What Lies in a Moment

by PaulAsaran

Rating: everyone
Tags: My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Random
Length: 11977

Even the most inconsequential moments can be memorable.

Everyone knows the big moments in the stories: the hero vanquishes evil, the lovers' lips meet for the first time, the filly's first flight, the realization of a dream. They come, they go, and we remember because they were meant to be memorable.

What of the smaller moments? Those inconsequential points that so many forget, but you remember? An idle conversation, baking in the kitchen, the end of a dive, a walk in the woods. So often plain, so commonly 'common'.

Or are they?

A collection of shorts written my multiple authors with only one theme: making small moments seem important. The goal is to learn to develop scenes and create more beautiful narrative. This is purely for practice and self-growth; stories are not intended to be linked together in any way, and may not even have a purpose within themselves. That's not the goal. Just write, and make something little seem so like so much more.

Anyone may provide entries. Yes, even you. The rules:

1) Entries must be between 750-1,250 words. I'll be lenient with this; if your story is 730 words, I'll let it slide.
2) Entries should avoid 'big' topics and focus on mundane, everyday things; a walk in the park, waking up in the morning, eating an early dinner, whatever comes to mind.
3) Since the purpose is to develop a more creative narrative, it is strongly encouraged that as little dialogue be used as possible. Preferably none.
4) All characters and time periods of MLP are game, including OCs.
5) Only E and T rated stories allowed.
6) If you submit something to me, you can't go back, erase half of it and rewrite it from scratch. The stories are meant to be natural, to come out without excessive thought and contemplation. Editing and proofing is encouraged, but sweeping rewrites are not, and I will not accept something like that after I've received a copy. I can't really police what you do before sending something to me, but just know that if you spend more than five minutes plotting it out prior to writing it, you're doing it wrong.

To get your entry into this collection, send me a PM with a link to it. GDocs is preferred. I retain the right to reject any entry sent my way, but I assure you that I will always give you a proper reason for rejection should that happen.

Cover Art by Rain-Gear. Permission acquired thanks to this fine individual.

Published 2016-08-27 19:50:01 UTC
Last updated 2018-04-17 20:43:56 UTC

PaulAsaran: Icing

Icing
By PaulAsaran

Sugar. A scent she was intimately familiar with. It rolled through her nostrils in a fresh wave with every spoonful of pink. She lifted it out of the bowl, examining the swirling mass that could tantalize so many. Even now, the urge to take just the tiniest lick propelled her tongue forward. As always, she kept her lips sealed, blocking the saliva-covered assault before it could begin. Her dedication could only be so strong; she quickly tucked the dollop into the plastic tube. No sooner did she do so than her spoon entered the bowl, and the the battle for self-control began anew.

Distractions worked best in this fight. The steady tick-tick-tick of the old timer, its rounded top dented from one too many strikes from an energetic foal. The ovens, most of them scratched and faded from years of constant use. Save for the third one, which reflected the bright overhead lights like a beacon. It seemed almost rude to its elders, flaunting itself like that with its newer heating system and its more modern enchantments. The other ovens almost seemed to be sulking, seniors recoiling from the bratty new kid.

Another scoop.

Her ears perked to a bell’s chime. It rang out over the muffled noises coming from beyond the oaken, swinging doors. A constant humming, patrons going about their daily routines, enjoying a bite of cake or a milkshake during their lunch breaks. A single voice rose over the din, gentle and motherly. Did you enjoy your meal? Yes, they’re doing wonderfully, thank you for asking. That’ll be six bits.

Scoop.

Another happy customer. She could just see the smiles. She loved smiles. Being the expert that she was, she knew there were thousands of variations. Turning her head just a little to the side, she practiced a few in the mirror finish of the tall, imposing refrigerator that dominated its corner of the kitchen. Smug number D, with one corner turned up just so to emphasize confidence. Uncertain number F, chin tucked to chest and teeth grazing the bottom lip. Guilty number S, with eyes a little wider than normal and teeth slightly showing between shaky lips.

Scoop.

Grin P, her favorite and most frequent. Corners spread so wide she could feel the skin stretching, pearly teeth glinting in the light, eyes sparkling with mirth. It was a subtly different sparkle from Playful P. She practiced switching between the two, working to get the shine in her eyes just right. After all, smiles were no joke.

Scoop.

A new sound dared to interrupt her important study of facial interaction, yet it claimed to have good reason. Light and dancing, it played with her ears like the tease it was, begging her to move away from the counter, the bowl and the sugary sweet scents. Oh, how she longed to answer that spirited call! Her rebellious eyes danced their way to a nearby door. A tiny orange head of hair, topped by a little blue bow, pushed through the crack. Blue eyes caught the tiniest glimpse of the kitchen’s sole occupant before a skinny, batter-yellow leg snatched their owner away. The door closed, muffling the giggles.

Scoop.

Enough scooping. The battle was almost won. Setting her spoon aside, she twisted up one end of the tube, blocking her eager tongue’s path to sugary goodness. With a twist of her hooves, she’d tied off the end. Shouldn’t that be harder than it seemed? There was a time, back when she’d first stepped into this magical kingdom of sugar and dough and enchanted ovens, when she’d had to use her teeth too. She opened and closed her mouth a few times, listening to the light click-click of tooth against tooth, trying to remember how she’d ever used them for such a thing. Trying again might be fun.

Ding.

One of the older ovens desired her attention. She set her tube aside and reached over the counter to the circular rack above. Tools of every description hung from it, silent prisoners just waiting to be freed and know their purpose. As she pulled a stained grey oven mitt down, the other utensils turned away, as if to hide their jealousy at being ignored. She couldn’t blame them; being forgotten wasn’t much fun. But they would get over it and welcome their friend back into the fold soon enough. They always did.

Ding.

Mr. Oven was impatient. He had a gift for her, and she kept him waiting like a lovesick colt standing at the door of his desire’s house. She giggled and cooed at him; he was far too old for her and he knew it. He opened his door for her anyway, his heat demonstrating his eagerness and the glowing element below his blush. No flowers for this mare, oh no; this devilish Blueblood sought to tempt her with hot, soft, moist baked goods. A dozen of them, all settled in their respective seats and awaiting their uniforms.

Another battle was waged. This one proved more easily won, if only by virtue of her not wanting to suffer a throbbing tongue for a while. She grasped the baked soldiers’ tray and pulled them out, silently thanking the old oven for his gift but coyly asking for more time to think about it. After all, he had a lot of competition and all the other old guys were preparing to shower her with gifts. No, no, don’t worry about that young upstart, he has nothing on you.

The tray is set. The soldiers, soft mounds of fluffy, chocolatey deliciousness, await orders. Perfect specimens, each and every one of them. Ah, but they still lacked their attire, didn’t they? Her battle would begin anew; she took the tube filled with sugary goodness and took aim. The time had come for them to look as good as they smelled. After all, mares preferred their colts to be in uniform.

The sweet scent invaded her nostrils once more.

Danger Beans: Night and Day

Night and Day
By Danger Beans

My name is Selena Estela Luna. And I am a liar.

Deception is a talent that I have always possessed, a talent that I have honed to perfection over many years of practice. I was raised by a pair of noble unicorns, and it was in their house that I learned the importance of lying, and of being able to see through the deception of others. Subterfuge, intrigue, deception, all are as easy to me as breathing.

