Raven Night Schoolby Impossible NumbersChaptersI'm BadMy Life's BadAnd My Future Is BleakI'm BadI had that weird dream again last night. You know, the one where I’m wearing a dark crown. Violet cape fluttering in the wind. Standing on top of a pile of bones. Looking down on the blackened buildings. Seeing all the tattered ponies marching past in chains. That one. I like that one. I wish I didn’t. But I really, totally dig it. Not that I didn’t try to block it out. I've always tried to block out dreams like that. And dreams worse than that, too. When I was a filly, I used to open my eyes suddenly in the middle of the night and scream. I wouldn’t stop until Mother came into my bedroom. It didn’t matter what dream it was, though I remember the one with the zombies most. She always told me not to read those adult comics, but they were OK at magic kindergarten. I could read one over my boring grass sandwiches – I mean under them, sorry; they always got taken away if the teachers saw them – and not feel any problems during the day. I thought they were fun. Still do. It’s different at night. And I was only a little kid back then. I can handle zombies no problem now. I just dream up a red necklace made of evil and zap them into ashes. But when you’re a kid, you haven’t got to that stage yet. Everything’s so big and intense. So there’s me, waking up screaming. Mother’s just come in – yeah, I actually used to call her “Mom”, but Canterlot fillies are taught “Mother” until it sticks, so eh – and she’s doing the usual stuff, hugging and patting my head and saying “there, there”. No big deal. That’s what all mothers do, right? She taught me a trick. How to block out the bad dreams. I had a big bedroom by Canterlot standards, but not a lot of stuff to fill it. So what she used to do was, she used to walk to my stuffed teddy in the corner. Reach behind it. Pull out these special goggles. And she’d come over to the bed to put them on me. Nice goggles, too. Like those ones the Wonderbolts wear, but these ones had amber-tinted lenses. Mother used to say that the blue sky was what kept us awake during the day. I dunno. Some stuff about blue light telling your brain to keep up, or something. Even at night, there was always a little of it hanging around. That’s why the goggles were amber-tinted. Keep out the blue stuff keeping me awake. It’s not stupid. Stop smiling like that. It's not. And as I got older, she’d switch it around a bit. One day, I’d get the goggles but then I’d have to put them on myself. No issue. I got my magic around that point. Easier than clumsy hooves. But then once I got that, I had to get the goggles from across the room. Mother watching, obviously. The walk was supposed to be good for my courage. I hated that walk. I hated the teddy bear. Everyone had one. But when I got close and reached behind it, I always ducked back the first try. That thing looked like it wanted a hug. No: it looked like it wanted to grab me. I hate being grabbed. And in the dark, it was grinning at me. And then one day Mother didn’t come in. I had to walk over to that awful teddy on my own and get the goggles. I didn't even try half the time. Sure, I was a big girl by that point. So what? You don’t care about that sort of thing when you’re a kid. I was so glad when I won that stuffed spider toy at the carnival one day. The carnival sucked, but that spider was cool. I dunno. All I know is I threw out the teddy around that point and put Spidey in its place. I had no problems then. Spiders are awesome. So beautiful and webby. I used to have a tarantula for a pet until Mother threw it out. So every night I walked over to Spidey on my own and got the goggles every time. Every night. I liked Spidey more than I liked Mother. Wish I still had him. Had to get a replacement. Crawley, she's called. Still got her somewhere. Anyway. This weird dream. The one with the bones and the slaves and things. Maybe I just stayed up too late or something. I couldn’t help it. The girls and I had a night out. Doughnut Joe’s, The Tasty Treat, The Red Manticore: we even got Sassy Saddles to lighten up and join us, and she and Minuette got into this big doughnut-eating contest. Crazy stuff, I know. Besides, Minuette won. Duh: she talks enough to make room for a wedding cake. Didn’t beat the record, though. Apparently, some pink pony from out of town ate his entire stock once. Whoa. You know how it goes. It starts out sipping some fine upmarket cocktail. Classy tropical slurp. Like that one I had, what was it? Lemonade with coconut milk and a dash of some sprinkles or something. Oh yeah, Liquid Opal. I thought it was a bit sweet, but who gives a feather’s flap, right? You can tell I’ve been talking to pegasi. We met some at The Red Manticore. Good karaoke night. Of course, I sang “Night Wish” by Dread Juggernaut. What else? And then before the moon’s had time to warm up, you’re dancing down the road shoulder-to-shoulder. Singing something, I dunno: the Cloudsdale anthem, I think. Like in Bridleway when those skimpy mares do their kicks. Except we kept tripping up. Took me ages to get back home. Sassy fell over twice. Stick figure. But yeah, bed. I got in, and it said two, three ‘o’ clock? Barely noticed, to be honest. Hit the bed. Didn’t even get out of my dress. Missed the alarm this morning too. What a sleep schedule, am I right? Nah, I don’t think it’s that, actually. I don’t go out that often. Well, OK, I didn’t do much this night either. I don’t like talking. What did I do? Guess. Sat and listened, mostly. Looked at flowers in the windows. Thought up some sweet haikus. Nothing much. I’m more the sit-back-and-let-it-wash-over-me type. Thing is, I don’t know them that well. It was just a night out. They’re cool once every blue moon – heh – but not as a regular thing. I like poetry readings better. And I got up… Eight-thirty, I think. So that’s, what, six and a half hours of sleep at best? No wait, hang on… Three, sorry. Got in at three. I remember ‘cause I tried to check the alarm was set. Sometimes I do that. Bit paranoid. Five and a half hours of sleep. Yeesh. The doctor always said at least seven. They gave a lecture on it in the magic academy, way back. Sleep cycles. If I remember it right, every cycle lasted ninety minutes. Your brain goes up and down through these different stages: light sleep, deep sleep, alpha… beta… uh…? So they go up and down. You get the best sleep if you wake up at the end of a cycle. That’s every hour and a half. Time it right when you go to bed, and you get up right when you want, fresh as the final falling flakes on a winter morning’s drift. It’s the poet in me, I guess. That’s probably it, then. I messed up the cycle. Weird dream. End of story. I think, anyway. I don’t know. The first time I had that dream? What, you think that might help? I doubt it. You reckon so? Sheesh, if you insist. What, you think you’re some kind of armchair psychoanalyst or something? It was just a stupid dream. I just wanted to share it with another soul. Well, since you’re so interested… it was at the academy. In the dorm room. The end of my first week. It wasn’t exactly a happy time for me. I remember sitting in the middle row of the classroom, at one of those desks with the lid that you can stash books and apples under. I never hid my comics in there. Too easy to find. Anyway, that place was worse than Tartarus. Everyone with their neat little manes covered in oil or combed with a parting or twisted up in those ugly pigtails. Ugh. Miss Thistlecroup was the worst. One of those types with a bun clamped to the back of her head, glasses with the chain going up behind the ear, voice like broken glass and thrown icicles. She didn’t shout at us or crack a riding crop to make her point, or anything like that. Give her an apple, she might actually smile. In fact, she wasn’t so bad really, now I think about it. But she had this way of tutting. I flubbed telling the time once when she chalked pictures of clocks on the board, and she always asked me to give it another look. And the first day, I couldn’t get it right. I always got the big hand and the little hand mixed up. Lots of kids did, I guess. Just not the ones in my class. Tut, tut, tut. I heard that one a lot. Didn’t matter if I was magicking up a gemstone from a black box, or carrying a pipette full of vinegar in chemistry class, or wondering what this “calculus” equation stuff had to do with squiggly lines on a grid. I wasn’t that slow. She just made me sound slow. I