//------------------------------// // Monday // Story: Seven Self-Portraits // by CrackedInkWell //------------------------------// It’s always easy to start a story when it isn’t your own. I guess that might be the nature of us storytellers that we’ve spent so much in the land of imagination to search for new ideas that at times we forget about the one that is happening to us right now. So in a way, this is an autobiography, but at the same time, it’s not. Nopony wants to read neither the whole truth nor facts because together, they’re too depressing for anyone. No, as a storyteller, the first rule that I’ve learned by heart is to always give your audience a good, interesting tale. I’ll leave up to my readers to see where fiction ends and reality begins. So that’s exactly what I’m going to try to do. It is to tell you, dear reader, a story. One that I didn’t want to tell, but I felt that for my own good, I shall. I will tell you a simple one: a week in the life of this author. And I’ll begin this on a Monday. Mornings for me, especially on Monday and Wednesdays for an Earth Pony like me starts off as such: I wake up in my warm queen size bed in which it takes a while to be able to open my eyes. Once they do, however, the very first thing I see is the blurry vision of my ceiling. My left foreleg would reach out to the nightstand to bring the alarm clock to my face. 7:54 it reads before I place it back and feel for my glasses. Being nearsighted since I was in Elementary school, I couldn’t exactly see anything clearly about half of a hoof away without turning everything into an impressionistic painting. After putting them on, seeing the dusty painting I did on my ceiling (I’ll get to that later) I force myself out of bed to use the bathroom. Normally, the house tends to be somewhat noisy from the mix of voices from both the radio and my family. I’m not embarrassed to say that as the moment I’m writing this that I’m currently living with my parents. So is my younger brother and sister. So after using the bathroom, I wander into the kitchen in which sometimes there would be a little something on the stove top like a tray of bisects or perhaps some cereal. On this Monday however, there wasn’t any, but regardless I peak my head into the living room where Mom is, getting ready for work. “So is there anything I need to be aware of today?” this was the same question I tend to ask her or dad every morning. “Besides checking up on the Real Estate School?” My parents in a sense can be only be described as hardworking. Mom, or known to those that she’d worked with is called Stage Prop. A blond earth pony mare that had a light shade purple coat who’s rarely seen without her notebook at her side. “No, I don’t think so…” she hummed in thought. “Oh, do we still have eggs, juice and all that?” “I’ll go look,” returning to the kitchen, I turned my attention towards the fridge, looking through the shelves and drawers, making some mental notes of what needs to be restocked. Before I could close the fridge I looked down to find the family dog putting his paws on the vegetable drawer. “I guess you haven’t had breakfast too, hey Chewy?” The Shih Tzu looked up at me with his button black eyes silently, but I knew what he wanted. Opening one of the vegetable drawers I pulled out a single baby carrot in which, seeing this, he wagged his tail in anticipation before tossing it to the other side of the kitchen that he gave chase after it. Bringing a small smile to my face, I went towards the living room and say, “Aside of all the juice we have, we’re low on eggs and cream cheese.” “Well put it on the list,” she replied as she didn’t look up from her open notebook. “Okay, is there anything else that I should be aware of?” “Ah yeah, could you also pick up some more copy paper later in the day?” I sighed, “Sure. Anything else?” “No,” she said as she closed her book. “I need to run.” “See ya later mom.” After telling me goodbye, she went out the door. I did as I was told and wrote down the missing items on the yellow notepad in my nigh unreadable hoofwriting next to dad’s that listed some other ingredients that I haven’t noticed. After checking to see the family’s piggy bank is still on the counter, I returned to my room to prepare for my day. Dressing-wise, I’m very simple depending on the weather, I put on my usual collar, bow tie, and the overcoat as it was cold outside in late November. Between the door and one of the bookcases is a pile that I haven’t exactly picked up in months. One that had school papers, a bag of paints, sheet music, a ceramic plate that I painted once, and a very important book that I needed to take with me. A history book from one of the classes I was taking that I would study from. After putting that on my unkempt bed, I took my typewriter, my electronic music player with earphones, my little black book with a bag of receipts, a pencil, my bag of bits and some paper that I had to balance them all on my back. After saying goodbye to the dog and whoever happened to still be there, I set out into Ponyville’s morning towards Sugarcube Corner to get a quick breakfast along the way. I walked past the darken out light bulbs that were obviously meant for the holiday season overhead between the houses. On the lamp posts they’ve already put on the garland and