FREEWRITER

Chapter 1: The Broken Poet.

The evening crept in like a roaming ghost and Freewriter was not pleased. In fact, he was quite put to distraught and anguish for he knew that the clock was ticking and it wasn’t getting any slower. What was he so afraid of exactly? Was he afraid of the sunrise, some an unstoppable event, maybe death? Neigh dear reader, instead; his greatest fears lied in what waited for him the following weekend when his boss would notice the absence of his already over-due poetry for his news paper article.

“Confound this schedule! Confound this blank parchment, and damn my lack of inspiration!” He roared in his accumulated frustration.

“This will never do; whatever I try to write, it all turns to waste, to refuse, to fecal matter!”

He slammed his hoofs on the wooden floor below him and his tiny apartment subtlety shook. His inherited glass wear and collected trinkets rumbled on the shelves hanging on his wall. The wooden table in the center of the room did not move an inch while a broom in the corner fell out and clapped onto the floor.

He composed himself, pushing back his mane and letting out a deep sigh. He paused for a moment and returned to his table and looked around himself to let his mind wonder the wastelands of his subconscious, in search of an idea for his poem.

He noticed the damp yellow paint chipping on the walls, the inherited dining-wear his parents left him after he graduated from college, the old wooden table that was littered with dirty dishes and half finished sonnets. He looked upon the walls and saw that they where unnervingly empty; the only furnishing hanging on its decaying side was the cabinet that held the dining wear. He looked behind him and saw the kitchen sink, how the faucet teasingly dripped and splashed in the metal hollow below. He looked over onto the counter, he saw the old cook books, the DIY guides, the home furnishings manuals, and most importantly, the letters that his friends from college had sent him long ago; they where the most important things in his apartment. To complete his one room lifestyle, to openly declare that this was indeed his home, a stained squeaky mattress sat on the floor beneath the wooden cabinet.

He took in all of his surroundings and formed a mental energy within him; transforming the scenery into shapes and then to colors, the colors into feelings and the feelings into words. He wrote down the beginning parts of the poem with a worried cradle in his heart. He tried to write down his feelings into a poem worthy of parading to his boss at the office, but he couldn’t do it, nothing worked. His rhymes where stale and the imagery was bland; just looking over the poem to review it put a bad taste in his mouth, similar to that of rotted woodchips.

Freewriter was on the verge of crying, he was helpless once again, he laid down his pen and let his head to rest on the table. Like a foal laying in the tracks before a racing locomotive, he couldn’t do a thing to save himself, he felt it in his heart, his mind, his very being; it was only a matter of time till his boss would stop asking for poems to print, and the owner of the apartment would order him to leave because he was so late on his bills. Is this the destined life of a college graduate who put everything before himself? Is the life that society had intended for a stallion who fought with his with heart instead of his fists? Is this a life he should of chose?

“I should have become a shoe maker…” Freewriter whimpered to himself in his state of surrender. “I shouldn’t have ever gone to college; I shouldn’t have ever gone to school…” He got up and turned around to embrace his apartments silent mocking. Instantly, his teary eyes turned grew heavy and his jaws clenched in their remorseful anger. “I SHOULDN’T HAVE ASPIRED TO BECOME ANYTHING! NOTHING AT ALL! I SHOULD HAVE JUST GIVEN UP AND DID WHAT PA’ SAID!” He turned to the cabinets above his sink and opened them up, revealing an unusually large stash of vintage wine. “Come on Freewriter, come join me at the shop and become a shoe maker like your old stallion!” He quietly mocked to himself as he bit down on one of the wine bottles and lifted it down from the shelf. “It’ll be fun, you’ll learn invaluable life skills, and you might even get to inherit the shop one day! Blehck!” He continued to joke to himself in an insulting mimic of his father’s voice as he sat the wine bottle on the table. “Look around now, wearing shoes isn’t some kind of fad, everyone’s wearing them now, and even the princess is wearing them!” He finished joking aloud before he popped off the cork from the wine bottle. He sat on the floor and looked at the open bottle of fermented grape juice with a thousand mile stare and began to speak to himself. “And here I am 12 years later, and the only thing I figured out on my own was that booze is better than any ‘happy pill’ in Equestria,” He smirked.

