Finding Inspiration

by bahatumay

Chapter 2

Wind Shear leaned back and wiped the sweat off his brow. Who said pegasi couldn't grow things? His little garden was coming along nicely, and soon he’d be able to eat vegetables he'd grown himself! How was that for success?

He stood up and looked at his little cottage. It was here by the edge of the forest, and it was nice and peaceful, just like Happy Trails had said. She hadn’t even minded when he’d left their hotel; in fact, she’d helped him find this place, with the stipulation that he come back for lunch three times a week. Anything for a little business, she’d said. And even a has-been like him was still somewhat of a celebrity, Wind Shear had added silently. Thank goodness for royalties. He wouldn’t even have been able to get a job on the weather team.

Green Hooves had been pretty helpful, too. Though her advice had come in the form of low whispers that Wind Shear had had to strain to hear, she had explained very thoroughly the whole gardening process. And she would know—everything in that kitchen, she had grown herself. And it was so good he’d’ve come in for lunch even without that condition.

The sound of hooves on dirt approached, and he looked up. Happy Trails approached, that little smile still on her face. “Knock, knock!” she called. “How’s my best customer?”

Wind Shear chuckled. “Not bad,” he said. “Growing some good stuff. I might even not need to come to lunch anymore.”
Happy Trails barked a laugh. “Not without Greenie’s cooking them,” she said, patting her stomach. “That mare feeds me so well. I can’t imagine life without her.”

Wind Shear had the impression that she had meant both of those statements quite literally. He shook his head to clear that particular thought, and looked over his small plot of land again.

Happy Trails looked with him. “Your parsnips are looking good,” she said encouragingly.

“Huh?”

“Your… your parsnips.” She pointed.

Wind Shear followed her hoof and squinted at the sprouting plants. A brief frown flitted across his face. “I thought those were carrots.”

Happy Trails shook her head and pointed to a different row. “No, those are carrots.”

Wind Shear frowned harder. “I thought those were radishes.”

Happy Trails shook her head again. “Those are radishes,” she said, pointing to a different section. “The short little guys. But just that third line right there. The rest are parsnips again.”

He'd thought they looked a bit different, but he'd thought it was from differences in the plants, not because they had come from entirely different species. Wind Shear pointed hopefully to a small patch to the right.

“Green onions.” She gave him a wry smile. “And you've been giving them too much water.”

Wind Shear exhaled. How had he botched all of that? Maybe he wasn't cut out for this whole farming gig after all.

Happy Trails winced. “I, uh, was going to invite you to come to a poetry reading tonight at the hotel—Greenie’s doing a poem she wrote—but if you want to, uh, stay home and rearrange, some of your signs instead, you know, that’s fine, too.”

Wind Shear sighed. “I guess I should.”

---

Wind Shear snorted derisively and kicked the door shut behind him. Perhaps it was because he was a writer, impelled to tell stories. Or maybe he just didn't get it. But either way, there was no story in this kind of poetry, and he didn't like it. Just… a mental dumping of whatever happened to be in the speaker’s brain at the time did not need to be celebrated. Or, more likely, whatever they'd been thinking of at two am when they should have been asleep. It’s like they were trying to make their poetry as dull, repetitive, or as abstract as possible. He'd probably get inordinately angry at rocks for the next couple days, just for existing. And tongue-clicking instead of stomping? Ugh. Talk about grating. At least Greenie’s poem had been decent. Four lines, and they had been mumbled, but decent. And they had actually rhymed.

He settled down in bed, irritably pulling the covers up to his chin. Waste of a night.

Or maybe he was just angry that inspiration (if it could be called that) had struck other ponies and not himself. Not that he cared, though. He was retired. No more writing for him.

As he tried to drift off to sleep, he happened to glance up at the window.

He was being watched!

He shot up and darted towards the window, but when he looked out, he didn’t see anything. He squinted, putting his hoof up to the glass, but could see nothing.

