A Mirror Brightly

by Fructose

Rating: teen
Tags: Human, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Romance, Drama, Original Character
Length: 14224

A down-on-his-luck man is gifted a magic mirror that will change his life -- his species and gender, too!

Paul Jensen can't seem to catch a break. As if slaving away at a soul-sucking data entry job just to put food on the table wasn't bad enough, mass adoption of AI is threatening to make him obsolete within the year. Only the love and support of his long-time girlfriend keeps him getting out of bed every morning, but even she can only help so much.

To make matters worse, Paul's eccentric uncle sends him a "magic" mirror which he promises will change his life for the better -- more junk to get rid of, Paul thinks. But when the mirror turns out to actually be magical and transforms him into a small equine-ish creature (and a female one, at that!), Paul must face a whole new set of problems.

Only time will tell if the mirror really is a blessing in disguise.

Published 2023-06-10 17:20:00 UTC
Last updated 2023-06-10 17:20:00 UTC

Chapter 1

The clock at the bottom corner of the screen read 4:37 PM, but Paul could have sworn it said the same thing ten minutes ago.

For a moment, he thought his computer might have frozen. It wouldn’t have been the first time; his company-issued desktop might’ve been older than he was and had aged about as gracefully as milk. It was still running Windows Vista, for Christ’s sake. A quick shake of the mouse ruled out that possibility, however.

No, it appeared Paul was just in his own personal Twilight Zone, a time dilation bubble where seconds stretched out into untold hours, subjecting him to endless ennui as a part of some ironic punishment for a past misdeed.

Or, it was just Friday afternoon at the offices of Network Management Solutions, LLC, and Paul was all out of busywork to distract himself with. There was only so many times he could shuffle around his files folders before his attempts at reorganization just made things more convoluted than it was worth.

Normally he’d surreptitiously whip out his phone to kill the remaining time, but he’d gotten an earful when his supervisor caught him doing just that last week, and he wasn’t keen on turning a verbal warning into yet another reprimand on his file.

Oh, who cares, he sighed, drumming his fingers on the sterile metal of his desk. If they wanted me to work, they’d have given me something to do. Besides, it’s only a matter of time before they kick me out of here one way or another.

Honestly, he was surprised they’d kept him around this long, given how many times his performance evaluations decried his “poor attitude” and “lack of enthusiasm.”

Paul snorted derisively. Because mindlessly plugging numbers into spreadsheets really makes for a happy camper, right? Give me a fucking break.

Mindless was an understatement; if someone held Paul at gunpoint and demanded he tell them the significance of any of the work he spent forty hours a week doing, he would be dead. Hell, he couldn’t even tell you what the company itself did, and neither could anyone else he shared office space with that he’d asked. Personally, he thought the whole operation was a front or shell company for some larger corporation or government agency, and he was being paid mostly to keep up appearances.

Not that it was any of his business one way or another; unless NMS’s true agenda involved kicking puppies or sacrificing virgins to the dark gods or something equally nefarious, he’d be just fine quietly pocketing his check every month.

Well, maybe he’d care more if he thought he’d still have his job by the end of the year, but word around the water cooler was that the suits upstairs were about to replace all lower-level data entry positions with AI, a trend which had become increasingly prevalent since the breakthroughs in artificial intelligence the early ‘20s brought. Paul knew he couldn’t compete with an unfeeling robot, no matter how hard his job tried to turn him into one.

The only thing he’d miss would be the paycheck, meager as it was. Without an undergraduate diploma or any marketable skills to speak of, he’d have to go back to bagging groceries or waiting tables for minimum wage, and even those jobs were quickly being swallowed up in the rising tide of automation and the collapse of the economy in general.

Maybe it was finally time to learn to code.

A quick glance back at the clock showed that exactly one minute had passed since he last checked. He barely suppressed a groan, but he did let his head hit the desk a tad harder than he meant to. Wincing more from the noise than the pain, he let his eyes drift over to the one bit of personality allowed in the prison cell masquerading as his cubicle: a pin-up poster with a tabby cat dangling from a tree branch, captioned, “Hang in there, baby!” in a tacky impact font.

Believe me, I’m trying.

Paul’s brooding was cut short by a pair of loafers quickly making their way down his aisle. With a start, he righted himself, switched the tab on his computer over to a random Excel file, and stared at the jumble of numbers as though he could actually divine some meaning from them. Just in time, too, as the heavy steps stopped right behind his chair.

“Working hard, Jensen?” a smoker’s rasp chortled mirthlessly. It’s the same thing his supervisor always asked, like a private joke neither of them found particularly funny.

“As always, Mr. Lawson,” Paul finished the punchline with an equal dearth of humor, spinning around in his chair with a false grin plastered on his face. It nearly matched the one the pudgy, balding man in a slightly-too-small pinstripe suit bore, though Paul hoped he did a better job of hiding his contempt than his supervisor.

“Right…”

Mr. Lawson narrowed his beady eyes at Paul’s computer screen. Paul’s grin widened just a hair. “Actually, I’ve just finished up with the Fetterman account. Would you like to take a look?”

“...Not at the moment. Got more important things to do.” Mr. Lawson shifted his attention away, and Paul subtly released the breath he’d been holding. While he didn’t lie about having the work done, he knew that Mr. Lawson would find some mistake, or make one up wholesale, and demand Paul stay another hour to fix it out of spite. Fortunately, his supervisor was almost as eager to avoid actually doing his job as Paul was. “Carry on, Jensen.”

“Yes, sir. Have a nice weekend.” Paul resisted the urge to mock-salute as Mr. Lawson grunted an acknowledgement and waddled out of the cramped confines of the cubicle. Only once he was safely out of sight did Paul let his strained smile droop. “...Dickhead.”

Grumbling, Paul turned back to his computer to check the time: 4:40.

Paul groaned for the umpteenth time that day.

Rush hour on a Friday was predictably a madhouse, to put it mildly, but the gods must have been smiling on Paul, because he only had to add an extra half-hour to his usual hour-long commute to the suburbs. “Affordable” living space anywhere closer to the city proper hadn’t existed since the last housing bubble burst, and he was damn lucky as it was to have even found a rental he could actually make the payments on outside of the shadiest neighborhoods.

Paul breathed a heavy sigh as he pulled his trusty (emphasis on 'rusty') Honda Civic into the driveway of his humble abode, near identical to the homes surrounding it save for the color of paint, a tacky mauve that was fading and peeling with the years. Paul had neither the money nor the motivation to replace it with a more palatable color.

He turned off the car and gathered his belongings, bumping the driver door closed with his hip, not really focused on much at all. That is, until he noticed that something was standing next to his front door. It was tall, flat, vaguely rectangular, and completely covered by a thick white tarp which rippled in the light evening breeze. The tarp was secured by several thick bungee cords pulled taut around it.

I don’t remember ordering anything recently, he thought as he approached the entrance, Maybe Lucy did and forgot to tell me?

It probably wasn’t a mail bomb or anthrax or what have you, but Paul approached with caution anyway. Once he was close enough, he spied a note pinned to the sheet which he at first assumed to be some kind of shipping label. But no, it was a letter, hand-written with elegant, flowing strokes he didn’t immediately recognize.

Hey Paul!

Hope you’ve been hanging in there, bud! Sorry for dropping off the face of the Earth all of a sudden, but when opportunity calls, you have to follow, know what I’m saying? And let me tell you, this was one doozy of an opportunity! I’d tell you all about it, but, well, I think it’s better if you see it for yourself.

What I’ve sent to you, and what you’ve hopefully received intact, is simply magical. Literally! I found it gathering dust in an attic at an estate sale, as cliché as that sounds. Trust me, though; it’s the real deal. I guarantee your life will never be the same (in a good way!). I know mine isn’t!

Have I piqued your curiosity enough that you won’t just chuck it out with the trash the second you put down this letter? I hope so.

Paul, I know things aren’t great right now, both in your personal life and in the world at large, but that’s why I sent this to you before anyone else. If anyone deserves what it can give you, it's you, bud.

As for what it does, well, just touch the glass and you’ll see.

That said, I should warn you NOT to unwrap it in public. Maybe I should have put that first. Oh well. And do try not to break it; I really don’t want to know what happens if you do.

And here’s one last piece of advice, free of charge: just do what feels right. You’ll understand what I mean soon, I hope.

Anyway, I’ve got a working cell phone again, so give me a call after you try it out! Can’t wait to hear your voice!

All the best,

Uncle Dane

Paul rolled his eyes. He should have known; Uncle Dane was always foisting off all kinds of random crap he picked up at flea markets and garage sales. He always meant well, of course, but Paul would never forget the previous Christmas when Dane gave him a beat-up Alvin and the Chipmunks blender that sang snippets of squeak-ified hits of yesteryear while it blended. Paul hadn’t liked those helium-voiced little bastards since he was four years old. The only reason he didn’t throw it out was because, well, he needed a blender, and it made banana smoothies just fine.