He clenched the bottle between his hoofs. “Maybe I can find the inspiration for a better poem at the bottom of this bottle? Who knows, I might get lucky and find a genie…” He tilted his head back and began to chug contents of the bottle.

2 hours later, the floor was soaked with spilled wine, and littered with half empty bottles and scattered sonnets. Alcohol was flowing through his veins putting him in a drunken haze. Freewriter laid limp on his side, lost in thought. The alcohol in the wine did two things; 1: numb the sickening pain from his depression, and 2: clear his mind for deep thought and reflection on his life.

He ventured deep into his subconscious, making a monolog of his every thought; he started to put the pieces of his life puzzle together. The shapes where blurred and bent, some were soaked with wine and some with tears. Some of them where even missing, thus rendering him incapable of finishing the puzzle. Yet with all the missing pieces, he still persisted to complete it as best he could.

“No…It was right of me choose my own path, I needed to become my own stallion and pursue what made me happy. It wouldn’t have a made a difference with pa’s store if I joined him or not, it still would have gone bankrupt.” He and paused and rolled on his back and looked at the ceiling and became entranced with the fan spinning above.

“I need to get out of this slump…I need… to see some kind of doctor…or something…Somepony who knows how to make other ponies think better…” He stopped before speaking any further when he found the conclusion right then and there.

“I see it now! I’m not stupid or unimaginative; I’m sick, of course!” He jeered with glee. He rolled over on all fours and stood up. “I need to see some kind of shrink who can help me put my mind back together and find my strength in writing once more, this is genius!”

He walked over to the old mirror by the front door of his apartment and looked into it. He saw a brown coated earth pony, a faded black mane and tail, and forest green eyes. He looked deeper into the image held within the silver plaque and saw, a broken soul, one that would soon be fixed, one that would soon have enough money to put food on the table, enough time to enjoy himself and have a long happy life ahead of him. But the rush of the realized triumph only lasted as long as it did; his mind quickly started to spin, he became dizzy and tipped over on the floor with a thud. He suddenly remembered that being happy wouldn’t make him any more sober; it was also around that time that he was beginning to really miss his sense of direction.

As the smile of his brilliant conclusion seceded into the depths of mind for later usage, he looked around himself and analyzed his apartment. After a quick look about, he groaned in disgust; it was now more of a wreck then it was 2 hours ago.

“Perhaps I should clean this place up…”

He looked at the cupboards, they where bear, all the bottles were now on the table and scattered on the floor; and most of they were either empty or in the half spilled.

“And maybe get some more wine too…” He said with a reclined sigh.

His eyes swept over the room and its condition one more time before he decided that the floor would be a good place to fall asleep; walking to the bed at the other side of the room seemed like too much of a task at the time being. He closed his eyes and in an instant, he was fast asleep.

The next day, with minor setbacks from spontaneous vomiting due to the hangover; Freewriter arrived at the Manehatten Mental Clinic.

He sat nervously in the dull, grey, waiting room. With a wine cooler in a paper bag beside him, he watched the clock tick from the other side of the room. It was an old, coo-coo clock that was probably bought at a yard-sale not too long ago, but even if it was old, the ticking didn’t make Freewriter any less on edge. Besides the clock, Freewriter was not alone in this windowless waiting room; there where two other ponies there, both looking much more in need of the doctor’s help than he was. One of the ponies was a dull-yellow unicorn with a breaking twitch in his eye and a nervous tapping in his hoof on the ground; he needed the doctor’s help much more than he did, he assumed. The other pony in the room was curled up in the corner in the fetal position, her eyes where narrowed and she was whispering a mothers lullaby to herself; she needed the doctor’s help far more than any of them, so he thought.

“On second thought…I should just try and get another job, perhaps I could put that bachelor’s degree in metal working to a good use?” Freewriter thought to himself as he took in the seriousness of everypony’s conditions. He sat up to stand, but just before he could take his bottle and head for the door, the nurse walked in and called out his name.

“Freewriter?”

His hairs stood up on end, he held his breath, and slowly turned around to act like he wasn’t trying to leave.

“That’s me.” He replied with cheesy grin.

“The doctor will be seeing you now,” she chimed in return.

“Err, uhh…Thank you...” He concluded as he moved past the nurse and into the doctor’s Office.

