Seven Self-Portraits

Chapters

Monday
Tuesday
Wednesday

Monday

Author's Note

Final Warning: The following story you’re about to read is currently unedited.

Monday

It’s always easy to start a story when it isn’t your own. I guess that might be the nature of us storytellers that we’ve spent so much in the land of imagination to search for new ideas that at times we forget about the one that is happening to us right now. So in a way, this is an autobiography, but at the same time, it’s not. Nopony wants to read neither the whole truth nor facts because together, they’re too depressing for anyone. No, as a storyteller, the first rule that I’ve learned by heart is to always give your audience a good, interesting tale. I’ll leave up to my readers to see where fiction ends and reality begins.

So that’s exactly what I’m going to try to do. It is to tell you, dear reader, a story. One that I didn’t want to tell, but I felt that for my own good, I shall. I will tell you a simple one: a week in the life of this author. And I’ll begin this on a Monday.

Mornings for me, especially on Monday and Wednesdays for an Earth Pony like me starts off as such: I wake up in my warm queen size bed in which it takes a while to be able to open my eyes. Once they do, however, the very first thing I see is the blurry vision of my ceiling. My left foreleg would reach out to the nightstand to bring the alarm clock to my face. 7:54 it reads before I place it back and feel for my glasses. Being nearsighted since I was in Elementary school, I couldn’t exactly see anything clearly about half of a hoof away without turning everything into an impressionistic painting. After putting them on, seeing the dusty painting I did on my ceiling (I’ll get to that later) I force myself out of bed to use the bathroom.

Normally, the house tends to be somewhat noisy from the mix of voices from both the radio and my family. I’m not embarrassed to say that as the moment I’m writing this that I’m currently living with my parents. So is my younger brother and sister. So after using the bathroom, I wander into the kitchen in which sometimes there would be a little something on the stove top like a tray of bisects or perhaps some cereal. On this Monday however, there wasn’t any, but regardless I peak my head into the living room where Mom is, getting ready for work.

“So is there anything I need to be aware of today?” this was the same question I tend to ask her or dad every morning. “Besides checking up on the Real Estate School?”

My parents in a sense can be only be described as hardworking. Mom, or known to those that she’d worked with is called Stage Prop. A blond earth pony mare that had a light shade purple coat who’s rarely seen without her notebook at her side. “No, I don’t think so…” she hummed in thought. “Oh, do we still have eggs, juice and all that?”

“I’ll go look,” returning to the kitchen, I turned my attention towards the fridge, looking through the shelves and drawers, making some mental notes of what needs to be restocked. Before I could close the fridge I looked down to find the family dog putting his paws on the vegetable drawer. “I guess you haven’t had breakfast too, hey Chewy?”

The Shih Tzu looked up at me with his button black eyes silently, but I knew what he wanted. Opening one of the vegetable drawers I pulled out a single baby carrot in which, seeing this, he wagged his tail in anticipation before tossing it to the other side of the kitchen that he gave chase after it. Bringing a small smile to my face, I went towards the living room and say, “Aside of all the juice we have, we’re low on eggs and cream cheese.”

“Well put it on the list,” she replied as she didn’t look up from her open notebook.

“Okay, is there anything else that I should be aware of?”

“Ah yeah, could you also pick up some more copy paper later in the day?”

I sighed, “Sure. Anything else?”

“No,” she said as she closed her book. “I need to run.”

“See ya later mom.”

After telling me goodbye, she went out the door. I did as I was told and wrote down the missing items on the yellow notepad in my nigh unreadable hoofwriting next to dad’s that listed some other ingredients that I haven’t noticed. After checking to see the family’s piggy bank is still on the counter, I returned to my room to prepare for my day. Dressing-wise, I’m very simple depending on the weather, I put on my usual collar, bow tie, and the overcoat as it was cold outside in late November.

Between the door and one of the bookcases is a pile that I haven’t exactly picked up in months. One that had school papers, a bag of paints, sheet music, a ceramic plate that I painted once, and a very important book that I needed to take with me. A history book from one of the classes I was taking that I would study from. After putting that on my unkempt bed, I took my typewriter, my electronic music player with earphones, my little black book with a bag of receipts, a pencil, my bag of bits and some paper that I had to balance them all on my back.

After saying goodbye to the dog and whoever happened to still be there, I set out into Ponyville’s morning towards Sugarcube Corner to get a quick breakfast along the way. I walked past the darken out light bulbs that were obviously meant for the holiday season overhead between the houses. On the lamp posts they’ve already put on the garland and red bows, I thought that the only thing missing now was for the snow to fall. I have been told that we should be getting some any day now.

In public, I don’t tend to say much, or even get noticed. It is understandable that outside of my readers, I’m not that popular nor well known. I tend to walk past other ponies in their daily routines as if they were ghosts and focus on what my priorities that day were. At that moment, it was something to eat so I went towards Sugar Cube Corner and hoped that the line over there wasn’t long. On that Monday, it wasn’t.

When I went in, there were only a few there with Mr. Cake at the register. I got in line and waited (I confess that depending on the time, I can get rather impatient as my right hoof would tap in hopes that the ponies that were in front of me would make their order and hurry up). By the time I got up to the counter, I already knew what I wanted. “I’ll have the chocolate chip muffin with a bottle of apple juice.”

Like reliably clockwork, the muffin was put into a paper bag, then the small bottle of juice was taken out of the fridge, he would press a few buttons and rang it up. “That’ll be three bits,” he said as I took out the required amount. “Would you like a receipt?”

“Yes please,” I told him. In a way, I pretty much had to, considering what I’m going to be asked for today. After he wrote it up, he gave it to me while saying the usual have a good day thing, I immediately left to go over towards a particular building so I can spend until nine o’clock to eat.

Now before I go any further, there is one important thing that you must know about me. I was born with two mental disabilities: one is a mild form of Aspergers in which affects how I think and talk, the other is something called Auditory Processing Disorder which affects my hearing. Now I’m not bringing up this detail about me so that you may feel sorry for me. Rather, to give an explanation as to the place where I go on Mondays and Wednesdays. In Ponyville, there is a one-floor building that is known as Lower Mountain Options in which adults who are categorized as disabled go for therapy (or at least I think it is).

Before nine o’clock I walk in with breakfast in tow, saying a mechanical “Good Morning,” to one of the ladies that work there at the long, wooden desk before walking past her and into the small kitchen area with a long plastic white table in the middle. From there I unpack to eat my small meal in peace while some of the other clients tend to drift in and out. To be honest with you, the ponies here are not the kind that I would want to make friends with. As cruel as that sounds, the clients that I interact with aren’t even on the same level as I am mentally. For example, at the other end of the table where I’m eating is a mare that from week to week would dye her mane a different color. That week, it was lime green. She is a great deal older but shorter than I am. She tends to repeat things over and over again with a pause in between. For example: as soon as I walked in and saw me, she says, “M-M-M-Morning I-I-Inkwell.” And even after I said good morning to her, she repeats it so I sat there, trying to ignore her.

Another example would be right after I gulped down the muffin and juice where I would wait in the foyer would be a Pegasus known around here as Dusty. The only way I could describe the Pegasus is that he is as skinny as a flagpole; crooked teeth; has a bright orange, curly mane; he never once talked and always had one of those spinners from a game in his wing that he has a transfixed fascination with. I’m never was sure what sort of mental problems he has (nor any of the others for I don’t want to be rude just for asking) but I have been curious about it nonetheless. His behavior has always puzzled me since the day I came, as at times whenever he became excited, he would jump up and down, or he would rock in place at a surprising speed regardless if he was sitting or standing.

Now to be fair, I’m not saying that the disabled ponies in this place are all like that. At worst, they are confined to a wheelchair, mute and you can never truly understand what exactly they want. At best, they’re rather boring or completely inaudible to me. Compared to rest, I might as well be the black sheep in this building considering where else I go on Tuesdays and Thursdays. However, I don’t exactly hate this program thing that I’m doing, I rather tolerate it.

Anyway, after putting some of my things in a corner, I waited in a seat until nine o’clock where some of the other clients come right in. At the desk, the mare that I always say good morning to is a blond mane, orange coat earth pony known as Lifted Spirits, a positive mare that as far as I know has been doing this just after I was born. “Okay,” she says as she looks up from her scheduling book and got out from her desk to call out to the other staff. “Dusty, Marmalade, Dizzy, Inkwell, Return and Blot are going out to the community today.”

By now I know how this works, when they say “community,” they are referring to the act of going out somewhere as a group for about an hour or two (depending on the pony). Being at this program for nearly three years, I’ve been able to predict the same pattern that I followed week after week. Nine o’clock we get into one of the two wagons in which we were taken to the general store where I always get lunch from, and at ten we go over to the dollar store. Normally before we head off, the staff of two or three ponies would have us clients put to a vocal vote of where to go. However, since these ponies are enslaved by routine, and that the staff listens to what our needs that day are, they normally fall into those stores.

“Inkwell,” Lifted asked me as the other clients came into the foyer. “Do you need a lunch today?”

“Eventually y-yeah,” I replied. Once the other staffer that was coming with us that day, an older mare with a black curly mane with glasses joined us, we headed outside to loud ourselves into one of the smaller wagons. I tend to let myself to be the last pony to get on as I didn’t have to wait so long to unload afterward. Once Lifted hooked herself up to the wagon and the other staffer, who is known as Ms. Roads, had climbed in and asked us where we wanted to go to.

After expressing that I don’t have an opinion as long as I get some lunch, she turned to the others. “I-I-I-I-I wanna go to the bit store,” the mare whose mane was now dyed as lime green said. “Gallop Mart,” Ditzy (a pegasus mare that whose eyes somehow were able to look at two directions at once) said. “Gallop Mart,” Return, arguably the oldest stallion here muttered bitterly. “Gallop Mart please,” the last one to speak was from an overweight mare. Since Dusty couldn’t really talk, he never once made any objection of any kind as to the places we go to. So with the deciding vote that gave our driver direction and a promise to Marmalade that we’ll go to the bit store in the next hour, I plugged in my earphones into my music player to listen to Horseshoepin along the way.

It may not seem like much to most ponies, but when I’m caught in this clockwork of routine in a constant state of boredom, listening to classical music makes all the difference in the world. In a way, one could compare it to a livable addiction in which helps me keep my sanity. A temporary, cheap escape from the dull routine of my time with Lower Mountain so that I may keep myself level headed. After all, when one is surrounded by boredom, it’s best to have a moment of something intellectually challenging.

Less than five minutes later we arrive at the grocery store, I got off first, I made sure that the step ladder was right underneath the wagon for the others. “So who am I going with today?” I asked both Lifted and Ms. Roads.

The older mare checked through her notes, “You are with Lifted who Return and Dusty are going with. Ditzy, Marmalade and Blot are with me.”

As expected, even before all of us are off the wagon, the old stallion has already gone ahead to go inside. Of course, he had broken one of the rules in that whenever we’re out for community that we’re supposed to be within eyesight of the staff member that’s been assigned to us. However, given how old the guy is, he’s been given some leeway as for his age and that he couldn’t really stand for too long. So after we’ve paired up and gone inside, where he was at the door, already in one of those mechanical wheelchairs.

Gallop Mart is surprisingly large on the inside as it has almost everything from groceries; cheap clothes and the seasonal stuff that tends to take over the store depending on the time of the year. Being close to December, it’s already mummified in paper snowflakes, cardboard snowponies, red ribbons, lights and playing an endless loop of carols. However, I wasn’t quite impressed by the decorations as I have been here too many times then I’d like.

“So where do you want to get your lunch?” Lifted asked politely of me.

“Probably the deli, just to get a sandwich,” the funny thing is, even before we left I already knew what I was getting as I previously calculated how much bits I have and I wasn’t in the mood for frozen General Tso’s Carrots… again. And much like a soulless automaton, I lead them towards the deli, grabbed the cheapest sandwich that I would eat with a side of honey mustard, and just like that in less than two minutes, I was ready to go… only that it still wasn’t.

