The Book that had Never Been Read

by Unwhole Hole

Chapter 2

Even as the light outside was fading, the front of the library was still well lit. A few individuals still populated the front desks, finishing their last minute reading before they would eventually have to depart. Dinky walked quickly past them and into the line to the checkout desk.

In front of her, much to her surprise, were Snips and Snails. As they were not known for their scholastic prowess, Dinky had assumed that they would procrastinate heartily on their project. Instead, however, they had been some of the first students to the library. They had not checked out short, childish books either: they were presently struggling to carry away an almost absurdly thick and heavy book entitled “The Memoirs of the GREAT and POWERFUL Trixie, Volume 17 of 89”.

As they heaved and sweated trying to move the book, the line moved forward and it was Dinky’s turn to approach the desk. As she did, she stiffened involuntarily as she tried to act calm. Sitting behind the counter was none other than Spike the book-dragon.

“Ha ha!” laughed Dinky in the most awkward, cracking tone possible as she put the book on the desk. “Hello Spike! Have you had a busy day?”

“Every day is a busy day,” he said somewhat darkly as he took the book.

“Well, I could tell, because you seem to be draggin’ a little. Or a little dragon! Ha ha!”

Dinky smiled, but Spike did not laugh at her joke. He just stared, seeming somewhat confused and slightly concerned. Only then did Dinky realized just how awkward she was being, and she felt herself break out into a sweat.

“O…kay,” said Spike, flipping open the book and picking up a violet quill in one of his surprisingly dexterous claws.

“Hey,” said Dinky, trying to ignore the embarrassment that was creeping over her and making her heart beat even faster. “I was wondering if…if you wanted to study sometime? Together?”

“Study what?”

Dinky froze. A million responses came to her mind, and not a single one was appropriate to tell Spike. Instead, she gaped for a moment and then muttered something unintelligible.

“Sure..” said Spike, seeming like he wanted to take a step back. Still, being a dragon of great dedication, he proceeded with the checkout process, pulling the card in the back of the book out of its pocket. “Oh wow,” he said, holding up the card. Dinky saw that it was new, fresh, and entirely blank.

“It’s empty,” she said.

“I know. It looks like you’re going to be the first to take this one out! That’s really rare. Twilight usually insists on being the first. Even though, you know, she lives here and can read them whenever she wants without producing the paperwork.” He sighed. “But, hey, I’m just a dragon. What do I know?”

Spike dipped the quill into an inkwell and neatly block-printed “DINKY HOOVES” as well as the date on the very first line of the checkout card. Dinky could not help but stare at his amazing, beautiful handwriting.

“You know, I’ve always wondered,” he mused. “Is your name really ‘Dinky’?”

“What? Oh. No. It’s a diminutive. My actual name is ‘Dinkamena’.”

“REALLY?” cried an excited voice as a pink head suddenly appeared beside Dinky’s. Dinky was so startled that she nearly jumped out of her saddlebags. In actuality, though, they stayed attached, but her sudden jump and subsequent near-collapse from stumbling only made her look even more dorky in front of the book-dragon.

“Hey, Pinkie,” said Spike.

“Hay Pinkie? No, I’m just regular Pinkie. Although Hay Pinkie would probably taste delicious. Not as much as regular Pinkie, but pretty good.” She turned her attention toward Dinky. Dinky saw that she was holding a pink book decorated excessively with lacy blue patterns. Its title was “To Cup a Cake”. “But is your name really Dinkamena? Because mine’s Pinkamena!” She gasped deeply. “OMC! What if we’re related?!”

“I don’t think a similar first name constitutes blood relation.”

Pinkie was not listening. “It’s happening again!” she cried. “I already found out I was cousins with Applejack…and Big Mac.” Her expression fell. “And that made a lot of things…awkward.” She paused. “But what if…what if I’m related to everypony else? What if you’re actually my sister? What if- -what if I’m my own UNCLE?!”

“You do kind of look like her sisters,” said Spike. “Do you ever eat rocks?”

“Not unless there are rocks in muffins,” said Dinky, taking the book back from Spike.

“That sounds HARD to make,” said Pinkie.

