Live a Little

by Astrocity

Words

It’s quiet.

I stand at the center of the town. There’s no one around, no one to talk to. Not a single living thing was awake. It’s too early in the morning, I suppose. I've grown unaccustomed to their natural sleep cycle, forever trapped in my state of wakefulness.

I sigh, disappointed.

Oh well. I can wait.

I wander aimlessly. I take a glimpse through every window, looking at all the knick-knacks and doodads that fill every house and shop. I peek into a bakery of sorts. There are many pastries and cake and goodies on display, all made of an assortment of colors, much like the building itself. There’s a large tree that acts as the town’s library with its many collection of books and novels. I see a boutique housing pony mannequins clothed in pretty fabric. A flower shop, a shoe store, a furniture emporium--it’s all mundane, but that’s what I love about it.

They were once part of my life, but not anymore. I have no need for them.

A clock tower stands near the center of town. It measures the time of day, ticking away the seconds of every pony’s life. It tells ponies when they need to be somewhere, dictating their lives according to a fixed schedule. But because I’m dead, it’s no longer relevant to me. I have no where to go and no one to meet. I live in a world unlike anyone else’s.

The sun is a little higher now, and there are more ponies on the street than there were before. Ponies have begun to leave their homes. Shops begin to open. Everyone is starting their day.

What I find more fascinating than the day-to-day objects are the ponies themselves. They are not at all like the clock tower, which serves only one purpose. From a glance at their cutie mark, I can take a guess as what each pony’s talent was.

A pocket watch for someone who’s punctual or perhaps fond of watches. A bright, red rose for someone who loves to grow roses. A quill for someone who writes novels, maybe filled with romance. And so on.

But, ponies are so much more than what their cutie mark reveals about them. They are very complex.

Aside from their cutie mark, they are unique in a way that is not visible to the eye. Their mannerisms, their personalities, their history--all of these things differentiates one pony from another, and I have none of them. From the moment I died, have I stopped being a pony?

My shoulder bumps against someone while I was lost in my sea of thoughts. A mare glances at me, looking quite irritable.

“Hey, watch where you’re going!”

I try to apologize, but the only thing that comes out of my mouth is a dreadful moan.

Her lip tightens into a scowl, and she begins to walk away. “Sheesh, you’re not the only one who’s not a morning pony.”

I’m left standing alone in the street.

It’s so hard to talk to ponies. I’ve wanted to talk to someone for the longest time, but now that I’ve met someone, I can’t say anything. The words turn to dust in my mouth, and all anyone hears is a breath of dead air escaping my defective lungs.

I hobble away with my head down.

I pass by a farm filled with apple trees. There’s a wooden fence trailing between me and the fields. Only a few ponies are working out in the distance. A stallion is hauling apples, and a mare is bucking the trees.

I crane my neck past the fence and stare at them.

They don’t notice me; they’re too busy with their work. Ponies work to eat, and they eat to live. They go through this routine, this process of living, until they retire and shrivel away before they die. Is there any point to all this? Why work so hard when death becomes a certainty from the moment you're born? If it's about survival, one can only prolong their death for so long. So why?

“What are you doing?” a voice asks.

I turn to the pony speaking--a little filly with a big, red bow on her head. She’s looking at me curiously.

The memory of my first meeting with a pony pops into my head. I don’t want to mess this up again. My mouth opens and closes as I try to remember how to talk. I've practiced it many times in front of my reflection.

“Hi…” I groan in my pitiful attempt at a greeting.

She looks at me strangely. “Hi… Are you lost?”

I shake my head. I don’t know what to say at this point.

She follows my gaze from earlier and looks back at me. “That’s my big sister and big brother. Do you need to talk to them?” she asks.

I shake my head.

She looks at me up and down. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

Another shake from my head.

She kicks a hoof at the ground, unsure what to say. “I need to go to school now,” she says. Before she leaves, she digs into her saddlebag and hands me an apple. “Here. Granny always says to be kind to other ponies. This one’s on the house.”

I take the stem of the apple between my teeth.

“Well… Bye,” she says awkwardly, before running down the dirt road.

I watch her leave. If she knew what I truly was, I’m sure she would have treated me differently, and I don’t want that. I don’t want to scare or upset a little filly like her. In the end though, I’m glad to have met her, even though she did most of the talking. I now know that she has two older siblings, who grow apples. I go over this information in my head multiple times like a mantra. It’s so that I remember it. I don’t have much when it comes to my memory, so I hang on to whatever I can. I’m afraid that one day it’ll slip away unnoticed.