I once strode through court like a circus pony walking a highwire, skillfully outwitting those who sought to bring me down. I discovered the secrets of my enemies, protected the secrets of my allies, turned my foes against each other and set entire countries aflame with but a few spoken whispers into the right ears.

Her name is Celestia Aestas Solis. And she is not a liar. In fact, she is the furthest thing from a liar that it is possible to be.

Unlike myself, she was raised by impoverished earth ponies on a turnip farm. Where the virtues of honesty and hard work were extolled and exalted. Whist I was schooled in the fine arts of magic and diplomacy by the best tutors across the land, she was learning to plant vegetables and pull weeds.

She has never had to keep her face perfectly calm while talking to a stallion she knows is plotting her demise, never had to fight for her life on the middle of the night against Griffon assassins. Never had to lie for her very life.

She has never had to face anything more dangerous than an errant woodchuck.

This is why she will lose. Despite the fact that we share the same blood, that we are sisters, she is weak. We stand across from each other, eyes locked. Like warriors in combat. I have the advantage, but one wrong move on my part could end it all.

Celestia is about to make her move; I can tell from how her breathing suddenly slows. This is it, the moment where the battle is decided.

“Do you have any . . . threes?” she asks, looking at her cards.

I narrow my eyes and purse my lips in an affectation of anxiety, pretending to contemplate my four remaining cards.

“No.”

“Luna, you're supposed to say ‘go fish.’”

A stalling tactic. She is trying to delay the inevitable. But nothing will help her now.

“Go fish.”

Celestia draws a card, bringing herself one step closer to defeat. It takes all my years of practice not to reveal my satisfaction.

Her eyes raise to me in silence.

It is my turn.

I know what my move will be; throughout this match I have been paying the utmost attention to my opponent's moves, but still I take my time, drawing out her anxiety. The battle is not won just yet, and I need to keep her off balance.

“Have you any sevens?”

“Yes, I do. Very good, Luna.” She relinquishes one of her cards to me; I take it and place it upon the table with two others.

“I have formed a trinity of sevens, and now possess only two cards, Sister. You’re defeat is nigh,” I say, looking into her eyes.

“Oh, looks like you’ve almost got me Luna.” She smiles, attempting to hide the true depths of her despair, but I am unfooled. Her resolve is crumbling. Melting like snow under the sun. “Well then, have you got any fours?”

“N—go fish.”

“Okay.” Celestia draws another card to her rapidly growing collection.

This is it. I can feel my heart beating in my chest like a drum. I have two cards left, both of the same number. If she has the last card I need, I will win this match. I have to keep calm, keep my wits about me. I take a breath, slowly, and release it. “Do . . . you . . . have . . . any . . . nines?”

Celestia doesn’t reply immediately, having to search through her throng of cards, she begins to take so long but at last she pulls one out from the others and passes it to me.

“Yep. Here you go.”

My resolve, as ironclad as it is, breaks, as I gleefully snatch the card and slap it down onto the table. “I am victorious!”

“Yep. Now can we please go get some ice cream?”

I smile, nodding. I have won this day.

BlazzingInferno: Horticulture

Horticulture
By BlazzingInferno

Rose sat by the window, watching raindrops slide down the glass. The mug of hot chocolate that once warmed her forelegs had long since gone cold, its contents untouched. She hadn’t meant for that to happen, to have the drink she’d spent so many minutes mixing, heating, and pouring to be forgotten. Something about witnessing rainfall through her living room window was just too hypnotic.

She couldn’t see the flowers in the garden. The clouds were too thick, the rain too heavy, and the hour too late for even the azaleas just beyond the windowsill to make an appearance. There were so many flowers out there: roses, tulips, and daisies, just to name a few. They were all out in that downpour, so completely surrounded by water that the light emanating from Rose’s window couldn’t be bothered to touch them and then make the return trip.

Sometimes she wondered how flowers survived. How did the delicate petals of a rose, so easily spoiled by pests or even a careless brush of pruning shear, withstand the outright pummeling of a rainstorm? Why did they always bloom all the more when the sun’s light finally returned?

Weather pegasi were the real gardeners, she sometimes feared. All her meticulous hours spent spreading fertilizer, trimming branches, grafting buds, and in every other way caring for her prize-winning flowers was a curiosity at best, a toy ship in a bottle currently being battered by a tumultuous sea. The whole of her garden couldn’t measure up to the miracle of a single meadow flower, cared for by nothing other than rain and sunshine.

Amid the nearly indistinguishable pat-pat-pat of raindrops was a deep ringing sound, that of water dribbling down the windowsill and striking the metal watering can underneath. She’d meant to bring it in before the rain started, and then again before the thunder could be felt and not just heard. Instead she’d made herself a cup of hot chocolate, taking time to fuss over how many spoonfuls of chocolate to add for a given amount of milk, how long to let it simmer on the stove, and how many pinches of nutmeg to sprinkle on top. All the while, her precious watering can sat out there, being pummeled like a flower and yet not taking it nearly as well. This kind of abuse would rust the handle and dull the pretty design on the side.

Rose slid her eyes closed for a moment, allowing the downpour to fade from view, but not from thought. She could imagine sitting out in the grass, undergoing the same drenching as everything else trapped out of doors. Would she thrive like the flowers, or fade like the watering can? If it turned out to be the latter, if she just melted away like a big lump of sugar, would her precious flowers be any worse off? The rain would come again, as would the sun, the insects, the wind, and so many other natural forces that seemed exert far more influence on her garden’s wellbeing than she ever could.

Her eyes were drawn to the garden’s southwest corner, or at least where the great black void had hidden it. That’s where the shed stood, where all her more fortunate gardening tools were being kept safe from the inclement weather. She could go get the big hedge clippers tomorrow morning, the ones that looked like the beak of a giant bird hungry for leaves. Within an hour, she could fell every bush and sever every stem. Within the amount of time it took her steaming hot chocolate to become tepid, she could end it all. Rose’s famous garden would be nothing more than a compost pile waiting to ripen.

Nopony would starve if she did that. They wouldn’t even starve if every gardener in town took up their clippers in flower-killing solidarity. The meadows were full of wildflowers, endlessly plentiful, if a bit gamey.

As for her, she could find other ways to get by. For a while she’d have a thriving second-hoof gardening tool business, not to mention consulting work for other gardeners who had yet to realize the futility of their enterprise. There were other options, too. Davenport still made eyes at her once in a while, and there was an undeniable charm in the way he carried himself. She could return the favor. She could rush through dating, engagement, and, as the cliché went, put down roots of her own. Perhaps she’d even sprout a foal or two.

There was nothing wrong with any of that. Some of her best friends had done it. Some kept up their prior passions after matrimony, others found new ones. She’d probably have a wonderful time, falling in love with the proprietor of a successful business, being fawned over by friends-turned-bridesmaids, and never having to worry about measuring up to what nature alone could do with a patch of soil.

So why don’t you? She asked herself, and not for the first time.

The image of a rose answered her, glowing in her mind as well as on her flank. She smiled as she thought of it, the perfect bloom she carried with her everywhere she went. The flower that never wilted, never faded, and never ceased to be as beautiful as the day it appeared. Her cutie mark wasn’t a flower so much as an idea, a passion. She was not the sun, or the wind, or even a pegasus who could command rainclouds. She was a gardener out to try her best, to test her skill and mettle against all odds in pursuit of growing perfection.

