"Pretty crazy story, don’t you think?"
“Huh, what?”
That’s a good way to introduce yourself, isn’t it ?
Classy, driven, sexy. That’s me, Vivid Syntax, a writer you’ve probably never heard of—too bad for you!—who’s always on the lookout for that story.
You know the one. The one that’ll make my career. The one that’ll make me make it big.
I’m always prepared, but right now, at eight in the morning in the cold streets of Maneapolis, you’ve caught me unprepared.
Just woken up, I’m already on the road to a nearby diner, making a detour to my favorite newspaper salespony, Capital Letter. He always knows everything that’s going on, spending his days stuck in his box full of newspapers and magazines.
And this morning, one of his heroes made the headline.
“Soarin Windsong! The Wonderbolt! You remember him, right?” he asks me, holding up today’s Pony Tribune.
The front page of the Tribune displays a surely stolen picture of a blurry blue form. It could’ve been anypony if it weren’t for the braces on his legs.
“SOARIN WINDSONG: THE REAL TRUTH” is written above the photo in bold capital letters—that catchy font that would change the most insignificant thing in the world to the greatest discovery in pony history.
The entire front page encompasses the headline and the photo alone. You have to open it to even know a sliver of the story, or any of other news (as if any of it matters).
Well-played, boys.
After taking the paper from Capital, I turn the page. A two-page spread greets me: old pictures of the ‘Bolts; a so-called “exclusive” interview with Sapphire Shores, one of his ex-marefriends; more eye-catching headlines in that same font.
Journalists do whatever they can to sell more papers. I know this all too well; I was writing this kind of stuff not too long ago.
Fuck… It’s not good to think so much without coffee in my blood when my head’s still stuck up my flank.
“Err… Yeah, that was a big thing at the time,” I answer, folding the newspaper and putting it on the counter.
“Ha! At the time? There hasn’t been a week gone by without somepony digging up this story with new info that contradicts the previous articles,” Letter says. “Well, you know, as long as ponies buy them…”
What I like about Capital is that he understands how the media works. As long as we sell, we continue. It’s good for him, it’s good for newsrooms, and it gives ponies something to talk about. Like an infinite circle. Even better than the food chain, but with the media at the end.
You see, although I’m no longer in the game, I still talk as if I’m behind my typewriter with a deadline for tomorrow’s edition.
It’s hard to rid yourself of a job like that. You haven’t heard the last of it.
We stay in silence for a few moments, enjoying the morning sunrise, while I take out my bit—well, my bits—for this morning. An idea starts to turn the gears in my head.
An idea—the worst disease for a writer, journalist, or even anypony who has a quill and some ink at home, to suffer.
Soarin Windsong…
In anticipation of my purchase, Capital Letter had already put out the St. Paul Pioneigh Press on the counter.
Hey, I’m loyal, you know. Not necessarily in love, but when it comes to newspapers, I will follow them until my death.
I put the Pony Tribune on the counter. Letter looks at me with a knowing smile. “Hey, Syn, you cheating on St. Paul today?”
I put on a charming smile as two bits land on his register. “I’m feeling open-minded today,” I answer with a wink, before resuming my walk towards the second stop of the day.
I must admit that walking through the wintery streets of my city isn’t the best thing to do to get inspired. Inspiration is like a fairy who hits you with her magic wand when you aren’t expecting it. Like, you’re taking a shower, you’re on the throne, you’re… doing stuff I won’t describe here, but with another kind of magic wand… and then, BAM! Inspiration. You can do everything you want to try and make her come, but she will only come when you’re least expecting it.
Like an ex-marefriend you see on the street who wants to remind you of something embarrassing in front of your new lover. It can only end badly.
Or in a threesome, with a little luck.
Yet, here, I feel inspired. It must be a new personal record.
You know what to do when you’re inspired? Walk. Make the blood run through your hooves and your brain. Don’t stand like a dumbass in front of your notepad. That’s what I say.
Being inspired is good, but following up with some ideas is much better. That’s why I always keep notepad, quill, and ink in my saddlebag. Every writer at least once regrets not having ink at hoof, so I always stay prepared. I’m like that—driven and calculating and always ready to face the unknown.
Unfortunately, as an earth pony, I can’t write while walking. Believe me, I’ve tried. I’m not an unicorn who can just light his horn and do a bazillion things at the same time. I’m not a pegasus who just needs to turn his head and pluck a feather from his wing if he needs a quill.
