Life is an Unwritten Book

Chapters

Act I - Part 1
Act I - Part 2
Act I - Part 3
Act I - Part 5
Act I - Part 6
Act I - Part 7
Act I - Part 8
Act II - Part 1
Act II - Part 2
Act II - Part 3
Act II - Part 4
Act I - Part 4
Act II - Part 5

Act I - Part 1

Written Script sat at his desk, staring at the blank sheet in the typewriter before him. For some reason, today, the words would not come out as well as they had been mere weeks ago. He tapped a hoof on the period key with the ticking of the nearby clock, the typewriter giving a steady clicking noise as it marked the paper with little black dots. Finding that nothing would come to his head, Written Script turned to the clock to see how long he had been sitting there.

Five minutes. He’d only been sitting there five minutes. It was a new record for the shortest time sitting at the desk before he’d gotten either bored or impatient enough to leave. Written Script stared out the window, watching the ponies outside his window talking with one another. He could see Sugarcube Corner down the street that went from his house. Written Script bonked his head on the desk and held his head with his hooves.

Just twenty minutes, he told himself. In twenty minutes, you can go treat yourself to a few cookies. Twenty minutes will make a thousand words, and in a week you will have another short story to send off.

Had it been a few weeks ago, a simple five thousand word story would have been sent off to his editor in five days. That was three days of writing and two days of editing it personally before putting it in the mail or delivering it himself; she wasn’t too picky about which he chose. A week or two later, she’d send it back with her corrections and he would rewrite it and the process would begin again. One short story per month would run this way before he’d send it off to the local publisher and begin the process again.

His editor currently had a short story of his right now. It was a simple one about a pony whose innate magic was that everyone found him cute. It was a silly little affair, but his editor had laughed a little about it and helped him make it funnier than it was originally, so he was happy. Currently was the third time sending it off and, should everything work out right, he would be sending it in to the publisher to run in the next month’s writing magazine. He’d get a decent advance, plus some royalties for every issue purchased (no small amount since it even sold in Canterlot and Phillydelphia and Manehattan circles) and was about to get some funding for a short story collection.

Written Script pinpointed that as the source of his current lack of focus. He was worried about sending the stories back to see if his editor could find any more mistakes and, after sending over twenty stories to his editor, could finally publish a short story collection.

He’d already had some credits to his name. His novella about a strange being entering Equestria had been a hit among crowds and propelled him to fame. His novel of a romance had received decent reviews but wasn’t as popular as his first. Then came a one hundred seventy-five thousand word behemoth of a novel that got good reviews but had a small yet loyal following. As a result, he lived comfortably and did have a few ideas stored away for later, but his publisher hadn’t taken any of them quite yet, especially while his short stories were getting good reviews and he was currently under pressure to keep writing them.

There was a shuffling of paper slight metallic clink at the front door. Written Script, thankful for yet another distraction, got up and walked over to the door. He opened it up and found a grey mailmare with blonde hair walking away from him. Looking down, he found an assortment of letters and a large envelope that was rather thick. Written Script picked up the letters and the package and carried them to the kitchen for them to read it.

The first was from his publisher. Written Script opened it eagerly, but soon wished he hadn’t received the letter at all.

I regret to inform you that the party we arranged for the release of your next short story has been cancelled. Critics have taken quite well to Metal Quill’s newest novel and I’ve got a few bookstores to arrange things with for parties and book signings. Damned thing might be the biggest hit this publication’s had since our beginning. Again, still looking forward to your short story to come and the magazine is willing to wait until they’ve got it, so don’t let me down.

Regards, Final Draft.

Written Script looked over to the large pile of envelopes sitting on his writing desk. There weren’t very many – only about fifteen for his family and one for his editor – but now he’d wasted the money on them. He could still throw a party of his own, but it wasn’t exactly cheap to do so even in Ponyville. Ah, well. His editor would potentially give him something of a gift anyways. She was nice like that.

Written Script sorted through a few bills and took some time to allocate some bits to them and get return letters ready before looking at the package itself. Written Script opened it to see eight rather clean pages staring back at him, along with another small note attached to it with a header labeled ‘From the desk of Twilight Sparkle’.

Just finished the look through, and I’m proud to say I think this one’s now ready for publication. Make sure you’re satisfied with it, though, before sending it off and remember that I’m willing to talk over any new ideas you might have with it or other ideas. Also, I heard about the cancellation of the party for your short story. Too bad; getting a twenty-second short story published in a row isn’t an achievement that comes by too often. I’m still willing to read it and will be picking up a magazine for the library shortly.

-T.S.

Twenty two short stories written over the course of nearly two years. It wasn’t Written Script’s longest work, but he considered it one of his better ones, and his editor had been fairly happy with it as well. Written went and took the paper with the line of periods on it and removed it from the typewriter before writing up a quick note.

Thank you so much for the support. Yeah, I’m bummed about the cancellation, but I’m sure Pinkie Pie would be willing to throw a party for me anyways. It was going to be a small thing but maybe we can have one later. I’ll be coming around the library tomorrow to see if you have any more old books that you’ve found lately; I have to meet with the publisher then I’ll be stopping by on my way home. I’ve really been enjoying that copy of Metamorphosis by Kafka you gave me last time, so I’m looking forward to what you find next.

Written signed it and pulled the piece of paper out of the typewriter. Sealing it up in an envelope, he gathered it and the bills and put them in the small mailbox outside his front door for sending mail and retreated back inside and to his typewriter. Perhaps now, with the encouragement of his editor, he could write.

As he did, he forgot all about the party cancellation and his competitors recent work. The world outside, even Sugarcube Corner, faded away as he lost himself in flights of fancy and he poured himself onto the page. The cookies could come later. For now, there was work to do, a story to write that he’d wanted to for a long while.

At least, since he sat down that morning.

Act I - Part 2

The next morning was grey and cloudy. It was supposed to rain that evening, and the air certainly smelled of it. Compared to the brutal summer they’d been having, the cooler weather was a relief, likely a gift from Celestia herself.

The grey and cloudy weather matched Written Script’s mood as he left his home and started trotting across Ponyville with the completed short-story manuscript in his saddlebags. The fact that this Metal Quill was newer than he was and didn’t have the experience yet was already publishing a first novel to critical acclaim irked him. He’d been writing his first novel for three years before it was published, and that was only after a few other works of his were already accepted, while this newcomer had practically gotten himself the attention of Canterlot’s big leagues without much more than – Written Script had once heard – one year of both writing and editing.

Either the fool was a damn good writer already or he’d made a deal with someone from Tartarus.

Either way, Script made his way towards the small publishing house that sat at the outskirts of Ponyville. It was a relatively recent building made of wood and steel frames like the Ponyville Hospital instead of the thatched roof houses that dominated Ponyville. It wasn’t even as big as the Golden Oaks Library in the center of town, yet to Written Script the building was more important than almost anything else; his editor was the only thing that rivaled it.

Script made his way into the building and found a receptionist mare with a set of headphones sitting at the front desk. He walked over to her.

“Hello, how may I help you?” the receptionist asked.

“I’d like to speak with Final Draft,” Written Script said. “My name is Written Script and I have a short story manuscript he wants to see.”

The receptionist nodded and tapped a small red button on her desk with a hoof and spoke into a small microphone. “Final Draft, sir, there’s a Written Script here to see you.” The mare was silent for a minute before tapping the button and speaking again. “Okay, I’ll let him know.” The receptionist turned back to Written Script. “He’s currently in a meeting with Metal Quill right now, but they should be done in a few minutes. If you could take a seat on the bench over there he’ll come down and get you in a moment.”

“Thank you,” Written Script replied, bowing slightly as he turned and went to sit on the bench.

Normally, apprehensiveness would have set in by now. Before publication, Final Draft would read the manuscript before Script’s own eyes and look for any errors. His editor almost always covered that and so Script never had any problems, but the whole thing was nerve-wracking anyways.

But instead of apprehensiveness, there was a sort of anger or irritation. A few weeks ago, Script would have been the one in the room with Final Draft and Metal Quill would have been waiting to be received by the head editor himself. Script would be the one getting lauded for his work being in the magazines or being sold by small bookstores in Canterlot. But Quill had actually made it into one of the biggest bookstores in Canterlot almost as soon as his novel was published!

It wouldn’t have been so bad, Written Script thought to himself, if Metal Quill hadn’t gloated about it the next time they saw each other. He was actually a nice stallion the first few times they’d met, and Script actually had given him pointers from being experienced in the business. Once he’d gotten accepted into the bookstore, though, Metal Quill had said it was “natural talent” that it was what he was born to do it and the ideas just came to him. Written Script reminded himself of him winning a poetry contest as a colt at Cheerilee’s schoolhouse that got him a cutie mark, noting that he was “born to do it” too.

How he’d won over enough supporters to get parties and book signings confused Written Script. Of course, Final Draft might have had a heavy say in those activities, and Script knew better than to say a bad word against Final Draft.

It wasn’t long after this thought that a reddish-brown unicorn with a brown and yellow mane came out of a nearby door. On his flank was a red quill with a shadow underneath it. He was laughing quite hard as a yellow unicorn with an electric blue mane following behind.

“I tell you, Final Draft,” the reddish unicorn said, “I have never seen a mare so flustered in my life. This business of publishing a novel has been the best thing that’s ever happened in my life.”

“Oh, there’s been quite a few ponies who say their lives have been changed by a first publication,” the bright yellow unicorn said with a polite smile on his face. “I’ve heard that story many times before.”

“Always after a first publication?” The reddish unicorn scoffed, then returned to laughing as they walked over to the area where Written Script was sitting. “Well, not every day do you see someone that has a first novel printed and published right off the bat. I’m telling you, life has been good ever since I saw that big paycheck come in the mail.”

“Oh, it isn’t over yet,” the yellow unicorn said darkly. “You still have to attend the book signings and parties not only here in Ponyville but in Canterlot and Manehattan, too. I can’t tell you how many have caved at the pressure and never done it again.”

“Oh ho ho, that won’t be me,” the reddish unicorn replied. “Here, even Written Script can tell you that won’t happen to me, won’t it?”

“I’m afraid Final Draft is right, Metal Quill,” Written Script said. “I remember being tired for a week and unable to start a new project after my first book signing tour. I was afraid as though I’d be unable to write again.”

Metal Quill smirked. “You obviously weren’t cut out for the job, then. Tell me, when was the last time you published something?”

“I published a short story about a month ago, as a matter of fact,” Written Script replied. There was a spark of light blue magic from his horn and carefully brought out the stack of eight neatly-printed and numbered pages and held them out just in front of himself. “Coming in with number twenty-two in fact.” That’s more short stories than there are chapters in that book of yours, not to mention experience.

Metal Quill flinched and flailed a hoof at the stack of papers, causing Script to lose his hold and for papers to be scattered everywhere. “Get that out of my face!” he coughed. “I don’t need to see that when I have my own things I could be looking at.”

Final Draft said nothing, but started picking up the papers and sorting through them, rearranging them as he picked them up in his own yellow glow.

Metal Quill coughed a few times before his face returned to the smirk it had been originally. “You know, you should come to the signing over in Canterlot. We were thinking it would be in about three weeks’ time. I’ve heard it’s lovely around this time of year and the bookstore has all sorts of books from all over Equestria available for purchase.”

Written Script nodded, watching as Final Draft took the stack of papers and went to speak to his receptionist. “I’ve heard it’s so big, there’s seven floors; one for each of the major genre types.”

“Oh? So you’ve been there?”

“No. I’ve simply always dreamed of going.”

“Here’s your chance, buddy. How about you grab a ticket and come on down to the signing? You could have a drink or two and watch the festivities. Maybe I’ll even give you a discount or even a ticket to the seminar I’ve already been asked to attend, learn a few tricks of the trade.”

“I think I’ll be fine without the discount or the seminar, thank you,” Written Script said as politely as he could. “Congratulations on your publication, though. Perhaps I will head down to the signing, though. After all, what harm is there in supporting a fellow writer in his work?” Script put on the most genuine smile he could muster, yet even that seemed a little fake to him.

Metal Quill seemed to have bought the gesture of goodwill, as his laugh returned. “Good to see you finally coming around there, Script. Maybe I’ll get you a seat up near the front table for the dinner afterwards...”

Perhaps Quill was realizing his taunts were not being taken well, Written Script assumed. He seemed to have gone back to his old ways.

That was, until he passed him and quietly said into his ear: “…just to remind you you’re only second best now.”

Written Script went from something of a grey color to bright red. That mother—

“Don’t feel so bad,” Final Draft said calmly. He had a soft baritone that Written Script recognized as him being in a good mood, and the stack of papers he recognized as his recent short story in his yellow aura. “He’s been doing this all afternoon.” He placed a hoof around Script’s shoulder and led him off to the doorway he had come out of earlier with Metal Quill.

“What were you talking about with him earlier?” Written Script asked.

“Oh, his schedule of book signing events. I’ve got five cities lined up in the next three weeks, can you imagine? I once had a writer under my hoof that broke down for about a month afterwards and I had to convince him to start writing again. He turned out great and moved to a Canterlot publisher, but he still brings in an article now and then.”

“In any case, at least you can say you warned him,” Written Script said as they entered the door and walked up the stairs.

“I’ll be warning you, too, someday soon. I had a peek at the manuscript while you two were talking and I am pleased. It fits with the theme and word the magazine is going for. It’s simple, yes, but well executed.”

“What is Metal Quill’s novel about, if I may ask?”

Final Draft pushed open a door with his hoof and invited Written Script in. Script sat himself down on a well-worn green chair facing an old wooden desk that reminded him of his own. On it was a slightly newer typewriter model compared to Written Script’s and a cup filled with inkwell pens and pencils. A large set of filing cabinets sat behind and below the desk, which Final Draft sorted through as soon as he sat down in the larger blue chair opposite Written Script.

“Oh, it was some complicated mystery piece. It wrapped up nicely, but I thought it was going to be too convoluted for the folks in Canterlot, what with being nearly four hundred pages long with thirty or so characters and too many twists when he submitted it. Ah, well, I suppose you can’t get everything right all the time; they ate it up.”

From the shelves below the desk Final Draft pulled out a large manila envelope, some stamps, and a piece of beige stationary paper with a red and gold border. “As for you,” he said, “I’ll be mailing this out sometime either today or tomorrow, once I’ve attached a little letter to it. Expect to hear from me soon about your pay from the magazines and the company soon. Once it’s been out for a while, we’ll release your first of two short story collections.”

“Two, sir?”

“Marketing idea. Bring out the first set of eleven and get them good and interested. Once we bring out the second set of eleven, they’ll be eating up both to own them all. And they’ll both be around one hundred and seventy pages each, so it won’t seem so overwhelming.”

“Sounds like a good idea to me, Final Draft, sir,” Written Script said happily. “You seem to know what you’re doing, so I’ll let you continue on.”

Final Draft sighed. “If only Metal Quill was so cooperative. Are you going to come to the signings?”

