A Little Timey Wimey Help by CieCheesemeister, literature
Literature
A Little Timey Wimey Help
A Little Timey Wimey Help
By
Cie CheesemeisterWhile helping Twilight Sparkle with her genealogical research, Pinkie discovers another surprising familial connection. Pinkie heads out to investigate.
Synopsis
With the help of the mysterious Dr. Hooves, Pinkie Pie makes an astounding discovery which could impact not only the lives of Princess Celestia, Princess Luna, and Twilight Sparkle, but all of Equestria.
Genres
Science fiction
Character Tags
Pinkie Pie
Twilight Sparkle
Dr. Hooves1128 WordsI
“So, Pinkie,” Twilight Sparkle mused as the two mares perused the books strewn about them in the main room of Twilight’s library. “Even though ther...
Correspondence
If I could bring you to acknowledge this, then – although a new life would not be possible, for that we are both much too old – there could yet be a sort of peace.
—Franz Kafka
‘You’ve been staring at this DAMN thing for three hours!’ said the father. ‘Can you drop the thing already?’
‘O-oh! I j-just finished it anyway—sorry.’
…
‘What’s it about anyway? This DAMN Dosto-something guy again?’
‘No. It’s a letter—a letter from K-Kafka…’
‘Bunch of CRACKHEADS!’
‘It was… cathartic.’
‘Sure.’
…
The father rose up, and walked away, and left him in the dim living room, where he had spent most of his life, alone. He no longer had to suffer his piercing eyes, or mocking remarks, or curses, or smell of cigarettes, or hear his voice, this cruel voice that became stuck in his head. He only heard his heavy steps fade away, then heard the deafening silence of the place. Only then did his heartbeats slow down.
He sat in the dim room, and thought about what he had just read, and fixed his eyes on the wall—these thick walls drowned in the yellowness of a dying lamp, and this wooden furniture drowned in age and dust, and the smoke of cigarettes that still lurked. Then he turned from the wall, and his eyes fell again on the letter, or, at least, that copy of it printed as a fresh book, bound in a pristine cover, and mass-printed, and sold in thousands. He thought it dead in a way… silent when the original papers, scattered on the desk of Kafka, and stained with ink, screamed with everything sincere. He thought about the millions who read, and the fame gained, and, regardless, its failure as a letter to an indifferent addressed. He thought, there must be a way to help a letter succeed, and find its addressed. He thought, there must be a way for Hermann to read his copy, and get an author absolved of his burden.
He stood up, and thought more, and hesitated a little, and, finally, left the dim room for the lantern. It was not an ordinary lantern though, it was the priceless invention of his father, the one that broke the ties of matter, and defied the rules of time, the one for which the father was drowned in fame and money, in his youth, and had his name held among the leaders of quantum mechanics. Yes, his father was a scientist, and he had always been so, which made it strange that our protagonist had always thought him more fit for a judge than a scientist. He was successful in his work until his magic lantern was banned by the government under cryptic circumstances. People said that it was involved in some kind of a secret project in another timeline, and human experimentations, and the kidnappings of some working-class men, and the merging of some genocidal obscenities once intended to be gods. Of course, no one believed this publicly, but they all believed it in their bedrooms alone, and so the lantern was banned, and the name of the father fell with it. No lanterns remained in existence now, no lanterns save for the one in the father’s basement, to which our protagonist now proceeded.
It was there, among the dust and rubbish, breaking the greyness with its shiny bronze. He grabbed it between his hands unsurprised, and he knew how to use it. It was the secret of our protagonist that he frequently used it without his father knowing: once to meet Einstein to help him with his physics quiz, and once to have a decent conversation with Camus in a French coffeehouse, and once to attend a concert for Abdelhalim, and a lot just to escape his father’s voice and go sit on an unknown bench somewhere silent. He thought it would not be so different this time, it would not be so difficult, and he believed so until he found himself in the middle of the Jewish slums of Prague.
