I make candy.

Does that seem strange? Some ponies think so. I guess it is a little unusual for a unicorn to make their living this way.

It’s not unheard of, though, and it fits, since my name is Candy Cane. Again, sort of unusual for a unicorn. That’s more of an earth pony name, isn’t it?

But how atypical my background and profession may be is neither here nor there, so let’s not keep going on about it. The fact is, I do make candy. I have to admit I wasn’t very good at it at first, but with some time and practice I’ve gotten a lot better. Lucky thing, too. For a while I worried that I wouldn’t make it, but I guess things are going alright these days. I have a pretty decent route figured out for my cart, with regular customers and everything. The candy sells, so ponies must like it.

It’s not too bad a life, but being in business for yourself is hard work. I have to make the candy either the night before or early in the morning, and during the day I have to get out there and sell it while the selling’s good. Then after I’m done with that, I have to go back home to clean up the cart, get the kitchen washed up, buy whatever supplies I need, and try to have as much as I can set up to go for tomorrow. Then I do it all over again the next day. And the day after that. And the day... you know what? I’m sure you get the picture.

I’ve been at this for about three years now, and like I said, I wasn’t good at it at first. Learning how to make halfway decent candy was half the battle. The other half was learning how to move it. There’s an art to sniffing out the best times and places to sell something, but it’s elusive and there are no sure bets. Sometimes one vendor can come out at the end of the day a total bust when the mare right across the street had her best haul in weeks. Ponies are fickle, unpredictable creatures, but so far they’ve had enough of a collective sweet tooth to keep me going. I suppose I’ll stick with this candy making gig until that changes.

An important thing I’ve picked up in my time so far is that parks are good. In a city like Fillydelphia, ponies who want to see some grass and trees and open space flock to the parks. Parents bring their foals so that they’ll have a chance to play outside and experience nature (such as it is in the city). Fillies and colts go there to play games of hoofball or tag. Couples show up later toward the evening to have somewhere romantic to watch the sunset together.

Most of my time vending is spent in the city’s parks. I don’t have anypony to watch the sunset with, but business is good. I sell a lot of candy there. That’s what matters, right?

Not long ago, a funny thing happened. A letter showed up in my mailbox. It may have been sitting in there for a few days or so before I found it, actually. I’ve fallen into the lazy habit of only checking the mail about once a week. I don’t get much mail, and what I do get is usually unimportant junk, so I don’t like checking frequently. Not that I have a problem with seeing an empty mailbox over and over again for days and days in a row—no news is good news, as the saying goes—it just seems like a waste of time, that’s all. Really. I just don’t like wasting time.

Getting a letter isn’t a funny thing in itself, I suppose. It’s pretty normal for most ponies. It’s just funny that it happened to me, at least considering the letter in question. All I ever get are ads or bills, and they always come in those sharp, stark, plain clean white business envelopes. I could tell, though, that this one was different before I even pulled it out of the mailbox. The envelope was a bit smaller and kind of an off-white, creamy beige color, some sort of fancy paper... or at least meant to look fancy, anyway. The stamp in the upper right corner was just a hair crooked, enough to show that it was placed there by hoof rather than by automation. The most striking thing was the address, scrawled out in neat and clear hoofwriting with a quill and ink, not printed by some impersonal machine.

I held it up in front of me with telekinetic magic, flipping it around in the air and studying it front and back. It was very strange. What pony did I know who would take the time to send me a personal letter? I couldn’t think of any, really. I felt confused while I went back inside.

That morning was overcast and grey, with a thick sheet of clouds the color of ashes shrouding the sky. The light coming in through the windows was dim and cold while I sat at a table in my tiny living room, puzzling over the letter. My curiosity was certainly piqued. I almost opened it, even, before I caught at the last second that it wasn’t addressed to me. The street address was mine, but the name wasn’t.

Starbeam?

It sounded like a unicorn’s name, but if it was, she wasn’t any unicorn around here.

The return address didn’t help, either. It was from all the way in Canterlot. I don’t know anypony in Canterlot. This letter made a long trip out here, it seemed, and for nothing. I could have almost felt sorry for it, but that would have been silly. Letters aren’t people. They’re not bothered.

