I think that sometimes that from the moment we wake up, it tends to act as foreshadowing to the day ahead. And I’m not talking about what kind of dream I had before I awoke since either I don’t dream that often, or I forget instantly. No, I’m talking about the moment you gain consciousness, when your senses kick in that you can judge right away what kind of day you’re going to have.
For the first thing to come to me were bickering voices. And as my mind catches up with my sluggish body, I realized that it’s the voices of my brother and mom going at it… Again.
“…. Out again!”
“Pepper, he’s a dog, if you don’t put the leash on him, of course he’s gonna try to escape. That’s what they do.”
“Why does he get into the neighbor’s yard?”
“Can’t you just go to your room, listen to music, play your games or something?”
‘Oh joy, just what I need to start the day,’ I thought as I opened my eyes. Reaching for my glasses and looking at the clock to see that it’s 8:12 in the morning, the argumentative debate between Pepper and mom went carried through the walls. Judging off by the tone, it wasn’t a violent one, but the kind where my brother couldn’t comprehend why he should do this when she could.
The same one as before. The same one now. And the same one that will happen.
As I drifted into the bathroom, a memory came to me with something that mom had said once that only now comes as something bitter. ‘Sorry means that you know what you did wrong and promise not to do it again.’
It’s rather ironic, that in my past stories, I had written chapters that were dedicated to this idea of forgiveness. Of being repentant to what has been done. And yet here… Some days I question if anyone in the world is ever truly sorry for anything if they’re just going to do it on repeat until the end of time?
Pushing that aside, I do have places to be that need my attention. As much as I wanted to defuse what was going on in the living room, I knew that it was pointless. Knowing Pepper, it’ll take hours to calm down and stop blaming mom for his problems and responsibilities. It’s through him that I’ve learned that nopony listens to reason once they’re upset.
So after gathering my things from my source of music to my text book, I headed out of the house, hoping to get some breakfast to start off the day. Knowing my cynical side, it tells me that getting so much as a doughnut is going to be rather unlikely. And by the time I reached my to-go place of Sugar Cube Corner, that prediction was proven to be correct. There was a line that went out the door and, judging its length and speed to process through, I quickly decided not to risk being late today.
Late… I never really expressed this to anyone, but that right there is my biggest pet peeve. Being late for something that you wanted to go to or have to be at. I know that most ponies tend to be forgiving when a pony shows up later than they were expecting. It’s not that I mind others being late, but when I do it, regardless if it was by accident, I almost never forgive myself for such a sin. To behind when you’re expected is something that goes against my punctual nature.
However, I’m rambling on.
Anyway, by the time I get to Lower Mountain to walk in through the front door to say my robotic “Good morning,” Lifted Spirits from behind the desk stopped me for a second.
“Just to let you know,” she said. “We’re moving your community time a little later in the day.”
I blinked, “So when will I be going then?”
“By the looks of the schedule, we have to put you between eleven o’clock to one. Is that okay with you? Do you need lunch?”
“Eventually.”
“Well, in the meantime, why don’t you get started with your goals? Just get them out of the way this morning.”
Ah, another pet peeve. This one is when the flow of my day is changed unexpectedly to my disadvantage. In this case, waiting an extra hour to finally eat something. Which means I can pretty much say goodbye to whatever morning snack I might get from someplace. But on the upside, at least it may give me time to go through the rest of the chapter that needs to be read from my textbook.
However, there are priorities that need to be taken care of as I dragged my usual chair towards my usual spot. First doing the math of whatever recites I had that day (which was none since I didn’t use my bits to buy a thing yesterday). After that, it was trying to figure out what to put down for an activity that was unique. It took me about a good five or ten minutes to figure out but once I was able to jot down a new idea and to place the notebooks and recites on the desk, I turned to my studies.
I was expecting to have a rather meditative morning. One in which I sat there in that chair with a book on my lap my headphones played out a small collection of Debussy. Just to have a nice, relaxing morning to balance out the somewhat sour start that happened about an hour ago.
That was, until Ms. Roads came up with the notebooks. “Okay, nice job with the planned activity Mr. Inkwell,” she said in a tone that would easily fit an Elementary school teacher that called one of her students to have a serious chat. “However,” ugh, here we go. “I did the math you made on Monday the numbers didn’t come out as they supposed to.”
