A Trip to Where?

by Sky-Scribe

Rating: everyone
Tags: Human, Anon, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Second Person, Comedy, Random, Daybreaker, Slice of Life
Length: 1409

When going for a walk isn't all that is planned.

This is the collective stories of numerous Anons and a harrowing day with their favorite pet pony, and the most cruel, evil invention of mankind. The Veterinarian clinic.
These stories are not meant to correlate with any sort of canon, and started off as a joke greentext one shot.
Suggestions, comments, and advice are thoroughly appreciated.

Published 2017-11-09 19:10:12 UTC
Last updated 2017-11-09 19:10:12 UTC

A Trip to Where? Ch 1: Day-Breaker.

A trip to where?

"I DEMAND WALKIES, MORTAL SERVANT!"
The house shakes in fear as Day Breaker heralds the rise of the morning sun. She's like this every morning, like some sort of demented, divine pony-rooster, shrunk to the size of a large Labrador. That is your life, dear Anon. Deal with it.

"Day? What did I say about indoor voices?" Rising from the loving embrace of your slightly drool dampened pillow, the regal form of the midget horse god sits pawing (hoofing?) at your bedroom door.

"WE CARE NOT FOR YOUR MEWLING, PITIFUL DEMANDS, SLAVE. NOW FEED US AND OPEN THE DOOR. WE WILL CONQUER THE WORLD ONE PARK AT A TIME! ALL WILL BOW BEFORE THE TRUE GODDESS!" Rolling out of bed, you manage to get into a semblance of functioning personhood, dressed in casual jeans and hoodie, and largely guided by memory and instinct, head to the kitchen, where the previously mentioned little God pony is anxiously pawing at the door, leaving miniature scorch-marks. Again. Fuck it. Make her suffer a bit more, you need covfefe and food.

Your pantry is largely bare, save for the essential stock of soda, Quaker Joe’s Supercharged Covfefe, and Lovecraft’s Cereal. “Real cosmic horror and Flavor in every bite,” you mutter, a tired grin on a tired face as you pour out the slightly unnatural cereal into a bowl. You could almost taste the unnatural knowledge and hungrily explorative tentacles on the dry flakes.

“ANON! WALKIES! NOOOOOOW!” Her penchant for roaring has the added benefit of causing the calendar in the kitchen to fall, fatefully, into the cereal bowl as you were reaching for the milk.

June 10th is circled in bright red, a little skull marking out the importance ever more. And so your thoughts turn darker still, a sadistic grin tugging at the edge of your mouth. Check-up day at the Pony Veterinarian. You peek out past the corner of the kitchen island, eying the impatient living solar flare, knocking her horned head at the door, gouts of fire flowing along her body in violent spasms.

“Screw the milk, this is gonna be good.” Dumping portions of the bowl into your mouth and absentmindely chewing at the dry cereal, idly packing away some soda into your pockets for later use. Not the healthiest breakfast, but you lie to yourself that you will make it better at the gym later. Grabbing the leash, you head to the door and brace for the coming struggle, wrapping your arms around her back and lifting her bodily upward, struggling to wrap the leash around the surprised demon. She is always like this, trying to escape the leash and run wild, until you devised a solution and wrestled the loop around her neck. Resigned to another day of leashed “dominance”, she stops struggling as you gently let her back down, huffing in that royal way most alicorns are fond of.

“Walkies it is, Day.” Running a hand down her neck, you step out from your little house towards the garage, Day-Breaker grumpily keeping a consistent pace, if only to keep the appearance of propriety. Her stance and body language shows she can hardly contain her excitement, her inferno twisting about and side to side, like some adorable fiery dog tail. For some reason, her flames never affect you, or most of the house. It’s even safe to put your hand on her, the feeling more akin to a baking day in the desert than true flame. When you adopted her from the Pony pound, her handler said that her kind can alternate their ambient magical effects according to their environment. Typical pony magic explanation, as usual.

