It had been a long day. I yawned as I sat down to my laptop, robe on, hot chocolate at hand. A close friend of mine and old roommate was on Skype. In a long and winding conversation, I eventually mentioned how I wished I were a pony; that somehow, I could be planted in Equestria with all my Earthly social bonds intact.
I gave a small laugh as a thought came back to me. I linked a comment I had made on Derpibooru to my friend: a short greentext-style fic I had written. “You know,” I typed, “I'm almost tempted to actually full-on write this into a larger story.”
Something I had always admired about him was his no-nonsense, “get it done” sort of attitude, so he simply replied; “do it.”
I thought back to how else I would spend the evening, the games I might play, and how they really left me with nothing in the long-term. But whenever I had typed words and “published” them, it had left me satisfied. And in truth, I was quite rueful about the shortage of fics on my fimfic account: I had always wanted to experiment with more, try new things, and write fics that were... Happier, than my current only work I could say I was proud of (an earlier, but less dark one, was something less than phenomenal).
So I set to work. The first thing this would feature - I thought as I took the last sip of my cocoa - was a brony setting down to write a fic.
I asked my honest, 4chan-veteran friend on Skype about picking a name. At first I thought to simply use his name, but then I realized readers would probably confuse it for a character from Star Trek. Finally, I gave in to the temptation of using my own name, and making the first scene's setting, my own on setting to write this story.
I chuckled at a thought: I wonder how often writers create infinite recursion like this? Usually when writing in a journal, most writers don't mention their entries into the journal in a recursive way, and most fiction writers wisely avoid straightforward self-insert (Though A.K. Yearling would run into recursion if she ever mentioned Daring Do writing “fictional” novels of her adventures).
Self-insert is fuel for convoluted plots, bad and inaccurate characterization, and a host of other plebian evils that plague fanfictions and bring to life Sturgeon's law in full fury. Almost for that reason alone I wanted so badly to write myself, just to spite the fact that it was often done so poorly.
So with my mind made, I set to work. After writing the first few paragraphs, and giggling at the method of breaking the fourth wall and revealing some of my thoughts to the readers, I started writing about Frutti.
Frutti yawned as she set about her morning errand. Saddlebags sat comfortably on her back with a modest load of quill and parchment, and the warm morning sun complimented the cool, dusty breeze over Ponyville's dirt roads.
She looked up and down the streets, an ear pulling back and worry coming over her face as she realized how few ponies were out and about. Nervously, and with little else to do, she strode on to the market, the taste of celery slowly replacing uneasy concerns.
The Earth Pony’s ear perked up as distant murmurs reached it; the distinct mixing sounds of a large crowd.
Relieved at the lack of magical disaster, but anxious of what could gather most of the town’s wandering inhabitants, she set course for the source of the noise; town square itself.
As the mare rounded a corner, the crowd and a wagon-stage came into view. A blue unicorn mare on the stage adorned with a cape cried loudly to the gathered ponies. “But tricks of glamor and skill are not the only great feats Trixie can perform, Trixie is far more great and powerful than that – Trixie can even control ponies' very minds! For my next trick of hypnotism, I will need a volunteer...”
Frutti chose a bad time to approach the crowd.
“You there!” Inevitably, the hoof was pointed at her. “Is your mind stronger than Trixie's powers?”
Hah! What a laugh. I know how this works. It's just a trick, like everything else this showpony does... Hypnotism.
“Are you, little pony?”
Alright, time to show this mare down... At the same time, nervousness gripped her stomach. She glanced side-to-side. Or, perhaps by mistake... She hunkered down a little and her ears flopped against the sides of her head as the prospect of public speaking, and sitting on the stage in front of all the townsponies came to mind. “Y-you mean me?” I mean, of all the ponies she could pick, she didn't really-
“Yes, you! Are you brave enough to be Trixie's hypnotism subject?”
Ugh. I know she's manipulating me. I know she's just trying to get me up there, but you know what? I'll do what she says, because hypnotism is stupid and I know I won't fall for this nonsense; especially if I'm unwilling.
“F-fine! I'll do it.” As she made her way up to the stage, a faint cold feeling gnawed at her stomach. I-I mean, maybe there is something to it, after all, though... Ugh, I'm already up here, too late! At least she won't do anything menacing, though... Just a silly mind trick, at worse...
She sat down.
I blink, my eyes adjusting to the daylight sun. I look up in confusion, a clear summer sky overhead, and the warm morning sun on my face. The smell of dust and wood ride on a gentle breeze through my hair and ears. My ears... Which are on the wrong parts of my head. I'm sitting in an odd, unnatural position, and now distinctly aware that aside from a – a backpack – I think – I'm buck naked and sitting on wood.
“This pony now believes she's a 'human' 'stallion.' Be in awe, at Trixie's great and magnificent powers!”
“Hah! Yeah, right! Ask her a question, prove you really did it!” Spike's voice calls out.
I look around me. I'm sitting on the very scene I was just writing about. I simply stare at the crowd, an astonishing numbness coming over my mind as I start realizing what is happening.
Trixie turns to me. “Sir, are you aware that you are a pony?”
Once upon a time, I, Chuang Chou, dreamt I was a butterfly, fluttering hither and thither, to all intents and purposes a butterfly. I was conscious only of my happiness as a butterfly, unaware that I was Chou. Soon I awaked, and there I was, veritably myself again. Now I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly, dreaming I am a man.