Friendship: Journals from Equestria

by 520playgage

Rating: everyone
Tags: Slice of Life, Alternate Universe, Human
Length: 2378

A brony is mysteriously transported to Equestria only to face more discrimination than on Earth.

Alex Thompson, a normal, pony-loving teen, has always found it tough to fit in. The people in his life highly disapprove of him watching the brightly colored show. His family hates him for it, he has no friends at school, and not a single girl wants to go out with him. One fateful day, Tragedy rears its ugly head; Alex is mysteriously transported into Equestria only to face discrimination amongst the colorful ponies whom he knows and loves! With only one way to get back to Earth, the cost will be extremely high. Alex must make a vital decision; take his chances getting back to Earth and give up watching the show, or remain in Equestria forever!

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2012-06-23 01:35:11 UTC

Chapter 1

Wake up, go to school, get teased, go home, be irritated by my brothers, eat dinner, go to bed, repeat. That is the vicious cycle that I seem to have fallen into. Getting teased and bullied everywhere I go has become part of my regular diet. And all for what, trying to find a childhood happiness that I never had; for watching My Little Pony. My names are pony-boy, gay-as-they-get, squirt, wimp, pest, that-guy, and most importantly rainbow i'm-gonna-smash-your-face-in.

My real name is Alex Thompson, 16, brony, not that anyone would want to know my name; to them I'm just the weirdo that passes them in the hallway every morning. Nobody supports my watching the show; most of the people in the town have condemned me for it.

I grew up in Nowata, Oklahoma, a town so small you can hardly find it on any map. With a population of only four-hundred and thirty-two people, it's extremely easy to single out an odd individual. That individual just happens to be me, and it seems as if I have enemies everywhere I go.

At school, I get tortured by Travis, a huge meat-sack of a guy with a cutthroat attitude. He is your stereotypical, run o' the mill, total jerk-face; not too handsome to be the town bully. He thinks because he is the captain of the football team that he can do whatever he wants, and whatever he wants, he gets. He started picking on me in the 4th grade, demanding my lunch everyday. Somewhere along the way, he learned about my secret pony life and really started pounding on me. Now, he has adopted me as his own personal punching bag. The teachers at my school won't do anything about Travis because they are afraid of him; thus, the educational system has come to a state of total anarchy with no hope of recovery.

To me, there is virtually no difference between home and school. My brothers are constantly teasing me and pushing me around, calling me “squirt” and “pony-boy” until I tune them out. My parents don’t even seem care about me; dad works two jobs and is never home. Mama is the only person in my life who really understands me. She loves me for who I am and doesn’t judge me too harshly. I feel like I could tell her anything. The only other safe harbor that I have is in my room, which is where I spend most of my time.

My computer has become my only friend and mlp is my soul comfort in life. There is just something about the show that makes me feel like a child again. Perhaps it is the bright colors that make bronies feel happy inside. Maybe the lessons to be learned should be applied in general, everyday life. I have made attempts to follow the brony code ‘love and tolerate’; but between the bully, my family, and the rest of the cold-shouldered town, there is not much loving and tolerating to be had. So I just ride out the storm and follow through with the daily proceedings that are sure to seek me out.

My birthday is this weekend, not that it will be recognized. I have finally scrounged up enough money working jobs in this backwater town to buy myself a journal. Not that I necessarily need a journal, but I’ve had my eye on one for a few months now: Genuine leather backed one with the sinew ties and rustic designs engraved on the cover. The store clerk said he’d sell it to me for a decent price of $45. And today is finally the day that I am going to get it.

After my daily beatings, I rush home to grab by savings.

“Ma, I’m home,” I holler as I come through the front door. “I gotta run some errands but I’ll be home in time for supper.”

Mama is in the living room scrubbing our clothes on the washboard. She looks up as I tear through the hallway and up the stairs to my room. I toss my book bag onto my bed, shut and lock the door, dash to the closet and reach for the strongbox that holds all of my life savings. My smile fades as my fingers touch the shelf and a brief visual inspection confirms my suspicions; the box is gone!