Don’t worry, I’m happy as an earth pony. In spite of my few complaints, we’re the strongest by far, and definitely the sexiest by even farther.
But don’t take my word for it. Wanna test my theory?
… I don’t even know who I’m talking to. You see how crazy you can become when you work in the media?
But hey, you seem cool. At the least, you’ll be a privileged spectator. Consider yourself lucky.
Hey, speaking of the media, I’m walking down Third Avenue when I see the Pony Tribune headquarters come into my view. The building seems to loom down at me, looking over the street, like an overgrown vulture.
But vulture is a little kind. More like fucking bastards. Poor excuses for ponies who’re ready to sell their fathers, mothers, spouses, even their kids to be the first to get the big scoop. Desperate to get the picture that will make the headline, no matter what—even if it’s a picture of the most twisted thing you can imagine.
Family, respect, grieving, private life, compunction? Nah, sorry, those aren’t in their dictionary.
I’m harsh, huh? Maybe, but I’ve worked in that raptor’s nest. I know what I’m talking about. I know what ponies says in the newsrooms, the drama we instigate between colleagues, the worthless junk we advertise because the readers are too dumb to understand we’re fooling them.
I told you, the most cynical ponies in the world work in the media. Why do you think all communication and public relations directors are ex-journalists?
Because we’ve got the power to do everything we want. We’re king of the world! We don’t care about broken lives, sending a pony to therapy, driving another to suicide. I even want to say that last one’s our best outcome, because nopony cares about happy endings!
What makes you want to buy a newspaper more? A photo of two flawless, beautiful ponies getting married, or a photo of a beaten, bloody criminal accused of serial rape and murder?
…
I’m not cynical by nature, but with all the time I spent in that environment, I still have some reflexes. And it’s really hard to overcome them.
That’s maybe why I chose to fuck everything up back then. Tired of the system, tired of never investigating as we should have, tired of having my writing bound and constrained, tired of never searching for the truth, but for the juicy story that would make the headlines. I have too many ethics for that job.
My mind was like a vase that finally fell over and spilt—water, flowers, and all. Some call it burnout. It was more like brain dead. And instead of water, mine was alcohol. Depression.
One day, I might write more about that. But not right now. It hurts too much.
See? When you’ve been a journalist, you always know what to say. You know how to use the situation to your advantage. You know how to manipulate. Most of all, you can’t shut up for more than five minutes. Even when you’re alone.
Passing by the Pony Tribune building, I salute, like the soldier who salutes the grave of his dead friend.
I arrive at the diner. I order my regular, my same ol’, same ol’: coffee, French toast, and a table by myself, where I read my newspaper. I’m in my tiny bubble where nopony can disturb me. There’s nothing that pisses me off like being interrupted when I read.
At this hour, the diner is full. The customers are chatting amongst themselves, talking about the news of the day. And there is pegasus on the menu.
“They should leave him alone.”
“But he’s hiding something! What else is he getting up to? I mean, he’s a cocksucker, after all. He can only be a weirdo.”
“The Wonderbolts are hiding something. That’s evident enough. Soarin knows something, and they broke his legs so he won’t open his mouth. I bet that wasn't even him at the stadium!”
“I hope he will fly again someday.”
“Journalists are all bastards!”
Hearing that last one always makes me laugh. The worst part is that almost every—not all of them—journalist assumes to be considered an asshole. Knowing that, we’re able to put some distance between ourselves and our work. We know that we won’t change the world. We know that we just write to sell papers.
So yeah, I’m an asshole. Well, I was.
I liked to play with that assumption at the time. Journalism’s a place full of funny and crazy ponies. You need that to handle some stories and don’t break. If you cry every time you write about something horrible, you won’t last two weeks.
The Pony Tribune article on Soarin is exactly what I imagine it: nothing new and built around the “exclusive” interview of his ex-marefriend. I’ll spare you the details, but he’s one to get around. And he’s bi on top of that. All audiences can have a piece.
Though, reading that brings back my memories of that story. The discovery of his orientation, his broken legs, the ‘Bolts, his escape with a… Braeburn? Is that it? I think so.
And since all that, complete silence. Soarin became a reclusive in his Cloudsdale condo.
Silence is a journalist’s worst enemy. You must fill it. We always find how to fill it, but when the silence is too long, you must find another story to sell. That’s how it’s made.
The cycle is called “Lick, let off, lynch.” Eventually, we move on to something else, forgetting all the ponies we exposed in the spotlight.
