The Unluckiest, Lucky Colt in Equestria

I leaned back against the chair and relaxed as I sit in the ‘Daisy Rye Cafe’, waiting for my fresh salad to be tossed and brought out to sooth my growling stomach. The sweet scent of baking bread and oily hayfries wafts through my nostrils like a ripple of pleasure and increase the pang of hunger I feel. It is such a relief to take a reprieve from my daily haul and enjoy a short vacation, even if it is to visit my parents in Canterlot, a city I have never been overly fond of.

We plan on attending the Summer Sun Celebration Concert together in Canterlot Central Park tomorrow night where my roommate Noteworthy is performing. He is a guest for the chorus section of the Canterlot Philharmonic invited exclusively for the celebration. He has been rehearsing for a long time and we are looking forward to seeing him. My parents had always been fond of Noteworthy, perhaps because I didn’t have many friends growing up that those that I did have were like a treasure.

I now sit in a cafe located in an unfamiliar district of Canterlot. Even after having lived in this city a few years ago with my then-marefriend, its layout still managed to confuse me. Most ponies would have to ask for directions, but not me. I could be dropped in the middle of a desert and blindly find my way back to civilization. Instructions and directions were never a necessity, fate was always there to be my safety net.

I am the luckiest pony in Equestria, a colt that can do no wrong and can have no wrong done to me. My life is a top spinning perpetually in my own favor, never faltering or wobbling.

Without a proper evaluation on my background, these statements would be very self-conceited and arrogant. Heck, if I heard somepony else say such a thing I would slap them silly. But the pathetic thing is that the statement is completely true much to my dread.

I never asked to be lucky all of the time. This fate was thrust upon me without warning or consent, like a child I conceived that I was never informed about.

Well, I guess that is not entirely true.

Years of bullying did prompt me to pray in an attempt to hasten the appearance of my cutie mark. I didn’t really have a set destiny in mind, I just wanted something so I could better fit in with my classmates and maybe even make some friends. I just didn’t want to be seen as a little colt anymore. I wanted to be like everypony else in my class with their shiny images forever emblazoned to their flank, telling the world what they excelled at.

Looking back on this, I really wish that I had thought things over a little bit more.

Other ponies don’t understand the suffering I go through day in and day out. To most, the bare bones of one’s special talent is all they feel they need to know. The fact that mine is luck make everypony automatically think I live a fantastic life. On more than one occasion ponies have referred to my luck as a gift from Celestia, a statement that is technically correct. She is the goddess, after all, I assume she handles our cutie marks. I really should have paid more attention in Celestian History back in school.

My cutie mark, three green four-leaf clovers, stands out in the open as proof of this ‘blessing’. It is true that to be lucky is my destiny, my calling. It is what I was put in this life to be.

The part that everypony gets wrong is when they label it as a ‘gift’, as if it is somehow a better special talent than theirs. They think a life of luck is nothing but wonderful, that it rains gumdrops and lollipops and shines rainbows over me.

This is false. It is not a gift. I haven’t seen it as a gift in many years. To me, it is nothing more than a terrible curse that has followed me like a shadow of some great plague. But this isn’t a curse of malicious intent, like those found in horror stories. This is a curse of the worst kind– a curse arisen from good intentions. Most will know the common saying: ‘The road to Tartarus is paved with good intentions.’ My life proves its validity.

Way back in the day when I was a young colt still attending grade school– ignorant of all things relating to money and adult acts of romance‒ my life was pretty far from fantastic. I was a blank flank even though most of my classmates had already earned their cutie marks. This made me a prime target for bullying. I would face everything from name-calling to taunts in sing-song to physically getting shoved into mud puddles. I oftentimes returned home from school with bruises scattered all over my body, tears running down from my red eyes to my cheeks.

I had spent many days and nights praying to Princess Celestia that I would find my special talent so the bullying would end. Though I was certain she could not hear me, my desperation was so great I was willing to try anything that had the tiniest sliver of a chance to work.

During this time my parents were fervent players of the Equestrian lottery. Every Wednesday afternoon my father would run from our tiny little apartment– located above a ‘hip’ cafe run by two mares– to the local convenience shop. There, he would purchase a ticket with five combinations of numbers, mostly random, as well as some of my favorite chocolate chip cookies and licorice bites. He would return home sweaty but with a grin on his face, and pass off the sweets onto me.

Dad would then wave the lottery ticket around with a hopeful grin as if to say ‘This is it, this is the one. I can feel it in my bones.’

The following morning we would sit down to breakfast and Dad would open the newspaper and flip to the section that had the lotto numbers. My mother and I would watch excitedly until his face fell to a look of disappointment and he shook his head. Reflectively, our excitement would vanish as well. We’d then shrug off the feeling of loss and think to ourselves, ‘better luck next time’– at least I did. I have no idea what my parents thought, but I’m sure it was similar.

But that ‘lucky next time’ didn’t come. Ticket after ticket, morning after morning, we would come up short of matching all five numbers. My father would crumple the tickets into barely-recognizable balls and I would try my best not to give into juvenile emotions and cry. The sting of loss soon gave way to a cool numbness. We began to expect disappointment and loss as a commonality but continued to play nonetheless. By then it had become more like a cold habit than anything else.

