September Storiesby CheraxChaptersDreams of a Life of Petty CrimeThe Good Kind of CrazyNo RepriseIn the Space Between SomethingsSummer SilenceDreams of a Life of Petty CrimeAuthor's Note Soul Searcher is an OC from something else entirely. Dreams of a Life of Petty Crime "… I just think it's trying too hard." "I can't say I don't know what you mean, but I think that's a matter of perspective. 'Too hard' depends on what you think the goal is. If the goal is to create a work of art indistinguishable from the works of the previous century, I think she succeeded with flying colours. (It's this way.)" "(All these streets look the same.) Yeah, she did that, but… I was looking at them, and they were good, at least aesthetically, but I just saw this layer of subtext beneath every single picture that said, "look, look at me! Look at the pointlessly extravagant lengths I went to to make this! Aren't I interesting?'" "Oh yes, that was written in the program, actually. At the bottom of the last page." "C'mon, I know you feel the same way. It's inauthentic! We've talked about this. Today is not a hundred years ago, today is today, and you're in it, feeling it and expressing it. What good are anachronisms? We don't use lithocharms anymore, why bother reconstructing one? I mean, who knows how much time and effort it took to make that dumb thing…" "Not to mention how many bits— oh. Oh gods." "Hm?" "Ohhh gods. We didn't pay. We— we left the— I was talking about light magic and, and I just, oh stars I completely forgot to go back inside and…" "Aha. You finally noticed." "Y— You knew? This whole time?!" "Pshh, 'this whole time.' C'mon, we left like five minutes ago—" "That's not the point! You knew! Why— Gah! We have to go back." "Hold on! No, we don't." "Oh darling, really, this is - let go of me! - this is not the time for one of your little crusades!" "Little crusades? What does… oh, that's a good band name. Little Crusades. Sorry, I mean, what does that mean?" "It means you're always trying to break the law in the most frivolous ways. Can't we just—" "Frivolous, she says!" "She certainly does! Whenever you dodge the ticket inspector at the tram stop, or sneak that extra vial of paint into your saddlebag, with that little look of yours like you understand something that nopony else does - tell me, enlighten me - what are you getting out of it, besides the obvious? What exactly are you achieving by not paying for your dinner just now?" "I'm making a statement!" "You're making a statement." "I'm making a statement. Look, see, I'm fighting back against the uh, consumerist…. the profiteering of the, the bourgeois enterprise— okay, gimme a sec, I do have something for this—" "Oh, please, take your time. Meanwhile, I'm going to go back and pay." "Nooo! No no no! We've— We've come this far already! I mean, hey slow down, look, it's… It's an art piece." "…" "Performance art! Yes! Don't you give me that look. It's a legitimate medium of artistic expression." "That's not why I'm giving you the look. You can't just retroactively call anything you do performance art! I know it's a legitimate medium of artistic expression, thank you very much, and you are cheapening it by not paying for your gods-damn dinner and calling it art. I mean, really! What are you trying to say with this piece, hmm?" "I'm trying to say thaaaaat society is a uh construct that we are constantly maintaining and elaborating upon, and all it takes is the simple uhhh violation (yes) of the final and most important step (from a capitalistic perspective of course) of this routine that we otherwise sleepwalk through, this exchange of goods or services for money (another construct) by ostensibly free entities acting in bad faith and— Is any of this good?" "It's a bit derivative. It rather screams 'art school drop-out.'" "Oh, that is cold, Rares." "I hope a little criticism won't discourage you from pursuing your dreams of a life of petty crime." "Hey, hey. Don't lie. Don't you think it's… cool?" "Definitely. You've definitely lost it." "C'mon! Don't you feel like, like cutting loose? Eugh, I don't know. I just - you're right, we should pay, I'm not serious about this. But tell me you don't feel some kind of, like, afterimage of adolescent rebelliousness - some dim satisfaction from knowing that you just broke the system." "No! I don't! Listen, I know this establishment is expensive, and I know my salmon was overcooked… Well, to be honest, I'd say they definitely don't deserve what they're charging—" "Aha!" "Bu-u-ut we put the system here for a reason, darling. We asked a favour of these ponies in preparing a delicious meal for us, and now, simply, we owe them. Cheating them out of due recompense for our own aimless onanistic thrills is nothing less than the arrogance and brutishness of savages! … stop clapping." "You have so much to teach me." "Sounds like you shouldn't have dropped out of art school." "Just quietly, you know that I know this, right?" "I know that you know this." "Isn't this fun?" "In its own bizarre way." "Hey, before you go in, if I could just real-talk for a second, um… You know, the cost of living here is a lot higher than in the Northwest, and I mean, this grant only gives me so many bits a week…" "Dear! Don't even think about it. You're in my town, it's my treat. No no, I insist." "… thanks, babe." "But when Little Crusades makes it big, you're buying." The Good Kind of Crazy"It's the diva," Coco Pommel explained as she motioned to the bartender. "Nope. No way. There's no way," rebuked High Life. "You guys, I seriously cannot care about this," Waveshaper interjected. The three of them were seated at the counter of the After Party, Waveshaper in the middle, unenthusiastically sipping at a mocktail through a silly straw. Droning chill-out music hung like smoke in the air between them. The faux-dive bar had been flooded with stagehands and understudies at 9pm, as it was most nights, all seeking relief from an impossibly long day of prep and rehearsal; now happy hour had ended, and its unhappy patrons dripped out into midtown Manehattan streets, preparing for tomorrow's early start and late finish. Coco leaned forwards to make eye contact with High Life across her unicorn friend. "What makes you so sure?" Waveshaper rolled his eyes. "No motivation, Cocie. She's the lead! Just like the director never bloody stops saying: this production is going to make her a staaar, daahhlink. Golden Note will be a household name! What would she stand to gain from getting it cancelled?" Something twinkled in High Life's eyes that let Coco know he wasn't taking this seriously at all. He didn't take many things seriously, she thought, which was most unbecoming of a rigger. His job was as dangerous as it was important, and his nonchalance would surely some day earn him a few broken limbs. She winced internally at the idea. "I've been thinking about this. You assume I haven't thought about this, but I— Oh, another spritzer, please," she said to the silent bartender, then continued, "I have a lot of time to think about this." "Tch. Do you guys actually do anything down in Costume?" Waveshaper accused, still staring into his colourful glass. Coco ignored him. "I asked one of my actor friends about it." (Waveshaper tched again; she kicked him with a foreleg, and she saw him grin into his mojito.) "Have you heard about, um, exclusivity clauses? The producers make the big actors sign these contracts that say, if you're the star of one show, you can't go around being the star of ten other shows at the same time, or even for a few months afterwards, because then you aren't a draw. Anypony could see you anywhere else." "And you think…" "I think she got a better offer," Coco said, sipping her fresh spritzer with a smile. "This production's good - it's very good - but it's not the best." "I heard the Travelling Canterlot Co. is casting Les Chevaux Terribles," Waveshaper said quietly, brushing his chestnut fringe from his eyes. Coco swallowed her sip excitedly. "Mm! See? She wants out, but she can't just quit, because, because contracts are complicated, I suppose. She needs the producers to cancel it for her. And in her desperation, she turns to sabotage! That's it. It's the diva." She pointed a hoof at High Life with what she hoped was an air of finality. High Life had been taking this in with pursed lips, and now shook his head grimly at her wavering hoof. "Nope. Too easy." "Easier means more likely to be right!" "Maybe, but also more likely to be boring. No, it lacks a certain… theatricality. Shameful, Cocie, I thought this business would've rubbed off on you by now." Coco gave a crestfallen sigh. "If you ask me," High Life leaned in towards his companions, "I think it's—" "It's not a ghost," Waveshaper drawled, tipping his head back to stare at the dim ceiling lights. "I wasn't going to say— Go home, Wavey." "Take me home, handsome." "In a minute. No, I think it's gotta be the understudy. A bright young talent, spurned in the wings for too long! Or the main character's best friend, you know, the one that drives the plot but doesn't get any good songs? Jealousy, Coco. Ponies are driven by love, death, or a jealous desire for either. I read that somewhere." "Ohhhh," Waveshaper suddenly sang, turning to High Life with a wicked grin. "Hold up. I just figured it out." "What?" his companions said together, both a little too eagerly. "You've got it, man. Jealousy. Who's the doofus that plays the love interest? With the big face?" High Life shrugged. "Tender Melody," Coco said quietly. Waveshaper barked a laugh. "He's banging the diva on lunch breaks. Everyone stage right can hear it. And Cocie wishes it was her." "I— Shhh— Shut up!" Coco buried her face in her forelegs. High Life cocked his head, realisation blooming across his face. "That has nothing to do with my theory," she mumbled. "Don't let jealousy cloud your thinking, dear," Waveshaper grinned. "Hey - y'think he has to do it with the understudy too?" He whooped with laughter. From the other end of the bar, the bartender shot him an impatient glare. "Understudy! Studying… her under… Hang on, there's a joke in there somewhere." ~ It was two days until the press preview. Despite the mystery saboteur's attempts, the production definitely wasn't cancelled - Coco swore she'd seen a poster for The Mare from Mill Valley on every single street she'd walked on the way to work. Upon entering the Zenith Theatre she'd been hit by a wall of noise as loud and frenetic as a war zone: there were carpenters sawing and hammering away at the sets and props on stage, riggers and technicians yelling warnings across the high catwalks, cascades of melodramatic wailing coming from the rehearsal rooms, ominous rumbles from Waveshaper's Foley room, and dozens of department managers barking orders at anyone who made eye contact with them. Sets were busy re-painting the backdrops that had been mysteriously stained by slashes of black ink; Electrical were replacing all the stage lights that had mysteriously burst overnight; Costume, by contrast, had almost nothing to do. Thanks to her two stellar employees - and, if she could allow herself a moment of immodesty, her great organisational skills - all their hard work had been out of the way for days, and the crew merely waited around on standby