Shipping Paul some random junk certainly fit his uncle’s M.O., but something seemed off. For one, the letter looked like it was written with the kind of script you’d see from a noblewoman from the 1800s, a far cry from his uncle’s usual chicken scratch. Either he improved his handwriting to a substantial degree, which Paul sincerely doubted; he had someone else write the letter for him; or someone was poorly impersonating his uncle.

Paul frowned. To what end would someone pretend to be his uncle? Revenge of some sort? He, Paul, was a nobody, a corporate drone whose days in that position were numbered and rapidly ticking down; the only person who he’d ever really wronged was Mr. Lawson, his supervisor, and if he wanted to make Paul’s life even more miserable he’d just fire him. A prank from one of his few office buddies, then? He didn’t think he’d ever mentioned Uncle Dane to his co-workers except in passing.

And what was with all the “it changed my life” stuff? Uncle Dane was eccentric, sure, and prone to falling off the grid for weeks at a time gallivanting off God knows where, but this was teetering on the edge of true-blue crazy. Maybe it was some cult thing.

As Paul ruminated on the letter, the sun began to dip below the horizon, and the wind picked up an additional bite of early winter cold, cutting through his thin dress shirt and setting him shivering.

Well, might as well bring it inside and see what the fuss is about.

Paul unlocked the front door and stepped inside the darkened home.

“Lucy! I’m home!” he announced with all the faux-enthusiasm he could muster. When no cheering 50s sitcom audience materialized from nowhere, he sighed and flicked on the living room lights, revealing a space that could charitably be called sparse despite his girlfriend’s best attempts at livening up the place. A slightly ratty couch, covered with quilts that hid the worst of the tears and stains, faced an old flat-screen TV perched on a stand against the far wall. Otherwise, there wasn’t much else: a fake potted plant here, an end table there, scattered framed photos of moments both important and inconsequential since Paul and Lucy met five years ago.

Paul set his stuff down on the couch for the time being and went back for the mysterious object. While unwieldy, it wasn’t all that heavy, and with a bit of careful maneuvering he set it down in the middle of the living room. He quickly scanned the letter one last time in case he missed any warnings, and, satisfied he hadn’t, began unhooking the bungee cords.

It was silly, but as he worked, Paul’s heart began to beat just a little faster. He didn’t like how cryptic his uncle’s letter was, and his warning not to reveal it in public…was it some kind of nude portrait or something? Was his uncle’s life-changing epiphany a sexual reawakening?

Please don't let it be a creepy sex thing.

The last bungee cord fell free, and Paul gripped the edge of the tarp with both hands. Some dramatic part of him was tempted to yank it off with a stage magician's flourish, but he didn’t want to risk breaking whatever was underneath. Instead, he tugged gently, watching the fabric recede inch by inch until it at last fluttered to the floor.

Oh. It’s just a full-body mirror.

Admittedly, it was a very nice mirror, certainly pricier than any of the other furniture in the house. It was taller than he was by a good few inches, at least six-and-a-half feet. The frame and stand were a dark lacquered wood, latticed by weaving gold etchings and engravings. These ran in rivulets to the top of the frame, upon which rested a rather detailed carving of a winged horse…or a winged unicorn, if the horn jutting from its forehead was any indication.

There’s probably a term for that -- a pegacorn? Nah, that’s stupid.

In any case, if it was an antique, it was remarkably well preserved -- except for the glass itself, which was too clouded over to reflect anything at all. Frowning, Paul took one step toward the mirror, intending to try and wipe away the grime, and froze. As soon as he approached the mirror, the fog clouding the glass -- which he realized had begun moving, swirling like a vortex towards the center of the glass -- suddenly cleared, and in its place was…huh?

Standing in a mirrored image of Paul’s living room was most certainly not his reflection.

The first things he noticed were its eyes. They were huge, with the hue and warmth of a high-dollar latte, and they stared back at him owlishly, almost apprehensively. They rested above a short, rounded muzzle dappled with white freckles and beneath loose, cream-colored curls of hair which cascaded down its neck. Its hair -- mane? -- was parted by a pair of pointed ears which were folded back against its scalp. He noticed a flick of something white behind it -- a tail, maybe? Its entire body seemed to be covered in short fur a rich shade of milk chocolate, and it stood on four legs which ended in rounded stumps, presumably hooves.

The horse-thing stood about as tall as a very large dog, its muzzle just about level with Paul’s belly button. If Lucy were here to see it, she’d probably be squeeing about how adorable it was, but the creature’s aesthetic appeal wasn’t as important to Paul as why the hell he was seeing it in the first place.

Wasn’t this thing supposed to be some old mirror? Was Uncle Dane screwing with him by sending him some kind of augmented reality screen? Paul tried to blink away the apparition, but it refused to dissipate. In fact, it blinked along with him.

Paul frowned, puzzled; so too did the horse, its nose scrunching slightly with the effort.

Paul raised his right arm; the horse followed suit, lifting its foreleg up in a way no normal horse could possibly do.

Paul raised his left arm as well; the horse, somehow, reared up and balanced only on its hind legs to match, giving Paul an inadvertent eyeful of the slightly rounded curve of its belly and the noticeable lack of any, ahem, equipment.

He let his hands drop, and it -- er, rather, she -- returned to her original stance in tandem, eyes now narrowed in suspicion.

Paul spun slowly in place, keeping his eyes on the mirror. As the horse also twirled, he spied some sort of picture on her flanks which stood out against its fur. As best as he could tell, it was some kind of pastry topped with a glaze, with some manner of powder sprinkled on top. A cinnamon roll, maybe? Who the hell would tattoo a horse with a cinnamon roll?

He didn’t check what was under her tail; he really didn’t want to know how detailed this projection was.

In any case, clearly the mirror--or whatever it actually was--had some kind of motion-capture sensor and face scanning. The image looked real enough, but AR tech had come a long way since he was a kid; some of the more upscale clothing stores he’d poked his head into had similar setups in lieu of fitting rooms, virtually projecting clothes onto the prospective customer almost seamlessly. It was basically just a more advanced version of Snapchat filters, which he was barely old enough to remember had been all the rage with the youth of the day.

Tentatively, Paul took a step forward, the horse still copying his every move. He wondered how, exactly, the program or whatever translated his movements onto the wildly different skeleton. If he didn’t think he’d throw out his back trying, he’d have been tempted to do a cartwheel or something equally complex just to see how the little equine would react.

“Touch the glass,” his uncle’s letter had said. Paul was skeptical that it would answer any of his questions, but he might as well try it. Whatever happens, he was definitely giving Uncle Dane a call, if only to ask what the hell this thing was supposed to be.

He lifted his hand, index finger inches from the glass. The horse followed suit, ready to press the underside of its hoof against the pane. Paul paused when a gnawing pit in his gut signaled that something was very, very wrong with this whole situation, but he dismissed his instincts as the faulty products of his irrational lizard brain. It was just a mirror; either nothing would happen but his finger leaving a smudge on the glass, or something interesting would chase away the week’s lingering monotony and bring some much-needed excitement to his life.

Yeah, as if.

Rolling his eyes, Paul pressed his finger against the cool glass, meeting the horse’s hoof. He tensed, prepared for…something.

But nothing happened. Paul felt some of the tension trickle out of his body, and he sighed. Of course nothing happened. He was being sill--

A shock like a lightning bolt arced through his entire body, setting every nerve ending alight with crackling energy. It was like he stuck a fork into an electrical outlet, but strangely without any of the agonizing pain. He felt the energy gather in his body, building and building into something incredible, a molten furnace of bliss. Tears streamed down his cheeks, and he didn’t know why.

Then, before he could scream, cry out, or do anything at all, his world went dark, and he felt nothing.

Chapter 2

Warm.

That one word slipped through the fog that enveloped her thoughts. Several more words attempted to follow in its wake, but they all fragmented into nothing well before breaching the surface of her addled mind. None of them were important enough to spend any energy clinging onto, and so she didn’t. She couldn’t.

Warm.

It was a good word. It was an apt word. Her whole body radiated a gentle heat that enveloped her like a thick blanket on a cold winter’s night, smothering any other attempts at coherent thinking in its all-encompassing blaze. It replaced any other weight, any baggage she’d accumulated over the countless weeks with the comforting heft of pure, distilled coziness.

Another good word, that: cozy. She was warm. She was cozy. She was--

Asleep. Or rather, she was balanced on the knife’s-edge of restfulness and wakefulness, a pleasant limbo which she wished she could luxuriate in for the rest of time. A lazy, incoherent murmur fell from her muzzle as she shuffled in place, hoping to find the most comfortable position from which that warm, cozy void would take her once more.

