I wake up a few seconds before the alarm rings.
The bed is colder than it should be, and flatter too. There is no other pony beneath the sheets with me, their weight bending the cheap mattress and pulling me closer. My back is cold where some stallion or mare should be nestled against it.
This happens, sometimes. The administrators decide that some percentage of the village’s ponies should be single for the night, and rather than pairing off at chance’s whim we are left to fend for ourselves. On some of these nights, I go in search of the similarly lonely, and engineer for myself what the village has not given me. On other nights I end up like this, and I wake up alone, without the anchor of another body to fix my sense of self.
It’s not bad. But it is a little chilly, and I pull the sheet up over my shoulder just as the alarm goes off.
I was done sleeping, anyway. It’s not as fun by myself.
* * *
“Glenmore!” The administrator calls my name and looks up with a smile as I approach. I’m one of the last names today, and as soon as she finishes with the last of us, her job is done for the next several hours. It’s a break she deserves – the administrator is the first pony to wake in the morning, and spends hours before the sun rises arranging everypony else’s jobs, families and homes.
“Good morning, Chamois,” I say. “Got something good for me?”
“Maybe.” She runs the tip of her hoof along the row beside my name. “Ah, you have the day off.”
I wince. “Let me guess…”
She nods and shoots me a small smile. “Yeah, tomorrow’s administrator. Sorry.”
I wave a hoof. “It’s fine. I’ve done it a few times. Nice to have an extra day off, too.”
The day off is traditional – nopony works harder than the administrator. The hundreds of ponies who live in the village all try our best to make this brave little community work, but problems invariably crop up. Some the mayor can deal with, but anything regarding a future assignment is up to the administrator and her dice. She is the only pony in the village who can change who we are or what we do. She holds everyone’s lives in her hoof.
“Enjoy it while you can.” Chamois brushes a stray strand of mane away from her face. “I think I’m going to go home and collapse for a few hours. First time, you know?”
“You did fine. And the afternoon is pretty easy.” After lunch Chamois will go around the village, passing out addresses for the evening. The administrator never tells ponies who their new mate is – they have to discover that for themselves when they walk in the door.
“Glad to hear that.” Chamois beckons over the last two ponies waiting for assignments. I wait for her to finish with the patience of a pony who has the rest of the day off. “So, any plans?”
“Maybe.” I cast my thoughts back to the last time I had the day off. “I’m sure I’ll think of something.”
* * *
The village general store is unusually diverse.
It has to be. Ponies in the village come from all across Equestria, and they keep with them only a single memento. No other luggage, belongings, souvenirs, knick-knacks or furniture allowed.
Every house in the village is well-stocked with everything a pony might need to live and then some. Belongings accumulate in them – artwork, clothing, specialized cooking implements – left behind each morning as their owners depart. It slowly piles up, until once a month the whole village takes a day off to sweep everything out and return their house to the basics. Even the foals help, though they alone in the village stay in the same home every day. Only their parents change.
All this junk must go somewhere. Burning it would be a waste, so instead it ends up in the inaptly named general store, which has become over the years something more akin to a warehouse filled with every conceivable good a pony could want, and over the course of the month it slowly empties as ponies purchase back their belongings from it, only to leave them behind in a stranger’s house one morning.
It is to this store that I head. I wave to the clerk as I enter and head directly to the back.
My violin is where it always is. Nopony else in the town ever touches it, though there are three fiddles on the stand beside it that see frequent use. There is no difference between them, technically, except mine still bears the glow of its warm varnish, while the fiddles are worn and faded down to the bare wood. I spend a moment staring at them, trying to remember the last time the village held a true concert, then shrug and nab my instrument and its bow. The clerk barely looks up from his magazine as I drop a few bits on the counter on my way out.
* * *
I set a cushion in the village square, beside an old fountain that once flowed with water but now is filled with dirt and flowers. It is nopony’s job to maintain this impromptu garden, but every week or so I walk by to see it trimmed and leveled, with new flowers to replace those no longer in bloom. Somepony’s hobby – an echo of their old life, like music is of mine.
