The Badly Written Life of Purple Prosieby kudzuhaikuChaptersChapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4Chapter 5Chapter 1I don’t understand what happened with my life. I started off well, I graduated with a degree in magical creativity, and I became a successful writer under the name of Sultry Satin. The Princess Cadance claims to be my biggest fan. I think the problem started when I started looking for love. Now, my life is all messed up. I can’t write like I used to. I take on editing work to pay the bills and write meaningless romance novels that are a mere shadow of the great literary works I used to create. The fact that my romance novels sell better than my previous works are the cause of much bitterness in my life. I churn out a novel once every two months like clockwork, live comfortably, and that bothers me. It shouldn’t bother me, but it does. To be honest, I miss the struggle. But I just cannot write like I used to. I am burned out and bitter and angry and now I am writing in run on sentences. I think I am becoming a lush. Hard to tell for sure, but I suspect I might be getting there. I can no longer write unless I apply the proper level of lubricant to my mind. I cannot seem to shut the voices up in my mind long enough to get any writing done unless I silence them with a fine red or a healthy jigger of rum. I am writing this right now in a highly lubricated state, which means I probably will not remember it until I go back and read it in the morning… or the afternoon, whenever it might be that I wake up and crawl out of bed. Purple Prosie, you should be ashamed of yourself. You used to be somepony! Get your posie covered plot out of the slump you’ve been in. Also, you are out of rum, the spicy brown kind that allows you to write the extra sloppy cloppy stuff that pays the bills. This is a terrible state of affairs. Without my constant companions, Morose and Melancholy, I think I would be totally lost. Also, you should think about tapping into your considerable savings and going on vacation. Or buying a remote retreat, a writer's paradise, but make sure you stock the wet bar if you are on the fringes of civilisation. Purple Prosie awoke to a strange pain in her nethers and a thumping marching band parading through her head. She twisted in her bed, causing the pain in her nethers to spike to agonising levels. She reached down with a front hoof, feeling between her legs, groping around under the blankets, and found the cause of her pain. She had fallen asleep with a wine bottle lodged in her filly bits. Again. What had she been up to last night? She dislodged the bottle from her filly bits with an audible pop and then heaved a sigh of relief. She rubbed her muzzle with her fetlock, and then wiped the crusted sleepy from her eyes. She struggled to get out of bed, her spine crackling and popping as she twisted her body around. She fell as she got out of the bed, hitting the floor with a thud, causing her head to nearly explode, a brand new heart beating just behind her horn. Her ears flopped over her eyes, trying to keep out the dim light attempting to shine through her window shades and commit homicide on her amber irised orbs. “Damn you sunshine,” she muttered. Purple Prosie reached down and gave her filly bits a good scratching with her hoof, getting rid of the morning itchies, and, after several moments of scratching, she rolled her hips and scratched just under her dock. In a moment of terrible self abuse, she lifted her hoof to her own nose and sniffed it, causing her to gag violently. It was the surest way she knew to wake up and clear her head. The rush of chemicals her brain released due to the violent gagging caused a state of near instant awareness. “I have a terrible case of writer’s crack. I sit in my chair for too long,” Purple Prosie grumbled to herself as she scrambled to her hooves. She staggered through her room, kicking a bottle with her hoof, and then stepped on another, which rolled under her hoof, causing her to stumble and fall. She slammed into the floor snoot-first, seeing stars and hearing bells. “Oh buck me sideways,” she whimpered, licking her nose and checking for blood. Purple Prosie climbed to her hooves again and continued her struggle to reach the bathroom. She navigated the many pitfalls of her room, stumbled down the hall, glanced at the typewriter in her writing nook, and then walked into her bathroom. She parked her plot over the toilet and let go, feeling a nearly orgasmic rush of relief. She closed her eyes and moaned. There was nothing quite like this sensation. Purple Prosie realised she had made a terrible error when she heard the clearing of a throat. She had not closed the bathroom door. And she had not locked the front door last night. “Hi Prosie,” said a small squeaky sounding voice. “Ugh, Melancholy, what are you doing here?” Prosie asked, opening her eyes and seeing a tawny coloured donkey foal staring at her intently. “Mom sent me up to check on you. She heard a thump on our ceiling. She has coffee,” the foal replied, her long floppy ears bobbing as she spoke. “Haven’t you ever heard of privacy?” Prosie asked the staring foal. “Haven’t you ever heard of self respect?” the foal replied. Prosie farted loudly and it echoed in the bowl, causing Melancholy to flinch in disgust. “I’m not sorry Mel,” Purple Prosie said, giggling, her shaking body causing another fart to be loosened from her backside. “I don’t know why my mother and I love you,” said Melancholy. “I help you with your homework and you get A’s in school,” replied Purple Prosie. “There is that,” the little donkey foal agreed. “And I am the only adult who will talk to you like an adult and not treat you like a total foal,” Purple Prosie added. Melancholy sighed in agreement. “My choice in role models is going to cause me no end of problems as I mature into an adult,” the foal stated matter of factly. Purple Prosie sat drinking her coffee in Morose’s kitchen. She had nearly tumbled down the stairs on her way down. Her eyes were bloodshot and her head still ached. She hadn’t showered. Coffee had been too tempting. “You look awful,” Morose commented. “I feel as bad as I look,” replied Purple Prosie. “You look pretty bad,” quipped Melancholy. Purple Prosie liked her coffee like she liked her life. Dark and bitter. And this coffee was perfect. You could practically stand the spoon up in it. “I was hoping that you could help me later today,” Morose mentioned as she began cooking lunch. “Eh?” grunted Purple Prosie. “I need your magic. It is laundry day,” explained Morose. “Oh, I can do that,” muttered Purple Prosie around her coffee mug. Being a unicorn made everything easier. It was difficult to fold laundry with hooves. It was difficult to do a lot of things with hooves. Using a typewriter for example, was very very difficult with hooves. As an extra added bonus, all she had to do as a unicorn to avoid having an enormous plot was use lots and lots of magic every day, burning away excess calories. Her constant use of her typewriter and other magical applications meant that she could sit down, indulge,, and tuck into the entire lime custard pie. All she had to do was keep casting magic. Which she had been neglecting a bit lately. Her plot was getting big. Morose had warned Purple Prosie that her plot was approaching plot-e-licious levels of size. She sipped her coffee, wondering