A Writer's Tale

by n

Rating: teen
Tags: Slice of Life, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Romance, Original Character
Length: 4601

Two writers become very close.

A tryst at the lake, and two writers become very close.
They decide to write a little something together, just for giggles.

Published 2012-05-27 10:24:01 UTC
Last updated 2012-05-29 01:18:48 UTC

Rainy Day

They were two great writers of the time. The first, a stallion, was by far more experienced and analytical. Yet that led him, at times, to drone on and on. The second, a mare of the utmost beauty, honed in on what was beautiful, but often missed important details. It was so that the mare was by far more poetic, and more popular. Still, the populace would only ever go to the stallion for wisdom, as they considered the mare to be young and brash. It was only destiny that the two would meet under the shady trees of the scenic lake that is and always will be, Tsukuyomi.

On a rainy day, the tired stallion Fable, head hung low, stared at the lake, pondering the infinitesimal possibilities that lay before him. It hadn’t occurred to him that he would’ve written such things, but then there it was. Not surprising really, considering how much he had seen. The knowledge had made him tired, rain crushing his shoulders into the slump that they had grown used to. Funny, how much it had managed to sneak on him. Who knew what he would write next?

The mare, Ghost, was sitting by the fire, dripping wet and shivering. She had always loved the rain; it gave her the chills, made everything dark and mysterious. A feel of adventure was what it was, exciting and new. Fire crackling before her, she glimpsed of the vast expanse that flickered in the dwindling sparks, living their last breaths of lives, fulfilling the dreams and desires that others could not.

“The lake,” the owner of the quaint in had said, “is a place where all tourists should go.”

It had been her next destination, yet she had not wanted to go at the moment. An odd sensation had crawled up the nape, telling her that it wasn’t quite time. Ghost had always listened, as instinct had proven right on many occasions before. She wasn’t about to doubt one of her best tools. Besides, she could hardly suppress the yawns that were rising out of her throat. With that in mind, her lidded eyes slowly closed, and she slipped into oblivion.

Fable started to laugh. It was ironic really. He wouldn’t mind being buried here, under the weeping willows. He hadn’t realized just how tired he was, how unwilling he was to move from the spot anymore, hadn’t realized how badly he wanted to close his eyes, how badly he wanted to just give in. So he did just that, and by the lake, rippling with each tear dropped from the heavens, a lone figure sat, exhausted.

The moon watched over them both, the soft glow freezing time where it was.

As day came, the sun rose to watch over the lake once more. The warm, nurturing rays caressed the figure on the bench. Slowly, the figure revived into the world of the living, blinking his eyes in disbelief. Looking at the reflection in the water, he realized just how ridiculous the face he was making was, and burst into another bout of laughter. It seemed that he wasn’t meant to die this day.

Ghost, on her trek to the lake, heard the laughter that rang deep. Curiosity peaked, her gait took on an extra bounce that led her down to the lake even faster. It was breathtaking. The way the willow branches hung, dew glistening in the sunlight, tears cried for all the suffering in the world, made her smile. And the lake, pure and pristine, had collected all of the drama and tension that were the tears. A loud whistle pierced the laughter, as she admired the settings that could be created from such a moody environment. The gears in her brain began to turn, slowly but surely, creating ideas, magical ideas, that would be breathed into life with words.

Fable heard the whistle, ostensibly from a younger mare, and turned around. When he saw her, he gave a low whistle, having the compulsion to act like a dirty old stallion. “Hey sexy,” he shouted up the path.

She looked down at Fable in mock disgust, recognizing the tint of sarcasm in his catcall. “I’m coming babe.”

Dashing down the last stretch of the path, grinning the entire way, the mare was having fun. It had been a while since she had found somepony that might be as intellectually inclined as she. He too, was mildly surprised that the mare had picked up on the subtleties of his vocalization. Ponies didn’t seem to be able to appreciate the shift in tone, despite all the loaded information that came with it. So began their little tête-à-tête at the lake, the opening words forming the bridge that would begin something mystical. That it was, until Ghost saw the damp fur matted against Fable.

“You’ve swimming in the lake?” She had underestimated the old stallion if he had been swimming in such a sacred lake.

“No, no. Nothing like that,” said the Fable calmly. He knew why Ghost would make such an assumption though.

“Then...” The sentence trailed off as she made the only logical conclusion. “You’ve been out here since last night.” Quiet passed from the finality of the statement. She wasn’t sure what to do.

“And?” He didn’t like the silence.

