It was where it had always been; six sides of mahogany untouched by time, and therefore an oasis. She reached out, cautious and scared — desperately wanting to dispel the mist and fog from her body, but aware of the terrible ache it held at bay. Sliding the lid loose, she took the closest item lightly in her hooves and exhaled. It felt cold and distant, and she held it close — nurturing it; urging it to bloom.
And, slowly, it did.
A Horseshoe: rusted, with lucky properties (unproven)
It was my very first flying lesson, and I was absolutely terrified. You knew that, of course.
Not that these wings hadn’t touched the clouds and chill air before. I had already, albeit hesitantly, braved the open skies once or twice. But this time — this time was different.
You were watching, for a start. Well, more than watching, actually. You were my guide and my mentor and my — what did you call it? — wingpony all rolled into one. You were the teacher, and suddenly I was a little filly again, gazing up with wonder and respect and awe at somepony who knew so very much about a subject I understood so little. I mean, we’ve all had those silly crushes right? Well, I had one then. You’d have never known it at the time but I was far more afraid of disappointing you than crashing into a tree or the ground.
Do you know that it scares me? Even now, years later, it scares me that I’m going to always see a different sky to you. Does that make sense? I mean, I love how you talk about yours — the freedom and the endless adventures; the ocean above threatening to swallow you whole, yet which still bends to your will and desires. It all sounds so breathtaking, and when I close my eyes and imagine it, it’s beautiful. I see the brightest blue — forever unblemished and pure.
I can imagine it, but it scares me that I might never understand it. I think that’s what keeps me so grounded for the most part when I’m with you. It’s a secret I have no desire to uncover, for what changes it would bring to our horizon.
But I’m digressing.
It was my very first flying lesson, and it was the day that I knew for sure you were a liar.
It might have been at the beginning. When you thought I couldn’t see you rolling your eyes and snickering as I twisted and contorted my body in some vague parody of your own, before telling me that it was a pretty good warm-up stretch, for a newbie. Or when you so casually told me that you too spent most of your first day of training picking branches from your mane and hay from your mouth. My face burned with embarrassment, but I appreciated your words.
It might have been when you pulled out your lucky horseshoe and told me how special and important it was to you — that it had been passed down through your family for generations, granting each wearer a safe and, more importantly, awesome flight. And that, at the end of the day, didn’t the Dash family lay claim to the most awesome flyers in all of Equestria?
It didn’t fit — of course it didn’t. Your forelegs and hooves are strong and athletic; mine slender and shaped from a life of study. But you tied it on using some ivy, and neither of us commented on how your forelegs trembled as you did so.
I still don’t know whether it brought me luck — after all, you refused to let me carry out the necessary tests after practice — but I do know that it worked. I was so distracted on keeping it safe and secure that I didn’t notice how high we were flying, and I remember following your instructions distractedly, without analysis.
It was the first time I had flown in your sky, and I felt safe.
It might have been then that I knew, or perhaps when you placed your hooves so gently around my barrel to guide me home. It might have been then that I realised there was a gentle and sensitive pony sitting within her brash and cocky kingdom, waiting for her existence to not be denied. But it wasn’t.
No, it was after we had landed — my legs like jelly — that I knew.
It was when you didn’t ask me for your horseshoe back.
Bookmarks (assorted colours)
In the amber evening we sit as one.
A sprawl of questing limbs and muted affirmations,
hooves crackling against pages; our lungs teasing air.
Charcoal mirages, brought into relief by the fire.
The nervous columns sing like sirens to you.
I feel your muscles tense and shift, as though
you’ve realised the wind has changed, despite
crystal and lidded eyes muting the call.
I think I envy you that.
You change your position and focus.
A blue bookmark becomes red; you always
have so many. Reading like you live, passion
unfocused and bright, until it’s spent.
I love these nights, because at last you are still, and
every time it feels like it’s the first time
I can keep up with you.
And when you crack the air with a query,
sometimes I’m even ahead.
Library notice – Overdue book (Daring Do and the…)
There was once a young mare named Rainbow,
who borrowed a book a long time ago,
the librarian would whine,
and then issue a fine,
paid by a kiss on a cheek set aglow.
She found herself blinking as she placed the item back inside the box, surprised at how visceral some of the memories still were, yet how out of reach others remained. It was all slowly returning though — she could feel it in the trembling of her heart; the tightness of her chest. She rejoiced, and she despaired.
Ticket (+1) — Wonderbolts Academy Graduation Day
My goodness, Cloudchaser looks so radiant up there. It’s like Celestia plucked the sun from the sky and placed it upon the stage to be cheered and adored.
