Stories for Good Little Fillies and Colts Who Love Their Lives and Do Not Wish to Dieby FiddlebottomsChaptersAsked the Angel (FiM -- Other & Guards & Celestia)Twilight Sparkle Decides to Just Go and Kill Everybody (FiM -- Twilight & Celestia)The Last Magician (EqG -- Trixie & Twilight & Spike)Bean Stealing Bears (FiM -- Fluttershy & Applejack & Rarity & Rainbow Dash & others)Ash and Cinder (FiM -- Rarity & Applejack)Excerpts from a Review of "We Must Have Forgotten History" (EqG -- Twilight Sparkle & Others)Asked the Angel (FiM -- Other & Guards & Celestia)It really is as stupid as you might fear to imagine and when the angel arrived in Equestria it was sadly mistaken. Three of eleven wings touched the ground straining to hold it’s awkward body up, while its six legs flailed desperately from its six hexagonal sides formed of fungoscious flesh. Four of its twelve faces winced in pain, and the other five fell in disappointment. “Hey,” shouted a gate gawker clad in gold armor, “you can’t leave those here.” He pointed with his spear at the faces lying on the street. “That’s littering!” The angel flailed its legs aimlessly and screamed an apology, but it could do nothing to prevent this disgraceful, and apparently illegal, loss of face. The lost faces, on the other hand, were ecstatic. Having fallen facial features toward the sky, things were finally looking up for them. They took root through the cobblestones and began shouting in their forgotten language which was conveniently and coincidentally identical to the lately emerged language of ponies in all the least important ways. “At last we are free!” “At last we may speak!” “At last we may be--” “--stepped on!” “By their boots!” “Forever!” The gate gawkers were having none of this, and they fell upon the angel and its scattered visages with abandon. Spear butts puffed viciously into fungosicious flesh buffeting the poor creature about but no matter how many times they struck the angel, it did not fall over, nor did it seem to be in any particular pain. Hours passed in this most fashionable manner, with more gate gawkers gathering uselessly to the scene and fumbling at the flesh with flails and fire axes. Around the display of non-carnage a host of malevolent bystanders gathered. Some of them threw bits at the street theater in progress. “This violence is starting to seem pointless,” observed one of the gate gawkers, taking a break from the pointless violence. “Hey,” hissed his fellow at arms who was actually named Gate Gawker, “you better put a stop to that language. We’ll be accused of slacking in our duties, and then they’ll be beating us.” “Who?” “Hu will beat us, yes.” “Yes, who will beat us if we all stop beating other ponies,” the first gate gawker looked at the fungoscious fleshling reeling between blows, “and I guess stop beating things like that.” “Hu will, unless he is one of the ones who stops, in which case I guess Starshot will beat us all.” “Starshot is a jerk like that.” “Yeah.” “War is the moment when ponies forget why they're fighting and only carry on through their terrible boredom because they don't want to be accused of slacking,” screamed a face on the ground before a spear butt filled its maw. “Civilization is the same moment, but for the absence of fighting,” added another face. “And peanut butter really does go with everything.” This caused the gate gawkers to stop. “The screaming face embedded in the pavement is right, you know,” said Gate Gawker, “peanut butter really does go with everything.” “Hey, shouted one of the rubberneckers, his head dragging along the ground,” one of the rubberneckers shouted, his head indeed dragging along the ground at the end of his flopping neck, “we didn’t pay you to stop!” The gate gawkers, suddenly noticing the crowd of observers, donned pixelated facial blurs and floated directly up into the sky. “We didn’t pay you to do that either!” The gate gawkers armor gleamed as they disappeared into the sun. “Whatever that was.” The angel was left alone on the streets of Canterlot that night. It staggered down the lanes, unable to see clearly with most of its faces missing and unable to walk except on its few wings that could reach the ground. It trod on dogs and thumped against walls and dislodged masonry. It was in this uniquely useless capacity that the angel stumbled across its next victim. A diamond dog lay sprawled across the alley, the stumps where it’s legs had once been covered in papier-mache that almost resembled bandages. It looked up at the angel as if to ask what it was doing here. The angel obligingly demonstrating by treading on the dog and then lurching into a wall, causing a decorative fixture to fall and decorate the ground in broken glass. The dog nodded in understanding. The angel stared as if to return to the question. The dog rolled back and forth across the street as if to demonstrate that it, likewise, was existing in the world. The angel immediately enrolled in a prestigious art academy; it spent the next six years mastering sculpture and architecture, though it learned most how to hate and how to hold its grudges close to its vest until it was finally unleashed upon the world where it began its career by decorating Canterlot with enormous iron statues, but it was never satisfied with the whirling violence of stationary steel and in time it learned to love automation and set the bladed legs of its works spinning only to see no one appreciate its true intention--yes, undeniably, they understood it as violence, but they never understood that they were the target--and so, the angel began to build bigger and uglier, and biggerer and uglierest, until it at last created its most triumphant creation, a vast cyclone of hurtling steel that reached as high as a mountain, but the work was not really completed until the angel pushed the structure over and crushed itself and everyone who attended the opening gala to death. The dog nodded, existing was indeed a most dangerous, pointless, and time consuming art. The angel didn't nod, only waited expectantly as if to ask why. This would have given the diamond dog pause, if he’d had legs on which to receive them. Instead it could only continue existing until it finally died. Which it did. Promptly. It was but the first of many. Well, the angel thought, that was well and good for him and them, but the angel was beginning to realize it had no alternative. The next morning, the angel encountered, again, Gate Gawker and his posse of gate gawkers. The morning sun shone off the armor of the mourning son--Gate Gawker’s adoptive father, a limbless diamond dog, having died the previous night of demonstrably demonstrative causes--as they lead the angel toward the palace. On the way they were met by another detachment carrying the angel’s lost faces. “The colossal squid is a fearsome predator whose most prominent feature outside the ocean is a disconcerting uselessness,” the faces sang in harmony. The angel was becoming quite glad it had gotten rid of those things. At the gates of the palace they were met by Celestia, her entourage, and the sort of jeering crowd who always show up for these goings on. “Creature from beyond our world, you stand accused of littering, destruction of property, inciting police violence upon yourself, embarrassing the law, hypothetical violence, and driving a poor, defenseless dog to suicide in order to prove a point.” The angel was unsure who had just spoken, so it remained silent. The silence lingered. Celestia had just one question: “Why are you here?” “It was just an accident.” The assembled ponies laughed. “Well, what was your reason for entering the world?” asked the angel draped in its fungoscious flesh. Twilight Sparkle Decides to Just Go and Kill Everybody (FiM -- Twilight & Celestia)"Get rid of the clowns." -- 37th President of the United States Richard M. Nixon Princess Celestia of Equestria twice described Twilight as a "mare of boundless ingenuity who may accomplish anything to which she puts her mind. One cannot help but expect Great Things of her." The first use of this description was in a personal review of her then pupil as she recognized Twilight's graduation at the top of her class. The second use was in her amicus curae brief after which she urged the court to execute Twilight for her crimes, or any other crimes necessary to justify an immediate execution. It was 10:15 AM and Twilight had not eaten yet despite being up for three hours. Twilight stared at the clock and paced about the room. She was hungry, this was certain, but wasn't it almost lunchtime? What if she went somewhere and the breakfast menu was not available? What if she went somewhere and the lunch menu was not available? What if she ... Twilight paced faster making herself hungrier and accomplishing the opposite of solving her problem. Perhaps she should just wait? No. That was not an option. She was hungry now. She'd been drinking coffee all morning and was feeling weak and irritable and she needed food. She had sehr hungrig! But for breakfast or lunch? Did she want eggs? Did she want a sandwich? Did she want a salad? Did she want an egg salad sandwich? And was such a thing socially acceptable at any time of the day? No, it was not socially acceptable to eat an egg salad sandwich. And it was monday, so brunch was also not socially acceptable. No, it was too much. Too confusing. And she was so, so, so hungry and she had drank so, so, so much coffee. Her bladder was bursting! Disgusting! I know! "I know!" Twilight stopped for a beat, but let it go on too long. Dammit. Well, this silence is pretty awkward, since you know what comes next anyway. And what comes next? Twilight Sparkle decided to just go and kill everybody. Time is a social construct, after all, and if there is no one other than her in society, well, then, there would be no pressure about what or when or where to eat! Or to pee! Disgusting! I know! Hurrah! Twilight Sparkle approached the cafe--down where she coulda gone and just ordered off of whichever menu the waitress offered but she decided to just go and kill everybody instead--like a thunderhead. Which is not to say she was peeing everywhere. Although she was. Disgusting! I know! But she was also thunderhead like in her having violence and inevitability and hunger. Her first target hove into view and she struck him with a lightning bolt. "Oh no! I have been struck by lightning!" Shouted the pony who had been struck by lightning! "But, by a fortuitous circumstance, I happen to be wearing a grounding vest! This vest has protected my life and well-being! Unfortunately, the vest is only good for one use! So I hope not to be struck by lightning a second time!" Twilight, still very much like thunderhead and still peeing everywhere (she had a large bladder--Disgusting! I know!) rallied herself again. "Oh no! I have been struck a second time by lightning! However, it seems through a once-again fortuitous circumstance, my vest still protected me somewhat! I have been a little burnt and my heart may be experiencing arrhythmia, but I shall no doubt be fine so long as I am not struck by lightning a third time and carry myself to a hospital forthwith!" Twilight gritted her teeth--less like a stormhead now as her bladder, though large, was also finite and nearly empty--still disgusting, though! I know!