The Colt

by Sgt_Squid

Rating: everyone
Tags: Random
Length: 1151

A collection of short stories, focused around experimenting with writing styles.

This is a collection of short stories, built around two concepts:

- That of introducing different styles of writing with each one, for the sole purpose of experimentation;

- And that of a colt; specifically, everything about him, but *not* him.

I have, as of yet, not written anything from his perspective, relying instead on broad statements (as per the second 'chapter') or other people (first 'chapter').

So far, the collection includes:

- Chapter One: A Coffeeshop Collective[mind] (Written solely from other points of few, but with the focus still being on the colt)
- Chapter Two: A Babbling me, about the Brooks (Written as ambiguously as I possibly could.)

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2012-11-23 07:18:06 UTC

Chapter One: A Coffeeshop Collective[mind]

The Colt;

A Coffeshop Collective[mind]

“You should have seen him, Sophie. Or better yet, heard him”

He saw him for the first time downtown. He stood out as much as he didn't; a simple brown mane, and an even simpler coat. But the eyes were beacons of a hidden personality. A personality that quickly came out once he started speaking.

“Gentlecolts, I have news from the Brooks-”

He was talking to a small group of ponies. There was nothing specific about them: there was more mediocrity than exception. A mix of ages, genders, and even occupation. It felt wrong, somehow. The entire meeting had, actually. They spoke openly and with confidence, but remained secretive and vague. There was no camaraderie between them, with a single exception. The colt.

Perhaps he shouldn't have been listening in on it, but it was hard to resist. He came often to this particular coffee house; it had been his source of exotic drinks for the past year. But now he would come for another reason. The colt.

If anyone within the group seated that afternoon in the coffeehouse was anxious, it was impossible to tell. Stone faces looking outwards, minds churning within. They had gathered because of a call, and they came to hear news. No looking at each other. No small chatter. There was only one thing important at this moment, and that was the colt.

“Gentle colts, I have news from the Brooks: despite the ever present glower of 'the sun', we had an overwhelming support from the local-”

The barista had never heard anything like it. Never had an entire room been captivated so easily by a single colt. He could feel it tugging at his mind, pulling him into listening. People were usually so busy with their own matters, their own problems, that people like this just became more static. Today marked something special. Something that would go down on paper. That colt. The colt.

She never liked coffee shops. Too many people, too much flash. But the call of a proper drink brought her here, today, and she was beginning to regret it. Her cup was filled with something pretending to be tea, her friend way over due, and then suddenly it became just that much more full: a group and a sigh. But something was different. It should have gotten louder, but the room was filled only with silence. A voice stood out clearly now. A voice lush with deeper meaning. A quick search: the colt.

Royal guards didn't belong in a coffeehouse. He knew this. He came anyways. Leave from duty didn't mean anything but free time; he couldn't just stop being a guard. So he stood awkwardly, trying to readjust to 'normal' life. But no amount of time could prevent the instinctual uneasiness he felt as someone began to talk. Not just anyone. The colt.

“Gentle colts, I have news from the Brooks: despite the ever present glower of 'the sun', we had an overwhelming support from the local government. They'll support-”

He finally had a chance to see his special someone. It had been months of separation, and to make up for it, she had made arrangements. The spot where they had met would be reserved, the adjacent area cleared, and all would be perfect. Just the two of them, together. The owners were always so accommodating, in that way, from the very beginning. But this was outrageous. They had their space, but if was far from clear. In the weeks they had been away, business had picked up far beyond comfortable limits. But now, suddenly, quiet. Wonderful quiet. But for one colt, it was silent. The colt.

She knew she was waiting. It had been forty five minutes, now, since their arranged meeting. Things had kept her, things she would have to explain and apologise for, but only now was she approaching the shop. Hurried stride, an uncomfortable gallop. No time to look around, to notice the onlookers excited pointing. But once the door was opening, swinging smoothly as it always did, there was time. Time to look at the silent crowd, the passive group, and the colt. There was time for the colt.

Twilight Sparkle was fetched with utmost haste. A letter from Princess Celestia, a few short words, and she was put on the path of collision. She had to collide; Celestia had talked about this kind of day before, had stressed what would have to happen. It was planned out from the day it seemed like it might need to be. So she gathered her papers, her notes. Spike was instructed in his part. He didn't understand, but he would. More preparing. The Royal Chariot arrived, and she hurried to meet it. She had to collide, had to collide quickly and had to collide with the colt.

“Gentle colts, I have news from the Brooks: despite the ever present glower of 'the sun', we had an overwhelming support from the local government. They'll support our movement for a democratic change in-”

“Oh. Twilight Sparkle. I expected you sooner.”

“Edwin.”

“I had just begun going over my findings in Brooks. I'd hate to start over, but you're welcome to stay for the remainder.”

“No, Ed. Thank you, but I've left my research brewing for too long as it is.”

“I see. I'm afraid I'm going to have to cut this session short. Brooks can wait for another day.”

He left almost as unremarkably as he had come. A few short words of thanks, and that was all. The spell he had cast upon the room faded slowly, as if the ponies within were unwilling to let go. But he was gone.

Chapter Two: A babbling me, about the Brooks

The Colt;

A babbling me, about the Brooks

“Here? Yes. Here.”

Rattling underneath. Screeching of grinding. Breathing heavy with blackness and poison to the lungs. All this followed by the sounds of movement. Smallness now crowded, hard floor bouncing back equally hard objects. An equally small rising, the smelling of freshness driving forwards.

But focusing now; self-importance, but not important. No, singular importance split between more than that. Trepidation? Yes. Disgust? Yes. Eagerness? Yes once again. But split again. Rising now, rising to breath fresh. Lagging behind, but finding it easier. No pushing to be felt, too far back. Why the rushing, anyways?

Thinking. Pausing. Uncertain.

Leading now, heading forwards. Now heading left. Seeking specifically, of course. Never not. Soon to share thinking. That it would spread, was hoped. But now confusion.

Narrowness constrained, tallness dwarfed. A low brightness above, and a growing darkness below. Row's of sameness, dull grey and red. Unhurried walking, now, but mistakenly. No hurrying felt, because there was no pushing left.

More wanderings. Looking for specifics among specifics. But specific to who?

Finally, hope.

Knocking. Loud, obnoxious, knocking. Confident, knocking.

Only silence.