if her coffee found her bitter. “I need a vacation,” Purple Prosie announced. “You sleep the day away, you stay up all night hammering away on that infernal typewriter, spend more and more of your time more than a little tipsy, and you need a vacation?” asked Morose. “Yeah, I was thinking all of us could go somewhere. Together. So I don’t have to get drunk and debauch myself all alone on some beach somewhere,” Purple Prosie replied. Purple Prosie squirmed uncomfortably in her chair. She had certainly debauched herself last night. She had written halfway through some starry epic love scene in her current novel, succumbed to horny lust, and then debauched herself with a wine bottle until she had passed out in bed. At least, that is what she thought had happened. She couldn’t be quite sure. Purple Prosie caught a whiff of food, felt nauseous, and cursed her hangover. She sniffed again. Morose was cooking leftover red beans and rice. Morose was a donkey from swamp country, growing up around the swamp ponies. Morose was Purple Prosie’s constant companion, best friend, confidant, personal cheerleader, and usually the cook as well. The kitchen was filled with a delightful spicy smell and Purple Prosie felt a pang of regret that she was in no mood to enjoy it. Author's Note Let me know what you think. I'm throwing this at the wall to see if it sticks. It it doesn't, it will probably linger in literary purgatory like a couple of other stories that are mostly ignored and unread. Chapter 2I’ve been thinking about university lately. I think I was happy then, I’m not totally sure. I majored in magical creativity. It is pretty much an art degree for unicorns. I am somewhat above average as far as unicorns go. I attended a prestigious private school, a good finishing school, and was able to get into university on a scholarship. In university, I coasted my way to my degree, being thoroughly average and relatively unnoticed. Being unnoticed is good. Nopony expects anything from you if they don’t notice you. It was university where I first tried moondust, a potent alchemical compound made from various fungi, magical roots, dreamweed, and if the claims are to be believed, moonbeams captured, solidified, and turned into a powder. It opened my mind and made my magic stronger. My thoughts opened. My writing improved. I became hooked on the stuff, a dangerous thing to do, and continued to use it until it began to burn me out. I went through a painful withdrawal period, I suffered a great deal while I did so, and found my muse in my suffering. I contracted a fierce case of horn rot from the moondust usage, and had to endure a long period of regrowth. My horn grew back longer and stronger and I consider myself lucky. For a lot of unicorns, their horn never grows back or becomes healthy, the fungal rot lingers and causes a great deal of pain. Which leads me to one conclusion, as I sit here typing. I need to suffer. All of the best times of my life have been marked by suffering. I think that is why I have fallen into a rut. I no longer struggle, I no longer suffer. I no longer worry how I am going to pay the bills. I no longer worry if I am going to be published. Technically, I really don’t need to worry about anything else for the rest of my life… I could stop writing now and easily live off the royalties and accept the occasional movie deal. Except, I keep writing, a squirrel the money away, I take on editing work to pay my day to day expenses, like keeping my self in drink, and I live from paycheck to paycheck, never touching my savings. So I probably could just quit writing and live large instead of living like a bum, which is what I am doing now. I think if I did that though, I’d probably die from alcoholism within the first five years. I am dying of boredom as I write my current novel. The sex seems as meaningless as my own last encounter. It seems dry and repetitive. If I have to type “throbbing member” one more time I am going to spew all over my damn typewriter. Research shows that my target demographic reading group likes “throbbing member” though, it is the keyword that sells the scene. My target demographic also likes descriptions of things like the medial rings and flared tips. My agent is very insistent that I stick with the formula. Young innocent mare who was a filly only yesterday, does -blank- for a living, meets so and so and thus begins the whirlwind romance. So and so being the embodiment of the romantic preferences of the moment as deemed by popular culture. Some novels, it is a hunky fire-stallion, other novels, it is a rugged farm pony, and so on and so on. In my current novel, the cardboard cutout mare is a coffee shop barista by day, bartender by night, and somehow finds enough time for a reckless romance with a venture capitalist who has dreams of being the world championship ping pong ball player. All of these things are either current trends or the predictions of current trends of what is considered hot in popular culture. As I typed last night, I actually entertained the notion of giving my own eyeballs papercuts as penance for the literary dribble I am producing. I swear, if it wasn’t for Morose and Melancholy leveling me out, I think I would have lost my mind by now. Not sure how much more of this I can take. I need things to change, but the idea of breaking my routine scares me to death. Purple Prosie was sitting in a folding reclining lawn chair on the small balcony accessible from her bedroom. She was wearing a broad sunhat, and had oversized red and white polka dotted sunglasses covering her eyes. She was sipping a tall glass of rum on the rocks, her second one so far today. Morose sat beside her, reclining back in the folding lawn chair, also wearing sunglasses but no hat. Morose’s ears were tied back behind her head with a bright yellow-green ribbon. Morose was drinking an apple soda spiked with gin in a tall glass that was half full. “This is a good life,” Purple Prosie said, sipping her rum. “Quit your job. Become my housekeeper. I’ll pay you to do this every day.” “I am a good respectable donkey,” replied Morose. “I have to be a good example for my little Melancholy.” “But you could spend more time with her if you didn’t have to work,” reasoned Purple Prosie, sucking in an ice cube and crunching it between her broad flat teeth after she spoke. “You don’t mind watching her at night do you?” asked Morose. “She watches herself,” Purple Prosie confessed. “She comes home from her after school program, gets a snack, does her homework, asks me for help if she needs it, has dinner when I fix it, and then reads books or works on her paintings until bedtime. I mostly sit at my typewriter.” “She idolises you, you know,” said Morose. “She wants to be a painter in the same way you are a writer.” “I am an awful writer,” snarked Purple Prosie. “So go back to writing other things,” Morose retorted. “I’ve read your first few novels. They are brilliant, even if they are unnoticed.” “Bah,” muttered Purple Prosie. “Writers must have readers. Writers write to be read. It is too painful writing a novel containing the words of your soul and then have no readers interested in the contents of said soul.” “I don’t think I’d make it without you,” Morose mused. “It is rough being a single mother.” “I know I wouldn’t make it without you Morose. Your my best friend. I think you are my only friend. Everypony