But she could not. Hmm. She frowned and adjusted her position again, using her foreleg as a makeshift pillow, hoping to alleviate whatever niggling discomfort yet plagued her. It worked for a time, a hoofful of seconds maybe, but it soon returned with a vengeance, a knot slowly tightening in her belly. Now that she acknowledged its existence, she found she could not ignore it. Not that she knew what “it” even was beyond the vaguest sense that--

Something isn’t right.

It slipped through the fog unbidden, a bolt of ice that quickly melted in the face of the omnipresent warmth suffusing her being but that chilled her nonetheless. Groaning, she rolled onto her side, a petulant act of defiance that did nothing to fight off the rising tide of awareness threatening to pull her out of her sleepy bliss. This was the best she’d felt in months, years maybe, and she’d be darned if she gave it up without a fight.

But it was a losing battle. Her senses were returning to her, and though her thoughts were still slow as molasses and suffused with just as much syrupy, sticky sweetness, she regained enough cognizance of the outside world to feel something other than that wonderful heat. Her hoof pawed restlessly at the floor--

Ah-ha. That was it. No wonder she couldn’t get comfortable; she was laying on the ground! A terrible place for a nap, all things considered. The worn-down rug could only do so much to cushion the hardwood floor beneath, even with her own fuzzy plushness adding to the padding. Why the hay didn’t she just sleep in her own bed, or on the couch at the very least?

Because something isn’t right.

Agh, that nagging voice again, dousing yet more of the gentle warmth suffusing her. The cold was creeping in, bitter like bile, gnawing away at her good vibes, and she wanted none of it. She needed a way to stave it off, and she wouldn’t find it on the floor.

With a huff of displeasure and a flick of her tail, she rolled back onto her belly, then rose to sit on her haunches. A yawn split her muzzle wide, and she stretched her forelegs high to work out any lingering cricks. Idly, she wondered what time it was. Her phone was around here somewhere, but she’d have to actually open her eyes to find it.

Prying her eyes open was like lifting anvils using a toothpick as a fulcrum, and what little she managed to see was a blurred, undecipherable mess. She rubbed her eyes with a foreleg and tried again. This time, the bleary film was gone, and she could at last see clearly.

A human sat cross-legged in front of her.

The first things she noticed were his eyes. They were so dark, like the spark of life had been sucked from them, and they were weighed down by bags so heavy she had first mistaken them for mascara. His dirty brown hair was short and in desperate need of a comb. A rumpled blue button-down adorned his gaunt, skinny body, a red tie loose and askew around his collar. His khaki pants sorely needed an ironing, and his loafers were maybe one or two long walks away from giving up the ghost entirely.

He stared at her with those sunken eyes, and she stared back. Yes, those were his eyes reflected in the mirror.

Paul’s eyes.

The warmth that still suffused him dissipated instantly, and the chill rushed in to fill the vacuum. Paul looked down at himself, saw chocolate-colored fur and hooves, and sharply gasped. He leapt to his feet--or tried to, at least, but his muscle memory was tuned for a body he apparently didn’t have anymore. He didn’t quite fall, but he did wobble; his proper human reflection was just as inelegant as he stood up, equally as shaken.

“What the fuck?” Paul croaked, then immediately clamped his mouth shut, breathing too quickly in and out of his nose. The voice was soft, sweet, unmistakably feminine, and absolutely not his. He snapped his head around, off-white tresses of hair whipping along with it, and stared at the rest of the alien, vaguely equine body he was trapped in. He locked on to the image of a cinnamon roll emblazoned on his thigh--flank--whatever, and his breath hitched.

He’d become the horse he’d seen in the mirror.

It was patently ludicrous, and yet here he was. Could he be dreaming? It certainly made more sense than any other alternative, but no, this was too vivid, too coherent, and he’d never been lucid in a dream before. Drug-induced hallucination? Unless someone spiked the water cooler at work with LSD, no. Stress-induced hallucination? Now that was more likely, but that would mean that he’d finally cracked, and he’d really rather that not be the case.

His quick, shallow breaths were making him faint, so he forced himself to take big, heaving gulps instead. The air filled his chest in unfamiliar ways and made him shiver, but at least his light-headedness cleared after a few moments. He wouldn’t solve this by freaking out. He forced himself to ignore all the strangeness of that body and think.

His gaze drifted over to the mirror, where his real self was also recovering from a near-panic attack, and it clicked. Of course it was the mirror! He’d touched it and...what, swapped places with the horse in the reflection? It sounded crazy, but it was the best lead he had. And if he swapped into this horse with a touch…!

He gracelessly stumbled the few steps over to the mirror, which now towered over him. In fact, everything around him seemed giant-sized now. He’d lost three feet of height, but his brain was too used to his full six feet. He shook his head, banishing the errant thoughts--it wouldn’t matter since he was going to turn back now!

He lifted his forehoof, watching as the image in the mirror hunched slightly and lined up an open palm to match. Trepidation roiled in Paul’s unfamiliar guts, a mental wall keeping his hoof locked in place. What if this made things worse, somehow? He’d rather be trapped in the body of a small horse-thing than dead, right?

No, he needed to try. Then he could panic for real. Squeezing his eyes tightly shut, he pushed the limb forward. The hoof faintly clopped against the glass; somehow, he could still feel the cool smoothness of the pane as though he’d touched it with his fingers. He didn’t dare breathe as one heartbeat passed, then another.

Nothing. But that’s what he thought the first time, so surely any moment now--

Just like before, he felt a shock. Unlike before, it was less a lightning bolt and more like he’d rubbed his feet on the carpet and touched a door handle. There wasn’t even a pleasant tingle, let alone that earth-shattering bliss he could only half-remember.

He waited a few seconds more just in case, but even before he opened his eyes and saw his human self peeking down at him, he knew he was still that same pony.

Paul paused. He looked past his rounded muzzle at his hooves and around at his flanks, gaze lingering on the cinnamon roll tattoo which stood out sharply against his mocha coat. His pointed ears twitched, and his long ivory tail flicked.

“I’m a pony,” he whispered hoarsely, flinching at his new dulcet voice. Of all the appellations he’d given the creature he’d first seen in that damned mirror, that one resonated the most. He was a pony. A female pony. Paul was pretty sure he should be panicking right now, but he held onto hope.

He tapped the mirror again. A spark, then nothing. He tapped harder. A spark, nothing. His eyes darted across the mirror, hoping to spot any clues as to why it refused to change him back. He looked up at the gilded statuette of the winged unicorn--an alicorn, his brain helpfully supplied. It stared out to an unseen horizon, wings spread majestically, its ethereal mane frozen as it swayed in the wind. It may have just been his imagination searching frantically for any explanation, but he could have sworn it seemed duller than before. Even if it was true, though, it didn’t exactly tell him much.

He gave the mirror one final, pitiful tap. There was the shock, and nothing else. Frustration welled up inside him, and he only just managed to stop himself before he slammed his hoof against the glass. His uncle warned him not to break it, and--

His uncle. The letter.

Uncle Dane knew.

Instinct took over. Paul cantered over to the couch, where thankfully he’d left his phone. If it’d been in his pocket, it might have been whisked away along with his clothes. He very much doubted he could use it normally with hooves, but he didn’t need fingers to make a call.

He clambered onto the couch and pushed his phone, a blocky Samsung many years out of date, out of the pile of his belongings. His--the pony’s--face stared back at him from the dark screen, its large, innocent eyes dilated and nostrils flared. After a few moments of fumbling with the device, he managed to press the correct button on the side. His lock screen lit up, the pony’s visage replaced with a picture of Paul and his girlfriend Lucy holding each other close, and the phone gave a little chirp, signaling it was ready to take voice commands.

“Call Uncle Dane.” The words tumbled out of his mouth, but the software was able to parse it and put the call through. Paul didn’t take his eyes off the phone, heart thudding in his chest. It rang once…

Twice…

Thrice…

It took six rings total before the call connected. Paul’s heart leapt to his throat, but the voice on the other end spoke before he could.

“Howdy!” Uncle Dane’s cheery drawl crackled through the phone’s aging speakers. “Dane Jensen here. Real sorry I couldn’t take your call, but if it’s important you can leave me your name and number and I’ll get back to you in a jiffy. Thanks!”

Paul felt like he’d been stabbed. Of course the one time he needed to talk to his uncle, he wouldn’t pick up the damn phone. Hell, he was the one who told Paul to call in the first place! Paul pressed his hoof against the “end call” button and tried calling again, and again, each time to the same result.

After the fifth call, he knew he wasn’t getting through any time soon, so he just decided to leave a voicemail.

“Uncle Dane, it’s Paul. I…”

Paul’s throat tightened, emotions threatening to overwhelm him. He took a deep breath, dabbed at the corner of his eye with his foreleg, and tried again.

