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// The Tell-Tale Talker 
// Story: The Tell-Tale Talker 
// by Metal-Max1991 
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Mad…I’m not mad. I’m not mad at all. I never liked using the word mad. Mad seems to imply that one is either very angry or of ill mind. I am neither of those. In fact, I’m of sound mind and temperament, and yet the ponies here insist that I’m not well. I’m so happy that you could donate your time to visit me and learn my side of events. It’s not every day somepony gets a chance to tell their side of the story and show the world at large who they truly are. I’m sure before you came here, you must have read about the tragic event that preceded our visit and may have doubts about me. Let me assure you here and now that after today, all of your doubts will have completely vanished. Now, you know that my story has ended here, so let us go back to the beginning.

I arrived in Ponyville shortly after graduating from the Canterlot Academy of Fine Baking with high honors. I’ve always loved baking and pastries, ever since I was a little colt. I love the different smells, textures and tastes that each pastry can bring. I love the smile a warm and delicious cinnamon roll can give to a young colt or filly. What I despise though are the big bustling cities. All the noise and the crowds never did sit just right with me. That’s why I decided to go to Ponyville. It’s small and out in the country, plus there’s no self-righteous and smug Unicorns either. I remember getting off the train fresh from school and with only one goal in mind; find a bakery and get a job.

I remember walking down the main street and absorbing the entire splendor. The town itself may have been small, but it was still breathing of life and color. The market place was filled with wondrous things. There was a stand that had the most beautiful flowers and they all reeked of fresh spring pollen. A few fruit vendors were there selling their wares, and I just had to sample each and every one I could lay a hand one. The cherries were possessed of a very tarty flavor that danced on my taste buds.  The oranges were wonderfully tang. The apples were very crisp and sweet. My personal favorites though were the strawberries. Strawberries were always a favorite fruit of mine, so juicy and tarty that around the time of their harvest, I can’t control myself. I’d eat basket after basket full of strawberries. I’m sorry; I’ve digressed a little bit. Anyway, after about an hour or so of wandering the town, I finally found a bakery.

It was called Sugar Cube Corner, if I remember correctly. It wasn’t a big or very fancy bakery, but I fell in love with it all the same. I immediately went up to the window and got a good look inside. There were baked goods as far as the eye could see. There were turnovers, pies, cakes, muffins, and all looked so good. I quickly opened the door and was greeted by the smell of sweet bread baking in the oven. It was a wonderful smell. My eyes darted about the room, focusing on all the frosted and sugary wonder it held. After about a minute of eye shopping, I was soon greeted by the owners of the shop.

Carrot Cake, as I recall his name being, was a very stressed and tired looking Earth pony, but he still kept a smile on his face. Mrs. Cake was a jolly old girl, admittedly a little round, but I just attributed it to the consumption of sweets. Her swirled pink mane reminded me of a cup of strawberry soft serve ice cream. I miss the taste of strawberry ice cream, a luxury that seems to elude me for the time being. I also remember that they had two young foals with them, oh what where their names? Oh yes I remember, little Pound and Pumpkin Cake, such beautiful children.

I smiled and introduced myself to the couple and told them of my desire to become a baker. I politely asked if they had a job opening at the moment and maybe a place to stay until I could afford a place of my own. Mrs. Cake smiled back and nodded. She took me upstairs and showed me a spare room she and Mr. Cake used for guests and relatives and allowed me to use it until I found my own cozy dwelling. She told me that they opened bright and early at 7 and that I’d start tomorrow. I gave her a polite thank you and readied my bed for a good night’s sleep. They were such a wonderful and charming couple. 

I awoke two hours early to take a quick shower and eat a breakfast of maple scones, fresh fruit and black tea. After breakfast, I entered the kitchen to assist in preparations for the day’s customers. Before I could start, I was greeted by a pink colored mare that had balloons as a cutie mark. Pinkie Pie was her name and she made clear that baking and parties were her game. She seemed very friendly and had no trouble introducing herself to me and I in turn introduced myself. Out of the blue she performed a very short but energetic welcoming song for me. I admit it caught me off guard, but I kept a smile on my face nonetheless. After the song, she told me that she was an apprentice to the Cakes and was very excited to be working with me. I was excited to be working as well, except I remember something about her really rubbed me the wrong way. It wasn’t her personality; I quite enjoyed her upbeat and enthusiastic attitude. It wasn’t her tendency to be random. She was never rude, never dull, and she was an excellent baker. 

I think it was her constant talking. Yes, it was this. Her mouth never seemed to stop moving, at least to me it didn’t. While friendly and more articulate than she led on, the fact that she never seemed to run out of things to talk about seemed to ebb away at my patience. Now to be fair I found her conversationalist streak enchanting at first. She explained the history of Sugar Cube Corner, what treats they did regularly and what they did for the holiday seasons and showed me the vast recipes the Cakes collected over the years. As the days came and went, it seemed that no matter how hard I tried, my tolerance for this blabber mouth began to erode like rock at the bottom of the river. I admit that burying anger over a talker like her seemed both childish and unnecessary, but still I began to hate the constant noise. Now, I can’t recall when the idea first bored its way into my brain, but once there, it consumed me. Very slowly and gradually, I decided to take the Pinkie’s life, thus ridding my ears of the sound of her noise forever.

