Spring 1: The Wayfaring Stranger
"In this reality."
"In this history."
Brown wings beat the sky as the hawk rode a thermal column up into the sky. It let out a majestic cry as it ascended, letting each and every creature know that it ruled this particular stretch of countryside. Down below, hooves safely on the ground, a single pony stared up at the bird with a sour expression on his face.
Turning his gaze away from the sky, that boundless sky, the pegasus scanned his surroundings. Before him was a farmstead, old and decrepit like the gravestone of a once-prosperous estate. The red paint was peeling off, the wood was rotting, and what machinery he could recognize had been all but swallowed up by rust.
Maintaining his annoyed expression, the pegasus turned his attention to his own body, particularly the pair of wings jutting out from his back. They made a weak effort at flapping, but quickly gave up and flopped back down against his back, eliciting an annoyed groan from the pony. He flicked his red and blue mane and nearly knocked himself over in the process.
A loud yip, like a spiteful laugh, caught the pony’s attention, and he found himself staring into the eyes of a red fox. The two stared at each other like this for a good while, keeping a wary distance from each other. While the pegasus seemed ready to hurl rocks at the animal, the fox simply sneered back at him. Then the canine flicked its bushy tail and retreated back into the bushes it had emerged from.
That was the last straw. Unable to take it anymore, the pegasus let out a cry of frustration and shook his front legs at the sky. Such a motion, however, only served to make him lose his shaky balance, and he fell over backwards, letting out a loud yelp.
The pegasus gritted his teeth, and a series of mumbled curses escaped through his lips. He stared at the azure sky above him with angry eyes, before letting out a shout of pure frustration.
“Just where the hell am I!?” The scream of the pegasus echoed across the farmstead.
Yes, in order to understand the situation that George Sparrow had gotten himself into, a quick glance to the past is in order.
Prologue
Rain pounded on the old roof like the boots of a marching army. Somewhere far away, a bolt of lightning resonated through the pitch-black sky, lighting it up for a split-second. The wind howled like a madman, traveling through the trees and hitting the walls of the old house with the full force of an out-of-bounds train.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit…!”
A lone figure, draped in old clothes that were soaked from the rain, ran around the living room while carrying pots and pans of varying sizes. Every time he spotted water dripping from the ceiling, he put one under the leak. It might have been a foolish attempt to contain the water seeping in, but for the moment, it was the only thing that prevented the room from flooding. At least that was what the figure told himself.
A sudden flash and the rumbling sound that followed made the young man curse profusely as he dropped the pots in surprise. Grumbling obscenities, he picked them up, one-by-one, and resumed his task. It didn’t take him long to notice, however, that there were far more leaks in the ceiling than there was cookware for him to use. He had found most of them gathering dust in the cupboard; most likely they had been forgotten by the previous owner of the farm, whoever that had been.
“Bunch of snakes, all of them,” the man muttered as he finally slumped onto the couch, “Should’ve known farms don’t go that cheap unless there’s something wrong with them…”
The man immediately regretted his decision to take a breather. Judging from the icky, wet sensation on his back, the couch had already been soaked by the leaky ceiling, and was now nothing more than an overly large sponge. The leather jacket with a fur trim that he was wearing, his pride and joy, felt like it was beyond ruined. Scratching the back of his head, the man let out an elongated groan and sunk deeper into the sofa.
This person who had vainly struggled against the assault of the storm, determined to destroy the small farmhouse was George Sparrow; though recently, he had heard people refer to him as ‘Hobo’. He couldn’t blame them: with his unkempt beard, dirty and ragged clothes, and the black beanie keeping his unruly, blonde hair in check, he definitely looked the part. The sunken-in eyes and permanent scowl on his face didn’t help either. George, being in his mid-twenties, had lost the youthful spark inside him, and it had been replaced by the tired aura of a person down on his luck.
“I’ll be lucky if this storm doesn’t tear the buildings down,” George said as he fished a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, “Of all the times for a downpour like this to hit the area…”
The first good news of the day for George was that his cigarettes had survived. Before taking shelter inside the house, he had been running around the farm, securing anything that looked like it could be blown away by the wind. He had been about it for a few hours, but when he realized that the old Landinetta parked near the barn had definitely moved a couple of meters, he decided it was best to head back inside. As most of his clothes had been soaked through, it was a miracle that the pack of cigarettes was still relatively dry.