for last-minute alterations and repairs. She'd clocked in, made a fresh pot of coffee for the Costumers room, and with nothing else to do, headed off to find High Life. "I dunno. I mean, yes, he's hot," High Life said thoughtfully, "but I don't think I'd date anypony working in theatre." The two of them were perched on the catwalk high above the back of the stage, watching ponies carrying props back and forth below them. The rest of the riggers were outside on smoke break. There was a faint crackle heard and felt in the air, a mix of background magic and electricity from the various lights and wires criss-crossing all around them. Coco gave her friend a pointed look from beneath the oversized safety helmet she'd donned. "You are dating somepony in theatre." "Nahhh, that's different. Waveshaper is backstage, he doesn't count. I mean, like, singers and actors…" High Life took a long sip of his coffee, resting his mug precariously on the security railing. "They're super weird." "Waveshaper is super weird." She moved the mug to a safer position. Somepony was shouting below about the exterior nighttime backdrop going missing. High Life giggled. "Again, different. You ever talked to one of these actors at a party? I don't think they ever turn it off. Every single interaction is a performance. It's… it's disconcerting, is what it is. Can't imagine a healthy relationship built on that." Coco hummed in agreement, waiting for someone to notice the exterior nighttime backdrop. It was rolled up and half-obscured by the drawn stage curtains. "I never said I wanted to date him." High Life feigned a shocked look. "Coco Pommel, you minx!" Her cheeks flushed red and she drew the hat down over her eyes. "H-hey!" she called out to the stage floor, "the backdrop is in the curtains! Stage left…!" But her voice was lost in the din of the theatre. "I'll go tell them," High Life sighed, trotting over to the ladder. "You absolute minx." Watching the carefree rigger on the stage floor below her, she found herself remembering the first piece of advice she'd been given in show business - "find a friend." At the Hinny of the Hills closing night after-party, in somepony's opulent kitchen, a surprisingly sober stage manager had told her, "this business is full of crazies. It's easy to make enemies without even trying. Find the good ones, and stick to 'em like glue." That had been her first friend, and High Life, who had soon after stumbled into the room insisting he would make everypony celebratory sandwiches, was a close second place. Backdrop-locating job complete, he looked up at her and saluted. Coco beamed back at him as he made his way over to the ladder, wondering how crazy he thought she was. A sudden movement in her periphery caught her attention. She looked up - on the catwalk opposite her, not five metres away, she saw a slender, shadowy figure step with uncertainty out on to the platform. They leaned in close towards the clamps that fixed the main stage lights to the ceiling truss. Their horn and the clamps began to glow. "High Life," Coco whispered, eyes fixed on the mysterious pony. There was no reply. "High Life!" she hissed, then froze - but it seemed the unicorn hadn't noticed her. By the light of the magical field, she could make out… Pale yellow fur, straight silver mane - yes, it was unmistakeable. She saw Golden Note magic several nuts and bolts into the folds of her white sundress with a devious smile, then turn and disappear into the wings again. Coco realised she was holding her breath, and exhaled loudly. "Miss me?" High Life sauntered over to her, picking his mug back up. Coco sighed pre-emptively. "Tell me you saw all that just now." "All what?" He slurped loudly. ~ "I saw her do it," Coco Pommel explained. "I saw her do it right in front of me." "I didn't see her do it," rebuked High Life. "You guys, I am trying so hard to care about this but I just, I literally can't," Waveshaper interjected. "You're not trying." "No, I'm not. Another mojito, please and thank-you!" ~ It was the day before press preview and Coco had decided to stalk Golden Note. On some level she knew this was a terrible idea, and she should really leave this problem to someone far more suited for the job, or at the very least, get some help, but… But everybody just looks so busy, she thought. I don't want them to have another problem to deal with. That's all. Beneath that thought, embarrassing and unspoken, there was a picture of a dream - Golden Note trotted off in handcuffs, the police and producers praising her efforts, and Tender Melody himself, amidst the crowd of cheering colleagues, vying for the attention of the mare that solved the mystery. She was trying very hard to stop thinking about it. Golden Note - adorned in a flowing red gown that seemed unnecessarily gorgeous - had been in rehearsal with the director, her understudy, and a few not-quite-as-important actors for most of the morning, going over the blocking and harmonies for the penultimate number. Through a transom window Coco had watched the diva intently, noticing her eyerolls when the director wasn't looking and frequent glances at the wall clock. Several stagehands had walked past Coco, giving her odd looks, but she paid them no mind. She had a mission. They broke for an early lunch just before noon - as the cast exited the room, Coco tucked herself into a dusty alcove nearby, waiting until Golden Note had emerged. The mare let everyone get ahead of her, then headed off alone towards the stage-right wing. Swallowing her nerves, Coco followed after her silently. The diva stuck to the shadows, sneaking her way behind curtains and backdrops, avoiding the line of sight of crew members who might catch her in the act. This was quite easy, Coco realised, as all of the crewponies they passed were slacking off, eating and laughing and playing card games with complete disregard for the two mares. One particularly jovial carpenter didn't even notice as one of his large metal hammers was magicked off his tool bench and disappeared into the unlit recesses of the great theatre. Past Prop Storage 1A, up a long thin ramp and through a rusting metal door - Coco realised with a start where Golden Note was headed, and rushed up the ramp after her. It occurred to her that this was her first time in the Foley room - Waveshaper was, snobbishly, never keen on letting staff from other departments in. The room was long and thin and cluttered with all kinds of bric-a-brac - shelves lined the walls stacked high with bells, pipes, cutlery and crockery, foals' toys and weapons. The back of the room curved to allow access directly behind the stage, where the magical amplifiers were positioned. Golden Note strolled leisurely through the room, hammer in magical tow, eyes taking every piece in, as if searching for something - she paused as her gaze alighted on her target, then glided towards it. At the back of the room there stood a large horizontal cylinder marked RAIN with a crank at one end, and next to it, an ominous black sphere marked THUNDER that glowed with blue magic. It issued a low rumble as the diva raised the hammer high above her, eyes glinting in its magical light. Coco's heart pounded like a timpani. Every part of her screamed at her to do something, anything. "Hey!" Coco yelled. The diva stopped in her tracks, and her head snapped towards her. Coco searched for the right words. "That's… that's not yours!" Golden Note's gaze was piercing even from a distance. "Duh," she spat. "I mean…" Coco cleared her throat. "So!" she intoned in her most dramatic voice, "caught in the act!" "You're not very good at this," Golden Note said, spinning the hammer idly in the air. "I'm sorry, I'm from Costume. I don't normally, um…" "Costume!" the diva laughed. "Well, you'll have to do." She shifted her footing and bellowed, "yes, the impossible becomes reality! The unthinkable is made to be thought! Indeed it is I, Golden Note, the star of the show, who was secretly its saboteur all along! I suppose you desire an explanation as to why I've been doing this," she monologued. Coco wanted to offer her theory, but the diva left no room for conversation. "The truth is perhaps too complicated for a little backstage brain like yours, but in short - I got a better deal." "Yesssss," Coco breathed. "Oh yes, much better! From a company that would treat me like the star that I am! A company that wouldn't make me pay for my own lunches! A company that would give me more speaking lines than Tender bloody Melody!" Coco was still trying to figure out if this was all really happening as the diva slowly stalked towards her. "Fair's fair, wouldn't you say? They disrespect me, I disrespect them. I'll take this whole production down, piece by piece, until there's nothing left but a pile of bounced cheques and broken dreams…" She brandished the hammer before her, teeth bared. "And if it comes to it, broken bodies, too." Coco gulped. "S-surely there's an easier way to void your contract." Golden Note hesitated, then shrugged. "Easier, but more boring." "Will you two please," a low voice drawled from the back of the room, "please shut up about this already? Please. I just…" Through the dark she could make out Waveshaper leaning around the corner. "I just hate this. So much." "W-Wave—" "Shhhhh. Cocie, I am trying not to take this personally. Now get out." He cocked his head at Golden Note. "You too, obviously. Leave. Now." Golden Note turned towards him - Coco could only guess the look on her face. "Who in all hell—" "Oh wow, are you still here?" he asked with mock incredulity. "Did you not hear me?" She waved the hammer above her head for emphasis. "I just strongly implied I'd kill your friend!" "Mmhmm. You go do that, literally anywhere else." Waveshaper motioned towards the door with his foreleg. His horn glowed, and Coco felt something in the air gently pushing her and the diva back out the way they entered. They acquiesced, and Coco heard him mutter, "actors!" before magicking the door shut with a slam. The two mares stood at the top of the ramp, unsure of what should happen next. Hoofsteps echoed on the wooden floor behind them, and they both about-faced. High Life stood at the base of the ramp, squinting at them. "Uhh. Hey, Cocie," he said slowly. "Is Wavey busy, or…?" His eyes flicked to the other mare, back to Coco, back to Golden Note. "Hi, I'm sorry. I'm High Life. What's with the hammer?" Coco's mind kicked back into action, and she spun around, stepping away from the saboteur. "This is Golden Note! She came here to smash all of Wavey's stuff and then she threatened to kill me but Wavey kicked us out and— eeeeee!" She jumped backwards as the hammer came swinging down through the air in front of her, just barely missing her muzzle - she felt the rush of displaced air across her widened eyes. The hammer lodged itself into the floor with a crunch. "Oh shit," High Life yelled, "you were right!" "Help meeeeee!" Coco wailed. The diva made a gargling sound, and the hammer shot up into the air between them. Coco glanced back towards High Life, but he was gone. She could just make out his voice shouting over the sound of rushing blood in her ears. The hammer floated above her, the diva snarling - Coco flattened herself against the left railing, and the weapon