Did you really think Pigpen has a special talent for being gross, or Screwloose has a special talent for being crazy? What happens when the thing that makes you “special” isn’t what’s really special about who you are?
Color Wheel mentally calculated which tints she would need for her next work. Digging through a stained cardboard box of half-used paint tubes, she sighed a bit too loudly in frustration at her own lack of organization. Maybe, she thought, I could use some lessons in perfectionism from the town librarian.
“Where did that stupid Cerulean Blue go now?”
Losing patience with carefully shifting the wrong colors out of the way, she upended the box onto the floor. She then smirked and grabbed the very last tube to fall out of the box. “There you are.” She wandered across her studio, smiling at the large canvas waiting for her. Her mind projected rich shades weaving into an image of adventure and intrigue where her eyes saw only blank tan fibers—the artist’s special talent was to see the possibilities in every panel, every canvas and piece of paper she was presented with, and to bring those possibilities to life where everypony could see them as vividly as Color herself.
Balancing the messy wooden palette on her wingtip, Color wrestled with the cap of the blue tube. Dried on, again. Dammit. Setting it on the ground with the end under her hooves, she gripped the cap with her teeth, cautious to not get paint in her mouth.
“MRS. WHEEL? ARE YOU HEEEERE?”
GAAH! Startled, Color crushed the tube just as she successfully uncapped it, spurting the blue paint across her face. Spitting and annoyed, she fumbled for a rag as she yelled to whoever had interrupted her. “Yes? The door’s unlocked, who is it?”
As she scrubbed the majority of the paint off—the substance itself came off easily enough, but her cream-colored coat was stained in large spots—three blank-flanked fillies came bouncing in.
“Hi Mrs. Wheel! Hey, I guess you’re a paint pony, huh?” The most hyperactive of the three, a pegasus, chuckled at her own joke while her friends shot her a disapproving look.
“One thing’s fer certain, Scoots, yer not gonna get yer cutie mark in high comedy!”
Chuckling, Color Wheel set aside her rag, and quickly glanced in a mirror to make sure there wasn’t any paint left behind her ears. “How can I help you, girls? I was just about to start my newest work, but it can wait.”
“Well,” the third filly began, “we decided that it was best that we found out how all the ponies in Ponyville got their cutie marks—”
“YOU decided that—I wanted to go deep-sea diving!”
“We already tried that!”
“What are you, a history book?”
“Stop calling me reference book names!”
“Girls, girls, calm down!” Color had stepped carefully between the arguing group and her still-drying paintings, just to make sure they didn’t get hurt…the fillies OR the paintings. “Every pony in Ponyville, huh? That’ll be quite a feat. It’s a big town! How about you sit right down—careful, Scootaloo, not on the palette!—and I’ll get right to my story.”
The three sat down, listening intently.
“It all started when I was learning to fly…
~ ~ ~
I’d been trying for a long time, but it took a while for me to grow into my wings. So, the first time they were finally strong enough to lift me, I couldn’t wait to take to the air! I was very dramatic about it—I went and got an aviator cap and goggles, the whole shebang. I even skipped school that day, and that’s a big deal for me, since we were working on arts and crafts that day—which I loved, if only because it meant no math.
I made a point of getting a good running start on the street, since I wanted to go as fast and as high as I could. I distinctly remember almost crashing into a few ponies while I was picking up speed.
Once I was finally in the air, I was so excited. I really thought I was going to wind up getting a cutie mark related to flying—though, I didn’t really like the idea of being on the weather team or anything, I just thought a high-flyer cutie mark would be glamorous and easy to brag about. Once I felt comfortable flying straight, I decided to try doing a barrel roll—
And that didn’t work out so well. I spiraled out of control and started zipping in random directions, bouncing off clouds here and there like a pinball. It was terrifying, and I wound up shooting straight towards city hall.
It was Art Appreciation Week, and there was an outdoor exhibition of community works set up in the front courtyard of city hall. You know where this is going, don’t you? I crashed straight through the main exhibit—a huge canvas painting by some Canterlot artist.
Luckily, the exhibition hadn’t actually opened yet, so there weren’t many ponies around to see what I’d done—except Princess Celestia, who’d hoofpicked the paintings for the art show. I was afraid I’d be banished or something, so I tried to think of a way to make up for it—and before I realized what I was getting myself into, the Princess had accepted my offer to paint a new main exhibit. Did I mention I had less than a week until the opening? And I’d never actually painted beyond hoofpaints before? Once Celestia had left, I couldn’t stop thinking I should have just settled for banishment.
As it turns out, painting something that big isn’t easy. I was even shorter then than I am now if you can believe it—ha ha—so I actually wound up perfecting my flight by hovering in place to reach the upper parts of the canvas. I tried to paint something with a similar theme as the original work—it had been some sort of serene landscape of the pre-settlement Equestrian wilderness. But as many times as I tried to create such a thing, I felt like the canvas was disagreeing with me. It wanted to grow up to be a lively work, full of motion and laughter, so I gave it what it wanted…even though it meant that much more work for me.
Now, a painting that big, with so much detail and such a close deadline meant I was working through the night on this thing, only taking breaks to nap when I’d made huge strides in my progress. I wound up accidentally dozing off in my palette a few times, getting pink in my mane. To this day, I keep pink streaks dyed in my mane and tail to remember that time.
