Short-Response, Multiple Choice, Et Cetera
“Vocal Chord,” says Cheerilee.
“Yes?” I reply.
“I’m here about your answer to question 27 of the Required Exams for Pony Aptitude, REPAs for short, which, as you know, have just been approved by Celestia. You also know that all registered citizens of Equestria above the age of eighteen have been required to take them.”
“Yes.”
This is a thing Twilight started in order to get ponies more educated. About a month ago, she had this brilliant idea to make up a universal exam, testing ponies in all known branches of knowledge in order to determine which areas they need work in. The first test subjects were a group of foals, and from what I’ve heard, they’ve started calling the exams ‘the Grim REPAs’. Clever, but not very encouraging.
“Unfortunately, I don’t think you quite understood. Which is why we’re here. This is your answer to question 27 of your REPAs.”
Vocal’s Answer
A Study on the Dynamics of Interaction between Two Definite Variables
By Vocal Chord
As stated in Question 27, and as I will state again here, these two sides are at constant odds with each other. With four definite solutions, but no clear answer, this is quite possibly the most important decision of our century. Which side will prevail? And, in the process, how can we avoid damages to the unstable structure of support each side lends the other? In this essay, I hope to fully explore every known possibility, as well as expose faults in each one and, if possible, reach a conclusion.
Take, for example, our first solution to this astounding political problem. A full treaty, in which both sides join together, forming a whole stronger than both sides could ever hope to be. However, such teamwork would require a definite understanding, one which neither side possesses of the other. Dissent and distrust would breed like rabbits, and eventually, the system would collapse, leaving nothing behind but a ruined wasteland. However, if a mutual understanding can be reached, there is a chance that this solution could be viable. More research will have to go into this, as an unstable solution could easily fall on either side of the fine line between success and failure.
Our second solution is more stable, but much less efficient; a mutual trade-off, in which neither side supports the other, but resources are shared and benefits are achieved. Neither side would be wanting for support, yet no alliances or sharing of beliefs are required. The bond may, however, be weak, and during a time of crisis, both sides could easily be divided and separated, resulting in an even more devastating defeat. This brings into question the wisdom of favoring a weaker bond over a stronger one; and, while both sides will be satisfied, betrayal will still be imminent.
This brings us into our third solution: a division of wealth between the two sides. Equal shares of everything would leave neither side at a definite advantage or disadvantage, and jealousy would be thinned. Even though it is wholly possible that both sides could start a war with the other, the fact remains that neither side would be able to easily overpower the other. Unfortunately, this system lacks merits, and something as simple as the acquisition of newfound wealth could easily upset this balance.
Th only possible alternative at this point is war, in which one side would subtract a fair amount of resources rom the other and remain the only variable. This is, by far, the least desirable solution, as the remaining side will most definitely end with far less power, and if another variable were to be introduced, the winning side of the previous conflict would undeniably fall.
The conclusion is that the course to be taken is the second one I have spoken of: an agreement, in which both sides mutually support the other, regardless of wealth and/or religious beliefs. Such an agreement would facilitate the quick transport of resources during a crisis, as well as allow for a more diverse pool of said resources. Thus, the only logical course of action is selected, and the issue is resolved. The answer, of course, is B.
“So?” I ask. Cheerilee shakes her head.
“This was the question:
Demonstrate the Commutative Property.
A.) A+B=AB
B.) A+B=B+A
C.) A+B=A/B
D.) A+B=A-B
Any comments, Vocal?”
I shrug.
“Hey, at least I got the answer right.”
THE END
Author's Note
Please keep in mind:
I wrote this in, like, fifteen minutes.
I Am A Colt, and You're Obviously On Something Right Now
Author's Note
Before you read--
I did this a long time ago, so it's not as well-written as some of my newer stuff.
I'm not looking for likes; all the stuff in this collection is done for fun or out of boredom
Enjoy anyway!
