The Salarymare's Infinitude
Morning arrives, after a night of dreamless sleep. Neither dawn nor dewy-warm half-noon, a cacophony of bells and barking. She’s out of bed before waking, eyes still half-shut, curtains drawn tight against the watery sun. Hoof to the alarm, pad to the door, open, shut.
Kitchen. The dog is lolloping in circles around his bowl. Eyes shut, head pounding. A bark to match the bark; he quiets. She pats his head as the kibble rains into his bowl, loud and tinkling, and puts the kettle on. Food can wait.
Washroom. A closet to fit the pejorative. Step into the shower, rinse away the grit. Scrub. Eyes open, finally, though the curtains are closed. Half-scattered dream-bits ever-rushing, ever rushing away. Shut the water off, towel off in the shower so as not to trip over the toilet. Step out, check the clock—quarter hour passed.
Choice expletive.
Kitchen again. The kettle is quiet – nothing left for tea. Put the damn thing away; won’t have to be cleaned later, at least. Open the icebox, pick through the offerings, dog circling expectantly. Stare, less than she wants to. Nothing jumps out; oh well, there’ll be things at the office, anyway. Close the door, dog is disappointed.
Bedroom again. Shake out mane again, as habit. Don’t bother with the curtains; leaving in half an—twenty minutes, anyway. Sun’ll be there, sure as Celestia got up this morning. Stumble over a discarded bit of clothing on the way to the closet. Kick it anywhere else. Open the shutter-door, watch the hitch at the halfway mark. Shove for fullness; open.
Uniform is minimal ‘round the office. Pick out her best bow-tie. Well, second-best. Well, standard. It’s a bow-tie. Tie the tie in the dusky vanity. Don’t need to see to know she’s done it. Mane and tail done up similarly. Reflex. Crick neck, crick back, crick—oh, she’d wanted to exercise this morning.
Choice expletive.
Bathroom again. Clean teeth, touch up hair, check tie. Not perfect—never perfect. Presentable; enough. Clock again—ten minutes to three-past-the-dawn. Enough.
No tea, no biscuit, no bag to pack; running light today. Warm enough the last few to go without a coat, but she can always double back. Bang a shoulder on the wall, taking the corner too fast—typical.
Let the dog into the back on the way out, let him chase the squirrels. What had Ms Wattle said when she’d come ‘round to complain? Barking at all hours of the day from inside the house? Well, he’d done well enough on his own over the week-end; couldn’t be too bad today, right?
Fog starting to clear as she locks up, looks around the street. Sun does the trick—come to rely on it for that, when tea or time are scarce. (In Celestia we trust, all others drink coffee.) Blink out the last of the sleep, the unremembered dreams. Face the day. Wave to some neighbour or another—she only knows them by sight—let the hoof fall as he turns. Trundle down the front walk to the street.
Passing scenery. Same as it ever was—pastoral, sub-urban. Comfortable, in its own way. Squat half-timbers sliding past on either side, all neatly-kept gardens and spring-widened windows, breathing in the fragrances of pre-summer, distinct-but-indistinguishable as she meanders down the cobbles into town. Square-eyed faces, blank and still—round-eyed faces, blanker still. Know their owners, of course—see a pony enough years, you’re bosom buddies without a word.
Eyes flick skyward, tracking unaccustomed motion. Pegasus up there, corralling clouds. Eyes linger a moment on a shapely flank, back down in time to dodge the mare-and-two-foal circus. Murmured apologies as they pass, and the trek resumes. Sun remains bright. Wishes her head was in the clouds.
Town. Comes up without much warning, last row of cottages shying away like a surly commuter crowd. Small businesses, storefronts, the odd market stalls—hooves idly trace the cobble-twists and pavement-turns as Celestia’s sun pales the peeling wood and fraying thatch all around.
Bit’s and Bobs’, the sign creaks. Chartered accountancy and tackle shop—a Ponyville bona fide. Round the corner, duck in under the low-hanging net. Sidestep the foal running bait to the lake (the smell doesn’t even register anymore), up the stairs. Receptionist wants to make small talk; nod to the door, smile wanly. She understands, no matter how many times this makes, and squeaks out shrill sweetnesses to each retreating back.
