//------------------------------//
// 17. They say memory is a fickle thing (FDA_Approved) 
// Story: Dream A Little Dream Of Me 
// by horizon 
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Hones Tee

They say memory is a fickle thing.
It skirts around our brains, dancing like shadows,
A constant movement of time,
A constant rhythm
Of he said and she said and they said and I...
Am forced to accept these fragmented imperfections,
Like drawing water from a tainted well.
A moment in time, it can be said,
Is a poison beautifully and imperfectly tasted,
A poison as black as the night that Peridot was murdered.

But that’s not entirely true is it?

What is truth?
Was it the actuality
That the Mooken were always watching and waiting,
And Sunspot,
Eyes shifting around,
Was also watching and waiting and chasing,
Losing watch-spears the way one is forced
To fold a set of cards,
Then drawing another
Made entirely of duty and blood,
Made entirely of fallen memories.

Can it be said that this
Was the cause of Myinnkyun’s downfall?

Or was it before that?
When Dawn Patrol, the green of his eyes set
Beyond this ravenous cage,
Beyond the jungle forest,
Abandoned us
And Littlemoth with him?
The guard was short enough as it was,
The ponies unfit for battle,
The slaughter thick and heavy and quick as a bugbear sting.

Can it be said that my own downfall was
Because my focus
Was not on Peridot’s disappearance and death,
But rather on the news
Of the banishment of our Lunar princess?
And I, shocked in my search, set scoping out
For more and more and…
It was enough, I suppose.

And she had enough.

And right now?

Can it be said that
This is this a dream…
Or perhaps it is something else?
Dreams are a fragile thing,
And dreams, they say, can only take you so far.
I should know.

It was Tommyrun, drunk as he always was,
Who saw Peridot and Cabotage stumbling toward the docks,
Eyes glazed, rambling about taxes and other vexes.
But we knew that Cabotage couldn’t stand the old merchant
No one could.
And he was right when he said that she didn’t
Need help
Falling over.

Two weeks.  
Can you blame a pony who’s had no income for that long?
“Butter her up,” he thought. He’d best butter her up.
And they drank,
But she was already an old pony.
The sea mist. The blackened night,
Stars stuck onto the tar blanket of the sky.
Of course she’d stumble along.
Of course he’d use his magic and make it clean.
And of course he wouldn’t actually kill her.
Perhaps more ships would come.
And more of her shipment.

More of the draught that brings the gemstones that angered the Mooken that caused them to wait that caused weary for the soldiers.
But it paid them too.

And Sailcloth,
(It couldn’t be said what he longed for the most
That spice, the love of the kelpie, or the money for that kelpie)
Set off to follow Cabotage’s order:
“Throw this in the sea.”
He didn’t question his captain.  
Just like Peridot didn’t come home that night.
And the sharks came.

Still, the sharks eat at my mind.
Still, I keep searching.
Whatever the truth is,
We are contaminated by our own perception.