Maud Slamby Jarvy JaredChaptersStanza 1Stanza 2Stanza 3Stanza 4Stanza 1 Maud Slam By Jarvy Jared La Galería Sestina (the name was printed humbly across the front) was, undoubtedly, the most Spaneish-looking building that Maud had ever seen. It had sand-colored walls and pepper-red awnings that covered the exterior in a pleasant amount of shade. The windows had ornate carvings transcribed onto the glass. The mahogany door was held back by a green chalkboard menu, on which were listed the day’s specials, in both plain Equish and Spaneish. Beyond the door, ponies sat at round wooden tables, sipping at coffee or dipping pastries into them, or reading a newspaper under the light of copper lamps. The smell of bagels gently wafted through the air and into her nose, and for a moment, Maud forgot for what reason she stood in front of it. The sound of flapping drew her attention away from the delicious smell. Her eyes followed a dark form as it landed, quite suddenly, atop the menu. It was a raven, and its beady, red eyes blinked curiously at her. Maud stared back, intrigued. Ravens were a rare sight in the inner city of San Franciscolt, and she doubted it had been drawn here by the temptation of bagels. After a few moments had passed, the raven let out a single squawk—not even a full word—then darted back into the sky, vanishing from view. “Well. That’s certainly ominous.” “I don’t know. I think it’s kind of fitting.” Maud turned her head. Next to her were Starlight and Trixie, and both of them were looking at the spot that the raven had just vacated. “Fitting how, Starlight?” Trixie said. “Think about it,” Starlight said. “That’s a raven. We’re standing outside what’s supposed to be the place where the poetry slam is being held. And everypony knows that a raven was the subject of a very famous poem. You’ve heard of it, haven’t you, Maud?” Maud nodded. “It’s all right. For a poem not about rocks.” “See? Fitting!” They went inside, the bell chiming behind them. Starlight looked around the cafe. “You know, I still can’t believe this is where it’s going to be held. It looks so small, you know? Where are they going to have a stage? Actually, are they?” “The reservation said it would be here,” Maud replied. “Oh! Are you here for the poetry slam, then?” That was one of the ponies in the line. After Maud had nodded, the pony pointed towards the side of the cafe, where a stone staircase descended into the basement level. “It’s going to be held down there. Say! Are you competing?” She was looking at Starlight for some reason. “Just me,” Maud said. The pony’s eyes swiveled in her direction, and for a moment, surprise flashed through them. “Oh! Well, in any case, good luck! You’d better get seated right away. They want every competitor to be there on time.” “The cafe doesn’t mind?” Starlight asked. “Not at all! In fact, you’ll be able to come up during intermission for food and drinks!” Maud thanked the pony and began to trot towards the stairs. Hearing her friends follow, she turned around. “You know. You don’t have to come.” “Maud Pie,” Starlight said with a slight huff, “we did not come all this way just to drink coffee and eat bagels while you performed before a live audience.” “So we,” Trixie added, smiling, “are most certainly going to come with you!” Maud couldn’t help but smile. So be it. Together, the three trotted down the stairs. Stanza 2There were more than just ponies here. In the hush of purple bubble lights several minotaurs and hippogryphs sat, for the most part quiet. There were even some kirins, and if Fluttershy’s account of when she and Applejack went to their home was accurate, then this was not a surprise: more than a few missed rhyming, it seemed. Maud, Trixie, and Starlight chose a table in the middle row, where an orange candle had been lighted. A pamphlet was at each seat. Up at the front of the room was a wide wooden stage, with a dark red curtain and a microphone. “Quite a crowd,” Starlight murmured. “Are they all going to perform?” “No,” Maud said. “This place is called La Galería Sestina. The Six-Line Gallery. When they hold these kinds of events, they only allow six performers for the night.” “You being one of them, that leaves five more.” Starlight paused, casting a careful gaze over the other creatures there. “Is it just me, or does everycreature seem a bit… tense?” “Of course they’d be tense!” Trixie said. “They’re probably really nervous about the competition. Trixie supposes she can’t blame them; if you aren’t used to the stage as I am, you’d be tense, too!” Starlight