don’t even want to talk about what happened when I tried to bring Spidey into the canteen. Oh right. Out of nowhere. Sorry. I smuggled him in via the luggage. Big fillies aren’t supposed to do that. Like I cared what Mother said. She and Father were always out of the house. Garden parties. Political seminars. Stupid shopping trips for stupid wedding-dress-like clothes I didn’t even wear, not that they cared. It didn’t matter for the first few days. Spidey was my little secret under the bed, with his amber-tinted goggles. He reminded me of my pet tarantula. But then I got to talking to a couple of the fillies in the dorm, and we thought we’d get to know each other better. I forget their names. We never talked again. No one wants to talk to a weird kid who likes spiders. Yeah, you can pretty much figure out what happened. Canteen trays got dropped. Lots of screaming, lots of funny looks. Some snitch ran off to tell the teacher. They had to teleport Spidey out of my hooves, though. You bet they did. Well, at least I got Spidey back at the end of the year. Big deal. I mean, I guess school was OK. Looking back, it wasn’t the suck-fest I thought it was. I just had to fight not to fall asleep during class. I tried arguing in the canteen once, saying how spiders are good. ‘Cause they eat flies and are more afraid of you. Rubbish I picked up from a nature guide once. I was a weird kid. Ah, now it comes back to me. The dream didn’t come right away. I stayed up on the last night of the week. Snuck a firefly jar out of the store cupboard during lunch. Good light if you want to write in the dark. And I could hear this ticking from the common room. There was this giant grandfather clock. Antique. Huge pendulum swinging back and forth. I used to stare at it for hours. Wow, was that a good story. Princess Ravenstone and her Night School. Bet I still got it buried under my old folders in the attic. Ghouls and ghosts and goblins and grim deathhounds all over the place. And I gave Princess Ravenstone – yeah, she was obviously me – this sweet cane-thing, like, like one of those royal sceptres but made of amethyst. Giant iron pendulum behind me: I got that from the ticking clock. Swinging like the relentless blades of an axe. All that writing. All that turned up in the first dream. Whoa. I was a really, really weird kid… No kidding… This isn't going to be easy, is it? All right. I need to head out for a bit. I’ll be right back. I swear. I’ll be right back. My Life's BadOK, I’m back again. No problem. I’m fine. Cool. No problem. But yeah. Now that I think about it, is it really a surprise? About my dreams being weird, I mean. Life’s weird. Like that thing I read in the newspaper yesterday morning. I always get the newspaper. Dunno why. It just makes me even gloomier. Self-torment or what? Yet such is the life of an artist. You must have seen it too. That article about the Crystal Empire? Cursed by an evil king. Locked in the frozen north for a thousand years. Reborn under the cleansing wash of the aurora borealis. Sweet. That is, like, totally radical. Oh, you haven’t seen it yet. Right. It said a bit of his red horn survived – the evil king’s, I mean – and he came back and tried to take over again. That’s, like, the stuff of horror tales. Necromancers that never die. I so wish they got his picture. And you look at this stuff. And you think: Royal Guard time, right? Everyone’s gonna die, or get sucked into this black world with red skies and unnatural purple flames burning in torches. You’d think ponies in the street would be like, “Oh my gosh, this is it, this is the end of the world.” Flipping out. And I read the paper, and it happens all the time. There was this Summer Sun Celebration that went on a bit too long. Nightmare Moon – cool name, huh? – came back, they said. Then this chaos spirit turned everything into a blue chessboard. Then we got those changelings hitting the streets hard enough to leave craters. Vines taking over the walls. This crazy bull-monkey dude sucking everyone’s magic out of their faces. And you end up thinking, well, what next? The universe is throwing all this stuff at us. We’re kicking it back, but we gotta miss sooner or later. Law of Probability. Or was it Statistics? Everyone’s just so chill about it, though. It’s like in Las Pegasus when those guys get a jackpot at one of those arcade machines. They’re thinking they’ll just keep getting jackpots. Then they run out of bits. Then security has to drag them out the double doors ‘cause they’re shaking the machines. No one remembers the hundreds of guys who get dragged out. They just look at the one guy with money piling up at his hooves. I tried telling this to Sunshine Smiles this morning. Coffee break, I think. She didn’t get it. “Well, it hasn’t happened so far, so we should be OK.” That’s honest-to-Celestia what she said. I didn’t say anything back. I don’t much. But sometimes I wanna kick her. Yeah, I know. It’s not nice. It’s just how I feel. I don’t care what you think. I write down the list of things to do every day before bed. I did it yesterday. OK, this morning. Really early this morning. The point is: before bed. Get coffee at eleven. Get new glass slippers. Find old anthology. Go to literature club. Find out if model-drawing’s any great shakes. I try something different now and again. But who cares, really? Life is but a soap bubble on the cruel sea. One flick of a splash later, pop. Well, picture it. One moment, you’re walking down Canterlot’s main avenue under the ivory towers. Worrying over what dress to wear. Who you’re supposed to talk to at the party. Making sure you don’t forget the tickets. Wondering why your life's a shell of your fillyhood fantasies. Next thing, pop. Dream life’s history. White Canterlot turns into a pile of black spikes. You’re wearing rags. Someone’s put an iron stock around your neck. You can’t talk in case the guards take you away. And you don’t dare forget to dig the mines or fetch the mind-control armour for wartime, ‘cause then you disappear faster. Like, they-don’t-bother-taking-you-away faster. That’s why I write that to-do list every night before bed. Even last night. I have enough trouble thinking tomorrow’s gonna come. I don’t want to spend my last night worrying over trifles. Not if I won’t be around long enough to do them. Maybe you can’t tell much from the one time I had that dream. Law of Statistics again. Sorry. Gotta think about all the times. See if anything stands out. As you’ve probably guessed by now, I’m the idle rich type. Got no real job. Unless you count poetry. I send my pieces to the magazines and the local and national contests, like the Canterlot Sonnet Season Challenge. Sometimes win prize money. Sometimes don’t. Not that I need it. I even get my bathroom soap on a silver platter. It’s just a metaphor. Don’t overthink it. Yeah, easy-peasy life. It drags. I know what you’re thinking. Nothing to do but sit around all day. Waste money on jewels and hats. Never say anything wrong. Keep the Canterlot ponies from giving me funny looks. Write poetry when it’s all too much. Don’t embarrass the family. The works. Yeah, but it’s not like I’m good at anything else. And Mother and Father would never get off my back if I did anything less than the noble arts. Science. Full-time painting. Politics. Fashion. Couture. But I just like writing. Anyone can write these days. It’s not like the Classical era. You had to be a baron at least before you could even learn the ABC back then. Nowadays, hicksville ponies can slap together a few pages and that’s it. Not much privilege in writing now. The only time I actually really like is sleep time. Even then, only so long as I don’t have bad dreams. Like the one month a few moons back. Wintertime, it was. I never got a decent night’s sleep. Always waking up halfway through and having to sit and watch the full moon for ages. There was this theory I read in a magazine once. How there’s this natural time everyone wakes up halfway through the night. Can’t remember why. Kept them from getting cold, or something? So at first, I just shrugged and thought it was that. Never happened before. I was a late bloomer, maybe? Whatever. Got more reading time out of it. Went through the whole Power Ponies series that month. It was OK except for the Humdrum arc. That one was insanely boring. And totally didn’t get the continuity. At all. I threw it out with the garbage as soon as I finished it. Didn't matter what I tried. It kept taking longer to get