Growing Carrots

by Roobles

Beautiful echoes.

You’re sitting in your garden, watching your carrots grow.

Watching their greens dance with the wind, shuffling sunlight and shadow.

How they express themselves so freely, without ever leaving their roots.

You’re humming a silent tune to yourself, imagining that each carrot is singing. A chorus of green and brown, maestro of orange, paying tribute to life and love in your garden.

A thought blossoms on the surface of your mind. You realize that in all the years of growing carrots, you have never seen a carrot flower. Nor, at the moment, can you even imagine what one might look like.

You begin to wonder.

What would happen if you didn’t harvest? Just how many carrots would make it through the long, cold winter? How many would be there to bloom in spring?

You wonder. If they could survive the whole year without you, would they still need you? Would they have ever needed you in the first place?

You’re sitting in your garden, watching your carrots grow. Telling yourself that they're good carrots, strong and brave and healthy.

You’re humming a silent tune to yourself, wondering.

And you’re trying your very best to ignore the sounds coming from your carrots, rustling in the wind.

---

You’re trotting down a lonesome road.

Walking in the cracks and dusty veins, trying to avoid the cobble stones. Your hooves aren’t being cooperative right now, and you just don't know how to fix them. For the moment, all you can do is minimize the damage.

You’re looking around, not seeing ponies. Just vacant little houses, lining up the way. Some with smoking chimneys; some with open windows. Flowers. Daisies. Roses. Picket fences painted perfectly, with hearts and hooves carved into the wood. Everything quaint and cheerful, varying shades of yellow, tan, and pink. Just the way a pony likes it.

You have the feeling you're not supposed to be here.

You just don't know what else you can do.

Something was wrong with your carrots this morning, and you needed to take a walk. Needed to clear your mind, and give them time to figure themselves out.

Ponies take walks, don't they? It's a perfectly natural thing to do.

---

The market is bristling with with musical activity.

There's an energetic song filling the air, extolling arbitrary virtues of friendship. Ponies are dancing on their hind hooves, singing, swaying. Ghostly voices lifted in jubilation, high into the sky, drifting on borrowed time. No single voice from any one pony. All voices, all ponies unified in song.

You are not a part of it.

You're just sitting behind your market stand, in case a pony happens to look your way.

Still. Your smile is contagious.

Your mane is bouncing, tail swishing. Your hooves have taken on a life of their own. They're tapping out a quiet counter rhythm, while you mouth the words to the song. You imagine yourself on center stage, taking on a lead. A single true, consistent voice, among a backdrop of darling, beautiful nothings.

The song is rounding back to the chorus, and the dancing is vigorous in keeping pace.

Colorful coats and dazzling manes. Pegasi soaring over head. Stomping, rocking, hoofbeats. Always to the rhythm of the song.

---

Your hoof is on the door now, dangling in your moment's hesitation.

You look behind you a second time. The streets are empty still. There's not a single soul to be found.

You already know you're not being watched. You're not even supposed to be here; never should have come. But you're afraid. Terrified. And so terribly compelled to push on.

---

The chorus is wrapping up, and the next verse is starting.

The tempo's increasing and the harmony is splitting. Performing ponies divided into groups. Building towards the finale.

You're forgetting your intentions. Your whole body is moving with the tune; hooves clacking loudly against the beat. Your mouth is open, head swaying erratically.

The dancers are parting, shifting their lineup in a synchronized twirl. You're watching with bated breath, knowing the moment is almost here.

And you stop.

You've spotted him.

The music is still playing. Ponies are still dancing on their hooves. But just beyond that, on the other side of the market, is the brown stallion.

You don't think you've met him. But he's filling your head with fuzzy, scratching thoughts. Images of carrots and glistening golden pieces; echoes of memories from lives gone by.

He's bobbing his head, dancing and smiling at the music. And as you watch him, looking like he doesn't have a care in the world, your blood is beginning to boil.

