The Destruction of the Self

by Cold in Gardez

Rating: teen
Tags: Slice of Life, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic
Length: 6205

Buckwheat would like to be a farmer. But what he wants isn't important, and that's alright with him.

There is a village where everypony can be the same.

You may have read some nasty things about it. Rumors of stolen cutie marks and power-mad unicorns. Tall tales about forced smiles and frightened glances.

It's all lies. All except the part about us wanting to escape. That's true.

It's why we came here in the first place.

Winner of the May Writeoff Event.

Published 2015-06-03 15:10:01 UTC
Last updated 2015-06-04 13:20:42 UTC

Buckwheat

I wake up, and I think I would like to be a farmer today.

Spring Heath is asleep beside me, a purple shape in the dark. I give her a nudge with my muzzle, in case she feels like fooling around, but she mumbles and rolls away.

Ah well, perhaps tomorrow. I leave her to sleep while I get ready for the day.

The house is quiet without any foals. There are no thumps echoing from the bedrooms, or slamming doors, or shouts from tiny throats that they need a special lunch today for a field trip and sorry for not mentioning it last night. It is peaceful, and I hear the grandfather clock ticking in the parlor, even from my spot sipping coffee in the kitchen.

Spring Heath descends the stairs, her coat and mane still matted from sleep. I gesture to the steaming mug waiting at her seat, and she smiles at me.

I hope I get to be a farmer today.

* * *

“Buckwheat!” The administrator calls my name, and I step out of line. My heart is pounding, and even though the spring day is still chilly, I feel the first drop of sweat run down my side.

Please be a farmer. Please be a farmer.

The mare who called for me sits behind a folding wooden table set up in the village square. She has a pencil tucked behind her ear, and her mane is already frazzled despite the early hour.

I approach, and she fumbles with the paper tag that has my name. She glances between me and the list of names on the table before her. She looks at me again, then at the tag, and finishes back at the paper.

I don’t think she’s done this before.

“Uh, Buckwheat?” She waits until I nod. “Okay, good. You're the blacksmith!”

I wince, my ears falling flat against my mane. “Are you sure? Not a farmer?”

She runs her hoof down the list of names on her clipboard again, then slides it sideways to the column of jobs. “No, blacksmith. Do you know where to go?”

“Yeah, I’ve done it before.” I turn away to let the next pony take my place. There’s no point in holding up the whole village.

* * *

Whoever was the blacksmith last forgot to put their tools away, so instead of firing up the forge I spend the first hour of my day cleaning hammers, refilling barrels of water, oiling the bellow, sweeping ashes from the hearth and brushing metal shavings out of the swages. It’s easy work, and at sunset I’ll do it again without complaint.

But still, yesterday’s blacksmith should have done it before leaving. I make a note to speak with the mayor, as soon as I find out who that is.

Blacksmithing isn’t as hard as it sounds. You just heat the iron in the forge until it glows, take it out (carefully!) with the tongs, then hit it with the hammer until it’s the shape you want. I like to think I’ve gotten better at it over the years.

I consider the misshapen disk of wounded metal before me. It didn’t quite curve the way I’d hoped, and the sides are split in several places. If I squint, it vaguely resembles a pancake with curled edges, or maybe an ashtray.

Close enough. I place it on the shop counter, where a tan earth pony is waiting. “Here’s your bowl, sir.”

We stare at it in silence for some time.

“Okay,” he finally says. He drops a few coins on the counter and leaves with his purchase.

Rarely, maybe twice a year, Igneous gets to be the blacksmith, and she crafts masterworks of iron and steel for us. Plows, horseshoes, barrels of nails; on that day everything is perfect. The anvil sings when she strikes it with her hammer, and ponies stop in the street outside, forming crowds, all gawking at her virtuoso display.

But today I am the blacksmith.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll get to be a farmer.

But it’s fine if I don’t.

* * *

My new home is a small bungalow on the west side of the village. Beyond it, stretching out into the distance, are acres of wheat and barley, all waving stalks that fill the air with a faint whisper as the wind threads between them. I stop, and for a moment I feel like captain of a ship, watching the ocean sway before me.