When he entered the room, he noticed it was clean, darkened by shutters over the window and scented with flowers. Carpet covered the floor and a potted plant sat in the back corner. By the wall was a metal filing cabinet and beside it stood a wooden writing-desk. In the center of the room sat two cushions; the doctor was sitting on the one to the right; leaving the second one open to Freewriter’s use.

And then he noticed the doctor; an old, char-coal colored, Pegasus. His mane had turned grey over the years, an indirect sign of experience, the wrinkles on his face where markers of his acquired wisdom, and around his neck was gold, wedding ring; showing that he was now alone since his wife had died long ago. Freewriter could tell by his looks that this doctor’s promise of help was indeed genuine, and perhaps he wouldn’t have to stay in this room so long, taking up the time of the other ponies outside.

“Come in, come in!” The doctor gleefully requested to him. “Come in!”

Freewriter was caught off guard in his thoughts about the doctor, whatever plans he had for an intelligent and dignified greeting had evaporated into mist; leaving his mind open make him look as socially awkward as possible.

“I..uh…I’ll just..uhh…sure?” Freewriter stuttered with a half-bent smile.

The doctor was patient, silent and warm in watching while Freewriter walked over and took a seat on the cushion across him.

Freewriter took his seat besides the doctor and a silence began to fill the air, for him, the silence was more nervous and judging than it was awkward. Freewriter opened his mouth to try and initiate some form of conversation to clear the smoke of silence, but the doctor did it instead.

“So, tell me about yourself, Freewriter, why did you come here today?”

“I, uhh…I…It’s a little embarrassing to say…” but he paused, he stood up, turned around, and continued, “Eh, you know? Why don’t I just leave, I’m not really sick I just…I’ve been feeling a bit lost for a few days, but I think it’s time I got going so uhh-“.

“Nonsense, my lad, you came here feeling sick, didn’t you? Why not stay a little longer and let me try help, and believe me; there is no such thing as a problem too small to look at,” the doctor said with a reassuring smirk.

Freewriter looked back into the doctor’s eyes and thought about his words, could he really take him seriously enough to try and help him with his problem?

He sighed, “Sure…I, I guess I’ll stay...” Freewriter said with a surrendered exhale.

Freewriter returned to his cushion beside from the doctor.

“Oh! How foolish of me!” The doctor chuckled, “I forgot to introduce myself! My name’s Sunset Goodwill. Or if you’d like, you may call me Dr. Goodwill instead; I don’t mind.”

“Oh hello, Sunse-miste-docto…Dr. Goodwill, I uh, my name is Freewriter; pleasure to meet you sir…err I mean Doctor.” He replied.

Dr. Goodwill simply smiled and asked, “So what’s been bothering you lately? Something about being ‘lost’?”

The doctor picked up his clipboard and checked it to see try and pick a topic to start with Freewriter to try and ease up to him.

“So it says here that you’re a writer, is that correct?” Goodwill kindly asked.

“Oh, uh that? Yeah, I…ummm…I…You see…umm” Freewriter shrunk back and his voice began to grow very quiet. “ And I’ve… lost my ability to write…”

Dr. Goodwill wasn’t new to the problems that Freewriter had. While he himself couldn’t relate to ever being a writer or poet lost from his greatest tool, in his years of having seen dozens of good ponies come to him wrecked from losing that essential piece of their selves, he’s learned to understand just what it meant to Freewriter.

“That’s bad, very bad in fact.” Dr. Goodwill announced to Freewriter.

“Err…how bad?”

“Bad enough to where if we don’t get you cured soon enough you may go insane, maybe even perhaps kill somepony.”

Freewriter’s heart skipped a beat and he lost his breath in disbelief to what Goodwill had said. At first he thought that the doctor was just over exaggerating, maybe he mis-communicated. He tried again to explain his problem, just to make it clearer, and hopefully less dangerous than it sounded.

“No, I mean like…It’s very hard for me to write something I like, err; you know like…I can’t find the right words to use when I write…see what I’m sayin’?”

The Doctor’s mood has changed; he’s becoming more serious and down to earth with what he said to him.

“I know what you’re saying and that’s just it. You have a hobby and a personality, that when combined create a very fragile coexistence. If you can’t write poetry and make something that pleases you, you might go insane!”

“Umm…Mr…Dr. Goodwill, is it that extreme? How would that even make me go insane?” Freewriter pleaded.

