Even as I sit here with an empty mind, the smile etched into my face is obnoxiously stubborn in its resolve. Mere moments earlier, I had been in my attic, rummaging through boxes of old and forgotten relics of my youth.

I calmly sigh and lay the quill to rest in a small jar off to the side. I remember the zeal, the fervor I bore for a hobby such as this. It was a place I could silently engage in a waking dream that I could remember as often as I wanted. Dreams of towering castles, rolling hills, strange things, strange worlds, strange beings.

That fire had burned for such a long time, it swept over every thought in my mind on a daily basis. Trivial tasks and common everyday objects became things arcane to all save for me. They were captured in a frozen shard of time, reformed and shaped into something far more fantastic. Those embers still burn within, but an inopportune shiver does nothing to bolster my confidence.

I had hoped that I might reignite that inferno of imagination, a skill that served me in both arts I practice. Musician in public, hobbyist author in private, both served to fuel days that were amongst some of my happiest. It was days like those I wished I could sing for joy, and with my quill, I composed songs sans notes for no eyes save mine.

I grasp the quill as the cold, melancholic reminiscence gives way to one such musicless melody that once was lost to me. As a musician by trade, I never thought I’d find my secret personal passion in a world of words. But I understand why I did, it is a quiet, graceful thing, diametrically opposed to the mare I am beyond these walls I call home. I would like to say that I took to writing because I share many similarities with it. Complexity, emotion, and... some have called me beautiful, yes. But graceful I am not.

Once more my smile grows as the embers in my mind reawaken. A warmth surges through the world I once imagined as it slowly begins to move, no longer bound by the frigid grip of forgetfulness. My heart lifts as the words fly across the page on a wing crowned by ink. But the most wonderful thing I find in this serenity of script, is that through a silence that has lasted as long as I can remember, is that I still have a voice. Though my real one has been lost since time immemorial to me.

There are things worse than death, and for me, one such thing is forgetting to turn off the alarm clock on friday night. One of the things that every college student learns is that there is no such thing as a 24 hour day. There is the small portion of your day that is reverently put aside for the most holy of activities: passing the hell out.

The other half is filled with hours of lectures, labs, and closed cranial lobotomies that, even to this day, I still haven’t figured out the methodology for. It is this second half of the day that gives the holy hours such value.

I continually refer to these precious nocturnal hours as holy for one reason: If they are holy, I’m a heretic of the worst kind. Chronic insomnia is rampant among students here, but as a chronic insomniac since middle school, it’s merely something I’m already accustomed to. As such, most nights are spent playing video games and talking with other people who’ve shunned the idea of sleep.

So here I lie, facing the ceiling with bloodshot eyes. I stare over at my phone, wretched little thing that it is, blaring the stupid alarm over, and over. I hate the little thing, I’d defenestrate the little piece of shit if it weren’t such a necessary evil. But knowing me, and the extent of my insomnia, I’d sleep through the end of the world without my alarm. I throw my hand in the general direction of the noise, grab my phone and glare at it as the noise is silenced. I suppose my phone shall live to see another day.

But now that all was quiet, I face another dilemma, I was planning on repenting against my heretical ways for another few hours at the very least. Unfortunately for me, that opportunity was the one thing that ended up getting axed instead of my alarm. What should I do with a few hours of free time and no plans? Something fun, something stupid, something dangerous!

Procrastinate.

Alright, my definition of dangerous isn’t quite what you’d think. Nonetheless, I managed to flop haphazardly onto the floor and roll my eyes in a brief scan of the room. I look over to the computer a short distance away and mentally shrug. Granted, I’m not the most imaginative when it comes to picking things to occupy my time, but .that isn't to say I don't have a pretty good imagination of my own.

I get bored easily, and when I do, I daydream, a lot. A lot of these ideas come and go, and I never really pay them much mind. They’re usually “what if’s” about video games anyway. But one of the things I’ve always liked is adventure, I play games for the story, and more often than not my imagination will whip up some crazy sword design, a floating city of obsidian above a volcano, crazy stuff you’d expect from someone on drugs, basically.

As of recently though, I’ve been applying these shenanigans to something else you’d only expect someone to admit to if they were bat-shit-crazy: My little pony. I look at the characters from the show and can’t help but imagine them outside their element. I’ll try putting them in situations or changing them in small ways to make them... more interesting I suppose.

It’s nothing more than a hobby, sure. But given the amount of time devoted to other, at the time, seemingly meaningless tasks. I don’t usually afford myself the time required to sit down and barf out a few pages of text and yet... Here I am in a crumpled, lethargic heap on the floor staring at my computer as colorful pastel equines dart around the inside of my head.

I slowly pull myself over to the chair and yank myself up to the desk, kicking the power switch as I do so. The screen flickers as briefly as my attention span as I stretch and yawn. A few moments later I log into my computer where a nice big mint green background awaits me.

It’s her. Lyra. A background pony from that a show that I am convinced, peddles visual crack. Addictive tendencies aside, I fire up my word processor and open a few short stories I’ve written about her. I could have picked anypony from the show and can’t help but ask myself: why Lyra? Is it because I like her color palette? Her energetic personality? Her super-adorable poofy-as-all-hell mane?