back to sleep. I started on ten, twenty minutes. After that, it went to two hours. Worst one was when I didn’t go back to sleep at all. Felt like someone had stolen my brain for the rest of that day. That dream didn’t help. I started thinking the midnight waking was a punishment. Dream about turning ponies into stone or dimming the sun just because you can. Get hit by karma the second it stops. Anyway, it stopped after a while; I did jigsaws and stuff until it died down. Father bought me loads of them way back, with pictures of famous buildings on them. Canterlot Castle. Pony of Liberty's Statue in Manehattan. The Great Fence of Yakyakistan. Dozens. I finished them all that month. The goggles didn’t work. Now I think about it, I’m not sure they ever did. Well, yeah. I tried all that stuff. You wanna change the world, change yourself. Blah blah blah. I said I tried it. Don’t give me that look. Oh, all right. Go ahead. Give me that look. I probably deserve it. But I really did try. Like way back, when I was at the academy. First tests were coming up. I crammed like crazy, every night with the firefly jars on my pillow. Everyone did it. I wasn’t the only one up at nights with lights. Moondancer was the best one: she just lit her horn. Advanced stuff for a kid. And she read stacks of library reference books when the rest of us were falling asleep on the first textbook. Show-off. I would’ve given anything to run away. Didn’t care about any of the other lessons, but Literature Studies spoke to me. I memorized all the Odes of Peat Bog the Pastoralist. I could quote Death’s Head Hawk Moth. Even the bit everyone forgets about the candle and the spiral stars. I stayed up writing and reading the Commander Hurricane speeches and the epic poetry. My energies lined up perfectly. My temptation after dark. My soul’s calling. I flunked the test. Exam hall was exactly like the classroom. Tidy little room. Tidy little desks, all in tidy little rows and columns. Miss Thistlecroup marching down the aisle like some drill sergeant, barking the rules. I almost fainted when they slapped down the paper. They wanted all this analysis stuff. I didn’t get it. It’s like chopping up a dress to see what makes it look good. Or like picking pigments off a Daily Saviour surrealist painting. The one with all the melting ponies. You don’t just do that. It’s wrong. I almost, almost passed. I nailed the metaphor and allegory sections. I got a merit for the creative writing bit. But they want you to explain stuff like the structuralist this and post-society that. They want you to explain how it creates feeling. I don’t have a clue. It just does. Well, if you spend bedtime after bedtime beating your head against the book, and that happens, what then? Go back and do it again? Tried it. Still flunked it. It just didn’t click. Not like it did for Moondancer. I must’ve been born stupid, or something. Not that I care. I mean, I’m gonna die anyway, sooner or later. What’s the point struggling for it first? What a waste of the flickering flame, to try and fan it to death. No way. I’m totally chill. If no wind blows in, it can’t go out. That’s life. Unbearably bleak. Can’t do much about it, except don’t make it worse. Everyone should know that. Be a totally better life, then. I’m not weird. I’ve just seen the light. Or the darkness. I’ve seen something. I shake hooves with my shadow. Whatever. Not like it matters. Reality is as reality does. Not nice. And then it's over. So get what you can. What? Sorry. You want me to do what? And My Future Is BleakI don’t think it’s going to work. If you insist, though. Guess I can try whatever you suggest… Look. I’m not agreeing with your idea. Just so you understand. This dream thing is not really a problem. I’m only doing what you tell me because it’s interesting. That’s it. Really. No joke. That’s the only reason. Yes. I get it. It’s intense. That’s part of the fun. I can handle it. Onward. Hey, cool music by the way. Is that…? Aw yeah. “Totally Lost Cause” by the Royal Canterlot Orchestra. The high-pitched violin and cello instrumental touches my heartstrings every time. And that murmuring Ancient Pegasine choir? Divine, but subtle. Not bombastic like most pop tunes you get. You have sublime taste. OK, I’m picturing it. The orchestral's speaking to my muse. Feel the act of creation… I stand under a blood-red sky. Sun on the horizon, partly hidden by the crimson smudge of dust clouds. I feel the cool wind like an autumn evening, calming and icy. Quiet rustling of my killer opera cape, too. That hits the sweet spot. Now there’s the bones crunching under my hooves. Nothing moves on the bleached pile of death. Oh, if you find that a bit much, they’re fake ones made of china. Don’t ask me how they don’t break. Dreams defy reality. Yeah, I’m feeling great. But I don’t feel like shouting or anything. I just wanna relax and look good. No harm in that. The ponies. Right. They’re not doing anything really. They’re just marching. I see them curving round my pile, closer to me than any of the buildings. Which, by the way, are like cottages and Canterlot mansions, but coloured black. I got that off a vinyl disc cover. Not my own collection. I was at a night club once. If I look closer? Some of them look familiar. That one coming round now looks a bit like Moondancer. I recognize the glasses and the red mane. Those two just disappearing round are definitely Mother and Father. No, I’m not worried. They’re not real. It’s just a random dream. Miss Thistlecroup’s the one behind the stallion. Still got her tight bun even here, huh. What do you mean, what happens next? The usual scene changes. Fighting armies, collecting cropland and mines, expanding my empire. But that’s what the generals do. I just look over their shoulders in the map room. Looks a bit like it was carved out of obsidian, but the maps have this wicked glowing aura. Pale as the moon. Mystical that way. Cool. Next, I hover over a wall of Royal Guard ponies on the red clay plains of dusk. The white and gold ones are the enemy. Mine are the bat ponies. They’re just following my orders. No one, you know, dies. They just get grabbed and dragged into chains like the others. Then the rest fall back. Sweet, sweet victory. It doesn’t mean anything. What’s with this obsession with meaning? It’s fun to play the bad guy. Just not too bad. Oh. Yeah? Uh huh. No, I get that. Since all this stuff is dream stuff, I can change it to whatever I want. That is totally OK. I get what you mean. A good ending? I doubt it. Villainy is super-bad, and I’ve got slaves. How do you make that good? Now you mention it, I could change a few things. Like the china bones. You want me to change the sky? No, the sky’s OK. Not cosmetic stuff. Eh. If you say so. I could imagine the ponies are in chains of their own free will. Weirder things have happened. And I guess we’re just taking turns, and I’ll hand over to someone else. Like a gigantic game. The chains are paper painted with metallic hoof varnish. Looks convincing at a distance. There are unicorn guards on the frontline. Have their horns make brief shield bubbles so no one really takes a hit. All part of the game. Wait. I’ve just thought of something. I could have Mother and Father come up and watch. After they break their chains and climb up, duh. Make it a big art project. Performance art. They’d love that. They used to go to the theatre. They’re smiling. I could have them smiling. I have no idea what you’re talking about. I told you; this is simply a game. Dreams can be anything. Anything means nothing. I know. Deep, isn’t it? No, I’m not distracting you. Only asking. I picked up a bit of non-Equestrian philosophy here and there. Not an expert, though… Look, I like playing the evil overlord. That proves nothing. Sometimes ponies do things for fun. And nothing else. Will you stop saying that? It’s got nothing to do with power. Why would I want power? I’m not deluded. Or crazy. Or dangerous. All I know is, it feels good when I dream that dream. Hey! That is not cool! You sound just like my parents. I’m not hurting anyone. It’s my head. I’ll do what I want with it. That’s unfair. My tarantula never hurt anyone, but my parents took him away. Spidey was nothing but a toy. They still took him away. What sense does that make? What right did they have? Ha. Looking out for me… I know that’s a lie. They didn’t like it because it didn’t fit their idea of what a perfect daughter should be. I have my own identity. I keep to