fan fiction Preview of a fan fic with out a name [yet]

[I used to be a stranger 7,994]

 

The part of the night which looks deadest, is when things start to look born again.

It was morning, the rooster still enjoying the solace of the cover of darkness while twilight began to creep into the sky’s vast glory, intruded upon by thickening puffs of gray cloud; both rendered a rich and vivid purple by the yet-to-be-rising sun. The sweet serenity of sleep, how the canvas of the mind devoid of tussle or trouble caresses one’s weary worries away with the silent slipping of transparent time and tolerant ticking of the clock.

 

“RIIIIIIIIIING!” replied the clock with a charming yet resolute chime. A large hoof reached up and steadied the hammer of the morning’s alarm bell, before the noise would become intrusive to anypony who would be still sleeping. Wound tight and always perfectly punctual, the alarm clocks hand’s pointed to the 3^rd hour and 9 in a handsome serif type, written on its face.

The possessor of the hoof retracted it, whisping away the quilted blanket in one motion by the other hoof, swinging his lower legs down to the ground off the side of the bed and sitting up, eyes not having opened yet. He stood up high, standing on his rear legs with front hooves stretching outwards and upwards held stiff and strained as if by force of will of muscles over bones he was trying to break his own knees. With a soft “crick!” one of his knees popped and he leaned forwards and lowered himself to the floor, the enormous heels of his hooves striking the paneled wooden surface with an impossibly quiet “ker-thump”.

Grasping a thick wooden collar by the mouth and deftly slinging it onto his own neck, the crimson creature stood to glance at himself in the small mirror, hung on the door of the closet located opposite to his bed. Although it was still too dark for him to truly see himself, the stallion could still appreciate from what little light there was in the room, to see the sky’s specular illumination of his sea-green eyes. Someday, he hoped, someone would be able to appreciate what depth of character lay therein, as he did.

He cantered carefully down the stairs of his home, having grown remarkably adept at remaining silent despite having a greater bulk than that of your average pony while treading on hard wood.

Near the one end of the room sat the old fire stove, a plate iron construct of fortitude to generate and retain heat to the best of its ability, and to be the power plant when one wanted to cook up a storm. At all times, there sat a kettle on the stove, quietly brimming with piping hot water, fed its energy by a slowly petering out fire inside the stove.

The stallion opened the spring-handled door and loaded a few logs into the sorry fire, pushing aside ashen bits that were no longer burning. Given a few minutes or so, the fire would be roaring again with renewed vigour from consuming the fresh dry fuel. The stove was not blazing hot to the touch, but most definitely warm.

He poured himself a mug of the water, still streaming steam even though the outside air was not all that cool. A smidgen of dried mint leaves, crushed in hoof and sprinkled over the opening of the mug rendered his pre-breakfast breakfast immediately in-preparation. He let the mug sit on the counter as he ventured away from the kitchen area into the wall-less living room, around the corner and down the stairs to the basement, the lower access residing directly below the main-to-upper floor stairs. As he descended, he grabbed a match and scraped it against one of the supporting joists. In the permanently cool hearth of the earthen walled basement, his minor illuminator held forth in teeth, gave him sight to exactly what he was going to need for this day’s work. A steel hammer, the one his oldest younger sister gave him for his birthday, still inscribed with a grand looking “M” on the axis of the reinforced metal head. Despite how much weathering, scratches and dings it had on it, the scored signature was as visible as day. The hammer rested in the loop of a small satchel that was to be fixed on the collar. The stallion traded the match for the hammer satchel, having put it on so many times before that he didn’t need light to do it. In fact, he probably could navigate down there and put it on if he were blind. Still, the convenience of the slowly emerging hints of dawn illuminated the stairway enough that he could return to the main floor without bumping into anything.

His mug, and a hard day’s work awaited for the taking.

 

Standing out on the stoop of the house, gazing eastwards toward the lavender sky, he took a long, deep breath and drank in the atmosphere of the clean, clear smell of the farm. Trees growing, grass glistening with dew and the mountains urging forth the spritely crispness of a new mid-spring’s day, not yet born. The silence of the town just beyond the hill of the entrance to the farm, containing so many sleeping ponies, eager to exert their restoring energy in passive containment of slumber, and beyond that, the graceful dawn of the day; that bellowed an absolutely endearing nothing, as infinitely profound as the few stars that flickered with a fading gleam upon the edge of the horizons north and south, as night’s shadow was enveloped by the sun’s rays.

 

“Eeyup.” Macintosh admired.

 

 

Using a James Joyce-style stream of consciousness narrative, I basically free-formed about five times as much as this, without a real plot in mind yet. Any suggestions are welcome- what do you think of it?

Edited December 28, 2011 by Blue

[Ezynell 2,037]

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