n/a
This is a story that no one will read. Because the story, like me, has no name. No title. With no title, one can’t discern what could possibly take place in this story. For them, the journey into such a story will be akin to that of one into the deepest of unknowns. Strange, disturbing, and full of uncertainty. Much like how life is.
While there is no true risk involved in the reading of words on a page, the things that one can discover and learn about the world around them can forever alter how they see themselves. They might be changed, on a certain level. For better, or for worse; that cannot be predicted.
But even so, it does not matter anyway. No one will read my story. No one will remember my name. I do not have one anyway.
Solitary is a word that I find best describes myself. No one has given me a name, in all of my life, and so I could not adequately associate myself with the named ponies. Every day, I stare out the window of my house, gazing upon the passing throes of named ponies. Watching them laughing, socializing, and living. So blissfully and happily ignorant.
I did not envy those ponies. No, the way that they carried themselves is nothing to admire. I had realized, long ago, how much they were being held back and imprisoned by their own identities. I knew well of what the common pony did not understand.
Image. To maintain an image for your peers is a terrible burden, I believe. If you cannot keep up with the expectations and demands of others around you, then you will either be criticized, shunned, or simply left behind. If they are feeling particularly mean about it, they’ll do all three in succession.
And thus, I was grateful for my lack of identity.
Let the named ponies have their image, I would utter through the glass. Let them be the subjects of their peers’ attention. Let them fall through when they can no longer carry water. It would not matter to me in the slightest.
Living among the named ponies wasn’t difficult. When you lack a name and identity, no one else will regard you with anything more than a passing glance. For anyone else, I am but part of the scenery. Standing in the background, forever unacknowledged.
I was okay with this. I was fine with this.
When I had first arrived in this named town, I had only been greeted once. During a surprise party. That a pink pony had thrown for me, for absolutely no reason aside from “welcome to our town”. This behaviour had confounded me to no end; what use is there to give a party to somepony that has no identity? Even at this party, it seemed clear that no one even knew who it was supposed to be for. No one except for the Pink Pony, it seemed.
But even the Pink Pony, whose true name I do not see fit to remember or even care to acknowledge, soon stopped visiting me. As soon as I noticed this, I was initially relieved that I would no longer need to wear padded gear. But something felt off about the shift in behavior. I attributed that to the fact that I had grown somewhat accustomed to these visitations, and wrote it off as nothing more than a thing I had to readjust to.
I usually made frequent ventures to the shops in the market district. The vendors, I noticed, made small talk with everypony else except me. When I chose what I was intending to buy, they simply asked for what it was worth, I hoofed over the necessary bits, and we parted without further words.
These escapades felt hollow, almost; but I did not concern myself with petty feelings. Forming bonds with ponies that I didn’t know the first thing about was not an appealing idea to me. I would not risk what so many others have before. I would not let myself suffer what pain that so many others experienced in the past.
I would remain solitary, and anonymous. A background pony. A nopony. Free of obligations. Free of image. Free of identity. I would be happy.
But why did it still hurt, deep inside?
Several months pass me by. My resolve seemed to be depleting by the day. More than once, I caught myself attempting to ignite small-talk with the named ponies. I once managed to get a few words in with the Orange Pony’s little sister, making her the first pony I could legitimately call an “acquaintance.” But before we could get too far into the conversation, she was called away by her sister.
And at the same time, I realized that I was acting against the rules I had imposed on myself.
The filly had asked me if we would talk at a later date. I did not answer her. I simply ran away, back to my home. Home? Was it my home? House, home, domicile, it does not matter what I refer to it as. I retreated to this place, not sure what I should be feeling or why. I was beyond confused.
Why did this bother me so much?
Despite my best efforts at purging these traitorous thoughts from my head, I found that I could not deny that I was deeply troubled by my lack of identity. It did not make any sense at all! Wouldn’t being a nameless pony like me make life easier to go through? Wasn’t I supposed to be free of pain, and obligation? Why were my beliefs now beginning to fall apart at the seams?
I set out on a walk, trying to clear my head. It was a chilly evening, and while I briefly considered retrieving my scarf, I decided that it was not needed. The cold air did wonders to help refresh my mind. I almost felt like myself again, alone in the streets of the town.
