Fo:E Short- Sunrise
By: Michael A.
“Oh… the sun’ll come out, tomorrow. Bet your bottom dollar that… tomorrow.”
It was once a happy song; one filled with joy and cheer. A long time ago, it could he heard resonating from a singular garden in lower canterlot, happily sung out as the sun began to rise, and it’s golden rays began to blanket the awaiting land.
“Just thinkin' about, tomorrow… Clears away the cobwebs, and the sorrow…”
Now, it was a ghost of its former self. Every single day, at exactly the same time, the song could still be heard even after two hundred years. But, the joy in its chorus and the happiness in the singers voice slowly faded, leaving behind a phantom echo.
“When I'm stuck a day, that's gray, and lonely, I just stick out my chin and grin, and say…”
I sat on my perch, head resting comfortably in my hoof as my eyes shown forwards. I didn't know why I stayed and listened even though it only brought memories of sadness, regret, and anger flowing up from deep inside of me. Maybe it had become a routine, one that I was helpless to brake like the owner of the voice. Whatever the reason; I never interrupted.
“The sun'll come out… tomorrow So ya gotta hang on, 'til tomorrow. Come what may, tomorrow! Tomorrow! I love ya, tomorrow! You're always a day… a… way.”
Then silence. The song would complete, and the wasteland would, once again, fall into a dreaded silence. That is, until tomorrow, when the song would start up again, replaying as if on a broken record. And, like clockwork, I would return to my spot besides the singing mare, listing to her ghostly some from her rotten vocal cords.
It was haunting, watching her go through the same motions day after day. It wasn't just the song that repeated, no, it was her. It was like watching the same day happening over, and over again, and being completely helpless to change what happened. I had tried. Tried to stop her endless cycle. But, it had ended with failure, with the song starting up at the exact same time the next morning.
Yes, the sun would come up again, but behind the veil of a cloud layer forever clouding it’s solar rays. The Wasteland would awaken, bringing with it the hell that it had become. Monsters stirred, mutated creatures would awaken, and savage beasts that had once been pony would crawl out from their blood soaked dens to continue their plague upon the Wasteland.
And, like clockwork, my Mom would rise from her bed, attempt the same breakfast from ingredients that had run dry countless years ago, then trot out the door of our small home at the edge of the purple cloud’s reach, and sing her haunted song:
“Oh… the sun’ll come out, tomorrow. Bet your bottom dollar that… tomorrow.”