And just like all gardeners who genuinely understood their craft, she knew she’d never achieve it. Perfection would forever be a journey, not a destination. That was part of its beauty. She could always grow a better flower. She could always edge a little bit closer to the miracles blooming in the meadows, to say nothing of the idealized image on her flanks.

She smiled, and decided to make some more hot chocolate.

PaulAsaran: Swoop

Swoop
By PaulAsaran

Time is a funny thing. A nap seems to be over in seconds. Work is scientifically proven to take forever, no matter what that egghead with all her books has to say. Lunch time is an illusion, and reading time doubly so.

But this? This point where speed threatens to break control, where the water is just a second away from slamming into you as if you were a blueberry cupcake with rainbow-colored icing shot from a party cannon at a crystal wall?

Time stops.

Well, maybe not stops, but definitely puts on its just-got-out-of-bed-leave-me-alone-till-I-have-some-cider’ tortoise slippers.

I spread my wings and the air hits them with all its unrestrained power, for air is not as empty as unicorns and earth ponies often think. It has a force, a presence. Yes, even a personality. Any pegasus who gets caught in a storm or dares to venture into wild weather knows this. They say we’ve tamed the skies, but if Equestria really wanted to put its hoof down, we’d be nothing but breezies, our wings fragile and helpless.

That’s the reason I enjoy the sting of my muscles. They struggle against the wind, trying to hold it in, working to maintain a safe distance between the water and my face. The air punishes them, makes them ache, threatens to break them if I shift my pinions just a smidgeon in the wrong direction. A weaker pegasus would have felt bone snap by now, or been sent spiraling into the lake at breakneck speeds.

I am not one of them. Oh, I know, everyone thinks that’s bravado. It’s not recklessness that makes me different. It’s respect. I have the experience to know what Good Mare Nature can do to a pony. I test her sometimes, but she’s got a temper and has reminded me of it on occasion. The difference between going to the hospital and going to the mortician is knowing where she draws the line and never crossing it.

Good Mare Nature watched, and decided I wasn’t pressing her too hard this time; my flight evens out. The waters break away under the power of my flight, leaving a wake of liquid beneath my wake of color. How much time has elapsed? A second? Two? It feels like minutes.

A glance at the water below reveals a familiar friend. Is she staring at me? Through me? Past me? I can never tell. She is like a phantom, shifting where the straight edges should be and colors mismatches where they should be clear. A few features make themselves known to me though; a coat as blue as the sky, wings that look more like ethereal clouds, and a fiery mane that covers her in brilliant colors like a torch.

No face. No eyes. No mouth. Just a blue spirit surrounded by a splash of hues. Does she mean well, an angel watching out for this wild mare that dares take such big risks? Or perhaps she is an inquisitive sprite, gazing in curiosity at the Pegasus who comes so close. Perhaps it is not a ‘she’ at all, but a ‘he.’ Some alternative version of herself, flying over the same pool at the same time in a mirror world where everypony is the same here save for gender.

Would he be as awesome as her?

No. He’d be her. Not as awesome as he claims nor as confident as he looks. Maybe he’s staring at her, wondering the same thoughts, questioning whether this is a pony he could confide in. A pony that wouldn’t laugh if he confessed to being afraid of failure, of being alone, of going back to that big house in the sky and having nopony to welcome her home.

Him.

I’m not sure I like his company anymore. A twitch of the wings, just enough to catch a little more air and generate that extra lift needed. I rise, but I keep staring at him. It seems he has grown tired of me as well, for he sinks deeper into the lake as I ascend. Goodbye, my on-and-off friend. I have happier ponies to be with.

My head and eyes move forward to the cloudy world above. It glows in the firelight of a setting celestial body, the world aflame once again. I feel the heat somewhere in my chest and I smile in thanks. Good Mare Nature has me in her sights once more, but this time not as a wary warden of her domain. This time she cradles me in her loving embrace, her winds cool but her touch warm. She beckons to me,

Come, come, dance in my eternal playground!

And there it is, that fraction of awareness. Too soon, or too late? I can never be sure. Is it the descent that stops the flow, or does the rising merely speed it up? It is confusing and scary and beautiful all at once, a kind of thrill that tickles in my chest like a foal in a bubble bath, complete with baby alligator. It settles my nerves like a nap in an apple tree, enriches me with all the class of a socialite, and assures me with the gentlness of a caring hoof.

Good Mare Nature smiles upon me, for I treat her with respect and love. Her gifts are not taken by brash wingbeats and hammering hooves, but with precision, calmness, and appreciation. We have a pleasant arrangement, that good mare and I. I honor her power, and she lets me dance in her eternal fields in safety. I have tried to teach others the value of this agreement. Some acknowledge it. Others long to, but haven’t earned her permission. And then there are those who ignore it in a whirlwind of arrogance.

They learn their lessons the hard way.

Oh, there it goes. Like a snap of reality. Or is it more a twang? Either way, the eternal second has passed and the clouds are flying by in a blur.

Yes, time is a funny thing.

BlazzingInferno: Spelunking

Spelunking
By BlazzingInferno

Spike sat in the middle of an island of light, staring upward. Town hall was above him, somewhere. So was Twilight’s Castle, and Fluttershy’s cottage. In Spike’s mind, the stone ceiling overhead became glass and he saw the the whole of Ponyville stretched out before him, albeit from underneath, a collection of mortar foundations and crowded basements instead of welcoming homes and colorful storefronts. Even Sweet Apple Acres was up there, the tree roots reaching towards him like leafless branches. They couldn’t down reach this far, though. Nothing could.

This was a different world, a world that knew no sunshine and barely acknowledged his twin lanterns. He could see the individual fibers of the blanket beneath him, and every single speck of dirt that had taken up residence within. He could see the blanket’s fuzzy edge and the hard rock that lay beyond. He could see the winding riverbed pattern of the floor rushing away, but not where it ended. Shadows crept in almost immediately, first filling in the tiniest of rivulets and soon creating huge pools of black.

The cavern’s entrance, the echo-filled portal between this secret world and the regular one, was all but invisible from here. Following the footprints in the dust was the surest way back, distantly followed by wandering around with claws pressed against the wall. He’d done both over the course of his previous visits, probing the cliff-like outcroppings on the the north side, the smooth stalagmites on the south that resembled melting candles, and the shallow stream that flowed along the east wall. His first expedition revolved around uncovering every secret the darkness held, banishing every shadow in turn until he could be sure that there weren’t any deep holes or monsters waiting to swallow him. It wasn’t until he retreated to the cavern’s center that he’d finally appreciated just how special this place was.

He’d come back on a monthly basis ever since, each time taking in more of its otherworldly wonders. Twilight rarely asked where he spent his days off anymore, which saved him from having to make excuses. It wasn’t that the cave was a secret, exactly. He couldn’t bring Twilight here all the same. Not yet. She’d gasp in wonder just like he had, and then she’d set about cataloging every inch of the place. Every secret would become a line in a notebook nearly indistinguishable from its neighbors. That was how she took beauty in, he knew, but watching her logically deconstruct this world would invariably deconstruct it for him, too.

His hearing reached far beyond the lantern light’s edge. If he held his breath he could hear it: the babble of the distant stream, a sound so quiet that a gentle breeze would have drowned it out. That was sad, somehow. That little stream had carved out this entire cavern. One by one, it had pried dust-sized grains out of rock faces and carried them away, forming the smooth spot that he’d chosen for his blanket and lanterns. What was it creating now? Would the cavern be even more impressive someday? Maybe it would eventually collapse in on itself, and nobody else would ever witness what he was seeing now. The ownership of the moment, of this sensory experience, rested on him like a mantle. He wasn’t the master of many things, but he’d take these quiet spelunking trips over a hundred crystal castles.