crashed down, passing only centimetres from her ear. "Y-you're not very good at this!" she squeaked at her attacker. Golden Note lunged at her then, teeth gritted, wild eyes wide as moons. Her forehoof sunk down into the hole the hammer had created, and Coco watched as the diva's momentum shifted around her trapped leg. It all seemed to unfurl in slow motion - the front half of her body was pulled to the floor, the back half continuing on unabated - the mare contorted and shrieked as her flank soared above her head along a graceful parabola that concluded firmly at the ground. As she stared at the crazed showmare writhing on her back, tangled up in her crimson dress, whispering death threats in between pathetic mewls of pain, Coco decided that this almost definitely wasn't happening. Just to be safe, she picked up the hammer and flung it down the ramp, out of magical reach. It slid to a stop at the hooves of High Life, a producer, and four very muscular and concerned-looking prop builders. "What the hell?" the producer exclaimed. "I seriously do not know," Coco yelled back. She realised she was grinning. ~ The arrival of paramedics and police assured Coco that it did, in fact, happen. The crew milled around the stage and front rows, versions of the story jumping like electricity from one loudly murmuring group to another; the diva's leg was being tended to at the back of the theatre. Coco had recounted the event to a stern-faced detective, who'd simply given her an unreadable look, assured her that they'd talk again a bit later, and left her alone by the orchestra pit, still buzzing with adrenaline and self-satisfaction. "Is that… Golden Note?" Coco turned, and her heart skipped a beat - Tender Melody was standing beside her, squinting at the far-off figures. "Yee—" Her voice cracked; she cleared her throat. "Yeah. She um, she snapped, or something? Tried to kill me, you know, haha." He tilted his head towards her. "Are you okay…?" "I'm fine! Totally fine!" She laughed nervously. "These things happen, I guess…!" "Uh, yeah. I guess." He turned back to see two nurses rolling Golden Note on a stretcher out the main entrance, double doors swinging shut behind them. "Damn. I was really looking forward to— um. Having lunch with her." And in that moment Coco realised the difference between bravery and fearlessness. She gently touched her shaking forehoof to his, and whispered, "I'm starving." No RepriseAuthor's Note To the tune of Art Fonseca's Blue. No Reprise She heard the buzzer sounding from the next room, and her heart - her traitorous heart - quickened its pace. Octavia closed her eyes, drawing in a slow breath, holding it, 1, 2, what are you doing, 3, 4, let her in, 5, breathing out through her mouth. She left the bedroom, walking past piles of cardboard boxes to the faintly pulsing intercom. "Come up," she said curtly. Too curt. "Hello," she added as an afterthought, then winced, and held the Unlock Door button down for a few seconds. There was no reply from the other end. She opened the front door and waited, listening to the echo of approaching hoofsteps up the concrete stairwell of her apartment complex. As her visitor approached she quickly trotted over to the kitchenette and attempted to look busy making tea. She heard Vinyl Scratch pause at the doorway before entering. The DJ surveyed the apartment slowly, made eye contact with the cellist for as long as it took to mumble "hey," then looked away, first at the floor, then to a nearby pile of boxes. "Hello," Octavia replied, and winced again as she realised she was repeating herself. This is ridiculous. It's only hard if you make it hard, right? "How are you? Can I make you tea or coffee?" Vinyl shook her head. "You know how I've been," she said quietly. She magicked a box open and inspected the contents with a look of mild surprise. "Oh." "I thought I'd just, um, make it easier for you," Octavia explained. "I had time. They're all still in alphabetical order, don't worry." "Right," Vinyl said, flicking through the records, double-checking. "You didn't have to do that." There was no appreciation in her voice. She stopped suddenly, looking up, finally meeting Octavia's gaze. "You didn't have to do that," she repeated, this time as if she meant it. "Thanks." Maybe she was imagining it, but Octavia thought the DJ's eyes were a duller red than normal. She saw none of their characteristic fire in them; only a hint of something desperate. Perhaps just desperate not to be here. "Uh, the kettle." Octavia realised it was whistling, and she hastily flicked off the stovetop. She poured her tea in silence. It amazed her - the breathless hours of their last argument still rung in her ears, filling the abyss now between the two mares. Is this really all that's left? Is there nothing more to be said? But she saw the way Vinyl's mouth opened ever so slightly, paused, closed again; the way her eyes would land anywhere but upon her former lover; she felt a tugging at her own heartstrings. There's always more. "Is this all of them?" Vinyl stood between the piles, eight boxes in total. It was an impressive collection in itself, though Vinyl had on many occasions assured her marefriend it was nothing compared to the one in her studio. That library was used for work: sampling, referencing, education. The cardboard boxes here were filled with the records she wanted to come home to. This was the music that she loved the most, and loved to share. As if answering her own question, her gaze drifted to the phonograph in the corner of the living area. Field Note's Ocean Town Soundtrack lay on the turntable, its album sleeve leaning against the wall besides it. Octavia noticed at the same time. "Oh, I'm sorry, I am so sorry, I was… listening to that last night," she trailed off. She felt a wave of guilt breaking over as she spoke the words. She hates me. She must. With a small shrug, Vinyl magicked the LP back into its cover. "Okay," she said flatly, sliding the album into its appropriate box. She closed her eyes in concentration, and the record collection floated up above head level. Octavia took a tentative step towards the unicorn. "Do you need a hoof?" "It's fine. I don't think you could really help, anyway." With one last fleeting glance, Vinyl made for the door. This isn't right. "Vinyl, wait." She paused in the door frame, shutting her eyes for a moment - then she turned to face Octavia with an imploring look. "What?" "You… you have to say something." Vinyl bit her lip. "I did. I said everything I wanted to say. You know how I feel, Tavi. And I know you think I'm—" She swallowed her words, finding a more diplomatic replacement. "Well, I know how you feel." "You're right. I do know how you feel. That's why I can't stand… this," Octavia gestured vaguely, "this sad little puppy routine. Aren't you mad?" Vinyl tensed visibly, but held her tongue. "Get mad, please! Hurl all the epithets you need to! Say something - scream something! Give me something, anything but this silence." She could still hear, in the space between them, in her dreams and waking moments, Vinyl's voice: the warmth of her singing, the chime of her laugh, the thrill of her whisper, the cadence of her moans. "It… kills me to see you like this." The words were there already, only waiting to be spoken. She thought she could see Vinyl's mind working, articulating the unsaid, crafting and sharpening, and she braced herself for the coming storm. But - "It's a break-up, Octavia," Vinyl said, unfurrowing her brow. "It's not supposed to be pleasant." She glanced at the door and her mouth worked again, but she abandoned the thought, and she left the apartment with downcast eyes, boxes trailing behind her. That's not it. Octavia followed, trying to find her own words. There's always more. From the doorway, she called out after the unicorn, "I don't want this to be the last time I see you." She felt the familiar sting of tears welling behind her eyes. "I don't want to remember you this way." Vinyl Scratch stopped at the top of the staircase. Octavia could not see her face, but her words reflected off the concrete. "How is this about you? How are you making this about you?" Octavia flinched. "This is about us—' "Is it?" Vinyl spun around, staring the cellist down with wide eyes and flared nostrils. "Is it really? 'cause this was your decision, Octavia. You did this, and— and now you're acting like you're the victim? Like I'm the one breaking your heart? You tore down everything we had because I don't fit into your future, and there's no solid ground beneath my hooves any more and I don't know what the hell to do with myself - but it just kills you to see me like this?! Fuck yourself, Octavia! I won't apologise for your mistakes." The boxes floated above them, shaking. Vinyl clicked her tongue. "Is this good? Is this mad enough for you?" She forced herself not to look away from those red eyes. Each word pricked and poked deeper, bringing to the surface more tears, more uncertainty, more panic. She just wanted to run back inside and wait for it all to pass. She wanted to hide, curled up in the darkness and warmth of her lover's embrace. She wanted— Octavia swallowed. "What if it was a mistake?" "It was." Vinyl breathed deeply, steadying her grip on the boxes. "I love you, Octavia. More than you deserve. If you're gonna remember me, remember that." She turned away. The panic mounted in her mind. Octavia knew she had to say something then, say the perfect thing to make this better, but a million words and phrases whirled around her mind in nonsensical patterns. What was there to say? Which words were pure, which were instinctual? Which came from fear? Which came from love? What was the difference, here and now? She felt something starting on the tip of her tongue, but before it could be born, she heard the complex's security door swing shut below her with a reverberant boom. In the Space Between SomethingsThere's a nurse whose job is to come into the room once every hour or so and make everypony here more miserable. I've seen him five times now. Each time he opens the special no-ponies-allowed door my head snaps towards him before my brain even catches up to it, and I'm dimly aware that the other waiting ponies do the same thing, but mostly I'm focused on the nurse's face. I search, with a growing sense of futility, for an expression upon it. Anything. Any sign of certainty. I wouldn't mind if he came through the door crying his eyes out, screaming, "she's dead! Oh gods, oh gods she's dead!" I honestly think I'd prefer that to his relentlessly vacant eyes, his flatline mouth. Like clockwork, he scans the room, makes the barest of eye contact with each of us, mutters something like, "no news yet, folks, hang in there," and leaves. Last time was slightly different. Last time he reminded us that there's a coffee machine on the floor below us. I didn't see anything in his eyes, but I became aware of the dark lines forming beneath them. There's a couple sitting in the corner, by the pot plant, who do not talk to me or to each other. I think we're too pre-occupied by our own internal monologues to say anything to each other. They came in not long ago, huddled together. There are saddlebags at their feet, the kind with way too many pockets. I imagine they were camping