It was a maze, and a dumpster, more than a neighbourhood, and a hell of nests, and crowds, and heat, and dirt, and shops. It was a burden for our hero to breathe in the narrow street, and tapering walls, and dodge the boys running everywhere, and walk through similar alleys, and penniless folk, but he would not give up his cause. He could almost detect close the brute who tortured Kafka. He could feel the presence of the devil behind those doors, and so he hid his lantern and began his search.
‘What the hell do you want him for?’ he received bitterly from beggars and strollers whenever he asked for Hermann Kafka. ‘Who’re you?’ they sometimes asked. ‘What business do you have with the man?’ others shouted. ‘Where’re you from? Why’d you look so… strange?’
He could not bribe a shopkeeper to show him the house, for his currency was unrecognised, and he could not convince the kids to talk. In fact, it was those grimy and tattered bastards who got him in trouble. Wherever he walked, they were sure to stare, and point, and whisper. He was unfamiliar to them, and, apparently, they ran to everyone unfamiliar to them, and surrounded him, and asked questions, and marvelled, as they did to our traveller. ‘He’s a German!’ they whispered to each other. ‘He’s a Catholic!’ they thought. ‘He’s a government man!’ they would say and point, until they alerted the police. ‘He’s a spy!’
‘Where do you come from, good sir, and why are you here?’ asked the constables, and all that left his mouth was, ‘n-nothing… nothing.’ They were not convinced it was nothing, and so they took him for a visit to the station.
They put him in a carriage, and took him there, and left him in a cell—desolate, and distanced, and dead. It was there in the far corner that our pilgrim sat and thought. Yes, he felt down at this moment, and a bit scared, of course, and… alone, but he thought it was better than being with his father. The cell was dreadful, and walls scornful to him, but, he thought, it was not more dreadful than the dim living room. He had always sought an escape from his father, whose voice insulted his existence, whose looks made him feel so small. It was the same man whom his friends praised at work, and whose name was treated with love and respect—but he did not treat his son with love and respect. He never cared to help him with homework, in his childhood, or go with him to school on parent days, or ask him about his problems. He never… cared about him, as if his work was his son, to which he dedicated all of his energy, and love, and time. He did win it at first, and won his family from poverty, then he lost his work, and lost his money, and his wife, and son, and, with them, himself, and became the man in the living room. He did this all for his family, for his son, and he lost his soul when he lost them. A strange feeling haunted our prisoner after this thought.
They asked him who he was, and where he came from, and he told them, ‘I come from another… country. I c-come to return something that Mr Hermann l-left with me long ago—a letter, and to warn him.’ They did not believe him at the station, and they gave him suspicious looks, and rolled their moustaches. After pressure, our messenger was forced to tell his true story, and, when they knew about the time travel, and famous letter, and magic lantern, they sent him to a sanatorium on the edge of the city, where he would get his brains fixed.
There, he met true misery on the faces of those patients, and on their clothes, and treatment, and, there, he was tied, and sedated, and electrocuted, and deprived of his clothes, and lantern, and thrown like dogs in a crowded room. The words of doctors were inhumane, and eyes sadistic, and the smell of medicine suffocating, that he found it worse than the living room he had always dreaded. At least, in the living room, there was a sense of warmth from the cigarettes, at least, he thought, in the eyes of the father, there was a sense of pity. Now, he was cold, and lone, and distant, that he felt he was on the verge of death, and it was now that he almost wished he could see his father once again, and maybe hug him, and apologise for giving him a hard time sometimes. Half-conscious from all the medicine, and half-numbed with ache and grief, he turned to his right, and looked out the window, and let out a few breaths, and thought they must be his last. All muscles relaxed, and limbs loosened, and his eyes shut in full surrender, when it happened what he had never anticipated.