It was a good thing they’re not, I decided, because that journey was about to get even longer. I found a quill and a small bottle of ink, and started writing on the front of the envelope, in big block letters:

RECIPIENT NOT AVAILABLE — RETURN TO SENDER

I left it on the table for a few minutes so the ink could dry, while I put away my quill and then cleaned up some baking sheets and mixing bowls that I’d left out in the kitchen.

After I loaded up the boxes of candies I’d prepared for the day into my cart, the last thing I did before I set off was to take that letter back out to the mailbox. I pulled open the outgoing slot and dropped it in, sending it on its way back home.

I’m not sure why there was a fraction of a second’s hesitation before I let it go. It must have just been curiosity. What could have been in that cream-colored envelope with a neatly hoofwritten address from a pony all the way in Canterlot?

But I didn’t want to think too much about it because it didn’t matter, really.

Whatever it was, it was Starbeam’s business, not mine.

She’s obviously somepony important enough to get personal letters in nice envelopes.

Not like me.

I’m just some candy maker in Fillydelphia.

Sometimes I have weird dreams. Doesn’t everypony, though?

I don’t think they’re nightmares, exactly. Nightmares are supposed to be scary. These are just... well, like I said, weird.

I dream about diamond dogs. I have no idea why. There are no diamond dogs in Fillydelphia, so how would I know what they look like? I mean, where would I have ever even seen one?

Anyway, in these dreams I think they’re just doing their usual diamond dog things, which I guess means looking for shinies. Normally, diamond dogs aren’t considered very pleasant, so most ponies try to steer clear, but these ones don’t scare me, so I start walking over to them. They don’t notice me until I’m pretty close.

When they do see me, their eyes go wide with fright and they start running. I don’t want them to run away. My horn flashes, and a few of them fall down for some reason. They don’t get back up. Maybe they’re too scared.

But why? What about a little pony could frighten off so many big, tough diamond dogs? What did I do? Maybe I should try to show them that I’m friendly. I could offer them some candy. Everyone likes candy.

I don’t have any, though.

Why don’t I have any? I don’t understand.

They just lie there. They’re still not moving.

About that time, I usually snap awake. Sometimes there’s a bitter, sour taste of bile in the back of my throat and I feel like I might throw up. I rinse my mouth out with water and try to calm down, but even with that taste gone and my heart not racing a mile a minute anymore, I keep thinking about the diamond dogs, lying on the ground, not moving. It bothers me the whole morning while I’m trying to work.

What a weird dream, right?

Another letter showed up about a week after that first one. It was in the same kind of cream-colored envelope, and once again it had a stamp in the upper right that was just a little bit off, licked and placed by hoof. There was also another hoofwritten address. The street and house number were mine, the same as last time, but on this one the named recipient was ‘Current Resident’.

Current Resident?

Well, I could only shake my head at that, because it was still not right. I’m not Current Resident, I’m Candy Cane.

But it was getting late, and I couldn’t give misdirected mail too much attention just then. I had a mess to clean up in the kitchen, and not very long to get that urgent chore done, so I tossed the letter on my living room table and went to work. I’d completely forgotten about it by the time I finished. Even if I’d remembered, it wouldn’t have mattered. It had already been a very long day and I wouldn’t have felt like dealing with it. It was almost time for bed.

First, though, I still had to take a quick shower and touch up my mane and coat. They’re dyed, and it takes regular maintenance to keep other ponies from being able to tell. In the natural state, my coat is bright white and my mane is flaxen blonde. Fortunately, such light colors are very easy to change, in my case to bright bubblegum pink.

Is that a garish color to make myself? Every time I look in the mirror I can’t help thinking it is, but marketing researchers have apparently found that pink is the optimum color for ponies who sell food, particularly sweets. Why, exactly, I have no idea, but I tried it, and it seems to work, so I stuck with it.

And anyway, I can’t stop now. Consistency is important for customers to have trust. At this point, I’ve been doing it so long that my regulars would be in for a shock if I just suddenly showed up blonde and white instead of bright pink. I’m sure sales would suffer, and I can’t have that.

Nope, can’t go back. I’m Candy Cane, the vivid pink unicorn that makes sugary treats. She’s here to stay.