As he lit up a cigarette and brought it to his lips, the tiny pinprick of light pierced the cold and darkness of the room. It was spring, but looking outside, it would have been hard to guess: the black clouds that hung in the sky seemed to have sucked out all the color from the world, leaving only shadows and shades of grey. It wasn’t better inside the farmhouse, since electricity wasn’t working, and despite his efforts, he couldn’t find any oil for the few lamps he had seen. Needless to say, the pile of firewood outside in the rain was absolutely useless.
Staring at the shadows moving across the wall, George couldn’t help but wonder just how he had ended up in such a mess. This move was supposed to be the turning point after a miserable year, but it seemed that his streak of bad luck persisted.
Having lost most of his money in a casino years ago, George had fallen on hard times. He had drifted from one city to another, doing odd jobs and sometimes even sleeping on the streets. All the while he had tried to gather up enough money to find a place that he could call home. The chances were low, but not impossible: he had bet everything on finding himself a home, the first required step to turn his life around.
To his surprise, eventually such an opportunity had shown itself. When he had stumbled through a small town couple of days ago, he had heard from a strange woman that there was an old, abandoned farm at the edge of town. It had nearly fallen to ruin after decades of disuse, but it was still available for anyone who wanted to renovate it. He had seized the opportunity without a second thought and bought the farm for a ridiculously low price. It had sounded like a dream come true: he would get a new home and possibly a new livelihood. Having spent a good chunk of the year travelling and without a proper job, being a farmer had sounded enticing.
“As if there was such a sweet deal without some sort of catch.” George spat on the floor. “Never should’ve trusted a woman with such weird eyes.”
While he had not been able to survey the condition of the fields due to the rain, he had gotten a good look at the farmstead. It was in much worse state than he could have ever imagined. The barn’s roof had collapsed along with the eastern wall at some point, also bringing down part of the neighboring cattle barn. The machinery shed was still standing, but a quick look inside had revealed that it had been stuffed to the brim; in the darkness George had not been able to advance without risking on stepping on something dangerous.
The two small grain silos were leaning against each other, but were otherwise fine. The same could not be said for the windmill, which swayed from side to side in the wind. However, the cherry on top had been the main farmhouse. George noticed immediately that a big chunk of the roof was missing, which was why the rain could just pour in. He had not even inspected the second floor, thanks to how rickety the place already felt. The smell of mold and decades was soaked into the wood, and had hit him like a sledgehammer as soon as he had entered the house.
“I don’t even know how many acres I own. I… suppose I should go over the papers at some point,” George muttered to himself, taking a drag from the cigarette, “Maybe tomorrow, though. Right now… sleep sounds like the best option.”
George’s eyelids had felt heavy for quite a while now. The pounding of the rain and howling of the wind were like a stubborn lullaby that refused to leave his head. Not even the wet clothes he wore could prevent his head from nodding as the slumberland’s alluring call came again and again. The musky smell of the house brought back old memories, and with them, the sweet desire to just close his eyes and let the worries brought by the storm be washed away by dreams.
Another bolt of lightning lit up the room for an instant, but George no longer reacted. His eyes were shut peacefully, and only the occasional cloud of smoke emerging from his mouth indicated that he was still awake. His hand, covered in a fingerless woolen glove, reached for the cigarette one last time as he tapped the ashes from the tip. He then brought it to his lips for the final drag, before stumping the thing into the empty can of beans sitting on the small table beside the couch.
A long sigh escaped from between George’s lips. It was his exhaustion catching up to him. Running around in the rain, trekking from the village to the farmstead, the negotiations for the farm… it was all finally taking its toll. After such a busy day, it was no wonder he was so easily succumbing to the siren call of sleep.
George, however, failed to notice the events occurring outside as he fell asleep. He did not see when two thunderbolts flashed through the air at the same time, drawing unnatural patterns in the air, as if they had been a collection of ancient runes. He failed to notice how something moved within the clouds, disturbing their lazy formations. Lastly, and most importantly, he did not witness when, in the moment of brightness created by lightning striking from the heavens, a dark figure stood not far away from the window, staring straight at him.