else just wants to know ‘Sultry Satin’ for the sake of knowing a famous writer. You are the only real friend I have. I had to ditch the rest of my friends after the ‘incident’ and go into hiding, change my pen name, and start over,” Purple Prosie said bitterly. They clinked glasses together and continued to lay in the sun for the rest of the afternoon. Chapter 3Life just keeps getting worse and worse. I think I need to go to the doctor. I’ve been having some burning discharge. I’ve either caught something again or the wine bottles crammed into my filly bits has been a bad idea. Either way, I need to schedule an appointment and get it checked out. I really hope I do not have another STI. That would suck. In other news, ponies suck. Really, they do. Some of the landscapers working down the street shouted “donkey lover” to me while I was sitting in the front yard with Morose. I would have been mostly fine with it and would have let it go, but Melancholy was sitting in the front yard with us. So I had to go break a pony’s jaw and dislocate his hip. And I did it without magic too, using good old fashioned pony on pony violence to educate some hapless cretin about good social graces. I might hate my mother for everything else she has done, but getting me to go to self defense courses before university was a great idea. Morose tried to scold me for two hours straight, but kept laughing every time she made the attempt. Something about a squat rather chubby unicorn with posies on her backside kicking the dirt out of an earth pony twice her size really is rather funny when you think about it. Melancholy’s hero worship is bound to become unbearable now. Oh, my dear typewriter, I do love you so, you are so much cheaper than a therapist and you don’t mind if I drink while I am baring my soul. Purple Prosie lay in her bathtub, drinking and staring at the ceiling. This seemed to be as good of a way to pass the time as any. As she did so, her typewriter clicked and pinged occasionally, sitting on a table some distance away in the bathroom. She thought about drowning herself as she slowly typed about the young mare and her growing fascination with the rippling neck muscles of her love interest. Right now, it was neck muscles, in a few months, it might go back to well toned plot muscles. In a year from now, it would be chiseled jawlines and squared snouts. It was all the same really. Focus desire on -blank- and develop a burgeoning curiousity. Rippling neck muscles... Purple Prosie swallowed all of her remaining drink, cursed an unheard by anypony string of vulgarities, and then belched loudly. It was well past midnight, and Melancholy was sleeping in the spare room, on a bed that Purple Prosie had purchased just for her, waiting for her mother to come home. Lucky foal had two bedrooms and left both of them messy. There was no denying it, Purple Prosie knew she was getting fat. Her wide hips actually brushed up against each side of the bathtub. She poked her belly with a hoof, noticing she wasn’t as toned as usual, but softer and pudgier. She sighed loudly and rolled her eyes. The clicking from her typewriter died. Her readers would die if they knew that Sultry Satin was a pudgy loveless mare that couldn’t find love. Sultry Satin looked longingly at her one true love. His body was short and squared off, his neck long and well defined. She longed for his touch, to take him between her lips, to feel the hot rush of his liquid love flowing over her lips, down her throat, burning her throat with the savage heat of torrid love, their love forbidden and condemned in a society that would never accept them. Sultry Satin’s love was perfect, transparent, allowing Sultry to see inside to his very soul, making her lick her lips in desire and crave his taste to run rivulets over her tongue as she lapped longingly at his flared opening. “Oh Rum Bottle, I think I love you!” Purple Prosie came to with a snort, the clacking of her typewriter drawing her back into reality. She didn’t even need to see the paper to know what she had typed, her wandering mind has written down everything she was thinking by channeling the typewriter through her horn. “Oh dog farts,” muttered Purple Prosie. Purple Prosie sat at the table with Morose, drinking coffee and staring blankly at a partially full plate. She felt awful. Her head thudded, her back hurt from falling asleep in the tub, and her eyes were red and bloodshot. “You really need to dry out Prosie, I’m worried,” Morose said softly. “I am too,” agreed Prosie. Both mares paused, hearing the front door open and then slammed closed. “Melly!” shouted Morose, glad to hear her foal. “I have mail!” exclaimed Melancholy. “There is something for Her Royal Purpleness,” she added, her hooves clattering over the battered hardwood floor. Melancholy came into the kitchen, several envelopes on her back, and Purple Prosie lifted them all with her magic. She took the one addressed to her and placed the rest upon the table. Morose watched as Purple Prosie tore open the envelope, read the letter, and then scowled. She started to read the second page and her scowl worsened, Purple Prosie somehow looking even worse than she already did. “What is it?” asked Morose gently. “Bad news?” “No,” replied Purple Prosie, not explaining, just dropping the papers onto the table and drinking down the remainder of her coffee in one gulp. “Well, if I may pry, what is it? You seem upset. What is troubling you?” asked Morose, her voice thick with concern. “Have a look for yourself,” grunted Purple Prosie, grimacing from the hot bitter coffee. Morose dragged the paper towards her with a hoof, picking them up and looking at them. Melancholy sat down, looking worried, her eyes wide with apprehension and concern. She glanced at her mother and Purple Prosie, her long ears framing her face. “This is…” gasped Morose, unable to finish. Purple Prosie nodded, her face full of disgust. “This is a proposal worth six figures worth of bits…” muttered Morose in shock. “Yeah, they want to make a movie about the millionairess philanthropist pony who gave away all of her money, volunteered to work in a soup kitchen, fell in love with a homeless vagrant, and then both of them started a business creating sappy cards with kitschy sayings, fell madly in love with one another as they exchanged cards they had written for one another, and then sold those card ideas to the public and made billions with their greeting card business. It made the bestseller list and stayed there for a whole twenty one months, breaking some sort of record, surviving changing trends and ever changing pop culture. Of course they want a movie,” Purple Prosie said, almost spitting with anger, her voice dripping with vitriol. “Shouldn’t you be happy?” asked Morose. “No!” snapped Purple Prosie. “I do not understand you at times,” whispered Morose. “Purple Prosie lives in constant conflict with her values, her need for stasis, and her need to remain comfortable. Change causes discomfort,” Melancholy quipped. Both mares looked at the foal, both in shock, Purple Prosie setting down her coffee cup. “That’s it. I quit!” Purple Prosie barked. “But-” stammered Morose, still holding the papers. “Yay!” shouted Melancholy, looking jubilant. “Maybe you can be happy again!” “I will give you every single bit that is due from that advance for a movie if you will quit your job right now