Every time I just give up on the redundant questions. In complete honesty, I don’t know why I like her, I just do. I felt like she deserved more personality than what I saw, so I took what I observed from the show and threw some other story elements into the mix.

One of my favorite personal takes has to be “my” story of how she got her Cutie Mark. I cried writing that thing, and I hate to admit that I did. It was just such a bittersweet feeling to imagine that she was born mute, but found her voice through the music she played. It solidified the idea that she’s strong even when faced with hardship. Admittedly, the fact that I’m also a huge sucker for the warm fuzzies probably played a big part of it too.

My finger pauses on the scroll-wheel of my mouse as I lean back in my chair. I know she’s not the real Lyra that the creators of the show designed. She’s my Lyra, but she’s mine in the sense that she’s a lot of things I am not. Being able to hold her ground in a verbal battle is one of them for instance. I fold and roll over the second that someone challenges my idea for instance.

I shake my head and groan: thinking is not something I like doing in the morning, which is exactly why I’m subjecting myself to writing another day in the life of Silent Lyra.

I drop my face to the desk and thoroughly damn my contradictory tendencies.

The amber liquid in the cup before me looses a steady tendril of its life as it’s warmth slowly ebbs away.

I sit there staring into the surface of the fragrant pool, a certain measure of contempt percolating through the fibers of my being. For this mere cup of tea and I share a great many things in common. It is nothing more than an inanimate object, yes, but given the thirty minutes I’ve been sitting here staring at a blank sheet of paper I’ve come to realize the similarity I loathe so much.

We are both... stagnant.

I drop my head to the desk unceremoniously, listening to the delicate little cup skip about ever so briefly on the polished wooden surface. As productive as sitting in one spot for hours on end with an empty head to repeatedly adorn the table top with rather aggressive velocities would be, there is a cure for one of the two stagnant objects here in my room. A cure that lies downstairs on a stove top.

The teacup rises with nary a ripple as I open the door and skip down the stairs two steps at a time. It is then that I realize that skipping down a flight of stairs with a full teacup in tow was one of my more prolific errors in judgement, even if it was a minor consequence.

I flick my ear in annoyance, knowing full well the spots of dampness will dry in a moment or two. I head into the kitchen, dump the cup into the sink and refill it from the steaming teapot.

Dejectedly, I plant myself at the table with the freshly steaming teacup between my hooves, I breathe deeply and look to the window. I know who it is that I’m going to write about, I just don’t know what. A small sip of tea and a deep breath do wonders to calm my indignation, yet I find myself no closer to a solution.

There are times I curse myself for my lack of prudence, as the old saying goes: “Use it or lose it.” One such thing I’ve lost is my ability to really sink into the world my characters live in, the world that I’ve made. Times like these are what lead me to seek inspiration, One does not simply build from their thoughts alone, an artist takes a simple fundamental idea from nature, and builds upon it.

I suppose that’s the real reason I came downstairs: the view is better.

I look out the window at the night’s pale sentinel; Princess Luna’s moon, drifting lazily through the night sky. It is a beautiful thing to see, especially with not a single star to detract from the stark contrast the moon provides against the endless nocturnal expanse. I blow a strand of my mane away from my face and allow a smile to play at the right side of my mouth.

The few candles littered around the room flicker weakly as a breeze rolls in. I lift my cup and trot over to the window, placing my tea on the ledge and allowing myself a better view of the night sky and the serenity it gives. I take another sip of tea to combat the playful, if chilly breeze that dances through my coat. It is nights like tonight, where I want so badly to perform, to compose, to create... That I find myself in awe of Princess Luna’s handiwork.

I am a mere unicorn, after all. The complexity of synchronizing the stars, the precision with which they needed to be placed, and the fundamental beauty and mood it conveys. It’s boggling to me, it really is. I don’t believe that I’ll ever lose my fascination despite seeing the same stars every evening.

My chin comes to rest on my hoof as I give a wistful sigh. I can’t help but look at the moon and ask silently: “What should I do? Give up?” As expected, it doesn’t answer, the moon simply meanders along it’s predestined path as stars twinkle into existence all around it.

The universe is a huge and mysterious place, filled with wonders and magic. So it’s not too crazy for me to think of a place where magic has no hold, right? I’m not crazy, but I will admit I have my eccentricities... sometimes. But to imagine that somewhere in that sea of stars there is a world without magic... again my mind drifts to the pages of text upstairs that describe such a world through the eyes of one of it’s inhabitants.

I yawn as I check the clock: nearly midnight. I go to take another sip of my drink, only to find that somewhere along my cosmic contemplation, I managed to fully empty my teacup. I smirk as I look up to the constellations, the stars twinkle cheerfully at me as I do something a little foalish, but cathartic nonetheless.

I pick a star, close my eyes, and make a wish.

I heave a breath of relief and tilt my head in thanks toward the moon. Life is too short to get caught up on the little things, I’ll just have to try continuing Jacob’s story again in the morning.

“Gah, what the hell?!”

I find myself in a predicament of the worst kind. On one hand, I want to plant my fist through my computer screen because my code compiler refuses to give me the output I want. On the other hand, I look at the code it’s compiling and wonder “which one of you morons wrote this shit?”

I’m a moron by my own standards.

