Fika?
First Pony View
A My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic fan fic
By Suomibrony
Chapter 23
Fika?
Dipping into the comforts of my cherished memories, I brought back a pleasant recollection of that time when I briefly admired the quaint look of a little cafe. That was from the way back far time of twenty seconds ago. Oh, happy times . . .
To be impeded by a short flight of stairs was frustrating, especially when it didn't have a ramp for the disabled. Not that I considered myself disabled, but the neurological map of my body was slow to make the necessary corrections. If I had paws, I'd have direct tactile sensation instead of the negligible report transmitted through rubber soles and insensate keratin. So, to plan my moves . . . First pair of legs had to go on the first step and . . . then to the next? Followed by the trailing legs onto the step below? That didn't seem correct . . .
“Are you coming?” Embee's head protruded past the door frame, bemused eyes blinking on her blank face.
“Uh . . .” I broke out from my stunned surprise. “Yes. I only have a problem to solve,” I said in a moment of thoughtless honesty. A spontaneous glance over at myself; how to bring it up to the concrete plateau just a little ways up and ahead seemed like the puzzle of the ages. Just a little ways ahead? Up ahead? Up? Yes! I'd clear this problem in a single bound, with catlike grace!
I bent my back legs and with some assistance of my front pair propelled myself at the prerequisite angle and trajectory to soar to the correct height and from there make the perfect landing—whoa! Momentum! Brakes applied. Inertia! Rear brakes applied! That . . . that was a lot happening within a second. I was certainly relieved I had come to a controlled halt instead of pivoting face first into the concrete or caught by the banisters. Regardless, now that I was up here safely I could . . . meet the eyes of a still bemused Embee. “Ah, yes, the stairs . . . They're, hah, solved,” I said sheepishly, as if a single word encapsulated the explanation and defense of why I had employed such an unorthodox method to get here.
“That was the problem? You don't know how to walk up stairs?” she whispered in innocent disbelief.
“Well, um, not yet,” I whispered back uneasily, certain that learning the finesse of stair navigation was inevitable. A glance at the physical manifestation of the inevitable was partially obscured by that sort-of-myself that was equine-shaped and felt weird to look at and whatnot. This exact location, however, wasn't the place for self-reflection.
“Would you . . . have liked me to help you at that?” Embee asked as I placed my eyes back on her.
“That didn't occur to me . . . and it doesn't matter anymore, anyhow,” I replied, uneasy about being taught how to ascend stairs; I wanted to retain my dignity and learn on my own. “Shall we go inside now?”
Her expression brightened. “Yes, we will,” she agreed casually, although I had a feeling I had made a scene and . . . What? This place was empty? Well . . . All the better!
The walls and most of the furniture were of light brown wood and much more contemporary than the late 19th exterior would've keyed me in on. A pop song of some kind was playing quietly, broadcast by a radio I presumed. Also, the pleasant scent of cinnamon and coffee were conspicuously strong. Oh, right, pony senses. That explained it.
“Welcome,” a deep voice greeted me from my left. That voice belonged to a burly and bearded twenty-something wearing a vivid red shirt on the other side of the counter, on which a couple transparent domes protected doughnuts and other pastries from the elements.
“Thanks,” Embee responded; he broadened his relaxed smile. “I'd like a cup of vanilla tea with milk, sugar and honey, please.”
“Straight to the point,” he remarked, amused. “Anything else you'd like to have?”
“Yeah.” Embee moved over to the glass cabinet at the end of the short counter, whereupon she began to leisurely inspect the contents. “I'd like that, please,” she poked a hoof at the glass. Beard guy relocated to retrieve her choice and placed a small round green cake atop the counter.
“Your tea needs some time to brew, I’ll bring it to you when it’s ready.”
“Okay, now it's your turn to order,” Embee said to me. Me? But I had been feeling so peaceful here in this . . . comforting illusion of invisibility.
Anyhow, I'd act like my being a female unicorn was perfectly normal, and everything would be cool. For me as well. “Uh . . .”And I should not become apprehensive of my voice. “A plain mocha coffee with cream and sugar. Two pieces.”
“Got it,” Could-cosplay-as-a-viking affirmed.
“And as well . . .” Now to pick something to nibble on. While I peered at the foods, I also spied the name of what Embee had chosen: a princess cake. Although it did look temptingly delicious, I wanted something more nutritious and less sugary. A sandwich should do well. Just had to find one with ingredients friendly for herbivores . . . Cucumber, salad, and cheese should be friendly enough. If not, dyspepsia down the line would inform me otherwise. “That sandwich . . . uh, there.” I tried not to show how awkward I felt pointing at it with a leg. A basket on the countertop had a collection of oblong, dome-shaped items in checkerboard-patterned wrappers. I could've pointed at them as well, if not for my inadequate stature. “I'll have one of these, too. The blue one, in the basket,” I requested, hiding my transient dismay. The not-actually-confirmed-to-be-a-viking plucked the blue-stood-for-vanilla treat from amidst the reds, browns and greens. “That's all, thank you.”
“Alright,” he acknowledged and got to work.
“Hey, could you get us a place to sit?” Embee suggested, casting an indicative look over to a doorway perpendicular to the displays and a fridge. “I'll follow you soon.”
“Okay,” I agreed quietly, becoming aware of a mounting feeling of disorientation. This cafe had started to feel . . . Everything was taller from this perspective and that was affecting me, unconsciously at first. In any case, I had to find us a place. Wait . . . I had heard something.
I stopped, it stopped, too. I started walking again. The steady rhythm of a rubber mallet softly tapping at a wooden floor . . . beneath me? Oh . . . I had a lot to reconcile.
“What's holding you up?” Embee inquired, unconcerned.
“Uhm . . .” I gazed at her, trying to figure out an excuse that'd fall within the parameters of my pony-guise. The relative silence was . . . relative. A discernible voice atop a rhythm was audible. “This song . . . I've heard it before.” I didn't care about the song, and odds were I would forget it before we were done with our meager breakfast.
“I'll help your memory,” the barista said as he produced a phone, presumably from his pocket. “Let's see, let's see . . .” He caressed the device with his index finger. “Rock DJ, by Robbie Williams.”
“Mmmhhh . . . Okay. Thanks.” I hadn't thought he'd look it up. Come to think of it, I wasn't sure a song like that suited this small and rustic but modernized cafè. Anyhow, that was not up to me to decide; I had a seat to find in the adjacent room. Seeing how this place was vacant, I was looking forward to a well-deserved moment of relaxation and then talking about my magical mystery . . .
“Well-heheh-hello!”
. . . If the next room didn't have a solitary pony sitting at a low, round table. Worse yet, it was the only table I could see that was suitable for pony customers. Ergo, me, unfortunately. Despair and horror was trundling to my face, but I wrenched it into an eager smile. “Hi,” I replied to him in a tiny voice that made me sound more pleased than I . . . wasn't at all.
“Didn't expect another pony here,” the light gray stallion said happily.
“Neither did I,” I said, fighting to maintain my composure as I bravely took myself to the table and appraised the low, pastel-cushioned chairs.
