What About the Rest of Us?

by kudzuhaiku

Rating: teen
Tags: Drama, Original Character, Moondancer, Comedy, Sex, Profanity, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic
Length: 9281

Some ponies get to grow up and become princesses that live in magical friendship castles, but what about the rest of us?

Cerulean Skies has convinced herself that life itself has been forever ruined by her very existence. She is miserable in school and life at home is no better. Crushing poverty has left her a bit cynical, a bit jaded, and some might say that her outlook on life has been soured. She is almost absolutely certain that her very existence has made the lives of everypony around her even worse. Her parents, her brother, all pegasus ponies who have to live on the ground to accommodate her. She came along and everything was ruined.

She might be right.

It doesn't make her questioning of everything any less relevant.

If it wasn't for her idol, Moondancer, she might go insane.

An entry in the Weedverse.

Published 2017-12-27 21:40:07 UTC
Last updated 2017-12-28 18:43:09 UTC

The pressure builds

Sometimes, life was just ruined to the point that it was over and there was nothing that one could do but accept that. Such was the fate of Cerulean Skies, a unicorn born to a family of proud pegasus ponies, who, by the very act of her birth, had ruined the lives of so many. Her own life, the collected lives of the entire city of Fillydelphia, and all of the lives of her classmates in the Lulamoon Secondary Education & Trade School. No doubt, the school itself had ruined the life of one Trixie Lulamoon, because what did they do when you didn’t become a princess with pretty alicorn wings and they wanted to remember you? That’s right, you had a school named after you!

With her lip curled back in a bored sneer of disgust, Cerulean Skies glanced down at what she had written, which was most certainly not her reproductive biology notes. Nothing had been written about how her and her classmates’ bodies were changing, becoming biological factories ready to churn out the next generation of Equestrians. Gross!

Slumping over in her chair as her teacher, Miss Pie, droned on and on about hormones, pheromones, and flehmen responses, Cerulean crossed her legs and tried not to think about the big throbbing pimple on her left teat. It was hot, had its own heartbeat, and would no doubt make a huge mess of pimple porridge if she squeezed it. As one hind leg crossed over the other, she felt the Ghost of Breakfasts Past go traipsing through the corridors of her hindgut.

Eat more oatmeal, her mother had said. It will make your coat sleek and shiny, your eyes bright, and will help you fill out so you’ll find a nice colt and stop being such a weirdo. Her mother had even put slivers of carrots, raisins, and cinnamon into the oatmeal this morning to make the glop more appetising. Now, her mother’s brilliant master plan for breakfast was about to backfire, quite literally in this instance.

Holding as still as possible, Cerulean raised one front leg and waited for Miss Pie to call on her so that she could be excused. Rather than be a responsible, decent adult, Miss Pie talked about the magical, invisible telegraph system that all ponies had within them, a system to communicate sexual readiness. Pegasus ponies even had a helpful sexual semaphore system with their wings, which they could use to signal all kinds of things. At the mention of the word ‘pegasus,’ Cerulean cringed with guilt and shame, thinking about all of the things her family had given up because of her being a unicorn. Little unicorns tended to fall through the clouds of Cloudsdale and her birth had ruined everything.

Crossing her legs put pressure on her pimple, this pressure made everything hotter, and with the thermostat in her nethers turned up, she began to squirm a bit in her chair. Hoping to convey her sense of urgency, she waved her raised foreleg around, and was ignored. Why was Miss Pie ignoring her? Because Cerulean ruined everything, that’s why. Meanwhile, the Ghost of Breakfast Past was now thundering through her guts, seeking out an exit.

Cerulean’s pleading eyes were magnified by her oversized, bargain bin eyeglasses—the only eyeglasses her parents could afford. They were hideous things and her big brother called them ‘filly rape protection goggles.’ Surely, Miss Pie had to notice and was just being mean. This was an emergency of the highest order and Cerulean needed to vacate the premises now.

“—and showering at least twice a day will help you to not smell like an oversexed harlot from down by the wharf district—”

“MISS PIE I GOTTA GO! EMERGENCY!”

The teacher’s stern gaze fell upon Cerulean and she wiggled in her seat, ready to take off running as soon as she had permission. Every muscle in her body tensed when she heard Miss Pie say, “No, you don’t gotta go. You need to pay attention. I know this class makes you uncomfortable, but running away from it won’t help.”

All around her, Cerulean’s classmates snickered and her cheeks grew hot. “But I need to go to the restroom—”

“You need to be a grownup and not some little yearling that can’t hold their bladder. Is that what you want to be? A yearling? Or do you wish to be an adult?”

“But I—”

“But nothing. Shut up, sit down, and stop disrupting the journey of sexual discovery that we are all experiencing together.”

Her pimple now had a rival for burning her alive, and that was humiliation. Cerulean tried sitting still, but that was impossible. Perhaps leaning over to one side and easing it out might help, or it might not. Even if it was totally silent, it might still be lethal, and Miss Pie was canny enough as a teacher to detect even the slightest variation in the vertical orientation of her students. Yes, Miss Pie would know.

The last thing that Cerulean wanted was a journey of sexual discovery in the company of her classmates, almost all of whom hated her. At best, she was tolerated, at worst, she was ridiculed for being a weirdo, the filly that did not fit in. No cutie mark, poor parents, great big ridiculous eyeglasses, and all of the whispering about how her mother was a cheating whore. Cerulean’s ears had grown sensitive from all of the strained listening she had done in her short, miserable life.

