Chapters If These Strings Could Sing
Try, And Fail, And Try Again Immerse yourself in rejection ‘Cause we all know
Art is hard
When we don’t know who we are Young artists have gotta’ starve
- Cursive
***
Fame.
Fame is a drug. Fame is a cancer. Fame is fickle. Fame is a bee. Fame is fleeting. Fame is—
Blah, blah, blah. I couldn’t stand to hear it anymore. From every angle and every corner, they came at me. Ponies who wanted to be me. Ponies who wanted to use me. With cameras, with notepads, with lenses, with pencils sharpened to spear points, they came at me. Blinding me. Stabbing me. Robbing me.
I was “on top of the world” they told me, but that was the last place I wanted to be. I was born a musician, but they turned me into a commodity. Something to be packaged and sold to anypony ready to fork over their hard-earned bits for some manufactured album with my face on it.
Still, it sickens me.
I was, all at once, disillusioned with the glamour of the Hoofywood clichés, the Los Pegasus scene. It was nothing more than a myth. A soulless horde of zombies waiting to eat up whatever the suits told them to. Those cretins, they know nothing of art.
Music? Music is simple. It is but melody attached to rhythm. Audible arithmetic.
Song? Easier still. Just put the math to language. Make it catchy, and no one will notice if you lack any sort of skill.
Art? Art is hard. Art is the craft of taking this mundane, tasteless tripe and making it come alive. Art is to give those lesser forms longevity. Music lacks experience, and a song will get you known, but art will make you remembered.
That is why I am here.
Not ‘here’ as in ‘I am here on this planet to create art’, I remind myself, but here nonetheless. I came to this place to escape that prison, and separate myself from anything that I must insist upon referring to in metaphor. I hate feeling forced to contextualize my plight in such an archaic and cliché manner, but in my current state, I am unable to express myself in a more appropriate fashion.
I’m enraged and exhausted. I cannot recall the last time I played music. Yes, I have been on stage nearly every night for the last year, but I did not play. I performed. One does not play when there are thousands of eyes prying and preying upon you. They are vultures, and I, carrion.
Dammit, I said no more metaphors.
I hate how cynical my experiences over the last year have made me. I wasn’t always like this. I used to be happy, back when it was just me and the music. There weren’t always enough bits to go around, but I had integrity. I had self-expression. I had talent. All I want now is to reconnect with that former self that I miss so dearly. The gray coated earth pony on the C.D. covers and tabloid pages, she is a stranger to my former self. The pressure that came with fame was the worst of all, and it drove me to do things my former self would have considered uncouth and demeaning.
I can see my somber reflection in the window of the cabin, and I wish to pound on the glass with my hooves until it shatters. Something holds me back. Perhaps it is the small amount of decency that gasps for air within me, or just the fact that I would be too embarrassed to explain to the locomotive conductors the reasoning behind such actions.
I often wonder what would have happened if my former self and current form had crossed paths somewhere. I like to think I’d have received a stern lecture about my priorities and selling out, but that is not likely the case. The old Octavia would simply stare in shock and hang her head in shame of what the future holds for her. I owe it to her to regain my former dignity.
I recall passing through this town as a filly. Those were happier days, when the world was full of color and I could hear the music within every aspect of life. Past my reflection, I can see the sign that reads ‘Ponyville’. The mere name of this place would imply to most ponies of my high-class background that whatever residents inhabited this town were ‘lesser’ ponies, but from my recollection that wasn’t the case. Civilization still ruled the day here. These ponies found pleasure in simple lives, without the kind of backwards shenanigans most imagined were commonplace in such a town.
It was also home to a gorgeous forest, Cleverglee or something like that, where I find myself now as I gather my thoughts on what brought me here. I travelled with few possessions other than my procession of various musical instruments. What I did have with me, I left sitting in some claim area at the train station. I had no concern for my residence while I’m here, instead my focus centered solely on the craft. My traditional bass would have been too heavy for me to lug out into the forest after my long journey, so I settled for my cello. It is still a hefty instrument, but one with the versatility I required right now.
It isn’t long before I lose sight of the path through the forest. This is, at least in part, a conscious effort. I have never been good with direction, but I came here to separate myself from the rest of the world anyway. I wouldn’t be able to do that if I just followed the path some other pony had set between the trees.
This forest is quite dense, so lush and alive. There is so much color present; even if it is only shades of green and brown, with occasional accents of pastels. I never spent much time in nature as a foal, and I hope I can spend some time making up for that. I’ve grown too accustomed to forests of steel, where each building tries harder than the last to pierce the veil, as though it could pluck the sun from the sky. This place is different. The trees are large, but humble, giving back to the world around them.
My case shifts as the wheels snap off my cello case. The roots and dead matter along the ground are not what they had been designed for. I have always been a nimble mare, but over the years, my frame grew into a feminine curve appropriate for the shape of orchestral equipment. I am proud of my form and strength, and lift the case onto my back with ease.
I don’t have to walk much farther to find what I’m looking for. In fact, it is several minutes before I notice I’ve found it. Silence. The breeze still makes the leaves shudder, and there is the occasional patter of small feet that dash across the forest floor, but still, silence. No artificial pony-made sounds. This is a part of the land untouched by vehicles, construction, or technological advancement of any kind.
It’s perfect.
I am, of course, gentle as I lay my case down to obtain the treasure inside. My cello is one of many just like it, but it is mine. It is finely crafted, but still has minor imperfections along its frame. An unsightly knot here, a dent there, but beautiful nonetheless. It has been with me the longest of my trade tools, and I am lucky that it has survived the rigorous abuse and lack of care I put it through in my filly days. It still has a gorgeous sunset stain along the wood, and I am sure the surrounding trees are gazing upon it and hoping one day to be made into something as beautiful as this.