I almost felt happy.
Almost.
From around the next corner in the road, I heard laughter. Six ponies, one of which I recognized at the Pink Pony, came around it. From their banter, they appeared to be on the way to a party of some sort. They were talking. Laughing. Joyful.
Happiness…
It wasn’t until the Purple Pony stopped and locked eyes with me that I realized that I had been staring—quite intently—at the six of them. She blinked, nervously grinned, and turned to look away. None of the other six, not even the Piny Pony, acknowledged me in the slightest; they simply passed me right by.
Friends…
I continued on the road. Not long after I passed the town hall, I happened upon a couple out for a walk with their foal. The father, a simple-looking stallion by any regard, and the mother, an average mare, both seemed to regard the small colt between them with high levels of affection. The mother even gave her son a gentle nuzzle, signifying the bond between them.
Love…
They passed me by as well. I turned to look back at them, and stood there, watching them disappear around another corner. I found myself yearning for the touch of a gentle lover, and the company of a tender child, as well. Without it, I felt empty.
Family…
It was too late for me to realize how wrong I was. I knew that, without a name and identity, I had no life. I was alive, biologically, but was I alive? The answer had eluded me for far too long, as I have never sought to answer it. I didn’t care whether or not I was alive. I only sought to meet my own needs, and disregard all others as they had disregarded me.
With no name, I was nopony. With no identity, I was nameless. It was with this crushing realization that I realized I was never truly alive. I am less than a nopony. I am… unknown.
Could my life have turned out different, had I made the effort to pursue and shape an identity of my own? I do not doubt that it would have. Even now, after I realize that I squandered a lifetime of happiness, could I still make amends? Could I still turn it around, and restart my life? Perhaps. I don’t know. And I won’t try.
I had my chance. And I turned it away.
As far as the world is concerned, I am expendable. There are many more ponies where I came from. Where I had failed in making a difference, another could possibly succeed. Another pony could make all the difference. All they might need is a little push.
I thought this very same thought, as I discreetly approached the apple stand at the market where I had first met my first acquaintance—my first “friend”—and left a bank note with the remainder of my life savings there; I wouldn’t need it. An anonymous donation, you could say. I could hear her confusion turn to jubilation as I walked away, and I let a smile form on my face. I felt good. I felt happy.
Maybe, just maybe, it isn’t too late after all.
That’s all I can say about myself, really. I do not know why I chose to write this. Perhaps, on a subconscious level, what I am perceiving as mindless scribbling is actually—to one of a more stable mind—a desperate plea for attention? For aid? For recognition?
But no, that is impossible. I must be deluding myself again. I am already a lost cause. There is no help that can be given to a pony that was born with no identity.
And besides; no one reads a story without a title.
~END
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During pre-reading, I was told that this fic brought to mind Background Pony. Honestly, I have never found the time to give that thing a proper read, so any connection to that fic is entirely unintentional. I'd like to think that this is different enough to be significant on its own, so, take from it what you will. Writing this was just a little dribble for One-Shotober, but at least, it got that idea out of my head. Still got plenty more where that came from, folks!
-TheAuthorGl1m0
Interesting concept. I liked it.
Of course, people will read it cause, it looks interesting
I like it.
Well, you took my eye on the front page and off my editing duties.
And I am not disappointed.
Fucking round of applause. You get the Time Lord seal of approval.
Now, where did I put my seal?
Hmm, i don't know if it is me or not but it seems like a story about nothing. I mean that with all due respect, however it never really developed into a story. I am sorry to see it listed as complete. It could evolve into something much better if there was more development.
Also, you say Background Pony is what electre was reminded of.
I was reminded of the first chapter of Slaughterhouse-Five.
3313083
I do agree. I like what was set up, but if this were to be a story, it would be fantastic.
Want to rally for its continuation together?
Very introspective. I found it ironic that It said I was the first reader (but that's beside the point). It's always hard to understand this kind of point of view without experience in being anti-social looking from the outside in. Excellent work.
Wow. That was an interesting topic.
Interesting. I know you where doing this as a one-shot but I think you should add onto this story.
I like you.
yeh.
