eyes I take a moment to speculate what he was dreaming about. I imagined he dreamt about sitting on a grand throne on top of a mountain of Chuck Neighlors, while his subjects, wearing them on their hind legs, grobble at the bottom of his throne.

“Are we there yet?” he asked.

“We’ll be there in the next forty minutes - at least five o’clock,” I said. “I asked one of the attendants earlier.”

“Five o’clock?” He seemed surprised by my answer. He took out his pocket watch and read the current time with a sense of content. “That is what I call perfect timing,” Lemon said. “Maybe that nice little nap we had must have sped up time.”

“If only that was possible,” I added. The attendant from earlier approached us with the glass of ice cold cola I asked for and insert the glass on the cup holder.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Lemon asked, “do you know where we are?”

“We’re in the Gabble Flatlands, just twenty miles outside Ponyville,” she answered.

“Perfect. May I get a glass of cider? Nice, ice cold cider.”

“Sure,” she said nicely. The attendant walked the other direction to get Lemon his drink. I took one sip of my cola before setting it back down on the cup holder. Lemon Tart opened his briefcase and used his magic to levitated a fishing hat out, placing on his head.

“Almost forgot my hat,” he said. “I never go anywhere without it.”

“A fishing hat?” I asked. “Why?”

“You see, my friend, the profession of a traveling salespony is very similar to fishing. My briefcase is my fishing rod, what’s inside the briefcase is the bait. All I need to do is to present the fish with the bait, and I catch them. It’s just business.”

“I never knew entrepreneurship was such a competitive sport,” I joked.

“I tell you, being an entrepreneur is not as easy as it looks,” Lemon said with a slight hint of weariness in his voice. “You really have to appeal to whatever random pony who is in your way. You have to make them really like the product you’re trying to sell. Observe.” The attendant came back with his glass of cider. He levitate the cold drink off the tray and into his cup holder, and said to the mare, “Thank you very much for this glass of cider, sleeping in this comfortable chair has made me very thirsty,” sounding as professional as possible.

“You’re welcome,” she said with such sweetness.

“And may I add that you are doing a wonderful job as our attendant. Walking from booth to booth, cabin to cabin, just to make sure everypony is perfectly comfortable during this eight hour train ride.”

“Why thank you,” the attendant said, her eyes beaming and the muscles on her lips curling to form the letter U.

“In fact, I know of a way to work efficiently and look fabulous at the same time.” He opened his briefcase to reveal to the confused train attendant the Chuck Neighlor shoes lined up in a variety of different colors and size. “These are the world-famous Converse All-Stars, the Chuck Neighlor special. They’re comfortable, they’re fashionable, and I promise you, these shoes are just your style. Doesn’t the design just pull you in?”

“Well, they are pretty nice…”

“... And for a good price.”

“This seems rather tempting,” she said. The attendant’s eyes were locked closely on the shoes while Lemon waited for her answer. I just sat there, with the glass of cola on my hoof, observing the process of the salespony trying to reel in the fish with his bait. Lemon’s toothy grin was glued to his face; I’m rather surprise the muscles on the face weren’t irritating him.

“Well, what do you think?” he asked.

“These are nice shoes, sir,” she said, “but I’m not interested. Sorry. Thanks anyway.” She left our booth, leaving the two of us to stare at each other silently. I couldn’t help myself, but I began to chuckle at my friend’s expense.

“What’s so funny?”

“Did you notice you were wearing your fishing hat? Maybe she was on to you.”

“You can’t blame it entirely on me. This was my good luck charm for three years,” he reasoned. The both of us grabbed our glasses with our respective drinks, Lemon Tart with his cider and myself with my cola, and we drunk together. The flatlands soon turned into steep hills and meadows as the sun began its regular descent into the horizon. Above the corner of my eye, I saw a multi-colored streak fly by the train with incredible speed, almost like a pony sized torpedo.

“What was that?” I asked.

“What was what?” asked Lemon.

“I saw something, like a small colored light shooting across the sky and then vanishing as it appeared,” I said. “It was… cool.”

“You must have been seeing things,” Lemon said. “We have been sitting on this train for the longest time, might have affected your brain. Don’t worry, as soon as we get off this train, you can have all the fresh air you want,” he said. I chuckle under my breath and I take another sip of my cola, counting down the minutes that was left on the train ride before stopping at Ponyville.

Just as the attendant had said, and party my prediction, the train arrived at the Ponyville train station at exactly 5:00 pm. The announcement was made by the conductor over the train’s intercom. As the locomotive prepared to slow down to a stop, Lemon and I grabbed our belongings and other possessions and made our way out of the booth. The train slowly stopped at the platform of the train station, where we saw other ponies waiting, either waiting for their loved ones to exit the train or to get on the train (although I don’t know if the train still ran this late).

