The 70's were a wild time in the pony world as well
Two colts, Flower Blossom and Feather Wing, experience freedom in it's most basic form as they roam the land, selling weed to other ponies, making friends and running from the local law enforcement. Through their journey, they revisit their pasts and re-evaluate the meaning of life.
Warning: Weed is very involved in the central plot and important to the storyline. If you don't like reading about drugs and drug-trips don't read this. You have been warned...
The desert was as hot as usual, nothing moving for miles around. The dark stretch of road connecting one end of the Nevada desert to the other baked silently in the sun. A few stones suddenly jumped a little, then some more. The ground shook violently as a yellow streak shot past, leaving a few skid marks on the road. The desert returned to its usual state, nothing moving, seemingly untouched by this sudden outburst of activity.
A few miles down the road Flower Blossom was having the time of his life, rocking out to some kick-ass tunes. His Dodge Charger ’09 was kicking up dust all across the flat desert. Feather Wing was riding shotgun, his long dark hair flailing all around. They were as free as the wind; their only company the infinite stars and one another. They had nothing but life in their plans for the next few months, free from any town or city. The V8 engine purred and the tires screeched as Flower pulled the wheel to the left taking the car into a slight drift. There were no cops around for miles and he was able to do whatever he wanted.
He heard a grunt behind him, one he was way to familiar with. They smoked a whole joint. That meant rolling another one and doing that while driving isn’t exactly the most practical thing on the planet. Smoking weed while driving was his favourite past time but putting joints together while being tossed around wasn’t. Since both of them were blazed out of their minds this fact didn’t bother them at all. Seemingly spotting the slightly distressed look on Flower’s face, Feather waved his hoof and got ready to roll another one. They sang about breaking on trough to the other side while Feather was breaking open a brand new bag of primo A-grade Indica Dark Star.
Soon, Flower heard the greatest sound in the universe just a few inches to his left. The silent clack of a Zippo lighter as Feather lit his joint, took a good long drag and sighed calmly. This was it, this was the life. The whole of fucking society with their narrow mindedness and their orthodoxy could go to hell. They had the ultimate of freedoms, the freedom to be whoever they wanted to be. The road before their eyes curved up and down into seemingly endless and impossible loops. Once second the hot boxed car flew and the other it sailed across water. The road before them was endless, warping into a thousand universes and a million dimensions.
The car slowed down for a second as Feather and Flower switched seats, the joint changing hooves during the transaction. Somehow they managed to pull it off without breaking anything.
The new joint suddenly took effect and it seemed like Jerry Garcia was in the back seat, playing into Flower’s ear. The seat behind them was filled with bags of weed, all sorts of strains, picked up in California a while ago. They still had like twenty left or so to sell and keep the rest. Flower turned around and suddenly realized he was growing hungry. He turned to Feather who was bouncing up and down like a madman to “Bad Moon Rising”.
There was nothing in the glove compartment except a few condoms, a few cans of lighter gas and a single vinyl disc. Kind of pointless since they had no record player on them or anywhere nearby and no one to play it to. They had plenty of 8-tracks though and they went through the majority of them. Flower was growing increasingly high but feather did nothing except sing a few unconnected lyrics every now and then. Flower turned to him and spoke, shaking him gently with his hoof.
“Hey man” he said somewhat seriously, his eyes flying all over the cabin
Feather didn’t move, his eyes still fixed on the road. He was hypnotized.
“Yeah, in a bit” was the only response he got and a slightly annoyed smirk barely different from the usual weed grin. The joint was gone once again and the tape stopped playing, Grace Slick’s vocal being replaced by static.
A sign whizzed past them reading “Gas, 25 miles”. There was nothing else to indicate where they were. After a few more attempts to communicate, all ending in failure, Flower Blossom gave up and retired into his own lucidness only hoping that his buddy over there would stop at the right place. After what seemed like an eternity, the car slowed a little. Flower snapped out of his high and looked forward. Through the smoke in the car he could see the outlines of what appeared to be a gas and gulp.