Sitting beside me, Rainbow Dash is wearing her smile boldly. I’m pretty sure only I can see how tight it looks. I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who’s supposed to.
It should be her up there. It should be her, but instead she’s sitting beside me clutching the graduation programme and probably wondering whether she’s ever going to get another shot at this. I heard you’re supposed to pass out or drop out by the end of the fifth year; either way, your time at the academy is over.
I allow my brain to run through all those calculations and permutations already etched deeply upon it, and now little more than reflexive thought, hoping again to find some missing part of the equation or a new perspective. It’s always the same though; the only conclusion to be found is the one I don’t want to accept.
That maybe even being the very best just isn’t good enough.
Not enough flight time, they had told her in the final debrief. Not enough hours on the clock. I watch Cloudchaser now as she accepts the diploma with shaking hooves and wonder how many hours more she’s put in — how many more she had available from not having other burdens.
Like bearing an element of harmony, and all that comes with it.
Is it my fault then? Oh, what if it is my fault? No, surely she’d have said something if she thought that — Rainbow's a pony who speaks her mind.
Isn’t she?
I should ask her — of course I should. I should ask her right now. Oh, but what if she—
Her hoof is suddenly squeezing mine as if she knows — as if she has seen how tight my smile looks — and I remember to start breathing again.
As Cloudchaser swoops down from the stage the seated ponies cheer loudly. Rainbow joins them — whooping and hollering and punching the air with her free foreleg; a little too loudly; a little too bright.
I’m so proud of you, Rainbow Dash.
Her foreleg trembles suddenly; violently. It lasts but a moment — only until she shifts position — but I recognise it for what it is. I gently squeeze her hoof, and she turns to look at me with half-guarded, uncertain eyes; a request to take her secret, and keep it.
I will, Dash. I’ll take it to my grave.
Brayton rock (peppermint)
Bubble helixes angrily escape the false sky,
disturbing lazy lines of the pier, broken to form generous routes.
Bled of colours and perspective, just
abstract bearers of cool shadows,
or perhaps a bird of prey; you joked about seeing Rocs here once.
You hang before me like a marionette dreaming.
Shoals of light pinch your body, pleading you to
twist and dance. I watch from beyond coral teeth,
lest you notice me, and that dream becomes uncertain.
Salt skin breaks your walls so easily.
We become willing slivers of stone,
betraying the light of the sun for azure eternity.
Where verdant Scylla, fish pecked and current-bent,
court our legs and tails. You reach out — keep reaching,
for a ghost of the past given form and detail.
Just one more meter; your mantra. One more meter
closer to the finish line.
My pepper-kissed chest contorts, becoming embers
that keep limbs moving against the siren call.
You are a kelp-buried anchor, but I pull you free,
and we are snapped up into fragmenting light,
like the first time we flew as one;
the sky a white ripple above us.
Glass breaths chase birds from the beach. Our bodies feel tight;
sodium dusted feathers and stone scratched skin.
A stick of rock offered as an apology; jade curves of
peppermint pushing down, centimetre by centimetre.
On the train home we sit and pick sand from each other’s wings.
Because sand gets everywhere.
A photograph of a rainbow in the night sky
Well settle down then, if you want me to tell you the story.
It’s a short one, but quite sweet — as the short ones often are — and perhaps it will help you understand.
A long, long time ago there lived a pegasus by the name of Rainbow Dash. She was a bold, daring and courageous pony, and it was said that once she set her mind to something she never gave up until she achieved her goal.
One day, Rainbow Dash decided she wanted to the win the heart of the princess of a very special kingdom. The princess was an old friend but, as time passed by, Rainbow Dash had started to become aware of stronger feelings tugging at her heart. But for the first time in her life — not that she would ever admit it of course — Rainbow Dash doubted. She was the fastest, strongest and bravest of all the ponies in Equestria, but were those assets things that the princess would appreciate?
No, she decided. The princess was an egghead — somepony obsessed with books and learning and stars. She would need to do something that also appealed to her interests.
Flying to the balcony of the princess’s castle, Rainbow Dash proclaimed the gift in advance, excited to share the sheer awesomeness of her plan.
“Fairest princess,” she declared. “I shall steal the brightest star from the night sky, for only that will be as hot and bright as my love for you.”
Before the princess could reply, Rainbow Dash launched herself into the cool, night sky. She pushed towards the brightest star, feeling her wings snap in rapid bursts, again and again. Minutes passed, but the star remained out of reach, and she paused to catch her breath.