In times of trouble, Cerulean Skies thought of her idol, her role model, the greatest pony in all of Equestria: Twilight Sparkle’s friend, and the pony who was certain to be behind Twilight’s success, Moondancer. What would Moondancer do in this situation? Probably something brilliant, because that’s what Moondancer did. At home, in her closet, Cerulean had an elaborate shrine dedicated to Moondancer, the Nerd-Goddess, the Great and Almighty Alpha Nerd.

Cerulean was convinced that Moondancer was the greatest pony who had ever lived.

Which reminded her, Cerulean had to go to the salon with her mother this afternoon when school was out so that she could get her monobrow trimmed back. The monstrous hedgerow that went from ear to ear had to be plucked into submission again, and this was never fun. Even worse, the beautician would want to talk about how Cerulean was just the right age to find a nice colt—blech.

The Ghost of Breakfast Past was now on the expressway to Tuba Town, which caused Cerulean some panic because she couldn’t remember when her next tuba lesson was with Mrs. Redbone, the nice diamond dog that lived upstairs. Tuba lessons were the only source of sanity in young Cerulean’s life, her one source of joy, of comfort, they were the very thing that kept her going.

Bracing herself, her ears rising and falling, Cerulean leaned over on one cheek in the hopes that the monster lurking within could be coaxed out a little at a time. She could handle this, having practiced a few times in the library. Miss Pie talked about sexual hygiene and moral hygiene; sex was for making foals, and Equestria needed foals, but it was important to finish school first, of course, blah blah blah, but nopony would be too upset if a filly dropped out to get a head start on making a family.

The filly, who believed herself wise to the ways of the world, couldn’t help but think her teacher was biased; colts were expected to stay in school and learn a trade, one of the skills needed to work in one of the local factories or the shipyards. Fillies though? Home-ec. Homemaking. Cooking. Foal-rearing and family planning. The fact that her mother worked and didn’t stay at home was just one of the many reasons that Cerulean was teased day after day. Other mothers worked too, but Cerulean felt that she was an easy target compared to the other foals.

Licking her lips, the sound of her own breathing was almost too much for Cerulean’s ears. Somehow, her heart had found its way into her throat and it was beating in time to the throbbing of the moon-sized pimple on her teat. Stupid hormones. The muscles of her dock clenched tight as she tried to exert control over the ghost haunting her basement. It had to be banished, but in silence.

“—fillies, all of Equestria is depending upon you to raise the next generation. Be inviting. Be accomodating. Don’t be picky. Be realistic with your goals. Pretty much everypony in this classroom is going to turn out to be just like their parents. Colts, there is no shame in working in the factories and the shipyards. Somepony has to do it. Somepony has to pull wagons through the city and move goods through the canals. All of you are growing up and these last few years in school are to prepare you for your next phase of life, adulthood—”

Tartarus opened beneath Cerulean, and all of the horrors trapped within began to escape. The sound? Furious and beyond all mortal description. Sulfurous musk began its bilious conquest of weak, hapless mortal flesh. Eyes bulged, nostrils flared, betraying their owners, making an inviting, wide opening for the diabolical, demoniac fumes—a befouled miasma that had a peculiar cinnamon scent.

Could a filly get a cutie mark for farting, and, if so, what might it look like?

Colts and fillies scrambled away, leaping out of their chairs and shoving their desks away. Chaos—like maple syrup over pancakes—spread with a slow, certain finality. Could a filly die from mortal embarrassment? It seemed possible, and being a unicorn, Cerulean believed that anything was possible when magic was involved.

“More like Foggy Skies, amiright?” a colt said while holding his school bag in front of him like a shield.

A brassy high pitched squeal signaled the end of all things, the coming finality, the trumpet finale to the tuba concerto. After a shrill, pealing blast, there was silence. Dreadful silence. The worst kind of silence, the kind that you wish would end, but also hope that it lasts forever, because once it is broken, the trouble—in whichever form it took—began.

“Miss Skies, such a disruption is unacceptable!” Miss Pie snapped as she stomped her hoof against the dingy tile floor. “Why didn’t you excuse yourself to the restroom?”

“I TRIED!” Fed up, angry, embarrassed, humiliated, Cerulean couldn’t hold it in even if she made a heroic effort, but she didn’t want to hold it in, no, everything had to be let out. Everything was ruined, so there was no point in holding back. “I asked to go and you wouldn’t let me. The whole class heard you, so don’t you even try to blame this on me!”

“Miss Skies, you need to grow up and take responsibility for your gross, maladjusted behaviour—”

“SHUT YOUR FRONKING FACE, YOU DAFT CUNT! I AM SICK OF YOUR SHIT!”

Silence returned in force, or maybe it was ringing in Cerulean’s ears, because she couldn’t hear anything. Her teacher, Miss Pie, was blinking at her in stunned shock. Her classmates, all pressed against the walls and leaving her alone in the center of the room, every last one of them stared, mouths gaping, eyes wide with disbelief.

“Miss Skies, you will report for detention after school.” Now, Miss Pie’s voice held an alarming, unsettling calm. “You are also removed from my class with a failing mark. Now get out of my sight.”

“You made a shitty decision and I’m the one that has to suffer for it. Typical!”

“Miss Skies, leave. At once. Right now. This instant. Begone from my sight.”

“This is all we have to look forwards to,” Cerulean said to her classmates. “Compromise. Conformity. Submission.” No tears fell, it felt as though her anger had boiled them into nothingness before they could trickle down her cheeks. “Just accept your lot in life and suffer. Never question. Always obey.”

“Get out!” Miss Pie commanded while pointing at the door with her hoof.

Lifting the strap of her bookbag, she slid her muzzle through it, mindful of her glasses, and then let it fall down the length of her skinny neck. Every muscle jerked, her throat was dry, and she had a sweaty, quivering belly that she knew would soon feel clammy. At this moment, she hated everything, absolutely everything about her life. Her parents were probably going to kill her, because a promise had been made that one more failing grade would mean the end.