Still, deep down I maintained a flimsy hope. With our tiny little apartment and meager income– both of my parents held down jobs– it was impossible not to continue dreaming of a future filled with riches. When I wasn’t fantasizing about my cutie mark, I imagined what I would do with millions of bits. Things that came to mind included buying a swimming pool filled with chocolate syrup, or a blimp with my name and face on it, or a solid gold toilet bowl.

Man, I spent a lot of time imagining that toilet.

One Wednesday night my parents took me with them to the convenience store and let me chose the numbers for the first time. I was quite honored to say the least, having the fate of something as sacred as the lottery in my hooves. I still remember what numbers I picked: 7 13 3 20 10 4‒ the birthdays of me, my father, and my mother respectively. Why we hadn’t picked these numbers before remains a mystery to me.

The following morning my father opened the paper, as he normally did, and his jaw dropped like something out of a cartoon. When my mother asked what was wrong, he turned the paper around to show us what he was looking at. I leaned forward, careful not to knock over my bowl of cereal when I saw the reason for his astonishment.

Under the title ‘Winning Numbers’ was: 7 13 3 20 10 4

We had won.

For a moment the kitchen was in a tense silence. Do we start screaming in joy and jumping up and down? Do we just stare wide-eyed in disbelief? It didn’t take long for my mother to respond appropriately. She hopped up, screamed, and ran over to my father’s side, wrapping her hooves around him in a tight hug and peppering him with light kisses.

I started to feel both astonished and excited. Images of golden toilets filled my imagination as a new reality rather than simply wishful thinking. Then, for the briefest of seconds, the idea that maybe being lucky with the lottery was my special talent crossed my mind. After all, we had failed so many times before and yet the one time I’m the one to chose the numbers we win.

As if on cue a sudden flash of white drew my attention to my backside, on which I saw something that wasn’t there before. My flank boasted an image of three green, four-leaved clovers in a triangular arrangement with the stems pointed towards the center. It was my cutie mark. I couldn’t believe it. I had finally discovered my special talent, my calling.

In a matter of seconds my parents expressions changed from excitement and shock about winning the lottery to complete confusion once their eyes drifted over my flank and they saw a brand spankin-new cutie mark. Their eyes were wide and their mouths agape. Immediately the subject changed to my cutie mark. It was as if we hadn’t just suddenly become filthy rich. My parents stared and examined my cutie mark with the utmost inquisition and pride, puzzled as to what my talent was.

I, however, didn’t have a single doubt. Once those awesome little clovers appeared, I knew that my destiny was to be lucky. Coming to this conclusion, at the time, I couldn’t help but feel jump-up-and-down ecstatic. I was like a pony that had finished last in races my entire life only to suddenly come out on top and receive a tall, shiny trophy.

Not only were my days of being a ‘blank flank’ over, I also thought that I had a great destiny. After all, who wouldn’t want to be showered with luck? You get what you want, when you want, and everything comes up in your favor. A ‘perfect’ life with no speed bumps or erratic twists and turns.

I thought the answer to this question was ‘nopony’, but having grown older and become more acquainted with the real world I am now better educated on the matter. You are happy and innocent in being blissfully unaware of the working of the world as foals. But eventually, no matter how hard we resist, we all grow up and get mugged by reality.

Three months after our lottery victory and my cutie mark revelation, things had improved substantially. We moved into a massive home on the outskirts of town, complete with a pool and acres of land. Though I never did get that golden toilet as my parents thought that would be overkill to our already extravagant property and possessions.

The bullying had long since stopped and I even became relatively popular in my class. Invitations to sleep-overs and birthday parties overwhelmed me. But it was a good overwhelmed, one that I was happy to feel. Looking back I’m positive it had more to do with my newfound wealth than any sense of actual acquaintanceship. But it was still a nice change of pace and it was awesome while it lasted.

I say while it lasted because a few months later I was back at the bottom of the barrel, and it all started when I took a leap of faith and entered the school’s annual talent show. I never was the most confident of ponies and decided to put my fears aside and step up to the ‘plate’ to, if lucky, hit a homer. And even if I striked out and didn’t do well, at least I tried instead of playing spectator.

I had just started to teach myself the piano. It was a simple hobby and though I was far from spectacular, I was still passable and had already taught myself some simple songs.Still, that my playing needed work was undeniable. My performance at the show wasn’t anything to write home about. I wasn’t terrible by any means, but the three songs that I chose to play were for beginners, songs even a young colt with very little training could learn with relative ease and speed. But it didn’t matter, I was simply proud to have overcome my fears. I didn’t need the trophy. I was already a winner in my own mind.

But even so I came out on top and won the show much to the disbelief of all attendees, and the bitter chagrin of my fellow competitors. It was a remarkable feeling, standing before a crowd and waving with one hoof while holding onto my trophy with the other, and only a little while before I had been the laughingstock of my class.

This feeling of pride didn’t last long, however, for when parents had discovered the meaning of my cutie mark and that I was born to be lucky, they became enraged and demanded that I be barred from participating in any and all future talent shows.

They complained as a unified voice, screaming and shouting how my partaking was unfair to the majority of students, emphasizing their own children, since I was destined to have luck on my side. When I saw the crowd my heart sank. There really is no worse feeling than seeing a crowd of individuals gathered with the sole purpose of putting you down. When they noticed me, I was instantaneously hit with the brunt force of all of their collective frustrations. They cursed at me, called me a cheater, one even spat a loogie in my face and called me ‘leprechaun-butt’.

