Dreamcatcher

by Lone Writer

Rating: mature
Tags: Suicide / Self Harm, Profanity, Griffons, Slice of Life, Dark, Drama, Original Character, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Other
Length: 6402

Greer, a young writer, wrestles with the struggles of being an artist, mental health, perfectionism, and turning thirty.

I want you to look at the clock. Watch the seconds turn to minutes. The minutes to hours. Study the sounds of the gears inside turning, not because they want to, but because it’s a comfortable habit. It’s safe.

I’ve been staring at that clock for… well I’ve honestly lost count. The blank screen in front of me? Even longer. I’m almost thirty and what do I have to show? No stories.

Not even one.

I’ll fall back into false hope, because it’s a habit. Everyone hopes that stories can be what we need. Teach us lessons about who we really are. Mine? It tells me I’m nothing.

~~~~~~~ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ~~~~~~~

Edited: Chayn & Ahroozle
Cover art by: | Me |

Published 2022-07-17 19:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2023-08-20 05:19:16 UTC

[Insert Chapter Name]

Chapter One:

[Insert Chapter Name]

The skyline of neon dreams couldn’t drown out the static of the sky above the party. All these rich fucks with their wine glasses, cybernetic implants, and blinders to block out the grim of average city life only eighty stories below. They’re lucky the masks prevented me from seeing that smug look, because that red carpet of theirs could use another coat.

“Sir, would you like a glass?”

I stopped leaning on the balcony’s railing just in time to have the waiter’s tray practically shoved into my tux. “Thanks but I don’t drink.”

The pony shrugged and walked off, mostly holding back a scowl of disgust behind their white mask. The world in front of me pulsed out in a bright orange grid as a cell line connected in my eye’s heads-up display.

“Making friends, Smokey?” A voice buzzed in my ear.

“Hexie, I will zip tie your computer shut. Just tell me where the target is.”

“Alright... alright,” Hexadecimal groaned. “Cornicle said they’d be wearing a black and gold half mask tonight.”

“Half mask? Like in Phantom?”

“Wait… you watch musicals?”

“Hexie...” I growled a little.

“Okay!”

How could such a small pony be so annoying sometimes? It is a contract but I hate suits. Plus I was missing an episode of Top Gear at home.

Detrot parties had a sort of… smell versus other megacities. It wasn’t the shitty food on the long serving tables. Not the cigarette smoke, nor alcohol on muzzles and beaks. It wasn’t the gold and ivory pillars holding up the roof. It was something deeper, in whatever flesh these caricatures had left in their polyester shells.

It smelled like the fear of evil people.

Fear of filth like me crashing the party. Fear of others, just as wealthy and fearful, tricking them into giving away all their status. The only thing anyone seemed to care about. Who could blame them? We’re here to pay rent with blood money. Because what’s more scary than a landlord?

I walked through the sliding glass door, heading back inside where most of the guests were gambling away with money they didn’t have in poker, roulette, and slots. Maybe another time I could swindle these fucks out of their money in poker. Another time.

A massive chandelier, made of crystal that was probably imported from the Empire for more than a whole block of housing here, eliminated all trickery and shadows… except for me and her. Hexadecimal stood at the top of a velvet staircase, shifting around the fabric of the slinky red dress she had. Her mane, for once, was worn down over a mascara eye. It must have been natural curly, because I don’t think we own a curling iron. Still, it was weird to see her natural blonde again.

“You found ‘em?” I fixed my tie.

Hexie shook her head before pressing her hoof into her ear. “No, wait! I have—“

“Put your hoof down.”

“But I—“

“Hexie.” I cut off her protest.

She rolled her eyes. “This is why you do the groundwork, choom.”

“No slang, remember? Ha… Well, I hope you’re ready for a crash course,” I smirked as the target started climbing the steps towards her. The pony couldn’t take their eyes off Hexie. “I think they like the dress.”

Target sauntered next to Hexadecimal, turned their head to the side to look her up and down. “You’re quite the exquisite young lady.”

“T-thank you.” Hexadecimal had trouble faking the words.

They raised a hoof to caress her face from check down to the chin. She tried her best not to shudder. “How about we get to know each other a little… better?”

“Lead them to the bathroom,” I spoke as I started trotting there myself. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure Sweet Melody knows it was my plan.”

Tilted my head as a mare stepped out of the bathroom, putting her mask back on, before rejoining the party. I didn’t let the door close before entering. Luckily, it seemed completely empty but to be sure, I pushed open every bathroom stall. No bodies, but I’d rather my brain erased some of what I saw. I picked a stall, making sure the mirrors faced my ugly mug, and squeezed in.

So this was what the top one-percent could pay for a public bathroom? There wasn’t even a bidet, and my apartment had one! Holy shit, these hosts were cheap.

I ripped off my mask putting it on the little jacket hook on the door before levitating a compacted suppressed pistol from my crimson mane. It wasn’t shortly after a flicked off my safety that the door to the bathroom slid open.

“Here? Okay.” The target’s voice echoed off the tiles and in my ear.

A bang and the cracking of glass told me where they were. I peeked through the gap in the door to watch them push Hexie onto the sink, spidering the mirror. As they approached, I opened the stall door slowly. I enjoyed every little expression in that rich fuck’s exposed face as he saw my reflection in the mirror. Lust and joy to not fear, but overflowing anguish. It wasn’t everyday you got to meet a kirin, let alone die to one.

Hexie smirked at him as I squeezed the trigger until…

BEEP BEEP BEEP