With her bag slung against her side, Cerulean Skies departed, fleeing the humiliating incident.

The corridor leading to Vice Principal Withers’ office was a dismal place. The bare overhead light flickered and the filaments inside of the yellowed bulb burned far too bright. Mildew grew along the cracked plaster walls, everything was musty, and the long wooden bench was almost certain to give you splinters in unspeakable places. At the end of the corridor was a green door with faded, cracked paint that was coming off in flakes.

Getting kicked out of a class meant you came here, to this place. There was already a long line, the bench was full and now, it was standing room only. Shouting could be heard from inside of Vice Principal Withers’ office and he was no doubt berating somepony for being a contemptible loser that wouldn’t amount to anything.

Mister Withers had come right out and said it to her face that he didn’t want to see her in his office again. Cerulean looked at the line of students, then at the door, then back at the line of students once more. A few jocks, a few of the so-called preppies that did everything they could to look rich, but they were the foals of factory workers and not the factory owners. A pair of the metal shop metalheads sat far too close to the door, their doom, and Cerulean found that she pitied those poor meatheads the most, because they had fully embraced their life of drudgery.

Some ponies got to grow up, become princesses, and live in a magical, mighty friendship castle, but those selected for such a wonderful life were few and far between. What about the rest of us? Cerulean asked herself in defeated silence. Not everypony was born to be a princess… some ponies had to pick up trash for a living. Others had to pull wagons, work as welders, pull levers in a factory all day, operate lathes, go deaf in a machine shop, or if one was really lucky, get mangled by heavy equipment.

Turning away from Vice Principal Withers’ door, Cerulean decided that she had endured enough for today, and with her bag bouncing against her side, she strolled away, knowing there would be consequences, but not caring about them in the slightest. At least, not right now. Her parents would end their shift, would be exhausted, worn out, and at some point, all of this would blow up in some spectacular way.

But that would come later and Cerulean had to live with herself right now.

Author's Note

This story just sort of happened. It was the muse that spoke to me after the holidays. It was something I planned to post, but at a much later time. Anyhow, tell me what you think. This'll be a bit of a dark comedy, but I don't think it will warrant the dark tag. More bleak, I suppose?

Is there no release valve?

Cerulean Skies had once heard that the ponies in the city of Ponyville didn’t even have locks on their doors. The same could not be said for the residents of Fillydelphia, who typically had multiple locks on their doors, but in Cerulean’s mind, their effectiveness was dubious. Even though she couldn’t do anything, she knew that a skilled unicorn could bypass most locks in mere moments.

The world was filled with amazing unicorns that could do mind-blowing things, but Cerulean was not one of them. Her family was too poor to afford a magic tutor, and her mother seemed to think that what little magic that Cerulean had wasn’t worth bothering with in the first place, because there were more important things to spend money on, like putting food on the table, or paying the light bill.

Some unicorns had everything in life just given to them by virtue of their extraordinary talents—some unicorns like Trixie Lulamoon—but Cerulean wanted to know just one thing: What about the rest of us? While some unicorns might have the most awesome of lives, Cerulean knew that she would probably end up in a factory, pulling levers and getting stiffed. While an earth pony or a pegasus pony could only pull one lever at a time, a unicorn could pull several—while still getting the same low pay as everypony else.

Why? Because life sucked, that’s why.

She missed life in Canterlot, the city in which they had ‘landed.’ Somehow, they had managed to live in Cloudsdale for quite some time with her, and her dad was always telling stories about the importance of, ‘don’t drop the baby.’ But as time had passed and she was no longer content with being held in a foal carrier, something had to be done, or so her mother had said, because her physical development had lagged. So, to Canterlot they went, and immediately went broke.

Somehow, they had survived there for a few years, but depending upon the kindness of others to scrape by was too much for her proud parents, so it was off to Fillydelphia. By virtue of Cerulean’s very existence as a unicorn, everything had been ruined. Baring her teeth, Cerulean kicked a loose cobblestone into the canal and it hit the water with a splash. A week ago, a dead body had been pulled out of this very canal and she had watched.

The canals were vital to the city, because this was how goods were moved from factories to boats, and from boats to factories. Really heavy things broke wagons, snapped the wheels, busted the axles, and the poor earth ponies could only pull so much, but stuff could be floated on barges. These barges operated day and night, as goods were always moving, and they made a terrific amount of noise. Having a barge just outside your apartment window was quite an experience, yes it was.

Fillydelphia could only be described as, ‘loud.’

What to do? Where to go? This wasn’t the first time she had cut school, but this time, everything felt different somehow. She had snapped. Flipped her lid. A line had been crossed. Her fellow students would talk. The teasing would be unbearable for a while. When walking down the halls, conversations would go dead, eyes would stare, ears would be trained upon her, and there would be no escaping the aftermath of this.

She had to kill time until her mother’s shift ended, and her mother worked the ‘school shift,’ which started at nine in the morning and ended at three in the afternoon. The pimple on her teat was distracting, as it had reached an unbearable level of pressure, and was full to bursting with pimple porridge just waiting to be squeezed out.

Overhead, the grey skies were thick with smog and black coal dust. Red-brown bricks made up most of the buildings around Cerulean, along with grey stone, concrete, and cement. The canals were choked with leaves, garbage, and disgusting brown foam. Each and every window was in dire need of cleaning, with hardened black streaks of coal dust left behind by the frequent rain. The gutters, which emptied into the canals, were choked with leaves and all of the debris thrown onto the streets. For Cerulean, the time when life was beautiful was now a distant memory that felt more like a dream.