“Well you see, not being able to write is like me not being able to help people; it would drive me mad!”

While Freewriter’s jaw tilted to the side in a mixture of confusion and intimidation; Dr. Goodwill got up from his cushion and walked over the file cabinet behind him and started filing through.

Freewriter sat in silence, still chewing on Dr. Goodwill’s words until he popped out from the file cabinet exclaiming “A’ha!”

Freewriter’s ears perked up in focus to Dr. Goodwill’s sudden shout.

“Did you find ‘the thing’ you where looking for?”

“Indeed I have! Take a look here;” He flipped the files around and showed them to Freewriter.

“All of these former patients of mine where poets, just like you. But when they came to me, they were too far lost in there insanity to be helped fast enough, and they eventually had to be put into special care at the Fillydelphia Mental Hospital. So you see; you’re in more danger than you think you are, Freewriter. If we don’t get you back to writing soon enough, you might end up like my former patients.”

Freewriter knew the Doctor was serious when he explained it all, that if he really was telling the truth, he might be in more trouble than he thought. For him, to have to spend his days insane and living in a mental hospital may as well make him dead.

“So, what can you do to cure me, Doctor?” Freewriter asked.

“I can’t cure you; no pony-made medicine in Equestria can cure a loss of inspiration. However, to our advantage, nature has been making that kind of medicine for a long time.”

Dr. Goodwill turned around and walked to the writing-desk behind him and began to write.

While Goodwill scribbled on the desk, Freewriter let his imagination get the best of him. He thought about going insane and having to live in an asylum. What if he was dangerous too? Would they put him on pills to make him stupid, put him in a straight-jacket, give him a lobotomy? His heart began to shriek and pound at the very thought of such a horrible future, but to his fortune, Goodwill returned with a special piece of paper in his mouth.

“Now this right here is a genuine ‘doctor’s orders’ requesting you to take a vacation, which; your boss will interpret as a ‘medical leave’. Just take this to him today or tomorrow and the details inside should be enough to convince him to let you off work for two weeks, with pay. The rest and relaxation should be enough to put your inspiration back in working order.”

Freewriter’s heart began to flutter with relief when heard what Dr. Goodwill said.

“Oh thank you so much, Dr. Goodwill, thank you so much!” He exclaimed as he shook Goodwill’s hoofs. “One quick question though, where will this ‘medical leave’ take me; a nice getaway in the mountains of the Coltalayas, a nice resort on the beach, maybe a nice delta by the sea?”

“Actually, Freewriter, someplace much better; when I was young I would spend every day of my summer vacation at my grandma’s cabin, in a little town called Ponyville! Oh, how I loved the country air, the starlit skies, the grassy meadows, the friendly ponies, it was an all around wonderful to me!” Goodwill cheered with surprise to Freewriter.

Freewriter was less happy about the travel plan than Goodwill was, in fact; Freewriter’s anticipation had deflated and now he was almost wishing he could just stay in Manehatten and go insane instead.

“Uhhh, so Ponyville? What is like out there, do bears and skunks wonder around all day long? Will I get stung by any bees?”

“Well, so long as you don’t wonder out to the forest beside the town you won’t come across any bears, and for bees? Just don’t go messing around their hives and you’ll be fine.” Goodwill said as he gave the note to Freewriter.

There was an awkward silence now, a silence that seemed to ring in their ears. Goodwill took a deep breath and looked at the clock behind him.

“Well goodness gracious! Just look at the time, our session is up! Not to be rude, but you’d better be off and get to that vacation, so you can get better; alright?”

“Oh! Of course, um, pleasure talking to you Mr. goo- Dr. Goodwill, I’ll get back to you once I get better, thanks for seeing by the way!” Freewriter said hastily as he stumbled out the door to the waiting room. Goodwill walked beside him, complying with all his statements and ushering him out before closing the door behind him.

Freewriter found himself awkwardly standing inside the waiting room with a blank and confused look on his face. He looked at the note in his hoofs and figured that now would be a good time to talk to his boss about his “medical leave” and get his two weeks off. He walked towards the door at the back of the waiting room and before he left, he bid his farewell, but none of the other ponies seemed to care; they were too busy having mental breakdowns to even acknowledge him.