Your vision is turning red.

---

Empty.

You look about you, and all you see is an empty, decaying caricature of a home.

It's just a box. A box with flowers and curtains, and ornately decorated awnings. Second story windows and a chimney on top. Everything beautiful, lovingly crafted, just so long as it's on the outside.

But the inside is a different story. All it has is dirt. Dirt that's ripe with stenches of mold. Dirt that has never seen the light of day.

Four dirty walls, reaching towards the undercarriage of a broken, dripping roof.

A humble little box of rot and filth.

No pony has lived here. No pony would ever choose to. The deathly foliage of Everfree would make a more inviting home.

You're tripping over your hooves, trying to back away. You need to leave this place. It's not healthy, and it's not natural. No pony was ever supposed to be here.

Your nose is stinging, sinuses swelling. Nausea is taking over. You're stumble out the door, desperate for the comfort of fresh, clean air.

You tell yourself this is all a misunderstanding.

Something is only wrong with that house. Some pony built it on the outside, and never was able to finish. It was just forgotten. The neighbors are simply keeping it maintained.

You tell yourself that every other house has a home inside. Warm and clean and furnished. Hoof painted pictures of stick ponies hanging on the fridge. Red woolen rugs, sitting by the fireside. Oats are on the table; carrots in the crib.

You're galloping away, reminding yourself this is a beautiful community. Just a cozy little extension of your favorite little town.

But you already know the truth deep inside you.

And you will never have the courage to come back and see for sure.

---

The stallion is on the ground, looking frightened.

Your hoof is on his chest, and you're pressing. Mouth is twisting, contorting in rage. Teeth gnashing, spittle flowing free.

This is the stallion that hurt you.

He's the one that broke your carrots. He's the one that put echoes on your hooves. He's the reason you're afraid to move or breathe too quickly. He's the one that built those empty homes.

His hooves are fidgeting and he's pleading.

He wants you to believe him. He wants to talk to you, another time. Another place. He's trying to lure you into false sensibilities. His whispers are intoxicating, trying to make you speak.

But his words are wrong and twisted. Sins to ever leave the tongue.

"P-please, miss Harvest. All I did was buy your carrots..."

Whimpers of a wretched, lying foal.

"Golden. J-just let me..."

Both of you are interrupted by a bestial roar.

Echoes ringing in your ears of, "That's not my name."

You don't know where it came from, but your throat is feeling strange now. Sore and prickly. Stretched.

Your hoof is on your mouth, and the stallion is slowly backing. Something is very wrong. The fear in his eyes has now been laced with shame.

You take a step back, and your breath is shallow. You notice the silence. Swallow your throat.

The music isn't playing.

You look around, and the ponies are no longer dancing. They're just watching. Horrified.

Mothers hiding fillies.

"That wasn't me!"

You stand up. You tell them. You hope to find a way to make them understand.

"I... I don't speak..."

Comments

[Roobles]

I'm not sure about the pacing. I originally wanted to progress a few more lines of the story, but I was afraid they would feel too rushed. Now I feel perhaps things may be moving too slow.

This chapter is supposed to be the inverse of the first chapter. In the first chapter, she's in the system wishing she was out of it. In this chapter, she's out of the system wishing she was in. She's beginning to remember things, but she's not very good at it yet. She's still not experiencing time in a fully linear way. It's also something that's going to get worse before it gets better. Is it difficult to follow along?

Should be three more chapters left in this story if everything goes according to plan.

[Fiddlebottoms]

The deathly foliage of tEverfree would

"the Everfree"

I didn't think it was rushed, although I didn't realize we were switching back and forth between two scenes until the end. It was kind of disorienting, although I think that was the point?

Liked this line,

You tell yourself that every other house has a home inside. Warm and clean and furnished. Hoof painted pictures of stick ponies hanging on the fridge. Red woolen rugs, sitting by the fireside. Oats are on the table; carrots in the crib.