I remember planting these rows the last time I was a farmer. It was early spring, and I trod across the bare ground with a plow strapped behind me. Each step was a battle with the hard earth, struggling to break it open to make way for the seeds. My legs and back were sore for days afterward. It was wonderful.

I surrender myself to the memory, letting it play out in my mind while the wind teases my mane and the scent of ripening grains fills my nose like the richest perfume. Even now, months later, the stalks grow in stately rows that obey my design. The bumble-hoofed efforts of hundreds of other villagers cannot erase the traces of my talent. The whole village is this way – a seed of genius, watered with good intentions and grown into something ramshackle but loved.

But enough reminiscing. I sigh and push open the door to my home, where there is a foal waiting for me. I vaguely recognize his lemon coat, and after a few seconds I speak.

“Saffron… Spark?”

“Saffron Lark,” he corrects me, then runs up to toss his legs around me for a hug. “Welcome home, dad! Mom’s making dinner.”

I walk into the next room, which turns out to be the kitchen, and sure enough a lime green mare is at work over the skillet. The smile on my face is genuine – the first of the day. Glenmore has been my wife before, and she makes a mean potato casserole. I can smell it cooking.

She trots over and kisses my cheek. “Welcome home… Buckwheat, right? How was your day?”

“Not bad,” I say. And it’s true.

* * *

I am supposed to be asleep beside my wife, but instead I lie awake in the dark. This happens, sometimes.

I can see, dimly, the square shape of a picture frame standing sentinel on the nightstand beside our bed. Tomorrow, when I am assigned a new home, it is the only object I will take with me, and I will set it on the nightstand beside my new bed. I will fall asleep staring at it.

We are each allowed this – one item, to remind ourselves why we came to the village. For Glenmore, snoring softly beside me, it is a gold locket in the shape of a treble clef she wears around her neck. A cutie mark, but somepony else’s. Sometimes, when she thinks I’m not looking, she touches it with her hoof.

In time, the others tell me, the need to keep these things close will fade. One day I will leave this old picture behind, and the transition to my new life will be complete.

Outside, a cloud that has occluded the moon completes its slow passage across the sky, and silvery light shines through our bedroom window, casting pale shadows on our bedspread. It is enough to see the mare smiling at me from the picture; her bright teeth, her dark green coat, her eyes that never stopped sparkling. Behind her, Canterlot’s towers rise like trees toward the sky.

Ponies who visit our village ask, bewildered, how we do it. How we can stand to change everything –everything – about our lives every day. How we don’t go insane.

These ponies have never suffered. They’ve never stumbled out of their home, no longer hearing the doctor shout behind them. They’ve never buried their wife and stillborn foal in the same casket.

They cannot understand how oblivion draws us like iron filings to a magnet. How it becomes the vortex into which we swim, heedless, welcoming. They cannot comprehend this hatred of the self.

These ponies have never suffered. Maybe, if they did, they would understand the solace we find here, where every pony can be any other. Where I will never lose my wife or my child or my home or my friends, because no matter what happens, there will always be another to take their place. Where I need be nothing more than the drop of rain that vanishes in the river, flowing with the current into the whirlpool’s maw, indistinguishable from all the other drops around me.

I love it here.

Perhaps tomorrow I’ll be a farmer.

Spring Heath

I am back in Fillydelphia, and Quatrefoil is alive, and that is impossible.

We’re breakfasting at our favorite cafe, the small Prench one with no interior seating and only a few old iron tables crammed together on the patio. It must have just rained, for the sidewalk around us is dark and wet, even though the sky is clear and the morning sun is peeking over the graceful brownstones that line the city’s streets.

The morning rush has passed, and the streets are full of shoppers and tourists ambling from storefront to storefront, filling the air with their chatter. It must be a school day, for there are no foals running between parents’ legs or stamping in the puddles or shouting at the birds.

“Listen,” Quatrefoil says. His horn glows as he sets his coffee back down on the saucer. “I know I said I wanted to wait, but I’ve been thinking, and—”

* * *

A gentle nudge on the shoulder wakes me from the dream. For a confused moment I cannot remember where I am, or what day it is, or why I’m in bed with a strange-smelling stallion running his muzzle through my mane. Memories blend together in the darkness, and I freeze, staring at the rough wood wall, trying to recover my sense of self.