ignored that bit of Trixie’s ego showing. “Competition? I thought this was, you know, a bunch of individual performances. Like an improv night, but with poetry.” “Nope! It’s a competition, and here’s the prize!” Trixie lit her horn and flipped a few pages into the pamphlet, stopping at the one that had a page-sized picture. A large, bronze quill sat glittering on display. The caption read: Quibble and Scribble Award - Given to poets whose writing invokes the essence of what it means to be a poet of the world. “Wow,” Starlight said. “You know, I bet Twilight wouldn’t mind having one of those—if she ever wrote anything other than reports. Though I’m surprised you want a chance at that, Maud. You never struck me as somepony who cares about awards.” Maud shrugged. “It seemed like a fun idea. Mudbriar said I should share some of what I write. And if I win, well… it’ll look nice in the cave, at least. If not…” She shrugged again. Starlight smiled at her. “If there’s anypony who has the talent to earn that quill, it’s definitely you, Maud!” “Is that right?” Maud’s smile, involuntary and secretive, slipped away at the new voice. She worked it into what she hoped was a neutral line, before turning her head. If one were to look at the pony standing behind Trixie for the first time after stepping out from the street, one would have immediately thought she came straight from the brickwork. Her apricot coat meshed nicely with her maroon mane, which was split by a lighter carmine-red shade. A gray beret rested just behind her horn, which glowed with magical exertion as she carried a small folder with her. When she turned to place the folder back into her carry-on bag, they all got a look at her Cutie Mark: it was of an albatross, holding up a wreath of tulip bulbs. She turned back to them. She was smiling; but the smile, all teeth, suggested not kindness, but mockery. “Well, I do declare!” she exclaimed. “Maud Pie! Is that really you?” Maud gave a terse nod, careful not to look too closely at her face. She could feel those cobalt eyes judging her in secret. “What a surprise! I would not have imagined that you’d be coming to one of these events! And with, ehh, other ponies, no less!” Starlight and Trixie looked at Maud, the obvious question hidden. Maud sighed inwardly. “Girls, this is Elegy Mixer,” she said, pointing to the newcomer. “Elegy, these are my friends, Starlight Glimmer and Trixie Lulamoon.” Elegy turned and smiled at the two of them—it was the same smile that she had for Maud. “Friends! Well, that’s something. You know, Maud wasn’t much of a friend-maker back at school. But I guess anything can change!” “Yes,” Maud said, mostly because she didn’t think staying silent would do any good. Starlight, Maud noticed, was looking at Elegy with bewilderment, for which Maud couldn’t blame her. Yet Trixie, meanwhile, seemed just as uncomfortable as Maud was. She shifted in her seat, and though her smile and demeanor were otherwise polite, she kept glancing back and forth between Maud and Elegy. “Starlight!” Elegy suddenly said. “You look like a poet. Are you the one entering today’s contest?” “What? No, no, oh no! No, that’s Maud.” “Really? But I thought—” “Thought what?” Trixie said. She was leaning slightly forward, and her face suggested she’d drank something repugnant recently. Elegy’s smile dropped into pursed lips. “Well, it’s just… Well, Maud, you’re working in the geological field, aren’t you?” “I am.” “I suppose I am just, well, surprised, then, to see you here. After all…” She paused, glancing up at Maud. Then she shook her head slightly, and reclaimed her smile. . “But anyway! Good luck, I suppose. I am surprised, though. Very surprised.” And she repeated that word to herself as she trotted back towards a distant corner, up until Maud could no longer audibly hear her. A moment passed at the table, before Starlight let out a low whistle. “Wow. She’s…” “A diva,” Trixie finished. They both looked at her. “What? It takes one to know one. I can tell.” “And based on what she said, you two went to school together? But I thought you went to school for your rockterate.” “I did,” Maud said. She suddenly felt a bit heated, and rubbed the side of her head. “But I also attended the school’s literary arts magazine club. That’s where I started writing my poems. Elegy Mixer was the club’s President and Supervisor.” She paused, then added, “She basically ran it herself. It was admirable.” “That doesn’t explain why she was like that,” Starlight said. Maud took a moment to open up her