‘Damnit,’ I cursed in my skull but never dared to say aloud. She offered me my little black book that had all my calculations of my bits to where I flipped over to the page to see where stupid, retarded me had got it wrong. And low and behold, there circled in black ink was a set of numbers where one was scribbled incorrectly.
And knowing that this is Ms. Roads talking, I knew exactly what is coming next.
“So how did this happen?” she asked. “Did you go through the math quickly without double checking it? You’re not in trouble, but you were off by seventeen bits. Maybe you should be clearer in your hoofwriting.” She went on of course, talking for a good three or four minutes with her lecture of how I should be careful in the one field that I’m horrible at. What annoyed me wasn’t so much of what she was saying, but rather how.
Don’t get me wrong, I think I get where she’s coming from that she has to work with clients who have the mental capability of infants. However, for me personally, that’s where the problem is. She lectures on at me as if she were talking to someone who is ten. ‘She does know that I’m twenty-four, right?’ I thought as I silently took her polite scolding. ‘I’m in college for crying out loud! One that can cook, write realistic scenes and characters, and I have a history textbook in my lap! So why is she talking to me as if I’m a little kid?’
Yet, the sad fact is that this isn’t the first time that I have to deal with this sort of thing. Whenever I or someone has to explain that I have mental disabilities, they see me as… well, inferior to them mentally, as if I’m forever trapped in foalhood. It’s as if I could show them the grades I had from all the schools in the past, or the talents that I have cultivated from playing Moztrot on the viola to my paintings, from my dozens of short stories to writing essays for college, yet all of that doesn’t matter if they know that one fact: if I have two disabilities, therefore, I’m stupid.
“…. So other than that, you did a great job with everything else.” Ms. Roads concluded, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I responded with no emotion as she mercifully walked away so that I may return to my reading, switching over to the slow movement of Moztrot’s fifth violin concerto. More than just a requirement for class tomorrow, I needed for my mind to be distracted after being belittled once again. Letting the words of the never-ending chapter in my eyes and the violins in my ears to carry me into some sort of escape. To bore me into daydreaming until two o’clock. As I was soaking up the words, a thought had come to mind. Today is Wednesday. Which means that if there were anything to go right today, then today after six I should be expecting a very special letter. One that came from across the world.
Eventually, two o’clock came and I had to pack up my things, tell Lifted Spirits that I was leaving and I should see them next week. On the way home, my headphones were playing out a piece from Tchaicoltsky’s Seasons: June. As I returned home to drop off my book and typewriter, the slow piano melody echoed in my ears as I trotted back. Since sounds outside of my device were muted, I was able to notice a few things all around. Such as how much chilly the air had gotten, or how that, while the first day of December isn’t until Friday, I can see the town were putting up their strings of light on their houses and wrapping them around the skeleton like trees. Yet, the melancholic melody playing my ears seemed to damper the mood a little as the skies were still gray and no one has seen any snow. Then again, we might see shades of white on the ground any day now.
There is another effect in which I drown out the world with music: it gives the illusion of self-isolation that was needed. At times like this when something gets me down, when I feel that I’m not being taken seriously, or outright ignored, or belittled, I turn to the music of the past. In a way, it’s like going to a trusted, old friend who has experienced all the joy and pain of life. Classical music to many isn’t all that exciting, if anything, like my mother, once commented, that such a thing would put anypony to sleep. But not to me. Such music you have to be patient with like talking to a grandparent. That yes, the times you do visit aren’t all that exciting, but that doesn’t mean that they’re not interesting, comforting, or has the wisdom you seek in how to deal with life.
As soon as I got home, I noticed that mom was there getting the mail and flipping through the names. “How are you today?” I asked as I walked up to her.
“Just got back home from work,” she sighed as she followed me in. “How was Lower Mountain?” Before I could answer, the little dog ran up to greet her with his tail wagging, “Chewy!” she said happily. “I’ve missed you, who’s a good boy?”
“Anyways, same as always,” I replied. “Although some days I do want to call in sick just to give myself a break one of these days.”
“I know, I don’t like it that you have to go to it,” she said as she set the envelopes on the counter. “Considering how much higher up you are compared to the rest of those ponies.”
“Yeah, I tolerate it. It makes me wonder why I have to go to it.”
“You and me both, but it is for that stupid home evaluation thing. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t make you go.”
I decided to change the subject, “So what was going on this morning with you and Pepper? I didn’t hear a whole lot other than waking up to it.”
