1:
Too Much Sand
Sometimes I stare up at the night sky, dotted with pale stars against a dark backdrop, and forget the world that I currently live in. The temperatures drop in the evening, making the unbearable desert heat easier to deal with. It helps clear my mind, cleansing it with a cool breeze that tickles my stimulus, and blocks always invading feelings
I always remember to make it back to the shack, so I don’t get sand all over my gray body and orange mane. Another reason I go back is so I don’t accidentally fall asleep. I wouldn’t be covered in it; I would be buried with a thick layer of heavy sand. I tend to make those trips short, partly because I don’t have too much to think about. Yet the need to think is always there. It bugs me if I do not get the time, which I usually do.
I live in a world much different than the one that I read about. In my own claustrophobic room, filled with towering stacks of books from the age of before and some shelves filled with bronze containers, I sleep for three hours each night. The whistling sound of sand usually invades my ears, which of course results in a loss of sleep. But the promise of the best thing in the world keeps me going throughout the night.
On one particular night, the wind didn’t blow too much. A shadow of the frightening crying of the wind blew softly that evening, making me less tense. The soft crash of the cool breeze whisked my hair behind me, even though I had short hair. Something felt different about that night. Under a full moon, under the brightest sky I had seen in a long time, I felt comfortable. I didn’t feel uneasy about everything. I didn’t feel like I longed for something that was out of reach.
For the first time in my young life, I felt a real smirk spread across my face, and I have no clue why.
I got up from my place and turned back to the steel shack with no windows and small wheels. The shack was as small as a portable home, and it looked just as ugly as one. It also housed a different individual. He lived with me for as long as I could remember, and he was the closest thing I had to a “family”, or whatever they were called before.
As I stepped inside the shack (which had an irritating screeching sound due to rust), a putrid but familiar smell smacked me right in the face. When I entered inside, I could see that my roommate was at it again. On a table in the center of the room was a green plant that towered above everything else in the room, its leaves ragged and giving off one of the most heavenly scents known to ponykind, lit by special lights that made it look like it was a godsend from the heavens above. Around the table were counters that housed the random assortment of scrolls that my roommate wrote himself and random vegetables that could last us a lifetime, albeit horribly unorganized.
“Worse than your space,” he once said to me. To be frank, he wasn’t wrong.
Clown was his name, partly because he looked like one. It wasn’t his real name, but he told me that he forgot his real one after the fall. I called him that at a very early age, and it stuck ever since. Like I said, he looked like a clown. He was pudgy, his colour coat was a faded orange, his face was always plastered with any sort of a smile, and his red hair stood horizontal on both sides of his head. Reading into my books further only confirmed my suspicions, the only thing missing was the makeup. It was good that he was an earth pony, because the idea of a flying clown scared me immensely.
He didn’t notice me when I stepped inside, not even a glance. He was in a flurry, opening up cabinets under the counters and groaning loudly when he didn’t find whatever he was trying to find. He looked away from the cupboards and met my eyes. He must have seen how uncomfortable I was and silently stopped and cleared his throat. He let out a guilty laugh and smirked a little.
“Sorry,” Clown said. “I was trying to find some paper for the, um, pot.”
“Right,” I said dismissively and headed for my own room. A small mattress adorned with a pitifully small purple blanket lay on the floor, surrounded by an army of menacing books and flanked by shelves of bronze containers. I made my way to my bed, grabbing a book with my levitation spell and making sure the tower wouldn’t collapse, and flopped back first and flipped to a random page.
I ignored the flick of a match and the coughing coming from the other room and concentrated on my book. It was about the history of the land that was once called Equestria. Nopony wrote about after the fall, because all of the writers were wiped out. They were too busy trying to survive.
What intrigued me about the world of before was the princesses. There were four in total, but two of them controlled the sun and the moon. Their fate after the fall is something that I don’t know yet. They could not have been wiped out, because then the sun and the moon would stop turning. So they must be somewhere, holed up in some cave or shelter. Problem was, where?
There were so many pictures of the world from before. They all looked so happy before. People had “families”, something that is alien to me. Females and males produced fillies and colts, who would grow up to find their own special talent. Their own “cutie marks”. I didn’t get mine yet, but Clown did. It was a wide grin, with a smoking joint between its teeth.
I closed the book and sighed. I always read these books. Whenever I go away from the shack, I try to collect all the books that I can find. The past of this world is always interesting, the culture mesmerizing. It’s almost like I can’t escape it. Other than my occupation, it has become my obsession.
I inhaled, and noticed the heavenly scent trail hanging loosely above me. I must have been reading for a long time. There was more smoke than usual in my room. I got up from my mattress and went to the other room. I peeked my head around the corner and found Clown reclining in his chair, a joint in his mouth that was just about its end. His eyes were half-lidded, but he kept a passive grin on his face as he stared into nothing. He might have fallen asleep right there had I not came in. He slowly turned his head and chuckled softly.
“Hey, SC.”
SC is my name. I gave it to myself once I found out what my real obsession was.
“Hey, Clown.” I sat down on a chair opposite from him. He reached out and handed me the joint, which I happily took from his hoof. I inhaled and a cloud of smoke travelled down my throat and helped the process of destroying my lungs. I coughed, trickles of the mist launching itself from my mouth. I threw the joint to the ground and extinguished it with my magic.
We didn’t speak for a few seemingly long moments, then I spoke. “I’m going to be heading out at four in the morning.”
Clown looked at me, his smile fading from view. “Uhh…okay.”
“Is that alright?”
“Yeah, SC…whatever.”
I nodded and looked around. When we ingested the heavenly plant, we didn’t talk much. It seemed like we stopped time and our head were filled with odd thoughts that we couldn’t escape from. It was still heavenly bliss, and we felt amazing.
“That’s cool, right?” I said.
“SC, you said that four times already.”
“Two.”
“I was close.”
“I was just making sure.”
“And I was just making sure that you would help me get some stuff from the town.”
“No you weren’t.”
“…Oh.”
Clown moved around in his seat uncomfortably. “I just need some help getting stuff, man.”
“Well, I need getting my own stuff. Without help.”
“Will you be long?”
“Probably not.”
“How long?”
“…Six hours.”
“…Okay…”
Then Clown started to snore.
I headed back to my own room. Most of our conversations went that way. He was fourteen years older than me, so he always wanted to make sure that I would be fine. But we always talked like we were on an equal level. We never talked down to each other.
We were friends.
That night, I think I had a better sleep than ever before. But my need was getting stronger.
I didn’t want to wait for the screams.