The firm, at a tackle shop’s remove from the firmament—all four desks of it, and hers the only one empty. Glance over her shoulder at the clock tucked into the corner. Seven-past-three-past-the-dawn.
Choice expletive, wordlessly sighed.
Settle into the familiar discomfort of the stiff-backed chair, scan the stacks of paper for anything that wasn’t there yesterday—not a trifle, blessedly. (Inbox still stacked high; how else would she know she’s not been given the sack?) Stomach rumbles—remember breakfast. Grab the first sheet on the way to the tea station at the back. First pot’s water’s hot enough—nod thanks to Bean Counter as he passes from the washroom.
Pour, pour, pour into the cracked ceramic cup; dark amber liquid gurgles to the brim. Hint of steam against the cheek, revel in the scent of jasmine. Tea on the one hoof, scanning the page in the other, and a sweetcorn digestive held in the teeth—return trip uneventful.
Shift the piles, page by page, each account a distant whine for attention. Flip, stamp, read, refer. Longhoof or abacus, which will be quicker? More to get done before the day is through. Perpetual motion, turn-turn-turning like father’s mill, great wings spread wide for the wind. ‘Till half-five-past-the-dawn, when Trill Bit (proprietor, connoisseur of fine hats) ambles over to discuss Carrot Top’s return. Some question of in-kind foodstuffs as an alternative to the per-acre flat rate.
Yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir.
More than enough to sate him, poncy hat askew. Should know these things himself, he should, but then where would she be? He ambles away, among the desks, already asking his next mark for comment, as eyes flick to the page again. Enough time before the apex to get it squared.
Noon apex; town-hall bells distantly a-pealing, sadly not appealing. Never enough time. She’d stay and go later, on her own, but someone would inevitably ask. Or tell. And then there would be a Fuss. And she didn’t want anything to do with a Fuss. Set the abacus aside, catch the door before it swings closed behind the other girls.
Street again. Beeline to the closest boulangerie; hour’s ticking fast. Lunch rush a-washing, washing like the tide. Fried dough stands entice, but have to watch that figure, she’s not so young as she was. Push through the crowd to the stand. Seated or takeaway? Oh, it’d be nice, thank you, but there’s just not time.
Counter. Count the minutes as sandwiches fly past the glass-pane case. (Just give her the food, she hasn’t paid for showmareship.) Daisy-and-tomato on wheat with the salted hay-fries? Two lines no waiting at the register, thankyoucomeagain.
Firm, again. Idle thoughts of home. The walk is quick, and the shifting sun hustles everyone along. Trill Bit (proprietor, connoisseur of fine hats) is just heading out for the day. What does he even do, besides those client meetings and endless questions? Smiles blandly on his way out the door—ooh, she’s treating herself today?
Yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir.
Office to herself, a Celestia-kissed half-hour. Scarf down the sandwich, too quickly—what was with the sudden hunger? Surely she’d had more for breakfast this morning. Waylaid by the receptionist on the way down to bin the wrapper—there goes lunch. Boys-work-boys-clothes-weather-boys-work. Hold her own as long as she can, excuse herself as the other three file in, fed and smirking.
After lunch. Lazier now in the warm afternoon—accountants play with the boss away, but only just. They’re accountants, after all. She fiddles with the pre-lunch file, maths sliding about in her head. It shouldn’t be the kind of thing she needs to think about; always her best subject in school, wasn’t it? And no quiz-quota now but the quota you set yourself, but everyone knows they’re graded anyway.
Amid the pen-scribble diligence, find herself looking out the window. Sun-bleached businesses and shining cobble streets, but rare are the ponies venturing now. Eyes higher, to the cloudless sky—that pegasus must’ve done good work. Soft breeze in the window, summery scents waft in.
Would that Celestia, sweet Summer Goddess, come to whisk her away—some adventure, some desperate need of her presence, if only for a day. She could ask, of course, petition for leave, but Las Pegasus was a long way away, and her family still wants her out at the holidays.
