Chapter 1 - The Cutie Mark
The first question pops up almost instantaneously. I startle a bit, my heart racing from nerves and excitement. Before me is an image of a young grey stallion with spiked maroon hair, sporting the name Evil Laughter. I chuckle a bit to myself. “Ah, my arch nemesis!” I joke dramatically, and read the question.
"Why hello there! How are you?“
A pretty straightforward question, I think to myself. The perfect hoof to start off on. “I’m fine, thanks,” I say - but the anxiety from being watched by all of Ponyville halts my confidence. One pony throws me a quizzical look, and everything changes. My face grows hot again. Humiliation comes as a tidal wave crashing over me, sweeping me away from reality with nothing to anchor me down. Familiar, warm tears begin to bubble up under my eyelids, threatening to spill over. My legs shake, and I start to stutter.
"S-sorry,“ I bumble to the assortment of ponies who have stopped to ogle my awkwardness. "Juuust… I’ve got to ans-swer this… thingy, is all. You- you know…” Tears would only bring greater embarrassment, so I fight them back, forcing an obviously fake smile. “The asky… thing…” I chuckle nervously. Hesitantly, the ponies begin to continue on their ways, glancing over their shoulder at me once every few steps.
Great. I curse under my breath. It’s not even the first minute of the first day of this blog, and I’ve already managed to screw it up. I feel the tears push to the very edge of my eyes, beginning to blur my sight, but I blink them away. This is no time to lose my cool. Another question is already hovering by me, glowing softly. I take a shaky breath and turn to read it.
“Well, hello, friend. A new face is never a bad thing! Are you new to this town, or have you been here for a time?”
This one is from a dark red bat pony, with hair like fire, named Ember Hearth. His appearance is a bit frightening, but his question seems friendly enough. I open my mouth, but before I can answer it, another one appears behind it, heavy with accent.
“Howdy, dun think ah’ve met ya, are ya new ta Ponehville?” says Dark Pony.
I begin to wander absently down the road in the direction I’d been heading before the notification, briefly pondering if the questions will follow me. Sure enough, they trail behind like balloons attached to my waist by an invisible string. They’re waiting for an answer, and I have no choice but to oblige.
"I’m not new to Ponyville,“ I explain to the glowing words. "I live in a small cloud just above the outskirts of the town. I try to stay out of the limelight, though, which explains why you two haven’t seen me until now. There are so many ponies in Equestria, after all, even I run into faces I’ve never known who have lived here longer than I have.” I pause, then feel like I should elaborate. “I moved here two years ago, just out of high school, taking a gap year before I continued on to college… though, finances haven’t been what they were.” I blush. “I can’t really afford to go back to school now. Not that it matters; Ponyville is a trade town, for the most part. As long as you’re good at what you do, a degree - or lack thereof - means nothing.”
At this, the two questions disappear, and another question appears. Or, multiple question, I suppose.
“Who are you? What do you do for a living? Can we see your cutie mark?” asks Star Bright. Then a question, from a pony named Bo Diddly, answers one of the first. “Quite a nice "FUN-ciful” name ya got, Miss Lovely Laughter. Speakin’ o’ which, li'l birdie (Wallace) told me ya work at a comedy club. Mind tellin’ a professional punster such as myself more ‘bout the place?“
"Yes, the comedy club!” I say. “Ponyville Comedy Club, to be exact, just a couple of buildings down from Rich’s Barnyard Bargains. I’m heading there right now, in fact.” I nod to the road ahead of me, the Club coming into view on the left side. “I have a shift this evening, and I like to get there early and practice my routine before anypony comes in.”
I reach the building a few minutes later. It’s tall, built with red brick, about two stories high in the back - for the stage - but with a steeply slanted, brown shingled roof that shortens to half that height in the front. A large sign over the double doors reads “Ponyville Comedy Club” in hot pink letters, glimmering in the late afternoon sunlight. I tap my hooves on the door, shoving my nose to it and peering trough the only window into the darkness.
A tall, lanky pony emerges, holding a key ring in his mouth. His dim periwinkle fur and navy blue mane are barely visible inside, but his hot pink eyes, which match the lettering on the sign, pierce through the near nonexistent lighting and right into my anxious stomach. He pauses at the door, glaring at me.
"Af-afternoon,“ I stutter, smiling sweetly. "It’s me, Lovely.”
"Is it really,“ he says through the keys. His muffled words are more of a statement than a question. He glances disinterestedly up at the asks floating over my head. "You brought friends. Great. I was in need of another obnoxious ask blog hanging around.” His burning eyes flick back to me. “Password?”
"Um… please?“ I say, and pout my lip. He raises an eyebrow. "And, uh, you’re amazing at comedy, and I’m only here early to practice in the desperate hopes of someday being like you?”
"That’s not a very funny joke,“ he mutters, but he lets me in anyways, locking the door again behind me.
"Thank you, Deadpan!” I say as my eyes adjust to the darkness. He shuffles by me and back into his office, shooting me his do-what-you-want-but-don’t-break-anything look before closing the door.
"My manager,“ I explain, but say no more on the subject in case he’s listening. I feel my way between the round tables and dining chairs towards the long, velvet curtain that hangs to the right of the stage. An electric panel is concealed behind it, which I gingerly open and flip a switch. With a whir of electricity, a bright white spotlight blasts awake, making me slam my eyes shut. Slowly, as the light warms up, I squint open my eyes and adjust to it. The stage itself is made of light blue plywood, set a few feet above the ground. It stretches from the first table to the bare brick back wall, framed by those rose red velvet curtains and sporting a Ponyville Comedy Club sign that twins the one out front. Behind the matching curtain on the left, I find a door marked "Green Room” and slip inside, Bo Diddly’s and Star Bright’s questions expertly squeezing through to follow me.
The Green Room is, of course, painted green, with soft black couches and tables, and a skylight that illuminates the soft mint carpet. There are two more doors just like the one I came through - one on the left that leads outside to the back of the building, and one on the right that leads straight to the kitchens. The Green Room is where comedians often relax prior to, between, and immediately after their shows, and, as the stars, they’re entitled to the upmost convenience, including free food directly from the fryer. Often times I’d been waiting to bring orders to their tables and seen the door swing open, revealing a somewhat depressed, exhausted comedian who made a beeline straight to the hay fries. My dream job - tousled hair and hay fries. Stardom.
I tuck into the kitchens, still empty and clean from the previous night’s close, and cut through them to the bar that lays on the other side. I’d often seen comedians here, too. Late after the shows, the celebrities could be found sitting on a barstool, laughing with their fellow peers and some of the staff. I, of course, never joined in. My job is to clear dishes and deliver food, not to make drinks or confide with the stars. I keep to myself.
The journey has made a loop around the right side of the building, back to the main entrance. “That’s the tour,” I say aloud, though the whole time I’ve been silent. Bo Diddly’s question has seen it all, though. It seems content. “Open mic nights are on Wednesdays, I’d recommend coming by and signing up!” I add quickly, and then it disappears.
This leaves Star Bright’s questions, hanging alone above me. I reread it. I’ve said who I am, I’ve shown my place of work, and all that leaves is…
"Oh, right,“ I say, glancing at my flank. "My cutie mark.”
Blinking, I lift my wings and turn to fully observe my rump. Even in the dim lighting, the bright colors of my cutie mark - a pink heart with a rainbow flag coming from it - stand out against my scarlet fur. “Well,” I mutter. “I suppose that does need explaining… It is a bit… abstract, after all…” I fluff my wings absently, thinking. “Where to begin…?”
A small pop! makes me jump. I whip around to see another glowing ask from Evil Laughter, floating next to Star Bright’s still unanswered one. Hoping for a helpful prompt, I read the new message.
“Olala! I like the sound of this comedy club! So, do you think you’ll go up on stage and preform?”
I blow a clump of hair out of my eyes irritably. It hasn’t been more than half an hour and I’m already getting frustrated with this “blog” thing. What’s the point if nobody asks you the questions you want? Why even bother answering them if they keep changing topics on you? Is this supposed to be some sort of challenge? Probably, I remind myself.
I hesitate, hoping for another question. The air around me is dark and still, almost sleeping in spite of the active afternoon outside. The only sounds come from Deadpan’s muffled quill, scratching importantly on parchment in his office, and the electric hum of the spotlight. “Ooo-kay,” I say, and drag myself up to the stage.
Here, on the well worn wood of a faded light blue, my nerves and irritation begin to recede. The familiar dips and divets of the stage soothe my shaking hooves. The veil of shadow and silence wraps around me, blocking my view of the rest of the room. I take a breath and close my eyes, listening to the dust settle, feeling the hum of the warm spotlight on my fur. A faint smile traces my lips, growing larger with every breath. My nerves settle like snow in a snowglobe, falling away from my face, my shoulders, my chest, and settling in my feet. Then, quietly, my heart begins to race. The nerves stir, filled with new electricity, filling my muscles. I open my eyes, my smile wider and more genuine than it has been all day.
“Hey everypony!” I call to my audience. I grab the microphone, even though it’s turned off, my voice easily filling the quiet space without assistance. “How are we doing tonight? Everybody have a sucky day?” I can almost hear the murmurs of assent and sparse chuckles in the crowd. “Me too!” I smile broader, feigning a grimace. “You know what happened to me today? I was just walking along, minding my own business, when I got this tiny little notification saying ‘Hey, you seem bored, how about we spice up your life with a bunch of obnoxious questions that haunt you indefinitely? No? Well screw you, we’re doing it anyways.’”
Pop! A question appears above me, from a pony-less image of what might be a watch. I read it aloud to my imaginary audience.
“So, how did you find out about this?” from is-the-killer.
“Well, I don’t know what you mean by 'this’,” I say loudly, “but if you mean this damn blog, that’s 100% true, that’s how it happened, word for word. Well,” I wink, “Maybe they didn’t say 'screw you’, but I got the blog anyways so the message was pretty clear.” Hesitantly, almost, the message vanishes.
“Oh come now,” I say to the thin air. “Don’t be like that! I’m joking, obviously, it’s a comedy club. So what if it also happens to be my honest opinion? It’s a jooooke!” I laugh to myself and begin pacing the stage, mic in one hoof, gesturing wildly. “In all seriousness though, I don’t mind the blog. It has its uses. For example, if I’m ever short on subjects to be angry about, I can just wave my little hoof and-” Pop! Another question appeared on cue. “Voila!” This one is from a light green unicorn with teal hair and a sparkly wizard’s robe, named Lloxie.
“So uh… how’s the weather been lately, Lovely? ( Sorry I suck at thinking of good asks right now ^^;; )”
“See?” I gesture to the ask. “Racism! Just because I’m a pegasus means I know what the weather’s like?” I spread my wings. “I mean, really, unicorns! Always being so pretentious and snotty and racist, every single one of them. Pegasi, on the other hand, are never racist. Especially not me,” I joke. “I mean, its 18 degrees Celsius and mostly clear, but really, anypony with a brain would know that. Well… a brain and wings, of course.” I smile playfully at Lloxie’s question, and it vanishes.
Now that I’ve warmed up, I set the mic back in the stand, pull up a stool, and sit attentively on top. Leaning into the mic, I speak in a low voice. “Alright, ladies and gentlecolts,” I murmur soothingly, “Settle down and listen up. Grab your drinks, dig the fluff out of your ears, and prepare to be either amazed… or bored to sleep. I’m about to tell you the long and emotional story of how I got my cutie mark.” I clear my throat, and the flashback begins.
The doctor peered at me over his chart, his lips pursed. I squirmed on the exam table, where I’d stupidly sat even though the only thing being examined was my mind, not my body. The paper crinkled under my rump too loudly. They’ll have to change it, I reminded myself. I sat here unnecessarily and wasted their exam table paper. Stupid, stupid.