Manehatten was a dreadfully busy place; very alive; very loud and very, very selfish. Freewriter felt blessed to look around and see that he was not as greedy or hateful as the other ponies living here. It eventually became a fact to him that the city life just makes you somewhat bitter; but while it was the crux of the city, there was also a saving grace to it as well. Freewriter loved seeing other ponies, he loved being near them and being in a crowd, he could never explain why, but it made him feel important. That was Freewriter’s greatest desire in life, to feel important; he didn’t know how he would do it or when, he just wanted to be essential to the joy of someone’s day.

When you take a walk through Manehatten’s busy streets, you would most likely just be aimlessly wondering, only able to find your way home by simple landmarks and street signs. That would be the case if you where a tourist, but as a Manehattenite; you didn’t wonder, you just took a leisurely stroll.

Freewriter eventually arrived at the great big office building he worked with; The Manehatten Article. As busy as Manehatten boasted to be, The Manehatten Article proved to dwarf that without a second wink. On each and every one of its seventeen floors, there was always some deadline that was always just around the corner; always something that needed to be printed or scanned, somepony about to get fire and another who was just hired.

Freewriter paced himself through the lobby of the busy building, shuffling himself over scattered paper and graceless accountants, and dodging the hoard of crazed photographers all trying to get next best shot of the next best thing.

After entering a crowded elevator, he patiently waited as it rose to his floor. As time passed, the cabin would stop and two or three other ponies would walk out to get to their other tasks.

By the time he arrived to the seventeenth floor, it was just him. At this point; although he didn’t show it, he was very nervous and afraid of what his boss might think of him reporting in without a single piece of poetry for three weeks and just now coming into ask for another two weeks of paid vacation. The chances of him getting the ‘medical leave’ seemed forlornly pointless.

Upon entering the room, he remembered just how bad he had it living in his crappy apartment. His boss’s penthouse was decorated with ancient treasures and oddities of incalculable value. In the center of the main room was an antique vase under a glass box, it was probably the most expensive thing in this entire building.

Freewriter calmly but hastily walked to the steps leading to his boss’s cabin, overlooking the city. His boss was a dark grey unicorn, wearing a suit and smoking a cigar. His back was turned away from the window. He sat quietly as he scratched his ink-quill over the surface of important documents.

“I know you’re here, Freewriter. I can smell your fear.” His boss grimly noted him.

Freewriter stood somewhat intimidated, “Sir, I uhh, I have something for you, sir.”

His boss turned around, “And let me guess, it isn’t a poem. It’s probably resignation form, isn’t it?”

“Uh, no sir; it’s a doctor’s order for a medical leave; apparently I’m sick and I need some rest.”

There was a pause from him, but he resumed, “How much time will you need?” His boss questioned.

“Two weeks, sir, at most. I’ll try to get back to writing as soon as I can and the-”

“Take as much time as you need, also;” he turned around and used his magic to levitate a small envelope over to Freewriter, down below. “This will be your pay for the two weeks while on leave.”

Freewriter was caught off-guard by his boss’s cooperation and understanding. He didn’t know what to say, so he kept silent and let him continue.

“I know how hard you’ve been trying to write something these past few weeks, Freewriter. Every night or two I’d send one of my spies to do a check-up on your progress while you slept. So believe me when I say this, you need that medical leave.”

Freewriter was thoroughly shocked at what his boss just said; he was now wishing he’d gotten that extra lock on his front door a week ago when he had the chance. “I umm, thank you for the money, sir; I promise I’ll be back and writing as soon as I can.”

His boss turned around. “Fine then; I will see you in two weeks.”

Freewriter turned around and began to walk back towards the door when his boss interrupted him, “Also, Freewriter. Stop making promises to me. Promises only exist to be broken; you’ll learn that the hard way if you keep it up.”

“Um, yes sir.” He complied with a winded sigh. He resumed his talk to the elevator and left the penthouse.

Freewriter returned to his one-room apartment later that day. He stood in the doorway in a blank trance; staring into eternity with not a clue on what happens next.