The apple is still between my teeth. I set it down on the ground. It’s a shiny, red fruit. It looks very sweet. I think I ate one of these in my old life, though I’m not quite sure. I wonder what it smells like. I wonder what it tastes like.

I take an experimental bite and chew thoughtfully. It’s nothing like how I imagined. There’s no taste. Juice is dribbling down my chin as I chew. It’s all mush in my mouth. It’s like I’m chewing cardboard into a tasteless mesh. I don’t like it, so I spit it out. It’s a disgusting pile of apples chunks on the ground. There’s no point in eating it anyway. These vestigial organs inside me are nothing but dead weight.

I leave the apple where it is and head down the road.

There are noticeably more ponies now. I walk through town without any incident. Though, they do notice me. I probably stand out quite a lot. I never noticed how colorful or animate these ponies are. They always seem to avoid me, though that’s no surprise. I must look horrid to them, especially with my unnatural gait. I have to look less dead. I fix my posture and straighten my back.

I need to fix my limp. I need to walk like a normal pony.

I try to walk normally. I make sure to not drag my hooves. My steps are slow and tentative, as if the illusion of being normal would shatter if I take one wrong step. It is painstakingly slow, even slower than how I walked before. I keep practicing my walk.

What am I doing here? How could I ever think I would pass off as a normal pony? Did I think I could go back to a normal life? I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I can barely form a sentence. This is a mistake. Someone is bound to find out about me. There is nothing for me here.

I bump into someone again. I have to pay attention more to where I’m going. There’s a little dragon sitting in front of me. I had never seen a dragon up close before. There’s a comic book covering his face.

I freeze at the sight of it.

The cover shows a cartoon picture of a pony with its grotesque skeletal features showing--a zombie. It looks nothing like me. It’s crawling out of the muddy ground with its maw gaping open. Most of its teeth are missing, like a pony after a terrible hoofball accident. Only the whites of its eyes are showing, just a vast emptiness. It looks so menacing and unintelligent.

Looking at the dragon, he seems very young, probably still a child. I wonder if he’s even old enough to be reading these kind of materials. A book like this would probably give him nightmares. But then I remember: I'm a zombie too.

“Sorry about that,” he says. “I couldn’t see where I was…going.”

His eyes meet mine. He’s staring at me. I can see the cogs slowly turning in his head as he clutches the comic book in his claws. I quickly brush past him. It doesn’t take long before I get a reaction out of him.

“T-Twilight!” he shouts, like a foal crying for his mother.

I look over my shoulder, and I see him running towards the library for some odd reason. Poor little guy. I hope he feels better soon. I would hate to give him nightmares. I still remember the look he gave me. He was scared and terrified, as if I was a monster from a nightmare.

I want to die right then and there, all over again. I want to leave this place, leave my body so that I don’t scare anyone anymore. Nothing is turning out right. Trying to live again was a mistake.

I hobble away, my confidence shattered. I ought to have stayed dead because there is nothing left for me here.

I find a creek some distance away from the busy life of the town. I lie in front of it with my hoof dipped in the water. Why is it so hard to talk to others? My hoof idly traces patterns in the running water. How do ponies do it? What’s the secret? I’m sure I was able to do it back in my old life--talk, socialize, mingle.

I moan, not because I’m trying to say something, but because it seems like the appropriate thing to do for how I’m feeling right now.

But then I hear it--a song. A wonderful tune reaches my ear. It wraps around my brain. It’s enchanting. It’s a kind of sound I haven’t heard in so long. It’s music. But who is singing? I have to find out.

I walk along the creek at a brisk face until I see a bridge. Beyond it, I see a house with little birdhouses in every tree surrounding it. There’s the chirping of birds, the croaking of frogs, and so much more in that small place. The whole place is teeming with life. The music lures me to the place.

I take a step past the bridge, and all the animal noises stop. The singing, too, stops shortly after. The sudden silence puts me off, but I tread on. I look around for the source of the music. I peek in the window. There’s no one inside, so I look outside the house. For a place that was teeming with life, there’s not a single creature around as far as I can see. It’s disturbingly quiet. At last, I hear someone.

“Hello? Where did everyone go?”

Beyond some bushes, with her back turned towards me, I see a pegasus. She looks so pretty, and her voice is like a bell. She could be an actress or a singer with a voice like hers. I take a step through the bushes. Her ear twitches, and she turns to me.

