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Dearest Brother...1,780 words
The Grind2,851 words
Best Laid Plans1,506 words
The Family Business3,043 words
Thump2,009 words
Droplets1,582 words
Brother of Mine1,292 words

Brother of Mine

I will make it…good ol’ brother of mine…

Before everything went to hell…

Gods…I’m so damn thirsty…

…

I love you, Flim.

I…I…

The light of the lantern was blinding, causing the migraines to rack his skull once again. He shut his eyes once more, this time slowly easing his way back to reality. Throbs pounded right in the spot where his horn met his head, but now they were accompanied by the pounding in his chest. Flim sat up on the mattress, his head wildly jerking about, trying to figure out where he was. When the familiar writing desk came into view, he let his head fall back down onto the pillow, letting out a long sigh.

It had been almost a month since Flim had been released from the hospital to trek home alone in the cold winter wind. Since then, he had continued his search for a job—a fruitless endeavor—while warming his insides the only way he knew how.

The unicorn lay motionless, hoping that slumber would wrap its claws around him again. But he never received such luxury, leaving him to wallow on that dirty mattress as the scent of cider wafted out of his mouth and into his nostrils. Eventually the burning became too much to bear, and Flim sat up once again.

Rubbing his hooves across a pair of sunken bloodshot eyes, he glanced at his window, surprised to see it was still dark. The silence was maddening, so he laboriously stood up, scratching his neck with a yawn. He knocked over a pair of empty bottles by his bed, the clanks sending another shot into his skull. “Dear gods,” he mumbled, placing one hoof on the wall to regain his balance. Using the wall as a guide, he stumbled toward the kitchen.

He made his way to the counter, passing the living room, still packed with crates and boxes. The newspaper was still flipped open, red Xs filling the page. Levitating a bottle to his lips, Flim tried to take a drink, only to find just a single drop falling onto his lips.

“Damn thing,” he muttered through gritted teeth, vigorously shaking the bottle over his head. With a growl, he tossed the bottle at the wall, shattering it to pieces. He waited, staring at the serrated glass. But nopony outside responded, and silence reigned once more.

“Damn thing,” he repeated, turning back toward the living room. He plopped down on the stained green chair, scooping up the newsprint in his hooves. Skimming the words with a blank stare, Flim sat there with his head lolling to the side.

Finally, he flipped over to the Job Listings, where numerous Xs stood out. There were many of them, countless, an endless scene of Xs dotting the page like craters on a barren lunar landscape. Each of them glared at him, taunting him, mocking him. He couldn’t turn away from them, and his failures continued to stare back, just as they had done in last month’s paper, and the month before that, and the month before that. He found himself tearing off a piece, then another, then another, ripping the newsprint until it was nothing but confetti in his hooves, a guttural moan growing in his throat. Then with a scream, he tossed the wad at the wall, exploding into tiny red and white remnants all over the floor.

Flim sank to the bottom—of the chair, of that vortex that always seemed to suck him back in. He cast his eyes up, as though looking for the salvation that waited in the heavens above. The mark on the window followed him around now, popping up on the walls, on the ground, and in the air. At times it would morph into many different spots of color, a ruthless takeover of his vision. This time around, the red spots coincided with the throbbing in his head.

Almost blinded by red, he began to stand up, only to trip over something lying by the chair. The bundle was a coat—in fact, the very same one he had worn to dinner that night very, very long ago. Focusing in on the bundle, he was compelled to rummage through the pockets. The first thing he pulled out was a handful of gold coins—the same ones he had pilfered from Flam’s jacket. An image of the casket of cider the coins could buy came to mind.

His other hoof searched the rest of the coat. At first, it appeared to be stripped clean. But soon, his hoof grazed the tip of something flat, and thinking it was more money, Flim hurriedly pulled it out. It was no dollar bill or gold coin, but a folded up wad of paper. In his haste to pick it up, a tiny card slipped out from its folds. Levitating it off the ground, he began to read.

Flam and Co. Cider Innovations

Opportunity seekers…nonpareil.

212 Boardwalk Blvd, Fillydelphia

Flim tilted his head and furrowed his brow, unable to remember taking a business card from his brother. He flipped it over, where he was greeted with a picture of Flam’s warm smile. Flim almost returned the gesture, until his eyes lighted upon the quote next to his head. One minor alteration in particular caught his attention. A single dark letter had been penciled in.

“It’s your’s for the taking!”

With a frown, he unfolded the other piece of paper to find a short note scrawled in ink. The words were jagged, written by a trembling quill.

Maybe the businesses change…but our family doesn’t.

Love always, Flam

P.S. This time, you can keep the change…good ol’ brother of mine.

He stared at the two silently, glancing to the shredded pieces of paper on the ground, then back to the papers floating before him. A long moment passed as he sat back on his haunches, while the words started to sink in. Memories came rushing back, but this time they weren’t the usual bitter reminders of poverty-stricken life, but the bright remnants of days past. And there was only one pony who was in each and every one of them.

Flim clutched onto the tiny picture of his brother, pressing it against his throbbing heart, trying to keep steady in the ever-changing, swirling vortex. Opportunity seekers. That’s what they had called themselves. And yet, he had let the biggest and most important one slip through his hooves.

Or perhaps not. All of a sudden, the living room looked so unbearably big—or was it he felt so small? He couldn’t tell if he was hallucinating again, or if it was the alcohol doing the thinking. But the apartment now felt far too oversized. And empty.

Flim felt sick to his stomach; the stench of alcohol on his body made his insides churn. He hadn’t noticed it before, but now the scent was amazingly strong. He crept back to his room, leaving the notes and the hoof-full of bits in his coat. Using his magic, he cleared the floor of the glass bottles, shoving them into the trash bin. Making his way to his writing desk, he took out a piece of parchment, levitated a quill to the paper, and began to write.

Dear Flam,

These past few weeks have given me time to think about what you said, and maybe...I...I

The quill paused. After a minute of silence, he began to furiously write once more, blinking back the tears in his eyes. It was still dark outside, but Flim didn’t feel tired in the least.

After all, opportunity wasn’t going to seek itself.

Author's Note:

The End...or perhaps it's a new beginning...

I hope you faithful readers enjoyed the story. I've always loved stories concerning brothers or brotherhood. So I figured I'd write one with the only brothers in the show!

I tried to write Flim and Flam a bit differently than I've seen most people write them, giving them different personalities while still making them believable. So I hope you all enjoyed that, and as always, thank you for reading! And uh...maybe check out my other fics if you liked this one...that'd be cool.

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