So for the rest of that hour until check out, we wonder over by the seasonal section of the store. It’s times like this that I wish that I would go home as I would think through where to take my stories from there. For as (admittedly) pretty as some of this stuff is and how creative the decorations were that year, I was thinking about the romance that I left off last night. In the most mundane of places and things, I try to put myself into their horseshoes, ‘What would I most likely do as Tchaicoltsky?’ I would think. ‘Now that I’m suspecting that my lover might be cheating on me, would I confront him about it or do I wait until there’s enough ev-’

“Inkwell?” Lifted put the brakes on my train of thought. “Did you get that?”

“Huh?”

“We’re going to check out now,” she explains to me. “Is there anything else you need to get?”

I nodded, “Yeah, but I’ll get i-it when w-w-we get over there.” I was referring to the sodas that they sell right next to the rows of cashiers. In which before I would get in line I would grab one of those lemon-lime ones. After buying my less than five bit lunch, we returned to wait in the wagon where the other group was still missing.

About ten minutes of waiting and listening to my music player later, the other group emerged from the store with Ditzy looking rather embarrassed of herself. “Sorry for the wait,” Ms. Road explained to Lifted, “We had a bit of a mess to clean up before we could leave the store.”

Among my boredom, I was shot with sympathy for the mare. Truth be told, I don’t really know Ditzy that well, for pretty much all I’ve heard about her came from the two staff members and some of the gossip that I would pick up while running my errands. From what I know, she works at the post office part-time and is known for being notoriously clumsy. And I maybe don’t know much about how to deal with disabled ponies as these two do, but I’m pretty sure that you don’t just say something like that aloud, especially when the one you’re talking about is within earshot. I don’t exactly know what had happened, but it’s embarrassing enough to be reminded of how… (what’s the word?) blundering you are. For a moment I wanted to do something to get her to cheer up a little. Only I had no idea what to do or what exactly to say, and before I could come up with something, we were moving again.

And like that, we were off to another side of town and towards another store. The bit store was one of those places where everything inside was only a bit so they’re left to sell the cheapest, poorly made goods in the country on their shelves. I mean, despite the rows of candy, the store was never memorable.

So by eleven I head into the kitchen unpack my humble lunch before it gets filled up. I confess that there’s a two-sided reason for this: one is so that it’ll give me more time to read half of the chapter I’m supposed to read from that textbook. And the other is that there’s one client that, while I never would say this aloud, but she really gets on my nerves.

Privately, and rather meanly as well, I secretly nickname her “The Screaming Banshee.” She is an Earth Pony mare, whose age is completely unknown to me, but she is confined to a wheelchair, at times muttering something over and over while screaming at others. I have never seen a mare like this in which she has no teeth. Yes, you read that right! She literally has no teeth because she actually grounded so much that there’s barely any left except for her gums. However, the main reason why I always try to eat my lunch as quickly as possible – whenever she’s wheeled and feed spoonfuls of mushed… something is when as soon as she takes it, she would gag on it. The very sound of her nearly throwing up is enough to make me lose my lunch. So in a way, it’s actually a good thing that I’ve learned this skill of eating quickly back in High School.

After vacuuming up my lunch and swallowing some of my soda (in which I would initials it on the top of the cap), I grabbed out one of those banana chairs to be placed in my usual spot, the rest of my things, and a notepad from one of the desks. Before I could study, I had to complete my goals so that I may be left alone. At Lower Mountain, I had to commit doing two things: one that has to do with my budget. In which that I carry around me a little black book that I scribble down a list of items that I’ve bought, subtract what I have left and kept the receipts as proof. The other goal is that I must come up with an activity that I would most likely do. Since I have been doing this for a while, I have written up a nit little chart in which I would fill out the rest of the details like so:

Activity:
Price:
Date:
Time to get there:
Time spent there:
Time to get back:
Total Time:

The goal for this was to think outside of the box outside of going to the movies, eating out, or even taking a walk somewhere. If it were up to me, I would prefer to simply stay at home. However, the idea behind it was to think about doing things that might be outside of my comfort zone while at the same time it would be something that I probably do. I admit that this one does take me a while to think up of something different but once I got a hold of it, jotting it all down the details was no problem.

After placing both the notebook, the checking book with the receipts on a particular desk, I returned to the banana chair, picked out some calming music to listen to on my music player and dove right into studying. The very presence of the textbook, in this case, “Equestrian History Vol. 2” might be more of a reason of why I stand out among most of the clients that I tend to interact with. As a college student who is going through his generals to get an associate’s degree, it makes it all the more lonely to be there. I confess that it feels rather degrading that simply because I have a few things wrong in my head that I have to come here twice a week here.

If anything, the only good thing to come about going here is that it just gives me room for studying. I tend to read about a chapter a week so it would give me more free time. I’m thankful that for the most part, the clients here do tend to leave me be as I rock in that chair, trying to digest through the dry content of the events that occurred nearly a hundred years ago.

By now, you might be wondering why I brought my typewriter. I admit that this is due to a force of habit. Depending on the classes or lack thereof, I would have a little time to daydream for my stories. I figured that if I’m going to accomplish writing at least a thousand words a day that I might get a hundred or two in. However, because of how long the chapter was, I quickly found that it was already close to two o’clock, my departure time.

After putting the chair away, grabbing my budget book with the receipts and retrieving my soda, I said goodbye to the staff before heading back home. As much as I would love to stay at home to work on my stories, I still have priorities to be taken care of. After dropping off my things, snatching the keys to the real estate school, the grocery list, and the family piggy bank, I was off again.

‘Hopefully it wouldn’t need any tidying up,’ I silently prayed. ‘So at least I could stay home for the rest of the evening.’ You see, I wasn’t entirely unemployed because technically I did have an odd job that Dad had given me years ago when he and Mom started several years ago. In the case of my dad, by day he’s a lawyer in which he deals with bankruptcies, by night he teaches real estate. However, they needed me for the job of making sure the class itself is straightened out, as well as stalked up with a certain amount of snacks.

Thankfully the building that they rented out isn’t too terribly far away from where we live. It’s in a side door of a bank in which leads towards the basement level. After unlocking the door and climbing downwards, I flipped on the lights to see that the chairs were indeed crooked among the rows of tables. As annoying as it was, I did go through each seat to make it more or less uninformed. In the past, I would have vacuumed, wiped down the chalkboard and tables before taking out the garbage. But given that it’s being rented by a bank, some of that stuff has been taken care off. All I have to worry now is the chairs, trash and the state of the snacks.

In one corner of the room is one of those kitchenettes that has a full-size fridge, counter and sink that has a coffee machine plugged in. I checked the fridge. ‘Okay so we’re gonna need more water bottles. The apples and grapes are definitely going to need to be replaced, but we’re okay on string cheese.’ Then I turned my attention toward the counter where the other snacks sat. After filling through the boxes I concluded that ‘I’m gonna have to get more candy. But we’re okay on crackers and I’ll have to get some more cookies.’ With this list in my head and taking out the trash from the previous week, I locked up the classroom and start my way towards the market.

Before I stepped into the market square, I scrolled through my playlists to listen to before I start buying. ‘A little Buch would do just nicely.’ Indeed, I had chosen the first movement of that third Brandenburg Concerto as I moved forward. It’s rather amazing how much of a difference listening to a tune does to any experience. In the silence air, going through a market wouldn’t be any different. However, with that upbeat rhythm of the violas and cellos, it turned it into a lively scene like something out of a movie. Going through my mental grocery list, I bought crackers to the counterpoint of violins, cookies with violas, candies with cellos, water with a harpsichord, grapes in crescendo and water in pianissimo.

Of course, I also got the list of items for the home, but the last on my list was the apples. The only place that even sells any is the Sweet Apple Acers stand. To my disappointment, however, they didn’t seem to have any fresh apples as they had only prepared jars of various kinds. And the one that is at the stall was the big red… Mac, I think his name was? Normally I tend to recognize faces then I do names so normally I always got it wrong unless I knew them really well. So when in doubt, do try saying their name.

“Excuse me,” I went up to the stand. “Are you guys out of fresh apples?”

He nodded.

“Awe crap,” I muttered. “Well… let’s see what you have then.” There was pie filling, pickled apples, “Okay how about this then? I’ll have four bags of those dried apple slices, please. So how much are those?”

“Twelve.”

To be honest, I do like this sort of pony in which they’re direct and to the point, especially with a stranger. Some in the market at times try to have small talk with me but I’ve always found it difficult because to me, such conversations always felt rather empty. As if they were machines that were programmed to have a limited amount of topics. Like for example:

“How’s your day?”

To which I would reply: “Don’t know, I haven’t thought of it.”

And just like that, it would stop. To me, it wouldn’t be so bad if it were once in a while from ponies who ask me that question, but when it comes from the same ponies asking the same question, it’s as if they don’t remember what answer I gave them. As if they don’t learn, but on the other hoof, it might be part of the job to see how they were before buying their product and ending it with, “Have a nice day.”

So after the market to drop off the snacks at the real estate school, I finally have gone home, only to find that I wasn’t the only one there. As I walked in, I found Chewy on the couch with my little brother Chili Pepper on the couch with the dog curled up against his head. Like me, he’s an Earth Pony that is two years younger than I am. He and I share the same mane color and even the same glasses, however, unlike my dark blue coat, he was a bright red. As I walked in, I caught him reading the same textbook that I’ve read mere hours ago.

“Hey Pepper,” I said as I set the groceries and the bundle of copy paper on the counter. “Do you have to work tonight?”

“Mmm… No, I only work on Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Why? Do you need something?”

“Well no, I was wondering if you know where everypony is?”

“Mom and Grandma have left to pick up Crystal, and Dad won’t be here until five. You just got here and I’m trying to catch up.”

After a visit to the bathroom and grabbing a glass of soda from the fridge, I retreated to my orange room. The place known as my room isn’t a large one, but I have made it cozy. Around its solar flare orange walls with the black furniture were knickknacks from across the globe and all the books that I could possibly need for any possible combination of stories. After plugging up my music player, I take the typewriter and lay down on my bed with my drink on the nightstand.

This is my favorite part of the day, not all the errands I had to run but just me and a typewriter. Just to spend a few hours crafting sentences and conversations like how a sculpture would focus on the form and details of a statue. Admittedly, it does take a while to get going, but once I’ve managed to, the background music, the words on the paper and the rhythmic tapping of the machine on my belly just help me drift off into another state of mind. In this case, into the mind of the winter composer Tchaicoltsky, in Stalliongrad of the 870’s where I continued where I left off, the heartbreak of hearing rumors that my secret coltfriend might be cheating on me.

“But how I don’t understand,”he whispered, holding up the letter. It was clearly a love letter in Sattlenov’s hoofwriting, even the same shade of blue ink seemed to indicated it. But no matter how much Tchaicoltsky wanted to deny it, no matter how much his heart was shattering at the very sight of it, the letter was not addressed to him. But to a mare, a student of his no less! It used the same caring language, the same comforting words and the melodic poetry that he told him night after night. But as much as he wanted to deny it, the evidence in his hooves was clear: Sattlenov’s so-called love was a lie.

It is in my fantasies that I find myself truly free. No routine of daily life nor the worries that come with it, no insecurities of the present or the fears of the future, but just me and my imagination where I was free to think, to have a voice while telling a good story. That in writing, not only was I free to record whatever I wished, but I have a way to get it published.

Ever since I’ve discovered the Free Word magazine, for the first time I had something that I’d never thought I would have before. A real audience that actually was reading whatever I put out under a false name: DriedInk. Considering that no subject was too taboo nor was it limited in who would publish their stories, the magazine had created a competitive atmosphere in which readers were looking for new, original material. In which I was more than happy to as daily I would get responses and comments about every chapter I produce. Of course, there would be those that would point out the grammatical mistakes and the occasional plot hole in which I would go back and revise it accordingly when I would release the whole story.

Before I knew it, at five o’clock I had hammered out about seven hundred words and I would need another three hundred or so before reaching my daily goal. However, I heard the front door open, “Hello? Anyone alive?” With a sigh, I glanced at the clock on the desk that told that it was 5:33, so I put the typewriter on the desk and like a butler, went over to greet my dad.

“Yeah?” I called out before I got to the kitchen where dad was. As expected he was setting his briefcase on the kitchen table, and clearly had gotten out of court judging by the dark expensive suit. Dad is a Pegasus that has a well-combed black mane with a spring green coat. “So how’s your day been?”