“Look, I need help. I touched the mirror, just like you said to in your letter, and now I’m some kind of pony. I tried touching it again to turn back, but nothing happened. I just really need you to tell me what the hell’s going on and how I can fix it. Please call me back as soon as you can.”

He ended the call and promptly collapsed onto the couch beneath him. Uncle Dane was hard to get a hold of at the best of times; who knew how long it would take to get a call back. A day? Two? He couldn’t step outside like this, let alone go to work! Mr. Lawson would probably keel over on the spot if a talking pony trotted into the office. A wry smile briefly tugged at Paul’s muzzle at the thought, but reality reasserted itself too quickly for the humor to last, and he felt tears welling in his eyes.

Forget about work; Lucy would be back home any minute now. How the hell was he going to explain all this to her? How was one supposed to tell their lover they've been magically transformed into a pony, and a female one at that?

He shuddered, his tail pressing between his legs involuntarily. He’d been trying not to think about that too hard. If he was going to turn into a pony, why couldn’t he have at least been a stallion? Was the universe hell-bent on destroying what little scraps of dignity his wage slavery hadn’t managed to beat out of him yet?

Paul felt wetness on his cheeks. Sniffling, he scrubbed at his too-large eyes. No crying. He hadn’t cried since his mother died, and this wouldn’t be what broke him. He took deep breaths, in, out, and the urge to curl up into a ball and weep receded.

He checked the time on his phone: four minutes to 7:00 PM. It’d been less than thirty minutes since he got home, and in that short time his whole understanding of reality had been shattered by a magical mirror that turns you into a talking pony. He’d said he’d wanted an escape from the banality of his existence, but this isn’t exactly what he’d had in mind.

With a sigh, he held out a foreleg, tracking it as he turned it this way and that. He was surprised at how…he didn’t want to say how ‘natural’ his pony body felt, because he knew it was anything but, but he couldn’t think of a better word. He expected to have much more trouble adjusting to his radically altered physiology, but the only discomfort he felt at the moment was purely psychological.

He ran a hoof across his foreleg, quivering at the sensation. His rich brown fur was impossibly soft, and simply stroking it seemed to soothe the harsher edges of his anxiety. A subtle fragrance tickled his nose, and he sniffed himself curiously. Rather unlike what he imagined an actual horse’s odor to be (not that he’d know, city-boy that he was), he smelled like a bakery with a tinge of heady earthiness, not at all unpleasant. Fitting, he supposed, given the baked good that was stamped on his haunches, but it only added to the unreality of what he’d been turned into. Right now, he’d look more at home in a children’s cartoon than on a farm.

He turned his head to really look at the rest of his body, noting the curve of his belly and flanks. He would hesitate to say he was pudgy, because he wasn’t even that large (though it wasn’t like he had any frame of reference for what the “proper” size of a pony was), and his softness wasn’t at all lumpy or unflattering. Rather, he was…plush, like a pillow, or a stuffed animal, or a baker who’d taste-tested her own creations just a few too many times. He pressed a hoof into his side, shivering as a thin layer of doughy softness yielded to his touch.

He was beginning to feel an undercurrent of the warmth he felt on first waking as a pony. Laying there on the couch, idly exploring his new body, was relaxing in a strange way. He still didn’t dare peek under his tail--he was not at all ready for that, thanks very much--but for now he was almost too willing to distract himself from his myriad troubles. His eyes drooped closed, and he found himself humming a nameless tune as he continued to stroke a hoof across his fur. His real voice couldn’t hold a tune to save his life, but his new one was innately melodic, and he started to drift off to the sound of his own improvised lullaby…

That is, until his ears perked up and swiveled towards the rumble of a car’s engine as it pulled into the driveway. His eyes shot open, and he scrambled to his hooves with a yelp.

“Idiot!” he berated himself. He knew that Lucy was coming back soon, and all the time he could have been preparing for her arrival, he’d been off in la-la land! His gaze went right to the first and most important issue: the mirror. He couldn’t just leave it out in the open, but he really didn’t want to risk moving it in such a hurry. Thinking quickly, he hopped down from the couch and took the white tarp that originally covered the mirror in his mouth. With a bit of luck, he was able to toss it up and drape it back over the mirror. It was still standing in the middle of the living room no less conspicuously, but it would have to do.

Outside, he heard the engine cut and a car door slam shut. He needed to hide, at least until he could come up with a way to explain all this to Lucy with the least amount of freaking out as possible. Unfortunately, given that he wasn’t confident he could open any doors with hooves, his hiding places were limited. In the end, he settled on darting into the kitchen and hiding behind the counter. Even a child would have found him immediately, but the house was too small to think he could hide from Lucy for any real length of time, anyway.

It was too late to reconsider. With a faint jingling of keys, the front door opened.

“Honey, I’m home!” a bubbly alto sang, footsteps clacking on the hardwood, “And I’m so glad to be back. Did you see there was a seven-car pile-up on the interstate today? Luckily they cleared most of it up by the time I…”

Lucy trailed off, and he could almost picture her wavy blond tresses swaying as she scanned the house for her conspicuously absent boyfriend.

“Paul?” she called out, and he had to bite back his reflexive reply. Oh, how he wished he could tell her he was here, that he was okay. He needed to think, and think hard about how he was going to proceed.

“Paul, honey?” Lucy tried again, but still Paul kept his mouth shut. Maybe he could deepen his new voice enough that she wouldn’t immediately think it was someone else. Maybe he just needed to prep her, convince her that she was speaking to her boyfriend, then reveal that he, Paul, was currently a talking female pony and please don’t freak the fuck out. It was a plan with more holes than swiss cheese, but it was the only one he had. He sucked in a breath, heart racing in triple time, but before he could respond she spoke again, this time to herself.

“What is this thing?” she asked nobody, and Paul’s blood turned to ice. The mirror. He couldn’t let her touch it! To hell with the plan!

“Lucy, wait!” Paul cried as he galloped out of the kitchen, “Don’t touch it!”

When he skidded to a stop between his girlfriend and the tarp-covered mirror, panting slightly from the exertion, he realized he might have jumped the gun a bit.

Lucy stared down at him with wide, baby-blue eyes, mouth agape. Her purse fell from her slender shoulder and onto the floor with a crash that caused Paul’s ears to fold against his head, but even that wasn’t enough to shake her from her stupor. The two were locked in an impromptu staring contest, with only their faint breathing breaking the silence.

Paul was the first to blink. He fell back onto his haunches, blood rushing in his ears as he scrambled to find something, anything to say.

“Uh, hi?”

Real smooth, Paul. Real smooth.

Chapter 3

Paul had not so much let the cat out of the bag as dragged it out kicking and yowling while it tried to claw his face off. At least he could take solace in the fact that he hadn’t completely screwed everything up from the word go. After all, Lucy hadn’t started screaming.

Yet.

She was, however, still frozen in shock, which, to be fair, was a perfectly understandable reaction to a small talking pony galloping out of her kitchen. At least it gave Paul some time to think before he opened his stupid muzzle again. Admittedly, Paul had never been the most loquacious orator under the best of circumstances, but almost anything at all, even silence, would have been better than, “Hi!” He only just managed to prevent himself from cringing externally. He could almost hear the universe itself giggling at his expense.

No, wait. He could hear laughter. Very, very familiar laughter.

Paul paused his self-flagellation and stared up at his girlfriend, a hand over her mouth failing to hide her bubbly chuckling. Paul’s eyes narrowed, his muzzle scrunching with the effort. Lucy took one look at Paul’s expression and redoubled her giddy guffaws. He wasn’t sure if this was better or worse than her panicking.

“Oh goodness,” his girlfriend tittered, brushing a tear from her eye, “ain’t you just the cutest li’l thing? How’d you get in here? And what are you, anyway? Some kinda horse?”

“I-I’m not cute, damn it!” Paul stomped in protest despite the heat creeping into his cheeks. She’d called him cute before, of course, but that’d been when his body was his own. This body’s aesthetic appeal was the last thing he cared about at the moment. “And I’m not a horse, I--”

Lucy gasped before he could finish the thought, and her smile widened.

“So I wasn’t just hearing things; you ‘can’ talk.” She clapped once, barely suppressing a squeal of delight. “Oh, this just keeps getting better!”

“Better?” Paul sputtered, not quite believing his fuzzy new ears, “How do you figure ‘that’, exactly? You don’t even know what’s going on! Why aren’t you freaking out about the talking pony sitting in your living room?”

Lucy, with a nonchalance that was horribly at odds with the circumstances, crouched down to pick up her fallen purse and the few items which had spilled out onto the floor. “Do you ‘want’ me to freak out?”

“Well, no, but--”

“And you ain’t gonna hurt me?”

“Of course not, but--”

“And Paul’s okay?”

His breath hitched. He still wasn’t sure how he was going to tell her that he was Paul. He decided to simply nod, not trusting himself to say anything else.