--and struck once more. "Oh no! I have been struck by lightning a third time and the formerly fortunate circumstance of my vest has provided me no protection! I shall now drop stone dead as my internal organs boil!" And he did just so, his intestines leaping out of his mouth and dancing as the sizzled upon the metal table. Twilight laughed maniacly. The ponies at the cafe, who had for some reason not yet reacted to anything, shouted, "here is Princess Twilight Sparkle of Ponyville, our own fair town! She will surely explain why that pony was struck by lightning so many times so close together until he died, and also what she means by laughing maniacly and having peed everywhere!" "Disgusting!" shouted one. "I know!" shouted another. "Oh no! We are in hazard for our lives!" the pony chorus added as the cafe burst into flames around them. "What could this mean?" "It means that I, Twilight Sparkle of Ponyville my own fair town, have decided to kill all of you and am doing so." And so it happened that the cafe was all burnt away and turned to ash and set afloating on the wind. The life and energy of those consumed not lost, merely transformed as all energy must be and set free to find itself again and again in each cycle of eternal Being. And so it also happened that now it was 11:01 AM and, undeniably, this was the lunch time, but the cafe had been destroyed and so Twilight Sparkle had no choice but to continue on her path and kill everyone. Hours later Twilight Sparkle tossed her ragged jagged hairy merry mess of a mane in the sparkling sparking of the flames as her teeth ground home on the bones of someone else’s dearly departed. After a crack, crack, pop the marrow rolled fresh and hot down her opened throat and filled her belly. She didn’t need lunch where she’d gone, which was good because it was 3:23 PM and not lunchtime, but not quite dinnertime either. Also she was peeing everywhere, not because she had to, but just because she was marking her territory! Disgusting! I know! But soon the time would come when no one was left alive to judge her for engaging in cannibalism or bathroom activities outside of the officially recognized meal hours. Or that’s what our dear hero thought to herself before a brilliant light came scream swooping down before her. There she was, Princess Celestia of Equestria! "Princess Twilight Sparkle of Ponyville, the fair town of many formerly living ponies," boomed Princess Celestia of Equestria, "I am very peeved with you and you must stop this at once." "What are you going to do about it?" "I have brought these!" Princess Celestia of Equestria lifted the Elements of Harmony. "Those are of no use to you." "There is more than one way to use an Element of Harmony," Princess Celestia of Equestria said, and flung the Element of Honesty at Twilight's poor, purple face. "Ow! That really hurt!" Twilight blinked furiously and got hit in the leg with the Element of Kindness. "Who throws a-- Stop it!" Twilight whined as the Element of Generosity winged her ear. "I will not stand by and let you murder my little ponies." Twilight ducked under the incoming Element of Magic and frowned. "You are being really immature right now." "You are a mass murderer," replied Princess Celestia of Equestria as she pelted Twilight with another Element. "Fine, you want to know how it feels?" Twilight snarled as she flung the Element of Kindness back and hit Princess Celestia of Equestria square in the chest. "That's how it-- Hey watch it! That one has sharp edges!" Twilight rubbed her eye where the jagged bit on the Element of Loyalty had struck her. "No fair throwing two at a time!" Celestia shouted as she took two blows across the chest. "You started it!" And in Ponyville to this day they say that if you listen carefully on a quiet afternoon you can still hear the voices of the two immortal Princesses as they whine and pelt each other with jewelry forever. And also just eat a piece of bread or something if you're hungry before lunchtime. No one likes a cannibal. Author's Note The Last Magician (EqG -- Trixie & Twilight & Spike)The Last Magician's tattered blue cape flutters in the air behind her as she scurries down toward the shore. Sand pushes in through the hole-ridden soles of her shoes, rubbing her blistered feet as she catches up with the crowd walking toward the shore. She runs in circles among them performing small, stupid tricks and calling for their attention. No one is much amazed, but they might have admired her persistence as she guessed the contents of their pockets and breathlessly thrust her fanned out cards into their weathered faces. It is impossible to tell if she is accurately guessing the cards they hold in their hands, as the bleeding, hollow sockets of her audience can perceive nothing but the need for cooling ocean waters, and the cards slip--uncared for--out of their stiff fingers and litter the ground. Undeterred by their lack of enthusiasm, she continues to run about whining and shouting and flinging fireworks that contest vainly against the writhing lightning of the dying sky until at last they reach the water. The Last Magician's ragged hair, streaked with grease and blood and riddled with the small bones of the last hat-broken rabbit, flaps against her spine and ribs jutting wickedly from her starving back and her sunken chest with indifference. It has been neither groomed nor cut since this began. She stands before them one last time, her arms thrust to either side in a manner symptomatic of a crippling crucifixation, and announces to one and every deaf ear that she is the GREAT AND POWERFUL TRIXIE. A wave from behind knocks her to her knees, steals her hat and shoves her face into the moist sand. As she struggles against the water around her, around her the last audience passes without pausing, and before she rises to her feet sputtering and rubbing furiously at her eyes, they will have vanished into the waters leaving only a pink foam to rise in their wake. The GREAT AND POWERFUL TRIXIE returns, slowly to her hideout by the dunes. Searching her hair for scraps of rabbit, she discovers instead a stranded mollusk. Sucking out its meat, she finds it good. The Last Magician, the GREAT AND POWERFUL TRIXIE and Queen Novo's Last Hierophant lay in the sand, licking at the bounty of the sea. The sea is greedy in these days, and her feeble offering shouldn't have been enough for three, but by the truly trinitarian miracle of all three being the same person, they were able to briefly silence their stomach with canned tuna. It was at least as much a miracle that the can bore a picture of the Queen of the Sea Ponies upon its side, the GREAT AND POWERFUL TRIXIE could have found himself worshiping a fucking talking fish. How's that for a look, Snails, she thought. Not good, your Great and Powerfulness, she thought back for herself. Where had they all gone, anyway? Into the ocean or into the fire? The can had washed up on the shore that morning, perhaps as repayment by Queen Novo for swallowing all of her audiences. The GREAT AND POWERFUL TRIXIE will never be sure if the trade was a good one or not: she couldn't amaze the chopped fish, but she couldn't eat the staggering masses. Her reverent licking is interrupted by a sharp pain in her mouth and the feel of blood running down her chin. In a sudden panic she moves her fingers around within her mouth. Her voice is nowhere to be found. Not even back toward the depths of her tonsils. She thrusts her fingers as far back as she can without losing the fish that had cost her so dear in trade. Nothing. Nothing at all. Her voice is utterly gone. Prodding through the sand and blood mingling at her feet doesn't bring anything up either. She does find a rather accidental corpse, his bloated stupid face reminds her of something she is already forgetting. Scrambling through his pockets, she produces a pen and begins scribbling her name across a piece of paper. Engrossed in creating a name for herself, she doesn't notice the arrival of her two guests until he--the corpse--hears a voice from her feet and alerts her to it. Abandoning her banner (THE GRAT AND POWERFULL TRIKSEE didn't really know how to spell anyway) she turns downward to see a purple dog writhing along the ground like a worm. Its stumps twist uselessly in the air like the arms of a feeble swimmer as its belly performs the work of four. “I said Hello there,” the dog repeats. The GREAT AND POWERFUL TRIXIE panics, but is amazed to discover her stage voice, hidden deep in her chest, is still present. The stage voice doesn't contain many words, but it can at least announce the most great and powerful name on Earth. “My name is Spike,” says the dog, “and hers is Twilight Sparkle. How long have you been here?” The Last Magician draws a pocket watch from her sleeve and sweeps her finger around the circumference as if clearing the dust. “Even before?” the dog and girl both looked up at the sky, jet black streaked with browns resembling rust and slightly different browns resembling shit. Periodically lightning lit the sky, but so far in the distance that the sound could not be heard. Or perhaps the sound of the lightning was the dull background howl. The ever present howling of the fears. The GREAT AND POWERFUL TRIXIE nods and repeats the sweeping gesture before the pocket watch vanishes. Her hands soon follow suit, and the Last Magician drops to her knees before looking at the dog in curiosity. “We were hungry,” the dog explains, “so I ate her arms. In return, I allowed her to eat my legs.” This seems inefficient to the GREAT AND POWERFUL TRIXIE, an opinion which she expresses by taking three balls from her pocket and rolling them in her palm until only one remains. This argument would have given the dog pause, if it still had legs on which to receive them, but he continued, “A full stomach is a difficult thing to come by.” The GREAT AND POWERFUL TRIXIE can think of one final comment, but first she holds out one hand, indicating no desire to give offense. she reaches into her mouth and pulls a string of rags forth, layering them onto the dog. “My girl used to be a ventriloquist among her many talents and pursuits before I ate her arms.” Spike replies. “It was my prideful duty to retrieve her voice for her after she had thrown it and bring it back safely that she may retrieve it, but that was before I ate her arms. With no limbs to retrieve her voice from my mouth, I am left to carry it for her and speak for both of us.” The GREAT AND POWERFUL TRIXIE pointed at the girls' bare feet, and the dog laughed, “Whoever heard of a woman talking with her feet, simply absurd.” Thumping on the ground, thumping in her chest, a rush of hot air on the back of her neck, smelling like a compost heap, sweet and vile and rotten. The scent of massacred salads and slaughtered gardens. Beneath crazed, bloodshot eyes snap teeth as long as her sleeves (which have nothing in them) and sharp as the saw she once used to cut foolish assistants in half. One ton of rage driven by two fur covered pistons, each the size of tree trunks. Gnawed electrical cables dangle from its jaws like drool, unclipped claws shred the ground like scythes, shotgun pellet saliva fires with each panting breath, ripping the Last Magician's legs out from under her. Helpless, she turns to face the Revenge of Rabbits. Oresteius cuniculus. With a shout the Last Magician surges to her feet. In the distance, a bitter red light makes a brief appearance. Dawn's rosy finger sweeping through the coin slot between the black overhang of human apocalypse and the horizon soon to leave again, disheartened and disappointed. The day would come when the sun didn't bother to make the attempt at all, and on that day there would be nothing to stop the dream before the Revenge of Rabbits got to her. The Last Magician shudders in the cold morning. Except that, rabbits had been vegetarians hadn't they? If anything was still vegetarian. Or if everything had not become a vegetable. The Last Magician sweeps her toes through the sand at her feet, seeking life or water. Finding only slightly damp sand, she sticks a handful in her mouth and sucks as much of the moisture out as possible. She has lost her name now somehow, although she can't recall. She stands, her pale silhouette brief and blue and hopeless for just a moment against the crack and fire of the celestial rage let loose upon the world and then, an instant later, the sun is completely