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// 1. Rusty Trains & Cigarettes 
// Story: The Allfathers Station (2nd Person) 
// by Speedway King 
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“Number B-27: Geisbrecht to Allfathers, now arriving.”

The familiar howl of the subway coming to a slow stop interrupts the benign conversations that surround you. The screaming brakes give you nostalgic comfort, just as they did so long ago when you would will the day away with your late beloved. As the pneumatic doors slide open, the mandatory accompanying warnings rattle over the loudspeakers:

“Upon exiting, please stay clear of the doors” The pre-recorded, female voice crackles in its monotonous tone.  “All passengers leaving from Allfathers to Masters please wait until the doors are clear before boarding, thank you.”

Hordes of faceless bodies exit the train and begin their routines of modern, urban survival.  Some stay and converse with others, while those with other plans ascend the concrete stairway to the city streets and out of your life. You sit back and relax on the hard, wooden bench, sighing deeply to clear your head. The elderly man on your left gives you a quick glance before getting up to forever exit your existence. You wonder for a second just who he was and what his story might have been: Was he perhaps a grandfather; waiting to pick his grandson up from his first train ride? Maybe he was a writer, looking for the inspiration for what would be the next best seller. You will never know, as he has left both the station and your life forever.

“Number B-27: Now departing from Allfathers to Masters, please stay clear of the closing doors.”

The pneumatic doors of the subway close once again with a calming hiss; its new passengers now in tow. It departs with a final screech before leaving the station for another part of the city. You let the nostalgia wash over you as the train rings down the cement tunnel, remembering how the mechanical scream punctuated your then-lover’s acceptance to your proposal. Generic elevator music begins to play over the old loudspeakers once again and quickly regulates itself to a white noise in your head, becoming one with your river of empty thoughts. 

Hours seem to pass like minutes as trains come and go, bringing with them more faceless bodies and empty souls. Your pack of cigarettes slowly diminishes as you waste away on the wooden bench, only getting up to stretch your legs and work the cramps out of your rear. This is what your weekends have consisted of for the last three years: Simply watching the trains pass by like grains of sand in the world’s largest hourglass. You wish you could stop wasting your life here, but there are so many memories in these concrete walls that you would feel as though you were abandoning it, and her, otherwise. As you light your last cigarette, the loudspeaker crackles to life once again:

“Number BC-688: *static* to Allfathers, now arriving.”

You take a confused look at the corroded loudspeaker hanging over the tracks: You don’t remember ever seeing the BC-688 in the three years you’ve been here. The howl from the mysterious subway sounds different from the others, not so much new as much as otherworldly.  With a final, metallic cry the train comes into view:

Age is the first word that comes to mind when you look at the train. A heavy collection of rust seems to have entangled it like the web of an iron spider and the graffiti on its side is old and faded, untouched by a delinquent hand for several years.  It almost feels as if this is a train from another point in time, neither the past nor the future, but an era that may have existed alongside your own. You normally wouldn’t have cared about this strange subway, but a part of your mind, the part you’ve always ignored in favor of logical thought, sees something else on this aged vessel.

You rise from your bench and take a long drag of your last cigarette, savoring its hickory-like flavor as it slowly kills you from within. As you meander closer to the elderly train, you notice that the station is suddenly void of life, almost as if this place had closed years ago and you were trespassing within its condemned passages. Even the loudspeakers that have been operational since before you were born have gone strangely silent, leaving you feeling alone with this railway-bound time capsule.

The doors stutter open with not the usual hiss, but with a rusty metal screech, making you cringe slightly as you wait to see who could possibly be getting off. No people emerge from behind the doorway, there is only silence. You stare at the open doors for what feels like the longest time, waiting for someone, anyone, to exit. That’s when you hear the sounds of tiny footsteps.

