Just a little something. I'd like to apologize to anyone who felt ripped off by the last chapter. Maybe this'll make up for it somewhat? Probably not. But I wanted to write a poem, and I can't call Beck a poet and not show any of his (my) work, so there.

Share and Enjoy.


From the Journal of Beck

The clock is ticking. The clock is ticking. Why does it tick? Can it not tock? Can it not gong or twitch or sproing?

Today many things happened. I do not know what they are, but I believe they are important. But then I would remember them, surely? Don't call me Shirley.

My mind is caving in on itself, I can feel it happening even as I write. My memories are sluggish, and I see the world as through a veil. Whenever I think about my family

(Here there is a sudden scribble, as though something pushed him while he was writing.)

It happened again. I began writing about that thing and my mind locked up. It worries me. Surely this shouldn't be? Don't call me Shirley!

Who am I talking to? No one, because I am writing. What was I writing about?

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

Whenever I try to think about my family, especially (Here several words are crossed out in an erratic fashion, as though the writer had a sudden spasm. It then continued in the same paragraph.) the fact that I met several new ponies today. All mares, strangely enough, except for two. The clock is ticking. The gender ratio in Equestria is strange, isn't it? At times it seems like one must strain themselves to see any stallions in a crowd.

I believe it would be best to abandon that train of thought, as words have power. The impossible is self-conscious, and shies away when put on the spot.

Quite like the yellow pegasus. The clock is ticking.

Today many things happened, though what I cannot recall.

I have just read over tonight's entry. The clock is ticking.

I am deeply disturbed.


A Heart and Black Rose

By Beck Pinto Meter

I would scale the highest peak,

I would walk the farthest mile,

I would do just anything

To once more see your smile.

To once more see you in that bed.

To once more hear you speak.

To once more hug your sickly frame,

And kiss you on the cheek.

I told you stories every night,

And always stayed up til the end.

Our brother showed you magic tricks

Of his own special blend.

And now you're gone, passed on, goodbye,

And my heart is aching.

But you won't like it if I mope,

And life is for the taking!

So little Nina, rest in peace, she

Off to Heaven goes.

And in my heart, I'll always see

A heart and a black rose.


Untold eons ago…

There was nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

There was only emptiness. Darkness. Blackness. A space without space. A time without time.

The nothing saw.

It saw nothing.

Who can say how long it was this way? After all, time did not exist. It was a space that was simultaneously beyond the farthest reaches of infinity and so small that it might as well have not existed at all. In fact it didn't exist at all, because it was nothing. Not just nothing, but Nothing, capital enn.

And then there was Something.

The Nothing reeled at the light. What was this strange thing? What were these words? It was thinking? What is light? What is this feeling? What IS feeling?

The Nothing in the nothing was afraid. For what had been effectively eons, the Nothing had known… nothing. And now there was Something. Something in the Nothing.

Images and words flowed from the Something into the Nothing, filling the spirit of the void with knowledge.

The Something was an alicorn. A milk-white coat and dark red hair. As the light faded, the alicorn created. The Nothing, unheeded or even noticed, watched as she summoned pen and paper and Wrote the World into being.

The void filled. Earth and air, water and fire, Sun and Moon, Day and Night.

The World was made. The Nothing… no. Not Nothing. The alicorn, the Writer, had Written the Nothing as well. It was the spirit of the void. It was Abyss.

The World thus Written, Abyss watched as the Writer finished. Her scroll, now longer than the longest river, rolled itself and hid away. The Story was recorded, the script had been set. A glow appeared upon the alicorn's flank, and when it faded, there was a picture: the same white quill she had Written with, and a simple black inkwell.

Casting a final look upon creation, the Writer left.

Abyss floated among the World, watching as it matured around it.

Centuries passed.

Abyss witnessed the first creature rise from the depths. Miles long, even in adolescence, the mighty Drakon lived.

Then dragons, and gargoyles, and flora and fauna.

Millennia passed, and Abyss became curious. And so the shadows gathered, darkness became solid, and Abyss, spirit of the void, became incarnate, as a small (for the time), black-

"Whatcha reading Mr. Dragon?"

The dragon carefully closed the ancient tome. "Just memories, Orion." He smiled at the colt, then rose from his chair and replaced the tome upon its shelf. The shelf creaked as the other books pushed themselves away from it, despite there being no room to move. Nevertheless, the tome had a full inch of space on either side of it.

Orion blinked. "Why's it do that?"

The dragon tapped the tome with a claw. "It is a powerful book, young unicorn. Words have power, and none more so than the ones in here."

"How come?"

The music of the dragon's voice slowed, and became mournful. "Some things are told, some things are thought, and some things are true. The overlap is less common than most think." He moved away from the shelf, the unicorn following. "That book is truth that has been forgotten. More accurately, truth that was never known."

Orion was silent at this. Then, "Oh right. Corona sent a message. She said Crunch isn't doing too well."

"Oh dear. What happened?"

"Sweet Apple Massacre."

The dragon froze. "That can't be good," he whispered, his voice carrying the urgency of a piccolo. "Crunch has been unstable ever since Cupcakes. Don't tell me Applejack-"

"Nuh-uh. Big Mac."

"That's… probably worse, in fact. I was told that Matt - sorry, Morphic Flash," he snorted to himself, "Is visiting our humble universe. Perhaps he can help. Is his vacation over yet?" He paused, though the tapping of his tail continued. "Ah. Orion?"

"Yessir?"

"Has our guest woken yet?"

"He was groaning earlier. He should come to any moment now."

The dragon tapped a wall, and a door slid into existence. "Good. I want to talk to him."


I am fully aware that this raises more questions than answers. I'm trying this new thing called drama. Or is it foreshadowing? See how new it is, I can't tell the difference.

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