~~~~~~~ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ~~~~~~~

“Huh?” My beak hurt, I guess the keyboard wasn’t a great place to sleep. I felt around my desk, knocking over things until I turned off my phone’s alarm.

Did I at least write something?

The blue light of the laptop screen hurt my eyes. I could only squint to read what was on the document program:

The skyline of neon dreams couldn’t drown out the static of the sky above |

The cursor blinked as I stared at the words. I needed to write. The document has been sitting here like this for the past week… Maybe I need more coffee? That would make the pain in my eyes go away at least. Less pain equals less annoyance and more time to think. Think, damn it! I don’t even have a chapter name! Shit, CyberPone has been nothing but fading pulses in the back of my brain. Maybe it’s just pointless? Who knows anymore, because I sure don’t. I can’t even begin. All those ideas and papers for what? A blank screen with an incomplete sentence. What a great trade.

BEEP BEE—

“Shut up.”

BEEP BEep beep …

I tossed that fucking phone across the room, denting the wall before landing on my bed. Well great, another thing to pay for because my phone just couldn’t help but mock me again. I’m up already! What more do you want! Just let me write, okay?!

But it didn’t stop. I pushed my chair away with my wings and finally looked at the cracked screen:

Reminder:

Lunch with Pencil Pusher

“That was…” I squinted. “Fift— Shit!”

I practically leaped into my bathroom and turned on the water, grabbing clawfuls to wash the bags out from under my eyes. The feathers would dry on the flight there… I hope. I slicked back my crest and looked into the mirror.

I looked like a wet chicken. No amount of tricks off the internet was gonna fix that. I stopped halfway through throwing myself out the door of the small studio apartment. I couldn’t leave the water running in the sink again, my landlord would kill me. I switched it off, grabbed my knitted cap and jacket, and raced down the complex into the chilly air of Manehattan.

Yup. Nothing quite like the overpowering smell of sea salt and body spray as you head down the streets. I flew over commuters, families, and homeless folks, which of course meant that most were artists with extreme debt to some art “school” in Canterlot or some city in Coltifornia. Shaking their tin mug hoping somepony will support their dream.

I almost missed the little corner diner, envying those souls’ wills. I grabbed a nearby lamppost to spin me into a stop on the sidewalk. Of course it was stylish, if by stylish you mean eating dust on the ground. Pencil Pusher was staring at me through the window, I could just feel it. He continued doing that as I dusted myself off and walked through the entrance to his window booth.

