I've never been a perfect man. I've got an ex who won't let me see my kid. I guess I didn't make enough money or get her enough material things. The town I live in was suffering through a bad economy for the region, so it was tough to raise a family. Well, she got a call from an old flame one day while I was out looking for work. I had to borrow money from friends for gas so I could drive to an interview the next town over. She had been quiet the past couple of months, raising our daughter, telling me I needed to get back to work soon. I knew she was high maintenance when I first got with her a few years ago, but hey, I was in love and she completely swept me off my feet.

Things change. Work dried up and the business I worked for folded, closed up shop, the owners going elsewhere to start again. I tried to find new work, found it at a local convenience store, but by then she was gone, taking the kid and the promise from somebody I had never heard of. I had never pried into her past life, but I guess the guy just had more to offer than me. In reaction to this great event in my life, I did what any other normal guy would do.

I got roaring drunk and did my best to stay that way. Wallowing in self pity became my mantra, my escape from reality. She wrote me a letter, promising me I would never see my kid again and she was going to be with a real man who made real money.

I guess the Purple Heart I earned in Afghanistan along with the Silver Star does not make me a man, huh? Whatever. I wasn't even in my mid twenties yet, having done my time and was adjusting to life as a civilian. I thought I was on the right track. I thought I had a great girl, one of those 'next door' types who was sweet and loving. Met her right after basic training and at my first assignment. A year later, she was pregnant. We had a daughter. We were both happy. Then I was deployed for eighteen months. She became unhappy while I was gone and distant to me. The Army cut me loose after my commitment to it and I set my sights on making a commitment to my family. I had no more desire to go fight someone else's war.

It wasn't enough. She left anyway.

So, I got drunk. I stayed drunk. Beer became my constant companion. Meanwhile, the town around me died little by little, businesses closing down until all that was left was the gas station where I worked, a small mom and pop diner, and the Post Office serving half the county. The population of the town had never been big to begin with, but I liked the country feel and I was living in the house my grandparents had left me. It was paid off, so all I had to do was worry about the property taxes each year and utilities. It was also a couple of miles from work, so I occasionally would walk to work on nice nights. Early fall was the best time of year to do that, I discovered in my semi-drunk permanent state. Yeah, being drunk and working while drunk was just a wonderful way to live. Yay me.

God, I was pathetic.

Despite what people might think, being a war veteran didn't mean I owned firearms. I didn't even like hunting, as it was the past time during the proper seasons. To be honest, I hated firearms. I hated violence. But, that's what I signed up for when I was fresh out of high school and looking for adventure. Boy, did I grow up fast and establish my own opinions on war, having been in the middle of it.

Do you know what it's like to be twenty and see a man die in front of you? Do you know what it's like to be the one who pulled the trigger? I don't dwell on it now, taking the reasonable approach it was him or me. The guy was armed, too and aimed to do me harm. That was a bad day. I've got the scars where the shrapnel tore into my shoulder and where the bullet bit into my side. They tell me I shot half a dozen enemy combatants that day. It was a blur to me, even when I grabbed a wounded buddy and fireman carried him to safety after he'd been concussed by a grenade.

I hate war. I also understand the reason for it. It's a bunch of young guys killing each other for the benefit of old guys. I'm also still young to my life, so my opinion is just a narrow view of a much bigger world always mired in some sort of conflict somewhere. It's a hell of a way for a kid to lose the image of what life was supposed to be like. It's even worse when your girl takes your daughter and leaves.

I guess I'm just a little bitter. Sue me.

Still, I guess it was one of those things I could not control. Life has a funny way of telling you there are a lot of things you can't control. At least I could control the beer flowing into my mouth.

There were days I didn't want to drink. The alcoholic withdrawals were absolutely delightful. The shaky hands, the constant sweating, the anxieties. They went well with some of the nightmares I had. Such a fantastic combination, let me tell you. I may have left the war behind me, but it never left my mind. Yeah, it was just another excuse to keep drinking. Some demons just stick with you no matter how bad you try to drown them.

At least I stayed sober to keep my job and do good enough to earn a raise from minimum wage to minimum wage plus a quarter an hour. It had been a year since I'd gotten the job. Thirteen months since I'd seen my daughter. She was turning three in a few months. The only photo I have of her was when she was nine months old and in my arms.