A nurse entered to check on him. In fact, she did not really come for him, but for the silent patient next to him. Our protagonist had been staring at him for long, and had wondered why he never screamed or moaned like the others. He had been lying there, weak, and meek, and lanky, half-covered with the thin blanket and gazing at the wall. His eyes were dreamy, and ears were large, and nose pointed, that it made him look like a rat, and he had a countenance that betrayed running thoughts, and muffled woe. It was a countenance… familiar in a way, one that did not change as the nurse approached and asked him to stand. Our hero watched as the lad simply moved the cover, sat up, and stood to receive his treatment. The nurse called him again to follow her to the ward, this time, by his name, and it was then that our protagonist almost gasped and flitted, when he knew that the man that had been lying beside him all along was, himself, Franz Kafka.
‘K-Kafka!’ it was more like a gasp—the only thing our patient could vocalise.
‘Yes?’ the lad turned inquisitively. ‘Do I… know you?’
‘I-I know you, Kafka. I know you well,’ he whispered and coughed. ‘A-and I know your c-cruel, cruel father, and I know you wrote a letter… that you never sent him.’
The face of the lad changed, and the calmness broke. All of a sudden, he appeared anxious, and hesitant, and eyes restless, and his limbs almost shivered. ‘L-letter? I don’t know what you’re talking abou-’
‘You have to send it to him,’ our protagonist snapped. ‘You have to. He’ll understand, I-I’m s-sure he will… or at least… you’ll be free.’
‘I don’t know what l-letter you mean, g-good sir, and I don’t know free from what,’ he began to sweat and stutter. ‘B-but i-if you’ll excuse me now. I-I have therap-’
The nurse interrupted them and shouted, ‘come on and stop the buzzing right now, Mr Kafka. You don’t want me bringing the doctor over here, do you?’
‘N-no, no, Mrs Annie. I-I’m coming right away,’ he said and rushed to her again.
‘Kafka! Please, s-send it,’ our man whispered desperately, and all he said was, ‘I’m sorry.’ Then he left, and our protagonist was, again, alone.
So little energy was left in him now as he laid on the bed, and so cold a blood ran in his veins, and so quiet a whisper left his lips. Hope had never been so narrow before him when he went through all of this and saw the lad himself fleet away from his grasp. He was so helpless, until a certain will pushed him to continue what he came here for, and a certain conscience told him to deliver this letter himself, to go and meet the brute himself… Hermann Kafka.
It was not an easy task for our traveller who had to stay for days, and do a bunch of chores, and duties, and favours, and other things that we cannot mention here in order to save up some currency of theirs. Then he had to act all polite in therapy, and get closer to the nurses, then the doctors, then the guards, then bribe them into letting him enter the locker rooms. Then he found his locker, and took his lantern, and used it to go back before it all happened, to where he stood in the Jewish ghettos a few days ago and, with the help of the paper he now possessed, he was able to get a young man to show him the wanted house. And there he stood, after all the labours, and favours, and tears, and needles, before the house of the man without a heart, the man whose eyes are mocking, and voice so cruel, the man who broke Kafka.
The house was meek, and the street was quiet. Worn wood, and crumbling bricks, and an old door left ajar, and, inside, a dim-lighted living room. He touched open the door with the tips of his fingers, half in anticipation, half in fear, and stepped into a room where so little sunshine entered. Humble furniture, dust, and flies, a fireplace, and an old ceiling fan that wheezed, and there, on the torn couch, an old man, too old to be the father, sat and looked down—dejected. He was built with broad shoulders, and wide chest, and a moustache so intimidating, yet he sat there, all alone, and carried the silent sadness of the world. And once our protagonist entered, he raised his head and peered attentively.
‘H-hello, i-is Franz K-Kafka home?’ he asked shyly. No one knows why he did not ask for Hermann, not even him. His heart beat fast.
‘He isn’t,’ the man said sternly, and he knew it before he asked. ‘Who are you?’
‘He’s at the sanatorium,’ our protagonist whispered and, in suspicion, the old man said, ‘yes. How did you know?’
‘He… he sent me here—with a letter. It’s for his father, Hermann Kafka.’
‘I am Hermann Kafka,’ he stood up and announced, and he left our messenger shocked. He had never thought that he would look like that. He thought he would look less weak, less human, and more like… his father. He stood there silent, almost sad, almost betrayed, until the father asked, ‘but how did he send it? He was just sent to the sanatorium a couple of hours ago.’