The car screeched to a halt, skidding a bit ahead on the loose sand before finally stopping.
Feather Wing was the first one to leave the car, looking around the saddlebags in the trunk for some money. There were plumes of smoke rising from the inside, making everything in the radius of 5 miles smell like weed. If the sheriff pulled up, they were screwed. Finally, after twenty minutes of digging through the back of the car, Feather returned with a small bag of bits that he held up using his teeth. Flower spotted that he was trying to say something so he picked up the bag with his magic, hovering it a few inches in front of his face. He didn’t hear what Feather said, his eyes transfixed on the movements of the small leather bag hovering in front of him. The trip to the door suddenly grew slow. Time wasn’t relevant anymore; it was dictated by the small, minute movements of the leather pouch, dancing rhythmically to the swaying of money. Money really was a crime, and you better share it, fear it but don’t take a slice of my pie.
A few seconds later Flower was hit in the face by something cold, dropping the bag and ending his flight. He got up only to see Feather snicker like a madman. Apparently Flower walked straight into the door, leaving a nasty print of saliva on the glass.
A voice called them in sternly. The clerk behind the counter didn’t seem amused at all. He was a small grey colt with messy red hair. A few college books were strewn across the table in front of him and he seemed displeased. Flower tried going to college but he could never bear anyone telling him how to think so he got into selling weed. After while he had enough money to buy a car and hit the road. Life as a travelling weed merchant, constantly running from the law, was great. The feeling of freedom was unparalleled.
Every day you met new ponies and new places, found new ways to have fun and be wild with no one around to tell you what to think. It was the life. Over the years Flower had gathered friends in every single city on the West Coast. They were a special breed of ponies, always up for an adventure, not caring where the road takes them as long as getting there is fun. The future was good music, great company and better weed. There was nothing to worry about, only the amount of weed you have, the amount of weed you need to pick up and how much gas you had in the tank. The rest of the time you were free to think what you wanted, be as unorthodox as possible and think about the big stuff. Flower tended to avoid being high 24/7 because it simply loses its fun. Weed is there to make you feel good when you feel bad; to make you see other dimensions when you felt flat and to travel boldly where no other sober pony ever did.
Flower did LSD once a moth as well, mandatory. The things you saw on LSD were great but simply too much to handle more than once in a while. He saw other ponies go mad after too much of the stuff and he knew better. As far as other drugs go, he only tried peyote and mescaline, didn’t like any of it. Both made you sick and the trip was way weaker then LSD. Simply wasn’t worth it, there wasn’t enough to look forward to. Alcohol wasn’t his thing. He got drunk once and woke up in a pool facing 2 years in prison. Never again, he told himself. He still had the bite marks from that crazy vampire chick.
A hoof hit Flower over the head. He was in space again, staring a rack of newspapers into submission. The clerk seemed more annoyed then before. He was getting impatient. Flower never understood impatient people. Why bother being impatient? Life was there to enjoy.
Anyway, Feather had already told the pony what he wanted and it was Flower’s turn. He squinted really hard and muttered something before forming it into a full sentence.
“...uhhh, gimme...” He pointed towards a pack of skittles behind the clerk “That stuff, my good man!”
The clerk put it down onto the tray tapping his hoof impatiently. He didn’t have time.
“That’s 25 bits...sir” he replied “Could you please hurry up?”
“Umm, why the rush dude?” said Flower looking him deeply in the eyes “We’re in the middle of a fucking desert!”
“Sir, you’re obviously too intoxicated to know what I’m talking about” The clerk looked at Flower with a stare that could kill “Marijuana is bad for you!”
Flower was annoyed by this statement, particularly by the fact that the clerk was talking to him like you would talk to a foal. During all of his travels he met a lot of ponies who tended to say that weed is “Bad for you” but none of them could agree on one bad side of it. He met all sorts who said that, from preachers to soccer moms. He knew that none of them were right. In the long run, weed is safer then cola for fuck’s sake. He simply wanted to see what the clerk had to say on the matter. He replied with a single word.