Very mature behavior for a stallion his age.

Regardless, it hurt. I’ve never been so humiliated in all my life. Eventually the school board, tired of the controversy and wanting to move on from it, caved in and henceforth banned me from all future school-sanctioned talent shows.

They said this was as far as they’d go but once I saw that most parents complained that the measures did not go far enough, I knew that this was merely the beginning of my blessed ‘luck’. You open a window, they demolish the entire wall.

From that day forward every activity that I took part in, I won– from board games to simple games of tag to tic-tac-toe. In team sports my side were always the victors, whether it be in hoofball, horseshoe-tossing, wrestling, you name it. All of these activities also came to a quick end when I became banned from them. All activities put out by the school forced me to watch helplessly from the sidelines, feeling bored and abandoned.

Opportunity after opportunity was snatched from my grasp and stomped into a fine dust as others feared my participation would be unfair to others. They were right. My cutie mark and destiny did put me at an advantage, even when many times I didn’t deserve it. But what they didn’t seem to realize was how hurt I was by such decisions. How left out I felt. They were ignorant of the fact that they were still hurting somepony, that their actions were unfair to me.

But I was just one pony versus many, so few expressed concerns about me towards the matter. And that was all I wanted, to be shown some sincere concern for my well being from somepony besides my parents. I suppose that was too much.

My classmates that were just starting to warm up to me now wouldn't even let me play with them at recess– my presence had caused many fights during the ‘teammate selection process’ over who would pick me and therefore claim preemptive victory. Though the physical bullying became a thing of the past, the shunning that replaced it was no better. Some refused to speak with me, while others whispered unflattering things behind my back. They had to give me a hard time somehow to make up for my good luck– this was their rationale and excuse.

Out of my entire grade-school class, I can honestly say that only Noteworthy and Caramel have stuck by my side to the present. We still spend entire weekends at the local bar, drinking cider and shooting darts. They drunkenly feel they have a chance to beat me, but I always hit bull’s eyes.

As some ponies got older, maturity took over and they tended to be less spiteful and judgemental. This has helped me continue to make a decent amount of friends into my adult years, especially in the last few when my overall bitter attitude towards others began to wane.

For instance there is one mare in particular that comes to mind named Roseluck. She sold roses in Ponyville square and was always in a chipper mood. Though I’m not a flower enthusiast, I always feel compelled to go over to her and make a purchase of roses, chatting with her about our daily lives and troubles and whatnot. She always lends me a sympathetic ear when I need somepony to talk to about depression. I would offer her the same, though her spirits always appear so high and bubbly that I don’t think it’s needed..

The roses I buy from her I bring home to stick into empty vases, the number of which has dwindled the more times I have visited her cart. Noteworthy usually complains about how I’m turning the living room into a rose garden, but I ignore him and continue to go over to Roseluck’s cart. She’s just so happy all the time and it is contagious. I can feel my stress melt off whenever I’m around her.

There were other ponies as well that I have befriended over the years: Big Macintosh, Pinkie Pie– though I’m not sure if she counts as she’s friends with everypony– Thunderlane, Carrot Top, Colgate, Berry Punch. I definitely had a strong pact of ponies to keep my spirits up. Still, this didn’t change the fact that I found myself increasingly alienated in the tail end of my school days.

One other particularly hurtful rejection I can recall was when I the only pony not allowed to compete in the school’s spelling bee. I watched from the audience as student after student trotted onto the stage, many sweaty and shaking in fear, and tried their hoof at spelling. If correct, they would give a sigh of relief and return to the back of the line to have another turn. If wrong, they would join me and fill in the empty seats in the audience.

I watched as Noteworthy and Caramel both made it into the final four before being eliminated. Noteworthy shrugged it off, but I could tell Caramel was more upset. He really wanted to win. Still, watching them make it as far as they had, I couldn’t help but take some pride in the fact that my only friends happened to be two of the smartest ponies in the class.

The winner was some filly with thick-rimmed glasses whose name escapes me, and the winning word was ‘onomatopoeia’– a classic spelling bee word.

I knew that had I been up on that stage I could have spelled it correctly, as well as most of the words that were given out during the more ‘difficult’ rounds. I had gotten 100% on my spelling tests and had a vocabulary that would put most ponies to shame. Others often accused me of being a show-off whenever I used lofty word choices in my speaking. And with my talent show behind me, standing up in front of a crowd would no longer have been intimidating. I could calmly compete without having my mouth turn dry and my consciousness starting to falter. I could have won on my own merit and knowledge. Yet I was robbed of the opportunity. I was robbed of the chance to hone in the fruits of my labor to conquer my fear.

Even as the filly received the trophy, she seemed conflicted. Our eyes met for a moment and I swear to this day that she mouthed the words ‘I’m so sorry’ before she became encased by the rest of the class.

A little later I decided to start a stamp collection. I made my way over to the local post office prepared to buy some. I went in and bought ten different kinds, from fruits to fictional characters. There was one showing Daring Do that was my personal favorite. She was just so adventurous, always conquering various threats and perils– ones that I would never face.

