The light hurts my eyes.
The stone floor hurts my back.
The loud noises from outside hurt my ears.
Pretty much everything is unpleasant, I'll leave it at that.
Everything is always unpleasant. I tried asking the sun to stop shining so brightly once. I'm pretty sure I was drunk, and had just hit my head on a metal pole, so the sun still shines too brightly and stings my eyes when it seeps into my box.
My eyes squint to the maximum degree, staring at the brown wall of the box, dilating ever so slowly. There are noises coming from outside, lots of ponies talking, and the hoofsteps on the cobblestone ground clicking closer and closer to me and then passing by, getting quieter and quieter. Damn Doppler effect.
I slowly turn and loll on my side, my eyes still barely open. On the side of the brown box there is a black scribble. It says "Vancas", I think.
Oh yeah, that's my name.
I turn back around, my body still weak from recently waking up, and the lack of nourishment from the past few days have been taking their toll. My eyes finally adjust to the sunlight, and I pick my head off of the cardboard floor, pushing it through the two battered flaps at the top of the box. My head pokes out into the daylight, eyes molested by the copious amounts of unwanted sun rays, nose and eyes greeted by new smells and sights, and plenty of stares from the plebeians. I shoot all of them my best "what are you lookin' at?" glance and continue to scan the area. My ears perk up as the sleep leaves my body, tuning into the symphony of the ponies.
It's the same really, the bland old streets of Canterlot that I wake up to every day. Then the morning routine. Push the flaps fully open, pop out of the box, resume being homeless pony. A rather exciting life.
The life of a true noblepony, if I say so myself. I squint out into the plaza for a long time, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the sunlight, and when they finally do I sit on the warm stones and get out my tin can.
Lots of ponies like to call it "begging", but I prefer the term "burden lifter". I mean, who would want to trot around carrying a bunch of heavy bits, I'm doing them a favor by taking the bits. I guess that's a little pretentious, but hey, I'm homeless, who cares.
Many of the commoners trot past me without even looking, some of them making little effort to hide the fact that they are purposely ignoring me. If only I had my paints and my palette, then I wouldn't have any problems.
But, of course, paints and brushes cost money, of which I had none. After days of unburdening the peasants of the cobblestone plaza I was almost at the amount of bits I needed to buy a new brush and paints, then I could just draw myself some food.
Many ponies think that when I say that my art comes to life I'm saying it figuratively, but figurative speech is for the weak. Art doesn't actually come to life unless it comes to life.
Of course, art that comes to life can be a problem. I remember the purple pony telling me that my art coming to life was the reason I was surrounded by the lights for so long. Remembering the box and the lights sends a shiver down my spine, but it is gone soon.
Naturally, being able to draw whatever I want and then use it gives me too much of an unfair advantage over other ponies, so the nice stallions over at the Royal Guard took my picture and posted it everywhere, with directions to never sell me paints or a brush. But the fools misspelled my name!
On each poster they had written my name as "Canvas", the idiots. My name is Vancas, it says so in my brown box. I figure that all I need to do is cover my cutie mark and use my real name, and the clerks will think I am not the pony on the poster, and then I will have my paints and brush.
I feel a tap on my shoulder. My thoughts abruptly stop and I look up to see a brown stallion with an hourglass for a cutie mark and a saddlebag across his back looking down at me. He looks concerned. I assume it is because he thinks the brown box is an unpleasant home. It is a great home, however. I love it. It takes four seconds to clean, doesn't have a mortgage, can be repaired with tape, and can be replaced for free. Brown boxes are pretty much the Celestia of homes.
After the brown stallion sees that he has my attention, he gives a friendly smile and speaks.
"I really hate seeing ponies living like this," he says, his smile turning into a frown. "Here have this."
The stallion turns and reaches into his saddlebag. I sit up straighter and pick my head up, putting on my best smile. My eyes glow in anticipation, my whole body tilting forward toward this stallion. This is it, now I can buy my paints.
Pulling his head back, the stallion pulls something out of the bag and tosses it in front of me. It's a loaf of bread.
"No need to thank me," he says, trotting away with a smug smile across his face.
My own smile quickly turns into a scowl, and I stare at his "donation".
With all my might I chuck the bread at the stallions head. Although I had planned to miss, my bad aim failed me and the bread hits the stallion in the back of the head. My heart stops for a second as he turns around to look at whoever threw it. However, this stallion is not colored brown. My heart stops again. This stallion is white.