Rounding a corner to the garage, Day is slowly losing her cool, her mane getting hotter as she gets excited, and the car door is opened, she practically leaps inside, circling on the seat before laying down like a dog. Seriously, it’s sometimes freakish how much these ponies resemble dogs in mannerisms these days. Some even smaller breeds are distinctly cat-like though, according to some of your fellow “pony enthusiasts”.

Starting up the truck, you begin the fairly short drive downtown, round the river bend and past the old church. “HOW MUCH LONGER! WE MUST ROAM AND CONQUER! MY ROYAL RADIANCE URGES TO BURST FORTH OVER THE UNSUSPECTING MASSES!” Ignoring the powerful urge to comment on the implied innuendo, you continue on the circuitous route along the lake-side, the morning sun in all it’s glory, desperately trying to blind you to no avail. She recognizes the lake park, and she is practically prancing in excitement, flaming mane and tale growing in ferocity. Driving along, you creep closer to the park car-lot, and a giddy Day is grinning from ear to ear with hope and joy and megalomanical glee in her eyes.

And you keep driving.

And slowly, the temperature drops, and the flames at your side recede with the realization dawning on her. “Anon! We are moving beyond the park! The Walkie park! Where are you taking me!? YOU PROMISED WALKIES!” Hot breath at the back of your neck as she gets angry, and though her voice has an edge, her fire is dim. You are safe, at least for a short while.

The sniffling wasn’t expected though. “Ah-Anon… I know this road… I don’t wanna go. I don’t wanna leav. Don’t take me back to the Pony Pound.” Your memory flashes back to the day you got her, a fiery little filly, full of energy, but terrified of the weird things that walked between the little walls of her cage. She was so small back then. She could’ve easily fit inside your hoodie pockets back then, fitting quite neatly in your hands. You remember the first day you brought her home with you, and explained the situation as best you could to the littly filly, when the first snowfall came that year. The first week was hard. She tried to run away at every chance when she saw you, at least until the food you offered proved too irresistible as the hunger back then.

You pull over to the side of the road, and lean back, looking back at her in you passenger seat.. She always is dramatic, but the small tears at the corner of her eyes, the pleading look, the rapid flush on her chest as fillyhood memories flooded back. It’s heart-breaking, really. She fords the distance between you and settles in on your lap, whimpering, fire dimmed to bare embers atop her head and tail. You cradle her for a bit, sitting in your car, caressing and whispering sweet nothings to her. When her whimpering ceased, she laid her head against your chest, just content to sit there, nuzzled into you, and slowly, you continue your drive out of the park. She's calmed down at least, but the small prank you devised earlier seeming to have unexpectedly back-fired.

It is a quiet ride out of the park, with your miniature god-pony drying her tears and stilling her sobs. Well shit, this went downhill fast. You even feel bad for pulling a prank and getting her hopes up. A few turns down the countryside roads, and the Veterinarian clinic comes into view.

“Hey Day. I’m sorry. I promise I’m not sending you away, hun. I wasn’t lying, and we will go to the park soon. We just need to finish something first.” Your words rouse her from the complacent fugue she was in, and she looks up past the car window. How on earth color could drain from her pale fur is a matter of dispute, but that fire in her eye returned quickly, teary-eyed grief turning immeidatly into hot, flustered anger. “ANON YOU MOTHER BUCKER DON’T SCARE ME LIKE THAT! TURN US AROUND AND TAKE ME FOR A WALK!” Too late, you are already out of the car, cradling a viciously struggling, adorable, over dramatic little bundle of joy, between your arms. Every obscenity she hurls at the world, every tongue of fire roaring from her body, it’s strange to admit, but you still love it, and her.

This is your Life, Anon.

And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Author's Note

Yeah, I am just getting into writing, and largely just smash my face into the keyboard like some manner of deranged loon. Here's to hoping that someone enjoys my idle scribbles.