“You know, it wasn't a complete surprise,” the pony resumed talking while I carefully maneuvered my equine self into the one o'clock position chair to his six o'clock. A twelve to his six felt too intimate, like a setup for developing a romance.
Now I had to defeat a cringe, as I once again had been reintroduced to the things I didn't like having located where they shouldn't be. Maybe I was sitting incorrectly? Maybe if I pulled my legs closer together to put myself in a slightly raised posture? This felt weird as well, but feeling like a pony was preferable to feeling like a mare.
“Heard some talking, figured it was girls, but I guess it was ponies. Isn’t it great to have some familiar company? You got a friend there or—” His bare hoof met his cheek. “I didn't say you weren't a girl, did I? I mean, you are, aren’t you?” He chuckled with a smile.
Delighted by the brilliance of this conversation, I simply sighed despondently and darkly said, “Do I look or sound like a colt to you?” How I wished . . .
His smile dropped like a stone. “Whoa-ow, oh oh, oh, def-definitely not,” he said, stumbling on his words. “You're certainly a girl. A really fine-looking young mare, to be precise. There's no mistaking that. Have I, er, did I offend you? It's not in my habit to do so. I'm sorry. Sincerely. Let's . . . Let's put that blunder behind us and start anew. Wouldn't be wise to play a song in the wrong key, right?”
“Sure,” I droned dispassionately, a nastier side of me wanting to vocally equate his green-white mane to toothpaste. Although . . . he was probably right. Let bygones be bygones.
“Allow me to introduce myself.” He placed his hoof on his sternum. “Name's Bent Fabric. Pleased to meet you.”
Logically, I should introduce myself. Unwilling to provide either my pony or human name, I gazed over what was on his side of the table. An empty plate with crumbs, an open and partially completed page of a crossword magazine with a pen laid over it, and a green juice box with a straw. I also spied a hint of bemused impatience emerging on his face. I'd have to buy more time. “So, uh . . . Bent Fabric . . .” A name like that aroused the notion of him being in the trade of dodgy items. An unfortunate misattribution, I surmised. “You're, uh . . . a musician?”
“Eh?” He mildly recoiled in surprise. “Haha, no. I'm not. A musician? Where did you get that from?”
“Well, uhm . . .” I would've shrugged, but that might've been unponylike—and I wasn't sure I'd maintain my balance. “You said singing in the wrong key . . .”
Bent laughed, humoured. “Oh, that's just a phrase I've heard said more than once. Well, believe it or not, I know very little about music. I've come over here on behalf of our family enterprise. Negotiate trade, discover new and exciting trends and textiles, but right now, I'm having a day for myself. Relaxation, wandering around freely, going to meet a few friends soon, that sort of thing. Say, if you ever find yourself in Nickergood Brook, get yourself to the corner of Main Street for The Corner Fold. Might find something that'd look great in your home—or on you.” He gave me a wink, probably picturing me in an elegant dress . . . “I could have a fine duffel jacket tailored for you to go along with your hat.”
“Oh?” Not a dress, then? A jacket? A gender-neutral piece of clothing? “I wouldn't mind that,” I said with a tinge of interest.
“Anyhow,” Bent carried on, “I came upon this little place by chance on my morning stroll. Nice and quiet, isn't it? Just two rooms or three, like it was once somepony’s home.”
“Once a home? I can see that,” I agreed, taking a cursory stock of the room. However, I was in a corner, where from I couldn't see into the first room. What was holding up Embee?
“But right . . .” Bent said. I realized I was still wearing my hat. Bad form! I reached for it . . . but I was wearing a shoe! These limbs weren't meant for grabbing. “You've yet to introduce yourself.”
Caught with my limb aloft, I rubbed my chin with my pastern and cast an oblique glance at nothing specific. “Well, I'm just . . . me.” My tone received an infusion of mild whimsy. “My name's a mystery, only known to a select few who've earned that special privilege.”
“Oh, that's uh, something . . .” He leaned back, stroking his chin, then tilted his head before smiling. “Can you grant me that special privilege if I offer a significant discount on that jacket I promise for you? Let's say, ten percent.” I hadn't anticipated him to begin bartering. Neither had I anticipated a growing discomfort at the very end of my vertebra. I had to expose my eyes to my white-coated backside to get a better idea of what was wrong.
My . . . right ankle, I supposed, had trapped a few hairs between itself and the seat when I sat down, pulling my tail into an uncomfortable position. ‘Stupid tail,’ I groused as I freed the hairs from under my leg and watched as I slowly slinked my tail through the back of the chair.
“Twenty five?” Bent upped the offer. I glanced again at my tail, believing for a moment that it would disappear in tandem with the fading discomfort. When I looked back, his lips had creased into a smile, and I smiled back just to appear friendly. He leaned a little forward and his eyes narrowed. “Fifty,” he said in a low voice.
Fifty percent off just to learn my name? I was genuinely astonished he'd go that far. However, I was technically penniless at the moment. “Tempting, but no,” I declined pithily, but cordially.
“No?” Bent was surprised, almost aghast. He collected himself quickly. “Ah-kay. How about if you get it for absolutely free?”
A free jacket! “That's quite generous,” I said . . . though, I didn’t mean to say that aloud. Bent smiled, and I felt like I had just stepped into a trap. “Well, hmm, I guess I have to give you my name . . .” His smile grew. “But only as soon as you can get me that jacket.” I smiled back.
“Yes, of course I can . . . Oh-hoh, you got me there. You're clever—and a tough sell. I can admire that, hmmh . . .” I thought my hat off my head while he was planning his next move; it was rude to wear hats inside. “You're being very enigmatic about yourself. Like the Duke, huh?”
“The Duke?” I repeated, concealing my fright with honest cluelessness.
“Duke.” Bent said a single word? What was this? A dastardly litmus test of sorts on Equestrian culture?
“Er . . . Care to elaborate on that?” I said carefully, fearful of showing my ignorance. If I only had a Holo-Duke to distract him with as I'd make my escape. Or would that be a Holo-Pony?
“Everypony where I'm from knows about the Duke. You've not heard of the Duke's tale?” Bent's query was devoid of any visual or verbal clues to a merciless tear-down of my pony-guise.
“Sorry, no,” I meekly shook my head, feeling a slight bit of shame for being in the dark. Sort of like my not having seen The Lord of The Rings movies, to draw a quick parallel.
“Alright, um . . . Maybe my town is not every town, heheh. Let me think about how to put that story in short form. Wouldn't want to prattle about it until you are bored. So, ah . . .” He pressed his lips and scrunched his snout as he thought.“Okay! The Grand Excursion of the Duke of Whinnypeg is a story of a humble but poor furnisher who was contracted by the town's mayor, and when rewarded with select riches and lustrous clothes for a superb job well done, decides it's ripe time for a vacation full of luxury as he had always dreamed of.”
“That summary was well articulated,” I noted in nonplussed disbelief. “Did you write it yourself?” Was he really that good, or did he have a hidden cue card somewhere around here?
“Hahaha no. I was paraphrasing the book's back cover out of memory. Poor memory, maybe, hahaha. It's one of my favorite reads, and I've been really itching to see the photoplay. Does this city have a theater?” he suddenly asked.