“I was thinking about at least going to the Canterlot bookstore. You know, just to show some goodwill towards a fellow writer. Perhaps that combined with the stress of the parties and campaigns will mellow him out a bit.”

“I should hope,” Final Draft agreed. “He keeps that smug attitude much longer, and he’ll soon wear out his welcome with the Canterlot folks. Well, enough of this gossip. I’ll get to work on getting this ready, so for now you’re free to go.”

“Thank you very much, sir,” Written Script said, getting up and bowing his head politely to Final Draft. “I’ll call you up if I have any new ideas in the meantime.”

“Your business is always appreciated here, Written Script.”

Final Draft reached a hoof out across the table, which Written Script reached out his own hoof and shook his publisher’s. Once he was excused, Written Script left the building. The air was still cool damp, though a patch of sun was shining through as Written Script made his way through Ponyville.

Act I - Part 3

It wasn’t long before the clouds had covered up the sky again and Written Script had made his way to the Golden Oaks Library. The tall, thick oak tree stood proudly, the bright green leaves and rich brown wood seemed to have hardly been perturbed by the blazing summer heat. Written Script saw the warm glow of lights from inside and a small sign on a window reading ‘Open’ in rather plain text compared to the ornate design on the door next to it.

Written Script pushed open the door and found himself in the center of a large round room. The edges were completely filled with bookshelves except for a staircase at the far corner and a door off to the side. A large table in the center was surrounded by small cushions laid out on the floor with the centerpiece of a regal-looking stylized pony head in the center. The library itself was lit up with a large amount of softly-glowing candles placed in lanterns with glass that magnified the light so that no corner of the room was dark.

Not far away from the entrance, sorting through books, was a familiar lavender unicorn mare with a purple mane. She hardly even flinched as Written Script closed the door behind him and brought his saddlebags out onto the table. “Miss Twilight?” he called out.

The mare turned around, showing Written Script a pair of bright purple eyes staring back at him. After an initial moment of curiosity, the mare smiled. “Hello, Written Script,” Twilight Sparkle said pleasantly, putting the book she currently had in her aura back into the shelf. “I got your letter yesterday. How was your meeting with Final Draft? What did he think of your story?”

“It went well,” Written Script said noncommittally. “The piece was accepted and he’ll be sending it off to the magazine shortly, and plans are being made to compile them in a two-volume short story collection. Something about a marketing strategy to sell more books and generate more interest.”

Twilight nodded, though she was no longer smiling. “That sounds like it wasn’t the end of it.”

Written Script sighed. Twilight had a knack for seeing things like this. “Metal Quill was there.”

Twilight Sparkle put a hoof to her chin. “You mean the author who just published his first novel that was somehow wildly popular in Canterlot and gloated about the thing in the Foal Free Press?”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

“Oh, dear.” Twilight ran her hoof down her face. “I’ve read the book,” she said, sounding exhausted. “His writing style bores me, yet he made it sound like he was on par with some of the greats from Equestria’s gothic period. It was good, but it just felt so long at times, and I’ve read longer books.”

Written Script knew that fact very well; Twilight had gone through an entire fifteen-volume encyclopedia series like it was nothing, on top of writing reports and doing editing for his more recent works.

“What did he do?”

“He was being rather polite about it, but he was brushing off some advice about the signing circuit that Final Draft was giving him about not caving in to pressure. He was acting like he was above the potential breakdown and that he was immune to the scrutiny.”

“Well, that’s not the right way to behave about it. Did he say anything specifically to you?”

“He basically told me that I was only second best and would never reach the popularity or talent he has. He forgets I invited him to a writing workshop held around here a little over a year ago by A.K. Yearling, which is what got him into writing in the first place.”

“So, what are you going to do about it?”

Written Script kicked at the floor absentmindedly and lowered his head. “I’ve been thinking about going to one of the signing events he’s going to be doing in Canterlot.”

Twilight cocked an eyebrow at him. “Why? Wouldn’t that give him the idea you’re either sucking up to him or admitting he’s right?”

“I don’t want to look like a coward.” Written Script was still making himself look small, but his voice had suddenly gotten quite strong. “If I didn’t go it’d be like saying ‘You win; I can’t even show my face around you’. But if I go, then I’m powerful enough to be seen in public with him and can stand on my own.”

Twilight smiled at him again. “I don’t think many ponies in your situation would do such a thing. It’s like you told me once; even A.K. Yearling has writer’s block every once in a while. He’ll soon see his mistake, I’m sure.”

Written Script looked up and smiled back. “Thanks,” he said. “This is why I like you as my editor. You’re not belittling me but genuinely helping me with my stuff and want me to improve. You have no idea how helpful you are.”

“It’s not often Equestria gets itself a decent young writer,” Twilight commented, a slight pink tinge appearing on her cheeks. “Which, of course, means more for me to read. Editing for me is fun and different from what I normally do, and your stories are engaging enough I’m never bored.”

It was Written Script’s turn to turn pink. “Aw, geez, Twilight, you’re making me blush…”

“It’s true, though,” Twilight said.

Written Script chuckled to himself. “Anyways, I did want to come by here and ask if you had picked up any other old books for me to read. I know it’s a little earlier than last time, but I was already out to stop by my publisher, so I figured I’d drop by and check.”

Twilight shook her head. “Nothing new in terms of books. However, I do have something for you. Let me go and get it.”

Written Script sat himself down on one of the cushions as Twilight went upstairs. He could hear the shuffling of books and papers as Twilight went through her stores, sounding like she was throwing books around to try and find what she wanted. Thankfully, the ruckus upstairs soon stopped and Twilight was coming down with a nicely-bound leather book with gold patterns on the front of it. She held it out in front of Written Script.

Written Script took hold of the book, his aura taking over Twilight’s until the mare’s disappeared completely. Written Script opened the pages to find a bunch of thin-ruled beige blank pages with brown lines.

“You were always talking about taking your writing around with you but not finding the right notebook for it,” Twilight said. “It cost be a few bits more than I would have liked, but it looks nice enough and was extremely nicely bounded, so I figured I’d pick one up for you.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Oh, there was a traveling salespony that came through here not too long ago. I figured with the twenty-second short story mark coming up for you that it would make a good gift.”

Written Script pulled the book out of the way and brought a hoof around Twilight, who reciprocated the gesture. “Thank you so much! It looks amazing, and the pages are nice and sturdy, too. I’d be able to bring this to my family reunions and not have it be torn apart.”

Written Script laughed at his own joke, and Twilight laughed along with him. After a minute or two, they sighed and went quiet again, Written Script staring at his editor and friend in appreciation; Twilight stared back at him with warmth and something else he couldn’t recognize.

It was Twilight who broke the silence. “So, I was thinking we could still do a little party for your release anyways. I could invite a few of my friends, you could invite your family, and we could still have a get together for it, even if your publisher won’t do it for you.”

“You wouldn’t mind if I invite Final Draft to it if he’s not on duty, do you?”

“Not at all. I know how much you respect him, so he’s free to come. I could talk with Pinkie Pie and have things set up for a couple of days from now. How about it?”

“That sounds excellent. Thank you again, Twilight, both for the book and the party.”

“It’s a milestone most don’t reach,” Twilight said. “I’d say it’s cause for celebration.”

Written Script laughed as he left the Golden Oaks Library and made his way home. Twilight seemed to always know what to say to cheer him up and how to help him out like that. It was something he wished he could find and see more often.

Act I - Part 5

The first thing he heard was the sound of rain, and the first thing he saw was the rain pouring down from cloudy skies. It had hardened since last night and the sound of it hitting the roof was almost enough to lull him back to sleep even though it had also just woke him up. Written Script reached a hoof out from the blankets and felt a rush of cold wind hit it, quickly pulling it back underneath the covers and drawing it tightly to his chest, where it became warm again. He sighed comfortably and readjusted his hoof before closing his eyes and thought about going back to sleep for a little while.

But something was wrong. In readjusting his hoof he had touched something new under the covers. Something that wasn’t him. Written Script’s eyes shot open as he looked around the room. Nothing was different. But now he felt a slight weight on his side, the shifting of weight on the other side of his bed. Written repositioned himself in the bed so that he was sitting up and looked next to him. What he saw nearly made him jump out of the bed.

Carefully, quietly, Written Script moved himself off the bed and tiptoed quickly out of the room. He traveled a short distance down the hallway to his writing room, where he opened the drawer and pulled out the notebook he had received from Twilight. He opened and flipped the first few pages aside before settling on a certain passage. He trailed his hoof down the page and found what he was looking for, reading it and rereading it numerous times before closing the book and setting it down in the drawer. Without a word he walked back to the room and looked at the figure still lying in his bed.

She was beautiful. It was a unicorn mare with a coat as white as snow and a flowing gold mane that shone like the metal even in the dim light of his room. Her breathing was slow and rhythmic, gently raising and lowering the blankets as she continued to sleep. Written Script took slow, tentative steps towards her, unsure if he was seeing things or if there actually was a mare in his bed.

He reached the edge of the bed and held out a hoof towards her, but he didn’t touch her. He recoiled as the figure stirred and the mare’s eyes fluttered open, revealing deep violet pupils. She looked around for a moment before looking at Written with a warm, gentle smile on her face.

“What’s the matter?”

Written Script could hardly contain himself. “YOU’RE NOT REAL!” he shouted, panicked.

“Oh?” the mare said gently, seemingly unperturbed by Written screaming at the top of his lungs. “I look pretty flesh and blood to me. Go on. If you’re so convinced, touch me.”

Written Script trotted around the bed until he came to the side the mare was lying on. He ran a hoof through her golden mane, feeling the smooth locks fall over his foreleg. He stroked her back, feeling the soft white coat. He threw the covers off her and saw two overlapping hearts for a cutie mark. He put both of his hooves up and gently pinched her cheeks between them, all the while the mare looked at him curiously though maintaining her smile.

After a while, Written Script put his hooves down. “Where are you from?”

“I don’t rightly know, to be honest,” the mare said. “I just know I appeared outside your bedroom door and that I was meant to be here. I don’t remember anything of where else I came from.”

Written Script’s mouth was agape. “Why are you here?”

“Why else?” the mare said as though it was obvious, though not chiding or condescending. “So I could be here with you.”

“But you didn’t exist until a few hours ago! You appeared practically when I was asleep! How are… how is this… what are…”

The mare put a hoof to Written Script’s mouth with a slight chuckle. “You brought me here.”

“I don’t understa—”

The mare tapped Written’s mouth again and the stallion fell quiet. The mare got up out of the bed and trotted out of the room and back down the hall towards the writing room. Written followed her curiously, watching her every move as she entered into the room and opened the exact drawer in the desk where the notebook was. She opened and scanned the page – much like he had done earlier, Written noted – and pointed to him the passage where he wrote down her description exactly.

“You wrote this, didn’t you?”

Written Script nodded, not saying a word. It barely processed to him.

“Then, you wrote me into existence. I don’t know where I came from because I didn’t exist until a few hours ago. I’m here because you wanted someone to be with you. You poured your heart out onto that page… and so I came. I hope you don’t mind, but I made a few adjustments to the cutie mark.”

“But…” No matter what the mare said, Written Script was having trouble believing it. “How? There wasn’t any magic power in that notebook, was there? I have a friend who is a unicorn who gave that to me, and she’s really good with magic. She would have known if that book held any power.”

The mare shook her head. “It wasn’t the book. I know it sounds cheesy, but you wrote with such conviction that I just sprang right out of the page.”

Written Script’s eyes went wide. “That’s not possible,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“But you have the results standing right here in front of you,” the mare said, voice matching his own. She put a hoof to his chin and started stroking it gently. “Is this not what you wanted? Is this what you wrote as your dream and desire?”

Written Script felt his face get hot. “Well, y-yes, it was…”

“Then why are you complaining?”

“B-Because yesterday I was just dreaming. Now… I’m actually seeing, and I don’t know if I’ve woken up or am still dreaming.”

“Let me prove to you I’m not merely a dream anymore.”

Despite his own inner protests, not a word came out from Written’s mouth. W-What is happening? Why is she putting her hooves on my cheeks? What is going on? She’s coming closer. Quick, Written, think!

But when her lips touched his, he forgot to think. Her lips were warm, the touch was gentle, and Written Script could have melted where he stood. He didn’t know how he managed to stay upright, just that things were finally going his way after the events of the last few days.

When she pulled away, Written Script found himself close to grinning like an idiot. “But… I didn’t even give you a name.”

“Why don’t you give me one?”

“You think of it. I brought you into existence, but you should be the one to determine your identity.”

The mare brought a hoof up to her chin. “Well, I suppose Lady Amalthea wouldn’t be a bad name, or Amalthea for short.”

Written Script smiled. “Lady Amalthea. Why don’t I… write it down just to confirm it?”

‘Amalthea’ opened the notebook and Written grabbed himself a pencil from the nearby desk. Carefully and neatly, he wrote down one line at the bottom of the previous journal entry.

Her name is Lady Amalthea. And I’ve never been happier.

Act I - Part 6

Later that afternoon, the skies cleared and Ponyville was left in a series of puddles. The sun was bright and warm but the weather stayed pleasant, and so Written Script left with Amalthea to go to the government offices of the mayor of Ponyville. It was a small building and rather stark, filled only with whatever was necessary. A few ponies worked at desks, filling out and stamping various pieces of paperwork. Written Script took note of that and walked over to the unicorn at the reception desk.

“Excuse me, I was wondering if you had any forms for residency?” Written Script asked.

The mare nodded. “Are you looking for a new home or do you have someone moving in with me?”

“Someone is now living with me,” Written Script said. “I just need the paperwork to allow her to live here.”

“Certainly,” the mare replied. She handed Written Script a piece of paper from a nearby tray and a pen. “Either you or the pony you now have with you fill this out and bring it back here. The spaces you need to fill are marked by stars.”

“Thank you,” Written Script said, and took it over to where Amalthea was waiting by a small wooden counter.

“It doesn’t require a former place of residency,” Amalthea noted.

“That makes it easy for you, since you just appeared out of thin air. Afterwards, though, you’ll need it if ever we moved to a different city, and so you can get an ID card and get a job if you wanted one.”

“I think I’ll like it here in Ponyville,” Amalthea said as she took the pen from Written Script. “It’s a nice quiet place and it seems like there’s plenty of ponies here to talk to. Is there anything else we’re doing here besides the residency?”

“I can apply for a writer’s grant here,” Written Script told her. “I have a note from my publisher saying I’m eligible and fill out a form. They stamp the form, send it off to Canterlot, and in a week or two I start getting checks from the government.”

“I could pick up a job to help out with the bills,” Amalthea said as she filled out the form as necessary. “I could learn almost anything I wanted to given the time and teaching.”

Written Script walked over to the receptionist and picked up the paperwork for a writer’s grant before returning to the counter with the paper and another pen. “I don’t doubt that,” he said as he began filling out the papers. “Plus, it’d keep you from getting bored.”