“Well, Chewy was being naughty again.” She said as she petted him. “He got into the neighbor’s yard and Pepper was mad because he did that. Of course, I tried to tell him that he’s a dog and that what he does, but you know how obsessive he is.”
Seeing that this was going nowhere, I went to drop my stuff in my room while calling out. “So before I go to the Real Estate School, is there anything you want me to get since I’m out?”
“Toilet paper,” she said. “That’s the main thing we need. Here, I’ll put together a list for ya so that you can get everything.” When I returned to the kitchen, she was hunched over the cabinet jotting down on a sticky note before she gave it to me. “That as far as I know is what we need from the top of my head. Unless you can add something else to the list.”
Taking note of that, I grabbed the bits and headed over to the Real Estate school, but not without going half way before stupid me had forgotten to bring the keys to get in. After a good few whacks across the head and returning to the house later, I unlocked the door and trotted down the steps to the bottom.
Once I got to the classroom, I found to my annoyance, that the chairs were disorganized, there’s a significant number of crumbs and bits of paper on the floor, and the garbage cans were overflowing with pizza boxes. “Crap,” I moaned. Now that I had to clean all this up, that means I have to spend extra time straightening all of this out.
I just hated when something like this happens. Dad’s students aren’t always this messy. But once in a while, I come in to find the room to be like that of a warzone. It practically amazes me of how that his students are most likely older than me, many of them with foals of their own could sometimes leave messes like this one. While I stayed silent pushing all the chairs back into the desks and using the push vacuum to pick up what was left on the carpet, one single insult repeated in my mind in how I thought about these latest students: ‘Pigs.’
Several trips to take the garbage and taking notes that I need to buy two of everything, I left the classroom about twenty minutes later. At least I was able to get the things to replenish from the market both for the school and at home, however by the time I got around to dropping off all the snacks and locking the classroom up, I realized that I had spent over an hour. Much longer than I intended to.
By the time I returned to the streets, I already feel tired. With all the thoughts and ideas that I wanted to write out, my consciousness tells me that it seems rather late to do so. But looking at the time, just past four o’clock, I figured that since I’m running about, I might as well go over to the post office to see if there’s any mail for me in my box. And especially hoped to see if a particular letter arrives.
Walking through the doors of the post office, I’m greeted by Dizzy at the counter. “Hi Inkwell,” she waved at me. “Here for your mail today?”
“Has anything come in?”
“I think there is,” the gray pegasus walked over to the boxes. “I know there’s a bunch as I sorted out your mail this afternoon. Give me a sec.” Moments later she returns with the magazine, a couple dozen letters, including one that did put a smile to my face. It was the same sandy envelope that has a return address from Kangaroo Island, Neighstralia. From the one pony whose words are needed on a day like this.
After thanking her I went home with the groceries still on my back. Thankfully, the house was lacking in bickering as I put the toilet paper and the other stuff away. At first, I thought that I was going to have my own moment of peace, where I could have time to myself to read through the letters, write up the rest of the story while listening to music. However, as I went into my room to set aside the letters, I happened to notice a messenger bird sitting on my window seal.
‘Oh yeah,’ I thought bitterly to myself. ‘I forgot.’ The memory of last night came back to me. One that had a message from my best friend, asking me if he could hang out with me. At times, I do wish that I had a better memory so that I wouldn’t feel stupid. Walking up and opening the window, I unrolled the message that says that he’s ready whenever I am.
As tired as I feel, regardless the situation or what I’m doing, I can’t really say “No” to Artie. With all the schoolwork, writing and errands I do, it just wouldn’t seem fair to either of us that we don’t see each other every once in a while. For a moment, I thought that I could probably push my writing back for another couple of hours just to hang. So, I jotted down a reply, telling him that I’m heading over to pick him up.
Back into the streets again, I took the path that leads to the south-western part of Ponyville. Towards a place known as Elswood Acres. While it’s technically part of the woods, this place is known as a sort of trailer park. One that has cheaply made homes and wagons about that stand between pine trees and grassy ground. Every so often, pets would go across the ground while foal toys are left on the ground. I walked around the dirt streets, taking care of where I step to reach to a certain corner of the Acres to a pale pink home with gray steps the lead up to the front door. After reaching up to the knocker to bang against it three times, the door cracked open with my friend telling me that he’ll be out in just a minute.