gone again and she is lost in darkness. Perhaps this time forever. The Last Magician waits for nothing. No one is coming. No more shows. No more crowds. No more competition. No more fear. Peace and security at last, of a sort, and in the distance, an island of dead bodies swirls, caught up with plastics and dead fish. Spitting into her hand, the Last Magician returns to her campsite to turn tricks for herself, if she can still remember the cups and balls and wands. And if she can forget the rabbits. Author's Note There are somethings somedays that do not die someways. And perhaps you also find some strange wonder in that. Bean Stealing Bears (FiM -- Fluttershy & Applejack & Rarity & Rainbow Dash & others)“Those are my beans!” Rainbow Dash and Rarity looked at each other in surprise at Applejack’s distant outburst. The three friends and their miniature sisters and hanger’s on were out camping again. Applejack had stopped to observe something wild apple related and was currently out of sight, making strange noises. Applejack made another strange sound. It was the sound of her shouting, “Give me back my beans, bear!” And then she whooped. “That’s the sound Applejack makes when a bear steals her beans and she wants them (the beans) back,” said Applebloom. That sounded like as good an explanation for why Applejack would make that sound as any, so everyone grabbed up themselves and headed toward the sound’s origination. A bear was indeed in possession of a large sack of dried beans from the dry goods store and Applejack was indeed making further noises at him implying that he had not purchased those beans himself, but had instead stolen them from her. With six ponies shouting and throwing rocks at him, the bear panicked and fell stone dead of a heart condition caused by eating too much rich pony food as opposed to his natural diet. "That must have been scary, thinking about having your beans stolen like that," said Scootaloo. “No. I have seen the face of the bear that will steal my beans,” said Applejack and stared into the distance as one who has seen the face of the bear who would one day steal her beans. She shifted her weight and adjusted her hat and added, “his face will be furry.” “This one’s face is fairly furry,” said Rarity as she turned over the dead bear's head in her hooves and admired its fairly furried face, nicely sharply toothy mouth. “No, it will be furry differently.” “Oh?” “Yep,” was all Applejack replied and she adjusted her hat. … … … !? “Well,” Rarity cleared her throat, “we should probably do something about this.” “Kill all the bears.” Scootaloo nodded sagely and Rainbow Dash agreed. It was the sort of thing she might be good for. Applejack shook her head at their naivety. “Do you have any idea how many bears there are?” “Many?” “Many manies and muchly muches of bears, at least,” said Applejack and stared into the distance as one who has seen a great number of bears on the move. She shifted her weight and adjusted her hat and added, “probably a few severals as well.” “So what do we do?” “Let’s blame Fluttershy!” Sweetie Belle shouted. It was her only line and she delivered it with gusto and Rarity was so proud of her. “Sounds good.” And so they did. And this is how they did it. What happened was: Rarity said: “Fluttershy, you have simply got to quit feeding bears!” And how Fluttershy replied was: “But, bears are my friends!” But Rainbow Dash got to be the voice of reason for once and say: “No, Fluttershy, bears are wild animals and wild animals need to stay wild.” “But interfering in ecosystems in a destabilizing and potentially catastrophic way is pretty much the only thing I do,” is how Fluttershy replied to that. “Catastrophic?” Is a word said by several! “We destroyed the town with that bunnies thing once,” Fluttershy explained. “It really wasn’t destroyed,” Applejack clarified. And some ponies asked: “Wasn’t it?” “No?” Rarity was confused by the direction the dialogue had taken, although she didn’t necessarily say “no.” Anyone could have said that! This is a problem! “Look, Fluttershy, darling," Rarity was unsure who had been speaking (other than to know it wasn't Sweetie Belle because she only had one line in this story) and wanted to press through with this in a hurry (too late for that, ma chérie, this sentence has cancer of the parentheticals), "we love you, but feeding bears is illegal. And you … you’re feeding a bear right now.” “No,” Fluttershy lied as she placed a bean into a bear’s open mouth. “Stop doing that.” “I did.” Fluttershy handed a bear a piece of cake and it growled ominously at the ponies. “No, you haven’t, you’re still feeding bears.” “No, I mean, I did do the thing you told me not to do. To feed the bears, I did that. And I'm about to do it again.” And Fluttershy threw a wide selection of sweet and salty snacks to the gigantic omnivores. “Ok, but now stop.” “But they're so cute with their fairly furried faces and nicely sharply toothy mouths.” “Please.” “Fine," Fluttershy pouted, "but you have to start treating the wilds with more respect. I’ve watched you camping--secretly from the bushes where I hide and spy--and you do not take any steps to insure that your food is kept safe from bears or other wildlife.” “We sleep with our food in our tents and we’ve never had any problems," Rainbow Dash objected because she was chronically irresponsible enough to do that. “That is not an adequate food protection system and you know it. You should at least hang your food in a bear bag, and depending on the species of bears prevalence and the likelihood of bear and human interaction, you might need to start carrying a bear canister.” “But bear canisters are awkward and heavy!” Everyone present protested! “You have to set a good example,” said Fluttershy, “for the children.” “For the children,” everyone responded in a low chanting voice. “For us?” Applebloom asked. “No, not for you,” replied Applejack and stared into the distance as one who is not doing something for her little sister, “for the children.” “For the children,” everyone responded in a monotone. Author's Note A very good story with very good moral. Ash and Cinder (FiM -- Rarity & Applejack)—hey, sugarcube? No sound but the sound of tramping hooves on gravel. Ash uncoils itself across the plain. Dead trees creak as they lean against the breeze. —um, hey? The silence stretches on again and then another voice. —yes, darling? —where we headed? The hoof steps continue. Step after step crunches and reverberates against a slate grey sky. Chapped lips smack together and throw a gob of spit to splatter among dead grass. She swallows and coughs and clears her throat preparing to repeat herself, but is interrupted by the clearer voice. —elsewhere. —sounds right enough. Hours pass and are marked only by the crunch of gravel. —y'all think anyone else made it? The gravel crunches underhoof. There is nothing else to hear. No birds sing. The sky darkens by a degree. It is miraculous how things can always afford to get darker. The rock face looms bare. Claw marks deface it with obscene figures. Soot fills in the gaps. Grey shades twist in agony. They will dance and dance and never die. A fire barely illuminates the two faces around it. Their hooves, dry and rotten through, hold over the flames. —hey, sugarcube? —yes, darling? —how much farther you think it's gonna be? The fire lunges. The fire retreats. —to where? —where y'all are headed. The fire swirls around borrowed roots. It learns its own language. It speaks in squeals and pops. —aren't you coming with me? —i can't be certain if i don't know where y'all are headed. One hoof barely white under the dust that clings to it reaches across and clings to another hoof faintly tan under the dust that clings to it. —i can't get there if you aren't with me. —but where? The fire mutters its strange language. It never learns but it discovers itself each moment. Wild and ambitious until the last ember is consumed. But the forests are gone now and there is nowhere left to live in but this pit. And the pit's mouth is filling with ash. —hey, sugarcube? The rockface is invisible now. Their fire is dead. There is no moon. —hey, sugarcube? Something rustles in the ash. It groans. —yes, darling? —you awake? —i am now. —i can't seem to sleep. —have you tried closing your eyes? —how can i tell if they're closed? it's all dark. —you're not going to tell me you're afraid of the dark now? It smooths the ash with it's hooves. A blanket spread out beneath it. —aren't y'all? The ash scrapes. The ash displaces. —i am. —and how do y'all deal with it? —i don't. i'm just too tired not to sleep. The ash-silt whistle-slidles slips on the wind-slipping. It pauses. It is restless. —sugarcube? The ash will never settle. The ash will never die. —sugarcube? —i'm right here, darling. In the darkness, one hoof snakes out another. They cling together desperate against the dying. —hey, sugarcube? It wasn't quite a fork in the road. Just two alien paths meeting in the plain. The one of gravel they had been walking on, and then a second one. A deep furrow ripped in the ground. They stood together in the ditch. A muddy trickle of water slurried through the bottom of the furrow around their hooves. —yes, darling? —what do y'all suppose made these tracks? The temperature settles another degree. Some demon or monster has been here. It's ominous tracing now etched permanently upon the earth. She shudders and grips the edges of the cloak toward her against the dead wind. It is miraculous how things can always afford to get colder. —i'd prefer not suppose. —but, supposing ya had to suppose. The sides of the ditch rose over their heads. Together they pull clods of earth down and their own bodies up. Her formerly white forehooves scramble against the mud as she struggles to pull herself upward. Her mismatched rags catch on the edges of the ditch. Her purple mane fading to grey hangs sweat soaked over her back. She struggles. Her voice is a grunt. —i'd suppose it was some kind of snake. The other starts and slides back into the ditch. She drops into a crouch beneath the unicorn. She grips her hat with one hoof. She ducks. She scours the ground for the sight of a serpent as if she wasn't surrounded by the proof of its passing. As if she could look down on what did this. —why'd y'all have to say snake? With an unladylike growl the unicorn hauls herself upward. Her belly scrapes along the edge of the furrow. She stands. She turns to the earth pony who remains below. —because snakes don't have claws. —claws or fangs. it ain't much of a choice. —i'd prefer no claws. i'd also prefer to move on from here. She leans over the ditch. Her hooves reach down and grasp the hooves of her companion. Her back arches. A staircase spine presses against the inside of her hide. She hauls the pony toward her. Together they grunt and struggle. Hindhooves of the earth pony claw the sides of the ditch and kick loose, dead earth free. Finally, like a cork from a bottle, she pops upward and lands beside the unicorn. They sprawl. They lay together in the ash. The solid wall of cloud passes above, split by tendrils of free radicals erupting in the upper atmosphere. —you're very light, darling. —you're very thin. —i have been dieting. —y'all will fit a size zero in no time. Their laughter is dry and quiet. The faded sun brings no warmth to their faces. Limp and bedraggled manes hang like dead standards of dead armies. Only their eyes shine now. —hey, sugarcube? —yes, darling? —y'all suppose you've got enough firewood? A pile of limbs mounted higher than either of them. She went back into the darkness and returned again with her mouth full of twigs. —i want to make sure there is enough. —for what? —to keep the fire up all night. —why? She wanted to say, so you won't be afraid. She wanted to say, because I can't stand it when you're scared. She wanted to say so much. She