Knock knock.

“Who’s there?”

“Police!”

“Police who?”

“Would you police open the door?”

The door opened. On one side of the doorway stood a perky yellow mare in a dark blue police officer’s uniform. On the other side, a groggy, scraggly young stallion still in his bathrobe and with a noticeable shadow on his face.

“Hello, Six String, is it?” asked the mare. The stallion looked at his flank, which bore a simple cutie mark: a guitar.

“Uh-huh,” he responded. He looked behind her, nervously checking to see if she’d brought any heavy-duty back-up. “Did I do something wrong?”

“Oh, it’s nothing serious, we’re just... concerned.”

“Concerned?” he repeated. “About what?”

“Well, the other ponies find your playing is... off-putting.”

“I didn’t tune it right?”

“I’m sure your tuning is just fine,” said the mare. “It’s just that the music you play is a little upsetting to the ponies at large. Now, there’s nothing wrong with us enjoying some music, just consider choosing to play something a little more upbeat, okay?”

“Hmm,” muttered Six String. “That it?”

“Yep! Have a nice day!” said the mare, as Six String closed the door.
-
No coffee. Just tea.

He’d never have coffee again. Not unless he went back to earth. As he sat at his kitchen table, he pondered starting a business where he could import coffee from earth.

Sip.

He got used to it, of course, but he still would’ve preferred something with a little more ‘kick’ to it. Mental note, research tea... see if there’s stronger stuff.

Then the kettle whistled, and he realized that his teacup was empty. Oh. No wonder it seemed weak.
-
With a belly full of toast and a case full of guitar, Six String made his way to his usual place in town square, by the fountain. The fountain was full of coins from ponies making wishes. Sometimes Six String wondered if he shouldn’t try, but he was feeling a little miserly with his funds.

He set down and pulled up the case, showing his pride and joy: a six-string acoustic guitar. He set it on his knees and got ready to play. Despite it being his special talent, he didn’t sound particularly good at the moment. Playing with hooves was not easy for him to get used to.

Before he started to play, however, he thought. The police officer told him not to play anything depressing...

Major chords. Can’t bum anyone out with major chords, right?

He felt so artificial, strumming an improvisation so bland that his mind began to wander. He thought about his family back on earth. About the Bureau he’d so merrily walked into. About how close he was to paying rent. About the–

Clink.

A coin dropped in the open case, and his train of thought drew to a screeching halt. He stopped his playing, briefly. What was I thinking about again?

Well, after a couple hours, there were enough bits in his guitar case to buy lunch. Or at least an ice cream. Come to think of it, ice cream for lunch sounded good to him.

“Well, how’s our little stringer?” asked a familiar voice. He looked up and saw the police officer from that morning, standing and grinning that cheerful grin. “I see you’ve adjusted accordionly?” She giggled at her own pun.

“I don’t play the accordion,” Six String said dryly.

“Well, it’s an idea,” she said, trotting off.

He emptied the contents of the case into a bag before placing his guitar back inside. The latches clicked as he sealed it and prepared to go about the rest of his day.

But when he stood at the fountain, case on his back, he wondered to himself: what would he do for the rest of the day?
-
The local ice cream pony was usually kind enough to stop by an assortment of unclaimed benches, being for the benefit of foals who wanted the ice cream to land in their laps rather than the dirty ground, should they be careless enough to drop it.

“One scoop - chocolate in a waffle cone,” he said to the pony at the stand, plunking his bits on the counter. The pony nodded and produced the ice cream cone. Six String picked it up with his hoof and moved to walk away, but in doing so stumbled, and the scoop fell onto the ground.

“No...” he deadpanned. “No. That didn’t happen. I did not just spend my day’s money on an ice cream cone that I then didn’t get to eat.”

“Sorry,” said the ice cream pony.

“Hey,” said a voice in front of him. Six String raised his head and saw a very pretty unicorn mare standing in front of him. “Had a bit of an accident?” she asked.

“Kind of...” he responded, biting his lip.