As I waited for a few minutes, I look out to the edge of the property and out into a Wheat-field that has long been harvested, leaving only a patch of earth and a few twigs of gold sticking out. Then the door opened again and out stepped Artie. A blue Pegasus whose coat is a couple shades lighter than mine, and unlike me, his mane and beard is entirely blond. On his head was a dark green, wide brim crushable fedora that I never wear anymore. Around his neck was a long, multi-colored scarf that came from a comic book collection of some kind. A saddlebag that no doubt has the comics that he wanted to show me. And there was his cutie mark that showed clearly his passion of being an artist. A pallet of every primary and secondary colors with a crossing paintbrush and pencil underneath.
“Hey brony, how’s it been?” he asked as we walked down the steps.
“It’s been a bit of a slow day,” I lied. “Since you’re going to be hanging out with me, do want me to eat dinner with us too?”
“Would you?” he asked. “I mean, if it’s not too much on your folks to.”
I waved a hoof. “It’s okay, you know that my parents, especially dad won’t mind it. After all, we do give you better food then what you tend to eat at home.”
“Yeah…” he nodded. We both know that it was true. Artie had told me in the past that ever since he’d been living with his mother after the divorce, the quality of food he eats at home has been somewhat… not giving him the proper food he needs. Too much packaged and convinced foods apparently. It explains why that every time he tried something that came from my home that he’s blown away at the quality, especially when that said food is made from scratch. “Do you know what you guys are having to night?”
“Can’t say. I just barely got home when I got your message. So what’s new with you?”
“Oh! Right,” he patted the side of his bag. “I gotta tell ya, I was able to get some of the good stuff right here.”
“Such as?”
“A superb issue of the Power Ponies, new Spider Mare comics, Braepool, and you’re gonna love this: a omnibus of Cloudline and Hobbes.” And he was right. That latter mentioning of Cloudline and Hobbes comic strip is something that holds a place in our hearts. Back when we were young teenagers, Artie showed me this book that he got as a gift for either his birthday or Hearth’s Warming (I can’t remember which). He showed me after school the comic about a young colt with a highly intelligent vocabulary that was mischievous and carried around him a stuffed tiger that to him was real. The imagination, humor and gorgeous artwork was something that both of us admired. And he to this day whenever we bring those comics out, he would read them out in that voice he created for Cloudline.
To be honest with you reader, Artie has been important in the story of my life. Ever since we meet near the end of third grade, he had taught me many things. Of having a sense of humor, showing me what loyalty was, and had a sort of charm that we just keep coming back to over and over. Don’t get me wrong, friend-wise, he’s the not the first nor the last… but he’s certainly the one that has stubbornly endured. Friends for me came and went as we transferred from grades and schools, but he was there. I owe him a lot for not only that. But he (indirectly) helped me to figure out who I was in my early teens.
It was through him, by his personality, sense of humor, and his… physical qualities… that I came to the realization that I have an attraction towards males. Not necessarily gay, because I did notice the fillies as we grew up. But I felt more towards someone like him that at one time, I had fallen in love with him, even though he’s as straight as a sea’s horizon. It took time on my part to have the courage to come out to him (and even longer to tell him that I had a crush on him (once)) but I realized of how lucky to have someone like him to see me as his friend first. After that, I told him about my secret writing career and recently, about the letters from Neighstralia.
Anyway, as soon as we stepped out of his home and neighborhood, we immediately set out to make jokes along the way.
“So I had a weird dream last night.”
“What was it about?”
“Okay so, I was sitting on the couch reading a comic book… Uh… Braepool I think it was…? Yes! It was. Just going through the story when suddenly, Braepool was talking to me through the book.”
I blinked, “How so? Like you could hear him speak or…?”
“It was more like through his speech bubbles that he turned to me and… basically broke the fourth wall.”
“Doesn’t he always do that in the comics?”
“Not like this dude. He was like. ‘Now is this a sad state of affairs where a guy has to read this while sitting on a couch that looked like it was weaved from Tirek’s pubic hair.’”
I nearly choked on my laughter. “He actually said that?”
“Yeah… that’s when I noticed things started to take a turn for the weird. Still can’t figure out what it means though.”
“That you’re obviously too obsessed with comics for your own good?”
“No… well, maybe, but no.”
“I’m not Luna, but I’d guess that the character must have been on your mind quite a bit.”