Unfortunately, or fortunately according to my cutie mark, on the way out of the post office I stumbled upon a random box in the middle of the street. Baffled and curious as to its contents, I opened it only to find over one-hundred different stamps within. Most ponies would see this as a big break, but not me. My interest in collecting was just as much about the challenge of saving up and working hard to collect them little by little than they were about the stamps themselves. I felt like a cheater, as if the finding of the box have proven all of those parents right about me in the talent show. I had won unfairly and was sickened with myself for it. I gave up collecting anything and let the few stamps I did purchase collect dust in the upper drawer of my bedroom desk.

The night of the stamp-book incident I spent two hours sitting in the tub, scraping away at my flank with a sponge in a desperate attempt to erase my cutie mark. When that failed, I used my father’s razor to shave the area, but though the fur was gone, the cutie mark remained. There was no escaping it, and I broke down and cried harder than I ever had from being bullied.

Years later discovered the start of my stamp collection when moving in with Noteworthy. They still wore a shine as if they had been just purchased. I promptly peeled them off and started to use them to send out my bills.

My luck has continued to cause me problems into my adult years, though it was different. Opportunities weren’t taken from me and ponies weren’t verbally shouting me down so much as I was given so many lucky breaks that I began to resent it.

I have walked into multiple shops to purchase goods only to realize there was a buy one, get one free sale going on. Even at times when I came up short life would find a way to throw me some form of reprieve. One time I didn’t have enough money to buy a box of chocolate-fudge cookies only to find a coupon for cookies laying on the floor a few feet away from me.

I have lost my job in the past only to be offered another, higher-paying job later. And for what? Not because of hard work or determination, but because of blunt luck. I would pass by a shop with a ‘Help Wanted’ sign, or run into a business owner on the street who would just happen to have an opening. I could give the worst interview imaginable. I’ve even done so intentionally a few times and yet I would get the job due to some unforeseen circumstance, such as illness or my competition giving even more atrocious interviews.

One time I tempted fate and put all of my cards on the table. I called the person interviewing me butter butt. This was at a cookie shoppe, and the interviewer’s cutie mark was a triangle of butter cookies. Even his name was Butter Cookie, for Celestia’s sake! Did he even have to wait for a cutie mark to know his life would be spent working in a claustrophobic bakery making the very cookies after which he was named?

Then again, my name is Lucky and my special talent was a mystery for many years so I suppose it’s a tad hypocritical of myself to make such a statement.

But this ‘Butter Cookie’ had sickeningly good sense of humor and laughed off what I thought to be a dang good insult before extending his hoof. Tentatively, I shook it. One week later I found myself standing behind the floured counter of the cookie shoppe, rolling blobs of dough into flat sheets to be cut into cookies.

I hate being lucky. Sometimes ,even this very minute, I imagine myself with a different destiny as a writer or an athlete or even a world-renowned chef. I wonder if being unlucky would be better than being lucky. At least if I was unlucky, I could still take part in spelling bees and sports. Plus unlucky individuals are rather comical in their mistakes and, therefore, made good pals.

And what exactly is so fun about somepony getting their way all the time? If somepony suggested that as a film idea or a story idea, with a protagonist that faced no conflict or problems, they’d be laughed out onto the street and their career would be tarnished. But somepony that was truly unlucky, ah, now that is a truly a perpetual treasure that keeps producing gold.

Then again, I suppose my whole life could be considered a conflict. Not to mention all the problems that arose when I was a colt, but none of this makes me feel better.

When most things in life seem to go your way, it’s impossible to appreciate the little things that manage to surprise you and put a smile on your face. Not only have these little things become everyday occurrence for me, but they are unwarranted. I have not done a single thing to deserve them.

Even as I sit in this mostly empty cafe waiting for my dinner, I continue to have ‘luck’ pour upon me like some torrential rainfall. My parents moved to Canterlot with their massive savings shortly after I was done with school. The lottery was another thing my parents and I were barred from taking part in due to my ‘special talent’. Not that it mattered, we had enough wealth to buy five of the most extravagantly florid mansions in Canterlot’s most elite of neighborhoods if we wished to. Entering the lottery again wasn’t necessary. Still, being restrained like that was hurtful and continued to make me feel alienated as I grew up.

Since arriving at Canterlot Central Train Station earlier today it has been made clear that my good fortunes didn’t intend on staying in Ponyville.

I was offered a free gold necklace by a rich mare who pitied me. She thought I was poor because of my ‘homely appearance’ and the fact that I got off of the train from Ponyville. After all, if you are from Ponyville you can bet your sweet flank that Canterlot types will look down their well-trimmed noses at you like an ant on the sidewalk. Even my parents, with their wealth and four-story mansion are looked down on by the ‘old wealth’ Canterlot. I even heard some stallion that was fifth or sixth generation wealth call my parents ‘lucky peasants’ as he took a few puffs from his pipe and adjusted his monocle, both of which my Dad promptly knocked clean off his face.

During the brief time I lived in Canterlot years ago, I had the same stigma in the eyes of the elite. It was like a social virus that had infected a great chunk of the city and made them all snobby asses‒ no offence to actual asses, and by that I mean donkeys. No matter how much wealth I had, no matter how large the house that me and my then-marefriend– a spunky pegasus that goes by the name of Wildfire– lived in was. None of this changed the fact that I was a fish out of water and ‘deserving’ of scorn from my ‘elite’, stuck-up neighbors.