“Here,” she said, walking past him and floating some bits to the counter. “Here, give him another one.” The vendor, convinced by the offer of extra money, generously provided the replacement frozen treat. “Hooves take some getting used to, don’t they?”

"Yeah," said Six String. "What I wouldn't give for my old thumbs."

She chuckled. “Yeah, I’m another convert. Name’s Shimmer. What’s yours?”

“Six String,” he said, sitting down so as to handle the cone with two hooves. Less dignified, but also less risky.

“I got lucky enough to turn into a unicorn. Well, sort of. The magic makes things easier, but you have to learn how to concentrate.”

“Heh.”

“Say, since you’re a fellow convert,” she said, “I was wondering if you’d be interested in going to a meeting with me?”

“A meeting?” Six String had licked enough of the ice cream off of the top so he didn’t have to worry about dropping it any more, and stood up. “What kind of meeting?”

“Well, it’s a kind of support group,” said Shimmer. “It’s for converts like us. Just a sort of place where we can get together with other people like us.”

People, he noticed. She said people.

“I might be interested,” he said. “Okay, sure!”

She smiled. “Thanks,” she said, walking away. “It’s in the town gymnasium, two o’clock this Saturday!”

“I’ll be there!” he said. “Will there be a sign or anything? I get confused easily.”

“Oh, sure,” she laughed. “It’s called Humane.”
-
The gym had paper signs posted on the walls, helpfully directing Six String, or any pony searching the way, to the “Humane” meeting. They pointed him to a room around the back, while the main gym was occupied by a group of grade-school colts engaged in a game of dodgeball.

Six String let himself into the building and found five ponies sitting in a circle cushions off at one end in the room. One of them, tall stallion, was reading out loud from a book.

“I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull’s way and the whale’s way, where the wind’s like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And a quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.”

Shimmer spotted him and waved to him, the others turning to look.

“Well hello,” said one of them, a mare with a pink mane. “Are you here for the meeting?”

“Yes,” said Six String. “I was invited by, uh...”

“Yes of course,” she said. “Come grab a seat.”

There were two mares and three stallions, all of whom murmured welcomes to him as he sat down, placing his guitar case beside the cushion.

“So, uh, what did I miss?” he asked.

“We were just reading Masefield,” said Shimmer.

“We read poetry here?” asked Six String.

“Oh, we read poetry, books, plays... sometimes we rent a projector and get an old movie up,” said one of the stallions, a tall brown pony with a curly mane.

“So, tell us about yourself,” said the pink-maned leader. “What’s your name?”

“Six String,” he said. The ponies snickered. “What?”

“Your real name, silly,” said Shimmer, lightly ribbing him in the side. “Your human one. I’m Elizabeth.”

“John,” said another one, a shorter earth pony with glasses.

“Alex,” said the tall brown pony.

“I’m Alice,” said the leader.

“And I’m Carl,” said the last one, a small pegasus who must not’ve been more than a teenager.

There was a brief silence as Six String sat and thought. He hadn’t used his human name in what seemed like an eternity. “Daniel,” he said. “My name was... is Daniel.”

“Hello, Daniel,” said Elizabeth. Her eyes moved down to the case by his chair. “You play the guitar?’

“Oh?” He looked back down at the case. “Yes, yes I do,” he said, lifting the case to his knees. “I’m a musician by trade. Though, er...” He gave a weak, self-deprecating chuckle. “It’s a little hard to break into music over here.”

“Well play something!” encouraged Alice. The others all voiced roars of approval.

Daniel smiled and set the guitar up, and began to play. A slow, simple tune. Nothing particularly special. Nothing he could sell or make a hit with anyone, human or pony. But something he liked. Something he could share.

Author's Notes:

Well, not much. Just a little fluffy one-shot to go along with an event I kinda missed. "Write a story centered around an organization you came up with." So I thought, "Hey, how about a little support group?"

Though it kinda seems more "club" than "support group." And there isn't really much of a plot to speak of. Ah well. Got me to write a thing.