If the definition of a background character had an example picture, it would be my friend. He was nothing more than varying shades of gray. Bland, boring, walking, breathing gray.

Pencil Pusher sat in silence, unflinching, with his half-full cup of coffee. At first it was fast and thin, but slowly twisted into something more palpable and heavy. The unicorn picked up his phone with his magic to look at the time. He snickered, “Wow. You almost beat your personal record.”

“How many refills you have this time?”

The waitress passing by quickly topped off his coffee. “Eleven.”

“You heard her.”

“Don’t you think that’s bad for your blood sugar?” I snickered.

Pencil Pusher gave a small toast before taking a sip. “Well that's a problem for future me, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, ‘two-hours-from-now-you’ when you’re glued to the toilet like flies on shit.”

He laughed. “It's important shit then! Well…mmm… okay, if you care so much about my drinking habits then let’s make a deal.”

“Oh great, the programmer is gonna give me an ‘if-then’ statement.” I playfully fained terror, throwing my head back. “Someone save me!”

“Funny,” Shaking his head, Pencil Pusher opened his phone to an app before sliding it over to me. Luna’s cutie mark was at the top of screen, I could only assume that copyright cost a shitton of bits, followed by data from a single user: me. “Now I could assume that you just forgot to press the single button every time you went to sleep and every time you woke up, but let’s be honest with each other.”

“Greer, if you sleep more than…” He grabbed his phone, glancing at the screen for a few seconds, before leaning back with a long sigh. “Six hours a week. I’ll stop drinking coffee. Sounds like a fair deal? It does to me.”

“B-but,” I stumbled over my words. “I got important shit to write.”

“Yeah? And when’s the last time you finis— you know what? Scratch that. When was the last time you wrote more than a sentence?”

I shook my head. “Stopping’s not gonna get me closer to that applewood magic than that salt shaker is to it!”

“And staring at a blinking cursor on a screen will?”

“Fuck you.” I hated that shit eating grin he always gave when he knew he had me in a corner. Pencil Pusher downed the rest of his cup before raising it in the air for the waiter to see.

“Sorry bud, but the only ones who get to fuck me are the IRS, Silk Ivory, and Amb—“

“I don’t wanna to hear about your sex life. About how ‘oh I’m fucked! I put the wrong thing in my W9!’” I groaned so hard that I think the blood vessels in my eyes finally popped.

“Well, you need to get a life or start mellowing out with some leaves.” He emphasized the last word with his eyebrows and chuckle. I didn’t find it funny.

“Drugs are a fucking hello kitty bandage to a bullet wound.”

“Yeah, they are. So stop being a little bitch or you're damn well gonna get a Hello Kitty bandage.”

“Can you please be serious?” I groaned, dragging a claw down my face.

“I am. You brought up the Hello Kitty thing!”

“Dude, please. I’m almost thirty! Twilight and her friends saved Equestria – and the world for that matter – way before that! QT was twenty eight when he had his first film hit. What have I done? Thirty in two days, still stocking shelves and not a single finished project to my name. I’m wasting borrowed time and I don’t even know if anyone will even read it.”

I don’t think he really understood, but he's a pony. How could he understand what it was like to be in my hat? Surrounded by strangers that don’t look or act like you? Your family and friends, a whole country away. There’s no way he knew how ponies treated you differently, some subtle with their assumptions and stereotyping in a weird attempt to get fictitious good boy points or something, while others are extremely blatant. I guarantee none of them think I write, or even could write something poetic. No, I had to have arrived for a blue collar job like construction or policing. That’s all griffons do, right? It’s as disgusting as sifting through the clearance food bin at Haymart.

Pencil Pusher’s new, much more stoic expression made me soften mine, if only a little. “Shit, and you think I'm somebody because you see the work I do? Have you seen how barren my portfolio is? Zero working programs. Fucking null. Nada. So what? So, what if you’re not some grand hero or a famous filmmaker? Who cares if you work at the same small store since you were twenty? Art is about creation, not money or fame.”

