They say writing a journal is a good practice, so here I am.

If you’re reading this, chances are that I’m either dead or I’ve finally snapped. Regardless, as you read the entries of this book, you’ll most likely come to the conclusion that I’m crazy. Know this: I’m far from it. Like the usual drones of society, I too had a job, a home, and people I deemed “friends”. If you had met me in person, you would have considered me what people call normal.

But the definition of normality ranges from person to person. Some people find ingesting worms to be normal, while others find it to be disgusting and vile. The point I’m trying to get at is I’m not normal, and neither are you. The things I see, however... even I know they’re not right.

You see, I can see these sort of ghosts, if you will. No, I’m not going Sixth Sense on you, but it something oddly similar. What I see are ponies. Not your usual miniature horse kind of ponies, but small, marshmallowy cartoon ponies. It sounds messed up and just plain stupid, but I can’t deny what I’ve been witnessing all these years.

The thing about these ponies is that they live among us: playing, laughing, working. You’d think they’re almost human. I watch them every day, walking by without so much as batting an eye my way. They don’t seem to acknowledge me, no matter what I do. It’s safe to assume that they are like their human counterparts: they have no way of seeing or hearing us.

That is, until I met her.

It was just like any other day. I woke up at four in the morning, took a shower, ate some breakfast, and headed down the street to work. Sure enough, the early morning ponies were up and about, roaming the block, performing their daily routines. It was something I was used to and, to be blunt, didn’t care about now. As I opened the store’s front door, I flipped the switch and let the light fill the room. The motes of dust floated in the dim lighting, leaving an empty feeling to the place. With a heavy sigh, I threw on my apron and rubber gloves before starting my work day.

I was the porter of a small, family owned bakery. Every day was the same: clean the shit off the bathroom walls and make sure the store’s dining and display rooms were clean enough to eat off the floors, not that it stopped the usual pigs that rolled by there. After about fifteen minutes or so of dusting and polishing the counters, I walked out front and began sweeping the storefront. Fall was starting to make way for winter and the trees were clearly showing it. The streets were littered with blotches of red, yellow, orange, and brown. It looked pretty and all, but it didn’t stop me from cursing under my breath from the extra work it provided.

For the past few days, I did nothing but sweep leaves from the sidewalk. If you ask me, it’s a useless endeavour: they’re just going to get blown right back by the wind. Alas, my manager thought differently.

“If it rains, those leaves get slippery as all hell. The last thing I need is for someone to twist an ankle on them and have a major lawsuit on my ass!” he would always tell me. To be honest, I think he was just nervous about his financial problems, what with his store not doing so well and his wife coming closer and closer to having her baby.

I really couldn’t complain. Had it not been for that man, I’d still be out on the streets, eating out of garbage cans and fighting with other hobos for a place to sleep. A few years back, I used to scavenge through his trash cans for leftover pastries and goods until he finally caught me. Instead of shooing me off or beating me like a wild animal, he gave me a proposition. He was to give me a job and a place to stay, and I in turn would stop eating out of his trash. Of course, I took the offer, which led me to today.

Anyway, as I swept away the leaves and continue cursing under my breath, I watched as the ponies performed their usual tasks. It’s strange to watch, really: When one of them would lift something, I wasn’t able to see the object, but their facial expressions and body language clearly showed it. It’s kind of like watching a mime, even if mimes really freak me out. As my eyes gazed around the street, I began to drift off, imagining what their world looked like and how easy they had it.

One in particular stood out, however.

Every day, when I opened the store, there was a pink mare that like to roam the area, sniffing at the ground. She was a... unique character, so say the least. Her fluffy, cotton candy-like mane really ravaged my mind: It was messy, but well kept at the same time. The mare was always cheery, much like her equine friends, but that wasn’t what made her stand out. I could swear that every so often, the mare would meet my gaze, almost as if she sees me...

“Hey Vincent.” I nearly jumped out of my skin at the mention of my name. My manager was notorious for popping up when someone was slacking off. I swear it’s some kind of spidey sense or something...

“Morning, Mr. Offa,” I grunted, failing to sound even the slightest bit awake. “How’s everything going?” The short, chubby man removed his hat with a grimace plastered across his face. I felt my heart sink. Whenever Mr. Offa did that, there was something amiss and I was about to get the short end of the stick.