in the outskirts of town, and something happened. Not a good something. There were probably lots of very good somethings happening to them consecutively and they would've thought that everything was good, this is a good world where somethings are to be relished and celebrated, and then one little bad something sneaks its way into the procession right as they're getting comfortable, and now they're here, with me, waiting, in this entirely somethingless room. At one point it occurred to me how many great somethings must be happening outside of this room. I tried to zoom out and put things into a bizarre and probably unhelpful perspective: I am Here; going ten, twenty metres in one direction, we hit Cirrus St, and ponies downing late-night drinks and desserts in its quaint bars and modern cafés; jump again, we're in a block of residences, there are families sleeping soundly, and foals staying up past their bedtimes reading under their blankets by flickering candlelight, and couples wrapping hooves around each other and loving each other thoroughly and carelessly. And I am Here; and going ten, twenty metres in the opposite direction, there is sickness, and uncertainty, and broken bones, and doctors doing the Best They Can. Is there an official body that can measure the Best that doctors Can do? Is there a universal standard? I haven't told the girls. I don't want them to worry a second longer than they have to. I imagined them getting to the Cloudsdale Flats in the dead of night, and I'd have to fly down and cast a cloud-walking spell for them, and I am in no state to be casting complex spells… No, they can all get a good night's sleep tonight. I'll bear the brunt of the worrying. I'm not trying to martyr myself or anything - I'm prepared for it, more than anypony else. This is my specialty. Ah. I was wrong. The nurse's job is not to make everypony miserable. It's to make me miserable. He makes his sixth entrance and doesn't even look at me. He walks straight over to the camper couple. They exchange quiet words that I can't distinguish from each other, but I can hear the hope coming through in the tone of their voices. When this is all over, I will try to remember to be happy for them. The nurse leads them out another door, towards the eastern wing. He meets my presumably frantic gaze as he passes me, and shakes his head, almost imperceptibly. Useless as he's been so far, I'm thankful for his routine. It's a metric, a subdivision: imagine waiting for however many hours the surgery took, in silence, indefinite!; no, when I sit in that waiting room I'm waiting for his next little checkpoint, no more than an hour each time. It's a lot more manageable. I get a coffee from the machine downstairs. In truth, I have always loved hospitals - sanctums of science, a place of learning and healing, of cause and effect. Hospitals remind us that everything is an equation; we are all sums. I used to walk through their sterile white corridors and feel reassured by that. Right now I feel like most ponies feel about hospitals. The lights are dimmed at night and everything looks like an old photograph of itself. Nopony I pass in the halls, patient or staff, is smiling. When was the last time I told her I loved her? I've been asking myself for the last… I don't even know. I'm so busy asking the question I won't even let myself answer it. I think it's safe to assume it was pretty recently but my brain isn't allocating any resources to memory recall and it's mistaking that for failure to recall and now I can't hold back this guilt, this completely unnecessary guilt. I told her before the run-through, right? I kissed her and I said something and she smiled and said "duh" and flew over to the rest of the Wonderbolts… I walk up one too many flights of stairs and end up in the pediatrics ward. It's eerily quiet. The walls are decorated with flowers and smiles and childish pleasantries, but the low lighting drains the smiles of their warmth, and the flowers seem to wilt under the weight of darkness. I go back downstairs. She's not going to die. Formal diagnoses aside - as they stretchered her in, she came back to consciousness for long enough to tell the doctors how lucky they were to be treating the Rainbow Dash before the no-ponies-allowed door swung shut behind them. There's no way Death would challenge such unabashed chutzpah. I'm not worried about the dying. I'm worried about the waiting. I'm worried about the visitation hours, and the weeks turning into months, and the smile slowly slipping from her lips, and the damage that weeks and months may not fix. I jolt upright in my seat, blinking. Eugh. I'm starting to lose my sense of history. There's a wall of fog between this exact moment and the rest of my life. How long have I been sitting here? How long ago did I ask that? I need more coffee. No, I don't. I need sleep. I need to tell her I love her and sleep for a week. An interval of time passes (probably). The nurse makes his xth appearance, and he looks right at me and says, "Ms Sparkle" with the most practiced, expressionless timbre. I stand and give a little nod. "Ms Dash is awake. The doctors are still with her for the moment but you should be able to see her soon. She, uh." He hesitates - this is the first sign of life I've seen out of him. "She would like to tell you, 'don't worry about me… egghead,'" he finishes slowly, pursing his lips. Of course she would. "And what do the doctors say?" His mouth returns to its equilibrium. "Just a little longer, Ms Sparkle," he recites, retreating through his special door. Fluttershy tried teaching me to meditate once. We trekked out to one of her favourite picnic spots, a clearing to the west of Ponyville where there was nothing but bronzed grass and a gentle Spring wind, and lay down on a rug and closed our eyes. "Think about the wind," she whispered. "Feel it blowing over you. Try to forget everything else. Um, except my voice, I mean. OK? Pinpoint somewhere - let's start with your hooves. Focus on the wind blowing over your hooves. Try to forget the rest of your body for now…" And so on, and on and on. Naturally, I started thinking about pressure systems, then atmospheric composition, then particle pedesis, and soon I had forgotten all about Fluttershy. My mind buzzed with ideas and questions - I came so very close to running back to the library and just leaving her there, breathing lightly, smiling absently at nothing. I'm not going to disappoint myself by trying again now. I keep waiting. I think about the physics of the accident - her top speed (estimated), the angle of incidence, the trajectory of debris - I think about how much worse it could have been. I think about Rainbow Dash. I think about how stupid she is, and how incredible, and brave. I think about how much I love her; I try to find a great way to quantify it. Something poetic but also very immediate. I think about how, when they finally let me see her, I'm going to walk into that room and tell her, Rainbow Dash, I love you so much I— "Ms Sparkle," an unfamiliar voice says. The nurse is back, but there's a doctor by his side whose expression, I perceive, is one of reserved self-satisfaction. "The operation was a success. Rainbow Dash is going to be just fine." I've waited this long, I can wait a moment longer. "What does fine mean, exactly?" The doctor clears his throat. "It means that she's in no position to fly any day soon, of course. We ceased the internal bleeding but she still has three broken bones and a good deal more stitches. She'll need bedrest, and plenty of it. I'll have her under observation here for maybe four weeks, and it'll take at least another four to heal proper - but, if she takes it easy, there'll be no lasting damage. Ms Dash will be on her wings again in time for the new year." I'll need to process all this properly after my week of sleeping, but for now, I smile and say thank you, and can I see her now? He takes me to a small private room at the end of the eastern wing, and I see her for the first time in I-don't-even-know-any-more hours. Her broken foreleg is held up in a stirrup, her whole body is bruised and haphazardly bandaged, her mane is a disaster. And still it takes all of my resolve not to smother her with kisses. Love is weird. I call her name gently, and she tilts her head ever so slowly towards me. Her eyes are kind of unfocused but I can see that she recognises me. "Still here," she mumbles. I'm not sure which of us she's talking about. I nuzzle her forehead, carefully, avoiding the bandages. "Hey," I whisper, "I love you, Rainbow. I love you so much I—" and I choke up. Damnit all, I choke up right at the finish line. Rainbow closes her eyes. "So much…?" she croaks. I laugh as I blink back my tears, and I stroke her mane and softly shhh her as she drifts off into painkiller sleep. She can wait to hear the rest of it. Author's Note If you like TwiDash, you'll looove... Summer SilenceTrue silence is a thing unheard, a wish by those who need it most, but Summer silence comes so close. Autumn clips and crackles like the static of the radio, Winter whistles ancient songs and Spring provides its practiced choirs of wildlife to sing along. By Summer they are all quite spent, the singers too exhausted from the heat and light and happiness to vocalise the land's content. Summer silence buzzes with cicadas like an unearthed wire; early birds that chirp their conquests of the worms; and soft, the sighs of all the world asleep and smiling coiled beneath a ciel sky. (…now quiet enough to hear the thoughts which hide beneath the idle chatter Autumn Winter Spring provides…) In Summer certain flowers grow to soaring heights: perhaps you'll find the southern yellow climbing rose (an arbitrary name, in fact, its point of origin unknown) - it relishes the rampant sun and seeks to claim it for its own, will scale cliffs and mountainsides for miles and miles with ceaseless hope - a topiary Icarus that climbs too far and chokes to death above the troposphere, alone. And fireweed begins to sprout across the grasslands, first disguised as red hibiscus yet to bloom - it bides its time, it masks its smile between the bulbs of sweeter things until the heatwave hits its peak and it unfurls: baring its teeth all black as charcoal, breathes out steam as petals hiss and sizzle 'til they burst; erupts in vicious flames that dance across the boiling air devouring voraciously all Mother Nature has to share. Its tiny seeds are carried upwards, up and out on plumes of smoke to look down upon ponies rushing to undo their parents' work and giggle at their parting joke. The sun is drunk on self-importance, comes too early, leaves too late - in Summer you will find a mare who struggles underneath the weight of its unceasing arrogance at break of dawn and close of day but, steadfast, will not show the strain; who cares for both the sun and moon in absence of her counterpart, and tries with not much confidence to find a deeper meaning in the rearrangement of the stars; who bears a greater burden still, the desperate quest to satisfy a question no-one else dare ask, the guilt that builds through centuries within her veins and arteries and silts the channels of her heart; a brilliant, broken mare who's learned the warm respite of Summer nights is nothing to be spurned. She is silent as the season waiting for the Night's return.