For the longest time, I had fashioned my own strings for the cello. Not because I thought I could make them better, but simply because I was too poor to afford anything of even mediocre quality. In those days, my craft went on the backburner financially, and food and shelter were priority. The neck of my cello still had some discoloration from the material I used for my impromptu strings.
String instruments have an awkward sentiment that sets them apart from anything else: they are born naked. Perhaps this is what drew me to them in the first place. Some form of familiarity. Trumpets. Clarinets. Tympanis. They are all beautiful in their own way, but one does not notice their nudity. A missing mouthpiece or reed or mallet, while still rendering the instrument silent, is negligible aesthetically. However, when one looks at a mandolin without strings, they take notice, and wonder how it came to being.
I set my nude cello aside, and pull a package of strings from the bottom of the case. They are long and slender, and uncoil ever so elegantly as I remove them from the envelopes. They seem so small in my hooves, and fit so well along my cello, pulling the eye away from its beaten and bruised appearance.
I can’t help but snicker when I see the tuning fork poking out from the velvet lining of my case. For the life of me, I can’t remember why I bought the damn thing in the first place. Celestia, or whatever power that be, blessed me with perfect pitch at a young age. Typically, as was my manner, I skirted this gift. Yes, my instruments were never a half turn of the key away from the right frequency, but I did not crave perfection.
To the ear of anypony listening, my performances were never out of tune, but they weren’t the ones holding the instrument. All instruments are tools of vibration, and while onlookers only feel the vibration in their ears, I feel it moving up the bow into my hooves and throughout the rest of my body. My penchant for perfect pitch conflicted with this feeling, as a perfectly tuned instrument doesn’t create the resonance one can feel while they play. The great artists did not hear music, they felt it. Even without having been alive to hear their greatest performances, I can tell this just by looking at how they drew their notes onto the staff pages. I let each string play as I turned the keys to pull them taut. I can slowly feel the vibrations cease as they approach the correct pitch, and turn each just past the point where all feeling of vibration leaves my hooves.
The waxy sheen of my bow glistens in the light that peers through the leaves. String instruments have one other quirk that separates them from the rest of the musical kingdom, this being their multiple tuning. The sound-pieces of brass and woodwinds need little adjustment once they are placed upon the instrument, but a bow is of equal importance to each string. If not wound with the utmost care, even the most talented of artists would fail to create anything of importance.
Like most orchestra performers, I lined my bow with ponyhair. Every other performer I knew used their own hair, as if it created some sort of bond with the instrument, but I differed in opinion from the masses. Instead, mine was lined with a sample from an artist I respected like no other. Little needs be said about Mezzo, other than that he was my only family, and Equestria has never seen an artist like him. Not long after he passed, I came upon a music box he left for me, with the sample of his hair inside. They say hair, while already a dead mass in the first place, continues to survive after we expire, and that was certainly true in this case. I didn’t even need to trim the hair, as it was already the perfect length for a bow, and the sound it produced was the only way I could measure up to him.
At long last, I find myself prepared for a temporary leave from this world, and ready to rejoin with the music. I can see a nearby stump that will be the perfect perch for my solitary form, and approach carefully, ensuring to not disturb the cello that I’ve tuned to my liking. I forgo the spike adorning the base of the cello, instead preferring to feel the leaves crunching beneath the instrument, and let my cello bond with the nature that once birthed it. I take a glance at my surroundings, reassuring myself that this is what I’ve been seeking for so long now. The weather, the forest, the creatures, they are all in perfect harmony, and I have come here to provide them a befitting melody.
Pushing the bow against that first deep pitch invokes so much power and raw emotion inside me. I close my eyes and drift away. I am not asleep, but the music commands my movements now, and I am simply surrendering to its urges. It’s impossible to resist something so enticing. It is something that I’ve missed for so long. I am separated from this world that robbed me of who I was, and with each note, I gain the old Octavia back.
The trees make a unique acoustic reflection, and play my notes back to me. I can hear them, but I am not listening. I am too engrossed in the vibrations that travel up the tips of my hooves. The shaking of my wrist as I pull back and forth on the neck to toy with the notes. I play with them as much as they play with me. We play an innocent game, pushing against each other as our harmony travels between the trees and throughout the forest.
With eyes closed, I can see the notes take shape, and I am chasing them through the forest and towards the ocean, past the desert, and back to the forest again. We pirouette along the beaches, and hold each other under the cotton-fluff lining in the sky. I want to stay in this place, but I know I can only spend fleeting moments here. My formless companion can only show me the way, but I must walk the path with my own hooves.
I am lost in this gorgeous landscape for quite some time. I am unsure of the span of real-time, but in the ethereal world my music creates, it seems that days have passed before I notice that my guide is not playing the same notes as me. The cloud of notes that make up its body have taken shape. I cannot say for sure, but I believe it looks like– a pegasus? The music it plays for me is beautiful, but is contradictory to what my hooves are creating against my cello.
My eyes part wide and I am pulled back into reality. My playing halts, and as the staccato sound fades off into the echoes, I hear nature again. The rustling of leaves, the chirping of birds, the clip-clop of– hooves? Am I not alone? Did somepony follow me?
No. My trained ears have grown oversensitive. The sound is clearly of hoofsteps, but I am certain they are too far away for the stranger to be aware of my presence. I decide to disregard the far away stranger, and turn back to my cello. The sound is gorgeous, and I am quickly swept back into a world of music. I am surrounded by clouds now. Above me. Beside me. Beneath me? Where have the sands and leaves gone? I am high above, but I do not sense that I am falling. Is this flight?