He hummed, scanning one last time over my results before lowering his clipboard and smiling at me. It was almost pity, that smile. It bothered me. “Lovely,” he began. I braced myself. It’s probably schizophrenia, I thought. No, worse than that. I have some sort of emotional brain cancer. Or... doubt creeped into my stomach. Or nothing’s wrong with me. Just puberty, symptoms of being a teenager, the rage of hormones that turns me violently from a filly into a mare. And I’ve wasted this doctor’s time with my idiotic paranoia. I’m being stupid as always. I bit my tongue hard, partly to keep my mouth shut, and partly to punish my stupidity with pain. A flash of worry crossed the doctor’s face at my pained expression, but I brushed off his concerned look, thinking it was probably my imagination. Nobody in their right mind would actually worry about me.
He cleared his throat and consulted my chart. “Yes, well, according to the answers you’ve given me, you are definitely suffering from moderate anxiety, moderate to severe depression, and have many symptoms which would point to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. However, since you don’t appear to have experienced any traumatic events-” his eyes flickered to me briefly, and I swore I saw that worry again, “- my diagnosis, overall, would be Borderline Personality Disorder.”
I blinked, not quite understanding. “I… I’m sorry. I don’t know what that is.” My face turned hot, and I shut up again.
He smiled. “It’s not an uncommon disorder, but I understand why you’ve never heard of it. Often times it’s misdiagnosed by doctors less knowledgeable than myself. Not many ponies are educated about it, after all. Some think they’re Bipolar. Others think they’re just being too sensitive. But I assure you, there is nothing wrong with you as a pony.”
I ignored the last sentence. “So… what does it mean? I’m sorry,” I frantically apologized again. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you.” But he held up a hoof to silence me, and I did so immediately.
“It means that for some reason or another - genetics, environment, we’re not sure - your emotions get out of control a lot faster than other ponies. You feel things bigger, stronger, and longer than others do, and while that may cause large amounts of happiness over little things, it also causes outbursts of anger, overwhelming sadness, and other negative problems.” He paused, as though waiting for me to interrupt again, but I stayed obediently silent, nodding to show I understood. “I’m going to prescribe you a mood stabilizer,” he continued, scribbling something on his clipboard, “but it’s only meant as a temporary treatment. I doubt you want to stay on pills forever.” He swiftly ripped the paper away and handed me the signed prescription. Lovely O. Laughter, 15mg Moodyctal, take one pill once daily for seven days, then increase to two pills once daily. “While you’re taking this, I encourage you to find a therapist to work out a more permanent solution. Follow up with me in three to five weeks.”
With that, I was ushered out the door to the receptionist office. I quickly made my next appointment, filled my prescription at their pharmacy, and left the Canterlot Hospital with my grey hoodie pulled over my head and a paper bag sporting the Rx symbol hanging from my mouth.
The moment I arrived at my dad’s house, I hurried quietly up the stairs to my dark room and opened the bag. The orange bottle was filled with a month’s worth of small white pills. Without getting a glass of water, I quickly swallowed two of them, too impatient to wait the seven days recommended by the doctor. Then I put the bottle on my bedside table, curled up in my pillows and blankets, and pulled out my current book to read by candlelight.
The change didn’t happen immediately, even with my rushed dosage increase. I hadn’t even noticed a difference when I went to my follow up appointment. I was still crying at stupid things, getting angry at stupider things, and completely lacking any wisp of self control as usual. When he asked if I’d gone to see a therapist, I lied and said I was working on it, but really, I didn’t have the motivation. Why would I want to inflict my presence on another innocent pony? The doctor raised my dosage, and I left with a bottle of slightly bigger white pills.
It took a few months for ponies to start noticing. My dad complimented one day that he hadn’t heard my sister and I have a screaming match in weeks. My sister thanked Celestia that I hadn’t kept her awake by crying like a baby recently, and I ruined the screaming match record. Slowly, I began to find that less and less things bothered me, and I was perfectly content.
But then, upon being dragged out of my bedroom for visit to the market with my dad, stepmom, and sister, I quietly realized that the bright sunshine didn’t seem as bright as it used to. The fantastic red apples we bought at the stalls didn’t taste as good as I remembered. My stepmom’s jokes didn’t make me laugh as much as I was supposed to, and she asked me what was wrong, but I shrugged. Thinking I just needed a bit of cheering up, I went to the Canterlot Comedy Club the next night to see one of my favorite comedians perform. I sat in the back, and I didn’t laugh. I didn’t even care. Which made me care, a lot.
Feeling a bit panicked, I wrote a letter to my old school friend Ashaka, who lived in Ponyville, explaining my worries and asking for advice. Within a day, I received a response.
“Lovely, stop taking that stupid medicine and find a damn therapist. Love, Ashy.”
My loyalty lying more with Ashy than it did with my Doctor, I obeyed the first order and, as quickly as I could with the mounting social anxiety, fear of the unknown, and crippling self doubt, I sought to eventually do the second one at some point probably. This proved even more difficult, considering the abrupt and highly unrecommended cut from Moodyctal led to louder emotional outbursts than before. Finally, tired of fighting with me over every little thing, my dad found a therapist for me.
“Guinea pig therapy?” I shouted, staring at the flyer in my hooves. My dad winced.
“It’s proven very useful with, er, whatsit-” he said gently. “Border… mood disorder?”
“Borderline Personality Disorder,” I snapped. “And how would you know if you don’t even know what it’s called?”
He frowned. On cue, his wife stepped in to handle me. “We’ve talked to Mrs. Greenfield, Love, and she knew exactly what were-”
“Of course she said her stupid therapy was good for whatever I have. She’s doing it to make money!” I slammed the flyer on the table. “You two don’t even understand what I’m going through! I told you, I told you I had it covered, and yet you still went behind my back and found a therapist that YOU like without considering how I feel about it!”
“Lovely, please,” Dad urged. He raised a hoof to pat my shoulder, but I shoved it away. “You’re being unreasonable.”
“Look in the mirror!” I shouted. Then I stormed off, slamming the door behind me, and flew to spiral roof, knowing full well that my unicorn dad and earth pony step-mom couldn’t follow me. I pounded on the roof, I screamed and cried until the neighbors shot me angry looks through their windows. I sobbed uncontrollably for nearly two hours. I couldn’t believe they would have the nerve to do such a horrendous thing to me! They hated me, they wanted me gone, they were never going to accept me for my over-emotional self. I sulked for nearly three hours. Then, as the sun began to set, I flew back down and agreed to go to Guinea Pig Therapy without another word.
"And how did this therapy work out?“ asks Evil Laughter.
"BPD, eh? Sorry to hear that, friend. Medication for a condition like that just ruins the world. I’ve know folks with a similar deal. I’m hoping the therapy helped eventually, if not immediately?” asks Ember Hearth.
The sky was patchy, the air was perfectly cool. I was glad to have a good reason to wear my grey hoodie - usually strangers questioned me on my typical attire. I rolled out of bed, slipped it on, and followed my dad out of the house.
“I’m so glad you’re doing this, Lovely,” Dad said deliberately. “You’re making me so proud.” He shot a meaningful look at me, but I remained silent, staring stubbornly at my hooves. We continued quietly for a few minutes, then he cleared his throat. “So… are you nervous?” I shook my head. “Do you… know what you’re going to talk about? Your mom, perhaps…?” I narrowed my eyes at the ground, still saying nothing. His ears lowered momentarily, and suddenly I did feel nervous and awkward. Or he did. I wasn’t sure. All I knew was I wanted this conversation to end soon.
“How much farther is it?” I grumbled.
He perked up again. “Oh, not much! It’s just on the outskirts of the city. I guess guinea pigs like to live in grassy, rocky places. Who knew?” He chuckled. I didn’t laugh, and his face fell. “Maybe… you want to consider trying to talk about… some of your ex boyfriends?”
At this, I squeezed my eyes shut, shoving his last sentence out of my mind. “No,” I said, my voice more forceful than I’d meant it to be. I instantly overcorrected with a quiet muttering. “I mean… no, that’s… no….” I trailed off, and thankfully he didn’t push the subject further.
I hoped he would be completely quiet the rest of the way, but with no such luck. A few awkward, silent minutes later, he spoke again, his voice lower than before. “Lovely,” he murmured, “listen. I want you to go into this with an open mind, okay? Mrs. Greenfield is here to help you. She’s not trying to hurt you, and she knows what she’s doing, so I’d really appreciate it if you tried trusting her. This therapy is very important to all of us-”
“I thought I was the only one seeing her.” I interrupted.
“Well, yes, but no doubt, once you get your emotions under control, life should be a lot easier for everyone-”
“So I’m a burden?” I snapped. “You just want me to be normal, do you, so you won’t have to deal with my personality?”
“Lovely, please, I didn’t say-”
“You didn’t have to.” I felt like a striking snake, biting with every word I spoke. Why did he keep pushing me? It wasn’t exactly wise to taunt an irritable viper. Obviously, I thought bitterly, he isn’t very wise.
The buildings were melting away around us, growing smaller and less frequent every block. Finally, we crossed a small bridge to find a white wooden fence and a sign that said, “Mrs. Greenfield’s Guinea Pig Rescue and Therapy” arching over a small gate. Dad pranced up to it. I slumped after him. Beaming at me - or grimacing - he waved at someone beyond the gate and called. “Mrs. Greenfield! I have Lovely Laughter here for your 10 o'clock!”
A tall, grassy green earth pony approached. She wore her mint colored mane and tail in large buns, streaked with gold, and sported small spectacles in front of her large, rosy eyes. Her flank bore the image of a guinea pig with a small heart next to it. She walked lightly but confidently, her hooves landing soundlessly next to a few potato-sized furballs bouncing beside her in the grass.
“Hello, Straight Lines,” she greeted my father. Her voice was much like her gait, soft but firm. She stopped at the gate and peered over her glasses at me, smiling. “And you must be Lovely. Your dad told me lots about you.”
“I’ll bet he did,” I grumbled, averting my eyes.
Mrs. Greenfield seemed to brush this off. “I think I can take it from here,” she said to my dad. “Come back for her in an hour, won’t you?”
“I was actually hoping to go over some things with you…” Dad replied, rubbing the back of his neck. “She can be a bit… hard to handle, at times. What with the outbursts and temper tantrums.”
“I’m right here!” I snapped at his fetlocks. He gestured to me as if to say, “See what I mean?”
“Not to worry, Straight,” Mrs. Greenfield insisted. “I believe I am more than capable of dealing with these so-called tantrums you describe. You’ve seen my licenses.”
“Yes, but, if I were to perhaps, watch from the sidelines, make sure that nothing… goes wrong, I mean.”
“Lovely, as you told me, has a mood disorder. She is not a manticore, she is a pony, and I would much rather speak with her alone without outside… assistance.”
I looked up to see her staring down my dad. She wasn’t very threatening, but her stance was clearly unwavering. A surge of gratitude lifted my chest, and I raised my head to my dad. “I think she’s right, Dad. I would rather be alone.”
He glanced nervously from me to Mrs. Greenfield, then sighed irritably.
“Alright,” he said in a “don’t-say-I-didn’t-warn-you” sort of flourish. “I’ll be back at eleven. We can discuss this further then.” Without another word, he trotted off, leaving me alone with this new mare.
“I sincerely apologize,” she said to me, opening the gate. “Sometimes ponies find that when they don’t have control over their family members’ mood disorders, they try to control the family member instead. I’m sure he doesn’t realize how smothering he can be.” She winked at me. “Don’t you worry, our sessions are confidential, even if he is your parent.”