“That’s the funny contradiction, an artist is loved and dies by an audience, but you’ll probably tell me to just write for myself. That they’ll just come with time. But how the hell is that supposed to beat the teams of larger creators and companies who ultimately pander to their readers with the same gray sludge? It doesn’t. Unless I have money or sell my soul to a company, the chances are slim.” I shrugged.

“I know you won’t sell out. From the passages you send me to analysis and edit, you want to actually say something. Be… avant-garde? I'm pretty sure that’s the word. And that’s good.”

“Pencil, I can only hope for so long before I’m like them.” I gestured outside the window.

“What, forgettable? Friends aren’t forgettable, dumbass. Also we have a word for them: they’re acquaintances. So don’t hope. Act. Also, sorry to switch on you, but have you met with that indie publisher I sent you yet?”

“I can barely remember ninety percent of my ‘friends’ from high school.” I muttered under my breath so he wouldn’t hear the first part. “Oh yeah, that’s tomorrow.”

“Good, then please don’t be late… and also brush your tee— er… beak. Aaa… whatever. I can just tell you had kirin take-out yesterday and probably everyday before that. I know your spending habits.”

I closed my mouth and nodded as he laughed. That’s a little embarrassing, even for me. He gave a loud, long, and exaggerated sigh at the blush heating up my cheeks. “I’m worried, Greer. What if—“

“Don’t worry, I’m not suicidal.” I cut in but he just talked over me.

“What if you finish with this story? Doesn’t matter if it’s successful or a failure. What then?”

I tried to play off the question but he wasn’t having it. “I don’t know… maybe I’ll buy a boat or something with the cash? Live life out on the ocean.”

“Celestia dammit! You’re not listening!” He slammed his hooves on the coffee catching the glares of other patrons. “Sorry. Sorry. But your first fucking thought in the middle of this depressive episode is to buy a boat to get away from people?! Real telling.”

“What? So you're gonna tell me to not think because ‘emotions bad’ for the thousandth time?”

“Oh no, I’m not saying you're wrong for being sad. I’m literally sad all the time. That’s why I drink coffee,” Pencil took a sip before continuing. “But the thing you have to understand is that beating yourself up isn't helping you.”

“I’m just facing reality.”

“That’s not reality. Please get that through your fucking skull.” Knocked on his temples.

“What am I good for then?”

“Don’t ask that question.”

“Why not? Not like there are any other questions currently.” I snickered.

“It’s a toxic tool for you to continue self deprecating. Do you want to explain that part too?” He swore under his breath. “Why do you care so much about the possible opinions of readers?”

“Like I said before it’s the great contradiction—“

“Shut,” He clopped his hooves together for effect. “I don’t want the technical college bullshit. I want your real personal reason.”

My real personal reason… huh? I guess I had to answer, since Pencil Pusher looked like he was ready to pounce across the table, bated breath with pinprick pupils visible and all, to strangle me. But how do I put into words that subconscious feeling of dread every time I touch a keyboard? Such a strong mixture of heart racing desire for recognition and dread of the comments. I guess they’re the same thing in the end, right? In that case…

“I just… I just wanna leave the world better than I found it. I mean, how can you move an audience if no one reads your words? You got a fancy retort for that one?” My attempt at a chuckle was filled with chokes and skips as it was my turn for bated breath.

After a brief pause that felt like forever, he finally took a nice long breath and lowered his tone. “No, but you can’t just retreat back inside that room again.”

“I have to sleep somew—“

“Your head.” He corrected my thoughts.

“Oh,” I rolled my eyes and got up. “This talk again. Look if we’re gonna keep going round and round here. I’m just gonna go home. I got shit to write.”

He gave a tiny nod. “I’ll have to call you tomorrow to ask how the meeting went. Same time on Friday?”