Quite a few moments pass before I open my eyes to realize my hooves aren’t moving. I can feel the vibrations that can only come from music, but the strings on my cello are still. My right hoof hangs at my side with the bow in it, and as I stare at it, I wonder if I’ve truly gone crazy.
There is music around me. Beautiful, harmonious music, but I am not the sculptor. My eyes are pulled back into the trees, and I set my cello down as I walk back into the thick forest. All I know is the sound of music is growing amplified, and I am entranced by it. My hooves move on their own, but not to make music. They are pulled from the stump, leaving my cello behind, and marching towards the distant song. The further I go, the clearer it becomes, and somewhere in the distance between my cello and the source, I realize that what I’m hearing is art, and—
Somepony is—
Singing?
If These Strings Could Sing
I’m up in the woods I’m down on my mind I’m building a still To slow down the time
- Bon Iver
***
Everfree is full of secrets. That is, I guess that’s what I should call them. The entire forest is so ominous that most ponies don’t venture near it, myself included. Well, at least, I used to avoid it completely, but lately I find myself visiting quite frequently. This place, it speaks to me.
And I sing back.
These secrets, be they the creatures, the plants, or just the tranquil aura between the trees, all become quite obvious to anypony willing to enter the forest. Luckily, I still find solitude here, and the secrets remain. There are dozens of birds that never leave Everfree, and why should they? They have everything they need here. Food. Shelter. Freedom.
I especially enjoy this, and tend to fly more here than I do in my daily routine. My wings are weak, but my frame is light, and I make up for speed with maneuverability. I really don’t know what that means, but Rainbow said it to me once. I think it was a compliment, but her compliments often sound forced and sarcastic, like she only says it to keep up her end of a social contract.
It’s one of a dozen reasons why I come here. To escape. The judging. The gazes on everypony.
Still, I cut my flight short. I come here to unwind, and I still tire quickly in flight. The clearing is empty again today. That is no surprise to me. Visitors are seldom to the Everfree, and I do not question the critters for being cautious. Even though I’ve been here many times, I still haven’t earned their trust, but I have ways of remedying that.
“Ah~~~~ ”
I breathe deeply, and song comes naturally from within me. It’s just two notes that I waver back and forth on, but it is enough. It’s a call they’ve heard before, and those same two notes echo back to me in a whistle. Followed by another. And another. It isn’t long before a choir forms and emerges from the trees.
Dozens of birds surround me. Different colors. Different sounds. Some of them are full of flight and vigor, and the wings of others serve little purpose except to identify them as birds. A few small mammals tend to wander out, but they only come to observe the spectacle. They tend to be quiet creatures that only speak when they feel threatened, something I understand. I have my reasons to be quiet or shy, but sometimes there is a song inside me that needs to come out, and I can’t do it alone.
I don’t know what makes the song within me. I only know that I like what comes. It all sounds– nice. I wish I knew what makes it so, but the song comes naturally from me. It is not something I learned, but it is something I know I enjoy. The birds must agree, as they keep joining to be a part of what I come to share with them. They whistle back the notes in their own tones. Some shrill, some melodic, but all harmonious. Soon, I have assembled a whole bird sanctuary. A shelter of song.
My mind tends to run wild with emotions, galloping back and forth between fear and embarrassment. However, when I sing, all that goes away. I can feel myself becoming a blank slate, forgetting whatever troubles me. I let go of myself, and let the song swing me around as a marionette for its expression. I hover with the birds, and my hooves reach out, trying to draw the air in so I can sing more and more.
There is power behind the song, something I didn’t know I had. I let the music continue to use me and drift away. My body remains in the forest, a tool for expression, but my soul and spirit separate from it, and I become ethereal. I float higher and higher, into the clouds and beyond.
Earth ponies and unicorns have a huge misconception about clouds. They all think they are soft and fluffy, but that’s far from the truth. In my hooves, they feel like clay. Cold, lumpy, formless clay.
Maybe it has something to do with being a pegasus. It is in our instincts to fly gently enough that our touch can bend clouds to our whim. Still, there are those among our ranks that– suppress these instincts, or outright abuse them.
Maybe if a unicorn were to touch a cloud, they’d buck their hoof right through, obliterating the cloud into a mist. Try as I might, I can’t do that. The clouds feel firm to me, but shapeable. I push, and they push back, resisting.
I gather together several of the whitest clouds I can find, and start creating. Pulling and twisting tufts of floating foam around the sky. I’m not sure what exactly I’m making, but I keep playing with the mass in whatever way seems natural. The shapes are forming, and I continue to sculpt against the sky.
I pull away, and the shape comes into focus from afar. It doesn’t look like something I’ve seen before. It is long and curvy. Wild and untamed. It is less of an object, and more of a symbol, something to mark significance. What is it Twilight called these? Ampersands? No, that can’t be right. This, it’s far too– melodic.
I feel the cloud sculpture pulling away from me as I ponder its mysteries. As the distance grows, I realize it is not the cloud moving away, it is me. I am descending. The song is ending. I blink, and I am back in my body. Back in the clearing. The birds and critters are scattering towards the safety of the trees. My head darts back and forth, and I am trying to call them back. What did I do to upset them?
Then I see it. It is not me that has spooked these creatures. It’s– the symbol? That sculpture in the clouds, I see it on the edge of the clearing, but something is different. As the world around me comes into focus, I see that it is indeed the same shape and form, but residing on the flank of a mare standing on the border of the tree line. Did somepony follow me here?
She is staring at me.
Oh dear, why won’t she stop staring at me? Did I do something wrong? Wait why am I questioning myself? I was minding my own business. But– oh no. She was watching me?
“Eep.”