didn't. She just ventured back into the dark for more wood. There was no hurry. The fear wasn't going anywhere. The dark wasn't going anywhere. Not for a long time. Forever is a very long time for a mortal. Not for a god, though. Or a monster. Or anyone who lives forever, then it is just the blink of an eye. Forever and it is gone. —hey, sugarcube? —i have a name you know, darling. —i've got a name, too, and it ain't darling. A mountain rises to the left. It is only visible in its outline limned by fire. The form of a tower juts out from it. Tall and proud and stupid and dying like everything is and had ever been. —so we're agreed then? we both have names? —yes. Not even the faintest rumble can be heard from this distance as the tower breaks. It may as well be on the moon. It crumbles, disintegrating as it falls as it returns to the earth as it becomes a landslide sliding silently into the dark. No sound but the crunch of dust and gravel underfoot. No light but the distant flames. And Things move amongst the flames. Immense Things. Horrible Things. Shadow gods. —it just don't feel right to say a name. that's all. —it doesn't. The world disappears within outstretched wings as one of the Things passes, miles away but still blotting out the pale sun. Then it is passed as if it never was. The fires again, highlighting the horizon. The mountain continues to stand and perhaps it will stand forever, but no trace of the tower remains. No trace of the city. No trace of the gods. —y'all suppose it will ever feel right again? No answer. They carry on. The mountain fades from sight as they continue through the forever twilight. —hey, sugarcube? —yes, darling? The ground has been rising for the past day. They're approaching the mountains. The peaks are still invisible. Clouds of ash blot the air before them, promising the things lost to them are concealed with just another step. —why don't y'all ever say anything? —don't be ridiculous, i'm saying something right now. —that's not what i meant. —then you should have spoken clearer. —hey, She coughs. Hacks. Her spit spatters thicker now. Ripe ropes shot through with red life. But the hoofsteps don't stop. The gravel keeps crunching. —hey, sugarcube? —yes, darling? —do y'all suppose it hurts? Now the gravel stops crunching. —what do you suppose hurts? The silence spreads out to fill the space it finds and it settles like the heavy ash that falls to cover the ground in thick waves of luxuriant grey like the heavy blankets that once swaddled an infant with so much potential to give to the world. —y'all know what I mean. —then it doesn't need to be said. Dawn stretches its rosy red finger through the coin slot left between the horizon and the sky. Everyday it has made this abortive attempt, stretching a sole digit hoping to find life before abandoning the earth behind impenetrable clouds. Someday, it won't even make that effort. —hey, sugarcube? —yes, darling? —is it morning? is the sun up? —what a silly question. of course it is. —i think, She coughs. Spits. Thick phlegm settles in the ash. —i can't. —can't what? —don't you see? —see what? —i ... i ... can't. She looks up. Beneath her faded hay hair, her eyes are running with yellow pus. The orbs can't focus. Pupils now colorless float grey upon curdled milk. Green is gone from the world. —i can't see. why can't i see you? what's, She coughs again. Spits. More phlegm joins the fluid puddle at her hooves. —what's happening? —shhhh, shhhh, shhhh, shhhh, shhhh, shhhh She says nothing else. Just grips her blind friend in her hooves and holds them together. Waits as her friend sobs. —i'm scared of the dark. it can't be dark. Rarity, don't let it be dark. i need to see. —shhhh, shhh, shhh, shhh, shhh, shhh, shhh —help me. —shhh, shhh, shhh, shhh, shhh, shhh, shhh —help me, please. —i can't. —i'm scared, Rarity. —i know. The day passes them over together. The night returns and brings it's indiscriminate dark. She makes no fire tonight. The warmth of her body will have to be enough. —hey, sugarcube? —yes, darling? —what are you doing? —i'm tying us together. Her horn strains to accomplish even this. Feeble light strains against a piece of ribbon. —don't be getting no funny ideas now. —i wouldn't dream of it. —i can still buck like a draft horse. The rope holds them together. Their sides press. Their ribs interlock through paper skin. They start to walk again. One is blind. Both stumble. It is terrible how things continue to live. —hey sugarcube? The head lolls on her shoulder. The unicorn drags herself and her companion forward with a mindless perseverance. Always forward. —yes, darling? —did y'all ever decide where we were going? —somewhere better. Always forward. —hey, sugarcube? —yes, darling? —thanks. —for what? She stumbles to the left. The familiar weight isn't pressed against her side anymore. In a daze, she turns to see her companion sitting in the gravel. The shredded ribbon lays between them. —darling? Her bony haunch is visible through loose skin. Her head swings back and forth. Her chest heaves. Her sunken stomach sucks in and spills out. —darling? Her legs tremble. The corners of her eyes twitch. Her freckles stand out as livid white spots. Her mouth hangs open revealing yellowed teeth and blackened gums. —Applejack? —i'm, Applejack tries to spit. The thick clot only droops out from her lip in ropey strands. Red and brown and green, the brightest colors this season. The brightest colors ever again and they swing from her tan lip. —I'm real sorry. She lays down. Her dead eyes point aimlessly forward. She retches. There is nothing left to come up. —Applejack, don't There is no sound in response. The sky flashes white then grows even. The afterimage of crags and broken stone and heaving earth and spreading stone and dead and dead and dead, dead, dead desert for miles. —Applejack, There is nothing but slate from here to eternity. —don't leave me here. The road goes on alone. Author's Note This one doesn't follow a neatly demarcated Three Act structure and also is very dark and the "jokes" are not really jokes. It does follow the pattern of the odd numbered stories being apocalyptic, though. Anyway. Excerpts from a Review of "We Must Have Forgotten History" (EqG -- Twilight Sparkle & Others)Slandered by supportive critics, lionized by public disapproval, blamed for teen suicides, and briefly utilized as a tool for Enhanced Detention, We Must Have Forgotten History; How Else Could We Be Surprised? is perhaps the least understood and most rarely sought out album in the phlegmatic ocean of teen pop to come out of what is now known as The Quarantine, but was once Canterlot High. Twilight Sparkle, who has written multiple papers on the use of music and ominous chanting to enforce group cohesion, referred to We Must Have Forgotten as, “the equivalent of a pack of monkeys who have been surgically modified so that their hoots resemble screams encouraging the listener to commit suicide as they bang against the bars of their cage … a verbal assault carried out on accident by the immediate perpetrators as those who orchestrate the plan fly away with clean hands … maliciousness redoubled by the distance of whatever force set these creatures loose upon our unsuspecting world.” It is uncertain whether she was referring to the album as a whole, or if she is literally describing the first track in which the entire band screams illegibly and urges the listener to kill themselves in semi-simian hoots and grunts. Some scholars have in this sentence hypothesized that the band may have been literally caged during recording. A drug called Memesis--which was big upon the streets at the time--was responsible for their ignorance of the words spilling from their mouths. This dedication to effect through affect should be given its full due. We Must Have Forgotten History; How Else Could We be Surprised? is a scathing attack on the High School-Industrial complex that currently rules our every step. “80% of the population live in a perpetual adolescence … working part time jobs associated with the eternal High School, and the other 20% have been permitted only to work as administrators, teachers or other professions that require leaving the High School grounds.” This, Twilight has repeatedly argued, is a clear example of the 80/20 rule in action, a rule which states that 80% of the people who mention the 80/20 rule are cliche spouting idiots with no real idea what they're talking about, and the other 20% are writing about land ownership in 19th century Italy. The never named band were inspired in their work by the philosopher Lint, who argued that nothing True needs to be stated or believed, since being True it can exist without comment. Citing Bakunin, he reminded everyone of what they already knew by imagining a legal office dedicated to proclaiming the laws of physics. He further went on to apply this example to music, stating if that music wanted to express the True, it would do so by not existing and being ignored. Like all of Lint’s followers, they applied his advice by ignoring it and proceeding to make hideous, idiotic noise for as long and loud as their lungs would carry them. “Sunrise over the Gas Station” is a song about still being awake at 8 AM after a three day bender and still incomprehensibly drunk and realizing there are some things that it is worth going blind to stare directly into. The bass riffs are reminiscent of purple cloud rising out of a crack in the forest while the drum beat evokes the feeling of being in a grimy hotel and walking up the stairs and seeing doors you didn't know you'd passed close out of the corner of your eye. The album has, of course, never been heard in its completeness due to the absence of the thirteenth track, titled “Homage to Cybernetics.” The third part of a trilogy called “Black Hole of Autism,” this song could not be recorded and is represented by a gap between the twelfth and fourteenth track. When the gap between tracks was reached, the band would bombard listeners with antiaircraft shells until their message had gotten through. Though this track has never been experienced as intended due to the difficulty experienced by high school students attempting to acquire artillery, it has nevertheless been hugely influential. The band Celestia’s Richtus routinely carried rifles on stage which they would fire over the crowd while the crowd fired back, with both sides deliberately missing. At some point, a member of the audience who had not gotten the message about the message he was supposed to receive fired directly at the band, resulting in a three-hour firefight that killed four, left seventeen injured, and seriously jeopardized Celestia’s Richtus’ touring cycle. The court eventually found that analytical philosophy was not legally binding, confirming what many had long-feared: that the judicial system was a hive of postmodernist, out-of-touch intellectuals that just don't understand the world from outside of their ivory towers. The law carried on, however, just as bacteria and life do in the face of outrage from all corners. We will take our final words from the group's lyricist, who agreed to be interviewed once and only once. Descending from the ceiling on a cartilage rope with a bundle of papers in one hand and an air horn in the other, he agreed to be asked just one question. Three reporters and an equal number of Rod Serling impersonators were present for this singular event. After a great deal of debate and squabbling and other words just as valueless and meaning the same thing, one reporter clambered on top of the heads of the others to cry out, “is this for real?” He looked up from the text and said, “of course it is not for real. It is a collection of shapes which are interpreted according to pre-existing patterns within your head. If it were real I’d crack that head open with a damn hammer and show you the patterns myself.” He then proceeded to make threatening gestures while blasting his air horn, and two months later he died. Author's Note Nevermind. This is now the end now. Goodbye. Just a series of dreams, the world around you ain't what it seems.
