Author's Note
I changed Soarin' to Hoops. Soarin's really not a dick, and I made him a dick, but he's not, so I replaced him with Hoops.... Who is a dick anyway. And don't worry. Spitfire won't be out of character for too long.
Silence
The Blue; a Strange Year at Ponyville High.
Chapter 1:
Silence.
Silence. That’s what fills the room. The only sounds are that of pencils scraping on paper, working hard to finish the history quiz. You had finished a few minutes ago, and your test was top down on the corner of your desk. You finished quickly, but your pencil is still moving, weaving shapes and scribbles on the blank sheet of paper. But you’re not writing letters. Nor numbers, nor symbols.
You’re drawing. Sketching a monster long lost to history except in a few books.
Drawing had always been your talent. You’re always sketching something. Whether it be Fantastical Creatures, Monstrous Demons, Serene Landscapes, Eastern Style Humans, or the occasional every day animal, something is always coming out of your pencil onto the paper. Your fellow classmates had always given you compliments on your drawings, but it’s hard to tell who’s being genuine or who’s teasing.
A long sigh escapes your lips as the monsters on your paper start to take shape. One year ago next week, you had published an official graphic novel, much to your parents’ delight. Some might call it odd. You’re sixteen and you already published a comic book. Twenty issues had already been published, three are currently waiting, and issue #24 is currently being worked on right now.
“One Thousand Years” is going strong.
The current plot involves a thousand year old monster and his army that have reawakened, and it’s up to a group of specially gifted people to restore the world to its former prosperous self.
It’s odd how well it’s being received. Not too many reviews have been given, but the few that exist are decent. A story like this is honestly clichéd beyond belief, but it’s been going well. So far, the story’s been building to a head. The monster has effectively wiped out numerous cities and ended thousands of lives. He—
“Hey,” whispers a voice. With a bit of a jump, you look over to your right. Sitting next to you is the grade’s ‘Dream Girl,’ Spitfire. And damn if she didn’t earn that title. Sometimes, when you felt safe, you’d sneak a peek at that amazing body of hers. From what you’ve overheard from her conversations (she’s a bit of a loud talker), she has a great sense of humor. Yeah, you’ve come to grips with your stupid crush for her a while ago. Just don’t talk to her and you’ll be spared embarrassment. She’s the ‘leader’ of the district’s track team. ‘The Wonderflies’ or something like that. Honestly, sports never really appealed to you. Tall, scrawny, and pale are three words to perfectly describe you. So why is she beckoning your attention? Why would someone like her possibly have any inclination to talk to someone like you? You raise an eyebrow, showing that she has your attention.
“Watcha doin’?”
That’s the big question? “Watcha doin’?” Something’s up. Something’s definitely up. No matter how small, how insignificant this conversation proves to be, it will be used against you.
Choose your words carefully.
“…Drawing,” you whisper back, keeping a firm monotone.
“Like what?”
“…” Saying ‘monsters’ will prove your weirdness. Saying ‘comic book’ will prove your nerdiness. And saying anything besides ‘stuff’ will make you look like a fool. So you go with that.
“…Stuff.” After this, the response is nothing you ever could’ve expected.
She chuckles.
Er… Is she laughing at what you said? Or is she just straight up laughing at you?
“Cool,” she whispers, turning back to her still unfinished test. It’s still unclear to you why she chuckled at something that was never intended to be funny. It could’ve been some popular kid thing you never could and never will understand. It could’ve been some inside joke relating to a TV show that you just don’t get. Or it could’ve been that she’s teasing you. Any one of these could be the truth, so you go with the easiest, and simplest to understand. You go with the explanation that kept you from being betrayed by friendship all these years.
She’s just teasing you about what you do best. Plain and simple.
It’s easy to convince your mind such explanations. Teasing is something you’ve grown used to. It’s not like it’s a daily thing, far from it. It’s not like you’re going to be on the news for the latest kid committing suicide for bullying. But at this point, you’ve heard all you were probably going to hear. It’s not hard to push the subtle teasing out of your head. You know you’re smarter than them. You’re more talented, cleverer, and above all else…
…you can say what comes after Q without reciting the whole alphabet.
“Hey,” Spitfire’s voice snaps you once again out of your thoughts. Once again, you look over to her. “I was wonderin’… Are you doin’ anything this Saturday?”
Bull. No way is she getting you with this. Just yesterday you saw her with that jock Hoops. And it wasn’t like a friendly hug, it was lips smacking, gum sucking, full on make-out. Right in the middle of the hallway! Even if they somehow went from that to exes in this short amount of time, she’d only be asking you to get back at him somehow. No way are you getting fooled by this.
…Or she just wants to hang out. But even that’s hardly believable. Who just asks somebody to hang out? You haven’t said ten words to her since you’ve known who she is. The only full sentences you’ve given her were because you were by some chance paired up with her for an assignment.
So you tell her the truth.
“…Yeah. Out of town all weekend,” you say, turning back to your work. She responds with a sigh and a quiet ‘Oh.’ While it’s not completely true that you’re out of town this weekend, you might as well be in a whole different world.
Mare-Do-Well: Canterlot Origins came out yesterday. And you’ve got some sixty dollars to spend. It’s the third in the Mare-Do-Well ‘Canterlot’ series. And there’s no way in hell you’re missing out on this. Plus, your preorder expires 12:00 on Saturday, so it’s bright and early then. Not a minute can be spared.
…You just shot down a chance- perhaps the only chance to hang out with Spitfire. Oh, if there weren’t other people around your forehead would be red and your palm would be aching. Good one, dumbass.
Looking up at the clock, you notice how close to the end of class you are. There’s only a minute and a half left. Looking around, you see that everyone else has finished with their quizzes.