Dreams of a Life of Petty CrimeAuthor's Note Soul Searcher is an OC from something else entirely. Dreams of a Life of Petty Crime "… I just think it's trying too hard." "I can't say I don't know what you mean, but I think that's a matter of perspective. 'Too hard' depends on what you think the goal is. If the goal is to create a work of art indistinguishable from the works of the previous century, I think she succeeded with flying colours. (It's this way.)" "(All these streets look the same.) Yeah, she did that, but… I was looking at them, and they were good, at least aesthetically, but I just saw this layer of subtext beneath every single picture that said, "look, look at me! Look at the pointlessly extravagant lengths I went to to make this! Aren't I interesting?'" "Oh yes, that was written in the program, actually. At the bottom of the last page." "C'mon, I know you feel the same way. It's inauthentic! We've talked about this. Today is not a hundred years ago, today is today, and you're in it, feeling it and expressing it. What good are anachronisms? We don't use lithocharms anymore, why bother reconstructing one? I mean, who knows how much time and effort it took to make that dumb thing…" "Not to mention how many bits— oh. Oh gods." "Hm?" "Ohhh gods. We didn't pay. We— we left the— I was talking about light magic and, and I just, oh stars I completely forgot to go back inside and…" "Aha. You finally noticed." "Y— You knew? This whole time?!" "Pshh, 'this whole time.' C'mon, we left like five minutes ago—" "That's not the point! You knew! Why— Gah! We have to go back." "Hold on! No, we don't." "Oh darling, really, this is - let go of me! - this is not the time for one of your little crusades!" "Little crusades? What does… oh, that's a good band name. Little Crusades. Sorry, I mean, what does that mean?" "It means you're always trying to break the law in the most frivolous ways. Can't we just—" "Frivolous, she says!" "She certainly does! Whenever you dodge the ticket inspector at the tram stop, or sneak that extra vial of paint into your saddlebag, with that little look of yours like you understand something that nopony else does - tell me, enlighten me - what are you getting out of it, besides the obvious? What exactly are you achieving by not paying for your dinner just now?" "I'm making a statement!" "You're making a statement." "I'm making a statement. Look, see, I'm fighting back against the uh, consumerist…. the profiteering of the, the bourgeois enterprise— okay, gimme a sec, I do have something for this—" "Oh, please, take your time. Meanwhile, I'm going to go back and pay." "Nooo! No no no! We've— We've come this far already! I mean, hey slow down, look, it's… It's an art piece." "…" "Performance art! Yes! Don't you give me that look. It's a legitimate medium of artistic expression." "That's not why I'm giving you the look. You can't just retroactively call anything you do performance art! I know it's a legitimate medium of artistic expression, thank you very much, and you are cheapening it by not paying for your gods-damn dinner and calling it art. I mean, really! What are you trying to say with this piece, hmm?" "I'm trying to say thaaaaat society is a uh construct that we are constantly maintaining and elaborating upon, and all it takes is the simple uhhh violation (yes) of the final and most important step (from a capitalistic perspective of course) of this routine that we otherwise sleepwalk through, this exchange of goods or services for money (another construct) by ostensibly free entities acting in bad faith and— Is any of this good?" "It's a bit derivative. It rather screams 'art school drop-out.'" "Oh, that is cold, Rares." "I hope a little criticism won't discourage you from pursuing your dreams of a life of petty crime." "Hey, hey. Don't lie. Don't you think it's… cool?" "Definitely. You've definitely lost it." "C'mon! Don't you feel like, like cutting loose? Eugh, I don't know. I just - you're right, we should pay, I'm not serious about this. But tell me you don't feel some kind of, like, afterimage of adolescent rebelliousness - some dim satisfaction from knowing that you just broke the system." "No! I don't! Listen, I know this establishment is expensive, and I know my salmon was overcooked… Well, to be honest, I'd say they definitely don't deserve what they're charging—" "Aha!" "Bu-u-ut we put the system here for a reason, darling. We asked a favour of these ponies in preparing a delicious meal for us, and now, simply, we owe them. Cheating them out of due recompense for our own aimless onanistic thrills is nothing less than the arrogance and brutishness of savages! … stop clapping." "You have so much to teach me." "Sounds like you shouldn't have dropped out of art school." "Just quietly, you know that I know this, right?" "I know that you know this." "Isn't this fun?" "In its own bizarre way." "Hey, before you go in, if I could just real-talk for a second, um… You know, the cost of living here is a lot higher than in the Northwest, and I mean, this grant only gives me so many bits a week…" "Dear! Don't even think about it. You're in my town, it's my treat. No no, I insist." "… thanks, babe." "But when Little Crusades makes it big, you're buying."
The Good Kind of Crazy"It's the diva," Coco Pommel explained as she motioned to the bartender. "Nope. No way. There's no way," rebuked High Life. "You guys, I seriously cannot care about this," Waveshaper interjected. The three of them were seated at the counter of the After Party, Waveshaper in the middle, unenthusiastically sipping at a mocktail through a silly straw. Droning chill-out music hung like smoke in the air between them. The faux-dive bar had been flooded with stagehands and understudies at 9pm, as it was most nights, all seeking relief from an impossibly long day of prep and rehearsal; now happy hour had ended, and its unhappy patrons dripped out into midtown Manehattan streets, preparing for tomorrow's early start and late finish. Coco leaned forwards to make eye contact with High Life across her unicorn friend. "What makes you so sure?" Waveshaper rolled his eyes. "No motivation, Cocie. She's the lead! Just like the director never bloody stops saying: this production is going to make her a staaar, daahhlink. Golden Note will be a household name! What would she stand to gain from getting it cancelled?" Something twinkled in High Life's eyes that let Coco know he wasn't taking this seriously at all. He didn't take many things seriously, she thought, which was most unbecoming of a rigger. His job was as dangerous as it was important, and his nonchalance would surely some day earn him a few broken limbs. She winced internally at the idea. "I've been thinking about this. You assume I haven't thought about this, but I— Oh, another spritzer, please," she said to the silent bartender, then continued, "I have a lot of time to think about this." "Tch. Do you guys actually do anything down in Costume?" Waveshaper accused, still staring into his colourful glass. Coco ignored him. "I asked one of my actor friends about it." (Waveshaper tched again; she kicked him with a foreleg, and she saw him grin into his mojito.) "Have you heard about, um, exclusivity clauses? The producers make the big actors sign these contracts that say, if you're the star of one show, you can't go around being the star of ten other shows at the same time, or even for a few months afterwards, because then you aren't a draw. Anypony could see you anywhere else." "And you think…" "I think she got a better offer," Coco said, sipping her fresh spritzer with a smile. "This production's good - it's very good - but it's not the best." "I heard the Travelling Canterlot Co. is casting Les Chevaux Terribles," Waveshaper said quietly, brushing his chestnut fringe from his eyes. Coco swallowed her sip excitedly. "Mm! See? She wants out, but she can't just quit, because, because contracts are complicated, I suppose. She needs the producers to cancel it for her. And in her desperation, she turns to sabotage! That's it. It's the diva." She pointed a hoof at High Life with what she hoped was an air of finality. High Life had been taking this in with pursed lips, and now shook his head grimly at her wavering hoof. "Nope. Too easy." "Easier means more likely to be right!" "Maybe, but also more likely to be boring. No, it lacks a certain… theatricality. Shameful, Cocie, I thought this business would've rubbed off on you by now." Coco gave a crestfallen sigh. "If you ask me," High Life leaned in towards his companions, "I think it's—" "It's not a ghost," Waveshaper drawled, tipping his head back to stare at the dim ceiling lights. "I wasn't going to say— Go home, Wavey." "Take me home, handsome." "In a minute. No, I think it's gotta be the understudy. A bright young talent, spurned in the wings for too long! Or the main character's best friend, you know, the one that drives the plot but doesn't get any good songs? Jealousy, Coco. Ponies are driven by love, death, or a jealous desire for either. I read that somewhere." "Ohhhh," Waveshaper suddenly sang, turning to High Life with a wicked grin. "Hold up. I just figured it out." "What?" his companions said together, both a little too eagerly. "You've got it, man. Jealousy. Who's the doofus that plays the love interest? With the big face?" High Life shrugged. "Tender Melody," Coco said quietly. Waveshaper barked a laugh. "He's banging the diva on lunch breaks. Everyone stage right can hear it. And Cocie wishes it was her." "I— Shhh— Shut up!" Coco buried her face in her forelegs. High Life cocked his head, realisation blooming across his face. "That has nothing to do with my theory," she mumbled. "Don't let jealousy cloud your thinking, dear," Waveshaper grinned. "Hey - y'think he has to do it with the understudy too?" He whooped with laughter. From the other end of the bar, the bartender shot him an impatient glare. "Understudy! Studying… her under… Hang on, there's a joke in there somewhere." ~ It was two days until the press preview. Despite the mystery saboteur's attempts, the production definitely wasn't cancelled - Coco swore she'd seen a poster for The Mare from Mill Valley on every single street she'd walked on the way to work. Upon entering the Zenith Theatre she'd been hit by a wall of noise as loud and frenetic as a war zone: there were carpenters sawing and hammering away at the sets and props on stage, riggers and technicians yelling warnings across the high catwalks, cascades of melodramatic wailing coming from the rehearsal rooms, ominous rumbles from Waveshaper's Foley room, and dozens of department managers barking orders at anyone who made eye contact with them. Sets were busy re-painting the backdrops that had been mysteriously stained by slashes of black ink; Electrical were replacing all the stage lights that had mysteriously burst overnight; Costume, by contrast, had almost nothing to do. Thanks to her two stellar employees - and, if she could allow herself a moment of immodesty, her great organisational skills - all their hard work had been out of the way for days, and the crew merely waited around on standby for last-minute alterations and repairs. She'd clocked in, made a