When I was in my office, I rarely thought about that. Compassion is an unknown word. You’ve got a job to do. If you start to have doubts, pack your desk. Somepony will replace you.
That might be why I left that job. I must be too sensible. Ask my ex.
The more I read, the more I thought about what Soarin went through. I’ve got respect for this guy. I’m serious. Being a Wonderbolt, working until you don’t remember how to walk, doing stunts that could kill you…
Yes, I’ve got respect for this kind of pony, and for all he accomplished. He must be a good stallion. And breaking his legs on top of that…
Well, he has wings and all, but still… that’s the kind of thing I can’t imagine without wincing. He must have an iron will. A steely mind.
Yeah, I must be too sensible. You can’t be a fucking asshole all your life, can you?
Although, I do know some who would be assholes all the way up until the day they died. But don’t count on me for names.
And all Soarin did was for love. That’s cool.
I mean, that implies sex. And the hotter it is—the more taboo it is—the more interesting it becomes.
I see you’re offended, but believe me, you’re the first to buy tabloids when you see this kind of story in the headline. Or the first to read 50 Shades of Hay.
Speaking of love, there is a picture of that Braeburn in the article. Green eyes that hypnotize you, flowing mane, Stetson, built, muscular body. It just makes you want to have a roll in the hay with him—sweat, dirt, and all.
He’s a definite nine. Well, nine and a half. The kind who could give you a boner with a simple look. No wonder that Soarin fell for him. I bet he could turn the most heterosexual stallion in the world gay with one little wink.
Still, there is something about the story that bugs me: it’s full of holes. There’s so much we don’t know. So much hidden. I hate when a story is left incomplete. And Soarin’s is far from being closed.
I told you that inspiration is like a poison flowing through your veins. It eats at you. All day and all night, it’s all you think about. It keeps you from sleeping. It’s stupid, but it’s the kind of stupid that enters into your brain and never leaves. Worse than a shitty song you can’t help but whistle all day.
Today, I got an idea, and I know it will keep me busy through the next few weeks.
Nah, it’s fine. Don’t think I will end up crazy because of it. Crazy? What do I mean by crazy? You know, like writing on the walls and putting pictures all them in a room lit only by a single candle burning in the middle of a circle of dark magic runes.
… You really believe that bullshit?
Eh, I guess I can’t blame you, considering. But trust me, I’ll be fine.
I was a journalist before. Now, I’m writing novels when I’ve got something interesting in my hoof. Mostly fiction. But beyond that, I’m just a statspony with a job, a house, and all I need to be happy.
Writing is just a hobby now, so I will go crazy if it’s the only thing I do. But I also will go crazy if I stop writing.
I write stories I can create from A to Z, without having to rely on—or wait on, or make up—facts. Writing for a newspaper is a restrictive thing. Compared to that, it’s a relief when you’re able to be free in front of a white, blank page. I invent a reality cooler or crazier than the one I live in.
Unlike journalism, I can’t stop writing so easily. It’s a drug I’m addicted for life.
And I find my next story.
**********************************************************************************************************
What I like in my new hobby is the freedom of time. No more deadlines, no more delays, nothing. I have time to investigate, to search for information, to document my sources. What’s the use in searching for the truth when you don’t have the time to find it in the end?
On this cold morning, I search through boxes for everything I’ve ever read about this scandal. The archive section of the Maneapolis Central Library is my best friend. I write on dozens of pages in my notepad. By noon, I know everything about the story.
But everything is not enough. How much is it worth versus the words of the stallion himself? How could it compare to the truth spilling out of the mouth of the pony who created it all?
Let’s summarize:
Soarin Windsong, the Wonderbolt who was fired from the team for an unknown reason, escaped with a stallion from Appleloosa while the media was searching for him. They were found, then went to Las Pegasus, then to Salt Lick City. A few other things happened, they went back home, the Whipped Cream Incident (fucking disgusting) happened, Soarin broke his legs, and then… no news since that. Nothing else worth explaining.
That’s another thing I hate about the media. We never ask ourselves why somepony did something; we only report the mere information. Like, “Soarin escaped with a stallion!” But not, “Why did Soarin escape with a stallion? What was he trying to escape? Why is he like that? Where did the stallion come from? What did Soarin go through? How does he feel now with the lights turn down?”
All these questions need an answer. In one way or another, I need to meet him.
