29th August. Fulham
I was apprehensive of moving this morning as every action I carried out seemed louder than normal, but when I thought on it I realised that this was due to the deafening silence. Cautiously I crept up to the edge of where the parlour had been and peered out between two gigantic flower stems to see a complete lack of any ponies in the area. I slipped back to the pit that was once a cellar and gathered what I could of the remaining provisions when I was struck with a thought that now seems foolhardy; I started taking lumps of coal and lay them out in a message where the letters were a yard high: "NO FOOD HERE"
When I realised that this would leave my hands covered in coal dust I took out the last bottle of burgundy and used it to rinse my hands clean, refilling the bottle with rain water out of the butts. Then I nervously dug away at the concave remnant of the base of the window and climbed out to find myself in a bed of gigantic daffodils, though I am certain that they must be some alien counterpart not only because of their tremendous size but also due the fact that they were in bloom. Unable to get a clear view with all the colossal stems in the way I sought a higher vantage point, which I found in a pile of dirt and debris that I shudder to think was what Pinkie Pie had dug up when seeking me out. I could now get a better view of what was left of the area.
The first thing to note was that there was no sign of any pony at all, though I had some trouble with the bright sunshine after all the time spent skulking in a dark corner like a mouse. All signs of human habitation seemed to have been ploughed up with such extensive stretches of garden in their stead, though I did notice some wide avenues that looked like they were made of heavily packed-in dirt that I can only conclude are the pony equivalent of roads. As to the great house that marked the start of my imprisonment, I could now see that it had three windows on the top floor just like the first one, however there were also two windows on the ground floor, either side of the entrance which I saw was firmly shut. Looking out beyond the planted garden I was in I saw a line of enormous thatched roofs; after some thought I have concluded that this was the result of the mallet-like sounds, which must have been the noise the ponies make when they're building something. I sat back, feeling strangely tipsy with the fresh air and the perfumes of the giant flowers before starting up and shaking myself, having concluded that the ponies plant these flowers to tranquilise their prey.
I scrambled out of the garden as quickly as I could, which brought me to Putney Bridge. I was momentarily surprised to see that it was completely intact and the road leading away from it looked undamaged as far as I could see. While view due South quickly filled with more giant plants, albeit ones that weren't bearing flowers, and the distant sight of another of the original pony houses peeked above all this, the view of the North side of the Thames had seemed to be devoid of giant plants. I conjecture that the ponies' house I saw at this point had appeared upon Putney Heath. The lack of giant plants didn't mean that the impact of the ponies wasn't in evidence, as several houses had been deprived of their roofs while others seemed to have been kicked over entirely.
Crossing over to the North side I wandered almost aimlessly through the wrecked streets, sometimes being forced to turn down alleyways or to scrabble over the rubble when confronted with deep hoofprints in the road. Throughout this I started at almost every sound, including those I made, fearing that a huge pony could turn up at any moment in search of something to eat. Why I've been taking this route when I last saw my dear wife in Leatherhead, I can only conclude that she must have evacuated and I have no way of knowing where she's gone. Ultimately my latest goal is to make my way into London and hope I can find some semblance of humanity.
My shelter for the night is bizarre at best, and possibly fatally absurd at worst. I can only conclude that a pony of notable status among their kind had discarded their horseshoes while going through the area, for I saw a great bowl-shape opening up in front of me after turning down one street, it glitters brilliantly in the setting sun and the translucence of the material reminds me of the Crystal Palace. I managed to haul a mattress out from amongst the rubble and dragged it inside to try and make my 'shelter' more comfortable, during which I saw the other three matching shoes almost scattered about the area; one was standing up in a shape that denoted some kind of attempt at crafting a heel was performed in its forging, while another seemed to have been suspended at the front upon the shell of a house and the last lay in the middle of a couple of old gardens akin to the one I've opted to rest in.