“True,” Amalthea nodded in agreement. “It’d be nice to meet some of the ponies around here, too. Then, in the evening, it could just be me and you.”

Written Script smiled at the thought.

After their papers were turned in, Amalthea walked over to a nearby wall and stood for a picture. There was a bright flash and the picture soon was sent off to another pony, who began looking over the residency papers and the photo. The receptionist told them Amalthea’s residency papers were approved and her ID card would be sent off within the next day or two to Written Script’s home.

Afterwards, Written Script and Amalthea headed off to the market. Amalthea ‘ooh’ed and ‘ahh’ed her way through the stalls selling fresh farm produce and dairy products, fresh baked bread, handmade items, and decorative trinkets, taking an interest in every item as she passed by as though she was seeing it for the first time. Aside from picking up the things they needed for the house, Written Script bought a pair of saddlebags for Amalthea, colored a deep pink with white accents, and a small heart-shaped pendant for her. Amalthea giggled with giddy delight at the gift and wore it proudly on her as they continued looking around. Written bought a few more pencils to keep his restocked and a few more pads of paper for his typewriter before finally heading home and dropping all the stuff off.

“I feel so lucky!” Amalthea exclaimed as they were putting their groceries away. “Of all the places I could have appeared and of all the ponies that could have made me appear, I find myself in a quiet town with friendly ponies and in the company of a gentleman.”

“Well, in terms of writing,” Written Script replied, “I believe things should be nurtured. Any idea can become a beautiful one if nurtured correctly.”

Amalthea chuckled. “And a poetic gentleman, at that.”

“There are some who aren’t as nice,” Written Script said. “I’ve known the shopkeepers in the market for years and they’re a friendly bunch, but every town has its bullies.”

“Then so long as I’ve got you, I’ll know who to talk to.”

Written Script laughed. “I guess so. Now, is there anything else you want to see?”

“Well, I did see a library in the center of town. And there was that one bakery that looked like a cupcake. Perhaps we could go there sometime?”

“The bakery is Sugarcube Corner, and we could head by there any time to find ourselves an extra baked treat for home. The library, though, may need your ID card to check out books, so we’ll wait until tomorrow for that one.”

“Fine by me,” Amalthea said. “Oh, and I picked up a listing of events from one of the stalls while we were there. Everything from plays to concerts is on that list. A small classical group is coming through in a few days. Do you think we could go?”

“Where is it at?”

“It says on the listing it will be a free-to-attend concert on the hillside just outside Ponyville.”

“Of course I’ll take you,” Written Script said happily. “You just have to be careful sometimes; some of those advertise things in Canterlot as well as Ponyville, so that’s a long weekend away.”

“Canterlot is that city on the mountain, isn’t it?”

“That is Canterlot Castle, but it marks where the city itself is, too; the city’s just hidden behind the other mountain in front of it.”

“That sounds romantic…” Amalthea’s voice trailed off and sighed. Then, Written saw her ears perk up and her violet eyes grow big and bright. “We should take a long weekend in Canterlot sometime, just so I could see it! You could show me around the sites and we could spend a nice long romantic weekend there!”

“I actually will be attending a signing for a fellow writer up in Canterlot,” Written Script said. “Maybe we could go a few days early and spend that extra time just seeing the sights?”

“Oh, that sounds wonderful!”

“We’ll need to stop by Rarity’s boutique before we go,” Written Script said. “The ponies in Canterlot are high-society, so we’ll need to get you a dress and me a tux and cufflinks before we go so we look decent while we’re up there.”

“Perhaps I should wait to find a job until after we come back?”

“No, no, you can find one beforehand. I’ll help you with job scouting, then tell the employer that you’re heading with me in a few weeks on business to Canterlot. They’ll accept it fine. Besides, if you want a job and a job would give you something to do and make you happy, then I’ll help you with that first.”

Amalthea giggled and blushed as Written Script took one of her hooves in his own. “You’re already treating me like a proper lady.”

“Well, you called me a gentleman,” Written Script said, dropping his voice a little low. “And your name is Lady Amalthea, after all.”

Amalthea giggled and hopped away before trotting off to the bedroom. Written Script followed her to find Amalthea lying down on the bed, her white fur catching the sun’s rays coming through the window and making her glow like an angel. Written Script laid down with her and their lips touched as Written lost himself in his angel’s hooves.

Act I - Part 7

It was a quiet day at the library for Twilight Sparkle. The unicorn mare wandered about sorting books and putting aside a few she would need for her current research projects. Not many ponies would come by today; the scorching heat had returned and it was likely everypony would stay in the cool of their houses, fans running and the blinds drawn to keep it dark.

Twilight, for once since coming to Ponyville, was rather disappointed by this. She used to enjoy the hot summers as an excuse to catch up on her studies. On mild days, she enjoyed hanging out with friends, but whenever Ponyville had a heat wave, Twilight would be ecstatic to take a few books down to the basement and do as much research as she could. Sometimes she would even sleep down in the basement, coming up to eat and check on the library every few hours before returning to the cool. But today she wanted the attention, and she hadn’t gotten it.

The unicorn picked up her books and headed for the basement, closing the door to keep the cool air from escaping. She took the books down to the desk and set them up, organizing them in the order that she wanted to work on them. She pulled out an encyclopedia and opened it, taking a quill and a bottle of ink and began writing notes on a thick stack of paper.

Twilight’s study was broken by the sound of hooves tapping overhead, as well as muffled voices. Twilight’s ears perked up as she listened further. There were two voices, and the sound of books being shuffled around. Twilight took a piece of paper and marked her place in the encyclopedia before walking up the stairs and peeking out the door.

Much to her relief, it wasn’t burglars unless Written Script had decided a change in profession. She opened the door and started walking towards him, ignoring the other unicorn scanning through titles with her hoof.

“Written Script!” she said, throwing her hooves around him. “It’s good to see you!”

“Good to see you, Twilight,” Written Script said. “How are things going with your research? What are you looking at now?”

“I was actually doing a short literary history, actually,” Twilight said, letting him go. “I’m currently working on a survey of authors from the romantic period of Equestrian literature. How about you? What’s going on lately? Started anything new?”

“Well, I did apply for a writer’s grant since I wanted to start a bigger project. I should have the first check for that in a few days. Oh, and I started a journal in that notebook you gave me. I would feel uncomfortable tearing out pages from it like I sometimes do, so I decided to use it as a sort of journal to keep track of my thoughts.”

“Well, it’s good to know that it’s getting use. I kind of feel honored by the fact you don’t want to tear pages out of the book.” It means you actually cared about the gift I gave you…

“Yeah, I still have other notepads I can use for actual writing, so I figured I could keep that one in good condition while the rest of them I can tear pages out of or scratch up as much as I want or need.”

Twilight giggled. She had no idea why. “Hey, Written…” she started, but her voice trailed off.

Written Script looked at her, a smile on his face but a confused look in his eye. “What’s up, Twilight?”

“I… I’m glad that you like the notebook I gave you.” Damn it, why can’t you just up and say it already?

“Well, it’s not often you get something from the Crystal Empire,” Written said. “Did you look at the patterns on it?”

“Yeah. I got it because it reminded me of my older brother who lives there. The fact that it came from there had a little sentimental value to it, and I almost kept it, but I thought it would be… nice if you used it.” Yeah, yeah, you just wanted to have something that meant you in contact with him. Stop skirting around the issue!

“Well, it’s a fantastic gift and I really like it. Hey, I want you to meet someone I met a few days ago.” Written Script turned away from Twilight and motioned to the mare, now holding three books in her light pink aura.

It was the first time that Twilight had taken a good look at the mare. Twilight saw almost immediately she was beautiful; her coat was pure white and her mane was a shimmering gold and she had a cutie mark of two interconnected hearts. She walked with the grace of a Canterlot fashion model, seeming to glide above the floor instead of actually walking. But one of the things that struck her most was the eyes; they were the violet of sky before sunset, the way Twilight had once heard her eyes described as.

What… “Who is that?” Twilight said as cheerfully as she could manage. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her around Ponyville before.”

“My name’s Lady Amalthea,” the mare said, her voice gentle and tender, “but you can just call me Amalthea. I came here a few days ago and moved in with Written Script.”

“Oh… where did you come here from?”

“I wandered around Equestria for a while before settling down here,” Amalthea replied. “Ponyville’s the first home I’ve decided to keep for more than just a month at most.”

“…job considerations?”

Amalthea stared at her pleasantly, but it was apparent she didn’t know what Twilight had just said. “Come again?”

“Is that why you moved? Being unable to hold or find a job?”

Amalthea shook her head, but seemed unoffended by the comment. “No, that wasn’t it. I either just couldn’t settle down or had a bunch of ponies who didn’t quite treat me right, so I went elsewhere hoping to find a place to stay. I finally found it with Written Script. He’s been such a gentleman ever since I came here.”

“Oh.” Twilight said. “Oh, well… welcome to Ponyville! Hopefully you find this place to be better wherever else you came from initially.”

“It already is.” Amalthea put a hoof around Written Script, who turned towards her and gave her a kiss. On the lips.

Twilight felt like she could cry.

Written Script seemed not to notice. Amalthea went and looked at more books while Written turned and looked back at Twilight. “Isn’t she wonderful? She came around a few days ago after the incident with Metal Quill and it’s been amazing. Heck, I’ve almost forgotten about the incident because of it.”

“Wait… you mean after you came home from the library?” The day I gave you that notebook?

“The very same day.”

Twilight’s horn sparkled weakly. You still have one more chance! Ask him! “Well, that’s… nice. Anyways, I had something I wanted to ask you.”

Written Script smiled at her. “What is it?”

He’s interested! “Do you want to go with me to that concert that will be on the hills outside Ponyville two days from now?”

Written’s smile faded and he looked sad. “I’m sorry, Twilight. I’ve already told Amalthea I’d take her to show her around. But you could come with us if you like.”

See what happens? This is what happens when you skirt around the issue! “N-No, I think I’ll be okay.”

“You’re welcome to come. Amalthea’s just a friend. You could still come along with us.”

“No. I… I don’t want to intrude on anything.”

“Alright.” Written turned to the beautiful white mare. “Amalthea, are you ready to check out?”

“Just a minute!” Amalthea scanned the titles a little longer before pulling a fourth out. “Alright, now I’m ready.”

Twilight went over to the counter, making sure her date stamp was set correctly and something of a smile still rested on her face. Twilight pulled the first book forward. ‘A Basic History of Equestria’. Common textbook in schools, occasionally referenced in master’s theses. Straightforward and reliable. Twilight pressed the stamp on the card gently taped in the book and pushed it aside, pulling forward the second book. ‘Equestrian History as Presented in Literature’. Oh, how I used to love going through that while I was reading other books… The other two were stamped with the date and Twilight put the numbers down to mark them checked out before Amalthea put them in her saddlebags.

“Thank you very much!” Amalthea said. “It’s nice to know someone else here knows how to appreciate good literature.”

As much as she wanted to, Twilight could not bring herself to hate her. She can’t be that bad if she appreciates good books and learning.

Twilight scanned Amalthea’s ID card and told them when the books were due. Written Script and Amalthea waved goodbye and left the library. Twilight watched them as they walked away, nuzzling each other as they headed down the mostly empty streets. Twilight felt the heat from the window hit her and she walked off towards the basement, a few tears rolling down her cheeks.

Stupid, stupid Twilight, not telling him you like him. Stupid, stupid Written for not being able to see that.

Twilight paused. Something was off. She turned back around and double checked the list of books Amalthea had just checked out.

‘A Basic History of Equestria.’

‘Equestrian History as Presented in Literature.’

‘Modern Equestrian History and Culture.’

‘A Brief Survey of Equestrian Government.’

“It’s almost like she’s not just new to Ponyville,” Twilight talked quietly to herself. “It’s almost like she wasn’t even born in Equestria. Not that ponies from foreign countries or kingdoms are rare, but those four titles are a bit more related than one would think for someone who is old enough to already have been through school.”

Something told Twilight that Written Script and Amalthea weren’t telling her the whole truth.

Act I - Part 8

Early evening came with cooling temperatures and a warm breeze. The sun was just beginning to fall over the horizon as Written Script and Amalthea left the house for the hills just outside Ponyville. Amalthea carried with her a small blanket and a blue bottle and glasses in her saddlebags, while Written Script carried a picnic basket in his own aura. They walked through the streets of Ponyville, noting others on their way through the streets in the same direction as they are.

“This concert seems to be a popular event,” Amalthea said, violet eyes peering around at the growing crowds. “It almost looks like the entire town is going.”

“Ponyville’s a rather social community with how small it is,” Written Script said. “They enjoy any excuse for them to get together. Celebrations, parties, musical events, you name it. I rather like it. You can go anywhere and find somepony who knows your name or treats you like a friend.”

“Do you think we’ll see that lavender unicorn friend of yours?” Amalthea asked. “I liked her very much. I would like to see what she recommends as far as literature goes; I’ve found a few I’m interested in after reading that book on the history of literature.”

Written Script laughed. “Even if she’s not here tonight, I’m sure you’ll get a chance to talk with her soon. Twilight’s not the most social of mares, but if she heard about your love of books, she’d open up to you right quick.”

“That’s good to hear,” Amalthea said.

She trotted along quietly for a while, Written Script only able to tell she was walking next to him by her glowing white coat next to him, lagging slowly behind so he could watch her golden mane bouncing gently behind her. The sound of her voice starting again made him speed up so she could see him paying attention.

“Did you ever like her?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like… did you ever fall in love with her?”

Written Script nodded. “At one point, I did. When she first came into Ponyville, I thought she was the prettiest mare I’d ever laid eyes on. And when she was revealed to live in the library, I loved here even more since I thought I’d found someone who shared my interests. But she found a group of friends here and I never brought up the courage to talk with her much until she offered to be my editor.”

“Would you ever get together with her if you had the chance?” There was something in Amalthea’s voice that Written Script could not place. It sounded like fear, but wasn’t exactly that. It may have been concern, but that didn’t quite sound like it, either. Prodding was the closest he could think of, and he didn’t even think that was the right term for it.

“There might have been a time where my answer would have been yes,” Written Script said guardedly. “But I’ve fallen for you more than I ever fell for her.” Written Script stopped for a moment to clasp one of her hooves in his own.

Amalthea giggled. “Oh, Written,” she said, blushing playfully. “You’re not only a gentlecolt, you’re a flatterer.”

Written Script smiled as they continued. That seemed to have pacified her for the time being as they continued her walk to the concert grounds, leaving Ponyville and heading up a short walk into the hills.

On the other side of a small pass, a stage had been set up. Ponies were already crowded around the base of the hill close to the stage, but Written Script and Amalthea chose a spot a fair way up the hillside. They were well within sight of the stage, but could hear almost everything that came from down below, including the murmurs of ponies close to the stage.