“Most likely,” I replied. What was a photoplay, and why was it in a theater?
“It's a big city, I think, so it must have a theater, maybe even two—or more. I should take a look if I come across any, but would the play be here, I don't think so, but . . . never say never . . . dhah-hmm, but when I was in . . .” His voice had gradually reduced to thoughtful muttering, apparently forgetting my presence.
Gosh, what was taking Embee so long?
“Ah, anyhow!” The unexpected resumption in volume almost pricked my ears off my head. “Figuring he could have some fun, you know, the duke, he presented himself as ah, heh, 'The Duke of Whinnypeg' as he lounged in the resort town. Duke, for short. Of course, when asked for his name, he said it was a closely guarded secret, or some such, just to never let anypony know his true identity. Hehehe, heh, you see, this is after his act has taken ahhuhhuh, a predictable turn when he goes, weeeell, afoul with his finances and . . . huhm?” His narration was interrupted by Embee's arrival. Finally!
“I'm very sorry, hon, the payment wouldn’t go through,” she excused her late arrival.
“Well hello!” Bent made his presence known. “How are you?”
“I'm fine, thanks for asking.” She took the nine o'clock seat. I was puzzled, and a little shocked. Did these two ponies know each other?
“That's very good to hear.” Bent cast curious glances at us. “You called her 'hon'. Are you her sister or friend or . . . ?”
“Friend,” Embee said warmly, taking her saddlebags off. I showed a complimentary smile, hoping she'd carry the conversation and allow me to take refuge in being a silent observer.
“That's nice, real nice. My name's Bent Fabric.” They were strangers? Why would a complete stranger ask about another's well-being at first sight? That was so weird. Also, he had extended his hoof out for a . . . hoofshake? Embee too was bemused, but her wits were quicker and reciprocated the gesture. Bent's eyes fell on her hoof and he hesitated briefly before the limbs were linked for the motion. Maybe he had expected her to remove her shoe before shaking his hoof, but had felt it wasn't crucial enough to speak about?
“Pleasure to meet you, Bent. You can call me Embee,” she introduced herself as I looked down at my shoes. Should I remove them? Would it matter? They were still legs and not the highly versatile digits I used to have. Ugh, I had to stop thinking about this lest a feeling of deprivation ensnare me in a debilitating blanket of depression.
“Get called Embee, humh? Embee and Duke.” I was Duke to him? Being referred by that moniker wasn't so bad. “Well, you're a girl, so that makes you Duchess.” Until he feminized out of courtesy . . . and consequently evoked a memory of an animated movie.
“Duchess?” Embee said in a rising pitch, arching a brow at me.
“I don't know, I guess I'm a cat now,” I said with an air of nonchalant tranquility, “Purr purr,” I deadpanned.
“A cat?” Bent laughed, humored. “You're a strange filly.”
“I know,” I said flatly. If only Bent would kindly leave so I could talk with Embee about my being an interlocked magic circle—or what was it?
“To be clear, my name is a contraction of Medical Brace,” she cordially informed Bent, whereas I realized she had caught on to my passive aggressive decrum before I or Bent had. “I'm a paramedic.”
“Ah, well, yeah, Embee rolls off the tongue easier.” Bent leaned a bit her way. “Name matches the cutie mark, I see.” He wasn't shy of checking her hips, and she wasn't offended. Peculiar, but . . . okay? I was happy that he was ignoring me. “Did your parents have a dream where they saw your name?” Prophetic dreams? That seemed too outlandish to believe.
“I doubt it. Names in dreams before foaling is an anecdotal myth that very so genuinely happened to a friend's grandparent's aunt. My story's that I had a habit of clinging on to my parent's legs long before I had any memories of doing so, and they hadn't thought of a proper name for me. I guess they thought I was like a brace for a leg. Makes for a funny story, doesn't it?” How did she know what she had done before she had memories of doing . . . Right, her parents must've told her.
“Yeah, yeah, certainly!” Bent glanced down at his empty plate and that magazine beside it. “But oh, think now, if they had seen your name in a dream, they would've been so amazed to later learn how right it was.”
“If it were right,” Embee adduced doubt.
“If it were? Don't give me that, hahah-eh . . .” Bent's laugh vaned like an oxygen-starved candle; apparently, Embee hadn't been kidding. “Are you seriously saying the dream can be wrong?”
“M-hm,” Embee affirmed nonchalantly. “I know a colt whose parents are competitive archers, and I heard from him they dreamt he'd be an archer, too. Little did they know he'd yearn to join the fire brigade. So, yes, I know a firefighter named Piercing Arrow. Go figure.”
“Wow,” I uttered, astonished. A firefighter named Piercing Arrow? What a dimension-breaking coincidence of cosmic proportions! Although, in all fairness, Pierce-Arrow’s logo wasn’t solely embossed on fire trucks . . .
“Wow indeed.” He didn't hide his amused behavior. “Think, Embee, if you had become you a shingler.”
Embee gave him a puzzled look. “Eh?”
“Or me? A musician! Hahaha! Or you a . . .” Bent looked at me while I had begun musing on the probability of a prophetic dream mispredicting the future. “Uh . . . You're ah, hmm . . .” What did he think I was?
“A cat?” I suggested, prepared to be attributed a very female-specific occupation.
He shook his head in confused amusement. “I don't know what you could've been. Definitely not a cat. But you've not got your mark yet.” Having to creatively explain their absence seemed imminent. “Might get them within a year? I don't try predicting these things.” Didn’t he just do exactly that? “I'm guessing they'll be about locks.”
I had to double take at his deduction. “Locks? Why?”
“You got a key.” He gestured. “Say, it's a bit strange looking. Not for a house, is it?”
The key, of course, and he had already made a fair estimate. “You're right, it's not for a house.” I heard the sound of walking. The radio, while rather muted, was playing something I had heard before, somewhere, sometime in the past . . . Oh snap! Rhythm is the Dancer!
The, ostensibly, sole employee of this cafe had arrived with our orders. “Here you are.” Tea and the princess cake for Embee; and coffee, a sandwich, and foil-wrapped chocolate-coated vanilla foam goodie for me—and a packet of sugar for my coffee.
“Thank you,” Embee said. My reticent nature got to me, and I merely nodded with a smile. I unwrapped the packet and deposited the sugars into the cup. My impatience took over and raised the white vessel to my lips. I had been waiting for this respite since yesterday, and . . . oh, this was so creamy and smooth. I could feel my concerns fleeting away. The experience would be heightened once the dissolving sugar added its sweetness to the mix.
“So, I'm really curious,” Bent began after the tall one had left. “Tell me about your key. What's it for?”
I took another sip. “It opens portals,” I said simply, sparked by a touch of playful wit.
My answer had bestowed Bent with anticipation, and seeing him stew in it for several seconds was mildly amusing. “Yes?”
“Portals.” Obscuring the truth and dissuading him from asking compromising questions was paramount; a riddle might help throw him off the trail. I took a moment to think. “Here’s a riddle: Two swing out, one rises, another falls, a fifth spins on a thread, and a final one initiates brilliance.” I then took a bite of my breakfast; soft bread with crunchy salad surrendered expected but satisfying flavors. Iceberg lettuce? Probably not harvested off actual ice floes.