I was apprehensive during the initial efforts to make a temporary camp in this giant shoe, fearing that the owner would come along at any moment to retrieve them, but at least an hour has gone by and no sign of any pony has cropped up since. Thinking back on my experiences since they began to strike out at our society I can only conclude that our capacity for reason and compassion must be applied towards those creatures who had been dismissed as vermin for so many years, for we ourselves have been thrown into a position just like their own.
30th August. Fulham Chelsea
Before I leave this giant horseshoe I must make note of a couple of more unusual matters. The first was that there was something of an evening chorus yesterday that gave me some comfort, which was then juxtaposed with what I could've sworn was the sound of a distant engine whistle, though I suspect that it was actually a pony whistling to another to draw their attention. I'm glad it was so far away.
Again a peculiar dream about Princess Luna occurred. This time I found myself inside one of her own horseshoes, which thinking back on it was even bigger than I remember, when she came thundering towards me. Every step she took shook the ground more than Pinkie's bouncing has ever done, she looked right down at me with a playful smile upon her muzzle before lifting her hoof up to put her shoes on. I was fixed in place, wanting to move but unable to, when she pressed down with surprising suppleness in her hooves, essentially pinning me in place as she began to walk. It was quite a short dream as the sensation of being flung around without any give in my surroundings started me awake.
Around midday I came upon the site of Battersea Bridge, once again surprised to see that the ponies had left it intact, when a movement in some bushes drew my attention. Moving forwards cautiously to investigate a man popped out, pointing a rifle straight at me.
"Who goes there?" He challenged me professionally. His bearing clearly indicated that he's been in the military, so I responded in kind. "On your way!" He gestured across the bridge. "This is my territory." I was confused by this when his expression became one of puzzlement. "Where have you come from?"
"I've been trapped under one of the pony houses for two weeks after it suddenly appeared near Richmond. I do not rightly know whither I should go." When he heard this his face beamed with recognition.
"Hey, it's you! The man on Maybury Hill. Then you weren't killed at Weybridge." At this I then realised that we had met before.
"Then you're the artilleryman who came calling after the first attack." This led to him stepping forwards after slinging his gun over his shoulder with his hand out in greeting. "I could've sworn a pony had squashed you."
"Nah. I hid in a culvert when I saw those purple hooves heading our way. I watched those ponies wander off towards Walton and made my getaway across the fields. But it hasn't been a month and your hair is grey."
"Did you see any ponies in the past couple of days? Haven't noticed any since the day before I got out." He looked about for a moment after I asked before answering.
"They come by now and then. Strangely enough they seem very... nonchalant, hardly even bothering to snatch anyone round here."
"Did you hear anything they might've said to indicate why?" At this he spun round in alarm, giving me a hard look.
"How can you understand anything they say? It all sounds like modified horse sounds to me." I then explained about what had happened between our encounters, but it was such a long recount that he insisted that I keep it back until we were somewhere safer. He led me back to the comparatively intact house he had made into his own where we shared provisions as I recalled all that I could while retaining any of the more subjective events.
"That blue smoke must've had something in it that lets people understand their language." He concluded. It was an idea that had been sitting at the back of my mind for a while, but the reason for it was incomprehensible. "We've got to face it, mate. We're done." My head shot up at this. "They're only the pioneers. More will come, and it's taken them only a week or so to knock down all our strength. It's not really a war, if it was then digging up an ants' nest is an act of war."
"Then what's to be done?" I asked, wondering about his rather mater-of-fact way of delivering his conclusion.
"What else? We must fight; not against them because we wouldn't have a chance. We must fall back on the natural way and just fight for our survival. So many people just ran around, screaming their heads off. I know that food won't last that way, others must've made their escape, but I'm sure those of us who have the skills, the know-how, can survive if we hide under their hooves, like sparrows in the hedgerows." I felt myself drooping at this, though I couldn't deny it, so he suggested that I take some rest and that all would be clear tomorrow.