I spend an hour tuning the violin and playing some basic scales. Once I was a master of this instrument, but years in the village have eroded that sharp edge, and now all that remains is the talent I fostered as a filly. It’s enough to play in public, but the concert halls of Fillydelphia would no longer welcome me back.
And that’s fine. It’s a mutual feeling.
Once my joints are warmed up, I walk the violin through a few slow etudes, playing from memory. They are simple songs, more designed for study than any real art, but it’s enough for ponies to stop as they pass through the square. Most of them have no appreciation for cultured music, but they know skill when they hear it, and a few of them smile as they walk away on their business.
I’m halfway through a more difficult waltz when I notice a sky blue mare sitting a few feet away. She is older than me, with a few faint wrinkles around her eyes, but the smile she is wearing lifts years from her shoulders. I smile back at her and finish the waltz a few bars early.
“Good morning, Hyannis,” I say. “Don’t tell me you have the day off, too.”
“Bank teller,” she says. “But it’s lunch time, if you hadn’t noticed.”
I glance around the square, surprised at the number of ponies. More than a few have camped out along the edge of the fountain with their packed lunches, enjoying the warm spring air and the impromptu concert I’ve been providing. The sun has advanced overhead, and noon snuck up while I wasn’t looking.
“Well, that explains why I’m hungry,” I say.
Hyannis fishes a pair of apples out of her saddlebags and passes one to me. We crunch on them quietly, neverminding the juice that runs down our chins. Even unicorns like Hyannis learn to stop caring about silly things like that, after a few years living around so many earth ponies.
“So,” she finally says. “Any luck?”
I shake my head. “Not yet.”
She scoots over to sit beside me, pressing her flank against mine and wrapping a leg around my shoulder. “I’m sorry. Have you seen the doctor?”
“Next week.” Somewhere in the files I will pick up from Chamois tonight is a small note, explaining that I have an appointment with the doctor in Cedarville next week. The village has no doctor of its own, and we’re not foolish enough to include that specialty in our rotation. Instead we travel out of town for appointments, or rely on the former soldiers with medical training who have since joined us in the event of an emergency.
Hyannis nodded. “He’ll probably just tell you nothing is wrong, and keep trying. It took me years to get pregnant with my third.”
I try to smile at her. I know she wants to reassure me, and that I should take comfort from her words. Instead it chills me, and reminds me that everypony came to this village for a reason.
Hyannis only has one foal.
* * *
I play for a few more hours in the square, and slowly my attitude recovers. Seeing ponies smile after listening to my music does that. A reminder of days past.
Chamois finds me as the sun begins its slow descent toward the mountains. She has a pair of canvas saddlebags strapped around her barrel, and she undoes them with a relieved huff, setting them beside me. They are filled with reams of paper, folders, binders and what look like a thousand loose-leaf notes.
“There, all yours,” she says. “Ugh, never again.”
“Don’t say that, you’ll jinx yourself.” It’s a common belief in the village that bad-mouthing a particular job will all but guarantee you receive it the next day.
“Whatever. I’ve got tomorrow off. It’s already in the books.” Chamois twists her neck until it cracks, then lets out a quiet groan. “Oh, that’s better.”
I loop the saddlebags over my back and start packing up my violin. “Go ask your husband for a backrub. It helps.”
“Mm, dinner, backrub, sleep. Sounds like a plan.” She brushes my cheek with hers. “Sorry to dump those on you next.”
I return the nuzzle. “Has to be somepony. Get some rest, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
When I arrive at my new home, I empty the saddlebags on the table in the study. The administrator’s house is larger than most others, with an extra room dedicated to the thousands of pages that make this village work. Binders filled with records going back to the founding decades ago line the walls. Somewhere in them is a folder with my name and cutie mark drawn on the cover.
Some ponies, when chosen to be the administrator, spend hours going through the records. It’s a peek into the former life of their friends and neighbors. All the details that once made us special and unique, now left behind, forgotten except in the dim recesses of our fading memories and in the pages around me. It can be addicting.
But I never saw the appeal in that. Instead I leave the files behind, and head into the kitchen to make dinner.
* * *
I am nearly done with the potato casserole when my new son, Saffron Lark, returns from school. He gives me a hug, then promptly runs upstairs to get started on his homework.