Morose and become my housekeeper,” offered Purple Prosie. Morose gasped and dropped the papers, they fluttered down to the floor. “Mommy?” inquired Melancholy, looking hopeful. “I… Purple Prosie… I, uh, I don’t know how to answer that,” Morose stuttered, her eyes blinking rapidly in shock. “Mommy, you work too hard and I miss you,” pleaded Melancholy, using her most pathetic sounding and manipulative tone. “I-” began Morose. “You will finally have enough to send me to that school for the gifted,” Melancholy interrupted, her eyes wide and pleading. “I’ve offered to pay for that so many times now,” said Purple Prosie. “You now have a housekeeper,” mumbled Morose. “YES! Finally!” shouted Purple Prosie. “I can selfishly have my friend around at all hours of the day to comfort me and cater to my whims!” Chapter 4Funny how your life can change in an instant. Or a day. I know mine did. The moment I quit, I felt a great weight lifted off of my shoulders. I have a few more books due on contract, and then, it will be over. I have already noticed some improvement in my life, dear typewriter. Morose is working on enrolling Melancholy into a fancy school for the gifted, and Melancholy is certainly gifted. Maybe now, when I have more free time, I can help her out with her art, or get her to try writing, or just be a better friend and spend more time with her. She deserves that. My mood swings have been worse lately. Might be the drinking, might be the stress, I don’t know what it is, but it bothers me. I’ve never been a stable mare, (teehee, I made a pun!) but this is becoming unbearable even from my own perspective. Funny, I quit my current writing gig and already I am getting story ideas. Like an idea about a donkey single mother that has a washed up friend that is a writer… oh wait. Never mind. That is a terrible idea. Nopony would ever read that drivel. It doesn’t meet the marketing data. Haha, but I do feel better. Purple Prosie hated the doctor’s office. The canned music, the smell of disinfectant, and the waiting, the waiting was the worst. Waiting in the waiting room and then waiting some more back in the examination room, and then, if you were lucky, waiting again for a while longer on results. Like now. Purple Prosie had waited almost a full hour after peeing into a cup, trying to find out why it burned when she peed. She had already read the magazines in the room, boring housemare stuff really. She sat, humming to herself, kicking her hind legs as she sat in the chair, waiting not so patiently, thinking about getting up and walking out. This was ridiculous. Just as she started to slide out of her chair, the door opened and the doctor walked in. She was smiling a polite smile, and carrying a clipboard under her wing. “Miss Prosie,” the doctor said, her tone filled with medical professional sincerity, “Sorry to keep you waiting. I have some interesting results for you.” “About damn time,” Purple Prosie muttered, her words doing nothing at all to the doctor’s medical professional grade standard issue smile. “The bad is news is, you have a mild bladder infection,” the doctor announced, still smiling a now infuriating smile. “The bad news?” asked Purple Prosie, now looking confused. “Yes, and there is good news! The good news is, you will be having a foal soon! I bet you’re excited!” There was a thud as Purple Prosie fainted. “Miss Prosie?” Purple Prosie’s mind slowly came back into focus. She thought about everything that had been going on lately. Her constant nausea, mood swings, the never ending growth of her plot, oh pony was her plot getting big, and her mood swings… there might have been something about mood swings in her thinking. Her hips were now wide enough to fill the tub, one side to the other. “Miss Prosie, speak to me if you can,” the doctor repeated. “I can’t be pregnant, I haven’t had sex in three months, and I am on the pill,” responded Purple Prosie. “That’s funny, because you are about four months pregnant I’d say,” the doctor replied cheerfully. “And the pill doesn’t always work.” A groan escaped Purple Prosie’s lips as she lay on the examination table, staring up at the textured ceiling. A foal. Well, that certainly made things interesting to say the least. “Wait, doc, I drink a fair bit, is everything going to be alright?” she asked, real panic creeping into her voice now. “If you stop now, things should be okay,” mused the doctor, pressing her lips together after she spoke, her face concerned. “Ugh,” groaned the purple pony on the examination table whose entire life had just ended, and who had just been given a death sentence in the form of being responsible for another life other than her own, which is the worst thing you could ever do to a helpless self focused self serving narcissistic drama queen with a flair for the dramatic and a need to be doted on to keep the fires of her ego fanned, lest she crumble like a cookie left too long in milk. “There goes my love affair with my filly bits,” she added, the sting of her filly bit’s betrayal overwhelming her already overwrought senses, causing her to spiral downward. “Are you going to be alright?” asked the doctor, her standard issue medical grade look of worry mask now covering her face. “Not if I can help it, I have other plans,” pled the plump and ponderous purple pony with the plentiful plot, prone upon the platform of probing and prodding, perusing her percentages and possibilities, perplexed and plotting proposals posted to her privates and the parasite planted there. “You’ll be fine,” the doctor said cheerfully, using her standard issue medical grade comfort the patient voice. “Prosie, you’re scaring me,” Morose said, gently nudging the staring mare. There was no response, which really worried Morose. Morose expected dramatics. Shouting. Cursing. Anger. Something. Anything. This was the worst sort of reaction, because there was no reaction. Her best friend was broken, something inside of her brain had going “sproing” and the springs and gears had come loose. “Oh minotaur shit,” Purple Prosie mumbled. “Good Prosie, that’s better, keep going, say something colourful,” Morose begged, patting her friend gently. “What is minotaur shit?” asked Melancholy, causing her mother to blanch. “Well, that is something that can never be undone,” Morose lamented, summoning a supreme act of will to keep from laughing. “In a few months a parasitic alien infestation is going to come exploding out of my filly bits, covered in blood, squealing and shrieking, my filly bits are going to burst and rip and tear, and just the very idea of all of this is causing me to speak in broken sentences and fractured jumbled fragments of spoken reason, this parasitic growth is going to launch from my nethers in a hail of blood and flatulence, forever destroying any chance I had at being a career alcoholic,” announced Purple Prosie. “That’s better dear, that’s what I’ve been waiting on, let it out,” asked Morose, heaving a sigh of relief. “That is the pony I know,” she added. “Sounds scary, can I watch?” Melancholy asked. “Sure kid, why not, it’ll be educational right? Want to watch Purple Prosie’s filly bits explode as the parasitic alien growth escapes its fleshy prison and then sets out to wreak havoc upon the world?” asked Purple Prosie. “Sounds exciting!” Melancholy replied. “Oh for the love of fluffernutter sandwiches,” groused Morose. “Even I wasn’t this melodramatic when I had Melancholy.” Chapter 5**BANG** Putting our friend Flicka down. Good girl.