Anyway, it was the night before the grand opening, and Princess Celestia came by to see my finally finished work. I was really worried she wouldn’t be happy with it, but it was just your average afraid-of-the-Princess nerves. I couldn’t have been prouder of my painting. As least, that’s what I thought until the Princess grinned a huge grin and told me she thought it was better than the one I’d destroyed. Now, obviously that confused me. I was just a filly barely able to fly, after all, and the old painting was by some prestigious Canterlot unicorn prodigy—but Celestia confided in me that the old painting was by her snotty nephew Blueblood and she’d only featured it because he whined about it.
I was obliged to attend the grand opening, since I’d painted the new main exhibit. What I wasn’t expecting was that I had to give a short speech. I was terrified, of course, but I wound up coming up with something off the top of my head about discovering new ways to create by first destroying. I guess I convinced myself—or my flank anyway—because just as I finished the last sentence the audience gasped as my cutie mark blinked into existence. It couldn’t have been timed better, really. And you know the rest—a few art collectors immediately asked me if I’d make works for them, and I’ve been an artist for hire ever since!
~ ~ ~
With this, Color Wheel gazed at her mark, a yellow pencil and black paintbrush, the paintbrush’s tip colored with stripes of the primary colors.
“That’s really neat, Mrs. Wheel!” Applebloom grinned wide—the idea of creating and building new things sparked an interest in her heart, though Color could tell it would be awhile before she realized it.
“I really like your mane, by the way.” Sweetie Belle had taken notice of the origin of Color Wheel’s distinctive stripe of pink from the tip of her mane to the end of her tail.
“Boring! It’s just more stuff about finding your destiny or whatever. Come ooon, let’s go be Cutie Mark Crusader Sea Pony Discoverers!” Scootaloo was already halfway out the door when her manners briefly shone through—“thanks for telling us your story, though, Mrs. Wheel.”
“No problem, girls. Feel free to come back any time. And please, call me Color.”
~ ~ ~
Moments later, Color was again alone in her studio. The story had piqued a melancholy cloud in her mood, dampening the adventurous image she wanted to release from the empty canvas in front of her. She lumbered up the stairs from her studio into her personal quarters, stopping in the bathroom to examine her coat in the mirror—the blue stains on her face caused her to sigh more dramatically than she’d meant to. She noticed her hair was growing a bit too long. The roots of her white mane and black tail interrupted the pink streaks, making them a bit tacky, and her coat itself was a bit shaggy—which was problematic. Sighing again, she grabbed a saddlebag full of bits and took off to the salon.
“Hallo Color Wheel! You are here for usual streak touch-up?” Aloe waved to her regular customer. The pegasus grumbled, flopping moodily into the chair.
“You are angry, Color Wheel?”
“Sorry, Aloe. I’ve just got a lot on my mind. The usual, please.” Settling down by the washing and dyeing sink, Color carefully removed a small piece of metal from each ear and stashed them quickly in her saddlebags.
“And while you’re at it, the same old flank-styling too.”
“You are all perfect now.”
Aloe spun Color in her seat, facing her to the full-length mirror. The pegasus smiled weakly—her freshly styled mane and tail again were accented by their hot pink streaks, and her coat was cut short, her cutie mark’s edges crisp and distinct. However, the blue spots on her face remained—the paint was too stubborn and would have to slowly wash out of its own accord.
“Remember not to get wet for a day, the dye has to sink in, yes?”
“Thank you, Aloe. Here’s an extra tip for your time.” Color flipped an additional coin into the jar along with the usual tip she gave, feeling generous to the pony that always showed so much sensitivity and kindness.
“Mail for Color Wheel? Hi, Wheelie!” Another pegasus, cross-eyed and peppy, sat in the waiting chairs with a styling book in one hoof and an ivory scroll for Color Wheel in the other.
Taking the scroll and sitting down, Color nodded to her friend. “Hi, Thunderpeal. How’s mail duty treating you?”
“Okay, I guess. Dinky wanted to follow me on my route today but I was worried she’d get lost.”
“How would she even keep up with you without wings?”
“She’s gotten really, really good at teleporting lately! Makes it impossible for me to keep her from eating all the muffins she wants when she can just ‘pop!’ into the kitchen like that. She takes after her papa, doesn't she? Always the teleporting and time travelling...” Thunderpeal—called Derpy by most who knew her—shook her head at the mention of her daughter’s antics. She noticed then that her old classmate was engrossed in the scroll.
“What’s it say?”
Color handed the scroll over, and Derpy read:
My Dear Color Wheel—
I apologize for this very last minute notice, but the grand opening for your newest exhibition, “Thousand-Word Stories,” has been moved up to tonight from the previous date of a week from now. Princess Luna scheduled a seminar on the economic importance of nighttime activity on the previous timeslot, and obviously the owner of the lot couldn’t very well say no to her. I hope you’ll still be able to make your appearance and send off the exhibition with another of your awe-inspiring speeches. The opening is at 6:00 PM.
Yours truly,
Esteemed Patron, Esq.