“Hey, hey yous,” somepony with a thick Manehattanite accent said to Cerulean. “Yous wanna job? Is yous lookin’ for work, filly?”

“What kind of job?” was Cerulean’s wary reply. She had been propositioned before and she knew how to run. Turning to face the pegasus that had addressed her, she studied every detail about him so she could describe him to the police if she had to. His cutie mark was a factory smokestack belching black smoke.

“Nothing too bad, kid.” The pegasus smiled, but his teeth were hidden behind his mustache. “We need doffers, spinners, and sweepers. Entry level stuff, yous knows. If yous wants the work, the old Mariner factory is hiring. We still ain’ts named it yet, but we wills. Just look for the sign with the anchor and the spool. Us workers, we owns the factory now, so this is the chance of a lifetime for yous to get started in an exciting new career.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

“Eh, suit yerself, kid. When the rent is due, you’ll come looking for me.” The mustached pegasus took off, wandering away so that he might find somepony else in need of a job, and Cerulean watched him go, relieved.

The last thing she wanted was to end up in a factory.

The apartment was empty, just as she expected. Pulling her key out of the deadbolt, she then closed and locked the door behind her. The living room, if it could be called that, also served as her brother’s bedroom. For the longest time, they had shared a room, but that ended when she couldn’t sleep because of all of the huffing and puffing coming from her brother as he jerked off in his bed up above her.

It was just one of the many things that had left Cerulean traumatised in life.

In the small kitchen, the dishes from breakfast were still piled in the sink. She hadn’t done them, as was expected. Being the unicorn, all kinds of domestic jobs were expected of her, because magic made things easy. Cleaning, doing the dishes, scrubbing the bathroom, it was demanded that she look after everything, because she was the unicorn. Her mother and father worked long hours, and as for her brother, well, Indigo Skies couldn’t be counted on to do anything but whine, complain, and jerk off incessantly in the bathroom.

At the end of the short hall, past the bathroom and her parents room, was her bedroom. Small enough to be called cramped, she and her brother had slept in a bunk bed, which was now broken down and the upper bunk was in the living room. She had a tiny closet, and in the closet was her shrine, which she was making a beeline for right now.

She needed Moondancer.

Sliding the door along its rusty, screechy rail, Cerulean peered inside to check and see if everything was as she had left it, and it was, but the worry that something might be amiss was always present. A few precious cuttings from the paper, some glossy, full-colour magazine pages, and her Princess Playtime Action Pals action figure of Moondancer, which was most certainly not a doll, no matter what anypony said. It was the rarest and hardest of the Princess Playtime Action Pals line, because Moondancer was the unpopular one. Ponies were stupid and didn’t understand the sheer importance of Moondancer, or why Twilight needed her.

Next to the shrine was a cardbox box. Cerulean pulled this out, took off the lid, and had a look at her old toys. All of her Princess Playtime Action Pals were still in good condition. She had Tarnished Teapot and his steadfast companion, Maud Pie. Daring Do had survived many adventures, but had lost her pith helmet somewhere along the way, perhaps during a move. Trixie Lulamoon bore the scars of torture, because Indigo had burned her with a magnifying glass. She had a Twilight, because of course she did, and Rarity too, though Rarity had yellowed a bit with age.

Spike was still accounted for too, and Cerulean had fond memories of making Spike and Rarity smooch. Everypony knew that Spike had a crush on the fabulous fashionista, and this knowledge crushed poor Cerulean, who took it as proof that even if you were a hero, there was no guarantee that your dreams would come true. Alas, poor Spike, doomed to be a baby dragon forever.

With all of her treasures accounted for, she put the lid back on the box and put it down beside her makeshift shrine to Moondancer, the most brilliant of all of Twilight’s fantastic friends. Cerulean was absolutely, positively, posilutely, absotively certain that, if she and Moondancer somehow met in real life, they would be friends. Moondancer would understand, she would understand everything. She was so smart and so perfect, of course she would know and understand.

Moondancer had even been bullied in school, though by whom was never mentioned, so Cerulean felt a real connection between her and her hero. Being bullied sucked, but not much could be done about it, except to toughen up and endure it. Whomever had tormented Moondancer almost certainly had to have a sucky life right now, maybe living as a wagon washer, or a used wagon salespony, or a garbage wagon puller, or something super-humiliating. Some obnoxious pony had bullied some of Twilight’s friends, but that pony’s name had slipped into obscurity, while Moondancer would be remembered for all time.

The sound of a key sliding into the deadbolt made Cerulean’s heart stop. In a panic, she jerked her closet door shut and then ran off to see who was home… and to find out what her fate might be. This wasn’t what she expected, not at all, and this was the worst possible outcome. No doubt the school had sent a messenger to where her parents worked. Ugh, of all the worst possible things…

Cerulean’s father was sky blue, just like her, with dark blue eyes, just like her, with an electric blue mane and tail with subtle silver-blue highlights, just like her. He stood just inside the door, sooty, greasy, and reeking of machine oil. Once, he had maintained the mighty weather factories of Cloudsdale. Now, he worked in the Fillydelphia shipyards.

Don’t drop the baby.

Too bad, too late, the baby had been dropped. Cerulean stood, blinking at her father, her nostrils crinkling from the acrid stench of the machine oil. He had been singed today, or maybe yesterday, and she hadn’t noticed. In the depths of his blue eyes, a few shades darker than her own, she saw fatigue, what had to be crippling weariness.

“What happened between us?”

This was not the question that she expected her father to ask, and Cerulean shuffled on her hooves. After failing to answer, she shuffled a bit more, and then, feeling ashamed, she looked away, choosing instead to stare at the pile of dirty dishes in the sink. Could this get any more awkward? Probably.