Amalthea took out the blanket and spread it on a relatively flat piece of grass. Written Script set down the picnic basket on top of it and they both sat down. Amalthea began pouring two glasses of a bubbly liquid from the bottle as Written Script pulled out warm buttered rolls, a vegetable and cheese tray, and two small salads with little plastic forks.

It wasn’t long before fifteen ponies came and sat down at the chairs onstage next to their instruments. Not long after that, an older pony with a grey coat, a white mane and beard, and a baton for a cutie mark came on stage and coughed to get everypony’s attention. Once the entire hillside was quiet, the older pony began to talk.

“Fillies and gentlecolts. Thank you all for coming to the third of our summer concert series.”

There was a moment of polite applause that quickly settled down while the conductor continued.

“My name is Complex Time, and I shall be your conductor for this evening. Before we begin, may I please introduce a special guest: gracing us tonight with her presence, from the Canterlot School of Classical Music, please welcome Octavia Philharmonica.”

There was a round of polite applause and even a few whistles as a very refined grey mare stepped out on stage and walked over to the lead cello. Written Script used the opportunity to pop the blue bottle from Amalthea’s saddlebag without anypony hearing him, all the while politely clapping with the rest of the crowds.

“She’s got purple eyes just like me,” Amalthea whispered quietly.

“They’re lighter than yours, dear,” Written Script said, pouring a glass of the liquid. “Yours are a deeper shade – and in my opinion, more beautiful.”

Amalthea blushed as Written Script passed her a glass half-full of the golden drink. Written Script poured half a glass for himself as Octavia bowed, took her position, and the orchestra began to play. Rolls were passed around and vegetables and cheese were sampled as Written Script and Amalthea watched the musicians and listened to the music.

“This is so beautiful,” Amalthea said quietly between bites of her salad. “I mean it’s a lovely evening, the music is fantastic, and the idea of bringing a picnic dinner is so romantic.”

“I figured we could take a bit of time to ourselves, having been out getting you acquainted for much of the time this past week. This was simple, an available evening, and I have been meaning to go to one of these eventually. And, I must say, I very much like it. Do you need your sparkling cider topped off?”

“Not yet,” Amalthea said, looking at the small amount of golden cider still in her glass. She sighed as she took a bite of a celery stick. “They play music so beautifully,” she said dreamily. “I can almost see pictures in my mind from it.”

“They do say that listening to good music is like listening to someone tell a good story,” Written Script said, “complete with emotion and a sense of flow.”

“Do you ever listen to music while you write?”

“Sometimes. Not always. Sometimes I get distracted by the music and end up dancing around my room.” This caused Amalthea to double over with laughter as Written Script mimed his usual two-step he performed on his own when he thought no one was looking. Tonight, with Amalthea, he didn’t care. “But other times it is quite effective. And I’ve been meaning to get a new record soon.”

“Perhaps a few days from now we could go to the music store.”

“Perhaps,” Written Script said, though his smile told Amalthea it was more than just a possibility. “Perhaps.”

As Written Script turned back to face the musicians, he could see the grey mare, Octavia, looking in his direction. Over the sound of the music, he could hear the slightest of chuckles. A light, almost refined sound that perfectly resonated over the hills. Written found himself feeling flush and had to put an extra hoof down to keep himself from falling over, but he never took his eyes off the mare.

“Are you alright?” Amalthea asked.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t drink my cider so quickly,” Written Script said quickly. “Don’t worry about it.”

Onstage, Octavia turned her head away with a huff and went back to focusing on her cello.

“But Written, dear,” Amalthea said, “you’ve only had a glass and it’s been downed long ago.”

“I think it’s finally starting to kick in,” Written replied. “I’ll be fine if I eat a little something, I promise you.”

Amalthea smiled sweetly and nodded, handing him another roll. Written tried to grab it with his aura, but Amalthea wouldn’t let it go. Eventually, Written realized what she was doing and took a bite from the roll still held in her magic. She giggled and Written told himself he was with the most beautiful mare in the world.

So why can’t I keep my eyes off that damned cellist down on the stage!? She looked towards me and chuckled at me once, and yet I can’t help but think of her instead of my dear Amalthea. I’ve never heard of her before, yet look at me! I keep sitting here dumbstruck with a flushed face and acting as though a non-alcoholic drink has put me over the edge. She’s looking at me again! Why is she looking at me!? What reason does she even have to look at me? I’m no one!

Hold on a minute, Written, don’t get yourself all worked up over something so small. She’s just appreciative of the fact that you enjoy the music. Look at all the other ponies, they’re talking amongst themselves while you’re staring and actually watching her. But so is that group over there, so why isn’t she looking at them? And she’s gone back to looking at me. Why is she looking at me? Why can’t I stop looking at her – her soft grey coat, her bright pink eyes, her flowing mane? Why is it that she is making it where I can’t even lo—

“Written!”

Written Script felt himself being shaken. He snapped out of his daze and turned to Amalthea, whose bright purple eyes were staring at him with worry. He looked around to see lanterns had been lit all along the hills so that the ponies could see the landscape and the stage below. The sun had fully set below the horizon and the temperature had dropped but the warm breeze was still there.

“Written Script!” Amalthea called out to him again. “Are you okay?”

He looked over to her. “What… what happened to me? Why are you asking me if I’m okay?”

“You were watching the musicians on stage for a minute but eventually your face turned red and your eyes glazed over. I’ve only been with you about a week and I can still tell that is not normal for you. Are you okay?”

Written Script nodded. “Yes. I-I’m okay. I don’t know what could have come over me.”

Amalthea didn’t seem entirely convinced. “Were you watching her?”

“Who?”

“That cellist.” The response was sharp, quick. “The guest from Canterlot.”

Written Script shook his head. “I… I really don’t know. After a minute or so, I can’t remember what I was doing when I lost focus.”

Amalthea turned back to the stage as the music stopped and the conductor announced that there was an intermission. The intermission passed without a word between them and the music started up again before Written pulled out a small cake for dessert and cut it. The sight of the dessert and of Written slowly returning to normal caused a smile to return to Amalthea’s face.

Written, on the other hoof, made sure not to stare at Octavia again for the rest of the concert.

When the concert was over, Amalthea and Written Script were tired. They packed up the picnic and the remainder of the food and cider and walked home, Amalthea slightly leaning on Written’s shoulder. When they got home, Amalthea shook out the blanket and folded it while Written put the leftovers away and they both headed into bed. Amalthea curled up next to Written under a blanket and put a hoof firmly around his chest in a hug and she fell asleep shortly thereafter.

Written, meanwhile, didn’t fall asleep. He stared at the ceiling, thinking to himself of the events of the evening.

It was jealousy…

Act II - Part 1

The lights were all on in Sugarcube Corner and the sounds of music could be heard within the nearby area. The lights shone out into the early evening and lit up even the figure of the cupcake at the top of the building. From the outside one could hear strands of laughter and cheering, the sounds of glasses clinking and hooves stomping. It was quite obvious the sounds of merriment had filled that building.

Outside, a small table was set up. A yellow unicorn was currently sitting and selling copies of the magazine Colt Fiction that boasted the name and photo of a greyish unicorn with a purple mane and bright green eyes smiling from the cover. A few ponies were lined up outside, carrying small bags of bits as they bought one, sometimes two copies from the unicorn, who politely exchanged bits for magazines like normal though had a mildly greedy glint in his eye.

Inside the building, there was a table lined with refreshments, including small sandwiches, cookies, brownies, chips with dip and a large bowl of punch. The ponies mingled and talked among themselves, though all eventually stood with and talked with the unicorn from the cover, currently standing in a corner of the room and drinking a cup of punch himself. The ponies ate, talked with the unicorn, ate, talked a little more with the ponies, returned with their magazines and watched as the unicorn signed them before politely leaving so others could enter.

It wasn’t a large affair, but Written Script was enjoying every minute of it. Amalthea stood at a nearby table talking with Twilight Sparkle, and the currently seven ponies in the building all seemed to be enjoying themselves. Written Script signed another copy of Colt Fiction on the cover and the pony deposited another bit into the glass box beside him before trotting happily off.

There became a small break in the proceedings. Written Script headed over to Twilight and Amalthea. “How are you two doing?” he called over pleasantly. “Everything going well? You’re not bored at all?”

“I’ve enjoyed talking with Twilight,” Amalthea said, her radiant white fur glowing under the lights. “She’s more knowledgeable than any pony I’ve ever known. I could listen all day.”

Twilight laughed. “She’s done her fair share of talking, though,” the unicorn replied. “We had an interesting conversation on some of the theories of Starswirl the Bearded and the supposed revisions by his pupil Star Catcher the Dreamer.”

Written Script shrugged. “I’ll be honest I haven’t the faintest idea what those are,” he said. “But I know my craft and my talent and that’s fine with me.”

“Certainly is good with a lot of the other ponies around here, too,” Amalthea said, looking at the small gathering and the line outside the door. “I’m surprised you don’t have the ponies flocking towards the door.”

“It takes time,” Written Script said. “Metal Quill’s had his time in the sun, but soon I’ll come back up again. Hopefully one day we’ll share the spotlight.”

“Keep working at it,” Twilight said. “I’m sure you will someday.”

“Good to hear. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to continue to mingle for a while longer. Final Draft’s still letting ponies in.”

Written Script left, noting a somewhat familiar flash of grey standing in the line just visible outside the window. His thoughts were pushed aside as he soon met with a young earth pony mare and a unicorn filly. The little unicorn filly seemed to just be able to bring up her copy of the magazine with her blue magic. Written Script gently picked it up in his own green aura and smiled at the filly.

“What’s your name?” he asked the filly.

The filly started bouncing happily. “My name’s Pencil Scratcher!” she said, showing off a small cutie mark of a wooden pencil with a curved line coming off it. “I got it because I write a lot. I want to be a writer like you!”

Written Script laughed. “A big fan of my works, huh?” he said, pulling over a pencil. “What do you think?” Written turned his head to the mare with the filly.

The mare smiled. “I’ve never seen her read so much before,” she said as Written signed the magazine’s cover. “And your stories are all safe for even her to read, so I’m happy for that, too. It’s nice she’s gaining a positive influence.”

“I’m glad to be a positive influence.” Written Script handed the magazine back down to the filly.

The filly inspected it. “‘To Pencil Scratcher. Write long, write often, and write for fun. It’s easier than you think.’” The filly looked up with bright eyes. “Thank you, Mister Script!” she exclaimed, and hugged him around the leg.

Written hugged her back with one leg. “Always glad to see a budding young writer.”

The filly let go, took her magazine, and went over to the refreshment table.

Written looked over to the mare, who was pulling out a bag of bits. “How much is it for the autograph?” she was asking as she looked at her stash.

“Oh, it doesn’t cost you anything,” Written said.

The mare looked astounded. “Really? But everyone else has paid a bit.”

“Yeah, but I’ve never seen that much appreciation from a little filly before. You keep it as a gift for her. Buy her another set of pencils and some paper.”

The mare smiled. “She’ll appreciate that a lot, I’m sure. Again, it’s nice to have someone who’s a decent influence on the young ones. I wouldn’t have come if that was the case.”

Written Script nodded happily. “Glad you could come here.”

The mare nodded and went to help the filly grab a cookie from the back of the tray. Written Script smiled at the pair. It was good to know the writing had actually inspired someone. It almost meant more to him than the money coming in at Final Draft’s stand outside and the box for autographs slowly piling up a stack of bits of its own, and that was only because he needed the money to pay for his living expenses.

“I always thought writers were misanthropic or always complaining about their plight,” said a light voice behind Written Script. “It’s nice to know there’s some out there who are different.”

Written turned around. A mare was standing behind him. Not just any mare, though; she had the familiar grey coat with the dark mane and tail and the cutie mark of a pink treble clef, as well as calm grey eyes.

“You’re the cellist from the concert,” Written Script said, half astounded. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, miss… uh…”

The mare raised out a hoof. “Octavia. Octavia Philharmonica.” Written pulled up a hoof of his own and they shook. Octavia gently set her hoof down on the ground. “I saw you at the concert in the hills; thought I recognized you from somewhere.”

“So you did,” Written replied. “Were you… looking over at me?”

“Yes. Were you alright? I saw you drinking champagne and wondered if you were getting a little sick.”

Written’s head bounced around a little. “Just a little. It wasn’t bad. Once I stopped drinking, it cleared up.”

“Good to hear. Anyways, I found out where I recognized you from. I’ve read one or two of your stories in Colt Fiction magazine from some of the bookstores in Canterlot and rather enjoyed them. Didn’t think you’d be here in Ponyville, though; you have some traits of the Manehattan schools.”

“You read Colt Fiction? I always heard it was a lower level magazine. Just enough power to get into the bookstores but never the same as Canterlot Quarterly or Ink Blot.”

“It’s a guilty pleasure of mine,” Octavia said as she dropped a bit into the box for an autograph. She pulled out a copy of the magazine. “Certainly better than most of the drivel I’ve read recently.”

Written Script took the copy of the magazine from her. “Like what?”

“Well, there’s this novel going around by a new author named Metal Quill.”

Written, who had been about to put his pen to the page to sign, stopped immediately. “Did you say ‘Metal Quill’?” he asked.

Octavia turned away from Written Script, staring out the window in thought. “Yes. Had some long mystery novel that had at least three characters go missing and unaccounted for by the end, plus it just confused me so much I couldn’t stand to read but a single chapter a day otherwise my brain would fry. I ended up just handing it off to a friend of mine.” She turned back to Written. “You know him?”

“Know him?” Written scoffed. “He’s the one who almost booted me out of having this little party thing because his book was a runaway success. Thanks to Twilight, though, it’s happening anyway.”

Octavia smiled and nodded. “I’m going to be around town again in about a week. I’d like to stop by a see you again, as well as what projects you’re working on.”

“Um… it might be better if I met you somewhere. I have a new roommate.”

Octavia shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. It’d still give us the opportunity.”

Written Script simply signed his name on the paper. “I’m sorry for the brevity of the signature,” he said as he handed it back. “I can’t think of much. I mean, I can’t believe an acclaimed Canterlot cellist would be interested in my work.”

Octavia laughed, though it was a light, restrained, refined laugh. “I am still a mare, you know. I have my vices as well as my virtues. There is more to life than just music to me.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call this a ‘vice’.”

“You get what I mean, though. Your writings are not exactly what would be called ‘classy’ in Canterlot, so it’s still something of a guilty pleasure.”

Written nodded. “Fair enough. I’m glad to hear my writings have reached somewhere up there, even if not in the highest circles.”

Octavia smiled at him. “You underestimate yourself a little, you know that? Then again, so do they.” She sighed and put the magazine her saddlebags. “I should go. You have others to meet with and I have to leave early tomorrow.”

Written nodded. “I’m sorry if I kept you.”

“No, no, it’s no problem at all. So, one week from now, say, at Gustave’s for lunch?”

Written smiled, probably larger than he should have. “Absolutely. We could discuss what you think of the short story in there.” He motioned to the magazine in the saddlebags.