The sun shines brightly on the quiet town. She wishes she remembered how to dream.
Pen-nub-scratch brings her back, and the pages win out again. Flip, stamp, read, refer. Longhoof or abacus, which will be quicker? More to get done before the day is through.
Three-to-dusk, and the distant bells a-ringing. Bean’s already disappeared for the day, and the shuffling of chairs follows suit. Every rush to be the first one out—no-one wants to have to lock up. Receptionist’s in the WC—go-go-gone, a tiny victory.
The sun has started to sink, mid-afternoon enough to know. Like Celestia, so many preparing for the evening—home, home before the sun sinks; home, home before it’s Too Late. No exception, want to get home and be away from it all for another few hours before Everything starts up again. Head down, push through the crowd, past the dusky timbers and half-shadowed streets.
Cobbles again. Dodge past the mare leading her foals home from school, maybe a smile. What’s an empty smile cost her? Can’t wait to never have any of her own, no matter what mother says. Late afternoon yawns; quicken the pace to match.
The on-again-off-again is leaning against the siding as she comes up the walk—guileless smile glued and polished, roses twirling slowly in the air beside him. Hadn’t spared him a thought that day, because she hadn’t heard from him since last week. Sass him as she comes up the walk, giggle girlishly at the vapid retort.
And see, the dog isn’t even barking.
Kitchen again. Roses in a bowl of water—never have a glass to spare, no matter how many flowers this makes. Let him stand there for a bit, making small talk as the shadows lengthen. Laugh at the dog, gambolling in the yard, chasing after Ms Wattle’s squirrels.
His stomach rumbles, hers responds. Check the icebox—goodness, didn’t she have anything for breakfast that morning? Grab some sundries, maybe that pre-made flatbread in the deep-freeze.
Crank the oven, toss it in—loosen the bowtie, starting to chafe. Kitchen heats up quick, don’t want to have to wash it if we don’t have to, now do we? And he’s nibbling the exposed neck, now—arch the back, bowtie flung far over the sofa-back, let the thrill run from nape to navel—
Ding.
Dinner. Roses on the table, chairs across. Plate of greens, plate of breads. He doesn’t mind—he’s not there for the food. Small talk, again, as food drags on. Time slows, head grows heavy. Can’t string together a coherent thought. Oh, it must just be the day getting to me—Well, maybe we should call it a night? Eyes on her flank, who would have guessed? Plates in the sink, on top of yesterday’s; tomorrow is soon enough.
Bedroom again. No time to delay. Sashay over to the bed, hips swaying with practised anticipation. He follows, unsheathed.
They fuck.
He leaves.
She lies there for a long while, basking in the fleeting fullness, before that, too, slips away.
. . .
. . .
It does.
. . .
. . .
Get up, clean up, quick rinse. Got to get the dog in before it gets too dark out, after all. Glance at the clock—three past the dusk, should get to bed soon, going to be another full day tomorrow, after all. Feed the dog, grab the bowtie and throw it back up on the rack. Check the icebox again, golly, won’t we need more stuff, eh pooch?
Head’s thrumming with exhaustion. Think about it tomorrow. It’ll be here soon enough.
Bathroom again. Check the mirror, no grey hairs today—mother always said that would be the sign. But better get to bed, those circles are looking darker by the day.
Bedroom again. Kick off the covers, flop. Stare at the ceiling for a long while, mind blank as canvases. After awhile, realise it’s late—mustn’t be late!—and hit the light.
Lie awhile longer as the curtains fall, one by one.
Sleep without dreaming of the dawn.
Also LikedSimilarAuthor
- AShadowOfCygnus · 1.5k words · 48 3 · 635 views
- AShadowOfCygnus · 1.5k words · 40 3 · 702 views
- AShadowOfCygnus · 10k words · 29 1 · 687 views
- AShadowOfCygnus · 4.2k words · 34 4 · 900 views
- AShadowOfCygnus · 1.9k words · 33 2 · 732 views
- AShadowOfCygnus · 2k words · 51 4 · 1.2k views
- AShadowOfCygnus · 18k words · 18 2 · 197 views
- Monochromatic · 4.4k words · 52 0 · 1.2k views
Stats
Page generated in 0.19 seconds
Total duration
935 users online
362,018 hits today, 2,280,440 yesterday
FIMFiction
My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic Fanfiction
Designed and coded by knighty & Xaquseg - © 2011-2024
Follow & Support Us
Support us
SubStar
Chat!