She’s also never heard of Current Resident. The next morning, after wasting a few minutes pondering over that envelope longer than I should have, I quickly scribbled another return-to-sender notice on it and tossed it back just like the one before.

Maybe this time, somepony in Canterlot would take a hint.

My favorite park to sell candy at has a pond in it.

It’s calm and quiet, spotted with lily pads and duckweed. A big weeping willow grows right on the water’s edge, and I like to set up my cart there under the shade on nice summer days.

Of course, the shade’s not so important now that it’s getting pretty far into autumn, but it’s still a good spot. In autumn, the willow’s leaves turn a vibrant yellow color, going nicely with the reds and oranges of the nearby maples. The only thing is that when the wind blows through, those little yellow leaves fall from the willow tree. About this time of year I have to put up an umbrella over my cart to keep the shedding foliage out of my goods.

But I don’t mind, since that’s also part of the charm of the place. I like being out here, alone in the crisp, cool air, watching that slow steady rain of golden leaves. They fall in the pond and drift on the water, floating among the lily pads and the green duckweed.

I admire the leaves because even in death they evoke a sense of dignity, a fond remembrance of what they once were—part of a mighty tree, a strong tree, an old tree. They built something that has outlasted many generations of ponies and will outlast many more.

Even though they’re just used-up cast-off parts, the leaves don’t resent it. There’s a calm restiveness now that their work is over. Now they sleep forever, drifting on the flat glass surface of the pond. Their peace and contentment is something I envy.

When I’m there under the willow tree, I watch them and it pulls at me with a distant longing. I wonder if maybe someday I’ll join them, floating lifeless in the water, unburdened and able to rest at last, here in this beautiful pond in a quiet park.

I admit, I don’t quite have the nerve to look that in the eye just now. Maybe someday I will.

Until then, I have candy to make.

That’s what I do, here in Fillydelphia.

Not every day is a good day to be a street vendor.

Some days, I don’t get much of a choice about whether to take the day off or not.

Some days, when the weather schedule is overcast and rainy and it's not worth loading up the cart because there would be nopony out there to sell anything to, I just stay in bed. I lie around doing nothing, listening to the raindrops tap on the window and watching the little drops of water bead and run down the glass. I'm awake, of course, but it's just... I don't know. It’s too hard to move. There's no reason. There's nothing there for me outside the warm soft blankets, so why leave? Why even try?

On those kinds of days, there's nothing much to do but lie there alone in the quiet grey light, and think.

On those kinds of days, sometimes when I’m thinking, I remember things I don’t want to.

On those days, I wish more than anything that I was outside, selling candy, because candy makes everypony smile, and the things I remember don’t. The things I remember are the kinds of things nopony wants to see, or think about, not ever.

Those days are the worst.

Those are the days I cry the most.

Somepony in Canterlot doesn’t want to be ignored.

They sent a third letter.

It was a lot like the other two before, and addressed again to the current resident, but this time it was also labeled on the front and the back with, ‘Urgent! Any recipient at this address, please open’.

I guess that Canterlot pony really wanted the mail read and they weren’t taking no for an answer. Still, this just didn’t feel right. Indecisively, I left it there on the living room table for a couple days, wondering if I should do what it said or just throw it away. It taunted me in silence while I tried to ignore it. My stomach twisted up in knots every time I gave it any thought.

After a while I couldn’t take it anymore, and curiosity killed the cat, so like a fool, I finally opened it. I used my telekinesis when I did. For some reason I didn’t want to actually touch it directly. It just felt like... I didn’t want it close to me. I’m not sure why.

I skimmed the letter inside more than I read it, really. I only looked at it just enough to get the gist.

Blah, blah, blah, something about looking for a unicorn named Starbeam, description of her appearance, used to live near Canterlot, blah, blah, may have resided at this address in Fillydelphia, records were lost, please send any information I might have concerning her whereabouts, blah blah blah. Photograph enclosed.

I slumped in my chair and held my head in my forehooves, sitting there in the living room in the dim light of yet another cloudy grey autumn sky, and dropped the letter on the table.

Why was this happening?

I didn’t look at the photo. I didn’t need to. It wouldn’t matter. The house had been empty when I moved in. I never saw anypony else here.

