• Published 28th Jul 2019
  • 547 Views, 27 Comments

The Slow Transformation of Oliver Sanderson - libertydude



A young human artist comes to terms with Earth's slow conversion into New Equestria and the human race's coming extinction.

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Nell and Summer

The walk to Nell’s seemed longer than the five blocks the map had promised. I’d have liked to say this was ameliorated by Downtown Portland’s unique hominess, but that would imply there were any homes not made of lopsided tents and tarps strung across alleyways. We passed at least three dozen urban outdoorsmen, wiggling their cups with either rattling loose change or cheap bourbon beside barely-maintained methadone clinics.

“Another day in paradise,” I said.

“Things will be different after the Conversion,” Dad said. “Consider this the last sour taste of back-asswards humanity.”

“And what about all the sweet things?” I gave a thick sigh, kicking a plastic bag in the air. “Seems more like throwing out the baby with the bathwater.”

“We’ll get used to it, son. Just like every other change in life.”

“Sure, everybody gets over turning into a horse just fine. I think Kafka wrote a particularly sunny story like that.”

“Some things you can’t do anything about, no matter how much you try. You’ll understand when you’re older.”

Ah, the “you’ll get it when you’re older” bit. Every parent’s ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card for their children’s complaints, even at age twenty-three. I could’ve pressed the point, but I stayed silent. Dad wasn’t the argumentative type. Half his relationships, professional or personal, ended because the other party would be “too aggressive”, a definition Dad kept rather broad. Any hint of conflict, be it a soon-to-be ex-girlfriend arguing over where to eat or a client insisting he only owed this much, and he’d freeze you out. How he kept me in his life was a mystery never to be solved in the near future.

We remained silent while our destination became more and more familiar the closer we got. The building was unremarkable by most standards, a plain brownstone only staying up this close to downtown because the Portland Historical Society held more power than the Zoning Commission. A dozen childhood memories filled my mind. All consisted of summer vacations and Christmases spent up in the third story apartment we’d live in the next three days.

Two button presses and an elevator ride later, we made our way to Apartment 314. Dad rang the doorbell, and we could hear a shuffle behind the door before it opened.

Nell looked roughly the same since the last time I had seen her, the only indication of time being her new attire of grey sweatpants and a loose red sweater. Her rough face stuck out between immaculate brown hair, like she’d doubled up on shampoo but skipped on moisturizer. Her spindled arms shook as she leaned on the door, her hickory walking cane in her right hand. Her legs seemed thinner now, and I could tell she leaned more on her left foot.

“Hey guys,” she said. She stepped aside, and we rolled our baggage into the apartment. Much like the building, it seemed as basic a domicile for a woman in her mid-fifties as you’d expect. IKEA couches and chairs surrounding a big screen TV, and an adjacent dining room that was more an extension of the kitchen than its own room. I could hear the kitchen sink running from behind the kitchen wall, its water flow interrupted every few seconds by someone I couldn’t see past one of the many decorative art pieces hanging off the walls. A vague smell I suspected to be pasta wafted out into the living area.

“Nell,” Dad said, giving her the closest thing to personal affection he ever showed: a light side hug. I think I’d gotten the one greater gesture: a light pat on the shoulder. “You been doing alright?”

Nell shrugged. “About as well as one can with everything going on. Been some pretty crazy days here.”

“The riots, you mean?” Dad said. “We saw the soldiers wandering around out there.”

“That, and everything else. Surprised you two even managed to get a flight out here.”

“Former DOD credentials have their advantages.”

She turned to me. “And how about you, Oliver?”

“Hey, Nell,” I said. I gave the same awkward side hug, rubbing her coarse sweater with my palm in wax-on, wax-off motions. I prayed my touch was tender enough. The last thing she needed was a bear hug sending her sprawling onto the hardwood floor.

“Still drawing?” She said it as if she didn’t notice the sketchbook stuffed under my arm.

“Sure. Trying to wrangle together a thesis before things change.”