“Eddy called me last night. He quit to move on with his culinary career.” And into the pit of my stomach went my heart. Eddy was the baker at the store. The only baker. Even though Mr. Offa owned the place, he didn’t know the first thing about baking. He knew everything when it came to statistics, like money managing and sales, but the actual baking job itself flew straight over his head.

“It doesn’t help that my wife broke her water last night, either.” He let out another disgruntled sigh before shaking his head. “I’d hate to do this to you, but I need you to take care of the store today.” Shaking my head in bewilderment, I tried my hardest to convince him otherwise.

"Mr. Offa, why not just close the store for the day?" I pleaded. Porting was the only thing I knew how to do. There was no way in hell I could bake. Placing his hat back on his head, he gave me a disheartened sigh.

“I can’t afford to close the store, even for a day. Look,” he assured, placing his hand on my shoulder. “I trust you. The instructions on how to make the morning bread are written on a piece of paper over the counter in the kitchen. God knows it’s the only thing we sell nowadays.”

Before I could even retort, he climbed into his car and drove away. There I stood for what felt like an eternity, staring at the empty spot in the street where his car had been before, trying to piece everything together. Looking at my watch, I checked the time. It was already four-thirty, which gave me an hour and a half before the morning rush came in. I couldn’t just let him down, but I didn’t know the first thing about baking!

“I can help you out!”

Turning around, my eyes met with the pink pony again. Her blue irises shined in the sunlight, looking determined and ready to help a friend in need. I checked all around me: usually the ponies interacted with one another and I got caught between it. It drove me mad at times, thinking that they were actually talking to me. But there wasn’t another pony around for her to talk to, which only meant...

“Are you talking to me?” I asked her, pointing at myself. The pink mare’s eyes widened as the words escaped my lips. Her smile grew larger, making me a tad nervous as well.

“Oh! You see me! Oh my gosh!” She began to jump around me, bouncing like a jumping bean. “You’re the first one to ever respond! I’m so happy!” My heart began to race like wild. I wasn’t going to lie, I was just as excited. After all, the years of seeing these ponies and not being to interact with them was pretty demeaning. But there were more pressing matters at hand.

“Listen, I know this is going to sound rude and abrupt, but you said you could help me out, right?” The equine stopped dead in mid-air, something that to this day I can’t figure out. With a slow descent, her smile grew as she came down to the ground.

“Yep! I know all about baked goods, especially bread. White, rye, wheat, pumpernickel... Hehe! That’s such a funny name! Pumpernickel! Say it with me! Pumpernickel! Pumpernickel!” She started her bouncing again, leaving me hanging there in complete dismay. Figures the one pony I end up being able to communicate has the attention span of a goldfish. After a few more bounces, she stopped again and turned to me with a look of concern.

“How mean of me! I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Pinkie Pie! What’s yours?”

Pinkie Pie? I thought to myself. What a strange name. No matter. I need her help, regardless of how crazy it seems.

“My name is Vincent Panem,” I replied, extending my hand out for a shake. Pinkie looked at it for a moment, trying to comprehend what I was doing. With a steady leg, she raised her hoof up and attempted to shake my hand, “attempt” being the keyword. As soon as her hoof touched my hand, it went right through it.

“It was worth a try...” I muttered under my breath.

Standing back up, I proceeded to enter the bakery with Pinkie not too far behind. It was strange: I’ve seen many ponies walk through walls but watching her do it in front of me sent an eerie chill down my spine. Entering the back room, I checked the spot Mr. Offa said the paper would lie and, sure enough, it was there.

The instructions were rather simple. I was to make ten loaves of white bread and attached was the recipe which was clearly printed from the first site he googled. Looking over the paper, I began grabbing the ingredients from the fridge and pantry.

“Why are your forelegs like that, Vinny?” she asked me as I carried the bag of flour to the prep station. Looking down, I made sure to double check that the bag was in my grasp.

“You can’t see the bag of flour in my hand?” Pinkie shook her head, eyeing me weirdly. More and more questions began to ferment inside my head as I readied to pour the flour into the giant mixer along with the other ingredient necessary to make the dough.

“What kind of flour are you putting in?” Pinkie questioned before I could pour the bag. Looking at the cover, I read it aloud.