myself. Why does everyone try to take that away from me? I like dark things. I like cool things. Best day of my life was getting my own house. Nice gothic mansion with gargoyles sticking out of the guttering. I got a bed shaped like a coffin. Opera cape with red velvet trimming. Fake vampire fangs if I want to try them. Even put a shed on the conservatory roof so I could keep my telescope there. I can watch the silent night. No one else bothers watching the stars unless it’s shooting stars. Or a job. Nightmare Night stuff, I know. Stuff that scares ponies is cool! Thunder. High buildings. Needles and surgeries. Dentists. Doesn’t mean they’re all that dangerous. My dentist was no different from any old stallion. I met him outside the practitioner’s once. I hate it when ponies say stuff like that. He didn’t deserve it! Everyone was afraid of the dark back at the academy! Sometimes shadows are just shadows! I wish ponies would at least think about that! I wish they'd just figure it out and leave me alone! OK? OK. Calming down. Calming down. And relax… Sorry you had to see that. Told you I have the soul of an artist. And everything that comes with it. You did that on purpose, though. Getting me to talk about my feelings. It doesn’t change anything. Does it? Well… I suppose that would explain why I don’t do anything but make war. In the dream. Filling out tax forms is totally not romantic. Or epic. Or awesome. I wouldn't be in control, anyway. Not really. Not with bits of paper. Not big enough. I… never thought about it. Not that way. It’s not as bad now as it was back then. At least this time, I did go out on the night. With Sassy and the other girls. And yeah: I suppose maybe I should say something more often. But to be honest, I doubt it. They only talk about mundane stuff. Shopping, eating out, who they met, who’s done what to whom. Me? Deep things. I like thinking about the nature of reality, I suppose. Why illusions could be everywhere. Why social rules are any different from hard facts. Philosophy, that’s it. And there’s this book I read once, about Machiavellian politics in an alternative history. One where the princesses never appeared. The story’s about the three tribes starting out equal, but their leaders and their followers are trying to be the one tribe to rule them all. Oh, you’ve read it. Good, huh? A bit grisly at times, especially the middle. But the characters pluck my heartstrings on every reading. Read it five or six times now. Look, if I wanted to talk to ponies with common interests, I’d join a club. I already am in a club. They’re not friends. They’re ponies I know. We talk about the books and that’s it. Oh. You mean after that. No, I don't go out with them. I’ve never been the outdoors type. I’d rather sit at home and read. What’s that? No way. I can’t do that. That’s… that’s… ugh. Can’t I try something else? No deal, huh. You sure? It’s just… just thinking about it… ugh. I didn’t mind turning that dream into a big game everyone was in on. That was a dream. This is reality. I’d never get that many ponies involved. Don’t even know that many. I'm not that close to anyone. Definitely not telling them about my feelings. Ugh. Can't I just write poetry instead? Oh. You mean the creepy stuff. The dream. So you’re saying if I tone the act down when I talk to them, they’ll like me. No chance. Forget it. The raven take my soul before I wear a mask for a fake life. I’m not desperate. And why should I play pretend? They’re the ones with the problem. Oh. Sorry. Misunderstood you. I thought it sounded strange. Seriously, though. Can’t I do anything else? I’ll grin and bear it. I’ll weather the silent gale. I can stay indoors and let them get on with it. Besides, I like that dream. I’m not giving it up. Oh. You mean, I don’t have to lie? I doubt that. No way it’s that simple. They’ll take one look, and it’ll be the last look. It’s like showing Mother my Spidey. OK. You caught me. Fair’s fair. I never showed Mother my Spidey. I don’t know. One day he was gone. I guess, when I wasn't around, Mother stumbled upon him. I can imagine the blood-curdling scream right now. She never mentioned it, though. Probably scared of me too. Me? I could've led her into it gently? I was a filly. How could I have said something like that? Didn’t even know what half those words meant back then. Yes, it would have been a shock if she’d stepped in and seen the thing. No explanation. And I suppose it would be weird to just let it drop that I dream about enslaving everyone. And that I live in a creepy mansion, yeah. They'd give me funny looks. But that’s my point. That's first impressions. They don’t think. You act like I haven’t tried to explain it to them. Oh. So we’re doing this game the other way around now? How I'd like it to go down? OK. Last fantasy. And then you’ll let me go? Right? I see myself. Like an out-of-body experience. I see myself walking down Canterlot. That road with all the restaurants. It’s sunset, so the sky looks like one big rainbow but the streets are a bit dark. The other ponies are standing there. They’re waiting for someone. Maybe me. I dunno. I’m wearing that midnight dress. Over the Moon, it’s called. Crescent moon broach on the front. Glittery stars on translucent skirt. Serene and stellar and sombrous. Cool, huh? Not many ponies know what that last word means. Anyway, I go up to them – the me wearing the dress – and I say I want to talk to them. Sunshine’s OK. Minuette might be too. Don’t know about the others, so ignoring them. I’m not that hopeful. Crossing the sky one star at a time. No. That won't work. Just like that? No secret tricks, no smart words, nothing I gotta remember? Nothing? That seems a bit risky. I can't do it. Well yeah, I trust them. A little. But that doesn’t make us friends. Whatever. Anyway, I’m opening my mouth. I’m telling them what I think. No, that won’t work. That’s just dumping it on them. I… suppose I… could ask them if they’d like to try literature club? This feels weird. I don’t even know if they like reading. OK, no. Better idea. We sit down somewhere quiet. My place? No, too spooky. Maybe Sunshine’s? And then I just ask her if I can have a talk. A serious one. Not some filly’s schoolyard whisper session. Whoa. I can feel every beat of my heart. That is not nice. And then I just say it. That looks a bit better. They know it’s serious, and it’s quiet, and it’s peaceful, and I don’t have to do it in front of all of them. One of them’s good enough for me. But what if I do that, and she still thinks I’m weird? Yes. They know about the poetry. Yes. They know about the dress. Yes. They know I love Nightmare Night. And dressing up in dark clothes like a vampire. And “boring” astronomy. Yes, they still asked me if I wanted to join them for the night out with Sassy. Ah. I see what you mean. You really think it’ll work? That line was from Toil and Crusader, wasn’t it? “Things won are done; joy’s soul lies in the doing.” But that means finished stuff isn’t as fun as stuff you’re continuously doing. Like writing poetry. I don’t get it. What’s that got to do with… this? You mean, it doesn’t rest on what happens once? I think I get it. It's like what they say in literature club. It doesn't stop at one piece of writing. Every night, every day, the music of the heavens plays on for the straining soul. Joy's soul. Speaking of which, that background music’s becoming a drag. You’ll ruin it for me. I think taking Sunshine aside could work. I dunno. I'd have to see her face before I try it. Will I remember this? When I get up in the morning? Good. It’s been… helpful. I’ll tell myself that every night. “Joy’s soul”. Got a nice ring to it. I can see a sonnet with that title. You know, I feel totally safe knowing you’re around. Law of the Heart, perhaps? One more thing. Before I wake up. Society demeans sleep as dead time; for me, it’s the best time. I’ve always thought that. Sleep is life. Poetry, without the distractions of blue light. I could send you the poems I wrote about it, if you like. Don’t worry. One of them won first place in the Lunatown Heartsong Competition. Archaic language, yet modern sensibilities. I think it’d speak to your soul. OK. I'm waking up now. For good, this time. I go on to the over-discovered country. Conquer life one more time. Thanks. Thanks a lot. I mean every word. Sorry for all the stupid drama I put you through. But I… I feel like I'm not dead yet. There's still some hope left. Still alive. OK, I'm going this time. By the way… did I mention you’re my favourite princess?