Spike reclined on the blanket and sighed a slow, contented sigh. Some days he came here purely to think, but not today. Today he’d come to watch the stars. This world’s sky, meticulously carved by that same little stream, commanded the same awe as Luna’s best work. Constellations of emerald, topaz, peridot, amethyst, jade, ruby, and diamond shone overhead, catching the lantern light that the surrounding rocks all-but ignored. If he tilted his head ever so slightly, the gemstone stars twinkled.

An imaginary line curved around a cluster of yellow and looped around two blues and a solitary green to form a flower. A more jagged line united a collection of reds into a lightning bolt. If his gaze ventured too far away, both images would vanish in the sea of stars and possibilities. Once again, he’d forgotten to bring a sketchbook. Tracing his finger through the air would only block his view, but if he had a quill and paper then he could draw it out or even write about it where there was still time.

There would probably be time for hundreds of years, of course. The cave would still be here tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. The distant stream couldn’t utterly change this place that quickly. Still, he wanted to capture it. He wanted to preserve the sheer multitude of colors and shapes that remained stationary in the cavern but never in his memory. Within hours of setting off for home, the stars that formed his flower and lightning bolt would be lost to him, lost in the everyday things that he’d find himself thinking about. Twilight could, and did, keep her favorite books by her bed to make reacquainting herself with their stories and diagrams easier. Why couldn’t he do the same with this starry sky made of gems? Why couldn’t he bring an impression of it home with him, something more permanent that what he could carry between his ears? Something to cherish for the rest of his life.

Bringing along another set of eyes, a pair that could drink in visual wonders far better than his, would have to do.

The low, rushing sound of a long held breath finally being exhaled prompted him to glance over at his companion. Rarity lowered her own gaze from the sky above, opened her mouth, and then closed it again. She could sense it too, the hallowed nature of the cavern’s silence that only the stream was permitted to break. Spoken words, just like trees, buildings, and wind, were alien concepts here. A smile was all she needed to convey meaning: Thank you. Thank you for sharing this with me.

Spike smiled back. I’m glad you like it.

He’d gained something to cherish after all.

Snowybee: A Little Landmark

A Little Landmark
By Snowybee

A hammer went bump in the night.

Whoops and shouts, music and firecrackers spiced the gradient evening. Not a cloud to obscure the swinging heavens. A starry night fizzed upon the lips of the yawning, awaiting sky.

Apple Bloom set her pop aside. Sweat and dirt pasted to her coat, she took up the hammer once more.

Festivals shined joy all around,

And so far away, out of sight,

The moonchild worked without a sound.

There was no formal invitation. The folks all gravitated to the center of town, after a long day's work. As was their nature, they celebrated another day. Another day where the foals grew a little taller, learned a little more. The adults enjoyed each other's company as they watched. Ambitions and dreams prospered or withered with this day, but either way, they meant just the same thing.

‘Tomorrow would come.’

Tools spun and bored, sawdust blown clear,

Screws in place, chains duly tested,

Hard did she work, shedding no tear.

Another hit of the fizzy cola. Apple Bloom sang in her head. With the hammer swiftly reclaimed by her teeth, she had not the means to sing in earnest. The party raged on in the distance. Oh, did she want to join in.

However, the moment she turned back to work, the sight of her school house's caved roof served as a reminder.

In this task, she had invested.

The sun slipped away. She worked feverishly. All eight chains held fast in the long timber bar. She scanned the stack she had made, and deftly picked four legs. Reality sunk in. She'd need help.

But then they'd ask: why didn't she go to the party? Even her sister would turn down Apple Bloom’s response.

‘No job mattered more than being with loved ones.’

...was what she'd hear. She grasped the first long bar with her forelegs. No party could be more important.

“Hello?” called a voice.

Apple Bloom’s heart imitated a tennis ball, having nearly punched right out of her body. She turned around, shaky as an old mare.

Moon child meets the mare, chilly green,

Eyes nocturnal but bright as day.

A neighbor not met, only seen,

The two had little which to say.

She carried an instrument case upon her back. The mare huffed, as if she were in some hurry. No one else with her, and on a night like this?

The mare — wasn’t it Lyra? — watched just as close in return. The chains strewn about the well-treaded ground, the planks and tools piled neatly off by the side. Lyra smiled. Not even a moment before, she stood at a tilt in the direction she wanted to go, dancing with anticipation. Now, she calmly approached the filly.

Apple Bloom looked to the legs of her grand design, the planks much too large for her to lift alone. Golden magic seized one. Lyra grunted, trying to look composed in the presence of the filly. Sure enough, the large hunk of wood pivoted off the dirt into a standing position. Such a strong unicorn!

“Alright, give it another t-try,” Lyra said.

Exchanging nods, they get to it.

Magic power, clever movements,

The structure rises, bit by bit.

Soon, her vision at last cements.

Legs set in place, the two take a breather. The spare pop she had brought found itself in Lyra’s hooves. She tried to politely decline. She clearly never met an Apple before!

They shared a toast. With a dopey smile, Lyra takes a big swig. “My first toast ever, and it’s with a soda. Classy, right?”

“Pop’s classy,” Apple Bloom says.

“Soda.”

“Pop,” the filly hissed.

“Sodapop!” Lyra grinned widely, then took her second and last swig of the bottle.

She eyed the adult warily. “You ain’t gonna ask why I’s all alone?”

“Nope.” With that, she hopped back to it.

The crown jewel lay before them. The long, sturdy bar at the center of it all. The chains looked rather intimidating all of a sudden, like some hardcore dungeon monster from a comic she’d have read. The crazy mare with her grabbed the heavy thing with her magic. Calm as Lyra looked, she stayed her objections.

Big ponies must have been freakishly strong, and not just her big sis! It wobbled just a tad, but the bar definitely took to the air. Apple Bloom hurried up one of the legs, wrench at the ready.

When the first screw cleanly entered the bar, her nerves went away. The filly focused, and soon the first side was deftly fastened. She hurried and did the same with the other side. As she pulled the wrench away, Lyra groaned behind her.

The unicorn looked more beat than when Apple Bloom met her, sitting on the ground with a hoof to her chest. Her ears pinned back in guilt. The filly slid down the leg and hastily approached.

Before she could say a word, Lyra waved her off. She caught her breath soon enough, then stared ahead. Apple Bloom cocked her head. What was so interesting?

A swingset. Three sets of swings, sans the seats. And she’d made it.

A hoof punched her shoulder. “Good job, kid.”

She blinked. Why did her cheeks ache so much? Why did her eyes burn?

By the time she came to her senses, Lyra was already a hoof out of the playground.

“Th-thanks!” she cried, whilst waving a hoof. Lyra merely waved back, then carried on down the path.

Oh, how she wanted to feel bad for taking the mare’s time. Her big sis taught her to be grateful for helping hooves, but more than the filly’s muscles ached. Maybe Lyra wanted her to be happy.

A breeze kicked up. Where silence once reigned, the chains pattered instead. The first sign that everything would go back to normal. She watched them sway in the breeze. Tomorrow, she’d spend time with her friends on the swings, just like always.

As long as she had her four hooves, no disaster would keep that away from her for long.