My every instinct is to run. Fly. Escape. But I am also paralyzed with fear. This stranger, she just continues to stand there, staring. I desperately wish that she would stop staring at me. My head darts around hoping there is something other than a nervous pegasus she could be looking at, but by now, I am alone in the clearing.
It happens when I’m nervous. Well, I’m always nervous, but still, that’s when it happens. My wings spread, my sight grows hazy, and before I know it—
***
I awaken in darkness, my closed eyes sealing away the sunlight. Something is prodding me in the side. With my eyes shut, I can only guess it is a hoof. I hear a voice, worried and speaking too fast for me to catch every word, but the constant repetition makes the words clearer.
“Pleasedon’tbedeadpleasedon’tbedeadpleasedon’tbedead. Please!”
My eyes twitch, and as I open them, I’m greeted by large circles of black. Surrounded in circles of pink. All within circles of white. Barely inches from my face, it comes into focus.
Those eyes.
I scream, but even at my loudest, it is lost on the wind.
My nerves—
***
I’m not sure if I passed out twice, or a hundred times, but this time the first thing I see is the cutie mark of the mare standing away from me. I have less trouble staying conscious since she isn’t looking at me, but still, the memory lingers in my mind of how she followed me.
“Oh good, you’re awake,” she says without facing me. “I was so worried that I killed you, but after the fifteenth fainting spell, I pieced the puzzle together.”
“Oh. Um. Sorry if I scared you,” I respond without thinking. Why am I apologizing? I was the one that was scared, and still here I am, apologizing for everything. I begin to wonder if a sixteenth collapse is coming on.
“No, no, no,” she tells me. She waves her hooves as she speaks, and almost turns around, but tries to correct herself. My fainting really must have upset her. “It’s my fault. It was so rude of me to spy on you. I really didn’t mean to, it’s just—,” even without her facing me, I can tell her eyes are darting around searching for the words to say.
“You heard?” Now I’m sure I’m going to faint again.
“Um, yeah. I wasn’t watching. I was listening. Your song, it was—,” she finally turns to face me, “Beautiful.”
The urge to faint suddenly fades from me. I am able to see her without fear. Well, that’s not completely true. There are still millions of fears running through my head at any given moment, but hearing that made me forget. Still, I am unable to return her gaze out of sheer embarrassment. I’m sure she means well, but I wasn’t singing to be heard.
I never understood what ponies meant by ‘awkward silence’. I think she hoped to elicit a response from me, but I don’t know how to respond to her compliment. She rubs a stick against the back of her mane, her face rising with color until it matches her eyes. I think the situation has become equally awkward for her. She flinches a bit, and seems to return to her senses, holding out her hoof to me. “Where are my manners? I’m Octavia.”
I return her gesture, but still find myself unable to look at her as I do so. “Um. Fluttershy.” My hoof is quite limp as she shakes it, and I can feel the rest of my body tremble with it.
“Charmed.” She smiles, but I can’t find it in me to do the same. “Tell me Fluttershy, what was that song you were singing?”
“I’m, um, not sure. Just something stuck in my head.” The song? I never really pay attention when I sing. How do I tell her that? Tell her the truth? That while I was singing, my mind was just daydreaming of shape-shifting clouds? Oh no. She’d think I’m crazy. She must already think I’m crazy. What kind of pony goes off into the forest just for music?
Wait—
What is she doing out in the Everfree?
“Um, if you don’t mind, what brings you to the Everfree? Are you lost? Or,” my worst fear, “did you follow me?”
Her eyes widen. Somehow, I get the feeling she’s more embarrassed than myself at this moment. “No! Oh goodness, no. I—,” she pushes the stick in her hoof towards me, “I came here for the same reason you did.”
It’s a nice stick, I guess, but I don’t know what it has to do with anything. “You– you sing too?”
She retracts her hoof with the stick in it. “Um, not exactly. It’s a bow.”
A bow? Oh dear. Does she think I was—? “Oh. Oh– no! How could you ever be so cruel?” I’m yelling as loud as my voice will allow at the stranger, but still, unable to evoke the rage I’m feeling at this moment. “Those poor creatures! That’s why they all ran away!”
I can see the guilt on her face, and my fears are confirmed. She pulls her weapon back behind her, as if she could hide her shame from me at this point. “I’m– sorry?”
“You should be! You big meanie!” Why must I sound like I’m teasing her? I’m genuinely furious at this point, but my lack of words isn’t helping. “I knew you couldn’t be from around here. How’d you like it if they came to your home and hunted you ?”
“I didn’t mean to– wait.” She brandishes her death machine at me. Oh dear, I think I’m going to be sick. “Did you say hunt ?”
“That’s right! And please don’t point that horrid thing at me.” I’m beginning to worry she plans on using it on me next.
She’s still speaking to me, but every other word sounds foreign to me. When she speaks about her “cadenza”, I can only imagine some awful dish full of fried squirrels and sautéed parakeets. I didn’t know ponies like this still existed in Equestria. I silently vow to myself to never leave Ponyville again.
“Don’t you get it?” she asks me. “My verismo? The rococo? Perfecting my portamento technique?” Each sentence just conjures up more images of suffering critters in my head. I back away slowly with each statement. I need to get away from this pony before she makes me her dinner. She sighs with frustration. Did I upset her? Wait, she’s the sick pony here. Why do I care if she’s upset?
“Wait here. I’ll be right back.” She gently sets the weapon on the grass and gallops back into the trees. This is my chance. I can escape before she returns. But, why am I not running?
I look at the sick tool on the ground. I wonder to myself how many innocent lives she has taken with it. I have dedicated my life to protecting these creatures, and she robs them of their freedom. No longer. I pick up the bow in my hooves. I’ve never used one, but it can’t be that difficult, right? Even if it makes me just as bad as her, I’m only doing this for the critters.