“I must keep trying,” she panted. “For I cannot return to the fair princess without an awesome and fitting token of my love.”
So she pushed herself on again, and again. She cut through the air like the truest arrow ever launched from a bow. She drove her body onward until her skin burned and her lungs turned to brittle glass, but the star kept its distance from her with a patience that mocked.
She eventually paused on a cloud to rest her sore wings.
“What am I going to do?” she asked the moon desperately. “That stupid star keeps running from me, and without it how is the princess going to know how much I love her?”
Summoning her remaining strength, Rainbow Dash kicked into the sky for one final attempt. She pushed her body more than she had ever pushed it before — her wings grew numb as they blurred and lost shape; her throat snapped from the chill altitude; her vision swam from exhaustion and lightning jumped down her spine. It was coming, she realised, and she hoped it would be enough.
It sounded as though the sky was being torn apart — a terrific crack that slapped at her eyes and left a mute ringing in her ears, and a wet tickle on her cheeks. Out of the corners of her eyes she saw a swirl of rainbows spiralling outwards across the night sky. She closed her eyes, reaching out desperately.
When she felt nothing, she opened them again. The star was still too far away, and as she fell back through the colours her heart broke. But Rainbow Dash was a proud pony. She hated defeat, but she wouldn’t run and hide from it. Tired and sore, she returned to the castle where the princess was waiting.
“I’m sorry,” she lamented, landing on the balcony. “I wanted to bring you the brightest thing in the sky. A gift that you’d appreciate, but one that showed my awesomeness too.”
To her surprise the princess laughed.
“Oh, Rainbow Dash. Your determination to make me happy would have been gift enough, but did you not look around you as you flew? You did give me the brightest thing in the sky.”
Rainbow Dash followed the line of her foreleg and saw the last fading remnants of the rainboom churn and roil out of existence. And, as the colours fell, her heart soared.
She wasn’t even aware she had picked the letter up, but now that she held it in her hooves the gravity of the hazy scrawl was unavoidable. The road was jagged and tough, but until now it had lacked definition and shape. Now the harsh reality was visible once again, but she felt lighter for it, though it still felt too soon.
It always feels too soon.
Hey Twi,
I got Spike to Pinkie promise he’d make you read this letter or, I dunno, read it to you himself if you’re still acting as stubborn as a mule. So I bet he’s probably reading it. Sorry, Spike, you could have skipped this bit.
Huh. So I’m actually writing a letter. Still don’t know how you managed to get me to do that. Actually, that’s wrong — I do know.
I’m angry, Twi. I’m furious with you. I would so much rather be shouting at you right now and telling you what a total and utter jerk you’ve been — you have no idea how much I’d rather be doing that. Saying all that trash and then pulling the whole vanishing act before I could even blink? How could you, Twi?
But I guess your stupid egghead ways are rubbing off on me, because I know shouting’s not gonna help. It would definitely make me feel better, but it won’t help. Like when we argued when you were trying to help me study — you remember that? You better, because I’ve been remembering it a heck of a lot these last few weeks. I’ve been remembering lots of things, and why should it just be me?
So I’m gonna give your way a go. I’m gonna write all these angry and sad thoughts down and hope that somehow I can get through that thick skull of yours. Because you know what? For someone so smart, you can be so stupid at times.
The problem is, there’s like a billion different things I wanna get out my head and say to you, and when I’m sat here with a pen in my mouth I can’t just blurt them all out at you and hope you make sense of them. I’m having to put them in some sort of order and think about what I’m gonna write. So not cool, Twi.
~~You gotta know that~~ ~~So, yeah, I~~
~~I wanna say that I feel~~
~~Stupid.~~
~~Stupid.~~
You’re so stupid.
You know what? I can’t do it. Trying to organise how you’re feeling at a time like this is stupid. It’s something only you would do, Twi. I’m angry, and I’m sad ~~and I’m scared~~ — these aren’t things I can just put into little neat words. How are you supposed to know how bad somepony’s feeling if it isn’t loud and messy and raw? Rarity called it pure, I think, but I prefer raw. It sounds more real.
So yeah, I’m just gonna do it my way, because you told me you loved me for who I am. And that’s the only pony I can be, Twi — and if it isn’t enough then it isn’t enough. You might be a princess now, but I’m still the most awesome pegasus in all of Equestria, and I deserve the very best too. You remember when we were playing Ticket to Ride: Equestria and you told me that winning isn’t worth it if you cheat? Yeah, that.