I miss her.

I was walking home one night from work, having closed up at ten and had two miles of walking ahead of me. A half hour of walking. I didn't know it was going to rain, but it did. It was a late summer storm, threatening me as I locked up the front door of the gas station and start heading home, wishing I had my jacket. It had been a slow day. The owner thinks he might have to close down the gas station. He and I are the only people working it. My only day off is Sunday, at least, when the station is closed. That's tomorrow.

I'm getting pelted by the first drops of the advancing storm. I can already smell it in the air, the rain on the cool wind. It's a fairly big one, too. I've been hearing the thunder rumbling an hour before getting off of work. Typically, I'm a big fan of thunder and lightning. It's nature's way of saying hello to me. My grandma used to tell me that when I was little and when the thunder scared me. There's something odd about this storm. I get glimpses of the clouds through the rapid flashes of lightning streaking and snaking through them. Most of the strikes stay up in the air, making spiderweb arcs branch everywhere. God, it's beautiful.

It begins to rain harder, my path along the old country road pitted with potholes and cracked asphalt. It's been at least forty years since the state or county did anything to this particular stretch of road. The ground is still dry enough I can still kick up dust through the falling rain.

Mother nature decides to dump a bathtub of water on me.

It's a cool rain, reminding me the seasons will be changing soon. It feels good and I find myself enjoying the pitter-patter of falling drops of water on my face. The wind picks up a bit and again I wish I had my jacket instead of the plain black t-shirt. I feel sober, but my hands are shaking a little. I'm craving a drink right now and pick up my step. The town's a dry town, so I keep my beer at home, in the fridge and always in good supply.

I find myself wishing at that moment for a bolt of lightning to strike me dead.

I almost get my flippant and offhand wish.

Green lightning falls, striking an electrical pole I'm passing by. The transformer attached to it explodes in a shower of sparks as it overloads. Instinctively, I duck into the ravine as the rain continues to pour down, my mind flashing to a desert halfway around the world, a different sort of lightning raining down upon me back then.

Mother nature can be a bitch.

I'm lying there in ground rapidly transforming to mud, filling with water from the flash flooding. I'm on my knees, trying to crawl up to the road. My eyes search through the night to where the pole is...rather was. It was split in half by the strike, the heavy wires falling towards the corn field instead of towards the road. I was damn lucky none of the wires touched the water. Standing up, I realize the rain is beginning to lessen, though the skies still rumble overhead. Rainfall is steady as I brush myself off as best I can and begin to trudge my way home. I can see my house from here as I pass last empty house within the town limits. It's pretty much a straight shot home as I turn left on the dirt road.

As I go along, I can't help but think I hear something behind me, following. It doesn't sound like anything big, but it's also too dark to see anything to be certain what it might be. Plastered from head to toe with wet clothing, the misery is expected. The wind becomes unseasonably cooler, causing me to shiver. The sounds are gone, I note after pausing in my step. My imagination must be on overdrive. With a heart still thumping from the lightning strike, I move on, trying to control my breathing, telling myself over and over again it's just a storm and home is just a little further away.

Another flash of lighting tells me there something in the road ahead. Thinking I could have sworn the thing had a pair of green glowing eyes, I stop as the skies rumble in following the lightning. It wasn't very large, I guessed, perhaps the size of a raccoon. Those things are everywhere out here in the country, as well as opossums and coyotes and whitetail deer. Maybe it was a bobcat? They're uncommon in these parts, but not unheard of. Whatever it was, it was bigger than a cat. Another flash and there's nothing there as I approach the spot. Dropping to a crouch, I can't help but think it's not just another animal. I feel like something is stalking me, watching me.

Hunting me?

Standing up, I shake my head, laugh at myself. "Well, if you want me, here I am!" Raising my arms out, I spread my fingers wide, palms out and do a slow turn. "Dinner is served!"

Stupid animals.

Still laughing, I resume my trip home. Not even three steps and there's a pair of green harlequin eyes staring up at me from within a small dark form, head tilted to one side. The little thing is looking at me, obviously from the look of those weird eyes. They creep me out, being wide, intent, expectant.

Afraid. Of me.