I sit here and look at this jumbled concoction of semi-colons and parentheses and come to a stark and brutal realization. This code is as messy as my room and everything else I own. Everything is in a constant state of disarray that would make Discord shed a tear in joy. I’ll be the first to say that I’m a functional kind of guy, not an organized one.

I sigh and tab back to what I was doing before. The half dozen pages of words lie before me as the text cursor blinks at the bottom of the page, unmoving, rhythmically pulsing in one spot. I swear that stupid thing is taunting me sometimes, poking fun at my inability to write.

My eyes bore a superheated stare back at the tiny blinking line with a single thought running through my head. ‘Fuck you cursor. Fuck you, so hard.’

“Brain, why you no ideas?!” Silence awkwardly resonates throughout the house. I’ve been known to have no verbal filter, none. I say what’s on my mind, more often than not: out loud, even if it’s by myself. I can’t help but shudder as memories of all the times my uncanny ability to say the wrong thing out loud got me in trouble. They’d make great stories, if you could get them out of me.

Besides, the story I’m more interested in telling is the one that’s supposed to be on my computer. Unfortunately my scumbag brain decided it’s going to take a vacation and refuse to work. So I just sit here, staring at the screen with half a mind to commit my monitor to Newton’s law. If I did, I couldn’t blame myself: that cursor is asking for it, and I’m altogether too happy to oblige.

But in the grand scheme of things, that wouldn’t get me anywhere. Best to nip that thought in the bud and go cool down some other way.

Cool.

Water.

Holy crap I’m thirsty, what time is i- and just like that: my entire day, gone. Sixteen hours have flown by and I missed it. My forehead falls into my palms as I let out a groan that might have made the guinness world record book. I have tunnel vision, I have very bad tunnel vision. I will get so engrossed on a particular activity or subject that I literally forget about everything else, even basic needs like, oh, I dunno... Eating. Fortunately, I did have something to eat today, even if it was just a quick microwave meal. Unfortunately, out of basic needs, the burning dry sensation in my throat forces me to get moving..

I get up, go to the kitchen, grab a glass, and turn on the faucet. Standard order of operations right? Sure, but I’m not that lucky. It’s right about this time when I hear a violent pop and the lights go out.

Suddenly, I’m not so thirsty anymore. Because as the lights in the house go off, the light in my head turns on. And it illuminates a fact that strikes abject horror into the depths of where my soul ought to be.

“No, no-no-no-no-no-no. Fuck. Fuck me. Shit. Did I save? Please tell me I saved...” I bolt down the hallway toward my room, fairly impressive considering the light level in the house. The door flies open and I peer inside.

Pitch black.

I quietly curse every known deity that there is in my mind as I drive my knuckle into my forehead. My entire day’s work is gone because of a stupid power outage. I pull out my phone and quickly pull up the weather tab: Thunderstorms, fuckin’ swell. I walk to my window and stick my fingers between the blinds, as expected, it’s raining cats and dogs.

There is nothing to be said for today, nor anything to be salvaged. As much as I would like to pretend that things are going to be fine, that I did save my work and that I will end up having a spark of inspiration for my writing, I can’t know for sure. Not until the power is back on at least.

This is where being an aforementioned heretic really sucks: normally I’d wind down with a video game or two before trudging off to bed. But that power outage, them’s the breaks. It quickly occurs to me that I really have no choice other than to just turn in for the night despite having absolutely no desire to do so.

And then I hear the quiet breathing one might make when sleeping.

Alright, so I spoke too soon, I have an option B: find out exactly who, or what, jacked my bed. And then, if applicable and appropriate, tell them off with my fists.

There’s a great deal of apprehension in my mind, if only because the situation is so odd. In fact, the only thing keeping me from grabbing a baseball bat and dishing out a serious beating to whomever hijacked my bed is the fact that they’re asleep and have no idea that I’m here. I reach out to touch the frame of my bed, and slowly move my hand upward as I fumble for my phone with the other.

I pause when I feel something soft, and fuzzy. I close my fingers around it only to have it twitch away. The light from my phone comes on and I whirl it to face my hand. Mystery solved: fuzzy something was a big mint-green ear. My natural response is to see what manner of being could possibly possess ears so large and fluffy.

My natural responses tend to get me in more trouble than I can handle.

I swing the light down to see turquoise and white hair, and the unmistakable face of a pony. I stand there, dumbstruck, lower the phone light, turn 180 degrees, and leave the room blinking ever so slowly. I prop myself up against the wall and stare at nothing in particular as my brain flies through every life experience up to this point.

Five minutes later, my biological “watch dog timer” kicks in, and I simply just exist for a while and listen to the gentle snoring coming from my room. What I do know is that there is one Lyra Heartstrings laying atop my bed, and I haven’t been known to take hallucinogenics. So exactly what the ever-living fuck is going on here? I debate going in there and poking her, but realize that as far as first impressions go, that would easily make the list for top ten worst firsts of all time.

Oh... You’re up, sorry about poking you in the side like that... It’s just that you’re a fictional character from a television show and you’re sleeping on my bed. I wasn’t trying to hurt you or a-

I figure it would be right about that time she would buck me in the face. Bad idea. Well I can’t just do nothing, so there’s really only two things to do: DON’T PANIC, and wait. I peek back into the pitch darkness, and slowly edge my way inside. Years of awkwardly attending social functions have prepared me for this, my greatest moment; I lean up against the wall and slowly sink to the floor as I sit, and wait.