It comes back with the abruptness of a ship crashing against a reef. The year’s long journey that led me to this place, to a strange bed in a strange house with a strange stallion curled up behind me, our bodies tangled together, barely visible in the dim pre-dawn light peeking in from under the shades.

The stallion makes a quiet, hopeful sound, and finally I am anchored in the present. Buckwheat – that’s his name, Buckwheat who wants to be a farmer – slides his hoof down my flank to my cutie mark, and for a moment I’m tempted. He is a nice stallion, and last night he was a very nice stallion, but right now the pall of the dream is still a weight on my mind, and I want nothing more than to sleep a few more minutes.

He takes the hint. I feel him climb out of bed, and slumber takes me once again.

* * *

Twenty-some minutes later I am still tired, but my bladder has decided it wants me to be awake. I take a final deep draw of Buckwheat’s scent from the sheets, then stumble out of bed and into the adjoining bathroom for my morning ablutions.

The rich aroma of fresh coffee has permeated the house by the time I am done, and I follow my nose down the stairs in search of its source. Buckwheat is seated at the table, sipping from a chipped mug, and as we make eye contact he motions across the table, where the chair is already pulled out. Another mug waits there, chipped and green and worn, but even in the dim light I can see the steam rising from it. I give him the warmest smile I can manage before noon and settle into the seat, holding the mug in both hooves, letting its warmth seep into my bones. The coffee is dark and bitter and delicious, and for several minutes the only sound is the faint tick-tock of a clock somewhere in the house.

I could learn to like this, I think. I could learn to love Buckwheat, and every morning I could sleep in a few extra minutes while he brews the coffee. We could sit here in the quiet pre-dawn silence, slowly marshalling the strength necessary to face the coming day.

What would Buckwheat say, if I confessed to this silly fantasy? Would he laugh it off as a joke? I am halfway to finding the courage to speak when he sets his empty mug down on the table. He stands and places a light kiss on my cheek, then turns toward the door.

“Ten minutes until assembly,” he says. “I’ll see you there. Maybe.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I reply. It is our answer to everything in this village – maybe. Maybe I’ll meet you for dinner. Maybe I love you. Maybe I’ll see you again. It’s a safe word, one that cannot bind ponies together. It is the ultimate expression of the purgatory in which we exist.

I finish my coffee, wash out our mugs, and walk out the door after my once and future husband.

* * *

I make it to the school five minutes before the opening bell.

Radish Leaf meets me at the entrance with a stack of binders. His mane is a bit frazzled, and his glasses cling precariously to his muzzle, ready to drop the next time he jerks his head too quickly.

“Morning, Spring Heath!” he greets me warmly, despite the apparent stress of his new job. Being the principal – or, really, any leadership role in the village – is hard and thankless. “What’d you get?”

“Elementary.” There are only four teachers at the village school, and I have been every one of them. It’s a pleasant job, but tiring. I doubt I’ll have the energy to do much more than collapse into bed when I get home. Hopefully my husband will understand.

“Good, good.” The top binder glows, surrounded by his magic, and floats over to me. “There’s today’s lesson plan. Have fun!”

“Maybe,” I say. There are already foals streaming past us toward the classrooms, and I follow the flow.

* * *

The filly I once called my daughter is sitting in the front row when I walk in. I give her the same smile I give everypony else before turning to the front of the room to write my name on the chalkboard.

“Good morning, class,” I say as I write. “I am Spring Heath, and I’ll be your teacher today.”

“Good morning, Miss Spring Heath!” the foals shouts back in a ragged chorus. They are, at least, more enthusiastic about being awake than I am.

“Today we’ll be studying long division.” I pause to read a note left in the binder by yesterday’s teacher. “But first, everypony take out your homework and pass it to the front of the room.”

The day flies by quickly. Something about being around foals energizes me, as though mere proximity with their youth restores the years I have lost. I feel myself smiling without meaning and laughing when they laugh. Soon enough we have moved past long division into world history, and then grammar and science. The final lesson of the day is optics, and we spend the last minutes of class talking about how droplets of water form rainbows.

