//------------------------------// // I'm Done // Story: Real Problems from a Pony // by PepperSweet //------------------------------// Everyday, Sweet started her morning waking up in a blur of deep mahogany and pale shadows. This was the floor of the shed she was lended to stay in, made of dark wood that grew from trees found naturally in, quite literally, her neck of the woods. The floor was shoddily built with no shellac found commonly on houses, but it was smooth and sturdy without any worrying sign of bending or cracking in the boards. The stallion who owned and made it obviously put enough effort to at least do its job, which was to house tools. It’d have to do, and for a while now, it has. It was more of an improvised home after all, but that fact would never matter if anyone came across it, which is why she only wishes it was quieter to the step. It was hard for Sweet to keep herself secret to the town that was close. Not because of a desire for company, for she became rather accustomed to just talking to Malt, the lone farmer who was helping with her refuge, every week or so when he dropped off food and water... and wine. It wasn’t a general hassle of several ponies walking through the forest where the little hut was planted, because the forest where she resided was off limits for most in the area since it was private property. It was just who she was hiding from that shrouded her with uncertainty and fear. Sweet had only seen this pony once, and it was pitch black in the park of a city area with no lights. It would seem that the universe was against her on that one, but it was less of a roll of the dice than she thought: the other pony didn't want to be seen under their hood, so they made extra precautions. At least, this is what Sweet was thinking. It was nearly a convenience for Sweet to have her very “special’ problem because of this, however no convenience could help her with the problem itself. It’s solution was one that couldn’t be gotten any easy way. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The beautiful sun had been well above the point of rising, thanks to one of the demigoddesses of the kingdom over. What was it called...? Equality? Something like that. Sweet's mind was swirling in the abyss between sleep and wake; where one considers life in abstract ways that no picture, writing, painting or poem could begin to describe is a dimension that only one pony can ever understand, and- She finally woke with her side on the floor, head facing towards a desk, and eyes nearly open, which was decently normal considering the nearly empty bottle of wine on a table her host had provided, the completely empty bottle on its side on the ripped couch that the host had, also, provided so generously behind her, and the taste of fine sweetness, sourness, and acidity that come from the perfectly aged and weathered skills of a master vintner poured into his or her finest red, accompanied by the bitter aftertaste of... unpleasantness. Bluntly, vomit. There wasn't any on the floor or desk, so that was nice. Everything was hazy in the woods regardless of the late morn’s wake, partially from the shade of the trees but mostly from the fog that was just now settling across the horizon. Or, quite possibly, the curtains were up over the window and her head was simply in blistering pain. In which case, it was most certainly mid-day as opposed to morning. Oh well. At least she could eat the salad she prepared the other day instead of waiting through breakfast. If it was not obvious from context, Sweet is not one to quarrel with temptation or to side with temperance, but one should digress. After all, drinking alone is a sign of strength... Or is it a strong sign of Alcoholism? Ah, forget it. Sweet was trying to think through this trivia while standing on her fours, which would have been easy for a light night about the metaphorical town, but she rises just too fast and causes her body to waver, her legs to wobble, her hooves to stumble, her mind to draw into a blank mass of neutral pain, and everything else to get a very warm flash that she could have been rid of and not miss from a bomb shelter. It wasn't nice, and she fell. Tripped, more like. Not over anything, just the action of tripping. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------