Her stare turned sharp and menacing, causing him to take a few steps back. “You”

“Yes?” said Fable, uncertain of what she wanted. It was probably going to be something bothersome.

“Sit.” It was more of a command than a request, and judging by the dangerous edge her voice was beginning to take, he knew to obey. He had some experience with mares before, and it never ended well if he tried to take off. It had been fun though, running.

A quick ring of stones was assembled, surrounding a bundle of sticks. Faggot, thought Fable, which made him laugh. The amount of connotations that had piled upon that word made it nigh impossible to use it without criticism of some sort. Language evolved and time passed, and he too would fade away, with or without the guidance of the mare.

He allowed the warmth to wash over him anyway, as it seemed that there was still things left unfinished. In another note, it was comfortable, and he had no desire to start the next leg of the journey. “Mmh, nice,” was his contented sigh, as he adjusted his hooves to be closer to the source of warmth.

The next thing he knew, a cup of steaming tea was thrust into his hooves. He looked up from the toasty tips of his hind legs and saw the kettle, boiling water over the crackling fire, bubbles making popping noises as they broke to the surface. He took a sniff, and was rewarded with the pleasant odor of fragrant green tea. It seemed this mare did understand the values of life after all. The small, porcelain cup, slowly rose to his lips, as a small drop of liquid sank into his lips and into his mouth, swishing this way and that as he savored the delicate, bitter taste of the tea.

Ghost stared at Fable with his eyes closed, face contorted into a strange case of ecstasy that betrayed a deep sense of taste, steadily acquired over the long course of years. It weighed upon the skin of his bones, wrinkling it slightly, leaving behind a worn, rugged look. She licked her lips. It was almost too easy, how quickly she had found her inspiration for a new story.

When Fable’s eyes opened, he found himself staring into the vibrant, purple eyes that were Ghost’s. He could see all the hunger that reminded him of his childhood, questing to defeat the dragon and rescue the princess. The sweet fantasy days, that at the time had seemed like an awfully good idea, were in introspect, a rather dark ideal that he had eventually begun to understand later in his life. A lot of things had taken on a new meaning, and he had found that it wasn’t always an entirely nice feeling. Not that he could ever take any of it back, or that he wanted to. No pain, no gain, the old adage proves right yet again. They really do have inklings of truth.

“Thanks,” said Fable, content and happy. The hot tea sitting in his belly wasn’t a bad feeling at all either.

Ghost blinked, then blinked again. “You’re welcome,” she finally stated.

“So, who are you?” asked Fable, curious as to why he was being helped in the first place. Many ponies were too busy to notice the old stallion. They always assumed he was on a philosophical stroll down memory lane, and didn’t wish to be disturbed. Nopony ever thought that maybe an old workpony wouldn’t want some company too. It was the way he preferred it though, as few had the patience for the long rants he inevitably descended into, recounting what he thought were the most important aspects which others thought were too many aspects.

“Ghost,” she said, “an aspiring writer at your service.” She took a short curtsy to flourish the sentence.

“Really now. That’s surprising. I too have written a few small pieces of drivel in my time, although I’m not nearly as famous as you,” said Fable.

“Let’s hear it then, the drivel I mean.” She had a feeling it was more than just mere drivel. The old stallion definitely had something up his sleeve.

And as Fable read his story, Ghost’s eyes grew wide with shock.

“You,” she said.

“Yes me.” Fable confirmed the simple statement.

“Y-you’re...” spluttered the mare.

“I’m Fable.” There was a brief pause, as Ghost tried to recollect her thoughts.

“The legendary writer himself,” she finally said.

“I can’t really say that’s the proper use of legendary, but sure,” said Fable, acquiescing to the statement.

“Then why? Why would you do that to yourself? Why would you sit out in the pouring rain, drenched and cold? With all that fame, why would you—” Her angry questions were stopped by a simple hoof, raised in her face. An insulting gesture to be sure, but effective.

Fable laughed a little. “I was just tired. Besides, for what it’s worth, fame isn’t everything.”

Both of them knew how inadequate and flimsy the explanation was, yet how much truth it hid.

Ghost raised her hoof, eyes betraying a grimace that told Fable how much Ghost was adverse to giving up on life. This caused Fable to start shaking, unable to contain his laughter anymore. It burst out infectiously, causing her to laugh too, despite the tears streaming out of her face. It was yet another scene from out of a book, a story. It could’ve been something that Fable would’ve written. He could begin to picture out the scene.