“Long,” he replied. “And I really don’t want to teach tonight. I hope that you get to substitute for me?”

“I still don’t think that’ll be a good idea,” I told him. “After all, it’s a rather bad idea to send in someone that knows next to nothing about real estate.”

With a weak smile, dad said, “Oh fine. So have anypony eaten yet?”

I shook my head, “I don’t think so. In fact, I’m not sure who's here. Plus I don’t really know what to eat anyway.”

“How about a salad?” he suggested. “Do we have any bread left?”

“I think so,” I went up to the bread cabinet to find, sure enough, that there was half a loaf left. “Do you want me to turn on the oven and tossed this thing in with tin foil?”

“Would you do that? I really need to go change. Get some plates out and the salad greens then I’ll take care of it from there.” I obeyed as he went into his room. Soon I took out the fridge the mixed greens, the carrots, some cheese, croutons, pine nuts, and a few dressings; I started searching the house to see who was still here. The first place I look was downstairs because that’s where the girls' rooms were.

Most of the basement level isn’t what most ponies think of that being made out of concrete and boxes (we have the storage room for that). Ours, however, is just as furnished as the upstairs with its own individual room. The first one that I visit was Grandma Brae, an elderly, curly-maned mare that I rarely see without a book in her hooves. She is related on my mother’s side as she had moved in a few months ago due to some… unfortunate circumstance.

“Dinner is about ready,” I told her.

She looked up from her book, “Ah what?”

At times I tend to forget that she’s deaf in one ear. “We’re going to go ahead and eat in a minute. Oh, and by-the-way, is Mom and Crystal here?”

“Your mom has gone run a quick errand so she’ll be back any minute,” she told me as she set the book aside on the bed. “Crystal is in her room. Is Home Seeker here?”

I nodded, “Yeah, dad just got home and I’m helping him out. You can go upstairs while I go get Crystal.” After telling me that she will, I went over through the downstairs family room/mom’s room, through a short hallway to the door of my little sister’s. Raising a hoof, I knocked on the doorframe.

“What?” an annoyed voice called from behind the door.

“Dinner is gonna be ready in a sec so come on up.”

“Kay,” without waiting I turned around to head back upstairs to pull out plates for all of us and started to pile up the salad. On went, the greens, croutons, chopped carrots, cheese bits, and nuts while placing the bottles of dressings to the side. Then after calling out to Pepper that dinner was ready, dad reappeared in the kitchen. “Turns out mom has gone out so she’ll be back in a sec.”

“Okay, and is everypony else here?”

“They’re coming… sooner or later.”

As if scripted and rehearsed, Mom came in through the door with a basket of eggs. “I completely forgot to add eggs to the list, when did you get here?”

“Just now,” Dad replied. “Inkwell made a salad for everypony, and I really don’t feel like teaching tonight.”

“That reminds me, are the books over at the school?” that question was directed towards me.

“And the papers, and the boxes, and it has been restocked so everything should be over there. So you’re all set to go tonight.”

“Oh good,” dad nodded as the downstairs door swung open to which both Chewy and my youngest sis came up with Grandma following behind. Crystal is a teenager that has been going through her second year of high school, as such, she has adapted somewhat of the trends as she had dyed the tips of her long, dark chocolate mane with purple tips. Like dad, she too is a Pegasus, whose coat is the same color as my room.

As usual, Crystal immediately went for one of the plates in which she picked up a carrot, “Hey Chewy,” she said to the dog as she held the vegetable up. “You wanna treat?” The small canine wagged his tail, opened his mouth a little while his eyes widened. After tossing the chopped carrot on the floor, Chewy went for it.

“Where’s Pepper?” Mom asked as she looked around the kitchen.

“I think he’s still in his room,” I said. “I just told him dinner was done a minute ago.”

“Pepper!” she called out in which the door down the hall was heard to be opened.

“What is it?” an annoyed voice answered.

“Dinner’s done.”

“I’ve heard you,” hoofsteps made their way until he reached the doorframe of the kitchen. From there, we grabbed our plates and drifted towards other parts of the house to eat. Sometimes we don’t tend to eat together for some of us have preferences on where to eat. However, ever since Grandma moved in, we now ate at the dinner table despite if one of us is in a hurry.

Usually, at this time, I tend to stay quiet as I focused on both the food and what was being said around the table. Dad went over with mom with last minute checking: were the syllabuses and quizzes for the week been printed; are all the books over there; are all the snacks restocked… etc. Crystal spoke to grandma, somewhat grouchy over a project that she’s doing for school. (Obviously, she hates the school she goes to, but to be fair, I held the same view when I was her age, in it that it felt like being in a part-time prison.) While at the same time, she feeds some of her salad that hasn’t been touched by the dressing to Chewy, that sat right by her chair, looking pitiful upwards for any scraps.

Before long, dad put his plate by the sink, went out to grab his things before heading over to the school. One by one, we brought our plates over towards the sink before mom reminded us to rinse them and put them into the dishwasher. However, I couldn’t wait to get back into my room wherein the back of my mind, my typewriter was beckoning me. ‘Finish the chapter,’ my mental conscious told me, ‘You’re nearly done to submit it.’

I was thankfully able to slip into my room and immediately turned on the background music from my music player. Returning to the bed, and setting the typewriter on my lap I crafted out the final scene.

“I mean, how could you!?” Tchaicoltsky shouted. “I trusted you! I believed everything you told me! And this,” he held up the letter. “This is how you showed your undying affection? By seeing someone else without telling me?”

Sattlenov’s eyes glanced everywhere else in the room, except for him. “I-It’s not what you think.”

“Oh really?” The bearded stallion tried to withhold his rage. “Then what else exactly do I make of this then? ‘I feel unworthy as you are perfection itself. A Goddess of Happiness in the flesh that gives so much joy, just for my humble self to be in your presence. I want to worship you in every way that you wish. My devotion, compassion and love is unmatched by any living creature.’ Then pray tell, how else am I supposed to interpret this-

“Inkwell!” My imagination came to a screaming halt from my mother’s voice before a couple of bandings against the wall. I hate when something like this happens, just when you’re about to get to the good part, like how one would anticipate the climax of a piece of music, only for it to come crashing down.

Setting the typewriter on the bed, I went out to find where mom was. She was in the living room with Grandma on the couch, listening to the radio. Mom barely sat down to put her own typewriter on her lap as she reminds me that, “Tomorrow’s garbage day.”

“Oh,” I mentally kicked myself that I keep forgetting that. Silently frustrated, I immediately set out to collect the garbage cans from my brother’s room, the two bathrooms upstairs, the laundry room, kitchen, the printing room downstairs along with mom’s room, the other bathroom and Crystal’s room. After placing them in a bag, I went into the toolshed part of the house where the three other garbage cans were. One of them was larger than the other two as I tied the bags up and tossed them in before dragging that giant can out into a particular part of the street.

Once back in my room, I set out to finish that chapter, to give it a proper hook for the next one for my readers. By 8:33, I finally typed out the last sentence to which I reviewed it, checking over spelling mistakes with a dictionary, punctuation, and notes to where to put the italicized and what sections should be put into block quotes to signify the sections of the letter in which the main character reads from.

Satisfied, I told the family that I would be making a quick errand before I headed out the door and towards the post office with the manuscript in a large envelope. In five minutes I walked through the entrance in which, as always, Ditzy was there behind the desk. She smiled and waved as I entered.

“Hi, Inkwell.”

“Evening,” I nodded. “Has there anything that came for me?”

After saying that she’ll go look, she went over to the wall of box slots, each having their own numbers and letters. Ditzy scanned over to one particular slot: 62493MT. She returned with a rolled up magazine and to my delight, a few letters. “There is indeed,” she beamed. “One magazine and three letters today – so are you going to send anything out?”

“Ah yeah,” I hoofed over the envelope. “I just want to have this mailed.”

“Okie-dokie,” after taking hold of the sealed manuscript, she asked her routine question, “So how’s your day been?”

To which, I shot back my usual response to this question that I’ve been asked so often. “I don’t know, I haven’t thought of it.”

“You really say that a lot,” she pointed out. “How can you not know how you are? Take me; I’m doing great because it’s a slow night.”

As much as I wanted to explain how my mind tends to think of other things besides how’s my mood on this particular day or other, since nopony wants to listen to that, I simply respond with a safe: “Fine I suppose.”

“That’s good to hear. Will there be anything else?”

I eyed the envelopes, “Nope, that’ll be all.”

“Well, thanks for coming in.”

After I bid her good night, I walked back home, eager to read what these letters contain. These letters contain one of the main reasons why I love writing in that particular magazine: the feedback. Not only do I get to see anything I write being on print, but these letters showed how much of how the audience thinks about the pieces that I put out. If anything, I look forward to what their thoughts and critiques are with every chapter I put out.

Slipping back inside and closing the bedroom door, I went over to my desk in which I placed the letters and began to open them up.

The first simply said that they were intrigued and couldn’t wait for the next chapter. The second was a list of all the grammatical mistakes from the previous chapter. When this happens, I take out the previous chapter to refine it so that the next day, it could be republished again with all the corrections put in. And the third was a question:

Dear DriedInk, do you take commissions? Because if you do, I have an idea for a clop that you could try. – FlutterBoomer.

With a sigh, I got out the typewriter in which I penned my response.

Dear FlutterBoomer,

one thing that you must understand about me is that nopony is paying me to write any of the stories that I put out. As such, I’m not doing any of this because of the money, but simply because I wanted to. I never beg for commissions, and nor shall I because I would never do that to my readers. So no, while I don’t take commissions, I do however take suggestions. Now there’s no guarantee that I would take it for a future story, but that doesn’t mean that I won’t take it to heart, especially if I’m interested in them. When it comes to writing clop, do keep in mind that it’s very rare that I would write them unless I’m really compelled to do so. But who knows, maybe you might have something that would intrigue me.

– DriedInk.

Setting the response letter aside, I then turned towards the thick magazine in which I lay on the bed, to open its table of contents. ‘I wonder if there’s a good comedy in here,’ I wondered as I flipped through its pages, hoping to get a good story before going to bed.

Tuesday

I always love days in which I get the chance to sleep in, and that I don’t have anything major to do first thing in the morning. If anything, that morning, all I wanted for a while is to keep my eyes closed while being wrapped in a cocoon of warmth. Of course, I would have preferred it to be a little quieter as I heard my family up. The voices of my parents discussing what needs to be done for today, Chewy wasn’t barking so much and the banging of cabinets that came from the wall where my head was pointed at. Still, I dare not open my eyes as I prefer for sleep to drag me back into the comforting darkness.

However, I did have to open them while feeling for the clock on the nightstand to be held up close to my face. It was almost nine in the morning, but I let my head drain off that sleeplessness before the house became quiet again. After pushing the covers off and making a trip to the bathroom, I went into the kitchen to find Grandma there at the dining table.

“Morning Grandma,” I said getting a glass down. “Has everypony left already?”

“It’s just you, me and Pepper, only I haven’t seen him up yet.” She told me, peeling an orange. “Your dad has gone to work like your mother, but she’s dropping off Crystal at school. Oh, and your mom has taken Chewy to have his fur be washed and cut. So any plans today?”

“Other than going to school at one? I think I’ll go check on the Real Estate school just to see if it needs to be restocked. Speaking of which, while I’m out, is there anything I need to get?”

“I don’t really know,” she replied. “However, I’m waiting to receive a letter from your Uncle Sky, so as soon as you get back, would you bring it in?”

“Of course,” I nodded, after gulping down some water. Then getting the toaster out, I heard her saying how that she’s been looking forward to seeing what updates that my uncle was making down in Salt Lick City. On the outside, I appear to be stoic, listening to her while giving a couple of “Ah-huh,” and “Oh really?” But on the inside, I wanted to lay out the truth to her.