It didn’t take long for my eyes to adjust to the dark, and it only took a little longer for my wait to be over. It was soft, subtle, but a very distinct sounding yawn that was shortly followed by her rolling over, facing me with her eyes closed. Still asleep.

Silent breaths and subtle dreams are what usually fill my nights, a portal to a land of imagination, a playground for the creative mind I bear. I relish these hours where I am simply allowed to be myself, without hindrance, without limit. Most nights repeat themselves this way, and yet are never quite the same.

Tonight is not one of these nights.

My back arches in protest as I seek refuge from the nagging discomfort on the other side of the bed. Yet no matter where on the mattress I escape to, it seeks me out and pushes me further from my creative world.

The first of my senses to leave my dream is my hearing. The gentle sound of water on a window, a squeak of protest from my resting place, and the sound of somepony suffering a panic attack.

Wait. What?

My eyes snap open to an expanse of colorless void, and though I can’t see anything, I know the shape of the room is off, the window is on the wrong side of the room, I don’t remember having two doors, the air is too stale, the sounds too muted... and on top of all of this... this most certainly isn’t my bed. So where am I?

The question bounced around my mind a few seconds as I drank in what little of the observable scene presented. I channeled my ley lines through my horn and allowed a soft pale green light to wash over the room, and as it did, I saw something flinch away.

No, not something: someone.

It’s a human, one of those many species I created to add variety and flavor to my writing. A fictional species... My fictional species. And yet, here I am staring at it in the face.

My gaze wanders around the recently illuminated room, I need something to communicate with. Given that this is the race I conceptualized in my mind, they should be able to understand common Equestrian. I just need paper and a quill, seeing as fate has inconvenienced me with a lack of vocal skills. Sheets of paper litter the room, a stroke of fortune in the otherwise inconvenient picture I’ve been painted into.

I lift a sheet at random and bring it before me, I look to the page as a cacophony of symbols I couldn’t hope to interpret assault my eyes. I turn it over and smile as I gaze at the unmarred surface. Next order of business is finding a quill, or at least the human equivalent of a quill. I never really gave that particular detail much thought.

I’m beginning to regret that I didn’t.

“Uh, h-here.”

I spin my head to face the source of the voice, it’s the human again, and it speaks Equestrian. Thank the sisters for that at least. The human in question is sitting on the other side of the room, holding a small silver cylinder in his hand. I tilt my head and levitate the cylindrical object toward me. It twirls weightlessly in the air as I examine it from every angle, then press one of it’s points down to the paper.

“You’re using the wrong e-end... Just by the way.”

I pause and stare at the little tool hovering in my magic, a look of realization and an awkward smile spread across my face as I flip the utensil over and continue to scrawl away at the paper. Multitudes of questions fly around my mind as I give short glances to the Human opposite me. Thoughts swirl like snowflakes in a blizzard, only to melt away when a beam of clarity guides this metal quill of mine.

I lay the silver cylinder off to the side and begin to tear my message from the paper.

“Shit! Wait! Please don’t do that! I need those notes, they’re kind of important to the class I’m taking.”

I give a gentle nod and merely levitate the paper over toward him, were it not for the light I was maintaining, this truly would be a shot in the dark...

“Is your name Jacob?”

I stare at the back of my lucky lecture notes. Written in flowing script that makes my own look like a third grader trying to learn cursive for the first time is one question: ‘Is your name Jacob?’

Granted, I know who the fuck she is, I don’t need to ask, but at the same time, why the hell didn’t she need to ask? Never mind the fact that things are going to get even more awkward if I drop her name without asking first. I take another pen and start scribbling, an extremely shaky reply when I catch myself mid-sentence.

Wow genius, you can speak, why would you need to write a response back when you can just say it? Actually, why does she need to write her ques-

It’s about this time that my brain finally turns over and shifts into high gear. A billion tangents of “What if” explode inside my head as all possible conclusions narrow to one output: she literally can’t talk. Now there are two reasons for this: first, she’s not of this world, and so whatever magic that Equestria has going on that allows tiny multi colored horses to talk doesn't carry over here. Alternatively, she’s the Lyra I made up, the one who I wrote to be mute.

There are times in life where I enjoy being right, and this is one of the few instances where I would derive so much pleasure from being wrong.

Awkward silence snaps me out of my stupor. She asked me a question, I should say something.

“Uhhhh...”

Alright, that was a good first try, dumbass. Now for something in English.

“Y-yes... how did you know?”

Lyra’s eyes went wide and as the pen began furiously scribbling at the paper, it wasn’t long until I heard a tearing sound, accompanied by another note.

“The comic book: the really worn one, and the puzzle cube on your desk, it’s the third one you’ve ever owned because you wore out the colors on the other ones.”

I press my knuckle into my forehead. Why does she know that, how does she know that? She’s never been to earth... I don’t think.

“You have never been to earth... right?”

I can’t help but flinch as those amber eyes bore through my skull with the most unamused expression I’ve ever seen. A balled up scrap of paper flies across the room and pegs me between the eyes.

“No.”

Alright, that answers that, still doesn’t explain why she’s just writing on paper.

“Yes, it does you idiot. Lyra’s mute, remember?”