She has returned, and with some huge black device on her back. Oh dear. Why didn’t I run? I’ve brought a bow to a cannon fight. This is it. The end of Fluttershy. I regret everything. “Oh dear, please don’t hurt me.”
She cackles at me. “I’m not going to hurt you.” No, she’s just going to obliterate me.
“Then what?”
“If you give me back Mezzo, I’ll show you.” She points at the tool in my hooves, stained with the deaths of thousands of innocent creatures. I’m too scared to resist her at this point, and hoof it over to her. I close my eyes and await my fate. I only hope it comes quick and painless.
The time is slowing down. I can feel each beat as my heart tries to escape my chest. I hear the song they’ll play at my funeral. It sounds so– happy. Is that how my friends will remember me? Celebrating my death at the hooves of this monster? I can’t stand waiting any longer. I open my eyes to face my executioner, and the song keeps playing. I see it was not a vision of my funeral, but the song she was playing with her– weapon?
She sees that I’ve taken notice of her song, and stops playing. Between smiles and laughs she asks, “Do you like it? It’s not finished yet, but I only just started working on it.”
“What is it?” I ask.
“Oh, I haven’t thought of a title yet,” she says with a shrug.
I shake my head and point at the shapely device in her hooves. “Um. I meant, what is that?”
She looked at it and then back at me. “Have you never seen a cello before? I find that hard to believe.”
“Um, I don’t think so. Should I?”
She shrugged again. I don’t think she believed me. “It’s just that, well, that song you were singing earlier. I’ve heard it before.” She looked longingly at her bow, and then played a few notes. It definitely sounded familiar, but I really never know what I’m singing. “I’ve just never heard it arranged for birds and pegasi. It gives it a whole new meaning.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Again with the apologizing. Why can’t I think before I speak?
“No– Fluttershy, was it? It was beautiful. You’re very talented, but I can see you don’t realize it. It’s raw and unpolished, but gorgeous nonetheless.” She’s smiling, but I see something behind that statement and smile. I can’t take her words seriously. As I look at her, I can imagine her colorblind form erupting wings and prisms of light. One of a dozen reasons that I came here in the first place.
“You—,” I softly whisper.
“Hmm?” she looks at me curiously.
Why can’t I think before I speak?
“You remind me of a pegasus I know.”
If These Strings Could Sing
3 - O - I Just Got This Symphony Goin'
Your eyes Watching me like a camera Overexposure to these kind of days And the film Was surreal As the dream was Shooting stars and galactic fates
You were my pride But where have you been?
- The Fall of Troy
***
I don’t know where I’d be without this pegasus right now.
No, seriously. I wouldn’t know. I’d be lost in that forsaken forest. Turns out, it’s not nearly as beautiful after nightfall, and thanks to my short-sightedness, I hadn’t thought about how I’d get back. In retrospect, going off the path was a poor decision.
I’ve made a lot of poor decisions.
Luckily, my new acquaintance is a local. She guided us out of the forest with ease. I can see the village on the horizon. It’s– dim. I look up and can see the stars. They’re just dozens of insignificant specks of light dotting the sky, but I can’t believe how much I missed them. It feels like it’s my first time seeing them. I’m so used to light pollution rendering the night invisible, or perhaps I mean too visible.
It’s been an agonizingly long time since I’ve been in a civilized place that was so serene. There isn’t unicorn magic around every corner, painting the town in an eerie pastel and neon glow that I was so sick of, yet accustomed to. The only illumination at night here is that which comes from the moon and the gentle flames shuddering in nearby windows.
My guide has been rather quiet during our return to the town. I can’t fully blame her. I am a stranger, after all, something I haven’t been to anypony in a long time. Perhaps this place is a little more… backwater than I give it credit for. Right now, that doesn’t sound like such a bad thing though.
My stomach thinks otherwise. Normally, it’s a rather picky beast, but I’d ignored its cries for so long, that it begged for the attention of anypony nearby. It’s not nearly as quiet as the pegasus leading me into town, and she takes notice. I try my best to shrug it off; blushing a bit, but I can’t deny how hungry I am. “Any chance there’s a place in town I could sate my palette?” She looks back at me, her head slowly rotating to the side until I’m convinced that if I don’t clarify, it’ll turn completely upside down. “Er– know anywhere I can get some– grub?” Kind of a crass terminology, if you ask me.
“Um, there’s a wonderful diner right over—” Her wings flap a little harder, and she motions a hoof towards a nearby building before noticing that lack of light emanating from it. “Oh, I guess it is rather late.” Not really. At least not by the standards I’ve grown accustomed to elsewhere. Perhaps she’s lost track of time from her fainting spells. For a while, I was convinced I’d be dragging a corpse back to town in my cello case. Still, considering all the other shops in the vicinity look equally busy, it must be late enough for this town to call it a day.
None of this conversation is making my stomach any calmer. Again, it sings a weak, but boisterous call for help. Despite our lack of familiarity, the pegasus does seem to show concern for my stomach’s plight. She is– interesting. Bashful doesn’t begin to describe it, and she shows too much fear to simply be reserved. She appears traumatized by every little thing. A shame, as it has probably kept her from seeing the more beautiful things in life.
Oh Celestia, my stomach. Never mind the mare’s mysteries. I can dabble in pony psychology another time. “Never mind that then. My fault entirely. I’m sure most of your excursions in the forest aren’t as interrupted by fainting spells. Or intruders.” She blushes a bit at my snide remark, but in truth, it is my fault. “I simply need to gather my things and find the inn in town. I’m sure with a few extra bits, I can obtain a hot meal there.”
She appears concerned again, and I am afraid I already know why before she graces me with a response. “Oh, um… that may be a problem.”