Now… I won’t give too much away since, I confess, I only know bits and pieces of it myself. Grandma Brae is here because of my Uncle Sky. In the past, he was practically living with the already retired mare, who lives off of social security like I have (only difference is that I get it because of my disability while she of old age). And as far as I could make out from what arguments have been made, apparently, my Uncle had convinced her to use up all of her bits to finance some project or other to the point that he said would help her get a new cart. However, something happened that my parents had to step in to prevent her from going to jail. All I know that it involves a contract and she came up short in paying it or some other. About a year later, as bills piled up and she was evicted from her apartment, she and my uncle moved into a cheaply rented place until their bits ran out.

Of course, my parents are frustrated with Uncle Sky (my dad most of all) because he’s so much of a dreamer who makes such grand promises from turning his stories into movies for this company that he still wouldn’t get a job. We don’t know if he’s a liar or mentally ill, but we all concluded that she must move away from Sky until we find a place for her. So several months ago, I along with my mom and Crystal went down to basically help her move to our house. (That was mom’s idea anyway because dad and my brother probably won’t be able to remain calm when near Uncle Sky.) I’m told that this is temporary, but I have my doubts.

Anyway, after a quick breakfast of peanut butter toast, getting my things and the house purse together, I was out once more towards the Real Estate school. Fortunately, there wasn’t a lot to do other than straighten out the chairs, clear out the garbage, and taking note that I just need to get a box of crackers and water bottles. This meant that by the time I locked up, went to the market, unlocked the doors and put those two items into the school, I was able to accomplish all this in forty-five minutes. All the while as I returned home, I ready knew what I wanted for lunch.

“Let’s see…” I opened up the fridge, “Cheddar… milk… butter… eggs… lemon juice…” then to the cabinets. “Flour… salt and pepper… Herbes de Provence… paper napkins… saucepan… a metal bowl… electric mixer… plastic spatula, whisk, spoon measuring things, cup measurements… and some ramekins,” nodding in satisfaction through my mental checklist, I went to go find grandma and my brother to see if they would want to have the same lunch as I’m having. Luckily, they didn’t.

After getting out the ingredients and tools out, I clicked on the oven to 360 before turning my attention towards the two ramekins to coat the insides with a melted layer of butter before tossing them into the fridge. Next, I prepped the metal bowl by cleaning it, the metal beaters for the mixer and the spatula with lemon juice. Setting them aside, I put in a small cup a tablespoon-and-a-half of flour, sprinkled some salt, pepper and the herbs. With the saucepan, I stuck in a tablespoon-and-a-half of butter to melt over medium heat before tossing the flour mixture in to be whisked for two minutes before pouring one splash at a time of a cup of milk until it together. Once the pan reached a simmer, I took it off the heat to dump and mix in hooful of grated cheese while setting the rest aside for now.

Now over towards the metal bowl, I separated the two egg whites from the yokes but only using a single yoke to quickly mix into the saucepan as fast as I could in order to prevent it from curdling. Setting the saucepan aside, I turned to the whites in which I put in a pinch of salt in before turning on the electric mixer on the lowest setting as possible at first. All the while, I stir the whites around, gradually turning up the speed as it turns into a foamy substance, and then into what looks like thick frosting. Every so often I would stop to pull out to see if on the ends of the mixers that there were two firm peaks, but eventually, I got it just the way I wanted it.

The next step I had to be extra careful over as now I had to combine both of these. So, using the spatula and scooping up just a little bit of the whites, I folded it into the creamy mixture until it was well combined. Next, I slowly mixed in a splash at a time into the whites, folding, not mixing it together until all of it turns into a frothy like substance. All I needed to do now was to get out the ramekins from the fridge, coat it in another layer of butter once more while dusting it with flour all over the insides. Next, I placed them onto a cooking sheet so that they’ll remain even, pour in the mixture about three-fourths of the way and sprinkle them with the remaining grated cheese before putting them into the oven. After which I place a large plate in the fridge while it bakes for twenty minutes.

If you haven’t figured it out by now, what I have described to you was the process of making a personal cheese soufflé. Yes, I know that making such a meal takes time, but I do tend to obey my cravings. Many ponies when I tell them that I’ve learned how to make a cheese or chocolate soufflé seemed rather surprised by this fact, considering how “complicated” and “difficult” it is to make one. But to my point of view, cooking/baking is like a skill like say… mathematics. Once you’ve learned about the rules and how it works, it’s rather easy to do – and just as easy to mess it up. After all, a soufflé, when one thinks about it, is just a glorified omelet.

Eighteen minutes of standing in the kitchen to guard the oven in order to prevent it from anyone from opening it, I fetched for some soda and taking the plate out of the fridge. Waiting for the timer to go off, I had hot pads ready to be taken out. After it rang, I opened the oven door and gently took out the soufflés, with two heads peaking an inch out of the ramekins. Another success as I transfer them onto the cooled plate, taking them into my room to eat my lunch. (The reason for the plate in the fridge: a soufflé is meant to be eaten right out of the oven; however they can burn your mouth. So a way I figured to counter it is to chill your plate so after taking a forkful, you could put it on the sides of the plate, let it rest for a moment before eating. That way, you can still chew this airy meal without burning.)

By the time my lunch was over, my clock on the desk said that it was nearly 12:05. Getting up, I trot over to the door of my brother’s room. “Hey Pepper,” I called out. “Have you eaten yet?”

The sounds of a video game were instantly put on pause, “No. I’m just gonna go get a sandwich.”

“Okay, it’s just past twelve,” I told him as I went back into my room. With about forty minutes to spare, I lay on the bed with the Free Word magazine. Last night there was a story that caught my attention. It was the one about Princess Luna that before her banishment, told about her interaction with a knight of hers that was injured in a jousting match.

Sometimes when I get my hooves on a good story in which the time period was so fascinating; the characters so believable; the conflict so intriguing; dialogue so realistic; and comedy so amusing – that I have forgotten my sense of time.

“Inkwell,” I heard my brother’s voice through the door. “I’m about to head out.”

I glanced at the clock on the nightstand. “Whoops,” I instantly got up as I realized that it was nearly 12:50, which meant that classes start in ten minutes. So after quickly gathering my textbook, notebook, and a pencil, I headed out the door with my brother already ahead.

Quickly trotting through the chilled air, I followed Pepper close behind through the streets and familiar landmarks to get to what is essentially the temporary local college in Ponyville: a short, ground floor building that has a total of four classrooms, a student and teacher’s lounge, a set of bathrooms, a broom closet, a lobby and a council’s office. Yes, I know it’s small, with each classroom filling up at most of thirty students give-or-take, but at least it’s a little more affordable to come. That, and I do like the teachers here.

Anyway, my brother and I went into one of the two entrances that were closest to our first class of the day: Equestrian History. Once we entered the classroom that has long rows of three tables, chairs with some of the students there, a projector on the ceiling and a large wooden desk in a corner, we took our regular places at the front of the class on opposite ends.

With time to spare, I opened my notebook to a blank page to write at the top: “Day 23,” and then that day’s date. Soon enough, our teacher entered in a good mood that day. Our history teacher is a favorite of mine, Mr. Hindsight – a somewhat overweight red guy with a gray mane and a smile. I had him three times during my time at this college in which had to deal with world history, Equinities, and this one, Equestrian history. Not only does he have the ability to tell any point in time and keep it fresh and in a way that we all would easily understand – but he has a passion for telling fun stories about any time period.

“Hey guys,” was the first thing he said as he walked in. “How’s everypony?”

Most of us responded that we were doing fine.

“Well I’m really looking forward to today’s lesson,” he said as he plopped his levitated notes drop onto the thick desk.

“Speaking of which,” said I as I flipped open the textbook. “When are we again?”

“We’re into the nine-twenties. And oh, do I have a couple of really good stories for today that I’m dying to tell you guys. But first,” he went over to the switch on the wall. “Let me get the projector warmed up.” Other students drifted into the classroom while my brother went over by the door to switch off the lights as soon something came up on the screen.

At one o’clock exactly, our lesson began. “Okay, let’s get started.” He walked up to the chalkboard that was right next to the screen. “Today class we’ve gotten through the horrors of the First World War and trench warfare, Germainia was forced to sign the Treaty of Versailles so for now there’s peace. So to move on, we’re going to take a look at what Equestria was doing now that the war was finally over.”

Ah, the nine-twenties. A time of Prohibition of hard drinks was illegal for about ten years, of the jazz age, the public use of credit until it nearly crashed the economy and the advertisements in which he showed us through the projector.

“I’ll gotta tell ya folks,” he said as he showed us a new slide. “When it came to the art of advertisements, these guys were ruthless. And I mean that by every sense of the word. For example, this is a real add for a magazine, targeting at mares.” He pointed at the screen, “Look at this mare, she’s in a white dress like she’s at a wedding, and yet she’s absolutely miserable. Why? Read what the heading says: ‘Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.’ And why? Because her breath stinks with something called halitosis. A rare disease that very few ponies have, and the ‘cure’ was to take Clorox, originally used for scrubbing floors, can freshen up your breath so that you can finally get that special somepony.”

In the darkness, I saw a few ponies with their jaws hanging. “Are you kidding?” one of them asked.

“No. At the time, Clorox was really used for floor cleaning, but when sales were dropping, they had to come up with something so that they could really sell their product. And it turns out, it can make your breath smell minty fresh. So what do they do? They convinced their customers of a condition in which a tiny portion of the population had,” he pointed at the screen. “So that it’ll help them out with their relationship problems because their breaths apparently stink. And this actually worked. So well, in fact, those sales for the company went up dramatically.”

After showing a few more examples from soap to soy oil, he brought the point that. “These guys in the twenties were so good at manipulating through their advertisements that these rat bastards had scared everypony into buying their product, regardless if they needed it or not.”

Oh, and I have forgotten that he sometimes swears while he’s teaching – an excellent sign of a good teacher in my personal opinion.

Every so often, he would jot down on the chalkboard in which I would copy it into my notebook. After all, I have learned that if the teacher feels the need to write something on the board, chances are that it could be on the test.

Near the end at two-fifteen, he concluded his lecture by showing us a song near the end of the period. A song in which I have heard it before when he was teaching Equinities; it was called, “Blue Skies.”

“So why am I letting you guys listening to this?” he asked the obvious as he turned on the speakers in the classroom and ready to put the needle on the record. “It’s because, in the remarkable irony in history, this one hit wonder has illustrated the upbeat attitude before the crash of the Great Depression. Pay attention to not only at the style of the singing, but the lyrics themselves.”

And over the crackling sound that sounded from the speakers all around the room, a smooth trumpet played out the signature descending scale of jazz. A few seconds later, with the phantom of a mare’s voice adding on top of that relaxed tempo, she began to sing.

“Blue skies, smilin’ at me, nothin’ but blue skies, do I see. Blue birds, singing a song, nothin’ but blue birds, all day long. Never saw the sun shining so bright, never seen things goin’ so right. Noticin’ the days hurrin’ by, when you’re in love, my how they fly! Blue days, all of them gone, nothin’ but blue skies, from now on.” From there, the singer improvised with her voice in a fun, upbeat way that I’ve noticed that even a few hooves from the class were taping to the beat.

“I’ve never saw the sun shining so bright, never seen things goin’ oh so right. Noticin’ the days hurrin’ by, when you’re in love, my how they fly! Blue, blue days, all of them gone, nothin’ but blue skies, from now on!”

When the song finished playing, Mr. Hindsight took the needle off the record. “But the truth was,” he said. “Those blue skies didn’t last forever as many ponies would have hoped. Off in the horizon, a dark storm was brewing that threatened to turn their lives upside down. And that’s where we’ll pick up on Thursday, into the Great Depression.” He glanced at the clock over the door. “There’s no homework assigned, so see ya guys, have a nice day.”

That was our cue for us to be dismissed. Since my brother didn’t have his next class until later tonight, he went home while I went to the door across from Mr. Hindsight’s. After setting my books down and a quick trip to the bathroom later, I waited in my seat for my next class at two-thirty: health. Students flow in, oftentimes making small talk while I idly listen from time to time if they have something worth listening to.

Our teacher came in five minutes early, Mr. Gym, the same Pegasus who happens to be the councilor of this temporary school. The only way I could describe him is if you took the model of a later thirty-year-old lumberjack with a dark beard, take away the plaid hat and ax, give him a layback yet fun personality, a surgeon for a wife plus kids, put him into a teaching position, and you end up with Mr. Gym.