Briarpelt: Waking

Waking
By Briarpelt

There was a fuzzy kind of warmth on top of Fluttershy. It soaked into her belly, face and chest, all of which seemed to be facing towards the sky. That was interesting… how did she wind up upside down? She decided it didn’t matter. She wasn’t ready to think yet. There was a golden brightness on the inside of her eyelids, and something tickled her cheek. It was cooler underneath her, and slightly damp. It smelled like green, like soil… she tried to ignore the tickling. It was annoying, but she didn’t want to move. It was so warm here.

Slowly, her world expanded. She was becoming more aware of the brightness on the other side of her eyelids, and the heat on her belly was growing uncomfortable. More things were tickling her, in the hollow of her back and behind her neck. A silky strand of something lay across her face. That was annoying, too. She had the feeling that it didn’t belong there, that it should be swept back, but she still didn’t really want to move or think yet. Just a few more minutes.

There was a rustling in her ear, and just like that, she realized that there was sound. Mostly just the whispering noise, but farther away, something was chirping. There was also laughter, ponies’ laughter. And voices… it sounded like her friends. Involuntarily, the corners of Fluttershy’s mouth turned up in a gentle smile. She loved her friends. They were like a big family.

A gentle breeze started blowing, ruffling at her fur. It cooled the heat on her stomach, but made her sides a little too cool, causing her to shiver slightly. It also made something tickle her left ear. She flicked it, and shifted her head a little, which stopped the tickling at her cheek. It looked like she was going to have to get up, now. Besides, the sound of her friends’ laughter was appealing. She wanted to join them.

Slowly, Fluttershy stretched, reaching her forelegs over her head like a cat. She made a little mewling sound in the back of her throat, and gently rolled over onto her stomach. She stretched out her hind legs in the process, and mewled again. But now that the cool parts were in the heat and the warm parts were in the shade, she didn’t want to move anymore. She rested her chin on her hooves, and snuggled into the grass.

Then, it got colder. The brightness dimmed, leaving an afterimage of light on her eyes. She shivered a little more, and tucked her tail around her back hooves. The grass was still rustling. It was so peaceful here. In a moment, the world brightened again, and she decided a cloud must have passed over the sun.

There were wingbeats. The air shifted around Fluttershy, as some flying creature approached. Then the wingbeats stopped, and a quick series of four thumps informed her half-asleep brain that somepony had landed. More hoofsteps followed, as a few more ponies walked toward her.

“Aww, look, she’s sleeping!” That voice sounded familiar, even though it was unusually hushed. It was Rainbow Dash, she decided. Rainbow Dash, her oldest friend. And those must be her other friends nearby. She loved her friends. They were like a big family.

“Shh, Rainbow! Let’s not wake her up.” That was Twilight Sparkle. Fluttershy liked her voice—it was sweet and calm and strong. She smiled a little more.

“She’s quite an adorable little thing, isn’t she?” A refined, carefully accented voice cooed. Rarity's voice. She could be a princess, Fluttershy thought. So regal and delicate. Twilight was already a princess, but they said that anyone could be whatever they wanted, so Rarity might be a princess someday. Fluttershy herself wanted to be a tree. But how would one go about becoming a tree, she wondered? Maybe if she stayed like this long enough, her legs would turn into roots and grow deep into the soil… and she would grow a trunk and branches and leaves, and stay here in this sunny field forever… that would be nice.

But if she was a tree, she would miss being able to play with her friends and take care of her animals. She decided she needed to get up now, so that she wouldn’t sleep here forever and miss out. She sighed, and opened her eyes, blinking the sleep away. She looked up and saw her friends, all standing around her and whispering to each other. She flicked her ears and raised her head, then pushed up into a sitting position.

“Oh, hello, Fluttershy. Have a nice sleep?” Twilight asked. In response, Fluttershy yawned, reaching up with a hoof to push the stray hair out of her face. Then she nodded.

“Hello, Twilight. Did I miss much?”

PaulAsaran: Report

Report
By PaulAsaran

Perfect. It all had to be perfect.

The familiar desk. Black swirls and splotches ran through it, counting the age and advertising the shape of the tree which formed it so long ago. It had worn smooth over the years, from book after book, scroll after scroll, scratch after scratch, from owner to unknown owner. Who wrote on this hallowed space before her, and who before them? A question asked so often, a quest for knowledge to be forgotten every night.

The ink pot, so old that the dark liquid had become ingrained in the clay, leaving its insides black. Give it a light tap to nudge it to its proper spot. A little more to the left, and behold, the circle marking its proper place disappeared. There's a name on the side. My name, scribbled in the rough mouthwriting of a little colt. How eager he had been to give it to me, his little sister who could already read better than he could. I'm feeling all tingly in that familiar spot. That one, right there in the chest, the mysterious place that could bring a sob or a smile on whim and make eyes water with no effort at all.

Ahem. Moving on.

Quills. Always three. It's easy to get overeager and snap. My assistant figured out a solution to that pretty quick. It took me a few months to accept the wisdom of backups – and admit that maybe my emotions weren’t as stable as I like to think. The quills require no changes. They are soldiers, ever present and prepared for instructions, their roles drilled into them by their ever-dutiful, scaled sergeant.

The rustle of a page brings to my attention said officer, who lays secure in his high-walled basket. His training goes ever on, now being advanced by the ongoing adventures of such Equestrian icons as the Masked Matterhorn and, his personal favorite, Radiance. His eyes, unheeding of my study, glow with the wonder only a child can muster.

Heh. Let him be. Back to my inspection. Next up are the books. Only three this time, each only as thick as a hoof. All in all, a feeble showing for the weekend. My mentor’s way of telling me to take a break, perhaps? They're not the subject for tonight, so let's set them, sorted by author – no, publication date makes more sense here – on the night stand for later.

They linger, a purple light emanating from the pages in accordance to the faint humming of my horn. When used so gently, it feels pleasant and familiar. Almost like a massage. To think, there had been a day when just turning a page felt like lifting bricks. And now?

Now a large portion of my life revolves around understanding it. Will I someday—

No, I've been down that train of thought before. That path only brings uncertainty and fear of the future. Now is not the time for those things. Now is the time for a scroll, a little ink, and some choice words.

Ah, but which scroll to use? They sit on a shelf, neat and orderly as a pyramid between the solid pewter busts of a pair of sisterly alicorns. A pity, they always face away from one another. Two or three years ago, that would have been of no consequence. Tonight, however, it seems wrong, like a bitter reminder of what once was. Those siblings should not have their backs turned to one another. Perhaps they should be replaced?

Hah! How funny that idea is. As if I could ever be rid of them. No, not when the very pony who had gifted them to me is one of the two being depicted. How would I ever explain such a faux pas as that? Magic Kindergarten has nothing on what might be directed my way in that instance.

I'm exaggerating again, aren't I? Ridiculous. I need to focus.

Scrolls. Right. The perfect one.

The first floated close by, fast as an arrow. It pauses, then spins in a purple light. Is that a rip? Oh no, that will never fly. Next.

Hmm, impurities in the paper. A few dark splotches? Probably an artisan-related defect. Made by an apprentice? Regardless: next.

Not bad, not bad. Let’s open it up. Oh, no, that’s a nasty crease. Next.

Oooh, nice. Smooth, light in color… eh, a little wide. Hold on to it, just in case. Next.

Oh, Goddess! Absolutely not.

Ah, this one looks decent. Are the corners uneven? Eh, might be okay. Considered. Next.