“Thank you,” I smiled weakly, “I really appreciate it. He can be a bit… stressful.” She closed the gate behind me.
“Watch your step, now,” she said, nodding to the ground. I looked down to see three lumps of fur gazing up at me. They were the size and shape of eggplants, with fur of multiple earthy colors, from one wiry potato in dusty grey, to a plump ginger squash with streaks of white, to a jet black pear with matching beady eyes. They all had soft, tiny lips, snubbed noses, and large petal-like flaps for ears. And they were ADORABLE.
I sank to the ground immediately, pushing my muzzle to the orange and white one. “Oh my goodness!” I squealed, joy rushing through me. “They’re so cute! Aren’t you, squishy little pig?” The guinea pig sniffed my muzzle curiously, then popped into the air with an excited Wheek! I giggled uncontrollably, nuzzling her furry side. I looked up to see the black one hiding behind Mrs. Greenfield’s hooves, and the wiry rex streaking off through the grass. She smiled down at me.
“I’m glad you like them!” she said, lowering her face to the ground as well. The black one slipped under her chin, watching me cautiously. “That one you have there is Pumpkin. She’s very friendly, as you can tell. Most pigs tend to be a bit more skittish around strangers, but she’s been around long enough to know that I won’t let her come to any harm.” Pumpkin popped again in approval, beaming up at me. “And this one,” she motioned to the one under her chin, “is Shadow. He’s a bit more cautious around strangers, but much more brave than Ringo, that rex who ran away.” With a practiced flourish, she scooped Shadow onto her head and straightened up. “Follow me.”
We strode peacefully past a small, white stone cabin - which I guessed was Mrs. Greenfield’s home - and into a grove of deciduous trees. The ground was, as my dad said, both rocky and grassy, with a smooth grass trail edged by jagged, green ground. Little furry heads with floppy ears and snubbed noses peeked up over crevices and out from miniature caves, some munching grass, others frozen solid. Black and occasionally red eyes peered at me. Once we were completely surrounded by trees, the therapist directed us to a small clearing and layed on her chest, crossing her forelegs neatly in front of her. Shadow hopped down and nuzzled himself against her side, true to his name as he seemed to stick to her just like a shadow. I lay nervously across from her, tucking my hooves underneath me. A soft nose bumped my left wing, and I looked around to see Pumpkin trying to get under my feathers. I unfolded my wing for her and looked up at Mrs. Greenfield, who was watching me with interest.
“She seems to really like you,” she said, nodding to Pumpkin. I blushed and nodded, unable to suppress the smile that spread across my face. “I see,” she continued, “that she got you to open your wings.”
“It looks like she wanted a place to snuggle,” I answered, but Mrs. Greenfield shook her head, which puzzled me.
“I mean, not to say that she didn’t also want a warm place to sit, but Pumpkin is very smart. I’ve found that she knows what my patients need, almost instinctively. You, my dear, need to open up.”
My chest closed, pushing a lump into my throat. Here comes the therapy, I thought. I knew I couldn’t avoid it, but I’d hoped for a minute that I might spend my entire session playing with adorable fluff balls. Mrs. Greenfield noticed my grimace. She smiled patiently.
“Believe it or not, guinea pigs can be very therapeutic,” she said. “Once you can understand their body language, which isn’t very different from us ponies, you may discover that you see things in them that you can’t see in yourself. Their feelings are purer and simpler than ours. This honesty about their emotions helps us greater understand the feelings that others may hide.” A small white pig with a sooty black nose and ears sniffed his way forward, gazing around with cherry red eyes. Mrs. Greenfield made a soft clicking noise with her tongue, and the pig pranced forward quickly, right up to her front hooves. Shadow emerged from her side, the hair on his back raised, a low rumbling shaking his little body. His rump swayed back and forth, tension rising between them like heat from a sunbaked stone. Mrs. Greenfield narrated in a lower voice, so as not to startle them. “Guinea pigs, like us, have a hierarchy system, and conflict can arise when that hierarchy is perceived to be threatened.” The red eyed pig was rumbling now too, but backing away slowly.
“Shadow wants to be the leader,” I blurted out, without thinking about it. “But his confidence needs work.” Shadow was almost imperceptibly glancing at Pumpkin, who watched calmly from under my wing. “He wants to impress Pumpkin, who is the current leader, so maybe he can take her place when the time comes.” I glanced up at Mrs. Greenfield. “But she’s more gentle than he is…” I trailed off. Mrs. Greenfield’s eyes were wide.
“That’s… that’s correct,” she muttered.
I blinked back at her, befuddled. Of course it’s correct, I thought, I just saw it. I felt it. Wasn’t it obvious? Didn’t she feel it too? Anxiety and paranoia began creeping up my chest. Pumpkin nuzzled me affectionately, ebbing some of my nerves. I shrank towards the ground, my face burning. “What- what do you mean?” I stammered into my hooves.
“I mean,” Mrs. Greenfield said softly, “that you’re correct. Completely correct.”
“Lucky guess,” I brushed off.
She shook her head, still watching me with what seemed to be awe and interest. Then, with a click of the tongue and a tiny jerk of the head, a golden guinea pig stepped forward from a patch of long grass. He tilted his head at me, then perked up when he saw Pumpkin. He quickly strutted around the clearing, rumbling elatedly. Shadow shrunk against Mrs. Greenfield’s flank again. The soot nosed pig zipped around her rump, disappearing behind her bunned tail. After making his impressive loop, the golden pig pranced up to the center, beaming at Pumpkin, who responded with a calm indifference.
“This is Joey,” Mrs. Greenfield introduced. Joey puffed up importantly, radiating confidence. “Where do you think he stands in the herd?”
I stuttered, staring at the little creature. My brain froze, held in place by his tiny, unblinking eyes. A tidal wage of self doubt crashed over me, sweeping me into a stormy sea of denial. I closed my eyes, shaking my head helplessly. But the confidence radiating from Joey pierced through like a lighthouse beam through the storm. It remained, in spite of the blasts trying to wash it away. I’m just being paranoid, I thought. I’m making stuff up out of my own previous prejudices, I’m just guessing with no basis in fact. Each thought was another wave, slipping under my hooves and tossing me, helpless, into suffocating anxiety.
“He’s also the leader,” I choked out, swallowing a lump in my throat. I braced myself for Mrs. Greenfield’s disappointment.
“And S'mores?” she asked. I peered out from under my bangs, and saw her motioning to the soot faced cherry eyed pig, whose black nose was peeking over her croup.
“He’s near the top of the herd, but not by much,” I muttered, accepting S'mores’ uncertainty through my internal turmoil.
“How about Rosie?” she pressed. An elderly pig with curly white and chocolate hair - greying on the edges - was meandering blindly across the clearing, undisturbed by the other pigs. She nuzzled Shadow affectionately in passing. I covered my face with my hooves, not wanting to answer.
“She’s the motherly figure to the herd.” I squeaked. The waves were dizzying. I felt sick. I just wanted to melt into the ground, to disappear from this terrible reality permanently. Disapproval slammed from above, a minty green figure shaking his head at me from the churning storm clouds. I began to quiver. Why was I subjecting this poor therapist to my stupidity? Why was I letting her taunt me with my own paranoia?
“Amazing,” she muttered. I jolted my head upright, the waves vanishing in a blink. She was smiling at me. Not smirking, not grimacing, not even pitying. She was genuinely smiling. “I thought only I could truly understand the complex hierarchies of the herd, simply because I’ve spent so much time with them. But you, Lovely… you have something special.”
“I do?” I said, feeling a little light headed.
“You do,” she nodded. “It seems that your borderline personality disorder has not only made you sensitive to your own emotions, but to the guinea pigs’ as well. You are so in tune with emotions that you can pick up even the slightest signs from tiny creatures. Tell me… can you do this with ponies as well?”
“I… I’m not sure. I mean… thought I was just being stupid.”
“Who in Equestria told you that you were stupid?”
My mouth closed. The downpour of disapproval still seemed to be clinging to my shoulders. When I didn’t answer, Mrs. Greenfield stood. I followed suit, and we began wandering through the woods again. Pumpkin clinged to my heels. Shadow followed just behind us. We were silent.
My dad was already at the fence when we arrived. He might’ve just trotted to the nearest shop and back. Anxiety was pouring off him, blowing over the grass like wind, sweeping up my legs. I looked up to Mrs. Greenfield nervously. She paused just out of my dad’s earshot and smiled down at me. Pumpkin nuzzled my ankles, almost as though she sensed the anxiety flowing into them.
“Would you like to meet again?” she asked me. I nodded shyly. She beamed. “I’m glad to hear that. Pumpkin has taken a liking to you. So your homework, until we meet again, is to explore this ability to pick up on emotions. You don’t have to act on them, you don’t even have to tell anybody about it-” she glanced at my dad meaningfully, “-just explore it, test your abilities. Ponies are much more complicated than guinea pigs, but since you yourself are a pony with complicated emotions, I have a feeling that you’ll be able to understand them. When you come back, tell me of your findings, and maybe we can talk about why you think you’re not as brilliant as you are.” She winked at me, and I smiled weakly at her. Tears began to brim on my eyelashes, a lump rising in my throat. Nobody had called me brilliant for years - other than my parents, when they were trying to get me to do something productive with my life. To hear it coming from somepony I just met….
“Thank you,” I choked. She nodded.
“Now, let’s go schedule your next appointment with your father. I’m sure he’s anxious to hear every little thing that happened, but don’t worry; we don’t have to tell him a thing.” She winked again. My weak smile became stronger as we continued up to the fence.
That afternoon, I let Dad know I was going out. His ears straightened up, concerned.
“Wh-why?” he stammered. “I mean, that’s great! It’s good for you to get out, get some sun.” He shifted awkwardly, staring down at the dishes he was cleaning with unicorn magic. “Are… I mean, you’re okay, right? Everything’s okay?”
Irritation began to bubble inside me, but I paused its pursuit. I hadn’t been able to get Mrs. Greenfield’s assignment off my mind all morning, and I’d been meaning to use the walk to clear my head and sift through this newfound possibility, yet, through my swirling thoughts, awareness of my dad’s emotions bubbled to the top and floated where I could shakily grab hold. I glanced over his tensed muscles, his furrowed eyebrows creating a little 11 over his concerned eyes, which didn’t seem to register that he was still scrubbing the same clean spot on the plate floating in front of him. Somewhere, I felt a sense that wasn’t quite seeing, nor hearing, but sort of like touching, or temperature - a disjointed emotion that didn’t cling to my heart like my own, but slipped through my fur and mirrored my father. I closed my eyes and gave way to the feeling, pointedly ignoring the voice in my head that said I was nothing special, and I was just being paranoid.
A strange mass began to swell. It was large, tingling that wasn’t hot, nor cold, and sparkling like unicorn magic, but more opaque. It glowed and flowed, shapeless, impervious, running along my father’s tense back, congealing at his compressed forehead. It seized his heart with the foggy grey of confusion, the deep blue of timidity, the dark red of stress, the quiet purple of caution - colors I couldn’t see, but that I almost tasted, colors that only worked with my own associations of those feelings. I opened my eyes to find my dad looking at me. All of his emotions were swirling invisibly around him, fed by his very core. The plate was frozen in mid air.
“Lovely?” he asked. Timidity coated his voice. An unexplained fear began to crawl into his heart.
“Yeah, no, I mean, I’m fine. I just need a walk to… to clear my head. Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll be back before long.”
His tension released a fraction of an inch. He nodded and forced himself to returned to his dishes. “Well, have a good walk then. I hope it helps.”