“Hey how’s it goin’?” he asked as he walked right in. “Inkwell, how’s it been?”

I shrugged, “Alright I guess.”

“Good, good,” he flipped on the switch for the projector to turn on. “Um, just a reminder everypony that since this is our last semester here in this building some of you probably need to speak with me about transferring to the new college as soon as you can.”

“I have a question,” one of the students raised her hoof. “Since this school is closing down, what are you going to do after this?”

“Besides being unemployed?” he joked. “I’m not exactly sure. Ever since the vote back in June, I and the teachers here have been trying to figure that out for a while – some of us like Mr. Hindsight most likely would try to see if they can get a job there. Me on the other hoof… I might end up retiring, become a stay at home dad. I don’t know yet, but obviously, I’d need to figure something out soon.”

“Are you really going to retire?” I asked.

“Like I said, I’d need to do some things first before I figure that out. But for now, let’s wait a bit before we get started.”

“What are we learning today?” another student asked.

“You’ll find out.”

By the time class started at two-thirty up til’ three-fifty, he lectured about cardio health. Or to put it in plain Equestrian: about the heart, what sort of preventable diseases to avoid, and how to take care of it. To be honest, between listening and taking down some notes, it was rather uneventful to the point that I couldn’t wait to go home. If anything, part of the time I was letting my mind wonder of ideas of how to improve a bowl of Ramen noodles. Maybe with some chopped carrots for some crunch in the bowl or probably try some of that tofu stuff? Should I have my bowl with just one soft boil egg or two? Maybe I should mix in with sesame oil in with the butter-

“Okay, see you guys Thursday,” I blinked at what the teacher said. Glancing at the clock I found that it was already 3:52. While I didn’t exactly notice the time, it was certainly welcoming as I picked up my books and a pencil with me to head out the door.

Before I went home, however, I had stepped into the post office to see if there was anything new in my box. While I was disappointed that there were no new letters, at least I did get a copy of the latest magazine. Sure enough, my latest chapter was indeed published along with the approval has gone up by a few points.

So returning home with the magazine tucked between my note and textbook, I walked in to find that Crystal was cuddling Chewy while mom is in her usual spot on the loveseat with a typewriter. “Uh, Pepper has gone out to get some mustard and barbecue sauce.”

“Oh crap!” I facedhoof, “I’m so sorry, I’ve completely spaced it.”

She waved it off, “Don’t worry about it. I’ve figured that since he’s out getting those, how does sloppy oats sound for dinner?”

“We do have chips, right?”

“There should be,” she said as she adjusted the paper in the machine on her lap. “I think there’s at least a couple different kinds and at least four bags of tortilla chips for some reason.” Before I could head into the hallway into my room, she added, “Oh, and by-the-way, since you’ve left all those dishes for me to put in the dishwasher, as soon as dinner is over, you get to load them.”

“Yes mom,” I said as I opened the door to my sanctuary. Normally, I would prefer to write in the afternoons, like sometime after one o’clock. However, being past four, it just makes me feel like I’m continually late to the work that I genuinely like to do. Still, it was rather nice that I have at least a couple of hours to tackle a new chapter with me, my background music, and a typewriter to challenge the mind.

If anything, I had been looking forward to this all day as I knew this time where I want to take the story. In this case, Tchaicoltsky’s betrayal from his lover to compose his first ballet: “Swan Lake.” To set the mood of it, I let my music player echo out the emotional introduction of the piece be heard as I focused on the next chapter, lying down on my bed.

Chapter 14: Dreams of Swan Lake

Tchaicoltsky didn’t know how long he spent in his room crying alone. The vodka was useless, as he knew that so-called, “liquid comfort” won’t console what has been broken. His heart was still bruised at what he had learned last night, and as much as all he wanted to do was cry, he had no more tears to shed, and his hunger was rioting for substance.

Finally unlocking the door, he walked over into the kitchen to first, make some bitter coffee and perhaps fix some scrambled eggs on the stove to satisfy his appetite for now. However, his soul was tired of walking across the shards of his heart – he didn’t want to go anywhere nor meet anypony – he needed to rest above all else. More than just needed sleep, but time to come to grips of what he had to confront.

“Mama,” he sighed his hooves on the edge of the stove, staring at the pot slowly boiling. “I wish that you were here. I wish I knew what to do.”

After taking a few minutes to brew his batch of black coffee, he got out a cup and the serving spoons for the cream and sugar to stir in. In the silence, he prepared his cup the way he preferred it, all the while pondering to himself of what would his mother do in such a dark situation as this. Slowly, he recalled of the days when at the end of the day that he came to her with a problem that he couldn’t solve on his own, she would sit next to him and tell him a bedtime story.

‘She was always good at that,’ he thought as he slowly sipped the nectar of life. ‘Every time I get into trouble, or I’m faced with a decision that I don’t know what to do, she somehow knew what story to tell me to help me. Mama was brilliant in that regard and she hardly had to use the books on the shelves since she told me those of her own. Like the talking, dancing animals, of wizards, angles, and heroes that were like me.’

With every sip, an idea formed in his mind: what if the best way to confront such an ugly break up, would be to pen his feelings into a story format that he knows, but never tried before. An opera, or maybe… a ballet perhaps? No story that he knows could ever fit what was forming in his head… so would it hurt then, to create a stor-

“Inkwell!” my mother called out, derailing my train of thought. “Did you bring in the trash cans?”

Ah great, another thing that stupid me has forgotten to do today. After giving myself a good slap to the head as a reminder of how dumb I was, I went out to get the trash cans to be hulled back to their place. And by the time I returned to my room, that line of thought in which it made so easy to write came to me slowly thanks to that interruption.

But at least on the upside that I’ve managed to get a good eight hundred words in, and just in time before five o’clock as dad came in. “Can I get some help?” As expected as I got into the kitchen, he was there were bags of groceries. “Inkwell, could you go get the rest of the stuff that’s over at the door?”

I did so, but not without taking a peek at what was in the bags. I spied the noodles, unshelled peanuts and other bottles in which could only be one thing: “Thinking of a stir-fry tonight?”

“Yes actually,” he said as he placed the other bags on the cabinet. “How does pad thai sound?”

“Are we talking about the peanut version?”

“Well, I did get some of that spicy peanut sauce somewhere in these bags. So if you could help me set this up and throw stuff away, I’ll take care of the rest.”

And so like that, we were taking out the frying pan, pot with water, the chopping boards, knives, and little glass bowls to prepare dinner. Mom came in and offered up to help as well to discuss a few things while I chopped up the nuts and vegetables as I listened. She told him of the three ponies that had signed up for his class next week and the events at work for the both of them. Noodles with payment, vegetables with court issues, ginger and mincing onion with local politics, and oils with meeting with stupid ponies tend to go hoof and hoof. Such things are familiar to me in the kitchen when both of my parents are helping with the cooking.

Soon enough, hot oil and frying vegetables perfumed the air as a dad now focused his attention on the frying pan. Next, to him, bowls of ingredients only arranged by him waited for the heat. With each bowl being tossed in, I stood by to set the bowl into the sink, or throw away what was essentially garbage. Once the tempting combination of sauces was put in to marinate whatever was in the pan, the air smelled like ginger, soy sauce, peanut and other combinations that I couldn’t pick up right away. With the noodles being the last to being thrown in, dinner was ready.

Grandma was already there setting plates at the table while mom set to get my brother and sister. With them and the dog at the table, we all sat down and began to pass out the food. “What is this?” Grandma Brae inquired as she dished her own peroration on her plate.

“Pad thai,” dad answered. “I was over at the Far Eastern store a couple of months ago in which they had cookbooks over there. While I was flipping through I happened to find this thing, it sounded so good that I bought it and I’ve been learning how to make stir-frys from it.”

“I like the sauce,” Crystal said as she slurped up a few noodles.

“Sad that I couldn’t find any Brussel sprouts,” he added. “Still for what we have, this is pretty good.”

Personally, I never liked the sprouts, so to have it out was rather a silent blessing for me.

“So are we doing anything for Hearth’s Warming?” my brother asked. “Like are we going to draw names to figure out who’s getting stuff for who?”

“That reminds me,” Mom got up from the table towards the counter where the stick notes were. She took out a pen to draw up a name before folding it up and moving over to the next one. After writing on four notes, she returned to the table and went up to me. “Pick one.”

“What?”

“If we’re going to figure out who we’re getting, we might as well do it now.”

So I chose one of the notes, unfolding it to have Crystal’s name on it. Mom went around to the rest of my siblings as they drew names from her hoof. When she sat down, she unfolded the last one, “And it looks like that Chem is doing Inkwell this year.”

Chem… I just realized that I’ve forgotten to mention her, didn’t I? Well, in the number of siblings I have, I’m pretty much the second oldest. Chem is my older sister by… six years I think? The reason why I haven’t mentioned about her up until now was that she had moved away some years ago. Currently, she moved south to Appaloosa where she works in the only pharmacy for miles. (Although I believe that’s because her coltfriend Nail happens to be there.) To be honest, while my older sis has, fortunately, become a good deal nicer now, back before she moved away, she terrified me and my brother. Sure, when your friends with her, she can be proved to be a fun, outgoing mare. But when you’re family (and more unfortunate) siblings to her… Well, it’s best that you don’t cross her path because she can be the complete opposite. Back then, she was a Power Ponies villain.

“Speaking of which,” I brought up. “Isn’t it true that Nail might purpose to her?”

“Last I’ve heard,” Mom replied, picking up her fork. “She said that she’d caught him looking over some rings, and there’s only one reason he’d be doing that. At this rate, I think that he’ll ask her at or around Hearth’s Warming.”

“It’s about time,” my little sister commented. “How long have they’ve been dating again?”

“Isn’t it five or six years?” Pepper asked.

“I thought it was seven,” Dad pointed out.

“Those two deserve each other,” Grandma said and eveypony at the table agreed. “It’ll be nice to have some grandkids of your own, eh Stage?”

She did agree.

Dad at up his meal and asked mom to bring up some new quizzes for him to take over to the school, but not before mom reminded me to load the dishes. So I did, scraping every little thing before placing them into the machine. By the time I started it up; dad was out the door with quizzes on his back.

Back in my room, I stared at the typewriter on my desk at the material that I have so far. And for several minutes, I found myself stumped. Tchaicoltsky in the story is beginning to compose for Swan Lake, so now what? From what I’ve read about him, there’s nothing much between that and the performance. I rubbed my head, “Ugh… What would he do at this point?” I asked myself.

One of the things that I’ve learned, that when one is working on a project, it’s best to give yourself a break by doing something else. And it didn’t take too long to figure that out as my taste buds were demanding for something sweet. But at the same time, easy to whip up so I wouldn’t waste much time on writing. And I knew just the thing.

Back in the kitchen, with the sound of the radio playing in the living room with mom’s typewriter going, I set out to get out the big bowl for the cereal and another for the chocolate. “What are you making in there?” I heard my mom ask.

“I’m in the mood for muddy buddies.”

“Ooh, that actually sounds good. Do we have all the stuff for it?”

“I think we should,” so I went about to be sure about the peanut butter, powder sugar, vanilla extract, butter, chocolate chips and an unopened box of Checker cereal. Immediately I set to work of pouring out the cereal in the large bowl. Setting it aside, I opened the bag of chocolate and dump it in another bowl with a half a cube of butter. I let it melt in the microwave, stirring it for thirty seconds at a time before it was completely melted for me to put in the peanut butter and vanilla to be mixed in. Now that all of it was melted in together, I poured the chocolate mixture over the cereal.

As I was doing this, a thought came to mind about my story. If anything, it was obvious where to take it from here. While Tchaicoltsky would be writing out the ballet, he would have to get in touch with the ballet master to describe his vision. In a way, it would make sense as Swan Lake had put ballet on the map. So by the time I poured in the amount of powder sugar into the muddy buddies, I already had a plan for my story before I could place that large bowl in the fridge.

Returning to my room, I composed the scene where Tchaicoltsky goes to the capital to seek a ballet company that would perform his new work. Easily I’ve managed to write out the last two hundred words, much to my satisfaction.