I was apprehensive of moving this morning as every action I carried out seemed louder than normal, but when I thought on it I realised that this was due to the deafening silence. Cautiously I crept up to the edge of where the parlour had been and peered out between two gigantic flower stems to see a complete lack of any ponies in the area. I slipped back to the pit that was once a cellar and gathered what I could of the remaining provisions when I was struck with a thought that now seems foolhardy; I started taking lumps of coal and lay them out in a message where the letters were a yard high: "NO FOOD HERE"
When I realised that this would leave my hands covered in coal dust I took out the last bottle of burgundy and used it to rinse my hands clean, refilling the bottle with rain water out of the butts. Then I nervously dug away at the concave remnant of the base of the window and climbed out to find myself in a bed of gigantic daffodils, though I am certain that they must be some alien counterpart not only because of their tremendous size but also due the fact that they were in bloom. Unable to get a clear view with all the colossal stems in the way I sought a higher vantage point, which I found in a pile of dirt and debris that I shudder to think was what Pinkie Pie had dug up when seeking me out. I could now get a better view of what was left of the area.
The first thing to note was that there was no sign of any pony at all, though I had some trouble with the bright sunshine after all the time spent skulking in a dark corner like a mouse. All signs of human habitation seemed to have been ploughed up with such extensive stretches of garden in their stead, though I did notice some wide avenues that looked like they were made of heavily packed-in dirt that I can only conclude are the pony equivalent of roads. As to the great house that marked the start of my imprisonment, I could now see that it had three windows on the top floor just like the first one, however there were also two windows on the ground floor, either side of the entrance which I saw was firmly shut. Looking out beyond the planted garden I was in I saw a line of enormous thatched roofs; after some thought I have concluded that this was the result of the mallet-like sounds, which must have been the noise the ponies make when they're building something. I sat back, feeling strangely tipsy with the fresh air and the perfumes of the giant flowers before starting up and shaking myself, having concluded that the ponies plant these flowers to tranquilise their prey.
I scrambled out of the garden as quickly as I could, which brought me to Putney Bridge. I was momentarily surprised to see that it was completely intact and the road leading away from it looked undamaged as far as I could see. While view due South quickly filled with more giant plants, albeit ones that weren't bearing flowers, and the distant sight of another of the original pony houses peeked above all this, the view of the North side of the Thames had seemed to be devoid of giant plants. I conjecture that the ponies' house I saw at this point had appeared upon Putney Heath. The lack of giant plants didn't mean that the impact of the ponies wasn't in evidence, as several houses had been deprived of their roofs while others seemed to have been kicked over entirely.
Crossing over to the North side I wandered almost aimlessly through the wrecked streets, sometimes being forced to turn down alleyways or to scrabble over the rubble when confronted with deep hoofprints in the road. Throughout this I started at almost every sound, including those I made, fearing that a huge pony could turn up at any moment in search of something to eat. Why I've been taking this route when I last saw my dear wife in Leatherhead, I can only conclude that she must have evacuated and I have no way of knowing where she's gone. Ultimately my latest goal is to make my way into London and hope I can find some semblance of humanity.
My shelter for the night is bizarre at best, and possibly fatally absurd at worst. I can only conclude that a pony of notable status among their kind had discarded their horseshoes while going through the area, for I saw a great bowl-shape opening up in front of me after turning down one street, it glitters brilliantly in the setting sun and the translucence of the material reminds me of the Crystal Palace. I managed to haul a mattress out from amongst the rubble and dragged it inside to try and make my 'shelter' more comfortable, during which I saw the other three matching shoes almost scattered about the area; one was standing up in a shape that denoted some kind of attempt at crafting a heel was performed in its forging, while another seemed to have been suspended at the front upon the shell of a house and the last lay in the middle of a couple of old gardens akin to the one I've opted to rest in.
