//------------------------------//
// In The Thousands of Worlds 
// Story: The Prompt Pit 
// by Regina Wright 
//------------------------------//

Day --

In the earliest fairytales documents that raiders have managed to savaged from the ruins of the old country Equestria, the Great Frost was merely referred to as a long winter. This name was repeated in many status updates and weather reports for several weeks before being bumped up to a chilly spring. Three months after that, a cool summer. And three months after that, a crisp fall. Soon there was another winter, also called long but typical for that time of year. 

I can't understand where my translation went wrong because as much as I write and study, only winter is similar to our word for frost. But still, I do not know what winter or spring or summer or fall are. This is only my speculation but I wager that the four were known as seasons, collectively stands as markers of the year. 

I can only assume that these four seasons were different names for the Great Frost. 





Day 42, 

I'd like to pretend that all of the useless information that has been pounded into my skull by instructors has meaning. I'd like to pretend that after graduating and receiving a placement onto the committee, I am doing great work. And it is great work. 

I don't have to do any heavy labor. 

Night Light... Night Light... You haven't sent me a letter in such a while. 

I don't have to have another child to send to the war. 

Shining, I'm so sorry. I didn't know they lowered the age requirement.

I don't have to worry when I will get my next meal. 

Because I have no one left to feed. 

We of the White Ward do our appointed duty in coming up with new and creative measures on culling the population. It is for the greatness of the Harmonic Union that we weed and direct the masses as necessary. 

Culling is such a nice word. 

It sits on the tongue, choking the breath as you say it. Cull-ing. Far better than the less than insipid, killing or the cumbersome, murdering. And on that note, the term murdering is too personal. Also, banned from usage in our meetings. All we do is suggest hypothetical methods, perform experiments and if all goes well, a co-worker won't go missing. 

And I'm not saying that I miss Polaris. I hated him. Still, with him gone as the eight case this week, I'm expected to be the next to go. Unless I come up with a clever method of efficient and timely death. And there I go again, sounding so morbid. I am not necessarily looking to kill or harm any of the ponies who live in this colony but somebody has to think of the bigger things in life. That being space. 

This colony, Helm, can only retain so much space. I don't know what the council does with their time but when they decide on a whim that they need to uplift the inhabitants of a particular slum to make a crop field... I can't be the one to go no. Would any of them do it if they were in position? No and if one is foolish enough, they can die in my place.   

Ponies these days can't be shot. We need to mind the ammunition stock. Ponies these days can't be burned alive. We need to mind the wood and smell. Ponies these days can't be poisoned through their rations. That could cause a mass panic. So I need to be clever. Oh I know, why don't we gather them all up. Say it's a celebration of sorts and um... Jeeze, this is hard. 

Why don't we have the space, anyways? With all the fields needed hooves and the war brewing, why do we have to kill anyone. The war's been going for years, sending bodies back like no other. Oh, I have it. I make up a draft, declaring anyone who fit and has all their teeth to join up for registration and sent them off in to the war line to be chucked off. The ponies will freeze to death and I'll meet my quota. 

And then I'll have another week to find my son in peace.