Chapter 1: Patriot of the Endours
7:14 A.M.
Twibil Loop was bored.
Tired and bored was the best you could put it. Her mother had kept Twibil working with her in the kitchen all morning—the kitchen that was now bustling with anticipation to be prepared on time for the celebration of this year's Summer Sun—which little Twibil was not at all as excited for like everypony else.
She didn't find it pointless, if that's what you may expect. She knew what the Summer Sun Celebration was all about. It was about raising the sun at dawn and beginning the summer. No big deal. Well, maybe it was a big deal to some ponies, but Twibil just wanted to bury her snub nose in a book and hope that nopony will notice that she's not attending it. If her friends noticed, then they would gawk over it the next day.
"You didn't go to the Summer Sun Celebration?" they would say. "That's like, totally lame."
Lame or not, she still didn't want to go. But what would she tell her mom? She would need to make-up an excuse—a good one. Would it be something like: "Mom, Miss Parmesan needs me too give her a bath this afternoon. Can I go help her?" As amazing it would sound to actually have an excuse for everything, this was her mother. The chef. Head chef of The Winged Gourmet. Chevy Chef. One of the greatest chefs in Equestria. Her mother.
That's how it is, that's how it was—Chevy Chef, the nationally known cook to successfully make dirt look clean.
Though the surpassing mother she is, Twibil Loop is nothing special to herself. She didn't have a cutie mark; and hasn't for sixteen years. Sixteen years she waited for a certain image to appear on her bare flank. Sixteen years she waited to stare at her own buttocks instead. Try as she might to earn her cutie mark, it always ended with the same results: trouble.
Like those highly anxious Cutie Mark Crusaders she'd seen fiddling around town, she too was sometimes willing to take a chance. That eventually stopped about a year ago when the outhouse suffered severe burns from an attempt to "follow in mother's hoofsteps."
And so those hoofsteps were instead followed into the kitchen as the Head Chef’s assistant cook.
Cook?
Twibil didn't get to cook at all, though, her mother did everything in her power to not make her feel left out. She made her do things like: "Sweetie, may you please hand me the spatula?" or, "Will you please unclog the sink so we can get those dirty dishes clean?" It felt to Twibil that her mom did everything in her power to prevent her from doing so much as grate the cheese.
Though this Chevy Chef was nothing but an image to the eye of an average pony, to Twibil, this was her mentor.
"Tell me how this tastes," said her mentor, shoving a spoon of carrot soup into Twibil's mouth, who hardly had enough time to react. She smacked for a moment and pursed her lips.
"It needs more salt." And salt she had to retrieve. Her mom spanked the little glass bottle several times until she felt it was enough. After stirring and shoving the spoon into Twibil's mouth again, she smacks her lips and says:
"It's too much salt now."
"Go get the sugar sweetie." And now it was sugar she had to retrieve. Isn't that salty? This process of adding and taking away went on for eight more minutes until Twibil managed to end it with a:
"Perfect."
And with that perfect, they move it to an oven to keep it warm and insulated.
How's that for salty, huh? Twibil thought. How to cook with your mother: Step 1) Spend an hour with her until things die down—then end it with a salty line, like perfect. She'll most likely buy it. And she did.
Salty, huh?
Why am I thinking about salt so much? Because, minus all those sips of sweetened liquid from a wooden spoon, her mouth felt very bitter. She needed water. Lots. Perhaps a bucket full of some nice, cool, iced water would work. Maybe three buckets.
Life can be bitter, Twibil.
When her mother wasn’t looking, she chugged down the water coming from the faucet, enough worth to fill far too many glasses of water.
I'm aware that I'm going to need to go pee real bad after this…. she thought, throwing worried glances left and right. Some to her mom, others to the little blue sign on a door that had an engrave of a pony with a female figure, the rest went to the running faucet in confusion that she may have to turn on the sprinkler someplace else. That someplace else did not involve her scouring around her mom.
Speaking of which, before her mother became all fame-and-fortune, the best kind of food that Twibil would ever eat was cheap off-brand product foods such as two for one boxes of cereal labeled Great Value, add that with sandwiches staler than a pie that's been left out for too long. All of this fame-and-fortune has never been a big issue for Twibil—considering she was already pretentious about the mother-and-daughter-bond-sessions.
Pretentious should be the word to replace ambitious.
Their first mother-and-daughter-bond-session was about a simple quick cake bake. Little cupcakes with chocolate frosting and rainbow-like sprinkles. Since then, they do this at least twice a month. Perhaps this would count as a bonus mother-and-daughter-bond-session because of the Summer Sun Celebration. At least she didn’t have to put up with it for long; it will only be till they’re done in the kitchen—which may take another hour to top.
Mother-and-daughter-bond-session or not, Twibil was bored and tired. Bored because her mommy takes forever to cook toast. Tired because her mommy was the primary cause to her early morning stress.
When her mother woke her up this morning, it was six o’clock, a sweaty mattress after a short and hot night, mother in the tired mommy phase, standing over Twibil’s bed with candle in her horn aura and a plate full of scrambled eggs on top of the dresser right beside her bed. That basically sums up her premorning.
Her mom shoved a large loaf of bread into a small oven while Twibil filled another pot with water. Cut the loaf, grab the lettuce, some cheese, and relish… seems like enough. Maybe after this, I can quiz Miss Mama Mia over here and leave. After making several tiny, bite-sized sandwiches filled with lettuce, cheese, green olives, and mayonnaise, Twibil turned to her mom and said, “Can I go now?”
