She sighed as she finished signing the legal documents in front of her. Her pen scribbled her name over the page as the boy—young man, she corrected herself—at the other end of the desk stared intently at her hand. Taking the papers from her, he grinned widely, thrusting his other hand towards her. ‘I can’t tell you how much this means to me. Thank you so much!’ He skipped out of her office as she placed her own copy of the files in her binder, whistling happily.
MC W1SH or Neon Lights—his first record deal. She put the binder labeled Published Artists away and returned to her desk. It was 11:37 AM.
‘Another seven hours left,’ she said to herself—an increasing habit. Seven hours, 23 minutes. I can count the seconds if you like.
‘Stuff it.’
Come on, no need to be rude. Not my fault you’re stuck with this job. When was the last time you had fun? Or played?
‘Too long. But I need this job. Besides, it’s not that bad.’
The bottle of Cognac lying on your bedroom floor says different.
‘Fuck you.’
Fuck yourself. oh wait, that’s what we did last night.
She slammed her hands down on her desk—it was better than the damning silence.
Standing up, she looked around her office for something to distract her. It was a nice office—large, with a cherry tree desk covered in folders, loose papers, and the occasional sticky note. Organized chaos, she always told herself. Like reading sheet paper covered in notes. Not that you’ve read any for a while. The room was long, painted grey with a purple streak around it; not enough colour to ward off the dullness of the grey. Large windows from which the sun poured through onto her back, lighting her desk. Curtains. I have to order those curtains. On one of the walls she had hung up two posters—one with the company’s stock trend, the other a poster of the Royal Canterlot Symphony.
She looked at the clock. 11:39.
She put her head down on her desk, and sighed.
Lyra Heartstrings was late for work. She couldn't remember the last time she’d ever been on time, but she had never been this late. 11:48 AM. And she still had a few blocks to go.
Of all the mornings…
She ran down the street, trying not to spill the coffee she was carrying for her boss. ‘Every morning’s the same, why start complaining now?’ She knew that her boss had more than likely lost patience with her, and this was the final straw. ‘Come on Lyra, it’s only a few late night martinis.’ A few my ass, Bonnie. At least you run your own job—unfortunately, I can’t work from home.
She was waiting to cross the street, repeatedly pressing the cross button—she knew it didn’t help, but she liked to think it did. She rushed across as the walk signal lit up, trying not to knock anyone over. She looked at her watch as she walked through the doors. 11:53. Shit. The receptionist in the lobby gave her a scowl, pointing to the clock behind her. Lyra only had time to give her the finger as she got into the elevator. It really had to be the third last floor. The elevator hummed as she stood waiting, tapping her foot impatiently. It started to slow down, stopping as someone walked in, standing beside her.
‘You know, you’re going to get fired if you keep this up.’
‘Shut up Rose.’
‘Hey, I’m trying to help out here! All I’m saying is that you should consider what could happen.’
‘I’m trying not to.’
‘Come on Lyra, do you really want to spend your life working here? Getting fired might be the best thing for you.’
‘Jeez, thanks for the support. And what about you? You’re still working here.’
‘Working until I have enough to start my florist shop.’
‘How long have you been talking about opening that?—two years?’
‘I’m almost ready. But really Lyra, you should think about what you want to do. What you really want to do.’
‘Fine. But I’m trying here for a bit longer.’
‘All right,’ the elevator stopped. As Rose stepped out, she turned to Lyra and said, ‘by the way, you forgot your suit.’
As the doors closed, she could hear Lyra swear.
Lyra knocked on her boss’ door. 12:01. Shit.
‘Come in.’ Her voice sounded sleepy.
Her boss stared at her as she walked in.
‘15 minutes late. Worst time yet.’
‘Got your coffee.’
‘Nice sweatpants.’
‘Too casual?’
‘Just too bad it’s a Monday.’
They looked at each other, and laughed. It was a foreign sound, clinging to the tension in the air.
12:03 PM.
The sun was shining in Lyra’s eyes.
Vinyl Scratch woke up with two things on her mind. The first was where she’d left her cigarettes. The second was what she was going to do with the boy and girl sleeping on either side of her—both naked.
Cigarettes are in your bag. Gotcha. What to do them? Not my fucking problem.
She slid of the bed, sneaking away to find the bathroom. She looked around the apartment she was in—it was small and dirty, with nude centerfolds plastered over the walls. She turned around, and finding the bathroom. Without turning on the lights, she sat on the toilet, relieving herself. She hoped it wouldn't wake the two in the bedroom as she flushed.
Dragging her backpack to the bathroom, she turned on the lights, looking in the mirror. Her hair was an absolute mess—it stuck out in different directions and was tangled. She counted three hickeys over her neck and a bruise on her shoulder. She checked her breasts; they were small, around an A cup in size. No bruises. After looking over her body, she looked over her piercings—ears, nose, and tongue. Taking care of piercings was not a simple job—each one required time to clean properly. She looked over each one carefully, making sure they were all in place. She glanced at the digital clock on the sink. 7:27 AM.
Sweet. Still got plenty of time.
Collecting her clothes scattered around the bed, she slipped into a pair of black jeans and a tee-shirt, with a white sleeveless hoddie over it. Grabbing her cigarettes, she threw her backpack on as she left the apartment.
‘Thanks for the fun night.’
She lit a cigarette.
As she walked, she wondered why she had sex with those two—she’d only just met them at her gig. She thought while sucking on her cigarette, before putting it out with the heel of her boot. A cool breeze rushed over her, pulling the smoke from her next cigarette in the air. She didn't know. She never knew, for all the nights she spent in someone else’s bed.