“You and I, we used to be the best of friends. You were my little buddy. Being my little buddy, you’d sit on my back and you’d cling to my neck, and you’d talk my ears off. You told me everything. Now, I’m lucky if I can get a hello out of you. What happened?”

“You took Mom’s side,” Cerulean replied in a voice that was far too husky for her liking.

“I don’t follow.”

“At some point, I stopped being your daughter and I became a handy-dandy unicorn appliance, suitable for all of your cleaning needs.” Even as she said it, she regretted it, and wished that she could take it all back. But what was said couldn’t be unsaid and Cerulean was stuck with it. As she stared at the dishes, she knew that if she looked into her father’s eyes once more, she would see crippling fatigue and something else, something she wouldn’t like. Saying what she had rehearsed just for a situation like this one wasn’t as satisfying as she had hoped.

The drama bomb had blown up in her face, just one more regret among many.

With nothing left to do but dig herself in deeper, Cerulean asked, “What’s your excuse?”

“My excuse?” Dusky Skies lifted one hoof and made a gesture between himself and his daughter. “Whaddaya mean, my excuse?”

“I never see you anymore—”

“I work a twelve hour shift, six days a week,” Dusky snapped and a hardness appeared in his voice that Cerulean usually only heard when her father was lecturing her brother. “I give you this”—he gestured at the apartment around him—“and I keep the lights turned on. Is that not enough?”

“No, it isn’t.” Cerulean was surprised that she managed to even say the words, and she turned to look at her father, shocked and startled by her own boldness. “None of this matters… I lost my best friend and I’m not happy. I lost my only friend, and I’m lonely. I’m still just foalish enough to not care about money, or bills, and I am pissed off and unhappy because I lost my friend.”

After a moment she added, “You dropped the baby.”

For a moment, she was certain that her father was going to start hollering at her, because he sucked in a huge breath that made him swell, but then he said, “So I did. I broke the most important rule. I dropped the baby.”

Hearing this did not make Cerulean feel better, as she had hoped, not at all.

“So, the school sends a messenger to the shipyards to tell me and your mother that both of our foals have gone off their nut in school today, and that you skipped out. Your mother had to go and deal with your brother and I had to take time off of work to deal with you. I’m gonna have to work and make up for lost time on my day off so we’ll have enough money to pay the bills.”

Cerulean’s downcast gaze hit the floor, and with it, her heart.

“You know, Cerulean, I’ve never told you this, but your mother once dropped you.” A half-smile appeared on Dusky Skies face and there was a nostalgic twinkle in his eyes. “You were being wiggly and making a dedicated effort to escape your mother’s clutches. I kept teasing her that she was gonna drop the baby, and she did. Down you went. Right through the floor. Cloudcrete is only solid for pegasus ponies. I almost tore down the front door to get outside so I could go and rescue you. It wasn’t long after this that we moved.”

Squirming, Cerulean didn’t know what to say to her father in return.

“I’ll always be here to save you, if you’ll let me,” Dusky said while his ears pricked forwards. “Now, since I have the afternoon off, let’s make the most of it. How about you do those dishes while I get a quick shower, and once I’m cleaned up, we’ll go out somewhere for a chocolate malt. How’s that sound?”

As much as Cerulean wanted to be a sulky adolescent, this offer was just far too tempting to turn down. “Okay, I can do that, I suppose, I guess. Whatever. Go take your shower, you’re stinking up the apartment.” Unable to resist herself, Cerulean smiled at her father to let him know that everything was okay.

“I understand that you farted in class—”

“Daddy!”

“—and not just any ol’ fart either—”

“Daddy, please!”

“Oh, come on, let me feel proud… back in school, they called me Smoggy Skies.”

“Wait, really?” Cerulean’s head tilted off to one side. “I’m pretty sure that I will be forever known as Foggy Skies now.” When her father laughed, a boisterous sound that she had dearly missed, everything felt better somehow, for some reason. “School is really bad… like, really, really bad. I get bullied a lot. Things get said. Bad things. The other foals are mean. It was never this bad in Canterlot.”

“Things are desperate here,” her father replied, “and desperation brings out the worst in ponies. We’ll talk about it over a malt. Right now, I’m gonna shower.”

“Right. Okay. I’ll just go take care of those dishes, I guess.” Crestfallen, but also excited, Cerulean stepped into the kitchen to finish her unpleasant chore, hopeful that she and her father might have a nice afternoon together.

Author's Note

So, this will be a very short story. It is already almost done. Does this distress you?

In desperation

Fowler’s Apothecary & Soda Fountain was a neighborhood institution that somehow clung to life in the face of impossible odds. It sold alchemical brews, pharmaceuticals, magazines of the wholesome and not-so-wholesome variety, candy, snacks, contraceptives of all kinds, and of course, it had a soda fountain. Fowler himself could still be seen on some days, he was withered, wrinkled, ancient, and had a chicken & egg cutie mark.

This place reeked of another era, another time, a phase of culture that was on its way out. It was no longer considered a cool place to hang out—in fact, being seen here could forever hurt one’s social standing in school—but Cerulean genuinely adored this place and treasured the times when her father took her here. She was already a hopeless dork and after today, she probably had a new name too.

“It never gets easier,” Dusky Skies said as he pulled his chocolate malted close.

“What?” Cerulean swallowed the mashed-up remains of her maraschino cherry.

“Taking you on these dates—”

“W-what?” A sudden warmth blossomed and spread over Cerulean’s face.

“I could never talk to fillies in school,” Dusky began, and then he paused to sigh. “I would stutter and stammer and spit all over the place and I couldn’t get a date to save my life. I was the Loose Lipped Loser… got teased about it every day. But your mother… she was this real ray of sunshine, she was. There was just something about her. Took me most of a year to get up enough nerve to try and talk to her. Flight camp was ending.”