“What time is it, Thunderpeal?” Color Wheel facehooved at this last-minute change of plans. The mailmare glanced at her hoof, realized it was watchless, and asked a nearby customer waiting for her manecut.
“It’s five o’clock,” stated the passive pony. Color groaned, again much louder than she had intended, and sprinted out the door of the salon while calling a farewell to her friend.
Esteemed Patron pawed at the straw spread across the wooden boards of the outdoor auditorium in front of the gallery, fretting. His favorite artist for hire was well known for her improvised speeches on the lessons that could be taken from her exhibitions, lessons which usually only came to her while she spoke. Those speeches were what got the art shows favorable opening reviews in the papers, and what brought in spectators…and their money.
Esteemed made his living on the cycle—find promising artist, pay for their supplies and art show costs, charge the visitors, rinse and repeat. Ms. Color Wheel’s exhibitions were so consistently successful that the two had become a team, and she was the main artist he supported. He was convinced that, with such a clear special talent for bringing out the art in anything and giving it life, she would be a big name in the creative world—if only she’d show up on time.
As if on cue, the pegasus came barreling onto the lot from above, barely managing to right herself before crashing. She hovered in front of Esteemed, perfectly still as a hummingbird in the air, a skill she’d perfected to paint large works.
“Sorry I’m late, Esteemed! I was at the salon and didn’t get your letter until five!”
“That’s perfectly alright, Color dear. I just hope you’re ready for your big speech. A grand exhibition like this deserves the best from you, obviously.” Relieved at her arrival, the unicorn gestured into the gallery, using his silvery magic to adjust a crooked painting from afar.
“Ready enough, anyway. I won’t fail you, Steamed Bun!”
“Don’t…call…me that.” Color had given Esteemed his Chinese-food nickname after mishearing his introduction when they first met to discuss business. He griped about it, but he did think it was witty—though he’d never admit it. Sweeping back his burgundy mane, he stepped into the gallery to make sure everything was in order.
Not long after, the outdoor auditorium had packed with important ponies with an eye for art. Color snuck a glimpse through the curtain on the small stage, looking for particularly recognizable faces; there was Hoity Toity; Fancy Pants and his impossibly tall trophy wife; Photo Finish; Rarity the fashion designer—what a beautiful gown, Color thought, I wonder if I should get a dress from her for my next opening. As she scanned the crowd, fussing with her mane to make sure it sat in front of her ears just so, Esteemed made his way to the microphone to give the artist her introduction.
“Fillies and gentlecolts, I am beyond pleased to welcome you the opening of Miss Color Wheel’s newest gallery, ‘Thousand Word Stories’. I’ll get right to it, then—the only pony who can do these majestic works justice with words is the artist herself. Give a hoof to Color Wheel, everypony!”
With that, Esteemed waved Color in from the wings, winking at her as she passed him. Don’t worry, filly, he mouthed silently. You’ve got this—you always do.
Nervous as ever—she might have had a skill for coming up with speeches, but it was always nerve wracking—Color grinned out into the audience. She could see some ponies murmuring, confusion on their faces, and she remembered her face was still blue. Taking a deep breath, she opened as casually as she could:
“I suppose you’re wondering what happened to my face? Well, it’s a long story. And I guess that’s the whole point of all of this. Long stories, and the paths that take you from where and when you were then, to what and who you are now. And how sometimes you might take a path you wouldn’t have chosen again, but it still gets you where you want to go. And when that happens then I suppose you can’t really say ‘it’s the journey that matters,’ but it still does—because the choices you’ve made will always impact the choices you’ll make. So even if something’s brought you where you would have ended up otherwise on another path, you’ll keep on taking different paths because of that first one. Maybe you’ll still wind up where you intended, and maybe you won’t, but the end result should be something you take pride in because even if the journey is embarrassing or regretful or outright horse-apples, hopefully you still come out of it as a pony you’re proud to be.
But maybe, do those different journeys change what other ponies think of you, no matter where you are? They do, but maybe they shouldn’t. Coming back to my face for example, what would you say if I told you I had this splatter tattooed on in the name of artistic rebellion?”
Color paused, smirking as the audience gasped, some appalled and some intrigued. Shaking her head and containing her laughter, she continued:
“Well, if I said that I’d be lying. It’s paint—some loud fillies startled me when I was opening a tube of paint that was stuck shut. What do you think of me now?”
The audience’s reaction reversed entirely. Those who approved of Color’s alleged rebellion let their faces fall in disappointment, and those who were disgusted by her impulsiveness sighed in relief that the artist had not jumped the shark.
“Anyway, this is my point. Sometimes it seems like the different journeys that get you to the same place really impact you more in the minds of others than your own.
But the whole point of this is that no matter if you had to take a detour in life you’re not proud of, or if you’ve been privileged to take the easiest path all your life, or if you’ve sought out obstacles or taken the fast lane or the scenic route—let it add to who you are and let it help you grow as a pony. Don’t let your regrets weigh you down—just make them part of you. That’s what I’m getting at, I guess. ‘Thousand Word Stories’ is about the origins of YOU. So, yeah, that’s about it—thank you, and enjoy the art show!”