What is it? I wonder, having never seen anything like it ever before in my life. I can't make out any details of the creature other than the eyes. It's just too dark. Squatting down and not afraid of it, I try to get a better look at it. As I tilt me head to one side, the little thing mimics me. It's got some sort of mane, judging from the sodden hair in a wet tangle, a lighter color than the black body.

"What are you?" I ask the little creature.

It hesitates, head turning to one side, regarding me. Then, in perfect imitation of my voice, it says, "What are you?"

Jumping back, my eyes become round saucers and I'm plopping soundly on my butt, legs sprawling out from under me. Yes, I've heard my voice before and no, I don't think it's very impressive. Hearing it from this little thing as it parroted...

I'll admit, that creeped me out far more than seeing the eyes for the first time. But it didn't seem dangerous. Besides that, I'm at least ten times bigger than it is. But it strikes me this creature is obviously like nothing I've ever seen before. I've seen all the wildlife out here and none of them appear...cartoonish. Something nags at me, the little creature oddly familiar, especially those eyes. Where had I seen them before?

"I won't hurt you," I tell the creature.

Pulling back a touch, I gather my legs under me. What the hell was it? It's on the tip of my tongue. I'd seen it in some animated show somewhere, but where? Why was it familiar to me? It's too dark to tell and it's beginning to rain hard. Did it bite? I wondered, thinking I can see little fangs sticking out in contrast to the dark body. The form is shivering violently, eyes looking at me fearful, yet curious. Why doesn't it run away if it's afraid of me?

Slowly I reach my right hand out to it, ready to pull away if it decides to put its fangs to use. Those eyes flicker from my face to my fingers warily, crouching a little like a cat seeing a stranger's hand for the first time. A leg curls up and I notice its got holes in it. It's my turn to hesitate as a little bell dings in the back of my dim mind. Repeating my last assertion to it, I'm convinced somehow it can understand me.

"It's dry and warm in my house," I tell it gently and as nonthreatening as possible.

Why am I talking to it like it's a child? I don't know. I feel I have to do something. Besides, it looks like it's going to rain all night and I don't feel like spending all night talking to some wild animal. Muttering to myself, I think I'm hallucinating the imitation of my voice. Maybe I need to stop drinking, I tell myself, getting up and preparing to just walk away from the oddball thing. Besides, with those legs, it must be crippled, I assume.

The little black thing shies away from me, eyes blinking, going flat. Fangs are bared at me, long mule-ish ears laying flat against the wet plastered skull. That more or less makes up my mind for me.

"Fine," I say, almost with relief. "Be that way." Standing up and giving the little dark creature a very wide berth the journey home resumes. I take long strides, wanting to get inside and out of these wet clothes. Getting out of the weather would be nice, too.

There's the sound of crunching gravel behind me on light steps, hurrying after me. I stop, do a half turn, my head swiveling over my shoulder as I do so. Sure enough, the little creature is following me. Its backpedaling a step or two. Lightning flashes and I get a glimpse of detail. The snout is small with a squarish muzzle. The head is large, the eyes impossibly so in relation to the skull they're set in. In between them and just above the forehead is a crooked little horn. I think I recognize it. Her hair is long and straight despite the tangles. She appears thin and I don't know how I came to the conclusion it's female. The face is round, a little chubby, perhaps even cute.

"What?" I ask her.

She blinks at me, again tilting her head to one side. The eyes aren't glowing anymore, I notice. The creature sits on her haunches, again regarding me with a mix of curiosity and fear.

"Why are you following me?"

The little dark creature doesn't answer, but looks away almost as if ashamed. I could have sworn I saw a sad little frown on her face, but again, it's dark and even my night eyes are having trouble keeping detail with the constant lighting flashes messing with my vision. Where do I know her from? The horn still beckons at me, teasing me, like that one quiz answer at the tip of my tongue I just can't quit spit out.

For some reason I feel like I'm about to lose in that game show about being smarter than some grade schooler.

Wagging a finger at her, I tell her, "I know who you are, I just can't remember."

Her long ears flop forward, again her head tilting to one side. She blinks and starts shivering again. "I know who you are," she mimics.

I kneel again, holding my hand to her. Again, she shies, but she does not bare her fangs at me like before. Looking away for a moment, her ears are flat and she can't bring herself to match my gaze. I don't move, the rain falling steadily. It's all I can hear at the moment; raindrops on the ground, striking the leaves of the tree. Then there's the rolling thunder of the passing front. A last bolt flares overhead, almost immediately followed by bowling angels. God bowls a strike and the little creature leaps at my chest, her legs reaching for me as I can hear the unmistakable sound of a frightened little cry.