3313103
It wouldn't be my place to convince someone to write further. It would be nice to see it develop into something more and if the author decides to do that then so much the better. To be perfectly honest, I think the idea of overly dramatic sad stories on this site is over used. Everyone seems to be out to write the next 'A child called It'. Life isn't always that fun or even down right miserable for that matter, why would people want to read about it? That being said, I think I am the only one who thinks that. I may never understand why people like dramas.
That is why I would like to see it develop into something more than a single chapter of self pity.
'I've been thorough the desert on a horse pony with no name. It felt good to be outta the rain'
3313171 3313103 3313132 I am considering the possibility of continuing this story, as it happens. However, with One-Shotober going on, I can't spare much time for that right now. But perhaps, eventually, I will return to this story with a greater goal in mind. (This was a story that I had wanted to elaborate more on anyway, so it's just as well.
)
3313060 3313063 3313104 Thank you for the kind words. They do mean a lot.
3313150
If someone releases a story in this group, I suggest that we read it, favorite it, and upvote it to get them exposure.
That group of yours seems a bit underhanded. Good luck with your contest.
3313259 Heh, well, I would at least certainly hope that such stories would deserve such upvoting before they got them of course. XD And even though it's not much of a contest as it is a challenge, thanks for the well-wishes.
3313080
Exact same thing just happened to me. Here I was trying to pre-read/edit somebody's story, and I made the mistake of glancing at the main page. All the way from title, to description, to the beginning and all the way to the end, this story fascinated me. It's written from a place of emotion that I don't fully understand but I still find somehow completely relatable. Whatever was happening here, it somehow touched me.
At first, it interested me because of its mystery. It seemed to be coming from an angle I hadn't seen before. It's a novel story, and I was really curious where it would go. Who is this mysterious nihilism that narrates this story? What does all this mean? But as I read on I started to realize that none of that actually mattered to me.
I think it was written from the perspective of a concept, not a pony.
This story seems to be skillfully employing something that I've been trying to master, myself, and that's the art of the 'unsaid'. When you present a concept to someone in just the right way, your mind will fill in the gaps. It's like the uncanny valley. When things are vaguely recognizable, they're interesting and endearing, and as they get closer and closer to 'real', their flaws become more and more apparent, until they become a twisted mockery of real images and emotions, because they get too close yet too far.
Here's an example:
i39.tinypic.com/j6o2th.png
I don't know about you, but when I look at that, I see a face, which is strange, because this simplistic collection of geometric shapes isn't something that could be objectively mistaken for an actual face. Not by a long shot. It's just that your mind fills in the gaps. It takes something that's not remotely human, and it applies something to it that's larger than life. It's more human than humans.
That's what this story was like for me. I saw way more story than you actually wrote, and it was captivating. I'm really impressed. I have no idea how the hell you did it.
Although, maybe I shouldn't be calling it a 'story', because it doesn't have any plot, and that is probably the most deliciously meta part of this entire piece. A story about nothingness is about nothing. You've created poetry here, not a narrative, and I ate it all up in big delicious slurps.
Also, when I think about it, the advantage that the medium of literature has over other storytelling media is that it has the strongest ability for things to be left unsaid. There's no way what you've written here could ever be a video without completely draining it of everything that its made of. It needed to be a work of literature. Kudos.
So, I think you should be wary of continuing this, at least if you want to appeal to someone like me. This pony could be real, maybe not, could be just a lonely pony who feels isolated, or could be a pony that is genuinely separated from society in some way (Antisocial? Disfigured? Tainted by magic?), or maybe it really is some abstract concept or entity that interacts with the world (for example, a representation of every background pony? Or some sort of looming force like death or the personification of being forgotten) <-- If you answer this question, everything changes for me. Then it's no longer poetry; it's no longer an exploration of an emotion and a perspective. It collapses down and implodes, and becomes a story, with a plot. Which might be good? Maybe the story would be amazing. Who knows? But it could also ruin it all.
Good luck.
