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// Introduction 
// Story: The Midnight Pony 
// by Ponyess 
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I am a Midnight Pony, about two foot tall.  At first glance, you could compare me with a Gargoyle.  Just that this is wrong.

Back then, I saw everything around me; while the conditions disallowed me to recall anything from that time. Thankfully.

Life in a plastic box is barren; devoid of life and everything one needs to stay alive.  Even to one such as I, this is very unforgiving.  Such a life is no real life, pretty maddening, when you stop to think about it.





While I do no longer recall the day you liberated me, from that horrid situation; helping me out into the fresh air and open space with actual air to breathe.  My memory is still hazy and scattered, even after the time I have been spending outside that box.

My first clear memory, is the sun going up and down in the sky each day; yet the clearest and fondest memory, is your face.  How could I not love the smile on your face; as you finally had the chance to liberate me from that package?  Of course, you still do keep that plastic package.  My name, clearly to be red; Midnight Sparkles.  Just as the image  of me still is clearly recognizable, with that deep indigo body and the bright spark on my flank.





“Daisies!” I ponder; “What I would not give, for just a few Daisies!” I continue.

“Oh, yes; Haycart, explained just how to get to where I want to go!” I recall; “If I can’t tell her directly, maybe I could see her through that book she is keeping on her night stand!”  I ponder.

I experience a flash of light, just before I find myself within the book.

“Daisies!” I write.

Then I draw a small vase, with a few Daisies in it.  Just the Daisies in the vase, no colour and nothing else.  No details, just a simple picture, for her to figure out what I wanted.





Late, at night; she picks up her diary, opening it before she intends to write down the passing thoughts of the day.

“Daisies!” she reads.

“That’s odd, I know I did not draw or write that the other day!” she exclaims.  (As if she had expected anyone to hear her, and answer?  Me, to be exact.)

“Who?  Who wrote that?” she ponders.

Naturally, she does not recognize my horn writing.  While I can write perfectly readable, and she can clearly read the word perfectly fine.

For just an instant, she imagines she is seeing a face.  The mare winking at her.  Of course, that mare is me.  Only she does not have the time, to recognize me in that one instant.





Drawing a picture of daisies does not seem like a very big accomplishment?  It is still changing me, and my life.  Of course, it is not in drawing the picture in her diary; that is the real change, but the fact that I even have the option to move this far in the first place.  I am no longer the mere doll, of figurine she thought she had been given.

I have realized myself, in a way to make certain I am actually alive.  I have awarded her, for liberating me from that horrid prison in which I had been trapped.  For how long I had been trapped, who knows?  I have no memory, and no physical evidence of how long I had been sentient and aware.  My first memories are from outside of that plastic box, after all.

While I am still incapable of any true communication, or interaction with her in the real world; I am still free to think and feel, like any other real person would be.

As brief as my visit into her diary may have been, but I do believe that I have left some kind of an imprint into the fabric of that book.  This is not just because it is the first book I ever visited, in this fashion.  My understanding of the method may be limited, but I am not entirely senseless.  Maybe this will affect each and every new book I visit, or it may increase or decrease with my level of experience and understanding.  I do not know, and I do not care to know.

What I do care about, is that I gave her a glimpse into who I am.  I gave her something, as small and insignificant as it may have been; just as I permitted her to see me, in a way more significant than she thought could be possible.

She may not yet know who wrote the work in her diary, but in time she will get to know me.  The real me, not just the character and the plastic doll before her.

I am a Pony, even as I am trapped within the confines of the plastic that makes up my entire body; but I still need, and crave the companionship.  Just like any other pony or person ever would.





The word; “Gargoyle”, comes to mind.  I am like one of them.  I am chained to the plastic within which I am currently contained, able to act only under the cover of the darkness of the night.

That word does not sooth me, as it sends down shivers down the entire length of my spine.

I am a Pony, and that is the life I should live.  Isn’t it?  While I do not quite know or understand what a Pony is, or how her life is supposed to turn out; it is the life I should have.

If I am a Pony, is that not just a small Horse?  No, I am not.  A horse is a domesticated Animal you keep in a barn and lets out to grace in the pasture with other Horses.

I am sentient, just like any Human around me.  What that means, I have no idea as of yet.  Should I care, or worry?

Of course; aside from the differences in the body, I also have my magic like any other Unicorn.


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