Her mom turned off the water faucet after washing her hooves. She stared at her daughter with eyes that said: Don’t you want to stay with mommy and help her work? But Twibil’s bored eyes said: I want to coax myself in a blanket burrito and listen to dainty romance music by Starstruck Glamour all day and read a book called: What to do When You're Tired of Being Real by some random writer that writes books. And I don’t care who the writer is because this story is a real kick/uppercut in the face.
Her mother sighed a low grunted, hesitant sigh. “Okay, but remember, you have to work at the nursing home today at twelve.”
Ah, the nursing home, thought Twibil. The one place in Equestria where they hold you captive till you die eating blender potatoes. Twibil just got a job there during the weekend and will be starting it today—from twelve o’clock to five o’clock; minimum wage. She didn’t mind working there. Actually, she was excited. A few of the elders there were actually her friends, such as Miss Parmesan, whom she and her mom have known since Twibil was born. Since then, Twibil hasn’t remembered a time where Miss Parmesan couldn’t make a birthday party.
After a few awkwardly stated Goodbye, I love yous', followed by a, Tell Uncle Goldstead mommy said hello, Twibil left to the outside.
Ponyville was in quite the bustle. Through the windows of the bakery across the street, Sugarcube Corner, she could see the Cakes and Pinkie Pie (a pony whom that Twibil knew for hosting her last three birthday parties, plus an exceptional one for her best friend Bongo Bezoomny) baking a cake four stories high and looked as if it were a scale model of a hotel, designed as if for a wedding. One multi-culture restaurant had a black sign with chalky-white words that read: Princesses eat for free. Clickity Jack’s Quick-Snack-Pack-Snack-Shack had a buy one get one free special.
I wouldn’t mind a special at Donut Joe’s that said: All Princesses get an extra layer of glaze. Thought Twibil. She could feel her own brain smirking cleverly at that.
Over at the 14 Wing Diner, two construction ponies where stumbling to fit in a new window. Leaning against the wall was the previous glass covered in dirt splotches and other previous residues (barf, maple syrup, gum, and Your Average).
Out of the several food places in town, Twibil stopped by the one with a purple sign made with a chipped piece of plywood that hung overhead the doorway: The Sunny Side Up.
She walked in and deposited herself in a chair. It was warm as a hug and cozy like a bed. This was another example of Your Average (Your Average meaning the usual. The endour of the hour). Your Average was a typical diner owned by a your typical pony who could hardly make enough money to hire employees. That would be the endourble.
It was still the bear part of nine o’clock A.M. A mare behind the counter was reading a newspaper with a headline that read: This day in history. Under it, a black & white photograph of a strange underground camp decorated with trash (tents built high, made of cloth, half were shredded). Next to the mare was a lottery card. Winning numbers: six, fifteen, twenty one, eighteen, twenty, five, five, fourteen. Her numbers: twenty one, fourteen, nine, twenty two, five, eighteen, nineteen, five.
“Hello, Miss Sunny Side.” At this point Twibil just realized how many ponies twice her age she called “miss." Soon enough it would be: “Yes, Ms. Miss? I’d like a Miss Hayburger with a side of Mister Fries.”
“Hello, little, Twibil Loop.” said Sunny Side. She rolled up the newspaper in her hooves and deposited it in between the coffee maker and the espresso machine. With the magic of her horn, she took out a piece of paper from a notebook and a blue ink pen that usually sits in the front pocket of her apron. “What will it be for today, hmm?” What will it be for today, hmm? The very thing that everypony should think when they get up in the morning. What will it be for today, hmm?
Though Twibil did eat breakfast this morning, she was still hungry. She had a big hankering for something warm. The eggs she had this morning were cold and soggy—very unlike her mom to rush, but the ponies at the Summer Sun party weren't going to stand around a bonfire with an elder stallion screaming, "Everypony bring your pots and pans and let's be friends!"
She stared at the menu for a moment, gears in her brain shifting. It was nothing but an old piece of plywood spray painted green. The options were painted on in purple lettering. All it took was a quick smeck of the brain. "A cheese omelet, a blueberry scone, and some black coffee would be nice, please and thank you." said Twibil, with that thought at the tip of her nose when Sunny Side went into the back where the kitchen would be. It was no sooner than the whip of the time to fourteen minutes when Sunny Side came out with Twibil's order. A postdramatic buzzing was going through the diner like broken clockwork striking the next hour. "What's that noise?"
A look of disgruntlement fell upon the face of Sunny Side. "The blender apparently has a mind of its own. I've had it for two years now and already it needs a replacement. It will automatically turn on whenever. Tinker Joe said it has something to do with its trigger."
This is how most of Twibil's life was planned out when the great goddess Princess Celestia created her. She was born to do mommy and daughter fun-fun-glitter routines and talk about broken blenders. Though Sunny Side was the one who brought up the blender, that doesn't stop Twibil from being a socially awkward nerd.
"Why don't you just get a new one?" she said, trying to cover her socially awkwardness.
"There's the thing," said Sunny Side, "Tinker Joe says he will build me a new one."
Wait! Thought Twibil. Tinker Joe said...
"Umm..."—Twibil rubbed her chin with her hoof—“my dad is going to build you a new blender?" she said.