When the bell rings, I wish I could turn back the hands on the clock for just one more hour. Or sabotage the administrator’s plans for tomorrow, so that I can come back and be the elementary teacher again. It’s not unheard of for ponies to have the same job twice in a row – in fact, statistically, it should happen to somepony or other every day. No pony would bat an eye if I ended up back here.

I am so wrapped up in these thoughts that I almost miss my chance. “Petunia!”

The filly I once called my daughter stops at the door, turning back to me in surprise. She whispers something to her friend and trots over to me. “Yes, Miss Spring Heath?”

I wait as long as I can before answering, just drinking in the sight of her. She’s grown since the last time I was the teacher, and her mane is done up in pigtails today, with a bright red ribbon tied around the base of her tail. It is so loud against her pale pink coat that it seems to shout.

“I…” I clear my throat. “I’m sorry, I just wanted to ask how you were doing.”

“Um, I’m good.” She pauses and looks down at her hooves. “How are you?”

“Good.” It’s the only answer we ever give in the village. How could we be anything else?

“Okay. Um, maybe I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Maybe,” I say. She turns to leave, and is almost out the door when I speak again. “You look like your father, you know.”

She blinks at me. “I do?”

I wonder which pony she is imagining. Which stallion tucked her in last night, and made her breakfast this morning. I wonder if I want to know.

“A different father,” I say. “I’m sorry to keep you from your friends. It’s just, I think about you sometimes.”

“Oh.” She glances back at the door and shifts her hooves. “Why?”

I find I don’t have an answer for that, not one I can share. In time, she leaves.

* * *

There’s nopony waiting when I get home. According to the small note taped to the door, I’m single tonight. No husband, no foals.

It’s nice not to have to cook a family dinner, or entertain a strange stallion whose interests may not align with mine. Sometimes I wish I could be single more often, but then I remember the understated, silent pleasure of waking up next to somepony, simmering in their body heat, letting the hours drift by to the sound of their heart.

I wonder, as I turn out the lights and crawl under the covers, which house Petunia is in. I wonder if Buckwheat is tucking her in right now. I wonder who her mother is.

They say that after a few years in the village, we’ll forget our old lives. We’ll leave behind the trinket we brought with us, the single anchor that binds us to the past. We will set it aside, the way a moth leaves behind its cocoon. We will join the gray, indivisible ranks that stretch out into the mists.

It has been seven years since I arrived here on a cruel April night with a squalling foal strapped to my back. It has been four years since I abandoned my trinket, my anchor, my Petunia. I should be past these memories.

But instead I imagine Quatrefoil is with me. His arms wrap around me, and together we slip gently into dreams and the night.

Glenmore

I wake up a few seconds before the alarm rings.

The bed is colder than it should be, and flatter too. There is no other pony beneath the sheets with me, their weight bending the cheap mattress and pulling me closer. My back is cold where some stallion or mare should be nestled against it.

This happens, sometimes. The administrators decide that some percentage of the village’s ponies should be single for the night, and rather than pairing off at chance’s whim we are left to fend for ourselves. On some of these nights, I go in search of the similarly lonely, and engineer for myself what the village has not given me. On other nights I end up like this, and I wake up alone, without the anchor of another body to fix my sense of self.

It’s not bad. But it is a little chilly, and I pull the sheet up over my shoulder just as the alarm goes off.

I was done sleeping, anyway. It’s not as fun by myself.

* * *

“Glenmore!” The administrator calls my name and looks up with a smile as I approach. I’m one of the last names today, and as soon as she finishes with the last of us, her job is done for the next several hours. It’s a break she deserves – the administrator is the first pony to wake in the morning, and spends hours before the sun rises arranging everypony else’s jobs, families and homes.

“Good morning, Chamois,” I say. “Got something good for me?”

“Maybe.” She runs the tip of her hoof along the row beside my name. “Ah, you have the day off.”

I wince. “Let me guess…”

She nods and shoots me a small smile. “Yeah, tomorrow’s administrator. Sorry.”

I wave a hoof. “It’s fine. I’ve done it a few times. Nice to have an extra day off, too.”