“Why?”
“Well, sir, Marijuana stimulates the...”
“Stop right fucking there” said Flower “Have you ever smoked weed? Like ever?”
“Well, no” Replied the now confused teller “I never di-“
Before he could get around doing anything, a moderately large bag of weed plopped down onto the counter together with a brand new pipe. Flower Blossom winked at the clerk.
“Whadda ya say? Gimme a hundred bucks and all of this is yours.” He said “There is enough grass in here to keep you high for a week, providing you smoke twice every day”
The clerk could not believe the amount of articulation with which the colt sold him the bag of weed. He could also not believe the ease with which he accepted. The transaction was completed without words and in exchange, the two stoners managed to walk out of the store with the largest amount of snacks ever recorded in all of pony history...for free.
Within twenty minutes Feather Wing and Flower Blossom were back on the road, smoking once again, laughing heartily at a lizard they saw by the road two and a half hours ago. We can only presume what the clerk at the gas and gulp was thinking.
Probably how fascinating the item scanner looks when you shine it into your face.
The lonely car cut the desert in half along a perfectly straight grey line. It whizzed past a sign saying „Next gas 280 miles“. They were so deep into the desert that the Milky Way stretched above them like a colossal highway, dwarfing the one they were on. The murmur of the engine was barely audible. Feather Wing was asleep for hours now and Flower decided to put something calming on. Nothing but the gentle whisper of the wind, the purring of the engine and the faint music. Lights poured over the leather seats, dancing on Feather’s face, creating various patterns on the cabin walls. The interior of the car was in complete darkness except for the soft glow of the moonlight and a faint tinge of the gauges. Luna’s moon floated slowly over the roadway, touching everything with its blue glow.
This was the beauty of not being stoned in these sorts of situations. You could feel the beauty, the high being part of every pony’s mentality. The mind has this appreciation of simplicity, this love for the simple yet beautiful images that life sends towards you. There were no drugs necessary. Life in itself was beautiful. The car was riding so softly that it almost felt like it was floating a few inches off the ground. Nothing was impossible right now. If Flower wanted he could get lost in the music, flying to the moon and back in a paper aeroplane folded along a crease in time. If he could describe his emotions right now with a single word, it would be “limitless”.
He decided to stop the car for a while and simply observe the endless universe. The car slowed down in the middle of the empty desert illuminating the dusty and barren ground with its headlights. There was nothing but dust and the echoes of eternity surrounding him. As he stepped out of the car his hoof made contact with the ground underneath his hooves. Under his voice he repeated a once famous sentence.
“One small trot for a pony, one big leap for ponykind”
His step blew a few small specks of dust into the air. They danced around in the wind before floating away. Flower could hear his own heart beat, drumming away rhythmically into the night.
It felt exactly like that, as if you were stepping on the surface of a forgotten place, eroded by time. His fur stood up on the back of his neck from the cold. Nevada nights tend to be cold. He trotted over to the trunk and opened it. Inside was a single suitcase, containing his personal belongings. Slowly, he ran his hooves across the latches keeping it closed. They made a silent clack sound as they flipped open. It echoed through the desert, being the only sound for miles around. Inside there was a bunch of clothes, covered by a jacked labelled “U.S. Air force”. It was decorated with a number of slogans and badges most of them being anti-war and pro-peace. Flower ran his hoof down the jacket examining it like a child. There was something unique about it. He had it for years, wearing it through thick and thin. It served him many purposes over the years, from a tent to a blanket. He loved it like a fellow pony. With one swift movement, it slipped over his shoulders. He felt the familiar gust of warmth flush over him.