"What do you think you're doing?" he yells at me, trotting at a brisk pace towards me. My mind is racing. I had never been in a fight before, and I always thought if I got into one I'd just paint myself an army of small ducks to fight the battle for me. Maybe even draw myself some water balloons filled with honey to throw at them.
But without paint I am about as good in a fight as a grasshopper without the hopper.
He is in front of me now, I stare into his big eyes which tower over me. I am reminded of his question, and his angry expression reminds me I should probably answer. My mind goes through all the files, looking for a document on how to respond in this situation. Within that second, my brain fries and picks a random file, pulling it out and forcing me into speech.
"What do you think your doing."
Suddenly the stallion's angry expression disappears. His face contorts in thought.
"That's deep," he says. Now his face is painted with concern and anxiety. He takes a quick look around the plaza.
"I have to go talk to my wife." With that statement, the stallion gallops off, away into the sea of ponies who were all on their way to some sort of business. I resume my calm posture on the ground in front of my empty tin can, the dirty loaf of bread lying not too far away. Within the crowd I spot many different ponies, all of them brilliant shades of the spectrum of colors. However, one color sparks a memory long lost, yet I am not completely sure why. As the pony comes closer, the vague memory becomes clearer. I stare intently at the pony, all the others around her fading away, my mind searching for the memory that I tie to her.
Before I know it, she is standing in front of me. My mind is buzzing with memories, the mare's name simply slipped out of my grasp.
"Hello," she says.
Twilight.
Her voice completes the circuit, the voice which I could never forget. My mind calms down, no longer kept in curiosity about the identity of this mare. I knew exactly why I knew her.
"What are you doing in Canterlot?" she asks. Again with the questions, it's as if that's all she can do.
"Just sitting," I say.
"Do you remember me?" she says, a small grin coming across her face.
"Yes."
Her grin disappears for a moment, but then reappears.
"Do you remember my name?" she inquires.
"Yes," I say.
"You're impossible."
"No, I'm Vancas." I give myself a mental pat on the back, I had been waiting to use that one for seven years. Twilight, her sense of humor long buried, simply rolls her eyes and frowns again.
"Vancas? Your name isn't Vancas, unless you changed it since I last saw you," she says.
I stare into her eyes. Silly mare thinks she can tell me what my own name is.
"Nope, you must be forgetful because its Vancas, always has been," I say, "Says so in the brown box."
She looks behind me at my beautiful home for a moment and lets out a guffaw.
"Come on now, your name is Canvas, not Vancas. Who told you it was Vancas?"
"The brown box says it is Vancas."
"The brown box is wrong, your name is Canvas. Who wrote your name in that box?"
"My friend did."
"Who is your friend?" Again with the cascade of questions.
"Hobo-Joe."
"Hobo-Joe is illiterate. Besides, your name is Canvas, it says so in Celestia's records, you're a citizen of Equestria now." She gives a warm, welcoming smile.
Inside my head the word Canvas bounces around and sets off multiple bells. Twilight's words start to make sense, and Vancas sounds more and more foreign.
"So, my name isn't Vancas? It's Canvas?" I ask.
"Exactly."
I look down at the ground. My entire life has been a lie, again.
I had been using the wrong name for as long as I can remember, and now the posters with the name "Canvas" on them were right. I kick the ground, now that my name was Canvas I couldn't buy the paints.
"So, Canvas, why are you sitting here with a can in front of a box?" asks the purple pony. I sigh, there's no point in keeping the information from her, but I'm still not willing to just give all of it out.
"I need money."
"What for?" she asks. I don't understand how she had so many questions, why doesn't she just go away and stare at a clipboard or something?
"Nothing."
"Come on, tell me the truth."
"Paints." The words slip my mouth and before I can retract them they are already gone. It's illegal for me to buy paints, and now I've revealed my plan. Oh well, killing the purple pony shouldn't be too hard.
"Paints? Really? I don't think you'll be able to make enough money begging on the streets."
Maybe I won't have to kill her. I stay silent.
"You should look for a job."
"Job?" I say. I've heard that word before. It sounded so familiar yet so distant.
"Yes, a job. You know, work that you do for money?"
She had to be lying. "What kind of work," I say cautiously.
"There's all kinds of it. You could be a clothes designer, like my friend Rarity, or a farmer, like my friend Applejack, or even a librarian, like me!"
I nod. I have no idea what any of those things mean.
"You could probably get a job as a painter."
"Painter," I say, letting the word roll off my tongue, testing its composure.
The purple pony smiles.
"Yes, painter, come on let's go."