Chapter 1I don’t understand what happened with my life. I started off well, I graduated with a degree in magical creativity, and I became a successful writer under the name of Sultry Satin. The Princess Cadance claims to be my biggest fan. I think the problem started when I started looking for love. Now, my life is all messed up. I can’t write like I used to. I take on editing work to pay the bills and write meaningless romance novels that are a mere shadow of the great literary works I used to create. The fact that my romance novels sell better than my previous works are the cause of much bitterness in my life. I churn out a novel once every two months like clockwork, live comfortably, and that bothers me. It shouldn’t bother me, but it does. To be honest, I miss the struggle. But I just cannot write like I used to. I am burned out and bitter and angry and now I am writing in run on sentences. I think I am becoming a lush. Hard to tell for sure, but I suspect I might be getting there. I can no longer write unless I apply the proper level of lubricant to my mind. I cannot seem to shut the voices up in my mind long enough to get any writing done unless I silence them with a fine red or a healthy jigger of rum. I am writing this right now in a highly lubricated state, which means I probably will not remember it until I go back and read it in the morning… or the afternoon, whenever it might be that I wake up and crawl out of bed. Purple Prosie, you should be ashamed of yourself. You used to be somepony! Get your posie covered plot out of the slump you’ve been in. Also, you are out of rum, the spicy brown kind that allows you to write the extra sloppy cloppy stuff that pays the bills. This is a terrible state of affairs. Without my constant companions, Morose and Melancholy, I think I would be totally lost. Also, you should think about tapping into your considerable savings and going on vacation. Or buying a remote retreat, a writer's paradise, but make sure you stock the wet bar if you are on the fringes of civilisation. Purple Prosie awoke to a strange pain in her nethers and a thumping marching band parading through her head. She twisted in her bed, causing the pain in her nethers to spike to agonising levels. She reached down with a front hoof, feeling between her legs, groping around under the blankets, and found the cause of her pain. She had fallen asleep with a wine bottle lodged in her filly bits. Again. What had she been up to last night? She dislodged the bottle from her filly bits with an audible pop and then heaved a sigh of relief. She rubbed her muzzle with her fetlock, and then wiped the crusted sleepy from her eyes. She struggled to get out of bed, her spine crackling and popping as she twisted her body around. She fell as she got out of the bed, hitting the floor with a thud, causing her head to nearly explode, a brand new heart beating just behind her horn. Her ears flopped over her eyes, trying to keep out the dim light attempting to shine through her window shades and commit homicide on her amber irised orbs. “Damn you sunshine,” she muttered. Purple Prosie reached down and gave her filly bits a good scratching with her hoof, getting rid of the morning itchies, and, after several moments of scratching, she rolled her hips and scratched just under her dock. In a moment of terrible self abuse, she lifted her hoof to her own nose and sniffed it, causing her to gag violently. It was the surest way she knew to wake up and clear her head. The rush of chemicals her brain released due to the violent gagging caused a state of near instant awareness. “I have a terrible case of writer’s crack. I sit in my chair for too long,” Purple Prosie grumbled to herself as she scrambled to her hooves. She staggered through her room, kicking a bottle with her hoof, and then stepped on another, which rolled under her hoof, causing her to stumble and fall. She slammed into the floor snoot-first, seeing stars and hearing bells. “Oh buck me sideways,” she whimpered, licking her nose and checking for blood. Purple Prosie climbed to her hooves again and continued her struggle to reach the bathroom. She navigated the many pitfalls of her room, stumbled down the hall, glanced at the typewriter in her writing nook, and then walked into her bathroom. She parked her plot over the toilet and let go, feeling a nearly orgasmic rush of relief. She closed her eyes and moaned. There was nothing quite like this sensation. Purple Prosie realised she had made a terrible error when she heard the clearing of a throat. She had not closed the bathroom door. And she had not locked the front door last night. “Hi Prosie,” said a small squeaky sounding voice. “Ugh, Melancholy, what are you doing here?” Prosie asked, opening her eyes and seeing a tawny coloured donkey foal staring at her intently. “Mom sent me up to check on you. She heard a thump on our ceiling. She has coffee,” the foal replied, her long floppy ears bobbing as she spoke. “Haven’t you ever heard of privacy?” Prosie asked the staring foal. “Haven’t you ever heard of self respect?” the foal replied. Prosie farted loudly and it echoed in the bowl, causing Melancholy to flinch in disgust. “I’m not sorry Mel,” Purple Prosie said, giggling, her shaking body causing another fart to be loosened from her backside. “I don’t know why my mother and I love you,” said Melancholy. “I help you with your homework and you get A’s in school,” replied Purple Prosie. “There is that,” the little donkey foal agreed. “And I am the only adult who will talk to you like an adult and not treat you like a total foal,” Purple Prosie added. Melancholy sighed in agreement. “My choice in role models is going to cause me no end of problems as I mature into an adult,” the foal stated matter of factly. Purple Prosie sat drinking her coffee in Morose’s kitchen. She had nearly tumbled down the stairs on her way down. Her eyes were bloodshot and her head still ached. She hadn’t showered. Coffee had been too tempting. “You look awful,” Morose commented. “I feel as bad as I look,” replied Purple Prosie. “You look pretty bad,” quipped Melancholy. Purple Prosie liked her coffee like she liked her life. Dark and bitter. And this coffee was perfect. You could practically stand the spoon up in it. “I was hoping that you could help me later today,” Morose mentioned as she began cooking lunch. “Eh?” grunted Purple Prosie. “I need your magic. It is laundry day,” explained Morose. “Oh, I can do that,” muttered Purple Prosie around her coffee mug. Being a unicorn made everything easier. It was difficult to fold laundry with hooves. It was difficult to do a lot of things with hooves. Using a typewriter for example, was very very difficult with hooves. As an extra added bonus, all she had to do as a unicorn to avoid having an enormous plot was use lots and lots of magic every day, burning away excess calories. Her constant use of her typewriter and other magical applications meant that she could sit down, indulge,, and tuck into the entire lime custard pie. All she had to do was keep casting magic. Which she had been neglecting a bit lately. Her plot was getting big. Morose had warned Purple Prosie that her plot was approaching plot-e-licious levels of size. She sipped her coffee, wondering if her coffee found her bitter. “I