With everything accomplished, I lay on my bed, flipping through the magazine to see if there were anything interesting or new updates for the stories that I have been looking at. However, before I could find any, I heard a tap on my window to find a familiar looking bird with a little scroll attached. Since it was a blue jay, I instantly knew who this was from. After opening the door, I unravel the message.

Hey Brony, how’s it been? I was kinda hoping that you’re free tomorrow to hang out. Recently I got my hooves on a couple of comics that I think you’ll like to take a look at.

– Artie.

Ah Artie, my best and longest friend I’ve had. A blue pegasus that’s older than me by a couple of months. Lover of all things comics, manga, drawing, and movies – as well as being one of the few ponies that I could talk to without getting bored. Unlike the past where with the friends I had, Artie was the one who managed to keep in contact with me, even when we went up from one school to the next. Nowadays, we manage to hang out at my place, showing off the weird or funny stuff that we’ve managed to find and have a few good laughs out of it. Since he lives on nearly the other side of town, we found that the quickest ways to communicate were by messenger birds in which he got as a birthday present some time back.

So ripping a thin piece of paper from my desk, I wrote back a response.

Hey Artie, I’m doing alright. And I think that the best time for me tomorrow is at around six. Don’t worry, I’ll tell my parents that we have something for you to eat. Besides, I’m curious to see what you’ve found this time. I confess that I hadn’t any chance to find anything funny so hopefully, you did. See ya tomorrow.

– Inkwell.

Sure, on most days I’m home by myself or running errands, studying or doing school work, I preferred to do that all by myself. However, that doesn’t mean that I want to completely isolate myself. Because if I’m going to interact with other ponies besides my family, then let it be with someone that I’ve got to know for the past several years. Artie fits the bill since he and I met when we were colts back in Elementary school. He, after all, taught me how to have a sense of humor, and is a walking encyclopedia of nearly all things nerdy. Just the way I like it.

After sending the reply through the bird, I read a while until about nine o’clock where I went to go check on that powdery dessert. To my delight, the chocolate was set, and I called out that if anyone wanted it, they can have some. I heard mom ask if I could bring her a bowl so I did.

“Aren’t you going to tell Pepper and Crystal you’ve made muddy buddies?” she asked, scooping a hooful of the treat into her mouth.

Turns out that I didn’t need to – my brother apparently heard it, and Crystal walked up the stairs. So now that they knew about it, I could take a bowl of that cold, crunchy, chocolate goodness into my room. From there I snacked on it as I read over a new one-shot that had caught my attention.

Wednesday

I think that sometimes that from the moment we wake up, it tends to act as foreshadowing to the day ahead. And I’m not talking about what kind of dream I had before I awoke since either I don’t dream that often, or I forget instantly. No, I’m talking about the moment you gain consciousness, when your senses kick in that you can judge right away what kind of day you’re going to have.

For the first thing to come to me were bickering voices. And as my mind catches up with my sluggish body, I realized that it’s the voices of my brother and mom going at it… Again.

“…. Out again!”

“Pepper, he’s a dog, if you don’t put the leash on him, of course he’s gonna try to escape. That’s what they do.”

“Why does he get into the neighbor’s yard?”

“Can’t you just go to your room, listen to music, play your games or something?”

‘Oh joy, just what I need to start the day,’ I thought as I opened my eyes. Reaching for my glasses and looking at the clock to see that it’s 8:12 in the morning, the argumentative debate between Pepper and mom went carried through the walls. Judging off by the tone, it wasn’t a violent one, but the kind where my brother couldn’t comprehend why he should do this when she could.

The same one as before. The same one now. And the same one that will happen.

As I drifted into the bathroom, a memory came to me with something that mom had said once that only now comes as something bitter. ‘Sorry means that you know what you did wrong and promise not to do it again.’

It’s rather ironic, that in my past stories, I had written chapters that were dedicated to this idea of forgiveness. Of being repentant to what has been done. And yet here… Some days I question if anyone in the world is ever truly sorry for anything if they’re just going to do it on repeat until the end of time?

Pushing that aside, I do have places to be that need my attention. As much as I wanted to defuse what was going on in the living room, I knew that it was pointless. Knowing Pepper, it’ll take hours to calm down and stop blaming mom for his problems and responsibilities. It’s through him that I’ve learned that nopony listens to reason once they’re upset.

So after gathering my things from my source of music to my text book, I headed out of the house, hoping to get some breakfast to start off the day. Knowing my cynical side, it tells me that getting so much as a doughnut is going to be rather unlikely. And by the time I reached my to-go place of Sugar Cube Corner, that prediction was proven to be correct. There was a line that went out the door and, judging its length and speed to process through, I quickly decided not to risk being late today.

Late… I never really expressed this to anyone, but that right there is my biggest pet peeve. Being late for something that you wanted to go to or have to be at. I know that most ponies tend to be forgiving when a pony shows up later than they were expecting. It’s not that I mind others being late, but when I do it, regardless if it was by accident, I almost never forgive myself for such a sin. To behind when you’re expected is something that goes against my punctual nature.

However, I’m rambling on.

Anyway, by the time I get to Lower Mountain to walk in through the front door to say my robotic “Good morning,” Lifted Spirits from behind the desk stopped me for a second.

“Just to let you know,” she said. “We’re moving your community time a little later in the day.”

I blinked, “So when will I be going then?”

“By the looks of the schedule, we have to put you between eleven o’clock to one. Is that okay with you? Do you need lunch?”

“Eventually.”

“Well, in the meantime, why don’t you get started with your goals? Just get them out of the way this morning.”

Ah, another pet peeve. This one is when the flow of my day is changed unexpectedly to my disadvantage. In this case, waiting an extra hour to finally eat something. Which means I can pretty much say goodbye to whatever morning snack I might get from someplace. But on the upside, at least it may give me time to go through the rest of the chapter that needs to be read from my textbook.

However, there are priorities that need to be taken care of as I dragged my usual chair towards my usual spot. First doing the math of whatever recites I had that day (which was none since I didn’t use my bits to buy a thing yesterday). After that, it was trying to figure out what to put down for an activity that was unique. It took me about a good five or ten minutes to figure out but once I was able to jot down a new idea and to place the notebooks and recites on the desk, I turned to my studies.

I was expecting to have a rather meditative morning. One in which I sat there in that chair with a book on my lap my headphones played out a small collection of Debussy. Just to have a nice, relaxing morning to balance out the somewhat sour start that happened about an hour ago.

That was, until Ms. Roads came up with the notebooks. “Okay, nice job with the planned activity Mr. Inkwell,” she said in a tone that would easily fit an Elementary school teacher that called one of her students to have a serious chat. “However,” ugh, here we go. “I did the math you made on Monday the numbers didn’t come out as they supposed to.”

‘Damnit,’ I cursed in my skull but never dared to say aloud. She offered me my little black book that had all my calculations of my bits to where I flipped over to the page to see where stupid, retarded me had got it wrong. And low and behold, there circled in black ink was a set of numbers where one was scribbled incorrectly.

And knowing that this is Ms. Roads talking, I knew exactly what is coming next.

“So how did this happen?” she asked. “Did you go through the math quickly without double checking it? You’re not in trouble, but you were off by seventeen bits. Maybe you should be clearer in your hoofwriting.” She went on of course, talking for a good three or four minutes with her lecture of how I should be careful in the one field that I’m horrible at. What annoyed me wasn’t so much of what she was saying, but rather how.

Don’t get me wrong, I think I get where she’s coming from that she has to work with clients who have the mental capability of infants. However, for me personally, that’s where the problem is. She lectures on at me as if she were talking to someone who is ten. ‘She does know that I’m twenty-four, right?’ I thought as I silently took her polite scolding. ‘I’m in college for crying out loud! One that can cook, write realistic scenes and characters, and I have a history textbook in my lap! So why is she talking to me as if I’m a little kid?’

Yet, the sad fact is that this isn’t the first time that I have to deal with this sort of thing. Whenever I or someone has to explain that I have mental disabilities, they see me as… well, inferior to them mentally, as if I’m forever trapped in foalhood. It’s as if I could show them the grades I had from all the schools in the past, or the talents that I have cultivated from playing Moztrot on the viola to my paintings, from my dozens of short stories to writing essays for college, yet all of that doesn’t matter if they know that one fact: if I have two disabilities, therefore, I’m stupid.

“…. So other than that, you did a great job with everything else.” Ms. Roads concluded, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” I responded with no emotion as she mercifully walked away so that I may return to my reading, switching over to the slow movement of Moztrot’s fifth violin concerto. More than just a requirement for class tomorrow, I needed for my mind to be distracted after being belittled once again. Letting the words of the never-ending chapter in my eyes and the violins in my ears to carry me into some sort of escape. To bore me into daydreaming until two o’clock. As I was soaking up the words, a thought had come to mind. Today is Wednesday. Which means that if there were anything to go right today, then today after six I should be expecting a very special letter. One that came from across the world.

Eventually, two o’clock came and I had to pack up my things, tell Lifted Spirits that I was leaving and I should see them next week. On the way home, my headphones were playing out a piece from Tchaicoltsky’s Seasons: June. As I returned home to drop off my book and typewriter, the slow piano melody echoed in my ears as I trotted back. Since sounds outside of my device were muted, I was able to notice a few things all around. Such as how much chilly the air had gotten, or how that, while the first day of December isn’t until Friday, I can see the town were putting up their strings of light on their houses and wrapping them around the skeleton like trees. Yet, the melancholic melody playing my ears seemed to damper the mood a little as the skies were still gray and no one has seen any snow. Then again, we might see shades of white on the ground any day now.

There is another effect in which I drown out the world with music: it gives the illusion of self-isolation that was needed. At times like this when something gets me down, when I feel that I’m not being taken seriously, or outright ignored, or belittled, I turn to the music of the past. In a way, it’s like going to a trusted, old friend who has experienced all the joy and pain of life. Classical music to many isn’t all that exciting, if anything, like my mother, once commented, that such a thing would put anypony to sleep. But not to me. Such music you have to be patient with like talking to a grandparent. That yes, the times you do visit aren’t all that exciting, but that doesn’t mean that they’re not interesting, comforting, or has the wisdom you seek in how to deal with life.

As soon as I got home, I noticed that mom was there getting the mail and flipping through the names. “How are you today?” I asked as I walked up to her.

“Just got back home from work,” she sighed as she followed me in. “How was Lower Mountain?” Before I could answer, the little dog ran up to greet her with his tail wagging, “Chewy!” she said happily. “I’ve missed you, who’s a good boy?”

“Anyways, same as always,” I replied. “Although some days I do want to call in sick just to give myself a break one of these days.”

“I know, I don’t like it that you have to go to it,” she said as she set the envelopes on the counter. “Considering how much higher up you are compared to the rest of those ponies.”

“Yeah, I tolerate it. It makes me wonder why I have to go to it.”

“You and me both, but it is for that stupid home evaluation thing. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t make you go.”

I decided to change the subject, “So what was going on this morning with you and Pepper? I didn’t hear a whole lot other than waking up to it.”

“Well, Chewy was being naughty again.” She said as she petted him. “He got into the neighbor’s yard and Pepper was mad because he did that. Of course, I tried to tell him that he’s a dog and that what he does, but you know how obsessive he is.”

Seeing that this was going nowhere, I went to drop my stuff in my room while calling out. “So before I go to the Real Estate School, is there anything you want me to get since I’m out?”

“Toilet paper,” she said. “That’s the main thing we need. Here, I’ll put together a list for ya so that you can get everything.” When I returned to the kitchen, she was hunched over the cabinet jotting down on a sticky note before she gave it to me. “That as far as I know is what we need from the top of my head. Unless you can add something else to the list.”

Taking note of that, I grabbed the bits and headed over to the Real Estate school, but not without going half way before stupid me had forgotten to bring the keys to get in. After a good few whacks across the head and returning to the house later, I unlocked the door and trotted down the steps to the bottom.

Once I got to the classroom, I found to my annoyance, that the chairs were disorganized, there’s a significant number of crumbs and bits of paper on the floor, and the garbage cans were overflowing with pizza boxes. “Crap,” I moaned. Now that I had to clean all this up, that means I have to spend extra time straightening all of this out.