She holds out her hoof. I look at it. It's a nice hoof. I can tell it's been washed plenty of times, and there isn't anything that makes her hoof look bad, so I can assume that it looks good by default. Admittedly, I don't have much experience with the quality of hooves, but I've seen my own and by comparison hers are quite cleaner and well groomed, so they're relatively nicer from my perspective, I guess. Wait, how long have I been staring at her hoof? It has to have been a couple minutes by now. I look up at the pony.
"You have a nice hoof."
With a groan she uses magic to lift me off of the ground and trots away. I sigh. There isn't much else to do, so I follow her. I only hope that I don't regret it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
As we trot through the Canterlot square, the breathing survey of a pony continues to ask questions.
"How long have you been living in that cardboard box?"
"Oh, the brown box? For as long as I can remember," I say.
"Interesting," she muses, looking away at the passing buildings. I look away, too, observing the ponies that we pass, trying to see if I know any of them. I don't.
"You don't have to answer if you don't want to, but how did you manage to get out of prison?"
I cough and close my eyes for a moment. Taking in a deep breath, I look forward and keep walking, my eyes flickering towards Twilight to see that she is doing the same.
Her questions stop, and we walk in silence for a few minutes. I take a look around at the trees and the ponies walking around, but it doesn't feel the same anymore. As we trot towards a tall building I regret not answering her question.
It's too late now anyway. I close my eyes and let the feeling pass through my body, my mind was never good at retaining information anyway. After a short few seconds I open them again and trot alongside Twilight, preparing myself for her next inevitable question.
"So, um, have you ever had a job before?"
"No."
"So you've always been a beggar?"
"No."
She nods, as if she's just obtained some sort of valuable information. "We're here."
"No."
Wait, that wasn't a question. I open my mouth, but nothing happens. It hangs open for a short moment while my brain struggles to catch up with the muscle movements and produce something to say. There's nothing to say, though. I just answered 'no' to the sentence 'we're here'. What do you say after that? Do you apologize? I've never been in this situation before. I start to panic as my mouth sits silently open for at least a minute. My mind impulsively forces a word out of my mouth.
"Way," I say.
Twilight squints quizzically at me.
"No way," I repeat.
Twilight rolls her eyes and trots into the tall building in front of us.
Good going brain.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It's majestic. Every wall is speckled with small square frames, each containing its own variety of color. Sweet, sweet color. Each one is a like a new flavor for my eyes, and each brush stroke melts into a whole picture, beautiful and elegant. The architecture of the building is exquisite, high roofs and detailed pillars characterize the lobbies, while quaint, carpeted rooms with lavish wallpaper held the color frames.
I have no time to admire them, though, as I carefully reciprocate Twilight's movements, unsure of where she is planning to go. She did mention something about being a 'painter'. I quietly contemplate the meaning of the word as we walk through the halls, yearning to stay and stare at the colors.
After an eternity, we arrive at a marble staircase, and without a word Twilight ascends with me not too far off. She seems to be in a hurry.
As we come up on level ground the hallway presents a multitude of doorways, each with a small label on it. Twilight reads each label as we pass by, mouthing the words on it silently. I look at the labels, pretending I know how to read.
With a triumphant stomp, Twilight completely stops her trot and I almost run into her, too preoccupied with fake-reading the labels.
"We're here."
"Why else would we have stopped?"
She scowls at me, but I can't tell why. It was a legitimate question.
Her horn lights up, being a unicorn and all, and the doors knob turns. I look at my hooves, wondering how I'd open the door if I was by myself. Behind the door is another unicorn, his eyes fixated on a white frame hanging from the wall, buckets of color sitting on a white sheet of plastic. Twilight lets out a quiet cough.
The unicorn turns to look at us, and his face cracks up a smile. I hastily observe the rest of the room while the two ponies share a hug. There's a desk on the far side with brushes in a small jar on top, and lanterns hung from the ceiling that illuminate the room, as the shades were drawn. Obviously this unicorn was afraid of the sun.
"It's so great to see you again!" says Twilight, catching my attention.
"I know," says the other unicorn,"It's been so long." His eyes flicker towards me for just a second, and producing a welcome-pony-I-don't-know smile, he shifts his focus. "And you would be?"
Before I can answer Twilight interjects. "That's Canvas, I was wondering if he could get a job here at the museum. He's an amazing artist."
Artist? What's an artist? And when did I become amazing at it?
"I see," muses the stallion,"Normally I wouldn't consider allowing ponies I don't know at all work here, but if he's your friend I think I can make an exception. What did you say your name was again?"