Asked the Angel (FiM -- Other & Guards & Celestia)It really is as stupid as you might fear to imagine and when the angel arrived in Equestria it was sadly mistaken. Three of eleven wings touched the ground straining to hold it’s awkward body up, while its six legs flailed desperately from its six hexagonal sides formed of fungoscious flesh. Four of its twelve faces winced in pain, and the other five fell in disappointment. “Hey,” shouted a gate gawker clad in gold armor, “you can’t leave those here.” He pointed with his spear at the faces lying on the street. “That’s littering!” The angel flailed its legs aimlessly and screamed an apology, but it could do nothing to prevent this disgraceful, and apparently illegal, loss of face. The lost faces, on the other hand, were ecstatic. Having fallen facial features toward the sky, things were finally looking up for them. They took root through the cobblestones and began shouting in their forgotten language which was conveniently and coincidentally identical to the lately emerged language of ponies in all the least important ways. “At last we are free!” “At last we may speak!” “At last we may be--” “--stepped on!” “By their boots!” “Forever!” The gate gawkers were having none of this, and they fell upon the angel and its scattered visages with abandon. Spear butts puffed viciously into fungosicious flesh buffeting the poor creature about but no matter how many times they struck the angel, it did not fall over, nor did it seem to be in any particular pain. Hours passed in this most fashionable manner, with more gate gawkers gathering uselessly to the scene and fumbling at the flesh with flails and fire axes. Around the display of non-carnage a host of malevolent bystanders gathered. Some of them threw bits at the street theater in progress. “This violence is starting to seem pointless,” observed one of the gate gawkers, taking a break from the pointless violence. “Hey,” hissed his fellow at arms who was actually named Gate Gawker, “you better put a stop to that language. We’ll be accused of slacking in our duties, and then they’ll be beating us.” “Who?” “Hu will beat us, yes.” “Yes, who will beat us if we all stop beating other ponies,” the first gate gawker looked at the fungoscious fleshling reeling between blows, “and I guess stop beating things like that.” “Hu will, unless he is one of the ones who stops, in which case I guess Starshot will beat us all.” “Starshot is a jerk like that.” “Yeah.” “War is the moment when ponies forget why they're fighting and only carry on through their terrible boredom because they don't want to be accused of slacking,” screamed a face on the ground before a spear butt filled its maw. “Civilization is the same moment, but for the absence of fighting,” added another face. “And peanut butter really does go with everything.” This caused the gate gawkers to stop. “The screaming face embedded in the pavement is right, you know,” said Gate Gawker, “peanut butter really does go with everything.” “Hey, shouted one of the rubberneckers, his head dragging along the ground,” one of the rubberneckers shouted, his head indeed dragging along the ground at the end of his flopping neck, “we didn’t pay you to stop!” The gate gawkers, suddenly noticing the crowd of observers, donned pixelated facial blurs and floated directly up into the sky. “We didn’t pay you to do that either!” The gate gawkers armor gleamed as they disappeared into the sun. “Whatever that was.” The angel was left alone on the streets of Canterlot that night. It staggered down the lanes, unable to see clearly with most of its faces missing and unable to walk except on its few wings that could reach the ground. It trod on dogs and thumped against walls and dislodged masonry. It was in this uniquely useless capacity that the angel stumbled across its next victim. A diamond dog lay sprawled across the alley, the stumps where it’s legs had once been covered in papier-mache that almost resembled bandages. It looked up at the angel as if to ask what it was doing here. The angel obligingly demonstrating by treading on the dog and then lurching into a wall, causing a decorative fixture to fall and decorate the ground in broken glass. The dog nodded in understanding. The angel stared as if to return to the question. The dog rolled back and forth across the street as if to demonstrate that it, likewise, was existing in the world. The angel immediately enrolled in a prestigious art academy; it spent the next six years mastering sculpture and architecture, though it learned most how to hate and how to hold its grudges close to its vest until it was finally unleashed upon the world where it began its career by decorating Canterlot with enormous iron statues, but it was never satisfied with the whirling violence of stationary steel and in time it learned to love automation and set the bladed legs of its works spinning only to see no one appreciate its true intention--yes, undeniably, they understood it as violence, but they never understood that they were the target--and so, the angel began to build bigger and uglier, and biggerer and uglierest, until it at last created its most triumphant creation, a vast cyclone of hurtling steel that reached as high as a mountain, but the work was not really completed until the angel pushed the structure over and crushed itself and everyone who attended the opening gala to death. The dog nodded, existing was indeed a most dangerous, pointless, and time consuming art. The angel didn't nod, only waited expectantly as if to ask why. This would have given the diamond dog pause, if he’d had legs on which to receive them. Instead it could only continue existing until it finally died. Which it did. Promptly. It was but the first of many. Well, the angel thought, that was well and good for him and them, but the angel was beginning to realize it had no alternative. The next morning, the angel encountered, again, Gate Gawker and his posse of gate gawkers. The morning sun shone off the armor of the mourning son--Gate Gawker’s adoptive father, a limbless diamond dog, having died the previous night of demonstrably demonstrative causes--as they lead the angel toward the palace. On the way they were met by another detachment carrying the angel’s lost faces. “The colossal squid is a fearsome predator whose most prominent feature outside the ocean is a disconcerting uselessness,” the faces sang in harmony. The angel was becoming quite glad it had gotten rid of those things. At the gates of the palace they were met by Celestia, her entourage, and the sort of jeering crowd who always show up for these goings on. “Creature from beyond our world, you stand accused of littering, destruction of property, inciting police violence upon yourself, embarrassing the law, hypothetical violence, and driving a poor, defenseless dog to suicide in order to prove a point.” The angel was unsure who had just spoken, so it remained silent. The silence lingered. Celestia had just one question: “Why are you here?” “It was just an accident.” The assembled ponies laughed. “Well, what was your reason for entering the world?” asked the angel draped in its fungoscious flesh.
Twilight Sparkle Decides to Just Go and Kill Everybody (FiM -- Twilight & Celestia)"Get rid of the clowns." -- 37th President of the United States Richard M. Nixon Princess Celestia of Equestria twice described Twilight as a "mare of boundless ingenuity who may accomplish anything to which she puts her mind. One cannot help but expect Great Things of her." The first use of this description was in a personal review of her then pupil as she recognized Twilight's graduation at the top of her class. The second use was in her amicus curae brief after which she urged the court to execute Twilight for her crimes, or any other crimes necessary to justify an immediate execution. It was 10:15 AM and Twilight had not eaten yet despite being up for three hours. Twilight stared at the clock and paced about the room. She was hungry, this was certain, but wasn't it almost lunchtime? What if she went somewhere and the breakfast menu was not available? What if she went somewhere and the lunch menu was not available? What if she ... Twilight paced faster making herself hungrier and accomplishing the opposite of solving her problem. Perhaps she should just wait? No. That was not an option. She was hungry now. She'd been drinking coffee all morning and was feeling weak and irritable and she needed food. She had sehr hungrig! But for breakfast or lunch? Did she want eggs? Did she want a sandwich? Did she want a salad? Did she want an egg salad sandwich? And was such a thing socially acceptable at any time of the day? No, it was not socially acceptable to eat an egg salad sandwich. And it was monday, so brunch was also not socially acceptable. No, it was too much. Too confusing. And she was so, so, so hungry and she had drank so, so, so much coffee. Her bladder was bursting! Disgusting! I know! "I know!" Twilight stopped for a beat, but let it go on too long. Dammit. Well, this silence is pretty awkward, since you know what comes next anyway. And what comes next? Twilight Sparkle decided to just go and kill everybody. Time is a social construct, after all, and if there is no one other than her in society, well, then, there would be no pressure about what or when or where to eat! Or to pee! Disgusting! I know! Hurrah! Twilight Sparkle approached the cafe--down where she coulda gone and just ordered off of whichever menu the waitress offered but she decided to just go and kill everybody instead--like a thunderhead. Which is not to say she was peeing everywhere. Although she was. Disgusting! I know! But she was also thunderhead like in her having violence and inevitability and hunger. Her first target hove into view and she struck him with a lightning bolt. "Oh no! I have been struck by lightning!" Shouted the pony who had been struck by lightning! "But, by a fortuitous circumstance, I happen to be wearing a grounding vest! This vest has protected my life and well-being! Unfortunately, the vest is only good for one use! So I hope not to be struck by lightning a second time!" Twilight, still very much like thunderhead and still peeing everywhere (she had a large bladder--Disgusting! I know!) rallied herself again. "Oh no! I have been struck a second time by lightning! However, it seems through a once-again fortuitous circumstance, my vest still protected me somewhat! I have been a little burnt and my heart may be experiencing arrhythmia, but I shall no doubt be fine so long as I am not struck by lightning a third time and carry myself to a hospital forthwith!" Twilight gritted her teeth--less like a stormhead now as her bladder, though large, was also finite and nearly empty--still disgusting, though! I know!