“How vague, but oddly fascinating,” he said slowly, then scrunched his brows and looked down in deep thought. “Swinging and rising? Do portals function that way?”
“No, I don't think they do.” Embee sighed wearily. “It's a car key and opens it. Portals being a very different way to say doors,” she informed. “I guess a key does unlock doors, but . . .” Her voice trailed off, but not so far that it was inaudible. “Two swing . . . but spins?”
“You spoiled the riddle,” I reproved after my mouth wasn't occupied with delicious food, disappointed she had ruined my little fun. However, I wasn't truly upset.
“That riddle's too tough, hon,” Embee said to me with sympathetic dismay. I could've said something back, but not while I was having another bite.
“An owner of a car, oooh . . .” Bent expressed heightened intrigue. “What do you do with it?”
In disbelief at his obliviousness, I bemusedly replied, “Uh, I drive it.”
“Is that so?” he said with awe. “I always thought it was really difficult, if not impossible, for a pony to drive. How did you do it? Oh, right, right. Magic.” He waved a hoof by his forehead. “That must've been very helpful. But cars, ah, you know, they're not made for us?”
“I know that, but, as you deduced, I did the impossible, and wisened by that experience, I began researching . . . better . . . options,” my eagerness dissolved into trepidation as I realized the information I was relaying didn't belong to me, even though it felt like it did.
This amicable dialog had to end without piquing his interest further while also delivering closure. “Don't get any wild ideas of this being part of a grand endeavor with huge investments and research teams. It's only a project of passion of my own.” I saw the wide-eyed look on Embee of fascination—or alarm. I had a feeling she was poised to intervene if I was starting to behave unlike what she knew I was. “Now I'm mostly focused with finding solutions to, ah, the obvious shortcomings. If it works, good. If it can be replicated, good. If it can be reliably replicated, even better.”
“An inventor? I'm intrigued. Very intrigued,” Bent said, doing an enthusiastic clap. “Oh! Gotta tell you this before I forget, but a friend of my dad has a tool shed that once wasn't. See, he used it to sell wares all over, and fix it all over as well. Started out as a steam wagon he got from somepony in Manehattan, but it was of a wonky kind, on the account of the narrow spacing of the wheels in the back. Almost makes it a three-wheeler. It's a pretty fancy looking thing, like a train being driven backwards, if you ever saw one. Have you?”
“No,” I replied, perplexed by the nonsequitous tale.
“Of course she's not seen one,” Embee said rather boldly, giving concern that she let it slip that I wasn't a genuine pony. “Trotter Tricorns are hoof-made and there aren't that many. Stands to reason that they wouldn't be a common sight.” I relaxed now that my concerns had been alleviated. “Has your dad's friend ever considered parting with his shed for a considerable sum?”
“If you're trying to hint that somepony would care to buy it, I'm sorry to say, but no. Nopony sees any value in it,” he responded neutrally.
“But some one might,” I noted, my brain having produced images of vintage steam wagons maintained in immaculate condition by museums, preservation societies, and dedicated private persons.
Bent scowled in doubt. “Like I said, nopony cares to buy—Oooh, oh. Aaah . . .” Now he got it.
“Yes, think of what a boon it would be if someone purchased an authentic and extremely rare Equestrian steam wagon, and cherished it with care comparable to the most beloved pets and family members. It would be a very, very beautiful and priceless steam wagon. Cannot put a price on family and friends, after all.” My heart wept for knowing that many vehicles of the past, including irreplaceable and illustrious one-of-a-kinds, had been lost forever due to callous indifference and disappreciation of their immeasurable value.
“Didn't ever think of it being worth more than a bucket of sand. I must let him know and urge him to send feelers for an earthian buyer before his wealth literally rots away.” I was happy for having enlightened Bent, and potentially saving a small piece of Equestrian history. “Duchess,” he addressed me. I quickly tempered my chagrin. “How did your interest in cars begin?”
“Well, um, cars. I truly don't know. I was simply drawn to them.” Obviously, I left out the numerous amusement park rides, video games, driving school, and an instance of trying my parent's car on a vacant sandy lot.
“Drawn to drive a car . . . riage instead of drawing a carriage?” His play on words was almost cringeworthy, and also educed a debasing image in my head. Nevertheless, I kept my displeasure to myself, lest he believe I was too "high-class" to pull a wagon. “That pun was met with thunderous applause. Thank you, thank you,” he said, bowing as much as his sitting posture permitted. For being an excitable goof, his sense of self-irony was commendable. “But, er, yes, driving is difficult, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” a lapse of thoughtlessness let me say. “Sort of. Knowing how a car functions and knowing how to not drive poorly is . . . the easiest part of it all.” I had to extrapolate, placing myself in the driver's seat. “These, ah . . .” I held up my limb . . . of ungulate structure with a shoe; a jolt of disconcertment had to be firmly subdued. “Aren't the grippiest of things, and, uh, my dimensions aren't sufficient to reach the pedals, and . . . you know that already,” I said shamefacedly, realizing I had stated the obvious. “Which is why I use the most common spell.” Indicatively, the checkerboard-patterned confectionary rose briefly off the table for a moment. “It is . . .” The smile I had just developed faded because . . . I didn't need to extrapolate any longer. “All things considered, not that great.” I looked to Embee, awaiting her to redirect the conversation; her expression was that of perplexed suspense. Bent, in contrast, had his ears at a slight forward slant. Aware that I was in a bind with only one logical exit, I overcame my trepidation. “I mean, I've practiced decreasing the delay between thought and action down to a blink of an eye, but protracted, simultaneous multi-control with a high degree of precision is exhausting.” Not to mention, disappointing. How could I have ever foreseen and prepared for hands and feet having an edge over telekinesis?
“That's why you started a project, that I have to assume, involves magic?” Bent hazarded in a moment of sobriety. I affirmed it with a hum that might've been a little despondent. I had a sneaking suspicion that this enigmatic project may've been the catalyst of my troubles, but I didn't have a clear picture of what had transpired. “I have to say that you haven't really given any specifics on what sort of magic you're trying to use, but I still ask you, have you tried . . . uhm, what was it? I'm not a unicorn, sorry. Got unicorn friends though, but uh, I recall one spoke of a spell in passing one time . . . Alive spell, life spell? Tried that?”
“Uuuuhhhm, a give life spell?” I was uncertain how to respond: tell a bold-faced lie, or be daringly truthful?
“Hey, hon, are you sure you want to talk about that?” Embee said to me with a tone that subtly informed me of her concerns. I was, after all, talking about subjects I hadn't been personally involved in.
“What are you, her mother?” Bent laughed merrily, apparently mistaking Embee's attitude for overbearingness. “I'm sure it's not your place to tell her what she can or can't talk about as much as it's mine.” By the look on her face, I could tell she had not foreseen her valiant effort being thwarted so bluntly and swiftly; I had to rely on myself until she was able to try again. “So, ah, a life spell. Anything you can, or should I say . . . ” He glanced at Embee with raised eyebrows, but a relaxed expression, before his attention fell squarely back on me. “. . . Want to tell me about it?” So, I had been given the liberty of withholding information on my own accord, and he'd know if I did. Jubilations . . .
