"I seldom look at a bust or a piece of art the same way now. Any of the statues I see, I make it a point to walk into their vision, stand there for a while and then leave. Some of the privately owned or museum pieces were easier. Standing there, staring at them directly. A warm smile crept across my muzzle, and sometimes I'd feel that they would stare back, knowing I was looking at them. Some I would caress gently, feeling the shape of their form. In some instances, I even talk with these inanimate objects.
I have to check. A flicker of magic, a sense that developed, floats through the room and into the statue. Sending a spark; an awakening. It is not much, but it sings into the pony's ears, calling all their attention to it, none have failed to answer the siren's call.
Sometimes there are ponies in there.
You see, it is no accident that I'm the head 'Curator' Division of Canterlot Histories and Antiquities, the world renowned museum. It's our duty to exclusively track the ponies unfortunate enough to have been petrified, and the arrangement and display of those we have found.
We have a unique level of determination, one that nopony else can match. The entire department knows what that is, what it feels like, as we were 'victims' ourselves. Whether it was an accident, a prank, or just the fact that in a world where petrification exists and it happens to us, we have all been like that once.
We've kept records of everypony we have found. Pictures, locations, and names, all recorded, copied and kept up to date. I prefer somepony knows so that they didn't fall into obscurity. It was a feeling that, even though some ponies chose it, that someday they may want to rejoin society. That was always one thing I wished was there for me, some ray of hope that it will end.
I will admit that it was probably my interest in petrification that snared me. A little burst of energy, seeing a rock or an open plinth and jumping atop, posing a bit and wondering what it would feel like if the stone beneath my hooves leapt up and solidified me in place. To wonder what it would be like if I were a statue, to be seen as nothing but art and watch the world pass. It was probably the thrill of the experience that drove me to do those impulsive things, and ultimately one day, petrify me. The magic of Equestria rearing its head again and it happened to me.
I'd built up an idea in my head, what it would be like, what it would feel like. Seeing myself in a few scenarios, the idea played back time and time again in my head, as each bit of my idea would quietly dominate my mind. A fantasy, kept out of reach for one reason or another, but always there, always spurring me on. Those memories are the one thing I still do remember from back then... before the event.
It wound up being a dockside delivery, one of the stems feeding water into the bay. A mail mare went everywhere those days, from the High rises to the low lands. I fluttered down and handed off the letters to a pony working the yard, spotting a most tantalizing sight on the way down to the earth. A vessel from Griffonstone had pulled into the Manehattan port and the delivery of stone had been unloaded into a yard nearby. It was a rich cream color with electric blue veins ribboning through the blocks. Griffonstone was said to have the best marble in the world. I had to see it for myself.
The open yard heralded many of the distinct stone blocks. The polished faces were smooth as glass, the stone feeling alive under my hoof's touch, filling me with warmth that bubbled into a smile. I imagined a form, smooth and perfect, carefully revealed from the block's structure. A statue made from this material would have no comparison in the world.
Beside the numerous marble slabs was an odd stone. Its shape was that of a large pastry, rounded and smooth, though the center was impacted. The stone was translucent, letting a cool blue wash the ground below it. Color was speckled throughout in the form of tiny dots, pulsating in every color of the rainbow, always changing.
It was just an object where I could enact my spur-of-the-moment impulse to be a statue. I shed my courier's outfit and stuffed my mail bag near the back of the stone and jumped into my practiced pose.
I stood on one hoof and posed as if a ballerina was mid-turn; wings flared open and fluidly curved to act as they were ribbons from the mane swaying in the air. My mind turned to what I wanted, as every time, I whispered it to myself.
'I wish I was a statue carved from magnificent Griffonstone.' A silly little thing, that.
A wave of blue pulsed off of the stone beneath my hooves, distorting the air as it went outward, fading far off into the distance. My first thought one of the weather team had bumped a few clouds together and released a pulse of magic that resonated off all magical beings.
Oh well, it was time to stop fooling around and get back to the shipment center. There would always be time for statue fantasies later. For a second I felt myself move, only to be stopped from budging an inch.
A feeling of shock and endless excitement racking my mind at once. A split between the heart fluttering response, chemicals coursing out at a lifelong wish came true. Then the heart wrenching, hundred mile an hour mistake, where the mind screamed out in disbelief.
