Moon over Manehattan. It disappears soon as I walk down the stairs, deep into the underground, deep into the bowels of this town. Night. There’s night outside and another, eternal night inside. Who’d say Nightmare Moon’s wish would come true, a thousand years later, due to the industrial development that makes us put trains under the surface of the streets?
A kingdom of eternal night. Probably not what she imagined after all. It’s dark, but it’s light at the same time, with all those lights, lanterns, all those small things that let us see, let the ponies tame the darkness. The ponies are there of course. Hundreds, thousands of them. How many of them lives in Manehattan? I’m sure I’d be able to find such an information somewhere. But not now, not now. Now it’s time to go home from work that makes me sit there with other ponies till the night comes. There’s a filly here, on the station. She’s looking at the schedule, looking for a train to bring her…
Where? Home, like me? Work? Those kids start so early… She has earrings, it’s mostly earrings I see, brown ears under a cherry mane. Cherries and earrings and a blank flank on the top of that. There’s a mare there, cream fur, collar, blue hair; she’s on the other platform, there’s the stallion next to her. Black mane, grey fur. They don’t know each other. I don’t know them. Those lights make every colour wither and dull, I wouldn’t recognise my mother if she was here. Maybe she is? She’s a good mare, not the kind who walks around the town at night, breathing the air permeated with alcohol, cigarettes, and sweat, and filth, vomit, all that civilisation. The filly stops reading the schedule, she’s now sitting at the bench, a cigarette in her mouth, and filth and all that civilisation. She shouldn’t smoke here, she shouldn’t smoke at all. Civilisation. The cream-coloured mare finds her train, finds her aim. Never gonna see her again.
A train whistles past us, its wheels screeching on the tracks. There was once a colt on those tracks. Pale, small guy, waited for a train, jumped on the tracks, there was no colt. Some other colts and fillies join Ms. Cherry Earrings, some older than her, one white filly definitely younger. What’s she doing with them, I don’t know. I don’t wanna know. This town is full of ponies who don’t know anything about one another. I didn’t know that colt who jumped on the tracks and I think he didn’t know me. He jumped on the tracks and he was gone. I heard it’s the worst feeling in the world, be on a train, pushing all the brakes, but it needs time to stop, after all. It’s a big, fast piece of metal with engine and small, good but not good enough brakes. You see a colt on the tracks and you push all the brakes, it all grinds, grinding, skidding to a halt, but you know the colt is gone.
Not your fault.
Still, it feels like it.
The colts and fillies laughs, chuckle on the platform, pushing each other. Cherry Earrings drops the cigarette butt, smashes it, leaves nothing but dust, filth, smoke, civilisation. She’s loud, obnoxious, other passengers stare at the group, their eyes widening. Manehattan, the town of the great possibilities, here’s the rich pony who wandered into our underground accidentally, there’s a mare who works as a secretary for another rich mare, her eyes widening behind her glasses, they all look and watch and stare at the teenagers, thinking what is it, Manehattan, the town of the great possibilities and here’s the fillies and the colts, smoking and laughing and misbehaving, the guards should do something about that, where are the guards when you need them? Where’s the princess, or all four of them?
The train arrives. The doors open with a loud screech. Where’s the princess, somepony should check those doors, clean the filth. Universe. I trot forward. Fillies and colts trot with me, the secretary trots with us, all those ponies, rich, poor, happy, fat, sad, lanky, stinky, whatever, they all go into the carriage, filling it with bodies, sweat, odour of cigarettes, laughter, frowns. The doors close, the station blurs, the train drives over the spot where the colt used to be. I wonder what they did to him. Not the open casket probably, though medicine today can do wonders. Not that kind of wonders, but still, there are only a few things that can prevent you from lying in an open casket. Trains being one of them. I look at the white filly in the middle of the group. They talk, swearing loudly, but not as loudly, as if they were ashamed, like parents who argue in front of their child. She doesn’t seem to mind. She swears to, stammering, blushing, like she wanted to be like them, yet something’s stopping her. Cherry Earrings pats her back, hugs her.