red bows, I thought that the only thing missing now was for the snow to fall. I have been told that we should be getting some any day now. In public, I don’t tend to say much, or even get noticed. It is understandable that outside of my readers, I’m not that popular nor well known. I tend to walk past other ponies in their daily routines as if they were ghosts and focus on what my priorities that day were. At that moment, it was something to eat so I went towards Sugar Cube Corner and hoped that the line over there wasn’t long. On that Monday, it wasn’t. When I went in, there were only a few there with Mr. Cake at the register. I got in line and waited (I confess that depending on the time, I can get rather impatient as my right hoof would tap in hopes that the ponies that were in front of me would make their order and hurry up). By the time I got up to the counter, I already knew what I wanted. “I’ll have the chocolate chip muffin with a bottle of apple juice.” Like reliably clockwork, the muffin was put into a paper bag, then the small bottle of juice was taken out of the fridge, he would press a few buttons and rang it up. “That’ll be three bits,” he said as I took out the required amount. “Would you like a receipt?” “Yes please,” I told him. In a way, I pretty much had to, considering what I’m going to be asked for today. After he wrote it up, he gave it to me while saying the usual have a good day thing, I immediately left to go over towards a particular building so I can spend until nine o’clock to eat. Now before I go any further, there is one important thing that you must know about me. I was born with two mental disabilities: one is a mild form of Aspergers in which affects how I think and talk, the other is something called Auditory Processing Disorder which affects my hearing. Now I’m not bringing up this detail about me so that you may feel sorry for me. Rather, to give an explanation as to the place where I go on Mondays and Wednesdays. In Ponyville, there is a one-floor building that is known as Lower Mountain Options in which adults who are categorized as disabled go for therapy (or at least I think it is). Before nine o’clock I walk in with breakfast in tow, saying a mechanical “Good Morning,” to one of the ladies that work there at the long, wooden desk before walking past her and into the small kitchen area with a long plastic white table in the middle. From there I unpack to eat my small meal in peace while some of the other clients tend to drift in and out. To be honest with you, the ponies here are not the kind that I would want to make friends with. As cruel as that sounds, the clients that I interact with aren’t even on the same level as I am mentally. For example, at the other end of the table where I’m eating is a mare that from week to week would dye her mane a different color. That week, it was lime green. She is a great deal older but shorter than I am. She tends to repeat things over and over again with a pause in between. For example: as soon as I walked in and saw me, she says, “M-M-M-Morning I-I-Inkwell.” And even after I said good morning to her, she repeats it so I sat there, trying to ignore her. Another example would be right after I gulped down the muffin and juice where I would wait in the foyer would be a Pegasus known around here as Dusty. The only way I could describe the Pegasus is that he is as skinny as a flagpole; crooked teeth; has a bright orange, curly mane; he never once talked and always had one of those spinners from a game in his wing that he has a transfixed fascination with. I’m never was sure what sort of mental problems he has (nor any of the others for I don’t want to be rude just for asking) but I have been curious about it nonetheless. His behavior has always puzzled me since the day I came, as at times whenever he became excited, he would jump up and down, or he would rock in place at a surprising speed regardless if he was sitting or standing. Now to be fair, I’m not saying that the disabled ponies in this place are all like that. At worst, they are confined to a wheelchair, mute and you can never truly understand what exactly they want. At best, they’re rather boring or completely inaudible to me. Compared to rest, I might as well be the black sheep in this building considering where else I go on Tuesdays and Thursdays. However, I don’t exactly hate this program thing that I’m doing, I rather tolerate it. Anyway, after putting some of my things in a corner, I waited in a seat until nine o’clock where some of the other clients come right in. At the desk, the mare that I always say good morning to is a blond mane, orange coat earth pony known as Lifted Spirits, a positive mare that as far as I know has been doing this just after I was born. “Okay,” she says as she looks up from her scheduling book and got out from her desk to call out to the other staff. “Dusty, Marmalade, Dizzy, Inkwell, Return and Blot are going out to the community today.” By now I know how this works, when they say “community,” they are referring to the act of going out somewhere as a group for about an hour or two (depending on the pony). Being at this program for nearly three years, I’ve been able to predict the same pattern that I followed week after week. Nine o’clock we get into one of the two wagons in which