The confusion at the end ("carrots in the crib" reminding me of Little Otik) especially. She's just trying to sling fragments together.
Plus, it is something that wanders through my head at least. If the houses I see aren't just cardboard cut outs, and if the people I see on the bus or at the store exist when they're out of view.

[Roobles]

1734697

Thanks a bunch for pointing out that typo. I originally had "the Everfree", but after revising that passage, I reached a point where two syllables would serve better than three. So I meant to drop the "the", but accidentally left behind a 't'.

Sometimes Carrot Top has difficulties understanding the distinctions between ponies and carrots. I haven't heard of Little Otik before though. Might need to be a google search in the near future.

Yeah. I've definitely gone down that path and had those thoughts before. It's always a bummer, because in that line of reasoning there is no winning move. Sucks to be right or wrong.

[Dominus]

By far, this has to be my favorite first-person story.
Roobles, you deserve more attention for this story than you get!
Keep up the good work!

[Roobles]

1735424

Thank you. It makes my day to hear that.

[Ledomare]

i263.photobucket.com/albums/ii141/paulatrinity/Neo/keanu_reeves_neo_matrix_movie.jpg

WHOA.

Seriously, though. Trippy. I like it.

Reminds me of a certain video about Cuil Theory, because of its staccato tone and sudden paradigm shifts. "I give you a hamburger. A father of three falls down the stairs. A pickle shifts uneasily under the bun. Your eye twitches involuntarily. I give you a hamburger."

[Roobles]

1737016

You give me a hamburger?! BEST. DAY. EVER.

i.imgur.com/4GX4p.png
I have no idea what Cuil Theory is, but I'm strangely fascinated by that quote.

[PegasYs]

1736254 Keep going, sir or madame. I'm listening intently.

[Roobles]

1747275
i.imgur.com/K44RY.png

[Skywriter]

Increasingly creepy. Nice.

[Charles Rocketboy]

And now I can never look at the backgrounders again without being creeped out.

[Roobles]

1837690

Ooooh, they're not creepy.
i.imgur.com/Fzkzv.png
They're just a bit misunderstood.

[Themaskedferret]

Oh god yes. Please more? Also I feel it's worth saying I normally cannot stand reading second person fics. You sir, have changed this fact.

[Roobles]

2132751
Thanks for your kind words.

All of my writing is on hiatus right now, as I focus on some graphical tasks instead. But this story will be the first thing I pick up, when I get back into the swing of things. It's really important to me that I finish it some day.

I'm also glad I could help shape your opinion of second person perspective. It's a tool that I wish was explored more.

[Themaskedferret]

2135078 *grins and nods* I can understand that and i;m glad to hear you're not leaving us forever. My usual issue with second person is it often feels as though I'm being forced into it. I don't feel as though the actions mirror my own and so it comes across as someone trying to predict my actions and failing...I overthink this stuff XD

[horizon]

Someone linked this from Fugue State's comments as a similar story. I guess I can see that, on the surface — taking an element of the show literally and exploring what it means for the ponies in the background — but this is a remarkably different story from FS. My background ponies are still people, being occasionally taken over by forces they don't understand. Yours are shadows. I wrote a romance. You wrote existential horror, front and center and creepy as hell.

Congratulations also on a fantastic use of second person — common as dirt in clop and exceptionally rare in non-romantic ponyfic. I wrote a story (NSFW) that used some narrative sleight of hoof to play with the second-person clopfic perspective, so I've got a soft spot in my heart for stories that use second person to full effect.

I'll be recommending this.

[Roobles]

2395828
Thanks. I really appreciate you taking the time to comment and offer such encouraging words. I'll have to take a gander at your story; I quite enjoy the idea of background ponies being used as pawns on the show.

I feel that second person perspective is one of the most under-utilized tools in literature. I wish more people would embrace it, and experiment with its possibilities. I believe it's just one talented, famous author away from making a debut. Some day. Maybe. I can hope.