She shrieks, though it comes out very quiet.

My ears drop. That wasn't exactly what I wanted to hear. My eyes drop to the ground, and I start making my way back. Maybe I can find a hole to lie in back in the forest.

"Wait, I'm sorry. Don't go. Please, don't leave."

Curiously, I turn to the pegasus. She has a guilty look on her face. Her form shrinks when my eyes meet hers. She fidgets in her spot, like she wants to hide, but she doesn't.

"That was very rude of me to scream like that. You just surprised me," she says.

I don't say anything, but I'm delighted to know that she doesn't want to hurt my feelings.

"Um, is there something you need from me?"

I concentrate really hard for what I'm about to say next.

"Hi..." I groan.

She looks at me curiously.

"Hi..." she says back. Her voice is soft and quiet, as if she's afraid she might scare me away.

My jaw shifts, and my tongue is fighting to make the right sounds. My raspy voice comes out, forgotten words trying to escape my lips.

"S-song," I say.

"Oh, you heard that?" she asks.

I nod.

"Song... Good."

I've managed to say two words in the same sentence. I'm finally talking to someone, using my words and everything. I'm setting a whole new record here. My sentence is broken, but at least I can talk. I’m finally connecting with someone.

Meanwhile, the pegasus is blushing behind a strand of her mane, all bashful and embarrassed. She averts her eyes from me.

"Oh, um, thank you," she says quietly, and I wonder if I've offended her somehow.

"Name?" I ask.

Her eyes drift back to mine, and she speaks in almost a whisper. "It's Fluttershy."

I repeat that name in my head--Fluttershy. It's a pretty name. It suits her.

“Pretty,” I say.

She smiles. “Thank you.”

There are many things I want to ask her, so many important questions. What's your favorite color? How old are you? What are your hobbies? Do you like flowers? These are the important kind of things to ask.

But instead of any of these questions, I moan.

I'm embarrassed of what she might think of me, though she seems to be more confused than anything.

"What's your name?" she asks me.

I think about it. My eyes shut as I try to grasp for a name in the haze of my memory. But there's nothing. I look at my cutie mark to see if it would give me any hint to who am I, but all I see is another one of those wild blue flowers I love so much. Something feels off about it, like it shouldn’t be there. How could something on my body feel so alien to me? Why can’t I remember?

“Oh dear! Are you alright?” the pegasus asks.

My eyes blink. The grass is touching my face. I’m on the floor with a worrying mare looking over me. I must have fallen from thinking too hard.

“Let me help you up.”

I don’t refuse her offer as she helps me stand up. She presses against my side and keeps me steady with an outstretched wing.

“Oh my, you don’t look well, and you feel very cold too,” she says. “My home is close by. I’ll take you there, that is if you don’t mind.”

I shake my head, and we walk towards her cottage. Her home is filled with more birdhouses and tiny stairs that wind up and spiral towards high places. It’s a paradise for birds and rodents and small creatures alike. But there are no animals.

“Well, that’s strange. I wonder where everyone went.” Fluttershy helps me onto the sofa and begins peering inside every mousehole and birdhouse. “Hello? Little friends, where are you?”

I stare at the pegasus fluttering to and fro around the room until something strikes me on the nose. It’s a small carrot. A white rabbit is sitting on the floor in front of me, brandishing another carrot like a sword. My eyes lock onto him, and he flinches.

“Angel, there you are!” Fluttershy swoops down next to him. “Where did everyone go?” she asks him.

By now, he’s wildly hopping for her attention.

“Is there something wrong?”

He points at me.

“Her? She’s just someone I met today.”

He flails his arms wildly, yanking on her tail and looking at her with pleading eyes. He’s terrified. He smells the foul stench of death coming from me. It’s not just him. Every animal went into hiding because of me. He’s just one of the braver ones to stick around.

“Dangerous? She’s not dangerous at all. She is a sick pony in need of some help.”

He throws the carrot he’s holding at me. It lands in one of my nostrils. I scrunch my nose and snort. I must look really silly right now. A puff of air escapes my nostrils, dislodging the orange obstruction.

“Angel! That wasn’t very nice. Say you’re sorry to her,” she says but then adds, “for me, please?”

He shakes his head and jumps onto her back. He’s tugging at her mane now, madly pointing and screeching at me.

“What are you trying to say?” she asks.

I wrap my hooves around her, the rabbit letting out an alarming cry as he loses his balance and falls to the floor. I pull her close and press her head against my chest, earning a squeak from her. She tenses in my hold. She’s trying to hide her rosy face.

