Real Problems from a Pony

by PepperSweet

Fainting Feelings

Sweet should have been free; among the world, in the sky, and with herself, her spirit should have been flowing like her mane. Flying was a very poetic experience for her in the past, regardless of how fast she was going. She could set the air around her on fire three times over and still recollect on life with as much thought and feeling as if she was standing still. Even more so, to an extent.

She chose to bolt through the air this dark evening, however, not for any purpose but life over death. She was in haste because her end was chasing, but also for the rushing wind. It was the best way of drying the tears of not an hour ago's pain. The pain of loss and horror. Of the gone and the going.

The of the hunted for their silence; the pain that swells faster than all others is that of a helpless bystander, who couldn't help for another's life.

The pain... how could it be described in any other way? It was dull and throbbing and it wanted to throw her down to the ground, to stay there and give in, but at the same time it pushed her harder to flee. It could be told of by the greatest poet in the lands and still not have been given justice. One has to feel it, because if this feeling has to give mercy, it will only be allowing empathy in its wake...

Her head hurt. A lot and all in the front, but that's her face, isn't it?

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Sweet shot up to her back hooves, this time alertly. Her body was in a cold sweat and her headache was blaring away just as before, but now she stood firm. Not sober or by any means more alert, but firm. As well as bleeding from her snout.

"Spit..." It took a while, but she finally speaks her mind through an airy gasp of breath. It must have been a record for most disturbing and depressing dream in the shortest amount of time.

Sweet stumbles back to the couch behind her and falls into its cushioned depths, landing with her back hooves resting upon the floor. With one of her free ones, she inspected the damage to her leaking nose.

Sure enough, it was numb to the touch, but a small push issued a minuscule deal of pain. She brought up her other foreleg to check the shape of her muzzle, which luckily wasn't deformed. It was amazing she remembered anything from her books regarding her problem, let alone anything medical, but she had a knack for remembering things. After all, forgetting something in her situation could be deadly... presumably.

Knock knock, knock!

Sweet jumped in her seat a bit to the sound of a hoof on flimsy wood, albeit mostly to dismay, because the jolt made her smack her jaw.

"FF-!" She bit her bottom lip, letting out a sharp hiss for a splinted second. The bruise
wouldn't stay long, though.

Rubbing the point of impact, Sweet started for the door on her hind legs. She was leisurely with her steps, regardless that they were few, for the knock at the door was a code of sorts that the kind gentlecolt had set for the unalarming ability to do so. Although, since it obviously didn't work that way, it was more likely that she was just unintentionally moving slow.

When she reached the door, she hooked a hoof around the handle of the sliding barn-style door and tugged. It wouldn't have been a good idea to use her magic right then. She was greeted with a blast of light from the Autumn sun, lower yet just as brilliant. When her eyes were finished with their tearing fit, they made out the outline, followed by the entire image, of a medium sized, cream coated, droopy eyed stallion. His collarless beige shirt was just loose enough to sag like his eyes, and his naturally fading denim pants were stretched by the knees, signs of pulling a cart or bucking out against something repeatedly. Sweet took the slightly dazed moment to reflect on how she compared to the farmer fashion-wise just as a focusing mechanism to snap her out of her 'funk'.

She knew that it wasn't late into the season, so she wore a leather jacket that was just enough to keep her away from overheating. Specifically, it was well fitting and broken in material that she preferred to wear in over any shirt she had, which today was a gray v-neck. Her hips bore a pair of equally faded jeans to the stallion in front, but were probably made to be faded with chemicals and machines rather than time. Normally she wouldn't wear them, but she found herself walking upright more often and decided that it would be a desired act of decency.

"You okay?" Malt's voice was deep, yet chipper. He sounded as heartfelt as he could for a drunk, and the drunk that was Sweet admired that. She moaned a reassuring Mrrph as she looked up from her back legs that held her up. Now she was looking at the stallion's face that was sporting a confused and cautious look.

Huh. He doesn't get it, maybe?

"Ahm drunk." She tests the waters.

"I figured." He replies back, a tinge of patience trying to settle subtly through the remark.

Nope. He's got it. Geeze, he must be smart...

Holy crap, I'm much more bucking drunk th-

"*hic!* S-surry, uh, dood." She stopped herself for no particular reason. "Wh.. whearm... what tim'sit?" Words. Tricky things for the intoxicated, they are. "Ah mee', *huff*, izzit t-time fer th'... -uh, thing?" Malt's ears drooped a bit at the mare's state.

"Groceries? You mean groceries, right?" He placed his hooves carefully to turn, showing the two baskets balancing on his back. Sweet nodded and grabbed one as quick as she could with her magic, flushing the air around the handle in a small red aura. The color of the magic was a sign for it being of the dark arts, which ran through the veins naturally within Sweet. Of course, magic is magic however the hue. It was a lesson that she was told every day as a filly by teachers, friends, and her mother. It was really nailed in, and was at this point a catch-phrase in her life whenever she was picked on or feared by the little ponies back at her city. Oh how she missed her mother, who passed when Sweet was just 5-

"Whoa, now." Malt snapped Sweet back to thought. She must have been distracted, because she was tottering in place with the basket she grabbed slowly dropping towards the ground. Malt placed a foreleg under the basket to lift it up, which was the last thing that Sweet saw before she face planted right next to said basket.

Author's Note:

OK. SO.

After this chapter is released, it'll be above a thousand words, so I can submit it, as most people, may, have assumed, since, it, is, a rule,, that,, u,,,,,,,hav,,,,,,,,2,,,,,,,follo,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

ANYHOOVES

This chapter is still kind of short, partly because I'm introducing characters a bit quicker than I planned out on the paper write-out that I use as a sort of reference/bible. This makes it so that the single chapters that usually introduce a single character or plot point are reduced because the idea or character entry is reduced and AAAAAAH. JUST.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHH.

*huff*
welp
STILL SHORT FOR NOW. I'll make the next one a ton longer and we'll see how that plays out; whether it's better when it's longer or shorter is up to you, but it's mostly up to how long you want to wait for it that's the killer. So, I'll work on it!

Innabit!

Comments

[PepperSweet]

I'd just like to point this out before anything else arises:
My descriptions are not really descriptions, but more starting points. Set ups to a story, not the idea of one. So when this thing steers away from what the description says later in the story, don't freak out. It's just how I do my descriptions, for present warnings and future reference.