Octavia gave a quick nod. “I think I would enjoy that.” Then she turned around and left the building.

A few minutes later, Written had gained a few more bits from signatures and a few more magazines were sold. The crowds started thinning and the music was turned down. One of the Cakes started cleaning up the back kitchen now that the reception was nearly over and no more food was being served. As the crowds thinned and Written finished up another guest’s signature, he saw Twilight Sparkle get up from the table she was sitting at with Amalthea and come over to him.

“I guess it’s my turn to ask what you think of this,” Twilight said with a laugh.

Written Script chuckled. “I’ve liked it a lot. Thank you so much for putting this together, Twilight. Certainly took a lot off Final Draft’s mind; he wanted this to succeed with Metal Quill’s work getting popular.”

“I dare say it’s doing quite well,” Twilight said, looking at the line of ponies still at the table outside purchasing magazines from the yellow unicorn. “I had other things to ask, though.”

“Like what?”

Twilight walked over to a far corner away from the table where Amalthea was still sitting. Written followed her.

“How has Amalthea been lately?” Twilight asked. “Is she settling well into Ponyville?”

“Oh, yeah,” Written said proudly. “She’s been helping out around the house, seems to do well with the ponies in the marketplace, and was looking into applying for a job here at Sugarcube Corner, as a matter of fact. Why do you ask?”

Twilight nodded. “Do you know where she comes from?”

Written Script shook his head. “No, not really. She’s never been into detail; says she’s wandered around Equestria for the last few years. Why do you want to know so much?”

Twilight nodded thoughtfully. “It’s a way my mind works. I ask questions and seek out the answers. My question right now is why a citizen of Equestria would check out four books about Equestrian history, culture, and government.”

Written Script shrugged. “Perhaps that is an area they like to study.”

“When the cutie mark says otherwise, and four of them are checked out at once, I have my doubts.”

“What is the matter with Amalthea? Has she been mean? Has she insulted you? I mean, what could possibly interest you?”

“When did she come around?”

Written Script fumbled for a minute. “I… uh… she… u-uh… she came…”

“When did she arrive in Ponyville?” Twilight asked, her voice low but forceful.

“She came in the night after you gave me the journal.”

“Did you write in the journal?”

“Yes. I wrote that I was angry with Metal Quill about his book and him being suddenly so popular when I had worked for it for the last three years.”

“And Amalthea came around the next morning.”

“Yes.”

Twilight sighed and put a hoof to her head. “I was afraid of that…”

“Afraid of what, Twilight? What is wrong with Amalthea?” Written Script sat there for a while before his eyes widened and his breath stopped short in his throat. It took a few seconds and a large breath before he could speak again. “What is wrong with the journal you gave me?”

“I did a little research into the gold patterns on the book. They’re not just ornamental. They’re actually supposed to be hieroglyphics about whatever is written in that to come to life.”

“Why didn’t you know that before you gave it to me?”

“I’d never seen one before!” Twilight’s voice was still hushed, but there was obvious panic. “I thought it was innocent! I just saw it as a sentimental thing! It reminded me of my brother, and I thought since you were a writer it would be a nice gift for your twenty-second short story!”

“Well, what do you suppose we do now? Amalthea already knows about it.”

“First of all, we have to stay calm. Have you written anything else in that journal?”

“No. I’ve been afraid to ever since Amalthea popped out.”

“Good. Now, you can keep it, but hide it away somewhere. Put it under lock and key, then hide the key somewhere.”

“Can’t we destroy it?”

“Heavens no!” Twilight gasped as soon as Written had finished. “It’s too rare. Not only that, if the town likes Amalthea already, they’ll question where she left for just as she gained citizenship.”

“You mean they might begin to suspect me? Well, that’s not good, but what else can we do?”

“Live with her,” Twilight said. “No one can know she was created from magic, and no one can know of the journal she was created from. If that happened, ponies from around Equestria could use it to shape their every whim! Think of the chaos that could create!”

Written Script nodded. “You’re right. Come on. We can’t let that get us down.”

Twilight looked around Written Script. “I’m afraid there’s something else that’s already going to take its place.”

Written turned around and followed Twilight’s eyes. Final Draft’s table was empty except for the yellow unicorn, the line outside Sugarcube Corner was gone, and the inside was cleared except for Written Script, Twilight, and Amalthea staring out the door. The three all walked over to the door and looked outside to see a reddish unicorn with a brown and yellow mane standing outside among a crowd of ponies looking awestruck to see him.

“Metal Quill…” Written Script said under his breath, his voice steadily growing louder. “What the hell are you doing here!?”

Act II - Part 2

The reddish unicorn looked over the crowds separating him and Written Script. A rather fake smile adorned his features, the ends curled upwards just a little too much and just a little too much teeth were showing through.

“Ah, Written Script!” he called. The crowds parted as he walked up to Written, but followed in his wake. “How have you been lately?”

“I was doing fine until about a minute ago,” Written replied as he walked to meet the reddish unicorn. With a sudden jolt of an idea, he held up his hoof to shake Metal Quill’s and his voice lightened in tone almost immediately. “So, what brings you around to my self-made signing party?”

Metal Quill brushed the hoof aside; Written could see with some satisfaction that some of the ponies fawning over Metal Quill seemed surprised by the gesture. “Oh, I figured I’d come around and see how you were doing and whether or not you were coming to the Canterlot signing.”

“I thought you had a big tour lined up for that sort of thing. What happened?”

“Oh, a few local celebrations and events were going on at the same time, so some of them got rescheduled.”

“I am so sorry to hear that,” Written said, faking a bit of concern in his voice.

“Don’t be,” Metal Quill replied. “I’ve had plenty of sympathy already and I can’t have anymore.”

Written Script went to open his mouth to speak again, but Metal Quill suddenly pushed him off the steps of Sugarcube Corner. Written stumbled and nearly fell into Final Draft’s table he’d set up, and it took both of the unicorns using their magic to keep the table, the magazines, and Final Draft’s cash intake from falling and spilling all over the place. The two unicorns placed the items in Final Draft’s saddlebags, then dashed into Sugarcube Corner.

Metal Quill was silently examining the inside of the sweet shop, looking at the tables for eating and the small setup for refreshments. “Well, isn’t this quaint.” Metal Quill nodded as though in amusement. “It’s small, yes, but at least it’s something.”

“I’m aware of what you’re trying to do, Quill.” Final Draft’s baritone was calm and steady, though Written could hear a building fury underneath it. “I’m going to need you to vacate the premises.”

“Whoa, hold on there,” Metal Quill replied, holding up a hoof as though blocking Final Draft. “I just wanted to check in and see. I’m not here to gloat.”

Final Draft raised an eyebrow.

“I mean, it’s nice what you got here, and all,” Metal Quill continued. “It’s got everything. There’s the stand selling the magazine you’re in, the refreshments are all laid out, and you even have a little tip box here.”

“That is for autographs,” Written Script said.

Metal Quill nodded and bent over to look at the glass box. “Right… how many is it?”

Written Script shrugged. “I don’t exactly follow.”

Metal Quill looked over with a raised eyebrow. “What do you mean? You can’t figure out what I’m asking?”

“That was improper grammar,” Twilight butted in. “I’m pretty sure you meant ‘How much is in there’ or ‘How many autographs have you given’.”

Metal Quill spun around to look at the purple unicorn behind him, currently glaring at him. “And who are you?”

“I’m Twilight Sparkle,” Twilight replied. “I’m a graduate of Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns.”

“She also happens to be my friend and editor,” Written added.

Metal Quill looked back and forth between Twilight and Written before finally settling back on Written. “She’s your editor?” He gave out a small chuckle. “Well, that’s something.”

“Who do you have?” Twilight challenged.

“Me?” Metal Quill took a few steps towards Twilight. “Well, I must say I edited it myself. I spent my college years studying language arts, creative writing, and editing and I did pretty decently.”

“Your earlier statement says you need a little more training.”

“Twilight, calm down.” Written walked over and stood between Metal Quill and Twilight; Final Draft came over and stood alongside him. “It is something of a feat to be admired.”

Metal Quill smirked and nodded, though to the crowds watching it could have passed for a normal smile. “Indeed. Reviews have stated it’s quite the feat for a young author to come and write and edit a novel worthy of publication by himself.”

There were awed murmurs from the crowd. Clearly they had not been put off by the way Metal Quill had been brushing off Written’s own attempts at being nice. Metal Quill had once again put himself a step forward in public opinion with his vanity.

Metal Quill turned to Amalthea, who had been silent nearly the whole time. “And who are you? You must have some sort of position to be part of his entourage. What is it, secretary?”

“I have no position,” Amalthea said. “I don’t need one. Not when he’s been kind enough to share his work and life with me.”

Metal Quill seemed unsure of how to respond to this. He opened his mouth but nothing came out and eventually he closed it again.

“I’m sure you’ve got plenty of fans of your own, though,” Amalthea continued, her voice just on the edge of mocking and patronizing. “Must be someone out there who you would be willing to share your talents with.”

“I don’t need one,” Metal Quill finally spoke up, though his voice shook a little as he spoke. “I don’t need to share my talents with any one pony. My work is out there for them to see. They… they can see it easily.”

Amalthea nodded. “I haven’t.”

“What do you mean? Of course you can. You can just go down to the bookstore and see it right now, as a matter of fact.”

“I saw the book,” Amalthea said. “But I had a problem seeing the talent. Why someone would like you and all that.”

Written, Twilight, and Final Draft all looked at Amalthea warily. The crowd all looked at Metal Quill and gasped. Amalthea herself seemed unperturbed.

“You can’t see my literary ability?” Metal Quill said after a while.

“Oh, the ability is quite plainly out in the open,” Amalthea said without skipping a beat. “But this whole evening I’ve seen nothing but mocking acknowledgements and questionable compliments.”

Metal Quill took a step backwards. “Why would Written be with somepony like you? I mean, how do you benefit him at all?”

“Because he’s a gentleman,” Amalthea said quietly. “He gave someone an autograph for free because he saw how he inspired someone and said that was a greater joy to him than receiving the bit.”

Metal Quill gave a “hmph” and turned back to Written. “Well, let me again invite you to the Canterlot signing, the biggest of the lot. I would appreciate it if you were there.” Written thought there might have been too much emphasis on ‘appreciate’ as Metal Quill turned towards the door. “Final Draft, make sure that Written Script and whoever is with him are able to enter without question. And make sure we’re able to have those dates we rescheduled for; I don’t want another setback.” And he continued out the door.

“I will if you leave him alone,” Final Draft said quietly but firmly so that everyone present could hear him. It was a tone of voice that Written had learned early to avoid. “I might be preparing these signings for you, but I am not your servant. Watch your tongue.”

Metal Quill stopped in his tracks and turned around to face Final Draft. His eyes were large as saucers and Written could see his mouth go dry from fear for the first time that night.

“Written Script has been trying to be accommodating to you despite your differences,” Final Draft continued. “I expect you to do the same. Now move.”

It wasn’t shouted, but it may as well have been. Metal Quill jumped and fled, while the crowds stared at Final Draft, who looked out at the crowd.

“Does anyone else have something to say about Written?” Final Draft asked.

The crowd silently broke apart, leaving four unicorns alone in Sugarcube Corner.

Final Draft turned around. “I apologize for his behavior,” he said, his baritone softening as he spoke to Written Script. “I told him nothing of this event. I wish it had gone better.”

“From the looks of the bits from the magazines and the autographs,” Written replied, “not all was lost. And I probably gained a few more positive reviews from those who detract his behavior.”

“No one is immune to criticism,” Twilight said gently. “You have learned to work with it, to use it to your advantage and grow. I fear what will happen to Metal Quill once he learns he’s not so above it all as he thinks.”

“I share your concern, Miss Twilight,” Final Draft said. “He could break down on the circuit. I’ll be spacing his appearances apart for his sake.”

Twilight volunteered to stay behind and help the Cakes clean up from the reception. Final Draft collected the bits from the autographs along with the magazines and took them and the remaining copies back to the publishing house. Written Script and Amalthea headed out into the cool evening, taking a copy of the magazine with them, and began to walk home.

“Thank you for standing up for me back there,” Written Script said to Amalthea.

Amalthea smiled. “I feel like I should pay you back for all you’ve done,” she said, her tone much lighter than earlier. “It was something I could do, attempting to bring him down a peg.”

“Your companionship has been more than enough to pay me back.”

“Still, he was as bad as you described him to be. Perhaps even worse. If only there was something we could do.”

“What can we do?” Written asked. “Apart from asking a higher power, there’s not much except to let Final Draft manage his affairs.”

There appeared in Amalthea’s eye a mischievous glint that Written did not like. “A higher power, huh?” A smile began to grow across her face. “We could always use the journal.”

“Are you kidding me?” Written hissed quietly. “What if something else pops up from that like you did? I don’t want anyone getting suspicious of what’s going on, and I don’t want to do anything bad to Metal Quill.”

“You don’t have to alter Metal Quill,” Amalthea said slyly. “Just boost yourself. Do small things. Make there be one positive review from a well-known editor. Or have there be one local bookstore that sells out on a magazine containing your work. There could be one decent-sized publisher expressing interest in your work, only for you to later decline in favor of loyalty to Ponyville’s publishing house. It would be a boost to your work and to your character.”

“If that journal could do that through sheer willpower of me writing in it, I’d almost say it’s a dangerous magical artifact that needs to be thrown away, or at least hidden under lock and key. What could happen if it fell into the wrong hooves?”

“It hasn’t. Clearly it came to you for some reason, being that you would be able to handle the responsibility of it more than others. I mean, look at you. You already are wary and cautious of using it.”

“Because the last time I used it, I created a living, breathing thing with flesh and blood and bone on a whim and without entirely meaning to.”

“But now you know its power,” Amalthea said as they approached and entered Written Script’s house. “You know what it can do. All you have to do is use it wisely.”

Written Script walked into his writing room and looked at the journal. The runes on the front called out to him, as did the multitude of blank pages within. There was an ink pot with a quill inside it, along with a few pencils. He gulped.

“Where do we begin?”

Act II - Part 3

Morning broke two days later with intense heat, reminding Ponyville summer was still in progress. The streets were empty and the windows of most houses were shut and shuttered to keep the cool air from the previous night in. Leaves on some trees were turned to brown from excessive heat and water loss. Only a few guards remained on the streets, sweltering in heavy gear yet remaining as stoic as ever.

Written Script sat inside his writing room in the near total darkness. A single light was on over his writing desk so that he could see and the shutters sent small strips of sunlight across the wooden desk. The journal that Twilight had given him was opened to a blank, new, clean page. The remnants of the entry that created Amalthea were staring at him from the left page, while the right remained blank other than the lines on the paper.

An ink pot with a quill inside was sitting nearby though Written had yet to pick it up. There was something about what he was about to do that he thought was just wrong and he should just burn it right then and there. And yet, there was something about this that had just a touch of risk, of thrill, of excitement. To shape the world to his own whim and desire…

Written shook his head to clear those thoughts. That was not the point. A few simple things to boost himself up would be fine, and then he would place it under lock and key and potentially never look at it again.