I emerged into the early afternoon sunshine cautiously. The hustle and bustle of ponies whirled past. Some were high-trotting importantly, noses in the air. Others were cantering block to block, delivering invitations or packages to homes and businesses. I resisted the urge to pull my hood over my head, and stepped into the street.
The fresh air and bright sunlight began to help almost immediately. It filled my lungs, cooled the nervous sweat on my forehead, rustled my short blonde hair. I closed my eyes as I walked. Worry and anxiety swept away, replaced with a pure curiosity and a miniscule sense of destiny. I made my way down to the park, where a large fountain flowed and birds fluttered in the neatly trimmed hedges. I sat myself on a bench to pony-watch.
Children ran by, radiating the joy and excitement of adventure. Adults dashed past as well, filled with varying levels of stress and unique mixtures of emotions like depression, anxiety, and fear. A brown pony with an hourglass cutie mark and a green tie sprinted through the park, the blackness of danger and fire of adrenaline so evident that it made me freeze, and only released when he was long out of sight. Finally, a bluish grey pony shuffled very close to me. With a sigh, he slumped onto the other side of the bench, placing his head in his hooves. Loneliness, a darker blue than his eyes or teal-tipped blue mane, swelled from him. It curled into his stomach. It slipped into his hooves, trickling down from his face like tears.
I cleared my throat, and he started, whipping up and blinking at me like I’d appeared out of nowhere. “Oh-” he stammered, “sorry, I didn’t-” he began to get up. He was my age, maybe a bit younger, though the dark circles under his eyes made him seem much older.
“No, it’s fine, please,” I motioned to the bench. “Sit with me. I need some company, too.”
He blinked, a bit confused by my assumption that he needed company, but settled back down anyways. A long sigh escaped his lungs, seeming to deflate him. I rubbed my hooves nervously, trying not to stare, but feeling a strong kindred connection between myself and this lonely pony.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“Oh… nothing. It’s just… It’s nothing.” It was exactly as I’d expect myself to act if I were him. I racked my brain, trying to think. If I were him, what would I want?
“It’s a beautiful day,” I ventured awkwardly. He grunted. I glanced around the park, searching for help. Ponies continued to canter back and forth, oblivious to the two teenagers incredibly out of place on this beautiful park bench, sitting as far from each other as possible.
“Parents?” I guessed. He nodded, and relief poured through me. This I could relate too. “Same,” I replied. “They think they can control everything I do. Think I need to go to therapy.”
“I wish my parents did that. They hardly seem to pay attention to me unless I’m in their way. Nobody in Canterlot wants a pegasus kid.” He glanced at my wings. “Sorry, I didn’t mean-”
“No, I understand. We’re too flighty,” I joked.
“Well, at least we can fly away, right?”
“I wish it were that easy.”
“Same.”
We sat in silence for a few minutes. Some birds landed at our feet, pecking invisible crumbs off the ground. The sun crossed the sky imperceptibly, shadows shifting very slightly. I remembered Shadow, the guinea pig. I remembered Pumpkin, who seemed to know exactly what to do. I wished I was her.
Suddenly, my eye caught a Frisbee, sticking out of a neat, rectangular hedge. I leapt up and trotted over to it, pulling it out of the leaves with my mouth. I looked at the blue pony (blue, in more ways than one) and smiled weakly, holding the disk on my hooves.
“No magic allowed,“ I promised, and tossed it into his lap. He stared at it blankly.
"I’m not very good,” he said.
“Don’t worry about it, neither am I.”
He slowly stood up, inspecting the Frisbee. Then, cautiously, he tossed it back to me. I caught it in my mouth.
“Go long!” I called through my teeth, and reared my head back. His eyes widened, and he sprinted away, keeping his head turned to watch as I threw it as far as I could. He leapt into the air and caught it. When he landed, he was beaming.
We tossed the Frisbee back and forth, diving and flying to catch our terribly aimed throws. The sun sank lower, the birds dissipated, but we hardly noticed. Happiness, awkwardness, and blood pounded through our veins. Not only was I able to feel other ponies’ emotions, but I could use it to help them! My flying was strong and easy. Nothing could ruin this amazing feeling.
“To your left!” “Good catch!” “Watch your head!” “Ouf-”
I pressed my hooves to my nose. It throbbed in pain, and when I pulled my hoof away, I saw the glint of blood. The pony ran up to me. “I’m so sorry!"
“Don’t worry,” I laughed, showing him the blood against my scarlet fur. “It blends in.” I slipped off my sweater and held it to my nose, the blood stains mixing with the numerous new grass stains. I smiled at the pony, but he seemed distracted by something behind me. I turned around. “What?”
“Was that there before?” He pointed, not behind me, but at my flank. I lowered my sweater and looked around.
A bright pink patch of fur shined from my rump. My eyes widened, and I curled around to see better. It was a heart, followed by a rainbow flag of red, yellow, blue, and green. I blinked at it, shocked. Only the taste of blood trickling into my gaping mouth brought me back into the moment.
“What does it mean?” the pony asked. “I thought it might be a frisbee at first, but, well, that catch wasn’t exactly cutie-mark stuff.” He smiled at me, laughing awkwardly.
“No, I think it’s what my therapist was talking about.” I faced him again. “I noticed you were lonely, and then… well, I acted upon it, I guess. I mean,” I rubbed my neck, “I think… I can kind of feel emotions.”
“Like an empath?” he asked. I cocked my head. “You know,” he continued, “like that chick from Pony Trek. You feel what others feel. You’re an empath.”
“I’ve never seen Pony Trek.”
He gawked at me. “Well, you and I need to change that.”
“Now?” I asked, and looked at the sky. Time had flown. “It’s getting late, my parents might be worried-”
“Oh, yeah,” he said hurriedly. “I meant, maybe another day. If I come home too late tonight, they’ll definitely notice, and not in the good way.”
“What’s your name?” I asked, realizing I hadn’t asked before. He smiled.
“Col. And you?”
“Lovely.” Then, feeling his confusion, I corrected, “I mean, my name is Lovely.”
“Oh, well, it was ‘lovely’ to meet you, Lovely. I hope you invite me to your cute-ceanera, considering I’m a witness and all.” He winked, much more cheerful than he’d been when I met him. “And you need to come over soon, so I can show you that episode of Pony Trek. For cutie mark purposes, of course.”
“Of course!” I said, a smile spreading across my face. “I’ll 'col’ on you.” We snickered. I tasted blood again, and pressed the sweater back to my nose.
We arranged a time to meet next, and then, with a hearty goodbye, we trotted off into opposite directions. Excitement made my hooves tingle, and, three-legged from holding my hoodie up, I broke into a gallop. My cutie mark! I’d finally gotten my cutie mark!
A slow clap rises from the back of the dark room. I look up from the microphone to see Deadpan, smirking, leaning against a pole.
“You know,” he says dryly, “you could’ve simply said you’re an empath. Would’ve saved me the time.”
Author's Note
Questions from @evil-laughter, @ember-hearth, @is-the-killer, @lloxie, @askdarkpony, @star-bright-unicorn, and @askbodiddly
Featuring @thechalkponies
Click here to ask!
Chapter 2 - The Yellow Pony
While the two previous questions had disappeared without my noticing, several more had appeared from the empty air above me. I glance up to them, then back to Deadpan. He snorts at me, the faint trace of a smile on his lips. I blush, embarrassed, and flutter off the stage towards him, avoiding eye contact.
"And here I thought you were just really, really gay,“ he says, jerking his head towards my cutie mark. I frown, folding my wings so they cover the heart and rainbow. "An empath, huh?” he continues. “So, tell me, how am I feeling?”
I grit my teeth. My pet peeve, the one reason I avoid telling people what my cutie mark means, is that very - and very stupid - question. “I’m not a therapist,” I grunt.
He pouts mockingly. “Oh come on,” he whines. “How am I supposed to know how I’m feeling without you telling me?”
I huff and look into his eyes. Behind his thin veil of jokes lays a big black hole of depression and self hatred. It churns in his heart and sucks the life from him slowly, like a weed gradually choking a flower to death. He feels like a miserable failure, and the only time he ever feels joy is when he’s with his fiancée. Sometimes, he even doubts if he really feels that joy. All this I know very well from working with him for five months, and I see solid proof in his dark, puffy eyes. However, I ignore that, because I’ve learned from experience that people don’t like to be told they’re miserable. It’s as if realizing their misery will make it more real and horrible than it already is.
Between the veil of humor and the black hole, there’s a solid wall of pride. It’s mixed with a sort of cockiness that I can’t stand. I focus on that bit and decide to play on it.
I lift my chin and steady my gaze. “You feel like you’re really smart for making a clever joke that I’ve heard a million times.”
Bingo. His cockiness falters, replaced briefly with confusion, and then - to my great pleasure - he’s slightly impressed. He doesn’t let his veil fall, though. Instead of patting me on the back, he smirks again, hands me my black polo shirt and nametag, and tells me to get to work.
“That’s a really cool story! So, what happened to this ‘Col’ character, eh?” Evil Laughter asks first.
"He’s my penpal now,“ I explain, lighting one tea candle after another and smoothing out red tablecloths as I go. I’ve donned my uniform and tied my hair back into a thick ponytail. I look positively professional, in my opinion. "When I moved to Ponyville, Ashaka and Col sort of switched places in that regard. Now I hang out with her and send letters to him instead. He still lives with his parents but… it’s a work in progress.”
Evil’s question vanishes satisfactorily, leaving an Anonymous one.
"Wow, kind of scary having your emotions feel like they unearth you. Did you feel afraid? Who cared to comfort you?“
I smile weakly. "I wasn’t afraid at the time, but now… even with my new antidepressants, it’s hard. Sometimes it feels like a monster inside me that I can’t control.” I pause as my match makes a tea candle flare into life. The tiny glow barely fights off the darkness around it. I stare into the flame, watching it dance absently. “I had Col and Ashy, of course, but sometimes, I just felt so alone. I *feel* alone. I wish…” I gulp. “I wish I knew how to control it. I wish I’d known, back in the day… there’s so many things I regret. Sometimes I feel like I shouldn’t be here. Like I’m not living the life I was meant to live.” I pause, my legs suddenly feeling too weak to move. Memories flash through my head, faces darkened by my own regret.
The pop of an ask appearing jolts me back into my body. I look up to realize that the previous question has been replaced by another anonymous one, presumably from the same pony.
“Did you know you are brave having shared your vulnerability in this story?” it reads.
It hits me hard, right in the gut. I feel like an imposter. Brave? Me? Perhaps the questions got mixed up along the way. It couldn’t possibly be meant for me.
"I…“
"LOVELY!” someone shouts. I spin around.
"Oh, um, sorry- I mean- hi, Peachy.“ The peach colored pony is smiling and waving frantically. "I didn’t realize-”
"Who were you talking to?“ she asks loudly, smiling wide.
"Just this…” I trail off, noticing that the question is gone. My heart sinks. I didn’t even answer it. Realizing Peachy is awaiting an answer, I stammer, “Um… you know, myself. Just practicing jokes. Heh, heh…”
"They didn’t seem all that funny,“ she says. Not an inch of malice in her heart, still smiling. Just honesty.
"Practice makes perfect,” I laugh it off. She nods and prances towards the office to clock in. I turn back to my work, letting my fake smile fall the moment she’s out of sight. Then, the soft glow above my head catches my attention. I look up to see that the question had returned. “Did you know that you are brave having shared your vulnerability in this story?” I blink at it, bewildered at its reappearance. Did it hide? Is it, perhaps, a more personal question meant only for my eyes? Either way, here it is, waiting for me to answer it; and I realize, swallowing nervously, that I don’t know the answer.
