All stories begin somewhere, and all stories end sometime, but no story dies. No story is lost or forgotten. If it is good and true and as akin to your soul as your soul is to itself, then you will never lose the spark that ignited a story’s flame. And if you truly think it to be a story worth telling, you will tell it; that is simply how things are with stories.

But Ink’s story didn’t begin with that night, though. It didn’t begin the night before, or the other nights, or the night of the dinner, or even the night of Christmas, or at night at all, really.

It began in the room of one girl with dreams as big as the world would let them be; and she had pushed far, past that limit, to the infinite, to call that which lay beyond hers, so that she might mend it to her creation and craft what she so desired. From pen and paper she had derived meaning, and from that meaning she had developed intent, and from that intent she had begun to write.

She had stopped the story in the middle of things because she had thought the story and herself lost. She was right, in a way. But now she had found her way and she was lost no more and the story was here and she was writing it, writing it until it told her that it was over, that it had ended triumphantly.

All stories begin somewhere, and all stories end sometime, and this is where Ink’s came to its final glory.

It was May. Spring was passing into summer. Memories played out on long stretches of film and song, combining lingering sentiments of cold Marches and wet Aprils; school was coming to an end. It was warmer, now, and the soil was beginning to show signs of life. The sky was clearing up of its greys. There was a wind coming that spoke of the future And thankfully the time passing had been uneventful.

Much had happened, as many things tend to happen over time. Her mother had come home from the hospital and was slowly starting to recover. It would not happen within that year, though. Her body was frail and had lost much of its youth in those weeks, and there were clear signs of some sort of damage to her brain that likely was irreversible. She was slower, now, both in movement and in thought, and the medicine meant to prevent future seizures only furthered this detriment. There were more frequent pauses in conversation as her mother fought to find the right words dangling just out of her reach. Patience became a well-practiced skill for the both of them.

Ink had moved back home to find it cleaned up by her friends. There were many tears, then, but it seemed so long ago; she could hardly remember the “Welcome Home” party Pinkie had put together for both Quills. The party soon extended to “Newest Couple,” albeit impromptu, and Pinkie would kick herself later for not anticipating this turn of events. (How she could have, Ink didn’t know.)

And as soon as she could, as soon as she was ready, she had sat down at her laptop and peered over the document Mac had saved. He was there, mostly to help clean and to help set up the home to accommodate her mother. The Apples had been there as well. When all goodbyes to their friends had been said, the weekend was Ink’s to fill.

It would take her all the way up the February 28th, the deadline day, for her to finish the excerpt. It had taken her that long because she could not help but constantly go over it, hoping it was good, hoping it could stand on its own. When she finally stopped, it was with a sudden breath. It was written. She would send it.

The submission called for an additional letter just to hear the author’s thoughts about the piece, and Ink had thought over what to say while in the middle of drafting. In the end she stuck a handwritten letter to the back of the document the day of, sent both out, and let out a sigh. It was over.

So were other things. Braeburn stopped by once or twice but it was clear he had no intention of pursuing Ink any longer. He would return to Appleloosa. Though his business had been uprooted due to his actions with the girl, he had still borne quite a deal of fruit, and the small town would receive its fair share of tourists in time. The Apples had wished him well, and he had ridden off, a cowboy in search of his calling. That would be the way Ink remembered him in the coming years: the cowboy in search of his calling, whether that was a woman or himself.

The other pressing matter was Sugar Belle, but it was she who determined the finality of it. She was to leave. She still wanted to go on the trip abroad and take advantage of the opportunities presented in such an endeavor. Ink had been the first to know; somehow, despite everything, Belle had come to trust her. Perhaps this was because when hearts are as similar in desires as theirs were it made their owners achieve some sort of connection that is as rare as it is beautiful. Ink would never know. The Apples knew next, then Night Glider, and then finally Mac.

“What about yer father?” he had asked, always so kind despite everything. “What will he say?”

“He’s a ghost,” she had replied after a moment of thinking. “I can’t let him hold me back now.”

Mac had quietly said for her to keep in touch; he did not wish for things to end on a bad note. But she had smiled, walked over, and gave him a small kiss on the cheek. “It’s already ended,” she had said, smiling sadly. “But I don’t think it ended badly for everyone.”

And she had looked to Ink, and she had winked. That was the last Ink would see of her for a long time.