“Come on, Pinkie,” sighed Spike. “You know the library has a strict no-pun policy.”

Dinky left the two of them to continue her conversation. She wished she could have stayed to talk to Spike a little more, but she knew a losing proposition when she saw it. That, and she did not especially like Pinkie. She was a fine pony, but she was hyperactive and strange, two characteristics that Dinky found off-putting even on their own. That, and she needed to get home. It was growing dark, and the book that now rested in her bag was not about to read itself.

When Dinky arrived home, the sun had already gone below the horizon but the sky had not yet gone dark. The lamps throughout Ponyville had been lit, and the twilight sky had become dark and blue, with the horizon having become an enormous rainbow that showed the last vestiges of yet another generic sunset. The first few of Luna’s stars and planets were already shining in the darkness, and the spring air had grown chilly and damp smelling.

This did not bother Dinky especially much. She did not mind the dark. It had never frightened her as much as it had the other children. She was aware that monsters were indeed real, and that many of them big and small were at least mildly carnivorous- -but she also knew that almost none of them would ever enter Ponyville. Ponyville was safe, and nothing there could hurt her no matter how dark the world seemed.

If anything, the darkness was somewhat inviting. It was quiet, and the noise of being a child was dampened by the cool air and empty streets. Dinky supposed that was what adults felt like: alone, and silent. It made her wish that she was able to grow up more quickly than she already was.

Her house was somewhat near the edge of Ponyville, set slightly apart from the others so as to avoid accidents. The next nearest house was that belonging to Lyra Heartstrings and her roommate, and both buildings commanded an unassuming but impressive view of the fields beyond Ponyville that in time became rolling, pastoral hills and eventually the border of the Everfree Forest.

The door was on the other side of the house from the fields. As Dinky opened it, she prepared an unlocking spell. Technically, she did have a key, but preferred to practice alteration magic whenever she got a chance. Unfortunatly, she found that the door was unlocked, as most in Ponyville were even during the night.

When Dinky entered her house, the warm inside air washed over her, reeking of muffins. That was not especially unexpected.

The door opened into a combined room that connected to an open parlor on Dinky’s left. Almost as soon as Dinky entered, she saw that her mother was sitting on the couch and aggressively gnawing at one of her own wings.

“Dinky!” cried Derpy, shoving her wing behind her in an attempt to hide the fact that she had been preening right in the middle of the living room. She looked at Dinky with the one eye that she was able to focus properly and appeared genuinely concerned. “You’ve come home so late! I was so worried! I thought you might have gotten lost!” She sighed. “I know that happens to me all the time when I try to go through Ponyville all alone…”

“I was at the library,” explained Dinky, “I lost track of time.”

“Oh,” said Derpy. She stood up and followed Dinky through the house toward the kitchen in the rear. Although Derpy was able to fly, she preferred to walk indoors. The walls were already covered with an exorbitant number of photographs mostly so that their frames could cover the various holes that Dinky’s mother had already inadvertently created in the drywall.

“So, how was your day?” asked Derpy.

“Fine,” said Dinky. She reached up to the counter with her magic, taking down a plate and a green colored pistachio muffin from one of the manifold baskets of muffins present throughout the house. “The same as every other day, I guess. Did you send my applications in?”

Derpy’s face immediately scrunched. “Applications?”

Dinky frowned. “Yes, my applications. To Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns? The ones I gave you this morning?”

“I…I lost them.”

“You WHAT?” Dinky almost dropped her muffin, and Derpy took a step back, surprised by Dinky’s sudden reaction. Dinky had not intended to yell, but the essays and forms in those applications had taken her almost a month to complete to her satisfaction. Annoyed, she put her hoof onto the bridge of her muzzle. She was already starting to get a headache. “I didn’t mean to yell. Sorry, mom. You know what? Next time, I’ll just mail them myself. All you’ll need to do is sign them. Okay?”

“You’re…you’re going to fill them out again?”

“Of course. I have to get into that school, mom. I just have to.”

“But you’d have to go all the way to Canterlot…”

“That’s the idea.”