Didn’t they understand that? There was nopony here, so what were they badgering me for? What did Candy Cane ever to do anypony in Canterlot, or to anyone anywhere else for that matter, to deserve this? Why these letters, why now? There’s nopony here!

I just make candy.

I just make candy, because candy is a harmless trivial little thing that makes ponies happy, so why can’t I just be left alone?

Alone is what I am and it’s what I should be.

Who was this letter writing busybody in Canterlot to stick her nose into that!? The thought filled me with hot smoldering coals of anger that wouldn’t go out.

This was too much. This was too far. I suddenly hated it in a way that seethed inside me.

I picked up the envelope, the letter, and the photograph with my magic and tore them all into tiny pieces, until there was nothing but a tight cloud of floating confetti. With another quick flare of magic the shreddings burst into bright but short-lived flames. They fell back to the table, slowly, in a snow of cold white ashes that I swept away into a waste basket.

It wasn’t enough. Taking out my frustration that way didn’t really help. It was still a long time before the bitter, helpless feeling of intrusion subsided.

I’m not sure it ever really did.

I’m not sure it ever really can.

Why can’t I just be left alone?

I just make candy.

Chocolate is the best candy, the most universally loved. Seriously, find me a pony who doesn’t like chocolate. Buying a box of chocolates for that special somepony might be a huge cliché, but there’s a reason it keeps being done—it just works.

That’s why I specialize in chocolate. I like how it makes everypony smile.

My personal favorite is mint chocolate. Well, mint anything, really, but the richness of chocolate goes well with the calming chill of mint, especially darker chocolates.

That’s my signature candy creation, actually, the one that nopony else makes. It uses high cocoa content ultra dark chocolate, heated until it’s molten, then swirled through with sugary white confection that has enough peppermint extract in it to make your whole mouth feel frozen and every breath feel like a blast of frigid arctic air. The strong, bitter chocolate plays against the sweet sugar, and the icy bite just finishes the effect with the perfect touch. It’s a big seller all year ‘round. It cools ponies off on a hot day and makes them feel alive on a chilly day.

And most important... most important of all... it makes them smile.

If I can make enough ponies smile, then maybe one day I’ll smile again too.

Another unusual thing happened, about a week and a half after I got that third letter. A visitor came around to my house, early in the morning before I’d left for the day. If she’d been much later, I’d have missed her. I wish she’d been later.

The knock surprised me while I was working in the kitchen. I took a quick look out one of the windows. The pony waiting out there was a unicorn mare, with a pale periwinkle coat and a mane striped in powder-blue and sapphire. She had a small saddlebag strapped around her side.

It was nopony I knew. I just ignored her at first and kept working. I had a lot to do to get ready for the day and not a lot of time to do it in. I figured she’d go away shortly, and if this was something important, she could leave a note, or... or whatever. Or just go away, preferably.

She didn’t.

She just sat down right there at the door and waited. The audacity surprised me. I don’t know if she thought I had already left and planned to stay as long as it took to catch me coming back, or what, but after fifteen minutes it seemed pretty clear she wasn’t going anywhere.

I gave it another fifteen just to be sure. I really did have a lot to do, anyway.

Eventually, though, I began to realize I was going to have to deal with her just to get out of my own house and load my cart.

She was sitting on the front step with her back to the door. When I opened it, she started a little. She scrambled to her hooves and turned to face me, then stared at me for a moment with wide, surprised eyes.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

She tilted her head at a tiny angle and looked confused. “St... Starbeam?”

I cleared my throat uncomfortably. “No. I’m sorry, but there’s nopony here named Starbeam.”

“Oh.” She blinked, then started to blush. “Apologies. Umm... what I mean is, I’m looking for a pony named Starbeam.”

“So I gathered.”

“Right.” She seemed flustered. “This was the most recent address she might have resided at, but the records weren’t very good and they could be wrong, so I wasn’t sure. I was wondering if you might have any information on her whereabouts.”

“I don’t,” I said. “Never heard of her.”

“Oh.” The mare’s ears folded down. “I was hoping she might have at least left a forwarding address, or something...”

“Why?” I asked.

“I’m with the Military Administration Office, in Canterlot,” the mare said. “I’ve been working with her family to try to find her. They tried sending letters.”