Flower reached inside the trunk and produced another item. A beat up acoustic guitar that was clearly a few years old and somewhat weathered. It was covered in snippets of photographs, back and front, all united above one subtitle that read “friends”. These were the small snapshots that Flower Blossom had gathered over the years. A few were gone, eroded from his world, now only distant faces in the wind. They seemed so close but in reality they were infinitely far. He ran his hoof down the strings. It was perfectly tuned, as always. He even named the guitar. Cymbaline, he called it. It echoed exactly like a small part of a song he wrote years ago. It floated around in his mind. He quietly repeated the word Cymbaline a couple of times, just to see if it sounded the same. It did, it was as melodic as ever.
He closed the trunk and silently made his way to the hood of the car. He caught a brief glance of Feather Wing, still fast asleep. He was probably high in his dreams as well. Each to his own, as Flower said. The car hood was still warm from the ride and covered in a few patches of dust. Slowly he raised himself onto the hood, slightly dirtying his cutie mark. It was a small piece of road surrounded by wind. He knew what it meant. Other ponies frequently examining it and asking him what it stood for. He would usually answer with a single word: Freedom. Then he would remain silent for a few seconds, letting it hang in the air for a while.
Slowly, he settled himself and brought the guitar forward. From his pocket he produced a single red pick and began strumming away into the sky. It began as a few tender chords and slowly evolved into a very complex melody. He sang to it softly, pouring his soul into the surrounding desert. It felt like a signal being sent out into space, meant for no one in particular. There was a reason he gave it the name Cymbaline. It wasn’t only because it sounded nice. It was the name of a pony he once knew and he missed her very much.
After strumming a few more chords, Flower Blossom decided to try and play his own song. There was no one around to hear him anyway. Feather Wing was fast asleep anyway so it wouldn’t bother him. Once again he lowered his pick onto the strings and started strumming away gently. He spoke the first line of the song, choking back a tear. Slowly he started singing to himself, sobbing after each verse, and strumming away every now and then in no particular order. Memories came rushing up to meet him, all passing by like ghosts in the night. Flower felt like he was riding the great train of life, passing by memory lane, seeing all the ponies he once knew. He choked back more tears, trying to sob as quietly as possible.
Throughout his travels, he never felt particularly attached to anypony, until he met...her. Cymbaline was amazing, beautiful, wild and as free as the ocean waves. She was the most stunningly amazing mind he had ever known, not caring about norms, only about being as alive as possible. Cymbaline was born with a weak heart. She knew she had little time and she wanted to make up for it by living every single second of her life like it was her last.
***
The day that she was dreading came in July two years ago.
In Flower’s mind that day was as clear as the night sky before him. They were in a hotel, cooling off from the heat outside. They were thirsty. Cymbaline thought it would be nice if he hopped over the street and got something to drink. Flower trotted to the door, shooting Cymbaline one last glance. She replied with a simple smile and a wink. He ran across the street, narrowly avoiding a truck. For fifteen minutes he waited in line, unaware of what was transpiring across the street. Every time he thought of how he was waiting in line in a shop while the love of his life was dying. The fact that he could not be there with her during her last moments, like he had promised years ago hurt his very soul.
He trotted back up to the hotel room, announcing that he had gotten something to refresh her with. The door opened before him, revealing a sight he could never forget. Cymbaline had her back turned to the door, her red fur radiating in the sunlight. She laid there motionless. Flower’s mind had gone blank. He knew exactly what happened. Before he even walked up to her, he knew she was dead. The bottles of Coke fell from his magic grip as a tear streamed down his face. The world turned into slow-motion. He was walking over to her lifeless body, each step of his hoof echoing like an explosion. He looked at her face. She smiled the smile of someone who was ready after years of waiting. There was a note on the night table beside her, addressed to Flower. He opened it with his magic and read it. This was her goodbye letter she had written years ago in case this happened. She thanked him, assuring Flower that she would be fine on the other side. According to her own words Cymbaline was in peace from the moment she had met Flower. Their souls intertwined and she believed that he would carry a piece of her around for as long as he remembered her.