I'm BadI had that weird dream again last night. You know, the one where I’m wearing a dark crown. Violet cape fluttering in the wind. Standing on top of a pile of bones. Looking down on the blackened buildings. Seeing all the tattered ponies marching past in chains. That one. I like that one. I wish I didn’t. But I really, totally dig it. Not that I didn’t try to block it out. I've always tried to block out dreams like that. And dreams worse than that, too. When I was a filly, I used to open my eyes suddenly in the middle of the night and scream. I wouldn’t stop until Mother came into my bedroom. It didn’t matter what dream it was, though I remember the one with the zombies most. She always told me not to read those adult comics, but they were OK at magic kindergarten. I could read one over my boring grass sandwiches – I mean under them, sorry; they always got taken away if the teachers saw them – and not feel any problems during the day. I thought they were fun. Still do. It’s different at night. And I was only a little kid back then. I can handle zombies no problem now. I just dream up a red necklace made of evil and zap them into ashes. But when you’re a kid, you haven’t got to that stage yet. Everything’s so big and intense. So there’s me, waking up screaming. Mother’s just come in – yeah, I actually used to call her “Mom”, but Canterlot fillies are taught “Mother” until it sticks, so eh – and she’s doing the usual stuff, hugging and patting my head and saying “there, there”. No big deal. That’s what all mothers do, right? She taught me a trick. How to block out the bad dreams. I had a big bedroom by Canterlot standards, but not a lot of stuff to fill it. So what she used to do was, she used to walk to my stuffed teddy in the corner. Reach behind it. Pull out these special goggles. And she’d come over to the bed to put them on me. Nice goggles, too. Like those ones the Wonderbolts wear, but these ones had amber-tinted lenses. Mother used to say that the blue sky was what kept us awake during the day. I dunno. Some stuff about blue light telling your brain to keep up, or something. Even at night, there was always a little of it hanging around. That’s why the goggles were amber-tinted. Keep out the blue stuff keeping me awake. It’s not stupid. Stop smiling like that. It's not. And as I got older, she’d switch it around a bit. One day, I’d get the goggles but then I’d have to put them on myself. No issue. I got my magic around that point. Easier than clumsy hooves. But then once I got that, I had to get the goggles from across the room. Mother watching, obviously. The walk was supposed to be good for my courage. I hated that walk. I hated the teddy bear. Everyone had one. But when I got close and reached behind it, I always ducked back the first try. That thing looked like it wanted a hug. No: it looked like it wanted to grab me. I hate being grabbed. And in the dark, it was grinning at me. And then one day Mother didn’t come in. I had to walk over to that awful teddy on my own and get the goggles. I didn't even try half the time. Sure, I was a big girl by that point. So what? You don’t care about that sort of thing when you’re a kid. I was so glad when I won that stuffed spider toy at the carnival one day. The carnival sucked, but that spider was cool. I dunno. All I know is I threw out the teddy around that point and put Spidey in its place. I had no problems then. Spiders are awesome. So beautiful and webby. I used to have a tarantula for a pet until Mother threw it out. So every night I walked over to Spidey on my own and got the goggles every time. Every night. I liked Spidey more than I liked Mother. Wish I still had him. Had to get a replacement. Crawley, she's called. Still got her somewhere. Anyway. This weird dream. The one with the bones and the slaves and things. Maybe I just stayed up too late or something. I couldn’t help it. The girls and I had a night out. Doughnut Joe’s, The Tasty Treat, The Red Manticore: we even got Sassy Saddles to lighten up and join us, and she and Minuette got into this big doughnut-eating contest. Crazy stuff, I know. Besides, Minuette won. Duh: she talks enough to make room for a wedding cake. Didn’t beat the record, though. Apparently, some pink pony from out of town ate his entire stock once. Whoa. You know how it goes. It starts out sipping some fine upmarket cocktail. Classy tropical slurp. Like that one I had, what was it? Lemonade with coconut milk and a dash of some sprinkles or something. Oh yeah, Liquid Opal. I thought it was a bit sweet, but who gives a feather’s flap, right? You can tell I’ve been talking to pegasi. We met some at The Red Manticore. Good karaoke night. Of course, I sang “Night Wish” by Dread Juggernaut. What else? And then before the moon’s had time to warm up, you’re dancing down the road shoulder-to-shoulder. Singing something, I dunno: the Cloudsdale anthem, I think. Like in Bridleway when those skimpy mares do their kicks. Except we kept tripping up. Took me ages to get back home. Sassy fell over twice. Stick figure. But yeah, bed. I got in, and it said two, three ‘o’ clock? Barely noticed, to be honest. Hit the bed. Didn’t even get out of my dress. Missed the alarm this morning too. What a sleep schedule, am I right? Nah, I don’t think it’s that, actually. I don’t go out that often. Well, OK, I didn’t do much this night either. I don’t like talking. What did I do? Guess. Sat and listened, mostly. Looked at flowers in the windows. Thought up some sweet haikus. Nothing much. I’m more the sit-back-and-let-it-wash-over-me type. Thing is, I don’t know them that well. It was just a night out. They’re cool once every blue moon – heh – but not as a regular thing. I like poetry readings better. And I got up… Eight-thirty, I think. So that’s, what, six and a half hours of sleep at best? No wait, hang on… Three, sorry. Got in at three. I remember ‘cause I tried to check the alarm was set. Sometimes I do that. Bit paranoid. Five and a half hours of sleep. Yeesh. The doctor always said at least seven. They gave a lecture on it in the magic academy, way back. Sleep cycles. If I remember it right, every cycle lasted ninety minutes. Your brain goes up and down through these different stages: light sleep, deep sleep, alpha… beta… uh…? So they go up and down. You get the best sleep if you wake up at the end of a cycle. That’s every hour and a half. Time it right when you go to bed, and you get up right when you want, fresh as the final falling flakes on a winter morning’s drift. It’s the poet in me, I guess. That’s probably it, then. I messed up the cycle. Weird dream. End of story. I think, anyway. I don’t know. The first time I had that dream? What, you think that might help? I doubt it. You reckon so? Sheesh, if you insist. What, you think you’re some kind of armchair psychoanalyst or something? It was just a stupid dream. I just wanted to share it with another soul. Well, since you’re so interested… it was at the academy. In the dorm room. The end of my first week. It wasn’t exactly a happy time for me. I remember sitting in the middle row of the classroom, at one of those desks with the lid that you can stash books and apples under. I never hid my comics in there. Too easy to find. Anyway, that place was worse than Tartarus. Everyone with their neat little manes covered in oil or combed with a parting or twisted up in those ugly pigtails. Ugh. Miss Thistlecroup was the worst. One of those types with a bun clamped to the back of her head, glasses with the chain going up behind the ear, voice like broken glass and thrown icicles. She didn’t shout at us or crack a riding crop to make her point, or anything like that. Give her an apple, she might actually smile. In fact, she wasn’t so bad really, now I think about it. But she had this way of tutting. I flubbed telling the time once when she chalked pictures of clocks on the board, and she always asked me to give it another look. And the first day, I couldn’t get it right. I always got the big hand and the little hand mixed up. Lots of kids did, I guess. Just not the ones in my class. Tut, tut, tut. I heard that one a lot. Didn’t matter if I was magicking up a gemstone from a black box, or carrying a pipette full of vinegar in chemistry class, or wondering what this “calculus” equation stuff had to do with squiggly lines on a grid. I wasn’t that slow. She just made me sound slow. I don’t even want to talk about what happened when