“What do you need to find her for?” I asked.

“A few reasons,” the mare said. “Her last couple paychecks are still undisbursed, there’s a decoration for valor that we would like to award her but haven’t been able to because we can’t locate her, and there’s some other items of paperwork that need to be resolved to close her file.”

“Hasn’t she been discharged?” I asked.

“Yes, but...” The mare frowned, then looked at me sideways with one eye half-closed. “How did you know that?”

“Just assumed. You said you were trying to close her file.”

“...I guess I did.” The mare nodded.

“So why don’t you just close it?” I shrugged. “Close it and forget about it.”

“I don’t think she’d want—”

“How do you know what she’d want?” I asked sharply, interrupting her.

“What?” She seemed taken aback.

“I mean, have you actually thought about it?” I asked.

“Exactly what are you saying?” she asked, looking at me strangely.

“I’m saying, just hypothetically, maybe there’s a reason. Maybe she wanted to disappear, and maybe she doesn’t want to be found,” I said. “Maybe that’s why you’re having a hard time. If somepony wanted to be easy to find, don’t you think they would make it easy?”

“Why would she want to disappear?” The mare at my door looked confused.

“Maybe that’s something you wouldn’t understand.”

“And you would?”

“I didn’t say that.”

There was an uneasy pause. We stared at each other silently.

“Well, what about her pay?” the mare asked. “What about her medal for valor? And there’s still a bunch of paperwork not in order.”

“Maybe she doesn’t want any more of your blood money, and maybe a worthless little costume accessory doesn’t matter,” I said. “Maybe she doesn’t want anything from you anymore. Maybe you can just keep it, if it’s all the same. And she probably figures, screw the paperwork.”

“Why do you think she’d feel that way?”

“I said you wouldn’t understand.”

“What wouldn’t I understand?” She was starting to sound exasperated.

“I don’t know.” I shook my head. “Maybe she saw things. Maybe she did things. Maybe she still has... weird dreams... about them. Maybe she doesn’t like what killing for Equestria made her into. Maybe everypony says ‘hero’, but all she hears is ‘butcher’. Maybe she hates being Starbeam the murdering bitch and just doesn’t want that anymore.” My voice was quivering and strained. “Maybe that’s never what she really wanted but it’s too late.”

“That’s... if that’s how she feels, then I’m sorry,” the mare offered.

“I’m sure you are,” I said flatly.

“But that’s exactly why I’m looking, don’t you see? Maybe, if she’s hurting that badly, we could help her, if...” She started to raise one foreleg, as if to reach out toward me, but she didn’t. She looked into my eyes while she stood there unsteadily, hesitating. “...if we could find her.”

“She doesn’t want your help!” I was loud, almost shouting, while I took a sudden step forward. The mare took a cringing step back, lowering her head and flattening her ears. Her tail drooped straight down between her legs.

I stopped and stood, rigid and stiff, just outside the door. For a moment, the tension in my body felt like something would snap. I made myself look away, then relaxed and exhaled. My voice dropped almost to a whisper. “You’ve done enough to her already.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, quietly. “Isn’t there anything I can do?”

“You can go away.”

“But—”

“There’s nothing you can do for Starbeam,” I said. “She’s not here. I don’t know where to find her. That’s all I can tell you for sure.”

“And who are you?” she asked.

“Me? Candy Cane,” I said. “I’m a candy maker. That’s all. I’m just... some candy maker who lives in Fillydelphia. I’m nopony.”

I turned and walked back into the house, leaving her outside to give me one last final glance of confusion and sadness through the closing door. Then she was gone.

All I could think, looking back at it, was that the time wasted on this ridiculous conversation annoyed me. I had to swallow down a choking tightness in my throat and blink the watery feeling out of my eyes.

There was no time for that nonsense right now.

I had candy to make.

Author's Notes:

Written for this writing contest.

This story is actually a sort of short novelization inspired by and loosely based on events and themes from a small part of an ongoing pony-based RPG I've been playing once a week for over a year now with some friends (if you're reading this, as some of you probably will, hi guys!). It was an interesting challenge to adapt that material and character concept and write it as a short 4500-ish word story.