Our Day in Disdain
Dashie limped out of the alley and into the rising wind and empty market streets. The wind sighed through the square and set the shop signs creaking against their hooks, and brushed a trail of debris, like autumn leaves, down the cobbled roads which were already starting to lose the last of the sun's heat.
The wind wafted past where groups of ponies would've stood at vendor carts and vegetable stands, exchanging bits for groceries while street performers would play their instruments for loose change. Wafted past where clusters of foals would've filled the town with the sounds of conversation and laughter that one would expect from a school cafeteria during the bright hours of the afternoon. But these ponies were ushered inside at the first signs of the leering storm clouds; so now the market was still, and silent.
There was no more music, no more laughing, only the sounds of a damp wind that didn't want to stop and the hoofsteps of an injured mare trotting through the light of the town's lamps that illuminated the streets at regular intervals.
Dashie sat down in the middle of the square. She was dizzy and her ribs hurt, and by now the wind had blown the smell she was following all over until the whole town smelled like the fragrance of vegetables and the cool tinge of the coming rain