For some odd reason, this makes me proud.
An hour later, dinner is nearly ready, and I am setting the table when I hear the door open. Saffron Lark runs out to greet my husband, and I look up to see who he is, wondering if I will recognize him.
I do, vaguely. Brown coat, tan mane, sheaf of grain for a cutie mark. I trot over and kiss his cheek. “Welcome home… Buckwheat, right? How was your day?”
“Not bad,” he says. He sniffs at the air. “Potato casserole?”
“Yes, I hope you don’t mind.”
He doesn’t, to judge from the smile on his face. I call Saffron Lark in, and we sit down at the dinner table to eat and learn about everypony’s day.
* * *
It is late, and I am lying on the covers with a binder spread out before me. Ink stains my hooves and lips, and I can almost hear the pillow calling my name. Buckwheat is with Saffron Lark, reading him a bedtime story, and for the second time in one day I am alone in bed.
Fortunately, my day doesn’t end that way. The door creaks open and Buckwheat pads across the floor toward me. The bed sags as he climbs in, and I let out a quiet groan as he starts nibbling at my mane, tugging the errant strands back into line and incidentally giving my scalp a lovely massage. I wonder, briefly, if Chamois is being treated this nicely by her husband.
“Almost done?” he asks. His voice is muffled but audible through my mane.
"Maybe. Depends what you have in mind.” I give him a little flick with my tail, in case my tone wasn’t clear.
Buckwheat is perceptive, it turns out. And attentive. And gentle. As I drift off to sleep, I make a mental note to change one of the lines in tomorrow’s ledger.
I hope Buckwheat will enjoy being a farmer.
That was real nice, thanks.
Perhaps tomorrow I will be a writer.
I am not one today, of course, trapped in an office filled with undone papers and upset customers all demanding my time. At one time I was a farmer, up to my knees in the snow hauling bales of hay for ungrateful cows, but then I became a student, and then a husband, and a father, and an employee. Of all, the husband and father are the best, but at times, I wish for the quiet life in a cabin by the edge of a pond, putting pen to paper while creating a masterpiece that future generations will marvel over and that will allow me to be...
Then my moment of dreaming is over, and the telephone drags me back to my desk. Today I am not a writer. But soon there will be a weekend, and if I am a good husband who weeds the garden, and a good father who takes care of his children's transportation needs, then... I may be a writer, for just a brief while.
Is anyone else inexplicably reminded of the first "BioShock" game by this story's cover-art? Anyone at all? Maybe it's just the retro-style font and slight fading, or maybe it's just me; I'm not quite sure.
Didn't read the story yet, but it wanders right on my read-later-shelf.
6051792
This is awesome! Did you cite someone or is that from you?
A very melancholy piece all around. Very appropriate title, too. I like how they all wove into each other by the end.
Should you ever do more with this village, I'd be curious to see a couple chapters dedicated to the extremes; one who has just arrived and one who has been there so long they've forgotten who they were (perhaps tie the latter into the Administrator role and the room of personnel files). Perhaps even one for the outsider, and another to the angsty teen who has grown up in the village and feels a need or want to leave it. Eh, as I said, they are ideas should you ever choose to revisit this.
Still, like all your work, this one was told superbly.
This village is one hell of a drug. Numb the pain, forget your troubles, don't think about what was or what could be.
Live in the moment. Forever.
Interesting....
Knocked it out of the park. Again!
This was...
This was very sad. Beautiful and well written, but still very sad in a way.
You've earned your like.
By the light in Luna's eyes, this was an amazingly moving piece of work. It helped me understand more deeply why anypony would choose such a life, how it could be rewarding, or at least acceptable.
And suddenly my mind is full of questions: what's the attrition rate like in this town, and how does it compare to the immigration rate? Are controls instituted on the number of foals born? How are prices set in the general store / warehouse? Do all ponies receive the same amount of bits per {time period}? Who set all this up? How do they deal with ponies who are horrifically inept with certain tasks, tools, or jobs?
That I want to know these things is an indication of how far I fell into the world you created, CiG, and that I wrote it out like that is intended as praise for your vision and your craft. Thank you for sharing your work with us. I look forward to seeing more of your work.