Oh, no....
"Yes...? Is there a problem with that?" Sunny Side had a bit of a distasteful scowl on her face with thin hooked lips going upside down.
"Last time my dad built something for somepony, they went to the hospital because of a leg injury. It was an electric typewriter!"
Emphasis on "electric." That pony that went to the hospital because of a leg injury was her dad's boss Spick-N-Span of Spick-N-Span Emporium. From what she's heard, his leg was paralyzed for two days because of an electric shock.
"Oh, sweetie, that was just one pony." her hooked lips went from a distasteful scowl to a smile more glorious than the sun. It was that kind of smile that made you want to get on your knees and bow. That's how good of a liar Sunny Side was. Sunny Side knew perfectly well that more than one of her dad's inventions went berserk.
"You don't have to lie, you know?" The real question is: Why are you lying? She may be his daughter, but it's not like she's going to complain at dinner.
Sunny Side laughed a limericked and suspicious laugh. "Deary, it's not nice to poke hooves at ponies. They may be telling the truth."
They may be telling the truth. That’s a "maybe." That means "it could be real.” That’s what her mom said when Twibil asked if the tooth fairy was real back when she was two. Only it came out as, “Yes... but she’s invisible, so you shouldn’t stay up all night to see her.” which she did indeed stay up. Her mom entered the room while Twibil was awake and and when she realized that she was staring into the vivid, wonderingly curious eyes of her daughter, she quickly came up with an excuse. She said: “I’m just checking up on you.” Then preceded to quickly close the door.
The next morning Twibil found under her pillow what she expected to be bits but instead a faint-yellow tooth that left a gap in the center of her mouth. After a stern conversation with her mother as the whistling-s filly that she was (across from each other at the dinner table), Sunny Side said almost exactly the same thing that her mom had said. "They might be telling the truth." she had said. They might be telling the truth. The might being no different from the may.
“Umm…” muttered Twibil. “Okay….”
Quick Twibil, change the topic of conversation. If debate classes had taught her anything, it's that you should never run into the argument head on. So how 'bout that Summer Sun, eh? No, no—it's too salty. C'mon, think Twibil, think! Ah, ha! Under these circumstances, Ah ha! should be a new slang word for Eureka!
"So where do you think the Princess will be staying while she's here?" she asked, changing the topic like stirring a bull with a rope.
Did I just hit the lucky jackpot or what? Whaa—whaa—yeah!
"That's an odd question...." (especially since you changed that topic, Twibil) Sunny Side's head tilted with a concerned under-quiver creeping up her face.
Whaa—whaa—no! Back it up! Back it up!
"Well, it would be useful information to know, you know?" said Twibil, making sure to cover up wounded air cleansingly.
Sunny Side nodded her head, concerned under-quiver defaultering against the war on another smile. "How about the castle?" she said. "The one in center of town? Where else would she be?"
Totally whaa—whaa—no. How was it that the castle was the one place Twibil hadn't thought of? It seemed like five years of it standing still wasn't enough to burn a fire in her memory. It was always just a vast opening in the middle of town for her. No fountain, no benches, no trees or bushes, just an opening. Now that a castle was there, Twibil was surprised about how many times she hadn't noticed it.
Twibil also barely noticed that she already drank all her coffee. She didn't notice it was all gone till Sunny Side refilled her cup with the coffee pot in her muzzle. She put the coffee pot (now empty) back on the coffee maker. She took a sniffle of the fresh smell and a stumble to open up the top of the coffee maker and take out the baggy/soggy filter paper holding the previous grinds. She put another filter in and grabbed a bag of fresher coffee grinds that on the cover read: Imported Griffin Stone Coffee. Under this was a logo of a grinning griffon, feathers white, with a mustache on his orange beak and chef’s hat at the top of his head. Under the logo was a caption that read: Imported, roasted, and blended precisely for your taste!
Twibil paid attention to this process and, while doing so, hardly took care of the ringing bells coming from the doorway behind her.
Ding-a-ling-ding
"Twibil!" said a voice that immediately came after the ringing of the bells. She knew the voice so very well. It was her best friend: Bongo Bezoomny. She ran up to her—star-gazed eyes, blue hair whipping against her face in dry wind, wings at her sides flaring insanely like she's about to fly. She made an abrupt stop dead-nose in front of Twibil. Her mane was a bit frizzy from what made her look like she had to fend off a herd of angry fillies and foals to get here. "How you doin'?" came her sass-mare voice. That was the kind of voice that would help you immediately understand the pony's persona.
"Hello, Bongo." said Twibil. She smiled a pearly-white wide smile.
Bongo sat down in a seat left of Twibil and did a linked-patterned rumble with her hooves against the counter. She looked at the menu—she was as energetic as Twibil had ever seen her. Probably (like everypony else in the sadistic world of Twibil's) excited for the Summer Sun Celebration. "Hello, Sunny Side Up?" she called.
Sunny Side came out of her coffee making trance and turned her head to make eye contact with Bongo. Bongo being her deliberate self as (self-ambitious) per always. She fumbled for the notebook paper and blue ink pen with her magic. "What would you like, deary?" What would you like, deary? completely pushing What will it be for today, hmm? in front of a runaway carriage.