So when I was given this offer, I felt highly insulted. Still, I got a gold necklace out of the deal so I didn’t voice my complaints. But I didn’t feel lucky. Was it really luck to get such a beautiful gift at the expense of being seen as a country bumpkin? What’s even more pathetic is that my parents might be even wealthier than she is, yet she’ll never know because all we are to her is Ponyville trash, and deserved to be scorned as such.

My luck continued at my hotel as I was upgraded from a regular-sized single to a full-fledged suite, complete with a fruit basket, a king sized bed, and a beautiful view overlooking the valley beneath the mountain. I think that I could even see Ponyville as a speck in the distance by following the train tracks like a giant millipede running along the grass.

I still wasn’t happy, though. If I wanted a suite, I would have booked one initially‒ Celestia knows I could easily afford it. Sure, I may enjoy what suites offer as far as luxury but I still feel uncomfortable being assigned to one. They are always so overwhelming and vast, it made me feel like a grade ‘A’ phony that was living large when I didn’t deserve it. I had millions of bits sure, but not through hard work, rather through a lucky pick of random numbers. And even if I want to achieve greatness through hard work I know that I will never be given that opportunity. I have never been promoted as my great work quality has always been in question.

Is it me that does the work well, or is it just my luck? Can I take pride in anything that I do?

I ponder this as I continue to sit idly in the cafe, staring down at my bowl of salad. The sight of mouth-watering ice-berg lettuce entices me to lick my lips in anticipation. My stomach growls and I feel its time to feed the savage beast. Quickly, I dig in and start to devour the salad when I bite down on something hard and a jolt of pain hits my back molars.

At first I feel a bit of excitement. Pain! A natural feeling I don’t often experience. I feel alive. But when I spit out the cause of my discomfort, this feeling of naturalness vanishes and I am left staring at a shining white pearl that had somehow gotten into my food.

This is the tenth pearl I’ve ever found in something I’ve been eating. I have also found, over the course of many years, up to ten rings, two necklaces, fifteen bits, three diamond earrings and even a watch.

Standing up, I trot over to the kitchen window and poke my head in. I knock on the countertop and call out to a gruff looking stallion wearing a chef’s hat. He examines me as I hold up the single pearl, letting it’s purity glisten in the lamp hanging from the opening between the kitchen and dining area at which I stand. He looks at it before looking down at his neck. He curses that his necklace has broken.

The stallion curses that his pearl necklace was broken.

This is an unexpected development.

He looks at me and nods, saying I can keep it before trotting off to, presumably, search for the rest of his missing pearls– I still can’t believe a stallion wears pearls. He goes from dish to dish, bowl to bowl, glass to glass. He peers into each with prying eyes, squinting and widening as if trying to make out some ancient hieroglyph.

But I know the truth. The rest of his pearls are somewhere in the back, still attached to the string from which the one in my salad fell. For only I, ‘Lucky’ Clover, shall have received the blessing of being given a gift that has not been earned. Perhaps I could give it to charity or something. I wonder if they would take a donation in the form of a pearl.

I walk back to my table and sit down. I stare down my bowl in disgust and hatred. My appetite is gone and replaced with a sudden wave of nausea and guilt. I push the food towards the center of the table and put my chin in my hooves, letting out a sigh. I’m afraid that if I take another bite I’ll find a diamond among the lettuce leaves.

Bit by bit, all of life’s joys and excitements have deteriorated into habitual occurrences. They no longer have luster. Finding bits on the ground soon became too commonplace to care. Even if it was heads up, I wouldn’t bother bending over to pick it up. It is like my life is a sun that is slowly dying out. But it wasn’t just finding bits on the street that grew stale with easily discovered success.

No matter how little effort I put into playing the piano, I always managed to impress. No matter how haphazard I wrote poems and short stories, they always got published in the New Ponyville Literary Magazine. One of my poems was even nominated for an award, but I pulled out of the competition because there was no way I could lose and the guilt of past luck still lingered in the back of my conscience like a phantom.

I miss looking back on my flank and seeing plain old grey fur instead of the four-leafed clovers emblazoned over it. At least back then the worst thing I had to contend with was occasional bullying and verbal harassment, and even that I could simply chose to ignore or walk away from. There was no walking away from my cutie mark. There was no walking away from my destiny. It would follow me until the day I passed.

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but luck will always hurt me.

Life has become dull and seemingly pointless. How I envied those I lived among, to live life as a pony ought to rather than a god. I am a prisoner helplessly trapped in my body, unable to escape. For this reason, at one point, I started to look towards suicide, hoping that doing so would give me another life with a new destiny. A destiny that didn’t lead to ostracization and misery. A destiny that I could actually live with.

Late one night after drinking one too many ciders at the local bar to flush away the particularly miserable day, I had decided to go through with it. After trotting about ten miles out of town, I came upon a bridge near the harbor where imports from Manehatten and Fillydelphia and Las Pegasus were dropped off, everything from expensive artwork to food to furniture.