I didn’t even nod to acknowledge what he said. I just turned around and started to leave but a tug of Pencil Pusher’s magic stopped me. He got up from the table himself to wrap a scarf around his neck, after leaving a few bits for the all cups of coffee he ordered, and sighed. “Let me walk with you, at least to the bus stop up the block. We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”

“Okay.”

~~~~~~~ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ~~~~~~~

I locked my apartment door before hanging up my coat and hat. My laptop just stared at me like it was studying my defects. The fan whine was sickly laughter to me. That screen transports you onto a stage where you’re the sole actor. It’s invisible chains that keep you in the prison of spotlights. The audience? The warden. Every movement taken... Every word spoken... Every breath… critiqued and criticized.

I want to be there. I couldn’t explain why. It’s a self destructive addiction to create more and more and more until you decompose back into carbon and blow away. Then the warden would find someone else to love. To hate. To break down into pieces to be studied like a mechanical watch. A never ending, never ending, never ending show.

Just for them.

I can see them. Sitting on my bed, watching through the dark void of space: my webcam. They’ll study the thousands of crumpled up paper balls of ideas that leak onto the floor from my brain. Secrets I’m too afraid of ever letting anyone see. I’m lost, so I go on autopilot. Procrastinate until I'm no longer even a footnote and broke…n.

My body may be in my chair reading, surfing the internet for a spark of inspiration to continue writing but my mind is gone.

I’m in a world of my creation with no walls. A void of complete slate, silent white. It’s where I can be Afterburner. I could be a hero or a villain. A random stranger watching the world end rain down past the skyscraper's window where I wasted too much time at a job I hated. I could be anything, everything. More than… me.

~~~~~~~ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ~~~~~~~

A normal world doesn’t have me. Half pony, half zebra. I’m a freak to them, but I don’t care. I care that they have my brother in a case for testing.

It probably was a normal museum before all the eggheads and guards took it over. Hell, I may have even stolen from it in another lifetime. But now I needed to steal my little brother back.

If only it was easy to get inside, I slipped through a side vent that was just my size. But with the look of the guard ponies by the entrance, I could have walked in with a lab coat with no problems.

“Come on gal, clock’s ticking.” My earpiece buzzed.

I kicked out the duct’s cover and dropped into a closet with shelves of various clean items and equipment. “Don’t worry, my friend. I’m just on time.”

I pulled out a silver pocket watch as the door opened. The mare froze in shock. I use the moment to smack her across the jaw with it, knocking her out cold before she even hit the floor. The janitor’s overall were a little uncomfortable tight, especially across my plot.

“Aeon, did you—“

I cut off the voice in my ear. “Of course, a master thief doesn’t make mistakes.”

“Sure… but you do.”

I dusted off the mare’s blue hoofball hat and put on. “Name on— actually don’t.”

“Did you finally realize I’m right?” The voice snickered.

I giggled into my hoof. “Nope. I just don’t care!”

“Ouch, that hurt. Maybe I should accidentally trip the alarm for payback.”

“Don’t worry, Ice. I’d give you up in a heartbeat in interrogation. Love ya.” I turned off the earpiece and pushed one of the cleaning carts into the hallways. The cover was perfect. Everypony was staying clear of the mare smelling of bleach and aerosol. Even my lungs were burning from all of the bottles and wipes on the cart.

After a few turns, a puking guard, and a patrol trying to catch a stray cat that was making a mess in one of the art display rooms, I reached the main exhibit. The device inside blocked out all moonlight in the sky so flood lamps were used everywhere to see. Screens attached to the massive machine were spitting out numbers faster than the scientists could realistically analyze. I tried not to snicker too loudly as they would scrolled back to record something only to have the line of data lost in the blink of an eye.

Then I saw my brother. The little zony was strapped to the center of the circular device. My heart began slamming against my chest as eggheads approached him with a tray of filled syringes. I shouldn’t have leaped at them, but I already stomped one of the lab coat’s face into the floor, denting the machine as I bucked the other one with my back hooves. There was hollering and galloping as I started to unstrap him.

