Pony Up

Dark.

That's it.

That's all that lives here: darkness.

Darkness, and the faint smell of Gerber's digestives, and... is that... ah, yes. Stale urine. Delightful.

No sense in complaining, I suppose, for all the good it would do. Still, "and it harm none", right? Is that right? Where have I heard it before?

"Star light, start bright,"

There it is, like clockwork

"first star I see tonight,"

What'll it be this time, another unicorn?

"I wish I may, I wish I might"

How are those fairy wings coming along, by the way?

"Have the wish I wish tonight."

As if that's all it takes to manifest an absurdly impractical figment of the imagination. How long did it take you all to creep out of the sea, again? Gimme a break.

"I wish I was..."

At least make it somewhat believable, this time.

"I wish I... had...?"

Tic Toc, kid

"I wish I had a... pony?"

You live in a duplex, but no, yeah, totally. Moth's sake. Really selling it with the delivery on that one, too. No wonder they never come true. At least it's quiet again, aside from that... what is that? Scratching? Shuffling. Whispering, too, but it's too faint to make out. If only I could get closer.

"Hurry up, pipsqueak!"

"I'm trying! They're all so heavy."

Is that fresh air I smell? C'mon, Pipsqueak, whoever you are. You heard the disembodied voice. Hop to!

"Don't you start with me, too. You'll get where you need going just as soon as you're meant to, and no sooner" comes as a surprising, and somewhat unprecedented response. I feel myself being hauled over the side of the laundry basket, sliding down the edge and landing with a graceless whump on the floor. I make a note of how the basket's fibres could have snagged my stitching, as well as the discomfort caused by the squirming and wriggling and freeing of one's self that the first voice is undertaking beneath me.

"Well don't blame me" the disgruntled voice grumbles, adding

"Oi! Mind yer aim!"

"Mind yer self!" comes Pipsqueak's reply.

Something small and cretinous scurries down the side of the basket, and proceeds to assists its presumably equally malformed counterpart. I feel myself being lifted at both ends, despite my protests, and hauled away. What remains of Cassiopeia shoots me a glow-in-the-dark wink from the badly spackled ceiling, and I am dragged unceremoniously out the bedroom door. We enter the dark corridor which leads to the stairs.

"Phaugh, why's it always socks. Smells like-"

"Trust me, the underwear is worse" replies Grumbles.

Can't argue with that logic, I ponder, still mildly offended.

I feel myself wobble up and down like a limp saw, as the two hop me down the stairs in tandem. There's a crack between the bottom stair and the landing, which I find myself willing them to fall through.

"Aye, and yer coming with us" snarks Grumbles.

With that I am squeezed between the floorboards, and again everything goes dark. As I am ferried through the cold, damp must between the floors, it occurs to me that I may not be the first sock to embark on this journey, if one can call it that. Journeys have destinations, don't they? Where in the hole are they taking me, anyway?

"Wrong question!" pipes Pipsqueak, at the same time as Grumbles unleashes a growl of a "When" from between clenched teeth.

Eventually, the air begins to clear a little. I am met with the sweet scent of cherry blossoms, and the cacophonous din of joyful children. Somehow I know that I am no longer being carried so much as led. As if I can stand on my own two feet. Feet? Absurd.

"Four feet" corrects Grumbles.

"She's going to be so excited!" Pipsqueak squeals.

Suddenly, I am alone in the darkness. I can hear footsteps approach, and then, the unlatching of bolts and the creaking of hinges. Beaming sunlight forces its way into the box I have been forcibly corralled into.

"Steady now" comes the unmistakable voice of the one she calls 'Papa'.

A rope around the neck I didn't know I had goes taught, and I am led into the garden, to the tune of many gasps and gleeful shrieks.

And there she is. Slightly older, somehow, but with all the gleaming wonder in her eyes as the day I left her, just moments ago. Against my better judgment, I inch my hooves forward over the lawn, and nuzzle her outstretched hand.

"I knew you'd come" she whispers.

You've gotta be braying kidding me. Fraying. I meant... Ah, hoof it.

Happy Birthday, kid.