The end of the world was a forest, vast and without measure. It stretched like a green ocean away from the last mountain, on and on into the distance, until the sky and trees merged into one, and the horizon was lost, and compasses went mad, and even the sun high above grew exhausted and fell into darkness. And still the forest went on.
How long he had wandered the forest, Vermillion could not say. Time had no meaning, so far into its depths. Only the forest had meaning. Only the trees existed, marching away from him into infinity.
But still he wandered, searching. Still he searched, hoping. And still hoping, one day, he found what he was looking for.
The cottage was not where he left it. Back then, countless years ago, it had sat at the edge of a small town next to a pond filled with reeds and cold water and bullfrogs that sang in the night. It had neighbors, back then, and a road with a little red mailbox he always forgot to check on his way to work. Once, once, foals had laughed in its yard, and ponies called it home.
How different, now. The thatch roof was rotting, its walls smeared with some dark lichen that climbed up from the mossy ground, devouring it. Its chimney, once proud, lay in pieces. Its windows, once open to let out songs, now were broken, were empty holes. Eye sockets in a skull.
Vermillion regarded the cottage for some time. Years wandering the forest had taught him patience, and for days he watched it from across the clearing, barely moving except for the slow rise and fall of his breath. The trees swaying in the wind were more alive. And within the cottage, there was nothing.
A field of rich green moss filled the clearing, as brilliant as emeralds. When the confused sun finally paused for an hour in the sky, he took a step forward.
His hoof sank into the moss, then came to a rest with the sound of a dozen brittle cracks. He tilted his head and took another step forward; the sound repeated. Curious, he reached down with his teeth to grab the carpet of moss and pulled, tearing it away from the soil.
Beneath the moss lay countless small bones. Squirrel skulls and rabbit legs. Bird wings and fox ribs. A million million little white sticks laid out in a jumble, hidden just beneath the surface. He grunted quietly and let the flap of moss fall back to cover them.
The ground crunched beneath his hooves as he walked toward the cottage. Its wood door had long since fallen away. He couldn’t knock even if he wanted to.
The rotting roof still held the sun at bay and cosseted the darkness like a treasure. He paused to let his eyes adjust to the dim streams of light pouring in from the door. And then he closed his eyes and remembered.
* * *
“What if you don’t come back?”
He paused at the door. “Come on, don’t talk like that. This will be just like the last time.”
“You keep saying that.” She held her foreleg over her chest, as if unconsciously holding in her feelings. “But what if this time’s different?”
“It won’t be.” He stepped closer to give her a quick peck on the cheek. “Just keep waiting, and I’ll be back. I promise.”
She sighed. “Yeah, you promise. They always promise. Cinnabar promised he’d be back too, remember?”
“I’m not Cinnabar.”
“I know... look, just be safe, okay?”
“Heh.” He gave her another kiss. “For you? Anything. I’ll be back before you know it.”
And then he was gone.
* * *
Something stirred in the darkness.
He opened his eyes. Outside the sun had already set, and streams of silver moonlight flooded in, painting the room in fog. Beside him, in the shadows, something like a pony moved.
Her mane was a tangle of wires and vines, filled with twigs and charms. Bones showed through her coat where the skin had cracked and worn away. Her hooves, split and broken, cut deep gouges in the wood as she stepped toward him.
Time passed as they stood together, each waiting for the other. Her eyes, once a deep caramel orange, now glowed with tiny malevolent sparks. Blood dripped from her nose in a ceaseless patter onto the floor.
Eventually, he moved. From his saddlebags, worn around his sides all those years, he pulled a small envelope, and set it on the remains of a ruined table, the only piece of furniture still in the house. All the rest had been smashed to kindling long ago.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. She could hear him perfectly, he knew. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. I’m sorry.”
She didn’t stop him as he left. The bones crunched silently beneath the moss as he walked across the clearing, back into the endless forest, back into the night.
Behind him, the house at the end of the world waited in silence for the sun.
I don't get it...
I don't get it.
Intentional?
I don't... know what to... think. Huh.
This seems more like a potentially interesting setup than a free-standing story. The reader is left with a lot of questions. What happened to the world? Was the mare in the story always something supernatural, or was she once a regular pony who rose from the dead? Are there more zombies?
Perhaps most interesting: Why does the mare's former partner, Cinnabar -- who Vermillion is eager to differentiate himself from -- have a name that's a synonym for his?
2271786
Yes, stylistic choice.
2272059
I thought it might be.
I, also, do not get it. The field of bones has to mean something. The letter has to mean something. Her being dead has to mean something. Does it? Or is it all impressionistic?
2272295
This is more a scene than a full story. I'll be honest, I didn't like this prompt too much.
Got too much into trying to world build, should've just gone with characters. Meh.
Well, can't win all the stories all the time.
You were no better before / I sent a letter before / I sent a dream to you last night...
This one was too ambitious for the prompt, I think. Didn't do it for me. They can't all be winners!
That's a great opening paragraph. You wrote for mileau, and you got it.
other people already nailed my thoughts on this one. only thing i'll say is that i feel you abused commas in parts. also, the dialogue/interaction feel as much overblown as anything to this point has - that's not a total knock, but i'm curious if the lack of subtlety is a result of constrained time, space, or simply the universe/material you're working with
probably will stay comments now, but i will say it's been refreshing to read a collection of short stories and not dread the coming quality - or lack thereof - in each installment. looking forward to finishing the rest off at some time, and perhaps checking out some of your longer stuff (i tried The Glass Blower, but found the verbiage and overdescription to be quite deadening to my continued interest)
Erm, some dude, I mean stallion, abandoned Fluttershy as second OC in row and she went loco? Not sure if I get it right. Ah, not Fluttershy, mare has orange eyes. Well, I'm confused...
Well that was . . . something. I'm glad you ended it with an implicit promise of more, because this needs more. This is just a teaser.
I would dearly like to know how Vermillion came to wander for centuries, if not longer, and how 'Shy came to wait for all that time.
Pony scifi is Avery interesting sub-sub-genre
Mky, so at cottage is a zombified who is always waiting for him to return, to fulfill his promise.
That's not actually Fluttershy though, right? Because she doesn't sound like Fluttershy. But the symbolism would be pointless if she weren't...
What is this? I'm so confused.