“Yeah, and have you heard that they’re making a sequel?”
“To what?”
“Braepool. Apparently, the lead actor had insisted on finishing the film, despite the fact that they were bought out by Whinny Studios.”
“Yeah, now there’s a thought.”
Fast forward to a couple of minutes and we arrived at my house, with Chewy barking at him and hopping on his legs. “Oh c’mon Chewy,” Artie cooed. “It’s just me, why are you barking?”
“He’s trying to eat you,” I remarked with a smirk. Over at the kitchen as we entered, I saw dad stirring something from a pot. On the other side of the stove, plates were passed out on the counter, each having an open slice of bread and a glass custard bowl. “Hey dad, what’s this?”
“I think that we could have some Prench dip sandwiches before I go.” He looks over behind me. “Oh, is Artie eating with us?”
“Well, if it’s not too much trouble,” my friend asked.
“Oh no, we still got bread left. Inkwell, could you get another plate down and a little bowl too? Because he’s gonna need it.”
And so I did, while Artie was petting the dog and he tries to gnaw at his hoof, Crystal, Grandma and Mom too came in the kitchen. My little sister had a concerned look on her face. “Um… How long is he going to be here?” she asks me. After I told her that I didn’t know, I asked her why. “Well, I was asked in going over to Habanero’s house and I need somepony to take me over there.”
Despite of how much in my mind was screaming ‘Damnit!’ I calmly replied. “When and which house?”
“The one on the far end of town.”
I sighed, “And when?”
“Just before seven. So, you have time to hang out or whatever.”
But hardly any for writing. Only I dare not say that aloud.
After dad dished out the radish, carrot and onion filling into the slices of bread while pouring the rest of the broth into the glass bowls, I showed Artie to my room in which we could eat.
“So how're your drawings coming along?” I asked him.
“Thank you for reminding me,” he said as he set his plate aside on my bed. From his saddlebag, not only did he drew out the comics that he promised to show me, but also his spiral, red notebook. I sat across from him, between my desk and the bed as he flipped through the book. Catching glimpses of his past drawings, each more detailed and complex then the next. Then he stopped at a particular page and flipped it over so that I can see. “I’ve worked two hours on this one.” He said, “What do you think?”
What I saw was the stony face of the Creature, a stallion whose whole head was made out of a mosaic of stone. From shading to shapes, I couldn’t find a single thing wrong with it. “It still amazes me that you could do that,” I commented.
“I could say the same with your paintings. Speaking of which, what does your latest one look like? I haven’t gotten the chance to see it.”
With that, I pulled out from my closet my latest painting. Now, before I go any further, I think it should be wise to explain a little with my hobby. You see, a few years ago, I decided one day to give a shot at painting in a sort of Post-Impressionistic style. From the start, it made the most sense as the art form didn’t require me to draw a straight line, nor to make it life like. So after getting my hooves on a couple of books, I basically taught myself to paint, with my first on canvas painting I gave it to dad as a birthday present. Mom encouraged me to do this more often so… now I got myself into the habit of painting once a week. Choosing from photographs or from books that I turn them into my own style.
Anyway, I showed Artie my latest painting that I did last Sunday (although I would prefer to do it on a Saturday, but I was occupied then). This one was of the birch trees that, I think the original photo might had come from the White Tail Woods. It was a mostly green painting that had quick brushstrokes of light and dark orange along with some light purple. Behind the trees on the left were pine trees done in different shades of green, purple, dark blue and red while the other side had streaks of greens, and columns of blue over the sandy sky. While above were the dotted leaves of green and blue. The birch trees too were not completely white, as I used light green, blue and gray while giving gentle strokes of gray and black to give them that signature birch look.
Artie whistled, “How long did it take you to do this?”
“Not counting the resting times and letting the paint to dry…? I’d say about three or four hours. But that’s just a guess.”
“Dude, you really are getting better.” He complimented, “One of these days, you should get some of the stuff you have in your closet to a gallery.”
I frown, “That is if they even want them. I mean, I never set hoof in an art school before.”
“Well so? Your stuff is good, and I won’t be surprised that they would. But anyway, I want to ask ya something.”
“What?”
“How’s the Neighstralian guy?” he asked with a smirk. “What’s new with him?”