At that point, Flower’s memories went blank but that didn’t matter in the end. He still remembered her, thinking of her whenever he sang the words from her letter. In his song, he recreated her from that small piece of her soul that she had left him. Every time he thought of her, he could feel her again for a few seconds before she drifted away into the fabric of time itself. The stars shone high above Flower and he knew that his dearest Cymbaline was out there, as free as the celestial winds.
He played throughout the night in front of the greatest audience ever seen. He had played for the winds of eternity themselves; he was a lonely child in time, a soldier of fortune that lost the only pony he had ever known. The show was over and the dreams were replaced by reality. For a few fleeting seconds he was with her again but it couldn’t last.
***
Flower still sat on the hood, watching the Sun rise. The stars all faded into cracks of dawn. He didn’t sleep all night. It suited him well though. He was ready to hit the road once again and be as free as possible, keeping up the ideals that Cymbaline had cherished so much.
He got off the hood, put the guitar in the trunk and hit the road once again. That's where he was at home, on the wide and open road, always ready to live some more.
The early morning wind clattered trough the open car windows, carrying a few pieces of paper around the cabin. One of them made it's way to the back seat landing on Feather's nose. He sniffed loudly, trying to blow it away.
Suddenly, he lost balance, a misplaced hoof missing it's destination. With a loud “The fuck?!” Feather landed himself on the floor, hind legs in the air, wings flapping like crazy. Morning sunshine, it reminded him of past hangovers, something he'd rather forget. To this day he swears that he didn't know it was a male griffin. Maybe he did know, maybe he did swing both ways...
Feather shook his head, clearing his mind before that train of thought reached its unfortunate and rather inevitable conclusion. With a swift and obviously practiced move, Feather grabbed a bag of weed and opened it with his teeth. Nothing better then a peanut butter sandwich coupled with a nice bowl of Sour Diesel, minus the sandwich. With a deep breath, his day trip began. All around him the colors sprang to life , the usual grumpy morning smirk replaced with a wide, weedy grin. Somehow he felt as if he forgot something.
He directed his view towards the driver's seat, currently empty. Flower must have been outside, probably taking a leak. Feather threw a quick glance at the dashboard clock. 4:53. Well, he was asleep for a few hours, but not too long. Something growled. Feather was hungry. What does a stoned pony do when he's hungry? He takes a walk. Why? It didn't matter. Weed just works like that, man.
Outside there was nothing but dust, Flower nowhere to be seen. There was only one way to check where he went. With a grunt, Feather lifted himself onto the car roof. It took three tries for him to get it right. The first two times he just fell over on his ass, laughing like a madman. He looked all around. To his right, the road, gray and endless, leading to lands unknown. The only thing that stood out was a rock, big and clunky, sticking out of the surrounding landscape. Something was on top of it, something gray with long hair.
What the fuck was Flower doing up there? How did he get up there? To this day, nobody knows. Feather trotted over to the rock, running his hoof over it's surface. It seemed to talk to him, whispering. He leaned in, placing his ear to the warm surface.
“I like you” He closed his eyes, awaiting instructions from the rock “Lick me”
He recoiled, gasping in disgust. Feather a rock-sexual? Never. Except sometimes. Again, his mind was telling him that he forgot something. Oh, that's right, food. He leaned in to the boulder. One must consult the oracle to continue. Either that or pay sixty graktelmekt. Whatever the hell that was, Feather couldn't afford it. Either that, or it wanted marmalade. No matter, both were far to precious to sacrifice. Marmalade, he liked marmalade. Well, ever since that breakfast in Los Angeles some time during the last cycle. Macrobiotic stuff.
“I need food” His whisper echoed trough the soft, rocky surface, spreading all over the sky. It was all so green, so fucking green. He liked blue better. The rock didn't respond. It hated him now. Well, he loved it anyway. He hugged it and declared it's undying love to the moon.