Lyra stares at me like a mare possessed, tilts her head and looks down to another piece of paper she levitated off my desk.

“How do you know my name?”

Shit.

“Uhhhhhh... Well this is awkward. Um, lucky guess?”

“You’re a terrible liar Jacob. How do you know my name?”

I fidget nervously as she glares through my soul. “I... I really don’t know if I should say...” A pensive look crosses Lyra’s face as she picks up a piece of paper and sets to it angrily. A moment or two later, she throws it at my feet and huffs bitterly.

“Jacob bites his lower lip and grudgingly tells Lyra how he knows her name.”

A command? A written action? What the hell?

“What the hell is this?” I wave the scrap of paper in the air. “Wishful thinking? I don’t know if you realize this but you’re not exactly in the position to give orders.”

Lyra flops her ears back and looks away, ducking down behind a fold of sheets. As weird as the whole situation is, I can’t stay mad at her. She’s too damn cute to stay angry with.

“Lyra... what’s going on? You know something, don’t you?” I’ll be damned if she wasn’t about to ask the same question, but I had to know. There was a reason she was here, even if I can’t make sense of it, I can at least try.

The small mint-green pony curls up around the pen and paper, and not a sound is made save for the noise those two objects create. I stand a short ways away from my bed, unsure if I should go to her, pat her on the head and apologize or if I should simply wait here respectfully for her to finish. It’s times like this that I wish I was one of the computers I program, simple machines with clear instructions: If X then Y, If A then B. But despite all the wishing in the world. I’m only human.

A small glow shakes itself before my glazed over eyes. I reach out and grasp the note and furrow my brow.

“Ever felt like you’d be handed a series of situations that just didn’t seem possible? That you were stuck with a day that seemed so weird, that you questioned whether or not it all happened? If it was real? If you were real? (flip over to continue.)”

I sit there with my hands lightly trembling. I honestly can’t tell whether it’s from shock, anger, or fear of what I’ll find on the other side... probably all three. But I do it anyway, I’m a stubborn idiot like that.

“It’s because you aren’t real. You’re just a character I made up.”

I slowly lift my gaze from the page and lock eyes with Lyra. We stare at eachother for a while before my eyes drift back down and re-read the text.

“Bullshit.” I lift my eyes once more. “I call bullshit, there’s no way. You’re the one who’s made up.” I drop the hand with the piece of paper down to my side as my other hand pushes my glasses up the bridge of my nose. “You are a cartoon character from a show here on earth, that I decided to write about.”

Lyra jerked back and averted her gaze as yet another piece of paper floated over to her.

“But that’s not possible, you’re a mythical creature. We have fables and legends about the human race... You exist because I took those legends and imagined what a human would be like... I imagined you.”

I turn and walk away for a moment, my glasses in one hand, the paper in the other. “That’s not possible, Lyra. I know that you’re mute, that you got your cutie mark by playing the lyre at your school’s talent show, and that you have the very special and unique ability to speak by playing music that only one pony can hear.”

“And I know that you’re deathly afraid of arachnids, that you are technically the second born child of your parents, your horrific usage of profanity, and that you you struggle with your addictive personality to the point that you needed a psychiatrist! Do not think for a moment you are in any position to say that I am wrong, Jacob.”

“And what if you are!?” I step forward as Lyra shrinks back. “Do you honestly think that there’s any reason that you shouldn’t exist? Can you prove that you imagined me into existence? I said it before, I call bullshit! You always think yourself so high and mighty because you think that not having a voice is such an impairment. It doesn’t make you better than anyone, and it gives you absolutely no right to show up here and belittle me!”

A look of pure rage envelops Lyra’s face as page after page flies toward me, some of them smoking from the the anger fueled inscription.

“You... You accuse me, of being a hot-headed, arrogant, haughty unicorn. And you have the hubris to assume you understand what every single waking moment of my life is like? Do you know what it is like to be mute? Do you Jacob? Of course you don’t, I was never hard on you. I gave you challenges, yes. But I didn’t take your hands from you, or make you blind!”

It was at that moment that my stomach dropped into my feet and my forehead broke out in a cold sweat. I know what I’ve done... And if what she says is true then I...

Oh fuck.

I am a horrible monster. I cringe away and look into her eyes; those amber lenses don’t realize what evil I’ve committed. All I wanted to do as an author was create a story that would be liked, to create a character that would be liked. And she was: she was sweet and kind, strong and energetic. Then I hurt her- no, I robbed her of a fundamental part of who she deserved to be. It makes me want to puke, just thinking about the fact that throughout this entire time the things I wrote held such power. All that for the sake of a story...

It takes every ounce of my dignity to lift my head against the heavy shame that pulls it to the ground. But I’ve made up my mind, I will own up to my faults.

“I... I took... y-your voice, Lyra.”

I watch, her expression doesn’t change too much, she just looks... confused...

“Don’t you get it?! I wrote stories about you, just as you did about me! I’m the reason you’re mute! I made you a mute from birth! I took your voice from you in a story... and I’m the reason that you had to suffer silence every day...”

Silence reigns supreme for what feels like forever. Until an all too familiar green glow makes its way into my hands.

“Why...?”

Why? Damn good question... I really didn’t need to make her mute, now that I think back on it. There were more than a thousand different ways that story could have ended... All that power was at my fingertips, and I chose to take that from her.