I read his interviews from when he was still a Wonderbolt. He’s an extroverted pony. Charming, a bit immature, getting straight to the punch and speaking without thinking. An honest stallion. The kind I could like. Who has the body of an athlete and a lot of experience in the air… and in bed, given his reputation. A solid eight and a half.
But the Soarin of today might not be the same one of a few months ago. Now, he’s probably suspicious, reclusive, surely depressed, not wanting to talk to anypony.
Still, I could take a shot.
When your life is brought into the spotlight, there’s always a time when, even if you won’t admit it at the moment, you want to set the story straight—even if nopony will believe it. It’s important to tell the truth, if only to confide in somepony. Keeping to yourself is understandable, but there’s always a time when you must spit out the truth.
I think I can be that pony. The one who will listen to him, who will help him tell his story. It’s kind of a gift that I’ve honed from my years in journalism. Ponies trust me quite quickly. It’s helpful even outside of my job, if you know what I mean. I know how to manipulate ponies and make them spill their guts. Soarin must not be much different from others in that regard.
He wants to talk, but he’s searching for a good pony to listen.
I’M that pony.
I’m confident.
It’s important to be confident as a journalist. If you’re afraid of the pony you’re interviewing, you get crushed. You need to feel superior to show that you’re in control. You need to be able to feel what the pony in front of you feels to create some understanding between you and him.
It’s all in your head. Mentally, I’m a killer.
The only question now is, how can I meet Soarin?
While it’s great to know everything the media has said about this story, if I can’t see him, the puzzle will be incomplete. If I can’t complete this one, I’ll have to search for another story to write.
But this story…
In your life, you rarely find stories like Soarin’s. Sure, there are all the scandals and juicy stories you could ever need in the headlines. But what happened to Soarin…
I don’t know. It’s more that the latest hot story. It’s something deeper—something that needs you to dig into it to know the real meaning. It’s a story that can make history.
That’s fucking beautiful, don’t you think?
And the best part is that I can be the one to write about it.
I want ponies to know the truth, make them think about it long after they close the book. It’s not something that readers do when they close the newspaper. A book isn’t something you throw in the trash or use to collect potato peelings.
No, it’s something handed down through generations. Something we’ll still talk about in decades.
I can even imagine it.
Vivid Syntax, famous for his masterpiece book about Soarin Windsong—a story that will stay stocked in bookstores and libraries long after his death. A book that made him rich, famous, adored among authors.
When you’re a journalist, you want attention. You want somepony to say your article was great, that he read it like the it was the best book in the world. That kind of thing.
In the newsroom, we noticed when a journalist won a prize or distinction for a good article. The guy would hold his head high. He was high above the ground. And I wouldn’t say that because he was a pegasus.
How do you react when you see that? You’re jealous. Majorly. You’re asking yourself why it’s him and not you when you’re so much better than him—even if you know that’s false.
I mean, writing a tabloid will never get you the Ponylitzer.
… Maybe that’s also why I left that job.
I must be somepony more complicated than I thought.
And who doesn’t want fame? Except maybe that one guy... Yeah, him. David Pony, that’s it. In that song, he says, “Fame, is it any wonder I reject you first?”
Seriously… I love this guy, but who could be so dumb as to say no to fame? Soarin seems like a guy who likes fame and lost it in a day, in addition to his legs.
A single stallion is much more vulnerable, especially somepony like him. When you like the limelight, you hang onto everything you can to get back into it.
I need to be the one who will bring him back into the limelight, if he still wants it.
In my old job, we worked with a lot of “if”. If he wants to talk, if he wants to have a book published, if he wants to be famous again, if, if…
I don’t like “if”. My new job is to erase the degree of uncertainty. That’s why I’m always on the alert. Something unexpected always happens in an interview, and being able to adapt to it is essential. Otherwise, you’re dead.
Next step: approach Soarin Windsong.
******************************************************************************************************
Life is oh-so-funny sometimes. I consider writing a book on Soarin, and then I learn that one of my cousins, Lift Up, got a job as the new trainer of the ‘Bolts. It’s not like we are very close, but family and all… We can help each other when we share the same blood, no?
Still, I would have liked to know that before sending a letter to the Wonderbolts. I just received a formal rejection as answer, a generic thing like, “We can’t answer regarding your request for an interview with Soarin Windsong. We have asked the media not to send us this kind of request. We…” BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH.
Well, I didn’t expect something different, especially about him.
Luckily, Lift came into the picture. As a trainer, he takes care of the ‘Bolts’ physical fitness. What’s even better? He takes care of Soarin’s physical therapy too.