“Pastry flour.” Pinkie’s eyes widened to the size of saucer plates.

“Nononono! You never put pastry flour for bread!” she shrieked, trying to swat my hands away from the bag, even though it was proven before that she would not succeed at such a feat. “We need to use all-purpose flour. The bread is supposed to be chewy, not flaky. Besides, we have to mix all the dry ingredients before we put in the flour!”

Wrenching the bag away from the machine, I ventured back into the pantry and looked around. Sure enough, the flour packages looked the same but held different labels. This entire operation would have been ruined if it hadn’t been for that mare.

I don’t want to bore you with the details on how to make bread, (that, and I’m too lazy to write it out) but I have to say, Pinkie Pie certainly knew how to bake, even if she’s a horse. Also, a note to those who read this: don’t call them horses. If Pinkie could actually make contact with me, I would have had my ass h̶a̶n̶d̶e̶d̶ hoofed to me. Apparently it’s a racial slur of some sorts, like calli—I’m not finishing that. I’m not racist.

Once the timer rang, I pulled the bread from the oven and proceeded to cut them into slices before bagging them. The bell on the front door rang as I finished packaging the last loaf, so I grabbed it and headed to the sale’s floor. An elderly man of no less than seventy walked in, showing clear signs of struggle as he held his cane for support.

“Good morning, Mr. Jennings,” I naturally greeted. He wore a weary smile as he grabbed the counter to hold himself up. The old man came in every day, bought a loaf of bread, and wobbled back to his apartment four buildings down the street. He was a good man; he always gave me a tip for “keeping the place spotless”. I honestly think he just wanted to get rid of his money because he had nothing else to do with it, being so old.

“Morning Vinny!” he croaked, bearing a toothless grin. “Where’s Eddy? Is he sick today?” I rubbed my shoulder awkwardly, trying to figure out how to tell this man his favorite baker was gone for good.

“Who’s he?” piped a squeaky voice behind me. I had completely forgot about Pinkie Pie.

“Eddy... is no longer with us,” I said, wearing an uneasy expression as I ignored Pinkie. Mr. Jenning’s eyes widened, completely taken off guard.

“I’m so sorry to hear that! I was certain that I would end up going before he did.” It took a moment to realize what he said, and when I did, I couldn’t help but slap myself for it.

“It’s okay, Vinny! He’s in a better place now!” Pinkie cooed, trying to soothe my pain with a stroke of her hoof across my leg. So badly did I want to swat her away; she wasn’t making the situation any better for me.

“No no, Mr. Jennings, Eddy quit.” He began to chuckle at the misunderstanding before slapping the counter.

“Boy, you had me going there for a moment,” he laughed, trying to regain his composure. “Well, I guess I’ll be off then. I know Offa can’t bake to save his life, so I won’t eat anything he makes.” As he grabbed his cane again, I reached into the bag of bread and pulled out a slice. I couldn’t let one of biggest customers just leave and never come back!

“Actually, I made the bread today.” I saw Pinkie Pie throw me a glare out of the corner of my eye before I could finish my statement. “With some help, of course.” The old man grabbed the slice and bit into it, with what small amount of teeth he had left. For what felt like forever, he stood there, chewing away at it, his indifferent expression changing to a relieved one.

“Wow,” was all he said. I didn’t know what to feel; he was either mocking me because he thought it was going to be horrible, or he was genuinely amazed that it didn’t taste like crap. All I did know was that he handed me a five dollar bill and grabbed the bag before thanking me and making his way for the door.

“Have a good day!” Pinkie squealed, making me jump for the umpteenth time today.

Shaking my head, I made my way back to kitchen, but not before hearing, “I will!” as the door closed. Wrenching my neck back towards the door, I stood there for a moment, watching the old walk down the street and away from the store. So badly did I want to run out after him and ask the question that was irked me.

“Did he just hear me?” Pinkie asked, looking at me with excitement. Before I could even think of an answer, she bolted out of the building and towards the old man as I stood there in awe. For the rest of the day, I performed my usual duties while waiting for either of the two to come back: cleaning, selling, and generally sitting on my ass.

But neither of them showed. As I mark off this day in my journal, I leave one note to remind myself if I ever forget.

I am not alone.

Author's Notes:

I know I said I'm hiatus, but I had to finish this one up before going on it.