The intervening sunset threw images of fire across the lake, and both of them stopped and stared out the colorful show of light that graced them. Wind whistled through the willow trees, playing the haunting tune that punctuates how ironic it was that they weren’t crying out of sadness. They sat there, side by side, listening to the birds and the trees, and staring at the dim array of fire that showed brief glimpses of the hopeful future. Tomorrow will be a new day, thought Fable.

“Beautiful, isn’t it,” said Fable.

“A fitting scene for a love story I would add,” said Ghost.

“Yes, I can see it now. They lean in, and kiss,” said Fable, extremely sarcastic.

“And they dance under the moon when the sun finally sets,” continued Ghost.

“And then they had sex,” finished Fable, his poker face slowly stretching into a wide grin.

And they both laughed at how cheesy the scene would’ve been. Yet to actually see it for themselves, it was another thing altogether; a magical moment that would be engraved in their hearts. The innate power of it swayed the artist in their souls, and they sat there, appreciating every last spark until at last the fire was extinguished, and the moon once again froze the world in its soft, motherly glow.

But their fires had not gone out, and they stayed the night by the campfire, admiring the moon’s otherworldly views as well. Both of them knew that there was always another side to the coin. Besides, the faint glow was perfect for a camping trip. Ghost created the fire anew, with a larger ring of stones. This time, the fire was bright and happily danced along the logs, illuminating the landscape.

They sang songs too, ballads and odes to the lake before them. The poetic lyrics rang across the lake the entire night. At the same time, they were raunchy as well, a satire of the multitude of bad romance novels that had flooded the market. They danced as well, to the beat of the tunes. It was a sight to be seen, both of them dancing flawlessly to the beat that had been constructed, contrasting with the satiric attitude. Jokes, laughter and merry were the themes of that night.

Most of all, they shared their stories at the campfire. Riveting tales of intrigue, steamy tales of forbidden love, exciting escapades for treasure, they had written it all. It was good fun, as they pointed out what they should’ve done in hindsight, and critiqued one another. What made them laugh most though, was commenting on what others thought of their works. Many of the others missed out on all the clues that they had loaded in, and they shook their heads in amazement at all the stupidity they had seen.

Then Fable went into his rant on ponies’ opinions on him. A wise old stallion he was, full of advice on everything from child rearing to astrophysics. Ponies would flock to him far and wide, trying get his opinion. It was a good thing that he was reclusive, otherwise he would’ve been swamped to the death by the large number of ponies that all wanted his blessings for their endeavors. Didn’t they understand that he was only one pony, that even he, wise as he was, didn’t know everything?

Fable even went out of his way to pretend to be the old geezer, lifting his tea cup sagely to his mouth, took a sip, and then gave a wise saying accompanied with a sagely nod, all with a straight face. They both had a good kick out of that one, and couldn’t stop rolling on the grassy ground, snorting. It was the perfect recreation of the image that Fable had built for himself over the years. They had become close friends that night.

The moon glowed throughout. Two figures, sleeping soundly next to a dimming campfire that was out of fuel. For today, the passion had been spent, burned out to fuel creative juices. There was always a tomorrow, where the flames could rise anew, from the ashes. The friendship of Fable and Ghost had already kindled that.

Dinner for Two

The next morning, Fable awoke to find himself hugging Ghost very tightly. It was almost cuddling. Here he was, living out the books that he had read and written over the various years of his existence. And then he saw Ghost’s eyes flickering in the sunlight, a yawn beginning to form and leave her mouth. All at once, a mixture of emotions rushed through Fable. Incredulity, because it was as if somepony scripted it. Mirth, because of the incredulity. Foreboding, because he dreaded what Ghost would do once she found out. Most of all though, was a feeling of contentment. It felt just right.

Then Ghost realized what was going on, and immediately wormed her way out of Fable’s grasp. “W-what do you think you’re doing?” she asked, highly suspicious of his motives. Her lithe body was in position to cripple him at any edge, tense with anticipation.

“Just a sleeping habit. I grew up with a rather large stuffed banana you see,” said Fable.

“A stuffed banana. Wow, that’s...” said Ghost, amusedly surprised by the quality of random afforded by the banana. In other words, she started laughing her head off at the ridiculous prospect. How did his parents get a stuffed banana anyway?

“I know. I get that a lot. People never seem to focus on the fact that it’s just another stuffed toy. Bananas are comedic it seems,” muttered Fable, apparently bitter on the topic.