As interested as I was in petrification, I never sought to get petrified. It was a fantasy that I only let go so far, quivering in the alchemist's store as my hooves became unsteady, reaching for the bottle with the grey liquid inside. I never let myself touch the petrification potion, because I knew I'd do something stupid with it. Reality was different than fantasy, and I built up an entire world of fantasy around being a statue. I was afraid of the real thing, that it wouldn't meet expectations.
The tip of my hoof touching the stone began to tingle in a warm glow, my mind exploded in a mix of ecstasy as my stomach collapsed in on itself. So many thoughts raced through my head, tearing ot down the middle. My right half was emitting a primal scream that could shatter bones, the left half felt like a rainboom, an explosion of glee that echoed with the black abyss encroaching.
The stone wash crept up my hoof, a lovely blue veined marble to rival those around it. A fog filtered ahead of the transformation, touching each and every molecule inside it gently. The accompanying sound of stone-on-stone grinding its bass though my hooves and into the ears was a symphony.
The magic pulled in tight, compacting the coat, muscle, sinew and bones. Everything was shrinking and pulling inward by a fraction of an inch. It was comfortable, this smaller reformed area; pressure was applied equally.
It felt safe; a comforting hug on my body turning to stone that elicited a great deal of pleasure. It felt like the deep seated 'numbness' of a massage. It calmed the muscles into a level of relaxation you felt for a week. The toe injury I suffered, the constant twinge that reminded me daily that it had been broken, it had vanished under the stone's wake.
I would have been laughing, smiling as this fantasy became reality. It was better than I had imagined in my head. My expression was solemn, but on the inside, my mind was dancing in pleasure as the stone moved upwards and flooded out, drawing my body into its firm embrace. I felt relieved when it passed over my nethers. They were gently aroused, the physical reaction of happiness, though it never crossed into honest arousal.
The stone seized my chest, the first real impact that this was happening and not an errant day dream. My heart froze, lungs turned to stone through and through and the glorious haze I had been floating in as my body was slowly converting to a statue was torn away. It felt like a vice, but when it increased the pressure, nothing moved after it. Mentally I was hyper-ventilating, chest breathing in and out as if shock was taking hold and numbing my brain to what was happening.
I didn't want it anymore; it wasn't what I had imagined. There was no pony around to watch, to know what was happening. Instead, this was the errant dark fantasy, one that caught for far too long. I should have called out earlier, shouted at the top of my lungs.
The stone marched onward without stop onto my fore hooves and neck, compressing it down. I kept cursing in my mind as the sound of stone cracking echoed in my ears. I felt myself pulling at the stone's advance crying out for help, though no sound was made. As my hooves were turned to stone in front of my eyes, my jaw became numb.
The petrification began to feel like being slowly lowered into water, the cool sensation of almost being submerged, the surface creeping ever closer to the vulnerable areas. My composure frozen in a placid peace, mind reeling in horror. It couldn't be this way, not yet.
Somepony had to hear me, I screamed as loud as I could for help, right before my muzzle turned to stone. My ears were ringing; somepony HAD to have heard it! The flow of stone crept up over my bridge and then washed over my eyes without hesitation. I watched the line of washed upwards, tainting the world a creamy white with a blue tint in the corners. I saw as I did before, though locked outwards and unfocused beyond a hefty pebble's throw.
The stone flowed over my ears and the world gained a muffled filter. The crane down the dock turned from a whine of cables and sharp squeaks became a near undetectable drone with near silent bumps in the low droning bass. I don't think I could have heard or understood anypony if they were only a few trots away.
The feeling stopped, the magic had finsihed it's job. My entire body was compressed and I was unable to feel any difference in temperature. It was warm, then nothing. It felt wrong, not feeling sun's warmth as before, the air around me was a stranger. I no longer felt its embrace readily on me. The feeling in a pegasus opening their wings, ready for life in the air vanished. I called for help, more times than I could imagine, but that stopped. I was long past the wonderful feel, and panic had long sense taken hold.
It felt like I let my head down, it didn't move, but it felt more at rest. I calmed myself slowly, letting each limb go and feel less tense. It might have been imaginary, but when I relaxed, my entire body became 'weightless', there was no up or down, merely an equal amount of... being, existing. Mentally sniffling from breaking down, I took a moment to feel better, almost... happy.