bags and pull out some sheets of paper. She lay them out, careful not to crinkle the pages. “Elegy doesn’t think ponies who don’t specialize in writing should write,” she simply said. “That’s what she got her Cutie Mark in. Wrote a poem. Got it published. Poof. Mark.” She pointed to one of the papers. “Here’s something I wrote in school that I’ve polished up a bit. I submitted it to the magazine. Elegy rejected it.” The faintest hint of a tremor passed through her. “She said it wasn’t a poem, that it was just a geological lab report.” Starlight winced. “Oog.” “Well, that’s just silly,” Trixie said. “I mean, I’ve heard and read some of your poems before, Maud. They’re all really good! That pony doesn’t know what she’s talking about.” “I agree.” Starlight nodded vehemently. “But that makes this contest all the more important to you, right? Because now you’ve got a chance to prove her wrong.” “And win that sweet trophy,” Trixie added. “Yes, that, too. So don’t you worry, Maud.” “I’m not worried,” Maud said. Still, she could not help but look, out of the corner of her eye, to where Elegy now sat. She had taken out her folder again and was juggling several pages at once. No doubt they were some of her finest poems; her talent nopony could deny. Maud looked down at her own poems. She’d glanced at them during the train ride, though it wasn’t necessary, since the rules of the contest were that she could only perform aloud the poem she’d submitted with the reservation. She’d brought the extras mostly because she liked having them close. Having her writing there with her made them feel somehow more real. But now, new doubts wormed their way into her mind, and it took a valiant effort to set them aside. The lights in the cellar dimmed. From behind the curtain on the stage, an aged, liver-spotted, silver-maned pony wearing a red, striped vest stepped out, her legs quivering beneath her, and her glasses threatening to spill. She walked up to the microphone and cleared her throat. At once, all chatter ceased, and all eyes turned attentive towards her. “Good evening,” she said in a somewhat humorously high-pitched voice. The microphone squealed. “My name is First Draft. Thank you, everycreature, for coming to the thirty-ninth annual Scribble and Quibble Poetry Slam. As always, I would like to extend my sincerest gratitude to our host, La Galería Sestina, for this performance space. While we would rather you sit through the performances completely, during intermission you are more than welcome to go and grab some refreshments and a bite to eat. Attendees have ten percent off of every main item, in any case. My fellow judges would say you should try the blueberry bagels. My fellow judges are wrong.” Some applause, and some laughing, followed. Draft’s lips twitched into a smile. “We are fortunate to have gathered six entries for this contest—six entries, six poems, and six performers. The order has already been decided; you will find that in the beginning of the pamphlets.” Maud opened hers. She was slotted for the last position, just after Elegy Mixer. “Saving the best for last,” Starlight said. “Each performer, once we begin, will come up to the stage and read the poem out loud to us. This poem is the one they’ve submitted with their RSVP, and this will be the only poem being performed. A short break will follow so that the next may get ready. Three judges—myself, Inky Quill, and Red Rhetoric” —nearest to the stage, two ponies, a mare and a stallion, stood and did a short bow—“will preside over the whole event. At the end we will discuss our results, and then we will announce the winner of the award.” First Draft paused to straighten her glasses, then glanced back up, smiling still. “We’d like to thank all of our performers in the audience, and we cannot wait to hear what you have to say. Thank you.” More applause as she left the stage to join the other judges at their table. Trixie leaned over. “That reminds me, Maud. Which poem are you going to show us?” Wordlessly, Maud shuffled the papers aside until she found the one she’d submitted. It was called Rock In The Cave. Trixie looked down the lines quickly. “It’s about a rock,” Maud added helpfully. “I can see that. Still! It definitely sounds good. To me, anyway. I’m sure the judges will love it!” Maud nodded, but could not quite bring herself to smile. Instead, her mind traveled back to Elegy Mixer. There was a curious feeling on the back of her neck, like somepony was staring fire into her, but when Maud turned around and looked in Elegy’s