It was eleven fifty-seven, nearly midnight. Three minutes before Brony's birthday.
Suddenly remembering, the young writer D.J. Evans had no time to draw a picture for her friend, the usual gift for an Internet acquaintence.
Hurriedly, D.J. grabbed her long coat and slid it on while running quickly down the dimly-lit corridors in the castle of her thoughts. There was no sound but her footsteps echoing throughout the halls and the pounding of her heart reverberating throughout her mind.
Searching in every chamber, every locked and unlocked chest, she could not find a suitable gift that could be created within a few minutes, nor could she find Time to make one. Not with the sharpest pencils, the cleanest erasers, could she ever produce a worthy drawing before Brony awoke and logged onto Hatena.
Suddenly the low ring of the distant belltower sounded, chiming the moment that was twelve o'clock midnight. A hollow, painful feeling of deep remorse settled into D.J.'s soul.
She glanced at the several paragraphs she'd written, and a small bit of hope sprang up in the spirit that had previously been void of all happiness. Maybe, just maybe, these rashly-written words would be enough.
Happy Birthday, Brony, wrote D.J.
And by the way, if you have a drawing request, I'll gladly do it.
(Written in 14 minutes)