What the hay? That’s a checklist scroll. How did that get there? Next.

Oh. Oh. Oooooh. Very nice. Perfect color, edges an exact ninety degrees. And is it… it is! A perfect two-hundred-sixteen millimeters by five-hundred-eight millimeters! Now this, this is parchment perfection! How rare, how exquisite, how divine! This is a scroll worthy of a princess.

It takes its place upon the desk, whilst its less suitable comrades return to their proper places. A few seconds – okay, maybe a minute or two – to perfect the pile’s alignment and form.

Now then! Let us arrange the scroll just so. Yes, that’s nice. Quill, left one first: proper order is important. Gather ink, not too much, not too little. Hold it steady, let the excess drip. It wouldn’t do to stain this prime specimen of a scroll, now would it?

Not yet. One last check. Everything must be perfect. Inkpot in its proper place?

Check.

Three quills exactly, starting with the left?

Check.

Lighting just so? Hmm… let’s move that lamp.

There. I mean, check.

Dragon lost in his own fantasy world, certain to be annoyed in a few minutes when he gets brought back to reality?

Check.

Perfect opening line? Pfft, like it’s possible to get that one wrong.

Dear Plincess Cerestia

Che—

…

Oh, come on, Twilight. Really?

…

Fine.

"Spike, take a letter?"

Cold in Gardez: The Dawn is the Night is the Dawn

The Dawn is the Night is the Dawn
By Cold in Gardez

Rainbow Dash rolled onto her back atop the grassy hill overlooking Ponyville. The long, untrimmed stalks, lush and green and touched with spring, scratched pleasantly beneath her. They filled the air with a rich, loamy scent.

She felt ants or beetles or something tiny and many-legged squiggling beneath her, and she wriggled until it stopped. Pegasus coats were warm and thick and generally insect proof, so she didn’t have much to worry about, but nopony liked the idea of bugs crawling all over them.

The edge of the sun had just disappeared below the west horizon, and though the sky was still filled with clouds and flames, the air quickly cooled. Cicadas and birds chattered in the trees, warning off rivals or looking for mates.

“Hey birdie birdie birdie…” she mumbled under her breath. A few of the nearer ones, lurking in branches overhead, paused and peered down at her. They fluffed their feathers and chirped, and a brave robin jumped down to flutter within hoof’s reach. She extended her leg toward him, and his courage broke; he fled back into the branches. Soon the air was filled with song again.

Birds had it so easy. They just flew and ate and slept, and when they were ready they found a special somebirdie and laid eggs, and then they did it all again next year.

She could do that. Not the eggs part, obviously, but everything else. Make a cloud nest somewhere on a cliffside, or in the branches of a sequoia, and spend her day cruising the skies. Birds slept a bunch, didn’t they?

Yeah, probably. She stretched again, grinding the space between her wings into the grass. It always itched after a long day of flight, and she groaned under her breath.

Somepony snickered. Rainbow opened her eyes to see Applejack standing a few feet away.

“You want some ‘me’ time, Rainbow?” she said. “I can come back later.”

She snorted. “Shut it. You got the stuff?”

“Yeah, yeah, I got the stuff.” Applejack settled down beside Dash on her belly with her legs tucked beneath her. She had a box balanced on her back, and something clanked inside as she laid it on the grass.

Rainbow’s ears perked up at the sound. She rolled onto her side and gave the box a little nudge with her muzzle. “Can we, uh…”

“Now?” Applejack glanced at the sky. A few stars peeked out from the darkening gray to the east. “Yeah, I guess. We’ll save some for the others.”

Applejack popped the lid and pulled out a corked ceramic jug. She bit the cork with her teeth, pried it free, and spat it onto the grass. A harsh, eye-watering scent stung Rainbow Dash’s nose.

“Bottom’s up!” Applejack tilted the whiskey back and took a slug. Her face screwed into a grimace, and her whole body shook as she forced the muscles in her throat to work. “Oh, Maker, that’s strong. Be careful. Don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“Ha! As if.” Rainbow snatched the jug away and slammed it back, letting the hot whiskey bloat out her cheeks before trying to swallow. It stung, but that was nothing. Clearly, Applejack was a pussy who couldn’t handle—

The sting on her tongue turned into fire. Her throat spasmed and she tried to cough, but that only sent a searing wash of spit and whiskey up into her nose. She choked and sneezed and tried to swallow at the same time. Whiskey went everywhere. The birds fled from the trees to escape.

“Welp. I guess I deserved that,” Applejack said. She brushed away the splatters of whiskey and snot on her coat, and patted a hoof on Dash’s back as she hacked her lungs up. “Maybe next time I’ll bring glasses?”

By the time Dash recovered enough to do more than moan and wish her sinuses didn’t exist, the others had arrived. They sat and chatted and occasionally patted Rainbow Dash and murmured soothing things. Somepony pressed the rim of a glass to her lips, and after the first lap of her tongue tasted water she guzzled the rest down greedily.

“Hey, uh, sorry,” she finally said, her voice even rougher than normal. “Some, uh, whiskey went down the wrong way.”

Applejack smirked. The others appeared skeptical, though nopony challenged her outright.

“Well, as long as you’re better now,” Twilight Sparkle said. She sniffed at the jug of apple whiskey, made a face, and set it back down. “It’s almost night.”

Rainbow coughed again, then settled down on her belly. Below them, the lights of Ponyville were starting to stand out against the dim gloom all around. “Yeah, awesome.”

“So, what’d you do all day?” Applejack asked. She squeezed in next to Rainbow, so close their coats brushed against each other. Their combined warmth chased away some of the night’s chill.

“Eh, not much. Flew around a bit, took a nap. Then I flew some more. Then I came here. You?”

“Oh, same. Got up, fed the pigs, took Winona out to find a few sheep who got lost overnight, woke Apple Bloom up and took her to school after breakfast, cleaned up the barn for a bit, then worked in the orchard until lunch. Then, when Big Mac got back from town, we took turns plowing the—”

“Okay, okay, got it.” Dash said. “Anything interesting, though?”

“Hm.” Applejack frowned and tilted her head. “Well, giving you that whiskey was pretty interesting.”

“Yeah, interesting.” Rainbow cleared her throat again. It still stung a bit, and she tasted acid in the back of her throat. After a bit of silence, she tilted her head up toward the branches. “Hey, you ever think it’d be neat to be a bird?”

“Can’t say I have. What’s so great about being a bird? You can already fly.”

“Yeah, but…” Rainbow sighed. The scent of whiskey teased her still, and she reached over to snag the jug with a hoof. Applejack raised an eyebrow, but said nothing as Rainbow tilted it back for a tiny sip. “Flying’s awesome and all, but birds don’t worry about anything, you know? No job, no bills. No tomorrow. They just do whatever they want, whenever they want, and if they don’t like someplace they just fly away.”

“That’s true, I suppose,” Applejack said. She stared up at the branches, now almost invisible in the darkness. “Do you think birds have friends, though?”

“Uh…” Rainbow frowned. “Maybe? I dunno.”

“Hm.” Applejack reached over to take the whiskey from Rainbow’s loose grip. She took another swallow, then passed it back. “Well, I hope they do. Sad to think that they’d be missin’ out on bein’ friends.”

Rainbow Dash took a deeper swig. The whiskey burned her tongue, but it didn’t shock her anymore. A pleasant, warm buzz built in her chest. “Yeah, well, maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

Applejack snorted, as though she found something funny. Rainbow opened her mouth to ask when the first flash of light interrupted her. The girls oooh’d in response.