So, as the night dragged on, the sound of George’s snoring filled the house. He was unaware of the odd things happening around the house, or of the shadows and whispers that sometimes broke through the sounds of the thunderstorm. He did not feel it when the wind violently changed course, nor did he wake up when the earth itself let out a low rumble.
Perhaps, had he stayed up that night, his life would have remained as it was: uneventful and bitter. Perhaps none of the oddities of that night would have happened. However, they did, and come next morning, George Sparrow was hit with the full brunt of the consequences of that stormy night.
He was uprooted from the reality he knew, and sent hurtling to a distant, foreign land.
Spring Chapter 1
The Wayfaring Stranger
Soft light streaming through the dust-covered windows was what finally woke up George Sparrow. The warmth of the sunshine, combined with the distant sound of birdsong was a surprisingly pleasant wake-up call, at least compared to what he usually woke up to: a kick to the back and someone telling him to get lost. People tended to be so rude towards the homeless.
Yawning heartily, George smacked his lips and cracked his neck, trying to get the stuffy taste of sleep out of his mouth. Sleeping on the couch had not done him any favors, and he could already feel that some of his limbs had gone numb from sleeping in a bad position. Preparing himself for the unpleasant, prickly sensation that came with the recovery, he shifted his posture and straightened his back.
“Hmh?” George suddenly grumbled as he tried to move, “Ah, crap… did the water ruin my clothes completely?”
Still groggy, George wasn’t sure if it had just been the rain, but it was clear that his clothes were ruined. They were soggy and stretched beyond belief, covering him like some sort of tent. Wearing them was no longer an option, as it was hard enough to struggle free from them. George slipped out of his clothes, deciding it didn’t really matter if some odd bird saw him naked.
Figuring it was time to find something to eat, whether it was decades-old canned beans or some unfortunate critter living in the backyard, George shook his head to clear his mind. With thoughts of a squirrel stew brewing in his head, he could slowly feel the fog caused by his dreams lifting. With a bit more gusto than before, he plopped down from the couch…
… And promptly fell flat on his face.
“Ow! What the hell!?” George shouted, holding his nose and rolling on the floor.
Something was wrong. His legs had just given out without warning. George knew they were still a bit numb, but that didn’t mean they would just have no power to support him. Still muttering curses and rubbing his nose, George rose to a sitting position. As he tried to clear out the grogginess that still had ahold of him, George finally noticed another point of strangeness.
His nose felt unusually large.
“Wait… is it swelling because I hit it? That can’t be…” George muttered to himself, “I’ve banged it harder than this before.”
George knew it was impossible that rain had been the cause, either. While he could believe that the clothes had doubled in size, such a thing was impossible for something as permanent as one’s nose. Wearing a frown on his face, he looked around the room, as if the farmhouse could somehow give him an answer to this mystery.
He did notice one thing during his survey, however: the couch seemed much taller than he remembered.
Something’s not right. It’s like my perspective’s all skewed up, George thought to himself, Did I hurt my back while sleeping or something?
Though his brain started to register that something was very wrong, his mind had not even opened the puzzle box, let alone started connecting the dots. Instead, he was absentmindedly stroking his chin while lazily gazing around him, trying to jumpstart his little grey cells.
It was not until his eyes fell upon his "hand" that the slowly moving gears inside his head ground to a complete halt.
George’s eyes fell to pinpoints, followed by his dull expression freezing completely. There, instead of the normal rough, five-fingered hand he had gotten used to seeing, was an off-white colored stump of a limb. It was covered in a coat of fuzzy, unkempt hair, like that of a dirty horse. Shaking in barely-contained panic, George raised his other hand, only to find that it too had been replaced by a similar stump. Turning those stumps around, he saw that they ended in something that resembled hooves… though only barely.
Five seconds later, the farmstead rang with a scream of utter horror.
That day, the birds of the surrounding area were treated to quite the spectacle: a pegasus stallion sliding backwards across the floor of the main farmhouse, propelled only by his wildly flailing hind legs. All the while, the pony kept screaming like something was chasing him, and in a way, something was: too bad it was just reality catching up to him.
It took him a while to calm down enough to take a look at himself in a mirror. Luckily, the large mirror in the living room was still intact, and after wiping off the dust covering it, George could finally see what had happened to him during the night.