‘What? I was sure I left it right here,’ I think turning around to scan the room. My room is not all that messy, just a few things scattered here and there. Frantically, I rummage around the room searching for the small metal box. Not finding it, I unlock my bedroom door and holler down the stairs at mama.

“Ma, have you seen my money box?”

“What?”

“My money box, the black one, have you seen it?”

“I don’t know. It should be right where ya’ll left it.”

“Well, it’s not!”

“Don’t shout at me, Alexander! I told ya’ll I don’t know. Look around for it; ya’ll probably stuck it someplace else.”

I return to my searching without any luck. Then my eyes fall on a note sitting on my desk, picking it up I read it as my blood starts to boil. It reads:

Nise tri, ponyboy! Iv ben wachin ya lik a hok an I no youv ben savin up fer that jernel o yers. So I thot id pay ya a litl visit an donat to yer litl caus! By the way its yer tern ta do the dishs t’nite. J

I crumple up the note and throw it across the room. The very poor handwriting and spelling could only mean one thing: ‘Jacob’ I fume, gritting my teeth. I storm out of the room and bang on my younger brother’s door.

“Jake, you had better give me back my money!!”

“What makes ya think I got it?” A voice from behind the door answers.

“I know you took it, you and I both know you can’t spell!” Silence. “You better let me come in there right this instant!!”

“I told ya I ain’t got it!”

“You’re lyin’, I found your note! Let me in!”

“I ain’t got it, Squirt!”

“Jacob S. Thompson! Give Alex back his money right this instant, else I’m gonna come in there and tan your hide with a belt!!” A voice right behind me said. I hadn’t noticed mama come up the stairs

“All right, Mama. I-I didn’t mean any harm by it. Was just havin’ some fun with ‘em. I’m sorry.” The door opened and my money box appeared in the doorway. I took it, thanked mama, and rushed back to my room. Mama appeared in the doorway as I excavated the cash that I had saved up.

“Now where on earth did ya’ll get so much money?”

“Oh, I’ve been savin’ up to get myself a journal. This right here is my last four months earnin’s.”

“A journal? Ya’ll don’t really want a journal, do ya’?”

“Yes, Mama, I really do want one, one of those fancy leather ones. The clerk down at the store says he’s gonna sell one to me for $45. I’m gonna go and get it right now.” I could hardly hide my excitement and enthusiasm as I spoke.

“Well, I was hopin’ that you’d want to spend your money on somethin’ that you could actually use, like that new rifle that you were wantin’ for your birthday last year. But you’re nearly a grown man now and you’re old enough to make your own choices.”

“Oh, thank you Mama,” I said, hugging her. I finished putting my money in my pocket, put the box back up in the closet, and grabbed my coat.

“Alex, it looks like it’s gonna storm tonight, so be home by supper, alright?”

“Yes, Mama,” I said as I rushed out the door. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

I didn’t look back but I could have sworn that mama was watching me from the door. That was the last time I ever saw her.

                                                                                    * * * * * *

Panting, I sprint up the cobblestone road that bisects the town. In reality, Nowata is dotted with quaint little cottages and grand Victorian mansions, but I have no time to stop and enjoy the scenery, after all, I have $45 in my pocket and I still have to be home by suppertime. Sweat drips from my forehead and off the tip of my nose before hitting the ground. My throat is dry, my calves burn from being forced to run for so long, my heart threatens to explode inside of my chest. I don’t care though; I have my eyes set on the prize that awaits me at Harvey’s Pawn Shop.

Now, you’re probably wondering why this particular journal is so important to me. Reason for that is I want to be a writer after high school. I’ve always been swell at writing and whatnot, but my English teacher says that if I really want to be an author I have to find a creative outlet of some sort. So I thought about it some, asked around town for clues, and even spent some time in the school library, searching for what my creative outlet could be. It’s kind of like searching for your cutie mark; it’s always different for each person. Unfortunately, for the longest time I could find nothing that worked for me.