“That spell, ah, I must admit that it's very appealing, but, err . . .” I didn't have to rely on a past MLP: FiM episode, as I . . . now knew more than what that had shown. I took a larger sip of coffee to gain some tranquility and confidence. It also warmed my insides, a warmth my fur coat kept from dissipating. “It doesn't function so well,” I said sadly, shaking my head. I had so much on my tongue, ready to leap out explaining exactly why the spell was highly problematic. “If it did, steam would be mostly obsolete as motion power. A car's, well, it's not a wagon, even when it’s a Volkswagen.” I produced a mild smile; Bent didn't seem to get it. “Well, in a manner of speaking, a car is a highly complex wagon. Probably more complex than a steam wagon. The car I have is simple. Kind of a fortunate find.” This wasn't my memory, but I was thankful I had developed that awareness. “But I digress. I would not say that the spell's broken, but I wouldn't trust casting it on any device capable of limitless motion.”
“Limitless motion? Ah, yes, a thing that can, at least in theory, keep going endlessly, like a wheel on an axle.” Bent had surprised me with his quick deduction. “Why's that?”
“Well, because it's a thing that can rotate. Forever,” I joked. Reading Bent's wry smile, I inferred that he knew I had to give him the real answer. Silenced by trepidation, I stole a look at Embee; she had put a hoof to her chin, her body taut with anticipation as her wide-open eyes darted from Bent to me and back. “From what I understand, um, ah . . . it has a lot to do with spatial awareness. The spell tends to erroneously read a revolution as being slower than designated . . . which then causes increasing and uncontrollable acceleration. In fairness, perhaps the spell's not actually broken. I mean, maybe I'm just good enough to cast it properly? Maybe somepony who's more than ten times better than I could cast it properly? Some spells can be like that. Go figure.” I would've shrugged, but I accepted that I was sadly bound by a physique that relied on four-legged support, even while sitting.
“Excuse me, but I happened to look at the time,” Embee said, gesturing at a box-shaped clock on the wall—an ingressed face with pale orange pointers and digits. Peculiar. “You were to meet your friends. When, exactly?”
“When? Oh, that'll be at—” Bent's gaze locked on the clock for a few silent seconds. . . and so did mine. “Oh.” He cringed as though poked with a pointy stick. “Yes, almost now . . .” Caught in a flummox, he collected his magazine and pen into his bags, then put them on. “I'm sorry that my departure will be so sudden. I can't leave my friends waiting, but . . . Ah, maybe we will meet again? I'd be more than happy to learn more about you and your project.”
“Sure,” I replied, distracted by that clock . . . which reminded me of something . . . My car had a clock. Almost similar, somewhat recessed into the dashboard . . . It functioned just fine, and was illuminated by pale orange light. Why was this important? The clock worked by itself. I didn't need to do anything to it. The interior lights worked . . . just as they should. All things . . . normal. Magic theory to practice . . . Wait . . . No.
“Hello?” a voice said.
“Yes, hello?” I replied with a response to the . . . Embee, it, yes, her. What?
“Are you feeling alright?” she asked. Had anypony ever told her she has nice eyes? “You were staring into nothing.”
“I nunnot dot . . . I don't know. Uhm . . . I wasn't mentally present, was I?” I began to recollect myself. “I saw something, well uh . . . A memory was trying to intrude.” I glanced around and saw that it was just Embee and I. “Bent's gone, I see, huh.” Fortunately, Bent had left fast enough to miss my stupor.
“Yes, he said goodbye and everything,” Embee said as she looked toward the doorway, as if to catch him snooping on us past the frame.
“Okay, that's um . . . okay. More than okay,” I said, afraid of expressing my relief. I had wanted him gone, but to say that openly and brazenly even after the fact would reflect poorly on me.
Embee trained a concerned look on me, which she ended with a small sigh. “So, what made you become absent?” she inquired with some hesitance. “That memory you mentioned, it didn't come out unprompted, did it?”
“Well, no, thankfully no. I looked at that clock, and I then started remembering things that, you know, don't belong to me.” Should I also have said the memory seemed recent?
“You did talk about magic a lot, and in detail as well. Knowing you, that seems like a subject you wouldn't know much about,” Embee said with a subtly instructive tone.
“Stands to reason the clock was a contributing factor to the memory overlap. Maybe it wouldn't have happened otherwise, but water poured on fire equals steam,” I rationalized with a simile. “I had figured out that as long as I can separate the identities—her and mine—I'll be alright. Mostly alright. I don't embrace the experiences, to be honest, but neither am I freaking out about them anymore.” All I wanted was to be in control.
“It's fantastic that you’re handling this well, but you should still be careful.” She was apparently not as convinced of my abilities as I was. . . maybe I shouldn't be so confident.
“You're not saying I could get stuck in 'there'?” I asked in a small panic.
“No, it's not that dire, don't worry,” she assuaged. “From what I learned from Peachy, becauseher presence is passive, to get you out of 'there' isn't impossible.”
“A passive presence.” I had to think back on what Embee had said of my predicament before we had entered this café. “That is, I'm an active presence that's become entwined with her passive presence, and sometimes what's hers sometimes feels like mine?”
“Mostly right. Her traits, personality and memories, what makes her a pony, are there along with yours, and as you may have experienced, they can intersect,” Embee affirmed. “She herself is not there with you, which means she cannot grab on to you and not let go, so to speak. However, if she were there—”
“It would be the end of me, I know.” Two minds in one body equaled one body with no mind, and that was the last I'd think of that macabre possibility. “To retrace,” I continued before Embee had the chance to discuss the nightmarish topic, “just as I can descend from my flight level to hers almost unwittingly, I can also leave with almost no input of my own. However, ideally, I should have an altimeter and a TCAS.” I'd have to explain what those were—if she asked.
“Tea-cass? Uhmm, certainly.” Now she'd ask . . . Right? “Well, I think I get what you're suggesting.” She deduced what my jargon meant? “But consider this: can you tell yourself to wake up when you're fully asleep?”
“Uh, no.” My airplane of optimistic defiance suffered an engine flame out, but I took the initiative to restart it promptly. “But resigning to flying in the dark is unwise. You said I have to be cautious, and I agree, but I have to somehow know that I'm not myself when I'm not myself.” That gave me a bit of a pause. “Gosh, what a paradox,” I said to myself, mildly frustrated.
“That means you have to recognize the situation and turn away from it before you become enveloped by it. But of course, if you're already lost in the mist, then some kind of prompt is required to whisk you out of there.” She dipped her head in thought, continuing to ponder whilst she took a long sip of her tea. “It has to be a disturbance, a small, 'this doesn't feel right' feeling that tips you off.”
I raised a limb. “ As if anything about this would ever feel right. ” Taking a cue from Embee—and with a hope to maintain a steady mind—I took a sip of my coffee. Ick! It had already become lukewarm . . . “Unfortunately, a tentative measure is better than having none at all.”