"I…“ I stutter again. The question seems to smile gently at me, almost lovingly. My stomach feels uncomfortable, and my heart feels warm. I swallow. "No, I… I suppose I didn’t know that. I don’t feel brave. It just seems like… being vulnerable is who I am. I just thought I should be honest.”
The question disappears - differently this time, with the final pop that the others disappear to, not quietly as it had before. Now, I think, it is really gone.
No more questions appear throughout the night. I go about my business taking orders, bringing alcoholic drinks and delicious hay fries (which I munch in the kitchen when nopony is looking) and stealthily clearing empty glasses and chip baskets from tables. I’ve become rather adept at holding trays on my wings, allowing me to carry more between trips. This efficiency leads to a lot of quiet time back in the kitchen, where the chefs and I chat, sometimes listening to the comedian through the walls and chuckling with each other. I lean against the counter, munching on fries and trying to crack jokes against the much funnier pony on stage. Once in a while, Deadpan pokes in, and I quickly grab a broom and pretend like I’ve been sweeping the floor the whole time. After the show, I set to work running the dishwasher and clearing the last bits of dishes - sometimes cleaning off the leftovers into my mouth rather than into the garbage. The chances of food making it to the garbage can decreases by about 3,000% if that food happens to be mozzarella sticks. Finally, I wash my hooves and wipe marinara sauce off my cheeks before running out to greet and seat the audience for the second show. Then my routine begins all over again, except with more drinks and less food being delivered to tables.
The last show ends, and I’m sweeping an entire basket full of chips off the floor - thanks to one particularly drunk pony - when I notice an adorable couple pass me in their way out. My ears perk up and I turn sharply towards them, the fur on the back of my neck tingling. The stallion is stumbling a little, being held up by his girlfriend. The flow of feelings between them is familiar - love, fear, anger, pain, annoyance - the stallion is complaining loudly, the mare trying desperately to calm him down. Love, fear, love, fear; they’re mixed together like two colors of paint, no longer marbled, but thoroughly churned until they create a smooth new emotion. Anger, anger, anger, so normal, so solidified that the affection behind it doesn’t even try to make itself known. A handsome teal face smiles at me, just like it did a few hours ago, when I was lighting the tea candles. Lovely. Lovely. The couple is leaving. The large glass door closes behind them. Lovely. Hello? I still see the couple through the glass. Their lips move differently as their words turn harsher. Are you there? The stallion raises his hoof, ready to strike. “LOVELY!”
Deadpan steps in front of me, blocking my view. I startle away from him, wincing.
"Whoa there, little pony. Did I scare you?“ His hot pink eyes show a flash of genuine concern. I realize I’m frozen, cowering behind a broom like it’s a shield. My boss peeks around the thin handle at me.
I jolt back upright. "Oh yeah, uh, no problem. I mean. Sorry, what?” I take a step forward and crunch some of the chips underneath my hooves. “Shoot,” I curse, and try to return to sweeping them up. The broom falls with a clink to the floor. I scramble to pick it up again. “Yes, um, did you… need me?” I blow my hair from my eyes and knock the dustpan over. I’m dizzy.
Deadpan raises an eyebrow. “You kind of froze in the middle of the walkway. Ponies are trying to get around you. Are you alright? Have you eaten anything?”
My blood rushes through my head. “What? Me, eat something? Like what?”
"Have you had dinner?“ he presses. "You seem a little faint.”
"No, um, yeah, I mean, I’m fine.“ I don’t want to admit that I’m too full for dinner, considering I’ve been working four and a half hours and only had a bathroom break. I shake my head and forcibly steady myself. "Was there anything else you needed me to do, boss?” I peek over his shoulder. The couple is gone.
"How about you go on home. You clocked in early today anyways. I’ll take care of this.“ He takes the broom and dustpan from me. I hesitate, but don’t argue. Within minutes, my outfit is returned to my locker and I’m stepping out into the cool night air.
I hear the stallion’s voice again.
I turn to the voice. It’s angry - more than angry - it’s hard not to hear it rising through the quieting night. I step away from the lights of the club, following the stream of resentment and love and fear trickling past me like runoff from a spilled bucket of hot, fragrant water. A question appears above my back, and I spin quickly to read it.
“Now Lovely, if you’re gonna follow them, don’t get caught,” asks anonymous.
The fur on my neck prickles. “If you stop asking questions for two seconds, I won’t,” I hiss, ashamed to admit I was definitely considering following them. The thought of being found eavesdropping on a personal argument between strangers makes my stomach flutter uncomfortably. I should just go home, curl up in my cloud bed and forget about it, but guilt shoves the consideration away. The question disappears. I swallow down the lump rising in my throat.
I walk carefully so as not to disturb the rocks on the street, my ears perked up to catch every word. They’re indistinct at first, but soon I can distinguish slurred vowels and consonants as they’re spit from the stallion’s mouth. "-making me look like a flippin’ idiot in there! You couldn’t let me jus… jus walk out on m- own? I can handle… I can handle myself! I don’t NEED you!“
There’s the impression of a soft whisper, but I can’t tell if it’s the mare or the wind. I slow my gait, straining my ears.
"I DON’T GIVE A DAMN if I… I was embarrassing YOU?” The statement turns into a question. “You stupid filly! You should be honored, honored! That I grace you with my presh-preshence, you piece of gar- piece of trash.” I hear the sound of spitting and a tiny squeak. I round the corner of a building and barely see the couple’s silhouettes on the moonlit grass, squeezed in a shadowy ally between this building and the next. The flow of emotions is like a river now, swirling around me and threatening to sweep my feet out from under me, but I press against it. The mare has her head bowed, wiping glittering saliva from her face. The stallion is bending over her like a hawk over a mouse. I stand, frozen, at the end of the alleyway.
"I could have any filly I flippin’ want!“ He gestures wildly, and I think I see her shrink away in fright. She definitely feels frightened, at least. Frightened… and in love. Madly, wildly in love. A love so strong it keeps her rooted to the ground while he flails and spits at her. "I could have a model, for cryin’ out loud! A MODEL! I’ve done it, I’ve had one before, but you had to come along and screw… screw everything up!” He jabs at her shoulder.
"I… I didn’t-“ I think I hear.
"BULL!” He snaps, and jabs her harder. “BULL BULL BULL.” He jabs her three times, the last one so forceful it sends her stumbling
backwards. I flinch, but I can’t turn away, nor step towards her. I feel like I’m wearing lead horseshoes, nailed dually into my hooves and into the ground. “So who is it?” He demands. “Who are you scrrrewing now?”
"I- I don’t know what-“
"BULL!!!” He shoves her to the ground. She lets out a sharp cry, followed by a gentle sob.
The stallion’s demeanor instantly changes with her cry. He straightens, sobering up immediately, and crouches down next to her. “Oh, my love!” he mutters softly. “My love, I’m so so sorry. Are you okay? Did you cut yourself? It was an accident. You know that, right? Sweetheart?” He nuzzles her, and her sobs begin to recede.
"I…“ she sniffles. "I know. It wasn’t your fault… I just… tripped on something I think…”
"Hush hush hush,“ he croons and kisses her cheek. "It’s okay now, nothing to fear, don’t worry.” She cries into his chest. He wraps his arms around her, stroking her fur soothingly and whispering into her ear. “Hush hush, you’re okay, it’s just a scratch.” He lifts her chin up to face him and smiles at her. She smiles back, tears running down her cheeks. “It’s okay sweetheart,” he insists. “Just tell me one thing. I really, really, desperately want to know. Just reassure me hon, you know I’m worried about losing a beautiful girl like you. Be honest. Promise?”
"Anything, my love. I love you so much.“ Her voice breaks.
He looks directly into her eyes. "Are you cheating on me?”
"No,“ she insists. "Of course not-”
His right hoof plows into her cheek. “YOU LYING BITCH!” He’s on his feet in a flash. He’s too quick for her. Before she has time to realize what’s going on, his left hoof equalizes the force on her other cheek. He smacks her skull with a sickening clop, over and over and over, keeping her down. The whole time, he yells indistinct phrases. “I SAW YOU LOOKING AT HIM… THINK YOU’RE BETTER THAN ME… AFTER ALL WE’VE BEEN THROUGH…”
Pop! I jump and spin around to see a glowing question. The words are shortened and jumbled, I don’t get the meaning. I’m blinking at it, trying to comprehend, when the mare screams, “Help me! Please! Do something!!” I tear away from the question. The soft glow reveals her wide eyes, staring directly at me. At *me*.
Suddenly the river of emotions is a tidal wave, towering over the buildings, building up higher and higher. I watch it crest hundreds of feet in the air, arching directly at me.
My lead horseshoes disappear and I’m running, running for my life. The emotions crash after me. Fear, anger, love, desperation, pain, all mixed up together in a boiling tsunami. I flap my wings and lift off the ground, but the air won’t catch and I fall back down. I flap again, but my feathers are soaked in hatred and my feet are slipping on trust. My lungs sting. My sight is blurred. Finally, I see a large house and duck behind it, pressing myself against the wall. The wave roars past me, crashing over rooftops and splashing onto my feet. I hold my breath and make myself as flat as possible. The feelings dissipate as momentum carries them forward, but I don’t dare move until they’ve charged past me, through Ponyville, over the distant valleys and forests, and vanished into the mountains, miles and miles away.
My next breath is a sob. I sink to the ground and cover my face with my wings. Guilt bubbles up through my eyes and runs down my cheeks in the form of salty tears. She called to me, she asked for help, and I ran like a coward. I let him hit her, I let him hurt her. Memories that had tangled themselves in my head began to unravel and play themselves eagerly in front of me. A raised hoof. A sickening clop. The soft apology of his voice. My heart in pieces. Love and forgiveness where it wasn’t asked for. Heart aching, craving his touch. I wonder if these feelings belonged to the mare or to myself. “Maybe it was good I didn’t help her,” I try to convince myself. “She’s strong, she can handle it. If she wanted to leave, she would have left.” I bite my lip hard. “Yeah, she would’ve left by now. Or she’ll leave him tonight.” I try to forget that he left me, not the other way around. Because I would’ve left him, definitely, if things had gotten out of control. I would’ve figured it out eventually. Nobody helped me.
I look up and am a little startled to see a question floating there. Then I recognize it as the one that called the mare’s attention; A pink unicorn with curly brown hair and a ridiculous banana smile. I glower at it. “Bananpie go In too U shop HeY THE!”
"Uh… Yeah, I guess,“ I grumble. I’m not sure what it means, but it disappears.
My breathing has finally slowed. I feel the tackiness of dried tears on my cheek fur. I close my eyes and take a deep, steadying drink of summer night air. It’s cooler than it had been last night. The hint of future snowflakes hanging on my tongue sends a small shiver down my spine, making my fur fluff up against the chill. I spread my wings and beat the wind into the ground, lifting successfully this time into the night.
I soar towards my house - a cloud floating just between the Apples’ east orchard and the Everfree Forest - scanning the ground for the couple. No sign of them, just a few drunks quietly wandering home from the club, a couple ponies making late nigh errands, a scrawny male closing Barnyard Bargains. I eventually land on the edge of my home and venture inside the cave-like cloud formation. There’s nothing inside but a pile of random clothes, a few toiletries in a basket, and an empty saddlebag. A particularly fluffy square of clouds, which I use as my bed, sits in the middle. I curl up into it, fluffing a cloud bit for a pillow and wrapping a makeshift duvet of sweaters over my torso. While I fitfully drift off to sleep, I make a mental note to purchase an actual blanket in the morning, and another note to find that poor mare from earlier and apologize. Of the two chores though, as much as I’d like to think otherwise, I know there’s only one I’ll actually do.
It starts out dark, just dark. Then cold. Then quiet.