Isn’t it beautiful? It’s like a sign that Soarin and I were made to see each other. Lift is one of the few ponies he sees, and I already have an idea on how to approach him about this.
I see what you’re thinking. Break into the sports hall when Soarin’s there and talk with him, hoping that he will invite me to his condo and share the truth about his story?
Nah.
Even if cleverness is valued in a journalist, I need to take care this time. Approaching him like that could browbeat him, and, frankly, taking him by surprise isn’t really exciting.
In addition to that, I need to cast a spell on my horseshoes to go to Cloudsdale. I can’t just go on a whim, hoping he will be there when I come to visit.
Besides, I prefer to face somepony who’s ready for a verbal joust. It’s so much more exciting when we have the same weapons.
No, I will write a letter. Lift will give it to Soarin the next time he sees him. I just need to write it. And convince Lift to give it.
Sigh…
I like to write, but writing a letter is so boring. You need to say something convincing in only a few lines. It’s fucking difficult to be persuasive without sounding like a moron or a lovestruck fan who wants to meet the Soarin. Especially in that case. It’s a question of dosage.
I can write an entire book in just a couple of hours, but I can take days to write a good letter. It’s really complicated to write the latter. It’s sooooooooo formal and less punchy than a good narrative.
Sometimes, I make my life complicated.
To start, “Hello Soarin,” “Dear Soarin,” or “Mr. Windsong”?
Fuck, it’s so complicated, and I haven’t even written any words!
For a guy who must have tons of letters every week, you know you have to be different. Play it cool, not aggressive, almost writing like it wouldn’t be so bad if you don’t meet him.
Voilà! Mix all of that, then try to do something convincing.
Luckily, I come from the journalism world. I know how to not get busted.
Play the interested fan—somepony who wants to hear the truth from the mouth of the pony who started all this. I can’t hide that I will write about him, but I want to know his OWN version of the story, not the one from the media.
Biographies and autobiographies with titles like MY TRUTH are always best-sellers. I imagine the coverimage of this one will be taken in a dark hallway, showing only Soarin’s face. The hurt pony with his history written on his features, illuminated by only a small ray of light in the darkness.
I just need to write this fucking letter.
And to use my quill…
Hey, I’ve never explained to you what my cutie mark is, have I? It’s a sigma and a quill. Statistician and author. Two ponies in one!
I love stats. I love writing. It took me some time to get it for the first, though. I like the idea that the sigma, which represents the sum of all the things, and the quill came together, because the sum of all our experiences in life is shared by writing.
You get it?
As I sit down to write this letter, it’s like my flank is blank. Just me and my sexy earth pony body.
Hey, you can do a lot of stuff with just that.
I see that you’re getting bored of hearing me complain about a piece of paper and a quill. That said, I will come back when this is over.
I mean, who really cares about how an article or book was made? We don’t care! We just want the result! But the writing process? I don’t even know who would read about something like that.
The Adventures of Vivid Syntax. Who the fuck really wants to read that?
********************************************************************************************************
It took me two weeks write the letter and convince my cousin after a good family reunion (and lots of bottles) to pass the letter to Soarin. Yet, here it is, right in front of me.
“Mister Windsong,
First, let me introduce myself. I’m Vivid Syntax, author, and also a fan.
I’m not one of those crazy fans ready to camp in front of your door or one of those journalists who wants to spy on you. Believe me, I’m an ex-journalist, and they disgust even me.
I’m just a pony who wants to find out the truth.
I want to meet with you to hear the whole story from your side—not the one we all read in the newspapers. You already gave interviews, but I think you have a lot more to say. I’m not here to judge you—just to listen. I think that’s what you need the most.
I want to hear your truth—only yours. The one you choose to tell me and want to be heard outside of the media.
You already know my cousin, Lift Up. He will tell you that I can be trusted. I hope you will trust me too.
If your answer is positive, I will let you choose when and where we can meet.
Sincerely,
Vivid Syntax”
Meh. I hope it will convince him to take a shot. Or at least to answer and say no like the ‘Bolts. Lift will pass it along tomorrow and act as the mailstallion.
Two possibilities. Either he says no and my book is already over, or he says yes, and I will meet him and have something worthwhile to write.
Meet him…
We say “Hope well and have well,” but, frankly, after all I’ve read about Soarin, I doubt I will be meeting him. Author, journalist, or even fan, he doesn’t care about that anymore. He’ll just see a guy who wants to write a book about him and drive him crazy.
