The Stereotypical Drafts

by JinxTJL

Chapter 45 - A Six-Month Long Draft

These snips have no date, nor preceding paragraph. These are a few of the many cuts made during my long absence.

////////// Bridge //////////

Well, he had one.

The question was spreading long stalks of confusion through his mind, tangling every thought that tried to make sense of it. What She was proposing: it just... didn't make any sense?

Talk through it. Vocalize the thought, and find the answer.

"I.. still don't really understand?" His mouth felt clammy all of a sudden, though it didn't stop him from catching the rising annoyance on Nightmare Moon's face, and quickly preempting it. "I mean, I understand what you're saying, now; but it just doesn't make sense."

His hooves at his lap felt weirdly stagnant as he sat, and he took to quietly rubbing them together in front of his chest as he continued speaking, and staring down at them. "You're saying that it might matter whether the soul is mine or not, but... It's not?"

Why did he feel so nervous? What was with the slick taste in the back of his throat, and why was it making it so hard to express?

His teeth felt dirty, and he licked along the back of them for a moment as he tried to focus instead on the gritty feeling of his hooves scraping against each other. "Just because it's in me, and just because I... own it, doesn't really mean it's... mine?"

He felt... unsteady. "It isn't the one I was born with... so... it's not..."

He trailed off, in favor of taking a deep breath. It was becoming more and more of a strain to take clear looks at himself, to keep the clarity. He didn't know why his confidence was crumbling so rapidly, and whether he could keep a hold on it wasn't a problem: so much as remembering that he'd had it.

His hooves were an anchor. The rubbing, nearly sandy sensation was keeping him grounded: helping him remember to think. To recall that everything had dimensions. It was easy to think that way, to look that way. All he had to do was keep clarity.

All he had to do was think of the warmth.

He let his eyes wander up to Nightmare Moon, just to take stock of the situation. No doubt She was bored to tears with his little trip-up, and his sub-par reasoning. He knew he was. If this was his crowning moment of intelligence, then he was still a C grade at best. 60 percent score for effort, and he was going home with a referral. Study harder next time, and maybe he'd actually get a score worth a Tartarus damn-

His half-sincere tirade to himself halted in a moment of wait shut up as he caught a glimpse of Nightmare Moon's face, and things suddenly made a little less sense.

Nightmare Moon was... staring at him oddly.

She had a lot of odd stares, of course; including a very- Cut off, and a cut out.

////////// Bridge //////////

He couldn't finish. He didn't know what to finish with, anymore. It all felt... half-baked. What was he even talking about? He didn't know anything about souls, and he barely knew anything about himself.

His hooves were little but a slow circle around each other, now. He didn't think he had the... presence to be much more energetic. Really, it was becoming a chore to still be sitting there. All he wanted to do now was... flop over.

He felt cold.

////////// Bridge //////////

What was it? What was this? It wasn't his entire mind; he could actually still hear the never-ending spew of recurrent garbage in the muted background. But he was still able to hear himself louder, perhaps in a different sort of... lane of hearing.

Light Flow felt distant.

Distant, in some tiny, clean part of his thinking mind. Staring with total blind impunity, and commenting on every little detail like some omniscient third party. A wonderful gift of off clarity; while panic turned his mind to mush and his body tore his reins to shreds.

So removed from feeling; and it all seemed calm, above the misty red tide.

////////// Bridge //////////

As for his hyperventilation: it was likely because the motion of breathing was a comfort in action and thought, and because he'd latched deliriously to the metaphor of being in water due to the somewhat warmth-dulled mental cold of the shock he was undergoing. Just his imagination. All his imagination.

Author's Note:

I don't have a lot to say about many of these. During the time I was gone for six months, I began to save fewer and fewer of my drafts because of how many I was making. I had become so very uncertain with my writing that I frequently began to double back on ideas that were just fine. I would cut things and change the entire outcome of the chapter with alarming regularity.

If you're savvy, you can probably tell about where some of these snips go, especially since a notable few of them take place right at the start. The draft at the top, though, I have no idea where it might've gone.

I don't much like these drafts, because they bring back some bad memories of writing habits I'm still trying to break out of. Remember to value your own writing highly, kids. It doesn't blend well if you cut things because of the tiniest dissatisfaction.