Chalking it up to a trick of the moonlight combined with being tired and annoyed, he flopped back down on the bed and didn't think any more about it.

---

Wind Shear grunted as he beat his wings furiously. All he'd wanted was one little cloud for his garden! But no, this forest storm had grown out of control far faster than he had expected, and now he was leaving without a cloud and missing a couple feathers to boot.

In his defense, he'd never actually been a weather pony; though now he was thinking he should have at least taken the training course. The wind and rain buffeted at him, and it was all he could do to stay flying straight.

Finally, his cottage came into view. He chuckled, relieved. Safety at last!

But his exultation came too early. A burst of wind to his left threw off his balance. He struggled to right himself, but it was too late. He looked up to see his white wooden fence, far too close for him to react.

His momentum carried him through the fence, splitting the boards with his face. He cried out in pain as he felt warm wetness that was definitely not rain flow down his forehead. Struggling to correct this, he was unable to stop himself. He hit the ground hard, rolled right through his parsnips, and slammed into the brick wall of his cottage.

---

Wind Shear slowly opened one eye. He attempted to open the other, but saw only darkness. He slowly pushed himself up, and then he realized that he was in his bed.

I must have gotten back inside somehow, he reasoned. He smiled at his own cleverness.

But as he pushed himself out of bed, he caught sight of his head in the mirror. Or, rather, he caught sight of the towel on his head. His head injury had been wrapped, and he reached up only to wince in pain and look down at his right foreleg. It, too, was wrapped.

He couldn't have done this on his own, let alone with a concussion. Somepony else had helped him.

He grinned. He had a pretty good idea of who it was.

---

Happy Trails brightened. “Wind Shear! Good to see you!” She cocked her head, and then her eyes widened. “What happened?” she asked, gesturing to his head.

“Nasty storm happened,” he answered. “I got caught in it, crash-landed in my garden. And somepony brought me back to my house.” He smiled, expecting her to take credit.

He was not expecting her to shake her head. “Whoa,” she said slowly. “That's crazy. I can’t believe that! You got lucky. Green Hooves and I were inside together all night, and it was sounding intense out there. Tore down a couple panels on our fence, even.”

Wind Shear was fairly certain they had spent the majority of that storm in each other’s forelegs. Hopefully the fore. He pursed his lips. “Honestly, I thought it was you,” he admitted.

Happy Trails shrugged. “Sorry.” She smirked. “Maybe it was the gorgony.” She waved a hoof mysteriously. “Oooohh…”

Wind Shear grinned. “Well, whoever it was, I'm pretty sure I owe them my life.”

“If you find out who it was, bring them over for lunch,” Happy Trails said with a smile. “I’d hate to lose our favorite local celebrity.”

---

Wind Shear sat on his porch and stared absently into the forest. If it wasn’t Happy Trails or Green Hooves, who was it?
Somepony had been out there. Somepony had brought him back inside and had wrapped his injuries, and done a decent job at that.

But who?

And how could he thank them for saving his life?

He knew the importance of remaining anonymous, of course. Some of his more, ah, playful novels had been published under the pen name ‘Cinnamon Toast’ (which was good, because some of the reviews let him know in no uncertain terms that he did not understand female anatomy as well as he'd fancied he had). But surely it wasn’t wrong to want to thank this mysterious pony?

After much thinking, he decided that it would be best to leave a note. That way, he could express what he wanted to, and leave it up to his rescuer what steps to take afterwards.

After a little thought (and even more thought figuring out where exactly he had stashed his typewriter), he typed up a note on a half sheet of paper and nailed it onto a post.

To the one that saved my life: thank you. I owe you one; or, at the very least, lunch. Please come by. I’d like to thank you in pony.

The next day, the note was gone.

Comments

[Icarus_Con_Queso]

which was good, because some of the reviews let him know in no uncertain terms that he did not understand female anatomy as well as he'd fancied he had

I bet.

Loving it so far.