The huge grin I was wearing on the inside lasted for a long while. At least until Celestia's sun fell below the horizon. Many ponies passed me, none bothered to look in my direction, I felt my heart rise as they moved about, hoping they would see me, becomes concerned. Normal things ponies do when they see a statue appear out of nowhere. I had no idea that there was a larger magic at work.
I screamed for close to three days after I became a statue, after the first night. I screamed in my head, to my bones and muscles, to anypony or anything. Nothing listened, because nothing could hear me, nothing knew I was there. Not the cup at home or Murielle in the bakery, the ponies that passed me. Nopony knew, a shadow crept its way into my thoughts, churning up the realization that everything had changed for the worse. No pleading, crying or screaming was going to fix this, fix what had been done. I was alone in the world now; that thought crushed my spirit.
What I didn't realize was that the stone I had leapt upon was known as a 'Wishing Stone'. The stone granted one's desires whenever they touch it. The size of the stone dictated the amount the stone could influence the world. My new plinth was an un-refined deposit, meant to be broken up and sent wherever it was needed. Making contact with the stone with a deep desire to be a statue had set it off, and released a magnitude of magic to fill this desire. It began to gently manipulate the world around the dock.
For a week the ponies at the dock looked for the missing Wishing Stone. Time after time they passed they passed the space where it was, or had been. They saw only another monolith of marble. I forced myself to stop looking at them, they were a haunting reminder that I wasn't getting out.
All I could do was watch. I still felt like my vocal chords were cut, unable to scream. I didn't even talk to myself after a while. Every time I did, it was screaming at myself for being stupid, for being foalish. If I hadn't, I wouldn't be here.
There was one thing that kept my attention. The pose I had taken pointed me towards an adjoining yard, an older brick building with a large door towards the waterfront. The spaces in the yard between the building and rotted dock weren't filled with cargo, rather junk of all description implies. Metals, cloth, wood and various appliances. The center of the yard was clear, a well trotted path around a flat and empty circle in the hills of junk. Wide paths carved through the area.
Inside the building's massive door was a show room. The junk outside was used for crafting, turned into art. Painted, fixed up, re-used and then sold. Everything from simple vases to cabinets, canvas pictures and metal sculptures could be and were created here. A half-wall cut the building into two areas, the curtain overhead further closed the living area off from the show floor.
The living area contained a shelf with wooden boxes, tools for any conceivable art form poking from the spaces, many cluttering the floor. A table with a pile of dishes, a heavily distressed mattress on milk cartons, a refrigerator whose door wouldn't stay shut properly. The pony that lived there was rather unique.
The artist was interesting. During any time of day or night he would run to the yard, grab several things and retreat to the center circle, busying himself with something new. Numerous trips for supplies to gather the tools he needed. Sometimes he'd rip a box from the shelf and scatter the supplies, looking through them; other times he'd carefully pull an item out.
He'd sometimes stare over into the yard, and it felt like it was strait at me. More and more the pony would come over to the fence, peer at me, up and down for longer and longer times. There was a conversation with a pony I couldn't see, but sounded like it was behind me. The artist asked what a block of the Griffonstone marble cost, and then spent time filling a small box with golden bits. I was then moved from the yard adjoining over to the center of the circle behind the artist's shop.
I was able to hear him with greater clarity; he loved to talk all the time. It was something that made me feel... still alive. He moved the table aside in his room, and began to sculpt clay figures on the floor. There were several in the first night, dozens by week's end. The figures were sanded carefully, some painted and set out on the sales floor. Soon the clay was gone and filly sized rocks were their replacement. He chipped at each one, slowly, making squares, circles then more advanced shapes. He carved hooves, heads and bodies, sometimes leaving a half-finished form.
I had made the mistake of seeing myself brought into the world, a perfect statue that was carved with care and skill. I'd seen my body as already carved, fully formed, but I was mistaken. In reality my form was a large block of Griffonstone, a statue yet to be made.
The artist worked slow, knocking off large chunks of the un-needed stone, working me into a rough figure. I never saw any of the block surrounding me from my perception, I merely saw my body as stone.