Amalthea, who had been standing in the doorway the entire time, walked over to Written and nuzzled him. Her voice was barely a whisper. “Remember, we’re just doing something small.”

Written sighed but didn’t return the nuzzle. “Is this really right?” he asked. “I mean, shaping the world to your whim… it sounds like something from the villain of a fantasy novel.”

“There aren’t any villains here,” Amalthea said tenderly. “There are ponies with varying levels of responsibility, and varying levels of knowledge of how to use it.”

“But what if I become one of those who begins to use it improperly? What if… what if I get the idea to kill someone?”

“You won’t.” Amalthea’s voice was reassuring. “You’re already worried about it. You wished not for a comeuppance but for a lesson in humility. You have a moral compass, and obviously it’s working hard.”

Written nodded.

“This is just a test run,” Amalthea said. “Just writing about me being at the bakery. If you can get that to work, we can take it from there.”

Written nodded. He took up the quill, dipped it a few times in the ink and hovered over the page for a minute. When he set down the quill, his writing was shaky and uneven, even going off the line every once in a while.

Sixth month, twenty-fourth day, 1003 A.N.M.

I have been living with Amalthea for the last week, and I can say that I don’t remember a time I’ve ever felt happier. She’s beautiful, she’s sweet, and she’s intelligent. She is more than I could ever have wanted, and I am happy that I have her by my side, especially with all that’s gone on as of late.

Written Script pulled the quill away from the page. He pulled it over to the ink pot and dipped it again before pulling it over to the page and setting it down again. Written thought about what he wanted to say for a little while longer.

She is strong, too. The night before last, she was able to intimidate Metal Quill, who has been antagonizing me constantly ever since his book became published. I don’t think anyone was able to before, not even our publisher, Final Draft. I’m sure that, if she wanted to do so, she could do anything she wanted to.

“I can’t help but feel how contrived this all sounds,” Written said as he went to dip the quill back in the ink.

“Contrived as it may be,” Amalthea said, “I take all of it as both a compliment and a vote of confidence. And you’re a writer; you write stuff like this all the time, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but it’s not supposed to feel so contrived. This is… this is like a bad deus ex machina.”

“You’re not writing a book in this thing, Written,” Amalthea chided. “It doesn’t have to be perfect.”

“It does!” Written exclaimed. “Whenever I am writing something down, it’s a thing of mine. I have to make it perfect or it doesn't feel right. It bugs me for days and days if I don’t.”

“That’s what editing is for. Think of it as a first draft, just letting it spill out onto the page”

“When there’s the fact that things will be changed with a stroke of a quill to my whim, there isn’t going to be any time for ‘first drafts’.” Even so, Written dipped the quill in the ink pot again and set it back to the page.

Amalthea will be going to Sugarcube Corner to see about a job today. She’s been studying up on cooking a lot recently and she feels prepared. I only know that the tests will be having her bake various items, but I’m sure she will make it and that the Cakes are going to love her and having the extra help. The extra income will help out the house now that two of us are living here.

“That’s it,” Written said, putting the quill back in the ink pot. “That’s all I’m going to do.”

“Alright. You want to come with me to see how I do?”

“Of course,” Written said nervously. “I need to see that this thing still works like I think it does.”

Written Script closed the journal and put it away in his desk. Amalthea took out a parasol Written had bought her from the marketplace and opened it up as they stepped into the bright sunlight. They trotted quickly through Ponyville from Written’s home over to Sugarcube Corner, where a sign noted “Help Wanted”. Amalthea closed her parasol and they entered inside to the sound of a small bell tinkling above the door and a blast of cold air.

It wasn’t long before a yellow Earth pony with a pointed chin came out. “Oh, hello, Written Script! How was your reception last night?”

“It was really good, Mr. Cake,” Written Script replied politely. “The food was excellent and perfect size for snacking. Final Draft was saying we might hold another event here.”

“It’s good to know we fulfilled your expectations.” Mr. Cake turned to Amalthea. “Hello, young lady. I don’t think I’ve seen you around before until last night.”

Written turned to Amalthea and gestured to Mr. Cake. “Amalthea, this here is Mr. Cake, one of the owners of Sugarcube Corner as well as Ponyville’s finest baker.”

Mr. Cake blushed. “Well, I’m one of the finest bakers. My wife often helps me. So, what brings you around?”

“I was interested in getting a job here,” Amalthea said. “I’m relatively new in town and I saw the sign.”

“Well, we always need the extra help,” Mr. Cake said happily. “There are some days where it just feels like we sell out of everything. We just had a whole batch of éclairs sold because they tasted good coming out of the fridge.”

“Alright. So, what do I have to do?”

“If you want a job, we’re gonna have to put you through a little test. I want you to bake three items for us: our two most popular items – doughnuts and éclairs – and one item of your choice. You will be rated on time, presentation, and taste of all three. Written, for the time being, I’m afraid you’ll have to stay out here, unless there’s something I can get you before I give Amalthea a tour of the kitchen?”

“Perhaps a cup of iced coffee and a doughnut. Plain glazed will be fine.”

Mr. Cake nodded and pulled out a doughnut from the tray and filled a cup of iced coffee with a light chocolate flavor. Written Script paid for the refreshments and went over and sat down at a table, pulling a newspaper from a stand near the door and settled himself in.

After about twenty minutes, Mr. Cake came out from the double doors into the kitchen without Amalthea. “How is your coffee?”

“It’s good on hot days like these,” Written Script asked.

Mr. Cake nodded and put his hooves up on the table. “So, how’d you meet her?”

“She was new in town and looking for a place to stay and I was looking for someone to help with payments.”

Mr. Cake nodded. “You’ve certainly found yourself a lucky catch.”

“What do you mean?”

“She knew her way expertly around the kitchen and started up work faster than most others we’ve had come through here.” Mr. Cake leaned in close and whispered. “She could even tell the sweetener I used wasn’t normal sugar but a plant sweetener in a taste test.”

Written Script’s eyes widened for a moment in amusement. “I never even knew…” he said.

“It’s a special thing,” Mr. Cake said. “Canterlot stores like to use actual sugar because all their clients are looking for a sugar fix. We just need a sweet treat around here, so we don’t need pure sugar. Also takes off a few calories.”

“Very nice. Do you put it in the coffee, too?”

“Sure do. Anyway, I should go and check in on her. Is there anything else you want?”

“No, I think I’ll be fine for the moment, but thank you for the coffee and doughnut.”

Mr. Cake nodded and went back into the kitchen and Written resumed sipping his coffee and reading the news. Among the articles was a half-page segment about his signing event featuring a little snippet from a conversation with Final Draft saying how well Written worked with him. Written smiled at the mention and the review and carefully tore it out of the paper before he continued on.

Close by, an article showed up on Metal Quill and the publication of his novel. The article almost covered a whole page and went over his life though with two minor details: Metal Quill said he took Written Script to see A.K. Yearling, and that Written was being mocking of him when he tried to attend his own signing. The article infuriated Written Script with the blatant slander, but he didn’t throw it away; he tore out the article before taking the rest of the magazine and balled it up and threw it across the room to a trash can.

For some reason, it irritated him more when it didn’t make it in. Written Script got up and trudged to the piece of paper on the floor and set it down in the trash can, throwing his empty paper coffee cup and napkins over it just so he wouldn’t have to see it again.

A thought came to Written Script. If Metal Quill was going to continue putting him down like this, perhaps putting a thing or two in the journal wasn’t such a bad idea. It could just be small things. One good review for Written Script. One bad review for Metal Quill. A simple event or sellout for Written. A small burst of anger from Metal Quill. For now, the writing wasn’t the problem that Written had with Metal Quill, but his personality.

A short while later, Written couldn’t be angry any more. Amalthea was coming out with a tray with a lightly glazed round donut, a carefully frosted and cream-filled éclair, and three plates with thin slices of chocolate and peanut butter pie with whipped cream. Mr. Cake was carrying with him three forks and three glasses of water.

“Well, it’s time for the taste test,” Mr. Cake said, brimming with anticipation. “Written, you’ve been coming here for years, so you can join in.”

Written politely took a fork, along with Amalthea, and Mr. Cake brought out a knife. He carefully cut the doughnut into three pieces and picked up one himself. Written Script picked it up and eagerly took a bite; it was light and fluffy and not too sweet. He told this to Mr. Cake.

“I completely agree. That’s one of the three passed. Onto the éclair.”

The éclair didn’t have too thick a chocolate glaze on top, the pastry was light and fluffy but thicker than the donut, and the cream filling was neither overpowering nor lost in the mixture. The chocolate and peanut butter pie had a wonderful graham cracker crust, a nice layer of peanut butter mousse, and a layer of rich chocolate, all refrigerated just enough so that it was cool and chewy and creamy but not enough to freeze it.

Once all three items had been sampled, Mr. Cake gave out a contented sigh. “I must say it’s been a while since I’ve seen someone who could bake like that. I’d say that’s all three tests passed and I’d be happy to give you the position. I think the rest of the day is covered, but do you think you could start tomorrow?”

“I would be happy to,” Amalthea said happily. She giggled. “Thank you so much, Mr. Cake.”

The two discussed time and pay – Amalthea gave a low sum that caused Mr. Cake to actually add pay on the request – and soon the two were let out with a few doughnuts to go. Amalthea quickly reopened her parasol and they trotted back to Written Script’s home and the safety of the shade.

Once they were inside, Amalthea jumped up and hugged Written. “Thank you so much!” she said. “Oh my Celestia, it worked! The journal worked!”

“Yeah,” Written Script said. “And now I have a reason to use it.”

Amalthea pushed off Written Script. “What do you mean?”

Written Script gave her the article. He watched as her eyes slowly read through the article and begin to widen more and more and more. Eventually, her eyebrows furrowed and eventually turned inward in an angry glare, and she threw the article down so forcefully she nearly tore it apart.

“But… but that is all lies!” Amalthea exclaimed. “I mean, he was the one who came over, insulted me, your editor, and yourself and you were the one trying to accommodate him. How could he even think about that!?”

“I don’t know,” Written Script said, “but to me this is evidence enough. Obviously Final Draft’s warnings are not enough to keep him under control.”

“So you’re going to use the journal?”

“Of course!” Written exclaimed. “I will not sit idly by. I didn’t want him to be a villain, but Metal Quill has made himself one.”

Act II - Part 4

A month passed. Amalthea not only continued to work at Sugarcube Corner but thrived at it. She got along well with both the Cakes and their other assistant, Pinkie Pie, and got paid once a week with a small bonus for helping them out. Amalthea didn’t care too much about the bonus; she was happy it helped out her and Written Script, but was just happy to have something to do yet still have time to be with Written in the afternoon and evening.

During this time, the other townsponies also got to know Amalthea. She simultaneously became revered by many of the ponies for her beauty and caused feelings of jealousy among mares and stallions for being in a relationship with Written Script. Written, meanwhile, was being shown with a new journal that he was writing in and that Amalthea was helping him write in it, and soon all jealousy dissipated as they saw the signs of their relationship – the soft gazes when they looked at each other, the way that a smile would creep onto their faces even when it seemed nothing else could cheer them up, the way they walked and danced down the streets, the simple gentle gestures made between them. In the town’s eyes, it was wholesome yet romantic, the sort of public love affair that most ponies dreamed of.

The only major difference the public saw was that Twilight Sparkle went to Sugarcube Corner more infrequently, but they passed it off as a busy schedule.

Written Script, meanwhile, was all too thankful for using the mornings Amalthea was at work to sleep, as it was the only time he got the chance to do so. Afternoons were spent with Final Draft at the publishing house going over things for the first short story collection – formatting, fonts, hardcover or paperback, headers and footers, final bursts of editing, deciding order – to the point where Written wondered how it was they were still finding things to work on every single weekday afternoon. Evenings were spent first making dinner with Amalthea before heading out in the evenings for a stroll through the cool summer nights and socializing with other ponies before heading back to his house for games and small tastings of wine, after which they would retreat to the bedroom and become lost in the throes of passion – window open, blinds closed, and all activity buried beneath a few layers of sheets.

Not that Written minded that. They all questioned the rocking and the squeaking that started a few nights after Amalthea had obtained her job at the bakery, but soon none of them asked Written about the incident and Written walked around with the journal in his saddlebags feeling quite proud of himself.

After about a month passed like this, Written was called in to the publishing house like he always was. Despite the mounds of papers on Final Draft’s desk, Written quickly realized that none of them were his. He sat down patiently in front of Final Draft as the unicorn shuffled through papers.

“I have a gift for you,” Final Draft said. “And I think you’re going to like it.”

“What is it?” Written Script asked. “And what sort of gift? Any celebration I can think of happened a while ago.”

“It’s different than that,” Final Draft said. “Ah, here it is! Oh, good, it’s still in the box.” A brown cardboard box sealed with tape was levitated to Written. “Go on, open it up.”

Written Script opened the cardboard box with Final Draft’s letter opener, and unwrapped the item inside. It was a neatly-bound hardcover book with a deep blue background, gold trim and fancy gold lettering with his name at the bottom. It was about two hundred pages long with thick, light cream-colored paper. Written Script opened the book and flipped through the pages, feeling pleased with himself.

“Post office brought that by just this morning. What do you think?”

“It’s brilliant!” Written Script said with glee. “Even better looking than all the designs and concept art we went through and sent to them.”

“Glad you like it. Now, we’ll be sending a copy off to Ink Blot magazine and Canterlot Quarterly for a review, which we should expect to see within the week.”

“Are you sure? I mean, it’s got to be expensive for reviews from there. Just Ink Blot magazine costs nearly four hundred bits per review.”

“That’s if the author sends it in. I am a publishing house and get a discount. It’s still two-hundred and fifty for Ink Blot alone, but…” Final Draft looked around to see if anyone was watching and shut the normally open door to his office. When he was satisfied, he continued in a lower voice with a rather mischievous grin. “…Metal Quill’s work has been quite profitable. What he doesn’t know is right now a good chunk of his profits are going to the reviews for your first short story collection, and quite possibly a few promotional things. Small ads in the papers and such.”

“What does he think of it?”

“He doesn’t. First of all, I’ve made sure not to tell him. Secondly, he doesn’t even bother to check what I’m working on.”

Written Script nodded and gave his publisher a conspiratorial smile. “I shall wait patiently and hope the reviews come back fair at least.”

“It shall be a relief to me when that day comes,” Final Draft replied, now sounding tired and exhausted. “Every good review, no matter how small, makes him cockier by the day. It shall be nice for a change.”

Written Script nodded and bowed to his publisher, who politely bid him leave to work. Written Script took his proof and headed out of the office and into the bright summer day, his mind racing now that he was heading home.