Discord
Follow us
Twitter
MLP: Friendship is Magic® - © 2024 Hasbro Inc.®
Fimfiction is in no way affiliated with or endorsed by Hasbro Inc.®
But, why—
Yes.
9561387
Well, that didn't take long.
9561396
Also, I'm wondering what kind of tribute is this for AB?
9561404
It's a diametric antithesis to his style of slice-of-life. He deals in the little joys and wonders of each passing day; I deal, as it was once put to me, in 'miserable big-pictures'.
9561407
Oh yikes. The contrast in that one seems immeasurable.
I haven't read much of his stuff, but now that you've explained it, I think I acquired night vision goggles :3
9561410
Give this one a shot, if you're looking for someplace to start.
I consider him one of the best authors on the site, and I cannot recommend his work highly enough.
Perfect capture of mundanity :)
9561419
I'd comment more, but I'm running late for work...
Well, you just captured most of society in about 2100 words. A winner is you.
Honestly feels like Subdivisions, except talking about adult problems rather than teen problems.
T4E
9561727
Some are born to rule the world, to live their fantasies;
But most of us just dream about the things we'd like to be.
9561767
Sadder still to watch it die than never to have known it.
For you the blind who once could see, the bell tolls for thee.
Hell of a thing to read at my desk. Brilliant portrayal of the drudgery that comes even to magical lands.
9561419
Of course, thanks :)
https://www.bing.com/images/detail/search?view=detailV2&insightsToken=bcid_COGb1e3b5c55604437daf31bb0579845ced*thid_OSBI.COGb1e3b5c55604437daf31bb0579845ced&rtpu=%2fimages%2fdiscover%3fFORM%3dSBIRDI&FORM=WPTOVS&iss=SBIUPLOADGET
I remembered the song but forgot the singer & the title
You wouldn't believe how hard it makes to find things when that happens
9561668
Paean or ironic musing? You decide.
(<3)
9561881
Well, that's either the best place to read this, or the worst.
Still, I'm glad you found it enjoyable -- thank you.
9561882
My pleasure.
9562432
Oh, wouldn't I. xP There are songs I haven't known the name of since childhood, but can still sing verbatim.
9562676
There are sites that can help. Type in "find songs by lyrics"
Is it odd or wrong that this sheer assault of mundanity is somehow strangely satisfying, even in its bleakness? I have no idea how, but you've twisted slice of life's enjoyment of the simple without losing the fascination of the simple. And so beautifully, critically detached.
I cannot help but admire it, even as I fight against empathizing with it too much.
9563083
I wouldn't consider it odd at all, actually. There's a known and easy comfort in the familiar, the routine -- and you're still getting a vertical slice of something highly familiar, if still in many ways distressing. Kind of the same way we can't help but relate to protagonists in terribad horror, no matter how many awful, life-ending decisions they make. :P
And I, exercising true authorial fiat this one time, am inclined to argue that this is in many ways a horror story.
I agree. And Alice here would agree too:
... So the experts are with you on this one.
I read this story right before a particularly tough day at work, and I'm glad I did because it made me thankful that at my blue-collar job, I at least get my healthy exercise. And I'm thankful to live in a country where blue-collar work isn't stigmatized. And that I'm not stuck in Dilbert Land.
That's another good thing about dark stories: They remind us to count our blessings.
Depressingly real.
9563749
Always nice to know the company one is keeping.
I keep hoping that'll be the takeaway. 'Yes, it's every bit as bad out there as you think. But, take a look for me and see just how much worse it could be.'
Speaking of which, I promise I'm in receipt of that PM and am working on my response.