Light and laughter,
SongCoyote
this isn't a village, it's an insane asylum.
This is a beautiful piece of writing, and it really made you think! I love how the chapters were connected and how you subtly told their stories. Excellent work!
6051813
On second thought, maybe a comparison to Bioshock 2 would be more appropriate, given the fact that the villain of that game also advocated radically left-wing ideals (as opposed to the unrestricted capitalism advocated by Andrew Ryan in the first game) involving "the destruction of the Self" and advertised her self-serving methods as public altruism just like that bitch Starlight Glimmer (which probably explains why I hate Absolute Worst Pony so freakin' much).
6053202 On a more serious tone than I usually comment, the types of 'people' in this story are the same as those targeted by cults past and present.
They feel quite happy in their 'gray' lives... right up until they drink the Koolaid.
6051792 Be everything all at once, in all times, in all places; simultaneously.
Remember, the worst enslavement is often the chains we place upon our own minds.
To free your mind is not to dull it, but to sharpen it's edges and harden its wit and temper its wisdom. After that, you can cut through all the walls placed before you.
You also go somewhat mad... but that's all part of the fun!
love it, I can really see how a community like this could arise/evolve
"Brown coat, tan mane, sheaf of grain for a cutie mark."
Is this a mistake, or did I miss something? Is this town a different one from Starlight's? I suppose it must be, since there were no foals in 'our town' and they didn't rotate jobs or homes, but I got the impression it was an alternate version of 'our town'. I don't see how they could rotate jobs day after day for years if they still have their Cutie Marks reminding them what they're supposed to do.
Don't let my nick-picking get you down though. I liked this story. I just think that Buckwheat needs to be 'equalized'.derpicdn.net/img/view/2015/4/10/870369__safe_solo_crossover_spoiler-colon-s05e01_spoiler-colon-s05e02_starlight+glimmer_the+legend+of+korra_amon_artist-colon-bingodingo_equality.png
Jesus Atheist Christ, that has to be one of the horrifyingly realistic stories I have ever seen written about a people that has accepted socialism. Sure, you have a kind nut who tricks himself to think he's happy (never fulfilled, just happy), and how bland they are as they shift through the motions, just wow. Spot on.
6053202
Yes. Perhaps a better asylum than those available to the insane of our societies...
6054176
This doesn't really have anything to do with socialism, unless we're talking about small-scale utopian socialist communes. (Which don't tend to work, but for different reasons, and in very different way, than Soviet Union did.)
6053822
This story's version is essentially the same concept as Starlight's little miniature dictatorship, except without any crazy, power mad unicorns and creepy cultish vibes.
6054683
What story did you read?
6054729
Eh, well...
I probably didn't notice the indicators of "this is totally a cult" in this story, probably because it isn't as blatantly obvious as with Starlight's village.
Time to read it again.
Anyway, as might be expected, I really enjoyed this story. It was not the direction I was expecting the expansion to take, though, and I'm not entirely sure if the expansion of the first chapter really made me happier about it.
The second and third chapters were both quite good, though.
6053611
Ponies on lots and lots of delicious medication! What could possibly go wrong?
The last few lines say so much.
6052287
I think you missed a pretty important part of the work.
The village can't help you forget. In fact, it stops you from doing so. Even if you give up your totem, you never forget - you just gave it up to meet social expectations, as Spring Heath did.
Pain fades because you do other things and life goes on. But for these ponies, it doesn't; they've tried to throw themselves away, get away from themselves, and eliminate who they are... and in so doing, have failed to replace it with anything else. As a result, it is sticking with them longer than if they had just gone on with their lives.
Buckwheat and Spring Heath are both suffering because they are trying to destroy their old selves without replacing it with anything new. Spring Heath is lonely, having given up her foal and having lost her husband, and it is clear from the story that they aren't quite replacing them. Buckwheat is a good pony, but he's scared of losing something again and consequently has thrown himself into a life where he can never lose anything - but he can't really gain anything either.
Glenmore, on the other hand, seems to be comfortable still being herself in the new setting, and has friends and is trying to have a foal. She has lost the least, and least wants to lose herself, and is having the best life of the three in the village because she is actually living her life.