Horseapples… I knew it.
“Ponyville doesn’t have an inn. Well, I mean, we used to have boarding services at the tavern, but when you live in a town that nopony really visits… Well, they lost bits faster than they made them.” Her voice appears to show genuine pity for the situation I’ve found myself in. Strange. She doesn’t even know me. Perhaps she is just naturally kind to all ponies.
If I were anywhere but Ponyville, I would naturally assume she recognized me from tabloids or the various dreck that lines the streets of Los Pegasus and Manehattan. I am fairly certain this is not the case. She definitely didn’t show any signs of recognition once she was finally conscious enough for me to introduce myself. Not to mention, the simpleton didn’t even know what a cello was, so she couldn’t be familiar with my work. I must say, it’s relieving to be able to start with somepony from scratch. No assumptions or pretext commanding who I am or how I should be treated. Still, it’s not the most ideal of situations. Under the usual circumstances, I would never associate with somepony who didn’t know of the classics, much less one who doesn’t even know what a cello is.
The stomach pangs have returned, pulling my mind off of further tangents. It’s not like me to skip meals, but I was… distracted. There was no room in my mind for food, only music. My stomach argues otherwise though.
Fluttershy seems deep in thought, and her eyes perk up, as I can only assume she’s had some sort of epiphany. “I think I have an idea where you can stay, that is, if you’re planning on staying. It’s the least I can do to help.” I nod, as I don’t have many options outside of compliance. “Wonderful, let me go talk to my friend. I’m sure she has some space, especially with her dragon out of town at the moment.” I must have misheard her. Did she say a ‘dragon’? As a pet?
I must have missed the next couple things she said as I pondered what place in town could house (and tame) a massive beast, but before she hovers off, she motions to the tree in the center of town, asking me to meet her there after I’ve gathered my things. I feel rather guilty at the moment, as I’ve been in town less than a day, and already I’m inconveniencing not one, but two ponies now. In retrospect, traveling without making any sort of plans or arrangements was a poor decision, but a necessary one. I couldn’t let anyone know where to find me until I found myself.
I definitely made some strides forward in that respect today. Getting back in touch with the music felt… cleansing. I still feel a bit rusty and out-of-touch with the bond I once felt with music, but all good things take time. Luckily, I have all the time in the world now that I’m away from prying eyes and sold-out concert halls.
But this pegasus, where does her talent come from? Her singing, it truly was one of the most beautiful things I’ve heard, and that song… Mezzo wrote that song when I was but a filly. Before I could even hold a cello, much less play one. Mezzo was the greatest musician I’ve known, but I thought his work was lost to the sands of time. That realization is what made me embark on this journey. I feared that I would be forgotten in time.
But Mezzo, he must not be truly lost to this world if there is still someone that sings his praises. Literally. She didn’t appear to know the piece, or his name even, but hearing the way she sang his ‘Viola Sonata in C minor’ , it brought new light to it. I need to rethink my reasons for coming here. Even if his name is lost among history, his work has apparently survived, and perhaps that is what he wanted most.
I must learn more about the mysterious soprano. Her skills intrigue me.
I really need to stop letting my mind wander. I didn’t even notice until now that I’ve arrived at the train station. My belongings are still here. Instruments and bow ties all accounted for. However, I’ve come to the sudden realization that I am on my own for this excursion, and there’s no way a simple earth pony can find a way to move all these things on their own. Poor decision again , Octavia…
It is then that I realize I made an even worse decision: leaving my belongings in plain sight. The first flash of light goes relatively unnoticed by me. After all, in a town like this, where I can see the stars again, I simply pass it off as a twinkle from the night sky.
Less than a day, and this town has made me naïve. The flash is soon followed by a dozen others, as well as the sound of marching hooves and clicking shutters. I can’t see past the blinding wall of light rushing towards me, but I already know what is happening. No time to think. No time to plan. There is only time for action.
So I make a poor decision…
Run.
My frame is strong enough to carry instruments twice my size, but that is from years of practice and necessity. I am not built for speed, and I have only ever heard rumors of a single pony who can outrun light itself. They might not catch me, but their cameras do. Their flash bulbs trailing my every step, and their voices urging me to stop and explain myself, even though they know I won’t comply.
Where do I go? This isn’t like the streets of downtown Los Pegasus. I can only run so far before the streets simply end and I’ll be cornered. I should have known better. I shouldn’t have thought I could simply hide. It was only a matter of time, but I just wanted it to last longer than this.
I’m short of breath, but I can make out the tree that Fluttershy urged me to return to. I’m already running the direction before I realize that this is one poor decision I should avoid. Just having me watch her made the poor mare faint, so a tidal wave of tabloid reporters would surely massacre her. This is my problem, not hers. She’s already done more than enough on my part. But my selfish needs of shelter are commanding my movements, and I find myself unable to diverge from the closest hope I have to safety.
I see her talking to somepony outside the tree, a unicorn. The unicorn sees the crowd following me and promptly backs away, slamming the door shut. I can’t blame her. I would probably do the same thing in her situation. I can only assume it’s not everyday that somepony in this town sees someone getting chased down the street by a mob of paparazzi.
The yellow pegasus seems confused by her friend’s actions, as she has yet to realize the chaos that is quickly approaching behind her. Without thinking, I try my best to warn her. “Fluttershy! Run!”
Poor decision. The mob behind me pauses temporarily and gaze amongst one another in confusion. I shouldn’t have acknowledged that I know this mare. There is blood in the water now, and they’re hungrier than before, but the pause is enough for me to gain a little headway on them. I’ve only fueled their questions further, but I’m not listening. I’ve heard it all before. The answers differ, but the questions are all the same.