Dinky strengthened her grip on the muffin that she would be having for dinner and started for the stairs that led from the far side of the kitchen to the second story.

“Wait, Dinky,” said Derpy, trotting after her.

“Yeah, mom?”

“Well,” said Derpy, “I was just wondering. Since tomorrow’s Saturday, I just thought we could go for a picknick! Rainbow Dash says the weather’s going to be just wonderful, and look!” She picked up a basket in her mouth. “I mff mffns!”

“Sorry, no. I’m busy.”

“Bffy?” Derpy set down the basket. “But you used to love picknicks when you were younger!”

“I just don’t have time. I have an important book report for school, and I really need to work on it.” She started to climb the stairs. “I’ll be in my room until Monday. If you need me, just knock.”

She ascended the stairs, leaving Derpy alone with her muffins and the supplies for the picnic that she had spent the better part of the week planning and looking forward to. “But why wouldn’t I need you?” she asked herself.

Dinky’s room was small and relatively simple, despite being packed with furniture. Most of it consisted of shelves holding various loosely organized notes and whatever books she had managed to afford for herself. Her bed was pressed into a corner next to a paper-strewn nightstand. At its foot stood a record player on a fine piece of purpose-built furniture, something that Dinky’s mother had spent a considerable sum on as a Hearthswarming present a year prior. Dinky, of course, was not a fan of music. She considered it a distraction. As such, she had never even taken the record player out of the box and instead used it to support a small box of spare ink and chalk for her to-do chalkboard.

The first thing Dinky did upon entering was to remove her saddlebags. They were quite full of books, and she was a small pony even for her age. Her back hurt, as it always did when she came home. She ignored the smarting pain and crossed to her window. It was on the rear of the house, facing the beautiful fields and hills outside.

Down in those fields, a number of fillies and colts were playing, despite the fact that it was dark. Dinky recalled that one of her classmates had planned a slumber party. The children outside seemed to be laughing, running with lights or their horns aglow, enjoying the absurd novelty of playing late on a Friday night.

One of the colts stopped and looked up at Dinky, who was backlit from the dim light in her room. He waved, as if inviting her to come down and join them. Dinky stared back for a moment, and then shut the thick curtains closed with her magic. She had, of course, been invited to the party. Like with all parties, though, she had written a letter of declination. Parties just distracted her from her studies. This was the weekend, after all: it was a prime time for studying without the hassle of school to get in the way.

“I don’t have time for that,” she muttered to herself. “Too busy…”

Dinky crossed the now entirely dark room to her desk. A lamp had been placed there. Not a traditional firefly lamp that most residents of Ponyville used, but an actual crystal-powered lantern, the same kind they used in Canterlot. Dinky had pooled her allowance for almost two months to be able to afford it, and even then had only been able to purchase a used model with an old and sometimes faulty crystal core.

Still, it was far superior to fireflies for Dinky’s purposes. She charged her horns, directing her energy into the center of the lantern. The crystal flickered with her golden light and then ignited with an intense white glow that cast the various objects of the room into harsh shadows against the chilly white light.

At the sight of this harsh oblique light, Dinky smiled. That light meant that it was time to get work done. She immediately began to unload her saddlebags and get ready for the book report.

Dinky did not have the same penchant for organization that her older sister, Sparkler, had possessed. That was something that always made her jelous, even more so since Sparkler had taken a job in the Crystal Empire. Apparently, Shining Armor, on one of his frequent visits to Ponyville, had been quite taken with Sparkler and impressed by her capacity for neatness and planning. He had stated that she “reminded him of his sister” and apparently been quite intrigues by Sparkler’s three-crystal cutie mark. He had given her a job offer on the spot. Sparkler had accepted, and Shining Armor had taken her with him when he returned to the distant Empire.

Still, although Dinky was hardly organized, she had a system. She immediately cleared her desk of the various notes and books that had been placed there, most of which involved the timetables and anecdotal accounts of the CSGU entrance exam. Where they had been, Dinky set down a pad of paper- -not the lined version that the other students used to ensure that their letters were strait, but real, white paper, rolled on a scroll- -and took out three gray quills. She set them next to three vials of ink: black for the actual writing, and two shades of red. One shade was for corrections on the first seven drafts, and the other lighter shade was for the corrections on her corrections.