I made my way to the ledge and climbed up, holding onto one of the suspender cables for balance. The cool nightly wind rippled through my mane and in the distance I could drunkenly make out the pier, tiny little lights like fireflies guiding my eyes. I looked behind me. Not a carriage in sight. Not a pony to save me from myself. A small shudder passed through me as I realized that I was truly alone. Taking a deep breath of the waterlogged air, I jumped and closed my eyes, bracing for impact and release.

But instead of impacting water, I instead landed in a boat that had been passing beneath the bridge on its way to the harbor. While this probably would have been enough to kill me, but my fall was cushioned by a pile of ornamental pillows from Manehatten. I later learned one massive crate that carried pillows had fallen from the top of a stack and shattered, causing the pillows to spill onto the deck moments before I jumped off of the bridge. It became yet another testament to my luck; I only suffered a broken leg, and even that healed at an unnaturally quick rate.

The captain was nice enough, a rather odd fellow with an eye-patch that looked and spoke like a pirate. He even brought me below deck to the medical ward for treatment and had one of his crew take me to a hospital once they docked.

Though initially disappointed that my attempt failed, not to mention confused as I thought being lucky would mean that I would succeed, I was eventually happy that my attempt was stopped. Sure I was still trapped in my miserable existence of perpetually having things go ‘right’ for me, but the act of stepping off the bridge, in hindsight, seemed recklessly impulsive and over the top. I’m glad the eye-patch wearing captain and his pillow-covered ship saved me from myself.

“Egads! It be raining ponies in these parts! ‘Tis truly a sign of the end of times!” He exclaimed as some of the ship’s crew casually trotted over to help me out of the mass of pillows and feathers.

The ‘Daisy Rye’ starts to empty out. It’s mostly busy at lunchtime, only tourists come here for dinner. I look at my watch; it is past eight. I groan as I have to get up early tomorrow to meet up with my parents for breakfast. I take some bits out of my wallet, counting them to make sure there are a few extra to make for an adequate tip. Before I can make place the gold pieces onto the table my waiter comes over and sticks his hoof out to stop me. He stares down at me, the edges of his curly grey moustache raising as he smiles.

“No, no, sir. We cannot accept any pay from you today.”

“What? Why not?” I ask.

“When you came to the kitchen to ask if anypony owned that pearl instead of not saying anything and keeping it for yourself, like most ponies here would do, you showed a lot of character.”

Typical Canterlot, I think with a bitterness. I have come to the unsettling conclusion, based on all the times I’ve been to Canterlot, that not only are most ponies around here typical stuck-up, rich snobs, they are also incredibly selfish. Not all fit this mold, but enough did to make this stereotype attach to my mind like a suction cup.

The waiter continues speaking to me. “That is why we have decided to give you a discount on your meal today, half-off.”

“You must be joking.” I mutter.

“Not in the slightest.” I sigh and put my forehead into my hoof. But the waiter is not finished. “And we are also willing to give you a free dessert of your choice.” He produces a menu from behind his back and places it onto the table, pushing half of my bits back towards me as if to remind me that I need not pay full price. “I’ll be back in a few minutes to see if you’ve made a decision. Take your time and relax.”

I blink a few times as I allow what the waiter said to process in my mind. Once I return to the present, I open my mouth to object, but before I can say a word he has already vanished into the kitchen, the swing door still moving back and forth. With a groan, I let my face flop down onto the tabletop with a nice, solid ‘thud’ when a familiar, feminine voice rings out nearby.

“Oh, free meal eh? What a lucky colt you are.”

I peek up to see the familiar face of Roseluck staring at me from across the cafe, smiling with a set of white teeth so clear they put the pearl from my salad to shame. I wonder what she is doing in Canterlot. Is she visiting family, as am I? Is she simply on vacation? Is she thinking about moving here? Oh I sure hope not. She is too good for this city.

“Roseluck? Hey! What are you doing in Canterlot?” I say enthusiastically, deciding to be upfront about my question and simply answer it.

Roseluck brushes a little tuft of hair out of her eyes and shrugs. “Oh, I’m just here to see my brother and his wife. They just moved into an apartment down the road and wanted the family to be there when they move in. They got back from their Honeymoon to the Crystal Empire two days ago. They had a grand old time. What about you?”

“Visiting my parents,” I respond.

“Oh yeah?” she says.

“Yeppers. Sorry I forgot to tell you earlier. I was planning on telling you yesterday, but you weren’t at your cart so I didn’t get a chance.”

“That’s okay, I was here already. Besides, I forgot to tell you about my own jaunt up here, so I’d be a hypocrite to hold it against you. Wow. I can’t believe I forgot that your parents live up here. But it makes sense, what with them winning the lottery and such. Geez, my memory is atrocious.”

I smile. “We are a forgetful duo, aren’t we?”

“I guess so,” she says. We both laugh.

Once I am able to calm myself and talk, I continue. “But yeah, they’ve lived here for quite a while. They’re finally getting used to the culture change from being brought up in Ponyville.”

Roseluck nods. “I’m starting to remember you telling me that now. I also remember when you moved here for a year and a half, or was it two years?”

“Closer to two,” I answer.

Roseluck whistles in surprise. “Wow, two years? All that time I missed seeing you trotting around, stopping by my cart and talking. It got real lonely.”

“Even with your other friends around?”