I Am A Colt, and You're Obviously On Something Right Now
[[[Flashback Mode: Active. Time Set: When I was a schoolcolt]]]
It’s the first day of school, and Cheerilee’s decided that our first day should be spent on an educational field trip. I’m not entirely excited (I don’t like traveling. Makes me feel angsty.), but my sister Major Chord’s head over heels for the idea, so I try to act less bored than usual this time.
We’re going to go see Octavia perform at the Guggenhay Museum in Canterlot. There’s supposed to be an ice sculpture, fancy dinner, and all sorts of high-class ponies there. Major’s always wanted to meet Canterlot’s elites. It’s kind of her dream to be one of those fancy DJs or whatever and play at the Gala or whatever. I keep trying to explain to her that DJing is not at all part of Canterlot’s elite, but she seems convinced she can do it. Go figure.
Some snobby colt named Filthy Rich is also here, waiting to get into the Guggenhay. He’s not mean or anything, but he never shuts up about money. Seriously, this guy’d probably sell his family and soul for a good enough price.
And Major’s “totally into him”.
All in all, it’s shaping up to be one of those days I wish I could just put on fast forwards and skip to the good parts.
So, here’s how it all went down.
The train pulls to a halt at the Guggenhay station in Canterlot, and we all line up behind Cheerilee to go to the concert. I don’t get the whole single-file thing; it’d be much more efficient to put us in a three-by-five arrangement, organized in ascending order of height and weight.
But maybe that’s just logic speaking.
Major keeps telling me I’m too “cold and mechanized”. I’m pretty sure she thinks I’m a robot. As we all file off the bus, she pokes me in the flank.
“I saw that look,” she said. “You were thinking all machine-y again!”
“No I wasn’t,” I reply. “But don’t you think it would be a lot better to organize everypony in a five-by-three pattern—“
“You were! You’re always trying to make everything so much more efficient, trying to squeeze as much quick-let’s-get-it-over-with into everything.”
“I happen to like finishing things that I start,” I say. “That way, I have more free time than anypony.”
“In business, it’s called maximizing,” says Rich from behind my sister. “Buy for cheap, sell for expensive. Isn’t that right?”
“You’re so smart and stuff…” says Major. “See, Vocal? The only thing your know-how-stuff-would-work-best is only good for business.”
“Says you,” I reply.
The line stops, and Cheerilee raises a hoof. “This is the Guggenhay,” she says. I’ve seen pictures, but it’s a lot more impressive in real life. A bleach white tower of glass discs, all stacked up like a pile of plates until they reach the arch above them, where the rest of Canterlot rests.
“We have two hours until Octavia’s scheduled to play,” says Cheerilee. “Feel free to explore the museum, but don’t leave, and try not to get lost! I don’t need another Arbor Day incident.”
The first thing I do is go across the street to check out a CD store. I’ve always liked music, and I don’t mind bending the rules just a bit, so long as I don’t get caught, and I never get caught. One of the perks of living inside one’s head is that nopony notices when you’re gone.
Hey, they’ve even got the new Vinyl Scratch CD for cheap!
I wonder if I have enough bits…
I’ve just purchased Vinyl’s new album and am happily walking out the door when I bump into a white unicorn. “Whoa!” she says. “Didn’t see you there. Maybe Octavia’s right; these glasses don’t work so good…”
I look up and see who’s talking. “Vinyl…Vinyl Scratch…”
(She’s a lot younger back then; maybe about five or six years older than me, and already a star. Octavia’s only eighteen, as well. I guess those two always were musicians.)
Vinyl offers me a hoof, then spots what I’m carrying. “I’ll give you a tip,” she says, leaning in close. “If you play the whole thing twice through, there’s a secret, special mix I did at the end. It’s so awesome I deemed it ‘unsafe for public consumption’, or whatever it is Tavi calls me on Saturdays.” "
I…um…hello…name…Vocal…” I’m not very good at talking to ponies I’ve never talked to before.
Vinyl smiles. “Tell you what,” she says. “You look like a music lover.”
“Yes…”
“How ‘bout you come watch me later? I’m doing a gig at the Moonlight Diner at seven. ‘S just down there a bit.” She points down a side alley. “Tell ‘em ‘Vinyl sent me.’ The password’s ‘Horseapples’.”
