Octavia took up the letter and stared at it. It was a simple, generic white letter; it was the kind you got at the store. There was absolutely nothing special about it. She took a closer look; it was in pristine condition. There was not a single fold or bend that she could detect, nor was there a stamp. Someone in Canterlot hoof-delivered this letter; it was high-time she found out their incentive for doing so. She picked up her gifts and the letter and carried them to inside. Turning to her door, she noticed another note, neatly taped to the front of her door. It read a single word: listen. How intriguing. Of course, Octavia was confused, but it was no mistake. She opened the box, and retrieved a customized iPod touch. She was impressed by its design; it was smooth, slick, and nearly spoke ‘look at me, look at how amazing I am.’ She turned the device on, and its retina screen came to life; the wallpaper portrayed a cello similar to her own, no wait, it was hers…Octavia felt a faint sense of discomfort. Was someone watching her? She looked over her shoulder to check, only satisfying the little voice in her head temporarily. Immediately, she tapped the music icon to see if anything had been put on it already; if someone had taken the time to make her cello her wallpaper, then perhaps they took the time to put music in it as well, no? Her suspicions were correct: it contained a single album: Octavarium, by a band known as Dream Theatre. Eight songs. 76 minutes. Released in 1505. She checked the time; it was 6:17 AM. She put the device down, and picked up the letter, carrying with her to work. She had a standard day ahead of her, consisting of practice, composing, and spending the rest of the day doing as she pleases, which generally consisted of extra practice. Octavia went to put on her bow-tie, picked up her cello, and proceeded to Canterlot’s town square to grab a coffee on the way to work. Picking up her things, she left.
Octavia scanned the store, finding everything satisfactory. Fresh coffee was bewing, cheerful chatter could be heard and it was an overall enjoyable morning. She smiled to herself and walked up to the counter.
A young stallion stood at the counter with his uniform scarf and hat. He put on a business smile and spoke,
"Welcome to Wake-Up-Call Coffee House, what can I get you?" He asked. Octavia spoke up,
"A tall black coffee will do, thank you." She nodded politely.
"It'll be just a minute!" The stallion smiled and went off his way to get her coffee. She glanced at him as he left to get her coffee; the colt's cutie mark resembled a masquerade mask. How curious. She retrieved her coffee and paid two bits for it and sat down. Her cello at her side, she took a look at the letter. Taking one of plastic knives easily accessible at such restaurants, she cut a neat slit and pulled out the letter. She sipper her coffee and read the letter.
To Ms. Octavia Diminuendo Minore,
Listen to Octavarium. Ponder it.
~Eight
She grasped the letter in her hoofs and stared at it. That was all.
"I do suppose I'll listen to it when I return home." Octavia said to no one in particular. She looked around to check the time, but found no clock. She stood up, and walked to the register. "Excuse me, do you have the time?"
"It's a quarter to seven ma'am..." his eyes widened in recognition. "Oh! You're Octavia Minore!" Our cellist repaid his recognition with a small smile, one might have described it as demure, others might have said weary.
"Yes, I am, thank you. If you'll excuse me, I must head off to work. I come here often, we can chat later if you'd like." She smiled and walked out the shop.
She thought to herself, 'He's another one.' He was another stallion who wanted his chances at a romantic relationship, quick riches, or fame. One of the three. All three of which she found ridiculous, especially the first. 'Who has time for romance? Certainly not me. I don't need a coltfriend nor marefriend.' She headed out to work; she arrived at 7:00 AM. She paid no one any mind, pulling out her cello silently and with precision. Striking the instrument obliquely and consistently, she poured her effort and will into creating a perfect, orthodox melody. Occasionally, there were little flaws within the group. Her cello was a little too loud. The piano was not in tempo. The wasn't enough punch in Blue's brass. The harp is too soft. Trivial problems. An hour passed. Two hours passed. The few commands that were given by Frederick were answered with a quick 'Yes, Alright, Ok, etc.' Octavia nodded once. The quartet stopped for their thirty minute break. During this, they discussed the piece, how to improve, and when there was nothing to improve, they chattered. Well, Blue Brass, Frederick, and Harpo do the chatting. The three occasionally try and rope Octavia into conversation, and on some of those occasions, they'd succeed. But as long as the four has been together, they know Octavia as well as a student knows that one classmate on the other-side of the room. The classmate may arrive every day, talk with his or her friends, answer question and make grades, and you know generally of him or her, but you don't know him or her. Octavia was that classmate.
Octavia had her reasons: she disliked equinety. You were proud enough to be arrogant. Greedy be enough to be labeled a theif, angry enough to hurt, or cruel enough to be heartless. Ponies were unreliable. It was now 9:30 AM; it was time to resume practice. The next two hours flew by, making music was like that. She thought of it like entering an entire new world of beauty and freedom. Ignorance is bliss, but music was Elysium. One sixteenth of the day passed, and she put away her things, and left with a brisk pace, with a quick 'goodbye' to the group.
"Why do you even bother? She hardly ever talks and she acts as though she's better than the lot of us...well. She probably is. I hardly ever have to correct her, and when I do, it's the most trivial thing," Frederic said to Harpo.
"Because I can. She's beautiful and she's a superb musician. I'd love to get to know her!" Harpo exclaimed the last part with a sing-song tone. The harpist loved his instrument, and he acted like it too. Not just in the sense of enjoying to play, or taking care of his instrument either. He enjoyed mild sweets, he loved gentle colors, and articulated with grace. He walked across the room to Blue, and she giggled at his behavior.
"Like you got to know the last three mares?" Blue laughed as Harpo's face blushed in retaliation.
"I'll have you know that they-"
"Oh, can it Harpo." Frederic chuckled as he put the last of the sheet music into his saddle-bag.
Octavia walked home. There was conversation on the streets, the latest gossip and news. Octavia couldn't help but pick up bits of the gamut of social interaction. Luna's scandalous lingerie closet was discovered. Sapphire Shores is together with Crimson Kardashian. Twilight Sparkle's new theory of emotional therapy spells. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Ponies dirty enough for them to lust, losing trust, jealousy and envious, lazy and selfish. These ponies. This was equinety. It was as though you could feeel it's body breaking.
She opened her door, stepped inside and locked her door, a procedure she also frowned upon. She opened the Cranium Confection box and plugged it into the iPod.
"I'Il listen to one song today, and resume my schedule." She said to herself. She sat in her chair, played the first song, The Root of All Evil, and listened. A bell sounded in her ear. It started a bit eerily in her opinion. She heard hoofsteps. Heavy guitar rifts ensued. Not her taste, but well executed....
She sat motionlessly for the entirety of the song. She listened to it, absorbed it, drank it up. It scared her. The second the song was over, she hit pause, put the device on a nearby table, and practically ran to her bedroom. She sat. She though. She sat and thought some more. She was firstly, mortified that she listened to the song and...enjoyed it. The heaviness, the portrayal was completely different from everyday melodies, bursting and burning with speed and flamboyance, but still leaving with a touch gentleness, as though teasing the listener. "I'll finish the album." Octavia declared, to no one in particular.
Author's Note
Boop. Here we are. Critique me please
.3.
Also, any offers of editing would be appreciated.
