(Note: This is not my Fic, but belongs to one of my close friends whom chose not to create an account, All writeing credit goes to him not me)

Tardy

By Aubergine

Chapter One

"No, for the last time I simply have to publish this. The readers must be ready."
Dr. Whooves didn't like to be stern, especially on the phone.
"Say what you want Mr. Whooves, these books won't be selling if you go through with this.", a nasally and whiny voice said from the other end.
"But they won't be my stories unless I am free to do what I want with them, is this hard to understand?", Dr. Whooves replied.
" But they won't sell any more copies with the main character killed off. It just makes no financial or rather logical sense." Ms. Punch retorted.

Dr. Whooves, as he was warmly known, lay down the phone on his table next to the most recent edit of his manuscript. Taking a large inhale, he turned towards the large glass pane adorning the majority of the wall. Taking in the sunset, the snow covered pine trees nestled in a nearby small valley, and the sheer stress of his work, he thought back. This wasn't why he became a writer; he started writing to relax. Granted, his profession had landed him the amazing cabin in rural Coltorado. An ideal writing spot, he was assured by the saleswoman. A large three story house, if it even could be called a cabin. His recent best seller had financed his outdoor hot tub, which had yet to see any of the gorgeous mares he was promised it would attract. He exhaled.

"Dr?" Inquired Berry, "Dear Celestia he's hung up again.." Cursing under her breath.
"No, no, Berry, I'm still here."
" OH! Sir please don’t worry me like that," he heard his agent chuckle, "now like it or not, you must make a choice."
"Yes, yes I'm sure." Said the doctor. "All adventures come to an end."
Ms. Punch sighed apathetically, "If this really how you feel, fine." She paused, "Your readers won't appreciate this."

Mr. Whooves hung up the phone, and began to tie up his manuscript. I don't care, he thought, As a writer I have the right to adjust my stories... He repeated in his head over and over. He made his way through his main hallway and out the front door, an unmanned carriage waiting for him. It appeared to be... no, no it couldn't. This model shouldn't be out for several weeks! And yet, here it was. There was a note taped to the side. It read as follows;

Dear Dr. Whooves,

It is in this letter that I thank you for your amazing work as a writer. My daughter( I dare say I do too), adore your book and would sincerely like to thank you from the bottom of our hearts. And with a few minor strings pulled, I have managed to get your hooves on one of our new prototype automated carriages! The manual is inside the seating area, and with this, I bid you adew.

your devoted fan,

Filthy Rich

The Dr brushed off the snow covering the seat, and searched for a small booklet. The manual, after finding it, said that first thing to do in order to move was to pull the large brass lever back. He did so,and from the carriage roared a mighty thunderous noise that shocked him for a matter of seconds. After regaining composure, he set his manuscript which he had been carrying unto the seat adjacent to his. Breathing relaxed, shallow breaths, he read the next step. Adjust the steering ropes. These must be the two limp lengths of rope lying on the ground, he conjectured. He pulled the one to his right and heard a creak. The wheels had turned to their right, as well! How queer, he thought. The final step was to press down on the pedal sticking at an angle from the ground. He gently pressed the pedal, and the carriage began to hum. Yet, nothing had happened. He hadn't moved at all. He pressed the pedal once more with significantly more force and the cart burst forward into a stack of firewood.

"Oh dear oh dear oh dear oh dear oh dear... surely I can't have broken it so swiftly?" He said to himself.
He checked the wreckage and moved the firewood out of the way. He attempted the cart again, going much slower this time. Other than the occasional burst of speed from a leg shiver, the ride out of his house's vicinity was smooth and easy. He knew where he was going. He had ridden from here to Ponyville plenty of times, sometimes to pick up apples (which he didn't do as often since the youngest Apple sibling harassed him), or to buy jam from the Zap Apple harvest, which was one event he would run to if he had to. About one fourth of the ride through, he began to notice an increase in the snow level. But this carriage had much sturdier iron wheels than the wooden ones which would fall or shatter after too long in the snow. He had sped up considerably since leaving his cabin, and was now finding it hard to slow down, and he guessed would make for a dangerous break. He saw a curve up ahead, when it hit him. He had no idea if he could make this. Some of the strongest colts he had ever seen pulling him to town hadn't been able to handle the sudden change in direction, almost skidding off. But he had to try. Even on the slowest speed his carriage offered, his cart would still succumb to the sheer curve. He went along anyway.

One wheel gave, and then the other. Skidding by the side of the cliff the road gave way to, sparks flew into his face. He flicked a hoof over his face to shield it, letting go of the ropes. His carriage tilted over the edge of the steep incline, and finally ultimately dropped over the edge. His cries of terror drowned out the sound of iron clashing against branches and rocks, banging ridiculously loudly as parts flew this way and that. He blacked out.

**************************************************************

It landed in a small clearing, smoke rising from the rubble, small fires burning. A figure sprinted up from the nearby woods, clad in winter clothing. The man in the rubble was clearly unconscious, not dead. Unicorns had an uncanny knack for just knowing these things. She had just been chopping firewood when she heard a man's scream. She rushed to where she heard and here she was. She struggled to pull the man out, heaving to drag him to safety. The man had a brown coat with a spiky yellow mane, and an unrecognizable cutie mark that may have been mangled in the wreck, but which needed severe medical attention. Which, of course, she could supply. Then the realization of the situation crashed upon her. This was no ordinary colt, this was Twilight's favorite author, the brilliant Dr. Whooves.

(Editor's note: If you find any problems just message me (Albert C. Shadowfax))