//------------------------------// // Loud and clear. // Story: Growing Carrots // by Roobles //------------------------------// You feel the sun. Soaking through the fur, deep into your skin. Pools of warmth in your chest, radiating with every breath. The grass feels soft this time of year. Plump with rains, and happy. No thoughts of winter, nor concerns for the pony gingerly nibbling them. You. The sound of fillies lingers in the air. Wordless laughters and jibes. You are thinking of your garden again. You're trying to remember how soon it will be harvest day. You're positive that you planted the seeds today, but you also know they're just about ripe. The more you think about it, the less sense it's making. But these are the slippery sorts of thought. You can pin a single thought down, hold it with your hooves. Scrutinize its every detail. But as soon as you do, the others will slip and fade away, leaving you to wonder what it was you were trying to think at all. Besides. Carrots can be funny that way. They grow up so fast these days. You take a moment of relaxation. You're not a philosophical pony. Nor do you ever want to be. For now, there's just you and the sun. And the park. And... a bouncing ball? You've been hit. It's on the ground now, rolling just beneath your nose. There's a small filly heading your way, with a sheepish grin and apology on the eyes. You smile. Your bones are creaking as you lift your body. Hooves falling in place. You think back to your own foalhood. Warm nostalgic thoughts and feelings, but no memories or images you can recall. Just the smell of carrots, and thoughts of a mother you don't remember anymore. The filly is grateful when you nose the ball to her. You watch her giggle, running off to catch her friends. A part of you wants to join her. To forget your thoughts, and just live with them in a moment. To partake in simple foalish activities, that you never had a chance to experience before. But the filly is off in the distance now, and things are getting fuzzy. You're at the market, selling carrots. You smile at each pony that passes by, happy to see them another day. There's a commotion in the next stall. Something or other about the fairness of prices. Supply? Demand? It doesn't concern you or your carrots. So you just go about your business. Time and attention have passed you by, ponies distracted by something you're not a part of. So you're doing what you always do in this kind of moment. You're nudging your carrots. Feeling proud. Feeling self conscious. You tell yourself that they're good carrots. They serve you well. It's just that. That. They're so orange. Always perfect. Too perfect. You know you can look as close as you want, but there's nothing to be found. Not a spec of dirt. Not a divot. Not an insect bite. No strange growth. No discoloration. Nothing. Each and every one of them is the empty image of everything a carrot is supposed to be. Always. Sometimes you wonder if there's something wrong with you. You wonder why you can't grow a carrot that has a blemish. Sometimes... There's a hoof tapping your shoulder. That wasn't meant to happen. The hoof belongs to a stallion. Brown. Handsome enough, but he's making you sad. He is not one of your ponies. He's just not supposed to be here. You wish he would leave, but he seems to want a purchase. You put on a fake smile and move your mouth as if to speak. Gestures of a salesmare. He nods his head, and there's an exchange of bits for carrots. You wave him goodbye. You're hoping to forget this soon. You're already thinking of where you can toss those bits. Some place safe, where they'll just simply go away. But that's when he looks you right in the eyes. That's when he says, "Thanks." And you hear it. Loud and clear, when you know you're not supposed to. A simple, single word. Boldly innocent. Unrepentant. Even in the face of violating nature. Your eyes have grown wild. You're looking every which way. You're telling yourself that this simply isn't happening. These sorts of things don't happen. Not to a mare like you. They just can't. But that's when he does it again. Without a hint of remorse, he looks right at you, and he asks you if you're feeling well. Sweat. You are sweating. Sweat is on your brow, and it's building up there. It's wet and cold. Spots are dotting up your vision. Patches blurred and confusing. You can look as much as you want, but you just can't see anything. There might be a hoof on your shoulder, but you're not sure right now. It's not something you can think about. There's a huffing sound, and a terrible shaking. It's getting darker around you, as your stomach wretches. Your head is swimming. Dizzy. You're at home. Sitting down at your table, sipping tea. Watching the sunset. Way off in the distance, smoke is billowing from the Ponyville library. It just finished blowing up. Again. You're in a crowd. It must be a fashion show, because you're wearing a wide brimmed hat, and you have unquestionably gaudy shoes. Loud, thumping music fills the air. It's moving your spirit, and really wanting to move your hooves. For a moment, you picture yourself breaking away from the crowd. You see yourself on the stage, dancing your heart out. Playing yourself the forbidden fool. Everypony be damned to stop you. For shame. The lights are dimming now, and the show is about to begin. You're reaching in your saddle bags, pulling out your favorite scarf. You want to look your best for the show. But as you tug the last of it free, something goes wrong. You hear a clatter. Tiny metal pieces ringing against the floor. Loud and clear. Ponies are looking at you now. Some shocked. Some confused. Some just looking scared. You glance at the floor, and the offenders are staring right back you. Bits. Just laying there, like nothing happened. Golden bits, from your very own saddle bags. You slowly pick one up with your mouth. Lay it on a hoof. It looks the same as any other bit you have ever seen. But it just made a noise. Noise, when it wasn't supposed to. You don't know where these bits came from, but you want to tell everypony they're not yours. They can't be yours. You don't own bits that would misbehave. You're not that kind of mare. You just wish you could remember where in Equestria they came from. But it doesn't matter. The music is changing, and it looks like the show is starting. Most ponies seem to be forgetting the disturbance. A beautiful mare takes the stage. But you keep staring at the bit on your hoof. Watch it glisten each time the light catches its edge. And you're feeling angry. Angrier than you have ever felt before. For the first time in your life, you're holding something in your hoof, wishing you could destroy it.