The trees made of cardboard, the houses made of sand, the ponies walking backwards on a forward path.
A checkerboard snap, and then it’s checkmate.
A drunkard sneezes and society collapses.
Berry Punch, a mare of few words, more cozy with the cider than the bed. Once, Ponyville collapsed in her presence and now it’s happening again. This time, there’s no chaotic force.
Ponies watched television, hearing the reports on the newspaper. She’s of the ones to be scorned.
She needs help, but nary did a call reach them. Blinded by paper, muffled by noise. A cancellation of the continued story they saw around them. The story continues, beyond their scope.
She begs for calling, and Ponyville goes down. The buildings crumble, inhospitable.
The veneer of pretend, bits in a cup, sprawled out behind the mayor’s office. The spare change affords nothing but spares. The help they receive is minuscule, stronger help is called for, the silence is deafening.
A cider once, a cider twice. Gone. The bits clatter in the cup.
She functions. Nopony pays her any mind, she’s already figured it out.
She swallows it down, the rancid taste and rancid knowledge that nothing ever will be done. She knows what’s coming later, and endless loop on a roller coaster. Far beyond what she can handle. She’ll be out like a light by the end of it.
She tried going to the help groups, they didn’t work. She could try rehab, but then everypony would know, a stain on her otherwise fine record. She could still live after all. That’s all she needed to do; function. Function like the broken clock that’s right twice a day. Function like the limping wind-up toy.
For when the ponies hear she’s a drunkard, that’s all they know of her and about her.
Another round, maybe the chamber’s empty.
The tears of cider fell down the sink. She fell behind the bench and woke up with a headache. She stumbled out into the street.
Her tears were more crocodile than pony. Were they?
After all tears of cider are self-wrought.
Another cup clatters while walking on air. Another wobbly sure fire from the ponies playing pool. She cries.
She broke down in the street, ponies stared, not caring enough. Her reputation was already torn asunder. When she stood back up nothing had happened. They carried on.
She smiled and waved as she walked away.
They didn’t smile and wave. They didn’t for the pony near the mayor’s office, nor the pony struggling to find a seat. Why would she be any different?
Berry Punch takes a drink. Another. Another. Too many drinks to count. She’d be fine tomorrow. It’s not like her reputation would be, could be, harmed any more.
Once she laid down next to the mayor’s office, head like a jackhammer, grounded sea legs, teeth chattering in the summer heat. She cried next to the pony. The other ponies knew them. None of them knew them. They were only known by what other ponies knew them as.
Berry Punch had no change, but tomorrow she would be paid. A manager who puts up with grievances because it’s all they can do. Berry Punch does the job, and that’s all that’s needed.
She didn’t expect ponies to toss change her way either. After all, who wanted to help these two ponies.
Names were exchanged. The friends never met again.
Berry Punch drinks her third cider down. The treasure chest, she thinks. A foal’s game, or another half-muddied glass memory hammered into dust? She is slipping away, as if she hadn’t done that already.
At cider season, she was always the first in the line. Apple Family Cider was easily the best. She’d order a few cups, drink them throughout the day, slowly getting attached to the taste and drinking them faster, faster, faster still. Then she fell asleep. Usually at home.
Every year. It was the same. She always got too much. Then she started getting more. She wasn’t even settling for Apple Family Cider anymore, the imported stuff was cheaper anyhow.
She always felt warm, left cold in the morning. Confidence rattled by a cowardly choice.
She was unsure if it even was cowardly. How much had she absorbed? Why is she crying, another tic that time forgot? She always cries. She couldn’t stop. Nopony tells her to, how to. Nopony tells her, talks to her, tells, talks.
She sways as the phrase is repeated. She’ll forget this by tomorrow. She’ll forget all this but tomorrow.
A third mug clatters, Berry Punch orders a fourth. She reaches to throw bits on the table and realizes she has none. Not today at least. Tomorrow she’d be back, as she was yesterday.
The midnight moon shines brightly on the gloom, her stumble evident to nopony, but everypony already knew. After all, it was the darkest hour of the night. Only drunks were out at this hour, and everypony still awake knew it.
A bleary path lays out ahead of her, and Berry Punch follows it, methodically. She doesn’t make it home.
She doesn’t function. She tells herself she does.
She’s fine, she will get home safely in the morning, after waking up with a terrible headache pounding like rain on a Friday afternoon. She will walk home, collapse, and end up going to the one place that would hire.
For now she takes a catnap, near a bench. She could sleep on the bench, but the seat swims in front of her eyes. A little fish, shark, whatever swims in the night, like a magnet.
She will wake up in the morning, and ponies will ignore her. They will silently decide with a million words that she doesn’t need help. They’ll keep going. Berry Punch will keep going.
She will drowsily head in, put on a brave face. She will do this all again tomorrow. It will depend on what she can scrounge together.
And two bits will clatter in the cup.
Author's Note
This is a rather experimental work and I’m curious to see how it’ll go over.