I keep running, blindly. My hooves are tired, and I don’t know where I’m going, but I can’t just give up. I feel the wind in my face growing stronger, even though my pace is slowing down, and realize that the pegasus is flying beside me. “Who are they? Who are you ?” she pants as she tries to keep up.
Understandable question, but I don’t really have time to explain while running. “Never mind that! I just came here to get away from them.”
In between the flaps of her wings, I can see her cringe. I’m far too exhausted and distracted to think clearly at this point, but it almost seems… empathetic? Or even familiar to her. She recovers quickly and glides in front of me. “Quickly! This way!” She turns down a street, and I follow without thinking.
With the camera flashes illuminating our escape path, it isn’t long before I realize she is guiding us out of town. “Are you crazy? They’ll surely catch us if we leave town!”
“They’ll surely catch us if we stay .” Her words catch me by surprise, but I’m in no place to argue further at this point. If she believes there is a safe haven this way, I’m inclined to trust her. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a choice between certain death and unlikely escape, and I came here to escape. Not much of a choice, really.
They’re gaining on us. I can’t keep this up much longer. How far from town does she plan on taking me? And how far are these vultures willing to follow? Despite their appearances, unkempt and out-of-shape, they definitely have no problem keeping up if it means a hot scoop.
I don’t want this.
My new acquaintance pulls me out of my self-pity with encouraging words. “We’re almost there. Hurry!”
As much as I want to trust her, I’ve definitely made mistakes in where I laid my trust in the past. “Almost where?” She pulls ahead of me with a hard flap of her wings and points her dainty hoof ahead of the path. A roof appears as we top the hill and descend towards a small, but spacious looking house on the edge of the forest.
She flies ahead, calling out for assistance as she pushes open the door of the cottage, “Angel! Help!” She motions me inside, and with the last of my energy I collapse as she slams the door shut behind me. I’m having trouble catching my breath, and the flashes of the cameras are still blinding us as the mob presses up against the window. Do they ever run out of film? Or are they simply flashing the cameras only to taunt me still?
As I lay in a mess on the floor, my chest heaving from exhaustion, I realize the thumping sound I hear is not that of my heart on the verge of arrest, but instead the vibrations of the floor. My coronas are still blinded by the flashing lights, and I can hear Fluttershy rushing around the cottage drawing curtains as the cameramen rush from one open window to the next. Her efforts do nothing to mute their questions though, and I can feel a painful ringing in my ears as I try to ignore every word.
Still, as my eyes adjust, I can make out a fuzzy, white mass staring at me, tapping with a furious rhythm on the floor, syncopating with my racing heart. Fluttershy calls out, and the creature looks back at her in protest and disgust. “I know you don’t know her, but she needs our help. Now please, help me close the rest of the windows. Pretty please?”
I can make out the elongated ears atop the creatures head as my sight begins to focus, and clearly make out the white rabbit as it remains unfazed by the pegasi’s urges. How does she expect a rabbit to help in this situation? Is it going to summon an army to destroy the foul beasts that have cornered us? The rabbit continues to stare at me like an intruder, which in some way or another, I am, but not by my own faculties. I’m too exhausted to justify myself, and why should I? It’s a damned rabbit.
A soft, but firm kick from his hind leg collides against my nose. “Ouch.” The filthy vermin must be able to read thoughts. Still too drained to retaliate, I vow revenge under my breath. As though I don’t have enough problems at the moment without the urge to engage in mortal combat with a creature a tenth of my size.
My cry of pain calls Fluttershy’s attention back to the rabbit. “Angel! Apologize!” I’m not sure what has changed in her, but the rabbit stands frozen before me with fear. He quickly cowers away, leaving me to collect my thoughts, what little left of them I have.
The occasional flash is still peeking through gaps in the curtains, but Fluttershy appears to have given up on discouraging the mob any further, and helps me to my hooves. Her demeanor quickly shifts from how she looked at the rabbit. Through her stress and exhaustion, she tries to face me with understanding. “Now, I don’t mind lending a helping hoof, but you have some explaining to do.”
She’s right. I can’t properly thank her for her assistance thus far, but where do I begin explaining? “I’m not sure how to tell you.”
She’s still gasping for breath, and has trouble mincing her words. “How about you start by telling me who you are? Is Octavia even your name?”
I sigh heavily. It’s not my fault that she hadn’t heard of me, but I’m not really here to advertise myself. “No, I haven’t lied to you. My name is indeed Octavia, and I do play the cello, among other instruments.”
“Then why are they so interested in you? Why did they chase us here?”
I’m unsure how to answer this, but the simplest answer is best. “Because I play the cello, among other instruments.” I smirk slightly to mask my frustration, but she easily sees through my façade.
She holds a hoof to her temples, rubbing deeply as she rephrases her question. “Let me ask something different then. Who is Vinyl Scratch?”
A name I don’t want to hear. “What?”
She motions to a window where flashes of light are still cutting through the open space. “Those ponies out there kept asking me questions about somepony named Vinyl Scratch. If you don’t mind me asking, I assume those questions are meant for you, and I don’t recall anypony by that name.”
I don’t want to talk about it, but I do owe her an explanation of some sort. “Vinyl– Vinyl is the reason I came here,” I respond, my eyes fixed on the floor the entire time.
I can tell that my answer is not enough to satisfy her, even without seeing her reaction. “Um, I thought you came here to play the cello, or something like that.” She pauses briefly, but I can tell she is more than a little frustrated by the gathering outside the house. “Um, okay. I don’t really understand, but I’m willing to help. I’m no good with crowds though, especially ones like this, and I don’t think they’re going to leave unless you do something about it.”