Making a clumsy attempt to catch her, I'm again plunked unceremoniously onto my rear, this shivering little thing on my lap huddling up to me and trying to press herself into my stomach. She's got her - hooves? - wrapped around my right arm, clutching fearfully. Almost as if she's aware of what she just did, her head tilts back, staring up at me in near stark terror while I stare back down at her in wonderment. For the first time I notice she's got some sort of stiff buzzing things I can only assume are some sort of insect-like wings stirring up the air around them in her anxiety. She's also got a carapace and soft chitin covered in a thin and soft layer of fur. Her tail is the same as her mane and is now plastered around my arm with her hooves as she curls herself against me.

She's still shivering, but manages to spit out a little half-hearted hiss at me.

"I won't hurt you," I tell her gently, wrapping my other arm around her little form. I can feel her heart pounding through her little chest though she tries to put on a fierce little face. "It'll be faster if I carry you," I say, gathering my legs under me and slowly rising without making any sudden movements. "Please don't bite."

She won't let go of my arm. Taking that as a reassuring sign, I start jogging up the driveway from the road leading up to my house. With a strange animal. With human intelligence. With a cartoonish appearance.

It must be the alcoholism. Instead of pink elephants, I'm lugging around a miniature bug horse. Go figure. I'm thinking I'm going to have to chalk this up to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, or maybe this is just some sort of weird dream. Or maybe I'm finally losing it and falling into the lovely pit of insanity.

Yay me.

I'm at the door, having climbed up the porch steps to the overhang of the two story country house that's been in my family four generations. Fumbling for my keys from my jeans pocket and being rather expert at unlocking doors with one arm while holding a case of beer, it's a simple matter of transferring my unusual (if a bit unwilling) package from unwrapping herself from my right arm and to my left. Somehow I manage it and after a moment of fumbling while she's kicking feebly with her little hooves in steadily growing panic at being held awkwardly.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" I tell her as the door finally unlocks and allows me access.

Tossing my keys on the table next to the front door once inside, I give her support with my other arm and head into the living room. She's still shivering, but at least she's now out of the rain. Dripping wet from head to toe, I pull a blanket off the back of the couch and immediately wrap her in it. I set her down gently and turn the light on by reaching over to the lamp on the end table.

Finally, I can get a good look at her. Everything is pretty much as I saw outside, but the detail is much easier to make out. She's young - very young - and I can't even begin to fathom her age. If someone were to ask me to guess, I would put her at about three or four years old, or about my daughter's age. I've had time to mull it over between the primary thoughts of what the hell is going on with this night and now I'm looking down at a cartoon character from a show I saw a few times. It takes a moment for me to realize I am not looking at one of the heroines from the show. I've even read the fan fictions creative authors wrote detailing their little encounters with colorful mares. My Little Dashie immediately sprang to mind as I realize right then and there I'm looking at a character from My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic. But, that was years ago!

"Impossible!" I blurt.

She looks up at me and immediately chirps, "Impossible!" It's a perfect imitation.

Dripping in the middle of my living room with a filly cartoon character of a villain who is none other than Chrysalis, Queen of the Changelings herself on my couch right now is making me feel like I missed something somewhere while traveling the road of life.

My sanity.

"You're not real," I say, a shaking finger pointing at the tip of her muzzle.

She stares at it, blinking as she shrinks into the blanket. I don't think she cares much for the tone in my voice. I stagger away, my head suddenly dizzy and nearly lose my balance when the back of my leg clips the coffee table in the middle of the room. Chrysalis - yes, I'm pretty sure this is the one and only - is sitting up in the middle of my blanket and now giving me a mournful expression that's so adorable, there's no possible way she's evil. The show never really did go into detail about them, other than what she said about them needing love to feed upon. Right now she's chewing on the corner of the blanket, looking up at me nervously.

"Okay, maybe you are real."

She blinks at me, again trying to figure me out as I'm trying to figure her out. Or I think she is. I don't know. I'm so confused with this!

"Are you hungry? Can you eat regular food?" I know I'm hungry. My stomach rumbles right after I ask the question.