So what I do wanna say? Actually, I wanna ask you some things, and you tell me some things.
You ever just get the taste of strawberries in your mouth? Because I do. I was out kicking some clouds away from Sweet Apple Acres ~~— you should have seen how hard I kicked~~ — and suddenly I could taste them. I could taste strawberries, and feel the rain, and it was like I was back under that itchy picnic blanket of yours with you, trying not to get soaked. Only this time I wasn’t laughing. It felt like I couldn’t breathe, Twi. It felt as though somepony was stamping on my chest and I couldn’t breathe.
I want you to write back to me and tell me you can’t go to Stuck Needle’s record store on Saltlick Lane because you remember our awesome dance-off to bad pony pop, or board the 0848 to Brayton because the thought of feeling sand and salt against your wings is too much, too soon.
It’s always too soon, Twi.
I want you to tell me you don’t look up at that awesome never-ending sky, full of adventures you haven’t been on yet, and think of us flying side by side as we discover them. Or having nowhere to go, and no idea how to get there but heck, we’re gonna fly anyway. Because I feel you every time my hooves leave the ground. You’re my wings, and I can’t fly without them.
I just wanna know if you’ve smiled since you made your decision. I haven’t, and it doesn’t feel like I ever will again. But, I guess if you’ve smiled even just once, then that might be enough. I guess.
Huh, maybe there’s something to this writing thing after all.
I get it, you know. You think I don’t, but I do. You’re scared.
I’ve been trying to think how it must feel knowing you’re going to outlive someone you care about. I suppose it’s kinda similar to me and Tank (I mean probably, because who knows just how old the little hardhat is, right?) I know it’s not exactly the same, but it’s all I got to work with, Twi. I know it’s gonna be much worse for you.
So yeah, you’re scared of living the rest of your life without me, but guess what? You’re not the only one.
I’m scared of living the rest of my life without you. ~~And I don’t get scared~~ ever~~.~~
I’m scared I’m never again going to be able to waste a day dozing in a cloud with you.
I’m scared that I’ll never again hear that totally freaky purr you do when I bite your ear.
I’m scared that I’ll never again see that awesome and cocky smile when you’ve solved some tricky egghead riddle.
I’m scared that we’ll never argue about books again, or about what we’re gonna burn for dinner tonight, or who's going to pick the film.
I’m scared that my chest will never stop hurting.
You know, that’s a lot of scared’s for a pony who's not scared of anything, and when you write it down like that it’s the same thing, right? Surely it’s the same.
Once, you told me that I had rubbed off on you — that you were starting to take more risks in life. Well I’m asking you to take one more now. Face it, you’re gonna outlive me whatever you decide to do, Twi, but I’m asking you to share at least some of that life with me. I know that it might mean sadness for you down the line, but I guarantee you’ll have a tonne of awesome memories too.
I’m gonna stop here, before it starts to sound like I’m begging. Because Rainbow Dash does not beg.
Midday tomorrow I’ll be where we had our very first date. You won’t be able to miss me — I’ll be the one sitting at a table with a burnt hayburger. You remember that one, right? Best first date ever.
Come find me, and let’s go flying again.
I love you, Twi.
Dash.
The alicorn is like an intervention that has always been there, silhouetted against the competing colours; a hard monolith, bleaching the arguing lines of pink and blue until they are still once again.
She stands beside the carriage, watching ice and water unfold from her nostrils and waiting for the cold to penetrate deep enough to know her limbs are her own once again. Then she starts walking before her mind can reassert the deception. A hill draws itself up before her, like a dragon she knows, and she inclines her head in fleeting acknowledgement as her long legs take up the challenge. It would be cheating to fly up to the crest, even though it sits out of sight beyond the dark smudges of cloud. Winning isn’t worth it if you cheat.
The snow snaps and rasps beneath her hooves, devoid of competition in courting her ears. It sounds like her voice, and the alicorn supresses a shudder. Time enough for acknowledgement, but not now.
Not yet.
It seems lonely, this gentle path, and the alicorn frowns just like she always does. The thought comes to her that it’s far too lonely here — too quiet — and she distracts herself by counting the cobbled steps leading from the silver gates to the circle of pine trees waiting for her at the crest.
There are five hundred and twenty three, just like there always are.
Her throat constricts — traps the snow and ice deep within her until it becomes a glacier to catch each departing breath.
The trees bow and sway in the breeze, just like they always do. Like returning heroes cheering in celebration of their conquests, or librarians demanding silence and respect. Neither feel true to the alicorn in that moment, and she reflects again on whether there are merits in not choosing — in leaving oneself in a permanent state of standing before two doors, and knowing neither will close in your face.