When this was prepared, Dinky finally set down the book in the center. As she did, the light fell over it, illuminating deeply the fading and stains on its cloth cover. Dinky had not given the book itself much thought since she had picked it out, but now realized that she had no idea what it was even called, let alone the subject.

That, though, was part of what drew her to it. It was easy enough to write a book report with a topic that she already knew; if she was going to be a successful academic unicorn, then she needed to know how to review a book no matter what it was with no preparation in advance. The thought of the challenge was truly thrilling, and Dinky could almost feel herself shaking with anticipation of beginning this report.

So, Dinky opened the book. For a moment, she was somewhat surprised. She thought that the last time she had opened it, she had seen a few blank pages before the start of the text. Now, though, not even those were present: the text simply started on the first page. They had not been torn out, either. They seemed to simply have never been there.

Dinky found that odd but dismissed it easily. She assumed that she must just have been confused, or perhaps had held the book in reverse and in her haste not realized that she was looking at the rear pages.

It did not matter anyway. Dinky directed her attention at the text itself and began reading.

What happened next was highly unexpected. This had been a random book taken from the Far Edge, an area where the dustiest and driest books congregated to fade quietly into obscurity. Dinky had been prepared for a slog through either obsolete dreck or something so technical that even she might find herself nodding off as she forced her way through it, collecting facts and analysis to still create a stunning report.

Instead, she found that she actually liked it. In fact, she more than liked it. By the end of the first page, she had been completely engrossed and sat for a moment in awe of how well it had been written. She then quickly read all the way through to the start of the second chapter. By then, her heart was racing.

It was beautiful. Despite the nonentity of the book, it was the greatest that Dinky had ever read- -and she had read a lot of books. In terms of technical structure, it was perfect: the sentences ran with perfect meter, blending into one another with a combination of fine punctuation and challenging but not obscure vocabulary, never getting in the way of themselves as they knit themselves together into elegant, powerful paragraphs.

And that was only the technical aspect. The content of the book was what really drew Dinky in. The characters, though nebulous at first, quickly took shape through precise and exacting characterization, and every moment they spent manipulating and being manipulated by the world of the story was another moment that Dinky fell more in love with them.

The story made her feel. Not just the mundane, boring emotions of her repetitive life. Instead, she felt sharp, crisp, deep emotions, some of which she had never felt before. Some of them made her shake in her seat, knowing that they were probably not appropriate for a filly her age, but they were written in such a way that she did not need to be a fully grown mare to understand what they meant. What she saw was a vision, a perspective that she had never considered, both about herself and the world, but without didacticism: instead, it ran like a complex and detailed discussion with every part thundering silently just below the veneer created by the plot, world, and characters.

Faced with this text, there was no way for Dinky to stop reading. The only time she had to was when the tears in her eyes became too thick for her to see the pages, both when she laughed and when she wept, both more strongly than she ever had in her life.

Every second of reading the book drove her on, faster and harder. She should have felt fatigued, but as she moved through it she only wanted more, to let it take control of her and drive her. The story held her mind captive, but to her, it was as though she were being held in a pair of strong arms and being carried gently forward toward an ending of inconceivable beauty.

Then it finally came. The ending. Dinky literally cried out as she read it. She did not think that the story could have gotten any better than it had, but the ending of it was perfect. Everything that had been drawn from the plot of the story down to the smallest and most seemingly insignificant thread was pulled together, revealing that complicated plot had truly been connected the whole time in a way that was brilliant in its simplicity. The pleasure Dinky took in that ending was almost unfathomable, and as the climax finished and the remainder of the story closed like a flower blooming in reverse, she could not help but feel sadder than she had ever felt that it was over.

Finally, though, she reached the end. Dinky was greeted by her name staring back up at her, occupying the very first slot on the checkout card in the back. Shaking and drenched in sweat, Dinky slowly closed the rear cover.

