Hi everypony! After failing miserably with my first, religion-laced story, I decided to try again. Please, give me all the criticism I deserve, but constructive only. Thanks! A little history on this fic (along with a funny story): I'm not an artist in any walk of life or speakable form. I can't draw or paint or write or act. However, I had a sudden burst of creativeness, as I will occasionally. I usually let them pass, realizing that they can't come to fruition with my skill, but I held on the the idea: this story. I jotted down some notes and got home later that day. When I read my notes, they were all in Hebrew! I translated them out, and had a layout for a wonderful story. However, English is in fact my first language, so don't worry about total linguistic derps or anything like that. However, it's not unlikely that I may leave a hint for all my Israeli brony pals...
Sit back, relax, and enjoy the story!
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I slowly flutter my eyes to wakefulness, and my head pounds unrelentingly as a thank you. Light is smashing its gaze into my bloodshot eyes, and my migraine/hangover combo makes my sense of coherence all fuzzy. This mental static throws me off and convinces me I'm somehow anatomically different. I shove the random thought aside and scrounge the annals of my memory for what I remember That last round of drinking went totally awry, and I was out like a light with that last tequila. My idiot friends, I guarantee, had drawn phalluses on my drool-smeared, unconscious face. Great. So what is this weird feeling I've got here? All that courses through my mind are 'Winter Wrap Up', 'Smile, Smile, Smile' , and all the rest of the cheerful My Little Pony songs, loud as my own personal marching band. Like that's going to help my poor ringing ears - They even feel kinda soft to the touch. Maybe my migraine would clear up if I got a couple more hours of glorious, precious sleep... I could call in sick... or disabled - my hangover's throwing me for a loop. Chuckling softly, I reach out my hoof to close the towering blinds...
Hold on. WHAT!?
Oh crap.
Holy crap what the hell is going on keeps repeating in my now alert brain.
My head floods with infinite streams of nigh-identical questions, and there's only one way to answer them all. Panicking, I fly out of bed like a kamikaze, only faceplant straight into the wall. Except this isn't my wall - it's pink. This isn't my bed - it's too majestic. This isn't my body. I gingerly attempt to stand bipedal, but my new equine centre of gravity says otherwise, and I tumble to the ground on my flank like a four-year-old. Giving up to my newfound instincts, I gallop over on all fours to the next room over - luckily, it's a bathroom - and gaze into the mirror. A stranger stares back at me raptly.
I'm a pony.
Oh crap, what did I do? Is this permanent? Is this a dream? A quick hoof to the face answers that last question painfully. My blood freezes and boils simultaneously in a Discord-esque emotional cocktail of sadness, fear, and confusion. According to my now wide-open, hazel eyes, I'm a white-coated pony with a black-and-white striped mane. So I look like Pepe le Peu. Wonderful. A thrashing whirl of the neck to check my butt reports that I lack a Cutie Mark, so I don't even know my purpose in life. Not like I had one before this. I don't want to explain the full story (I'll get emotional), so let's just say it sucked. Hard. All I can do is pray for redemption in this second chance at life in ponyhood. Continuing on my thorough inspection, I prod for feathers and wings or even the tiniest stub of a horn, but to no avail. I'm officially an Earth pony. Sadly acknowledging that I can't zoom through the clouds at breakneck speed with Rainbow Dash or perform magic spells of all varieties like Twilight Sparkle, I take Applejack's best skill to heart. I draw near the wall, coil the muscles in my haunches and buck with such force with my two rear hooves that I'd send Duke Nukem crying for his momma. The wall shakes like an earthquake and a seizure all at once, and fine white plaster from the ceiling covers everything in the room, including me. I'm allergic to dust, and I sneeze like a cannon, throwing my hooves into the wall yet again. This time, the wall isn't so lucky, and collapses. When I tentatively turn around to see the damage, I note not a wall, but an empty void of darkness and sawdust. I sneeze again, and shatter the mirror on the opposite side. Millions of tiny shards glimmer on the floor in front of me. At this, I realize Earth ponies have energy, and lots of it. Pinkie Pie utilizes it to party and dance with no peer (and break walls, too, albeit they're the fictional fourth wall), whereas Applejack's honed it to the harvest of apples. I just used it to destroy whosever's house this is.
Why did I do that?
I hear a murmur of confused voices from the floor above me, and I peel my ears to identify the mare's voice. Hold on, there are two of them. I fail to recognize them, but I hear both a heavy object like a club (or a piano, for all I know) being lifted off the floor, light as a feather or a doll, and the flapping of mighty wings from the same source. I fear the worst, and it comes in spades. The Sun Princess herself is glaring daggers at me, her dazzling sunset mane glittering and waving in an invisible wind. As her unforgiving eyes bore holes in my brain, I wish I had time to do what people my age do. If she wasn't intent on killing me, I'd love to just stare at her and imagine her as a human. Maybe she'd be wearing a bikini, or even... Oh man. But I have to get my mind out of the gutter. There's no time for perverse daydreams. No time for anything. Except fear. A simple nod and devilish smirk tells her two golden-shod accomplices all they need to know, and they dash behind me and cuff me up with expert and deft movements.
I attempt to explain everything I can, as quickly as I can, but the sheer astonishment of Celestia's size (and existence) reduce my story to a rut of blithering, stuttering drivel and screams as I writhe in a fruitless attempt to escape the guards' firm grips. "Yep, he's cuckoo," the night-shade stallion on my left remarks snidely. The opposite, more nasal voice replies: "Let's tag him and toss him in the asylum." Luna creeps up behind her big sister and disappears into a little ball of horror as she watches me wide-eyed as the intruder in her home acts like a crazy pony. Her mane glitters with a starry night's image, leaving pinpoint afterimages in my closed eyes. Or at least I think they're closed, because the bag they put over my face robs me of sight and speech. The Princess of the Moon being scared of me may be the last thing I ever see, because this bag smells funny. My knees feel oddly weak. I'm dizzy. And down goes Frasier.
What a morning.
