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Organised by
RogerDodger
Word limit
400–750
Oceans I
The oceans bent, rose and fell to her will every day—emotionless, barren, and worst of all, mute. But it was not always so.
At one point in her life, there was another. Countless years of isolation gave way to the best thousand years of her immortal life. The Night had come, in banishment, to tell her all sorts of things about her life. Life—life was what she craved. There wasn’t much life where she was, just distant stars, space debris and an endless vacuum of nothingness.
She wasn’t ever able to reply or sympathize to all of the stories the Night had told her—stories about the Sun, remorse, morality, a figure named “Nightmare Moon”—but for some inexplicable reason, they understood each other. She had had no idea that someone so foreign, so different from her, could have so much in common with her.
She looks down, and the Night is staring back at her many miles away with tearful eyes. The Night wishes she could say something to her, but whether she was actually able to hear her stories during all of those countless years of banishment was unknown. She likes to believe that the moon understood them all, but there was never even so much as a gesture that this was true. Even if she could understand, even if she was alive, the distance between the two was too great to make conversation.
The Night looks down at the sand beneath her feet, tiny grains not unlike the specks of ponies that the moon sees every day. The Night picks one out in particular—with great effort, the grain being so small—and smiles for a moment. It gives off a sense of familiarity... a sense of warmth. A wave trickles up the beach and reaches the princess, forming cold walls around her hooves and taking the grain of sand away. Just like that, the familiarity and the warmth are gone.
The Night looks up at the moon, and for a moment, the grain of sand suddenly becomes the Night, and the Night becomes the moon. For the thousandth time, the moon thinks about the thousand years, and cries—but she is not heard. She has heard others, but others have never heard her.
Perhaps it’s better like this, the Night thinks. Whether it’s for better or for worse, the silence remains.
The Night takes in a deep breath and closes her eyes, breaking contact with the moon. She turns, shakes her wet hooves and moves away from the ocean. “I miss you," she says, even though she knew full well that nothing needed to be said. Just being there was enough for the moon.
It was a long way to Canterlot from the ocean, and for the Night, it was a million times longer from her home.
At one point in her life, there was another. Countless years of isolation gave way to the best thousand years of her immortal life. The Night had come, in banishment, to tell her all sorts of things about her life. Life—life was what she craved. There wasn’t much life where she was, just distant stars, space debris and an endless vacuum of nothingness.
She wasn’t ever able to reply or sympathize to all of the stories the Night had told her—stories about the Sun, remorse, morality, a figure named “Nightmare Moon”—but for some inexplicable reason, they understood each other. She had had no idea that someone so foreign, so different from her, could have so much in common with her.
She looks down, and the Night is staring back at her many miles away with tearful eyes. The Night wishes she could say something to her, but whether she was actually able to hear her stories during all of those countless years of banishment was unknown. She likes to believe that the moon understood them all, but there was never even so much as a gesture that this was true. Even if she could understand, even if she was alive, the distance between the two was too great to make conversation.
The Night looks down at the sand beneath her feet, tiny grains not unlike the specks of ponies that the moon sees every day. The Night picks one out in particular—with great effort, the grain being so small—and smiles for a moment. It gives off a sense of familiarity... a sense of warmth. A wave trickles up the beach and reaches the princess, forming cold walls around her hooves and taking the grain of sand away. Just like that, the familiarity and the warmth are gone.
The Night looks up at the moon, and for a moment, the grain of sand suddenly becomes the Night, and the Night becomes the moon. For the thousandth time, the moon thinks about the thousand years, and cries—but she is not heard. She has heard others, but others have never heard her.
Perhaps it’s better like this, the Night thinks. Whether it’s for better or for worse, the silence remains.
The Night takes in a deep breath and closes her eyes, breaking contact with the moon. She turns, shakes her wet hooves and moves away from the ocean. “I miss you," she says, even though she knew full well that nothing needed to be said. Just being there was enough for the moon.
It was a long way to Canterlot from the ocean, and for the Night, it was a million times longer from her home.