The day off is traditional – nopony works harder than the administrator. The hundreds of ponies who live in the village all try our best to make this brave little community work, but problems invariably crop up. Some the mayor can deal with, but anything regarding a future assignment is up to the administrator and her dice. She is the only pony in the village who can change who we are or what we do. She holds everyone’s lives in her hoof.

“Enjoy it while you can.” Chamois brushes a stray strand of mane away from her face. “I think I’m going to go home and collapse for a few hours. First time, you know?”

“You did fine. And the afternoon is pretty easy.” After lunch Chamois will go around the village, passing out addresses for the evening. The administrator never tells ponies who their new mate is – they have to discover that for themselves when they walk in the door.

“Glad to hear that.” Chamois beckons over the last two ponies waiting for assignments. I wait for her to finish with the patience of a pony who has the rest of the day off. “So, any plans?”

“Maybe.” I cast my thoughts back to the last time I had the day off. “I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

* * *

The village general store is unusually diverse.

It has to be. Ponies in the village come from all across Equestria, and they keep with them only a single memento. No other luggage, belongings, souvenirs, knick-knacks or furniture allowed.

Every house in the village is well-stocked with everything a pony might need to live and then some. Belongings accumulate in them – artwork, clothing, specialized cooking implements – left behind each morning as their owners depart. It slowly piles up, until once a month the whole village takes a day off to sweep everything out and return their house to the basics. Even the foals help, though they alone in the village stay in the same home every day. Only their parents change.

All this junk must go somewhere. Burning it would be a waste, so instead it ends up in the inaptly named general store, which has become over the years something more akin to a warehouse filled with every conceivable good a pony could want, and over the course of the month it slowly empties as ponies purchase back their belongings from it, only to leave them behind in a stranger’s house one morning.

It is to this store that I head. I wave to the clerk as I enter and head directly to the back.

My violin is where it always is. Nopony else in the town ever touches it, though there are three fiddles on the stand beside it that see frequent use. There is no difference between them, technically, except mine still bears the glow of its warm varnish, while the fiddles are worn and faded down to the bare wood. I spend a moment staring at them, trying to remember the last time the village held a true concert, then shrug and nab my instrument and its bow. The clerk barely looks up from his magazine as I drop a few bits on the counter on my way out.

* * *

I set a cushion in the village square, beside an old fountain that once flowed with water but now is filled with dirt and flowers. It is nopony’s job to maintain this impromptu garden, but every week or so I walk by to see it trimmed and leveled, with new flowers to replace those no longer in bloom. Somepony’s hobby – an echo of their old life, like music is of mine.

I spend an hour tuning the violin and playing some basic scales. Once I was a master of this instrument, but years in the village have eroded that sharp edge, and now all that remains is the talent I fostered as a filly. It’s enough to play in public, but the concert halls of Fillydelphia would no longer welcome me back.

And that’s fine. It’s a mutual feeling.

Once my joints are warmed up, I walk the violin through a few slow etudes, playing from memory. They are simple songs, more designed for study than any real art, but it’s enough for ponies to stop as they pass through the square. Most of them have no appreciation for cultured music, but they know skill when they hear it, and a few of them smile as they walk away on their business.

I’m halfway through a more difficult waltz when I notice a sky blue mare sitting a few feet away. She is older than me, with a few faint wrinkles around her eyes, but the smile she is wearing lifts years from her shoulders. I smile back at her and finish the waltz a few bars early.

“Good morning, Hyannis,” I say. “Don’t tell me you have the day off, too.”

“Bank teller,” she says. “But it’s lunch time, if you hadn’t noticed.”

I glance around the square, surprised at the number of ponies. More than a few have camped out along the edge of the fountain with their packed lunches, enjoying the warm spring air and the impromptu concert I’ve been providing. The sun has advanced overhead, and noon snuck up while I wasn’t looking.

“Well, that explains why I’m hungry,” I say.

Hyannis fishes a pair of apples out of her saddlebags and passes one to me. We crunch on them quietly, neverminding the juice that runs down our chins. Even unicorns like Hyannis learn to stop caring about silly things like that, after a few years living around so many earth ponies.

“So,” she finally says. “Any luck?”

I shake my head. “Not yet.”