we were taken to the general store where I always get lunch from, and at ten we go over to the dollar store. Normally before we head off, the staff of two or three ponies would have us clients put to a vocal vote of where to go. However, since these ponies are enslaved by routine, and that the staff listens to what our needs that day are, they normally fall into those stores. “Inkwell,” Lifted asked me as the other clients came into the foyer. “Do you need a lunch today?” “Eventually y-yeah,” I replied. Once the other staffer that was coming with us that day, an older mare with a black curly mane with glasses joined us, we headed outside to loud ourselves into one of the smaller wagons. I tend to let myself to be the last pony to get on as I didn’t have to wait so long to unload afterward. Once Lifted hooked herself up to the wagon and the other staffer, who is known as Ms. Roads, had climbed in and asked us where we wanted to go to. After expressing that I don’t have an opinion as long as I get some lunch, she turned to the others. “I-I-I-I-I wanna go to the bit store,” the mare whose mane was now dyed as lime green said. “Gallop Mart,” Ditzy (a pegasus mare that whose eyes somehow were able to look at two directions at once) said. “Gallop Mart,” Return, arguably the oldest stallion here muttered bitterly. “Gallop Mart please,” the last one to speak was from an overweight mare. Since Dusty couldn’t really talk, he never once made any objection of any kind as to the places we go to. So with the deciding vote that gave our driver direction and a promise to Marmalade that we’ll go to the bit store in the next hour, I plugged in my earphones into my music player to listen to Horseshoepin along the way. It may not seem like much to most ponies, but when I’m caught in this clockwork of routine in a constant state of boredom, listening to classical music makes all the difference in the world. In a way, one could compare it to a livable addiction in which helps me keep my sanity. A temporary, cheap escape from the dull routine of my time with Lower Mountain so that I may keep myself level headed. After all, when one is surrounded by boredom, it’s best to have a moment of something intellectually challenging. Less than five minutes later we arrive at the grocery store, I got off first, I made sure that the step ladder was right underneath the wagon for the others. “So who am I going with today?” I asked both Lifted and Ms. Roads. The older mare checked through her notes, “You are with Lifted who Return and Dusty are going with. Ditzy, Marmalade and Blot are with me.” As expected, even before all of us are off the wagon, the old stallion has already gone ahead to go inside. Of course, he had broken one of the rules in that whenever we’re out for community that we’re supposed to be within eyesight of the staff member that’s been assigned to us. However, given how old the guy is, he’s been given some leeway as for his age and that he couldn’t really stand for too long. So after we’ve paired up and gone inside, where he was at the door, already in one of those mechanical wheelchairs. Gallop Mart is surprisingly large on the inside as it has almost everything from groceries; cheap clothes and the seasonal stuff that tends to take over the store depending on the time of the year. Being close to December, it’s already mummified in paper snowflakes, cardboard snowponies, red ribbons, lights and playing an endless loop of carols. However, I wasn’t quite impressed by the decorations as I have been here too many times then I’d like. “So where do you want to get your lunch?” Lifted asked politely of me. “Probably the deli, just to get a sandwich,” the funny thing is, even before we left I already knew what I was getting as I previously calculated how much bits I have and I wasn’t in the mood for frozen General Tso’s Carrots… again. And much like a soulless automaton, I lead them towards the deli, grabbed the cheapest sandwich that I would eat with a side of honey mustard, and just like that in less than two minutes, I was ready to go… only that it still wasn’t. So for the rest of that hour until check out, we wonder over by the seasonal section of the store. It’s times like this that I wish that I would go home as I would think through where to take my stories from there. For as (admittedly) pretty as some of this stuff is and how creative the decorations were that year, I was thinking about the romance that I left off last night. In the most mundane of places and things, I try to put myself into their horseshoes, ‘What would I most likely do as Tchaicoltsky?’ I would think. ‘Now that I’m suspecting that my lover might be cheating on me, would I confront him about it or do I wait until there’s enough ev-’ “Inkwell?” Lifted put the brakes on my train of thought. “Did you get that?” “Huh?” “We’re going to check out now,” she explains to me. “Is there anything else you need to get?” I nodded, “Yeah, but I’ll get i-it when w-w-we get over there.” I was referring to the sodas that they sell right next to the rows of cashiers. In which before I would get in line I would grab one of those lemon-lime ones. After buying my less than five bit lunch, we returned to wait in the wagon where the other group was still missing. About ten minutes of waiting and listening to my music player later, the other group emerged from the store with Ditzy looking rather embarrassed of herself. “Sorry for the wait,” Ms. Road explained to Lifted, “We had a bit of a mess to clean up before we could leave the store.” Among my boredom, I was shot with sympathy for the mare. Truth be told, I don’t really know Ditzy that well, for pretty much all I’ve heard about her came from the two staff members and some of the gossip that I would pick up while running my errands. From what I know, she works at the post office part-time and is known for being notoriously clumsy. And I maybe don’t know much about how to deal with disabled ponies as these two do, but I’m pretty sure that you don’t just say something like that aloud, especially when the one you’re talking about is within earshot. I don’t exactly know what had happened, but it’s embarrassing enough to be reminded of how… (what’s the word?) blundering you are. For a moment I wanted to do something to get her to cheer up a little. Only I had no idea what to do or what exactly to say, and before I could come up with something, we were moving again. And like that, we were off to another side of town and towards another store. The bit store was one of those places where everything inside was only a bit so they’re left to sell the cheapest, poorly made goods in the country on their shelves. I mean, despite the rows of candy, the store was never memorable. So by eleven I head into the kitchen unpack my humble lunch before it gets filled up. I confess that there’s a two-sided reason for this: one is so that it’ll give me more time to read half of the chapter I’m supposed to read from that textbook. And the other is that there’s one client that, while I never would say this aloud, but she really gets on my nerves. Privately, and rather meanly as well, I secretly nickname her “The Screaming Banshee.” She is an Earth Pony mare, whose age is completely unknown to me, but she is confined to a wheelchair, at times muttering something over and over while screaming at others. I have never seen a mare like this in which she has no teeth. Yes, you read that right! She literally has no teeth because she actually grounded so much that there’s barely any left except for her gums. However, the main reason why I always try to eat my lunch as quickly as possible – whenever she’s wheeled and feed spoonfuls of mushed… something is when as soon as she takes it, she would gag on it. The very sound of her nearly throwing up is enough to make me lose my lunch. So in a way, it’s actually a good thing that I’ve learned this skill of eating quickly back in High School. After vacuuming up my lunch and swallowing some of my soda (in which I would initials it on the top of the cap), I grabbed out one of those banana chairs to be placed in my usual spot, the rest of my things, and a notepad from one of the desks. Before I could study, I had to complete my goals so that I may be left alone. At Lower Mountain, I had to commit doing two things: one that has to do with my budget. In which that I carry around me a little black book that I scribble down a list of items that I’ve bought, subtract what I have left and kept the receipts as proof. The other goal is that I must come up with an activity that I would most likely do. Since I have been doing this for a while, I have written up a nit little chart in which I would fill out the rest of the details like so: Activity: Price: Date: Time to get there: Time spent there: Time to get back: Total Time: The goal for this was to think outside of the box outside of going to the movies, eating out, or even taking a walk somewhere. If it were up to me, I would prefer to simply stay at home. However, the idea behind it was to think about doing things that might be outside of my comfort zone while at the same time it would be something that I probably do. I admit that this one does take me a while to think up of something different but once I got a hold of it, jotting it all down the details was no problem. After placing both the notebook, the checking book with the receipts on a particular desk, I returned to the banana chair, picked out some calming music to listen to on my music player and dove right into studying. The very presence of the textbook, in this case, “Equestrian History Vol. 2” might be more of a reason of why I stand out among most of the clients that I tend to interact with. As a college student who is going through his generals to get an associate’s degree, it makes it all the more lonely to be there. I confess that it feels rather degrading that simply because I have a few things wrong in my head that I have to come here twice a week here. If anything, the only good thing to come about going here is that it just gives me room for studying. I tend to read about a chapter a week so it would give me more free time. I’m thankful that for the most part, the clients here do tend to leave me be as I rock in that chair, trying to digest through the dry content of the events that occurred nearly a hundred years ago. By now, you might be wondering why I brought my typewriter. I admit that this is due to a force of habit. Depending on the classes or lack thereof, I would have a little time to daydream for my stories. I figured that if I’m going to accomplish writing at least a thousand words a day that I might get a hundred or two in. However, because of how long the chapter was, I quickly found that it was already close to two o’clock, my departure time. After putting the chair away, grabbing my budget book with the receipts and retrieving my soda, I said goodbye to the staff before heading back home. As much as I would love to stay at home to work on my stories, I still have priorities to be taken care of. After dropping off my things, snatching the keys to the real estate school, the grocery list, and the family piggy bank, I was off again. ‘Hopefully it wouldn’t need any tidying up,’ I silently prayed. ‘So at least I could stay home for the rest of the evening.’ You see, I wasn’t entirely unemployed because technically I did have an odd job that Dad had given me years ago when he and Mom started several years ago. In the case of my dad, by day he’s a lawyer in which he deals with bankruptcies, by night he teaches real estate. However, they needed me for the job of making sure the class itself is straightened out, as well as stalked up with a certain amount of snacks. Thankfully the building that they rented out isn’t too terribly far away from where we live. It’s in a side door of a bank in which leads towards the basement level. After unlocking the door and climbing downwards, I flipped on the lights to see that the chairs were indeed crooked among the rows of tables. As annoying as it was, I did go through each seat to make it more or less uninformed. In the past, I would have vacuumed, wiped down the chalkboard and tables before taking out the garbage. But given that it’s being rented by a bank, some of that stuff has been taken care off. All I have to worry now is the chairs, trash and the state of the snacks. In one corner of the room is one of those kitchenettes that has a full-size fridge, counter and sink that has a coffee machine plugged in. I checked the fridge. ‘Okay so we’re gonna need more water bottles. The apples and grapes are definitely going to need to be replaced, but we’re okay on string cheese.’ Then I turned my attention toward the counter where the other snacks sat. After filling through the boxes I concluded that ‘I’m gonna have to get more candy. But we’re okay on crackers and I’ll have to get some more cookies.’ With this list in my head and taking out the trash from the previous week, I locked up the classroom and start my way towards the market. Before I stepped into the market square, I scrolled through my playlists to listen to before I start buying. ‘A little Buch would do just nicely.’ Indeed, I had chosen the first movement of that third Brandenburg Concerto as I moved forward. It’s rather amazing how much of a difference listening to a tune does to any experience. In the silence air, going through a market wouldn’t be any different. However, with that upbeat rhythm of the violas and cellos, it turned it into a lively scene like something out of a movie. Going through my mental grocery list, I bought crackers to the counterpoint of violins, cookies with violas, candies with cellos, water with a harpsichord, grapes in crescendo and water in pianissimo. Of course, I also got the list of items for the home, but the last on my list was the apples. The only place that even sells any is the Sweet Apple Acers stand. To my disappointment, however, they didn’t seem to have any fresh apples as they had only prepared jars of various kinds. And the one that is at the stall was the big red… Mac, I think his name was? Normally I tend to recognize faces then I do names so normally I always got it wrong unless I knew them really well. So when in doubt, do try saying their name. “Excuse me,” I went up to the stand. “Are you guys out of fresh apples?” He nodded. “Awe crap,” I muttered. “Well… let’s see what you have then.” There was pie filling, pickled apples, “Okay how about this then? I’ll have four bags of those dried apple slices, please. So how much are those?” “Twelve.” To be honest, I do like this sort of pony in which they’re direct and to the point, especially with a stranger. Some in the market at times try to have small talk with me but I’ve always found it difficult because to me, such conversations always felt rather empty. As if they were machines that were programmed to have a limited amount of topics. Like for example: “How’s your day?” To which I would reply: “Don’t know, I haven’t thought of it.” And just like that, it would stop. To me, it wouldn’t be so bad if it were once in a while from ponies who ask me that question, but when it comes from the same ponies asking the same question, it’s as if they don’t remember what answer I gave them. As if they don’t learn, but on the other hoof, it might be part of the job to see how they were before buying their product and ending it with, “Have a nice day.” So after the market to drop off the snacks at the real estate school, I finally have gone home, only to find that I wasn’t the only one there. As I walked in, I found Chewy on the couch with my little brother Chili Pepper on the couch with the dog curled up against his head. Like me, he’s an Earth Pony that is two years younger than I am. He and I share the same mane color and even the same glasses, however, unlike my dark blue coat, he was a bright red. As I walked in, I caught