>Be Anon. >Be at the park. >11:00 a.m. >Sunbeams filter through the tree branches this Saturday. >They mottle the forest floor with sunlight and shadows that dance when the wind blows the tree limbs. >Thank God for the wind. >If not for it, your shirt would be sticking to your skin with sweat soaking the fabric. >Fortunately, the coolness of the summer breeze saves you from that world of humidity and wet heat. >Instead, today is a warm, clean, Saturday at the Whinny-Huston Ponyville Park. >The trail you walk is one less taken by most ponies. >There are more bushes on the trail path’s sides, but none tall enough to obscure the scenery around you. >You can still see all the spaces between the trees, see the little burrows dug by busy groundhogs. >It has character, this trail, hence why you take it. >Well, that and the last time you took the main trail was quite the event. >You were walking in a fur coat that day for it was Winter. >When you returned home, a picture of you in the coat at the park was in the newspaper. >That itself was alright-- you are beautiful, after all, like Mamanon said -- but it was the paper’s headline which struck you with great unease. >It read: “EVERFREE BIGFOOT MENACE *STILL* HASN’T LEARNED!! ANGRY MOB TO MEET TONIGHT!” >Quite lovely. >There was also an ad for pitchforks and torches, all 50% off, from the Apple family. >It was so fun to explain the truth to the mayor that night, standing in front of the angry mob gathered around town hall. >It was also fun having the mayor and the mob follow you home so you could show them the fur coat as proof. >And it was the most fun of all when they screamed at the coat and threw their pitchforks and torches at the gift from Rarity while you held it. >So. >Much. >Fun. >:') >But hey, at least you got a new collection of pitchforks in the front yard. >And a torch for 50% off. >Gotta watch out for dat Bigfoot menace, ya know. >While your current chances of false identification as an elusive, bipedal ape are slim these days, you’ve grown accustomed to this trail from the original one you took. >It gives you a sense of security. >It’s quiet, peaceful, tranquil-- the good shit. >As you continue to walk along the trail path, you eventually come to spot a bench. >It faces a clearing through the bushes and greenery to your left that leaves a view open for you to admire through a small pond and the wildlife that inhabit it. >Deciding that it is a good place to ponder and reflect, you accost the bench and set your rump upon it. >It is a strong bench. >A strong, old bench with wood that is dry and pale and chipped, yet no more brittle than steel, or sturdy as a redwood tree. >It’s not too uncomfortable, either, and despite most other benches in town having a smaller stature to accommodate the needs of ponies, this one is surprisingly fitting for your size. >A good bench to rest upon, you feel. >Gosh, what a sight. >The sunlight shimmers in the pond with each small splash from each small creature while, at the shallower end, a log sticks out of the water where upon sits a line of five turtles, each one bigger than the last. >The smallest sits at the tip top of the log, no doubt the youngest, moving his head about more than his kin, looking at the world with a child's curiosity. >You lay back further into the bench with a yawn. >“Um, h-hello, Anon. “Hello, talking bench.” >“Um, are you watching the little turtle too?” >You nod your head, smirking at the small shelled reptile. >Seeing four others behind it, larger than the ones before each other, makes their placement seem almost intentional. >But nature is like that, you suppose. >After all, turtles and tortoises tend to represent-- >Ahp. >Wait a minute. >Benches don't talk. >You split your legs apart where you sit, looking down at the bench's wooden seat. “Uh, hello?” you say, a curious upward inflection in your voice. “Did you just say something?” >“Oh, um, I-I was just saying hello and wanted to know if you were watching the cute little turtles too. I didn’t mean to disturb you. S-sorry...” “Eeeh, that’s alright. You’re good.” >You look back up at the pond and-- “Hey! Wait a minute! You just did it again!” >“Did what?” “Talk to me! You just fucking talked to me!” >“Oh! I’m so sorry! I-I just didn’t want to seem rude or anything... Um, would you like me to, y-you know.../not/ talk to you?” “You’re damn right I want no talkin’ bench in my park!” you say to it, but are quick to lean close to its arm-rest and whisper, “Did the Bigfeet send ya here? You their spy or prisoner or something? Look, I can get you out, you just gotta wait until I put my coat on and--” >“Um, Anon...?” “Yes?” >“I’m...I’m not a talking bench.” >Ah. >Shit. >It’s going to be one of /those/ days, isn’t it? “Ah. I see. You haven’t reached self awareness yet, have you? Okay, so, listen: technically, you’re not really alive as a bench, but that doesn’t mean--” >“Anon? Um, I’m not a bench.” “Well, you certainly might /believe/ that, but y’see, free will and sentience is, uh...It’s like...well...uh, it all starts in ancient Greece...” >Wait, shit, Greece isn’t canon in horseland. >You sigh, shoulders slumping to your side. “Ugh, God, this is why I joined that philosophy class in college. You know, dear little bench with dreams, I knew this would happen to me one day. Really, I did! But did I pay attention in class? Noooo! Cause Mom made me drop the damn thing because the school threatened to sue if I went through with the...UGH!” >“Um, Anon?” says the little gay bench. “Could you, maybe, look up from your crotch? And, um, now look next to you. No, y-your right side. Um...maybe your /other/ right side, please?” “Oh. You.” >You scowl at the...the FIEND sitting next to you. >Fucking. >Fluttershit. >She smiles that half-wince smile she always makes, the one with her neck lowered as if she were hiding from someone throwing rotten food at her admittedly cute pony ass. >They should be throwing crucifixes. >And torches and pitchforks, now that you think about it. >A pink curtain of mane obscures half her face. >Good. >The less you see, the better. >Unfortunately, she still reeks of weakness and flowers. “When the fuck did you get here?” you ask, folding your arms with a huff. >“Um, I was already sitting here. D-didn't you see me?” >Uuuuuh...... “Oh! Yes, you totally were! Of course. Yes. Totally. Hello there. Hi. Hello. So, uh, whaddya doin’ over here? Gonna kill yourself? I can help you with that.” “Oh, nothing...” >orly.jpg “Nothing you say?” >“Yes. Um, n-nothing...” “Not gonna try and kidnap me?” >“No.” “Not gonna stand up and reveal that the bench turns into a cage and take me to your basement?” >“Nuh-uh.” “Not even gonna try and knock me out? Do somethin’ weird and ask me for my fetish? Tickle my sexy boy taint?” >She shakes her head. “Huh.” >You stand up from the bench with a yawn. “Well, uh, later faggot.” >“O-oh! Um, goodbye, Anon.” >... “Fuck you.” >You kick the bench over by surprise, knocking it back with Fluttershy. >You hear the butter-colored pegasus squeak in shock (like a little biiih), then watch her scramble up onto her legs. >“R-rape me, p-please!” she screams while stammering. >You have just the answer for her. “REEE E E E E E E E E E E E E E E E E E!!!!” >With your dominance screech’s power, Fluttershy goes skedaddling into the bush, a warbling cry of indignity, self-pity, and worst-poniness echoing off the trees. >You snicker like a basedboi and carry on like a wayward chum. >Fucking Fluttershy. >Kek.