“Oh my gosh, really?” Smiling, Cerulean’s lips slipped around her straw and warm adoration filled her eyes while she stared at her father.

“When I tried to talk to her, I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. I made a mess of things and as I started to leave, she grabbed me. As it turns out, she was sick and tired of talking… all of the colts, all they did was brag about how awesome they were, or how cool they were, or how well they could fly, and your mother, she was sick of that, she was. She took me out for a fly and got me sorted out. I still have no idea how I ended up with the prettiest filly in flight camp, but I did. Being a colossal dork wasn’t the end of me, and it won’t be the end of you.”

“You were a dork?”

“Honey, you come from a fine lineage of dorks,” Dusky replied as he looked at his daughter over the top of his malt. “Your mother, she was a badged member of the Communications Club. Her knowledge of semaphore approaches nerd-like levels of compulsion. She has brains and beauty. Way outta my league.”

“It’s such a happy story, but also so depressing.” Cerulean rolled her eyes, feeling disgusted all of a sudden, and slumped over against the table, overcome by adolescent angst.

“Depressing?”

“Look how things turned out.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Look at your life now… you and Mom… our apartment… all the time you spend working… this shit stain of a city—”

“Language, young lady!”

Cerulean shrugged. “Shining Armor and Princess Cadance got a storybook wedding. What’d you get? You say that you got the prettiest filly in flight camp, but what about everything that comes after? Mom just looks old and tired now. Look at me and how I turned out. It doesn’t feel worth it to me. I’m sorry, it just doesn’t.” When she was almost done speaking, she saw her father’s eyes narrow and she wondered if she had struck a nerve.

When her father did not respond, Cerulean banished the silence with more of her own words. “I’m fed up with everything. I don’t think I can take another day in school. Everything about this city, I hate. I have zero friends… zero. Everypony is just so mean and petty. There’s lots of mixed-tribe families but I’m the one that gets endlessly teased about my mother being a slutty whore that cheated on you. It just never stops. My teachers, all of them, they seemed more concerned about squashing free thought and making us conform than they do about educating us. Vice Principal Withers says I get teased and bullied because I don’t fit in, and that if I would just put a little effort into fitting in with the herd, the bullying would stop. But lately, I’ve been having dreams about another way to make the bullying stop, and that’s using my magic to bore holes through the heads of my tormentors. I’ve been practicing, Dad… I can use my telekinesis to drill a hole through cement. It’s gotten so bad that shooting up the school feels like a good option now.”

Dusky’s ears trembled and his mouth pressed into a tight, straight line.

“It’s so bad that I don’t care enough about my classmates to feel bad for these thoughts I keep having. Every day, it just feels like it would be easier to do, like every day I go to school I get another reason to go on a spree. I’m almost certain that this is how evil unicorns happen, Dad. One day, they get fed up with the constant, neverending barrage of shit, and whatever good sense, whatever good conscience their parents instilled in them just evapourates. And then, BAM! Pew pew pew! Shooting spree. Once the day comes that you realise, that you know that you could kill things with your mind, that knowledge never goes away. What has been thunk can’t be unthunk.”

“Is there a reason why you haven’t, um, done this yet?” her father asked in a low, scratchy whisper.

Cerulean let out a nasal laugh, brief and stuttering, before she replied, “Moondancer.”

“I don’t follow.” Confused, and no doubt scared, Dusky Skies waited for his daughter to explain herself.

“Well, Moondancer got teased. She got put down. The Princess of Friendship even abandoned her and left her in the lurch. Now, Moondancer is a powerful unicorn, Dad, and not only is she powerful, but she’s actually educated, and she was a student at Princess Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns. And the way I see it, at some point, just like me, and maybe even like so many other unicorns, she had to realise one day that she could kill somepony with her mind. She’s a huge nerd… she’s the Alpha-Nerd, so I know for certain that she’s dealt with a flood of shit, and somehow, she hasn’t gone on a spree.”

“How did this happen?” Dusky asked, his eyes confused and wounded. “How did this point get reached? I thought your biggest concern was your tuba lessons—”

“I like my tuba lessons!” Cerulean found herself blushing again and she toned down her enthusiasm. “The lessons are so complicated and hard and I’m so awful at them that I have to push everything else out of my mind if I hope to accomplish anything. I am absolutely exceptional at how terrible I am at the tuba, which is why I was turned down flat when I tried out for the school marching band. Without my tuba lessons, I’d’ve broke already. Probably.”

“What do I do about this?” Dusky stared at his daughter with pleading eyes. “I don’t want you growing up to be the next Lord of Darkness—but I’d still be proud of you if you did—I don’t know what to say right now—how do I help you?”

Cerulean shrugged. “I’m surprised I even told you my ruthless, evil, and cunning master plan.”

“So… today… when the incident happened… rather than go on a spree and shoot up the school with magic and let the stupid leak out of the heads of your classmates, you just showed your ass a bit and cussed out your teacher—”

“Yes.”

“I’m okay with that!” Dusky reached across the table, grabbed Cerulean’s fetlock, and squeezed it with his own. “That’s my girl! You cuss them out!”

“Daddy? What are you doing?”

“Being supportive.” Once more, Dusty’s eyes narrowed. “That’s the right thing to do, right? I mean, given the choice of those two outcomes, showing your ass a little and cussing a bit seems quite reasonable and I want to reward you for doing the right thing—”

“Oh my gosh, you’re such a dork.”