He hesitated for a second. ‘H-he wrote it a long time ago, and I k-kept it. He wants you to read it now.’
The father considered, walked to the fireplace, and shook his head. ‘I don’t want to read anything.’
‘Please do, M-Mr Kafka. I came a long way to deliver it, and h-he says it-’
‘I said I don’t want to read anything,’ his voice loudened. ‘You may leave.’
‘I will. But before I do I want you to know that I was just with your son before he was sent for treatment… and from how he looks, h-he might not… get back. He wanted you to read this for a long time—since he was a child. I-I will leave it here for you. Consider it a last wish, a-and read it,’ our mediator said, and left the letter on the table, and turned to leave, but, before he did, the father stopped him.
‘Wait.’
The man walked to the table, and held the letter, and his eyes went over the words. He saw it. Finally, he saw it, and held it in his hands. Finally, he knew the pain, and suffering, and tears, and injustice. Finally, he understood the scared child, and the lonely teenager, and the broken man. Finally, he knew what he had done, and what he, his son, had suffered all his life. Finally, he read years of nightmares, and nights of tears, and heaps of insults, and a colour of guilt consumed him—and despair, and shame, and regret. He stood, body shaking slightly, hand fixed on the table, and his eyes began to tear. After a moment of silent reading, and forgotten memories, and passing years, he only raised his eyes to our protagonist and said, ‘where is he?’
They took a carriage out of town, and the horses rushed, and clatters loudened, and wheels ran towards the sanatorium. They wanted to catch up to Kafka, they wished they could see him before he was administered, and, when they got there, this is what they found. He was standing there with other patients who had just arrived, standing before the gate, not yet taken inside. And once he saw his father approaching, his face sunk in fear.
All that can be said about this is that it was a beautiful scene. Our protagonist stood afar and saw the father limp to his son, and saw his son approach him, and saw them stare deeply into their eyes. He saw initial awkwardness, and everyday greetings of “how are you now”, and lame replies like “I’m fine”, but then he saw the most beautiful hug ever, and it melted his heart. He saw the son weak in his father’s arms, and saw the father tighten his arms around him, and, all of a sudden, all the effort was gone when he heard him say, ‘I’m sorry, son, I really am… for everything. Get well soon.’ And although our protagonist knew that he would never get well, and would never get back, he felt that his work was done, and the letter delivered, and author absolved, and so he raised his lantern, and got back home.
The task was done, and hug given, and the lantern was back in place, and, after a long, long, day, our protagonist found himself back in the dim living room, where his father waited. The same walls trapped him once again, and the smell of cigarettes suffocating, and he felt contained in the looks of the old man, and the same feeling returned.
‘Where the HELL were you?’
‘W-with some f-friends… we wer-’
‘Jerking each other off. I don’t FUCKING care!’
…
‘F-f-father… can you give me a hug?’
‘No.’
…
The father rose up, and walked away, and left him in the dim living room, and, for a moment, he wished he was Kafka.
The golden fire of the sky steadily ascended towards the cornflower horizon, bathing the onetime Enchanted Castle in its warm, invigorating radiance. Before long, all of the Forgotten Kingdom was stirring from its life-giving beams of light.
This domain had been disregarded for a decade because of the onetime Enchantress, Rosalind. She'd hexed the Prince for the sins of his parents. For they had stood by and done nothing as the les charmantes, one by one, were victimized by the 'ordinary' folks.
The les charmantes or individuals of a magical nature were casualties of unmerciful hate crimes. Then due to the sick twisted mind of Frederic D'Arque, a man who loathed himself so much for being born 'unnatural?'
That monster had been given the authority to round up the "abnormal.' Next, he'd brought them to a bogus mental institution where he set out to torture the magic out of them.
The unspeakable horrors that had transpired, including those who had survived through it?
They'd been
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Dragon Age: Prologue: Circle Mage Origins by Omega-Killer, literature
Literature
Dragon Age: Prologue: Circle Mage Origins
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