I tried to bring Spidey into the canteen. Oh right. Out of nowhere. Sorry. I smuggled him in via the luggage. Big fillies aren’t supposed to do that. Like I cared what Mother said. She and Father were always out of the house. Garden parties. Political seminars. Stupid shopping trips for stupid wedding-dress-like clothes I didn’t even wear, not that they cared. It didn’t matter for the first few days. Spidey was my little secret under the bed, with his amber-tinted goggles. He reminded me of my pet tarantula. But then I got to talking to a couple of the fillies in the dorm, and we thought we’d get to know each other better. I forget their names. We never talked again. No one wants to talk to a weird kid who likes spiders. Yeah, you can pretty much figure out what happened. Canteen trays got dropped. Lots of screaming, lots of funny looks. Some snitch ran off to tell the teacher. They had to teleport Spidey out of my hooves, though. You bet they did. Well, at least I got Spidey back at the end of the year. Big deal. I mean, I guess school was OK. Looking back, it wasn’t the suck-fest I thought it was. I just had to fight not to fall asleep during class. I tried arguing in the canteen once, saying how spiders are good. ‘Cause they eat flies and are more afraid of you. Rubbish I picked up from a nature guide once. I was a weird kid. Ah, now it comes back to me. The dream didn’t come right away. I stayed up on the last night of the week. Snuck a firefly jar out of the store cupboard during lunch. Good light if you want to write in the dark. And I could hear this ticking from the common room. There was this giant grandfather clock. Antique. Huge pendulum swinging back and forth. I used to stare at it for hours. Wow, was that a good story. Princess Ravenstone and her Night School. Bet I still got it buried under my old folders in the attic. Ghouls and ghosts and goblins and grim deathhounds all over the place. And I gave Princess Ravenstone – yeah, she was obviously me – this sweet cane-thing, like, like one of those royal sceptres but made of amethyst. Giant iron pendulum behind me: I got that from the ticking clock. Swinging like the relentless blades of an axe. All that writing. All that turned up in the first dream. Whoa. I was a really, really weird kid… No kidding… This isn't going to be easy, is it? All right. I need to head out for a bit. I’ll be right back. I swear. I’ll be right back.
My Life's BadOK, I’m back again. No problem. I’m fine. Cool. No problem. But yeah. Now that I think about it, is it really a surprise? About my dreams being weird, I mean. Life’s weird. Like that thing I read in the newspaper yesterday morning. I always get the newspaper. Dunno why. It just makes me even gloomier. Self-torment or what? Yet such is the life of an artist. You must have seen it too. That article about the Crystal Empire? Cursed by an evil king. Locked in the frozen north for a thousand years. Reborn under the cleansing wash of the aurora borealis. Sweet. That is, like, totally radical. Oh, you haven’t seen it yet. Right. It said a bit of his red horn survived – the evil king’s, I mean – and he came back and tried to take over again. That’s, like, the stuff of horror tales. Necromancers that never die. I so wish they got his picture. And you look at this stuff. And you think: Royal Guard time, right? Everyone’s gonna die, or get sucked into this black world with red skies and unnatural purple flames burning in torches. You’d think ponies in the street would be like, “Oh my gosh, this is it, this is the end of the world.” Flipping out. And I read the paper, and it happens all the time. There was this Summer Sun Celebration that went on a bit too long. Nightmare Moon – cool name, huh? – came back, they said. Then this chaos spirit turned everything into a blue chessboard. Then we got those changelings hitting the streets hard enough to leave craters. Vines taking over the walls. This crazy bull-monkey dude sucking everyone’s magic out of their faces. And you end up thinking, well, what next? The universe is throwing all this stuff at us. We’re kicking it back, but we gotta miss sooner or later. Law of Probability. Or was it Statistics? Everyone’s just so chill about it, though. It’s like in Las Pegasus when those guys get a jackpot at one of those arcade machines. They’re thinking they’ll just keep getting jackpots. Then they run out of bits. Then security has to drag them out the double doors ‘cause they’re shaking the machines. No one remembers the hundreds of guys who get dragged out. They just look at the one guy with money piling up at his hooves. I tried telling this to Sunshine Smiles this morning. Coffee break, I think. She didn’t get it. “Well, it hasn’t happened so far, so we should be OK.” That’s honest-to-Celestia what she said. I didn’t say anything back. I don’t much. But sometimes I wanna kick her. Yeah, I know. It’s not nice. It’s just how I feel. I don’t care what you think. I write down the list of things to do every day before bed. I did it yesterday. OK, this morning. Really early this morning. The point is: before bed. Get coffee at eleven. Get new glass slippers. Find old anthology. Go to literature club. Find out if model-drawing’s any great shakes. I try something different now and again. But who cares, really? Life is but a soap bubble on the cruel sea. One flick of a splash later, pop. Well, picture it. One moment, you’re walking down Canterlot’s main avenue under the ivory towers. Worrying over what dress to wear. Who you’re supposed to talk to at the party. Making sure you don’t forget the tickets. Wondering why your life's a shell of your fillyhood fantasies. Next thing, pop. Dream life’s history. White Canterlot turns into a pile of black spikes. You’re wearing rags. Someone’s put an iron stock around your neck. You can’t talk in case the guards take you away. And you don’t dare forget to dig the mines or fetch the mind-control armour for wartime, ‘cause then you disappear faster. Like, they-don’t-bother-taking-you-away faster. That’s why I write that to-do list every night before bed. Even last night. I have enough trouble thinking tomorrow’s gonna come. I don’t want to spend my last night worrying over trifles. Not if I won’t be around long enough to do them. Maybe you can’t tell much from the one time I had that dream. Law of Statistics again. Sorry. Gotta think about all the times. See if anything stands out. As you’ve probably guessed by now, I’m the idle rich type. Got no real job. Unless you count poetry. I send my pieces to the magazines and the local and national contests, like the Canterlot Sonnet Season Challenge. Sometimes win prize money. Sometimes don’t. Not that I need it. I even get my bathroom soap on a silver platter. It’s just a metaphor. Don’t overthink it. Yeah, easy-peasy life. It drags. I know what you’re thinking. Nothing to do but sit around all day. Waste money on jewels and hats. Never say anything wrong. Keep the Canterlot ponies from giving me funny looks. Write poetry when it’s all too much. Don’t embarrass the family. The works. Yeah, but it’s not like I’m good at anything else. And Mother and Father would never get off my back if I did anything less than the noble arts. Science. Full-time painting. Politics. Fashion. Couture. But I just like writing. Anyone can write these days. It’s not like the Classical era. You had to be a baron at least before you could even learn the ABC back then. Nowadays, hicksville ponies can slap together a few pages and that’s it. Not much privilege in writing now. The only time I actually really like is sleep time. Even then, only so long as I don’t have bad dreams. Like the one month a few moons back. Wintertime, it was. I never got a decent night’s sleep. Always waking up halfway through and having to sit and watch the full moon for ages. There was this theory I read in a magazine once. How there’s this natural time everyone wakes up halfway through the night. Can’t remember why. Kept them from getting cold, or something? So at first, I just shrugged and thought it was that. Never happened before. I was a late bloomer, maybe? Whatever. Got more reading time out of it. Went through the whole Power Ponies series that month. It was OK except for the Humdrum arc. That one was insanely boring. And totally didn’t get the continuity. At all. I threw it out with the garbage as soon as I finished it. Didn't matter what I tried. It kept taking longer to get back to sleep. I started on ten, twenty