She gives a small nod, her eyes fixed down as her mouth flexes into a small smile. “I’m still surprised you decided to come back to Ponyville, but I am happy you did.” Roseluck takes a sip from her glass of water. She absentmindedly wipes off a small drop that has run down her chin. I feel my cheeks heat up. I imagine how pathetically unsteady I must look in front of her, like I have stage fright and am in the middle of performing in front of a crowd of hundreds. But then she laughs, breaking the worry I feel.

“What?” I ask. Instinctively I start rubbing my hoof on random parts of my cheek, worried that something was on my face.

“Nothing, it’s just...well...I like the blush in your cheeks. It’s cute.” As soon as she says this, she faces down, still smiling that cute smile of hers. Slowly, she stands up and trots over to my table. “You know, I’ve always sort of had a thing for you, Lucky.”

She sits down across from me and looks directly at me, giving me the most sensual bedroom-eyes I’ve ever seen in my life. Even my ex-marefriend couldn’t project such passions through simple expressions of the face. Roseluck truly has a gift.

I stare, slack-jawed. I’m not entirely sure what the appropriate reaction to such behavior is. Shock? Flattering? Pride? Fear? Mares have never, ever been this upfront towards me. Flirting of this magnitude wasn’t something that happened often, if at all. Yet here was Roseluck practically begging for me to ask her out on a date, or more. What was with that?

“Um...” I freeze, unsure what to say. Amazingly, however, this seems benefit me as Roseluck’s smile widens and she places a hoof around my shoulder.

“Awww, you’re even a cutie when you’re confused.” She coos before she kisses my cheek and takes the seat across from me. “I’ve finished my dinner. I hope you don’t mind if I sit here while you eat dessert. Have you picked something? If not, I suggest the tiramisu. Mmmm,” she rubs her tummy and licks her lips, “it’s so good.”

“Um...,” I trail off. Here is a beautiful mare that I hardly speak to at all, visiting the same exact city as I am, clearly having the hots for me. Suddenly this day has gotten a whole lot better and I can feel my sense of happiness return. I haven’t felt this excited about anything since my luck went up and I became the luckiest, and simultaneously the unluckiest, pony in all of Ponyville.

That’s when it all makes sense. This is just me receiving the fruits of my luck, nothing more. My excitement dwindles and I feel my disappointment return, as if I have been let down by reality after establishing unrealistically high expectations, I thought that I have learned my lesson by now. The temperature in the cafe seemed to go down slightly, and I felt like I was alone again.

I haven’t dated many ponies. In fact, the only mare I’ve ever been engaged in a serious, physical relationship with was Wildfire. We lived together in a small townhouse here in Canterlot for a little bit before our relationship started to go south. Heated arguments and emotional outbursts drove a metaphorical stake between us, creating a schism that only widened with time. Most of these fights centered on, what Wildfire called, my self-pitying attitude. Of course she couldn’t understand my point of view, she was on the outside. And as I have said before, to those on the outside unlimited luck was a gift.

We eventually had a mutual break-up and I returned to Ponyville where Noteworthy allowed me take up his spare bedroom. I have remained there ever since, and have never missed Canterlot in the slightest. Wildfire stayed behind to pursue her dream as an technician and part-time artist. To this day we keep in touch, but what’s between us isn’t anything romantic. It’s a simple acquaintanceship, nothing more.

And even then, I was the one to first ask Wildfire out rather than vice-versa. Roseluck is the first mare to approach me with such flirtatious intentions. But why? If it was my luck, and I was a single pony looking for love, how come this wasn’t a common occurrence? Was there something more to Roseluck that I wasn’t seeing? Perhaps if I went along with her and returned some of her flirting, this interaction could lead somewhere more promising than most relationships. One-night stands, in my mind, aren’t really ‘lucky’.

Lucky is finding that one pony you want to spend the rest of your life with, to wake up beside with eyes locked and hearts pounding together as one.

Lucky is finding that one pony you can spend long afternoons with and never get bored. Lucky is finding that one pony that you can communicate with solely through your eyes.

Lucky is forming an unbreakable bond with this pony, and feeling the same love when you’re both old that you enjoyed when you first met as a couple of young, hormone-driven ponies.

Maybe that’s why she is advancing me like no other mare has. Maybe she’s the one.

With this romantic’s thought in mind, I decide to play along and continue the conversation before the silence wears its welcome.

“So, your brother got married, eh?”

Roseluck nods. “Yep. About two weeks ago.”

“Who did he marry?”

“Daisy. She has a flower cart close to mine, except she sells...well...daisies.” Roseluck giggles at her own statement. “I’m certain you’ve met her before.”

“Oh yeah,” I say. I could see her smiling pink face and coiffed green mane above the blooming flowers at her stand. Her eyes piercing and beautiful and her teeth glistening. She was certainly pretty, but not as pretty as Roseluck.

Nopony could be as pretty as Roseluck. As of now I accept this as fact no less true than the sky being blue and the world being spherical.

I gently stroke her creamy white hoof and smile at her, letting her know that I’m more comfortable and urging her to proceed without letting a single word pass my lips. The waiter comes back out and stops, he studies us for a moment, eyes darting between Roseluck and myself. His smile broadens.

“Have you settled on a dessert yet, sir? Or do you still need a few minutes to decide?”