I was apprehensive during the initial efforts to make a temporary camp in this giant shoe, fearing that the owner would come along at any moment to retrieve them, but at least an hour has gone by and no sign of any pony has cropped up since. Thinking back on my experiences since they began to strike out at our society I can only conclude that our capacity for reason and compassion must be applied towards those creatures who had been dismissed as vermin for so many years, for we ourselves have been thrown into a position just like their own.
30th August. Fulham Chelsea
Before I leave this giant horseshoe I must make note of a couple of more unusual matters. The first was that there was something of an evening chorus yesterday that gave me some comfort, which was then juxtaposed with what I could've sworn was the sound of a distant engine whistle, though I suspect that it was actually a pony whistling to another to draw their attention. I'm glad it was so far away.
Again a peculiar dream about Princess Luna occurred. This time I found myself inside one of her own horseshoes, which thinking back on it was even bigger than I remember, when she came thundering towards me. Every step she took shook the ground more than Pinkie's bouncing has ever done, she looked right down at me with a playful smile upon her muzzle before lifting her hoof up to put her shoes on. I was fixed in place, wanting to move but unable to, when she pressed down with surprising suppleness in her hooves, essentially pinning me in place as she began to walk. It was quite a short dream as the sensation of being flung around without any give in my surroundings started me awake.
Around midday I came upon the site of Battersea Bridge, once again surprised to see that the ponies had left it intact, when a movement in some bushes drew my attention. Moving forwards cautiously to investigate a man popped out, pointing a rifle straight at me.
"Who goes there?" He challenged me professionally. His bearing clearly indicated that he's been in the military, so I responded in kind. "On your way!" He gestured across the bridge. "This is my territory." I was confused by this when his expression became one of puzzlement. "Where have you come from?"
"I've been trapped under one of the pony houses for two weeks after it suddenly appeared near Richmond. I do not rightly know whither I should go." When he heard this his face beamed with recognition.
"Hey, it's you! The man on Maybury Hill. Then you weren't killed at Weybridge." At this I then realised that we had met before.
"Then you're the artilleryman who came calling after the first attack." This led to him stepping forwards after slinging his gun over his shoulder with his hand out in greeting. "I could've sworn a pony had squashed you."
"Nah. I hid in a culvert when I saw those purple hooves heading our way. I watched those ponies wander off towards Walton and made my getaway across the fields. But it hasn't been a month and your hair is grey."
"Did you see any ponies in the past couple of days? Haven't noticed any since the day before I got out." He looked about for a moment after I asked before answering.
"They come by now and then. Strangely enough they seem very... nonchalant, hardly even bothering to snatch anyone round here."
"Did you hear anything they might've said to indicate why?" At this he spun round in alarm, giving me a hard look.
"How can you understand anything they say? It all sounds like modified horse sounds to me." I then explained about what had happened between our encounters, but it was such a long recount that he insisted that I keep it back until we were somewhere safer. He led me back to the comparatively intact house he had made into his own where we shared provisions as I recalled all that I could while retaining any of the more subjective events.
"That blue smoke must've had something in it that lets people understand their language." He concluded. It was an idea that had been sitting at the back of my mind for a while, but the reason for it was incomprehensible. "We've got to face it, mate. We're done." My head shot up at this. "They're only the pioneers. More will come, and it's taken them only a week or so to knock down all our strength. It's not really a war, if it was then digging up an ants' nest is an act of war."
"Then what's to be done?" I asked, wondering about his rather mater-of-fact way of delivering his conclusion.
"What else? We must fight; not against them because we wouldn't have a chance. We must fall back on the natural way and just fight for our survival. So many people just ran around, screaming their heads off. I know that food won't last that way, others must've made their escape, but I'm sure those of us who have the skills, the know-how, can survive if we hide under their hooves, like sparrows in the hedgerows." I felt myself drooping at this, though I couldn't deny it, so he suggested that I take some rest and that all would be clear tomorrow.
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April 19
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