I blushed a little. “Well… He said that he’s having some time off from his university and spending it with his parents on a place called Kangaroo Island.” He snorted, “Yeah, yeah, I know. But that’s what it’s actually called. We’re still sending letters once a week, but he does write often. And I must say, for being so distant, I do feel that we’re getting closer. Although, it’s still too early to tell where we stand, but from his words, he’s the most mature, fun, level headed guy that if it weren’t for the fact that he’s on the other side of the globe, I would ask him out on a date.”
“Awe, I knew it’ll finally happen to you someday, didn’t I tell ya?”
“You did,” I nodded. He was right. Years ago, after I came out to him of my sexuality, I had developed a crush on him, even though I knew that he wouldn’t do the same back. For a long time, I did not dare say what was on my mind to him until, one day, he asked me if I had fallen in love with anypony. I had avoided the question for days until, one night through bird mail, he confronted me about it. That night, I wrote back in tears, finally telling him the truth while at the same time apologizing for it. However, that night I learned how truly strong our friendship was. Not only did he write back that he was okay with it, but he was rather flattered by it too.
Essentially, that night he agreed that I could take him out on a date. My first, real date to be exact. A simple picnic in the park in which I went out of my way to get the best food that I could get my hooves on. However, after that we just fell back to being friends once more. Don’t get me wrong, we didn’t lose anything (thank Celestia), but at the same time, we didn’t gain anything either.
“Mind if I ask ya a personal question?” he asks and I told him that he could. “When did you started to get into this paper romance thing?”
“You know how that he’s a fan of the stuff I post on that magazine?” He nodded, “Well yeah, one day I got a letter from him after I gave him feedback of a story that he just started, about a couple chapters in. He told me that he felt honored because he has read my stuff. So from there, we kept on writing back and forth. We learned more about each other and the places that we grew up in. Slowly, as we communicated more often, things starting to become… well… clear. That I was developing a crush on him.”
“And… When did you realize this?”
My embarrassed blush deepened. “When I receive his letter about last month, that I just felt it was time to tell him the truth. So we’ve started to get more romantic in our replies ever since.”
“Do you think you’ll be able to meet this guy one day?” he asked as he looked through his comics.
“I… I don’t know. All I can do is hope.”
“I’m sure you will buddy. So, would you like to see the superheroes or some comedy first?”
So pulling my seat up next to him, I looked over his shoulder as he read aloud for me in his gallery of voices the characters that played out from comic book to comic book. I watched and listened, not saying a word apart of a laugh or the occasional question. Time seem to slip as we got engrossed into the worlds, with all their action and comedy. Then before we knew it, the door to my room knocked as Crystal opened it.
“Aren’t you going to drop me off?” she asked.
I blinked and looked over to the timepiece on the desk. “It’s a quarter till seven already?”
“Yeah? Aren’t you coming?”
Looking over to my best friend, I told him. “Should I drop you back to your place too?”
“Might as well,” he said as he packed his bags. In moments, we were ready to head out once more. Now with the three of us, we headed Northward as the sun was already starting to set. To fill the silence, I got Artie and Crystal into a discussion of the Lunar Wars movies while my mind went away to the colors of the setting sun. Taking note of its clouds and its rich, vibrant colors that were painted across the sky. I did a quick calculation in my head that by now, it should be noon in Neighstralia in the part of the world where he lives in. As my best friend and sister talked, I fell into a daydream of having him walk by my side. In my mind’s eye, I constructed a ghost version of my distant coltfriend. The unicorn with a sandy brown coat, a messy reddish tint mane with eyes as green as emeralds. All from a picture that he had sent to me once before, showing his real face while I did the same with mine.
After about fifteen minutes, I dropped Crystal at her friend’s house. She told me that since she’s doing a school project, she told me just to be sure that someone comes to get her by around ten at the latest. Now with the long walk ahead of us, it was now Artie’s turn to get him home.
“I’m sorry that I have to let you go this early,” I told him.
“Nah, it’s cool. At least I get to show you the stuff that I wanted to.” For a few minutes, we discussed our thoughts about what we had seen from his comics. But when that conversation quickly dried up, Artie brought up. “Do you think I might be able to make it into the comic book industry someday?”
“With the level? I’ll be shocked that you didn’t.”
“Even if it’s for making covers. I hear that they pay a hefty bit for one. Because that’s really what I want to do. And thanks to dad, I think that I might be able to do just that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, dad said that he’s planning on retiring. And one of the things he wants to do is to get me into college and get some extra art classes. That should be more than enough to put on my resume when I send some of my work to those guys. But don’t you think it’ll be really cool?”