The hammer and chisel worked constantly, knocking in my ears during all times of the day. Smaller and smaller tools were brought out. The drumming soothed what little happiness I had left. Cross hatched, chipped away, cross hatched, chipped away, this process repeated over and over all around my body.
As he worked on my statue form, the gallery and surrounding yard were cleaned up. And for the first time, I began to see greenery. The old refrigerator was thrown out, pre-packaged food replaced with the fresh greens from the garden he had made. The tools organized, the walls washed, the building and lot began to look more and more like a well weathered home than an abandoned warehouse somepony was barely living in.
The chisel stopped completely, no more tapping reverberations through my body. He rubbed my figure with a variety of stones, harder than the marble to polish the rock into a smooth surface. I had almost forgotten what it felt like to be touched, the warmth of his nose pressed gently to my body, letting it effortlessly slide everywhere as he hunted for areas that needed further smoothing, sensing the rough spots with it. Eventually that stopped as well.
He sat down in front of me, his muzzle starting to turn a grey color; eyes sagged heavily with a blending of pride and weariness. For days, it was impossible for him to avert his gaze for more than a few minutes. Flowers had been planted, now in full bloom, more vibrant than any colors even my normal eyes had seem.
The joy it brought me, seeing him in tears at my selfish form. Perfect polished Griffonstone Marble. I was a Magnum Opus, the crowning achievement society would arbitrarily declare. I was revealed in splendid fashion, a sheet over my form, torn away to a group of chattering ponies who fell silent when they gazed upon me. I did find myself in a bit of joy during the celebration. It eased back my mind, halting the advance of what I knew was coming.
I still think about him today, his life changed for the better after I was 'crafted' into the world. His work became more vivid, lifelike and soon none was rejected as past works were. A smile graced his muzzle nearly all the time, glancing over at me in the center of the garden. His works were in high demand, disappearing off into the night for private collections.
I had watched the workshop for a long time, and a day arrived that broke my heart. The artist went to bed; his home had the gallery removed and a small space inside remained dedicated to art, more painting and sketching than anything else. I watched him sleep like always, but felt uneasy in the morning, when he didn't wake.
I pleaded, I begged for Celestia or Luna to let him wake up. I'd spend the rest of time as a statue if he would just kick a hoof. By nightfall, all the color of the world drained. A heavy fog stifled any sense I had left. I'd been with him for so long, longer than his ambition to carve the marble, though we never spoke, I knew him. I can't remember much but a constant feeling of isolation and shame.
The world was numb, the senses I still had left seemed to take on a will of their own. Hearing, seeing and feeling on a whim, never when I wanted to. It no longer existed in any rational manner, constantly becoming aware enough to realize that I was screaming at myself, then nothing again.
The garden had become a monument to him, house remade into a gallery of works, the rear door always open so that the last part of the tour ended with my miserable corpse. They were looking at a corpse, pose delightfully in front of their jaded eyes. 'Magnificent', 'Alluring', 'A Masterpiece', those were the things I was called. I wanted only death, it was my only thought.
Time moved again, the artist’s museum was emptied, my heavy plinth moved from the garden, down streets that looked alien to me. Clothes, carriages, everything had changed. I came to rest in the Canterlot Museum of Antiquities, though i didn't stay 'long'.
Canterlot, Baltimare, Maris, I saw them all. The world moved all around me, all in a blur of activity. The sun's light raced through the windows, stretching across the floors and walls, day in and day out. It was always followed by the moon's hue, following the same pattern.
Soon I realized that life was passing by and I wasn't able to participate in it. I wanted to share coffee with the ponies in the museum, to jump down off the plinth for a few minutes and just talk. The ponies at night who mopped the floor, buzzing about in a speed that only allowed me to see colors, never distinguishing features. It became mildly concerning when one collapsed to the floor and I didn't think to call out, I didn't care.
I saw a figure cloaked in the deepest black liquid robe approach the janitor, the end of the garment flickered and flowed all about the hidden hooves, lapping at the ground as if water on the beach. Long blackened wings stretched out, large long feathers trailed the end of the wings, nearly touching the ground. A stout obsidian horn atop its head protruded from the hood. I called out to it, this Alicorn of death.