"Canvas," I mutter. He's already heard my name twice and I haven't heard his once.
"Very well, my name is Bristle. Pleased to meet you, Canvas." He bows his head towards me. I stare at the top of his head for a short moment before he pulls back up again. With a fake cough he nods his head and returns to his buckets of color.
"How do you two know each other?"
"Prison," I say. Twilight's half open mouth shuts itself. Both of the ponies stand silently, staring at me. I can't see what I said that was wrong. He said how we knew each other, I said prison, that's how conversations work. Or, maybe they worked differently in buildings like this one. The elegant design of the structure indicated a more elevated tone than the busy streets of Canterlot Square. I miss my brown box. Oh well, nothing to do now but salvage my blunder, nopony's talked for a few minutes.
"Yes, with the utmost candor and..." Big words, think of big words, "Obsequiousness Twilight and I united within the decorative halls of my solitary confinement cell." That oughta do the trick.
"I see," said Bristle. He turned back toward the white frame, occasionally looking towards the buckets of color. Twilight pulled me over to the other side of the room, the side with all the lanterns.
"What are you doing!" she yelled in a hushed tone. More of an angry whisper.
I shrugged. "I'm answering his questions."
She sighed. "You can't get a job if you go around telling ponies you were detained in solitary confinement, nopony wants to hire a pony who was in prison."
"So, I say that I wasn't in prison if I want a 'job', and this job will get me bits, and the bits will get me paints, right?"
Twilight nodded.
Okay, made sense enough. I trotted over to Bristle, whose brush now swished color all about the white frame. I tapped him on the back, unable to locate a shoulder of any kind (shoulder?), and he turned around, obviously perturbed about being disturbed whilst making the white frame not white.
"I wasn't in prison," I say.
He nods. "Right."
Without another word he continues to throw colors onto the white, some of them splattering onto his dark blue coat from the thicker strokes. Twilight and I watch for a few minutes as the stallion waves his brush back and forth, the white slowly dissipating into a sea of color.
"Voila!" he yells, making one last over-exaggerated stroke with the brush. "It is done."
Bristle steps aside from the frame, now with little to no white on it.
"What is it?" asks Twilight.
I look closely at the colors, attempting to find what object Bristle had made using them, but all I could see was a jumble of colors, slapped on next to one another with little to no order.
"What do you think?" asks Bristle.
Twilight smiles, but I can tell it's a fake one. "I love it. It's a very nice painting."
Painting. Painting, I've heard that word before.
"Thank you, it's one of my better post-modern paintings."
Yes, where have I heard that word before? My brain fires off signals that seem to bounce around in my mind, looking for some memory that is covered in a distant fog. Painting, paint. Paint. Bristle. Canvas.
"That's not a painting," I say. Wait, I didn't say that. Who said that? It was as if my mouth had moved without my permission. I mentally chastise my mouth for speaking without being told to.
But it moves again.
"It has no life."
"Excuse me?" says Bristle. He shoots a glance at Twilight, who doesn't give a response, she just stares at me with disbelief.
"Alright, obviously you're an art master, show me what you can do." He pushes the buckets of paint towards me and levitates the brush to my face. I grab it out of the air with my mouth, the true controller of the brush.
The room is filled with white frames, so I pick the nearest one. Without telling my mouth to do anything, or even thinking about what is really going on, I start to push the brush on the white canvas, infinite possibilities contained in that one moment. Of course, I have to pick one.
I drag the brush along the whiteness, smiting it into oblivion with the color. Take that, white! I don't stop there, short, brisk shorts go flying, the brush finding its way into the buckets and out and then back onto the white, just to destroy the white a second later. Take this! And that!
I can feel the eyes of Twilight and Bristle behind me as I do my work, but I don't have to worry about them, mouth is doing all the work anyway. Good job mouth.
Each stroke seems timeless, and by the time I finally step away from the frame to see how much white is left, I realize that there is none. I stare at the colors on the frame, memories of my first encounter with each one flooding back into my mind.
"It's... a monster," says Bristle hesitantly. I nod, basking at the creation.
"Nope, it's a dinosaur. They're my favorite mythological creatures. This one is called a Tyrannosaurus Rex," I say. Obviously Bristle needed to brush up on his mythology. HAHAHAH.
But Bristle's hesitation wasn't uncertainty, it was just more disbelief. I turned to face the two ponies, Bristle confusedly looking at the frame, Twilight sitting on the ground, her head buried in her hoofs. I turned back toward the painting, only to find that it wasn't a painting anymore. I had forgotten.