him reading the same textbook that I’ve read mere hours ago. “Hey Pepper,” I said as I set the groceries and the bundle of copy paper on the counter. “Do you have to work tonight?” “Mmm… No, I only work on Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Why? Do you need something?” “Well no, I was wondering if you know where everypony is?” “Mom and Grandma have left to pick up Crystal, and Dad won’t be here until five. You just got here and I’m trying to catch up.” After a visit to the bathroom and grabbing a glass of soda from the fridge, I retreated to my orange room. The place known as my room isn’t a large one, but I have made it cozy. Around its solar flare orange walls with the black furniture were knickknacks from across the globe and all the books that I could possibly need for any possible combination of stories. After plugging up my music player, I take the typewriter and lay down on my bed with my drink on the nightstand. This is my favorite part of the day, not all the errands I had to run but just me and a typewriter. Just to spend a few hours crafting sentences and conversations like how a sculpture would focus on the form and details of a statue. Admittedly, it does take a while to get going, but once I’ve managed to, the background music, the words on the paper and the rhythmic tapping of the machine on my belly just help me drift off into another state of mind. In this case, into the mind of the winter composer Tchaicoltsky, in Stalliongrad of the 870’s where I continued where I left off, the heartbreak of hearing rumors that my secret coltfriend might be cheating on me. “But how I don’t understand,”he whispered, holding up the letter. It was clearly a love letter in Sattlenov’s hoofwriting, even the same shade of blue ink seemed to indicated it. But no matter how much Tchaicoltsky wanted to deny it, no matter how much his heart was shattering at the very sight of it, the letter was not addressed to him. But to a mare, a student of his no less! It used the same caring language, the same comforting words and the melodic poetry that he told him night after night. But as much as he wanted to deny it, the evidence in his hooves was clear: Sattlenov’s so-called love was a lie. It is in my fantasies that I find myself truly free. No routine of daily life nor the worries that come with it, no insecurities of the present or the fears of the future, but just me and my imagination where I was free to think, to have a voice while telling a good story. That in writing, not only was I free to record whatever I wished, but I have a way to get it published. Ever since I’ve discovered the Free Word magazine, for the first time I had something that I’d never thought I would have before. A real audience that actually was reading whatever I put out under a false name: DriedInk. Considering that no subject was too taboo nor was it limited in who would publish their stories, the magazine had created a competitive atmosphere in which readers were looking for new, original material. In which I was more than happy to as daily I would get responses and comments about every chapter I produce. Of course, there would be those that would point out the grammatical mistakes and the occasional plot hole in which I would go back and revise it accordingly when I would release the whole story. Before I knew it, at five o’clock I had hammered out about seven hundred words and I would need another three hundred or so before reaching my daily goal. However, I heard the front door open, “Hello? Anyone alive?” With a sigh, I glanced at the clock on the desk that told that it was 5:33, so I put the typewriter on the desk and like a butler, went over to greet my dad. “Yeah?” I called out before I got to the kitchen where dad was. As expected he was setting his briefcase on the kitchen table, and clearly had gotten out of court judging by the dark expensive suit. Dad is a Pegasus that has a well-combed black mane with a spring green coat. “So how’s your day been?” “Long,” he replied. “And I really don’t want to teach tonight. I hope that you get to substitute for me?” “I still don’t think that’ll be a good idea,” I told him. “After all, it’s a rather bad idea to send in someone that knows next to nothing about real estate.” With a weak smile, dad said, “Oh fine. So have anypony eaten yet?” I shook my head, “I don’t think so. In fact, I’m not sure who's here. Plus I don’t really know what to eat anyway.” “How about a salad?” he suggested. “Do we have any bread left?” “I think so,” I went up to the bread cabinet to find, sure enough, that there was half a loaf left. “Do you want me to turn on the oven and tossed this thing in with tin foil?” “Would you do that? I really need to go change. Get some plates out and the salad greens then I’ll take care of it from there.” I obeyed as he went into his room. Soon I took out the fridge the mixed greens, the carrots, some cheese, croutons, pine nuts, and a few dressings; I started searching the house to see who was still here. The first place I look was downstairs because that’s where the girls' rooms were. Most of the basement level isn’t what most ponies think of that being made out of concrete and boxes (we have the storage room for that). Ours, however, is just as furnished as the upstairs with its own individual room. The