Realizing she’d been holding her breath after this last line, Color breathed deeply as she stepped forward while the audience applauded. She was horrified, however, when that deep breath caught the heavy scent of impending rain—looking up, she saw flashes of a rainbow mane as the weather team arranged dark clouds and the shadow of an impatient pegasus about to jump on the central cloud, starting a storm. Of course there’s a storm scheduled, Color groaned while Esteemed began to guide guests into the gallery for shelter—wait. HORSE APPLES!
Color Wheel turned and prepared to sprint for the door of the gallery, but a moment too late as the rain came pouring down from the low clouds.
“Don’t get wet for a day,” she said… “the dye needs to set”…
Irony. The truest definition of it. It was all Color could think of as she stood, facing away from the crowd, with no gown covering her flank. She cringed, and the seconds felt like forever before she took one glance at her cutie mark.
Aloe was right. The dye had not soaked in at all, and the brush and pencil Color Wheel the pegasus took so much pride in melted off in fat drops of tinted chemicals. Gone was the familiar, colorful, artist-appropriate spot of black, yellow, red and blue.
And there in its place was the ugly gray ear trumpet Color Wheel had hidden from so many since her foalhood.
As she glanced back, she saw the crowd clamoring, their faces contorted with abhorrence and heartstricken surprise and pity—oh, horrible, horrible pity. It was the pity that caused Color to finally snap out of her moment of horror and fly toward her studio home as fast as her wings would carry her.
~ ~ ~
Esteemed Patron, having escorted the guests into the gallery, stared morosely at the pegasus as she disappeared from sight. His dear companion’s reputation had fallen apart in an instant, thanks to no more than an ill-timed storm, and he could do nothing for her in this moment. Forgetting his expensive cloak and tie, he stepped out into the rain and watched the skyline of Ponyville, praying for that spot of black and white to appear again.
Awful, just awful, he thought to himself. A talented pony like that deserves so much better.
Shaking his head once, he failed to fight back a few tears and shook his head harder to regain his composure. As he braced himself to step back into the gallery, buzzing with newborn rumors, he heard a small and heartbroken drawl from the walk out of the lot.
“Crusaders, ah figure the story she fed us earlier weren’t quite true. What do we do now?”
In the studio, the large canvas lay face down on the floor, surrounded by scattered supplies and collapsed easels. The dry paintings lay scattered as well, though in safe spots, and the wet ones merely sat upside down. A cautious and careful tantrum had been thrown here.
“Mrs. Wheel—I mean, Miss Color?”
Sweetie Belle peeked in. The storm clouds outside the full-wall window and the paintings in disarray made the whole room seem so much more gray and sullen. Perking her ears, she heard sobbing from up a flight of stairs in the corner of the studio.
“Come on, Scoots. Hurry up, Apple Bloom. Cutie Mark Crusaders Psychologists go.” With this command, the three fillies tiptoed past the paintings and easels and up the stairs.
Color Wheel lay sprawled across her bed, weeping loudly, an “X” of duct tape on her flank. Her name as an artist was now irreparably tarnished. She would never be “Color Wheel the Gifted Artist” again. From now on, anyone who saw her would see “Color Wheel the Disabled Pony who Does Art Too—How Inspiring She Is.” Inspiring. As kind a word it seems, to Color it was a horribly concealed insult to a pony’s potential.
If you’re inspiring for succeeding at something you poured your heart into, you’re unreasonable for expecting success of yourself in the first place.
Color startled up out of her bed as she heard an incredibly forceful knock on her bedroom door. “Who is it?”
“Applebloom, Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo. Can we come in, Miss Color?”
“We’ve knocked like three times now! Why didn’t you—”
“Hush yer mouth, Scoots!”
The fillies from earlier. Color whimpered—of course! The day she tells her fictional cutie mark story to innocent foals, it’s revealed as a lie!—and made her way to the door, throwing a blanket over her back to hide the duct tape “X”.
“Can I help you, girls?”
“Wow, you’ve been crying hard.” Sweetie Belle stared into Color’s multicolor eyes, the inspiration of her name, which were now mostly red from tears.
“Yes, I have, because my life’s ruined. Ha. But go ahead and come on in, make yourself at home. I’ll heat up some water for tea.”
The three fillies sat in a row on the many pillows on the floor—they’d been thrown aside while Color wept on the bed.
“So, we’re just wondering, Miss Color, how did you…I mean, what is the… I mean, why didn’t…”
“Oh, out with it, Sweetie Belle! Miss Color, we want to know what the hay your cutie mark actually is and why you didn’t tell us before.”
“Scoots! Shut up before I buck ya clear out the window!”
Making a detour from the kitchen to the window to make sure it was secure, Color brought a tray of daisy tea to the three. “So, you want the real story this time, right? I guess there’s nothing more to lose…”
“You don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to, Miss Color!”
“No, no, you have a right to know. But trust me when I say this isn’t a good way of getting your mark, so you know…don’t try this at home.” The artist chuckled at her little moment of wit as she plunked two, three, four sugar cubes into her tea—she’d always liked it sweet, and she felt like she deserved to baby herself in this moment.
“It really started during feather flu season.”
~ ~ ~
I was a very young filly, about seven—way younger than most fillies get their cutie marks. I was in junior flight school, and I was just your average pegasus foal. And that year, the feather flu reached nearly epidemic proportions.