I chose, because...

“It made you... made you more interesting...”

The next minute or so was filled with a flurry of torn scraps of paper.

“More interesting? More interesting?! So you want to tell me that because it’s ‘more interesting’ for me to be some mare without a voice? That somehow, that makes everything better?

“Oh look, I’m Jacob, I’m going to never let Lyra say ‘I love you’ to the stallion of her dreams. I’m never going to let her sing along with her music. Oh, here’s a kicker! I’ll make her a musician by trade because it’s interesting.

“You know what Jacob? Maybe I should take all that knowledge of your machines that you have, and make you get into an accident so that you can’t work with them anymore. Wouldn’t that be interesting to have your dreams torn away from you?! You wouldn’t happen to know anything about what that feels like!

“I always wondered why I was never tougher on you. Even if you are some fragment of my creative drive, I still respected you as a character. That’s a lot more than you can say.”

A fan of seemingly endless pages spreads out on the floor in front of me, darkened spots appear on them as the pale green light pulses angrily. I look up at the Unicorn, she’s breathing heavily and glaring at me, if I didn’t know better... I’d say she was planning on killing me outright.

And why wouldn’t she?

Another note...

“Give it back, give me back my voice.”

“Lyra... I...”

She grits her teeth and the note flies up and smacks into my face.

“I-I don’t know! I don’t know if I can, Lyra! It wouldn’t change anything!”

Jacob peeled the soggy piece of paper away from his eyes and locked eyes with me. Though, for a moment, I see a brief spark of sadness, of remorse. But there’s no need for remorse, if this Jacob is who he says he is. A mere wave of a quill would strike this error from fate itself. There is no ‘can’t’, merely a ‘won’t’. I rip another page away from the open empty notebook and allow an internal smile. I know what the problem is.

“Why wouldn’t it Jacob? You’re the author of my story, ‘my life’. You change one little detail and everything is fixed. But you won’t do that will you? No, you’re selfish, you want something in return. You want me to alter your story for you, don’t you? What do you want in exchange for my voice back? A different upbringing? I know how rough it was with your father when you were growing up.”

I smirk as his eyes tear away from the piece of paper clenched tightly in his fist. I knew I had him pegged, there was no way that he could resi-

“A different upbringing?... You could... change my p-” Jacob holds his head and yells at the floor, the perfect picture of confliction. “No! If I let you do that, who would I even be?! I can’t take your offer Lyra, it’ll ruin everything! Don’t you get it?! The past isn’t something we can just mess with!”

“Well you seemed to have no problem meddling with mine! How is this any different? It’s so simple Jacob, you only have to change one little detail.”

“But it’s not just about you! If you were to change my past, what would happen to you without someone to write your story?! What would happen to me if I gave you your voice back? I-I... I don’t even know if it would work Lyra, but there’s so much that can go wrong... What good are offers of a better life I may not even remember?”

I was wrong... He wants nothing? I’m not asking for anything too much. I just want what was taken! A toll wrongly charged that I was forced to pay... How could I possibly be brought here to be tormented by a being of my own creation, and a gift I should never have had stolen away? No... He’s lying! He has to want something!

“What about fame? You could have all the humans know your name, you’d never be lonely! Or what If I allowed your grandmother to fight off that disease a little longer? You’d be able to say goodbye! What about that one girl in high school? She doesn’t have to leave town! She doesn’t have to think of you as only a friend! She could be yours, I know you loved h-”

All my fears surge against the stopper within my heart as I watch him throw the paper to the ground. An exceptionally dark shadow falls across across his face, and even I know what comes next. My heart cries out to oppose what my mind already knows to be true... I want to scream injustice, to cry out in rage, I want to yell at him and beg him to change his mind.

Alas... I watch in teary-eyed silence.

“No, Lyra. It’s... It’s too risky...”

The bipedal monstrosity before me evaporates into a watercolor painting as I turn and bury my face into the cloth below me. There is nothing left for me to do... I want to understand, there is no reason to withhold such a simple request! So many things in my life would be made better, but he doesn’t understand that... The pen wobbles in my grasp as I scream silently onto the paper.

“Lyra, listen... I can explai-”

I shy away from his touch and shove the mostly damp sheet of paper at him. Not that it would do anything. He doesn’t care whether or not I suffer... Jacob, Jacob is a cruel god.

“You can fix me Jacob... You can make it all go away... All those days as a filly I got picked on... All the times I saw a cute stallion that I wanted to just say something to... You can give me my voice back, and you just keep taunting me with it! It’s not fair! What do you want!? I’ll give you anything... Anything to be able to speak, to sing, to laugh...”

My ears perk at the sound of sobbing that is not my own. I lift my eyes to see Jacob hanging his head, light bouncing off of the stream of tears pouring down his face. Before I can even respond He reaches forward and hugs me tightly. I feel I should push him away, but before I can...

“I’m s-so sorry Lyra...”

I should feel rage, I should feel something, but I look down to the pool of tears that’s soaked into the mattress and realize that I’ve lost all anger... each drop took a portion of my strength and bitterness, leaving me with little option other than to bury my face into his shoulder and weep.