“Then what’s there to freak out about?” Belongings gathered, Lucy stood up, purse in hand, looming over Paul with that kind smile she always gave him. “I’m sure you’re raring to tell me all about what’s going on and why you’re here, but it’s been a long day and I wanna get out of these heels. You mind waiting for a bit, hun?”

Paul could feel the migraine starting to pound against his equine skull. He knew his girlfriend was an easygoing sort, liked to roll with the proverbial punches, but this was absurd. Everything about this evening was absurd.

“...Sure,” he sighed, surrendering himself to the absurdity and massaging his temples with his forehooves. It was surprisingly easy to stay upright without his front hooves on the ground; another quirk of his new physiology?

“Thanks.” Lucy nodded, her straw-colored tresses bobbing along. “Just stay right there, okay?”

She walked off before Paul could even mumble an affirmative, heels clicking an even rhythm against the wood floor. She dropped her purse on the dining table, then walked back across the living room and over to the hallway which led to their shared bedroom. She looked back and gave Paul a little wave, then disappeared though the door to their bedroom.

Well, at least he had bought himself some time. How was he going to convince her he was her boyfriend? Maybe he could tell her something only Paul would know. That was the cliché for these types of scenarios, right?

How they met, maybe? It wasn’t a very interesting story; he’d gone out to eat with some of the guys from the office at a family diner, and she’d been their waitress. She was cute, he was single, he made some jokes, she laughed, and in the end she’d scribbled her number on his receipt. But surely that wouldn’t be enough?

His gaze wandered to the accursed mirror, still covered by the white tarp. He’d never be able to convince Lucy that a magic mirror turned him into a pony, at least not without showing--

Oh. Right. Of course.

A few minutes later, Paul’s ears perked as the bedroom door swung open. Lucy emerged from the hallway, having shed her blouse and skirt for a stretchy athletic t-shirt and sweatpants as she did nearly every day after returning from her waitressing gig. It added a lot to her homely, girl-next-door charm, which on any other day Paul would be more than happy to spend some time appreciating. Her step faltered when she saw him, but that little betrayal of her uncertainty was swiftly covered up.

“Sorry about that, hun.” Lucy’s smile was genuine, but wary; her initial giddy surprise must have worn off, and rationality had reasserted itself. She gestured to her attire, grin turning wry. “I know it’s not my Sunday best, but seeing as you ain’t got a scrap on you, I didn’t think you’d mind too terribly.”

“I don’t think ponies normally wear clothes,” Paul remarked, faintly blushing. His nakedness had barely crossed his mind, and certainly hadn’t bothered him until now. “Besides, I don’t think anything I own would fit right.”

Lucy’s eyebrow quirked upwards, but rather than clarify, Paul waited for her to get settled on the couch. She sank into the aging cushion and glanced at Paul’s personal effects, still laying in a pile next to her. She then focused her inquisitive gaze on Paul. Suddenly the room felt fifteen degrees hotter.

Paul gulped, heart beating like a tribal drum. “So, I’m sure you have a lot of questions. I do too, believe me. But, ah, I think it would be quicker to just show you. Just try and stay calm, alright?”

“Been doing a decent job of that so far, I’d like to think.” Lucy nodded, leaning forward attentively. Paul swallowed heavily again. Time to rip the band-aid off.

Earlier, he’d carefully adjusted the mirror so the glass faced the couch. He took the tarp between his teeth, and gently, gently pulled it away. As the white cloth fell, the mirror’s face was shrouded by a swirling cloudy vortex, but when Paul stepped in front of it, the image cleared, and he stood face-to-face (or face-to-stomach) with his real, human body, just as disheveled as he’d left it.

His ears swiveled towards the shocked gasp from behind him. Gritting his teeth, braced himself as best he could for whatever would come next.

“...Paul?” came Lucy’s incredulous half-whisper. He flinched, but somehow he mustered enough courage to uproot his hooves and turn to face her. Her blue eyes were wide and uncomprehending, darting rapidly between pony-Paul and what he could only assume was human-Paul’s back in the mirror.

“Yes, Lucy. It’s me.” Paul held up a hoof to forestall the deluge of questions he could see threatening to spill past his girlfriend’s lips. “My uncle Dane--or someone posing as him, maybe--sent me this mirror and a letter that begged for more answers than it gave. When I first looked at it, I saw this pony instead of my reflection, and when I touched the glass like the letter said to, I…I dunno, I guess I swapped bodies with it. I tried calling my uncle about it just before you got home, but it went straight to voicemail.”

Lucy took a few moments to process the trimmed-down tale, then sighed. “Jeez, Louise. Either I’ve really gone cuckoo, or…I mean, you’re telling me a magic mirror turned you into a horse?”

“Pony.” Paul corrected Lucy with an odd conviction that earned him a withering look. Sheepishly, he mumbled, “I‘m a pony, not a horse.” How did he know? Why did he care? Paul couldn’t answer either question satisfactorily. He knew he was a pony, and that was that.

“Fine, pony,” Lucy amended, “But, how? And why are you a girl? Did the mirror download your brain and put it into a pony-shaped gynoid or something? Or is it actual, literal magic?”

“Well, I’m flesh-and-blood all the way through as far as I can tell, so I’m pretty sure it’s not the former.” Paul glanced back at the mirror, watching his human body do the same. The human’s eyes were tired, resigned. Paul shuddered. “I thought it was some kind of super-advanced tech at first too, but if it is, it might as well be sorcery.”

Paul shook his head and faced his girlfriend, her expression an equal mix of sympathy and curiosity. “I don’t know why it decided to turn me into a mare, either. I’ve been trying not to think about that part. In any case, I already tried turning back, but touching the mirror again didn’t work, and I really don’t want to break it in case, well…”

The unspoken consequence hung in the air for a few moments. Paul’s hoof pawed at the carpet absently. He wasn’t sure what they were supposed to do; until Uncle Dane called back, he was stuck in this tiny body.

His ears perked when Lucy spoke again. “I want to try it.” Before Paul could list any one of the numerous good reasons she shouldn’t go near the darn thing, she cut him off. “You said you only transformed when you touched it, right? Well, I won’t. I just want to see my reflection, is all. Y’know. To see if it works the same for me.”

Paul noticed the smile she was desperately trying to suppress, and his eyebrow shot up. “Uh huh. Purely scientific interest, is it?”

The dam broke, and Lucy let her grin spill out. “Well, shoot, can you blame me, hun? This whole fiasco’s nuttier than a bowl of peanuts, sure, but it ain’t like you’re dying or nothing. Besides, do you even realize how gosh-darn adorable you are right now? It’s taking everything I have not to scoop you up and squeeze you like a big teddy bear.”

Paul flushed deeply, suddenly finding the ratty carpet beneath his hooves much more worthy of his attention. There was no way he was going to let her do that, right? Right? He thought back to when he’d been petting himself, to that suffusing warmth that accompanied it. If that had felt good, then--

“I’m not a toy!” Paul nickered instead, trying to chase away the intrusive thoughts with a defiant stomp. “This is serious, Lucy! What if I can’t turn back?”

She met his outburst with a poorly hidden titter, and Paul glowered at her, not nearly as amused. “Then I guess I traded in my boyfriend for a pet pony. Six-year-old me would be so proud.”

“Lucy!”

“Okay, okay!” Lucy held up her hands in surrender, still smiling. “Look, don’t you think your uncle would have told you if there was a serious risk you’d end up trapped as a pretty little pony forever? Let’s just wait for him to call back, and I’m sure we’ll get this all sorted out. In the meantime…”

Paul puffed out his chest, intending to chastise her further, but he deflated with a sigh instead. He was quickly running out of energy to argue; in spite of the short, impromptu nap he’d taken earlier, the toll the day had taken on him was finally catching up. “Whatever. You can look, but for God’s sake don’t touch it.”

Lucy squee’d, clapping her hands giddily and leaping to her feet. Paul stepped to the side before she bowled him over in her haste. Once he was out of focus, the mirror returned to showing the swirling black void for a brief instant before Lucy stepped in to fill his place.
The vortex disappeared with little fanfare. Lucy took one look, stopped bouncing on her heels, and stared slack-jawed. “Woah.”

Just like it had with Paul, the mirror showed not Lucy, the human, but a small pony. It stared back at Lucy in equal awe with large, bright emerald eyes, and its rounded muzzle was hanging open. Its overall physique was similar to Paul’s, but where he was pleasantly plush, pony-Lucy was sleek and slender. That was far from the only difference between them, however.

Paul’s mocha-and-cream coloration, while richer shades than one might find in nature, would not have looked too out of place on your average farm horse. Not so for pony-Lucy, whose choppy, almost boyish mane and tail were a vibrant navy blue and whose coat was an eye-catching cherry-blossom pink.