That had been the end of February into the beginning of March. Midway through that had been Ink’s birthday. She didn’t want to do anything all that special, since Braeburn had sucked away all the fun in extravagant dates and planning and the like. But that was okay with Mac, because that was who Mac was: very simple.

Really all he did was take her to the park, where he had met Sugar Belle, but it was different now than it was then. That was when he had given her that hat.

She remembered that moment clearly.

There in the park he took out from a small bag the hat, wrapped up in tissue paper, with one end slightly curled. The ribbon was tied neatly around the top. It was the exact same kind of hat she had seen in the milliner’s store, and it was the hat that he and Sugar Belle bought; the last favor the latter girl had really given her. The story was funny now when Mac said it, but Ink could only imagine the tense feelings at the time.

“It looks good on you,” he said when she put it on. It was a good hour for a sunhat, she was thinking when she put it on, for the sun was coming out of the horizon like a red ball of tomorrow. The hat gave good shade, too. And it fit snug around her head, like it was meant for her from the very beginning.

“Do you really think so?” she asked, tipping one side, then the other, in order to find the right balance.

He held her by the shoulders. “I know so.” And she laughed, smiling up at him. There were many moments similar to this one after that fateful night, but she would never get old of the way he held her like this.

And so March went on and on into April, and then May. Now that it was May she was waiting for school to end, but more importantly for what might arrive.

She was in the park, wearing that sunhat, staring off into the distance, as she was fond of doing. A cool breeze swept through the May air, billowing out her dress. Her hair was short again, growing at a good pace for Apple Bloom to get some extra practice in, and she tucked one of the longer strands behind her ear as she watched the sun. It was very peaceful in the park, and she could not help but wonder if she could make use of it somehow, perhaps as a setting for another story.

Yes, she was still thinking of stories even after this one had been written—this 20,000 word excerpt that had been submitted. She had take a break after submitting it, then thrown herself into writing it, and though not much had been made past that 20,000 mark, progress was still on-going. She was happy for that. Yes, happy.

She let out a little sigh. These were good days and good times. She could think about the past and the present and the future, and also the writing, all at the same time, and she felt nothing but elation at being able to do so. For a mind that was busy but content was a good mind. And a good mind bred good things. There was a cycle in that kind of belief, she thought, and it was a good cycle. Lots of good things, there.

And of course, the best thing was that boy.

“Ink! Ink!”

She turned at the sound of her name and saw Mac running up the dirt path towards her, waving a hand full of paper. She smiled. “I was just thinking of you,” she said when he was close enough.

He grinned devilishly. “I could tell. You were blushin’.”

“Was not. What’ve you got there?”

“It’s the response from the competition.”

“Why do you have it?”

“I guess when you mailed it, you put down my address instead of yours.”

She had been thinking of her time at Sweet Apple Acres when she had wrote out the address, so that made sense. “Well, let me see it.”

He handed her the envelope, which was a manilla-colored slip of folded paper with her name typed neatly in the middle. She gently pulled open the flap and pulled out what was inside.

“A letter?”

“Read it,” Mac said. “Might as well.”

She slipped the whole thing out and began to read.

Dear Ink Quill,

We have read your entry. We have judged it well. This letter isn’t because of only the results, though. It is better for certain things to give personal things, such as letters. This is mine. There is another. It is enclosed below this one. I hope you find it enlightening.

“Hemingmane,” Ink said. “That’s one of the judges, right?”

“Eeyup,” Mac said. “Wonder who wrote the other letter, then?”

To the young Ms. Ink Quill,

There is nothing quite like taking up the pen, I don’t think. While I certainly do type faster than I can scrawl, there is a special sort of magic to writing by hand that never gets old. It feels more personal, I suppose; a more direct gateway between two very alike minds.

I say alike, first because of what you have submitted for our Wordsmiths United contest. Given our range, we do expect to see plenty of rising stars in the writing word, even young, blossoming ones such as yourself. Since our “doors” are open to all ages we see a very diverse set of submissions. Some are good. Some are not. Some are great, and these are the ones that earn placement.

In your letter included with your submission, you explained how you are a big fan of my work. It shows in your own, I believe, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing. I can see how my topics have influenced what you’ve written, and it is an interesting and even flattering feeling to be able to see all the linguistic and prosaic references to my literary itinerary. And this is why I said we are alike first in what you have given us to read.

It is my pleasure, therefore, to notify you that you will be published in the Honorable Mentions of the Canterlot Literary Magazine.