I just hated when something like this happens. Dad’s students aren’t always this messy. But once in a while, I come in to find the room to be like that of a warzone. It practically amazes me of how that his students are most likely older than me, many of them with foals of their own could sometimes leave messes like this one. While I stayed silent pushing all the chairs back into the desks and using the push vacuum to pick up what was left on the carpet, one single insult repeated in my mind in how I thought about these latest students: ‘Pigs.’

Several trips to take the garbage and taking notes that I need to buy two of everything, I left the classroom about twenty minutes later. At least I was able to get the things to replenish from the market both for the school and at home, however by the time I got around to dropping off all the snacks and locking the classroom up, I realized that I had spent over an hour. Much longer than I intended to.

By the time I returned to the streets, I already feel tired. With all the thoughts and ideas that I wanted to write out, my consciousness tells me that it seems rather late to do so. But looking at the time, just past four o’clock, I figured that since I’m running about, I might as well go over to the post office to see if there’s any mail for me in my box. And especially hoped to see if a particular letter arrives.

Walking through the doors of the post office, I’m greeted by Dizzy at the counter. “Hi Inkwell,” she waved at me. “Here for your mail today?”

“Has anything come in?”

“I think there is,” the gray pegasus walked over to the boxes. “I know there’s a bunch as I sorted out your mail this afternoon. Give me a sec.” Moments later she returns with the magazine, a couple dozen letters, including one that did put a smile to my face. It was the same sandy envelope that has a return address from Kangaroo Island, Neighstralia. From the one pony whose words are needed on a day like this.

After thanking her I went home with the groceries still on my back. Thankfully, the house was lacking in bickering as I put the toilet paper and the other stuff away. At first, I thought that I was going to have my own moment of peace, where I could have time to myself to read through the letters, write up the rest of the story while listening to music. However, as I went into my room to set aside the letters, I happened to notice a messenger bird sitting on my window seal.

‘Oh yeah,’ I thought bitterly to myself. ‘I forgot.’ The memory of last night came back to me. One that had a message from my best friend, asking me if he could hang out with me. At times, I do wish that I had a better memory so that I wouldn’t feel stupid. Walking up and opening the window, I unrolled the message that says that he’s ready whenever I am.

As tired as I feel, regardless the situation or what I’m doing, I can’t really say “No” to Artie. With all the schoolwork, writing and errands I do, it just wouldn’t seem fair to either of us that we don’t see each other every once in a while. For a moment, I thought that I could probably push my writing back for another couple of hours just to hang. So, I jotted down a reply, telling him that I’m heading over to pick him up.

Back into the streets again, I took the path that leads to the south-western part of Ponyville. Towards a place known as Elswood Acres. While it’s technically part of the woods, this place is known as a sort of trailer park. One that has cheaply made homes and wagons about that stand between pine trees and grassy ground. Every so often, pets would go across the ground while foal toys are left on the ground. I walked around the dirt streets, taking care of where I step to reach to a certain corner of the Acres to a pale pink home with gray steps the lead up to the front door. After reaching up to the knocker to bang against it three times, the door cracked open with my friend telling me that he’ll be out in just a minute.

As I waited for a few minutes, I look out to the edge of the property and out into a Wheat-field that has long been harvested, leaving only a patch of earth and a few twigs of gold sticking out. Then the door opened again and out stepped Artie. A blue Pegasus whose coat is a couple shades lighter than mine, and unlike me, his mane and beard is entirely blond. On his head was a dark green, wide brim crushable fedora that I never wear anymore. Around his neck was a long, multi-colored scarf that came from a comic book collection of some kind. A saddlebag that no doubt has the comics that he wanted to show me. And there was his cutie mark that showed clearly his passion of being an artist. A pallet of every primary and secondary colors with a crossing paintbrush and pencil underneath.

“Hey brony, how’s it been?” he asked as we walked down the steps.

“It’s been a bit of a slow day,” I lied. “Since you’re going to be hanging out with me, do want me to eat dinner with us too?”

“Would you?” he asked. “I mean, if it’s not too much on your folks to.”

I waved a hoof. “It’s okay, you know that my parents, especially dad won’t mind it. After all, we do give you better food then what you tend to eat at home.”

“Yeah…” he nodded. We both know that it was true. Artie had told me in the past that ever since he’d been living with his mother after the divorce, the quality of food he eats at home has been somewhat… not giving him the proper food he needs. Too much packaged and convinced foods apparently. It explains why that every time he tried something that came from my home that he’s blown away at the quality, especially when that said food is made from scratch. “Do you know what you guys are having to night?”

“Can’t say. I just barely got home when I got your message. So what’s new with you?”

“Oh! Right,” he patted the side of his bag. “I gotta tell ya, I was able to get some of the good stuff right here.”

“Such as?”

“A superb issue of the Power Ponies, new Spider Mare comics, Braepool, and you’re gonna love this: a omnibus of Cloudline and Hobbes.” And he was right. That latter mentioning of Cloudline and Hobbes comic strip is something that holds a place in our hearts. Back when we were young teenagers, Artie showed me this book that he got as a gift for either his birthday or Hearth’s Warming (I can’t remember which). He showed me after school the comic about a young colt with a highly intelligent vocabulary that was mischievous and carried around him a stuffed tiger that to him was real. The imagination, humor and gorgeous artwork was something that both of us admired. And he to this day whenever we bring those comics out, he would read them out in that voice he created for Cloudline.

To be honest with you reader, Artie has been important in the story of my life. Ever since we meet near the end of third grade, he had taught me many things. Of having a sense of humor, showing me what loyalty was, and had a sort of charm that we just keep coming back to over and over. Don’t get me wrong, friend-wise, he’s the not the first nor the last… but he’s certainly the one that has stubbornly endured. Friends for me came and went as we transferred from grades and schools, but he was there. I owe him a lot for not only that. But he (indirectly) helped me to figure out who I was in my early teens.

It was through him, by his personality, sense of humor, and his… physical qualities… that I came to the realization that I have an attraction towards males. Not necessarily gay, because I did notice the fillies as we grew up. But I felt more towards someone like him that at one time, I had fallen in love with him, even though he’s as straight as a sea’s horizon. It took time on my part to have the courage to come out to him (and even longer to tell him that I had a crush on him (once)) but I realized of how lucky to have someone like him to see me as his friend first. After that, I told him about my secret writing career and recently, about the letters from Neighstralia.

Anyway, as soon as we stepped out of his home and neighborhood, we immediately set out to make jokes along the way.

“So I had a weird dream last night.”

“What was it about?”

“Okay so, I was sitting on the couch reading a comic book… Uh… Braepool I think it was…? Yes! It was. Just going through the story when suddenly, Braepool was talking to me through the book.”

I blinked, “How so? Like you could hear him speak or…?”

“It was more like through his speech bubbles that he turned to me and… basically broke the fourth wall.”

“Doesn’t he always do that in the comics?”

“Not like this dude. He was like. ‘Now is this a sad state of affairs where a guy has to read this while sitting on a couch that looked like it was weaved from Tirek’s pubic hair.’”

I nearly choked on my laughter. “He actually said that?”

“Yeah… that’s when I noticed things started to take a turn for the weird. Still can’t figure out what it means though.”

“That you’re obviously too obsessed with comics for your own good?”

“No… well, maybe, but no.”

“I’m not Luna, but I’d guess that the character must have been on your mind quite a bit.”

“Yeah, and have you heard that they’re making a sequel?”

“To what?”

“Braepool. Apparently, the lead actor had insisted on finishing the film, despite the fact that they were bought out by Whinny Studios.”

“Yeah, now there’s a thought.”

Fast forward to a couple of minutes and we arrived at my house, with Chewy barking at him and hopping on his legs. “Oh c’mon Chewy,” Artie cooed. “It’s just me, why are you barking?”

“He’s trying to eat you,” I remarked with a smirk. Over at the kitchen as we entered, I saw dad stirring something from a pot. On the other side of the stove, plates were passed out on the counter, each having an open slice of bread and a glass custard bowl. “Hey dad, what’s this?”

“I think that we could have some Prench dip sandwiches before I go.” He looks over behind me. “Oh, is Artie eating with us?”

“Well, if it’s not too much trouble,” my friend asked.

“Oh no, we still got bread left. Inkwell, could you get another plate down and a little bowl too? Because he’s gonna need it.”

And so I did, while Artie was petting the dog and he tries to gnaw at his hoof, Crystal, Grandma and Mom too came in the kitchen. My little sister had a concerned look on her face. “Um… How long is he going to be here?” she asks me. After I told her that I didn’t know, I asked her why. “Well, I was asked in going over to Habanero’s house and I need somepony to take me over there.”

Despite of how much in my mind was screaming ‘Damnit!’ I calmly replied. “When and which house?”

“The one on the far end of town.”

I sighed, “And when?”

“Just before seven. So, you have time to hang out or whatever.”

But hardly any for writing. Only I dare not say that aloud.

After dad dished out the radish, carrot and onion filling into the slices of bread while pouring the rest of the broth into the glass bowls, I showed Artie to my room in which we could eat.

“So how're your drawings coming along?” I asked him.

“Thank you for reminding me,” he said as he set his plate aside on my bed. From his saddlebag, not only did he drew out the comics that he promised to show me, but also his spiral, red notebook. I sat across from him, between my desk and the bed as he flipped through the book. Catching glimpses of his past drawings, each more detailed and complex then the next. Then he stopped at a particular page and flipped it over so that I can see. “I’ve worked two hours on this one.” He said, “What do you think?”

What I saw was the stony face of the Creature, a stallion whose whole head was made out of a mosaic of stone. From shading to shapes, I couldn’t find a single thing wrong with it. “It still amazes me that you could do that,” I commented.

“I could say the same with your paintings. Speaking of which, what does your latest one look like? I haven’t gotten the chance to see it.”

With that, I pulled out from my closet my latest painting. Now, before I go any further, I think it should be wise to explain a little with my hobby. You see, a few years ago, I decided one day to give a shot at painting in a sort of Post-Impressionistic style. From the start, it made the most sense as the art form didn’t require me to draw a straight line, nor to make it life like. So after getting my hooves on a couple of books, I basically taught myself to paint, with my first on canvas painting I gave it to dad as a birthday present. Mom encouraged me to do this more often so… now I got myself into the habit of painting once a week. Choosing from photographs or from books that I turn them into my own style.

Anyway, I showed Artie my latest painting that I did last Sunday (although I would prefer to do it on a Saturday, but I was occupied then). This one was of the birch trees that, I think the original photo might had come from the White Tail Woods. It was a mostly green painting that had quick brushstrokes of light and dark orange along with some light purple. Behind the trees on the left were pine trees done in different shades of green, purple, dark blue and red while the other side had streaks of greens, and columns of blue over the sandy sky. While above were the dotted leaves of green and blue. The birch trees too were not completely white, as I used light green, blue and gray while giving gentle strokes of gray and black to give them that signature birch look.

Artie whistled, “How long did it take you to do this?”

“Not counting the resting times and letting the paint to dry…? I’d say about three or four hours. But that’s just a guess.”

“Dude, you really are getting better.” He complimented, “One of these days, you should get some of the stuff you have in your closet to a gallery.”

I frown, “That is if they even want them. I mean, I never set hoof in an art school before.”

“Well so? Your stuff is good, and I won’t be surprised that they would. But anyway, I want to ask ya something.”

“What?”

“How’s the Neighstralian guy?” he asked with a smirk. “What’s new with him?”

I blushed a little. “Well… He said that he’s having some time off from his university and spending it with his parents on a place called Kangaroo Island.” He snorted, “Yeah, yeah, I know. But that’s what it’s actually called. We’re still sending letters once a week, but he does write often. And I must say, for being so distant, I do feel that we’re getting closer. Although, it’s still too early to tell where we stand, but from his words, he’s the most mature, fun, level headed guy that if it weren’t for the fact that he’s on the other side of the globe, I would ask him out on a date.”

“Awe, I knew it’ll finally happen to you someday, didn’t I tell ya?”