minutes. After that, it went to two hours. Worst one was when I didn’t go back to sleep at all. Felt like someone had stolen my brain for the rest of that day. That dream didn’t help. I started thinking the midnight waking was a punishment. Dream about turning ponies into stone or dimming the sun just because you can. Get hit by karma the second it stops. Anyway, it stopped after a while; I did jigsaws and stuff until it died down. Father bought me loads of them way back, with pictures of famous buildings on them. Canterlot Castle. Pony of Liberty's Statue in Manehattan. The Great Fence of Yakyakistan. Dozens. I finished them all that month. The goggles didn’t work. Now I think about it, I’m not sure they ever did. Well, yeah. I tried all that stuff. You wanna change the world, change yourself. Blah blah blah. I said I tried it. Don’t give me that look. Oh, all right. Go ahead. Give me that look. I probably deserve it. But I really did try. Like way back, when I was at the academy. First tests were coming up. I crammed like crazy, every night with the firefly jars on my pillow. Everyone did it. I wasn’t the only one up at nights with lights. Moondancer was the best one: she just lit her horn. Advanced stuff for a kid. And she read stacks of library reference books when the rest of us were falling asleep on the first textbook. Show-off. I would’ve given anything to run away. Didn’t care about any of the other lessons, but Literature Studies spoke to me. I memorized all the Odes of Peat Bog the Pastoralist. I could quote Death’s Head Hawk Moth. Even the bit everyone forgets about the candle and the spiral stars. I stayed up writing and reading the Commander Hurricane speeches and the epic poetry. My energies lined up perfectly. My temptation after dark. My soul’s calling. I flunked the test. Exam hall was exactly like the classroom. Tidy little room. Tidy little desks, all in tidy little rows and columns. Miss Thistlecroup marching down the aisle like some drill sergeant, barking the rules. I almost fainted when they slapped down the paper. They wanted all this analysis stuff. I didn’t get it. It’s like chopping up a dress to see what makes it look good. Or like picking pigments off a Daily Saviour surrealist painting. The one with all the melting ponies. You don’t just do that. It’s wrong. I almost, almost passed. I nailed the metaphor and allegory sections. I got a merit for the creative writing bit. But they want you to explain stuff like the structuralist this and post-society that. They want you to explain how it creates feeling. I don’t have a clue. It just does. Well, if you spend bedtime after bedtime beating your head against the book, and that happens, what then? Go back and do it again? Tried it. Still flunked it. It just didn’t click. Not like it did for Moondancer. I must’ve been born stupid, or something. Not that I care. I mean, I’m gonna die anyway, sooner or later. What’s the point struggling for it first? What a waste of the flickering flame, to try and fan it to death. No way. I’m totally chill. If no wind blows in, it can’t go out. That’s life. Unbearably bleak. Can’t do much about it, except don’t make it worse. Everyone should know that. Be a totally better life, then. I’m not weird. I’ve just seen the light. Or the darkness. I’ve seen something. I shake hooves with my shadow. Whatever. Not like it matters. Reality is as reality does. Not nice. And then it's over. So get what you can. What? Sorry. You want me to do what?
And My Future Is BleakI don’t think it’s going to work. If you insist, though. Guess I can try whatever you suggest… Look. I’m not agreeing with your idea. Just so you understand. This dream thing is not really a problem. I’m only doing what you tell me because it’s interesting. That’s it. Really. No joke. That’s the only reason. Yes. I get it. It’s intense. That’s part of the fun. I can handle it. Onward. Hey, cool music by the way. Is that…? Aw yeah. “Totally Lost Cause” by the Royal Canterlot Orchestra. The high-pitched violin and cello instrumental touches my heartstrings every time. And that murmuring Ancient Pegasine choir? Divine, but subtle. Not bombastic like most pop tunes you get. You have sublime taste. OK, I’m picturing it. The orchestral's speaking to my muse. Feel the act of creation… I stand under a blood-red sky. Sun on the horizon, partly hidden by the crimson smudge of dust clouds. I feel the cool wind like an autumn evening, calming and icy. Quiet rustling of my killer opera cape, too. That hits the sweet spot. Now there’s the bones crunching under my hooves. Nothing moves on the bleached pile of death. Oh, if you find that a bit much, they’re fake ones made of china. Don’t ask me how they don’t break. Dreams defy reality. Yeah, I’m feeling great. But I don’t feel like shouting or anything. I just wanna relax and look good. No harm in that. The ponies. Right. They’re not doing anything really. They’re just marching. I see them curving round my pile, closer to me than any of the buildings. Which, by the way, are like cottages and Canterlot mansions, but coloured black. I got that off a vinyl disc cover. Not my own collection. I was at a night club once. If I look closer? Some of them look familiar. That one coming round now looks a bit like Moondancer. I recognize the glasses and the red mane. Those two just disappearing round are definitely Mother and Father. No, I’m not worried. They’re not real. It’s just a random dream. Miss Thistlecroup’s the one behind the stallion. Still got her tight bun even here, huh. What do you mean, what happens next? The usual scene changes. Fighting armies, collecting cropland and mines, expanding my empire. But that’s what the generals do. I just look over their shoulders in the map room. Looks a bit like it was carved out of obsidian, but the maps have this wicked glowing aura. Pale as the moon. Mystical that way. Cool. Next, I hover over a wall of Royal Guard ponies on the red clay plains of dusk. The white and gold ones are the enemy. Mine are the bat ponies. They’re just following my orders. No one, you know, dies. They just get grabbed and dragged into chains like the others. Then the rest fall back. Sweet, sweet victory. It doesn’t mean anything. What’s with this obsession with meaning? It’s fun to play the bad guy. Just not too bad. Oh. Yeah? Uh huh. No, I get that. Since all this stuff is dream stuff, I can change it to whatever I want. That is totally OK. I get what you mean. A good ending? I doubt it. Villainy is super-bad, and I’ve got slaves. How do you make that good? Now you mention it, I could change a few things. Like the china bones. You want me to change the sky? No, the sky’s OK. Not cosmetic stuff. Eh. If you say so. I could imagine the ponies are in chains of their own free will. Weirder things have happened. And I guess we’re just taking turns, and I’ll hand over to someone else. Like a gigantic game. The chains are paper painted with metallic hoof varnish. Looks convincing at a distance. There are unicorn guards on the frontline. Have their horns make brief shield bubbles so no one really takes a hit. All part of the game. Wait. I’ve just thought of something. I could have Mother and Father come up and watch. After they break their chains and climb up, duh. Make it a big art project. Performance art. They’d love that. They used to go to the theatre. They’re smiling. I could have them smiling. I have no idea what you’re talking about. I told you; this is simply a game. Dreams can be anything. Anything means nothing. I know. Deep, isn’t it? No, I’m not distracting you. Only asking. I picked up a bit of non-Equestrian philosophy here and there. Not an expert, though… Look, I like playing the evil overlord. That proves nothing. Sometimes ponies do things for fun. And nothing else. Will you stop saying that? It’s got nothing to do with power. Why would I want power? I’m not deluded. Or crazy. Or dangerous. All I know is, it feels good when I dream that dream. Hey! That is not cool! You sound just like my parents. I’m not hurting anyone. It’s my head. I’ll do what I want with it. That’s unfair. My tarantula never hurt anyone, but my parents took him away. Spidey was nothing but a toy. They still took him away. What sense does that make? What right did they have? Ha. Looking out for me… I know that’s a lie. They didn’t like it because it didn’t fit their idea of what a perfect daughter should be. I have my own identity. I keep to myself. Why does everyone try to take that away