“… What… the… hell…?”
What stared back at George was not the same untidy figure he had always seen looking back at him. No, this time it was a small horse with wings, about the size of a large dog. The off-white color of its coat was offset by the bright blue and faded red of its mane and tail. His sunken-in eyes still had their heterochromia, but instead of grayish blue and hazel, they were now of the same blue and red as the mane. Had his face not retained the permanent scowl and the scruffy beard, and had the old black beanie with the gas-station logo not been on his head, George would have a hard time recognizing himself. The irrefutable facts, unfortunately, stared him straight in the face.
“Why the hell am I a tiny horse!?” George screamed at the top of his lungs, his voice a couple of octaves higher than usual.
◊◊◊—Harvest Seasons: Spring—◊◊◊
This brings us up to the present. What followed after George’s discovery of his new body was a good old freak-out that resulted in the destruction of a large mirror, a rocking chair quickly exiting the living room through the window, and the appearance of a horse-shaped hole in the bathroom door. However, he eventually managed to somewhat calm himself down.
After a couple of hours of learning to manage with his new limbs, George had made it outside with all the grace and dexterity of a newborn foal. He now stood at the center of the farmstead, surrounded by the old and decrepit buildings, his legs still shaking from the effort it took to keep his quadruped body upright. However, even if he was outside, none of the hundreds of questions that ran through his head got an answer.
In fact, it only created a new question.
“Just where the hell am I‽”
The surroundings of the farm, while retaining some of the same details, had become completely different. He was absolutely certain that the mountain range in the horizon was a new one, and there hadn’t been a gigantic forest stretching as far as the eye could see to the west. Also suspicious were the rows and rows of trees growing strangely systematically not far from the fields, and what seemed like a tower reaching towards the skies far beyond them.
He could see a river running along the other side of the fields to the east, but he had seen it flooding last night, so at least it wasn’t a new addition to the scenery. Following that river with his gaze, he could see it lazily wind in the direction of the town.
“So, not just me, but the environment, too…” George muttered, eyeing the tower in the distance with a frown, “Just what is going on here?”
While he was contemplating the idea of throwing a tantrum over his bizarre transformation, the fact remained that at the end of the day George Sparrow was a survivor. He knew that while being surprised at twists and turns of life was all well and good, sometimes one just needed to suck in complaints and act, lest he be trampled over. This was definitely one of those times.
Still, it didn’t mean he was over the fact that his 1,9 meter ass had been downgraded to a hardly-over-one-meter-tall miniature horse. He had simply decided to save his complaints until he found whoever or whatever had done this to him.
One who wasn’t reserved about spewing around complaints, however, was George’s stomach. As he stood in the middle of the yard taking in the new sights, he heard a loud grumble echo from within himself. Looking at his own stomach with a frown, he momentarily contemplated whether or not he should try and see if there were more beans inside the house. However, the mere idea that the beans had been in the damp, although cool, basement for over a decade easily invalidated that train of thought.
He wasn’t as desperate as last night, and moreover, now that the storm had passed and the refreshing day of early spring was underway, he was free to take a closer look at the farmstead and what it had to offer in terms of food.
“It’s an old farm, after all. There has to have been a garden at some point. And if there is…” George muttered as he wobbled along like a calf with four left feet.
After about a half an hour of frantic, hunger-powered searching, George came across something he could use. Wild garlic flourished behind the main house, and it was easy enough to collect even with only his mouth to use. Not far away he also found a large amount of asparagus, either from the wild or of the domesticated variety that had returned to the nature in the absence of humans. Nevertheless, the stalks were surprisingly thick for lacking maintenance.
Instead of harvesting the plants immediately, George left the collected wild garlic nearby and stumbled back inside, only managing to fall over five times in the process. Eventually he was successful in dragging his backpack outside. Rummaging through the backpack, he fished out his old, trusty Trangia. The portable stove had been with him for a long time, and out of all of his possessions, he kept it in the best shape. Nobody wanted to eat food prepared with a dirty stove, after all.
While George had believed the hard part was over after he had gotten Trangia out, he quickly realized it was actually yet to come. When he still had two hands, prepping up the portable stove had been an easy task. Now, with his useless hooves and a single, awkward mouth, he had to find a way to set it up. Even though he usually neatly arranged the different parts in a row after disassembling it, now he only managed to make the parts fly everywhere as he swatted at the portable stove in frustration.