A soft breeze trickles into my lungs. I gulp it up, filling my chest with it. It’s like refreshing ice water on a hot day. I open my eyes, relaxed by my own deep breaths, and observe the darkness around me. It’s empty and pure, but I feel like there’s something I’m missing. My eyes narrow, trying to penetrate the thick, black blanket.
The air begins to move, rustling my fur. Against the quiet, it sounds almost like a pony whispering. Chills run down my spine. The wind picks up, and the whisper grows louder, though it doesn’t form any words. It multiplies around me. Two, four, ten, a hundred whispers are all saying the same nothingness but sounding slightly different, like they’re coming from a hundred different mouths. Then, to my terror, one of them shifts from whispering to muttering. It spreads like a virus around me. Invisible mares and stallions sound like they’re surrounding me in the darkness, muttering incomprehensible vowels. I begin to imagine that I’m in a lightless room full of ponies, or maybe that I’m surrounded by a veil, like I’m on stage and I’ve managed to wrap myself up in the show curtain. I spin around, but I can’t seem to untangle myself. The darkness moves. A pony just outside is running his hoof along the curtain, trying to find me. I cry out for help, but my voice is gone. All the sweet, cool air that was in my lungs moments before is now thick and humid. I’m being suffocated. I cry out again with the same result. The voices around me grow angry and loud. My neck prickles as though they’re all talking about me, complaining about something I’ve done, ranting about me to one another in their shapeless language. Do I know them? I imagine my friends standing out there, glaring at me while I struggle in my cocoon. The voices keep multiplying, and now they’re roaring like a crowd. Like the ocean.
A light clicks on in front of me. I’m no longer wrapped in darkness, but in water. I can’t find ground with my hooves. I’m sinking backwards. When I’ve oriented myself, I realize that I’m in a deep lake, sinking down to the unknown, endless bottom. The light looks like it might be the moon, rippling above me. And there’s a dock. I think I’ve fallen off the edge of it by accident, and for some reason I can’t remember how to swim.
A silhouette slides in front of the moon. It’s a unicorn, I think. Perhaps he can use his magic to help me. He could simply levitate me out of the water. I reach out to him and try once again to call out for help, but the water floods into my open mouth. “Please,” I try to say, “help me! I’m drowning! Save me!” The words turn into useless bubbles of air, climbing up, up, and popping soundlessly on the surface.
The unicorn shakes his head, and that’s when I realize I can see his face. He has chocolate mousse colored hair, topped with a newsboy type cap. He has a goatee, sharp and defined, sticking out of his chiseled chin. And his eyes, his bright blue, piercing eyes, are staring directly at me. He sees me, I know it. I can see recognition all over his thin, kind face. My heart leaps. Any minute now, he’ll reach one slender hoof into the water and pull me out with ease. I smile at him, and he smiles back. But something is wrong… Something in his smile is sad, pitying even. I call his name with the last bit of air I have left. He shakes his head. I try to move, to kick at the water, to make ripples on the surface that might say what I cannot. My wings and legs are sluggish, like they don’t want to listen to my brain. I can’t move, I can’t breathe. All my energy reaches out to the stallion above me, but he just turns around and walks away. No, no! The edges of my vision turn black. The moon fades away. The darkness surrounds me again…
I gasp awake and shoot upright. The last bits of the stallion’s name drip from my tongue. I’m panting and sweating and crying. My dream begins to lose hold of me, fading away as though it’s scared of touching the morning light that seeps through my cloud walls. Cold, sticky sweat mats my fur and chills my skin. The feel of it, so sharp and real, is welcome. I know, with my fur automatically fluffing up against the cold, that I’m awake. This is real. The dream was just a dream. My heartrate begins to slow back to normal.
It’s not a recurring nightmare, but it’s a familiar subject. I squeeze my eyes tight and force myself to shove thoughts of that stallion away. He’s not here, I remind myself. I’m here. I’m the only one here. I’m alone… no, I’m independent. I’m an adult, and adults get out of bed in the morning and take showers, so that’s what I should do.
The cloud is like a floating cave with only one opening, a sort of window-slash-door looking out over Ponyville. I stand right on the precipice of it, letting the sun wake me up. It’s warm and dry and beautiful, the complete opposite of my nightmare. It’s early, but already there are ponies trotting around town. They greet each other with smiles, open shops and knock on friends’ doors. The loud crashing roar from my dream seems silly now, with this peaceful morning that almost tinkles like bells. I meditate on it all for a few long minutes, leaning against the wall. Finally, I gather enough energy to lift up my front hoof and tap gently on the cloud beside me. With a soft rumble, it releases a steady stream of rain just above my head. I close my eyes and let it fill my mane and flow down my neck, pushing any trace of grime from my fur, and the last bits of my dream are soaked up into the cloud floor below.
I shake off loose water droplets, wishing briefly that I had a hairdryer, or even electricity, in my simple cloud home. I stuff a notebook, pen, and bag of bits into my grey saddle bag. Then I slip on one of the sweaters that’d doubled as my blanket last night, strap the bag around my waist, and take off into the morning sky.
"You should report this to the police or guards or whatever authority there is in town.“ Anonymous’ question wastes no time in appearing the moment I’m out the door. I huff at it.
"Geez,” I say, rubbing my temples. “I’ve just woken up. You’d think I’d get an easier question.” I bite my lip, mulling it over aloud. “No… I mean, if I reported it to the authorities… I’m not sure if that’s really something they’d handle. Usually the people who handle problems in Ponyville are fellow friends or the Mane Six. You know, Twilight and her crew. It’s a small town. Abusive relationships…” The words hitch on their way out of my throat. “They’re… uh…” I can’t seem to find the word. Uncommon? Personal? Not serious? Maybe I should go to the authorities, I think. But I shove that idea from my head. “No,” I repeat, firmly this time. “If I were her, I wouldn’t want anypony meddling in my business. I don’t know her, it’s not my place to step in and overcomplicate things. Besides, I hardly remember what they look like, anyways. How would that sound to the Mayor?” I mock my own voice, filled with sarcasm. “Yes, Mayor Mare, there’s some ponies who were fighting last night. No, I don’t know their names or what they look like. No, nopony got seriously injured. Yep, just an argument. No, I just wanted to let you know. Cool, thanks.” I scoff.
I touch down just outside my favorite coffee shop, Summer Song Café. A line is already forming, so I hurry inside to claim my place. By the time I see her, it’s already too late. As I stand frozen in line, I consider taking off and foregoing my morning cup of wake-up. I hurriedly glance to the door, but ponies are crowding in now. It’d be far too awkward if I were to push them away and leave. The barista has probably seen me by now. What if I leave and her feelings are hurt? Could I come back later and say I’d forgotten something at home? But the line would be too long by then, and what if I’m spotted by-
"My goodness,“ says Merriweather, the store owner. "What happened to you?”
The mare from last night laughs nervously. “You know me, always running into things.” Her left eye is swollen and blue. Bandages cover her knees and chin. Merriweather purses her lips doubtfully. The mare clears her throat. “Two venti mochas, please. Hot.” Bits hit the counter.
"Alright, but I’m throwing in a bag of ice, free of charge.“
The mare turns red and begins looking around anxiously. Just as I expected, she seems to fear attention. "You’re so kind, but that’s not-”
A bag of ice clangs on top of the bits. There’s no arguing with the hardened café owner. The mare shuts up immediately, lowering her head. She takes the ice and shuffles over to wait for her order. It was dark last night. Maybe she won’t recognize me. The line scoots forward. Two hot venti mochas appear at the counter, nestled in a drink carrier. She takes them and limps over to the silverware counter, then carefully removes the lids and begins measuring spoonfuls of sugar into her drinks.
I take my time ordering my black drip coffee. Sure, I could get a grande as always, but do I want a tall today? Should I get a buttery croissant or go with a classic donut? I pretend the bits are spilled in the bottom of my bag and fish them out one by one. The only thing that keeps me from striking up a conversation with one of the baristas is the pressure of impatience from the line behind me. However, despite my best efforts, I retrieve my grande coffee and warm croissant, only to turn around and see her still standing there, stirring her drink absently. Potential futures start running through my head. What if I’m passing by and she says something snarky like, “Thanks for the help,” or, “Nice seeing you again?” What if she points a hoof at me and screams, “YOU RAN AWAY WHEN I NEEDED YOU!” in front of everypony? What if her boyfriend bursts in and demands that she hurry up with the drinks? I walk as slowly as I can - without being noticeable, of course - over to the counter.
Somehow, none of my imaginary possibilities include the actual future: She looks up as I’m grabbing my napkin and her eyes fall not on me, but on the napkin dispenser. I freeze. She blinks at it a few times but doesn’t seem to really see it. For a few seconds, I simply stare at her with a napkin hanging out of my mouth, and she stares at the dispenser inches from my face. Nothing happens. She looks back down without a word and starts replacing the lids on her drinks.
Now I WANT to say something. How are you? How’s your boyfriend? That sure is a lot of coffee! I bet you’re treating some pretty nasty hangovers. How’s your eye? How’s your knee? Do you remember last night? Do you remember me? I’m sorry…. I open my mouth, close it, and open it again. I gather up as much courage as I have, but I glare down at the counter top instead. All that courage is layed out in front of me like bits, and I’ve counted them out only to realize that I don’t have enough. The only sound I can muster squeezes forcibly out of my throat. It could be the beginning of the word, “I…” which could be the beginning of a whole sentence, theoretically. But it stops there, and nobody hears it in the din of the cafe. She takes no notice. She just slips the carrier handle into her mouth and leaves. I hesitate and watch her out the window. When she trots off, I thank my lucky stars that she’s heading opposite of my destination.
Living alone has the tendency to create a little bit of a routine. With nopony around to disrupt my schedule, I’ve found that I end up doing the same things every morning and evening. Sometimes entire days and weeks become twins of the ones before, and I know that their future selves will be their triplets. It’s comforting, in a way. Secure, monotonous. That’s part of the reason the ask blog scares me, if I let myself admit it. I’ve never seen somepony with an ask blog sitting down to drink coffee every morning in the same place, casually answering whatever questions pop up. The ponies who get real questions are the ones who are being chased by some obscure arch nemesis, or who are suddenly pregnant, or who have unwelcome roommates that spontaneously show up with a big bag of conflict. The only times ask blogs follow boring ponies with no drama, no massive change and complex story line, is if those ponies willingly beckon them. And unless those ponies are incredibly unique and extroverted, to the point where they’re borderline gimmicky, they don’t have much success. I didn’t sit down at a laptop and beckon followers with it. I’m not sugary and cute, or have insane amounts of fur all over my body. So if this thing happened to me, it must mean that something is coming. At least, that’s my logic so far.
I ponder these things over my notebook while sipping at my bitter black coffee, which I’ve convinced myself that I enjoy. “Black and bitter, just like my soul,” as I like to say. I take the pen into my mouth and doodle heavily shaded hearts next to my scribbled thought process. My eyes scan over the overlapping, crossed out and circled words over and over. Pregnant. That one is scratched out. Evil nemesis I haven’t met? I think of Evil Laughter and sort of chuckle inwardly. A few hundred question marks surround that one. Dangerous adventure? That doesn’t really sound like me, but it’s one of the better options. Roommate? That one is circled, but then crossed out since I realized that anypony who’s insane enough to want my makeshift cloud cave is also insane enough to be kicked out of it immediately. Mental problems? I think of Lola Cloudmaker, a pegasus so scared of the ground that she refuses to leave her little cloud in the sky for anything, even for the thousands of asks trying to convince her to. I stare at my back hooves, resting easily on the dirt below my park bench. Guinea pig therapy flashes before my eyes. A deep pit of dread begins to open up in my gut.