“I think that it’ll help you move out of that house.”
“Oh… Since you brought that up,” he said. “Just so you know, I think that I might move in a couple of years.”
“What? Where?”
“Cloudsdale. Dad is planning on moving there and he really wants to help me get away from mom. Of course, I hadn’t said a word at all to her yet, because if I did, she’s gonna throw a fit in my face.”
“Maybe you need to wait until things are set in stone. Knowing how she is, I think it’s best to see that you can move and then do it.”
“Yeah, that makes sense,” he nodded.
We talked some more as we returned to Elwood Acers. After saying our goodbyes and saying that we’ll see each other on Sunday, I make my journey home. Thus, in the dying light of day, I returned to my daydream.
By around eight o’clock, I returned to my room, my hooves feeling tired and finding the dinner plates still on the bed. With a sigh, I brought them to the kitchen before turning my attention to the neglected letters that I had yet to open.
There were three in total, including the one belonging to my distant coltfriend. I figured that given how this day has been to the point where it’s clear that I probably won’t have time to write a word in my story, I might as well read these other two and pray that I don’t need to give lengthy replies.
I was proven wrong.
Dear DriedInk, enclosed here is every grammar mistake that you have made in your latest chapter of “My Name is Tchaicoltsky.” – WordPerfect
And indeed, in the envelope was a copy of the latest chapter in which there were words and sentences that were crossed out, underlined or rewritten over. With a sigh, I got out my typewriter. I wrote back to him my reply in that I thank him for seeing the mistakes and that they’ll be able to see the revised chapter in a few days.
And so, I painstakingly retyped everything in that latest chapter with all the corrections made. As annoying as this could get, I do appreciate it when someone out there is trying to help. So about twenty minutes later, the revised chapter is set aside as I opened up my next letter, which has the exact question that ponies have been asking me ever since I started to publish my works on the magazine.
Dear DriedInk, in nearly every story that I’ve read from you, you’ve always included the following: “Warning: the story you are about to read is currently unedited.” So why don’t you find an editor? – Star Nova.
With all the stuff I had to put up with today, especially when I haven’t so much as getting the chance to do the one thing that I like to do, this has to come up now? While I was feeling exhausted from doing what this pony was asking, I fed more paper into the typewriter.
Dear Star Nova,
I have said this once, and I will say this again. When it comes to my writings and editors, everything here is volunteer work. Since I do not have the stable income to pay for one, I’m forced to rely on others. In the past, whenever I ask someone to proofread any of my stories, I’d be lucky to get a response within a week because they are interested in it. And I’ll be luckier still, if that said editor would still won’t drop the editing altogether. So I have no absolute guarantee that they won’t do that without telling me why. Realize that editors have lives of their own, so they’re not there for me, or anyone else’s beckoning call.
Before you start asking, “Then why can’t you edit? It’s easy!” There’s a saying in my family that rings true, especially for me: “Those who proofread themselves, has a fool for an editor.” That even if I go through each and every chapter, that no matter what, the creator will overlook the flaws that he has made. And as of now, I do not have a second opinion other than those who actively send back constructive criticism in which I could actually use.
And I know what else you’re going to say: “But wouldn’t it be better if you just get an editor first and then publish them.” Given the rate in which I do get editors, I’d be lucky to post my stories at least once a year. Sure, none of my stories are flawless masterpieces, but what exactly did you expect from a magazine that’s willing to accept any and all stories that it gets? Shakespeare quality? Dickens? Twain even? This magazine is to serve a platform for any and all writers, regardless of talent to be given a chance to shine. Yes, even with my stories, they’re not flawless, but it’s better to have you not read them at all.
Sure, some of my stories are unedited, and still are. But at least I have the courteously of telling you the readers up front in what you’re getting yourselves into. If this, or any other story of mine is going to be edited, let it be done by those who do so because they like the story itself. So, until someone comes forward to volunteer to edit this, or is willing to point out its flaws in which I can work with, I’m afraid that this is as good as it’ll get. If you don’t like it, do keep in mind that their other stories in the magazine that has a standard of grammar that’s to your liking. Although, I cannot guarantee the quality of the story.
Unless, of course, if you want to volunteer to do it, I won’t stop you. Until then or if somepony comes by, this is as good as it’ll get.