George eventually figured out that his hooves, though they seemed completely flat, were actually able to get something of a grip on things. They were surprisingly elastic and somehow, when he grasped an object, it tended to stick relatively well.
I wonder if this is some sort of Van der Waals type of thing, George thought to himself, Do these things have tiny hairs in them or something?
Still, the hooves were no replacement for a good old hand with five fingers. By the time George finally got his Trangia properly set up, he could taste the metal and fuel in his mouth. Spitting did not really help to get the taste out, and thus, his only option was to finish the cooking quickly and fill himself with something actually tasty.
Lighting up the Trangia was a problem in itself. Handling the lighter was near impossible with hooves, but holding it still with his wings and using his front legs to operate it, George managed to make a long stick catch fire. He then stuck the blazing end of that stick into the already-filled burner, and soon enough a happy little fire was burning inside the portable stove. Satisfied with his work, he spat out the stick and stomped on it.
Two seconds later, he regretted this action. It turned out that his hooves were a bit more sensitive than he had expected.
After his short bout of screaming, cursing and rolling in the grass, George returned to the task at hand. He caught the billygrip with his mouth and took hold of the frying pan, bringing it on top of the flame. Opening the bottle of cooking oil was its own battle, but eventually he was able to squirt some of the liquid on the pan. While he waited for the oil to heat up, he finally picked a bunch of asparagus spears. The things were best when freshly picked, and would start to lose their taste in a surprisingly short amount of time.
“Still, I need to clean these. But where to get water…” George mused to himself, before his eyes suddenly lit up in realization. “Ah, right.”
A quick trip back inside saw the human-turned-pegasus carrying one of the pots he had used to catch rain water the night before. Although almost half of it spilled on the journey, he was still able to get enough to rinse the asparagus and the wild garlic, before throwing the bunch on the frying pan.
Adjusting the Trangia to medium heat, George used the billygrip to gently toss the asparagus and the wild garlic around, letting them soak in the oil. The sizzling sound of the vegetables frying filled the air, along with an irresistible fragrance. Having spent so long on the road, George had grown accustomed to getting the most out of the cheapest of ingredients, and it wasn’t his first time cooking something he found in the wild.
“I’d kill for some butter though…” George grumbled as he continued to cook the vegetables.
He covered the pan with a lid and let it sit for about seven minutes, allowing the flavors of the wild garlic seep into the asparagus. Occasionally and clumsily, he removed the lid and stirred the vegetables some more before setting it back. Eventually he took hold of the stick again and poked the burner’s lid over the flame, turning down the flame and the heat of the portable stove. This way he could make the asparagus tenderer before eating it.
When about twenty minutes had passed since the vegetables had hit the frying pan, George grasped the billygrip once more and removed the frying pan from on top of the Trangia. After setting the pan on a bare patch of ground to cool down, he poked the burner’s lid back open. It was wisest to simply let the flame burn out all the fuel instead of killing the fire manually; especially now that he had no useful limbs.
While he waited for the fuel to run out, George turned his attention to the lunch he had prepared. Although judging by the placement of the sun overhead, it may have been more correct to call it dinner. At least his inner clock told him that the sun was moving at a normal pace. That was a good sign.
“Ah, crap… I can’t eat this with only my mouth… I’ll burn my muzzle or whatever,” George suddenly muttered, realizing another hindrance that came with his new body, ”I suppose I’ll have to see if there’s any utensils or the like inside.”
While the small trip inside turned out to be nothing but a waste of time regarding utensils, George at least got his cigarettes from the pocket of his jacket. He had no idea if he would manage to light one up with his hooves and wings, but he knew that after everything he had been through today, he would need a smoke after eating. By the time he returned, the food had cooled down a bit, so without waiting any longer, he dug in.
The dinner itself was a rather silent affair, though George could not contain a couple of moans of pleasure as he bit through the crisp surface of the asparagus. The oil had brought out the clean, refreshing taste of a freshly picked vegetable perfectly, and the slight stinging taste of the shredded wild garlic leaves added just enough to the experience. While he lamented the fact that he had neither salt nor pepper, he was still glad he had taken the time to make it.