But he gave me a weird look. He was just dumbfounded at me being there. The zony leaned forward as much as the head strap would allow and whispered three simple words. “I wanted this.”

The world went black before I could process his decision.

~~~~~~~ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾ ⋆⁺₊⋆ ~~~~~~~

I smiled at the screen. “Perfect.”

Everyone loves a twist, but was that a little… Too dark? Maybe it should be her father in the machine? Or a friend? I’ve never been good at gauging these sorts of things.

I glanced at the time on my laptop: 1:30am.

Couldn’t ask Pencil Pusher, he’s either asleep or drunk. Actually it was probably both. So what do you do? Something inside still fluttered at these words. They felt hollow. I don't know why.

So I slammed my delete key and got rid of the whole document. There was a better story I had. Everyone loves a sequel, right?

… Why the fuck would I think that? For one: I needed to have a story first. Second: sequels are rarely ever as good as the first. So, what to write? A start? An ending? Something political to rally people? Gray sludge to appease the corporations and the sheep to them? Write what?

WHAT?!

Would any of it even matter?!

It felt like all I could do was punch my desk until my talons hurt.

“Fuck!”

There were cracked head fanfictions about the Princess of Friendship more popular than any little stupid idea I could think of. Especially the horny ones… Holy shit those things are sick. But folks read them.

Why?!

Twenty-nine years of my life spent doing this same song and dance, one more go. Honestly, I wasn’t hoping anymore to change the world. My brain’s subconscious lied to my best friend because it’s yet to get the memo that we’ve already given up. That we’re just doing all this ‘writing’ out of habit.

Fuck, the ocean was right at the door and all I could do was quietly comprehend the coming tsunami.

I’m Okay

Chapter Two:

I’m Okay

2:45pm…

15 minutes until my shift’s over. 5 minutes to get to the publishing house. If the meeting last for at least 30–

Knock Knock

“You need help in there?” they hollered through the door.

I eep’d and slammed the toilet handle down to cover my panic. My feathers flew everywhere while washing my claws, shoving my phone into my hoodie, and awkwardly walked past the customer waiting at the door to the stockroom. Back to the serenity of… isolation.

The boxes on pallets were the only audience I had for the longest time, listening to me talk to myself about character’s dialogue exchanges, interactions— the never ending sentences of anxiety that pulled at me to type more and more because I needed to say more, do more, and be more. Run on sentences that defined an emotion I couldn’t ever personally grasp or express in reality. A velvety cage with an open door.

Do you really think I cared about my work? Ripping, shipping, stacking, stocking… all for a clawful of bits to do what I want? It’s degrading. Being kept in that cage, a door away from everyone else. I just wanted people to see me. Fuck the bits, the fame, fuck all that. I just wanted to be me. I just want people to give me something my parents never really did. Give me the same recognition I gave these boxes.

At least time doesn’t fly when I work, it vanishes altogether. I packed up my things and clocked out before my manager could talk to me. Not that it would be anything more than him boosting his ego asking the rhetorical question: “How’s the writing go?”

Fuck that guy, honestly.

I tumbled more than ran to the publishing house. You couldn’t blame me for the excitement. It was the first time one of these places actually asked me to come… only took hundreds of tries. But man did that three story brick building look like a heavenly castle to my eyes.

The waiting room was packed from corner to corner with different writers, all like me, completely submissive to hope. I had to squeeze past a few ponies to get to the extremely unimpressed zebra receptionist. He glanced me up and down. “Yeah, bud?”

“I have an appointment with mister Brass Ego. I’m the writer of CyberPone.”

Each second he tapped away at his computer added fuel to the pyre of my anxiety. The receptionist printed off a set of paper, quickly stapled it and passed it to me.

“Second floor, take the first bend on the right and it’ll be the room on your right. You got that? Okay, also give these to Ego. He doesn’t like printing out anything.”

“Ermm… thanks…?” I raised a brow, only to be gestured to go. That was a sound suggestion as a line formed behind me.

