Dripping Ink

When she got it she smiled, in an aloof kind of way. Then she giggled. She immidiatly started writing a response, as this was like no other letter she had recieved. At least, that was how he imagined it had gone down when he recieved her response. There was no "Dear".

"Thank you Suomynona for your most encouraging words. They have inspired me to write a new story, which will be featured soon. It is becaouse of ponies like you that I write. I have deducted you have a very poetic soul. I would enjoy it very much if you would write back, and possibly even be my penpal.

Me,

Anonymous".

Reading it, he felt like he might implode. He was jittering, though the cause of that might have been the Red Pony he was in the middle of drinking. A story? Just for Him? It felt like a miracle. Like nothing that would have happened before her stories came along. Apperantly, his words were encouraging. Apperantly, they were inspiring. Apperantly, he caused her to write. Apperantly, he had a poetic soul. Apperantly, she enjoyed his writing. Apperantly, he would be her penpal. He couldn't contain his exitment, and started running around in circles. It was during this that two words occured to him; "Happy ending".

He was never fond of happy endings, or even endings.  In Anonymous's stories, there were rarely, if ever, endings. She liked to leave the reader wondering what would occur next. This never bothered him, as the stories themselves were enough to appease his required dosage of ideas. Although... Sometimes he wanted to know how she thought it would end. Her version of the perfect stopping point. Stories should never end. Unfortuatly, they have to. It was just a matter of when.

He waited until Sunday, checking his wall clock. He passed the time by reading through her old stories. They were never as good the second time around, but managed to suffice. He realized new things about the stories that he hadn't figured out before. Was Green Tree the murderer? No, it must have been her twin! Things like that. After about seven hours of reading, he began to become dizzy, and by his ninth, he was on the floor, passed out, drooling. When he woke up again, it was Sunday.

  He tripped over his hooves multiple times before reacing the front of his building, where he grabbed  the paper and sprinted back inside. When he ripped it open and turned to page six, he was socked by what he found. His own words. Not all of them, but some. Mixed with hers. Intertwined. He then realized what he had done. On the pack of the paper he had sent her was a draft for one of his story/poems. And she had added herself to it.