fresh pot of coffee for the Costumers room, and with nothing else to do, headed off to find High Life. "I dunno. I mean, yes, he's hot," High Life said thoughtfully, "but I don't think I'd date anypony working in theatre." The two of them were perched on the catwalk high above the back of the stage, watching ponies carrying props back and forth below them. The rest of the riggers were outside on smoke break. There was a faint crackle heard and felt in the air, a mix of background magic and electricity from the various lights and wires criss-crossing all around them. Coco gave her friend a pointed look from beneath the oversized safety helmet she'd donned. "You are dating somepony in theatre." "Nahhh, that's different. Waveshaper is backstage, he doesn't count. I mean, like, singers and actors…" High Life took a long sip of his coffee, resting his mug precariously on the security railing. "They're super weird." "Waveshaper is super weird." She moved the mug to a safer position. Somepony was shouting below about the exterior nighttime backdrop going missing. High Life giggled. "Again, different. You ever talked to one of these actors at a party? I don't think they ever turn it off. Every single interaction is a performance. It's… it's disconcerting, is what it is. Can't imagine a healthy relationship built on that." Coco hummed in agreement, waiting for someone to notice the exterior nighttime backdrop. It was rolled up and half-obscured by the drawn stage curtains. "I never said I wanted to date him." High Life feigned a shocked look. "Coco Pommel, you minx!" Her cheeks flushed red and she drew the hat down over her eyes. "H-hey!" she called out to the stage floor, "the backdrop is in the curtains! Stage left…!" But her voice was lost in the din of the theatre. "I'll go tell them," High Life sighed, trotting over to the ladder. "You absolute minx." Watching the carefree rigger on the stage floor below her, she found herself remembering the first piece of advice she'd been given in show business - "find a friend." At the Hinny of the Hills closing night after-party, in somepony's opulent kitchen, a surprisingly sober stage manager had told her, "this business is full of crazies. It's easy to make enemies without even trying. Find the good ones, and stick to 'em like glue." That had been her first friend, and High Life, who had soon after stumbled into the room insisting he would make everypony celebratory sandwiches, was a close second place. Backdrop-locating job complete, he looked up at her and saluted. Coco beamed back at him as he made his way over to the ladder, wondering how crazy he thought she was. A sudden movement in her periphery caught her attention. She looked up - on the catwalk opposite her, not five metres away, she saw a slender, shadowy figure step with uncertainty out on to the platform. They leaned in close towards the clamps that fixed the main stage lights to the ceiling truss. Their horn and the clamps began to glow. "High Life," Coco whispered, eyes fixed on the mysterious pony. There was no reply. "High Life!" she hissed, then froze - but it seemed the unicorn hadn't noticed her. By the light of the magical field, she could make out… Pale yellow fur, straight silver mane - yes, it was unmistakeable. She saw Golden Note magic several nuts and bolts into the folds of her white sundress with a devious smile, then turn and disappear into the wings again. Coco realised she was holding her breath, and exhaled loudly. "Miss me?" High Life sauntered over to her, picking his mug back up. Coco sighed pre-emptively. "Tell me you saw all that just now." "All what?" He slurped loudly. ~ "I saw her do it," Coco Pommel explained. "I saw her do it right in front of me." "I didn't see her do it," rebuked High Life. "You guys, I am trying so hard to care about this but I just, I literally can't," Waveshaper interjected. "You're not trying." "No, I'm not. Another mojito, please and thank-you!" ~ It was the day before press preview and Coco had decided to stalk Golden Note. On some level she knew this was a terrible idea, and she should really leave this problem to someone far more suited for the job, or at the very least, get some help, but… But everybody just looks so busy, she thought. I don't want them to have another problem to deal with. That's all. Beneath that thought, embarrassing and unspoken, there was a picture of a dream - Golden Note trotted off in handcuffs, the police and producers praising her efforts, and Tender Melody himself, amidst the crowd of cheering colleagues, vying for the attention of the mare that solved the mystery. She was trying very hard to stop thinking about it. Golden Note - adorned in a flowing red gown that seemed unnecessarily gorgeous - had been in rehearsal with the director, her understudy, and a few not-quite-as-important actors for most of the morning, going over the blocking and harmonies for the penultimate number. Through a transom window Coco had watched the diva intently, noticing her eyerolls when the director wasn't looking and frequent glances at the wall clock. Several stagehands had walked past Coco, giving her odd looks, but she paid them no mind. She had a mission. They broke for an early lunch just before noon - as the cast exited the room, Coco tucked herself into a dusty alcove nearby, waiting until Golden Note had emerged. The mare let everyone get ahead of her, then headed off alone towards the stage-right wing. Swallowing her nerves, Coco followed after her silently. The diva stuck to the shadows, sneaking her way behind curtains and backdrops, avoiding the line of sight of crew members who might catch her in the act. This was quite easy, Coco realised, as all of the crewponies they passed were slacking off, eating and laughing and playing card games with complete disregard for the two mares. One particularly jovial carpenter didn't even notice as one of his large metal hammers was magicked off his tool bench and disappeared into the unlit recesses of the great theatre. Past Prop Storage 1A, up a long thin ramp and through a rusting metal door - Coco realised with a start where Golden Note was headed, and rushed up the ramp after her. It occurred to her that this was her first time in the Foley room - Waveshaper was, snobbishly, never keen on letting staff from other departments in. The room was long and thin and cluttered with all kinds of bric-a-brac - shelves lined the walls stacked high with bells, pipes, cutlery and crockery, foals' toys and weapons. The back of the room curved to allow access directly behind the stage, where the magical amplifiers were positioned. Golden Note strolled leisurely through the room, hammer in magical tow, eyes taking every piece in, as if searching for something - she paused as her gaze alighted on her target, then glided towards it. At the back of the room there stood a large horizontal cylinder marked RAIN with a crank at one end, and next to it, an ominous black sphere marked THUNDER that glowed with blue magic. It issued a low rumble as the diva raised the hammer high above her, eyes glinting in its magical light. Coco's heart pounded like a timpani. Every part of her screamed at her to do something, anything. "Hey!" Coco yelled. The diva stopped in her tracks, and her head snapped towards her. Coco searched for the right words. "That's… that's not yours!" Golden Note's gaze was piercing even from a distance. "Duh," she spat. "I mean…" Coco cleared her throat. "So!" she intoned in her most dramatic voice, "caught in the act!" "You're not very good at this," Golden Note said, spinning the hammer idly in the air. "I'm sorry, I'm from Costume. I don't normally, um…" "Costume!" the diva laughed. "Well, you'll have to do." She shifted her footing and bellowed, "yes, the impossible becomes reality! The unthinkable is made to be thought! Indeed it is I, Golden Note, the star of the show, who was secretly its saboteur all along! I suppose you desire an explanation as to why I've been doing this," she monologued. Coco wanted to offer her theory, but the diva left no room for conversation. "The truth is perhaps too complicated for a little backstage brain like yours, but in short - I got a better deal." "Yesssss," Coco breathed. "Oh yes, much better! From a company that would treat me like the star that I am! A company that wouldn't make me pay for my own lunches! A company that would give me more speaking lines than Tender bloody Melody!" Coco was still trying to figure out if this was all really happening as the diva slowly stalked towards her. "Fair's fair, wouldn't you say? They disrespect me, I disrespect them. I'll take this whole production down, piece by piece, until there's nothing left but a pile of bounced cheques and broken dreams…" She brandished the hammer before her, teeth bared. "And if it comes to it, broken bodies, too." Coco gulped. "S-surely there's an easier way to void your contract." Golden Note hesitated, then shrugged. "Easier, but more boring." "Will you two please," a low voice drawled from the back of the room, "please shut up about this already? Please. I just…" Through the dark she could make out Waveshaper leaning around the corner. "I just hate this. So much." "W-Wave—" "Shhhhh. Cocie, I am trying not to take this personally. Now get out." He cocked his head at Golden Note. "You too, obviously. Leave. Now." Golden Note turned towards him - Coco could only guess the look on her face. "Who in all hell—" "Oh wow, are you still here?" he asked with mock incredulity. "Did you not hear me?" She waved the hammer above her head for emphasis. "I just strongly implied I'd kill your friend!" "Mmhmm. You go do that, literally anywhere else." Waveshaper motioned towards the door with his foreleg. His horn glowed, and Coco felt something in the air gently pushing her and the diva back out the way they entered. They acquiesced, and Coco heard him mutter, "actors!" before magicking the door shut with a slam. The two mares stood at the top of the ramp, unsure of what should happen next. Hoofsteps echoed on the wooden floor behind them, and they both about-faced. High Life stood at the base of the ramp, squinting at them. "Uhh. Hey, Cocie," he said slowly. "Is Wavey busy, or…?" His eyes flicked to the other mare, back to Coco, back to Golden Note. "Hi, I'm sorry. I'm High Life. What's with the hammer?" Coco's mind kicked back into action, and she spun around, stepping away from the saboteur. "This is Golden Note! She came here to smash all of Wavey's stuff and then she threatened to kill me but Wavey kicked us out and— eeeeee!" She jumped backwards as the hammer came swinging down through the air in front of her, just barely missing her muzzle - she felt the rush of displaced air across her widened eyes. The hammer lodged itself into the floor with a crunch. "Oh shit," High Life yelled, "you were right!" "Help meeeeee!" Coco wailed. The diva made a gargling sound, and the hammer shot up into the air between them. Coco glanced back towards High Life, but he was gone. She could just make out his voice shouting over the sound of rushing blood in her ears. The hammer floated above her, the diva snarling - Coco flattened herself against the left railing, and the weapon crashed down, passing only centimetres from her ear. "Y-you're not very