Oh, and of course, there were the wings. On either side of pony-Lucy’s barrel rested a folded feathered appendage the same pink as its coat. Paul could see the joint where the limbs connected to its back, so unless it was a stellar costume job, the wings were real.

“Oh my gosh, I’m a pegasus!” Human-Lucy, more eager than ever, squirmed like a snake had slithered down her pants in an effort to make the wings move, but apparently she lacked the proper muscles, since they remained firmly glued to the pony’s sides. “Come on, move, darn it!”

All the wriggling let Paul catch a glimpse at the pony’s haunches. As he suspected, pony-Lucy also had a large, conspicuous mark on her flank: a whirling cyclone of what he assumed to be wind. Inadvertently, he also saw a flash of what was under its--her--tail. That didn't seem fair; why did Lucy get to keep her gender!?

“Careful,” he cautioned, noticing how Lucy’s fidgeting inched her closer to the mirror, “Look but don’t touch, remember?”

“Aww.” Lucy finally tore her eyes away from her pony counterpart to pout at Paul instead, hands resting on her cocked hips. “Ain’t fair you get to hog all the fun.”

“...Fun?” Paul felt his eye twitch, and his dormant frustration threatened to break through his fatigue. “What about this is supposed to be fun, exactly?”

Rather than answer, Lucy exaggeratedly rolled her eyes. “Paul, honey, you know I love you, but you really gotta learn to lighten up. So you’re a pony right now; so what? Moping about it ain’t gonna make your uncle call any quicker. Why don’t you try and think of the positives?”

Positives? Paul scoffed. “I’m afraid I’m coming up blank.”

Paul knew he made a mistake when Lucy’s grin twisted into a devilish smirk. “Oh? Then maybe I could help you find some~”

“T-that’s really not necessary.” Paul gulped, finding his mouth far too dry, and began backing away slowly as he dared, as though any sudden move would set Lucy off. He might have been surprised at how easily he was able to backpedal despite only having hooves and four legs for less than an hour if he wasn’t too busy focusing on the looming threat of…whatever scheme his girlfriend was plotting.

“Nuh-uh-uh,” Lucy tutted, “If you’re so dead-set on being a gloomy Gus, then it’s my job to cheer you up. Now, if you’ll just--”

She sprang into action, arms outstretched, and Paul yelped in surprise. He tried to retreat, but with her longer legs Lucy was able to cross the short distance between them in a blink. Paul felt two arms wrap around his barrel, and his stomach dropped as he was hoisted unceremoniously into the air.

“Oof! Dang, girl, what’ve you been eating?” Lucy quipped, adjusting her stance lest she send the two of them toppling onto the ground. “And quit your squirming, you big baby!”

“Lucy!” Paul tried not to screech, but he was only half-successful. “Put me down, damn it! I’m not a--”

She staggered over to the couch and fell backwards onto it, earning a grunt of effort from the pair and a rusty squeak from the old springs beneath them. Paul was now firmly laying on his girlfriend’s lap. Usually it was the other way around as the two unwound while watching TV; then again, usually Paul wasn’t a pony.

Heart still hammering from the sudden invasion of his personal space and subsequent kidnapping, Paul had half a mind to buck like a stubborn bronco and escape Lucy’s clutches.

Then Lucy ran a slender hand down his back, and Paul froze.

She did it again, slowly, trailing her fingers through his impossibly soft fur, and he thawed.

The third time, she put her nails into it, lightly scratching along the ridge of his spine, and he melted.

Lucy’s magical ministration cut through Paul’s taut-wire tension, and as his bones turned to jelly and that intoxicating, sticky warmth crept back in, he let out a sound somewhere between a choked gasp and a blissful moan.

“Hee hee!” Lucy giggled, relentless in her assault on Paul’s back (and his dignity). When she spoke, her voice was low and quiet, a pleasant buzz in Paul’s splayed ears. “Someone sure was wound up, huh? Don’t you feel better already? Just relax, hun.”

Paul wanted to protest, to insist that this was wrong, but it died in his throat when Lucy reached up with her other hand to scratch behind his ears. Coherent thoughts were lost in the haze; emotional exhaustion mixed with the pleasure of his girlfriend’s careful attention to make a fog that snuffed out any hope of fighting back.

“Ohh,” Paul murmured, unconsciously pressing his side into Lucy’s stomach, seeking out more of her wonderful touch, “Lucy, I…I don’t…”

“Shh,” she gently chastised, playfully booping his snout and laughing when Paul scrunched his muzzle reflexively, “I’m sure you’ll be back to being Mr. Tall, Dark, and Brooding soon enough, but until then, why not have some fun being my little pony instead?”

Somewhere deep in the soupy morass that was Paul’s rational mind, he knew he had to deny it. He wasn’t a pony, let alone a mare. He was Paul Jensen, human male. Unremarkable, beneath mention, working a soul-crushing job simply to keep the lights on and fridge stocked, a job that he probably wouldn’t have come spring. He couldn’t relax. He couldn’t afford to. The second he stopped moving, stopped worrying, stopped dreading, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to force himself to go back.

But that voice was small, tinny, and so, so far away. Paul could hardly hear it over the seductively sweet siren’s song of Lucy’s gentle whispers of assurance and glee as she cuddled against his plush equine form. It was so very hard to fight against the rising tide of that sweet warmth, a warmth that brought murmurings of its own.

“What’s so bad about this?” it seemed to say in a soft, saccharine, and feminine lilt, “It feels good. I feel good. Better than I have in far, far too long. Lucy’s right; I should enjoy this while I can.”

“But I--”

“Doesn’t everypony deserve a break now and then?” the voice interrupted, gently but firmly, “Just look at me. Look at my eyes, at the bags under them. I look like a zombie, and lately I've felt like one too. Lucy tries to hide how worried she is about me, poor dear, but Celestia knows it’s killing her to see me like that.”

Distantly, Paul realized why the voice seemed so familiar. It was his--or rather, his current voice. His pony voice. He could almost see her in his mind’s eye, staring up at him with a broad, kind smile.

“Just this once,” she said, pacing a slow, steady circle around him, her wide hips swaying slightly with her steps, “Just this once, and the second I change back I’m shipping the mirror right back to Uncle Dane. Then it’ll be out of my life for good, and Lucy and I can share a laugh about it later.”

At some point, she stopped needing to look up to look him in the eye. He glanced down, saw chocolate fur and hooves, and knew he’d lost the battle.

“Just this once,” he echoed in her voice. She nodded, cream-white mane bouncing along, eyes bright and grin encouraging. Her cheer was infectious, and Paul found himself smiling, too. It wasn’t as wide, nor as cheerful, but it was a smile nonetheless. “I can rest…just this once.”

And so he did. For how long, he didn’t know. His consciousness floated in that blissful oblivion, vague awareness of the outside world returning only when Lucy shifted beneath him, or when she found a new spot to scratch and caress. He was putty in her skillful hands, and he just couldn’t find it in him to care. For a time, his whole world was warmth and sweetness and love.

But then it started to creep in.

It began in his gut, so subtle at first that he didn’t notice it over the deluge of other feelings. But it grew, like a great chasm splitting the earth wide, opening up and swallowing all in its path. Wider, deeper, ever more expanding until--

Paul’s stomach roared like a starving beast, echoing through the house and dispelling the reverie far too soon. He blinked, and he saw the waking world once more. Lucy’s wandering touch froze, and when Paul turned to look at her, her smile was far, far too amused.

“Guess that means it’s dinner time, huh?”

Paul tried to hide his blush under his hooves, but judging by Lucy’s redoubled laughter, he wasn’t at all successful. He certainly couldn't deny it, though. Not after that.

"Uh, how about a salad?"

Chapter 4

The salad tasted fine. Just fine. Disappointingly fine.

Paul had been expecting something else. Oh, he liked leafy greens well enough, especially when well prepared, but tonight’s meal was anything but.

Paul’s spring mix came prepackaged from the store and had laid a little too long in his fridge to be considered fresh anymore. The dull, flaccid leaves of spinach and lettuce lacked any bite as his pony teeth tore into them with ease, and the store-brand ranch dressing smothered any flavor they otherwise might have. The croutons, at least, added a bit of desperately needed texture to the ensemble.

Paul tried to keep his dissatisfaction off of his face, but it was a Sisyphean effort. If his lack of opposable thumbs (or any fingers at all, for that matter) forced him to lap his dinner off a paper plate with his tongue like a dog and to endure the flush in his cheeks at the barely constrained giggles of his girlfriend every time he did so, the least his meal could do was taste good.

He had imagined that with his altered physiology would come altered taste buds, or at least an altered digestive system. While horses could apparently eat meat (thank you, Google), and he didn’t outright gag at the sight or smell when Lucy added canned chicken to her plate of greens, he was not terribly eager to test the omnivoracity of his new form. In any case, even if his palate had changed, it hadn’t changed enough to turn subpar salads into gourmet meals.