It was his first proper meal in a few days, after all. Having always been interested in cooking, George found tv dinners to be anything but ‘proper’. However, thanks to the easy preparation and low cost, he had somehow gotten accustomed to them.
But seriously… what the hell am I supposed to do now? George mused, It’s bad enough that I’ve been turned into some sort of friend of Barney the Dinosaur, but it’s starting to be pretty clear this is not the same world I was in yesterday.
He stared at the mountain range on the horizon absentmindedly, trying to figure out if he could place the white-topped, jagged lines in the distance to anywhere on the map. He knew that there weren’t any mountains like that near the village he had passed through a few days ago, but the climate seemed extremely similar. Heck, he could swear it was identical.
It was early spring there, and it is early spring here… I can’t be that far away. But that doesn’t explain the mountains, or the forest, or that tower…
George shifted his gaze to the strange building towering in the distance. While he had called it a "tower," it was more akin to a castle of some sort, only unbelievably tall. The architecture, at least what he could make out, didn’t seem to correlate to anything he had ever seen before.
And then there’s that ridiculous color scheme, George thought, grimacing, I mean, purple? Whoever paints their tower, castle, whatever, purple has got to have some mental problems.
Then, as if in an after-thought, George looked at himself and frowned heavily.
Well, I’m not one talk, I suppose…
After finishing his meal, George set aside the cookware and took out the pack of cigarettes he had fetched from inside. The brand “Lucky Bastard” had always been his staple, but now he was starting to curse his sentimentality. Had it been a hard pack, he could have just shaken it till one of the cigarettes fell out, but Lucky Bastards weren’t sold in anything but soft packs, which were made of thin paper and took less space in a pocket. They also had no flip-up top, instead requiring one to tear open the top. Therefore, he had to spend a good ten minutes prying a cigarette out with his teeth, only to crush the filter when he finally succeeded.
“Crap!” George exclaimed and sighed. “Well, I suppose those are horse’s teeth for you…”
Finally he managed to pick up the cigarette from the ground with his lips. Then came the part he had dreaded so far. Staring intently at his lighter, he flung his right wing open awkwardly. So far he had not used the appendages for anything but balancing himself and helping him operate the lighter, but he was unsure whether he could repeat the latter trick. In addition, he still found a set of new limbs quite creepy.
“Wait… the burner…” George muttered, his eyes slowly looking over at the small brass cup that still had a small flame dancing on its surface.
Never had the end of George’s appendage, whether it was a hand or a hoof, met his forehead faster.
After getting the needed flame from the burner, George retreated from his lunch area and fell backwards onto the grass. Staring up at the bright blue sky, he continued to fret over his situation.
So, just what the hell is going on? I find a farm that’s for sale, jump the gun and spend almost all of my money to buy it… and find out it’s a rundown collection of ruins and mold. When I get there, a storm violent enough to warrant a restraining order hits. I fall asleep and… then what? George took a long drag from his cigarette. I transform into this pitiful excuse of a draft horse? Get some wings way too small for flight strapped on my back? Have the surroundings of the farm completely changed? No matter how I look at it, things went to hell in a handbasket the moment I set foot in that village. Way too much weirdness going on at once.
George frowned at the single cloud travelling slowly across the sky as if it had been the source of all his problems. Somewhere close by, a hawk cried out. Perhaps it was the same one he had seen earlier that day, perhaps it was a different one; the only thing that George knew was that the cry felt almost as solitary as he was.
If the village is still where it was yesterday, I bet someone would have come to check up on me, or at least see who had been stupid enough to buy an abandoned farm like this. George blew out a cloud of smoke that slowly travelled up towards the sky. I don’t even have a phone, so I can’t call anyone.
Now that his stomach was relatively full and he had gotten his fair share of nicotine, George finally started to realize just how bad his situation was. He was alone in a place barely livable, stuck in a body he did not belong, and dropped into a world that most likely wasn’t his own. Any one of these facts would have seriously ruined anyone’s day, but combine them all together and you get a disaster waiting to happen.
George had always been a survivor, but this was something he had never experienced before. He had no vast pool of experience and knowledge from which to draw upon in order to make sense out of his predicament. Had he died and gone to a bargain bin heaven? Considering how soaked he had been when he fell asleep, there was a good chance of that. Had some sort of wormhole opened beneath him and swallowed him into another dimension? Was the house a gateway to a magical land? Had he been transported into an alternate timeline Earth where gaudy purple castles were the norm?