It wasn’t until we were learning about famous inventors in history class that I found that outlet I so desperately needed. The teacher was reading a bunch of boring stuff out of out textbook, but her mind wandered off and she found herself teaching about Leonardo DaVinci, his many wonderful inventions, his famous paintings, his journal, his anatomical procee—Wait! His journal, that’s it!! That’s exactly what I needed! I needed a journal of my own. That afternoon, I searched around the town stores--Nowata is so small that it doesn’t even have its own Wal-Mart-- for a notebook to write my journals in. I checked every store without luck, nobody had them in stock.

I was just about to give up the search when I happened to glance to my right. And there in the windowsill, was a small leather-backed notebook, about the size of a small Bible, perfect for carrying around and jotting notes in. I couldn’t believe my luck until I saw the price tag. The store keeper saw me looking and reduced the tag to $45 instead of the original $60 price. Since that day, I’ve been working minimum wage hobs in this tiny, backwater town.

Finally, I arrive at Harvey’s. I push open the door and step inside. The smell of freshly oiled wood hits me as I take a second to catch my breath. It’s a small shop, decorated to look similar to a log cabin, with doohickeys and trinkets of all sorts neatly arranged on the stores’ many shelves. There is a man in his late-60s sitting behind the counter inspecting an apparently broken wristwatch. He looks up, putting down his work, smiles as I walk up to the counter.

“Why hello there Sonny, what can ah do ya fer?”

“I’d like to buy that book with the leather cover.”

His face darkens slightly. “Well, ya see…ah just sold it yesterday. Sorry Sonny!” I guess I had a disappointed look on my face, because he seems to brighten up a bit. “Ya know, ah might have somethin’ in this here chest that’ll suit ya just fine” He shows me a large trunk behind the counter. “Why don’t ya help me with this?” He takes out a large iron key and unlocks the chest and tells me to open it. I oblige without hesitation, kneeling on the wooden floor, my excitement mounting. Inside are several pairs of old clothes, a pocket knife, a pouch of coins, and a small flintlock pistol. I give him a questioning look; he tells me that his great-grandfather, Eddie, was a wanted outlaw before he turned himself in. Intrigued, I dig deeper into the trunk and what do I find: the exact same notebook that I had wanted!

The leather was worn but the symbols were still visible on the cover. The pages were a light yellow-brown, about the color of coffee once creamer has been added. This journal looked much older than the other one I had seen. Other than that, the diary was a perfect match to the other one, except this one had a fancy “E” engraved on the back cover.

Harvey tells me this is the original journal that his great-grandfather owned.

“He never wrote in the thing, jes’ kept it locked away. Ah see ya’ve taken a likin’ to it,”

“How much?” I ask, trying in vain to keep a straight face. Harvey gives a hearty laugh at my question.

“Ah knew ya’d like it! So ah’m gonna make ya an offer ya can’t refuse: $30 for the book, the trunk, and ev’rything inside it; the whole kit and caboodle,” My jaw drops, regardless of how much I try to hide it.

“Seriously?” I ask. His expression goes grave as I say this. It sounded too good to be true, however, I wanted to be sure. Harvey nods in return, his face serious as a heart attack. I was speechless. The trunk alone should sell for $60. He couldn’t possibly be serious!!

“Ah’ll even throw in a pen to sweeten it up,” he adds. “So, do we have a deal, Sonny?” Harvey asks, extending his hand out to me. I hesitate a little, still a bit unsure as to the legitimacy of his offer. After what seems like minutes, I take the ‘what have I got to lose’ option and shake Harvey’s hand.

“Deal,” I say. “Only one problem: how am I gonna get all this home?”

“Well, my shift is nearly over. Ah can drop ya and yer stuff off at yer house if ya want. Sound good?” I handed him $30 as a response. I put the journal into my coat pocket and place the rest of the items back into the chest and sit on a conveniently placed stool waiting to leave.