She scoots over to sit beside me, pressing her flank against mine and wrapping a leg around my shoulder. “I’m sorry. Have you seen the doctor?”

“Next week.” Somewhere in the files I will pick up from Chamois tonight is a small note, explaining that I have an appointment with the doctor in Cedarville next week. The village has no doctor of its own, and we’re not foolish enough to include that specialty in our rotation. Instead we travel out of town for appointments, or rely on the former soldiers with medical training who have since joined us in the event of an emergency.

Hyannis nodded. “He’ll probably just tell you nothing is wrong, and keep trying. It took me years to get pregnant with my third.”

I try to smile at her. I know she wants to reassure me, and that I should take comfort from her words. Instead it chills me, and reminds me that everypony came to this village for a reason.

Hyannis only has one foal.

* * *

I play for a few more hours in the square, and slowly my attitude recovers. Seeing ponies smile after listening to my music does that. A reminder of days past.

Chamois finds me as the sun begins its slow descent toward the mountains. She has a pair of canvas saddlebags strapped around her barrel, and she undoes them with a relieved huff, setting them beside me. They are filled with reams of paper, folders, binders and what look like a thousand loose-leaf notes.

“There, all yours,” she says. “Ugh, never again.”

“Don’t say that, you’ll jinx yourself.” It’s a common belief in the village that bad-mouthing a particular job will all but guarantee you receive it the next day.

“Whatever. I’ve got tomorrow off. It’s already in the books.” Chamois twists her neck until it cracks, then lets out a quiet groan. “Oh, that’s better.”

I loop the saddlebags over my back and start packing up my violin. “Go ask your husband for a backrub. It helps.”

“Mm, dinner, backrub, sleep. Sounds like a plan.” She brushes my cheek with hers. “Sorry to dump those on you next.”

I return the nuzzle. “Has to be somepony. Get some rest, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

When I arrive at my new home, I empty the saddlebags on the table in the study. The administrator’s house is larger than most others, with an extra room dedicated to the thousands of pages that make this village work. Binders filled with records going back to the founding decades ago line the walls. Somewhere in them is a folder with my name and cutie mark drawn on the cover.

Some ponies, when chosen to be the administrator, spend hours going through the records. It’s a peek into the former life of their friends and neighbors. All the details that once made us special and unique, now left behind, forgotten except in the dim recesses of our fading memories and in the pages around me. It can be addicting.

But I never saw the appeal in that. Instead I leave the files behind, and head into the kitchen to make dinner.

* * *

I am nearly done with the potato casserole when my new son, Saffron Lark, returns from school. He gives me a hug, then promptly runs upstairs to get started on his homework.

For some odd reason, this makes me proud.

An hour later, dinner is nearly ready, and I am setting the table when I hear the door open. Saffron Lark runs out to greet my husband, and I look up to see who he is, wondering if I will recognize him.

I do, vaguely. Brown coat, tan mane, sheaf of grain for a cutie mark. I trot over and kiss his cheek. “Welcome home… Buckwheat, right? How was your day?”

“Not bad,” he says. He sniffs at the air. “Potato casserole?”

“Yes, I hope you don’t mind.”

He doesn’t, to judge from the smile on his face. I call Saffron Lark in, and we sit down at the dinner table to eat and learn about everypony’s day.

* * *

It is late, and I am lying on the covers with a binder spread out before me. Ink stains my hooves and lips, and I can almost hear the pillow calling my name. Buckwheat is with Saffron Lark, reading him a bedtime story, and for the second time in one day I am alone in bed.

Fortunately, my day doesn’t end that way. The door creaks open and Buckwheat pads across the floor toward me. The bed sags as he climbs in, and I let out a quiet groan as he starts nibbling at my mane, tugging the errant strands back into line and incidentally giving my scalp a lovely massage. I wonder, briefly, if Chamois is being treated this nicely by her husband.

“Almost done?” he asks. His voice is muffled but audible through my mane.

"Maybe. Depends what you have in mind.” I give him a little flick with my tail, in case my tone wasn’t clear.

Buckwheat is perceptive, it turns out. And attentive. And gentle. As I drift off to sleep, I make a mental note to change one of the lines in tomorrow’s ledger.