Gah, I can’t make heads or tails out of this, George groaned in his mind, I should probably try to find out if there are any people around. If I’m lucky, I might find someone who can turn me back. If I’m not… well, to be honest, everything so far has been so weird, I can’t even begin to think what might be waiting for me out there.
Feeling more and more frustrated, George took the last drag out of the cigarette and spat the stump high into the air. Just as it reached its apex, a sudden gust of wind threw it back, making him utter a short curse. Instinctively, he swatted the descending cigarette butt with his wing, causing it to be flung far away from him.
Well, whatever might be out there, I guess I've got no choice but to push forward and meet it head on, George thought as he lazily followed the trajectory of the stump with his eyes, There’s nothing as useless as griping about stuff you can’t change, so I should just—
George’s thoughts came to a screeching halt as he saw the cigarette butt land in the grass. Thanks to the flick of his wing and the light breeze coursing over the yard, it had travelled quite the distance downhill. Even worse, only few centimeters from the butt’s landing spot was a familiar black bottle of fuel with which he had previously filled the stove’s burner.
Sealing the deal were the tiny bits of bright orange in the stump telling of the remaining heat and burn in the damn thing.
“Son-of-a-b—!”
Rising faster than he thought possible, George half-ran, half-dove towards the bottle of fuel in a desperate attempt to stop a possible yard fire. As hopeless as he had deemed the farmstead, he had no desire to see it go up in flames. He had paid good money for it, after all, and having it all end up as a bright, mocking inferno would have been more than he could have taken.
Too bad though, that George was still an amateur when it came to handling his equine body.
That day, the critters living near the farmstead were treated with a grand spectacle: a desperate pegasus dove after a bottle of fuel only to catch it with too much force and slide down the grassy slope, letting out a panicky scream. This unfortunate ride ended with a collision to a rather large rock. Giving out a gurgling sound of resignation, the bottle, having been squeezed between the rock and George’s hooves, exploded merrily and splashed its contents all over the unfortunate pony.
For a few minutes, George could do nothing but stare up at the blue sky. His whole coat was soaked in the Trangia fuel, and he could feel the stinging sensation caused by the methylated spirit.
“Crap, crap, crap…” George muttered and with each word, hit himself on the forehead. “I need to wash this off quickly, but… if I go dive into that river now, it’ll be pure hell when the temperature drops at evening. How am I going to…”
George fell suddenly silent as his gaze lowered enough that he saw the barn once more. There, right next to the deep blue Lamdinetta that had seen better days, was a collection of empty oil drums simply taking up space. Gears slowly turned in his head as he continued to stare at the metal barrels, having momentarily forgotten his own sorry state.
For the first time that day, a grin slowly formed on George’s face.
◊◊◊—Harvest Seasons: Spring—◊◊◊
Fire rattled loudly in the small pit dug to the ground. Two rows of bricks, each on opposing sides, lined the circular pit, lit up by both the fire and the orange light of the setting sun. A large oil drum adorned with the logo of a long-forgotten company had been set sturdily on top of those rows. A big pillar of steam rose from the water in the drum, like a Native American smoke signal out of one of those old movies.
Submerged deep within the water was George. After a dip the river, he had quickly gotten to the task of building the bath. Making one wasn’t a difficult task. He simply needed a place for it, a large enough metal drum, and the patience needed to carry the water to the drum while stuck in a form of a horse.
Luckily for George, he had all those.
The end result was that he could now lean back in a warm bath and soak himself to the bone. Letting out a satisfied sigh, he closed his eyes and allowed his muscles to relax. Most of his day had been spent running around and yelling at the top of his lungs, and his whole body felt like a bow-string stretched to its limits. Now he could finally rest in the hot bath, something he felt like he deserved.
“Well, it’s been one hell of a day mentally, too,” George muttered, “I mean, I’ve spent most of it grumbling to myself. What’s up with that?”
Opening his eyes, George was able to catch the majestic sight of the sun as it neared the end of its journey through the sky. Only a sliver of its light could be seen above the horizon, and soon enough even that would disappear. The long day finally began winding down.