need a vacation,” Purple Prosie announced. “You sleep the day away, you stay up all night hammering away on that infernal typewriter, spend more and more of your time more than a little tipsy, and you need a vacation?” asked Morose. “Yeah, I was thinking all of us could go somewhere. Together. So I don’t have to get drunk and debauch myself all alone on some beach somewhere,” Purple Prosie replied. Purple Prosie squirmed uncomfortably in her chair. She had certainly debauched herself last night. She had written halfway through some starry epic love scene in her current novel, succumbed to horny lust, and then debauched herself with a wine bottle until she had passed out in bed. At least, that is what she thought had happened. She couldn’t be quite sure. Purple Prosie caught a whiff of food, felt nauseous, and cursed her hangover. She sniffed again. Morose was cooking leftover red beans and rice. Morose was a donkey from swamp country, growing up around the swamp ponies. Morose was Purple Prosie’s constant companion, best friend, confidant, personal cheerleader, and usually the cook as well. The kitchen was filled with a delightful spicy smell and Purple Prosie felt a pang of regret that she was in no mood to enjoy it. Author's Note Let me know what you think. I'm throwing this at the wall to see if it sticks. It it doesn't, it will probably linger in literary purgatory like a couple of other stories that are mostly ignored and unread.
Chapter 2I’ve been thinking about university lately. I think I was happy then, I’m not totally sure. I majored in magical creativity. It is pretty much an art degree for unicorns. I am somewhat above average as far as unicorns go. I attended a prestigious private school, a good finishing school, and was able to get into university on a scholarship. In university, I coasted my way to my degree, being thoroughly average and relatively unnoticed. Being unnoticed is good. Nopony expects anything from you if they don’t notice you. It was university where I first tried moondust, a potent alchemical compound made from various fungi, magical roots, dreamweed, and if the claims are to be believed, moonbeams captured, solidified, and turned into a powder. It opened my mind and made my magic stronger. My thoughts opened. My writing improved. I became hooked on the stuff, a dangerous thing to do, and continued to use it until it began to burn me out. I went through a painful withdrawal period, I suffered a great deal while I did so, and found my muse in my suffering. I contracted a fierce case of horn rot from the moondust usage, and had to endure a long period of regrowth. My horn grew back longer and stronger and I consider myself lucky. For a lot of unicorns, their horn never grows back or becomes healthy, the fungal rot lingers and causes a great deal of pain. Which leads me to one conclusion, as I sit here typing. I need to suffer. All of the best times of my life have been marked by suffering. I think that is why I have fallen into a rut. I no longer struggle, I no longer suffer. I no longer worry how I am going to pay the bills. I no longer worry if I am going to be published. Technically, I really don’t need to worry about anything else for the rest of my life… I could stop writing now and easily live off the royalties and accept the occasional movie deal. Except, I keep writing, a squirrel the money away, I take on editing work to pay my day to day expenses, like keeping my self in drink, and I live from paycheck to paycheck, never touching my savings. So I probably could just quit writing and live large instead of living like a bum, which is what I am doing now. I think if I did that though, I’d probably die from alcoholism within the first five years. I am dying of boredom as I write my current novel. The sex seems as meaningless as my own last encounter. It seems dry and repetitive. If I have to type “throbbing member” one more time I am going to spew all over my damn typewriter. Research shows that my target demographic reading group likes “throbbing member” though, it is the keyword that sells the scene. My target demographic also likes descriptions of things like the medial rings and flared tips. My agent is very insistent that I stick with the formula. Young innocent mare who was a filly only yesterday, does -blank- for a living, meets so and so and thus begins the whirlwind romance. So and so being the embodiment of the romantic preferences of the moment as deemed by popular culture. Some novels, it is a hunky fire-stallion, other novels, it is a rugged farm pony, and so on and so on. In my current novel, the cardboard cutout mare is a coffee shop barista by day, bartender by night, and somehow finds enough time for a reckless romance with a venture capitalist who has dreams of being the world championship ping pong ball player. All of these things are either current trends or the predictions of current trends of what is considered hot in popular culture. As I typed last night, I actually entertained the notion of giving my own eyeballs papercuts as penance for the literary dribble I am producing. I swear, if it wasn’t for Morose and Melancholy leveling me out, I think I would have lost my mind by now. Not sure how much more of this I can take. I need things to change, but the idea of breaking my routine scares me to death. Purple Prosie was sitting in a folding reclining lawn chair on the small balcony accessible from her bedroom. She was wearing a broad sunhat, and had oversized red and white polka dotted sunglasses covering her eyes. She was sipping a tall glass of rum on the rocks, her second one so far today. Morose sat beside her, reclining back in the folding lawn chair, also wearing sunglasses but no hat. Morose’s ears were tied back behind her head with a bright yellow-green ribbon. Morose was drinking an apple soda spiked with gin in a tall glass that was half full. “This is a good life,” Purple Prosie said, sipping her rum. “Quit your job. Become my housekeeper. I’ll pay you to do this every day.” “I am a good respectable donkey,” replied Morose. “I have to be a good example for my little Melancholy.” “But you could spend more time with her if you didn’t have to work,” reasoned Purple Prosie, sucking in an ice cube and crunching it between her broad flat teeth after she spoke. “You don’t mind watching her at night do you?” asked Morose. “She watches herself,” Purple Prosie confessed. “She comes home from her after school program, gets a snack, does her homework, asks me for help if she needs it, has dinner when I fix it, and then reads books or works on her paintings until bedtime. I mostly sit at my typewriter.” “She idolises you, you know,” said Morose. “She wants to be a painter in the same way you are a writer.” “I am an awful writer,” snarked Purple Prosie. “So go back to writing other things,” Morose retorted. “I’ve read your first few novels. They are brilliant, even if they are unnoticed.” “Bah,” muttered Purple Prosie. “Writers must have readers. Writers write to be read. It is too painful writing a novel containing the words of your soul and then have no readers interested in the contents of said soul.” “I don’t think I’d make it without you,” Morose mused. “It is rough being a single mother.” “I know I wouldn’t make it without you Morose. Your my best friend. I think you are my only friend. Everypony else just wants to know ‘Sultry Satin’ for the sake of knowing a famous writer. You are the only real friend I have. I had to ditch the rest of my friends after the ‘incident’ and go into hiding, change my pen name, and start over,” Purple Prosie said bitterly. They clinked glasses together and continued to lay in the sun for the rest of the afternoon.