“You did,” I nodded. He was right. Years ago, after I came out to him of my sexuality, I had developed a crush on him, even though I knew that he wouldn’t do the same back. For a long time, I did not dare say what was on my mind to him until, one day, he asked me if I had fallen in love with anypony. I had avoided the question for days until, one night through bird mail, he confronted me about it. That night, I wrote back in tears, finally telling him the truth while at the same time apologizing for it. However, that night I learned how truly strong our friendship was. Not only did he write back that he was okay with it, but he was rather flattered by it too.

Essentially, that night he agreed that I could take him out on a date. My first, real date to be exact. A simple picnic in the park in which I went out of my way to get the best food that I could get my hooves on. However, after that we just fell back to being friends once more. Don’t get me wrong, we didn’t lose anything (thank Celestia), but at the same time, we didn’t gain anything either.

“Mind if I ask ya a personal question?” he asks and I told him that he could. “When did you started to get into this paper romance thing?”

“You know how that he’s a fan of the stuff I post on that magazine?” He nodded, “Well yeah, one day I got a letter from him after I gave him feedback of a story that he just started, about a couple chapters in. He told me that he felt honored because he has read my stuff. So from there, we kept on writing back and forth. We learned more about each other and the places that we grew up in. Slowly, as we communicated more often, things starting to become… well… clear. That I was developing a crush on him.”

“And… When did you realize this?”

My embarrassed blush deepened. “When I receive his letter about last month, that I just felt it was time to tell him the truth. So we’ve started to get more romantic in our replies ever since.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to meet this guy one day?” he asked as he looked through his comics.

“I… I don’t know. All I can do is hope.”

“I’m sure you will buddy. So, would you like to see the superheroes or some comedy first?”

So pulling my seat up next to him, I looked over his shoulder as he read aloud for me in his gallery of voices the characters that played out from comic book to comic book. I watched and listened, not saying a word apart of a laugh or the occasional question. Time seem to slip as we got engrossed into the worlds, with all their action and comedy. Then before we knew it, the door to my room knocked as Crystal opened it.

“Aren’t you going to drop me off?” she asked.

I blinked and looked over to the timepiece on the desk. “It’s a quarter till seven already?”

“Yeah? Aren’t you coming?”

Looking over to my best friend, I told him. “Should I drop you back to your place too?”

“Might as well,” he said as he packed his bags. In moments, we were ready to head out once more. Now with the three of us, we headed Northward as the sun was already starting to set. To fill the silence, I got Artie and Crystal into a discussion of the Lunar Wars movies while my mind went away to the colors of the setting sun. Taking note of its clouds and its rich, vibrant colors that were painted across the sky. I did a quick calculation in my head that by now, it should be noon in Neighstralia in the part of the world where he lives in. As my best friend and sister talked, I fell into a daydream of having him walk by my side. In my mind’s eye, I constructed a ghost version of my distant coltfriend. The unicorn with a sandy brown coat, a messy reddish tint mane with eyes as green as emeralds. All from a picture that he had sent to me once before, showing his real face while I did the same with mine.

After about fifteen minutes, I dropped Crystal at her friend’s house. She told me that since she’s doing a school project, she told me just to be sure that someone comes to get her by around ten at the latest. Now with the long walk ahead of us, it was now Artie’s turn to get him home.

“I’m sorry that I have to let you go this early,” I told him.

“Nah, it’s cool. At least I get to show you the stuff that I wanted to.” For a few minutes, we discussed our thoughts about what we had seen from his comics. But when that conversation quickly dried up, Artie brought up. “Do you think I might be able to make it into the comic book industry someday?”

“With the level? I’ll be shocked that you didn’t.”

“Even if it’s for making covers. I hear that they pay a hefty bit for one. Because that’s really what I want to do. And thanks to dad, I think that I might be able to do just that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, dad said that he’s planning on retiring. And one of the things he wants to do is to get me into college and get some extra art classes. That should be more than enough to put on my resume when I send some of my work to those guys. But don’t you think it’ll be really cool?”

“I think that it’ll help you move out of that house.”

“Oh… Since you brought that up,” he said. “Just so you know, I think that I might move in a couple of years.”

“What? Where?”

“Cloudsdale. Dad is planning on moving there and he really wants to help me get away from mom. Of course, I hadn’t said a word at all to her yet, because if I did, she’s gonna throw a fit in my face.”

“Maybe you need to wait until things are set in stone. Knowing how she is, I think it’s best to see that you can move and then do it.”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” he nodded.

We talked some more as we returned to Elwood Acers. After saying our goodbyes and saying that we’ll see each other on Sunday, I make my journey home. Thus, in the dying light of day, I returned to my daydream.

By around eight o’clock, I returned to my room, my hooves feeling tired and finding the dinner plates still on the bed. With a sigh, I brought them to the kitchen before turning my attention to the neglected letters that I had yet to open.

There were three in total, including the one belonging to my distant coltfriend. I figured that given how this day has been to the point where it’s clear that I probably won’t have time to write a word in my story, I might as well read these other two and pray that I don’t need to give lengthy replies.

I was proven wrong.

Dear DriedInk, enclosed here is every grammar mistake that you have made in your latest chapter of “My Name is Tchaicoltsky.” – WordPerfect

And indeed, in the envelope was a copy of the latest chapter in which there were words and sentences that were crossed out, underlined or rewritten over. With a sigh, I got out my typewriter. I wrote back to him my reply in that I thank him for seeing the mistakes and that they’ll be able to see the revised chapter in a few days.

And so, I painstakingly retyped everything in that latest chapter with all the corrections made. As annoying as this could get, I do appreciate it when someone out there is trying to help. So about twenty minutes later, the revised chapter is set aside as I opened up my next letter, which has the exact question that ponies have been asking me ever since I started to publish my works on the magazine.

Dear DriedInk, in nearly every story that I’ve read from you, you’ve always included the following: “Warning: the story you are about to read is currently unedited.” So why don’t you find an editor? – Star Nova.

With all the stuff I had to put up with today, especially when I haven’t so much as getting the chance to do the one thing that I like to do, this has to come up now? While I was feeling exhausted from doing what this pony was asking, I fed more paper into the typewriter.

Dear Star Nova,

I have said this once, and I will say this again. When it comes to my writings and editors, everything here is volunteer work. Since I do not have the stable income to pay for one, I’m forced to rely on others. In the past, whenever I ask someone to proofread any of my stories, I’d be lucky to get a response within a week because they are interested in it. And I’ll be luckier still, if that said editor would still won’t drop the editing altogether. So I have no absolute guarantee that they won’t do that without telling me why. Realize that editors have lives of their own, so they’re not there for me, or anyone else’s beckoning call.

Before you start asking, “Then why can’t you edit? It’s easy!” There’s a saying in my family that rings true, especially for me: “Those who proofread themselves, has a fool for an editor.” That even if I go through each and every chapter, that no matter what, the creator will overlook the flaws that he has made. And as of now, I do not have a second opinion other than those who actively send back constructive criticism in which I could actually use.

And I know what else you’re going to say: “But wouldn’t it be better if you just get an editor first and then publish them.” Given the rate in which I do get editors, I’d be lucky to post my stories at least once a year. Sure, none of my stories are flawless masterpieces, but what exactly did you expect from a magazine that’s willing to accept any and all stories that it gets? Shakespeare quality? Dickens? Twain even? This magazine is to serve a platform for any and all writers, regardless of talent to be given a chance to shine. Yes, even with my stories, they’re not flawless, but it’s better to have you not read them at all.

Sure, some of my stories are unedited, and still are. But at least I have the courteously of telling you the readers up front in what you’re getting yourselves into. If this, or any other story of mine is going to be edited, let it be done by those who do so because they like the story itself. So, until someone comes forward to volunteer to edit this, or is willing to point out its flaws in which I can work with, I’m afraid that this is as good as it’ll get. If you don’t like it, do keep in mind that their other stories in the magazine that has a standard of grammar that’s to your liking. Although, I cannot guarantee the quality of the story.

Unless, of course, if you want to volunteer to do it, I won’t stop you. Until then or if somepony comes by, this is as good as it’ll get.

Sign, your fellow writer,

-DriedInk.

After writing up my rant, I took ahold of the last letter as I collapsed onto the bed. I just about had it with this day. All I asked was to give me some time to relax and to let out what was in my mind on paper. Was that far too much to ask? As much as I wanted to write my story, I know that it’s already too late for that.

With a sigh, I turned to open the last remaining letter of the day.

Dear Cracked Inkwell,

The distance maddens me. Every day my hooves long for its embrace around your body. It’s been no time at all and I already feel closer to you than my ex-coltfriend, even with him by my side. Whilst this can’t last forever, I truly do want to. Not may ponies understand me here in this small village, and I can’t wait to return back to the big city. Country ponies aren’t meant to write such long distance. Trust me when I say I much prefer city life. But even so everypony here feels so distant, so unattainable or incompatible. Maybe I am just not looking properly, but I don’t want to look. I’ve found somepony so close, yet so entirely far that it hurts.

Yet, my life carries on. Self-betterment and my studies drive my forward. I will become a school teacher, every day I go to university here my passion for it only digs deeper. And as I write this, my first official publication is slowly starting becoming more and more of a reality. I want to do it one day, the ideas for it keep popping in and out of my head. Perhaps I will write about my time studying, or my time as a teacher.

No matter what life does to us, or no matter who we meet or how far apart it does drag us – I will meet you. One day, as friends, as more, I don’t know. But this will be a time of change, and growth, and learning, and loving. And for now, I want to do that with you.

– Yours truly, Milo Chalks.

To many who see this, it would seem rather short and sweet. To me, however, this simple letter was like having a cool drink of water in a desert. This letter from across the world is poetry from a muse. Although tired of having to deal with other ponies, of being delayed with the one activity I wanted to do, I felt compelled to bring the typewriter to my bed. Letting it sit on me, I let my hooves dictate the letter.

Dear Milo Chalks,

As I am writing this, I had a rather… less than satisfying day. There is so much I want to say and yet, I have no clue where to start. So, I’ll try in stating that your letter was needed on a day like this. Whenever I get them, it’s like I could almost hear your voice through the words. That to me is as real as if you are in the same room as I am.

It is true that I wish, for even just a minute, for you to be here so I could reach out and touch you. For if it weren’t for your words, I’d be lonely again. For each letter you sent, it makes the daydreaming of you being here all the easier. However, I’d have to settle with the letters and the little photo you’ve sent me. As of now, it is enough for me. There are two quotes that sum it all up in how I feel towards you perfectly, “I’d think real loneliness isn’t when love is in vain, but not being loved at all.” And as for the other, “One sees clearly only with the heart. Anything essential is invisible to the eyes.”

Which is why, ever since I’ve read how you felt the same way, that I look at sunsets differently. More then it’s color’s, I now see the sun as beautiful because out there in the world, a red-maned unicorn is bathing in its light. While I can’t see you, I know that you’re there. And that you are more real than anything in Ponyville. Now what you might consider to be a small thing, these words serve as a reminder that I’m no longer invisible. For someone knows that I exist. And that, is a beautiful thought that moves me to tears.

I must say that I am rather proud of you for knowing fully what you want to do. While compared to here, my path to my future is still murky. All my time at the local college is concerned about is getting through the base classes before I could get my Associates before turning to what I really want to do and perhaps get a Bachelor's. Sometimes I wonder if I too should take the teacher route. Teach Equinities because of my passion for history, art, music, literature, and philosophy. I confess that I don’t know if I’d make a great speaker. However, as each semester goes by, I think it’s starting to get a little clearer in what I want to do with my life.

Milo, if we do meet somehow. If you come to Equestria or I come to Neighstralia, I hope that one of us would be the very first pony that the other would be greeted upon arrival. To touch you, would cross over from you being a dream, and into reality, will be something that I would never forget. I want to feel your warmth of your embrace, and the wet sweetness of your lips of giving you my first, real kiss. If we do meet, let us welcome each other to their country through love. But until then, I’ll continue to dream. Only this time, it’s different than before. When I was alone and writing those romances, I couldn’t help it but dream. Now however, I don’t think that I’d have to.

Signed, you're faithful from across the sea,

– Cracked Inkwell.

Setting the letter on the nightstand and picking up the magazine to read some stories before I go to sleep, a thought came to me. ‘Yes… I’d say that it has been a good day.’