As I’m sure Scootaloo knows, the feather flu can knock even the strongest stallion on his plot—pardon my French—if he doesn’t get to a doctor at the first sign of symptoms. It had been spreading around the school—students were told to go straight home and stay there if they felt sick, but the teachers were passing it around too. It wound up getting to my arts and crafts teacher, and I wound up catching the bug in his classroom.
I did as I was told—the first time I caught myself coughing, I hurried home and told my mother. She brought me right to our family’s doctor, Doctor Duck Sounds. She’d always treated me well before, so my family obviously trusted her. She was fun, too—whenever she’d check my ears or take my temperature, she’d distract me by spinning the magnifying lens cone thing on the table with her magic so it acted like a top. We liked her. Which is why we didn’t suspect anything when she outright refused to give me any medicine.
Now, I know you’re foals and the idea of not having to choke down pills or disgusting syrup sounds like Cloud Nine. But in this situation, it really would have been the better alternative. My feather flu got worse, my wings got brittle, and my fever was flying high. My mother brought me back to Duck Sounds twice, but she outright said, “she has to tough it out.” So for a while, we assumed she knew what she was talking about—but I only got worse.
Eventually, my ears hurt so bad I couldn’t even stand them up. My mother hurried me to a new doctor, and he gave me medicine immediately. I healed fast after that, and honestly it’s a miracle I got treatment when I did—it’s not impossible that I would have died if I’d waited any longer.
Of course, even after my feather flu cleared up, I couldn’t help noticing something was different. My mother wound up bringing me back to the new Doctor—Doctor Heal Hoof—and he tested my hearing then and there. The results were awful—I had permanently lost over half of my hearing from the feather flu. I would need hearing aids, obviously, unless I wanted to learn to lip read. He gave us the information for the Ear Snout and Throat, told us all we needed to know about getting me hearing aids, then he happened to notice something suspicious. I’ll never forget that awful moment…
“Color Wheel, I am so sorry to say this to you after all you’ve been through, but…you’ve gotten your cutie mark.”
I looked right away, hoping he was joking around and it would be a mark for something good, but there it was—this ugly old ear trumpet. I’d never have the pride of suddenly discovering what made me special because my flank decided that I was only “special” by being “different.” A few years later, I found out that I had the kind of hearing loss I had wouldn’t even be helped by normal hearing aids, but it was too late then. My mother was hit hard by it too. I can’t imagine how hard it must have been for Doctor Heal Hoof to tell me. To this day, I still wish I’d run into Doctor Duck Sounds on the street so I could buck her stupid top-spinning horn off.
It really threw me into a tailspin. Basically all I’d learned from the experience was that I was “Hearing Impaired Pony,” and I should never expect anything more of myself. Let me tell you, it sucked, especially since being so young meant I was the first in my class to get my cutie mark—so obviously I got a lot of attention for it. I remember moping about it outside the class building during recess—it was so quiet without hearing the birds chirping. Luckily, a classmate of mine saw I was so in the dumps about it all.
“Hey, you’re Color Wheel, right? The one with the cutie mark?”
A light cadet blue filly with crossed eyed was standing in front of me, and she caught me off guard since I hadn’t heard her walk up.
“Yeah…the one with the stupid ear horn cutie mark. I guess my special talent is having a disability!”
“Hey, don’t feel bad…at least you’re the first in our class!”
“Not helping. We aren’t even supposed to start getting them for a few more years.”
“Sorry…My bad. I don’t really know what to tell you but you know what? I know what it’s like to have a disability. Look at my eyes!” I couldn’t tell whether it was involuntary or she was showing off in some self-deprecating kind of joke, but her eyes tilted in totally opposite directions the next time she blinked, then tilted back inward again.
I couldn’t think of a good answer to her Gummy-eyed joke. We stared at some foals playing with cards at a lunch table, and I remember being pretty surprised when I saw a colt say “twos are wild”—I didn’t hear it, I saw him say it. It was like my eyes were making up for what my ears couldn’t do anymore. But the cross-eyed filly picked up on something different.
“Let’s look at it this way, Wheelie! Let’s pretend cutie marks are like cards. If you get one you don’t like, it’s wild—and you can decide for yourself what your special talent is! It works out perfect!” It sounded silly—like a fill-in-the-blank-flank—but the idea worked out perfect in my mind too.
“Hey! I think I’ll do that! And you know what? When I decide what my talent is, I’ll change my mark! I’ll get it tattooed on or something. That’s a great idea, um…what was your name again?”
“Thunderpeal. But most of the foals call me Derpy—you know, ‘cuz of my eyes—even though I’m not stupid or anything, I just can’t see straight and it makes me a li’l bit clumsy.”
“Well, that’s not very nice. I wouldn’t want you to call me, I dunno, Keller Wheel or Trumpet Ear or anything like that. I’ll just call you Thunderpeal. Friends?”
“That’s so nice of you, Wheelie! Best friends! And you let me know as soon as you get your REAL cutie mark!”
“I’ll do that!”
“Oh hey, the bell rang.”
“What, really? Ugh! Good thing I’ve got you to let me know now, huh? Hahaha!”
~ ~ ~
“Fuffinssss...”
“Did you hear something, Scootaloo?”