Something gray plumped down next to him, grunting and gasping. It was Flower, blown to the moon on acid, making snow angels in the desert. Silly Flower, only Jon Anderson can make snow angels in the desert.
There was no time. This was parasprite country and brave runners like Flower and Feather were not welcome. Feather needed to act and he needed to act now. Getting down on his knees, he blew into Flower's ear, hoping to drive out the cows that lived there. Nothing. Time to up the ante. He spoke to Flower, words of wisdom pouring over his purple lips.
“Dude, they're onto us” Feather's voice shook, not knowing whether his speechcraft was leveled enough to complete this quest “You gotta move man, they are seriously pissed”
Feather shot to his hooves, hugging the great rock, promising it valleys and planetoids. His whispers were well-directed but misused. This was not the time. The ring was still missing and Mount Poon was moving over land and sky with startling speed. If it was to find them, there was no telling how they would meet their end. Death by snu-snu was by far the worst concept. Before Feather could say anything, the great love-pony known to some as Flower spoke.
“THIS ISN'T A ROCK MY DEAR” His voice boomed in the desert, scorpions leaving their day jobs just to listen to him “THIS IS A BOULDER, A NICE STURDY BOULDER.”
Feather's eyes were opened. It was like he was blind all along. Now he was deaf as well! Oh, the many blessings the stone has bestowed upon him. He was ready, ready to complete his initiation. It was time for him to speak!
“YOU'RE RIGHT, MY GOOD SIR!” Feather's voice soared as high as the fresh morning love-makers in the motel down the road “THE PIONEERS USED TO RIDE THESE BABIES FOR MILES!”
It was time, time to move. They tried pulling the boulder towards their ship. After about half an hour and twenty unsuccessful screams of “BEAM ME UP SCOTTY!”, Feather gave up. This boulder was far to ancient and powerful, it's mysterious sexual experience keeping it rooted in place. The mark of the toad was useless and Feather resigned himself to quiet defeat. Flower, on the other hand, wasn't nearly ready to give up. He still heaved, repeatedly pitting his psyche against the strong force of the rock. There was little he accomplished.
Mount Pooon was drawing close, Feather could smell it. Acid was nothing compared to the powers that thing had. They had to move. He grabbed Flower's back legs, using him as a cartwheel. They were working in perfect synergy, both attempting to reach a common goal. Well, at least they believed it was common.
Flower plopped on his face, diverting his gaze towards a small scorpion that was crawling around the sand. It was probably headed towards a bar. Maybe a strip club as well. Damn, those scorpions had it good.
Feather flipped Flower onto his stomach, gazing deep into his amber eyes. He spoke, the words rolling of his tongue, heading straight towards Flower's receptacle. Flower gripped his head in pain as guttural screams of wisdom pierced the sky.
“OH PENTACLES, SCULLY!” He bellowed, making the geckos re-elect their president “I WANT TO BELIEVE”
More power was required. MORE. POWER.
Feather pushed his hooves onto the sides of Flower's head, squeezing as hard as he could. There was no pain, only Yes and their marvelous celestial Relayer. Flower screamed in ecstasy, his own boy accepting the truths of the universe. YES, IT WAS SO CLEAR!
“DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?!” Feather wished best for his fallen comrade, urging him to rethink his logic “WE ARE ALL GUILTY!”
With that Flower collapsed, his eyes darting from left to right, bouncing of the inside of his skull. The wings, they were beautiful. He finally knew the truth, he finally knew...
It was long before any of them spoke, both of them still in the throes of pure, unbridled knowledge. This was it, this was the paragon of wisdom. Flower broke the silence, beads of sweat running down his mane. He licked his lips one last time.
“Ca-ca-can...” He was barely keeping up, his mind singing in tunes unknown “Can Loca ride?”