Our cabin was not entirely full, so the two didn’t have a hard time trying to get off. The ponies in our cabin the whole ride through was a pair of families with foals, one of them a single mother, and an elderly couple. We let the elderly couple go first, followed by the parents with their foals. My luggage consists of all the clothes I had; important items such as books, bathroom items, including toothbrush, wash cloths and towels; and of course the picture of my parents I've always kept in my pocket - I’ll elaborate on that later.

As for Lemon Tart, he carried nothing but his briefcase. It was as though his entire existence relied on that leather square with combination numbers. And his fishing hat, he can’t forget that - as he had told me, it was his good luck charm. We exited the cabin and into the platform, and we felt the relaxing cool spring breeze embrace our skin after spending eight hours on a warm train with artificial air conditioning. We watched the ponies coming out of the train ambush their friends and families with loving hugs and joyful noises. Nopony came to greet us, or to hug us, or to tell us that they were glad to be here - not that it mattered anyway.

The platform was beginning to empty and the train was going to start its engines in a few minutes. Lemon and I viewed the town before us gleam under the orange light of the sunset. The sky above was a mixture of violet and strawberry red, like an oil canvas painting.

“Well, we’re here,” Lemon finally said, “Ponyville, Equestria. Population - you, me… and everypony else.”

“Yeah,” I weakly added. Silence had taken over our confidence. We both knew we would have to separate the moment we left the train. It was unfortunate too. He was the first pony ever since the beatniks moved into my former neighborhood that I had enjoyed being accompanied with. I’m not sure if I can handle trying socialize with strangers in a strange land - this time was just a temporary fluke. “Hey, I just wanted to say,” I begin to say, “good luck with trying to sell those shoes.”

“Thanks,” he replied. “And good luck with… whatever comes your way.”

“Thanks,” I said. Before I go the opposite direction, I ask him something that has been lingering on the back of my mind ever since he told me his name. “Hey Lemon, you think we’ll be able to see each other again? You know, before you go to the next town or whatever?”

“Maybe. I hope so. Come to think about it, I wish that would happen. You’re the first pony I ever enjoyed talking to,” he said. We share a light smile, with a hint of contempt for our situation. Lemon extend his yellow hoof and I pull out my blue hoof, and we both shook. “See ya ‘round,” he said.

“Good-bye, for now,” I said back.

Then I realize we were on the only road that leads into town, so going the opposite direction will lead me nowhere. I feel like a ton of bricks were just dumped into my head. Now that we had just made our goodbyes official for no reason at all, we awkwardly walked together on the only trail to Ponyville.

Finding our way into town wasn’t hard as we thought. We learned that there was farm located just near the train station. On the farm, there was a line of trees which had apples that had that perfect spherical shape and that perfect shade of crimson. During our walk into town, I had something that was lingering in the back of my mind ever since Lemon Tart told me his name.

“Hey Lemon,” I began to ask, “there’s been something I wanted to know about you.”

“Shoot.”

“... Where are you from? What’s your story?”

“... Well, I was born in the city of brotherly love, Fillydelphia. My father was a salespony as I am, and my mother was nurse. My dad sold cleaning products like soap, bleach, pine oil, you name it.”

“How did you become a shoe salespony?” I ask again.

“It happened when I got my cutie mark. You see, all throughout my colt years I loved selling lemonade. I would sit in front of my house and try to get as many ponies to drink my lemonade. I always used the techniques my dad uses when he sells stuff to ponies. All the other fillies in my neighborhood had their own lemonade stands, and I had the urge to outperform the competition. I posses what they didn’t have - charisma. After selling at least one hundred cups of lemonade, a lemon magically appeared on my flank. That’s why I’m called Lemon Tart.”

“And the shoes?”

“After I graduated high school, I decided to move out of the house and make it on my own. I admit it’s not the wisest decision I've made.”

“I can relate,” I added.

“First, I tried selling lemons and lemon accessories - like lemon juice, lemon cleaning products, lemon bread, which I’m not even sure if they make that anymore. But that adventure failed,” he said somberly.

“Sorry about that.”

“Don’t be. After my lemon selling days ended, I lived in Manehattan for sometime and worked   at a shoe shop. My boss saw that I was natural when it came to selling shoes. I sold glass slippers to mares, dress shoes to stallions, and sneakers to the little ones. That’s when my boss gave me the idea to become a shoe salespony. Now, I didn't think I was ready to get back on my hooves, but I took the challenge. And to this day, I wander across Equestria, going door to door selling shoes to anypony who wants them or not. You ever of the phrase, ‘When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade?’ “

“Of course, everypony has,” I answered.

“I refuse to follow that philosophy. When life decides to give me lemons, I kindly throw them back at life.”