“No, Applebloom, just the thunder and lightning.”
“Fuffins for Fheelie!”
The muffled sound, nearly drowned out by the storm even to hearing ponies, came from outside the window downstairs. Peering down from the top of the banister, Color Wheel saw her mailmare friend flapping her wings hard against the howling wind, a basket in her mouth, fighting to reach the windowsill. Color slid quickly down the rail, running to the window and flinging it open just long enough to drag her friend in from the storm.
“Fuffins for—phbt!—muffins! For Wheelie! I heard about what happened at the art show. I’m so sorry, Wheelie!” Derpy spat out the handle of her basket, handing out muffins to everyone in the room.
“It’s fine, Thunderpeal—I’ll figure out something to clear my good name as an artist. Eventually. Maybe I’ll move to Manehattan. I hear there’s a lot of opportunities for ponies in the art world there.”
“No! You should really give Ponyville another chance, Wheelie. With me and Esteemed Patron here to help you, and your skills, you’ll be able to remind everypony in no time that you really should have a cutie mark for art! Now take off that tape X, you’re not fooling me.” With this, Derpy gripped the tape and tore it off—a bit forcefully, removing the cutie mark entirely. Color Wheel leapt up in pain.
“YAAAH! That was a derpy move!”
“Oops. My baaad, Keller Wheel.” Color’s old friend had a devilish grin on her face, showing that the insult was meant entirely in jest—and that the unexpected flank-waxing was intentional. The fillies, quietly munching on their muffins, now collapsed in fits of laughter. Color Wheel, replacing the blanket over her flank to conceal the now hairless patch, fought to contain her own giggles as she briefly returned upstairs to bring down the tea tray.
When she returned, Thunderpeal was setting up ceiling-height canvases across the length of the window. The three fillies, proudly proclaiming themselves to be “Cutie Mark Crusaders Interior Decorators,” helped in little ways, carefully moving easels and small paintings out of harm’s way.
“And what, may I ask, are you doing now?”
“It’s so darn gloomy in here, Miss Color. Miss Derp—I mean, Thunderpeal—said she has some kinda plan, but she didn’t really tell us anything more than that.” Applebloom, at the mailmare’s request, had laid out a large tarp across the floor, while Sweetie Belle arranged and rearranged tubes of paint in a neat little row. Puzzled, Color Wheel set down the tea tray, idly pouring a cup for her classmate as she watched the vague plan in action. Eventually growing fed up of being kept out of the loop, she confronted Derpy.
“So, are you going to explain to me, or are you leaving me in the dark too?”
“Just the opposite, Wheelie! With this huge window looking out on the worst storm this season, it’s no wonder you’re feeling down on yourself. ‘Sides, I figured you needed somepony to remind you of what really makes you unique. Now stop feeling sorry for yourself and let’s get started!”
“Started…with what?” The plan began to dawn on Color Wheel as the other pegasus, as well as the three fillies, donned smocks and brushes. Her doubts slowly receding, Color focused hard on the huge canvases blocking the window. The separate images melted together in her mind to form a mural, bright and innocent and unpredictable, with so much detail she’d need all he help she could get to bring it to life. Smiling in spite of herself, the artist grabbed her palette and brush.
“You’re right, Thunderpeal. What are we waiting for, girls? Get painting!”
Outside in the storm, a colorful weathermare perked her ears. She may have been imagining it, but through the harsh winds and pounding rain and shattering lightning, she thought she heard laughter floating up from a small studio in the heart of Ponyville.
~ ~ ~
Esteemed took cover under the asparagus salespony’s shade, tossing aside his now inside-out umbrella. With a low grumble, he waited a moment in the misguided hope that the rain would clear up even a bit. As if responding in defiance, a cloud directly above cracked with thunder.
“Aieeee!” He screamed with little dignity, chuckling awkwardly and fidgeting with his tie as the asparagus salespony stared. “I, I’ll…just be taking my leave now. Good evening. Good luck with business, and…oop!…yeah. Bye.” As he spoke, Esteemed hastened toward the exit of the stall, tripping over his trashed umbrella as he went.
Out in the rain now without an umbrella, he walked in the middle of the street, allowing himself again to become soaking wet. It fit with the mood of the day, he thought. Soggy and disappointing. After the fiasco regarding Color Wheel’s cutie mark, the gallery had been home to more gossip than the Gabby Gums column. It had disgusted Esteemed to hear what the distinguished crowd, those who should have been above such destructive chatter, claimed about his skilled contemporary.
--
“She’s in denial—her special talent is obviously in only hearing what she wants to hear!”
“And just look at this work. Skilled artist? Ha—She’s never fooled anypony.”
“The poor girl. It’s absolutely inspiring that despite such insurmountable odds, she manages to get through the day.”
“I heard that it’s a miracle she even graduated from flight school! Handicapable ponies have so much standing in the way of their dreams…It seems like such a heavy cross to bear.”
“Esteemed Patron, was it?”
Esteemed had glanced up—he hadn’t realized, but he’d been glaring icily at an empty spot on the wall to keep from screaming at the guests. The local fashion designer, wearing one of her newest originals, was staring up at him, concern in her eyes.
“Yes, and I take it you are Rarity. I apologize for the ruckus taking place here…I certainly hope you haven’t caught wind of the worst being said in this gallery tonight.”