She looked around. Time had passed, but she had no idea how much. A thin strip of light was coming between the thick curtains over her window, so she assumed that it was either Saturday or Sunday, probably around midday. Dinky looked over her desk and saw the plate where her pistachio muffin had been. All that was left were a few green crumbs. She had gotten so excited, it seemed that she had eaten the muffin wrapper by mistake.

“Oh, book,” said Dinky, running her hoof gently over the cover. “I can see why Twilight loves your kind. Because I love you. So much.”

Dinky sat there for a moment, waiting for her young body to stop shaking and for her mind to be ready for the next stage of the project. Even as good as the book had been, reading it had only been half the project: now came the time for the report, and after a book that excellent, Dinky knew that she needed to write an appropriately superb essay.

Carefully, Dinky picked up one of her gray quills in her magic and dipped it into the vial of black ink. She blotted off the excess ink and then held the pen over the paper, its sharp point prepared to begin.

But something was wrong. The pen never dropped, and its tip never touched the paper. Dinky just held it there, hovering above it, trapped in anticipation of what it would write.

At first, Dinky did not understand what was wrong, or why she could not start. Physically, there was no reason why she could not: it was simply a matter of writing, which was something she excelled at. Nor was it that she could not think of what to write, exactly. It went deeper than that.

To her horror, Dinky finally realized what was wrong. She was not having trouble formulating the report at all; rather, she found herself completely unable to remember anything whatsoever concerning the book that she had just read.

“No,” she said, shaking her head and putting the quill back. “No way…”

It was impossible. The way that book had felt had been too intense and too real. Dinky knew that she had read it, that it had been truly amazing, that every character and plot point and element of the world within had been perfect. It had been the most amazing story she had ever read, and she wracked her brain, but to no avail. Despite having finished it just moments before, she could not remember a single element of the plot, or a single character within, despite the fact that she still remembered that she must have loved them.

This paradoxical state was unbelievably maddening. Dinky knew that she had just witnessed perfection, and yet somehow nothing of it remained in her mind except for a vague and shadowy perception that SOMETHING had been there. As hard as she tried, though, nothing worked. Dinky could not remember a single element from within.

“That’s impossible,” she said, trying to assert logic over the situation. She flipped the book over and stared at it. “I did read it. I REMEMBER reading it.” She paused. “But I don’t remember what’s in it…”

Something like this had never happened to her, and Dinky was completely dumbfounded. Although she was mostly amazed, though, something deeper seemed to be crawling across the pit of her stomach. Instinctually, she knew that something about this was very, very wrong, that something like this should not happen, ever, and that any logical explanation she created was nothing more than false rationalization.

Not that logical explanations were plentiful, though. Dinky was intelligent, but she was still a child. She had no idea what had happened and hardly had the world experience to be able to interpret what it might have been.

So, she did the only thing that did come logically to her: she opened the front of the book, and started again.

The effect was the same. The amount of sheer pleasure and awe was just as it had been, even though this time Dinky recognized everything that was within. It read as though she were greeting an old friend, like as though she were seeing her sister stepping off the train from the Crystal Empire. Dinky had no idea how she could have forgotten such a lovely story, nor did she care. Once again, she was drawn in, and once again she did not stop until she had finished.

Then, once again, she closed the book and picked up her quill- -only to realize that once again nothing would come out, that the memory still eluded her entirely.

This time, Dinky screamed, mostly in rage- -but her exclamation also came from somewhere deeper, a place that gave it a tone that frightened even her. It was that same feeling as before, but stronger. That she had made a horrible mistake, and that she should not have read it again. That this was not right, and that something was horribly, horribly wrong. It was as if for some reason her instinctive, primitive self felt that it had somehow been damaged.

This wrongness had spread to Dinky’s conscious mind. Once was an anomaly, something that she could not explain- -but twice was simply too uncanny.

“No,” she said, shaking her head and pushing her paper and ink vials away and centering the book on her desk once again. “There’s no way I’m doing this wrong! There’s no way I can’t manage to operate a bran-munching BOOK!”

Dinky’s anger overwhelmed her apprehension, and even though her mind was telling her to run as fast and as far as possible, she instead opened the book and started reading again.