For a long minute, Bongo had locked eyes on the menu. Then she spoke: "Pancakes for my tummy!" Believe it or not, this was, indeed, Twibil's best friend. Though Twibil may be socially awkward, that doesn't began to compete with Bongo Bezoomny's absolute weirdness. They've been friends since the beginning. Well, by beginning, technically since their first year in school. At that time, a "Ms. Cheerilee" didn't exist (considering the standards of teaching). At least not until the beginning of their second year. It was the year after Mrs. Vowel's retirement that Ms. Cheerilee took over.
Bongo's drum beat against the wooden counter wouldn't stop echoing through the almost empty diner (there were only four other ponies in there. None of whom Twibil knew). She didn't stop until Sunny Side came out with a plate of pancakes. A stack reaching up to fourteen. On the side, a butter knife and a small packet of butter. She sat the plate down in front of Bongo along with a bottle of syrup and a fork.
"The usual, Bongo." said Sunny Side.
When Sunny Side went into the kitchen, Bongo poured the syrup onto her pancake as if it were a watering hose. What Twibil didn't see coming is that some of the syrup began to leak from the plate and spread over to hers. "Uh... Bongo?" she said, concern plastered across her face.
"Yes?" Bongo stopped pouring so she could listen to what Twibil had to say.
"I think that's enough." She cringed a bit when it spread all around her plate and some started to drip onto her lap. She took a napkin from its holster and dabbed at the sticky mess.
Rather than provoking a conversation, Bongo was stuffing her face with pancakes. She was flabbergasted that Bongo was actually using a fork. Some juicy syrup dripped from her mouth along with saliva while she ate. Twibil held back a gag and a bile-defiler.
"Will you be at Summer Sun Celebration tonight?" Bongo asked, swallowing a mouthful of the pancakes. A bit of a wheeze and a bit of a cough as she (for a moment) choked on the pancakes.
Twibil sighed a soft sigh. "I don't think so." she said. "I don't really like big crowds. And I'm not sure if I'd like to listen to Burke Bunsen drop snooty comments." Burke Bunsen was her snooty I'm-too-good-for-you arch-nemesis.
Other than Burke, the crowd was the major problem. Due to her fear of stage performing, she couldn't handle being in front of so many ponies at once. What her mother had planned for her won't help one bit.
"Lighten up pal-ee! Doesn't your mommy get to serve the Princess diner?"
Yes, she does. And she thinks that I should be by her side when she makes the acquaintance. The problem was that Twibil didn't want to do it. She preferred not having eyes of all sorts staring at her while she does nothing but stare out into the distance dumbfoundingly. Your Average stage fright. More of the endour of the hour.
She could imagine her mom serving the platter/bowl/whatever to Princess Celestia; Mom bowing down to the all-great-one; mom now hard-squinting with a glare in her eyes at Twibil to do the same; the Princess smiling warmly while Twibil awkwardly lowers her upper body; the guards not hard-squinting but also glaring at Twibil.
Twibil was no longer bored but just tired. So tired she felt like a sloth—a sloth in a marathon, that is. Whatever she was going to do in between this time and 12:00 P.M., she was going have to make the most of it.
Rather than trying to provoke an interesting topic of conversation with Bongo—and without continuing the previous—Twibil got out of her chair, slapped five bits on the counter, and left to the outside. Bongo hardly took care and continued to her pancake paradise.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
12:42 P.M.
A rather distasteful morning, if you may wonder. In between the time of the diner and the nursing home, Twibil decided to spend the rest of her morning sleeping off the baggy eyes. To her demise, she couldn't. The bed somehow felt uncomfortable, discounting the fact that this morning she didn't want to leave it and felt rather cozy. It was eventually debated with her own conscience that she had no choice but to go to her first day of work as a baggy eyed pony. If only she wore make-up. But she didn't want to look like a pretty pony with a passion for drama. She could only imagine what her mom would say if she came out of the bathroom with mascara under her eyes, making her look like a walking skeleton: "Look at my pretty pony work that charm!"
Eww.
After brushing her teeth and mane at the 11:00 A.M. mark, she went to the nursing home and met up with the owner of the building. "I'm your new boss," says every boss ever. Well, according to Twibil. What she actually said was: "Here, take this uniform and put it on. Then go make those ol' crooks happy."
It was embarrassing for her to where the uniform. It wasn't very exposing, if anything it was hardly exposing, but she felt like she was prepared to pose for a new-fancy-product magazine. If the lower region of the outfit was any smaller, it would be a devastation to walk around town.
With a moment of stand-still for a declaration of her oath to do everything her boss says, she was sent out to work.
Nothing but nothing has happened for the past thirty minutes.
Twibil is waiting.
Still nothing.
That's all there is to it. Twibil thought with a sarcastic voice ringing in her head. All there is is a crazy old stallion and a few games of bingo here and there.
“They’re coming to kill us all!” said the crazy stallion (aka Uncle Goldstead). From what Twibil had heard, Goldstead was a miner and use to haul a thousand pounds of gold across Equestria in one trip. After an accident in the mine, Goldstead was hit on top of the head and now believes that leprechauns are out to exact revenge with him. As ridiculous as it sounds, he had to retire early. He’s only forty-two.
"They'll get me and then they'll get you!" said Goldstead.
"Are you going to eat your lunch, Uncle Goldstead?" asked Twibil. In front of him was a hastily-made salad.
"How can I eat when I know they can knock down that door any second?" He pointed towards the front entrance across the hall with a hoof.