Was everyone there just waiting to follow that one writer with the balls to talk to the zebra at the desk? Holy shit, how are they going to handle their meeti— scratch that. I needed to worry about myself.

I zoomed up the stairs, trying not to run straight into employees just doing their job. It’s a weird feeling when you walk through halls like that. This could be your future. That office you passed could be yours one day. You could even own the building… but you have to give up a part of yourself. If all this went through and I got the deal, what would life be like after I don’t have to work on the story anymore? Will I still be the same person or— fuck. Fuck! These fictional characters I spent restless nights stressing over are just… Am I just abandoning them?!

An explosion of fear froze me in front of the office door. I really can’t believe that I spent so much time worrying about the worldbuilding, character development, and fuck knows what just to distract myself from everything that comes after. Oh shit, what if people hate it? I-I can’t have that! I mean what have I been doing with the last seven years of my life then! Is there any point to all of this?! Am I screaming into tomorrow demanding inspiration for today? Who a—

“I can see you,” A voice from within the room called out. “Are you coming in?”

The first thing I noticed entering that office was the ungodly amount of plaques and filing cabinets. Who was he trying to impress the janitor? I doubt anyone like me could feel anything past the fear sitting down in such an oppressive environment. With the amount of empty soda bottles hidden just behind the desk, I doubt he was getting a ton of “A-List” clients. The second thing I noticed was the little statuette, in front of him, of a pony with way too many belts.

“So Sci-Fi, huh?” Brass Ego scoffed as he looked over my documents.

“Y-yeah.”

“You know Eggnog recently sent us his new book and man is it doing numbers! You’ve read his work before, right?”

It wasn’t fair, but I bit my tongue. “I think so… he’s the one who puts paintings in his pages?”

“Bingo!”

But he always was a shit writer that relies more on visuals than actual words. I mean come on, dude. If you wanna make a film then go make one or just be an artist.

“So what do you think?”

It was alright. “I loved it.”

“Cool cool!” Brass Ego leaned back into his oversized chair. I began tapping my claws on the desk as he started to whistle. Seriously?! When was it my turn? I couldn’t believe that this guy was the bouncer for the fucking door. Could you imagine slaving away years of work just to be told no by a pony who lives in a recycling machine.

“Sooo,” He sat back up. “Why are you here again?”

“Uhhh… I-I have a–”

“Spit it out! I don’t get why people are so shy.” He might as well have actually punched me in the throat.

“I’m a writer.” I barely managed to whimper it out.

Brass Ego looked me up and down. “Well, you certainly fit the look of one. Look…”

I perked up a little in my chair.

“This work isn’t bad,” He paused before continuing with his verbal dagger. “But the publishing house just can’t really invest so much into an unpublished writer. Though we have been looking into your style and think you’d fit well into one of our intern roles.”

My heart skipped a beat.

“Intern?”

“That’s right.”

“So you want me to work for you for free?” I raised a brow.

Brass Ego shook his head before putting on his fakest fucking smile. “Not at first, but after a few months of you editing, reviewing, gaining connection, and after doing a great job I’ll be more than happy to discuss publication with you. Maybe even a full time position here.”

There was no way this asshat was expecting me to survive on the leftover coffee in the drinks I got him, did he? Being a slave for a few months and either losing yourself and climbing or hanging yourself three weeks in. Sounded so perfect for someone like me!

“Right.” It was the only response I could muster without a swear.

He sighed. “Listen, you understand that this is a very competitive business? If your work fails to make profit then the publishing house wasted money. We just want to know more about you before we fully review your work.”

“I understand that. Though I’m failing to understand why your business calls me back not to discuss my story but to proudly offer someone to work for free.”

“Listen, we got somewhere. Not everyone can be Eggnog. He was just in the right place at the right time. Luck is funny like that sometimes and everyone is not as luc–”

“What,” I had to cut him off. “What are you talking about? I know Eggnog’s history. His daddy helps fund this place and he’s even best friends with your boss’s son!”

