//------------------------------// // Let Me Start by Saying... // Story: The Clouds of the Ocean // by Sea Foam //------------------------------// My life story, to put quite bluntly, is one of little significance. After all who am I but a socially awkward and sarcastic pegasus pony; living on his cloud, hovering above the village Ponyville? I hold very little signifigance, so why should you care? Why should my life story bring forth even the slightest spark of interest? Regardless of my unimportance, I ask you to open your mind, so you may see the world as I have. Not only this, but I ask you to look through my eyes as well, so you may see the beauty and tragedy of the many ponies I have crossed paths with in my lifetime of travel. We, the ponies, are the exclamation of Equestria and though it may not be prevalent to many of us, there are ponies in this country that are, in the most basic word I can recollect, evil. I feel as if there is a large part of Equestria that is not often seen; as if it is purposely hidden by a veil, so to speak. I’m not implying that each of us live our lives sheltered and shrouded by some false truth, and I’m certainly not about to tear this imaginary veil apart with a statement such as: Celestia doesn’t really raise the sun, it’s all lie! (As much as I would love to present this, I lack proof to make that statement.) I have nothing to say that will be earth shattering; I’m not planning on giving you a thesis. However what I do have is a story that spotlights a side of Equestria, which many of you may not be fully aware of, through my experiences with a specific two or three of the more daunting ponies that reside amongst us, as well as the kind ones who were oppressed by such ponies. My reason for writing this story, the very reason I hold a pencil within my mouth; is that I wish to share with you, the stories of these ponies: the good and the bad. For in each of my travels I was but a conscientious observer that became caught up in the confusion of the world around me; in my young ignorance, I was unable to question the rights and wrongs of the ponies I met. Please, humor this mint colored pegasus. --- My name is Sea Foam, and I have traversed across this land we call Equestria countless times. After all, my line of work calls for the escapades I set out on, every month or so, to collect valuable and foreign resources and materials to either: sell at the Ponyville market, or utilize for my own alchemic and engineering endeavors. It’s simply who I am; my livelihood and passion is the world itself. I’m fascinated with how it works, how it intertwines with itself, and everything it has to teach us. The inner workings of the land infatuate me. In my conquest to learn everything I can about the world we live in, I have scoured it. But I was traveling far before I chose my own self employed profession. Since the day that I left the literal desert that I had loved and called home, to the day I set up my shop in Ponyville, I was a drifter; a proverbial rolling stone on a journey who sought nothing at all but the world I was told so much about, but could never be a part of, due to my isolated foal-hood. I wish only to share my findings with the all those who will listen, so that everypony can see the world for its brilliance and wonder. Spreading such ideals is the motivation for the business I run; not money. I could care less for bits and, in all honesty, I’m quite poor and live day by day without a literal house. My home is not a house, but a cloud; easily recognizable from the propeller that extends from the bottom of its fluffy exterior, to the incense smoke that normally arises from the top; dissipating in the air above me. This cloud is also my peculiar mode of transport, hence the mention of the propeller, that allows me to travel across the land with relative simplicity, and what provides a decent carrier to transport the plants, resources, and the like back to Ponyville. Obviously clouds can move on their own with the wind, that is to say, they don’t require a propeller to move. But the propeller allows me to travel in any direction, opposing the conflicting wind no matter how much it disputes. You could argue that I might as well push the cloud, but then why use a cloud at all; I might as well fly with a rope around my waist, pulling a cart across the uneven landscape. It has its flaws; on many occasions it’s dissolved on me, but a new cloud is never more than a good wing flap away. It’s something of an invention of mine, the cloud I call home. It was the first show of how I could use the materials around me to create something with my own hooves, and was what allowed me to cross the threshold of my imagination into the vast, endless spectrum of everything that lay beyond the desert. Truthfully it’s more of a modification than an invention but, apples and oranges I suppose. Before I begin, there is one more curious thing about myself that I feel you should know. I have previously referred to myself as a pegasus, but that is not entirely true. Yes I have wings, which technically makes me a pegasus, but I have stripes as well. Stripes that run across my entire body, decorating my coat in a design like pattern. I am half pegasus pony and half zebra. For most of my life it was a mystery to me. The stripes I have now were concealed nearly all my life, almost as if they weren’t there. The only thing indicating any type of markings were these small, almost unnoticeable black lines at the bottom corner of each of my eyes. From my time in the desert to when I met another zebra in Canterlot, my zebra heritage was completely unknown to me. But, I believe I’m getting ahead of myself. I tend to ramble when my mind isn’t centered on one specific thought. All the questions that may have arisen now, will be answered in due time. Unfortunately I’m racking my brain for a way to initiate this tale of mine, so let’s try this, shall we? I’ll just start this as generically as possible in third pony for an added cheesy effect: Thus begins my story, A pegasus pony zebra, (even though he didn’t know it yet) raised in the desert; traveling on a cloud to the landmark towns of Equestria, narrated in a way that would make it seem as if that zebra pegasus pony were speaking to you directly. Why? Well, to add some personality, my good pony, zebra, griffon, dragon, or whoever may get their hands/hooves on this. --- As I said before, I’ve lived in the desert for the majority of my life, but I wasn’t born there. Truth is I haven’t a clue where I was born. I might as well run this off now, as it’s such an amusing and heartwarming story, that I’m only too proud to tell. Basically, my parents abandoned me. That, or they were absolute morons and wanted to know what would happen if you put a baby pony on a small wooden boat to send it down the river. If you didn’t guess by now, the boat finds its way to the ocean, and the foal dies. Or at least, it was supposed to. Maybe they thought it would be funny, as I said before, I haven’t got a clue. I try not to think about my parents too much. But I want to ask you to think about times when you’re laying on your back, looking up at the stars without a care in the world. Your brain decides that you’re a bit too content, and finds it to be a loving gesture to involuntarily think the most cringing or depressing thoughts from the deepest confines of your memory. Why didn’t my parents want me? Not only that, but why would they feel the need to throw me to the ocean? Did I fall short of some wild expectations, or did I just come out a substandard bastard? Sometimes I think about how I would react if I happened to meet my so called, ‘parents.’ Would I ask them why they sent me away, or just pretend like they didn’t exist? But maybe, just maybe, I should be thanking them, for could I truly have led the life I feel so lucky to have if I were kept under the care of ponies who would throw a foal to the ocean with barely more than a second thought? This is how I choose to think, because I feel that holding a grudge against them serves no productive purpose other than the stress relieving excretion of tears that stream down and drips off the tip of my muzzle if I dwell on the subject for too long. Well, that’s the end of that glorious chapter of my life, wasn’t it all I said it would be. Amusing? Heartwarming? Sarcasm aside, there is a positive notion to my exile. The river will inevitably lead to the ocean, and I shouldn’t have to tell you that you can’t just strand an infant pony on a boat, in the middle of the sea, and expect it to be fine. Even if the boat found its way to land, I was utterly helpless. Throw a foal on an island, alone, and tell me what happens. (With my luck it would probably start some highly developed civilization, rendering the previous statement void of any truth whatsoever.) So in light of everything I’ve just written, I should have died long ago. Drowned and forgotten in the cold, misty wasteland that is the ocean. But I was saved. Saved by the greatest pony to ever grace the earth with his hoof prints. I owe my life to that pony. I owe every breath I take, every laugh, every tear, every drop of blood in my veins to that one, single pony.