It was little wonder, then, that even after his tongue swiped the last shred of spinach off his now-spotless plate, Paul’s plush tummy cried out, yearning for something more. Something…sweet.

Yes, that was it. He’d valiantly suffered through his sorry excuse of a dinner, so he deserved a truly tasty reward, didn’t he? Something like a steaming tray of gooey brownies paired with heaping scoops of vanilla ice cream. He could almost see the platter of rich chocolatey goodness as he pulled it fresh from the oven, its heavenly aroma filling an imaginary kitchen. His tummy grumbled again -- better make it two scoops of ice cream, with just a dash of cinnamon on top to really bring it all together.

A dopey smile pulled at his muzzle, daydreams of delectable deserts dancing through his mind. Goodness, he needed to get his hooves on something sweet ASAP!

“Yoohoo, Earth to Paul?”

“Hmm?” he hummed belatedly, sweeping his unfocused gaze over to his girlfriend sitting beside him -- his very amused girlfriend, if the cheeky smirk was anything to go by.

“Just wondering what’s got you all spaced out and drooly, hun,” she said, poorly hiding a titter behind her hand. Paul’s ear flicked, only half-registering what Lucy had said.

‘Drooly’? Still somewhat in a haze, Paul wiped absently at his muzzle with a foreleg, and sure enough it came away slightly damp. He stared mesmerized at the wet spot on his fur, blinked heavily once, and suddenly the spell was broken, visions of chocolate decadence chased away by the intense heat blooming in his cheeks.

Paul couldn’t believe he’d literally been drooling over the mere thought of sweets. He didn’t even particularly like sugary stuff; he couldn’t even remember the last time he had a craving for a candy bar, let alone something as frightfully saccharine as brownies a la mode!

He quickly turned his head in an attempt to hide his embarrassment, wiping his snout furiously to clear it of any lingering saliva. Lucy giggled at the sight, tousling his cream-colored mane. Paul shivered and subconsciously leaned into the touch despite his flustered state.

“Let me guess: you were imagining chowing down on a big bushel of apples instead of this rabbit food?”

Apples did sound nice, actually, all tart and crunchy, or better yet baked into a crispy, flaky pie--

He shook his head, both in reply and to clear his thoughts of dessert. “...Brownies and ice cream,” he admitted sheepishly, casting a sidelong glance at his girlfriend from behind his bangs.

“Really?” Lucy asked, genuinely surprised. She’d lived with Paul long enough to know his distaste for such confections, after all. She seemed to consider the revelation for a moment before taking a not-so-surreptitious glance at his barrel and flanks, her grin turning sly once more. She gave his flank a poke, right on the cinnamon bun mark. “Guess we know why you’ve got so much bump in the rump, then.”

“N-no, I don’t!” Paul’s new voice made his indignant retort sound too much like a whine. He scooted away from the offending digit with a huff. He wasn’t fat! Just…fluffy. Yeah, that’s it.

“Aww, don’t be like that, Paul,” Lucy cooed, wrapping an arm around his shoulders while her other hand patted his belly. “So what if your new body’s got a sweet tooth? I don't mind a little extra fluff; just means there’s more of you to love~”

Paul’s whole face was on fire all the way up to the tips of his ears. He couldn’t think of a good reply, so instead he squirmed in his girlfriend’s grip and grumbled wordless displeasure.

“A shame we don’t keep any sweets around, hm? Maybe I’ll bring you something back from the diner tomorrow.”

Oh, right. Lucy had a shift tomorrow, and an early one at that. She’d be back sometime after lunch, but that would leave Paul the whole morning alone and stuck as a pony. He almost considered asking her to call in sick, at least until he turned back to normal, but he held his tongue. They badly needed every dollar they could earn, and he could handle a few hours by himself. He was a big mare--er, man.

Paul glanced at the clock on their oven. It was only a quarter after eight, but he could feel the Sandman beckoning him anyway. He’d had a long day to say the least; as if hours of miserable tedium at work wasn’t enough, having his entire perception of reality shattered by magically transforming into a pony had left him yet more exhausted, emotionally and physically. He couldn’t quite stifle a cute, drawn-out yawn, which sent Lucy into another round of giggles.

“Getting sleepy, hun?” She lightly booped him on the snout, then released him from her hold. “I’m pretty tired myself. What's to say we get to bed and wake up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, literally in your case?”

Paul rolled those so-called bright eyes as he pushed his chair away from the table and hopped the short distance down onto the floor, hooves clopping against the fake hardwood. “That was awful.”

“Don’t worry, got plenty more where that came from~”

Paul really hoped that wasn’t true.

Two hours later and despite his exhaustion, Paul still couldn’t sleep.

Was it the bed? Maybe. The king-sized mattress comfortably fit him and Lucy, but now that he was at least three feet shorter than usual it felt far too big, like the sheets would just swallow him up. He also couldn’t quite figure out which sleeping position he liked most. Normally he slept on his back, which he found he could still do, but he also kept shifting around, sometimes laying on his side, other times on his front with his legs tucked underneath him. Nothing felt quite right.

Did he have to pee? No, thankfully. He’d been apprehensive about relieving himself with his new, ahem, ‘equipment’, but he also couldn’t hold it in forever. After a minute or two of carefully balancing on the porcelain throne, he’d managed just fine. It was certainly a novel and slightly unnerving experience, but like with his sex change in general, as long as he didn’t think too hard about it he was okay.

Maybe that was his problem: he was thinking too much. He knew he’d resolved to not freak out, maybe even try to enjoy his new equine body, but now, in the dark and alone with his thoughts, he couldn’t help but fixate on his doubts and fears. Lucy may have taken his transformation in stride (an understatement, considering how much praise she’d been showering him with), but what if he really was stuck like this? What about work? Even if he could somehow convince his bosses that he was in fact Paul, it’d be a miracle if they let him into his cubicle instead of turning him into the government who, if fiction was to be believed, would ship him off to a secret lab to be poked, prodded, and dissected. Assuming he escaped that grisly fate and was allowed to do his job, it wasn’t like he could type on a keyboard with hooves, at least not efficiently. He’d have to resort to pecking at the keys with a pencil in his mouth or something equally impractical.

Forget work; without hands, how was he supposed to do much of anything at all? Using his mouth all the time would not only be unsanitary, but a massive hassle. Without Lucy, he wasn’t sure he could even eat breakfast tomorrow unless she made something before she left, which she probably wouldn’t have time for.

Paul sighed, rolling onto his side with his back to his girlfriend, whose breathing was soft and steady. He closed his eyes and listened to that rhythm for a while, hoping it would help lull him to sleep, but several minutes passed and slumber still eluded him. It was no good; his thoughts kept galloping in circles, and the more he tried not to think, the more he spiraled.

Just as he was about to throw off the stifling covers and try to walk off some of the restless energy, he felt the mattress shake as Lucy shifted in her sleep. Suddenly, an arm snaked around his barrel and pulled hard. With a very dignified, masculine “meep!”, Paul slid across the sheets until his back pressed against Lucy’s stomach and her chin rested on top of his mane.

“L-Lucy?” he whispered, unsure if his restlessness had woken her. His girlfriend replied with a sleepy murmur, hugging him even closer. For the first time in his life, Paul was the little spoon, and just like when Lucy cuddled with him on the couch, any objections he may have had melted in the face of the feelings bubbling in his chest, that tantalizing warmth that set his heart aflutter.

This time he didn’t even try to fight against his new instincts. Instead, he snuggled against Lucy even harder, yearning for her touch, and as he did everything else seemed unimportant.

He’d said he’d stop worrying, didn’t he? Wasn’t it enough to know that despite it all he was still loved, that he didn’t have to face this alone? Everything would be okay. He could rest now.

He could rest now.

He could rest.

He could--

At last, smiling softly, Paul slowly exhaled, and sleep claimed him.

She’d just finished arranging the donuts when a tinkling bell from the front of the shop alerted her to the arrival of the first customer of the day. Ears perked, she looked up from the display and smoothed out the apron covering her chest, beaming cheerily as a very familiar stallion trotted through the door.

“Good morning, Mr. Decimal!” She waved at the aging unicorn as he approached the counter. He peered at her behind a thick pair of horn-rimmed spectacles, though not unkindly; Dewey Decimal may have carefully cultivated his image as the stern, no-nonsense head librarian for the Fillydelphia Public Library, but he seemed to let the act drop just a smidge whenever he entered her shop. “It’s always great to see you! Here for the usual?”

“Of course,” he nodded, not even bothering to peruse the wide assortment of pastries, confections, and goodies proudly on offer. Dewey was a stallion of habit; ever since she opened her bakery a few years ago, he’d come in every morning and order the same exact thing. He’d once told her it was simply because the store happened to be on his usual route to the library, but even when a chain coffee shop opened up much closer to his home, he kept coming here.