It turned, facing me with a featureless head, no eyes to be found in the thick smoke of the apparition. I called for it to take me, to end my suffering. It said nothing, merely looked upon me, then turned back to the pony on the floor.
Its wing touched the corpse gently, slowly lifting upwards, a pale blue light emerged from the pony, swirling out into the air like ink in water. It formed into a pony like shape, standing in front of the Alicorn. Its blackened hood dropped, revealing the pony underneath. It was a mare, she was greatly aged, perhaps more than the stallion was. The two ponies’ muzzles twisted up in a smile, getting closer until they touched. In an instant, the wings of the Alicorn swept outwards, over the other pony's body and the two disappeared.
I had called out for it, to be taken as well, yet I was still here when it left. This nightmare wasn't going to end; I wasn't going to get out. Isolated, alone and trapped. Though void of expression only internal, it just made what I felt inside even worse.
I became numb again.
There was nothing but time, nopony but me, no sound but the mind tearing itself apart, shredded with guilt, mixed in agony. The wounds I had begun to stab never healed, I was always at them, digging inside, always pain. It became a center, a focus, it was the only thing I was capable of feeling, the only thing I could control. The only thing I could do.
Everything is both perspective and objective. Normality, ponies going to work, falling in love, having fun, it was all based on preceding facts that shaped how they saw the world, how they interacted with it. Normality was merely reoccurring events, a schedule and everypony wrapped themselves around their life, creating an individual 'normality'. Everypony was normal, in the technical sense of the word.
My 'normal' had been firmly stable for a long period of time. Normally I was stone, normally I felt trapped and tightly bound. Whatever sound I heard was normal, what I saw was normal. There was nothing 'abnormal' about any of this. I was a normal statue.
The more my thoughts wandered to the past, the harder it became to hold onto them. They lost relevance to anything that was normal, anything I had felt recently. Soon they began to be alien in nature, the memories of food and heartbeats, warmth and the ground underhoof. They didn't mean anything. They couldn't be called upon anymore to remember how a touch felt, how tea tasted, how ponies speak. For the first time I could remember, there was nothing that bothered me.
I merely existed, nothing more.
The feeling of being a statue, isn't one that is easily explained. While upon the plinth, I felt myself, my body and every limb in their position. I wasn't capable of moving them, there were no muscles, bones or tendons to obey my response. There was no sense of balance, nothing to give the world a sense of weight anymore, my body was perched, floating in position.
It was a serene sense of calm. Nothing to do, nothing could be done as the world buzzed around my limited vision. Nopony to see or talk to, though a comfortable level of sound remained when I wanted to listen. The taste of food was gone, nothing to taste it with. I was, in a sense, free. There were no responsibilities, no pony to demand I do this and that. Nothing bothered my mind at all, nothing pained my form. It was perfection.
It continued on for a while, the bliss I had eventually settled into. Ponies before me became blurs, something that just happens during the course of my being. The scenery changed a few times, and I watched it all. It meant nothing, it couldn't affect me at all, I didn't even watch the world anymore.
It was terrifying, the noises, the speed at which the ponies moved and spoke. They always had somewhere to be, someone to see, all things that statues don't do. There were times when it was confusing, as there were times when the world made sense.
Slowly I noticed a reoccurring pony. He was in a brown trench coat and hat, beyond that he was blurred in an out-of-focus area of my vision. It was a mare at one point, then another. They always wore the same type of coat and hat. They always stared at ME, and directly into my eyes. A green pegasus flapped close enough I felt her breath, but never saw her again.
What did they want? Clearly they made me their sole focus, but what they would want with a statue was confusing. Were they trying to interact, because that was impossible, statues can't make those noises the ponies do.
They occurred with alarming frequency, more and more. Then one came when there was nothing else around, no other sounds. It blinked a light and a screaming pain ripped through my body. It was making a noise.
'LAAAAHH!' I sputtered, drawing back in my head. What was that, what just happened? Did I make the noises that ponies did?
"Are you a statue by choice?" it asked.
I didn't know what it wanted
"Do you need help?"
I panicked, it was loud, and it wanted something. It kept making noise. I made noise too.
'AAAAAAAAAHHH!' That's all I could think of, that's all I shouted, it was all that I said. It was the only noise I remembered I COULD say.