I get up and toss my empty coffee cup into the nearest recycling bin, followed with a crumpled page torn from my notebook.
I trot along the street, running my to-do list over and over in my head. Buy a blanket, buy a quill, buy veggies, bring said veggies to Patty. Not a very long list, I think: Not a very productive day. I struggle to come up with something else to do. Perhaps, while I'm visiting Patty in Canterlot, I can arrange a dinner with my dad, or hang out with Col. Or, perhaps, I can finally read that book I've been wanting to. Should I practice stand-up again? No, I don't think Deadpan would take too kindly to me showing up midday on a Monday, especially considering the next show isn't until 8pm on Wednesday. Perhaps I could show Patty my stand-up routine? I know she won't be judgmental...
A question breaks my concentration. I look up and nearly have a heart attack, but then remember the ferocious bat pony in the image is only Ember Hearth.
"Hey, Lovely. How you holding up? I don't suppose there's anything we askers can do? Maybe if you can recall asks at will, something for confidence, or comfort? Also, sorry for spooking ya first time around. I forget my 'competitive face' is scary to some ponies, heh."
"Oh, um, it's alright!" I insist, although my heart is still racing a tad. "I suppose being able to control these questions wouldn't hurt. Maybe having a..." I tilt my head at the ask, floating in the air just above me. "... way to... collect..." I trail off. I'm scanning the edges of the question, which looks sort of like a white, soft edged rectangular banner with a picture of the pony next to it. "Maybe if I can..."
Without warning, I leap into the air and try to snag the question. To my dismay, my hooves flow right through it as though it's nothing. I land hard on the street, my saddlebag clanging on my flanks. I huff. "No, that's not.... Maybe mind control?" Using all my concentration, even rubbing my temples with my hooves, I try to focus on the ask. MOVE! TO! THE! LEFT!! Nothing. I squeeze my eyes shut. "PLEASE MOVE TO THE LEFT! MOVE! MOOOOVEEE!!!" When I peek out from underneath my lids... nope, nothing. I begin waving my hooves frantically in the air. "DISSAPPEAR!" I cry out in my most commanding voice. Nope. I spend a few more minutes trying everything to turn, move, vanish, and conjure, but nothing works. The question hangs in the air, staring at me. I sigh and turn to keep walking. Like always, it follows me.
"Sorry, I don't think I can do anything," I say. "I could simply remember asks, like I would anything else, but other than that," I shrug, "your questions and such seem to be controlled by a force greater than myself."
The bell dings as I open the door to Barnyard Bargains. The question vanishes before it follows me, so I enter alone. The stallion at the counter greets me with a cheerful, "Good morning!" I mumble a greeting and avoid looking at him. He calls after me, "Well, let me know if I can help you find anything!" It's barely noticeable to most ponies, but to me, the tiny waiver in his voice is clear disappointment. I try to ignore it, though. I just pretend like I'm any other non-empathic pony and duck into the aisles. As fine as I am with making a fool of myself and holding long conversations with asks, I'm not much for social interaction face-to-face. I already dread having him ring me up.
The aisles are packed floor to ceiling with jars, boxes, bottles, knick knacks, anything one could possibly imagine needing. There's everything from automatic apron knotters to zap apple jam. I methodically scan row by row, circling multiple times through all the aisles (all three of them, that is) but find no blanket, nor quill. The stallion's voice echoes menacingly in my head. Let me know if I can help you find anything. Finally, admit defeat and weigh my options - leave awkwardly and take my chances with another store, which will require social interaction as well in all likelihood, or buck up and face the friendly cashier. I gather my wits, step shyly out of the aisle, and look up at him for the first time.
It's not like he's significantly more handsome than other ponies. He's a light, happy yellow. He has a chestnut mane that's combed back, save for a small curl of hair that hangs over his forehead. He wears black rimmed, rectangular glasses and a navy blue Barnyard Bargains branded polo shirt. Certainly, he's larger than most ponies, with a double chin, wide neck, and fatty shoulders, but he's as much taller as he is wider - at least a head taller than the average stallion. No, he's certainly not my usual chisel-jawed, lean, athletic type. It's the eyes, though; big, deep blue eyes peering out from over his glasses. They make my breath hitch. Blue. My absolute favorite. They're so deep and bold, so bright and warm, so filled with joy and kindness and sadness and optimism. I trip over my words and begin to falter, but he's nothing but patience. If anything, he finds my incessant stammering to be a little amusing. A smile teases the corners of his lips. I thank the stars that my coat is red. It covers up the fact that my skin is turning a deep scarlet.
"D-do you guys sell blankets?" I stutter, a little too loudly in the quiet store.
His smile reveals itself, and it's incredibly genuine. "Had a cold night?" He nods to my sweater. I smooth it out absently and nod. "Yeah, me too. I told Mr. Rich that we ought to bring out the fall line of blankets sooner, but he insisted that nopony would request one until next week."
"So, are-are they not available?" I gulp.
He puts a hoof to his chin and ponders. I catch a flash of a blue tattoo just above his fetlock, but don't see a sure shape. It might be a heart? I stare at it, willing him to twist his hoof just so, but he removes it from the counter. He nods. "I don't think Mr. Rich will mind if I sell a blanket to a mare in need. Be right back." He winks, and my stomach jolts a little.
When he ducks behind the door, I quickly straighten my neck and readjust my sweater under my saddlebag straps. I flip my hair to make sure it's at full volume, lick my drying lips, and fluff my wings, which have begun to stiffen. Then I lean on one of the shelves, crossing my hooves and biting my lower lip in an attempt to look casually sexy. And, of course, he returns with a rolled up, fuzzy teal blanket just as my balance fails.
A billion spoons and forks, which had been neatly arranged in a tray, flip into the air and crash to the ground around me. I crouch down suddenly, instinctively, and grimace against the screeching clang of metals. This movement then sends a thousand precariously balanced buckets rolling off the lower shelf, also onto the floor around me, and also with a loud, metallic crash. I cover my head with my hooves, but only end up bumping the shelf and toppling packages of scissors. I squeeze my eyes shut so I don't see what I hear; the cashier dashing to my side. MY side. To help MY clumsy butt.
"Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry-" I'm blurting.
"It's alright, it's alright," he blurts back, rushing to push the items off of me. "Are you alright? Are you hurt?" He tries to avoid touching me directly, but where he accidentally brushes, my skin sinks into a warm, soft bed. I like it, but liking it makes me uncomfortable, so I snap away. Oops, and now I've accidentally hurt his feelings. Now I try to brush against him on purpose to show him that I don't dislike him. And now I'm being creepy. Frick.
"No, that's alright," he says, "I'll get it."
"Please, I'm the one who knocked it down. Let me help- oof!"
"I'm sorry! Are you okay?"
"Yes, no, I mean, I'm sorry. That was my fault."
"Hey, it's alright." He looks me in the eyes. His eyes are blue, so blue, I feel like my simple pony eyes can't even fathom how incredibly blue they are. They must be so blue, it's unmeasurable, unknowable, like the multitude of colors that a peacock sees where ponies can only imagine. His eyes are the bluest things in all of Equestria. His hoof, soft and warm and strong, takes mine and lifts me off the floor. He smiles that kind, genuine smile that makes my stomach lurch. "I got you, my homie."
I smile dumbly, then realize I should be giggling. I do so, again, a little too loudly. Then I'm laughing, so hard I would be on the ground if he wasn't still holding my hoof. And I snort, which gets him laughing. His is a startlingly high pitched squeaky laugh, and it makes me laugh even more. I turn to him and furrow my eyebrows jokingly. "My home dawg!"
"My brotha lova!"
"My fellow fellow!"
We go on and on, laughing and snorting and giggling and snickering. Eventually, as the laughter peters out, I look up at him and say, "Alright, alright." My cheeks are burning and my heart is racing. "I'm out of funny phrases!"
"Celestia's sake, I haven't laughed that much in ages!" he says excitedly. Then he clears his throat and tries to regain professionalism. "Alright, what were we doing? Blanket?"
I look down at the mess around us. "Don't you need help cleaning this up? I don't mind," but he waves me off with a hoof.
"Nah, it's a Monday, it's gonna be slow. I need an excuse to get out from behind the register." He stretches his rear hooves for effect. "Don't worry about it, I insist."
I hesitate, but decide to let it be. As much as I like this... particular moment with this... particular... stallion... I can only handle social interaction with a stranger for so long. The blanket is already lined up on the counter, ready to be paid for. "If you say so," I sigh overdramatically, and gingerly step over the puddle of items and up to the register. He steps behind the counter and resumes his original position.
"Awesome," he says, punching in the price. "Oh! I forgot to mention, is green okay?" He pokes the blanket. "We also have red, brown, purple-"
"Teal," I correct.
"Pardon?"
My ears fold back, embarrassed. "Sorry, I meant... you said green. It's teal." I poke the blanket, too. "Like, more blue than green but not quite... blue..." I trail off. He raises an eyebrow at me.
"Um... okay. Teal. We also have... er... normal colors...?"
I chuckle, and he flashes me that smile. "Yeah," I say, "teal is just fine."
"Sweet! And is there anything else I could help you find?"
I pull out my notebook to check. "Wouldn't happen to have any quills?"
He frowns. "No, we don't have any at the moment. We'll be getting some in tomorrow morning. If you need it now, however - don't quote me on this - I think Sofas and Quills might have a few in stock."
"Well I hope they do, otherwise it'd just be sofas, wouldn't it?" I joke, badly. He laughs anyways. Not even a pitying laugh that other ponies give me. It's a genuine one, as honest and full as his adorable smile. "That's alright," I say, "I can wait until tomorrow. How much do I owe you?"
"Ten bits," he says matter-of-factly. I pull out my coin bag, count out eleven gold bits, tell him to keep the change, and stuff my new blanket into my saddle bag. He grins. "Thank you for your business! I look forward to seeing you later." He winks.
I blush. "I look forward to it too!" I say and head for the door. "Thank you so much!" I place my hoof on the handle.
I'm not sure if it's his hesitation or mine, but I pause just before the exit and turn back to him. "Eh... who should I ask for, when I come in?" I know it's so obvious that I'm asking for his name, but I find it hard to care about that.
"I'll be here at ten tomorrow," he promises. "Ask for Blueheart. And your name is...?"
"Lovely," I say. "Lovely Laughter."
"Lovely Laughter," he repeats, nodding to himself. "Fitting. Okay, Lovely. I'll see you then."
"See you then, Blueheart." I turn and leave.
The door closing behind me feels insufficient, like there's a string of yarn caught in the lock and I have the ball of it in my bag, unraveling as I walk. It feels less like a door closing, and more like one opening. Maybe this is it, I think. Maybe Blueheart is the reason for the blog! But then I shake the thought away, not letting myself put too many eggs of hope in one insignificant basket. "I just flirted with a cashier," I remind myself aloud, "nothing more." Yet my walk still remains bouncy, and I find taking off into the sky much easier than usual. At the very least I know that in spite of my rocky morning at the cafe, my day has definitely taken a turn for the better.
Col and I sit on the park bench. I bite into a mint chocolate chip cone. He licks the strawberry topping off his sundae. I swallow and twist my cone around casually, looking for loose drips. "So... I met someone..."
He pauses mid-lick, and the cherry falls off into the bowl. I keep my gaze fixed on a chocolate chip, but I can tell he's staring at me, unmoving. His incredulity makes my neck tingle. I bite my lip nervously. "What do you mean?" he says.
"I... I mean I went to Barnyard Bargains and the cashier is very cute." I blush. "And I flirted with him a little bit."
"And...?" he presses.
