"'BANG! With little more than a feeble groan of pain, he fell onto the cold concrete, quickly losing blood and consciousness. He didn't even get to say good-bye."

~~~~~~

I've always wanted to start a story like that, honestly. It's hard for a writer to come up with new ideas. But seeing as I have only recently moved to Trottingham, it's expected for me to take a while to find inspiration to write. My name is Ink Flow. I am a writer. Here is the story of how I died.

I remember the day I moved to Trottingam. It was a cloudy day, as forecasts usually say about the city. I watched quietly as burly pegasi brought my possessions into my newly purchased apartment. They said it would take about an hour to get everything into my floor. I didn't mind; I'm a patient pony. Ponies passed by me, a few waving at me with a welcoming smile on their face. Others just ignored me and cantered on. As I looked down the street, I could see several other apartment buildings, a small park by the corner of my block and a café on the opposite side of the street.

For me, that was all I needed. Open space (park) and coffee (café) always helped me relax and focus whenever I wrote a story. I look back to the pegasi movers, who were nearly halfway done unloading their truck. I sighed and searched my saddlebags for one of my books. I may be patient, but that doesn't mean I can't be bored. I pulled out my latest novel, Fires of the Past. I scowled a bit at the cover; while writing was a fulfilling profession; I hated having to write my stories. It wasn't because they weren't good, it was because of what they told. I'm not a very creative mind, I'm not well versed in making original stories. When I do write, I base my stories on my past. It's something that I rightfully hate having to do, but there's no way else for me to be true to my Cutie Mark (an open book next to an inkwell).

How did I get my Cutie Mark? Simple, I loved to tell stories as a kid. Even as I began to mature, I'd volunteer at the local libraries to read to the foals and fillies off Manhattan. One day, I decided to write a fanfic of one of my favorite stories for a contest. It took me hours upon hours to write, but it was worth it. I didn't even notice my Cutie Mark appearing the night I finished writing until I went up to receive the trophy.

Enough about my Cutie Mark though. Like I said I hate writing stories. Ponies everywhere praise me for writing such realistic stories filled with drama, action, and romance. They didn't know that the stories behind the stories were true. I had lived through each and every one of my stories. And I have the feeling that this may be the last ever I'll write.

"Um," spoke a pegasi mover. "Mr. Flow, we're finished unloading and put your belongings were you wanted them."

I wasn't really in the mood for conversation. I was reading and reminiscing of my past pains and blunders. I simply nodded and gave the stallion a reasonable amount of bits. He walked away, seemingly satisfied by the pay. I looked up and watched as their truck pulled away. I was alone on that sidewalk, but had the feeling that some pony was watching me. I shuffled it off and entered my new apartment. It was pretty nice. Large windows facing the park and Twin Tails River; a pretty sight to lose my thoughts in.

I came to Trottingham for that very reason: to escape. My past is dark, as one can tell, and the fact that I can only write with my past as a plot would most likely make me a sitting duck to those who hated me back in Manehattan. I had become an easy target, a sitting duck maybe. I didn't plan to stay long seeing as I could be tracked down very easily if I made myself obvious.

I sat down my writer's desk in front of the windows. My only companion for 8 years, a typewriter, sat regally on top of it. I willed my magic to take control of the device and began to think about a very sad, painful time of my life. This would be one my audience might l love; they love my sad romance novels. I was about to start typing when somepony knocked at my door.

"Hello?" A mare's voice called from behind the wooden barrier. It was familiar, maybe one of those voices that we all seem to recognize, but still belongs to a complete stranger. I opened the door to see a white mare with a light pink mane and tail with a nurse's cap on.

"Can I help you with something?" I said, tired from waiting outside. "I'm quite busy and-" the pink haired nurse hugged me.

"Ink Flow, it's actually you! I've missed you so much!" I could feel tears soaking into my coat.

"How do you know who I am?" I query.

She wiped away a tear. "How could you forget your best childhood friend? What are you doing out of Manehattan?"

And so, began my troubles, I looked around and saw eyes in every shadow, watching me. So, they've finally found me. I think to myself, then look to my friend. "Come inside," I open the door for her. "There's a storm coming."

She entered the apartment with a confused look, then dropped it once the door was closed.

"You saw them?" I nodded.

"You do know how much shit you're in, right?" I nodded.

"Ink, they're using me, I just need you to play along. I'm hoping that might help us both out of this problem."

I turned and walked over to a cabinet."

"In that case, Redheart, my dear friend," I opened the cabinet and pulled out a bottle of wine and two glasses. "What do you say we catch up a little?"

Author's Note

Currently writing this via my iTouch. Quite difficult for me to type this way, but I don't have access to a computer right now. Hope you enjoy! And I'll try working on it a bit in my school library.