Above them, out over Ponyville, the firework slowly faded away. Another blossomed just as the thunder of the first clapped in their chests and shook the branches overhead.

The birds fled, leaving the hill to Rainbow and her friends.

Briarpelt: Twilight, and the Time Surrounding

Twilight, and the Time Surrounding
By Briarpelt

Clip, clop, clip, clop.

My hoofsteps echo as I walk down the marble corridor. It’s been another long day, and I’m glad it’s nearly over. I’m tired, but the warmth of satisfaction glows in my chest, right alongside the burning fire of love. Just a few more moments, and the sun will set again on the beautiful land I’ve built. I will pass leadership over to my sister, and rest knowing that the world is happy and Equestria is safe.

I pass marble pillars and potted plants, and the golden archways over doors. I’m headed for one particular arch, the one directly ahead of me, at the very end of the corridor. It faces north, so that both the East and the West sky can be seen from the balcony it leads to. Perfect for two sisters to exchange dominance of the sky together, to see the sunset and the moonrise simultaneously.

Only a few more steps, and I’m through the archway, standing on the balcony. The sky is a bright delphinium blue, but my sun, dipping towards the Western horizon, is brilliantly gold, and gilding the clouds similarly. I smile as I watch it, and take a deep breath of the fragrant, warm air. I can smell flowers, herbs, and juniper from the gardens below, alongside the distinct scent of food drifting from kitchens all over Canterlot. Though I can neither see nor hear it from here, ponies will be flocking to restaurants about now.

What I can hear is the chirping of birds and the rustling of the wind in the leaves. As I prepare to lower the sun, another sound approaches: the flapping of wings. I look slightly to my left, and spot the source of the sound. My sister, Luna, is flying towards me from the residential area of the palace, where she’s been sleeping the day away. With a smile and a clatter of hooves, she alights on the balcony, and we embrace. When we separate, she comes to stand beside me. We nod to each other, and I light my horn.

The sun begins to descend, guided by the loving touch of my magic. In a few moments, colors begin to bloom across the sky. The clouds, just a few moments ago a bright gold, darken their hues. They fade, slowly, through solid gold to burnished copper to flaming orange, in sync with my glowing orb as it slowly glides down to the horizon. Then, the colors diverge—the sun deepens to a fiery red-orange, and the clouds lighten to a salmon-y pink. A few seconds before the sun meets the horizon, I hear my sister’s magic start.

As the sun starts to go out of view, its red deepens to scarlet. The Western sky is pale, almost white, except for the orange glow at the very edge, surrounding my sun. The clouds display a wide spectrum of hues—at the bottom, still gold; at the top, bright pink. The lower the sun gets, the deeper the pink grows, eventually fading to purple; at the edge of the sky, the clouds are starting to turn orange. When the sun is exactly halfway down, I pause for a moment, letting it hang there in suspended glory. Then, I let it slide the rest of the way down. The edge of its light, in accordance, slips upward, until even the tip of the Canterhorn Mountain is bathed in shadow.

The last rays of sunlight disappear behind the horizon, and I rest my magic. The clouds, no longer touched by the golden beams, have turned to a smoky indigo. I turn to look towards the East, where the sky is deep, velvety blue and my eyes are beginning to detect the first stars. The moon is a waning crescent tonight, and it glows silver-white. In the West, the sky is fading from yellow to green to blue, and the soft light permeates the land. Buildings are silhouetted against it, and shadows blend with light so that the edges of everything not outlined against the sky start to blur. The world is taking on softer, subtler, darker hues. A smell of dampness is rising, and I can feel it on the chill breeze.

Crickets are chirping. I don't know exactly when it started, but I am suddenly aware of the sound. The light slowly slips out of the Western sky, leaving behind a deep sapphire blue--not yet speckled with stars, and mostly unobstructed by clouds, it's pure and clear and beautiful. I feel like I'm staring into forever. I could get lost in the twilight sky.

Next to me, Luna sighs. She sounds happy, at peace. Twilight has that effect on both of us--it feels peaceful and refreshing, with just a touch of lingering melancholy. It's a feeling I wouldn't trade for the world. Without saying anything, I wrap my wing around my sister's shoulders. She steps closer and leans into my embrace, as she continues her work.

Twilight is a time of connections. I feel, all at once, a connection with everything.

My bond with my sister, the closeness we share right now, and my love for her.

All the ponies of Equestria, my friends and subjects and children alike.

The Earth itself, and the trees and birds and insects and animals upon it.

The sky, so distant and yet within my control, if I were to take it. Right now, I just guide the sun in its course, and leave the rest to nature's cycle and Luna's magic.

Speaking of Luna's magic, the moon has risen quite a bit now. Almost all the sunlight has drained from the sky, leaving the Eastern horizon nearly black. Stars of all colors are emerging, and I can pick out a few constellations. As the coolness and dampness of the world grows, the last of the sunlight fades away, and the galaxy emerges.

It looks like someone wove a fine silk scarf out of moonlight, and decorated it with the tiniest stars they could find, then tossed it across the sky to float gently in the infinite nothingness, surrounded by the other stars. Luna has told me that beyond the layers of air that surround the planet and make up the sky, the universe is truly a vast expanse of blackness. It's occupied only by other planets and stars, some of which are billions of times the size of Equus. It makes me feel incredibly small, despite my power. For some odd reason, it also comforts me immensely. Yes, we are tiny specks floating in a vast universe we cannot begin to comprehend, but that means that we matter all the more to each other. What we accomplish in our lives will be remembered by those who love us, and it will make a difference towards improving their lives. That is all I have ever sought to do, and I think that I have achieved it so far.

A cloud drifts overhead, lined with silver by the moonlight. That bright crescent stands out against the dark sky like a silver brooch on midnight-blue velvet, glowing just enough to be noticeably bright, but not enough to look obtrusive. The world is now touched with the lightest shine of silver-white, like a painter has brushed a very thin layer of paint over the tops of roofs and trees, grazing the very tips of grass blades or hairs on a pony's coat. Everything else lies in soft darkness, except where candles form pools of yellow light to help ponies find their ways through the shadowy wonderland. Not for the first time, I consider creating a law to limit artificial light after sunset. They're missing out on so much by lighting candles that drown out the moonlight and chase away the shadows. Maybe during the winter solstice, we can ask Equestria to turn off their lights for a day. If they find they like the natural light, they might start using their candles less.

I mention this to Luna. She admits that the candlelight has been bothering her too, and says that it might be worth trying.

"And," she says, "even if it does not extend to the rest of the year, I would like the winter solstice to be dark. It could become a tradition, and one that I would greatly appreciate." I murmur my assent.

A few minutes pass, then a clock chimes. It's ten o'clock, and time for Luna to begin her rule. We hug, then she turns and walks down the hallway towards the governmental section of the palace. I watch her go for a moment, then spread my wings and fly off towards the residential section, where my bed waits for me. Tonight, I'll dream of stars and clouds and wonder.

Snowybee: Les Nuits

Les Nuits
By Snowybee

Deep in the Lunar Terraces, ruled by the Princess of Night, a sweet sound danced over the land. A tiny pebble that bounced upon a lake, lost by the eye to the dark waters but survived by its ripples.

The first of her sister’s grand spires shimmered on the Canterhorn up above, even in the night. Platforms and pulleys and airships swaddled the infant city, but the glory pierced through it all. Deep in the Lunar Terraces, Luna sneered.