"That's it. I met a pony and he was cute." I glance at him. His wide eyes make me giggle. "What?"
"LOVELYYYY!" he protests. "You made it sound like you MET someone, met someone. Like you went on a date with somepony. Like you're DATING somepony." He huffs and picks up his cherry. "Don't tease me like that!"
"Well, I didn't know how to say it!" I argue.
He pops the cherry into his mouth and pushes it to his cheek, scoffing. He waggles the stem at me. "Next time, don't bother saying anything until you've kissed the guy." He swallows. "Or girl." He tosses the stem between his teeth.
"You eat the stem?" I ask.
"I'm practicing," he says with a wink, his voice muffled awkwardly through his teeth. "Never hurts to exercise the tongue muscles. Now don't change the subject. Did he flirt with you?"
"Yes," I say confidently.
"Does he get commission?" he continued. He looked like he was wrestling an angry sentient grape with his teeth.
"I... what?"
"If he gets commission from his sales, it doesn't count." His lips puffed out. With a look of strain, he pulled the stem from his mouth, beaten and chewed and dented, but tied into a knot.
"Impressive!" I say. He smiles and tosses the stem into the bushes. "I don't think he gets commission. He didn't try to upsell me on anything. In fact, he recommended I check another store because he was out of pens." I shrug. "But, you know, I don't know. I just... I feel like there was a little something between us."
"Then go for it! Ask him on a date, or get coffee or something. Oh! You could invite him to see your Open Mic performance!"
I blush. "No, definitely not. My stand-up isn't... it's not where I want it to be."
"Nonsense, it's excellent."
"You've never seen me on stage," I remind him.
"I don't need to. You're Lovely Laughter. It's good," he dismisses with a wave of the hoof.
"I don't know," I repeat. "I don't want to make a fool of myself again." Col raises an eyebrow, so I tell him what happened that morning; how Blueheart had gone to the back to get the off-season blanket, how I'd tried to straighten my sweater, how I'd ended up making a shelf and a half of items collapse on top of my head, and how after all that I'd still tried to correct him on the color of the blanket. By the end of it, Col is nearly snorting melted ice cream out his nose from laughing so hard, and I'm admittedly laughing too.
"Oh!" he gasps. "Oh Lovely, shoot. I told you you're funny! 'We also have normal colors,'" he snorts. "You should make that a bit, that'd be hilarious!"
"I don't know," I lie: I'm already thinking the same thing. I lick my ice cream and try to think of a new subject to save me from more talk about my struggling comedy career. "Oh, I almost forgot. I have an ask blog now!"
"A what? Oooohhh... You mean like, one of those tumblr things? I love those! I have one for my chalk art, actually." He straightens up a little with pride. "What's yours about?"
"About?" I gulp. "Uh... It's... a little different from yours, I think." I chew on my cake cone nervously. "I didn't actually... start it. It just sorta happened."
Col raises an eyebrow. "Oh. That's interesting... Do you know why?"
"No idea." I shake my head and feel my wings closing on my back. I try to push away the feeling of anxiety creeping up behind me. "It just appeared one day, ponies started sending me questions and I don't know how to control them."
"They're not on a laptop or something?"
"No, they just appear in the air." Pop. "Like that." I point to the question now floating above me.
"I gotta ask," it reads. "You two are so cute together and we're now in the summer months. Any chance you two going on a romantic vacation? <3" The question is from Scarlet Rose, a beautiful mare who looks a great deal like myself (in colors, not in beauty.) I frown.
"I just met him." I glower, and turn to Col. "See what my issue is? Some of them are great, but others are borderline delusional. I've only met the guy this morning, and now this pony is trying to recommend we go on a vacation!" I cross my hooves and huff.
"So... you don't like the blog?" He seems confused.
"I... I wouldn't say that. It's just... where are these questions coming from, you know? Why do other ponies seem to have control over theirs, but I don't?"
I tell him about the question that appeared when I was watching the couple. Save for a few questions, like, "Why were you spying on a random couple?" Col is mostly silent, lapping his sundae thoughtfully. Finally he says, "Maybe you're just not the moderator."
"The what?"
"The moderator. You know, the pony in charge of questions. The blog is about you, but it's not yours."
"I... wh-what?"
"Well, I haven't actually met anypony with this issue, but I've heard of some ponies who go on adventures and just have ask blogs appear. It seems to me like... like your questions are more plot-convenient than you-convenient, you know?"
"Plot convenient? Like, my life is a story?"
"Exactly." He tips his bowl back and finishes the last drops of his treat. At this point, nerves have blindly gnawed me down to the end of my cone. I shove the rest of it into my mouth and chew, hoping desperately for the last drops of mint cream to cool my nerves. When I gulp it down, I have nothing else to chew on except my lower lip or the tips of my hooves.
"Does this mean..." I gingerly ask, "that I'm... not in control of my own story?"
Col meets my gaze, and his face snaps from deep thought to seriousness. "That's... well... I don't really know, Lovely."
Tears begin to well up. Guilt hits me. I've ruined our great conversation with my stupid emotions. Then it's anxiety. I'm not in control. I'm not in control. It repeats over and over, faster and faster in my head. My chest closes. It makes my breathing shallow and rapid. I'm frantic, I'm dizzy, I'm panicking. The world around me becomes dark and cold, like reality is only a vivid thought and my memories are reality. I'm aware of Col's eyes widening. His hoof touches my shoulder, but I back away like a frightened animal. My ears flatten against my head. My wings flatten against my body. Hot tears begin to run down my face, clashing with the cold sweat beading up underneath my fur.
"Lovely." Col's voice comes through. "Hey, Lovely, it's okay. Shh, Lovely. You're alright." I hear his words, I register them, but I don't believe them. I'm not in control. I'm not in control.
"I... I have to go... I have to..." I barely whisper.
"Go where? Lovely-"
I whip around and run. "I have to go!" I yell.
"Lovely, wait! You can't-"
I ignore him. I leap over a fence and barrel down an alleyway. The streets of Canterlot are ingrained from my childhood. I navigate them subconsciously, letting my gut guide me while my tears blind me. Left at this building. Right at that one. I'm not in control. I'm not in control. Over the bridge. Down the dirt road. I jump the fence and forego the gate. Finally, through dry, salty lips, I whistle.
"Patty! Patty Pie!" My voice is cheerful out of habit, but anypony with ears would be able to hear the terror cracking behind it. "Patty Pat Pat Patty! Here girl! Where are you?" I whistle again.
A high pitched whistle responds. I turn towards the woods and see the grass parting like the sea, snaking towards me with incredible speed. At the cleave, a little calico puffball bounces in and out of view. She whistles again. I crouch and pat the ground with my hoof. "Patty Pie! Here girl!"
The guinea pig leaps into my arms. I wrap my hooves around her and roll onto my back, caressing her securely to my pounding chest. She licks the fur on my chin with her tiny pink tongue. Tears fall from the corners of my eyes. My breathing is heavy, partly from running and partly from the panic seizing my lungs. I stroke my soft guinea pig over and over and over, from her flower petal ears to her round, fat rump. As I begin to relax, so does she, turning into a Patty Pancake as she flattens happily. Her head rolls to one side, her back paws extend outward, and white, black, and orange mingles with my scarlet fur. I smile and lay my head back on the grass. The sky above us is expansive and blue. We watch it there, breathing together, in the soft breeze and cool, green grass.
My eyes have only just closed when I hear frantic hoofsteps. "Lovely!" the voice feels soft on the breeze. "Lovely, there you are!" A bit louder now. I reluctantly open one eye and peek towards the fence. Col is standing there, panting, with my bag on his back and my sweater thrown behind his neck. "You... you forgot these. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said it like that. I didn't realize..." he swallows. I can see the skin under his fur turning dark with blush.
I take a deep, shuddering breath. Patty stirs uncomfortably, so I pet her diligently to return her to her relaxed state. I turn my muzzle towards Col and smile weakly. "No... it's okay. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have run away like that."
"Can I... come in?" He motions to the gate.
"Sure, close it behind you." He does as I say and plops down next to me. At the sound of my bag hitting the grass, Patty Pie abandons all calm and scrambles, squeaking excitedly. I giggle. "Oh no, she heard the bag!" She pops off my chest and bounces towards the hole between flap and bag. I grab it before she can shove her head through and I unclip it, revealing a schmorgasbord of freshly purchased lettuces, peppers, berries, melons, parsleys and mint leaves. She lets out a series of sharp wheeks, and her friends echo her from the forest. The moment the veggies hit the grass, she wastes no time in biting into her favorite: Strawberries. A couple of guinea pigs burst from their hiding places and streak towards us, followed by a curious Mrs. Greenfield.
"Lovely Laughter," she tuts as she approaches. "Patty was wondering when she'd see you again. Who's your friend?"
"This is Col," I introduce. "Col, Mrs. Greenfield."
A question appears. "Hey! I'm not Evil! I just have an Evil Laugh, hence my name. Anywho, question: Do you still go to the guinea therapy?"
"Oh!" Mrs. Greenfield exclaims. "Lovely, have you started your own blog?"
I bite my lip, trying to hold back the panic threatening to re-attack. "No... not exactly."
"Would you like to answer it?"
Even though her tone holds no malice, I still wince away and purse my lips. "No... no I don't go to therapy anymore. I... stopped going when I moved to Ponyville. I'm looking for... um... a place to keep Patty." I stroke the guinea pig's head and do a half hearted crooked smile. She closes her eyes, but doesn't stop munching her strawberry.
"And another therapist," my previous one reminds me.
"Yes, and... and another therapist, of course. There's a... few I'm still looking at..." I mumble. I can tell she doubts my honesty, and for good reason, but she doesn't push me further.
"Well, let me know if you need any help. I know of a few." She looks up to the gate. A pony is approaching. She nods to me. "That'll be my twelve thirty, I'd best be off. Stay as long as you like, dears." She trots away, a few guinea pigs bouncing after with veggies hanging from their mouths.
Col sits down next to me. I roll onto my stomach and rest my chin in the grass. Patty drags her strawberry a couple of inches, up to my side. "Lovely, listen..." he scratches a nearby piggy behind the ears, his nerves flowing through the absentminded creature and into the ground. Guinea pigs are great, in that way. As long as your hard feelings aren't towards them, they'll eat it all up and poop it out into the earth quicker than dandelion leaves. "Lovely..." he tries again. "I'm really sorry for upsetting you. I wasn't... I didn't know you'd react like that."
"It's fine," I swallow. "It's just... I mean, if there's somepony out there controlling my every move, I..."
"Oh, no no no," he interrupts. "Oh girl, I didn't mean it like that." I frown and tilt my head to show I don't understand. He laughs, becoming lighter. "They don't control you, they just control the questions! Silly pony," he nudges my shoulder playfully, "no wonder you panicked. The mods are the ones who manage the questions coming in. Make them appear at the right time with the best stuff, you know?"
"Oh." I blink. "Well, in that case, my mod sucks."
"Have ya ever been to Thundercloud?" A new question reads. "I know it's almost all bat ponies and baticorns like myself, but pegasi are always welcome for the Stormwhite Festival."
I point to it and giggle. "See?" Col reads it and giggles with me. Then together, we pet guinea pigs, laugh, and wonder what in Equestria a baticorn is and, more importantly, why in Celestia's name do they live in a storm cloud.
Author's Note
This story is not finished! Want to help? (Here’s a hint: send questions)
Questions from @evil-laughter, @askbananapie, @ember-hearth, @askscarletrose, @lord-of-rhodor, and anonymous.
Featuring or mentioning @thechalkponies, @askmerriweather and @ask-lola-cloudmaker. Proofreading help from @star-killer89.
Click here to ask!