It was only was a few minutes till the reality of things began to finally sink in. He suddenly became giddy and happy in revelation for what he has just gotten. A two weeks’ vacation was now resting over the horizon, all he had to do was take the train and leave! But first, he had to pack something to wear while he was there; what if Ponyville was too cold? What if it was too hot? What if it was currently being swarmed with bees! All of those possible realities he just couldn’t ignore; he started to feverishly rummage through his apartment in search of special items to aid him from the possible misfortune that awaits him. After about half an hour of gingerly filling up his suitcase with self-titled ‘necessities’, he did a quick catalog of everything inside; one hat to keep him cool, a winter saddle to keep him warm, and a half-empty tube of bee-sting cream; just in case it’s swarming with bees when he gets there.

With much disappointment and surrender in his face, he took the items out of the suitcase and shoved them in a plastic bag instead.

Now looking around and doing a mental checklist of everything he may have missed; he realized that there isn’t much to his life. All he has is his poetry and his soul, just the way a poet should live.

The sun was setting when he approached the counter of the train-station shack and rang the bell beside the window. Almost instantly a middle-aged, vibrant-green mare approached the window, “How may I help you today?”

He let out a sigh and looked at the chart beside the window to see the ticket prices. After eyeing the prices, he said to her; “Yes, one, two-way ticket to Ponyville, please.”

She gave a confirming smiled and ducked her head behind the wall to confirm the price of the ticket; she looked back and concluded to him, “Yes sir, that’ll be 45 bits, please.”

Freewriter stuck his hoof in his plastic-bag and pulled out whatever cash was in there; he couldn’t use his boss’s check because it hadn’t been cashed in yet. He eyed the bits on his hoof and tallied them up on the counter.

“25, 35, 40, 45; 45 bits right here.”

The mare reached below and swiped the bits from the other side of the window and stashed them in a tray beside her. She then turned around plucked a small card out from the cabinet in the back of the room. She slid the ticket under the window to Freewriter, “The train won’t arrive for a few minutes, so you can relax in the back by the tracks while it comes; okay?”

“No problem; and thank you.” He said as he took the ticket and slipped it in his bag with his other possessions.

He walked through the gate beside the train-station shack and rested on the bench beneath the shade of the roof.

He looked around himself and saw that other ponies were waiting for the train as well. Some were poor, some were rich, other were just right. Little filly’s and old stallions stood beside the tracks waiting for the train to arrive and take them away; but to where? Would their train take them to Ponyville so they could stay there for a while, or would it a one-way trip? Maybe this wasn’t their train at all and theirs was going somewhere else, far, far away; for what reason then, for business, for family, for freedom? All these questions boggled within Freewriter’s mind for the remainder of his wait, when he heard the whistle of the train to Ponyville, it had arrived just on time.

The train was pulled by four, powerful stallions, cabled to a great steam engine behind them, pulling many other cars and cabins as well. Their strength put Freewriter’s ears on tip in awe while they slowed down to a stop.

A faded purple stallion walked out from the first car, he was the conductor by proof of the hat he was wearing. He called out to the passengers with a great and practiced voice, “Last train to Ponyville, all aboard!”

Freewriter stood up and walked towards the cabin with a small portion of the other passengers. With his bag in his mouth he walked besides the conductor, letting him check his ticket before going on board.

The train cabin was cool; a chill still lingered from the pleasant breeze that blew in while on its previous trip. He looked at his ticket and checked the number on it; he would be sitting in the 4th car, row 8, Isle B.

After a long walk he made it to his seat and curled up by the window, looking at the world city. He wasn’t sure of what to expect from this trip, maybe he would come back cured, maybe he’d come back worse; but it was only until he took in all there was around him, and he realized that this trip might just define who he is in the future. This would most likely be the most important trip of his life.

After all the ponies curled up in their seats, a period of time came where the patience of everypony on board would be tested; the conductor didn’t say it, but it was true, it was self evident. With a sudden tug and a clank between the 7 other cars, everypony who was resting before had be awakened once more. The train began to roll off away from the city and out, into Freewriter’s personal perception of the unknown.

The rolling green hills and the silver valleys put him at ease just by looking at them; he had never physically been around them, this was his first time. He looked out the corner of the window and saw that Manehatten was slowly disappearing below the horizon; he gave a helpless wave and bid his farewells the city.

The sun was gone now, and the night had arrived. Freewriter looked over the sleeping hillsides and beautiful valleys beyond, and his eyes grew heavy. He rested his head on the head-rest of the chair, and drifted off to sleep.