In total, Dinky read the book four times. Each time produced the same result: each time, Dinky would finish the book, only to find that she remembered nothing from within. By the end of the fourth time, her anger had largely been replaced with a raw and unsteady panic and a belief that something horrible must have been wrong with her. The only logical conclusion that she had come to was that somehow, she was a defective pony. The book report remained unwritten.

Dinky would have opened the book and read it a fifth time, but as great as the temptation was, she managed to stop herself when she heard the low musical notes of the grandfather clock downstairs chiming eight tones. Dinky was vaguely aware that it had already produced that sound three times during the weekend, and that this fourth lonely call meant that it was Sunday night.

As great as the panic was that drew Dinky back toward the book, the conditioned response to go to bed early on a school night was stronger. She paused for what felt like an eternity, just staring at the book, but eventually managed to tear herself away from it. It was imperative that she go to bed in a timely manner so that she would be wakeful for the next day’s lessons.

With grave difficulty, she pulled herself across the room and into her bed, balling the thick blankets up around her into a large pile so that only her face was exposed. Despite having been awake for three days straight, sleep did not come easily. The clock had already chimed for midnight when Dinky finally drifted into restless sleep.

Dinky found herself walking through the streets of Ponyville. It was another bright, sunny, prepackaged day with every aspect of the town built to be as aesthetically pleasing as possible. Except that the edges seemed a bit strange. Not misty, exactly, but gray, as though the brilliant color of the day did not shine through long distances, or as though the far aspect of the world had been hoof-painted over something with an entirely different and potentially far more unsavory exterior.

Otherwise, though, Ponyville looked fine, and Dinky either dismissed the anomalies or failed to notice them. Instead, she stopped in front of a house, pausing to search through the mail in her bags until she found the correctly addressed envelopes. Then she opened the gate with her magic and walked up the flagstone path to the door.

Once there, Dinky knocked. “Mail!” she said, cheerfully.

At first, there was just silence. It was then followed with some low and undecipherable words, followed by the sound of somepony approaching the door. A second after that, the lock was unfastened and the door thrown open.

“What?” demanded the mare inside.

“Mail,” said Dinky, handing out the letters.

The mare stared at them for a moment, and then up at Dinky. “What in the name of the Lunar rump are you doing?”

“I’m…I’m delivering the mail- -”

“We have a mailbox! It’s right over there!” She pointed, and Dinky saw that she indeed did. She had passed it on the way it. “I mean, what in Celestia’s curly beard do you think you’re doing? You don’t have to hoof-deliver anything, you moron.”

“But- -”

“USE- -THE- -MAIL- -BOX,” said the mare, increasing her volume and mouthing each word in an exaggerated fasion as though Dinky were unable to comprehend. Then she snatched the mail from Dinky and began to return to her home. Before slamming the door in Dinky’s face so close that it nearly tapped her horn, Dinky heard her say: “Moron. I don’t know why I should have to look at her ugly color. It’s like she wants to depress the rest of us too.”

Dinky paused for a moment, then took a deep breath and walked back down the flagstone path and returned to the street. As she did, she set up her mailbags with the mail for the next house. When she began walking, she took a muffin out of her bag and began to unwrap it.

Before she had even removed the paper, though, Dinky found herself screaming. Tears were running down her face as she shrieked in despair, staring at the muffin. She had once had potential, promise, and a future. All of it had been squandered. It had all come down to this: no magic school, no Canterlot education, no point to her years and years of studying. Instead, she had become nothing more than a pointless and redundant mailmare, just as her mother had been before her.

Suddenly, Dinky felt herself falling. The gray incompleteness of the edges of Ponyville suddenly came crushing in on her, tearing apart the house she had just visited by converting it into nothing more than an improperly painted background sketch. As the world began to fade to black, for just a moment Dinky thought she saw what was painted on beneath those backgrounds. It had a shape, but whatever it truly was, she was not able to comprehend it.

Then, with a splashing sound, Dinky landed in water. She gasped and sputtered, but quickly stood up, realizing that it was no more than ankle deep. Somehow, despite falling from a great distance, she was completely uninjured.

