A Day in Stalliongrad

The tram, walkways, an alley, and some stairs, the way back home feels short. It probably was, you had long conversations with two *interesting* mares. That would skew anycreature’s senses of time. Automaticity took over as you walk the streets again, your surroundings became a blur. Orange illuminations belighted the streets of your mistress.

The door is closed behind you, now you are safe in your own four walls. Again, you are alone.

You didn’t eat anything. The cake was forgotten in your conversation with the mare, which you dearly regret now. The kitchen has been untouched ever since you woke up. It would be best to eat before you end the day and sleep.

With that goal, you set out. Passing through your small living room, you reach the door. You open it. You enter it. Clicking on the light, you observe.

Why are you in this room?

What was your plan again?

You’ll surely remember. Your brain will surely power up soon. You loosen the grab on the handle. Tighten it again. And loosen it.

…

…

Still nothing, there is nothing going on in that melon of yours.

Hippocampus, status report, what happened?

It doesn’t know, the frontal lobe is clueless as well. The temporal lobe reports ‘Shit’s fucked’. The whole nervous system knows it wants something, just not what. A whole nation suffering presque vu. It’s like the Aquileian parliament during the revolution in there. Supposedly they all know that they want the same thing. Everycreature is speaking their own language, the griffons are making rude gestures with their talons that the ponies don’t understand.

You should go back into the living room, that could help. With that you close the door and sit down, thinking.

There it is: you wanted to make yourself some food.

With renewed determination you stand up, walk towards the kitchen, open the door and…

Why are you in this room?

You forgot what you forgot. The room has cabinets, utensils, pots, a fridge, some folding chairs against the wall but nothing that tells you what your mission was. On there is a table that can be folded out. A sort of sleepiness must be diluting your thoughts. The room is so small, that when you fold it out, you’re barely able to walk much less work. Your sense and ideas get washed away in the tornado that is your consciousness.

The representatives are filibustering. A pony has decided to hold a speech consisting of him drinking wine for five hours on the podium.

The solution must be to tame it. You lay down in the middle of the kitchen and stare at the ceiling.

Everything is silent. The thick, concrete walls don’t let any sound waves through. A light, it is above, is so loud, it throbs in your ears. Time twists and turns. Unreality becomes the norm as you close your eyes.

“Psst, hey, colt.”

You open them. You’re still in the kitchen, nothing has changed.

“Hey.”

The voice, it comes from the appliances, you look towards them.

“Do you need help?”

It is the waffle iron. “Why are you talking to me?”

“You looked a little lost.”

“I haven’t been trying to not be Lost. Honestly, I like being Lost.” No, actually you don’t like being yourself. Why are you lying to a waffle iron?

“You know what I mean, Lost Red Thread.”

“Well, in that case, yes, I need a little help. I wanted to go into this room, but I completely forgot why.” Clearly there must be some otherworldly force at play in your kitchen. “This kitchen must be cursed.”

“This kitchen isn’t cursed. I have seen its history. It is old, older than me, like this whole building, it changed appearances and owners, but it is still the same.”

“So, you have seen some stuff. Was it build before the revolution?”

“Revolution? I didn’t see any of that. I am completely imprisoned in these confines.”

“But then, what did you see?”

“I saw many things. But not as what I am now. Now, I am nothing but a conglomeration of horror stories.”

“Why?”

“What is the price of forming iron, wood, or stone into a ‘product’? You have to rip into the magnificent planet and deform its parts into something unrecognizable. Countless process helped to create me. Some creature mined the minerals in a far of country, a child in a factory lost limb to produce me, countless transportations of my individual parts brought me hither and thither, and this is not counting the production of the products that allowed my creation. Stories you’ll never need to be aware of. ”

That waffle iron is overly dramatic.

“Oh. Child labor, really? Can my imagination not be a bit more creative? I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.”

“I am old. Here in Stalliongrad or Equestria it may be true. But in Griffonia or Nova Griffonia? How do you expect the warlords to finance themselves? Good ol’ exported iron.”

“You must have come with the apartment.” Since when did waffle irons get a sense for politics?

Stalliongradian trade: Stalliongradian foreign trade is nonexistent. Outside a few exceptions, nothing gets imported, nothing gets exported, legally speaking. This old piece of machinery was made pre-revolution, meaning that the metal was imported to Equestria, they don’t want to sully their nature with industrialization, a luxury that Stalliongrad can’t afford. The result of Stalliongrad’s isolation is shortages and scarcity of resources. The Equestrians point at those shortages as clear failures of communism; the communists see it as an acceptable sactifice. The Stalliongradian isolation is not a result of unwillingness to trade but because every other country either hates communism or ignores its existence.

Even if you wanted, you can’t buy labor law violating products here.

You can’t hold back, you need to ask. “Wait, do you know what I did yesterday, or at all in the past?”

“The door was closed.”

“Dammit. Waffle iron, could you at least tell me what I am doing here?”

“A mare and stallion got together, and they created you, that’s why you’re here. Disgusting, isn’t it?”

“What?” Did it just insult you? “Me? Disgusting? You give me all that shit about exploitation, then you call my conception disgusting!? It’s not. Sex is cool.” You think, but you first need to figure out what that mystical concept of ‘sex’ is.

“I don’t mean sex, I mean *hetero* sex. It is sickening to think a creature would want to put another on this world. It is even more ugly to see flesh in flesh, like macabre puzzle accidentally created by nature.”

Don’t think about it as normal. Why should you care about what this mysterious *normal* is. No, it’s about what you want.

“I just want to have fun. I want somecreature to comfort me, to hug me, to –“

“You’ll only get disappointment. If you want any of that, you need to know what you want.”

“I don’t care. I am super hyper-uber-gay. Male, female, pony, or whatever a changeling is. As long as it is an adult and consents, it doesn’t matter. That’s what’s normal.” The waffle iron derailed the conversation, and you don’t have the energy to debate a heterophobe kitchen device. “I want to know why I’m in this kitchen.”

“Probably to fulfill the purpose of a kitchen.”

And what is that? What are you supposed to do in a kitchen?

You make food.

“Make food… ooh. Thank you, waffle iron. I hope you don’t have anything against being used.”

“What if I do? Would you feel bad? Does my history make my usage sad?”

“Well, I am pretty sure you’re just a hallucination. And even if you what you told me is real, it’s too late. I should make the best out of you.”

“So, my opinion doesn’t matter.”

“That is very depressing coming from a waffle iron.”

And you do. The waffle iron didn’t say anything afterwards. Luckily, you have a basic inventory. With your limited resources, you make waffles, the recipe was like an instinct to you, with a side of a can of beans, yoghurt that is about expire, and carrots.

You eat on your bed. After finishing, with the last iotas of strength you clean your dishes, lazily throwing them into the cupboard in an unorganized mess. Going back into the bed, you put on your cover that smells as bad as you.

You are like a bohemian. A bohemian, yes, that sounds nice. The individuality of it. It makes your skin crawl.

Fantasizing about becoming a bohemian, your perception of the world around you weakens. Your eyes close, you start to snooze.