first one that I visit was Grandma Brae, an elderly, curly-maned mare that I rarely see without a book in her hooves. She is related on my mother’s side as she had moved in a few months ago due to some… unfortunate circumstance. “Dinner is about ready,” I told her. She looked up from her book, “Ah what?” At times I tend to forget that she’s deaf in one ear. “We’re going to go ahead and eat in a minute. Oh, and by-the-way, is Mom and Crystal here?” “Your mom has gone run a quick errand so she’ll be back any minute,” she told me as she set the book aside on the bed. “Crystal is in her room. Is Home Seeker here?” I nodded, “Yeah, dad just got home and I’m helping him out. You can go upstairs while I go get Crystal.” After telling me that she will, I went over through the downstairs family room/mom’s room, through a short hallway to the door of my little sister’s. Raising a hoof, I knocked on the doorframe. “What?” an annoyed voice called from behind the door. “Dinner is gonna be ready in a sec so come on up.” “Kay,” without waiting I turned around to head back upstairs to pull out plates for all of us and started to pile up the salad. On went, the greens, croutons, chopped carrots, cheese bits, and nuts while placing the bottles of dressings to the side. Then after calling out to Pepper that dinner was ready, dad reappeared in the kitchen. “Turns out mom has gone out so she’ll be back in a sec.” “Okay, and is everypony else here?” “They’re coming… sooner or later.” As if scripted and rehearsed, Mom came in through the door with a basket of eggs. “I completely forgot to add eggs to the list, when did you get here?” “Just now,” Dad replied. “Inkwell made a salad for everypony, and I really don’t feel like teaching tonight.” “That reminds me, are the books over at the school?” that question was directed towards me. “And the papers, and the boxes, and it has been restocked so everything should be over there. So you’re all set to go tonight.” “Oh good,” dad nodded as the downstairs door swung open to which both Chewy and my youngest sis came up with Grandma following behind. Crystal is a teenager that has been going through her second year of high school, as such, she has adapted somewhat of the trends as she had dyed the tips of her long, dark chocolate mane with purple tips. Like dad, she too is a Pegasus, whose coat is the same color as my room. As usual, Crystal immediately went for one of the plates in which she picked up a carrot, “Hey Chewy,” she said to the dog as she held the vegetable up. “You wanna treat?” The small canine wagged his tail, opened his mouth a little while his eyes widened. After tossing the chopped carrot on the floor, Chewy went for it. “Where’s Pepper?” Mom asked as she looked around the kitchen. “I think he’s still in his room,” I said. “I just told him dinner was done a minute ago.” “Pepper!” she called out in which the door down the hall was heard to be opened. “What is it?” an annoyed voice answered. “Dinner’s done.” “I’ve heard you,” hoofsteps made their way until he reached the doorframe of the kitchen. From there, we grabbed our plates and drifted towards other parts of the house to eat. Sometimes we don’t tend to eat together for some of us have preferences on where to eat. However, ever since Grandma moved in, we now ate at the dinner table despite if one of us is in a hurry. Usually, at this time, I tend to stay quiet as I focused on both the food and what was being said around the table. Dad went over with mom with last minute checking: were the syllabuses and quizzes for the week been printed; are all the books over there; are all the snacks restocked… etc. Crystal spoke to grandma, somewhat grouchy over a project that she’s doing for school. (Obviously, she hates the school she goes to, but to be fair, I held the same view when I was her age, in it that it felt like being in a part-time prison.) While at the same time, she feeds some of her salad that hasn’t been touched by the dressing to Chewy, that sat right by her chair, looking pitiful upwards for any scraps. Before long, dad put his plate by the sink, went out to grab his things before heading over to the school. One by one, we brought our plates over towards the sink before mom reminded us to rinse them and put them into the dishwasher. However, I couldn’t wait to get back into my room wherein the back of my mind, my typewriter was beckoning me. ‘Finish the chapter,’ my mental conscious told me, ‘You’re nearly done to submit it.’ I was thankfully able to slip into my room and immediately turned on the background music from my music player. Returning to the bed, and setting the typewriter on my lap I crafted out the final scene. “I mean, how could you!?” Tchaicoltsky shouted. “I trusted you! I believed everything you told me! And this,” he held up the letter. “This is how you showed your undying affection? By seeing someone else without telling me?” Sattlenov’s eyes glanced everywhere else in the room, except for him. “I-It’s not what you think.” “Oh really?” The bearded stallion tried to withhold his rage. “Then what else exactly do I make of this then? ‘I feel unworthy as you are perfection itself. A Goddess of Happiness in the flesh that gives so much joy, just for my humble self to be in your presence. I want to worship you in every way that you wish. My devotion, compassion and love is unmatched by any living creature.’ Then pray tell, how else am I supposed to interpret this- “Inkwell!” My imagination came to a screaming halt from my mother’s voice before a couple of bandings against the wall. I hate when something like this happens, just when you’re about to get to the good part, like how one would anticipate the climax of a piece of music, only for it to come crashing down. Setting the typewriter on the bed, I went out to find where mom was. She was in the living room with Grandma on the couch, listening to the radio. Mom barely sat down to put her own typewriter on her lap as she reminds me that, “Tomorrow’s garbage day.” “Oh,” I mentally kicked myself that I keep forgetting that. Silently frustrated, I immediately set out to collect the garbage cans from my brother’s room, the two bathrooms upstairs, the laundry room, kitchen, the printing room downstairs along with mom’s room, the other bathroom and Crystal’s room. After placing them in a bag, I went into the toolshed part of the house where the three other garbage cans were. One of them was larger than the other two as I tied the bags up and tossed them in before dragging that giant can out into a particular part of the street. Once back in my room, I set out to finish that chapter, to give it a proper hook for the next one for my readers. By 8:33, I finally typed out the last sentence to which I reviewed it, checking over spelling mistakes with a dictionary, punctuation, and notes to where to put the italicized and what sections should be put into block quotes to signify the sections of the letter in which the main character reads from. Satisfied, I told the family that I would be making a quick errand before I headed out the door and towards the post office with the manuscript in a large envelope. In five minutes I walked through the entrance in which, as always, Ditzy was there behind the desk. She smiled and waved as I entered. “Hi, Inkwell.” “Evening,” I nodded. “Has there anything that came for me?” After saying that she’ll go look, she went over to the wall of box slots, each having their own numbers and letters. Ditzy scanned over to one particular slot: 62493MT. She returned with a rolled up magazine and to my delight, a few letters. “There is indeed,” she beamed. “One magazine and three letters today – so are you going to send anything out?” “Ah yeah,” I hoofed over the envelope. “I just want to have this mailed.” “Okie-dokie,” after taking hold of the sealed manuscript, she asked her routine question, “So how’s your day been?” To which, I shot back my usual response to this question that I’ve been asked so often. “I don’t know, I haven’t thought of it.” “You really say that a lot,” she pointed out. “How can you not know how you are? Take me; I’m doing great because it’s a slow night.” As much as I wanted to explain how my mind tends to think of other things besides how’s my mood on this particular day or other, since nopony wants to listen to that, I simply respond with a safe: “Fine I suppose.” “That’s good to hear. Will there be anything else?” I eyed the envelopes, “Nope, that’ll be all.” “Well, thanks for coming in.” After I bid her good night, I walked back home, eager to read what these letters contain. These letters contain one of the main reasons why I love writing in that particular magazine: the feedback. Not only do I get to see anything I write being on print, but these letters showed how much of how the audience thinks about the pieces that I put out. If anything, I look forward to what their thoughts and critiques are with every chapter I put out. Slipping back inside and closing the bedroom door, I went over to my desk in which I placed the letters and began to open them up. The first simply said that they were intrigued and couldn’t wait for the next chapter. The second was a list of all the grammatical mistakes from the previous chapter. When this happens, I take out the previous chapter to refine it so that the next day, it could be republished again with all the corrections put in. And the third was a question: Dear DriedInk, do you take commissions? Because if you do, I have an idea for a clop that you could try. – FlutterBoomer. With a sigh, I got out the typewriter in which I penned my response. Dear FlutterBoomer, one thing that you must understand about me is that nopony is paying me to write any of the stories that I put out. As such, I’m not doing any of this because of the money, but simply because I wanted to. I never beg for commissions, and nor shall I because I would never do that to my readers. So no, while I don’t take commissions, I do however take suggestions. Now there’s no guarantee that I would take it for a future story, but that doesn’t mean that I won’t take it to heart, especially if I’m interested in them. When it comes to writing clop, do keep in mind that it’s very rare that I would write them unless I’m really compelled to do so. But who knows, maybe you might have something that would intrigue me. – DriedInk. Setting the response letter aside, I then turned towards the thick magazine in which I lay on the bed, to open its table of contents. ‘I wonder if there’s a good comedy in here,’ I wondered as I flipped through its pages, hoping to get a good story before going to bed.