“Horseapples,” I repeat. A smile forms on my face. “I look forwards to it.” Vinyl waves and heads off down the alley, and I start formulating my plan.
After about half an hour of walking around the Guggenhay, I’ve got it. At exactly two minutes before seven, I’ll tell Cheerilee I’ve got to use the colt’s room. I know Cheerilee loves music too, so I’ll bet she won’t wait around for me at all. Then, when everypony’s distracted, I’ll take off my glasses and walk out, hopefully looking different enough that nopony suspects a thing. As soon as I’m out of sight, I’ll bolt to the Moonlight Diner and watch Vinyl perform some of her dubstep instead of having to sit through two hours of classical.
I’m a genius, even as a colt!
It’s 6:58, and my plan is going perfectly. I’ve been sitting in a locked stall with my legs up and my glasses off for thirty seconds now, and I can hear the crowd of other students going into the concert hall, too distracted by the magnificence of the building to notice my absence. As soon as I hear it’s quiet out, and a few notes of cello music flow through the ventilation, I make my break for it. I walk out of the bathroom, looking like I know exactly what I’m doing, and exit through a side door.
It’s only a five-minute walk to a seedy bar in the back of the alley with a half-dead neon sign spelling “M nli gh Din r”.
I enter the bad and head to one of the single-person booths at the back, with a clear view of the stage. I put on my glasses, straighten my mane, and try to act older. A waitress comes along, and I order two boxes of strawberry juice, waiting for the concert. After five minutes, everypony’s getting a bit worried.
I decide the best course of action is to sneak off into the back and see what the holdup is, because I find it’s easier to wait for something if you know about when it’s supposed to happen.
Luckily, Im small enough to go unnoticed, and as soon as I make it backstage, I hide behind a large speaker and watch the events go down.
“Vinyl’s missing!” says somepony. “This was supposed to be a huge haul! How’re we supposed to afford next month’s concert now?”
“I’m sure she’s just nervous,” says another pony. “Happens to ‘em all. You’ll see.”
“In the meantime, we’re three minutes in with no show!” says a third pony. “If Vinyl doesn’t make it out there in five minutes, we’re going home with zero profit, no turning back!”
Somepony taps me on the shoulder. I spin around, and a slightly sweaty hoof plants itself in my mouth. “Ssh!”
“Vinyl?” I mumble. Vinyl shakes her head. “What’s going on?” I ask, very quietly.
“I can’t go out there!” she says. “Hoity Toity’s in the crowd, and he’s gonna kill me if he sees me! I keep telling him it wasn’t me that burned down one of his shops, but he won’t listen!”
“But…your concert!” I protest. Vinyl grins.
“You know how to work a turntable, right?” she asks. I nod, having seen it done many times before. “Then you go! Tell ‘em the password ‘Cockatrice Stoned’. They’ll understand.”
“But I’m just a colt!” I reply. “I can’t do your job, I’ll be kicked out!”
“Never stopped me,” replies Vinyl. “Go show ‘em fire and lightning, Vocal.”
Either this is a dream, of Vinyl's been hitting the cider.
Well, I might as well. I step out into the crowd of backstage ponies, front hooves held high in surrender. “Vinyl Scratch says, Code Cockatrice Stoned!” I proclaim.
Somepony chokes on something. “Seriously?! That’s a kid! Vinyl wants a kid to do her concert!”
“Let the kid go,” says another pony. “Vinyl started even younger, remember?”
A tall pony in the center sighs. “You’ve got three minutes to come up with an original song for the concert,” he says. “You know how to work—“
“Yes!” I reply. “Just show me the console!”
I connect notes and beats together in what I hope is a nice, intense industrial dubstep song. I use magic to work the machine as fast as I can, but without listening to a few tracks over again, I don’t know if anything’s going to come out bad.
I can only hope.
Eventually, the lights dim, and the backstage ponies gesture for me to go up on stage. I add a little bit to the end of the song, then walk out into the spotlight.
