Written Word, eyes draped with exhaustion, had to will herself through the doorway and into her cluttered home. Her long mane was in damp, unruly ringlets thanks to the downpour outside, and her sweeping motions that moved it every which way didn’t help that fact.
She trudged to the table, where she set a wet coat over a wooden chair and placed her heavy bag and its contents on top of the surface. Things tumbled out, every which way, and she struggled to get them all into one easily controllable pile.
When all was said and done she snuck from her possessions a single, 18-page drawing pad and a simple pencil that desperately needed sharpening. After doing the latter with a hoofheld sharpener, she broke into a clumsy dash into the living room, her hooves sliding on the slick floor.
Set up already in the room was a drum set, a small microphone attached to a laptop, and a stand for sheet music. After brushing off some dust from the stand, she set the pad gently on it and flipped to a new page. “A clean slate,” she thought.
She levitated the pencil to the paper and frantically began to write, every few moments changing rests to rolls and quarter notes to half notes. After one of these changes she would exchange the lowly pencil for a set of old drumsticks, the ends misshapen from years of use. She played through what she had written so far, beginning to end, and decide in her head if the melody was phenomenal or downright terrible.
“Almost perfect.” she muttered, almost two hours into her session. The piece, rough at best, had already gone through numerous changes and drastic alterations and needed much polishing before it could be even slightly presentable.
Written Word paused abruptly for a moment, in the middle of coloring in a quarter note. The half finished note stared back at her in dismay. “Why won’t you finish me?” it pleaded sadly.
“Hush, for I will.” she answered. The next moment brought no such promise being fulfilled, but the note did not protest. They both were listening to the pitter patter of rain on the metal roof. It had a pleasing time signature; 4/4, if she was correct.
“My favorite.” she murmured. She continued working.
Suddenly there was a dull roar, like somepony striking a gong. She whipped around to see her faithful clock striking midnight, as if it were mocking her for not finishing.
“It seems my music must wait, for the night has a different fate,” she cried dramatically as she rounded the staircase with a dramatic air, “for me!”
Her poetic words, chilling as the night air itself, hung in their suspended position for the rest of the silent night.
“Hey! You!”
Written Word nearly tripped over her own hooves as a familiar voice sounded from behind. Quick steps followed, and she hurried to get away from the dreaded Ponyville Market. It was in vain, though, as a tall unicorn stallion easily caught up to her and smiled.
“Yes?” she answered bleakly. Her hooves itched to get writing again- her song only needed a brief touch up and then was done.
“Whatcha’ doing tonight?” He kept a brisk pace beside her as she passed a variety of fruit-related carts.
“Nothing, just relaxing.”
His eyes instantly lit up. “Really? Well, I just got that new game from Amanezon- Colt of Duty?”
“I’m not that stupid. I know what Colt of Duty is.”
“Anyway, I got it, brand new, never opened...” he began.
“And you want me to come over and play it with you.” she finished.
He blushed. “Maybe.”
She debated whether to go; Colt of Duty was the most hyped game of the century, said Equestria Daily, and her order had mysteriously disappeared when she tried to pre-order on Amanezon. A prickle of jealousy tickled her fur.
“Sorry, but I have... Stuff to do. Things to see. You know how it is.” she pranced off, as fast as her legs would go, towards her home.
He looked down at the ground, ears flat and face scrunched up in a mixture of sadness and utter disappointment. “Okay. See you later, I guess.” he muttered.
Nopony heard him.
The song was perfect- every note, every well-timed rest or accent. Perfect.
But why did it feel so empty?
Written Word paced in her home for what seemed like forever, trying to find an answer to this unusual conundrum. How could it be so meaningless, if she poured her heart into every note she colored in?
She sat, in defeat, on her chair next to the laptop. The keys were untouched, the screen black. The microphone stared at her, daring her to make a move.
Then it hit her, like a bolt of lightning-
she needed lyrics.
Sure, she was far from the best singer in Equestria, or even Ponyville- sometimes her voice cracked on the highest notes and disappeared completely on the low ones. But she thought of the meaning she placed behind the raw idea and thought lyrics would do it justice.
With a simple click, the computer came to life. Her wallpaper, depicting a certain stallion, smiled back at her. Written Word smiled as well, and moved the mouse to her microphone software.
Long Division settled himself into an uncomfortable bar chair in the most prestigious bar in Ponyville, the Sweaty Stallion. Despite its odd name, he estimated there were at least fifty ponies inside.
“If this place is so well-known, can’t they afford some comfortable chairs?” he grumbled.
The sassy, young pegasus waitress in tight pantyhose flashed him a sexy look as she handed him a beer-stained menu. “Anything you want, hot stuff.” she had said before hurrying to another nearby table. He could still feel his red-hot cheeks after the incident.
Nothing on the menu looked appetizing, so he ordered a simple water as the waitress went by again. She pouted when he was finished. “You know, I did say anything.” She showed her sparkly white teeth and winked.
“I know, miss. But just the water.” He felt his cheeks burn again.
She ran a hoof across his chin. “Just call if you want anything more, m’kay?” In a dash she was off to get his refreshment.
Long Division groaned. This was one of many reasons he despised bars.
Another was open mike night, as they called it. Most ponies who took center stage were either horrible lip-syncing colts and fillies or downright horrible mares with high, screechy voices that nearly broke his glass. How wonderful he had to come on this night.
When his water arrived, and the waitress gave him a swift air-kiss, the first performer stepped onstage. He had only taken a small sip when he immediately spit it out., the cup still levitating in the air.
“Written Word?!”
The unicorn mare had levitated with her a small snare drum, some sheet music, and a pencil. A proud smile was on her face, and he was sure her amber eyes were focused directly on him.
She took her seat on a rusty metal chair that had probably been there for centuries and readjusted the microphone so that it reached her height. “This is for Long Division” was all she said.
He spit out some water again.
The lights dimmed, and she began to slowly play on the snare drum and serenade the rowdy crowd.
“I hear you breathing in, another day begins...
The stars are falling out, my dreams are fading now,
fading out...”
She began to sway softly to her own beat.
“I’ve been keeping my eyes wide open...
My eyes wide open...”
The crowd fell into her soft lullaby.
Then she exploded, her words ringing true and clear.
“Oh, your love is a symphony,
all around me,
Oh, your love is a melody,
underneath me, running to me...”
He couldn’t help but smile at this mare’s enthusiasm for her song. A single tear made its way through his eye, and it fell into his half-empty water, mostly gone because he did many spit-takes. He had so much to say about this tune, dedicated to himself, but yet had no words to describe it.
“Your love is a song.”