So, Written Script’s work was due for a review in a few days’ time? That meant, for Written, that night would be time for a fifth journal entry. While the others were merely experimental runs, tonight would be the first time that he had attempted something on a larger scale, something that might tip the balance of favor in his direction instead of Metal Quill’s. Written Script headed home with some sort of trepidation at the thought.

When he arrived at home, Amalthea was at the kitchen table sipping a cup of tea. She got up at his arrival and came over to him. “You’re home early,” she said.

“Final Draft has made the final adjustments to the book,” Written said as he pulled out the proof to show Amalthea.

The mare’s eyes lit up in awe and pleasure with the sight of the book, carefully taking it into her own aura and flipping gently through the pages as though they were delicate glass. “It looks beautiful. The font is readable yet has class, the text is nicely spaced, and your artist did a good job on designing the titles and giving an appropriate picture.”

“It is beautiful,” Written Script said. “My written word has been put into print, into a tangible, hard cover book. It really feels like I’ve made it.” He kissed Amalthea on the lips, feeling the warmth from her touch. “All I need is a mare to congratulate me.”

Amalthea giggled and kissed him again. “So, what comes next?” she said excitedly, closing the book and giving it back to Written. “It goes to the shelf in the bookstore?”

“Not quite,” Written Script replied. “Final Draft is sending them off for review. I shall only hope the review is fair or even good.” Written continued with a slight more emphasis than normal.

Amalthea got the hint. “Perhaps you should write in your journal tonight,” she said with a wink. “After all, this is a momentous occasion and a chance to put yourself and your talents out there.”

Written nodded. “But first, I think I need to treat you. How about an evening at Le Cigare Volante?”

“The new upscale restaurant they opened a few weeks ago?” Amalthea faked a swoon. “I am not worthy!”

“Oh, stop dramatizing like Miss Rarity,” Written Script replied in a playfully irritated tone. “You are worth it. Every bit.”

That evening, Written Script put on a fancy shirt and Amalthea dressed herself in a neat summer dress; nothing Canterlot-worthy but enough for a night on the town. The two headed to the small, fancy restaurant and gorged themselves on fresh-baked bread, steamed vegetables, soy chicken, and a shared plate of garlic mashed potatoes and washed down with a smooth red wine. Written even decided to indulge a little and ordered a cheesecake with chocolate and caramel drizzled in it and a glass of a fruity desert wine to go along with it.

Once dinner was finished, Written returned home and barely managed to write the journal entry; Amalthea was kissing him constantly on the cheek and begging him to come to bed.

Seventh month, twenty-third day, 1003 A.N.M.

I have just received word from Final Draft that my book is now officially finished and ready for release. It is a beautifully designed thing, if I do say so myself, but while the art is beautiful there is no greater pleasure to me than to see my book in print. In the flesh, if I could get away with the phrase. I have held it in my hooves and have read through its pages yet it feels as though I am in a dream, though I have been reassured by my publisher, my lovely Amalthea, and by the feeling of wine in my stomach that I am not asleep. (At least, not at the moment…)

Anyway, there is one more step before its official publication, and that is the preliminary reviews. This upcoming week shall judge whether my books shall succeed or if they shall flop. Final Draft is sending a copy of my collection to Ink Blot magazine and the Canterlot Quarterly to see about obtaining reviews from these esteemed, high-class magazines and their editors and reviewers.

All I can do is wait and hope that the reviews give my work praise. Amalthea and Final Draft assure me they will, and I feel myself agreeing with them. They shall give my work praise. They’ll have to once they see how hard I’ve worked on it.

Written had hardly finished writing the final lines before Amalthea dragged him off to the bed and under the sheets.

Not that he had a problem with that.

A few days passed after the journal entry. Written found himself almost entirely in a positive mood that was only helped by Amalthea’s own successes at the bakery (her chocolate peanut-butter pie was a hit among the townsponies) and the arrival of a check from Final Draft for the time he’d been spending getting the book ready for publication.

Even with the journal entry fresh in his mind, Written soon forgot about the reviews. Life was good for him at the time being. He enjoyed reading over his proof during the mornings and afternoons and passing it off to Amalthea in the evenings, watching as she gasped and laughed and even cried and sang in what he believed were all the right places. Certainly if Amalthea had liked his book as much as he did, one who had hardly read any of his stories just over a month ago, perhaps other ponies would be pleased with it, too.

Written was still bathing in his ecstasy about a week and a half later. The morning was cool with a slight breeze and the sun was shining gold on everything. Written had woken up feeling well-rested and quite awake and ended up writing two poems that morning on his typewriter just for the hell of it. He was in the middle of a third when a knock came at the door.

Curiosity quickly took over; Amalthea was at work at Sugarcube Corner and he hadn’t been expecting anyone to drop by. Written left his typewriter, whistling a little tune to himself and went to answer the door.

Of all those he had been expecting to drop by, it was not the reddish brown unicorn with the brown and yellow mane currently boasting a pair of earthen brown saddlebags.

“Well, if it isn’t Metal Quill!” Written Script said pleasantly; not even the sight of his ‘rival’ coming over could put him down. “How have you been? Oh, forgive me; please, come in.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Metal Quill said irritably, “don’t go gloating.”

Written shrugged and stood out of the way. Metal Quill came inside and looked around the house. “I got to admit,” he said, “this is actually a nice place. Little small for my taste, but seems well-cared for and nice solitary quarters.”

“Actually, do you remember that white unicorn with the blonde mane that was with me at Sugarcube Corner about a month ago? She lives with me.”

“Is that so?” Metal Quill said. “I’ve never had anyone over more than a night.”

“Yeah,” Written Script said, “It makes this less lonely. Can I interest you in a cup of tea or coffee?”

“Nah,” Metal Quill said.

Written stood silently as Metal Quill made his way over to the living room and set himself down on the couch. “So, it’s not like you to just drop by for a social visit.”

“No, it’s not,” Metal Quill agreed. “I was wondering if you’d read the papers recently.”

“I haven’t been. Is there a news story out? Perhaps regarding one of your tour dates?”

“Ain’t been finalized yet,” Metal Quill said. “Manehattan’s being finicky with when they want me to come over. Anyway, I was wondering if you’d seen the literature column in the Canterlot Quarterly.”

“Actually, I was planning on heading to the bookstore this afternoon to pick up a copy. Anything amusing in it?”

“Should be for you,” Metal Quill said. He quickly rummaged around his saddlebags and pulled out a crumpled up piece of paper.

Written took the paper and smoothed it out on the coffee table. After he had flattened it out enough to read the text, he scanned quickly over the column. A guest author had been asked to write the literary reviews for that week, none other than A.K. Yearling, author of the critically acclaimed Daring Do series. The title in question that she was reviewing was that of Written Script’s own short story collection.

It wasn’t good.

It was glowing.

Written couldn’t believe his eyes. A.K. Yearling not only had personally picked to review his book, but went into a little more than just the review. She reminisced for a sentence or two about meeting Written and how polite he was and her working with him in her creative writing seminar before going into the fact that Written had some of the best grammar she’d seen out of recent young writers. With the basics out of the way, A.K. Yearling took up an entire page on writing a synopsis of each of the eleven stories included in the collection, followed by a review.

Every single story had been received positively, both as a marker of how Written had improved and as a sign of how well he was currently doing.

“I don’t know how you did it,” Metal Quill said. “It ain’t often someone gets the attention of A.K. Yearling. I thought I would have will how well received my book has been lately.”

“I didn’t even know I had it,” Written said, dumbstruck.

“Well, you do,” Metal Quill said sharply.

Written scanned over the column again. “Do you have a review in here?”

“It apparently got pushed back,” Metal Quill replied, seeming as though he was holding something back. “I was supposed to have the highlighted section, but yours got so much attention they pushed it to the front. I’m in the back.”

“Well, yours is also older than mine by about three months,” Written said. “They might be trying to make way for the new entrants.”

“It’s not just age,” Metal Quill said, his voice low but seething. “I was getting top billing, then you went and pushed me out.”

“Don’t kill the messenger,” Written said guardedly. “All Final Draft did was send it in. As for me, I had no part in what A.K. Yearling has to say or how the Canterlot Quarterly works.”

Metal Quill raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m not blaming anyone. It just seems to be a bit specific on the timing, not to mention the fact that it’s one of the best reviews I’ve seen come out of that magazine in the past two months or so.” There was a moment of silence before Metal Quill spoke again, his voice quivering though hardly a single emotion crossed his face. “The last time someone did that, it was me. I was the one who graced the main page, who had the glowing reviews.”

“It could be you again,” Written said. “It’s just bad timing. I’ve had it happen once before. You just keep pushing on and work on something else. You get back up there eventually.”

Metal Quill stood up from the couch. “Celestia be damned if I’m going to fall out because of ‘bad timing’. If you ask me, the system is flawed if there can be such a thing as ‘bad timing’.”

Written went to the door and opened it as Metal Quill approached. “I don’t know how you managed to do it,” Metal Quill said. “But don’t think it will happen again. You just got lucky that time.”

“I will let the cards fall where they may,” Written Script said calmly. “Perhaps you should learn to do so as well.”

Metal Quill’s eyes narrowed. “Son of a bitch,” he said as he turned around and walked away. “You’re Final Draft’s favorite. He doesn’t understand I’m the one with the talent and the money. The sooner he realizes this, the better.”

“Oh, he understands,” Written Script said to no one in particular, shut the door, and retreated to his writing room.

Act I - Part 4

The rain settled in that evening after the sun had set. It was a softer rain than Written Script had expected, yet a delivery from the local weather service said the rainstorm was planned to go on for a few days. Still, it was a pleasant relief from the scalding summer and days where not even the darkest corners of his house felt cool enough. He had made a fire in his furnace, though he wasn’t keen on keeping it stoked.

Written believed it entirely likely that Final Draft releasing his short story to the magazine might take a few days longer as a result. Thus, for a few days, he was free to do whatever he wanted. Once the short story was published and Written had gotten his pay, then he could start worrying about what to do next. Short stories had provided a steady income, but he felt he was out of shorter ideas. He considered finding a part-time job, something that would bring in some bits he could store away in his bank account while he applied for writing grants from Canterlot. They probably would give it to him, what with his current track record.

Perhaps, Written Script thought as he stared out the window at the falling rain, he could spend his time with Twilight these next few days. He could check out library books, pick up some writing guides, and shoot ideas past her. He ran through the plan over and over again in his mind. But that would only take one day, and it was likely he’d have another day or two before Final Draft got back to him, not to mention two more days of trying to figure out something to do.

A rather unexpected thought entered his head. Metal Quill wouldn’t be dealing with this. He wouldn’t be staring out a window at the rain wondering whether or not the royalties would keep coming in long enough to fund his next project. He probably was prepping himself for his signing and publicity tour, or even spending time admiring himself and how lucky he was – or, as he might put it, how lucky Final Draft was – to have a book good enough for the folks in Canterlot. Or he could be among a crowd of adoring fans hanging on his every word, regaling them with tales of how his idea had come to him in a vision and how he knew that he would become great. Just thinking about it caused Written Script’s front hoof to come down with such force that he made a crack in the hardwood floor of his ‘writing room’.

He needed to distract himself lest his anger get out of control. Written Script closed his eyes for a moment and breathed slowly in and out until he felt himself calm down. Afterwards, he opened his eyes and looked at the desk. His typewriter and paper were neatly organized, as was the drawer with all his pens in it. Next to the typewriter on the opposite side of the desk was the notebook Twilight had given him.

Written realized he had not thoroughly examined the notebook quite yet, picking it up and looking at the fine brown leather that shone with a slight gleam every time the light caught it. He noticed faint gold patterns along the sides that merely looked to be ornamental work done in gold paint. He looked to the cover and saw an intricately-designed quill on the top, also done in gold paint, with a large amount of swirling patterns and interconnecting rectangles. It was a rather ornate specimen of a notebook, and Written realized it as one commonly sold from the Crystal Empire, of which they were very fond of their ornamental leather work.

The thought of Metal Quill came back to Written Script. He wondered what Metal would think if he showed him the notebook he was given. It was not exactly expensive, but it cost a pretty penny and was not very common; any writer looking for a notebook to write ideas down into would want one of them so bad. He thought about gloating to Metal Quill about his gift. But that wasn’t exactly a nice thing to do even if he was treating him poorly, and Written Script tried shaking the thought out.

It didn’t help at all. The more and more he shook his head to get the thought out, the stronger the thought came back and the more of a headache Written got. Pride, Written realized, at his own natural talent was causing him to become jealous, and that didn’t quite make him any better than Metal Quill if he gloated about it in front of him.

Staring at the notebook, though, Written Script had an idea. He had often heard Twilight talk about authors who wrote their thoughts down in journals. If anything bothered them, they would write it down on the page and allow themselves to be rid of it. It was their way of processing things and making it where emotions like anger or jealousy or greed could be released in a manner that didn’t harm anyone. Perhaps, Written thought as he took a sharpened pencil from his drawer, he could use the notebook for that.

The rain outside kept pouring down as Written Script lit up the lamp over his desk and opened the notebook to the first page. It was nice, neat, and clean, not to mention sturdy enough to withstand pressure and not cave in or cause accidental imprints on the next page. Positioning his pencil on the first line, Written Script began to write.

Sixth month, seventeenth day, 1003 A.N.M.

Earlier today I went to my publisher to submit a short story and found myself speaking with Metal Quill. I used to know him from a few years ago, when I, as an already published writer of three novels and beginning work on a series of short stories, found him attend a meeting of writers that met at the Ponyville marketplace once a week. He was a nice sort back then, and I invited him in to learn the tricks of the trade from us. I even invited him to the workshop that A.K. Yearling hosted a few weeks later, proud of the fact that the relatively small number of writers in Ponyville could add yet another to their number.

But the Metal Quill I knew back then is long gone. In his place is an arrogant, self-righteous stallion who forgets he started much the same as we all did: newcomers to the profession, our talent known but needing to be honed, perfected. Every time I see him, he angers me with his dismissive and belittling statements, and yet I cannot help but feel a pang of jealousy every time I reflect on how he has received such wildfire success in so short a time while I have been writing and publishing for nearly eight years now and have never found such luck or fame as he has. I only hope he is still young enough to grow out of it in time, but every time I think about it I want to take his own book and whack him across the face with it. Hard.

Perhaps it is the attention that grates me the most. I appreciate his success, but the fact that it’s gone to his head – the crowds, the praise and acclaim, the fact that practically everyone worships him for his achievement, while I stand aside with hardly any supporters but my family, my editor, and my publisher, having fallen out of the limelight that was once mine. Perhaps if I had someone who cared about me and adored me as much as Metal Quill’s new wave of followers does, I would not be so angered.

Written Script stopped writing for a moment. That was a thought he hadn’t realized before. And yet there it was, staring up at him as clear as black on white. What if he had someone with him? Would the company of another pony that loved him amidst his predicament be enough to stave off jealousy?