The T-rex emerges from the painting, and almost instantaneously smashes its head into the multiple canvases and buckets, knocking the color all over the floor. The T-rex swings its tail, slamming it into the wooden desk and almost breaking it. Angry at the desk, the savage carnivore lets out a bloodthirsty roar and demolished the desk with a bite from its deadly jaw.
"Get this. Get this out of my studio!" yells Bristle. "I know who you are, Canvas, you're the pony they banned paints for. I am in so much trouble. Get out of my studio!"
I turn to Twilight, unsure of what to do.
"We have to go now, Canvas."
"Wait, I can fix this," I say, dodging the dinosaurs tail as it turns to snarl at Bristle. I rush to another canvas and pick up a nearby brush, dipping it into some of the spilled color. Paying no attention to detail, I draw a rudimentary tranquilizer dart and immediately pop it out of the frame.
"Die!" I yell, jumping onto the reptile's back. The dart in my mouth, I struggle to gain balance on the flailing beasts back as it rampages through the small room, almost crushing or eating Twilight and Bristle at least five times. Finally, hooves strapped tightly on the rough scales, I lean back and stab the monster. But the dart doesn't go through its tough skin, and I can't provide enough force to push it through.
"Do something!" yells Bristle. Twilight's horn glows as she tries to subdue the beast, but the T-rex's constant moving forces Twilight to break concentration and jump out of the way. Its head leaned down because of the ceiling, I climb up the neck easily and reach the skull. Realizing that I am up there, the T-rex whips its neck back and forth, forcing me to hold on for dear life. Bristle makes a mad dash for the door out of the studio, but the T-rex's sudden movements prevent him from finding a safe path.
The dinosaur lashes out, the confined area causing it to be irritable. As it spins and bites, the frames that used to line the walls come crashing down into pools of paint, instantly ruined.
Using my hind legs for support while the beast struggles to use its tiny arms to throw me off of its head, I reach down its head and cover its eyes. Blind and angry, the dinosaur leans its head down even further and charges the nearby wall, the wall with the window. Without thinking, I let go of the dinosaurs eyes and jump off. A sharp pain shoots up my right side as I slam into the ground. The T-rex, unable to stop, bashes through the wall with its ridiculously hard head, demolishing the window. With one final roar, the T-rex falls out the side of the building. With a loud boom, the dinosaur smashes into the ground and lays on its side. Unable to use its puny T-rex arms to push itself up, it lays there, struggling and roaring, while the ponies outside gallop away as fast as they can.
"Get out of my studio! I am reporting you to the police!" yells Bristle. "You think you know what art is? You have no idea what art is, and you never will!"
Twilight pushes me with her snout, encouraging me to leave. I oblige.
I can hear the police stallions talking outside, in a frenzy about the fact that a Tyrannosaurus Rex was laying on the ground next to the art museum.
Twilight follows me out of the door, her head bowed. I have to give her credit, any normal pony probably would have bailed and left me, not wanting to get tied up in the mess that would follow this catastrophe.
"I have to go," she says, as we walk down the hallway with all the doors.
I nod, and she trots off ahead of me. I look back at the studio, Bristle's voice coming from outside through the hole in the wall, screaming about how a pony named "Canvas" summoned a T-rex into his studio and had it wreak havoc on his art. Funny, I don't know a Canvas.
I can also see my hoofprints following me out of the studio, each hoof leaving a different color. That was intriguing. Twilight's hoofprints were there, too, but they were monochromatic. I walk down the marble staircase and through the rooms containing the frames, and then out of the lobby, making sure to avoid the police stallions and Bristle.
Luckily Canterlot is a busy city, and without much effort I melt into the crowd, just a regular pony going about his business.
I find my way back to the brown box without much trouble. After all, Canterlot Square was in the middle of the town, hard to miss. The flaps still open from the morning, I crawl in and make myself at home. And by make myself at home I mean sit on the cardboard floor and do nothing.
In the receding sunlight I look at the black scribble on the side of the box. "Vancas," I say.
Yup, that's my name. No it's not.
Wait, who said that?
I pop my head out of the box to peak around, but nopony is near the box, not even within remote distance. They knew that if they got too close they'd be morally guilted into allowing me to lift their monetary burdens.
I sigh, laying back down in the box. The voice is right.
I turn to that side of the brown box and take a deep breath. It was time to go back. My hooves guide me without cognitive direction. The light shines into my eyes and hurts them for a short moment, but the pain goes away. There's no noise, everything is silent. I'm home.
Hello, white box.