3313457 That... is an incredible analysis. Call it ignorant brilliance or dumb luck, but a lot of that was mostly unintentional. XD I had very little idea of where to take this story at first. I just sort of... took off with it, and ended it the way it was. To have such a plain work of mine broken down into such an intriguing concept... Poetry, eh? Hm. I almost feel embarrassed, really; I had no idea what kind of story I had when I first wrote it. I guess it's not even a proper story, is it? Hence why I pegged this as "experimental" and all.
Thinking about it in the way you describe, I'm not even sure if I do want to continue this anymore. As you pointed out, sometimes the strongest part of a story is what is left unsaid. My plans for a continuation would have neutralized much of the delicate subtext that you described. At this rate, I either need to rethink my original plan or disregard continuation completely. A tough choice to make, honestly. It's like a "double or nothing" deal; it could end up even greater, or crash and burn. I'm not the kind of guy to go out on a limb taking risks like that, unless I knew exactly what I was doing.
Even so, I deeply appreciate your honest analysis and thoughts. You, sir, have given me a lot to think about, and I thank you for that. I'm glad you enjoyed the story.
-TheAuthorGl1m0
3313785
Art has a tendency to do that to you.
Sometimes, if you're not an overthinker like me, you just dump a bucket of emotions on the page and something beautiful comes out.
I almost said as much in my original post, I was going to say 'I have no idea how the hell you did it, and you probably don't either.'
I like the idea of the vague, the unknowable, and the obscured. Hell, I was once named by my co-workers as "Mr Obscurity" at a company party. But this story is borderline empty. Like some universal black hole passed by its galactic orbit, and sucked in the bits and pieces that make a story workable. Now, it reads like a blog entry by a (excuse the politically incorrectness of what I'm about to say) overweight goth chick that writes suicide poetry from her isolation for the five hundred followers of other goth chicks that at least get out of the house and cry at Coldplay in the corner of Starbucks.
The awful truth here, is that this story is dangerously lacking in "pony points." In fact, I dare to say that with some very minor effort, it could be absolutely poniless, and we could insert an emo Dee Dee from Dexter's lab.
So, I am down voting. Not because of the imbalance in denotation and connotation of some things, or the fact that some sentences seemed painful to the ear; basic grammar intact, just painfully arranged. No, I am giving this a down vote because of the simple lack of MLP.
Interesting. While the concept itself is a bit cliche (the usual "is it better to be alone, or to have friends?" debate), the writing style definitely made up for it, particularly the relentless self-flagellation, which (thankfully) does not dissolve into a cheap "happy ending," but maintains the bleak tone throughout the story. It may just be my current morbid fascination with this type of stuff (and the fact that I am working on stories similar to this one), but I enjoyed the atmosphere in this fic, not to mention actually finding something like this was a treat on its own...
Looking at the comments is making me jealous of this story. People are saying conflicting things:
- The mood and theme was awesome and triggered a dark fascination. / The mood and theme remind me of overangsty goths.
- This was nice, but it would be amazing if it was a story with more conflict and plot progression. / The fact that this is a story about nothingness that's about nothing is delightfully meta.
- The concept is trite and overdone. / The concept was so unique it grabbed me and didn't let go.
I want me some of this in my stories. I want something polarizing, and thought provoking, and artistically bold. I want people to read my stories and immediately start arguing passionately with each other while I cackle and scream "DANCE PUPPETS!"
Are we even alive?
Or living a lie?
We all just survive,
And then simply die.
Am I worth it?
Is it okay to risk?
On my seat I sit,
My life but a disk.
Nameless till named.
Empty till filled.
Replayed like a game,
And yet I stay still.
Should I or not?
Do I try or give up?
My throat like drought,
My speaking just stop.
Why am I writing poetry?
I have nothing in this void to fill.
I'm just a background pony,
And I just stare through the windowsill.
It is NEVER too late to turn around from that kind of existence. My past mate was like this, up until his 26th year of age. Myself and a few others he decided to start interacting with in life, opened him to all the concepts he was missing and thus he found more to live for, a reason more to live than just the blind existence he searched in himself. Although I can't help feeling sad though from reading this, for how much it reminds me of the person i met him as, but I should be glad he grew and changed. Only sad because when he found all he was missing, I was the one disregarded like nopony.
All the same I found this text quite insightful.
3336563
Beautiful poetry.
You can has review!