The beautiful flute at her twisted lips shone brightly in spite of its bearer.

The alicorn longed for her home. Everfree Castle, invincible to all evil, built by the hooves of her family. A forest of nightmares had swallowed it whole, but no danger should have been too great to reclaim one’s home. The cowardly, disingenuous, naive…

Luna’s lips shifted with each curse that played in her head, and she spat sour note after sour note. The instrument felt alien in her magic. She adored the sound it bore in skilled hooves, but found no true joy in the practice.

She had nothing better to do anyway.

The Princess knew not a single song in a technical sense. She recalled lovely passages, delectable trills and the like from her days attending concerts. They sounded so perfect in her head. Yet, the instrument did not respond kindly to her glum breaths. In frustration, Luna refused to change her embouchure. Her eyes read the floral wreaths resting on the stone facing her. The petals looked something like quavers, she felt. She focused on them. Ignored her own playing. Luna did everything in her power to simply breathe life into the song.

Flats and sharps swiped their rodent claws all over her ears. The song taunted her, refused to emerge from her mind as she had remembered it.

At last, with a curse, she set the flute beside her. A bush not far from her rustled. She smiled dimly.

“I’m done for now, dear Augustus. You won’t suffer my playing for a little while.”

She watched the shy creature poke his head from the brush. An opossum, ordinary at that. A simple scavenger who happened to visit her every night. Not a word did he say in response to her. He had no hobbies, no insights.

Augustus scurried to her side, quick to nuzzle her leg. That was all she really wanted from him.

After patting the opossum on the head, she eased herself onto her back. The sea of stars twinkled up above. Every night, the world found itself submerged in the majesty for just a little while. Cool airs, free of the harsh sun’s torturous warmth. Air which could nearly quench one’s thirst. The fine waters lead to a peaceful night, a reprieve from a hard day of life.

However, the insomniac stars found themselves lonely once they sent so many of the souls to sleep.

Few ponies were nocturnal. Augustus’s little movements gave her company in the stargazing. She longed for more, however. Between the opossum and the embellished stone, her mind could not pick out anyone else who kept her company at night.

Well, besides the vespers. But they were still in the North, picking up the pieces. Deserving not the absolution of lending her aid, Luna cowered in the terraces. A small part of the Princess felt relief in keeping her distance.

The North filled her with dread.

Rage.

Emptiness.

She sighed quietly. One too many nights of paroxysm and grief had taken the life from such emotions.

The sound of claws on metal lured her mind back from the deep, deep hole it had wandered into. She craned her head upwards, and found Augustus inspecting the newborn flute. Her eyes suddenly burned with shame.

“I suppose I should actually try to learn — learn the instrument you loved. You were right, Marine. I do tend to be impatient.”

Her eyes rested upon the stone. She did not look consciously. Something screamed from it, silently and in her head. The wreaths were beautiful. An exotic flower from the North. Few adored it for some reason she didn’t understand, but adored did the few.

She had sniffed the flower enough times to recall it. A sweet, nearly cloying scent. It left an after-scent for at least a couple hours. It dominated one’s senses with a single encounter.

Perhaps the Northern ponies simply encountered it at a bad time? Just like the night, it offered much beauty. Yet, no matter how they both reached out, their curse robbed them both of friends that could have been.

The Princess fluttered her eyes. She had been staring vacantly at her own hooves. She couldn’t be sure how much time had passed in thought. Noisy thoughts, trying their best to fill in the time.

Curled around her hoof, an opossum’s tail lightly flicked. She traced the length to Augustus, who stared at her with a curious expression. Her smile waned.

“If I don’t take the time to learn the ways of this instrument, I would learn it incorrectly. My knowledge would be subpar, hard to change. I should know better. Bad practice does great harm.

“Isn’t that what I told you when we first met?”

The flowers, just as lifeless as who she spoke to, blazed in wordless color. A bundle of memories and nothing more.

Little paws tickled her side. The princess missed stifling a giggle. Poor Augustus stuck his face in up in hers, sniffing. He seemed worried.

She gave him a slow, gentle nuzzle.

“The night is a lonely thing, isn’t it? We’re from such different walks of life, Augustus, but it brought us together.

“Tell me, what do you think? If the day walkers met us, would they be afraid?

“If they just took the time to understand us, would they appreciate the night more?

“Would I be s-so… alone?”

A silence descended. The stone, lifeless, continued to speak the same thing over and over. Words, which had been carved into it.

The eternal farewell reminded Princess Luna, again and again, how quiet her nights had become.

SorenPixels: Façades

Façades
By SorenPixels

Pale. Everywhere she looked, pale. The day was bright, but the sun lacked any comfort. The wind tickled her nostrils, but brought no presents with it to delight her senses and fuel her imagination. Her ears perked up with the plethora of conversation surrounding her, faces passing by all masked and unintelligible. They smiled at one another, yet beneath they all ached. She could always see a their true faces after all. Apathy kills.

Someone spoke her name, though she barely acknowledged it, preferring the emptiness to false words and fraudulent company. The usual courtesies were exchanged; a tiresome endeavor as always. They kept talking and talking. Still talking.The pale began to fade, giving way to gray. This was a battle that could not be won through sheer willpower. Her compatriot gave no hint of concern, but offered up a solution in the form of a question oft asked. Spying her chance for retreat, she agreed and bid farewell. Don’t run.

Spying a hideaway among the many rooms, always such small walls; never any true privacy, she fell into the cool embrace of shadows. None would find her here, none could ever see her mask fall away completely even for a minute. Sharp breathes through clenched teeth.

A smell, a sight, a memory. Facial strains, darkness, light. Agony and irony in plethora. Familiar faces long gone. Tears. Where do they always come from? Why do they keep falling? Makeup, always having to fix her makeup. Not one sound, silence her ever faithful compatriot. Camaraderie from nothingness and no one. Peace at last.

Straightening up with practiced precision and perfect poise, the pretty pony princess prances from one shadow back into the other with her poignant presence intact. Polite pleasantries resume once more to precipitate the chance to placate the politicians' problems. Should, perchance, the masks remain? Perhaps another day, at least.

Seconds pass into minutes, as ponies meld past one another, seeking their next meeting. She could hardly move, too many eyes despite the approaching shadows. As the shadow of the day begins its gentle embrace, fewer and fewer pleasantries are exchanged and farewells are had. The darkness holds no comfort for them. As the last of the day’s light fades, color returns in cool, dulcet tones. It’s cold out.

A new challenger embraces the sky, providing subtle light to see by. Only a sliver of a curve tonight. She looks back to the rest of the city as the masks fall away one by one in the privacy of their homes. How many have another mask for then? Even alone, a mask can be useful, if terribly misshapen. If only she could follow.

Soft down meets her head. How many were sacrificed to make it? Yet it may just be necessary. Something old must always be given up to gain something new. Pale complexion greets her visage; an old reflection, and yet they were so young. What’s in a name? So many heard, so few remembered. Even fewer are left. Memento Mori.

Another lay expired outside, they’ve been ever bolder since the day. What drives their constant attempts is the same as everyone else. Such a waste of life, yet if they didn’t try, who would? Best to let them sort themselves out, it’s said. If only they’d find some other way to live. Some must simply be drawn to death.

Sleep comes quietly, a thief in the night to steal one away from their life for but a moment. Her mask lay beside her on the end table, having never left her face.