The Exegesis of Frozen Waters

by HolyJunkie

Prologue (or Chapter 0 if you want)

[PAGE 0002 - PROLOGUE]

To whoever takes the time to read the only copy of this book:

If you are a publisher, it would mean much to me if the writing is preserved in some way, shape, or form. I do not want any modifications for the sake of political correctness. My words are my own, and I don't want to take the effort to hunt you down if I find a redraft in the public eye... but I know I will in the future.

For those of you who don't know why I took the time and months to write this, here is the reason: I was bored. Who wouldn't be?

I cannot die. I'm certain I'm going insane. I've played too much chess in my mind.

Brain science, I think, works differently when your brain maintains a certain age due to immortality. My guess is that it's like a memory card for a digital camera. The older it gets, the more liable it becomes to lose information... if that makes any sense to you, dear reader.

I just realised that I'm referring to myself with machine jargon. In writing, no less, I am talking to myself.

Maybe I'm writing this because of more than boredom. Maybe I just want to get stuff in a more permanent form before it gets deleted from the proverbial file corruption...

Thousands of years worth of observation, love, and loss are contained in these unedited pages. Also within these pages are what many ponies in power would claim to be libel- but even with my growing insanity, I know they could not be the untruth.

Take from it what you will, but please don't change the underlying message... whatever the hell it really is...

... The hell's a memory card, anyway?

---

"This is the worst screenplay I have ever read!" The voice was that of a retired opera singer. The pitch control was not what it used to be. Instead, it served as the powerful voice of a business pony. One who was used to bellowing out words of disdain.

The loud announcement silenced the theatre. Cast and crew alike turned their gazes to the office overhanging the floor from beyond the view of the greenscreen area. Cameras were crowded in a corner, where some ponies were performing maintenance.

"Look! Be reasonable!" the timid, yet clearly frustrated voice of the target of the ranting blathered weakly. The reasonably thin indigo male looked scrawny compared to the massive gut of the loud, yellow stallion who bellowed prior. "The main character acts out for the future of his kin! That's why he tries to-"

"It's not gleeful!" shouted the bottomless-gut business pony as he rose from his large office chair, "It's tragic! It's horrifying!"

"It's interesting!" The playwright added.

"Not to me, nor to the masses!" the businesspony shouted in retort. In a motion swifter than his size implied, he shoved his snout into the face of the timid one. As he sat down, with a remotely subtle voice, he added, "Ponies want a good story, not barbarism. We left that behind years ago!"

"What of the Birth of Equestria?" The thin one asked, "That's performed every year in theatres everywhere! There is arguing and fighting in that one!"

"The Birth of Equestria is historical! A real masterpiece! Your fiction is trite!"

The thin one cringed. He was used to his stories being called trite by pompous ponies who appeared to have no idea what happens in the mind of an author. He was more bothered at the mention of 'masterpiece', used in reference to the respectable, yet commonplace story. It was good; the pony did not doubt that. It was just not fresh. It was not new.

Every year, every theatre in Equestria created a performance of that play. Every year one film studio tries their hand for the Broncos, the highest awards for filmmakers. He had seen far too many different costumes of Chancellor Puddinghead, or the loud and brash Commander Hurricane. He's seen far too many posters depicting every title that could be conceived to be synonymous with "The Birth of Equestria."

So many colons nowadays...

"Do you even know what the word trite means, sir?" the indigo pony asked.

"It means cliche, of course. Not at all fresh!"

"Then how is it that a story where the protagonist fails to achieve his goal count as not fresh, not new?"

"It's horrendous! Don't you see, Silver Screen? Ponies do not want to see failure!"

"But Sydney, the story has a moral!" The thin Silver tried to tempt, "The moral can't work unless the protagonist fails!"

"This meeting is over, Silver. Go home and get some rest. Come back with a real screenplay for a real film." The rotund Sydney spat as he sat down. With a sigh, he added, "You wrote The Last Earth Pony- a real work of a genius! I know you can do better! Think about it."

Silver sighed. His unicorn horn glowed and his book of unkempt papers floated to his side. He then trotted out of the office. As he did, the pretentious prat of a pony panned in his seat to view something he deemed more interesting, namely a bookshelf full of screenplays the leaving writer had read and seen almost as often as the Birth of Equestria.

All of those plays were exactly the same.

The scriptwriter's hooves clopped upon each step as he descended from the elevated office. All eyes watched as the indigo male unicorn made the climb of shame. Upon reaching the floor of the backstage, he was approached by one of the cast.

"If it's any comfort-" the cast member started.

"No, it's not," Silver interrupted as he trotted briskly.