I hope Buckwheat will enjoy being a farmer.

The Destruction of the Self (contest version)

Author's Note

Based on a few requests, here is the original version of the story, as entered in the May Writeoff. It is only 750 words, and is basically a shorter version of the first chapter.

If you're not interested in literary comparison, feel free to skip this chapter. If you are, I'm curious how people think this version compares with the nearly 6,000 word version presented in the other chapters. Did expanding this story make it better, or did it lose some of its punch?

Post your thoughts in the comments.

The Destruction of the Self (contest version)

I wake up, and I think I would like to be a farmer today.

Spring Heath is asleep beside me, a purple shape in the dark. I give her a nudge with my muzzle, in case she feels like fooling around, but she mumbles and rolls away.

Ah well. Perhaps tomorrow.

The house is quiet without any foals. There are no thumps echoing from the bedrooms, or slamming doors, or shouts from tiny throats that they need a special lunch today for a field trip and sorry for not mentioning it last night. It is peaceful, and I hear the grandfather clock ticking in the parlor, even from my spot sipping coffee in the kitchen.

Spring Heath descends the stairs, her coat and mane still matted from sleep. I gesture to the steaming mug waiting at her seat, and she smiles at me.

I hope I get to be a farmer today.

* * *

“Buckwheat!” The administrator calls my name, and I step out of line. My heart is pounding, and even though the spring day is still chilly, I feel the first drop of sweat run down my side.

Please be a farmer. Please be a farmer.

The administrator fumbles with the paper tag that has my name. She looks up at me, then down at the list of names on the table before her. She looks at me again, then at the tag, and finishes back at the paper.

I don’t think she’s done this before.

“Uh, Buckwheat?” She waits until I nod. “Okay, good. You're a blacksmith!”

I wince, my ears falling flat against my mane. “Are you sure? Not a farmer?”

She runs her hoof down the list of names again, then slides it sideways to the column of jobs. “No, blacksmith. Do you know where to go?”

“Yeah, I’ve done it before.” I turn away to let the next pony take my place. There’s no point in holding up the whole village.

* * *

Blacksmithing isn’t as hard as it sounds. You just heat the iron in the forge until it glows, take it out (carefully!) with the tongs, then hit it with the hammer until it’s the shape you want.

I consider the misshapen disk of wounded metal before me. It didn’t quite curve the way I’d hoped, and the sides are split in several places. If I squint, it vaguely resembles a pancake with curled edges, or maybe an ashtray.

Close enough. I place it on the shop counter, where a tan earth pony is waiting. “Here’s your bowl, sir.”

We stare at it in silence for some time.

“Okay,” he finally says. He drops a few coins on the counter and leaves with his purchase.

Rarely, maybe twice a year, Igneous gets to be the blacksmith, and she crafts masterworks for us. Plows, horseshoes, barrels of nails, on that day everything is perfect.

But today I am the blacksmith.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll get to be a farmer.

But it’s fine if I don’t.

* * *

I come home and there is a foal waiting for me. I vaguely recognize his lemon coat, and after a few seconds I speak.

“Saffron… Lark?”

“Saffron Spark,” he corrects me, then runs up to toss his legs around me for a hug. “Welcome home, dad! Mom’s making dinner.”

I walk into the kitchen, and sure enough a lime green mare is at work over the skillet. The smile on my face is genuine – the first of the day. Glenmore has been my wife before, and she makes a wonderful potato casserole. I can smell it cooking.

She trots over and kisses my cheek. “Welcome home… Buckwheat, right? How was your day?”

“Not bad,” I say. And it’s true.

* * *

I am supposed to be asleep beside my wife, but instead I lie awake in the dark. This happens, sometimes.

Ponies who visit our village ask, bewildered, how we do it. How we can stand to change everything – everything – about our lives every day. How we don’t go insane.

These ponies have never suffered. They’ve never left their home after losing their wife and unborn foal in a delivery gone wrong. They’ve never wished for oblivion to take them as well. Maybe, if they did, they would understand the solace we find here, where every pony can be any other, and to lose one is to lose none, because we are all the same.

I love it here.

Perhaps tomorrow I’ll be a farmer.