“And suddenly, I’m back in school again, with some filly saying I’m a dork.” Still holding his daughter’s fetlock, he stared at her, and Cerulean could see that her father’s eyes were misty. “Desperation does bad things to ponies, Cerulean. We make just enough money to scrape by, but not enough money to get out. We are thoroughly stuck and it is making your mother crazy. She wants to cancel your tuba lessons so we can save that tiny bit of money, but I kept telling her no and we kept fighting about it. I’m glad I put my hoof down.”

“Is it really that bad?”

“No, baby, it’s worse,” her father replied. “We can’t even afford to move away. There’s no money saved and we’re living from paycheck to paycheck. Your mother, she’s been wanting out for a while, but we don’t have enough to get reestablished someplace else. This is how they getcha, Cerulean. If you think school is bad, wait a few years. I wish I could make you feel better, but lying to you seems like a real bad idea right now.”

This wasn’t what she wanted to hear, but she appreciated her father’s honesty. Ears drooping, her glasses crooked, she looked down at her father’s fetlock, still wrapped tight around her own. So, it was true then… waiting and surviving school would only lead to worse things, just as she suspected. What life could she possibly have in this city? What future? How terrible it must be to be a pegasus that couldn’t fly away. The thought was as crushing as it was bleak. What hope could there possibly be?

“You know, Dad, some ponies get born into absolutely perfect lives… but what about the rest of us?”

When Cerulean’s father opened the apartment door, crying could be heard. No, not just crying, but the muffled sounds of screaming. On the small, ratty sofa, Cerulean saw her mother with her face pressed into a cushion and her mother was screaming. Her father moved—almost flying—and in an instant he was at his wife’s side, pulling away the cushion and trying to give her a much needed hug.

Meanwhile, Cerulean stood in the door, unmoving, stunned, shocked, and emotionally spent from her day.

“What’s wrong?” Dusky asked.

After sucking in a deep, phlegmy breath, Cerulean heard her mother shriek the words, “Our son is gone!”

“What do you mean, ‘our son is gone!’ What happened? Slow down, take a deep breath, and tell me what is going on,” Dusky demanded while he gave his mate a gentle shake to set her straight.

“He assaulted a filly in the bathroom—”

“HE WHAT?”

Cerulean’s mouth fell open.

“No, no, he didn’t do that, at least, I don’t think he did… it was that filly he was dating! I think he had a quicky in the bathroom because our son is retarded, but the school insists it was assault and they were going to press charges on that dumb little whore’s behalf—”

“Fairweather, slow down.” Dusky shook his wife a little harder this time, and in response, she clung to her husband. “Remember to breathe.”

“The school was going to press charges on her behalf, but Indigo, he copped a deal to join the guard if the charges were dropped—”

“HE WHAT?” Dusky, his teeth bared, shook his head from side to side.

“He’s gone, Dusky. Our son is gone. We’ve lost him. He shoved me when I tried to stop him from signing, he shoved me and then he punched me in the face… but I think it was an accident—I don’t think he meant it!”

“Are you okay?” Dusky took Fairweather’s face between his hooves and stared at her, and Cerulean watched as her mother slipped her forelegs around Dusky’s neck.

“No,” Fairweather replied, shaking her head, and then she collapsed against her husband. “I dropped the baby… again. He’s gone, Dusky, I was almost arrested when I tried to stop the police from taking him away. Why would he do this, Dusky? We told him no, that he couldn’t join the guard. Why would he do this to us?”

“Because our son is retarded.”

Cerulean could hear all kinds of emotion in her father’s voice, and in turn, this made her feel all kinds of emotion, and she didn’t know how to handle it. She felt like throwing up and the pimple on her teat was once more unbearable as her blood pounded through her veins. What had her brother done? Traded one Tartarus for another, it seemed. With the war going full tilt, he was probably going to die someplace dreadful. On top of everything else, they were to become a blue star family, with a family member engaged in the hostilities.

Just thinking about it made Cerulean feel numb.

“The big heroes always somehow survive the war,” Cerulean muttered, “but what about the rest of us?”

Turning about, she stumbled away, dazed, and she could hear both of her parents sobbing now. She staggered out the door, shut it behind her, and then leaned up against the wall of the hallway just outside of her apartment. The sound of her mother bawling was too much to bear and Cerulean wondered if this was what having a nervous breakdown felt like.

Stricken, Cerulean wandered off, leaving her parents to console one another.

Author's Note

Sometimes, tuba lessons can save the world from the next Dark Lord. Remember that.

Catharsis

These… were turbulent times and Equestria was enduring the growing pains of sweeping justice reforms. Every day the papers were filled with headlines announcing some triumph, some great justice, some fantastic accomplishment, or some unjust old law being struck down. These… were optimistic times and Equestria, it was said, could look forward to a bright, prosperous future, even with uncertainty and war ever-looming on the horizon.

But for Cerulean Skies, the future seemed bleak indeed. Desperation was everywhere she looked, even the very architecture of the city radiated a suffocating sense of diminishment that left her hopeless and filled with despair. One brick apartment building looked exactly like the brick apartment building that was next to it, and whole rows of them dominated the skyline.

School was over, and she knew that. It wasn’t her being sulky, or a decision made while emotional, Cerulean knew that she couldn’t go back to school. After what had happened to her brother, she knew that it would be only a matter of time before something pushed her over the edge and she reacted. It would be irresponsible to go back to school, because something awful would happen. There would be no end of gossip about her brother and she would react.

Life was absurd and this was evidenced by the fact that right now, at this very moment, a trio of rats came around the corner of a building. Not just any rats, no, the big rats, the kind you heard stories about, the kind that walked around on two legs, talked, and terrorised Canterlot. She had heard stories when she had lived there, years ago, but had seen very little.

