Not Like the Good Old Days
Randolph took a good whiff of the summer air, and right away he knew something was amiss. Across the road, his neighbor attempted the same but was bested by a coughing fit.
Randolph leaned to the edge of his rocking chair. ”Goodness gracious, Mr. Waddle! Are you o-k?”
Waddle thumped his chest. ”‘M okay, Randolph.” He cleared his throat a couple of times. “Just the ol’ lungs getting on in years.”
”You sure?" Randolph asked from his front porch. "‘Cause I can tell there’s something funny in the air.” Waddle sniffed the air.
”No, I think that's just the way it is these days. It's not the same as it was when we were younger."
Randolph hummed thoughtfully and leaned back. His eyes went up to the sky, which happened to be a beautiful shade of pink today. Yet, he couldn’t quite make out what the panicked screams, coming from the Rich Mansion behind his cottage, were saying. ”Maybe you’re right… for once.”
”Oh, har-de-har.”
An adolescent earth pony stallion came running down the dirt road between their houses, a fillyish scream leaving him at a volume and length that either spoke of impressive lung capacity or royal heritage. By the time Randolph managed to lean forward enough to look, he had already vanished over a nearby hill.
Looking down, Randolph could barely see the road with his graying eyes. That may also have been because his house was hovering a good hundred feet in the air, however. Across the road, his neighbor's point of view was quite topsy-turvy: Mr. Waddle had to peer upwards, past the floorboards, to meet his gaze. In short, his house was teeter-tottering on its steeple.
”Wasn’t that the Apples’ cousin?” Mr. Waddle asked once he had finished coughing out the dust the colt had kicked up. ”You know the lad, what’s-his-name?”
Randolph rolled something in his mouth as he mulled the question over. ”Caramel," he finally supplied. "A funny lad once you get to know him, but lazy as a sloth.”
Caramel’s screams of terror could still be heard coming from over the hill. ”Somepony help!”
”Always looking for ways to skip work.”
”Discord has returned and is destroying the town!”
”But at the same time incredibly ambitious. He tackles all his hobbies with a fiery passion.”
”Why is my house on fire?!”
”A common pony.”
”Why is my house the only one on fire?!”
”But deep down, he’s a good lad, with a very positive outlook on life. He can find the silver lining on even the darkest of clouds.”
”Could this day possibly get any worse?!”
”Although—” Randolph grunted and sat up very slightly straighter. ”He could stand to learn a great deal about being a stallion. A little good, honest work would do him a world of good. Wipe all that sissiness outta him.”
There was a brief moment of silence. Then a particularly shrill scream tore through the air.
”Why is there a hydra in my bedroom?!”
”Gosh,” Waddle gushed. ”How do you know the kid so well?”
Randolph shrugged. The flabby skin on his shoulders rippled and waved. ”The lad’s my third cousin twice-removed or something. Us Apples have gotten kinda big—‘reckon just about half the town is related.”
And again, Randolph tried to straighten himself. ”A couple of fellers in the Royal Guard even. Toughest bunch I’ve ever known, dagnabbit.”
“Careful,” Waddle tutted. ”You don’t want to sprain something.”
But the head-butler and senior of all three other servants on Filthy Rich’s payroll wasn’t going to take any unintended insult lying down. Especially since he had been trying to sit up for the past ten minutes. ”'Oi, I ain’t some frail two-bit nanny!” Randolph pointed a wavering forehoof at his neighbor. ”Why, if Master Rich asked me to, I would take on Discord and Nightmare Moon. Blindfolded.”
Mr. Waddle yawned and leaned his head on his forehoof. ”Calm down, Randolph," he said. "Or you just might get your wish. Nightmare Moon came back—it’s only a matter of time before Discord does too.”
”Ah, sure." Randolph blew a raspberry. "And one day, pigs fly.”
*Oink
Randolph stopped rocking in his chair. He blinked and then slowly turned his head.
Several somewhat confused moments later, Randolph’d pieced together that the creature he was staring in the eye was, in fact, a pig. A pig, hovering in the air by a pair of splendid wings, it's head inside one of his flower boxes.
”Gosh darn it!” Randolph barked at the cloven avian. ”You gluttonous varmint! Shoo! Quit hogging my petunias!”
He took off one of his shoes, wound up his good forehoof (he used to be a hoofball ace back in high school), and threw it with all his might.
The shoe thumped softly onto the porch a couple of feet ahead of him.
The pig gave him one confused look before plunging its head back into the flower trough with a squeal. Soil and pieces of green showered the ground until suddenly, with a snap of mismatched finger and talon, the budding dandelion within grew a lion’s head. The pig let out a traumatized squeal and flapped away.
Then Caramel came running down the road again, yelling over his shoulder. He was mysteriously glazed in some clearish liquid.
”Look, I know you’re a very nice hydra, but I only see you as a friend!”
He disappeared back the way he'd originally come from. Not much later came stomping down the same road a many-headed hydra.
It was a very nice hydra mind you. Like it was nice of her not to trample any more houses on her way.
Randolph was only faintly aware of any of that happening. He cared little. All this time, he'd sat quietly in place, his gaze pinned on the shoe that he’d failed to throw past his own property.
A rainbow supernova shot out of nowhere and everywhere at once, blinding him. When Randolph could see again, the sky was back to its cyan self, the road looked dirty and far too close to his liking, and neither Mr. Waddle nor his house was defying the laws of gravity.
He took another sniff of the air. The smell lingered.
Randolph stared. Randolph waited.
Waddle inhaled. Waddle snored.
The rocking chairs rocked. The rocking chairs squeaked.
”Think I’m gonna go back inside now.” Randolph got up—a procedure that took no less than half a minute to accomplish—and called over his shoulder. ”You take care, you hear?” He stepped inside.
It was light indoors, almost as light as outside. The familiar smell of creosote, the tarred planks on the cottage walls filled the air, and little motes of dust fluttered down from the rafters. Randolph passed by the coat rack, the flag, and the vitrine only to stop smack dab in the middle of his living room.
There were so many pictures on the walls. So many. Randolph tried to look at one, tried to focus on the colors, the contours, the lines, so he could admire it and relive the memory of it, but his eyes would roam, and land on another still image and he would focus on the colors, and the contours and his eyes would roam…
Those brief moments were enough to whisk him away.
His neck soon grew tired of this dance, however, so he sat down. Outside, the Rich Manor loomed over his cottage. The grandfather clock in the corner rang the hour.
”Guess you were right, Mr. Waddle.” The old stallion sighed. ”There’s just no more excitement left in the world.”
Author's Note
Thank you for reading.
