...Gilda Leaned Against The Railing
As the ferry left Manehattan, Gilda leaned against the railing. It wasn’t a bar, like the railings on a common staircase. Rather, it was more of a short wall that just barely reached under Gilda’s midsection. Solid, it was made of solid steel. The white paint had been chipped and faded, rusted and scratched. The sea had taken its toll on the poor vessel over the many, many journeys the ferry had made. Gilda took planted her flanks surely down on the long row benches. They had no backing to them, and definitely no pillows. There was no support at all.
If there were any foals here, they’d never be able to see over the railing. See the sights. Of course, there was nothing to be found on the other end of the journey. But Manehattan was a visual feast. It was all one big concrete forest split up by the arteries and blood vessels of the seemingly-always-congested road network. That particular giant building with the head of a pony on top of it was always visible from somewhere in the city, especially from off the coastline.
As the ferry left Manehattan, the wind blew from offshore. It was a cold wind. This time of the year, the wind off the water was always cold. Cold like a Griffonstone winter. It ruffled through Gilda’s feathers as she rested her claws on the railing. She tapped her claws. Outer claws inward. Outer claws inward. Tip tap, tip tap. This wind was cold, yes, bone chillingly cold, but in a warm way. Is that a contradiction? Oh well. Still, Gilda pulled in her jacket tight.
Words sat tight in her throat like she was choking on them, but no one to cough them out on to. She turned behind her, away from the front of the ferry. Desolation. There was one man, Griffish in origin, reading a newspaper between his claws. She couldn’t make out his face, but she knew it wasn’t a friendly one, or one she had ever known. Ponies never made this trip. Only Griffons that are too lazy to make the journey by wing took this ferry. Maybe there was some guilt building up under those choking words. How great. And even so, the ferry was nearly filled to bursting on the way to Manehattan. Yet, on the return journey, the ferry was empty. Empty, empty, empty. Even the crew looked empty. Gilda could see bridge of this particular vessel, the captain staring out to see like he was missing something dear to him. Probably his wife. If he had one.
Griffonstone was no place for love.
As the ferry left Manehattan, Gilda walked around the bridge towards the back of the ferry. There was one more soul here. Not that it mattered. She didn’t make eye contact. Whoever they were, their body was more like a smooth stone in a pile of pebbles, her eyes just glazed past them. The water, rough and choppy, was churned and frothed white by the motors. Truly a marvel of pony engineering.
The mare of friendship stood guard over them. That’s where her eyes were truly set. They called it the Statue of Friendship. Gilda couldn’t remember what her tour guide had said, but she remembered that it was a gift from some other city. A symbol of the friendship of all ponykind, and that it was a big copper statue. The wind in the air and the salt in the sea had turned the once shining bronze copper statue into a dull green color, like a long faded half bit coin. Yet, Gilda’s face feathers were stained with tears. Her face feathers were already a total mess, she wasn’t a sea bird. She wasn’t meant for the ocean breeze, but tears did not help either. She was going home. Home.
As the ferry left Manehattan, Gilda walked back around the bridge, back past the man with the newspaper in his talons, back to old faded white railings, back onto that painfully cold and uncomfortable bench. The mare of friendship was proud of her kind’s accomplishments. Gilda just felt guilt toiling away at her chest. It was only three days. A griffon couldn’t possibly see all the sights there were to see in a city like Manehattan. A griffon could wander around for years and not see anything. That ferry and stupid tour guide was nearly all her bits. Guilt.
Did the Griffons not deserve a statue of pride? No way in Tartarus.
A throbbing sort of guilt, that churned and frothed at her heart the way the ferry did to the seas. All her bits, yes, it really was all her bits. She clawed at her bag and pulled out another layer. It was cold. Manehattan was already fading away in the background behind her, out of sight, just like her travel was already fading into memory. Why was she guilty? There was nothing to be guilty for. Gilda wasn’t a sentimental griffon, no, she was big and strong and cool and could make more bits at home and come back another day. It wasn’t her fault that she couldn’t possibly see everything there was to see in a city as big as Manehattan. If only she didn’t have to go home. If only she didn’t rest at the hotel for three hours because her wings and talons hurt so bad she nearly cried. If only…
As the ferry reached Griffonstone, Gilda packed her belongings and simply took flight over the top of the faded white railing, even though they hurt like crazy. Cramping and yelling for a break. She flew. And flew. All the way back to her nest. And slept for hours and hours and hours until the sun came back up again. Then her wings didn’t ache so bad. The temporary feeling of guilt and all those many unspoken words balled up in her throat fell out of her beak as she slept. Now, she just had a story to tell, about all the fun she had in the big city…