The unicorn jumped back, surprised at the outburst, stumbling over himself and the trench coat, he picked himself up and disappeared. I never saw anypony like that again.
A memory forced itself to the surface, the minutes before I was a statue, all of it flooding back from that point onward. I wasn't always a statue, I was... I was a pony before... long before...
I screamed, for a long time as horror again seized me.
For a great many centuries, there was a lost pony. Nothing made sense, nothing did anything but not make sense. Colors, blurs and the constant drone of noise during the light were all that happened. They always had happened, and always will. It was just normal now, to be lost. To never know.
Nothing fazed me after that. When things started to make sense, they made more sense than before. I saw everything better than before; I was able to watch everything before my eyes. I understood them all; I knew their names and their lives. I'd sense a pony, see their day before they came to the museum. I'd watch their life through their eyes in my mind. The coffee shops and the night clubs.
I saw love in the world again, I saw hope and despair. I saw fillies and colts, and the innocence in some, the shadows in others. Most of all, I saw life like few ponies could. I don't know if anything I saw or felt was real, but I watched them and sometimes whispered to them, wanted them to know that they shouldn't worry. Some of them could listen, and looked over to me.
They saw what I was, felt it somehow. I was a statue, but I wasn't ordinary. They merely passed me a gaze, a single intense moment where they were exploring every inch of my splendor. I saw many statues, the most remarkable ones were happy. It was communication without words.
One statue pony appeared in front of me one day. I saw the look on her muzzle, she was a brilliant statue. The mare was sat on her haunches, all but one hoof petrified to the plinth, raised as if in a toast. Perhaps there was a cup or a bottle that went missing long ago. I knew she was there, and she about me. We knew we were statues, and it made us happy.
It was easier to 'see' statue ponies, we all had an 'aura', a change in the air that we all felt. We enjoyed each others company while it lasted, feeling that you had met an old friend and were reconnecting. But we were glad when they left, I imagined the adventure they were having and hoped reality was ten times better. We never said a word, but had a lifetime of adventure together.
The brown coats appeared again. I had always been watching for them. Decades passed where I saw them, yet they didn't see me. That was how things were for a time. Though contact would not be far off, relative to me anyway.
I pondered what I wanted to do. Did I want to stay silent, stay as a statue or join the world again? Truth be told, the world had gotten itself in a hurry, I had no home, no job, nothing really. I could build a new life, make new friends, but how do I live with what I have been through. 'Hi, I'm Liftwing, I was a statue for about ten billion years. I swear nothing is wrong with me.' The pro's of staying a statue were outweighing the cons at this point.
Still, I had more fun than I had bargained for and now that I know statue ponies and petrified ponies existed in rather concerning numbers; somepony had to look for them. Maybe that was what those brown coats were doing. Though I'd have just found a way to communicate right away.
The day came where I made the choice, and I called for help. I was promptly removed from the museum floor, taken to a back room where ponies were abuzz around me.
Normality is all perspective and objective. When the world washed back over me, when the comforting grip of stone released me from its grasp, when I saw more than my hooves and a short-sighted locked gaze filtered through a creamy haze of stone. I screamed, it didn't stop until I was sedated.
A pony that spends a lifetime in the city, learns how all of its intricate social and physical goings-on work, is taken to the country. He's been tossed into a new world, where even the unicorns were slightly muscular from work, the smells and daily life is going to put him into a cultural shock. He would have to adjust to that way of life, learn life anew in a sense.
Spending roughly a millennia captured as a perfect stone statue, awake and alive the entire time, the first 40 years of life will had long been forgotten. The world was born anew to me, a full sized foal who had to learn how to eat, sleep, drink, walk and talk again. There was nothing left of my mind, save for my 'dream'. The world's perfect dream, because it actually happened.
I was put in the Curator's 'Ward', a special medical team that the brown coat ponies, agents of Canterlot Histories Museum ran. They had a process to aiding in recovery after the fact with up-to-date medical and psychiatric technology. When I had learned enough to communicate and act in the physical world again, things went fast.
I realized that becoming a 'Curator' was the best decision. Every pony I work with here, is my family, however we were made, and I couldn't leave them. A family forged in stone. I guess in some odd way, we are looking for lost brothers and sisters. That is what a 'Curator' is.