Ink nearly dropped the letter then and there. “H-Honorable Mentions?” she stuttered. Her hands were shaking. She could feel tears, surprised and shocked, gather in her eyes, and she quickly blinked them away.

She hadn’t won.

She felt Mac take her hands into his. “Oh, Ink,” he murmured. “I’m so sorry.”

But that wasn’t the end of it. Looking down, she saw there was more writing. She hesitated. But ultimately if there was more, then she ought to read it, and perhaps in there lay some meaning, some justification; and if none of that, then perhaps she would find solace.

No, you did not win a place, though that is not for a lack of trying on Hemingmane’s and my part. Unfortunately we are but two in a panel of five judges. Those other three did not agree with our judgement, that you should at least have placed third. I know that this is somber and disappointing news; believe me, I know the sting of rejection like an old friend.

But you have clear talent. Your 20,000 excerpt, while rough around the edges, demonstrates your understanding of what makes good writing: honest-to-God truth-telling. It would be unwise to invoke the names of bygone literary greats so as to give you a scaling comparison, but I am tempted nonetheless. Therefore, I submit to you this request: I’d like to feature your excerpt in a collection of teenage writings I am collecting for private publication.

“Publication?”

“Private publication,” Mac corrected her. “Keep reading, maybe this guy explains it.”

“Who is this other person, anyway?”

I mentioned a “first” so naturally there must be a “second” as to why I said we are alike. It has to do with what else you wrote in your submission letter, about your mother. I hope she is doing well.

But here is the “second,” and let me be clear: had you not been honest with your explanation, and indeed, had we not met so fatefully that Friday the 13th of February, you would not have gotten it.

If we are unlucky or unfortunate we will see Death commonly and frequently. I have had the terrible fate of seeing it almost as another old friend. I lost my parents when I was very young to an illness that affected their brains and thus their bodies. From that day forth I have vowed to help those afflicted by similar tragedies.

Ink, you lost your father already—your mother, I hope, was a close call and nothing more than that. I’ve talked to my staff as well as Hemingmane, and we have decided to help. The Prose Foundation is prepared to pay in full the cost of your mother’s medical and therapeutic treatment. In return, I have only one request: I as that you make a few edits before publishing your excerpt in its entirety.

Ink’s heart stopped. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “They’re gonna pay for it? All of it?”

Payment had been on Ink’s mind for a while. She had managed to scrape together some funds, with the help of Mac and the Apples, but it wouldn’t be enough. But this?

A miracle, she decided. It was a miracle.

Ink paused. She read over that last sentence once more. Then again, then again, then again. She read it first in her mind, then with her lips, then she brought it to life with her voice.

“... publishing?” she murmured. The idea of it; it was utterly stupendous, but then—how—

“I’ll… probably know more if I finish it, huh?” she said sheepishly, to which Mac chuckled. Both of them returned to the letter, which was reaching its final moments.

You heard me right.

Publishing.

The novel is a multi-part journey. First there is the writing. Then the editing. Then the publishing. These days I would say the latter is the hardest, and without the right connections it is hard to find a decent publisher that would give you a chance.

You will, of course, need first to finish the piece. And before that (and this is my insistence, mind you), you’ll need to complete high school and attend at least two years of college. But once all that is done, send me a letter with a copy of the manuscript. I like what you have and I think it could do well. I like helping the blossoming writer sprout.

I believe that is all I need to say. I wish you and your friends and family the best of luck. And as one writer to another: keep on writing.

Publishing.

By God he was serious.

That wasn’t the first thought on her mind, though. She stared at the letter, silent, and then mumbled as if in a haze, “The Opacare Prose wrote this? For me?”

Rarity will be soooo jealous!

But— publishing.

Publishing!

“Mac!” Ink nearly screeched. “I’m gonna— I’m gonna—”

And then she really did screech, really did squeal. She jumped up and down, her energy unable to be contained. The energy spread quickly to Mac, and he picked her up and spun her around, her and the letter and the sunhat he had bought that sat so perfectly on her head, and they were laughing and crying and hugging.

“You did it, girl,” Mac said. “You got, uh, what’s the term? ‘A foot in the door,’ yeah!”

“And it’s all thanks to you,” she said, gazing up at him. The letter fell from Ink’s hands, and she smiled and closed her eyes and leaned up to him, and he down to her.

They talk often of the five most passionate, most pure kisses since its conception, its invention, and ultimately its first usage. But theirs?

Theirs blew them all away.