They are distant at first, echoing with strange acoustics from behind the rusted door like hollow shoes on thin metal. Every step grows louder until it reaches the door with a pause, as if their owner was hesitant to leave the train. You stand and wait in silence as you take another long drag from your rapidly deteriorating cigarette. As it burns down to the filter, that’s when you finally see her:

The Little Pony

You cannot believe your eyes as the pale olive equine steps out from the doorway and into the station. She stands no bigger than a housecat with youthful eyes of brilliant gamboge. Her amaranth mane is layered in a way that reminds you of young, southern belle and is accented with a large crimson bow that adds a girlish appeal to her tiny frame. A torn piece of paper hangs from her mouth, torn and covered in stains as if it was hastily written by someone with little time for proper stationary. Her tiny hooves echo through the silent station as she slowly scans her area, seemingly ignorant of the only man that stands but a few feet away, staring intently. 

You are too dumbfounded to speak, not sure if the pain medication you took earlier was perhaps laced with something as a cruel joke. You toss the burnt filter of your cigarette aside as she notices you with a smile upon her face and trots to your position. She sits at your feet, much like how a hound would, and motions to you with the letter in her mouth. It takes a second before you realize that she is attempting to give you the paper as you try to keep your jaw from dropping. You slowly reach down and take the paper from her mouth with your shaking hands, feeling as though you shouldn’t touch the strange creature, lest she were to give you an unknown disease. 

The paper is faded and yellow with age. You feel as though it will fall apart in your hands as you take in every word of its roughly scribbled lettering, all whilst keeping an eye on the little filly:

“To whom it may concern: 

I have little time left on this world, as our inevitable discovery has come to fruition. The pony that hopefully stands before you as you read this, is the only family I have ever known on this lonesome planet. I have done my best to protect her from the cruelty of this world and now it is your turn to do the same. I do not expect you to fully understand yet, but know that while I do not know who you are directly, I’m sure that you will find her a decent home and a loving family. My last action on this planet is that I leave my beloved daughter in your care as she is now your own.

I will love you forever, my little Apple Bloom

-R”

You read the letter over and over, looking for anything that may lay between the lines, perhaps a telling to an elaborate prank or some sort of publicity stunt hosted by the subway station. The filly patiently sits and waits as you scan every inch of the letter, no doubt aware that her presence would be first seen as an anomaly. You sigh and pocket the letter before staring deep into the wide eyes of the smiling pony, pondering what your next course of action should be. To your surprise, she suddenly begins to speak in perfect English with a young, Missourian accent:

“So whut’s yer name, mister?”

You simply stare in disbelief at the olive filly, unable to find the words to respond to her simple question. You look about the empty station for the hidden camera or the television host that will jump out and tell you that you’ve been had while the little pony giggles at your confusion.

“Mah name’s Apple Bloom, mister. Mah daddy said that somepony would be waitin’ fer me here.” She states matter-of-factly before continuing. “Are you the one that’s gonna take me to mah new home?” 

You scratch your head, still confused as anyone would be in this situation, trying to find a response that would sate the pony’s question. The empty station feels even more silent than before as she awaits your answer. You think back to your late wife and her unattainable dream one last time as you finally respond to the innocent pony’s query:

“I-I guess I am…” You answer not as confidently as you would have hoped. 

Apple Bloom’s eyes go wide with joy as she immediately stands and nuzzles her head against your leg. You awkwardly react by petting her on the head like you would a small dog, feeling foolish afterwards for what you think is probably degrading her. 

“Ah can’t wait to see mah new home! Are we goin’ now?! This is gonna be so much fun, living with mah new family!” She  rambles excitedly.

You wonder how she can leave her old adopted father behind so easily and accept you, no problem. Does she even remember him? She mentioned him before, maybe she didn’t understand the letter, or perhaps she couldn’t read. These thoughts swirl about your head like angry mosquitoes as you slowly ascend the stairs from the station into the late autumn afternoon, letting Apple Bloom take her time as she struggles up the steps.

“Wait fer me!” she cries out as she lifts her tiny frame over another step. “Mah legs ain’t as long as yers!” 

You look back at the little pony as she muscles her way up the concrete steps, appreciating her determination. Eventually, without saying a word, you gently lift her by the sides and carry her up the stairs, cradled in your arms. She laughs as you sweep her up and exit the stairway, making you smile yourself. While you’re not really sure of just what you’re getting yourself into, you certainly know it’s going to be interesting. As you bring the giggling Apple Bloom to your car, you wonder if perhaps this is a strange gift being sent from your beloved up above…