Twibil sighed, then she thought: Well, well, well, looks like I have to go Super Smart Pony now! Well it just so happens that this very salad has a magic charm in it that can ward any and all make-believe creatures you find dangerous away! If only that could work, if only so.
"Just eat your food, please."
Goldstead hard-squint glared at the salad. He glared at its half boiled eggs; too chunky sliced tomatoes; scrawny carrot bits; the rotting green of the lettuce. Yours Truly had made the salad: Twibil Loop. Yours Truly can't even make a sandwich without burning it. Yours Truly hasn't learn to fend for herself yet. Yours Truly has yet to perfect the arts of pouring milk into a cereal bowl.
That's why you don't grate the cheese, Twibil.
After a quick and complicated argument, Twibil managed to convince Goldstead that he didn't have to eat it but to just do it because it will give him the energy to fight them off if they come barging in. She didn't even know why she bothered.
Here, there, and everywhere, the elderly mingled with one another, some conversations interesting enough to eavesdrop on while others not, such be the same as everyday life. Everyday, something interesting happens, but there is always that continues nothingness until then. That nothingness was called: the endour.
The endour is the usual. Your Average—endour. The endour involved being... bored. Twibil Loop was bored and tired again. Could be stressed a little less, but not too far from it.
Within the next three hours, Twibil had played fourteen games of chess with Mrs. Vowel, mingled a steady whispered conversation with Coco Pommel (a pony of whom Twibil never met before but knew that she was visiting the retirement home to donate new blankets and accessories), prepared room 217 for the arrival of a new bearer, broke up a fight between two stallions fending over a checker board, looked for Milo Cents' dentures, and mopped the floor of the bathroom three times (please, don't try to think of why?).
Tired, bored, and stressed—Yours Truly was.
Something had to happen eventually. Not like a pony would drop dead, but like a bird would sing.
Twibil entered a room with a gold plate on the door embedded with 042. 042 was the room Parmesan Cheddar stayed in. In the room, Parmesan Cheddar was laying on a bed. Lain over her was a wool blanket with a green flowery pattern. There was a large pitcher full of water on top of a nightstand at the other end of the room, on the wall, there were very few pictures. Most were just paintings of sorts. One said: Obey, while another said: Exercise Your Mind!, and the third and last with words said: Be Smart! These pictures matched with a large bookshelf that practically resembled a wall at the right side of the bed. There was a cat calendar above Parmesan's head with a fluffy kitty smiling—it had a word caption in a see-through, white-outlined talk bubble that said: Got Milk?, and, to complete it, there was a snow glob of a pony building a snowpony on top of the bookshelf.
Parmesan was reading a hardback called: Boulevard Equestria. A certain novel about world politics and where it may lead to in the far future if society continues to act the way it is. Twibil had read it and, though she enjoyed most of it, she thought the author was crazy considering Equestria was in danger of being politically unbalanced even though it's a peaceful and beautiful country.
Parmesan Cheddar's coat was mustard yellow (same as Twibil's)—an apparent match to her name—she had a whitey-gray mane that was distinctive against Twibil’s green mane.
"Hi, Miss Parmesan." said Twibil. Parmesan placed her hardback faced down on her lap. She smiled all-so gloriously.
"Hello, Twibil." she said. Green eyes mismatched from Twibil's blue eyes blinked, another opposer to Twibil's physical feature. Having her say Twibil instead of little Twibil like most of her family's friends would was like a million violins playing the song of a heart. Maybe not in that context, but Twibil liked to think of it ambitiously. "How's your new job?"
"I love it!" Twibil said with a puppies and kittens voice. She did love it. She didn't mind the crap that went on. "But I think Uncle Goldstead has stopped taking his medicine. Or it's just not working...."
It never worked, Twibil. The only reason he still takes it is because Dr. Haphazard thinks every few sessions he's getting better.
"I think we've made some progress." says Dr. Haphazard in Twibil's head. This was during this month's visit. Last month Uncle Goldstead said in the office:
"We're gonna die! Every last one of us is gonna die! Run for the hills and never return! Ponyville is on the fritz!" Afterwords, he got a prescription for a different medication. He did get better, but this month's meeting he said: "One of them is gonna fight for us—there is still hope!"
That's the awkward situation where you should probably be placed in the loony bin and not a retirement home.
"He's such a nice stallion." said Parmesan.
Nice can mean schizophrenic, right?
Changing topic: "Are you going to be at the Summer Sun celebration tonight, Twibil."
This again...
"Maybe—maybe not... I might only go till mom serves the Princess her dinner. It's been five years since Ponyville last had the Summer Sun. She says that if I don't go, I may have to wait another five years to have an opportunity like this again."
Opportunities can have misleading expectations.
"I think you should go," said Parmesan. "Your mother is a very smart mare. It would probably break her heart if you didn't go."
"I... I don't like big crowds." Twibil awkwardly rubbed her hoof against the ground.
"You'll only be there for a few minutes." Parmesan smiled. Twibil tilted her head.
Around only for a few minutes? Twibil said that she'd only be there till they serve the Princess, but... did she know something about the Princess coming early? Her mother won't serve till right on the clock when the Princess sits down. That's when mom comes in, bows, and, giving a hard-squint glare at Twibil, Twibil will then proceed to give a halfhearted bow. All this will happen while the Princess does nothing but stare with a small but wholeheartedly smile spread across her face. You will only be there for a few minutes until you wee yourself.