“It’s a banana Fable,” replied Ghost.

“I still don’t get it. Never have, never will,” muttered Fable, a little more audibly.

Shaking her head, Ghost taunted, “Geezers these days.”

“Stealing our line now rapscallion? Just wait till I get there with my cane,” snarled Fable, playing along with the parody.

Then both of them were laughing, the incident forgotten entirely. None of them noticed that they had created a new ending. After cleaning up camp, the two took a slow stroll back to the town, having places to go to and things to do. Fable decided to do one last thing to thank Ghost for getting him out of the funk, and humoring him for a while.

“Say, would you like to have dinner with me? My treat,” offered the weathered stallion.

“Actually, that would be great,” exclaimed the excited mare. She was eager to have another chance to talk with one that was as legendary as she. “When and where,” she continued.

Fable grinned. “You’ll see.”

And then he was gone. Ghost stared at the void before her. That’s what I’m good at. They had more similarities than she thought, even if he could be a dick at some points. As she showered, needing to clean herself after the romp, she wondered about how to present herself for the restaurant. Casual? Formal?

In the end, when she finally got out and dried herself off, she decided to go for a mix, with a slight hint of perfume, and a simple dress. With everything in order, she lay on her bed, waiting. Then she jolted from the bed. What if he wasn’t coming? How long would she have to wait? She shuddered at that thought. Ghost had never liked waiting after all. The door was left swinging open, hoofsteps fading into the distance. You didn’t find a ghost. They found you.

First things first was to gather information. She didn’t know precisely where Fable was, but he had to be within town, meaning the search radius wasn’t large enough so that she couldn’t handle it. Door after door, question after question, and Ghost was beginning to wonder. Ponies couldn’t help but to embellish the lessons that the old stallion had taught them. It was almost as if...

Things were starting to seem eerily familiar, and Ghost was definitely going to get to the bottom of everything. Yet every pony she met only served to further dampen her spirits. As far as ponies were concerned, Fable was nothing but a myth that was actually helpful for once. Even though Ghost had talked to him, that lonely old stallion, he was still alone. Despite that, despite her knowing that he was real, it was almost as if he was a fable, just like she was a ghost.

And then she turned around, mane already frazzled, and saw him, saw him with that cocky grin on his face that she loved and hated so much.

“Shall we go?” asked Fable pleasantly, breaking the exasperated mare’s state of shock.

“W-what?” replied Ghost, confused and unable to comprehend what was going on.

“Shall we go?” repeated Fable, extending his hoof.

“I-I, alright,” sighed Ghost, too tired to argue. She took Fable’s hoof, and allowed him to lead her.

So they trotted along the dirt path, Fable staring confidently ahead, while Ghost couldn’t seem to get her fidgeting under control. Every muscle in her body screamed that something was wrong; every bone groaned and made her want to turn back. She endured anyway, knowing that whether Fable wanted it or not, he needed help, and she wouldn’t let him down. Especially not when she could feel his pain, and even more, relate to the irrepressible hunger for company. That basic need for friends, for those close and in some ways, similar, had been denied for so long that she could almost taste the deep void of insanity that had been created.

Her thoughts were interrupted when Fable came to an abrupt stop, causing Ghost to have to regain her balance. She gave a slight huff at the indignity of her treatment, but Fable seemed too distracted to hear. When she looked at his face, the wistful look prevented her from trying to grab his attention.

After a brief moment of silence, perhaps so that he could take time to remember, Fable solemnly whispered, “Ah, yes. This is the place.”

Ghost looked up and saw the building, shingles missing from the roof. The boards as well were in some places rotting, and the whole affair was in a state of disrepair. She shuddered, a small grimace forming despite her desire that Fable never be hurt again. Her hoof came up to cover her muzzle before she could say anything stupid.

Fable walked up and knocked. “You in there, old mate?”

Ghost was almost afraid that the door would break in from the knocking. When the door was suddenly yanked open, she almost screamed. A pony of indeterminate age stared out at Fable and Ghost. His face was filled with distrust, as he took an extra moment to examine Ghost thoroughly. She almost felt exposed by his stare, indecent even.

“Nice date you got there, eh?” the stallion at the door finally said, a wide, knowing smirk plastered all over his face.

Fable took a brief glance at Ghost’s increasingly red face. “It’s just repaying a favor.” He was not amused, and recognized how distressed Ghost was being made.

“Alright, alright. Just come in and sit down then,” said the stallion, who moved out of the entrance to let Fable and Ghost in.