“Do you like being a pony?” Embee asked while I was downing the last of my once-hot. . . drink. She asked me what now?
Stunned (and insulted), I stared at her in disbelief. I was so taken aback that I thought I'd have to physically force the levitating cup onto the table; I let it settle the 'normal' way. “I tolerate this because that's all I can do. It'd be a different story if this was my body transformed and I had done it by my own volition, and I could undo it with a snap of my fingers.” A glance down rendered that a critical folly. “Snap of my hooves? Or a tap?” I corrected, discombobulated. “I don't know how to snap my fingers. In fact, I don't even know how it's done. But that’s not the point . . .” Refocusing my attention on her, I asked morosely, “Why would you ask that? I thought you already knew.”
“Yes, I know, and I’m sorry that I upset you.” The apology was nice, but she hadn't answered my question. “That you were upset by the question, though, perfectly demonstrates your strong opinion on the matter, which incidentally weakens your connection to her.”
“And thus, easier to break?” I eased up now that I understood why she had asked; she had provoked me in a pursuit to observe a sufficiently authentic manifestation of my sentiments.
“Yes. You could cause a bit of a shake up somehow, and there you go.” Her eyes gravitated to her yet untouched cake; for a moment I had thought she'd call for a break. “A thought, a feeling, a comment. Something that goes completely against who you are.”
“Well, um . . . maybe she likes a certain food I can't stand,” I surmised flatly. “Though I'd rather not snap out of it when my mouth's filled with a nasty taste.”
“True. It has to be something that has a chance to happen at any time and frequently,” Embee stated the obvious but uninspiring truth. I sighed despondently. I didn't know much about card games, but seemed like fate had dealt me a bad hand.
“Ouch!” A gruff yelp suddenly emanated from the other room, soon followed by the sound of a rushing faucet; both I and Embee I had turned our attention to the minor commotion.
“Ah, ears,” she said to me. “Your ears.”
Puzzled, but also perturbed by excitement and an awareness of what I had, I asked, “What about them?” In response Embee's smile widened. It almost felt ominous. “Don't smile like that.”
“Sorry.” She returned to her sincere appearance. “Ears. How do you feel about them?”
“Well, I’d rather not feel them,” I answered. “I have very sensitive ears. Or am very sensitive to them. I don't want to touch them, or have them touched, without . . . without being prepared for it.” Then I wouldn't freak out severely. Only moderately, perhaps. “I was afraid you'd come over to test me . . . and, I hate to say this. But, if I'm not being myself, I guess you could . . . well, maybe it would bring me back.” Just the mere mention of the experience was harrowing. In fact, I was slightly trembling.
“No, don't worry about that now, hon, just relax,” Embee instructed gently, having noted my anxiety.
“Yeah, I'm a little on edge . . . But you know, it'd, when I'd . . . It would cause a feeling I don't want to feel but I can't get rid of.” Explaining this to her was a little hard to do when my voice wanted to give out. I took a silent but deep breath. “My ears . . . they follow me everywhere I go . . .” Again, my throat clamped up as I recalled yesterday's horrifying evening when . . . every part of me wasn't how it was supposed to be. “And I can usually forget about them, but when they’re touched . . .” Hiding my eyes behind my arm, I continued fragilely, “I don't want to be there again. I've been there and I don't . . . again . . .” I couldn't carry on any longer.
“Don't think about it, okay,” Embee soothed while I was fighting my emotions. I had to put my mind on something else other than that which made my eyes water and nose run. “Here.” Now fighting a reluctance to show myself, I took a careful peek; she was offering a tissue.
“Thanks,” I said weakly, though I couldn't take it with this . . . Of course. I had to literally ‘mind’ that other method. Also, I suppose I shouldn't feel too ashamed of myself. It wasn't Embee who'd perceive me negatively . . .
“Good day not to wear makeup, huh?” Embee said while I was busy transferring runoff eyewater to the tissue. A joke to lighten the mood?
“Hahaha,” I laughed spiritlessly, despite my effort to appreciate her attempt at comedy. I didn't even want to consider a situation that required paint on my face. “But it doesn't need to be the ears,” I suggested. “Probably shouldn't be.” Speaking of body parts, I thought one of my legs had become numb.
“It could be a last resort,” she said while I was adjusting my posture.
“Yeah, the first choice should be something less ups—egh.” I should've been more careful! I didn't want the cushion buckling and then brushing up against me where it shouldn't.
“Such as whatever that was?” she said with cautious curiosity.
I placed the tissue flat on the table and contemplated momentarily. “Maybe,” I hazarded hesitantly. Could it be worse than the ears? I couldn't be sure, and I didn't know if I wanted to be sure.
“And what was ‘that?’” she said. Was she going to guess what 'that' was? No? It wasn't a rhetorical question? This was all on me, then.
I bit my tongue, sighed deeply, and would've fidgeted if I had dared to. “Oh . . . uhh . . . I don't know if I want to tell.”
“Why?” she probed.
I ducked my head timidly and in a voice just a smidgen louder than the soft pop music filling this place, reiterated, “I don’t want to say.”
Embee laughed lightly in confused amusement. “Why not?”
Even I began to smile—out of embarrassment. “You're really not letting it go, are you?”
“Just spill it out and then it'll be over,” she reasoned. It was a compelling argument. If I danced around the subject and employed circumlocutions as I usually did, I'd only inconvenience myself until she'd put two and two together.
“Well . . .” How would I express this concisely? I think I got it . . . but saying it would require a bit of moxie. “My teats aren't supposed to be down there.” Oh droppings in Scottish colloquialism, I botched the wording! “Uh, I mean . . . I meant . . .” The, not my. And worse, Embee was smiling. “Come on, it's not really funny.”
“No, it's not, I'm sure of it. It's very serious from your perspective.” Was it not serious from her perspective? “I'm just happy we got this over quickly.”
“Whoop-de-doo,” I cheered plainly. I would have slapped myself hard in the face for my humiliating gaffe if not for the block of hurt at the end of my limbs.
“Don't be so sullen about your brashness. Maybe it's just not your style to be like that, but I can appreciate the directness of it. So, just this once, for my sake if not for yours, go easy on yourself. You did well. Also, if I may add, when I'm tending to an injured pony, it helps me a lot to help them if they can say what's hurting. Now . . .” Her thoughtful but apologetic outlook didn't portend well. “Not to downplay your discomfort regarding your teats—”
“Ugh.” My groan of disgust gave her pause. They weren't mine, and I didn't want to have them anyway!
“—but you seemed to react with pain.”
“Is there a difference?” I commented caustically through my teeth.
She wasn't put off by my surliness. “Yes, there actually might be. But I understand you, it's a tough topic, but please, stay calm and hear me out,” she ever so gingerly suggested. “Will you? Please?”
She would talk about those things . . . but she would hopefully only offer a simple and brief summary and that would be it. Just had to maintain my resilience and all would be golden. “Fine,” I conceded to her will, bracing for hearing displeasing information.
Nonetheless, she gave me a moment of respite before she opened her mouth. “You might not know it, but there could be an abrasion, a bruise, or a healing wound that's a cause of undue irritation.”