Sign, your fellow writer,
-DriedInk.
After writing up my rant, I took ahold of the last letter as I collapsed onto the bed. I just about had it with this day. All I asked was to give me some time to relax and to let out what was in my mind on paper. Was that far too much to ask? As much as I wanted to write my story, I know that it’s already too late for that.
With a sigh, I turned to open the last remaining letter of the day.
Dear Cracked Inkwell,
The distance maddens me. Every day my hooves long for its embrace around your body. It’s been no time at all and I already feel closer to you than my ex-coltfriend, even with him by my side. Whilst this can’t last forever, I truly do want to. Not may ponies understand me here in this small village, and I can’t wait to return back to the big city. Country ponies aren’t meant to write such long distance. Trust me when I say I much prefer city life. But even so everypony here feels so distant, so unattainable or incompatible. Maybe I am just not looking properly, but I don’t want to look. I’ve found somepony so close, yet so entirely far that it hurts.
Yet, my life carries on. Self-betterment and my studies drive my forward. I will become a school teacher, every day I go to university here my passion for it only digs deeper. And as I write this, my first official publication is slowly starting becoming more and more of a reality. I want to do it one day, the ideas for it keep popping in and out of my head. Perhaps I will write about my time studying, or my time as a teacher.
No matter what life does to us, or no matter who we meet or how far apart it does drag us – I will meet you. One day, as friends, as more, I don’t know. But this will be a time of change, and growth, and learning, and loving. And for now, I want to do that with you.
– Yours truly, Milo Chalks.
To many who see this, it would seem rather short and sweet. To me, however, this simple letter was like having a cool drink of water in a desert. This letter from across the world is poetry from a muse. Although tired of having to deal with other ponies, of being delayed with the one activity I wanted to do, I felt compelled to bring the typewriter to my bed. Letting it sit on me, I let my hooves dictate the letter.
Dear Milo Chalks,
As I am writing this, I had a rather… less than satisfying day. There is so much I want to say and yet, I have no clue where to start. So, I’ll try in stating that your letter was needed on a day like this. Whenever I get them, it’s like I could almost hear your voice through the words. That to me is as real as if you are in the same room as I am.
It is true that I wish, for even just a minute, for you to be here so I could reach out and touch you. For if it weren’t for your words, I’d be lonely again. For each letter you sent, it makes the daydreaming of you being here all the easier. However, I’d have to settle with the letters and the little photo you’ve sent me. As of now, it is enough for me. There are two quotes that sum it all up in how I feel towards you perfectly, “I’d think real loneliness isn’t when love is in vain, but not being loved at all.” And as for the other, “One sees clearly only with the heart. Anything essential is invisible to the eyes.”
Which is why, ever since I’ve read how you felt the same way, that I look at sunsets differently. More then it’s color’s, I now see the sun as beautiful because out there in the world, a red-maned unicorn is bathing in its light. While I can’t see you, I know that you’re there. And that you are more real than anything in Ponyville. Now what you might consider to be a small thing, these words serve as a reminder that I’m no longer invisible. For someone knows that I exist. And that, is a beautiful thought that moves me to tears.
I must say that I am rather proud of you for knowing fully what you want to do. While compared to here, my path to my future is still murky. All my time at the local college is concerned about is getting through the base classes before I could get my Associates before turning to what I really want to do and perhaps get a Bachelor's. Sometimes I wonder if I too should take the teacher route. Teach Equinities because of my passion for history, art, music, literature, and philosophy. I confess that I don’t know if I’d make a great speaker. However, as each semester goes by, I think it’s starting to get a little clearer in what I want to do with my life.
Milo, if we do meet somehow. If you come to Equestria or I come to Neighstralia, I hope that one of us would be the very first pony that the other would be greeted upon arrival. To touch you, would cross over from you being a dream, and into reality, will be something that I would never forget. I want to feel your warmth of your embrace, and the wet sweetness of your lips of giving you my first, real kiss. If we do meet, let us welcome each other to their country through love. But until then, I’ll continue to dream. Only this time, it’s different than before. When I was alone and writing those romances, I couldn’t help it but dream. Now however, I don’t think that I’d have to.
Signed, you're faithful from across the sea,
– Cracked Inkwell.
Setting the letter on the nightstand and picking up the magazine to read some stories before I go to sleep, a thought came to me. ‘Yes… I’d say that it has been a good day.’