“H—Hello…um...my name is Vocal Chord…I’ll be replacing Vinyl Scratch…” Nopony says anything. “Um…This is the first song Ive ever written…”
“It’s just a kid!” somepony shouts. “Get off the stage!” A mug of cider comes flying my way.
I’ve been bugged twice in my life. Once, some bullies thought it would be a good idea to throw a dodgeball at the back of my head in gym class. I went to detention for a month, and they went to therapy.
The second time is right now.
I catch the mug with magic, turn it around, and hurl it back to its original owner. “Sit down, shut your face hole, and listen to the Faustbucking music,” I say through gritted teeth. The pony sits down, shuts his face hole, and listens to the Faustbucking music.
“This is a piece I call…” Come on, come on, think…
I spew out the first random adjective-noun combo that pops into my head.
“I call it…Symbiotic Thorax.”
If the crowd wasn’t already quiet, now they’re all dead and just happened to die in that exact position.
I flick a switch on the speaker.
“Enjoy.”
The song starts out with a slow, metallic drone, then builds up from there, and then…
Right after the organ solo, I hear a few sirens. It doesn’t take long for me to figure out that Cheerilee’s noticed my absence and has sent out a search party. Well, buck. At least the song’s almost done. A few grating yet somehow smooth chords play, and the song ends with an explosion of synthesized sound.
The bar-goers fall silent.
Then somepony starts clapping. “Amazing!” he calls from the back. “Are you telling me that little kid did that with no experience whatsoever?! Bucking amazing!”
Soon, I’m drowning in adoration and applause. I walk backstage with a smile that could rival that of the Cheshire cat, and the first thing that happens is Vinyl walking up to me and throwing a fifty-bit piece into my pocket.
“I…have…been…mind-bucking-blown!” she says. “You really never touched a music writing program in your life?”
“That would be a no,” I say.
Vinyl smiles and shoves a tall mug of Sweet Apple cider into my hoof. “Go on out!” she says. “Take a bow or two! And also take a few bits, I dunno. Just go!”
I go out on stage, and the applause almost drowns out the sirens. “Thanks, guys!” I shout. “This is a lot better than sitting through two hours of classical music!”
A sudden burst of light from behind catches my eyes, and upon seeing what it was, I smile even harder. “A lot better!”
Ten minutes later, half a dozen Royal Guards burst into the bar, accompanied by Cheerilee. I don’t notice them at first, because I’m busy being surrounded by mares and empty mugs. “An’ so…I’m all like ‘Sheerillee, ‘s nah my fault’, n’ she’s all like ‘You shaddap!’ an’ I’m all…” I turn around with a hiccup. “Oh, hai, Sheerilee! ‘S good cider, huh?”
Cheerilee almost faints. “An’ wassap, sis?” I call to Major. “Hay, check it out! I got mah cutie mark!” I turn a flank towards the crowd of students, and they join the throng of cheering ponies.
“So you went to a bar, got yourself cider drunk, and now you’ve got your cutie mark?” asks Major. “How does that even work?!”
A sudden burst of static fills the air. “Hey, ‘sup, everypony!” calls Vinyl Scratch. I notice Hoity left about three minutes ago. “In honor of the new artist Vocal Chord, we’re gonna play ‘Symbiotic Thorax’, his very own composition, a second time for all you ponies to hear!”
I turn to Cheerilee, who’s red in the face and looking like she might commit child assault. I hiccup and shrug. “Jus’ listen,” I say. “Ya might like ‘t.”
After another five minutes, during which I might have heaved all over Filthy Rich by mistake, Cheerilee’s in a much better mood.
“You wrote all that?” she asks. “You? That? Have you been practicing?”
“No…” I reply, feeling a bit better now. “I just sort of threw it together in three minutes. The first time it played was also the first time I heard a single note of it.”
Cheerilee almost kisses me. “Vocal, you’ve got a talent!” she says. “I think you’re future is going to be bright and filled with…industrial electro.” She makes a weird face at that last bit. “Well, they can’t all be college professors…” she mutters under her breath.
[[[End Flashback]]]
And that’s the story of how I got my cutie mark.
The End