The imagery added to my nausea. “I'm not in the mood to take a look.” I had to again remind myself and be a little thankful that they weren't that easy to see and weren't two flagons of nuisance.
“No, you don't have to, but with your permission, I can.” Her audacity struck me dumb. Slowly, I began to realize that if something was . . . not all well back down there, it was to my benefit she identified it and have it treated . . . Preferably not immediately! Or immediately, if it was that severe. Hopefully it wasn't! But she'd only take a look first and . . . I could live with that.
“Okay, but make it quick,” I said in an apprehensive monotone, wanting to put my hands into an embrace over my ribcage—if I had the latter. Why, I wasn't sure. Some body language thing. “I'll have to get down—”
“No need to,” she dissuaded pleasantly, springing off her chair with the kind of elegance that'd make cats scowl with envy. She gestured at the table. “Simply brace yourself against the table and stand on the chair. Can you do that?”
“I guess.” Although bewildered by what was transpiring—or was about to—I did as instructed. As she approached, so did my fright. “Just—” No, I shouldn't speak so loudly; the bearded man in the other room that was very close by might come and witness this unusual event. “Just don't touch anything, please,” I whispered nervously.
“I won't,” she assured, her head partly beneath me. With one fear dispatched, another took its place; I was afraid I'd slip. The table's lacquered top would make it a slippery surface, but . . . maybe that was counteracted by the rubber soles on my shoes. How long would this inspection take? Time seemed to have become dilated, but a glance at the clock told me the thinnest pointer was progressing at its nominal pace. My car clock didn't have that . . . and that was all I'd think about that! Flying into a storm cloud was the poorest of ideas!
“Alright, all done.” Embee backed out. “You can sit down now and take a sigh of relief.” With a small tremble coursing in my body—and with utmost care—I placed myself back on the chair. Only then did I feel safe enough to breathe easy. “You don't have to worry. They look healthy.”
“Yay, they're healthy . . .” And in the wrong place, but also . . . weren't obtrusive, so . . good for me? “Oaaghh . . .” I moaned wearily, then mumbled as I closed my eyes, “I don't want to think about this.”
“How do you feel, hon?” Embee inquired, unquestionably concerned for my well-being.
“I feel like . . .” I was in dire need of tools of mollification. “Can you ask the barista to come here? I need to bury my face into his hands, since I don't have my own at the moment,” I requested in tired, squeaky voice. “That was a joke, by the way. Don't call him over here.”
Embee smiled, appreciating that I still had a sense of humor after all that what I went through. “If it helps you at all, we could discuss your tea—”
“No,” I cut her off with frail-voiced but strongly enunciated plea. “Not now. Maybe later. I don't know. It's too new for me. I can't, I'm sorry.”
“That's fine,” she said mellifluously. “You just got through a bit of a hardship, bravely might I add, but . . . if it makes you feel any better, you can have my cake.” She pushed the plate with her cake over to me. Her generous act of kindness and compassion almost brought a tear to my eye. That was highly unusual for me.
“No, it's your cake.” I gently pushed it back to her. “If I want one for myself, I'll buy one for myself,” I stated humbly. Then I realized I really couldn't do as I had said. “If I had money with me, that is. But thanks anyway.”
“No, really, I don’t want it,” she pushed the cake back.
I promptly pushed the cake back. “You've done so much for me already, I don't know if I want that debt to you.”
She took that as a mild jest, giggling. “It's just a cake.” But I had been rather serious, even if I had masked it with humorous tone.
“Be careful. A cake today; a mansion tomorrow,” I contributed to the light mood with an improvised aphorism.
“Think it over,” she said after chuckling, then gestured at the uneaten object beside my empty plate and cup, “while you eat your goodie?”
“Oh, yeah.” A chocolate covered marshmallow awaited me. If there was one thing that I could safely say was a plus about being a pony, it was the added potency of flavors. While I was using my mind powers to remove the foil off the treat, I noted that Embee hadn't begun eating. “Seriously, you can have that cake.”
To that, she laughed leisurely, “oh, alright”. She then dropped her head and—oh okay, that just happened . . . She had dug into her cake, and now had its innards lining her mouth . . . and affixed her bemused eyes on me.
“What?” she said, licking her lips unceremoniously.
I shouldn’t stare; it was impolite. “Eh, nothing.”
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8843817
I meant in terms of voice actors.
glad to see an update. still seems to be much ado about nothing though
Haha this story is still great. I'm so glad your still updating it. My perspective on things is so different that when I first started reading this that it almost feels like peering into a time capsule when I read it. It brings back a lot of memories. I love the possible hint on the origin of the magical mishap, and that incident with MC's teats was pretty funny, although I'm sure not to him.
9800568
Do you wish to elaborate on that one?
9800653
Since it's been an abysmally long wait between chapters, it certainly can feel like nothing happened in this chapter. I've planned more for the next chapter, though conversely it mioght be shorter so I can get it out the door sooner and faster.
9800749
Yeah, it's a definite boon that I've not given up on the story. I wouldn't feel it'd be right if I did. This story is perhaps my best and only outlet for my creativity, not to mention that I cannot be the only one who cares to know what will be of our hapless protagonist. Though I never foresaw this story becomign a long-runner when I started it in the ancient year of 2011. On that note, it inarguably references pop culture of its inception year and respective chapter publication years thereafter. However, I've realized that this dates the story, perhaps to its detriment, so I've started to make conscious efforts to minimize, if not avoid referencing contemporary topics or trends. Nonetheless, I must say I'm pleased that some of the references have not died, even if the subject they're derived from have. The corny punchline preceded by the donning sunglasses and then followed with a "YEEEEEAAAH!" seems to thrive, at least as of the time of this writing. But speaking of writing, I've began to steer the story towards a certain direction that should reveal more of what's transpired to put our protagonist into this upsetting and uncomfortable situation. Would've been amusing to have that teat inspection illustrated, but alas. While I've regrettably not dived into other fics lately, I still have to bring up that mare teats are seldomly recognized, let alone referenced. Maybe it's a taboo subject, I really don't know. Be as it may, I wager that even for a girl-become-pony discovering their mammaries to be in a weird place would be a matter of consternation and unease.
We must have missed it, but we've always thought that the key was to a house door. Curious then, if finding the car might be viable?
Viv almost lets her mouth run away. A friendly fellow, perhaps we'll see him again, but maybe not. Certainly, distraction may both help and hinder things.
Of course, now they have to descend the stairs, but perhaps a repeat performance will work?
Keep going! ;)
9801015
Oh yeah, the references were great!
Teats are indeed a rarity. We believe authors just don't know what to do with them for the most part. It doesn't even (usually) come up when characters have foals that would be nursing. But then the show has shown bottle suckling basically at birth so maybe it's an easy out?
9801015
Woah! Now there are a bunch of stories taking me by surprise.
Next, the pony decides to make a sandwich...
It takes 12 years to make.
It's good to see it updated, and enjoyed the chapter
9801166
.
Yeah, that key was just there, present but rarely alluded to. But now that it's established to be a key to the car, that does mean the home key is ostensibly lost... Let's hope it isn't, though.