“That’s not the point.”

I cocked my head to the side. There was no fucking way this dude was trying to dodge the topic. “Seriously? That’s your fallback argument. I– no! Don’t try to dodge this. Eggnog basically won this because he’s rich and knows powerful ponies. He’s not 60,000 bits in debt.”

“No,” Brass’s Ego was clearly getting a little bruised. Good. “He fought for everything. That boy picked himself up by his–”

“Don’t fucking lie.”

“You know. Forget about the offer. Clearly you’re a little spoiled.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I’ll be forward. You don’t fit. You don’t belong here,” He hit his desk with every word. “If you can’t respect someone like Eggnog or me then why am I even–”

I forced myself away from the deck, knocking my chair on the floor. The space I was creating was the only thing keeping the lights on in Ego’s head. “Thank you for your time.”

“No, no. Thank you and no more talkin–”

‘Hey!” I snarled back. “If you wanna boss me around then you should pay me.”

The conversation was over in one slam of the door.

It Can Stop Any Day Now

Chapter Three:

It Can Stop Any Day Now

Self indulging, narcissistic fucking asshat!

I couldn’t help but recycle the moment again and again in my head. He wasting my fucking time! But every publisher does. Unless your great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather’s body was used as the foundation for the cement of the building, you didn’t have a rat’s chance in hell to be offered a real chance. Not that modern day slavery they try to pawn off as a good ‘work experience’ job.

No one paid me any mind as I marched up to my apartment to be greeted by mail on the doormat. Two bills, an eviction warning, and junk advertisement. I unlocked the front door and just kicked in the paper onto the rest of them just inside.

What a beautiful thing life turned out to be. You get lied to when you’re younger. Told you can do anything, be anyone. But I guess they forgot to talk about the asterisk at the beginning of anything and anyone. One: You need to know someone, anyone. Genuine people never cut it in a world so obsessed with consumerism that tomorrow they might just eat themselves for that little hit of dopamine. Two: The ‘be anyone’ part was a joke. You don’t even get to decide who you are. No one cares about you.

I didn’t bother to turn on the lights before throwing myself onto my bed and pulling out my phone to scroll through social media. To see how successful my ‘friends’ became and how fast they dropped me as soon as I wasn’t needed anymore. That’s the only reason they really only messaged me. Check any of my dms. Questions about writing specific scenes, how to construct the character– only to scream at me that I didn’t know what I was talking about–, and cinematic composition. Then after hours of helping them, some would ask about me or what I’m doing. Some being one guy, but even I can tell he really could care less and is frankly annoyed hearing me speaking. All their lives I could doom scroll through on my feed.

I rolled onto my back and plopped the phone onto my stomach.

You know. I couldn’t help but wonder how many of them actually became friends with me because they liked me or they just liked the attention I gave to them. Doesn’t matter either way. The only way they’d remember is if my landlord found me in the closet then they might shed a tear after reading the obituary. Again. I doubt it. Not that they wouldn’t cry, but that they read obituaries. They have lives and I’m not worth wasting a second on. I think I got what Brass Ego was actually talking about.

I’ve wasted twenty-nine years of my life, almost thirty now, chasing the sun. So what do I do…? I guess I could always publish it online and just to see what happens. At that point, it was all I had. I picked up my phone again and went to one of those popular fan-fiction websites. There was nowhere else to go with it.

Sign up was easy enough and I was immediately brought to my profile’s home page with one big button screaming at me: New Story! I tapped it and copied all of the fiction completely over. After a few minutes it was saved so it could prompt me with a publish button then after that… it asked me to name it.

CyberPo|

I paused at the words. It felt awkward using that old title now. I failed to grab real interest in publishing houses with it. What good would it do on the general public?

I just deleted the old title and stared at the cursor until… the idea came.

A Drop of Golden Sun |

People would have to notice that.

I hope.

Pressed submit and went to sleep hoping I wouldn’t wake up.