What sort of writer am I?

Hi there! I hope you are well? And in good spirit.
I'm sat here wondering what sort of writer I am. Maybe I'll laugh at this in twelve months time?
Anyhoo, I did a dark and personal poem with "Black Day Pony". It was a good start.
Next was "No Corner To Hide In", and it's at the bottom of this blog. Man it's depressing!
Then "Gary's Trip", which is such giggle. I was so lucky to land Goombasa to Narrate it.
After that was Pony Poets, which I wrote on holiday at the sea side. I love Pony Poets and was really glad my mum could read it out for my YouTube channel.
Then there is Pony Poets two and three. All three are 'slice of life' with a twist. I wanted the charectors to write the poem in the text and I consider them my Brony passport. The proof if you will, of how happily I've fallen into the fandom.
And in the middle is the tale of "Moon Pony" which I wrote for UKPonycon 2015. (if it gets Chosen?)
Finaly there is my biggy, the attempted GimDark "My Little A.I." at 8000 words. I so hated to give it the Grim ending, but that was what it was built for I guess? I needed that one. I needed to reach deep and write somthing a bit nasty. Lost Narrator then took it as a commission and made it into something quite stunning. It's fifty two minutes of special effects, made with sweat, tears and her particular style of blasphemy.
The Team Idris machine rolls ever forward exploring the world of emotion and visualisation as best it can. Luckily for me the 'team' is flexible and has some very generous folk in it !
Thanks for reading. Idris.

Because I have more written work than pony stories I have an account that covers more of my work; Idris.sofurry.com

I am feeling a bit braver eight months on. Here is my first story of 2015.....

No Corner To Hide Me

A pony stands in the middle of a room not making a sound, motionless on the outside, but mind in turmoil. It wants to whinny, to scream as loud as it can at the sudden attack of feelings, but it cannot even squeak against the pain. It needs an escape, a dark corner of the room in which to hide, but the room is in its head and holds no sanctuary.  

Tears well in its eyes, but they aren’t bitter or sweet, just sad. The walls of the room should be blurred as it weeps, but they are beyond opaque, all faded as if invisible. They simply don’t exist beyond the restriction of the minds eye. 

In the mirror an image of an unhappy stranger looks back, its mane unkempt, its face blank and distant as the big brown eyes stare back. Somehow it manages to make a move, almost involuntary, finding itself in the shower. A deluge of warm tears fall from the fitting above, the warmth penetrating the skin, but not the mood.

This is no way to live, where alive should be more than heart beat, more than word. Life exists in hope, belief of betterment, in a smile or a laugh?  Lightening the mood has become more than a cliché as the mass of an unseen force depresses its very essence. No drug can fix this; their euphoria is but a sticking plaster. Nothing but a temporary shield against the persistent scream inside. All they do is tare away caring, leaving a hollow world behind.

How can it exist without empathy?  Friends help, especially the ones of similar circumstance,but no two ponies are the same. They have their own lives with their own problems. When they can get together it helps, but how often is that? It’s good to know they are out there, able to share the burden if need be, but some how its not enough? Not enough to make it better? Not enough to escape the paranoia and impenetrable black that makes it so hard to move, and which now glues it’s hooves to the ground.

That scream? If only it could scream that blood curdling scream just once, then maybe the dark monster would flee. But it can’t! It just stands there, not making a sound, motionless on the outside, mind in turmoil. 

Idris
Easter 2015