"What was the Summer Sun like when you were my age?" asked Twibil.
"It was the same as it ever was. Nothing has changed about it. Of course, I did get to meet the Princess though—"
"You met, Princess Celestia?"
I wonder how this ended.
"Yes, she invited me into the castle and we had a lovely chat. She offered me tea, I drank some. All I did was go up to her and tell her what was happening in my life."
"And?" Twibil wanted to know what was happening at that time. What was happening before her time.
"Nothing that would catch your interest. Just your typical life drama."—the endourable—"You know that stuff—don't you?" Oh, Twibil did. Twibil knew all about it. Especially with Burke Bunsen scouring about.
She didn't know what went wrong between her and Burke. It all started out nice—glitter n' roses—then it seemed that she preferred the "cool pony" crowd. Considering high school, most kids today aren't that bright. It's said (figuratively): you become cool, you do cool things. You become weird, you do weird things. Twibil's weird things were puppies and kittens while Burke's cool things were smoking, leather jackets, hoty-hot stallions, and ball sports. The thing that made a pony an idiot. If they stood right next to each other, a compare and contrast would be held. Burke's friends—though Twibil was top of her class in most main courses—would pick Burke as the "smart one" even though she has an I.Q. of two hundred thirty-seven. Meanwhile, Twibil's friends would say—and she has a lot more than you may expect—that Twibil is the coolest. Twibil is the coolest! Twibil is great! Twibil is a... salty? Bittersweet mare!
That's how it was: Ponies are separated by labels such as "cool" and "weird." Weird is considered nerdy to some while others consider it to be independent. Twibil considered it normality.
Normality is talking to your elders and making them feel happy, for any moment they could drop to the floor in a daze—suffering a nose redder than a baby's' rash. And here she is now, doing things the way she knows she should.
She sighed. A glance around. An eye-catcher—no. Eye-catcher gone. The eye-catcher was gone from her mind like it was a catcher's mitt that dropped the ball after nearly getting a perfect catch. She looked around the room to make sure she knew what that eye-catcher was.
Be Smart!, Obey, and Exercise Your Mind! hanging on the walls; book shelf that practically resembled a wall; pitcher of tea on the nightstand across the room from the bed; snow glob of pony building a snowpony; hardback book: Boulevard Equestria; wool green flowery-patterned blanket, cute little fluffy kitty smiling calendar with caption that says Got Milk?—nothing was too much of an eye-catcher.
Twibil shrugged the brief confusion off immediately. She looked at Parmesan and smiled. "Do you need anything?"
Parmesan bit her lips. "I don't think so sweetie.... Can you go see if my lunch is ready?"
"Aye-aye, captain!" said Twibil. "It might take a bit to prepare. I also have to make sure that 217's patient makes it to her room safely." Parmesan nodded with a smile.
"Take your time." she said.
Twibil left the room.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
4:13 P.M.
A mare that Twibil didn't know but could tell that she worked at the retirement home due to the type of clothing she wore, ran down the hallway with panic filling the air. She stopped dead ways from Twibil and near a group of five mares enjoying a coffee break.
Yap, yap, yap, blah, blah, blah, goes the stuck up in the crowd. Twibil thought. She listened in on the conversation, and, could only make out the words "stallion" and "bed."
"Room 042's patient is dying, we need a stretcher to transport her to a medical center immediately!"
Twibil nearly dropped Parmesan's lunch tray... she was just there. She didn't think that leaving her alone for fourteen minutes would be so problematic. She only stepped off to the side to greet the newcomer and welcome her to her new room. Twibil immediately placed the tray down on the counter in the cafeteria. She ran.
Heart pounding; thumping every moment. Forehead glazed with sweat. Legs aching. Stomach turning with anticipation. This was all because of the worries for her dear heartfelt family friend.
The five mares, plus an extra stallion that showed up to the room without question, pushed Parmesan on a blue stretcher. She didn't look like she was breathing. Twibil ran alongside the crew of ponies hauling Parmesan.
Going... going... stop.
They stopped abruptly at a room labeled overhead the doorway in red lettering: Medical Center. Twibil was told to wait outside (new employees weren't allowed to operate in the medical center till they at least had over 137 days of teaching). Not bored, not stressed, but worried.
Twibil was worried.
In a heap of a few minutes, Parmesan Cheddar fell flat like that. This was more than she could construe. Her first day of work and already Discord was brewing a new remedy to wreak chaos within the heart.
Time seemed to tick slowly for Twibil.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
6:21 P.M.
Parmesan Cheddar was dead.
That's how it was, that's how it is.
Forever asleep.
After she got home from the retirement home, Twibil spent the next few hours of her free time in her bedroom, tearing at the eyes.
Parmesan Cheddar was dead.
Did it matter?
It did to Twibil.
Parmesan Cheddar was the closest friend to her family that they've ever had. It was said by her mom that she met Parmesan before Twibil was born. She always came to dinner when invited, and she always knew what to say.
This was true.
Parmesan helped Twibil through some hard times—mostly drama (your typical teenage freakouts, emotion, crushes, and other whatnot). Twibil hated drama, but she did put up with it a lot. Death was never an issue to her before. After all, death was only something that made reality real. But with Parmesan... it could happen to Goldstead—Burke—Bongo—Mom—Sunny Side—or Mrs. Vowel. At any moment. Would she feel the same about all of them?