Chapter 3Life just keeps getting worse and worse. I think I need to go to the doctor. I’ve been having some burning discharge. I’ve either caught something again or the wine bottles crammed into my filly bits has been a bad idea. Either way, I need to schedule an appointment and get it checked out. I really hope I do not have another STI. That would suck. In other news, ponies suck. Really, they do. Some of the landscapers working down the street shouted “donkey lover” to me while I was sitting in the front yard with Morose. I would have been mostly fine with it and would have let it go, but Melancholy was sitting in the front yard with us. So I had to go break a pony’s jaw and dislocate his hip. And I did it without magic too, using good old fashioned pony on pony violence to educate some hapless cretin about good social graces. I might hate my mother for everything else she has done, but getting me to go to self defense courses before university was a great idea. Morose tried to scold me for two hours straight, but kept laughing every time she made the attempt. Something about a squat rather chubby unicorn with posies on her backside kicking the dirt out of an earth pony twice her size really is rather funny when you think about it. Melancholy’s hero worship is bound to become unbearable now. Oh, my dear typewriter, I do love you so, you are so much cheaper than a therapist and you don’t mind if I drink while I am baring my soul. Purple Prosie lay in her bathtub, drinking and staring at the ceiling. This seemed to be as good of a way to pass the time as any. As she did so, her typewriter clicked and pinged occasionally, sitting on a table some distance away in the bathroom. She thought about drowning herself as she slowly typed about the young mare and her growing fascination with the rippling neck muscles of her love interest. Right now, it was neck muscles, in a few months, it might go back to well toned plot muscles. In a year from now, it would be chiseled jawlines and squared snouts. It was all the same really. Focus desire on -blank- and develop a burgeoning curiousity. Rippling neck muscles... Purple Prosie swallowed all of her remaining drink, cursed an unheard by anypony string of vulgarities, and then belched loudly. It was well past midnight, and Melancholy was sleeping in the spare room, on a bed that Purple Prosie had purchased just for her, waiting for her mother to come home. Lucky foal had two bedrooms and left both of them messy. There was no denying it, Purple Prosie knew she was getting fat. Her wide hips actually brushed up against each side of the bathtub. She poked her belly with a hoof, noticing she wasn’t as toned as usual, but softer and pudgier. She sighed loudly and rolled her eyes. The clicking from her typewriter died. Her readers would die if they knew that Sultry Satin was a pudgy loveless mare that couldn’t find love. Sultry Satin looked longingly at her one true love. His body was short and squared off, his neck long and well defined. She longed for his touch, to take him between her lips, to feel the hot rush of his liquid love flowing over her lips, down her throat, burning her throat with the savage heat of torrid love, their love forbidden and condemned in a society that would never accept them. Sultry Satin’s love was perfect, transparent, allowing Sultry to see inside to his very soul, making her lick her lips in desire and crave his taste to run rivulets over her tongue as she lapped longingly at his flared opening. “Oh Rum Bottle, I think I love you!” Purple Prosie came to with a snort, the clacking of her typewriter drawing her back into reality. She didn’t even need to see the paper to know what she had typed, her wandering mind has written down everything she was thinking by channeling the typewriter through her horn. “Oh dog farts,” muttered Purple Prosie. Purple Prosie sat at the table with Morose, drinking coffee and staring blankly at a partially full plate. She felt awful. Her head thudded, her back hurt from falling asleep in the tub, and her eyes were red and bloodshot. “You really need to dry out Prosie, I’m worried,” Morose said softly. “I am too,” agreed Prosie. Both mares paused, hearing the front door open and then slammed closed. “Melly!” shouted Morose, glad to hear her foal. “I have mail!” exclaimed Melancholy. “There is something for Her Royal Purpleness,” she added, her hooves clattering over the battered hardwood floor. Melancholy came into the kitchen, several envelopes on her back, and Purple Prosie lifted them all with her magic. She took the one addressed to her and placed the rest upon the table. Morose watched as Purple Prosie tore open the envelope, read the letter, and then scowled. She started to read the second page and her scowl worsened, Purple Prosie somehow looking even worse than she already did. “What is it?” asked Morose gently. “Bad news?” “No,” replied Purple Prosie, not explaining, just dropping the papers onto the table and drinking down the remainder of her coffee in one gulp. “Well, if I may pry, what is it? You seem upset. What is troubling you?” asked Morose, her voice thick with concern. “Have a look for yourself,” grunted Purple Prosie, grimacing from the hot bitter coffee. Morose dragged the paper towards her with a hoof, picking them up and looking at them. Melancholy sat down, looking worried, her eyes wide with apprehension and concern. She glanced at her mother and Purple Prosie, her long ears framing her face. “This is…” gasped Morose, unable to finish. Purple Prosie nodded, her face full of disgust. “This is a proposal worth six figures worth of bits…” muttered Morose in shock. “Yeah, they want to make a movie about the millionairess philanthropist pony who gave away all of her money, volunteered to work in a soup kitchen, fell in love with a homeless vagrant, and then both of them started a business creating sappy cards with kitschy sayings, fell madly in love with one another as they exchanged cards they had written for one another, and then sold those card ideas to the public and made billions with their greeting card business. It made the bestseller list and stayed there for a whole twenty one months, breaking some sort of record, surviving changing trends and ever changing pop culture. Of course they want a movie,” Purple Prosie said, almost spitting with anger, her voice dripping with vitriol. “Shouldn’t you be happy?” asked Morose. “No!” snapped Purple Prosie. “I do not understand you at times,” whispered Morose. “Purple Prosie lives in constant conflict with her values, her need for stasis, and her need to remain comfortable. Change causes discomfort,” Melancholy quipped. Both mares looked at the foal, both in shock, Purple Prosie setting down her coffee cup. “That’s it. I quit!” Purple Prosie barked. “But-” stammered Morose, still holding the papers. “Yay!” shouted Melancholy, looking jubilant. “Maybe you can be happy again!” “I will give you every single bit that is due from that advance for a movie if you will quit your job right now Morose and become my housekeeper,” offered Purple Prosie. Morose gasped and dropped the papers, they fluttered down to the floor. “Mommy?” inquired Melancholy, looking hopeful. “I… Purple Prosie… I, uh, I don’t know how to answer that,” Morose stuttered, her eyes blinking rapidly in shock. “Mommy, you work too hard and I miss you,” pleaded Melancholy, using her most pathetic sounding and manipulative tone. “I-” began Morose. “You will finally have enough to send me to that school for the gifted,” Melancholy interrupted, her eyes wide and pleading. “I’ve offered to pay for that so many times now,” said Purple Prosie. “You now have a housekeeper,” mumbled Morose. “YES! Finally!” shouted Purple Prosie. “I can selfishly have my friend around at all hours of the day to comfort me and cater to my whims!”