Maybe never knows best.
The birds were singing bran-new love songs in the park—their spring tunes.
She found herself wishing she could fly.
Bon-Bon woke up with what she called, ‘The rewards of a good night!’ which meant a headache, sore throat, and walking up in the afternoon sunlight, forcing her to shut the blinds as she stirred in her bed. She felt awful—and she loved that. As she got up, she wondered why Lyra’s suit was still hanging up outside her closet.
Her clock nailed to her wall ticked on. 12:07 PM. After she washed her hair and brushed her teeth, she got dressed slowly, putting on a light dress, tossing an apron over it. Once she was finished, she walked down into her shop. Sweet Drops: The Candy Emporium was a small shop in the suburban area of Manehatten, with a little park across from it. She flipped the shop sign over, and got to work. She loved her shop; the chance to make sweets and put smiles on children’s faces—this was what she wanted. But something was missing. Someone was missing. She sighed, with a smile on her face. Maybe one day…
The shop bell rang, and she called out from the backroom:
‘Welcome to The Candy Emporium! Here to make life a little bit more sweet! I’ll be with you in a minute!’
She had started her shop to add some sweetness to the world. To her, the world needed sweetness. Of course, bitterness was also a part of life. That was what life was—a mixture.
Just the right amount of bitterness.
Guess I’ve got an overload.
Lyra was running her fingers through her hair, tying it up in a high pony-tail. She had gotten to work, wrong clothing notwithstanding. Her day consisted of typing up the reports, stats, and the occasional coffee. The pay was decent, and her people she worked with were good. She sighed as she typed up the next rejected name—she knew that she didn’t want to spend her life here.
‘Lyra? Could you come in for a moment?’
She walked into the office slowly, hoping she wasn’t being called for the reason she thought she was. She kept her head down.
‘Oh, put your head up. I’m not firing you.’
‘What? I mean, okay, but, why?’
The boss stood up, turning to the window.
‘You’re always late, you make typing errors, and frankly, you’re probably the worst secretary I’ve had.”
An indignant look grew on Lyra’s face; though she knew it was the truth.
‘But.’ Beat. ‘I’ve had tons of people do what you do, and there’s one difference. You put effort into everything you do. That’s what matters to me. It’s what a musician does—you keep at it—and you do that. So you’re staying.’
‘Thanks! I mean, if you’re sure.’
‘Yes. By the way, have you ever looked at that poster on the wall?’
Lyra turned her head.
‘Fiscal Reports and Earnings?’
Her boss chuckled under her breath.
‘No, the other one.’
Lyra walked towards the poster; a group photo of the Royal Canterlot Symphony. They were the most famous Symphony in Equestria—everyone knew that.
‘It’s the Canterlot Symphony.’
‘Yes. Now look closer, to the upper left corner.’
Lyra’s eyes widened as they saw who was standing in the group.
‘But-but that’s-’
‘Yes. It’s me. Seven years ago.’
‘But you were part of the Canterlot Symphony! The best classical group in, well, I’d say the entire country!’
‘I used to be. First Chair Cellist in fact. I’m still very proud of it. I’d started to play when I was four. My parents made sure I trained throughout the years, and I eventually join the group. I loved every moment of it.’
There was a silence.
‘Can I ask what happened?’ The words came out of Lyra’s mouth slowly, each one establishing itself before the next.
‘I… I couldn't play anymore.’ Pause. I refuse to try and play anymore.
‘I’d developed Carpal Tunnel Syndrome in both of my wrists; around three years ago. It became harder to play, and more painful every time. I tried my best, but my conductor said that I needed to stop for my health. Unfortunately, I didn’t have health benefits from the symphony, so I needed to find another way of paying for the surgery. I asked my doctor if there was another way to fix my wrists, but he told me that the only permanent solution was to get the surgery. It’s still very expensive—that’s the reason that I’m here. I was lucky enough to rise through the ranks quickly enough, I suppose. But the cost of living in this city doesn't help much, and it would still take at least six months to recover fully.’
Lyra noticed that her boss’ hands were clenched in fists, and she was biting her lower lip.
‘The pain isn't too bad, so long as I don’t overexert myself—that’s why I need a good secretary.’ She looked back at Lyra for a moment.
‘Why not try to go back?’
‘They’ll have someone younger and probably better by now. Besides, I’ll never play the same again.’
‘Umm, I’m just wondering; why are you telling me this?’
She kept her back to Lyra.
‘Because I can tell that you have other aspirations. You’re not going to be here forever—but you need to for now, right? I’m guessing, financial?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So stay for now, work hard, and do what you have to. But once you can leave, do what you love. That’s what I did.’
Another silence.
‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome.’ Her boss turned around, looking up at the clock. 12:34. ‘Time to get back to work, don’t you think?’
Lyra nodded her head, and left the office.
That was… odd. But nice.
She was looking at the list of names below the picture. She knew many of them were still playing, still doing what she could no longer do. She stopped at her name.
The past is nice, yes, but you live in the now. And this is no longer you.
‘I will always be a cellist.’
Octavia Vitula.
A cellist.
And no longer here.
‘I will always be a cellist.’
A handicapped player, too frail, too old, and too bitter.
‘I will always be a cellist.’
Octavia had started to cry.
Lyra sat outside the office, answering the phone and typing notes. Bon-Bon was busy wrestling with taffy, running her shop. Vinyl Scratch had climbed to the top of the tallest tree in the park, and smoked another cigarette. Octavia watched the people in the street far below carry on with their lives—intact, for the most part.
12:41 in the afternoon.
In unison, they sighed. A quartet of half-lives, half lived.