direction, she saw that she had her nose buried in her own poem, apparently busy. The lights brightened again, and as the first poet trotted up to the platform, Maud knew that the Poetry Slam had begun. Stanza 3In the hypnotic haze that followed, Maud was exposed to a variety of poems and poets. Their first performer, a tall, bulky minotaur, launched into a melancholic sestina about his grandmother and his childhood home; it had the “scent” of earth, like the musk of fresh, fertile soil, and the warmth of a clay fireplace. A female hippogriff ascended to the stage and sung an ode to their old home, all about the majesty of the waves and how they could see the moon in the glowing jellyfish, yet for some reason, upon its utterance, Maud had a vision of the Pie Family rock farm and the crystal quarry she’d taken Apple Bloom when the Apples had visited for Hearthswarming. She remembered their conversation, the sweetness of it. The third performer was one of the kirins. She seemed the most nervous of the first bunch, and when she initially spoke into the microphone, her soft voice screeched with feedback. But once the noise had settled and she could begin, her timidity became the voice of a song to the forest and to the river—which forest and which river, she never said, but Maud got the feeling she meant each and every one. Instinctively she thought of the one that swam through the crystal cave, and that inevitably brought her thoughts to Mudbriar and Boulder. Electric warmth spread through her, and she could barely contain the excitement in her own applause. So caught up in the acts, Maud almost missed when intermission was called. The sound of sniffling was what did the trick, and as she blinked and turned her head back towards her table, she realized that the source was none other than Starlight. “Really, Starlight?” Trixie said, snickering. Yet her own eyes had a slightly misty appearance to them. “I mean, I knew you were emotional, but this…” “I-it’s nothing! It’s the candle smoke, that’s all. Really!” Starlight blew her nose in the pamphlet, then crumpled it in her magic and threw it into the nearby trash can. “B-besides, Trixie, that just means I have a heart, unlike somepony I know!” “Trixie does have a heart! Hers just isn’t shaken so easily!” “Oh, poo, we both know that isn’t true.” “Yes, Trixie,” Maud said. “You remember when you first met Thorax, don’t you?” The magician’s cheeks burned red against her usual blueness. “T-that’s completely different,” she began to say, but a series of coughs interrupted her. “Sounds like you need a drink,” Maud said. “Actually, a cup of coffee doesn’t sound that bad,” Starlight said. She made to stand, but Maud put a hoof on her shoulder. “I’ll go grab us some.” “Really? But, Maud, there’s no need to—” “I need to stretch my legs. And being up helps me think. About my poems.” “Oh.” Starlight hesitated, then nodded. “All right. I think two cups should do the trick. Trixie? Do you want anything else?” Trixie, still coughing, managed to squeak out something about “trying those blueberry bagels.” Then Maud was ascending the staircase again, heading back into the world of the cafe. She took her bag with her, the parcel bouncing comfortingly close to her hip. Maud had to pause at the top in order to let her eyes re-adjust to the copper glow of the cafe proper. A line of customers, some of whom had been a part of the audience below, stretched from the counter to the chairs and tables. Once her eyes were ready, Maud joined them. Thankfully, none appeared to recognize that she was a participant, and so she could simply relax and listen to the conversations happening all around her. Many consisted of murmurs about what had just been heard. Each customer expressed more than a little bit of wonderment and awe. There were rumblings of compliments and excited guesses at what the next half of the event would bring. And some, perhaps still enraptured by the performances themselves, stood with mouths half-open and their thoughts visibly churning through the pile of emotions conducted through them. Maud couldn’t blame them. For some reason this event felt different than plenty of others she’d been to. Perhaps it had something to do with the atmosphere, the sense that they were all privy to some secret of the universe when they were gathered there and listening. Like following a trail of rocks to a particularly magnificent, moss-covered boulder, the poems thus presented had taken them all on a trip through the hearts of their speakers. She hoped that