One of the rats had a sword, another had both a sword and a wand, and the third was carrying a crossbow of complex design. All three of them were sprinting, huffing and puffing, pushing and shoving one another along. Not a one of them paid Cerulean even the slightest bit of attention. Bipedal, they went running by and Cerulean wondered what would happen if she tried taking a shot at one. She’d either miss, and get herself killed, or hit one, and get herself killed.

Hooves rang out on the cobblestones as another trio rounded the corner, coming out from between two imposing apartment towers. This group wore masks, strange bird-like masks, with bright red eyes, and long, curved, pointed beaks. The one in the lead was the burliest pony that Cerulean had ever laid eyes upon, and he was covered from ear to hoof in body armor. How he moved with such speed and grace while encumbered by so much bulk, she did not know.

Trailing after the one in the lead were two wearing light armor, both rather slight of build. One was loaded down with gear, the other was limping somewhat, and trailing blood behind them. Cerulean watched with great interest as this trio pursued the rats, whose lead was rapidly shrinking. Even covered in armor, the first pony was fast like nothing that Cerulean had ever seen.

“YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!” a female voice shrieked. “WE’LL KILL YOU!”

As the pony in the lead closed the distance, he pulled something out from beneath his cloak, which trailed and flapped behind him. For a moment, Cerulean was confused about what it was, but when she heard the terrifying sound of a chainsaw sputtering to life, her confusion fled from her and she felt her blood run cold.

Was… somepony filming a movie?

The revving chainsaw now had a banshee wail and the trio of rats were motivated to run faster, but to no avail. In a straight run, the psychopath with the chainsaw was faster, and the rats were doomed… doomed. Frozen, all that Cerulean could do was watch as this horrorshow happened right in front of her eyes.

There was no more street to be had, not without turning; the three rats, rather than stopping or slowing down to turn, all of them lept over the rail and into the canal down below. The chainsaw wielding maniac didn’t even slow down and like a steeplechase racer, he too lept over the rail, the chainsaw still smoking and buzzing.

“Flicker, you dense motherfucker! Look out!”

“Piper, he’s gone! You know how single-minded he is!”

There was a distant splash, a plop sound, and the chainsaw went silent as the two remaining ponies also ran right for the rail. They too, did not stop, but lept right over the top of it. A second later, they were gone, having vanished from view, and Cerulean was alone. More splashing could be heard, and as curious as she was, Cerulean erred on the side of caution: she fled, willing her legs to move with all haste.

A short distance away, Cerulean found a city maintenance worksite. An empty chainsaw case was here, along with a somewhat rusty canister of fuel oil. Protective goggles lay on the ground, and there was a small wagon still filled with snips, shears, clippers, and canisters of pesticide with skulls and bones on them.

Of the maintenance worker, there was no sign, and Cerulean hoped that whomever they were, they were okay. She couldn’t imagine what it might have been like, trying to do one’s job, and then a bunch of masked weirdos chasing rats bent on world conquest just happened to go by. As she stood there, taking it all in, trying to cope with the absurd events and the horrible day, she noticed a can of spray paint sticking out of the cart.

Pegasus ponies and earth ponies had trouble with spray paint cans, but unicorns could use them, as could any creature with hands or hand-like appendages. It was a curious thing, something she had always been drawn to, something that was always fascinating to her for as long as she could remember. It was a funny thing, to put a picture in a can, or words, or a sign, or anything. Spray paint was liquid thought in a can, just waiting to come out and be given form.

When she bit down too hard upon her own lip, Cerulean cried out, because she hadn’t even been aware of biting her own lip. Tasting blood, she cast a sidelong glance around to see if anypony was watching. Was she alone? It appeared that way. This time, the temptation was just too strong, and Cerulean was too weak willed.

The heft and weight of the can was reassuring and there was something comforting about its weight. It was full, or nearly full, and when she shook it, she could feel the liquid sloshing around inside. Something inside this can rattled and for Cerulean, that made this can male, because she could shake its balls. Give it a shake, a squeeze, and it would go spurting everywhere, giving birth to thoughts, words, pictures; Cerulean rather liked this notion.

Timid, trembling, she approached a nearby wall. Which wall? It didn’t matter. All walls were the same. Walls were empty spaces begging to be filled. Blank purpose. A wide, flat womb waiting for some messy act of creation. Cerulean, who had never felt much in the way of sexual thrill in her life, was feeling it now. Mostly, sex was just disgusting, but this… this left butterflies in her stomach and every muscle in her legs quivered with some unknown, expectant sense of anticipation.

Lifting the can, she gave it a good shake, and then she held it aloft, high over her head. The first spurt of paint was electric, it startled her, and she almost dropped the can. In moments, she understood the basic workings, and could control the stream. One letter appeared, then another, and with each pass of the can, her control grew greater. The hairs of her tail clung to her sweaty backside, her sticky, clingy, unmentionable places, but she was far too lost in concentration to notice.

Something about the fumes left her giddy and lightheaded.

Cerulean had left behind a statement and a question. The Question. It had been bugging her all day and as she looked up at the words she had left behind, she felt better. Why, she almost felt hopeful. It was as if the stressful events of the day had been ejected along with the paint from the spray can.

Had Cerulean looked back, she might have noticed her new cutie mark, but she was too busy examining what she had done. There was a smile on her face now, and her optimism burned within her like a keen flame. It was a magical moment in the truest sense, because Cerulean had just connected with her destiny, her future. She had a way forward and the will to find a way. Her work here was done, and right now, she had a feeling that both of her parents needed her.

It was time to go home now that she had awakened and had achieved catharsis.

I get to be the Princess of Disillusionment and Disenfranchisement. But what about the rest of us?

Author's Note

The word you might be looking for is bathos. Thank you for reading.