“I’ve heard it all, Esteemed, and that ponies like this could stoop to superficial gossip over something so small really is the worst possible thing. I do wish I could do something to help, but I’ve never spoken to Color herself and I feel I’d be overstepping a boundary.” With this remark, Rarity’s gentle look transformed into an expectant and determined gaze.
“You, on the other hand, Esteemed…”
“What do you expect me to do? I’m the patron and host of the art show. I can’t just leave.”
“You can, Esteemed. Go comfort your friend. I’m Rarity, after all. My reputation as an artist—a fashion artist, but nonetheless—has been in jeopardy before, and I know how to nip gossip like this in the bud. Now go.” Smiling kindly, she gave the stallion a very unladylike and forceful shove toward the door.
--
As he trudged along the muddy road toward the studio, his mind was fraught with worst-case scenarios. Color Wheel has abandoned her studio and flown off to the Everfree Forest—no, she’d never do that, she’s not STUPID—Color Wheel has accepted her cutie mark as her destiny and become stereotypical deaf pony—she’d sooner die, she’d said so herself—OH GOD COLOR WHEEL IS DEAD wait get a hold of yourself, Esteemed!
Shaking his head to rid himself of his active imagination, Esteemed was entirely oblivious to the ponies staring at him.
She’s likely just depressed out of her mind. Reputation shattered, career thrown off the rails—who wouldn’t be? And Color’s always had a dramatic flair when she’s upset. She’ll probably be bawling on her bed—what could I possibly say to her at a time like this?
Fed up with walking so slowly, Esteemed lit up with magic and teleported the rest of the way. Standing on the path in front of the studio building, he heard shaky shrieks from through the full-height window, blocked by large canvases. It was just as he expected—she was beside herself with grief, bawling in the studio. Sighing, Esteemed let himself in the building and trotted up the stairwell to the door.
“Thunderpeal! Put that down noYAAaaa!” Color fell back in a fit of laughter, a fresh splotch of orange mingling with the many colorful stains on her coat. Her assailant brandished a brush loaded with kiddy watercolors, grinning like a mad mare. Meanwhile, the three fillies chased each other around the room with paint as well, arguing over whether they should be “Cutie Mark Crusader Art Warriors” or “Cutie Mark Crusader Paint Platoon.”
Despite the mayhem, the canvas in front of the window was slowly evolving into the image it had the potential to be. Between tea and muffin breaks and paint fights, a brushstroke here and a hoofprint there found their way home to rest on the canvas, coming together not quite as Color Wheel envisioned it, but perhaps better. Brightly colored ponies filled the space, all smiling, all doing their heart’s work—one unicorn playing some fantastic musical instrument, two earth ponies swinging from a trapeze.
Each pony possessed a completely unfitting cutie mark—a sheet of paper, an apple with a worm, a hammer (who wants a hammer for a cutie mark?), or meaningless squiggles. As the friends painted each new pony, they took turns telling his or her story, so each one on the painting had a tale to tell of how they got their cutie marks—as well as why they ignored it entirely. As more ponies appeared and the artists ran out of plausible explanations, the stories got odder and odder:
“I tripped on a banana peel and got a falling-down cutie mark!”
“Ah watched too many scary movies and got a cutie mark that looks like bloooooooood!”
“Aaah! Stoppit, Applebloom! This one thinks cutie marks are totally uncool, so he got a cutie mark of a blank flank!”
“Whoa! What happens if the cutie mark gets a cutie mark?”
“Don’t be stupid, Sweetie Belle.”
“How about this one? She got an egghead egg cutie mark after reading too many Daring Do books!”
“Ya’ll best not tell Twilight about that one, Miss Thunderpeal…or Rainbow Dash, fer that matter.”
“My baaad! Well, it’ll be our little secret then.” Grinning that crazy grin again, Thunderpeal painted a very unsubtle gray X over the egghead pony’s flank. The group again collapsed into peals of laughter, just as Scootaloo heard a knock at the door.
“Hold on, girls. I’ll get that.” Color Wheel snickered as her friend gave the egghead pony cross-eyes. “Yes, who is—oh!”
Esteemed Patron stood at the threshold, downtrodden and dripping wet, his carefully styled mane now hanging in stringy tangles from the wind and rain. He was much taller than Color, but with that stricken expression he looked very small, very young and very needy.
“Color, I…I came to see if there was anything I could do to cheer you up. By the smile on your face, I suppose I’m not needed. I’ll just be on my way.” Esteemed turned to suffer the walk home—he couldn’t go back to the gallery looking like this—when Color grabbed the hem of his cloak and dragged him into the studio. “Oh no you don’t! If anypony should be feeling sorry for themselves, it’s me, and you don’t see me moping! Settle in, I’ll get you a towel and some tea.” Giving her friend no time to refuse the offer, she cantered to a linen closet for a towel, which Esteem accepted from her, baffled.
“What, are you that surprised that I didn’t want to let this get the best of me?”
Color raised an eyebrow at Esteem as he scrubbed his mane dry, watching Thunderpeal help the fillies paint their dream cutie marks onto their flanks.