Free those who don't find petrification to be appealing, and record those who have chosen to be that way. We've even had ponies ask to be a statue, and we give them a hoof, let them be one for a while. It helps to keep ponies from being statues that don't really want it. That is what a 'Curator' does.
There was an unbroken verbal silence in the room that carried on throughout the clock's rhythmic ticks. The pegasus was sat at her carved wooden desk, hooves flat on its surface, head staring towards the long seats in front of it.
Her gaze was met from the seat where a grey unicorn sat, a neutral gaze on his face. Bold splotched dots scattering across his coat like ink flecked on paper. His cutiemark, a few lines on a parchment paper, bringing written works, the stories and re-telling them to the ponies at large. Afigitus the unicorn always found the best stories to tell!.
"That is... I don't know what to say. I- I can't say anything." He stuttered. She had experienced life from a vastly different perspective, a story that would be a unique experience to share with others.
The unicorn with his muzzle ajar, still gathering thoughts on what he had been told. He knew there was a story here, but something of this precedence was unheard of. It was a completely new and unique story the world at large needed to hear. Slowly he nodded and finished the last block of text he had been furiously writing.
"Would you do it again? If tomorrow you were back on that delivery, knowing what you know now. Would you do it again?" Afigitus asked in curiosity, pencil poised and ready to lay down lead.
Liftwing had remained silent after she finished, seeing the unicorn still scribbling. Staring out over the writer's shoulder, her body sitting perfectly still, just like normal.
"Well..." Afigitus spoke, pausing after he realized she didn't want to answer. "I-I have alot of editing to do. I have found they key points to write about, the things that will get the readers to experience what you felt. Can we talk more tomorrow?" he inquired, putting on his coat while putting the note book into the satchel about his shoulder, waiting for a reply.
The pegaus' eyes shifted from an unfocused gaze outwards to a pinprick dot staring directly at the unicorn. Her breath heaved for a few seconds, before she remembered what the noise was. It was still hard to hear uncontrolled sound coming from another pony, hard to make sense of it sometimes. He wanted to know if they could talk tomorrow.
"Yes, perhaps a little earlier in the day? I should have been in bed..." She paused, looking at the clock, deciphering its information. "Should have been in bed 5... minutes ago."
An errant hoof made its way from the desk's top into her drawer. The brown desk had a secret; her hoof gently touched its glass wall. A tall thin flask of a thick grey liquid sat in an open velvet-lined box inside the drawer. The glass was carefully etched, light dazzled across it's facets like a diamond. Her hoof tingled a bit as it touched the glass, feeling warm and familiar.
She pulled the hoof from the drawer, its tip tainted in the creamy white marble with blue veins; it was slightly petrified, just enough to let her know it was real. Enough to make her comfortable in its stony grip. Enough to feel normal.
"Goodnight." She nodded to the stallion's disappearing flank as he left.
"Whatever... this was, 'life' was too much. The sounds, the commotion and interacting with everypony. It was interesting, but there was too much everything... in it. The sensation overload was intense; the world seemed to be shouting at her. The sun made her feel hot, there was very little she felt wasn't oppressing her in this world. Re-learning a life's worth of delicate little intricate tricks to drown out, ignore pain and offensive smells, but having to learn everything at full throttle.
Through all of it, she pushed on. She knew that things would level out and be normal. Her life was now experiencing the same things when she was petrified, but instead of turning into a statue, she now had to turn back into a pony. It was more difficult than becoming a statue in truth. The mare couldn't fly anymore, made her sick the way everything moved.
The mare wanted nothing more than to go back to how it was. But it wasn't time yet. She realized that she now had all the time in the world, time for coffee and lunch. Time to see what the rest of this brand new world offered. There was also time to 'Curate' the statue ponies."
"There." The unicorn smiled, the last little bit was done. It contained what he hoped was a unique experience for other ponies to read, to perhaps feel themselves what Liftwing had gone through. He reclined back on the padded couch, taking the freshly stapled stack of a story and laid it on his chest. He reached across to the desk, pushing the typewriter away and grabbing the half-empty glass of cider.
"What do I call you?" Afigitus asked the papers, knowing that somethings can hear you.
"How about... The Dark Stone?"