As for the fellow who got Viv to talk about more than Viv oughta know, I don't know, he seems like he'd be a handful, er... a hoof-ful? I doubt that is an expression in the ponyverse. Anyhow, he did provide a distraction, sure, but was it a good one? Or would a new chance meeting be worse? Hmm...
Ah, but yes, soon Viv will face the stairs again, though gravity be of assistance. Or be a complicating matter if Viv's agility is not up to snuff.
9801171
The show takes an acceptable break from reality for reasons that are easy to understand. I mean, teats have never been confirmed, though it stands to reason they exist, but I can imagine that there'd be a lot of awkwardness involved if the show had that kind of foal-mare interaction. I would go so far as to say that the kid's parents would be just as stumped, as they wouldn't know that a mare's mammaries are almost between the hind legs.
As for fictional stories, they can acknowledge the teats liberally, though like I said last time, I've read very few that do. There must be many that deal with them in some capacity, from the perspective of a natural pony, I guess. Though maybe the more interesting perspective would be that from a human-to-mare fic? They could be in the majority, I really wouldn't know. However, I suspect that such fics approach them with a, shall I say, explorative attitude. This fandom can be quite diverse in its agency, though I'm not judging. Live and let live. Personally, while I'd consider reading a such story out of curiosity and to observe the product of a differing perspective that I might learn from, I most assuredly wouldn't find the story... *ahem*... titillating. I'll collect my jacket now
9801296
. Well, there's an aborted fic on Fanfiction.com, and a short Resident Evil 2 fictional diary I wrote loooong ago, and I cannot be sure the website it's on survives to this day. Even its URL is lost to me.
Stories? I'm a one-book-author
9801480
. No one can make it that quick!
Don't be ridiculous
9801933
. Well , maybe art is the best thanks 
, but that's more like a gift, and then I'd feel awfully indebted to provide something in return. Or maybe the fic is the gift, and the art is... a reciprocative gift 
?
That you enjoyed it is the best thanks I can get
9801015
Glad to see this updating. It's still the first pony fanfic that I ever started reading way back in 2011.
9803669
Lucky you. I can't recall what pony fic I read first.
Been reading this since 2013!
9808117
Glad that you're still onboard!
9808199
Wow so many words for just two days in the story
9823900
.
Well, yes. It seems to be a tradition. Afterall, the first chaper was 3000 words devoted to the protagonist waking up and taking a look in the mirror
9824186
This story has more words than most of the Harry Potter books on their own:
Philosopher’s Stone – 77,325
Chamber of Secrets – 84,799
Prisoner of Azkaban – 106,821
Goblet of Fire – 190,858
Order of the Phoenix – 257,154
Half Blood Prince – 169,441
Deathly Hallows – 198,227
First Pony View - 211,080
This is just a comparison of how much is written.
9824513
.
Brevity and I have a tenuous relationship
9825870
And for those other books cover a year each and we are two days in... so much dialogue...
9826065
Yeah, and were I want to write this story to cover the span of a week or more, I'd have to pick up the pace, or live longer than Methuselah.
9827337
Well then... I'll need to live as long as a certain ethereal alicorn
Or, in Reader Time... about 12 chapters and 5 years or so...
9824513 And all this just to get this human-turned-pony out of the shower and down the stairs...
This isn't purple prose. It's not even ultra-violet. I think this qualifies as short-wave gamma ray prose.
9832849
.
Time dilation must be crazy over there
9832859
You sure it's even detectable by our instruments?
Omg the story lives, Its not dead. Thank you for not letting this die!
9987642
. But fear not, the next chapter has already entered its editing stage! If it goes swiftly, it might be here in a few short months 
.
The interval between the recent chapters was... immeasurable
Hey as long as the story is completed eventually I wont complain. I thought it was abandoned.
9988335
Oh no, I'd hate myself to death if I were to abandon this story.
9989261
Still not giving up on it ?
After going through more headache than I signed up for during this story (although I'm really interested by the psychology present in the story... most of the time), I'd like to have an ending to it tbh
10241886
Rest assured, I've had (and have) plenty of time to think on how to conclude the story.
10316215
Just to guess based on the other fics i've read; most of them are wish fulfillment fics where being suddenly pony rarely incurs anything more severe than momentary disbelief.
*quiet sobbing of someone who's waited another year away*
10417823
I do have a chapter ready! It only needs a chapter illustration. Alas, artist is feeling blue and very demotivated due to Covid-related reasons, and I haven't been able to summon another one, and I'm extremely reluctant to break established tradition. So, I'll have to wait until artist recovers, I guess. Unless you know somebody who'd like to help me out? Would be really nice!
This story is still not abandoned? Nice, I just hope the action has picked up in the meantime, my main problem was that some of the chapter felt like they had 10,000+ words about nothing in particular. But the concept is great.
10766711
Yeah, there were a bunch of chapters that were a bit overlong. I have a better vision now and know where to take the story. I was pretty much winging it up until the 20th chapter or so, not to mention that the first few chapters were little more than a writing experiment run awild.
10766762
The first five chapters were amazing, actually. Overall I really enjoyed them except for like one-two scenes, because they had that intense atmosphere and detailed description of the psychological state of the character. The first chapters in the hospital (I stopped after chapter 12) were the ones I had problems with. I also felt you or your editor went overboard with synonyms sometimes, but that was only a minor issue in comparison to the pacing issue. But I'm glad to hear you worked to fix that!
10766777
Well thank you! The first three chapters are decent, considering I hadn't written anything beyond school assignments and message board posts before then. Still, I think the fourth chapter is the worst. It has this whiplash of the protagonist deeply doubting their sanity, to tormenting an unlucky guy until the turns are tabled, to then having a giddy post-pineapple moment ensue because I frankly didn't know where to take the story after the protagonist would venture outside.
But the first three are almost pure conscience streams, and possibly the closest we ever saw the protagonist be, well, sound in mind. It grants him a rational approach to his predicament despite an occasionally wavering convinction in it being a lucid dream.
The fifth was where he was inexplicably perched on an outcrop in the middle of nowhere. How he got there is still a mystery, but it will be explained eventually. Oh yes, I have a fair idea how and why. I couldn't have said that when I wrote the chapter...
I may be responsible for the synonyms. I have this pervasive feeling that there's a limit to how many times I can use certain words, after which I must avoid them lest they start sticking out like a highly radioactive spent fuel rod in a bowl of absolutely delicious oatmeal. So if there's an instance of, say, "laugh" repeated three times within the span of a few paragraphs, I'll try to use other words or do a small rewrite to convey the laugh without using the word "laugh". In fact, this feeling is so persuasive that I almost replaced one "use" in this paragraph with "employ"
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. I'm hoping to do better at finding a good balance between moving the plot forward at a fair clip and throroughly exposing the protagonist's tumultuous mindscape as the story progresses. Kept that explanation concise, didn't I 
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And now I wrote all that instead mentioning the pacing issue
Anyhow, that you're commenting on the latest (but no more!) chapter suggests you've caught up to the story so far. I hope it's been a better experience.