“I suppose I’ll have to see about exploring the forest tomorrow,” George said to himself, “No sense in getting lost there during the night.”
As if his words had been the signal it needed, the sun finally fell below the horizon, taking the last rays of brilliant orange with it. The only thing the sun left behind was warm glow that still hung in the air, but even that was quickly being replaced by the dark of the night rising from the opposite end of the sky.
Though his mind was pleasantly fuzzy, George did realize that the transition between the evening and the night had been rather abrupt. However, he felt no need to worry about it at the moment. He had gotten his moment of peace, and wracking his brain with even more troubles would have just ended badly. There was only so much weirdness a guy could take in one day.
Unfortunately for George, weirdness wasn’t exactly interested in his opinion.
“See? Ah told ya somethin' was risin’ from over here!” a female voice suddenly rang from the nearby forest, “Ah dunno if that’s smoke or steam or what, but there’s definitely somethin' goin’ on here!”
The muscles that had just gotten relaxed tensed again, and George struggled to free his mind from the lull of the bath.
“Ah hear ya, Apple Bloom,” another female voice answered, “That’s steam, all right. Dunno where it’s comin’ from, but that’s an easy mystery to solve.”
People!? George thought in panic as he tried to use his legs to lift himself from the bath, Well, whoever they are, they’ll be here any minute!
George wasn’t stupid. Whether the owners of the two voices were humans or not, it was best if he could see them before they could see him. Enough strange things had happened today, and he could guess that this encounter was not about to break the trend. No, it was best for him to observe the strangers first and see what sort of people they were before showing himself.
The last thing George wanted was for the owners of the voices to get any ideas from the oil drum bath and turn him into a stew right then and there.
“Wait… do ya hear that Apple Bloom?” the second voice suddenly asked, “Is something moving out there?”
George nearly flew out of his bath.
However, as he climbed out, something strange happened. George felt a sudden lurching sensation as his center of gravity shifted, along with his body suddenly becoming far heavier than it had been. His field of vision rose rapidly, and the drum suddenly felt much smaller than it was before.
This eerie change was accompanied by an odd sound somewhere between a crunch and a slurp, like a block of ice being shattered and melted at the same time. Losing his balance in his hurry, George fell forward along with his barrel, crashing to the ground with a loud sound.
“Ow, ow, ow! What the hell just happened?” George grumbled as he raised his head… only to freeze completely.
There, right before his eyes, was a limb; and not the white, useless stub he had gotten so annoyed with during the day. No, there, illuminated by the light of the moon that had peeked over the horizon, was the same old hairy arm ending in a hand with five fingers that George had known his entire life.
A series of whinnies and nickers could be heard coming closer, accompanied by the sound of small hooves pounding the ground.
It was at that moment that George Sparrow realized the whole horrible reality of the situation. He was in an unknown land, in a yard of a farm that was all but abandoned, about to have two unidentified creatures come across him at any second…
… and he was human again, lying buck naked on the ground.
“Oh, bollocks!” George said.
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Intriguing start. Comes over as competent HiE, but with an interesting twist that just might make it stand out above the noise. I look forward to the next part. There are some grammar and flow problems in the prologue, and throughout the dialogue feels quite unnatural and stilted, without much inflection or the feeling of prosidy. It is as though sometimes a robot, or a foreigner who is not quite used to the language yet, is speaking. I wonder if this is perhaps intentional for some reason.
4546560
Well, there is definite intention of having George's way of speech be hard to pin-point. However, at the same time, if there is someone to talk to, he tends to shift gears in that sense.
4546708
Glad to hear that, mate. Hopefully I'll be able to keep that attention.
Gasp, is there a story added to my Transformations group which has a description that intrigues rather than disgusts me? I may actually have to read this one.
Harvest Moon: Pony Edition
Eagerly awaiting more
Hey.....Not bad...I like it.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why you don't toss out cigarettes. Some idiot driver did that just recently near where I did and managed to start a bushfire, unfortunately nobody got her license plate. George is lucky he didn't light the place on fire or blow it sky-high.
I suspect once he realises day = horse, night = human, he's going to do a lot of fasting during the day and make up for it at night unless he can quickly learn how to manipulate things more readily and steadily with his hooves.