good at this!" she squeaked at her attacker. Golden Note lunged at her then, teeth gritted, wild eyes wide as moons. Her forehoof sunk down into the hole the hammer had created, and Coco watched as the diva's momentum shifted around her trapped leg. It all seemed to unfurl in slow motion - the front half of her body was pulled to the floor, the back half continuing on unabated - the mare contorted and shrieked as her flank soared above her head along a graceful parabola that concluded firmly at the ground. As she stared at the crazed showmare writhing on her back, tangled up in her crimson dress, whispering death threats in between pathetic mewls of pain, Coco decided that this almost definitely wasn't happening. Just to be safe, she picked up the hammer and flung it down the ramp, out of magical reach. It slid to a stop at the hooves of High Life, a producer, and four very muscular and concerned-looking prop builders. "What the hell?" the producer exclaimed. "I seriously do not know," Coco yelled back. She realised she was grinning. ~ The arrival of paramedics and police assured Coco that it did, in fact, happen. The crew milled around the stage and front rows, versions of the story jumping like electricity from one loudly murmuring group to another; the diva's leg was being tended to at the back of the theatre. Coco had recounted the event to a stern-faced detective, who'd simply given her an unreadable look, assured her that they'd talk again a bit later, and left her alone by the orchestra pit, still buzzing with adrenaline and self-satisfaction. "Is that… Golden Note?" Coco turned, and her heart skipped a beat - Tender Melody was standing beside her, squinting at the far-off figures. "Yee—" Her voice cracked; she cleared her throat. "Yeah. She um, she snapped, or something? Tried to kill me, you know, haha." He tilted his head towards her. "Are you okay…?" "I'm fine! Totally fine!" She laughed nervously. "These things happen, I guess…!" "Uh, yeah. I guess." He turned back to see two nurses rolling Golden Note on a stretcher out the main entrance, double doors swinging shut behind them. "Damn. I was really looking forward to— um. Having lunch with her." And in that moment Coco realised the difference between bravery and fearlessness. She gently touched her shaking forehoof to his, and whispered, "I'm starving."
No RepriseAuthor's Note To the tune of Art Fonseca's Blue. No Reprise She heard the buzzer sounding from the next room, and her heart - her traitorous heart - quickened its pace. Octavia closed her eyes, drawing in a slow breath, holding it, 1, 2, what are you doing, 3, 4, let her in, 5, breathing out through her mouth. She left the bedroom, walking past piles of cardboard boxes to the faintly pulsing intercom. "Come up," she said curtly. Too curt. "Hello," she added as an afterthought, then winced, and held the Unlock Door button down for a few seconds. There was no reply from the other end. She opened the front door and waited, listening to the echo of approaching hoofsteps up the concrete stairwell of her apartment complex. As her visitor approached she quickly trotted over to the kitchenette and attempted to look busy making tea. She heard Vinyl Scratch pause at the doorway before entering. The DJ surveyed the apartment slowly, made eye contact with the cellist for as long as it took to mumble "hey," then looked away, first at the floor, then to a nearby pile of boxes. "Hello," Octavia replied, and winced again as she realised she was repeating herself. This is ridiculous. It's only hard if you make it hard, right? "How are you? Can I make you tea or coffee?" Vinyl shook her head. "You know how I've been," she said quietly. She magicked a box open and inspected the contents with a look of mild surprise. "Oh." "I thought I'd just, um, make it easier for you," Octavia explained. "I had time. They're all still in alphabetical order, don't worry." "Right," Vinyl said, flicking through the records, double-checking. "You didn't have to do that." There was no appreciation in her voice. She stopped suddenly, looking up, finally meeting Octavia's gaze. "You didn't have to do that," she repeated, this time as if she meant it. "Thanks." Maybe she was imagining it, but Octavia thought the DJ's eyes were a duller red than normal. She saw none of their characteristic fire in them; only a hint of something desperate. Perhaps just desperate not to be here. "Uh, the kettle." Octavia realised it was whistling, and she hastily flicked off the stovetop. She poured her tea in silence. It amazed her - the breathless hours of their last argument still rung in her ears, filling the abyss now between the two mares. Is this really all that's left? Is there nothing more to be said? But she saw the way Vinyl's mouth opened ever so slightly, paused, closed again; the way her eyes would land anywhere but upon her former lover; she felt a tugging at her own heartstrings. There's always more. "Is this all of them?" Vinyl stood between the piles, eight boxes in total. It was an impressive collection in itself, though Vinyl had on many occasions assured her marefriend it was nothing compared to the one in her studio. That library was used for work: sampling, referencing, education. The cardboard boxes here were filled with the records she wanted to come home to. This was the music that she loved the most, and loved to share. As if answering her own question, her gaze drifted to the phonograph in the corner of the living area. Field Note's Ocean Town Soundtrack lay on the turntable, its album sleeve leaning against the wall besides it. Octavia noticed at the same time. "Oh, I'm sorry, I am so sorry, I was… listening to that last night," she trailed off. She felt a wave of guilt breaking over as she spoke the words. She hates me. She must. With a small shrug, Vinyl magicked the LP back into its cover. "Okay," she said flatly, sliding the album into its appropriate box. She closed her eyes in concentration, and the record collection floated up above head level. Octavia took a tentative step towards the unicorn. "Do you need a hoof?" "It's fine. I don't think you could really help, anyway." With one last fleeting glance, Vinyl made for the door. This isn't right. "Vinyl, wait." She paused in the door frame, shutting her eyes for a moment - then she turned to face Octavia with an imploring look. "What?" "You… you have to say something." Vinyl bit her lip. "I did. I said everything I wanted to say. You know how I feel, Tavi. And I know you think I'm—" She swallowed her words, finding a more diplomatic replacement. "Well, I know how you feel." "You're right. I do know how you feel. That's why I can't stand… this," Octavia gestured vaguely, "this sad little puppy routine. Aren't you mad?" Vinyl tensed visibly, but held her tongue. "Get mad, please! Hurl all the epithets you need to! Say something - scream something! Give me something, anything but this silence." She could still hear, in the space between them, in her dreams and waking moments, Vinyl's voice: the warmth of her singing, the chime of her laugh, the thrill of her whisper, the cadence of her moans. "It… kills me to see you like this." The words were there already, only waiting to be spoken. She thought she could see Vinyl's mind working, articulating the unsaid, crafting and sharpening, and she braced herself for the coming storm. But - "It's a break-up, Octavia," Vinyl said, unfurrowing her brow. "It's not supposed to be pleasant." She glanced at the door and her mouth worked again, but she abandoned the thought, and she left the apartment with downcast eyes, boxes trailing behind her. That's not it. Octavia followed, trying to find her own words. There's always more. From the doorway, she called out after the unicorn, "I don't want this to be the last time I see you." She felt the familiar sting of tears welling behind her eyes. "I don't want to remember you this way." Vinyl Scratch stopped at the top of the staircase. Octavia could not see her face, but her words reflected off the concrete. "How is this about you? How are you making this about you?" Octavia flinched. "This is about us—' "Is it?" Vinyl spun around, staring the cellist down with wide eyes and flared nostrils. "Is it really? 'cause this was your decision, Octavia. You did this, and— and now you're acting like you're the victim? Like I'm the one breaking your heart? You tore down everything we had because I don't fit into your future, and there's no solid ground beneath my hooves any more and I don't know what the hell to do with myself - but it just kills you to see me like this?! Fuck yourself, Octavia! I won't apologise for your mistakes." The boxes floated above them, shaking. Vinyl clicked her tongue. "Is this good? Is this mad enough for you?" She forced herself not to look away from those red eyes. Each word pricked and poked deeper, bringing to the surface more tears, more uncertainty, more panic. She just wanted to run back inside and wait for it all to pass. She wanted to hide, curled up in the darkness and warmth of her lover's embrace. She wanted— Octavia swallowed. "What if it was a mistake?" "It was." Vinyl breathed deeply, steadying her grip on the boxes. "I love you, Octavia. More than you deserve. If you're gonna remember me, remember that." She turned away. The panic mounted in her mind. Octavia knew she had to say something then, say the perfect thing to make this better, but a million words and phrases whirled around her mind in nonsensical patterns. What was there to say? Which words were pure, which were instinctual? Which came from fear? Which came from love? What was the difference, here and now? She felt something starting on the tip of her tongue, but before it could be born, she heard the complex's security door swing shut below her with a reverberant boom.