--and struck once more. "Oh no! I have been struck by lightning a third time and the formerly fortunate circumstance of my vest has provided me no protection! I shall now drop stone dead as my internal organs boil!" And he did just so, his intestines leaping out of his mouth and dancing as the sizzled upon the metal table. Twilight laughed maniacly. The ponies at the cafe, who had for some reason not yet reacted to anything, shouted, "here is Princess Twilight Sparkle of Ponyville, our own fair town! She will surely explain why that pony was struck by lightning so many times so close together until he died, and also what she means by laughing maniacly and having peed everywhere!" "Disgusting!" shouted one. "I know!" shouted another. "Oh no! We are in hazard for our lives!" the pony chorus added as the cafe burst into flames around them. "What could this mean?" "It means that I, Twilight Sparkle of Ponyville my own fair town, have decided to kill all of you and am doing so." And so it happened that the cafe was all burnt away and turned to ash and set afloating on the wind. The life and energy of those consumed not lost, merely transformed as all energy must be and set free to find itself again and again in each cycle of eternal Being. And so it also happened that now it was 11:01 AM and, undeniably, this was the lunch time, but the cafe had been destroyed and so Twilight Sparkle had no choice but to continue on her path and kill everyone. Hours later Twilight Sparkle tossed her ragged jagged hairy merry mess of a mane in the sparkling sparking of the flames as her teeth ground home on the bones of someone else’s dearly departed. After a crack, crack, pop the marrow rolled fresh and hot down her opened throat and filled her belly. She didn’t need lunch where she’d gone, which was good because it was 3:23 PM and not lunchtime, but not quite dinnertime either. Also she was peeing everywhere, not because she had to, but just because she was marking her territory! Disgusting! I know! But soon the time would come when no one was left alive to judge her for engaging in cannibalism or bathroom activities outside of the officially recognized meal hours. Or that’s what our dear hero thought to herself before a brilliant light came scream swooping down before her. There she was, Princess Celestia of Equestria! "Princess Twilight Sparkle of Ponyville, the fair town of many formerly living ponies," boomed Princess Celestia of Equestria, "I am very peeved with you and you must stop this at once." "What are you going to do about it?" "I have brought these!" Princess Celestia of Equestria lifted the Elements of Harmony. "Those are of no use to you." "There is more than one way to use an Element of Harmony," Princess Celestia of Equestria said, and flung the Element of Honesty at Twilight's poor, purple face. "Ow! That really hurt!" Twilight blinked furiously and got hit in the leg with the Element of Kindness. "Who throws a-- Stop it!" Twilight whined as the Element of Generosity winged her ear. "I will not stand by and let you murder my little ponies." Twilight ducked under the incoming Element of Magic and frowned. "You are being really immature right now." "You are a mass murderer," replied Princess Celestia of Equestria as she pelted Twilight with another Element. "Fine, you want to know how it feels?" Twilight snarled as she flung the Element of Kindness back and hit Princess Celestia of Equestria square in the chest. "That's how it-- Hey watch it! That one has sharp edges!" Twilight rubbed her eye where the jagged bit on the Element of Loyalty had struck her. "No fair throwing two at a time!" Celestia shouted as she took two blows across the chest. "You started it!" And in Ponyville to this day they say that if you listen carefully on a quiet afternoon you can still hear the voices of the two immortal Princesses as they whine and pelt each other with jewelry forever. And also just eat a piece of bread or something if you're hungry before lunchtime. No one likes a cannibal. Author's Note
The Last Magician (EqG -- Trixie & Twilight & Spike)The Last Magician's tattered blue cape flutters in the air behind her as she scurries down toward the shore. Sand pushes in through the hole-ridden soles of her shoes, rubbing her blistered feet as she catches up with the crowd walking toward the shore. She runs in circles among them performing small, stupid tricks and calling for their attention. No one is much amazed, but they might have admired her persistence as she guessed the contents of their pockets and breathlessly thrust her fanned out cards into their weathered faces. It is impossible to tell if she is accurately guessing the cards they hold in their hands, as the bleeding, hollow sockets of her audience can perceive nothing but the need for cooling ocean waters, and the cards slip--uncared for--out of their stiff fingers and litter the ground. Undeterred by their lack of enthusiasm, she continues to run about whining and shouting and flinging fireworks that contest vainly against the writhing lightning of the dying sky until at last they reach the water. The Last Magician's ragged hair, streaked with grease and blood and riddled with the small bones of the last hat-broken rabbit, flaps against her spine and ribs jutting wickedly from her starving back and her sunken chest with indifference. It has been neither groomed nor cut since this began. She stands before them one last time, her arms thrust to either side in a manner symptomatic of a crippling crucifixation, and announces to one and every deaf ear that she is the GREAT AND POWERFUL TRIXIE. A wave from behind knocks her to her knees, steals her hat and shoves her face into the moist sand. As she struggles against the water around her, around her the last audience passes without pausing, and before she rises to her feet sputtering and rubbing furiously at her eyes, they will have vanished into the waters leaving only a pink foam to rise in their wake. The GREAT AND POWERFUL TRIXIE returns, slowly to her hideout by the dunes. Searching her hair for scraps of rabbit, she discovers instead a stranded mollusk. Sucking out its meat, she finds it good. The Last Magician, the GREAT AND POWERFUL TRIXIE and Queen Novo's Last Hierophant lay in the sand, licking at the bounty of the sea. The sea is greedy in these days, and her feeble offering shouldn't have been enough for three, but by the truly trinitarian miracle of all three being the same person, they were able to briefly silence their stomach with canned tuna. It was at least as much a miracle that the can bore a picture of the Queen of the Sea Ponies upon its side, the GREAT AND POWERFUL TRIXIE could have found himself worshiping a fucking talking fish. How's that for a look, Snails, she thought. Not good, your Great and Powerfulness, she thought back for herself. Where had they all gone, anyway? Into the ocean or into the fire? The can had washed up on the shore that morning, perhaps as repayment by Queen Novo for swallowing all of her audiences. The GREAT AND POWERFUL TRIXIE will never be sure if the trade was a good one or not: she couldn't amaze the chopped fish, but she couldn't eat the staggering masses. Her reverent licking is interrupted by a sharp pain in her mouth and the feel of blood running down her chin. In a sudden panic she moves her fingers around within her mouth. Her voice is nowhere to be found. Not even back toward the depths of her tonsils. She thrusts her fingers as far back as she can without losing the fish that had cost her so dear in trade. Nothing. Nothing at all. Her voice is utterly gone. Prodding through the sand and blood mingling at her feet doesn't bring anything up either. She does find a rather accidental corpse, his bloated stupid face reminds her of something she is already forgetting. Scrambling through his pockets, she produces a pen and begins scribbling her name across a piece of paper. Engrossed in creating a name for herself, she doesn't notice the arrival of her two guests until he--the corpse--hears a voice from her feet and alerts her to it. Abandoning her banner (THE GRAT AND POWERFULL TRIKSEE didn't really know how to spell anyway) she turns downward to see a purple dog writhing along the ground like a worm. Its stumps twist uselessly in the air like the arms of a feeble swimmer as its belly performs the work of four. “I said Hello there,” the dog repeats. The GREAT AND POWERFUL TRIXIE panics, but is amazed to discover her stage voice, hidden deep in her chest, is still present. The stage voice doesn't contain many words, but it can at least announce the most great and powerful name on Earth. “My name is Spike,” says the dog, “and hers is Twilight Sparkle. How long have you been here?” The Last Magician draws a pocket watch from her sleeve and sweeps her finger around the circumference as if clearing the dust. “Even before?” the dog and girl both looked up at the sky, jet black streaked with browns resembling rust and slightly different browns resembling shit. Periodically lightning lit the sky, but so far in the distance that the sound could not be heard. Or perhaps the sound of the lightning was the dull background howl. The ever present howling of the fears. The GREAT AND POWERFUL TRIXIE nods and repeats the sweeping gesture before the pocket watch vanishes. Her hands soon follow suit, and the Last Magician drops to her knees before looking at the dog in curiosity. “We were hungry,” the dog explains, “so I ate her arms. In return, I allowed her to eat my legs.” This seems inefficient to the GREAT AND POWERFUL TRIXIE, an opinion which she expresses by taking three balls from her pocket and rolling them in her palm until only one remains. This argument would have given the dog pause, if it still had legs on which to receive them, but he continued, “A full stomach is a difficult thing to come by.” The GREAT AND POWERFUL TRIXIE can think of one final comment, but first she holds out one hand, indicating no desire to give offense. she reaches into her mouth and pulls a string of rags forth, layering them onto the dog. “My girl used to be a ventriloquist among her many talents and pursuits before I ate her arms.” Spike replies. “It was my prideful duty to retrieve her voice for her after she had thrown it and bring it back safely that she may retrieve it, but that was before I ate her arms. With no limbs to retrieve her voice from my mouth, I am left to carry it for her and speak for both of us.” The GREAT AND POWERFUL TRIXIE pointed at the girls' bare feet, and the dog laughed, “Whoever heard of a woman talking with her feet, simply absurd.” Thumping on the ground, thumping in her chest, a rush of hot air on the back of her neck, smelling like a compost heap, sweet and vile and rotten. The scent of massacred salads and slaughtered gardens. Beneath crazed, bloodshot eyes snap teeth as long as her sleeves (which have nothing in them) and sharp as the saw she once used to cut foolish assistants in half. One ton of rage driven by two fur covered pistons, each the size of tree trunks. Gnawed electrical cables dangle from its jaws like drool, unclipped claws shred the ground like scythes, shotgun pellet saliva fires with each panting breath, ripping the Last Magician's legs out from under her. Helpless, she turns to face the Revenge of Rabbits. Oresteius cuniculus. With a shout the Last Magician surges to her feet. In the distance, a bitter red light makes a brief appearance. Dawn's rosy finger sweeping through the coin slot between the black overhang of human apocalypse and the horizon soon to leave again, disheartened and disappointed. The day would come when the sun didn't bother to make the attempt at all, and on that day there would be nothing to stop the dream before the Revenge of Rabbits got to her. The Last Magician shudders in the cold morning. Except that, rabbits had been vegetarians hadn't they? If anything was still vegetarian. Or if everything had not become a vegetable. The Last Magician sweeps her toes through the sand at her feet, seeking life or water. Finding only slightly damp sand, she sticks a handful in her mouth and sucks as much of the moisture out as possible. She has lost her name now somehow, although she can't recall. She stands, her pale silhouette brief and blue and hopeless for just a moment against the crack and fire of the celestial rage let loose upon the world and then, an instant later, the sun is completely gone again and she is lost in darkness. Perhaps this time forever. The Last Magician waits for nothing. No one is coming. No more shows. No more crowds. No more competition. No more fear. Peace and security at last, of a sort, and in the distance, an island of dead bodies swirls, caught up with plastics and dead fish. Spitting into her hand, the Last Magician returns to her campsite to turn tricks for herself, if she can still remember the cups and balls and wands. And if she can forget the rabbits. Author's Note There are somethings somedays that do not die someways. And perhaps you also find some strange wonder in that.