The playwright approached and entered the greenroom. The walls were, like the name suggested, a blueish green; a truly calming colour. After all, that was the purpose of a greenroom: a way to relieve stress for cast and crew just by being there. Despite all appearances, trying to get the right take for an increasingly impatient floor director could shake the nerves of even the most hardened professional.

The playwright passed some cast members applying makeup for a studio shoot. Silver opened the book with his unicorn magic as he trotted. The pages magically straightened out and reorganized in a seamless fashion. After that, he dropped the book into a set of saddlebags hanging on a hook near the door. With another bout of telekinesis, Silver hoisted the bags onto his back, and nabbed his hat- a wide-brimmed akubra made of a flexible cloth.

The hat served two purposes: a rain deterrent, and a method to hide his face from the streets when feeling depressed. It was not raining today, as the indigo pony found out as he left the studio. The sun was not accompanied by anything else in the sky. The pegasi of Trottingham did their jobs well, as usual.

Silver didn't really try to think on the way home. He just wanted to rest, take his mind off of things, start writing something new, like Sydney said. The play he carried was finished and polished to a mirror shine, so nothing could really be added to it. Might as well start something new.

If only that pompous pony didn't have a big ego towards 'good stories' with 'good morals'. Silver hated a number of the scripts that pony green-lit for the stage. The Last Earth Pony is nothing but trite.

Along the way, he spotted a coffee shop. Craving something warm, Silver entered.

"How's it going?" the keeper asked as Silver removed his hat and hung it on a nearby stand.

"Not good," Silver replied as he slumped the saddlebags down around the bar stool he claimed. He then ordered a simple black coffee- no sugar or cream. He wanted something bitter to get his mind off of things.

"Why's that?" the keeper asked.

"Well, I wrote a really good script, but the big cheese refused to give it any consideration."

"Well, can't please them all," the keeper commented. Silver could tell the comments and questions were just to try to come across as being friendly for the hopes of a tip, but hell, effort was effort.

Silver sipped his coffee, then sipped again. The bitterness of the black-as-night tea filled his mind with a differently directed disgust. Ironically, he relished it; the taste kept him awake.

"What was this story about?"

"It was about a family pony whose kids got split apart in a dark castle full of nasty creatures."

The keeper cocked a brow and flattened his lips, "Doesn't sound fun."

"No, but that's the genius of it." Silver replied, "See, she teams up with a gryphon monster hunter to escape the fortress."

The keeper nodded. Silver stopped when he realised the server of coffee wasn't really listening. "Ah, forget it," the scriptwriter said.

"What else have you written?" the keeper asked.

"I wrote the screenplays for a few films," Silver replied after a gulp of the horrid stuff, "Most recently, The Wonderbolt, and The Last Earth Pony."

The keeper's eyes lit up, "No way, really?"

Silver nodded, "They're not my best works, to be honest."

"My kids love The Last Earth Pony!"

The playwright couldn't help but smile. The Last Earth Pony was a good project, to be sure. It was, however, beyond lame. A Pegasus adopts the way of the Earth Ponies after his wings were broken beyond use, and somehow achieves a greater affinity to the natural Earth magic than even the best Earth pony. The new culture gave the pegasus a convenient advantage against evil gryphons.

It was such trite, but the film was nominated for and won many awards, including four Broncos. Not one of the awards, nominated or won, was for "Best Screenplay."

Silver understood why: It was such cheese, and everypony watched for the spectacle of multiple ponies organized for an epic fight between the crippled pegasus and the fully-functioning gryphon army. The entire scene played out like borderline propaganda.

He didn't hate gryphons, unlike his producer.

After finishing his coffee, he placed an extra bit on the counter for the keeper. The keeper pocketed the bit quicker than the playwright could reclaim his bags and hat.

The streets of Trottingham were rather thin. Few carriages were used in this part of Equestria. Here, the fillies and colts often played utilizing whatever they acquired from a toy store or from the streets as props for whatever games one kid might have invented.

Every day, there was something different. Silver knew perfectly well why: he worked with a pony who wrote a story like that.

It was about a group of colts who every day of the summer would go out to a lot and play nothing but their most favourite game. Nopony kept score, nopony called fouls. All they did was have fun.

Silver was critical about it when he first read it. The conflicts that arose weren't that big a deal. Something about a massive diamond dog that served as a feared menace; but it never really did anything. He still remembered the conversation that followed.

The other scriptwriter asked, "Does the conflict have to be big?"

Silver didn't verbally reply, but his mind said "No... but it would be more interesting." The next year, he refused to eat those words when the same film became a hit among pre-stallion colts.

At last, the playwright found his home, an apartment complex further downtown. The trot really comprised of several blocks. Depending on the daily mood, the walk could take minutes, or feel like a few hours.

Silver wasn't in a perfect mood.

Comments

[deathtap]

I like it so far.