I look out of the window, to stare at the black blur behind it. Why do those trains even have windows? Most of the lines is underground, all you see are walls, tunnels, graffiti, sparkling wires, graffiti, rats, blood, vomit, filth. A little, comfortable world, a miniature version of what we have on the surface. A jungle. A natural habitat for laughing, smoking fillies, who don’t care, doesn’t seem to mind that their age of innocence is soon going to an end, and then you’ll become just like that secretary, or a cream-coloured mare with blue hair, or like a rich pony, an adult, worried, with two foals, a job, a flat on the surface, or maybe you’ll end up here, underground, with a syringe full of tickets to the dream world, lanky, hungry, toothless, not seeing that the world around them falls apart, hiding in the backs of their heads.
The train skids to a halt. Not my station. Not the fillies and colts’ station either. Not the secretary’s station. The rich stallion leaves the train, looking behind and shuddering. The doors close and again it’s only us and faint light in the carriage, and the stinky air, and old seats, and homeless pony who sits in the corner and mutters nonsense to himself. Everypony wants to be as far from him as possible, he mutters nonsense even louder, even Ms. Cherry Earrings is disgusted, and she smells of cigarettes, and cheap wine, and young filly’s sweat; the colt next to her smells even worse but she doesn’t seem to mind. Maybe she’s used to it, I’m not sure. Maybe she can’t smell it. Maybe he has some virtues only she’s aware of. She gives me a nasty look and I realise that I’m staring at her. I look into the window, bricks, that used to be red, are now covered in soot and dust, dirt and graffiti.
The train stops, brakes screeching. Is there a colt on the tracks? No, it’s just another station. Not mine. Not the colts and fillies’ either. Maybe it’s the homeless pony’s, but he’s asleep. Some new ponies enter the carriage, young ponies, angry, smelling of smoke, vodka, there’s something else about them, they’re loud, jerky moves, shrunk pupils, looking for trouble. The white filly hides behind Ms. Cherry Earrings, the donkey, the yellow pegasus, and stinky guy with red mane stand by her side. I try not to look at them. They won’t look at me. Target. They need a target and they found one; one of them spits on the floor, they move towards the group of teenagers, all minds united, a single, drug-powered beast. Hooves, teeth, a knife. Blood on the face, blood on the floor. There was a beast, now there are three scarred colts, who run away, limping as soon as the train stops. Cherry Earrings hides her knife, looks at me, looks at the secretary and leaves, followed by the white filly, looking at her in awe.
There’s just me and the secretary now, and the homeless pony, but he’s not there, sleeping and snoring and smelling of this small, underground world. The secretary looks at me and smiles faintly. What’s she thinking about? She looks behind the window, at the soot, and graffiti, and thinks about the colt who used to be and now he doesn’t exist anymore, or maybe she thinks of a beast that changed into three colts, or maybe she’s just happy that she didn’t have to deal with them herself, or maybe terrified because of those few drops of blood on the floor. Not much; the colt, however… Nopony can survive a train. Not when there’s such a big puddle. Maybe the guards will get interested in that blood. They’ll come, wake up the homeless pony and ask him about it, and he won’t tell, because he’s been sleeping, then how can he tell when he was sleeping?
I’m hungry and I want to go home; I guess she’s hungry too and the homeless pony is also hungry. It’s just that time of day when everyone’s hungry and they want to be home, expect maybe fillies who carry knives, and don’t mind being on a train with strangers, at that time of the day. I wonder who her parents are? Maybe I know them? This town is full of ponies who don’t know each other. But statistically, there are quite a few who know each other. Maybe I knew her when she was younger. Maybe my boss, Mr. Orange, is her father? Or maybe uncle. He doesn’t have his own children, from what I know, but his wife has lots of siblings. There used to live some cousin from the countryside with them. I don’t know what happened to her. I look at the secretary, but from her look I guess she doesn’t know either. The train stops. We walk out of the carriage and each of us go somewhere else, and we’re not going to meet again, because that’s how this town works; civilisation. I walk up the stairs, I breathe clean air, as clean as possible in this town. On my way home, I look at the sky.
Moon over Manehattan.