“Oh my! I-I’m not sure how I should feel about this…”

I wish I can roll my eyes. I turn her head slightly so that her ear was over my chest and press her head gently. She actually listens this time. The room is silent, much like the pitiful organ in my chest. The rhythm is gone and forgotten. Her eyes widen, and she stares at me, speechless.

I let go. She has this look on her face, shocked and disbelieving. I understand, though. I will do her this kindness for the kindness she has shown me: I’ll leave.

I take a step, but a pair of hooves stop me.

“I’m sorry.” She sniffles. “I’m sorry that you...you know.”

I turn around, bewildered. This is...new. She’s crying for me. a pony she barely knew. Why does she cry, she who has no reason to cry? I never thought anyone would really care about me. She’s too kind for her own good.

“What happened to you?” she asks.

I shrug.

Tears mat the fur on her face and gather at the corners of her eyes. It’s pity. It’s an unexplainable sadness that comes from no one knows where, perhaps where my heart has gone to. It is such a secret place.

I press my head against the crook of her neck to soothe her cries. “No...crying.” My hoof touches her chest where I know lies a beating heart, even without seeing it. “Living. Talking. S-singing,” I stutter.

She wipes her tears. “You’re right, I know. But it’s sad, isn’t it? I just met you, but it’s like I gained and lost a friend in the same day.”

“Friend…?” I ask.

She nods and smiles. “Of course, you’re my friend.”

The corners of my lips curve upward for the first time, and I feel something I haven’t felt in a long time. I feel less dead. Somewhere within this cobwebbed shell of a body, I’d like to think there’s a part of me that hasn’t decayed, a part that can still feel things. It’s a very farfetched thing to think of, but so is the dead making friends with the living.

My mouth twitches to say something, and I close my eyes. “Flutter...shy.” It rolls off my tongue. She beams when I say her name again as I tap on her chest. “Fluttershy.”

I hold my hooves to my chest.

“Fluttershy,” I say. “Name?”

“Your name?” she asks. “You want me to give you a name?”

I nod.

Her eyes trail over my body before stopping on my mane. “Oh, your mane! It’s a lovely shade of gold. Why, with a little bit of cleaning and brushing, I’m sure you’d look beautiful. How do you like the sound of ‘Golden Locks?’”

I try to sound out the name. “G-Gold…” My voice fails me.

“How about I call you something shorter, like ‘Goldie?’”

“Gol...die,” I groan. It sounds like the name of someone’s pet goldfish, but I don’t mind.

“Hi, Goldie,” she says.

“Hi...Fluttershy,” I say.

On this planet, filled with hundreds and hundreds of ponies, there is a pegasus who has a voice like a bell and tears that are meant for others. She’s shy and quiet, but that’s fine with me. It means I have to listen closely to the meaningful words she has to say. Her name is Fluttershy, and to me, she has become the most interesting pony in the world.

Author's Note:

There are people who are good at coming up with names. I'm not one of those people...

Comments

[Lord Of Dorkness]

An intriguing premise... but doesn't the current cover rather give away the twist, if it means what I think it does?

IE, the 'undeath' really being the effect of poison joke.

Still, I'll give this a try once it isn't Get-The-Freaking-Heck-To-Bed O'Clock.

[Astrocity]

5027410 Didn't mean to make it a twist or anything.

[Lord Of Dorkness]

5027425

Eh, fair enough.

Just thought I'd point it out before bed, just in case.

[The Letter J]

5027410
And the first chapter made it pretty obvious that poison joke is involved anyway.

[Lord Of Dorkness]

5027983

Once more, with gusto.

Still, I'll give this a try once it isn't Get-The-Freaking-Heck-To-Bed O'Clock.

Didn't mean to make it a twist or anything.

Eh, fair enough.
Just thought I'd point it out before bed, just in case.

Only read the first chapter yet, but like what I see so far. I do question what possible personality type the poor mare might have had for this to constitute a 'prank,' though.

Just seems quite a bit more mean-spirited compared to what poison joke did in the show proper.

[The Letter J]

5030031
Well it could be that she just happened to die in a patch of poison joke, and the poison joke is then somehow keeping her undead. But I suppose we'll find out eventually.

[Dustchu]

Awww... so sweet and yet... this will have a sad end.
I wonder what this pony's story is? Hmm...

Nicely written.

[Dreypike]

"There are people who are good at coming up with names. I'm not one of those people..."

Me nether