Bean Stealing Bears (FiM -- Fluttershy & Applejack & Rarity & Rainbow Dash & others)“Those are my beans!” Rainbow Dash and Rarity looked at each other in surprise at Applejack’s distant outburst. The three friends and their miniature sisters and hanger’s on were out camping again. Applejack had stopped to observe something wild apple related and was currently out of sight, making strange noises. Applejack made another strange sound. It was the sound of her shouting, “Give me back my beans, bear!” And then she whooped. “That’s the sound Applejack makes when a bear steals her beans and she wants them (the beans) back,” said Applebloom. That sounded like as good an explanation for why Applejack would make that sound as any, so everyone grabbed up themselves and headed toward the sound’s origination. A bear was indeed in possession of a large sack of dried beans from the dry goods store and Applejack was indeed making further noises at him implying that he had not purchased those beans himself, but had instead stolen them from her. With six ponies shouting and throwing rocks at him, the bear panicked and fell stone dead of a heart condition caused by eating too much rich pony food as opposed to his natural diet. "That must have been scary, thinking about having your beans stolen like that," said Scootaloo. “No. I have seen the face of the bear that will steal my beans,” said Applejack and stared into the distance as one who has seen the face of the bear who would one day steal her beans. She shifted her weight and adjusted her hat and added, “his face will be furry.” “This one’s face is fairly furry,” said Rarity as she turned over the dead bear's head in her hooves and admired its fairly furried face, nicely sharply toothy mouth. “No, it will be furry differently.” “Oh?” “Yep,” was all Applejack replied and she adjusted her hat. … … … !? “Well,” Rarity cleared her throat, “we should probably do something about this.” “Kill all the bears.” Scootaloo nodded sagely and Rainbow Dash agreed. It was the sort of thing she might be good for. Applejack shook her head at their naivety. “Do you have any idea how many bears there are?” “Many?” “Many manies and muchly muches of bears, at least,” said Applejack and stared into the distance as one who has seen a great number of bears on the move. She shifted her weight and adjusted her hat and added, “probably a few severals as well.” “So what do we do?” “Let’s blame Fluttershy!” Sweetie Belle shouted. It was her only line and she delivered it with gusto and Rarity was so proud of her. “Sounds good.” And so they did. And this is how they did it. What happened was: Rarity said: “Fluttershy, you have simply got to quit feeding bears!” And how Fluttershy replied was: “But, bears are my friends!” But Rainbow Dash got to be the voice of reason for once and say: “No, Fluttershy, bears are wild animals and wild animals need to stay wild.” “But interfering in ecosystems in a destabilizing and potentially catastrophic way is pretty much the only thing I do,” is how Fluttershy replied to that. “Catastrophic?” Is a word said by several! “We destroyed the town with that bunnies thing once,” Fluttershy explained. “It really wasn’t destroyed,” Applejack clarified. And some ponies asked: “Wasn’t it?” “No?” Rarity was confused by the direction the dialogue had taken, although she didn’t necessarily say “no.” Anyone could have said that! This is a problem! “Look, Fluttershy, darling," Rarity was unsure who had been speaking (other than to know it wasn't Sweetie Belle because she only had one line in this story) and wanted to press through with this in a hurry (too late for that, ma chérie, this sentence has cancer of the parentheticals), "we love you, but feeding bears is illegal. And you … you’re feeding a bear right now.” “No,” Fluttershy lied as she placed a bean into a bear’s open mouth. “Stop doing that.” “I did.” Fluttershy handed a bear a piece of cake and it growled ominously at the ponies. “No, you haven’t, you’re still feeding bears.” “No, I mean, I did do the thing you told me not to do. To feed the bears, I did that. And I'm about to do it again.” And Fluttershy threw a wide selection of sweet and salty snacks to the gigantic omnivores. “Ok, but now stop.” “But they're so cute with their fairly furried faces and nicely sharply toothy mouths.” “Please.” “Fine," Fluttershy pouted, "but you have to start treating the wilds with more respect. I’ve watched you camping--secretly from the bushes where I hide and spy--and you do not take any steps to insure that your food is kept safe from bears or other wildlife.” “We sleep with our food in our tents and we’ve never had any problems," Rainbow Dash objected because she was chronically irresponsible enough to do that. “That is not an adequate food protection system and you know it. You should at least hang your food in a bear bag, and depending on the species of bears prevalence and the likelihood of bear and human interaction, you might need to start carrying a bear canister.” “But bear canisters are awkward and heavy!” Everyone present protested! “You have to set a good example,” said Fluttershy, “for the children.” “For the children,” everyone responded in a low chanting voice. “For us?” Applebloom asked. “No, not for you,” replied Applejack and stared into the distance as one who is not doing something for her little sister, “for the children.” “For the children,” everyone responded in a monotone. Author's Note A very good story with very good moral.
Ash and Cinder (FiM -- Rarity & Applejack)—hey, sugarcube? No sound but the sound of tramping hooves on gravel. Ash uncoils itself across the plain. Dead trees creak as they lean against the breeze. —um, hey? The silence stretches on again and then another voice. —yes, darling? —where we headed? The hoof steps continue. Step after step crunches and reverberates against a slate grey sky. Chapped lips smack together and throw a gob of spit to splatter among dead grass. She swallows and coughs and clears her throat preparing to repeat herself, but is interrupted by the clearer voice. —elsewhere. —sounds right enough. Hours pass and are marked only by the crunch of gravel. —y'all think anyone else made it? The gravel crunches underhoof. There is nothing else to hear. No birds sing. The sky darkens by a degree. It is miraculous how things can always afford to get darker. The rock face looms bare. Claw marks deface it with obscene figures. Soot fills in the gaps. Grey shades twist in agony. They will dance and dance and never die. A fire barely illuminates the two faces around it. Their hooves, dry and rotten through, hold over the flames. —hey, sugarcube? —yes, darling? —how much farther you think it's gonna be? The fire lunges. The fire retreats. —to where? —where y'all are headed. The fire swirls around borrowed roots. It learns its own language. It speaks in squeals and pops. —aren't you coming with me? —i can't be certain if i don't know where y'all are headed. One hoof barely white under the dust that clings to it reaches across and clings to another hoof faintly tan under the dust that clings to it. —i can't get there if you aren't with me. —but where? The fire mutters its strange language. It never learns but it discovers itself each moment. Wild and ambitious until the last ember is consumed. But the forests are gone now and there is nowhere left to live in but this pit. And the pit's mouth is filling with ash. —hey, sugarcube? The rockface is invisible now. Their fire is dead. There is no moon. —hey, sugarcube? Something rustles in the ash. It groans. —yes, darling? —you awake? —i am now. —i can't seem to sleep. —have you tried closing your eyes? —how can i tell if they're closed? it's all dark. —you're not going to tell me you're afraid of the dark now? It smooths the ash with it's hooves. A blanket spread out beneath it. —aren't y'all? The ash scrapes. The ash displaces. —i am. —and how do y'all deal with it? —i don't. i'm just too tired not to sleep. The ash-silt whistle-slidles slips on the wind-slipping. It pauses. It is restless. —sugarcube? The ash will never settle. The ash will never die. —sugarcube? —i'm right here, darling. In the darkness, one hoof snakes out another. They cling together desperate against the dying. —hey, sugarcube? It wasn't quite a fork in the road. Just two alien paths meeting in the plain. The one of gravel they had been walking on, and then a second one. A deep furrow ripped in the ground. They stood together in the ditch. A muddy trickle of water slurried through the bottom of the furrow around their hooves. —yes, darling? —what do y'all suppose made these tracks? The temperature settles another degree. Some demon or monster has been here. It's ominous tracing now etched permanently upon the earth. She shudders and grips the edges of the cloak toward her against the dead wind. It is miraculous how things can always afford to get colder. —i'd prefer not suppose. —but, supposing ya had to suppose. The sides of the ditch rose over their heads. Together they pull clods of earth down and their own bodies up. Her formerly white forehooves scramble against the mud as she struggles to pull herself upward. Her mismatched rags catch on the edges of the ditch. Her purple mane fading to grey hangs sweat soaked over her back. She struggles. Her voice is a grunt. —i'd suppose it was some kind of snake. The other starts and slides back into the ditch. She drops into a crouch beneath the unicorn. She grips her hat with one hoof. She ducks. She scours the ground for the sight of a serpent as if she wasn't surrounded by the proof of its passing. As if she could look down on what did this. —why'd y'all have to say snake? With an unladylike growl the unicorn hauls herself upward. Her belly scrapes along the edge of the furrow. She stands. She turns to the earth pony who remains below. —because snakes don't have claws. —claws or fangs. it ain't much of a choice. —i'd prefer no claws. i'd also prefer to move on from here. She leans over the ditch. Her hooves reach down and grasp the hooves of her companion. Her back arches. A staircase spine presses against the inside of her hide. She hauls the pony toward her. Together they grunt and struggle. Hindhooves of the earth pony claw the sides of the ditch and kick loose, dead earth free. Finally, like a cork from a bottle, she pops upward and lands beside the unicorn. They sprawl. They lay together in the ash. The solid wall of cloud passes above, split by tendrils of free radicals erupting in the upper atmosphere. —you're very light, darling. —you're very thin. —i have been dieting. —y'all will fit a size zero in no time. Their laughter is dry and quiet. The faded sun brings no warmth to their faces. Limp and bedraggled manes hang like dead standards of dead armies. Only their eyes shine now. —hey, sugarcube? —yes, darling? —y'all suppose you've got enough firewood? A pile of limbs mounted higher than either of them. She went back into the darkness and returned again with her mouth full of twigs. —i want to make sure there is enough. —for what? —to keep the fire up all night. —why? She wanted to say, so you won't be afraid. She wanted to say, because I can't stand it when you're scared. She wanted to say so much. She didn't. She just ventured back into the dark for more wood. There was no hurry. The fear wasn't going anywhere. The dark wasn't going anywhere. Not for a long time. Forever is a very long time for a mortal. Not for a god, though. Or a monster. Or anyone