Blunt, but she’s right. Something about the situation has definitely struck a chord with her, so to speak. Diminished, but a chord nonetheless. “You’re right. I’m sorry that you’ve gotten mixed up in all this, but– thanks.” I shake my head to clear my thoughts, but that never really works. They just come rushing back harder than before. I pause before approaching the door, my curiosity piqued before I face the mob. “It’s none of my business, but you seem particularly—” How do I put this? “Irked by the ponies outside. I mean, it’s not something I’ve ever gotten used to myself, but—”
“I don’t like cameras, okay?” She blushes deeply and averts her gaze away, embarrassed by the tone in her voice. “I’m sorry, I just want to help, but… cameras make me uncomfortable.”
Understandable, especially when you don’t know the pony holding the camera. “I– I understand, believe me. Let me do what I can to quell the situation, then I’ll tell you everything, ok?”
“Um, okay. I mean, do you think they’ll go away?”
Not in the slightest. I have my hoof on the door as I respond to her, “They never really ‘go away’, but if you give them what they want, they’ll leave you alone. At least for a little while.” I open the door, and anything else I have to say is lost among the roar of the crowd prodding me with questions.
“Octavia, what are you—”
“Who is—”
*FLASH*
“—in Ponyville?”
“—breakdown—”
“—Vinyl know?”
*CLICK*
“—scandal—”
“Where is—”
“—quitting music?”
No. No. A thousand times, no. Where are they getting their information?
“ENOUGH! ”
My head is the only one that turns, as everypony already knows the voice came from behind me. Fluttershy eyes are running red with blood and… fire. Before her temperature rises hot enough for her mane to burst in her flames, the cameras start flashing again, pointed at her this time.
“—eep! ”
She dives out of the lights. This isn’t good. She’s using me to shelter herself from the cameras. I look back at the crowd, my eyes wide with fear at what message they’re going to twist this image into, and instinctively slam the door shut before they can commit any more it to celluloid.
“What. Was. That ?” I don’t think she has any idea how much worse the situation has become. She’s hiding her face behind her wings, shivering. As confused as I am, I feel like doing the same right about now, if I only had wings myself.
“Um, I really… really don’t like cameras.”
Yes, you’ve made that abundantly clear, in the worst possible way. If I don’t do something soon, they’ll have a field day with this. I try to clear the thoughts of imaginary headlines from my mind and face the problem. “Okay, this isn’t good at all.” At all. “There aren’t many ways this situation can be saved anymore, but, I’m going to try.” I hate to be rude to my savior, but I don’t know how else to make this clear. “I’m going to open that door again, and this time I need you to keep your precious little mouth shut . Understood?”
She peeks her face out from under her wings, about to respond. Before saying a word, she stops herself, and instead nods meekly. That’s about all I can ask for at the moment. I swiftly buck the door open before facing the blinding lights. The questions almost begin again immediately, but I’m done listening.
“Quiet! Do you want me to answer, or simply fill in the facts yourselves?”
The crowd glances at one another, then erupt into laughter. Yeah, I should have known better. Poor decision.
Before I can continue my tirade, a unicorn with a pen and pad floating in front of his face breaks the laughter with a question. “Octavia, what are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere?”
Trying to get away from you. What in Tartarus do you think? I can’t say that though, but I don’t exactly have any responses prepared. “I’m—” Uh-oh. What do I say? “I came out here to… to work on my new album!” Wait, what did I just say?
“Uh… huh,” the muckraker responds bluntly, not believing a word I say. His pen points in the direction of the pegasus cowering between my hooves. “And the au pair?”
“First of all, she’s a local, not an au pair.” Not helping, Octavia. “She’s– she’s my new producer!”
Wait.
What did I just say?
“Yeah, that’s right! My producer!” Shut up , Octavia! The hole was already deep enough, and now you’re just burying yourself alive!
“Um,” I can hear a soft squeak behind me, and rush to silence it with my hind hoof. Another soft squeak escapes as I collide with her mouth. I want to apologize, but that has to wait.
They’re staring. I understand how she must have felt when I found in the forest now. “What? She’s going to make my new album amazing. A brand new sound, out here among nature.”
The crowd looks amongst themselves. They know something I don’t. The same reporter tosses something in my direction with a touch of his magic. “It’s just– Vinyl didn’t mention a new album.”
I don’t need him to tell me that. The headline on the paper he threw at me says it loud and clear, and in quotes to boot.
‘Washed Up’
Buck you, Vinyl.
“She told you this?”
The reporters roll their eyes in unison towards me. “No, a little birdie did.”
I hear snickering behind me. Not helping, Fluttershy.
“Well she’s one to talk! When was the last time she released an album?”
The reporter sighs, and with a little more magic, flips open the paper to the arts pages.
Top of the charts. You’ve got to be bucking kidding me. She planned this. She had to. I’ll show her…
“I’ll show her…” Oh, did I just say that out loud? “That’s nothing! My next album is going to make her look deader than disco.” Deader than disco? At least speak proper if you’re going to hurl insults, Octavia.
None of this is helping make them go away. Focus, girl! “Now if you’ll excuse us, you’re interrupting my creative process. I trust there are no more inquiries. Tell Vinyl she’s got another thing coming!”
The door slams shut, and moments later, I can hear the crowd dispersing, albeit slower than I would like. What have I done? When did she make a new album? I swear, one of these days I will bury that mare.
“Um, what just happened?” Ah, right. I forgot about the quiet pegasus cowering behind me. Horseapples. She shouldn’t have to be a part of my games, whether it be revenge or just hiding me from the tabloids. She’s done enough for me already.
“Did you tell them I’m recording your album?”
“I– I think I just made a poor decision.”
Our time together has been short, but I already know what happens next.
“Eep .”
And down she goes.
A really poor decision.