The trees crowd her respectfully, waiting while her eyes focus and refocus on the curving shades of blue and white that embrace the grave.
It feels lonely here. Forgotten.
But that’s why the alicorn comes here in winter. For every spring the wild grass dances and the delphiniums and panseys bloom, and the birds loudly sing the roster of ponies who have come to pay their respects. It’s beautiful and warm and comforting, but it makes a falsehood of her feelings. Here, now, she can feel the cold and breathe the loneliness; own this land and her emotions — and never have a need to share them.
The snow betrays its secrets easily. The alicorn strokes the stone — caresses it — and powdered tears drift free. She doesn’t need to read the inscription, for she knows the words like a mantra. She looks anyway though, because she has to feel that every last part of her is engaged in this moment. Time has muted many things; she can never be one of them.
Like it always does, the memory comes hard, and it comes fast. There is comfort in how fitting that is.
A distillation of words, thoughts, emotions and memories; universes of sensations compress into a single shuddering breath. Two bodies lying languidly in a chair, brought into relief by the fire roaring opposite and the steam twisting from the mugs of hot chocolate held between their hooves. Lips that taste of gingerbread, and feathers that carry avalanches. Time locked away outside, along with the snow and the cold.
If only that had been true.
The acknowledgement follows then, made more potent from its earlier suppression. The alicorn opens her mouth to whisper a secret, and first her lips, then her eyes, betray her. The trees keep her counsel without protest as her cries split the air apart — cracking like ice and escaping in a ragged, uncontrollable song. She cries at how unbelievable it is, that a pony so strong and determined and constantly moving is now still and trapped in time. She cries at how that cocky smile has become a mirage; that rough voice a fading echo. That those keepsakes are just an ever-waning spell. Her hoof strikes the cold stone at the unfairness of it all — again and again until her leg grows numb —because she struggles to feel those wings around her body. She cries until her sorrow bursts free from its prison and cripples her long legs, and she slumps into the cold embrace of the snow.
And then, like she always does, she doubts. She hears Spike’s hesitant voice as he reads aloud the letter, and she remembers her response to it.
She remembers her decision, and wonders whether it was the right one.
The brief debate opens up the vulnerable sky, and fresh snow escapes to the ground below. The alicorn shivers, and shifts her body so it rests against the cold stone. As it always does, a distant memory rises to the surface, and she opens her saddlebag.
She uses her numb hooves to pull the time-weathered book free, because she has to feel every single moment of this day, and pauses briefly to look at the cover. Daring Do smiles back at her — a smile burdened not only by the promise of adventures ahead, but memories of those already passed.
Then the alicorn opens the book, and begins to read aloud.
Author's Note
Hello there, and my heartfelt thanks to you for reading this tale.
This has been, far and away, the most difficult and tricky story I've written on this site, and I'm still not 100% sure I've nailed what I wanted to...um...nail with it. The remit of the competition was to produce a sad/sombre story in an original and unique way, so this was always going to be an experiment of sorts.
As the theme of the story was about decisions and reflections, I wanted the style of the piece to be a little abstract and broken. Early feedback from pre-readers suggested that perhaps it had gone a little too far down that route, and so I made some revisions whilst still trying to keep the tone ethereal and segmented. Hopefully the balance is a little better as a result.
I don't want to assume that the story is so abstract and subtle that nobody understands it (I doubt that is the case anyway), but I also don't want to assume I've struck that balance correctly and that the plot is clear.
The general theme of the story is of Twilight reflecting on some keepsakes in the hope of keeping the memories she has of Rainbow Dash alive. Memories can be very powerful, but they can be very abstract, and I wanted to use verse and prose to differentiate between the two. Time will tell whether I got that right, or whether I've just been a little self-indulgent (perhaps that's applicable anyway).
The second element is of her decision, which I think (hope!) is more apparent. I deliberately wanted to keep the outcome of it vague, and invite the reader to form thier own conclusion as to what path she chose. The reasoning behind this was that a different form of sadness would be applicable to each case, and that also it might make for a story unique to each reader. It might also bring into question when those trinkets were collected — either before the (optional) split, or during the course of their life together.
If at least some of these elements came through for you then I'm happy — it means I'm doing my job correctly. But if not, it has nevertheless been an experiment I'm glad I undertook. I've certainly learnt more about myself as a writer at any rate, and that's half of the point in all of this.
Thanks again for reading.