In the Space Between SomethingsThere's a nurse whose job is to come into the room once every hour or so and make everypony here more miserable. I've seen him five times now. Each time he opens the special no-ponies-allowed door my head snaps towards him before my brain even catches up to it, and I'm dimly aware that the other waiting ponies do the same thing, but mostly I'm focused on the nurse's face. I search, with a growing sense of futility, for an expression upon it. Anything. Any sign of certainty. I wouldn't mind if he came through the door crying his eyes out, screaming, "she's dead! Oh gods, oh gods she's dead!" I honestly think I'd prefer that to his relentlessly vacant eyes, his flatline mouth. Like clockwork, he scans the room, makes the barest of eye contact with each of us, mutters something like, "no news yet, folks, hang in there," and leaves. Last time was slightly different. Last time he reminded us that there's a coffee machine on the floor below us. I didn't see anything in his eyes, but I became aware of the dark lines forming beneath them. There's a couple sitting in the corner, by the pot plant, who do not talk to me or to each other. I think we're too pre-occupied by our own internal monologues to say anything to each other. They came in not long ago, huddled together. There are saddlebags at their feet, the kind with way too many pockets. I imagine they were camping in the outskirts of town, and something happened. Not a good something. There were probably lots of very good somethings happening to them consecutively and they would've thought that everything was good, this is a good world where somethings are to be relished and celebrated, and then one little bad something sneaks its way into the procession right as they're getting comfortable, and now they're here, with me, waiting, in this entirely somethingless room. At one point it occurred to me how many great somethings must be happening outside of this room. I tried to zoom out and put things into a bizarre and probably unhelpful perspective: I am Here; going ten, twenty metres in one direction, we hit Cirrus St, and ponies downing late-night drinks and desserts in its quaint bars and modern cafés; jump again, we're in a block of residences, there are families sleeping soundly, and foals staying up past their bedtimes reading under their blankets by flickering candlelight, and couples wrapping hooves around each other and loving each other thoroughly and carelessly. And I am Here; and going ten, twenty metres in the opposite direction, there is sickness, and uncertainty, and broken bones, and doctors doing the Best They Can. Is there an official body that can measure the Best that doctors Can do? Is there a universal standard? I haven't told the girls. I don't want them to worry a second longer than they have to. I imagined them getting to the Cloudsdale Flats in the dead of night, and I'd have to fly down and cast a cloud-walking spell for them, and I am in no state to be casting complex spells… No, they can all get a good night's sleep tonight. I'll bear the brunt of the worrying. I'm not trying to martyr myself or anything - I'm prepared for it, more than anypony else. This is my specialty. Ah. I was wrong. The nurse's job is not to make everypony miserable. It's to make me miserable. He makes his sixth entrance and doesn't even look at me. He walks straight over to the camper couple. They exchange quiet words that I can't distinguish from each other, but I can hear the hope coming through in the tone of their voices. When this is all over, I will try to remember to be happy for them. The nurse leads them out another door, towards the eastern wing. He meets my presumably frantic gaze as he passes me, and shakes his head, almost imperceptibly. Useless as he's been so far, I'm thankful for his routine. It's a metric, a subdivision: imagine waiting for however many hours the surgery took, in silence, indefinite!; no, when I sit in that waiting room I'm waiting for his next little checkpoint, no more than an hour each time. It's a lot more manageable. I get a coffee from the machine downstairs. In truth, I have always loved hospitals - sanctums of science, a place of learning and healing, of cause and effect. Hospitals remind us that everything is an equation; we are all sums. I used to walk through their sterile white corridors and feel reassured by that. Right now I feel like most ponies feel about hospitals. The lights are dimmed at night and everything looks like an old photograph of itself. Nopony I pass in the halls, patient or staff, is smiling. When was the last time I told her I loved her? I've been asking myself for the last… I don't even know. I'm so busy asking the question I won't even let myself answer it. I think it's safe to assume it was pretty recently but my brain isn't allocating any resources to memory recall and it's mistaking that for failure to recall and now I can't hold back this guilt, this completely unnecessary guilt. I told her before the run-through, right? I kissed her and I said something and she smiled and said "duh" and flew over to the rest of the Wonderbolts… I walk up one too many flights of stairs and end up in the pediatrics ward. It's eerily quiet. The walls are decorated with flowers and smiles and childish pleasantries, but the low lighting drains the smiles of their warmth, and the flowers seem to wilt under the weight of darkness. I go back downstairs. She's not going to die. Formal diagnoses aside - as they stretchered her in, she came back to consciousness for long enough to tell the doctors how lucky they were to be treating the Rainbow Dash before the no-ponies-allowed door swung shut behind them. There's no way Death would challenge such unabashed chutzpah. I'm not worried about the dying. I'm worried about the waiting. I'm worried about the visitation hours, and the weeks turning into months, and the smile slowly slipping from her lips, and the damage that weeks and months may not fix. I jolt upright in my seat, blinking. Eugh. I'm starting to lose my sense of history. There's a wall of fog between this exact moment and the rest of my life. How long have I been sitting here? How long ago did I ask that? I need more coffee. No, I don't. I need sleep. I need to tell her I love her and sleep for a week. An interval of time passes (probably). The nurse makes his xth appearance, and he looks right at me and says, "Ms Sparkle" with the most practiced, expressionless timbre. I stand and give a little nod. "Ms Dash is awake. The doctors are still with her for the moment but you should be able to see her soon. She, uh." He hesitates - this is the first sign of life I've seen out of him. "She would like to tell you, 'don't worry about me… egghead,'" he finishes slowly, pursing his lips. Of course she would. "And what do the doctors say?" His mouth returns to its equilibrium. "Just a little longer, Ms Sparkle," he recites, retreating through his special door. Fluttershy tried teaching me to meditate once. We trekked out to one of her favourite picnic spots, a clearing to the west of Ponyville where there was nothing but bronzed grass and a gentle Spring wind, and lay down on a rug and closed our eyes. "Think about the wind," she whispered. "Feel it blowing over you. Try to forget everything else. Um, except my voice, I mean. OK? Pinpoint somewhere - let's start with your hooves. Focus on the wind blowing over your hooves. Try to forget the rest of your body for now…" And so on, and on and on. Naturally, I started thinking about pressure systems, then atmospheric composition, then particle pedesis, and soon I had forgotten all about Fluttershy. My mind buzzed with ideas and questions - I came so very close to running back to the library and just leaving her there, breathing lightly, smiling absently at nothing. I'm not going to disappoint myself by trying again now. I keep waiting. I think about the physics of the accident - her top speed (estimated), the angle of incidence, the trajectory of debris - I think about how much worse it could have been. I think about Rainbow Dash. I think about how stupid she is, and how incredible, and brave. I think about how much I love her; I try to find a great way to quantify it. Something poetic but also very immediate. I think about how, when they finally let me see her, I'm going to walk into that room and tell her, Rainbow Dash, I love you so much I— "Ms Sparkle," an unfamiliar voice says. The nurse is back, but there's a doctor by his side whose expression, I perceive, is one of reserved self-satisfaction. "The operation was a success. Rainbow Dash is going to be just fine." I've waited this long, I can wait a moment longer. "What does fine mean, exactly?" The doctor clears his throat. "It means that she's in no position to fly any day soon, of course. We ceased the internal bleeding but she still has three broken bones and a good deal more stitches. She'll need bedrest, and plenty of it. I'll have her under observation here for maybe four weeks, and it'll take at least another four to heal proper - but, if she takes it easy, there'll be no lasting damage. Ms Dash will be on her wings again in time for the new year." I'll need to process all this properly after my week of sleeping, but for now, I smile and say thank you, and can I see her now? He takes me to a small private room at the end of the eastern wing, and I see her for the first time in I-don't-even-know-any-more hours. Her broken foreleg is held up in a stirrup, her whole body is bruised and haphazardly bandaged, her mane is a disaster. And still it takes all of my resolve not to smother her with kisses. Love is weird. I call her name gently, and she tilts her head ever so slowly towards me. Her eyes are kind of unfocused but I can see that she recognises me. "Still here," she mumbles. I'm not sure which of us she's talking about. I nuzzle her forehead, carefully, avoiding the bandages. "Hey," I whisper, "I love you, Rainbow. I love you so much I—" and I choke up. Damnit all, I choke up right at the finish line. Rainbow closes her eyes. "So much…?" she croaks. I laugh as I blink back my tears, and I stroke her mane and softly shhh her as she drifts off into painkiller sleep. She can wait to hear the rest of it. Author's Note If you like TwiDash, you'll looove...
Summer SilenceTrue silence is a thing unheard, a wish by those who need it most, but Summer silence comes so close. Autumn clips and crackles like the static of the radio, Winter whistles ancient songs and Spring provides its practiced choirs of wildlife to sing along. By Summer they are all quite spent, the singers too exhausted from the heat and light and happiness to vocalise the land's content. Summer silence buzzes with cicadas like an unearthed wire; early birds that chirp their conquests of the worms; and soft, the sighs of all the world asleep and smiling coiled beneath a ciel sky. (…now quiet enough to hear the thoughts which hide beneath the idle chatter Autumn Winter Spring provides…) In Summer certain flowers grow to soaring heights: perhaps you'll find the southern yellow climbing rose (an arbitrary name, in fact, its point of origin unknown) - it relishes the rampant sun and seeks to claim it for its own, will scale cliffs and mountainsides for miles and miles with ceaseless hope - a topiary Icarus that climbs too far and chokes to death above the troposphere, alone. And fireweed begins to sprout across the grasslands, first disguised as red hibiscus yet to bloom - it bides its time, it masks its smile between the bulbs of sweeter things until the heatwave hits its peak and it unfurls: baring its teeth all black as charcoal, breathes out steam as petals hiss and sizzle 'til they burst; erupts in vicious flames that dance across the boiling air devouring voraciously all Mother Nature has to share. Its tiny seeds are carried upwards, up and out on plumes of smoke to look down upon ponies rushing to undo their parents' work and giggle at their parting joke. The sun is drunk on self-importance, comes too early, leaves too late - in Summer you will find a mare who struggles underneath the weight of its unceasing arrogance at break of dawn and close of day but, steadfast, will not show the strain; who cares for both the sun and moon in absence of her counterpart, and tries with not much confidence to find a deeper meaning in the rearrangement of the stars; who bears a greater burden still, the desperate quest to satisfy a question no-one else dare ask, the guilt that builds through centuries within her veins and arteries and silts the channels of her heart; a brilliant, broken mare who's learned the warm respite of Summer nights is nothing to be spurned. She is silent as the season waiting for the Night's return.