It’s honestly not fair, it really isn’t. I truly want to make it all better for her. Just as I want so badly take up her offer, to have another year with my grandmother alive, just to be able to say “I love you” one time before she left me forever. But would that really change anything? Just as I want so badly to have not been the only single guy at my stupid high school. But then who might I not find later?

“Lyra... “ I draw my arm across my face and blink the tears from my eyes. “Lyra, look at me.” The unicorn simply keeps her head buried into my shoulder and shakes her head ‘no.’ “Alright, well then will you at least listen?” She nods.

“Listen... L-lyra, I really... really wish that I could, but I just... Ugh, I’m so damn bad with this speech crap... I just can’t undo it, okay? If I gave you your voice back, would you even be the same mare? Would you even have written me? Who would your friends be? Would it really have stopped the bullying?

I take a deep breath as she liberates herself from my shoulder and looks me in the eye, sniffling softly as I continue. “I know this is hard for you... It’s no freakin cakewalk for me either, believe me. I couldn’t possibly have known what my actions would cause. I really, truly, am sorry. I fucked up, okay? But I can’t just change what’s happened... I can be more careful in the future... but what’s done is done. I can’t just change the past without destroying who you are.

“I hurt you once, and I’m terrified of making that same mistake again.

“Because, well... I do respect you as a character. You’ve made your own decisions without me. I didn’t have a hand in every aspect of your world: I never knew you were a writer for instance. But I guess... and this is going to make me sound like a pretentious ass, but... I guess the real reason I can’t change anything is because all those trials have just made you a better per- pony. Fuck, sorry...”

Ten minutes pass, and my only indication that the explanation had any effect is the resigned sigh she puts forth as she turns away. I step back as she lifts her hooves, searching for, and then levitating the pen and paper she’d been using.

“I suppose it makes sense in a way... I still wouldn’t mind being able to speak. But I understand where you’re coming from. I couldn’t honestly consider myself a writer if I created uninteresting characters of cardboard that fell flat at the slightest gust of criticism would I? I can’t say that I could. Though I wonder Jacob, what if you were to just... try to alter the future?”

I rub my eyes and scan the floor, looking for a particular piece of paper. A command, written not fifteen minutes ago. I pick it up and read it aloud once more to Lyra as she flops one ear down and tilts her head.

“What you’re asking for sounds like something you tried not too long ago.”

“Well, maybe it’s because you didn’t want it? Or maybe it’s because I'm not in Equestria? Just try it? Please? It can’t hurt to try and change the future...”

As strong willed as I am, there are the certain things I cannot say no to: My parents, figures of authority, and puppy-dog eyes. Lyra gave me puppy-dog eyes. My will falters horrifically as I grab a piece of paper. “If this doesn’t work, don’t blame me.” I scribble the words ‘Lyra looks hopefully up at Jake, and finds herself able to speak after a lifetime of silence.’

I turn my head to see her eyes lit up and her mouth moving, only to watch her become completely crestfallen when not a word was uttered. I go to her side and lift her chin “Listen, if I figure out a way to get your voice back Lyra, I’ll try. I promise. It’ll help set things right.”

She smiles at me and looks around the room, only to shoot me a look of concern and a ball of paper. “Well... Now what?”

I place my hand behind my head and look around the room, giving a cursory shrug. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I just had my existence called into question, had a conversation with a character I created, and basically just suffered emotional trauma that no human should have to endure. TL;DR I’m fucking exhausted... You can crash on my bed I guess, doesn’t bother me either way. I’ll figure this shit out in the morning.” I throw my arms up in the air as I walk out. ”I’ll be out on the couch if you need something.”

A paper ball smacks me in the back of the head. Grumbling aside, I manage to ingest the words through adrenaline deprived eyelids that just barely cooperate with me.

“What does TL;DR mean? And when we were having our little... altercation, why did you continually call upon the feces of bovines? I’m afraid I’m not versed in your... crude grasp of Equestrian.”

Lyra sits patiently on my bed with her forelegs crossed and head tilted, quietly looking at me for an answer.

I find it astounding how quickly adorable things can defuse residual anger.

“Well, TL;DR means ‘Too long, didn’t read’ or as I used it: ‘Long story short’ As for the bullshit comments, well... it’s basically a rather vulgar way of claiming that someone is lying.” I force a smile through my fatigue so hard that it burns. “Any other questions?”

Lyra shakes her head in dismissal and curls up on top of the sheets. I slowly back out of the room and shake my head at the sheer amounts of madness I’ve been subjected to. I stumble aimlessly into the living room and flop down on the couch, staring at the ceiling, grateful that I don’t have to think about anything in particular. Right up until the point that the lights begin to flicker. My first reaction is to squint and mutter a string of obscenities at my sudden and temporary blindness. But that train of thought is quickly shoved off to the side.

I bolt off the couch and down the hall, nearly kicking the door to my room down. I took a quick scan of the room, and found what exactly what I feared:

No Lyra.

I slowly walk over the sheets of paper on the ground, looking at the chaos scattered across the room. Nothing seems to have anything written on it, and yet here the pages lie. I have to wonder if I was tripping balls or not.

No, stop, this is serious Jake.

Gently I lift one of the more abused pieces of paper, turning it over and feeling my heart sink as I’m granted no reward for my search. I can’t help but think back to the fact that I took her voice... The fact that I have that kind of power over another individual, real or not.