The car was silent, all noise absent from the cabin, save for the engine and the quiet hum of the air conditioning. Feather Wing sat in the passenger seat, eyes out of the window, silent. No one lit a bong, no one rolled a joint and no one spoke. Feather cast one last look at his companion before closing his eyes. Flower was pissed, obviously. At whom, he didn’t know and at the moment didn’t care. He was tired and the car’s gentle rocking started putting him to sleep, the trails of light on his eyes making some interesting shapes. Flower Blossom sighed and turned towards Feather.
Things have been…awkward to say the least between the two since the drug trip. What transpired after they both passed out was left to a series of incidental clues, all pointing towards the same culprit. Memories fade. Maybe, just maybe it wasn’t the obvious. No, Feather thought to himself, this DID happen and there’s no way around it.
“Look, I know what happe-“Before he finished, Feather put a hoof on his mouth, his lips tracing the word “no”. He knew all too well what had happened. Or at least, he thought so. They did “it”. The horizontal boogie, the beep bop boom. He plowed Flower’s rice paddy. Well, they were both high, blazed out of their minds on all sorts of drugs. Still, Feather should have known better, even when high. After all, he wasn’t gay. He always did notice things about some colts others didn’t but he wrote it off as "odd". He never did something he later regretted while high, not before this. This was…different.
Something told him that this was a turning point. He needed out, needed to collect his thoughts. The car passed a sign saying “Beowawe, NV, 18 miles”. The sign read the population as 517. Just big enough crowds not get Feather noticed. Within a few minutes he would buy a bus ticket and within a few hours his little “adventure” would be nothing but a bitter (if not interesting) memory, left in the dust. He switched seats, climbing in the back as the car entered the small rural town. After a few minutes of digging, he pulled out a small satchel covered in stickers. That’s all he head, minus the shirt on his back.
The car came to a halt just outside the only bus stop in town, loudly grinding the dusty road beneath its wheels. Feather opened the door and looked inside one last time. Flower Blossom kept his eyes on the road, intently ignoring the small blue Pegasus staring at him.
“Look man, I’ll see you again” Feather’s voice was almost pleading “What happened was obvious, but hey, maybe you liked it?”
He did his best to do a goofy grin but car’s door slammed shut. Flower drove off with the speed of a hundred mad horses, leaving the small blue mess of fur and feathers in a miniature dust cloud. He was alone again, trying to find a place to stay. It was getting cold already.
About a mile down the road, Flower’s mind was positively ablaze. He just left a long-time companion in a dust cloud over something that may or may not have happened. He loved sex, but doing it with ponies he truly and completely loved was strictly off limits. That had gotten him in trouble once already and now for the second time. Years ago he had made a promise, sealed by a barrage of bitter tears that he would never get intimate with someone he knew for longer than two years. It was too much of a risk, possibly costing him some of the best company he could find anywhere.
He spent that night next to the road, thinking more than sleeping. He remembered Feather’s words. What if he did like it? Should they have done this before, possibly off drugs? He honestly didn’t know. It was time to forget it all and move on.
It was already morning when Flower woke up, pulled out of the soft security of his dreams by a harsh, cold and very real radio announcement. It was like that every time he was alone, not relying on his internal clock to keep him awake. The sun stung his eyes, a single sleepy hoof ransacking trough the glove box, looking for a pair of sunglasses. It was very important for Flower to begin his day with a mindful of positive thoughts. That was his only morning routine and the only thing he ever stuck to. Being happy or unhappy was a choice. It was a choice Flower made during the last few hours of Cymbaline’s life, a choice bound by a promise he would never break, not as long as his lungs still drew air.
Well, new day, new roads and hopefully new companionship. It was time to hit the road once again. The first few hours were rather uneventful. Nothing but songs he had heard a million times, scenery he had passed more than a few times and a distinct feeling of emptiness. The road that stretched underneath the car’s tires seemed endless and tired. Maybe it was time for a change. Maybe it was time that he left it all behind. Yes, that was the answer he had sought all this time. Too much had happened on these roads, with friends he had met here. He would probably make his way west, further down towards LA. He had a few buddies he could crash with, probably pick up a stray on the way too.