“Speaking of changes…” Nell turned back toward the kitchen. “The boys are here, Summer!”

The movement in the kitchen stopped and faint steps echoed our way. I wasn’t terribly surprised; Nell always took in exchange students as often as she could. She’d spent a lot of years travelling Asia and Europe before the ALS set in, so it made sense that if she couldn’t go out to the world, she’d bring it to her. Everybody from Japanese to Chilean students seemed to flow through this apartment every time we visited.

Foomph, foomph. Foomph, foomph.

Boy, I thought. This ‘Summer’ sure took quick steps.

I didn’t say anything when she appeared from behind the kitchen wall. Her bright red mane and tail swished over her tan body, bobbing in time with each step forward. A deep hazel filled her eyes, like she’d stared into emeralds a little too long. Little slippers covered her hooves, fuzzy and pink.

“Hello!” she said, giving a wave.

“Summer’s part of an Equestrian program integrating pony and human cultures,” Nell said. “She’s going to be staying with me for a little while.”

If Dad was surprised, he did a better job of hiding it than me. He wandered up to her, hand outstretched to take her slipper-laden hoof. “Nice to meet you, Summer,” he said. “I’m Jack, and that over there’s my son Oliver.” He pointed at me, and for the first time in a while, I wanted to be anybody else but Oliver.

But I put on a happy face, despite my still-narrowed eyes. I gave a nod and a little wave. Summer seemed to find this acceptable and wandered back into the kitchen.

“Put your things away and we’ll eat,” Nell said with a wide smile.

Soon, our things were stashed away near our respective beds and we sat at the dining room table. Summer seemed to have a different kind of chair, slightly wider and more rounded than our flat seats. She showed no discomfort climbing into it, nor when the plates began to be passed around the table.

For the first few minutes, everybody talked like nothing was wrong. I decided to maintain the illusion, doing my best to keep my mouth filled with the vegetarian pasta and kumquats sitting before us. I nodded and smiled along, making clear I was involved in the conversation without being the main focus. Neither Nell nor Dad seemed to notice, catching up on the past six years and remarking on events long past.

But every visage breaks at some point, and Summer cast her gaze toward me. Her eyes could not be more curious and warm, but I could see nothing but a predator’s eagerness towards their next meal.

“So Oliver,” Summer said. Her voice was extremely pleasant, the same kind a con man used while taking the shirt off your back. “Nell said you draw?”

“Yes,” I said. If you can’t avoid a conversation, keep your answers brief. Folks lose interest quite fast.

“What kind of drawings?”

“Humanistic objects. People doing things, like walking upright or painting with their hands.”

“Sounds fascinating.” Obviously, she wasn’t catching on to the imagery. Fantastic. A pony who didn’t even understand passive-aggression.

“We did the same thing back in Equestria,” she said. “With ponies instead, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Art can be quite wonderful,” Nell said. “It’s been helping me get through all of…” She glanced toward her cane. “... All of this.”

“Well, hopefully the Conversion will help in that regard,” Summer said, putting her hoof on Nell’s hand. “I’ve heard it heals certain ailments.”

“I’ve heard that, too,” Dad said. “Bunch of colleagues in the APA are throwing an absolute fit, now that they may not have any chemical imbalances to treat anymore.”

“That’s odd,” Summer said. “You’d think doctors would be happy to have healthy people.”

“Hah!” I said. “Doctors are the one group of people that will suffer if everybody got well. Of course they don’t want everybody to get better.”

“That’s an awfully cruel line of thought,” Summer said with a puzzled look.

“It’s human.”

A silence passed between the table. The torrent outside came down harder, the rain and wind playing a duet upon the living room windows.

“Well,” Dad said. “I think the pasta is very tasty.” I always applaud Dad for his conflict management skills, even if they mostly consist of deflection. The conversation soon deviated into some long-forgotten relative on Granddad’s side, and Summer’s once confused look gave way to a charming smile and shimmering eyes.

I ate my remaining meal in silence, my eyes never wandering from the invader across from me.