Wow, you’ve been drawing longer than you thought.
Your teacher Mr. Hooves, or The Doctor as you call him, addresses the class, telling you all to have a nice rest of the day, and that he’ll see you tomorrow. He walks up and down the aisles of desks, collecting the papers. Grabbing your binder off the floor, you slip your comic inside the hidden folder. Don’t want anyone taking it, not that anyone will. Just another little suspicion you have.
Walking through the hall to 2nd period, you hold your breath. A line of students walks toward you as you do so. Moving your shoulders, you squeeze through a crack in the line of bodies. You release your breath. It’s not a long walk to study hall, but it’s not a short one either. Rounding a corner, you feel a sudden pressure and warmth on your chest. Oh no… You bumped into someone… Please be someone less popular than you—
Hello, who’s this?
The girl you just bumped into is about a head shorter than you. Her cerulean blue hair is done up in a ponytail. Her skin is a navy blue and her eyes are a deep midnight blue. She wears jeans with no rips in them. Her top is that of a long-sleeved plaid blue shirt.
“Uh… Sorry,” you say as you begin to walk past her. She quickly grabs your arm and spins you around.
“Excuse me,” she says quietly. Her voice is smooth as silk. “But… Where can I find…” she checks her schedule, “…Study Hall…?” You peer at the paper.
“Depends. What teacher?” you ask, looking back at her. She looks at the schedule again.
“Ms.… Cheerilee,” she says, looking you in the eye. She seems to be examining you, studying you with her eyes, a gaze you’re all too familiar with.
“Down this hall and down the stairs. First door to the left. Or if you want, you can just follow me,” you say hesitantly. Honestly, you don’t want anyone following you, but you can’t be rude. ‘Dammit, mother! Why did you have to raise me to be a gentleman?!’
“A-Alright. Lead the way,” she says, motioning to the hall. A nod is your only response. As you walk, you continue to avoid contact with others as much as possible. You finally reach the stairs after a minute or two. As you begin your descent, you peer behind to see if she’s still following you. She-
Whoa!
“Er… Can you back up a little?” you ask. With a slight blush, she removes herself from your back.
“Oh… Apologies. You had something on th… your shoulder,” she says with a nervous smile.
Perhaps there’s more to this girl than meets the eye.
After a few more minutes, you finally reach Ms. Cheerilee’s room. Study Hall is always a perfect period to get some solid drawings done. The only bad thing is that Ms. Cheerilee, at least in Study Hall, doesn’t care how loud the students get. The simple rules like no leaving and no violence and stuff like that are the only restrictions. Oh well. In English class, however, she can be quite strict.
As you enter the room, you’re not surprised to see everyone else has already arrived. Ms. Cheerilee is calling out names one by one.
“Rainbow Dash?”
“Yo!”
“Soarin?”
“Yeah!”
“Ditzy?”
“Here!”
She calls your name.
“Here,” you say, just loud enough to be audible. You sit down and place your binder on your desk.
“Light Bright?”
“…Oh. Here!” calls the new girl. So Light Bright’s her name. Huh. Nice name.
“Alright, class,” begins Ms. Cheerilee, “Do what you do this period and… Please try to keep the profanity to a minimum.” At once, you hear a large group of boys snicker. Rolling your eyes, you open your binder up and take out the unfinished sketch. As you do, you hear the class practically roar with chatter. Everyone in the room is now talking, except you, Ms. Cheerilee, and the new girl…
…who is now a few inches away from you.
Your pencil slows as you feel her breath on your hand. She watches you draw with intense… perhaps too intense focus.
“A Cerberus,” she says simply, “A Third Era Cerberus. The detail in this drawing is amazing.”
“…Yeah…” you say after a moment. There’s definitely more to her than meets the eye. How does she know what era it’s from? Some of the teachers don’t know that! What else do you say but… ‘yeah?’ What could you say?
You say what you always say. Nothing.
You continue to draw. The fact that she is actually watching you work and not just a passing ‘Whoa, cool!’ makes you feel a little better about yourself. It makes you feel like someone actually cares about what you do.
“What is your name?” asks Light Bright. Looking up into her bright blue eyes, you see the genuine spark of curiosity. She seems innocent enough. So you tell her. “That’s a nice name. My name is L… Light Bright.” You slowly nod your head and continue on your drawing. Brushing your pencil along its side, you add the shading on one of the heads’ ears. You take care not to color outside the lines. Suddenly, your pencil is jerked forward, and a thick black line is scraped across the top of the paper. Looking up quickly, already feeling your cheeks warming up, you see who you’ve deemed your mortal enemy.
Hoops.
The so-called leader of the Wonderflies basketball team, he’s teased you since fourth grade. Apparently, if you aren’t a stud and/or a jock, you’re a loser. In his mindset, being an artist is a waste of potential that you never had. Drawing is the fat man’s sport.
That and he got with Spitfire faster than you did. And he reminds you. Constantly.
With a poorly held in chuckle, he apologizes and holds up his hand in an effort to elicit a response out of you. With a sigh and a low growl, you flip the pencil around in your hand and begin to erase the line he made. With a huff, he walks away. Slowly shaking your head, you feel Light Bright’s breath on your knuckles again.
“Why did you remain silent? Why didn’t you protest him?” she asks. Shaking your head again, you respond.
“That’s just what he wants. That’s what they all want. A response. That’s something I won’t give ‘em.”
“Do you talk to anybody?” she asks, putting emphasis on ‘anybody.’
“Nope. Never found a point.”
“Well, it’s like my sister says. It’s hard without friends.” No it isn’t, is what you want to say, but that’d be rude, so you let her continue. Oh, but you’ll soon wish you hadn’t. “I know! Let’s be friends! You and I!”
Oh no.