She grinned brightly and got to work preparing his order: a plain bagel with extra cream cheese and chives and a large espresso black as Luna’s night. Sure, since she could set her watch to the punctuality of Dewey’s visits she could just have his order prepared in advance, but she loved being able to chat with her customers when she had time -- or in this case, when she made time.

So, as she made small talk -- about the weather, about Mr. Decimal’s wife and foals, and about his ongoing conflict with the director of the local history museum over the rights to host an exhibit on ancient Saddle Arabian literature -- she started the espresso machine, then grabbed a still-warm bagel from the display counter with a hoof. With practiced ease, she used a knife to slice the bagel cleanly in half, spreading a generous helping of cheese and chives on the exposed middle. Easy peasy.

A few minutes later, she waved goodbye as the unicorn trotted past the dining area and out the front door, a small paper bag and cup of coffee levitating alongside him. Whistling a nameless tune, she scooped the hoofful of bits he left into the cash register. She looked out through the large windows that made up most of the storefront, giving her a view of Fillydelphia’s busy streets and potential customers a view of all of the delicious treats that awaited them inside.

With the bakery momentarily bereft of hungry ponies seeking a quick and delicious breakfast, she allowed herself a small, dreamy sigh as she leaned against the counter. Even after all these moons since she’d served her first customer, seeing other ponies enjoy the fruits of her labor never ceased to swell her heart with pride. Every frosting-smeared smile, every satisfied gulp, every time somepony wanted one of her treats to be the centerpiece of a birthday, an anniversary, a wedding…

Honestly, if she didn’t need bits to pay rent and buy ingredients, she’d bake purely for the joy of it and to see everypony’s happy faces as they chowed down on her creations.

And, heh, she chuckled to herself, rubbing the chocolate-colored swell of her paunch through her apron self-consciously, maybe also to snack on myself.

She glanced at the donut display she’d been fussing with earlier, the glistening golden-brown rings of doughy, sugary goodness suddenly seeming so very alluring. She bit her lip, feeling her tummy rumble under her hoof. Sure, she’d already eaten a hearty breakfast, and the donuts were meant for the customers, but she was the one who made them in the first place, and besides, just one or two--

She had to stifle a yelp when the door chime rang. Hurriedly, she straightened up and put on her best smile, strained as it was by her embarrassment at getting caught nearly succumbing to her gluttonous urges.

“W-welcome! How can I help you today, miss?”

Despite being reasonably confident she’d never seen the pegasus mare who had just sauntered into her shop before, she couldn’t help but feel an odd sense of…familiarity, just on the edges of her mind.

Bright emerald eyes with a mischievous glint. A charming cherry-blossom coat. A boyishly handsome navy blue mane. A strikingly slender and athletic physique. A whirling cyclone emblazoned on her toned flanks. Not to mention the most dazzlingly winsome smile she’d ever seen in her life…

Her blush deepened as she caught herself staring a little too intently at the new arrival. Heart beating just a little quicker, she cleared her throat and brushed an errant lock of mane out of her eyes. If the mare noticed her mild distress, it didn’t seem to phase her. The pegasus trotted up to the counter with a natural, captivating confidence, gaze flitting over the confections before locking firmly on the mare behind the counter.

The pegasus smirked.

Her heart fluttered.

With bated breath she watched as the pegasus leaned over the counter, a conspiratorial gleam in her eyes that kept her utterly enthralled. This close, that sense of recognition was stronger than ever, yet the pegasus’ identity remained frustratingly elusive. She tried to say something, anything, just to break the tension, but the words stuck in her throat. The other mare drew closer, closer, close enough to tickle her ears with her snout. She was forced to breathe in the pegasus’ scent: vaguely floral with just a tinge of ozone.

The fire in her cheeks was becoming unbearable. At last, she managed to squeak out a breathy, “M-miss…?”

The pegasus huffed, apparently amused at her distress. Then, in a teasing, husky voice that dripped like honey into her perked ears, the other mare finally spoke.

“Time to wake up, hun.”

She blinked.

The bakery was gone. Instead, she opened her eyes to a sparsely decorated bedroom illuminated mostly by the morning light filtering in through the blinds, motes of dust dancing midair to a soundless tune. She shifted sluggishly under a blanket and let out a yawn which wracked her whole body.

She heard a familiar giggle from the other side of the bed. “C’mon, wake up, sleepyhead!”

With a groan, she rolled over and saw Lucy’s beaming smile and pretty blue eyes staring back at her--or rather, at ‘him’.

Paul blinked.

Apparently Lucy found that amusing, devolving into laughter once more before suddenly planting a quick smooch on the tip of Paul’s snout. “Morning, hun. Gosh, you’re so darn adorable it’s downright criminal! How’d your first night as a pony treat you?”

That was something Paul was still trying to figure out himself. He could still remember that exceptionally vivid dream…well, the broad strokes of it, at least. Already the finer details were starting to grow fuzzy, but what he could recall left Paul with a complicated cocktail of emotions that he was too sleep-addled to really process at the moment. Add to that the sudden spooning right before he lost consciousness, the mere memory of which notched Paul’s heartrate up a few ticks, and he was, frankly, a mess. A warm, cozy, eminently cuddleable mess, but a mess nonetheless.

Rather than try to unpack any of that, he instead asked the first question that popped into his mind: “Were you watching me sleep?”

“For a bit, yeah,” she admitted coyly, reaching out to scratch behind Paul’s fluffy ears. He had to bite back a groan--why did that have to feel so darn good? Her smile lost some of its playfulness, and affection welled in her kind blue eyes. “You slept right through my alarm, and you looked so…peaceful, I guess, that I thought it’d be a shame to disturb you. I’m about to head out, though, and I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye.”

Lucy ran her fingers through Paul’s mane, parting his cream-colored bangs and kissing his furred forehead tenderly. “Now while I’d love nothing more than to spend the whole day curled up on the couch with you, I gotta get going before traffic gets too bad. Will you be okay on your own?”

Paul needed a moment to reboot after that kiss. After a beat, he replied with his usual acerbic wit: “Uh-huh.”

“Good!” Lucy rolled off the bed and onto her feet, already dressed in her waitressing getup. “Then I’m off. Stay out of trouble, hun!”

With one last wave and a blown kiss goodbye, she departed from the bedroom and, a few moments later, from the house altogether. Paul heard the engine of her car rev, hitching just long enough to be concerning before it started in earnest. The sound faded shortly after, and then the house was quiet, and he was alone.

He debated going back to sleep, but he doubted he’d actually get any more. Free from any external distractions, the memories of his dream had free reign to occupy his thoughts. Normally he wouldn’t put much stock into the jumbled images his mind conjured up while he slept, but this dream was awfully coherent.

A small slice of the life of a little pony baker in the big city -- it sounded like the plot of a children’s book. He remembered serving that unicorn stallion, talking with him, being interested in the details of his life. He remembered, too, taking pride in his work and relishing how much joy he brought others through his culinary delights.

Paul snorted. “Can’t relate.”

Still, that image stuck with him: a mare who followed her passions and loved her job, a mare whose smile (and sugary confections) brightened the day of everyone she met. A mare who wasn’t haunted by looming bills, or being replaced by AI, or…

Sighing, Paul banished the thoughts with a shake of his head. A nice fantasy, maybe, but while the magic of the mirror may have changed his species and gender, it didn’t change who he was on the inside: plain old Paul Jensen, with all his problems, troubles, and conundrums.

Lastly, that pegasus mare…of course he recognized her now as Lucy’s pony form. Even now, he felt a blush blossoming as the sight of pony-Lucy sashaying into the store, her brilliant emerald eyes and delightfully impish smirk, her immaculately preened feathers, her breath hot in Paul’s ear--

“Oh God, please tell me I’m not getting horny over a freaking pony,” he moaned, burying his face into his pillow in an effort to smother the shameful heat that the memory of pony-Lucy had stoked. That was a can of worms that would remain firmly shut, thanks very much.

Desperate for any kind of distraction, he reached out to his phone on the nightstand beside the bed. He fumbled around for it, but eventually his hoof landed on it. He grabbed it and brought it to his face. The mare in the screen’s reflection stared back at him, still somewhat flushed.

Paul then noticed that he was somehow holding his phone with his hoof. With quiet fascination, he tilted the device this way and that, the phone stubbornly sticking in place no matter what he did.

“That’s new,” he mumbled, still rotating his hoof around. “How--”

...grabbed a still-warm bagel from the display counter with a hoof. With practiced ease, she used a knife to slice the bagel cleanly in half...

Huh. That created many, many more questions that begged for answers. How was that possible? Was this something he could always do? How did his dream self know she could do that? And, most important of all:

“How do I let go?”