But… you know something else? If he says yes, I would be the first to enter his home.
As a guest. Like, without breaking a window or the door.
Just in case, I’ve got a file ready. I feel that our verbal joust will be difficult. Soarin isn’t the kind to break easily. He’s a Wonderbolt—a pony who’s faced death at least a hundred times.
Doing an interview is like having a fight. Dodge, swing, parry, hit him without knocking him out entirely. Nothing worse than a browbeat guy who kick you out or answer flatly during the entire interview.
I know it will be different with Soarin. Not a simple interview, but a discussion, where I will let him tell his story, asking questions when needed. I will quickly know if he’s the kind of stallion who waits for a question or speaks first to fill the heavy silences.
Wow, with all the things you’ve learned today, you could make an awesome journalist, too! Hey, don’t forget to thank me during the speech for your Ponylitzer.
Anyway, I also hope that he wants to talk about more than what was in the newspapers. But, if he doesn’t, does he only want to discuss the scandal? Actually, does he even want to talk about all the shit that happened to him?
Am I overthinking this?
Well, you’ll soon find out.
If he says yes, when you read his story, you won’t even know what to say. Maybe I won’t, either. I just know a small part of the story—the one from the media, not from Soarin himself. Maybe I will be so shocked that I won’t know what to do with my notes.
It can happen. Rarely, but it can happen. In my last job, that meant being yelled at by the boss who didn’t understand why the article wasn’t on his desk.
I know I’ve got something. I know it. I don’t know what will come from it, but it will be enormous.
It’s not that I’m obsessed with his story, but there’s something… unclear in it. Like he’s hiding something.
To forget? To protect somepony?
I don’t know. That’s why I want the truth.
An incomplete story is the worst thing in the world for an author.
********************************************************************************************************************
These past few weeks have been quiet. I gave the letter to Lift, he gave it to Soarin, and I’ve been waiting since.
It’s so boring to wait. I didn’t like to do it when I was a journalist, and I don’t like it now.
Do you know a patient journalist? Good luck finding one. We live in the immediacy of information; we always want to be the first to know. Waiting is a void. We need to fill it with all we have.
If you like the quiet, forget that job. You end up talking to yourself in your empty house to fill the silence.
Yet, waiting makes the reward better. Especially when you get what you want. It makes you forget all the hours spent worrying and imagining what could have gone wrong.
But waiting is boring. Luckily, I have a job to keep me busy.
The worst thing is that I don’t even know if Soarin’s gonna answer me. He doesn’t have to. Maybe the letter already burned in his…
Yeah, no. No fireplace. Not in Cloudsdale
If we meet there, I will need to get those special horseshoes. And not look down. And not let my notepad, quill, and ink fall through the clouds. I will look like a moron if I knock on his door without something to write with. “Oh, I was just passing by for tea time. Hey, can you tell me the entire story and hope I will remember it exactly at the end?”
I imagine everything. I told you, I’m an optimistic stallion. It comes with confidence and the big ego I’ve dragged with me since my years in the Pony Tribune. You always need to look cool, calm, and collected in that job, like you’re ready to conquer the world.
I remember once that…
…
Sorry for the interruption of your favorite show, The Great Thoughts of Vivid Syntax, but I’m back home and just found something that contains my future in my quest for the truth: a simple white envelope with the Wonderbolts signet stamped on it.
Even if Soarin doesn't do the shows anymore, he's still an employee collecting workhorse's comp. And even for a request only directed to him, he put the signet on the envelope. Wonderbolt to the core.
After searching my knife, I open the envelope. I take the letter out slowly, not wanting to tear it, and feel something a bit heavy inside. That’s always a good sign.
I unfold it before putting it on the table. At this moment, my heart is beating rapidly with a drumroll playing in my head. It’s always short, but it’s a good injection of adrenaline nonetheless.
The first thing I see is a badge tied to the letter with the word “GUEST” on it.
It’s a yes.
Reading the letter is now much more simple than I thought. It’s short, just a few lines, but it’s enough to make me pump my hoof in victory. I can even hear “We Are The Champions” in the background.
“Come next Thursday. Alone. 7:00 AM exactly. Property Sunrise, Firefly Lane. Soarin Windsong will receive you. No camera or tape recorder.”
Buck yeah.
You want to know something, Syn?
You’re the best.
You just need to find a good shirt.
Author's Note
I like to precise that this story was written by a journalist. I love my job!