For a few minutes, Written Script pondered stopping. He had found his anger had dissipated and the journal had done its task in relieving it. But that last sentence kept bothering him and he stared at it for a long time. His mind began racing, and almost without realizing it, he put his pencil back on the page.

Perhaps it could be a unicorn mare. One with violet eyes that remind me of the sky just before the sun sets below the horizon. She could have a coat of pure white, a coat that shines and shimmers as though she had taken great care of it. And perhaps she would have a bright golden mane, one that flows around her head and neck almost as though she had her own halo. Her cutie mark would be that of a heart, for her talent would be spreading love to those she holds dear.

She would be the type of mare that would be smart and intelligent and willing to learn. Yet she would also be intimate and passionate, closely emotionally connected to the ones she loves and who love her in turn. She would know how to enjoy a quiet evening at home, or how to go between work and play. She would be tender and gentle, faithful and loving, even-tempered and vibrant, beautiful on the outside and inside.

Written Script pushed the notebook away from him. His writing, he noticed, had gone from quick scribbles on the page to long, careful lettering that felt like it took a long time to write. He thought of tearing the page out of the notebook and surrounded the page with his magic. The writing was no more than wishful thinking, him pouring out things that would never happen onto the page, for a few scant moments living in an impossible dream.

But wasn’t that what writing was about? Wasn’t it about those few moments of wishful thinking that led to moments that one could live an impossible dream? All because of black ink on small white pieces of paper, one could lose themselves in a dream for a little while, for a few moments that dream becoming real. In the end, Written Script set aside his pencil and released the page from his magic, the notebook still intact and Written feeling comfortably pleased with himself again.

Written Script took the notebook and carefully closed it, making sure the edges had not bent, before opening another drawer in his desk and gently setting it down. Perhaps he would write more about this mare sometime soon. Even if it was wishful thinking, Written Script thought as he trotted off to bed, that didn’t mean he couldn’t indulge himself in it.

Act II - Part 5

Amalthea returned home a few hours later to find Written still in his writing room, staring out the window. The blinds were wide open and Written sat unmoving. A half a cup of coffee with cream and sugar sat on the table, and there were a few lines that appeared to be an unfinished poem. A magazine was in front of Written, though he appeared to have no interest in it.

“Written, I’m home,” Amalthea called out to him. “I brought you a chocolate donut. Your favorite.”

Written turned slightly towards Amalthea. For a moment, he merely scanned a single eye over her. “Put it in the fridge,” he said impassively. “I’ll have it later tonight.” Then he turned back towards the window.

Amalthea did so but returned to the writing room immediately. “Is there something wrong? You normally aren’t so quiet.”

Written Script didn’t change his view or emotion. “I found my review today.”

“Oh? The review for the short story collection? What did they say?” When Written didn’t respond, she gasped. “They hated it?”

“No. The review was nothing but praise. The journal worked once again.”

“Then why are you so withdrawn?”

Written Script seemingly stared harder out the window. Amalthea walked over and tried to see what Written was looking at. She was treated to a view of Metal Quill, a few adoring fans around him but most seemed to be looking at copies of Canterlot Quarterly. The ponies who were looking were talking excitedly and pointing at the open pages eagerly.

“Metal Quill suspects that I somehow bribed the journal.”

“Bribed them?” Amalthea asked in disbelief. “Even if that was the case, what would it matter? Final Draft told me that happens all the time in the publishing industry; the best space goes to the highest bidder.”

“But there were two things that stood out to him. Firstly was that his own review was pushed off that main page and I got top billing instead. Secondly was that it was done by A.K. Yearling.”

“The author of the Daring Do series? ‘Tis a high honor. No wonder he is jealous.”

“I would be, too, if placed in his position.”

“So what is it that causes you to sulk while staring out a window?”

“The fact that his review was pushed back to the dregs ended up being a shot at his ego. Which he threatened to pay back to me if he ever found out I was influencing the reviews.”

Amalthea realized that the journal itself was out. “You could erase his memory of the incident.”

“That won’t be so simple. A mere glance at the printed page will reignite the feelings inside. I could wipe his mind of it, but then he would see his review in the back and mine in the lead and it will return. And I don’t have the heart to do so either.”

“So, what do you suppose? Stop using the journal?”

“If he continues being antagonistic, he will force my hand to continue writing. For now, I have to be more careful.”

It wasn’t so easy to be careful, though. When Written Script and Amalthea were next touring the market, many ponies came up to Written singing his praises, including some that had formerly abandoned his party for the mere appearance of Metal Quill. The review was mentioned among almost everyone, while others were seeing ads for his short story collection in the paper and in the bookstore.

Metal Quill was seen infrequently after his appearance at Written’s house, so the unicorn decided it was safe to venture out and socialize. In the mornings when Amalthea was off at work, Written would leave his home and head to some of the common meeting spots – near the town hall, at the library, or in the marketplace. Ponies approached him with magazines they were buying from the nearby stores and, hardly a day after his book was released, started asking him to sign the short story collection. Written signed them for free and even took pictures with those that asked. It got to the point where Written decided to hold a signing event – with Final Draft’s permission – at the town hall. Books were sold and ponies came to have the author sign their copies, and Written managed to maintain a smile and a warm personality throughout; with Metal Quill hiding, he wasn’t afraid.

Written’s popularity spread like wildfire; he was nicer than Metal Quill and had the talent to match. It wasn’t long before the residents of Ponyville had forgotten Metal Quill even though he was heading off to the first of his own signing events in Manehattan. Word spread throughout Ponyville of the rave review by A.K. Yearling, and Written’s book sold out its first week in the store. It wasn’t long before those residents started telling their families and sales started trickling in from other towns.

The schedule negatively affected Written’s life with Amalthea. When he returned home shortly before Amalthea, Written was tired out from the social events he found himself hosting or attending. Dinner was spent in quiet and there was some time for relaxing before they went to bed, only without the added pleasure that Amalthea would give him.

They lay in bed one evening with the window open. Amalthea had been bugging Written for the last ten minutes, while Written had only obliged her so much as to face towards her; his eyes were closed and he resisted her pushing.

“Come on!” Amalthea whined. “I’m feeling a little playful tonight.”

“I don’t want to,” Written mumbled from his pillow.

Amalthea pouted. “Oh, but you always wanted to a week ago.”

“And maybe tomorrow I’ll want to again,” Written replied. “But not tonight.”

Amalthea’s pout turned into a frown. “You’ve said that every night for the past week.”

“I’m sorry,” Written said, managing to open a single heavy eye. “I’ve had so many ponies lately come up and ask me about the book.”

Amalthea smiled and stroked a hoof through his mane. “It’s probably done quite a bit to help your reputation if you stop and take questions.”

“I’ve already got sales in other towns, and it sold out here.”

“That’s wonderful!” Amalthea exclaimed. “I assume you’re not the most extroverted pony.”

“Not really,” Written replied. “Enough to get by on a daily basis. This time right here is my favorite time, though. When I don’t have to be out there and just be in here with you.”

Amalthea giggled. “Tomorrow, take a day off. Maybe you just need a day to rest.”

Written nodded. “I just need to make a quick run for a few fruits tomorrow. But I won’t go on any impromptu lectures or stuff like that.”

Amalthea giggled again. She kissed Written, and he kissed her back. He felt a hoof gently rub his belly before sliding gently down to his side and the light weight of Amalthea’s leg on his chest. “Perhaps pick up some strawberries for a treat?”

“I’ve told you before that trick doesn’t work for me,” Written said with a smile as he closed his eye again.

Amalthea sighed and rested her head against Written’s shoulder. “So long as I’m the one you come back to at the end of the day, I don’t care if you spend your time among everyone else. But make sure think of yourself, too.”

“I will, Amalthea,” Written Script whispered into her ear.

* * *

The next day, Written Script felt better than he had in the past week. He got up while the sun was still low and made himself a cup of coffee, retreating to his writing room to drink it while he read over the mail. He found the unfinished poem he had created the morning that Metal Quill had visited him and even managed to create a fourth to add to the collection. By the time the fourth was finished, Written had finished his coffee and Amalthea was just waking up; Written saw her when he went into the kitchen to pour himself a second cup.

“You seem energized today,” Amalthea said warmly.

“I feel energized,” Written Script said. “I don’t know what it is. I probably just managed to have a good night’s sleep last night. At least, better than I’ve had recently.”

Amalthea smiled. “Well, it’s good to see you regain your energy. Are you still going to stay at home most of the day?”

“Yeah. I’m still gonna run that errand, though. Oh, I almost forgot; mom and dad are asking us to dinner at their house the day after tomorrow; I’m going to take a salad for them.”

“Sounds wonderful. I’ll see about making a chocolate peanut butter pie to take along as a surprise.”

Written went over to Amalthea and gave her a quick kiss. “Mother will adore you for it. She says the last time you brought it over she gorged herself.”

“Now that’s a compliment,” Amalthea said. “I’ll be sure to bring it over, then.”

Amalthea got herself ready to go and headed out the door. Written Script sipped his coffee slowly and watched as Amalthea walked down the street towards Sugarcube Corner and waited until after she had entered and he could no longer see her before getting up himself. Once he had prepared his own bag of bits and his saddlebags, Written headed out and locked the house up before heading to the marketplace.

Despite the warm morning, not many ponies were out and about. It was rather quiet and subdued, a welcome change after the week Written had been having. Written zipped from stall to stall, picking up fruits and vegetables for the house as well as a bottle of milk and an extra loaf of bread just to be sure.

His last stop was for apples at a stall run by a large red stallion that didn’t talk much. The first fruits of the harvest were coming in early, and Written stood and admired each of the fresh apples as they shone in the morning sun. He took almost every one and turned them in his hooves, admiring the firmness and the almost polished gleam they gave off. They even smelled sweet.

“I’ve always heard the apples around here are some of the sweetest and juiciest,” said a rather refined voice from next to Written Script. “Almost makes one wonder if it’s something in the soil or the pony that does the work.”

Written turned around to see who was speaking. It happened to be a medium grey Earth pony mare with a straight black mane and a pink treble clef cutie mark. Her light purple eyes closed for a minute as she sniffed a red and gold apple before opening them and turning to look at Written.

“Octavia!” Written exclaimed. “It’s been a while. I didn’t even know you were coming down.”

“Since our lunch at Gustave’s, I believe,” Octavia said pleasantly. “And I myself didn’t know I’d be here today.”

“Well, it’s a pleasure to see you down, in any case,” Written said. He picked out five of the best and paid for them, in addition to the one Octavia was interested in. “So, how are things with the symphony?”

“Oh, we traveled over to Vanhoover and played every night for a week,” Octavia replied as they started walking out from the marketplace. “Sold out every show and I managed to make a nice paycheck because of it. How about you? How’s the short story collection coming along?”

“Do you read Canterlot Quarterly at all?”

“Why do you suppose I was asking about the book? A.K. Yearling’s review must have had a rather profound impact on sales.”

“Sold out the first week it was available in the Ponyville bookstore,” Written said proudly. “And it’s started to spread into nearby towns. Final Draft was telling me it might be sooner than most that we can release it to the big cities.”

“Well, you must have been busy since we last met, designing and all that.”

“You’ve been pretty busy yourself. So, are you due for a concert this weekend?”

“Actually, I just came here for a little vacation. Figured I’d take a short break before we have a string of events in Canterlot. You know, a little fresh air, check out the sights, good company.” Octavia looked approvingly at Written Script, a small smile gracing her face.

“Well, it certainly is a pleasant surprise to see you down here. Where are you staying at?”

“That little bed and breakfast next to the town hall. A quaint little room and breakfast for forty bits a night, and the couple who runs it are fantastic. You just never get that in cities like Canterlot.”

“Well, they might be able to provide breakfast, but you should come over for dinner at least once while you’re down, and perhaps we could meet somewhere for lunch.”

“Excellent. But, aren’t you staying with that one mare?”

“We live together and we’re close, but we’re not that close,” Written said casually. “She’s just a really good friend of mine. Honestly, I’m probably closer to my editor Twilight than I am to her.”

“So long as she doesn’t mind, it doesn’t matter how close you are.”

“Well, how about you come over right now?”

Octavia stopped. Written stopped with her. “Right now?” Octavia asked.

“Sure. Amalthea’s out working at Sugarcube Corner and won’t be back for at least a few hours. We could sit down in the kitchen, have a cup of tea, and talk for a little while.”

Octavia’s smile grew. “I think I’d like that,” she said, excitement audible in her voice though the rest of her remained composed.

It wasn’t long before they reached Written’s house. Written opened the door and allowed Octavia to go in first.

“Well-kept and clean,” Octavia said approvingly. “A bit on the small side, but it’s almost like a country home in terms of feel. How much did you get it for?”

“Can’t remember exactly,” Written said. “It was a few years ago and I got it for a decent price.”

Octavia nodded and walked towards the kitchen. Written pulled out a chair for her before boiling some water and pulling out some tea bags, earl grey for Octavia and chai for himself. The two sat down at the table and scooped sugar and poured creamer into their cups.

“Seems you’ve made out well with your career choice.”

“I don’t expect to make as much as you, though, with ponies flocking to your concerts.”

“I don’t make as much as you think,” Octavia replied. “On my own, I can only afford a small apartment in Canterlot. My family comes from old money, however, and so I’m able to own a house without needing to make the payments on it.”

“But you’re a soloist. And, when you play, you’re often first chair.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t guarantee money. The concert hall takes its share of profits, then the conductor, then me. And the others aren’t too far behind.”

“Must be glamorous, though.”

“Oh, it certainly is.” Octavia leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes, and sighed. “There are the fancy concert halls, the sounds of beautiful music coming from the orchestra, and of course the high-society gatherings.”

Written was about to speak and comment on Octavia’s musings, but the mare soon opened her eyes and kept them half-lidded. “But it can be busy. I don’t often have time to myself. That is, one could almost assume, why I came down here.”

Written felt his face get hot. “Your music is beautiful. Certainly you could have attracted someone to you at this point. As though by siren song.”

“One would have thought that if they noticed how you watched me at the concert,” Octavia said.

It was true. Written remembered how he had gone from having a lovely evening with Amalthea to being unable to tear himself away from Octavia watching him. And the same thing was happening right now; Written had almost lowered his head in embarrassment, but he refused to leave the half-lidded eyes staring at him. It took a moment before Written had vaguely realized they were coming closer to him.

“Well, I suppose you could say I have a good ta—”

It wasn’t even what he had wanted to say but Written was still cut off. Octavia had leaned across the table and her lips had met with his, a hoof around his head. Octavia’s kiss was more tender and passionate than anything he had experienced with Amalthea. It wasn’t long before Written stopped trying to talk and simply focused on his kiss with Octavia. His eyes rolled back and closed as he felt their tongues touch and nearly fell off his chair.

It wasn’t long before he and Octavia were both off their chairs and walking slowly to Written’s bedroom. Written closed the blinds and the door with his magic and laid down on the bed as Octavia crawled over him and wrapped her hooves around his head and neck, their lips meeting again as Written lost all sense of control.