Mr. Charta Graphin eyed the stairs. They were normal wood stairs. At least normal in the fact that each step consisted of a vertical and horizontal piece, steadily ascending to heaven. The scars of many hooves crisscrossed their surface.
High above loomed the second floor: solus, lording, aloof to those milling below.
The stallion looked on, an idea crawled out of the primordial ooze that was his mind: when had he last been up there? He could remember. Nor could he remember what it looked like. The second floor represented unexplored territory. It should be seen to at once, and possibly mapped.
“Mr. Graphin,” said a stern voice from behind. It contained an exasperated tone reserved for small children or those hard of hearing. Mr. Graphin considered himself lucky that he was neither.
The stallion turned, joints popping and bones creaking, until he could see Pegasus mare. She was looking fixedly at him. A hoof tapped expectantly on the floor.
Mr. Graphin grinned in response, showing off his remaining teeth.
“And where do you think you're going,” she demanded. Nothing was going to get past her.
Mr. Graphin stood his ground, chest swelling as he stated “I had to piss, and don't need you stare’n at my carrot and onions while I’m trying to do so.”
“Really Mr. Graphin,” said the mare, glaring at her charge. Her hoof continued to tap away, beating out the number 5 in morse code to whoever was listening. Getting no answer for the stallion, she looked around and asked “Where is your cane?”
“Don't need one,” said Mr. Graphin proudly, even as his knees wobbled uncertainty.
The mare took pity on him and relented. Taking him by the arm, she walking him back to his room.
Sitting Mr. Graphin on the edge of the bed, the mare said “stay here and I’ll get your lunch.” She returned with a tray on her back: it contained a bowl and a crescent roll. She placed it beside the bed.
Mr. Graphin leaned over the bowl and opened his nostrils wide, inhaling the rising steam. “Soup?” he grumbled, “Isn’t there any alfalfa or oats?” As if on cue, she produced a plate of alfalfa: the stocks fringed with brown leaves. One looked like it had already been chewed.
Mr. Graphin prodded the limp stocks with a grunt. “Isn’t there any fresh alfalfa in the house?”
The mare’s smile was permanently attached to her face. “I’ll tell next shift to add it to your shopping list.”
Grumbling, Mr. Graphin picked up a small stock and chewed. It hurt: each bite a chorus of tiny pin pricks. The stallion let it drop onto the plate. Now there was two stocks with identical chew marks.
“Do you still want that alfalfa?” asked the mare, still smiling.
“No,” admitted Mr. Graphin.
After being fed, watered, and another bathroom break, the mare tucked Mr. Graphin into bed.
“All ready for a nap?” she asked.
Mr. Graphin nodded.
“The next care shift will be here in two hours.”
Mr. Graphin knitted his eyebrows together in confusion. “There’s more of you?” he asked.
“Yes: morning, noon, and evening,” replied the mare in the dull tone of repetition.
The stallion didn’t reply. His eyes traveled around the room. The walls were covered in framed maps, drawn in exquisite detail.
“I drew all of those.” Mr. Graphin indicated the cherished charts.
The mare let her smile drop by a fraction. “You’ve told me,” she said. Looking at the stallion, she recited “you nearly mapped the whole world.” She turned to go.
Mr. Graphin mulled over her words for a moment, then asked “If I mapped nearly the whole world, what did I miss?” The only reply was the front door opening and closing.
“Nearly the whole world.” The sentence hung over him with the weight of a gravestone. “Nearly the whole world,” he repeated to the empty room. It clawed at something deep inside of him: a task unfinished, a lifetime achievement spoiled.
There was still time for one last adventure.
Mr. Graphin pushed the blankets aside and steadied himself on shaking legs. On a hook hung his old jacket: dirt stains and hasty patches rivaling for dominance. He wiggled into it, bones creaking and joints complaining as he did so. Now all he needed was his gear.
Once again he found himself before the stairs.
Mr. Graphin craned his neck to see the second floor. Memories were busting through a wall in his mind. Something about the second floor was important
He stretched forth a tentative hoof. The stairs creaked but held firm. Like an emboldened child stealing cookies, Mr. took another step. Then another. Now he had completely mounted the stairs.
The stallion chanced a look behind. The ground stretched out far below him. Mr. Graphin swallowed the lump in his throat.
He took another step.
His mind echoed with memories of another life: mud up to his barrel, the salt pray in his mane, flash floods sweeping him down stream.
Another step followed, and then another
His past was up there, tucked away: a trusty compass, one brass telescope, a dented pith helmet, and a machete with more teeth than an alligator.
One step, then another. A hoof reached the landing. The others followed suit.
Mr. Graphin hadn’t realized how hard he was breathing. He placed a hoof over his chest to slow his throbbing heart. His world was beginning to swim.
He needed to take a short break.
He sat. His hind end fell through open air. Desperately he scrambled to find a grip on the floor. It slipped through his grasp. A hoarse cry escaped from his lips.
Thud.
Wham.
Crunch.
SNAP!
Mr. Graphin lay at the bottom the stairs. His limbs twitching out their last, face fixed in a hideous grin.
Sometime later, the front door opened . The care taker back in, pulling a small wagon of groceries. She tripped over the body in the hall, found herself entangled with the dead ponies , and screamed.
Author's Note
Please let me know what your reaction is to the story.
This is dedicated to my grandfather in law, 1934 - 2016.