The dripping changeling filly droops her head and stares at the blankets curled around her. She's got fangs. Does she eat meat? The show never really covered that. Oh, sure, there were fan fictions out there having changelings doing everything from being carnivores, to omnivores, to herbivores, and even just being emotional food junkies. Some had them doing everything. Well, there was only one way to find out. Right now she's trying to eat the blanket again, chewing and drooling through it. Yep. She's hungry all right.

But first, I needed to take a shower and put on some dry clothing before I caught something. Before that first, I needed to finish drying her off before I took care of my needs. No, no, I should feed her first. Yes, I'll feed her first after I get a towel and dry her off.

I'm thinking clearly, aren't I?

"I'll be right back," I promise and disappear down the hall to the bathroom.

There's just the one bathroom near the kitchen and next to the main bedroom. Grabbing a towel from the linen closet just outside the bathroom, I fish out a fluffy towel and return to see Chrysalis still curled up and still shivering. She stares up at me, eyeing the towel with wide eyes.

I slowly sit down next to her little form and hold out the the thick towel. I try to give her my most reassuring voice. "It's to dry you off."

The filly sniffs it - I don't know why I'm calling her a filly - then seems to relax a little as I start to dry her mane with it. She seems to smile, enjoying the attention and half closing her eyes. Within moments, she's laying against me, hooves stretched out as she's on her side while I finish up her tail. Chrysalis seems on the verge of falling asleep, but then I hear her stomach growl. The little changeling whimpers, giving me an unmistakable 'I'm hungry' expression. Her forehooves are rubbing her tiny stomach.

I get up, leaving the blanket draped over her. I'll get her a clean blanket later, after she eats. The main problem seems to be what she'll eat. Worried she'll starve to death before I do anything useful to help her, I start pulling anything I can think of out of the refrigerator, the cupboards, the pantry; bread, cheese, bologna, roast beef, turkey slices, pickles, crackers, milk, cereal (Cap'n Crunch!), peanut butter, grape jelly, carrots, corn on the cob, an apple, an orange, and even a slice of pecan pie from the elderly couple half a mile from the house and my closest neighbors. I make several trips to and from the kitchen, bringing armloads of whatever I think Chrysalis might eat and put it on the coffee table. She watches me curiously, even offering a few sniffs at the things I bring.

It's like she's waiting for me to stop moving, her eyes never leaving me. Once I bring the last of the food in, I begin offering some to her. To my surprise, she's really not all the finicky, though I find she prefers lunch meat.

Okay, maybe I went a little overboard in providing a feast for a cartoon character. Regardless, I make her a sandwich, slicing it into wedges and letting her eat at her own pace while I scarf down my half. It doesn't take long to fill her little belly. She's done with a burp and a hoof gently pushing my offer of another dill pickle away. Chrysalis had already devoured two, having enjoyed them.

For the next few minutes she watches me as I put everything back from the coffee table into the kitchen. After a few minutes cleaning up, I come back to the living room and find she's curled up on the wet blanket. With a dry quilt my grandmother made in my arms, I lay it out on the other end of the couch. Chrysalis does not hesitate and gets up and crawls sluggishly to the quilt. Snuggling into it she looks at me wonderingly. Without thinking, I reach out and pet her like a cat, scratching between her ears. Reacting like one, the filly's head pushes into my fingers, raising her chin. Soon, I'm scratching her chin and she's got this happily little smile on her face. She licks my hand with a forked little red tongue and ends it with a mighty yawn.

Yes, she does have a forked tongue.

Thinking her asleep, I go and take a shower, brush my teeth and get ready for bed. After one final walk through the house, checking the doors and turning out the lights, I give Chrysalis one more check and find she's still in a little ball of happy slumber. Still thinking this is all some bizarre dream, I shrug and head for bed. For a long time, I lay there on top of my blankets.

I'm in sweats and a t-shirt, so I don't need to get under the covers. It's quiet. I can hear the grandfather clock in the dining room chime midnight. Rain pelts the roof steadily. I watch it hit the large window of my bedroom, the outside porch light reflecting the contours of the rain as it slides down the glass. From where I lay, it's easy to see where the glass is imperfect, a little warped. It reminds me how much I need to modernize the house. I'd already sunk what money I could spare into repairs to the roof, buying the materials and patching where I could when I could.