A small flash from the window draws me to gaze up at the sky. I just hope that she’s okay...

Wait...

I bolt upright in my bed, glacial run-off pours down my face as I shake myself. These are... tears. As I look around I compare the room to the mental snapshot in my mind and find that the room is as I remember it: everything in it’s proper place. The door, the window, the shape. Everything is back to normal.

I’m home.

Bits and pieces of a memory I cannot prove existed flash through my mind. Knowing that there was something out there... somewhere that controlled my fate; at least in part, reroutes the glacial run-off from my face into my veins. But at the same time, I feel empowered knowing that I held that same power over that very same universe... A myriad of constellations, stars, planets and cosmos. A billion-billion different life forms all at my mercy, all which could thrive prolifically or die with a scream as silent as my own.

With nothing less than a word from my quill...

Something scratches at my hind leg while I ponder, something with a distinct ‘crinkle’ sound. The object in question floats out from under the covers in a soft green aura: a scrap of paper. The word-riddled piece of paper turns itself over slowly, revealing the words: “Jacob - Lecture not...”

A feeling of clarity washes over me as the whole world comes into focus in my mind, a single light shines amongst the darkness. I know who it is, the story has always been about him. Perhaps there is more to writing that I’m not ready to handle, the only way I could live with it was because I was able to reassure myself that it was all fiction... but now I know otherwise.

I need to get out of the house, I-I need the fresh air, I can’t think straight. The walk to the door feels like it takes no time at all, but actually opening the door... takes what feels like a lifetime. A gateway, a portal to another place in time. Is that all that writing is? A string of words tied around a lens of existence. Those who tug the strings can alter and warp the world within. Not directly, but by the refractions of their own will?

The cobblestones clack underhoof as Sugarcube Corner passes me by, the sounds of a dozen ponies laughing, talking... things I’ll never actually do. I look up to the rays of sunlight, wondering if Jacob was twisting the lens of this world as I walked. Would I be able to tell? How much of my life is now a script? How much of it was ever “real”?

Laughter grates against the strained bubble of thoughts in my mind. I casually glance over, a park, families dotting the grass on the hill. Mothers, fathers, daughters, and sons... All of these alive because they serve some purpose to the story? Would they still be over on that hilltop if they didn’t serve the script? How many humans don’t exist for the same reason in my story?...

I don’t understand any of this... I can’t remember how long I’ve walked. I don’t know if I can stop, perhaps it’s Jacob pushing me onward toward something. What if I don’t want to go where he wants? What if he makes me do something I would never agree to?

What? Why? HOW?

My mind no longer holds a contained bubble of questions, my vision blurs as a torrential flood of unanswered questions drowns out my internal voice... the only real voice I have. My legs suddenly find themselves sapped of strength, I feel so weak, so heavy. I feel as though the weight of the world rests on my shoulders.

Because it does.

What if? what if? what if? what if? A single question bounced off a thousand mirrors of different tints, each color colliding into the growing amalgamation of turmoil in my mind. I have no will to cry, for I’m not sad... but I cannot laugh at the insanity of it all: there is nothing silly about this. I hold the fate of an entire world in my hooves.

And all I can do is stare at it in fear of myself.

Somehow, somehow I find myself looking at a door... my door. I can’t remember how I got here, the millions of recursive questions cycling through my overburdened mind assured my loss of direction. I gratefully push the door open and close it behind me, leaning back against the polished wood with a heavy sigh and deep breaths.

I want to continue writing, I want to continue the tale of Jacob. There are a thousand webs of interweaving complexity that his strand of fate could lead. I would be able to pick and choose who he meets, what he does, where he goes. Not only that, but the circle of influence would expand ever outward concentrically... affecting everything.

But I don’t know if I can, the implications of every word I write... Every single phrase, paragraph, letter has profound meaning not only on him, but the world around him. Everything that exists... I would control.

Can I truly bring myself to play god with his universe? More importantly, can I live with the implications and guilt that such a choice would bring?

Then again, do I have a choice? If I cease to write, what becomes of him? And by extension, me, my friends, and Equestria? I hold my forehead with my hooves and whimper softly, only to have a single, fleeting beam of sunlight move toward me and bathe my head in it’s warmth.

The jumbled mess of doubts and fears slowly evaporated into wisps of worry, still free to roam my mind, but powerless and without hold over my decisions. There was no way that I could even begin to think that Jacob would let me attempt this task alone, why should I let him? Even for all his faults: his shortsightedness, his vulgarity, his bluntness... And his vulgarity. He never intentionally hurt me.

After all, the relative peace here in Equestria is phenomenal to say the least. I make more than enough bits by performing. So many ponies today were smiling, laughing... Happy. He is no better at this than I am, but he’s trying at least. And I can’t let him do that without returning the favor...

I look down to the lanyard on my neck, and pull the pencil out of it’s binding. I flip the notepad open, and for a moment realize that this is the single most powerful tool I could possibly possess. No weapon, no artifact, no magic could challenge the impact that a few of my words could have once committed to paper...

The wind ripped at the edges of Jacob’s jacket, his figure seemingly warped around the ledges of stone and bars of iron that stood in his way. He was in no danger, he had no reason to to be running, but he didn’t need a reason.

He was-