I learned a new word!
derpicdn.net/img/view/2012/7/13/42373.png
I don’t know any actual accountants, but I assume this to be true.
I have the same feelings as she does about this subject.
At the end of this, I feel sorry for the protagonist. I really want to give her a hug.
9579428
For the record, I need to express once again just how thankful I am to you as a friend and fellow writer -- not just for reading and enjoying this, but for being one of the best reasons I have to keep coming back and writing more. I still care about the characters and the subject material, even -- what, six years after the show itself lost my interest? in no small part thanks to you and your continued efforts to bring them to life.
Can't get away from the fucking things in France. They're like Starbucks everywhere else, except independently-owned and somehow even less welcoming.
(You had to check, didn't you? ;P) Still, we all know one, don't we? Sometimes it's girls, sometimes it's cars, sometimes it's your manager at the garage thinking he knows jack about anything.
So say a not-insubstantial portion of us nearing 30. ;P
9580491
I kinda feel the same--I’m several seasons behind at this point, and generally only watch new episodes as needed for research purposes, but writing about technicolor horses is what I’m apparently good at, so I keep on keeping on.
And Cold in Gardez said that stories about ponies are stories about people, so there’s that.
Hmm, I haven’t been to France in a good 30 years or so. I think we went in 89? Something like that. Spent most of our time in a small, out-of-the-way village in the south of France. Did get to experience both the TGV and basically a motorized goat track.
Managed to even buy something on my own--a Majorette (I think that was the brand name) toy bus, which I probably still have somewhere. Lots of pantomime with the shopkeeper, ‘cause he didn’t know English and I didn’t know French.
Dude, about my manager--this hasn’t made it into a blog post yet, but he was going on about a CNN reporter getting fired and then said it was because he exposed how the prime minister of Isreal was trying to kick out all the Jews. I just started laughing so hard.
I think it did make a blog post when he very confidently told me that Sweden was an island.
Nearing thirty, you say? You young kids
I’ll be celebrating 42 at Bronycon this year.
This was superb.
I need to do a blog post reviewing this. Or promoting it, or something. How the hell do you only have 32 followers?
Well, you have 33 now, in any case. You captured something better than I've ever seen it captured before. Well done.
How can such a boring life be so engaging to read?
I got here through GaPJaxie's blog. I'm glad I did.
I'm almost inclined to consider this story Slice of Death, as I'm not convinced that any living took place in it. Kind of chilling, honestly.
Thanks I hate it.
Tired phrases aside, excellent story.
9561407
Oh, yes, this makes perfect sense.
10094659
Ooh, these be dangerous waters ye be treadin', laddie. ;3 HC SVNT DRACONES, and also more stories in the near future.
9561419
I've read "Just Drifting Around" on your recommendation and the comparison of it being the opposite to this piece is surprisingly apt.
My life used to be halfway to "Drifting", but now it bears an uncanny resemblance to "Infinitude". I was contemplating shaking up my life already, but these two stories threw it into sharper relief.
10342336
Thanks for reading, and for the comment. Glad that even at this late stage I can still introduce people to good, quality horsewords of the Admiral Biscuit variety.
And yes, there's definitely something to be said for self-awareness of that variety -- knowing the parts we play and the tolls they take on us. Best of luck with your journey, wherever it takes you.
Very interesting story. It captures that feeling of having all your time scheduled and sucked away that comes along sometimes. Never any time to yourself.
9561407
This makes me realize that the two different perspectives have two parts: how abstract/wide their focus is (are all things you experience in life the same, or are they highly particular and different?) and also the value judgement the focus makes (is every day seeming the same a bad thing, or a good thing?). It would be interesting to see two other kinds of fics: one that takes the approach of AB's writing that focuses heavily on how each day and experience is different but adopts the more negative view of this fic and vice versa. And then comparing those two fics to this fic and, say, Just Drifting Around.
So basically, there's four types of fics, and their perspectives are: everything changes and that's good (bad things never last), everything changes and that's bad (good things never last), nothing changes and that's bad (bad things last forever), nothing changes and that's good (good things last forever).