who lives forever, then it is just the blink of an eye. Forever and it is gone. —hey, sugarcube? —i have a name you know, darling. —i've got a name, too, and it ain't darling. A mountain rises to the left. It is only visible in its outline limned by fire. The form of a tower juts out from it. Tall and proud and stupid and dying like everything is and had ever been. —so we're agreed then? we both have names? —yes. Not even the faintest rumble can be heard from this distance as the tower breaks. It may as well be on the moon. It crumbles, disintegrating as it falls as it returns to the earth as it becomes a landslide sliding silently into the dark. No sound but the crunch of dust and gravel underfoot. No light but the distant flames. And Things move amongst the flames. Immense Things. Horrible Things. Shadow gods. —it just don't feel right to say a name. that's all. —it doesn't. The world disappears within outstretched wings as one of the Things passes, miles away but still blotting out the pale sun. Then it is passed as if it never was. The fires again, highlighting the horizon. The mountain continues to stand and perhaps it will stand forever, but no trace of the tower remains. No trace of the city. No trace of the gods. —y'all suppose it will ever feel right again? No answer. They carry on. The mountain fades from sight as they continue through the forever twilight. —hey, sugarcube? —yes, darling? The ground has been rising for the past day. They're approaching the mountains. The peaks are still invisible. Clouds of ash blot the air before them, promising the things lost to them are concealed with just another step. —why don't y'all ever say anything? —don't be ridiculous, i'm saying something right now. —that's not what i meant. —then you should have spoken clearer. —hey, She coughs. Hacks. Her spit spatters thicker now. Ripe ropes shot through with red life. But the hoofsteps don't stop. The gravel keeps crunching. —hey, sugarcube? —yes, darling? —do y'all suppose it hurts? Now the gravel stops crunching. —what do you suppose hurts? The silence spreads out to fill the space it finds and it settles like the heavy ash that falls to cover the ground in thick waves of luxuriant grey like the heavy blankets that once swaddled an infant with so much potential to give to the world. —y'all know what I mean. —then it doesn't need to be said. Dawn stretches its rosy red finger through the coin slot left between the horizon and the sky. Everyday it has made this abortive attempt, stretching a sole digit hoping to find life before abandoning the earth behind impenetrable clouds. Someday, it won't even make that effort. —hey, sugarcube? —yes, darling? —is it morning? is the sun up? —what a silly question. of course it is. —i think, She coughs. Spits. Thick phlegm settles in the ash. —i can't. —can't what? —don't you see? —see what? —i ... i ... can't. She looks up. Beneath her faded hay hair, her eyes are running with yellow pus. The orbs can't focus. Pupils now colorless float grey upon curdled milk. Green is gone from the world. —i can't see. why can't i see you? what's, She coughs again. Spits. More phlegm joins the fluid puddle at her hooves. —what's happening? —shhhh, shhhh, shhhh, shhhh, shhhh, shhhh She says nothing else. Just grips her blind friend in her hooves and holds them together. Waits as her friend sobs. —i'm scared of the dark. it can't be dark. Rarity, don't let it be dark. i need to see. —shhhh, shhh, shhh, shhh, shhh, shhh, shhh —help me. —shhh, shhh, shhh, shhh, shhh, shhh, shhh —help me, please. —i can't. —i'm scared, Rarity. —i know. The day passes them over together. The night returns and brings it's indiscriminate dark. She makes no fire tonight. The warmth of her body will have to be enough. —hey, sugarcube? —yes, darling? —what are you doing? —i'm tying us together. Her horn strains to accomplish even this. Feeble light strains against a piece of ribbon. —don't be getting no funny ideas now. —i wouldn't dream of it. —i can still buck like a draft horse. The rope holds them together. Their sides press. Their ribs interlock through paper skin. They start to walk again. One is blind. Both stumble. It is terrible how things continue to live. —hey sugarcube? The head lolls on her shoulder. The unicorn drags herself and her companion forward with a mindless perseverance. Always forward. —yes, darling? —did y'all ever decide where we were going? —somewhere better. Always forward. —hey, sugarcube? —yes, darling? —thanks. —for what? She stumbles to the left. The familiar weight isn't pressed against her side anymore. In a daze, she turns to see her companion sitting in the gravel. The shredded ribbon lays between them. —darling? Her bony haunch is visible through loose skin. Her head swings back and forth. Her chest heaves. Her sunken stomach sucks in and spills out. —darling? Her legs tremble. The corners of her eyes twitch. Her freckles stand out as livid white spots. Her mouth hangs open revealing yellowed teeth and blackened gums. —Applejack? —i'm, Applejack tries to spit. The thick clot only droops out from her lip in ropey strands. Red and brown and green, the brightest colors this season. The brightest colors ever again and they swing from her tan lip. —I'm real sorry. She lays down. Her dead eyes point aimlessly forward. She retches. There is nothing left to come up. —Applejack, don't There is no sound in response. The sky flashes white then grows even. The afterimage of crags and broken stone and heaving earth and spreading stone and dead and dead and dead, dead, dead desert for miles. —Applejack, There is nothing but slate from here to eternity. —don't leave me here. The road goes on alone. Author's Note This one doesn't follow a neatly demarcated Three Act structure and also is very dark and the "jokes" are not really jokes. It does follow the pattern of the odd numbered stories being apocalyptic, though. Anyway.
Excerpts from a Review of "We Must Have Forgotten History" (EqG -- Twilight Sparkle & Others)Slandered by supportive critics, lionized by public disapproval, blamed for teen suicides, and briefly utilized as a tool for Enhanced Detention, We Must Have Forgotten History; How Else Could We Be Surprised? is perhaps the least understood and most rarely sought out album in the phlegmatic ocean of teen pop to come out of what is now known as The Quarantine, but was once Canterlot High. Twilight Sparkle, who has written multiple papers on the use of music and ominous chanting to enforce group cohesion, referred to We Must Have Forgotten as, “the equivalent of a pack of monkeys who have been surgically modified so that their hoots resemble screams encouraging the listener to commit suicide as they bang against the bars of their cage … a verbal assault carried out on accident by the immediate perpetrators as those who orchestrate the plan fly away with clean hands … maliciousness redoubled by the distance of whatever force set these creatures loose upon our unsuspecting world.” It is uncertain whether she was referring to the album as a whole, or if she is literally describing the first track in which the entire band screams illegibly and urges the listener to kill themselves in semi-simian hoots and grunts. Some scholars have in this sentence hypothesized that the band may have been literally caged during recording. A drug called Memesis--which was big upon the streets at the time--was responsible for their ignorance of the words spilling from their mouths. This dedication to effect through affect should be given its full due. We Must Have Forgotten History; How Else Could We be Surprised? is a scathing attack on the High School-Industrial complex that currently rules our every step. “80% of the population live in a perpetual adolescence … working part time jobs associated with the eternal High School, and the other 20% have been permitted only to work as administrators, teachers or other professions that require leaving the High School grounds.” This, Twilight has repeatedly argued, is a clear example of the 80/20 rule in action, a rule which states that 80% of the people who mention the 80/20 rule are cliche spouting idiots with no real idea what they're talking about, and the other 20% are writing about land ownership in 19th century Italy. The never named band were inspired in their work by the philosopher Lint, who argued that nothing True needs to be stated or believed, since being True it can exist without comment. Citing Bakunin, he reminded everyone of what they already knew by imagining a legal office dedicated to proclaiming the laws of physics. He further went on to apply this example to music, stating if that music wanted to express the True, it would do so by not existing and being ignored. Like all of Lint’s followers, they applied his advice by ignoring it and proceeding to make hideous, idiotic noise for as long and loud as their lungs would carry them. “Sunrise over the Gas Station” is a song about still being awake at 8 AM after a three day bender and still incomprehensibly drunk and realizing there are some things that it is worth going blind to stare directly into. The bass riffs are reminiscent of purple cloud rising out of a crack in the forest while the drum beat evokes the feeling of being in a grimy hotel and walking up the stairs and seeing doors you didn't know you'd passed close out of the corner of your eye. The album has, of course, never been heard in its completeness due to the absence of the thirteenth track, titled “Homage to Cybernetics.” The third part of a trilogy called “Black Hole of Autism,” this song could not be recorded and is represented by a gap between the twelfth and fourteenth track. When the gap between tracks was reached, the band would bombard listeners with antiaircraft shells until their message had gotten through. Though this track has never been experienced as intended due to the difficulty experienced by high school students attempting to acquire artillery, it has nevertheless been hugely influential. The band Celestia’s Richtus routinely carried rifles on stage which they would fire over the crowd while the crowd fired back, with both sides deliberately missing. At some point, a member of the audience who had not gotten the message about the message he was supposed to receive fired directly at the band, resulting in a three-hour firefight that killed four, left seventeen injured, and seriously jeopardized Celestia’s Richtus’ touring cycle. The court eventually found that analytical philosophy was not legally binding, confirming what many had long-feared: that the judicial system was a hive of postmodernist, out-of-touch intellectuals that just don't understand the world from outside of their ivory towers. The law carried on, however, just as bacteria and life do in the face of outrage from all corners. We will take our final words from the group's lyricist, who agreed to be interviewed once and only once. Descending from the ceiling on a cartilage rope with a bundle of papers in one hand and an air horn in the other, he agreed to be asked just one question. Three reporters and an equal number of Rod Serling impersonators were present for this singular event. After a great deal of debate and squabbling and other words just as valueless and meaning the same thing, one reporter clambered on top of the heads of the others to cry out, “is this for real?” He looked up from the text and said, “of course it is not for real. It is a collection of shapes which are interpreted according to pre-existing patterns within your head. If it were real I’d crack that head open with a damn hammer and show you the patterns myself.” He then proceeded to make threatening gestures while blasting his air horn, and two months later he died. Author's Note Nevermind. This is now the end now. Goodbye. Just a series of dreams, the world around you ain't what it seems.