Ghost was wary the entire way down the hall to the dining room. The inside of the building was no different from the outside. At points, glass was strewn across the dusty floor, remnants of the various picture frames that once held photographs and paintings. Fable seemed to pay it no heed, though, and she was determined to do the same, albeit if only to prove that she didn’t fall under the typical stereotypes thrust upon mares. Gingerly, she positioned her hooves so that none of the shards would cut into the more sensitive and delicate parts. Infection in the hoof could be deadly, even with the best of medical attention.

The dining room itself proved to be a vast improvement, a miracle that defied nature. It was here that the paintings well matched the painted and maintained walls. The wood floor glittered, polished to a great degree. And the chandelier, oh the chandelier: it was a magnificent thing of gold and diamond, casting an angelic halo onto the circular table in the center that managed to be simple, yet an aesthetic masterpiece at the same time, made of strong and unblemished oak. When she sat down, she felt like nobility, and at the same time, herself. Fable sat down at the opposite end.

“Food will be ready in a moment,” yelled the unnamed stallion from another room.

Glancing around in confusion, the mare could not help but feel that the voice was out of place.

Chuckling, Fable said, “He’s a little eccentric. Don’t worry about it.”

“A little you say?” queried Ghost sarcastically.

“Just a little,” agreed the old stallion.

A wonderful aroma creeped its way about the room, permeating every corner. Ghost couldn’t help but to lick her lips in anticipation, trying to keep the wave of saliva at bay. The stallion across from her is more experienced with it, but he too cannot help but to wear a silly grin.

The unnamed stallion walked out of a door with a silver tray. He was dressed in a fancy butler suit, and looked out of place. His gait was not quite enough to be the calculated strut that it should’ve been, and his back was imperceptibly bent too far. None of it mattered, for what the lone tray promised was far too tantalizing for the pair at the table to notice. The crystal note that rang out as the tray lightly danced upon the table sent shivers down the mare’s spine.

Ghost’s eyes were too focused on the platter before her, anticipating what delicacy would await her, to notice the plate that slowly slid into place, along with essential pieces of cutlery. To her, it was slow motion as the covering was slowly lifted. Some dark part of her mind was aroused even, the tantalizing striptease of the food was almost erotic. Undoubtedly, Fable’s friend was an artist.

What she saw when it was finally unveiled was somehow disappointing, yet indescribably pleasing at the same time. A single, solitary daisy sandwich lay in the center, neatly cut in half. Piercing both of them was a toothpick with a tomato. There were other crisp vegetables as well. She couldn’t tell what all of them were. Here and there she could see lettuce, spinach, parsley, little odds and ends. As messy as it looks, she knew that the first bite would be instantly gratifying.

The halves were levitated into the respective plates. Ghost barely stopped herself from grabbing the sandwich midair. She realizes that she is hungry, starving even. Food has never quite made her feel this way before. When her teeth sank into the sandwich, she realized that she had gone to heaven. And then the moment ended, the sandwich already within the confines of her stomach, slowly digesting. She blinked.

Fable was sitting across from her, still on his first bite. She watched in fascination as he slowly took another. Then she became embarrassed, knowing that she has wolfed down the sandwich ungracefully. She continued to stare at him until he finished, watching every movement. When he did so, he looked up at her.

“I told you didn’t I.” Fable grinned a toothy grin.

“I didn’t expect it to be so, so...” For once, Ghost found herself at loss for words.

“As I recall, you were practically on the floor begging for more,” interrupted the unnamed stallion.

“You still remember that?” asked Fable in mock shock.

“WIll never forget,” answered the stallion, who was now grinning.

Fable laughed, followed by the stallion, followed by Ghost. They all rolled on the floor together, hooves clutching their sides. Then Fable looks outside. The moonlight reminded him of something important.

“I have to go,” the old stallion said urgently. Without pausing for the answer, he dashes out the door.

“I guess I’ll be going to,” said Ghost apologetically. With that, she rushed out after Fable.

The remaining stallion shook his head. “Kids these days...” He got up to go to clean the dishes.

Every corner that whipped around proved that Fable was getting farther and farther away. Ghost redoubled her efforts, but it was to no avail. Nothing she did seemed to be able to propel her to that point where she would overtake Fable.

“Wait!” she called, but never did Fable look back. As she neared the edge of town, where she was sure there were no corners for Fable to hide behind, he was gone.

Ghost could only trot back to the inn.