The story's title has a triple meaning. The destruction of the self refers to the village depersonalizing everyone and trying to make them less unique, the characters trying to lose themselves in the village life, and the characters literally destroying themselves by refusing to move on with their lives.
I like the added chapters, and the resolution to Buckwheat's is definitely an improvement.
Maybe it was intentional, but Glenmore's got Saffron Spark's name wrong.
6054876
Maybe :)
Excellent work, and it's great to see a full version posted here.
6053822
This is definitely a different town than the State of Denmark or Our Town, but Our Town has foals
img2.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20150406101237/mlp/images/9/92/Village%27s_two_rows_of_houses_S5E1.png
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img3.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20150406101241/mlp/images/6/6f/Everypony_with_equals_sign_cutie_marks_S5E1.png
img3.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20150406102608/mlp/images/4/4d/Tan_stallion_%22Welcome%22_S5E1.png
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I could go onward, but this is enough.
I am moved by the last bit even if it is a tiny nice dot in a sea of despair
I am reminded, as I am often reminded of Soren Kierkegaard's The Sickness Unto Death
Despair being the sickness unto death which is the burden of men, come naturally from the having of a self in fallen environs, and being the result of a self's relation to itself. We despair in not willing to be that which we are and we despair also in willing to be that which we are. I am a little dismayed.
I've always loved your work, Gardez.
6051792 That was beautiful!
It's interesting to see how smoothly this expanded from its Writeoff roots. The first chapter, in particular, is double the size, feels substantially similar, and yet doesn't feel like a 750-word story dragged out to double its length.
I don't know that the new material is necessary, but it's certainly good, and you've got more depth here than there was.
The one oddity I noticed from the story's expansion is that now you've got the characters, Buckwheat in particular, all speaking of special talents in ways that show them personally not on board with The Town's mission -- but also in ways that show nopony on board with the mission:
I think that either too much is made of this, or not enough. It seems to me that such a flagrant display of inequality, met with the explicit approval of the townspeople, would have to trigger some sort of crackdown in order to keep the system from collapsing. But this seems pervasive: Buckwheat says "The bumble-hoofed efforts of hundreds of other villagers cannot erase the traces of my talent", and we see Glenmore drawing crowds (and their adoration) by fiddling on the lawn. Some ponies are clearly more equal than others at specific tasks, and nobody minds.
This isn't to say that the only way to handle that is to Harrison Bergeron it, but if it's established that this is a pervasive feeling, the story feels incomplete to me without addressing how the power structure handles such a direct ideological challenge. If there's not something keeping ponies on the straight and narrow, we wouldn't see the enforced conformity we do in the show.
Otherwise, good stuff, and some nice new ideas.
I think you could easily sand the edges off this and publish it. Not sure if it would have much interest outside of comparison to an episode of a cartoon show, but it's marvelous and I'd love to see you try.
Wow.
Buckwheat you sly little stallion...
I wrote a critique/review of this story; it can be found over here.
Really liked this premise. The characters' consciously self-effacing, self-destructive attitudes/actions are fascinating; provokes some thought. I found that you made it really easy to believe that if a place like this could exist, if it already existed and always had, it might be able to pull people in. Would love to hear it if you had any ideas for town which didn't come to fruition, or about the process .
Your stories keep bringing me back to this site. Cheers!
An excellent and very disturbing story. It is amazingly well-written.
Both the long and the original version are great. The longer version obviously has more depht and gives us a better description of the society. I really loved the multiple points of view, as well as how you basically closed a circle in the end. The short verion is just as good. Because it only gives us a short look at the village, it even feels a bit more disturbing.
Awesome job anyway, and keep up the good work!
Dark.
This is definitely one of those fics that have stuck with me over the years, because it feels like one of those fascinating short stories we would read in school. I love the melancholy undertone throughout the whole thing, that is easier to bear knowing that the characters chose this life and take comfort in it. There's a serene gentleness in the way the village is run and that everyone is content. I'm so curious about the history of this village, and how it's arrived at this point where it can run like clockwork despite it's unconventional ways. And the little glimpses into everyone's past life are wonderful and tell us just enough of what we need to know about them and why they're here. This is just a wonderful piece of writing.