Yes. Even Burke.
If she knew someone for a long time, she'd feel sorry for them. In her term of logic, that meant they were a friend in some way, even if that friend should be impossible to get along with.
Twibil had to force herself to stop crying at the plague of 7:00 P.M. as to not provoke question from her mom. Thirty minutes later, her mom came in the house. Would she tell her?
Her mom knocked. No. Not tonight. Twibil just managed to get her eyes to not look so puffy. The reddening was near impossible to notice.
"Twibil," she said. "It's time to go to the Summer Sun Celebration." Still a bit sniffly, Twibil got up from her bed and walked over to the door.
So,Twibil thought, slap a smile on there for effect or give her the good old bored pony look? Twibil opened her door. Bored pony look it is.
Her mother gasped. "Twibil, you're not even ready (now's not a good time to be ready, mommy)! I have a dress waiting for you on the couch downstairs. Put it on and brush your tail and mane. The party starts in an hour." An hour to prepare.
Twibil did as told. She went downstairs and found a pink glittery dress. Eureka! was the best way to describe it. Eureka! involves a crazy pony throwing the dress on the ground, taking a hoofful of glitter, shouting, "Eureka!," then throwing the glitter—repeat if necessary.
She brushed her mane and tail, and to be safe, brushed her teeth for the second time.
Shiny, minty, flossy, her inner conscience tried to humor.
An hour passed and together they went to the Summer Sun Celebration.
It was crowded. Ponies laughed, ponies cried, ponies mingled—the only reason why Twibil was here was so she didn't have to disappoint her mom. Bongo was there—she didn't expect her to be so easy to find. She thought she was going to spend the whole night looking for her. A seemingly knowledgeable pony wouldn't dare track a friend down in a crowd such as this one. First you'd have to deal with the endless wall of bodies.
It was outside. Outside, it was decorated like a festival. Like the Nightmare Night Festival was happening twice this year. Twibil drank the punch most of the first hour. Twibil and Bongo had a simple chit-chat-yap... or Bongo had a chit-chat-yap. "Are you going to meet her? Will you get to hold the spoon for her and put it in her mouth? Will it be cake? Can I watch? Your crush is coming! Will you write about this in your secret journal? Can we have a slumber party? Will we—" That was it. The first hour. The second hour: Well, maybe the second can be just like the first....
The second hour was ignored when a certain stallion
(Bongo: "Your crush is coming!" is what rang in Twibil's head as she saw him)
passed: Comet Cosmos. Another one of Twibil's friends. Twibil has had the heart eyes staring out at him since she was fourteen. Unlike most stallions, he was smaller in size. He was about the average height and width of a mare, but he still (according to Twibil) had the looks. Strange looks, really. His cutie mark was of a cluster of stars (Comet was looking to become an astronomer), he had a light gray coat, and his mane, along with the tail, looked like he repeatedly dumped several different colors of paint over his head. Green, blue, red, gray, purple, black—all mixed together.
It's time to go bait the fish, Twibil.
"Hey, Comet!" Twibil yelled over the crowd, with Comet standing only two yards away. He looked at Twibil from where he stood and smiled. Twibil walked over to him, heart eyes masked with with her own smile.
"Hey, Twibil." he said. Ponies kept bumping into the two of them. Twibil's instinct told her to drop and hide under the snack table. Comet Cosmos' eyes though told her to stay put and hope for some hanky-spanky. "How's the Summer Sun been so far?"
Well, that's all anypony seems to have been talking about for the whole day. I find it a completely unavoidable conversation, so I guess I can cover it.
Twibil said, with her best I'm-a-cool-pony expression, "It's been alright so far. Bongo's been keeping me company." Bongo is yapping her trap over at the snack table. She looked over to, Bongo. She was munching on chips while at the same time talking to a random pony, whom Twibil hadn't found familiar in anyway, nor was she sure that Bongo found the random pony familiar.
Twibil took notice of Comet's groomed mane. No tuxedo, no bow tie, but just a groomed mane. "I can see that you've took you time to get ready." she said and she pointed.
"This?"—looks up at mane—"My mom made me brush it. She thought I might meet a mare during the Celebration and didn't want me to be unprepared."
You and me both. Thank you, mom, for giving me this honorable chance to settle things. This may be the (hundredth) first time that Twibil appreciated what she at first doubted from her mom.
When she put the dress on earlier, she felt baffled at the sight of herself in the mirror, but felt slightly (very) uncomfortable and itchy wearing it. But she knew it was a stallion drawer. A real candy for the eye. The bullseye for the arrow. Like she drank a bitter love potion and heard a million sympathies go off in her ears and clamber down through her whole body. In other words: wow.
Not just anypony can pull off a look like that. Now if she could just get closer to the breakage point...
He looked at her and smiled. "You look very beautiful in that dress, Twibil."
Twibil didn't know how she managed to hold back a blush. Did he really just say that! She covered it up with a, "Thank you."
"So I hear your mom will be serving the Princess. Will you be with her?"
Not this again...
"Yeah," she said blandly. "She thinks (I think I like being a lonely nopony) it will be a great opportunity to involve myself more in the world and become super popular like she is." Super popular or super embarrassed?