“No, I suppose I should have expected you’d be stronger than that. But what’s caught my eye is this painting by the window…”
The mural, adorned with those misfit ponies with their mismatched marks, was nearly complete, barely any room left for paint. Color smiled with pride for the work—but as she examined every corner, she frowned at one spot near the bottom of the image.
“Does it look a little empty there to you? It’s missing something, don’t you think?” Everypony stopped at hearing Color’s comment, turning to look at the offending empty space. It was big enough to hold four more ponies—though three small fillies could fit in a one-pony spot if they packed in tight. Exchanging knowing glances with Thunderpeal, then the fillies, Color opened a few cans of paint and poured them in a puddle on the floor. Moments later, the mares and foals were covered in paint, staring expectantly at Esteemed who stood awkwardly by the paint puddle.
“Y-you don’t expect me to—” Esteemed’s protest was cut off as Color Wheel tripped him into the puddle. Grumbling in defeat, he stood joined the others as they lined up by the painting.
“Yeah, I do, Steamed Bun.” With a wink at her annoyed friend, she announced dramatically, “Now, my fellow artistes—I think this masterpiece needs a signature!” With this proclamation, Color dragged the technicolor group with her and they collided with the canvas, leaving an unmistakable imprint.
~~
Color Wheel chatted peacefully and mindlessly with her guests as she tidied up the studio—not much, just enough to make it livable. As soon as the storm died down, the fillies said goodbye and headed home with Rarity, who had stopped by on her way home from the gallery.
“Later, Miss Color! Ah’ll be sure to stop by again sometime soon!”
“Bye, Color!”
“Good night! Sis, you wouldn’t believe how much fun painting is! Maybe that’ll be what I get my cutie mark in…”
Soaked towels, pushed into the corner by the washer. Easels knocked over in a fit of self-pity, righted and set aside. Tarps and plastic sheets on the floor, covered in pools of paint, cautiously folded and placed in a trashcan. All the while, a conversation stirred between the three ponies, though none of them was focused enough to know what they were really talking about. If time was passing quickly, none noticed, but eventually it occurred to Esteemed to say goodnight.
“Color, will you be alright on your own? I should head home as well, since it is fairly far from here and it will be a long walk.”
“I’ll be fine, Esteemed. Walk carefully. Good night.”
“Ftake a fuffin! I frought ftoo many!”
"Thank you, Der--Thunderpeal--I'll take one you haven't held in your mouth, thank you..."
Out of her dazed attempt to straighten up, Color Wheel realized she had run out of chores to do. Taking another muffin, she sat in front of the painting and quietly motioned to invite Thunderpeal to do the same.
“Will you really be alright, Wheelie?”
“Look at that, Thunderpeal. See the painting? It’s only been a matter of hours and it already looks different now.”
“Yeah, I guess, less shiny? But what does that have to do with—”
“It’s drying already! Slowly, of course, but it is. You know, it’s not such a boring process as ponies think it is.”
Thunderpeal furrowed her brows, wondering where her friend was going with this.
“Sure, WATCHING it dry is boring, but only because that’s like watching a pot boil. As a painting dries it’s changing, Thunderpeal. It loses that shine that makes it hard to look at, and its real colors show through. You might have a color in the work that didn’t make any sense until it settles in and you can see it for what it really is.
“And when it’s dry, the paint is strong. You can’t get rid of it, sure, but you can build on it and if you need to fix it you can, where trying to earlier would have made it worse. So if you have a stray brushstroke that seems to ruin the whole piece, you can freak out and try to undo it and do more damage in the process…or you can wait it out and act like it’s meant to be there. Maybe it is.
“And once it’s sunk in and you can appreciate what it brings to the whole, you can add something new over it and make the whole thing even stronger and more perfect than it was before.”
A pause, and the two pegasi sat in near silence as the last drops of rain pattered to a stop. All that was left was, for Thunderpeal, the birds chirping a relieved goodnight song, and for Color Wheel the low drone of the wires and pipes in the walls. Before the mailmare could speak to—what did she need to do right now? Comfort her friend, shake some sense into her, joke with her over the drama that the night had seen?—the other spoke.
“It’s getting late, ‘Peal. You should probably head back home. Dinky and Doc might be worried.”
“They know where I am, Color—”
“All the same. I don’t have a guest bed ready and I’d be a bad hostess to make you sleep on the floor, wouldn’t I? Thank you so much for the muffins. I’m fine, I promise, I’ll talk to you later, good night.”
Color had been prodding her friend toward the door, stopping to hug her to show that her gratitude was sincere. As Thunderpeal walked out, she knew with only a glance back that the artist would be okay. Content with the knowledge of her friend’s well being, she started off toward home.
Color strolled slowly back to the painting, thinking carefully. The paint of the group’s “signature” was almost dry. Without saying a word, she retrieved her palette and a single brush, squeezing out tiny teardrops of black, yellow, red and blue onto the wooden disk. The painting was requesting one last finishing touch; she could feel the canvas gently reminding her; or maybe this change was for her alone.
Moments later, Color Wheel smiled exhaustedly, the masterpiece complete. The tie-dye pegasus in the middle of the group was blessed with a crossed pencil and brush, the one and only mark standing for what her special talent was, which nothing could take from her.
Her real cutie mark.