I saw a stallion wouldn't take no for an answer in Lemon Tart. Tart’s enthusiasm for the challenges of life was completely opposite to my personality. Whenever things get too hard for me, I choose to run away and find something else to do. I remember that one time in elementary school when I auditioned for the lead role in the school play. When I didn’t get the part, I vowed never to pursue acting again. That’s just one of many instances where that had happened. We found ourselves in the center of the town square, with the sky growing presently darker. I felt my stomach growl like a ferocious manticore and the aroma of sweet pastries invaded my nostrils. The smell of sweets directed me to a building just on the other side. It was place called Sugarcube Corner, which was a bakery shop.

A small bell chimed when I opened the door. Once we let ourselves in we were instantly greeted by a pink mare with a poofy mane who seemed to materialized out of thin air.

“Hi, Pinkie Pie,” she exclaimed, “Welcome to Sugarcube Corner!” Needless to say, both Lemon Tart and I had to play catch up with our breathing, not to mention our heart rate had drastically increased due to the sudden appearance of this so-called “Pinkie Pie.”

“H-hello,” I weakly said.

“We’re here to find something edible to satisfy our stomachs,” Lemon said.

“Then you came to right place,” the over enthusiastic pink mare said. “What would like? We

have all sorts of goodies here!”

The two of us squinted our eyes at the display counter, searching for anything that looked promising to eat. I have to admit, Pinkie was right when she said this place has “goodies.” Chocolate cake, chocolate-raspberry cake, freshly-baked brownies, cupcakes, muffins, any sort of confectionary treats imaginable. Making difficult choices in times of adversity has never been my strong suit.

“I guess I’ll take a slice of that brownie cake,” I finally said.

“And I’ll have a lemon cream custard pie,” Lemon Tart said, “a small one, please.” Of course he would chose something lemon related. The pink mare fittingly named Pinkie happily gave us our orders as fast than any of us could say “rubber baby buggy bumpers,” and we placed our money on the counter. We took our food to a neatly lit booth in the center of the room and eat with our hearts content. “You know, that Pinkie was right,” Lemon commented, “this stuff is delicious, it’s ten times better than the pastries they have in Fillydelphia.”

“I’m glad you like it!”

The one called Pinkie Pie appeared from under our table, completely oblivious to fact that I almost choked on my food. “Where the heck did you come from?” I asked while I violently cleared my throat.

“From my parents. Anyway, I’m glad you like the food! We try our best here,” she said.

“From what I can tell, you are the best,” Lemon said. “Maybe even the best of the best.”

“Aww, thanks Mr. um…”

“Call me Lemon Tart,” he said, extended his hoof to the pink mare. She grabbed his hoof and they shook like good acquaintances at a business meeting. Looks like he’s going to try to sell some shoes again. This I have to watch.

“And what’s your name?” she asked turning to me.

I swallowed my food and answered, “Cloud.”

“Cloud? That’s it, nothing else?”

“Nope. Just plain old Cloud.”

“Okay… Wait a minute!” she exclaimed. “You guys aren’t from around here, are you?”

“We just came in from Baltimare from train,” Lemon explained. “It was an eight hour ride.”

“Then that means… new ponies! This is so exciting! I’ll be right back!” A pink blur manifested in front of us on the spot where Pinkie once stood. A second later she came back carrying a cannon, aimed directly at us. Lemon and myself ducked under the table with our arms covering our heads, waiting for our imminent end. He heard an explosion of cannonfire, but to our amazement - and confusion - there was no fiery destruction or waves of debris falling. Instead we heard party music playing and the room was suddenly filled with a multitude of ponies from out of nowhere. The dining hall of Sugarcub Corner was decorated with multi-colored party balloons, streamers, and banners, and the wooden floor was littered with confetti. Above our heads was a golden banner that hung from the ceiling that read “WELCOME TO PONYVILLE!”

I hesitated to asked, but I managed to get the words from out of my mouth. “Pinkie, what’s going on?”

“This? I always throw a party when there’s new ponies in town! Hey everypony,” she called out to the guests, “let’s give a big Ponyville welcome to Cloud and Lemon Tart!”

The guests cheered and stomped their hooves on the floor in mass approval. My brain suddenly ceased its primary functions. I had no idea how to react to this doubtlessly random event, nor could I find the right words to describe my current emotions. Everything just seem to happen so fast the moment I stepped into Sugarcube Corner. Every single pony around me was dancing wildly, while others came up to me and Lemon to welcome us to their town. I stand there completely frozen, mouth agape, unable to comprehend the surrealism of it all. I feel somepony’s arm nudge against mine, only to realize it was Lemon’s arm.

“Cloud,” he said.

“Yeah…”

“I think I’m starting to like this place.”