She remembered the conversation with her mom a fortnight ago. "I'm going to get to serve the Princess dinner." she said. "I think you should be by my side when I make the acquaintance." Twibil couldn't help but bicker. Her mom, without argument, demanded that she stood by her side. There would be no way out.
Here she stood. High school crush having a nice conversation with her; Celestia about to come out and greet them all. How's life treating ya? said a dear old oppressing voice in Twibil's head. She fought it with a:
I'm not gettin' enough oxygen.
"You don't sound very enthusiastic about it." He raised a brow.
Twibil sighed. "I don't mind it... I like being here, I just don't like... being here." She liked the Summer Sun, but she didn't like the crowds. She
felt very claustrophobic standing around them. The whole two hours she's been jumpy. How a—'bout—'bout—'bout we change the conversation again? Twibil thought nervously.
Comet looked at Twibil for a slight moment and said, "Well, hopefully you'll get—" he was cut off when they heard a bellowing mare pointing at a chariot in the sky.
"The Princess is here!" she said.
Gosh, way to kill the chicken, ma'am.
In a golden chariot in the sky, sat a tall white alicorn, feathered majestic wings, horn so sharp it could pierce, snowy-white exterior, accompanied by a crown on her head, two guards sitting behind her, and four stallions pulling the wagon. It was Princess Celestia.
The chariot landed and ponies bowed as she walked to her place behind a table that's been empty from over seven yards.
She sat.
It was time.
Cold sweat glazed the forehead of Twibil. She looked around. Her mom was sitting in a reserved area surrounded by tables. It was like a little make shift kitchen. Some would argue that it was a barbecue, but it was, indeed, a kitchen. Her mom had eyes lurking out for Twibil. It was probably best not get her upset.
While Comet was busy admiring the Princess, Twibil sneaked off to the reserved area.
"Let's make this quick, okay?"
"Yes, mom."
"Please don't do anything that may upset the, Princess."
"I got it, mom."
"Don't slouch, don't burp, don't roll your eyes, and don't do anything at all rude."
"Okay..." You've made it clear.
Her mom paved the way, balancing the platter in her muzzle.
Stop. Guards. Go. Stop. Here.
Princess Celestia smiled. "What have we here?" she said wholeheartedly—just as Twibil thought she would.
"Princess." said Twibil's mom as she bowed. For a short second, Twibil hadn't done it, but her mom quickly caught on before anypony else. She hard-squint glared for Twibil to do the same.
"Princess." muttered Twibil. She leaned her upper body forward towards the ground. She did her best to not pay attention to the dozens (possibly hundreds) of eyes staring at the three of them.
Her mom lightly placed the platter on the table. She stepped back and went back to bowing. Celestia's horn glowed. She lifted up the cover protecting the meal, and... cake.
It was cake.
The Princesses' dinner is a giant frosted sponge?
This somehow bugged, Twibil. But she couldn't argue, because the next words out of the Princess' mouth were:
"Let the Summer Sun Celebration commence."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
6:54 A.M.
Hours.
Hours, hours, hours. Forsaken Celestia, just please let it end! It was almost time. Time to raise the sun.
Over the lengthy wait, due to Twibil's fear of the crowd, she held back by the snack table. Would've been under it, but she was sure that if her mom found out where she was hiding, she would tell her to find a different hiding spot. Bongo kept her company.
"You did a good job, Twibil. I really enjoyed the performance!" said Bongo. Twibil was concerned whether Bongo thought of her serving the Princess was some kind of talent show performance. Hey, let's make her dance!
It all happened in an instant. Everyone stopped in place to stare in sheer awestruck at a giant flare in the sky. The flare was generated from Celestia's horn. "Come around everypony, for it's time to raise the Summer Sun!"
They all cheered. Even Twibil—mostly to look like she was participating. Celestia's horn glowed and Twibil caught a glance at a rising horizon.
Up. Up. Up. Done.
It was beautiful. Better than yesterday's, and it can for sure beat tomorrow's.
Just like that, the Summer Sun Celebration was over. Now, it was just the summer, and the sun was just the sun. The time of year where foals play and mothers get to breathe... or maybe not.
Geez, I'm glad that's over—pinprick needles coursed their way through Twibil's body. She collapsed.
Twibil couldn't breath. She dreaded to not bite her tongue if this were a seizure. The best way you could explain the pain was: take explosive diarrhea and multiply that by kidney failure. What do you get? A sharp, white-hot knifing pain in the lower abdominal region, a speeding heart pumping faster than a bird can fly, and a migraine worse than a day in the field with of a farm.
Ponies were staring. Did it matter right now? Not to Twibil. She was more worried about what was wrong with her. Food poisoning. The flu? Ammonia? Whatever it was, it was a white knife stabbing her in the stomach to Twibil.
The worst of it was that the Princess was standing over her. She must have left her place behind the table in a worried panic for one of her subjects. Her horn developed in a beautiful aura. Twibil's body glowed. Apparently, she was trying to heal her, but the pain was still coursing, and it only coursed through harder.
This was no stomach ache. Am—am I gonna die?
That was a question left to bear the burden of detail in the very near future.
Darkness surrounded Twibil.
Author's Note
Months were put into this single chapter. I hope you enjoyed it because, well, this was the best I could make it. The ending was a bit off taste for myself -- and I was the one who wrote it. This is one of the hardest stories I've had to write, and you can probably see why.
If you enjoyed it, thank you very much.
Special thanks to my editor, Skittr!
