The time of day was raining away. Overcast skies hid the setting sun from view, and where the beams of sunlight would normally stray to blinding a particular passerby, it wasn't allowed to shine. Leigh sighed, shirt rather wet, and looked on down the road. Ten, twelve, fifteen more houses to go until he reached his ultimate destination: his own home.
Indeed, if he kept up his pace, he might make it there by the end of the week. Shuffling one foot in front the other caused his black shoes to squish with wet, and he could just feel the mold growing in his new socks as he came ever closer to the strange and nebulous location known as his house. His scowl, naturally, made his face look rather ugly, (though whether or not his ugliness in this moment is normal or not is not within my privilege to disclose).
His hair, (and abundance thereof), was soaked to the skull; His suit was drenched in oxygen/hydrogen-based atoms typically referred to as water; His under-wear was slightly damp. If ever there were a great day to forget his umbrella, today was the day, and Leigh knew that for certain.
After all, what better day to forget their umbrella? A rainy, soakful day completed the stereotype, after all! His girlfriend? Dumped him. His boss? Sacked him. His weather? Well, you've read the last few paragraphs, haven't you? Yes, Leigh was well aware that a rainy day completed the life-falling-apart experiance, and could certainly appreciate the comedy, if his gleaming eyes had anything to say about it.
"I wish I was somewhere else," he said to no one but the rain. "Another time, another place, I don't care! Any place called not here would be great!" The rain failed to respond, but this was to be expected. Rain can't talk.
With only slumped shoulders and a downcast head, Leigh finally reached the front door of his house. A dark, rich screen-door greeted him with a charming smile and open arms, and Anomymous gladly stepped inside. He drip-dropped onto his dusty carpet and lethergically made his way over to his couch. He laid his bones down, and himself too, while turning on his television with a universal remote.
Seems that odd Little Pony show was on. He was never quite interested enough to really listen to what was happening into the show, and took solace in the fact that whatever happened inside of it was ultimately inconsequential. The things that happened inside of it didn't effect him, and he couldn't effect it. It was a beutiful truce of purpose, and a delightful exercise in futility on both the show's part and his own to make it otherwise.
His dripping head laid on his putrid green pillow, face neutral, ready to sleep his troubles away for a spell. His eyes closed, his body curled, and his brain shut off. The maiden of dreams curled her finger in calling, and Leigh responded with a slow-crawling snore. Dreams paraded in his mind with glorious fanfare and show.
We find ourselves in another time, another space, another rhyme, and another place away. Grand blue skies with whispy clouds in yellowing hues of a fast setting sun mark our shift, and the gentle sounds of hard wing flaps reach our ears. Green greens, and the still greener eyes that see them glisten with the wet of a fresh rain, reflect the light of the ending day.
Basil heaved a sigh as he flew. His mouth was upturned into a white smile, and he enjoyed the humid air against his dull-cyan coat. Up above him, the sky was slowly darkening into the purple hues of the night. Ten, twelve, fifteen more houses were between him and his home-made trout dinner, and pushed himself just a little bit harder. 'Maybe, if I fly fast enough, I'll be able to make it by the end of the week,' he thought with a smirk.
Basil's eyes narrowed with determination. He was certain he would conquer the mountain and distance to save the damsel of time and feast upon the treasures of what future him would describe as, ahem, "Pretty okay trout." He flapped his wings, he grit his teeth, and he snorted a stray booger as he forced all the power he could into his little eight-year-old frame.
With such heavy concentration, Basil didn't notice himself crash straight into his own bedroom's window, nor did he realize that he had stopped flapping when he was knocked unconscious by the impact against hard-cloud wall. Yes, it appears our little colt has tuckered himself out, so to speak. Naturally his parents came up to check on him, (and were relatively unsurprised to see him out cold), and decided that now would be a good time to finish making the trout while he undoubtedly recovered from potential brain damage.
The maiden of dreams merely glanced at this colt, before holding her nose up in contempt. She would not grace mere knock-out victims with here presence, and walled away without a second thought, confusing Basil's neighbors forever more as to just who that mare was, and what she was doing with an unconscious Basil in his room alone.
What Basil would awaken to was not his questionably beloved tuna, nor supernatural mare of the night, but merely the cold dark in the midst of his room. His head ached, and he swore that, for sure, he would come home more slowly next time. Totally.
He got up to his hooves an-
Lightning crashed near Leigh's house with a loud and very-high-in-decibal-count boom, waking him up and causing him to tumble to the floor in panic. He swore and clutched his bruised head. He slowly got up to sit down on his ugly couch and to ignore the ringing in his ears that would most definately leave remnants of itself in the form of hearing damage.
'That was a strange dream,' he thought to only the thunder outside. 'Guess ponies might actually effect me after all." The thunder didn't reply, but that was to be expected.
Thunder can't read minds.