Flower Blossom took three deep breaths. After each one, a part of his history fell from his shoulders, stripped away by his newly found freedom. There would be only one he would keep in his mind, only one he would never forget. He licked his lips, pushed the throttle and turned the dial on his radio.
“Cymmi, babe, this one’s for you”
***
Freedom is never dear at any price. It is the breath of life. What would a man not pay for living? – Mahatma Ghandi
The soft sound of dripping bounced off the motel walls, echoing through the bathroom. In the small porcelain cell, a colt, his head hanging over the sink. Drops of blood accumulated near the drain. Small, tiny red blotches, swirling off into the drain. Feather snorted. How could he have gotten himself into this? His face was bleeding, each drop making a silent rumble as it fell onto the tiles.
The lazy shape stumbled out of the porcelain prison, the silhouette outlined by a faint neon haze. Feather was a fool. He walked over to the bed. Fool, fool, fool. With a thump he leaned onto the old shingles, filthy with dozens of cigarette burns and hoof prints. He slid to the floor. To his left a handgun with a single chambered bullet. To his right a bottle of pills leaning onto a whiskey flask. Fool, fool, fool.
He felt like dying, his whole world coming crashing down. He had the room for one night only, no plan, no future and no money. It was make or break time. There was no other way out, in front of him nothing but an endless spiral of depression and self-destruction. Within days he would be begging strangers for money and within weeks he would die on the streets of some nameless town, dehydrated and lost.
Feather's mouth stood agape as he pressed the gun against his temple, his hoof shaking. The metal felt cold, alien even. His mouth formed words, words of pain and forgiveness. This was it. He was going to do it. He weighed his options around in his head one last time, always reaching the same conclusion. In this world of tyranny, oppression and pure capitalism he was a stray, a nameless fugitive, running from the endless and all-encompassing system. If he ran it would kill him. If you don’t participate in the system, you die.
His hoof probed the gun’s shape, alien and cold. The gun. He opposed it so much in his life, going to protests to stop wars and bring peace. He used to believe that the gun could bring nothing but death. He used to believe that the world was going to change. Somewhere deep within his soul he carried the hope that one day Celestia would be overthrown, that one day everyone would realize the extent of her atrocities. She was the problem; she was the ring-leader. Driven mad by her multi-millennial reign she met any and all opposition to the “Equestrian way of life” with violence, pure animalistic violence.
Feather opened the gun’s drum, rotating it. There was a faint shine to it, almost inviting. He hated that shine. It would invite ponies to pick one up and use it against others. That shine was what he truly hated about all guns. The vastly creative pony mind created an extremely complex machine, amazing from a technological viewpoint. And why? Only so that ponies could kill other ponies, other living beings. It was despicable. The very metal object Feather held in his hooves was the culmination of a hundred year journey to find the best way to eliminate another mind, to completely remove it from existence. In a way, Feather held all that he hated about the corrupted civilization that surrounded him.
The only friend he ever had left him, the only glimmer of hope in this dark place extinguished. The good times were gone, the last joint was lit and the goodbyes were said. With Flower gone he lost his last friend in the whole wide world. There was no one to save him, no one to pull him back from the edge. He had been in this position only once before, ready to make the final cut.
“Fuck it” he gasped, a single tear running down his face. The gun touched the fur on his temple once again, a small drop of swear passing over the muzzle. Feather blinked a couple of times before taking one, last, deep breath. His world was about to fade. He pulled the trigger.
The bang came and gone quickly, no pain. Not anymore. Just silence and the soft sound of the rain outside, thumping against the window. In the corner of the small, dusty motel room laid a motionless shape, a gaping hole in its forehead, surrounded by a pool of blood and some stray feathers.
A car passed by the window, its headlights lazily illuminating the room for a few seconds. Nobody knew, nobody cared. Another mind got blown away and the world was just a little more insane.