She looked around. Where she was standing appeared to be the marsh at the edge of a great lake: she was surrounded by tall, stiff salt-grass that seemed to wave in a breeze that she could not feel. The lake stretched out before her under a dark sky, but even in the low light Dinky could tell that the water was cloudy and brown. Even the few inches of water she was standing in obscured the muddy bottom, and the lake stretching out before her held a certain darkness in its water that made her feel far more than just slightly nervous.

“A beautiful night, isn’t it?” said a voice beside Dinky.

The young filly looked up in surprise, but not quite in fear. She saw a much taller pony emerging from the space between the semiaquatic grass. Her coat was dark blue, and a starry mane and tail trailed behind her as she walked.

“Princess Luna,” blubbered Dinky, immediately dropping to her knees. The mud she found herself in stank horribly, and felt worse. It made Dinky shudder. “I- -I guess this means that this is a dream.”

“Indeed it is,” said Luna, pausing several feet from Dinky.

Dinky looked up, astounded at the beauty of her Princess’s face. “But I thought you only attended the dreams of important ponies!”

“We do, usually. But that does not mean sometimes we do not visit the peasantry sometimes as well.”

“Oh,” said Dinky, mildly insulted. She stood from the mud, feeling the dirty water rush back around her. She looked out at the lake, wondering why she could not see the other side. “Then this…what does it mean?”

“This part? We are not sure. And, frankly, if you are unable to interpret it, then you are not worthy of our time or presence.”

“I’m sorry,” said Dinky, bowing deeply. “I didn’t mean any insult by it.”

“It hardly matters if you mean it or not. Not that we truly care, though.”

Luna started walking once more, but not toward Dinky. Instead, she began to walk outward, into the lake. Dinky watched in both awe and confusion as she went, her body slowly sinking into the opaque water. Dinky shivered at the very thought of even allowing that water to get past her knees, wondering what exactly might be in a lake of such size. Luna, though, did not even hesitate. She passed through the water quickly, barely making a wake, and within a few minutes had reached a point where only her head and neck were visible.

Suddenly, she stopped, still facing outward toward the still deeper parts of the lake that seemed to stretch on for eternity. “As for the first part, though,” she said. She turned her head slowly, and Dinky saw that her eyes were no longer dark blue. Instead, they were pure scarlet, with neither pupil nor sclera.

Luna smiled, revealing a mouth that seemed to hold hundreds upon hundreds of long, sharp teeth. “I think,” she continued, now in a different voice than before, “that it means that you should really invest more time into that book report. Assuming you want to avoid that future, of course.”

“Dinky?”

Dinky shot awake suddenly at the sound of her mother’s voice, gasping as she did and immediately becoming aware of a sharp pain in her lower body. She looked around, and saw that she had been sleeping at her desk, her face literally buried in the half-read book that was sitting in its center.

“Yeah?” she said, sleepily, still sweating from the vision of the swampy lake-edge and Luna’s horrible red eyes. “What is it, mom?”

Derpy peered through Dinky’s door. “I said, you need to hurry. School starts in a half hour! I know how much you hate to be late!”

Author's Note:

"Hate...late..." She gasped. "I'm a poet and I didn't know!"

Comments

[Emperor]

Ha. I had noticed right away that there was no actual detail being given to the book's plot and characters and expected that to be the main point, and so it was. I wonder if there's any further effects to the book than what's been mentioned in this chapter. Obsession to the point of rereading it 4 times can already be pretty dangerous.

Dinky...honestly reminds me of Twilight Sparkle and how she was in Season 1 and supposedly prior to the series. The difference here that instead of being allowed to grow in a good strong environment, she feels like she has a very short ceiling and she's acting out in a lot of ways as a result (some ways deserved, such as her mom losing her application, others not so much). Of course, how much of it is to actually get into Canterlot and study magic further and how much she merely wants to get away from her mother remains to be seen.

It's for that same reason that I won't be surprised if she doesn't alert anypony about this dangerous book, because she'll think she has to solve it all by herself and she'll be worthless if she can't. I was going to say that I'd be disappointed with Luna's appearance because either it would make Luna useless or solve the plot too quickly, but it being not-Luna works.