My cat has a terrible habit; he’ll get on top of the TV and then jump from it to a nearby cabinet, causing the TV to nearly fall over. He’ll scan the room, assessing the situation as he looks down. Shortly after, he uses all four kilograms of his flea-ridden mischief to launch himself from the cabinet and lands upon my chest, knocking the wind out of me. Before I can get any sort of payback on him, he scampers off to the safety of the kitchen.
This time, however, the scoundrel stayed on top of me. I reached out, unsure whether I wanted to strangle him or pet, but before my hand reached him I remembered: that cat died years ago.
There is no cabinet in my bedroom anymore.
Most importantly of all, I don’t have any hands at the moment.
It all comes back to me as I realize, this is not a cat standing upon my chest. Rather, it’s Soft Brush, my daughter... which means I have to get up for work now.
I’m known as Mr. Felt Pen and I am an earth pony. I wasn’t always called that. The name I went by before, when I was a human, is irrelevant and meaningless. That old identity is dead to me and I have embraced my life as Felt Pen and my newfound special talent of teaching. Like all other ponies I have a cutie mark on my flank that symbolizes my special talent and, as you can guess, it is a felt-pen grading some papers.
Coming to Equestria wasn’t an accident, it was deliberate. I left my life as a human behind after months of planning and preparations, learning how to move between worlds and where to do so. While most would come to Equestria hoping to lead a life of adventure, I wasn’t interested in living out the old heroic tales you would tell a young filly. Rather, all I wanted is a simple, meaningful existence. So here I am; a father, husband, and teacher.
Unfortunately, I never had a chance at keeping my past from the locals. Some ponies can walk through dreams, some can deduce the truth from just a few conversations, and Pinkie Pie is, well, Pinkie Pie.
That is to say, they know about humans here on a need-to-know basis, but in order to help maintain the secret I wear a magic amulet around my neck. The only time I take it off is either by order of the Princess or on Monster Night.
Which, by the way, is tonight.
This magic amulet is exactly what I need to live a quiet, simple life in Equestria without causing a panic. Not only does it alter my physical form, allowing me to socialize amongst the native creatures of the land without embarrassing myself as a six-foot tall, bare naked, pale-skinned, two-legged freak. The amulet also allows me to wield a small portion of earth pony magic, which has manifested in a number of ways.
One of those ways was managing to father Soft Brush, somehow.
Oil Can, the beautiful pegasus that is her mother, named Soft Brush: the filly’s tail was remarkably similar to a round brush. Before she knew how to speak in full sentences, she learned how to paint using her tail as a brush; dipping the tip into some green paint and brushing several strokes across a blank canvas. It’s a precious memory for her, her mother, and I.
That day she not only got her cutie mark, but managed to stain her tail in such a way the paint has yet to come out.
“Get up, Dad! You’re going to be late for work!” Soft Brush cries.
I roll out of bed, stumbling on my hooves, and try to get dressed. Oh, right. A scarf will do. Once dressed, I have a quick breakfast and head to the local school.
Almost every foal at the school considers me the most boring teacher with the most boring subjects. Compared to Miss Cheerilee, who teaches social studies and art class, I suppose teaching sciences and math isn't the most interesting to a young mind. Until lunchtime, I draw apples and pies on the board, explaining the magic of simple fractions to the foals. Despite my best efforts to make it fun, the young foals and fillies can’t help but rush out of my classroom excitedly once the school bell rings.
I check the clock. Just a few more hours.
Underneath my house, I have a fully-equipped and prepared villainous basement. I consulted the best experts while building it. All creatures are welcome in my basement, to which there are several non-ponies inside already. I take off my amulet before them and grow twice as tall, assuming my previous form.
Among the creatures is Spike, Twilight Sparkle’s faithful and lifelong assistant. He’s known me since day one but still flinches upon witnessing my transformation. After that, I take my seat in the circle of chairs and nod to Spike.
He begins.
“My name is Spike... and I am a monster.”
“Hello, Spike!” The monsters speak in unison.
“And here’s my story-”
About a week ago, Spike received a package from the Crystal Empire. It contained a rare Yellow-Fire Ruby. It tastes similarly to a standard red ruby but with a zesty tartness to it. Spike sighs, we do our best to comfort him, assuring him that we understand perfectly well what a collection is and what it means for a dragon. He goes on to explain that the Yellow-Fire Ruby he was given was the last high-quality crystal from a vein that ran dry over a century ago. It may be the last of its kind in Equestria.
It seems two days ago, a certain pony -- he would never admit it was the one we didn’t have to guess about -- needed a yellow stone such as the Yellow-Fire Ruby for an urgent personal project. As much as he wanted to keep it for himself, he gave it to her.
Spike sighs deeply, visibly upset. We urge him to finish telling the story.
He says, “I realized something after that. Ponies collect things too, but they don’t collect objects or materials, they collect--”
“Moments of Friendship,” I interject.
“Taste of Love.” Shimmerwing adds.
“Scents of Joy.” Reaver continues.
Her Highness resides amongst our group, observing silently as she always does. Her moonlit eyes sparkle with a sense of approval.
We applaud Spike in a reserved fashion. We’re all proud of Spike, although it is arguable he cheated slightly. Giving the Yellow-Fire Ruby not to anypony, but rather giving it to his special pony. For a dragon though, even that is quite the feat.
It’s my turn to tell a story now.
I tell them about something that happened in my classroom a month ago. A group of bullies joined my class. They would tease other foals for their physical shortcomings, speaking disrespectfully to the teachers, and disrupting the lesson at every opportunity. I didn’t punish them or shame them. I didn’t even bother informing their parents. Instead, I called them up to the board and listed off all the kind and good things they had done for their friends and family. Whether out of embarrassment or shame, they cried.
Shimmerwing takes the floor.
She tells us how she only took a small amount of love from a stranger before showing him a great deal of love to him, well aware she would likely never see him again. Her ears flick with a twinge of embarrassment and her eyes light up, like a faulty light bulb - having just confessed to something vile and unnatural in the eyes of a Changeling.
Her Highness remains silent.
Reaver tells us about the time he let a pony order him around because they were more knowledgeable than he was regarding that situation. Despite following the orders of a creature his pack would often consider lesser than him, he was surprised to learn that his rank in the pack had not diminished. In a sense, he had learned humility.
Our support group is not exactly a secret. It is something we do so that we have someplace safe to talk about our attempts to act like ponies. Sometimes we fail, sometimes we succeed. Though the average pony may judge us for our experiences — or, worse, may be scarred just by the knowledge about it — the Princess takes it in stride every time.
Monster Night is always scheduled twenty-four hours before the start of Nightmare Night, when all the ponies across Equestria are busy preparing for the celebration. If they accidentally see us, they always seem to assume we are simply in costume; preparing for tomorrow’s festivities.
One by one we leave the basement, wearing our disguises, save for Reaver and Spike. We look like your average, harmless, little pony when we are, in truth, nothing more than domesticated monsters.
As I step into my living room, a tall figure greets it. It seems to resemble two foals stacked on top of one another, wearing a fancy hat and a trenchcoat. Of the weathered sleeves, makeshift hands with three fingers stick out.
“Dad,” Soft Brush says, “can we go as a human tomorrow?”
I still can’t stop giggling.