I used to have a cat when I was a kid. He would always enter my room in the middle of the night to jump up into bed and sleep with me, usually curling up by my head. He was the only reason I would keep my bedroom door open because I knew he would eventually come. What was neat was I always seemed to know when he was coming in. That cat would never hide his approach. He would then wait until I called his name. Then he'd meow and hop on up. What I was hearing now reminded me of that.

But I don't have a cat.

The little footsteps entered the room, padding on the cushioning carpet I seemed to hear rustle beneath little hooves. I could hear sniffing nostrils. Something tugged at the bed cover. The tip of a horn could be seen as I turned to follow the disturbance with my eyes and ears. Chrysalis was trying to see over the bed and was balancing on her hind legs, resting her forehooves against the side of the mattress and box spring. I could not help myself as a smile crept across my face, suppressing the giggling chuckle I could not stop. There's also an odd little buzzing sound. It takes me a moment to realize it's her wings. It's a lot like listening to a very large and restless housefly.

This was too cute!

I called her name. "Chrysalis?"

Instead of making a meow like my cat used to, she seemed to be encouraged to try her hand - er, hoof at jumping up. I see the top of a little dark head with a turquoise mane and a pair of holed hooves hook on the edge of the bed. There a brief moment of a struggle before she promptly falls off and hits the floor with a thud. Unlike a cat, she does not have claws with which to grab a hold of the cloth and haul herself up. All she has are hooves and I really don't think she's figured out how to use her magic yet. Maybe she's too young? I roll over and peer down, seeing this little face on the verge of tears staring right back up at me, setting on her rump with her hind legs splayed out from the fall and her ears laid flat.

Seeing me looking down at her, she makes an imperious little sound, holding both her front hooves up at me to be picked up. Chrysalis looks like she's going to bawl if I don't pick her up and do as she 'commands'.

The little princess was well on her way to becoming a queen, I thought as I obliged her wordless demand and had her on the bed with me. She's a little bit larger than a house cat and finds the nook between my left shoulder and head the perfect place to nestle down in once we settle in for the night. Chrysalis nuzzles me with what I assume is affection as I don't know if changelings understand love. She has to, considering I'm viewing this as genuine affection. It might not be love, but hey, she sure did not want to be alone. I can't say I could blame her. The little princess settles in, curling into a ball and letting me stroke her mane. It's very soft, I find.

I ask her the same question the guy from the Dashie story asked his guest: "How did you get here?" I'm whispering into the ear flopping towards me.

She raised her head, not tired, apparently and looks at me curiously. Seeing the real eyes as opposed to those in the show is a surreal experience. It's better than the first time you see the eyes of the Queen of the Changelings, when she's Princess Mi Amore Cadenza, disguised and singing This Day Aria, Part 1 and her eyes flash to those harlequin beauties at the part where she sings "What they don't know is that I have fooled them all!".

What can I say? I'll be one to admit that was one of the coolest scenes in the whole show. Now those eyes are looking at me, studying me with curious intelligence any bright child might have. Assuming she's going to be a queen, I was already picturing the years were going to be interesting if nobody came for her or if she wasn't found out.

It's clear she doesn't know, but I can't help but think the storm was the obvious answer. Perhaps a spell gone awry in Equestria? Perhaps she was trying to invade Canterlot again and was caught in a spell similar to the one that sent Rainbow Dash as a filly to earth? Of course, that was a story.

Or was it?

The guy's journal had turned up somewhere and somebody published it on the internet. Was there some threshold between reality and fantasy that had somehow been crossed? Was someone hiding it? If so, why? It was a silly question to wonder. Since when did a children's show cross over from someone's imagination into a world of flesh and blood and mortality?

I was starting to think the man's story was not so weird after all. There had been sequels to that story, of course. The guy had gone to Equestria and had even lived a long life happily until the end. But that was years from now. Even so...

"Why me?"

Chrysalis looks at me, her eyes drooping and heavy lidded. She yawns, showing off her little fangs and smacks her lips sleepily. She snuggles closer, her breath warm on my cheek.

I find myself answering my own question with the ever philosophical, why not?

Author's Notes:

All props and respect to the original author of "My Little Dashie". I have never seen anyone do a spin of the story with Chrysalis, so I thought "Why not?".

Enjoy!