Chapter 4Funny how your life can change in an instant. Or a day. I know mine did. The moment I quit, I felt a great weight lifted off of my shoulders. I have a few more books due on contract, and then, it will be over. I have already noticed some improvement in my life, dear typewriter. Morose is working on enrolling Melancholy into a fancy school for the gifted, and Melancholy is certainly gifted. Maybe now, when I have more free time, I can help her out with her art, or get her to try writing, or just be a better friend and spend more time with her. She deserves that. My mood swings have been worse lately. Might be the drinking, might be the stress, I don’t know what it is, but it bothers me. I’ve never been a stable mare, (teehee, I made a pun!) but this is becoming unbearable even from my own perspective. Funny, I quit my current writing gig and already I am getting story ideas. Like an idea about a donkey single mother that has a washed up friend that is a writer… oh wait. Never mind. That is a terrible idea. Nopony would ever read that drivel. It doesn’t meet the marketing data. Haha, but I do feel better. Purple Prosie hated the doctor’s office. The canned music, the smell of disinfectant, and the waiting, the waiting was the worst. Waiting in the waiting room and then waiting some more back in the examination room, and then, if you were lucky, waiting again for a while longer on results. Like now. Purple Prosie had waited almost a full hour after peeing into a cup, trying to find out why it burned when she peed. She had already read the magazines in the room, boring housemare stuff really. She sat, humming to herself, kicking her hind legs as she sat in the chair, waiting not so patiently, thinking about getting up and walking out. This was ridiculous. Just as she started to slide out of her chair, the door opened and the doctor walked in. She was smiling a polite smile, and carrying a clipboard under her wing. “Miss Prosie,” the doctor said, her tone filled with medical professional sincerity, “Sorry to keep you waiting. I have some interesting results for you.” “About damn time,” Purple Prosie muttered, her words doing nothing at all to the doctor’s medical professional grade standard issue smile. “The bad is news is, you have a mild bladder infection,” the doctor announced, still smiling a now infuriating smile. “The bad news?” asked Purple Prosie, now looking confused. “Yes, and there is good news! The good news is, you will be having a foal soon! I bet you’re excited!” There was a thud as Purple Prosie fainted. “Miss Prosie?” Purple Prosie’s mind slowly came back into focus. She thought about everything that had been going on lately. Her constant nausea, mood swings, the never ending growth of her plot, oh pony was her plot getting big, and her mood swings… there might have been something about mood swings in her thinking. Her hips were now wide enough to fill the tub, one side to the other. “Miss Prosie, speak to me if you can,” the doctor repeated. “I can’t be pregnant, I haven’t had sex in three months, and I am on the pill,” responded Purple Prosie. “That’s funny, because you are about four months pregnant I’d say,” the doctor replied cheerfully. “And the pill doesn’t always work.” A groan escaped Purple Prosie’s lips as she lay on the examination table, staring up at the textured ceiling. A foal. Well, that certainly made things interesting to say the least. “Wait, doc, I drink a fair bit, is everything going to be alright?” she asked, real panic creeping into her voice now. “If you stop now, things should be okay,” mused the doctor, pressing her lips together after she spoke, her face concerned. “Ugh,” groaned the purple pony on the examination table whose entire life had just ended, and who had just been given a death sentence in the form of being responsible for another life other than her own, which is the worst thing you could ever do to a helpless self focused self serving narcissistic drama queen with a flair for the dramatic and a need to be doted on to keep the fires of her ego fanned, lest she crumble like a cookie left too long in milk. “There goes my love affair with my filly bits,” she added, the sting of her filly bit’s betrayal overwhelming her already overwrought senses, causing her to spiral downward. “Are you going to be alright?” asked the doctor, her standard issue medical grade look of worry mask now covering her face. “Not if I can help it, I have other plans,” pled the plump and ponderous purple pony with the plentiful plot, prone upon the platform of probing and prodding, perusing her percentages and possibilities, perplexed and plotting proposals posted to her privates and the parasite planted there. “You’ll be fine,” the doctor said cheerfully, using her standard issue medical grade comfort the patient voice. “Prosie, you’re scaring me,” Morose said, gently nudging the staring mare. There was no response, which really worried Morose. Morose expected dramatics. Shouting. Cursing. Anger. Something. Anything. This was the worst sort of reaction, because there was no reaction. Her best friend was broken, something inside of her brain had going “sproing” and the springs and gears had come loose. “Oh minotaur shit,” Purple Prosie mumbled. “Good Prosie, that’s better, keep going, say something colourful,” Morose begged, patting her friend gently. “What is minotaur shit?” asked Melancholy, causing her mother to blanch. “Well, that is something that can never be undone,” Morose lamented, summoning a supreme act of will to keep from laughing. “In a few months a parasitic alien infestation is going to come exploding out of my filly bits, covered in blood, squealing and shrieking, my filly bits are going to burst and rip and tear, and just the very idea of all of this is causing me to speak in broken sentences and fractured jumbled fragments of spoken reason, this parasitic growth is going to launch from my nethers in a hail of blood and flatulence, forever destroying any chance I had at being a career alcoholic,” announced Purple Prosie. “That’s better dear, that’s what I’ve been waiting on, let it out,” asked Morose, heaving a sigh of relief. “That is the pony I know,” she added. “Sounds scary, can I watch?” Melancholy asked. “Sure kid, why not, it’ll be educational right? Want to watch Purple Prosie’s filly bits explode as the parasitic alien growth escapes its fleshy prison and then sets out to wreak havoc upon the world?” asked Purple Prosie. “Sounds exciting!” Melancholy replied. “Oh for the love of fluffernutter sandwiches,” groused Morose. “Even I wasn’t this melodramatic when I had Melancholy.”