Now here’s the part where they fancy me a mad stallion, but the mad know absolutely nothing. You’d have laughed at the amount of careful planning, precision, and forethought I placed into my work. I was very kind and pleasant to her during the whole week before the plan was to go into action. I watched and waited for seven long days and nights. I always opened the door to her room with just the slightest crack, allowing me to pierce the veil of blackness with a thin ray of light, but I made sure that she couldn’t see me. They think me mad, to that I laugh. No mad pony could wait as patiently as I did. While watching her sleep I could feel time slow gradually. I felt the very ground turn. As I watched her with a great patience, I always saw her mouth was closed. To be honest, the night was when I got the most peace. In this state of peace and serenity, I found the act to simply snuff her out impossible. What kind of stallion would I be to just smother her in her sleep all because she gabbed? The idea eventually passed from my thoughts and for the next two months, I began to take measures to be more relaxed about her chatter. I meditated, did some warm up stretches, and went to a pond to relax almost every day. I thought these treatments would work, and they did, until about a month later.

I remember that the Cakes were going to Canterlot to cater a large and elegant party for the princesses. They’d left Pinkie and me in charge of the shop and the twins until they returned in a couple of days. After they left, Pinkie and I bathed the twins, changed their diapers, fed them, and put them to bed. Once the Cake babies were resting quite comfortably, the noise started up. At first it was just general talk of the twins and how her first experience was nearly a disaster. As the clock began to ebb out, the conversation wandered into varying directions. I tried my best to remain composed as possible, keeping a smile on and nodding politely. Time dragged on and her lips kept flapping on and on, I felt hot air escape her lips. As she continued to chat, I remember asking her to please remain quiet. I was polite at first, asking her in a very nice way. The words seemed to just break apart when they reached her, because she still spoke. I tried again and the result was the same. By this time, three hours had slipped away, but the chatter felt like it was taking days. I kept repeating the simple request for just a mere moment of silence, I even begged her to let up. Something must have gotten through to her, but she told me that I was being rude in interrupting her.

I can’t exactly explain how it happened, but I just snapped. I jumped across the table with a loud scream and wrapped my hands around her throat. I got a good grip and squeezed very hard, like a constrictor around its victim. She let out little gasps of air and tried to speak. I only squeezed harder. Her eyes rolled into the back of the head and I could feel the very essence leave her body. After about five minutes, she spoke and breathed no longer. I let go of her limp body and quickly searched for a pulse, none could be found. Her noise was quiet…I was free. I realized that there was work to do; I had to get rid of the corpse. I carefully removed a few of the planks on the floor and gently placed her beneath the floor. I carefully replaced the boards in such a way that no pony would notice anything wrong. While relaxing after the crime was comitted, a new sound pierced my ears. The twins were crying, no doubt awoken by my scream. I quickly tended to them and got them back to dreamland. 

After rebedding the twins, I heard a knock at the door. I quickly ran downstairs to great my uninvited guests. It was a pair of police mares who had come to investigate the scream. A neighbor had heard me shouting and the babies crying and was concerned. I smiled and politely invited the two in, for what had I to be afraid of. The scream, I told them, was merely the result of a sugar induced night terror and it unfortunately woke the babies, whom I’d already calmed down. When asked about the Cakes, I’d mentioned that they were out of town for a couple days. They asked if their assistant went with them. I replied no and told them that she was sent away to get supplies from a few towns over and that she would be gone for a while. 

Confident that they’d find nothing out of place, I gave them a pleasant tour of the bakery. I had them search top to bottom, making sure they looked in every nook and cranny. They found nothing out of place; everything was in order. Noticing their fatigue, I got them chairs and made some tea and scones to break the chill. Feeling so proud of my masterful concealment, I placed my own chair right above the spot where the corpse lay. They thanked me and reasoned that this was a worry over nothing.

As they talked, I could hear something. It was muffled at first, like cloth was placed over a mouth. As seconds passed, it grew louder and I was able to make it out. It was a disembodied voice, Pinkie’s voice. It couldn’t be possible, she was stone dead, and I checked myself. Her chatter grew louder and louder. It emanated from the floor boards. I turned a deep shade of white. I looked to see the mares continue to chat. How can they not hear the noise? No wait! It’s not that they can’t, they can! They can hear her talking! They mock me! They hear the noise but pretend it’s nothing! I can’t stand it! IT HAS TO STOP!

"WITCHES!" I shrieked, “DECEIVE ME NO LONGER! I ADMIT IT! TEAR UP THE FLOOR! HERE, HERE IT IS! IT'S THE INCESSANT CHATTER OF HER HIDEOUS TONGUE!”

There…I’ve presented my side of the story. They say I’m mad. I’m not mad. You believe me, don’t you?