from me? I like dark things. I like cool things. Best day of my life was getting my own house. Nice gothic mansion with gargoyles sticking out of the guttering. I got a bed shaped like a coffin. Opera cape with red velvet trimming. Fake vampire fangs if I want to try them. Even put a shed on the conservatory roof so I could keep my telescope there. I can watch the silent night. No one else bothers watching the stars unless it’s shooting stars. Or a job. Nightmare Night stuff, I know. Stuff that scares ponies is cool! Thunder. High buildings. Needles and surgeries. Dentists. Doesn’t mean they’re all that dangerous. My dentist was no different from any old stallion. I met him outside the practitioner’s once. I hate it when ponies say stuff like that. He didn’t deserve it! Everyone was afraid of the dark back at the academy! Sometimes shadows are just shadows! I wish ponies would at least think about that! I wish they'd just figure it out and leave me alone! OK? OK. Calming down. Calming down. And relax… Sorry you had to see that. Told you I have the soul of an artist. And everything that comes with it. You did that on purpose, though. Getting me to talk about my feelings. It doesn’t change anything. Does it? Well… I suppose that would explain why I don’t do anything but make war. In the dream. Filling out tax forms is totally not romantic. Or epic. Or awesome. I wouldn't be in control, anyway. Not really. Not with bits of paper. Not big enough. I… never thought about it. Not that way. It’s not as bad now as it was back then. At least this time, I did go out on the night. With Sassy and the other girls. And yeah: I suppose maybe I should say something more often. But to be honest, I doubt it. They only talk about mundane stuff. Shopping, eating out, who they met, who’s done what to whom. Me? Deep things. I like thinking about the nature of reality, I suppose. Why illusions could be everywhere. Why social rules are any different from hard facts. Philosophy, that’s it. And there’s this book I read once, about Machiavellian politics in an alternative history. One where the princesses never appeared. The story’s about the three tribes starting out equal, but their leaders and their followers are trying to be the one tribe to rule them all. Oh, you’ve read it. Good, huh? A bit grisly at times, especially the middle. But the characters pluck my heartstrings on every reading. Read it five or six times now. Look, if I wanted to talk to ponies with common interests, I’d join a club. I already am in a club. They’re not friends. They’re ponies I know. We talk about the books and that’s it. Oh. You mean after that. No, I don't go out with them. I’ve never been the outdoors type. I’d rather sit at home and read. What’s that? No way. I can’t do that. That’s… that’s… ugh. Can’t I try something else? No deal, huh. You sure? It’s just… just thinking about it… ugh. I didn’t mind turning that dream into a big game everyone was in on. That was a dream. This is reality. I’d never get that many ponies involved. Don’t even know that many. I'm not that close to anyone. Definitely not telling them about my feelings. Ugh. Can't I just write poetry instead? Oh. You mean the creepy stuff. The dream. So you’re saying if I tone the act down when I talk to them, they’ll like me. No chance. Forget it. The raven take my soul before I wear a mask for a fake life. I’m not desperate. And why should I play pretend? They’re the ones with the problem. Oh. Sorry. Misunderstood you. I thought it sounded strange. Seriously, though. Can’t I do anything else? I’ll grin and bear it. I’ll weather the silent gale. I can stay indoors and let them get on with it. Besides, I like that dream. I’m not giving it up. Oh. You mean, I don’t have to lie? I doubt that. No way it’s that simple. They’ll take one look, and it’ll be the last look. It’s like showing Mother my Spidey. OK. You caught me. Fair’s fair. I never showed Mother my Spidey. I don’t know. One day he was gone. I guess, when I wasn't around, Mother stumbled upon him. I can imagine the blood-curdling scream right now. She never mentioned it, though. Probably scared of me too. Me? I could've led her into it gently? I was a filly. How could I have said something like that? Didn’t even know what half those words meant back then. Yes, it would have been a shock if she’d stepped in and seen the thing. No explanation. And I suppose it would be weird to just let it drop that I dream about enslaving everyone. And that I live in a creepy mansion, yeah. They'd give me funny looks. But that’s my point. That's first impressions. They don’t think. You act like I haven’t tried to explain it to them. Oh. So we’re doing this game the other way around now? How I'd like it to go down? OK. Last fantasy. And then you’ll let me go? Right? I see myself. Like an out-of-body experience. I see myself walking down Canterlot. That road with all the restaurants. It’s sunset, so the sky looks like one big rainbow but the streets are a bit dark. The other ponies are standing there. They’re waiting for someone. Maybe me. I dunno. I’m wearing that midnight dress. Over the Moon, it’s called. Crescent moon broach on the front. Glittery stars on translucent skirt. Serene and stellar and sombrous. Cool, huh? Not many ponies know what that last word means. Anyway, I go up to them – the me wearing the dress – and I say I want to talk to them. Sunshine’s OK. Minuette might be too. Don’t know about the others, so ignoring them. I’m not that hopeful. Crossing the sky one star at a time. No. That won't work. Just like that? No secret tricks, no smart words, nothing I gotta remember? Nothing? That seems a bit risky. I can't do it. Well yeah, I trust them. A little. But that doesn’t make us friends. Whatever. Anyway, I’m opening my mouth. I’m telling them what I think. No, that won’t work. That’s just dumping it on them. I… suppose I… could ask them if they’d like to try literature club? This feels weird. I don’t even know if they like reading. OK, no. Better idea. We sit down somewhere quiet. My place? No, too spooky. Maybe Sunshine’s? And then I just ask her if I can have a talk. A serious one. Not some filly’s schoolyard whisper session. Whoa. I can feel every beat of my heart. That is not nice. And then I just say it. That looks a bit better. They know it’s serious, and it’s quiet, and it’s peaceful, and I don’t have to do it in front of all of them. One of them’s good enough for me. But what if I do that, and she still thinks I’m weird? Yes. They know about the poetry. Yes. They know about the dress. Yes. They know I love Nightmare Night. And dressing up in dark clothes like a vampire. And “boring” astronomy. Yes, they still asked me if I wanted to join them for the night out with Sassy. Ah. I see what you mean. You really think it’ll work? That line was from Toil and Crusader, wasn’t it? “Things won are done; joy’s soul lies in the doing.” But that means finished stuff isn’t as fun as stuff you’re continuously doing. Like writing poetry. I don’t get it. What’s that got to do with… this? You mean, it doesn’t rest on what happens once? I think I get it. It's like what they say in literature club. It doesn't stop at one piece of writing. Every night, every day, the music of the heavens plays on for the straining soul. Joy's soul. Speaking of which, that background music’s becoming a drag. You’ll ruin it for me. I think taking Sunshine aside could work. I dunno. I'd have to see her face before I try it. Will I remember this? When I get up in the morning? Good. It’s been… helpful. I’ll tell myself that every night. “Joy’s soul”. Got a nice ring to it. I can see a sonnet with that title. You know, I feel totally safe knowing you’re around. Law of the Heart, perhaps? One more thing. Before I wake up. Society demeans sleep as dead time; for me, it’s the best time. I’ve always thought that. Sleep is life. Poetry, without the distractions of blue light. I could send you the poems I wrote about it, if you like. Don’t worry. One of them won first place in the Lunatown Heartsong Competition. Archaic language, yet modern sensibilities. I think it’d speak to your soul. OK. I'm waking up now. For good, this time. I go on to the over-discovered country. Conquer life one more time. Thanks. Thanks a lot. I mean every word. Sorry for all the stupid drama I put you through. But I… I feel like I'm not dead yet. There's still some hope left. Still alive. OK, I'm going this time. By the way… did I mention you’re my favourite princess?