“Yes, I will have some of your tiramisu, and, um, could you possibly bring out an extra fork? I think we may want to share.” I look at Roseluck for confirmation. She holds her hoof up to her mouth and giggles before nodding.

The waiter scribbles into a small notepad, nods, and collects the menu. He bows and says, “Coming right up you two.” And with that, he is gone. I lean back and let out a sigh. Roseluck and my eyes meet.

“So, I was wondering if you had anything planned for the Summer Sun Celebration?”

I shrug. “My parents and I are going to the park for the concert and raising of the Sun. Noteworthy is singing there, too. Why do you ask?”

Roseluck smiles. “Well, my family is going be there too. If you want, you and your parents can join us.”

“Wow...I’m...I’m touched. But are you sure your family won’t mind?”

“There’s always room for a few more, Lucky.”

“Wow. Thanks for the invite, Rose, I would love to. And I’m sure my parents would as well. But, I have to ask why are you being so upfront with me? I mean, yes we know each other, but tonight you’re acting like we’re...I don’t know...an item.”

“Lucky, listen to me. You may not realize this, but I’ve always liked you, ever since I saw you during the spelling bee. You looked so sad not being able to compete and I felt so guilty. My older sister was in your class so she knew what a great speller you were. I know you would have been able to beat me.”

I stare as the gears in my head start to shift around, clinking and clanking into place. How had I not noticed it before? The cream coat, the messy, red mane.

“Wait, you were the filly that won the spelling bee? That was you?”

She nods. “Unfortunately.”

“But I’ve never seen you wear glasses.”

“That’s because I wear contacts now. Anyways, it’s not something I like to talk about. I’ve never felt so guilty about anything in all my life as I did when I won.” Her voice gives out slightly and she sniffles a little.

I try to give her a comforting look, to soothe her. “But you don’t have anything to feel guilty of. You won fair and square.”

“It would only have been fair and square if you were allowed to compete.” She smiles. I can see her lips tremble a little, reminding me of the soundless apology of ‘I’m sorry’ that she made after she had won.

She licks her lips and continues. “And then we got older, and the feelings just intensified. Whenever you stopped by my cart to buy flowers, which was quite often I must say, I would feel...I don’t know...happy, I guess. I was hoping that you would ask me out. I was always so nervous to tell you upfront, especially in front of my friends and fellow sales-ponies. Plus I still felt guilty about the whole spelling bee thing. I tried to get the message across with a little bit of flirting, but I’m just terrible at it–”

“Now you’re saying that? After all the flirting you just got done doing?”

“Yeah. Like you said, it wasn’t subtle at all. So it hardly constitutes as simple flirting, wouldn’t you agree?” I nod. She’s right, I suppose. Still, I feel a tad guilty that I never even asked her on a date. I always assumed she saw me as one of her friends. I guess I was wrong. “But now that we’re here, away from our friends and ponies that know us I felt like I had to make a move. I mean, to show you the full extent of my feelings.”

“You are sober, right?”

Her eyes widen. “What? Yes. Yes! Of course! I don’t get drunk, Lucky. I hardly drink anything at all. The most I’ve ever drank is a mug of cider from Sweet Apple Acres during Cider Season.”

“Then why are you able to tell me all of this now?”

“It’s just...well...for too long I’ve been holding my feelings back.” She rubs her cheek on my hoof.“So tonight I decided to take a risk and put all my cards on the table. After all, it is quite fortunate to run into you of all ponies here. The pony that makes me feel like I’m walking on clouds. The pony I pine for day in and day out. The pony with the cutie-mark of clovers.”

I return the smile, loving her cheesy words. We stare at eachother for a good few seconds before Roseluck snaps me out of my lust-induced haze by reviving the conversation. We talk a while longer, the air of strangeness vanishing. We enter a stage of familiarity akin to close friends with deeper desires bubbling beneath the surface. I no longer worry or dwell on the reasoning as to why Roseluck had decided to approach me, out of the blue, with intentions that were purely romantic.

I guess it’s just my luck.

Roseluck.

The irony and fitting nature of her name barely registers with me as I am still too excited by her invitation to notice anything else. That and her grass-green eyes, which I can’t keep my eyes off of.

A moment later my waiter returns from the kitchen, carrying the tiramisu on a plate with two forks sticking straight out of it like stalagmites in a cave floor. He places it in-between us and trots off to another table and another couple. Wait, did I just refer to Roseluck and I as a couple? We aren’t a couple. I mean, I don’t think we are. Not yet anyway. Right now we’re just two friends sitting across from each other, discussing our feelings for each other that are clearly mutual and...

...okay, I guess we are a couple.

I let Roseluck take the first bite of the desert and instantly her eyes flutter closed and she lets out a sigh dripping with ecstasy.

“Mmmm, sitting across from you, eating this dessert, it makes everything seem so sweet right now. It’s like the world is made of sugar.” We pause before cracking up at the corniness of this statement and I take my first bite of the tiramisu. Instantly it feels as though my taste buds have been sent to paradise. It is one of the most delicious things I’ve ever tasted. I moan slightly and sigh, looking at Roseluck who is smiling knowingly. And she was right. Looking at her as I chew a mouthful of delicious tiramisu, is truly the epitome of sweetness.

For the first time in many years, I came to the realization that perhaps having a butt covered in four leaf clovers isn’t all that bad.