her poems could do the same—but truthfully, she was beginning to think otherwise. As the line continued to shift up, Maud decided that she ought to review her selected poem. She shifted her satchel and took the sheet out, balancing it against her hoof. The words there were familiar—she had studied them on the way to San Franciscolt—but now, after hearing what the other poets had to offer, they no longer felt as comforting. There was no form, no set rhythm or “scheme” of any sort. They were words. When the pony behind the counter asked for her order, Maud was still thinking this, and as she put the poem away and replaced its spot on her hoof with a tray of bagels and coffee, she continued to do so. She wondered what the judges would think. Maybe nothing. But wouldn’t that be bad? That her poem had made so little of an impression so as to draw no other thought to it? “So what’s your poem about?” Maud blinked. She slightly twisted her head and saw Elegy Mixer sitting at a table, watching her. Her own papers were laid out before her, while her magic hummed softly, levitating a cup of coffee. She’d taken off her beret and had draped it lazily behind her chair. Most curiously was the fact she was smiling, without the apparent mockery from before. “Rocks,” Maud said, once she realized Elegy was waiting for an answer. Elegy kept on smiling. “Rocks. Of course. Well, they say write what you know.” “Yes. They do.” Maud glanced at the stairs. She thought about excusing herself, then thought, Why bother? She turned to leave. “Of course, they also say that the judges here have a particular kind of taste that doesn’t always apply to ponies who write… differently.” Elegy set her cup down. Her magic transferred over to the sugar packets, and she ripped two open, dumping their contents into the cup, before taking a spoon and stirring it. Maud watched her. “What do you mean?” “Have a seat and I’ll show you.” Maud knew that tone of voice. It was the same smugness of a showmare that Trixie had, the kind that suggested both amusement and condescension. But whereas she had grown used to Trixie’s boasts, hearing that tone from Elegy brought up painful memories of her college years. It was the voice she’d used to hack away at submissions, not just Maud’s, to describe in great detail the myriad of ways that the piece had failed at existing. In one instance, when reviewing a fellow student’s submission, Elegy pointed to the fact that the attempts at short, rhyming couplets “elicited nothing from me but a bored yawn—you weren’t even trying to be clever or interesting!” The student had reddened, taken the piece of writing away, and sprinted out the door; she never came back to the literary magazine. Perhaps Maud’s face wasn’t as stoic as it used to be, because Elegy’s smile dropped ever so slightly. “Come on. I’m not going to bite you, Maud. Celestia, it’s been ages anyway since school. We’re practically strangers.” She remained personally unresolved, but, guided by some hidden desire, Maud took the opposite seat, placing the tray to the side. Elegy’s smile returned. She pushed her papers aside, then levitated out another pamphlet, different from the ones downstairs. “Here’s a list of all the previous winners,” she said, flipping to a certain page. “You know of them, of course, if you’ve read poetry before. Starscribe Swirl, Radiant Jewel, Allen Winnisberg, Shadow Brooks, a bunch. Here. They have excerpts from their pieces that won.” She flipped the page and pointed. What Maud noticed right away was the tone of voice they all took. In a word, they were emotional, much like how a lot of performance poetry was portrayed, but she could see the nuance of their words and of their language, the way they charged into the nature of their subjects. They were ballads, odes, songs, eulogies, free-verse, lengthy, expressive—they were the kinds of poems that a pony like Elegy Mixer would appreciate, would have allowed to be published. Maud returned to the list of poets. Next to each was a small portrait, and each one held the Scribble and Quibble Award in their hooves. They all looked serious, their faces engraved with the weight of their words. “You see?” Elegy said. “This is the kind of stuff that gets the judges rolling. You write that sort of thing, and you’ll have them eating out of your hoof in no time.” “That would be unsanitary,” Maud said. Elegy ignored the comment. “If you ask me, Maud, you’ve gone in rather blind. You know the judges will rule you out almost immediately. They won’t even care to let you try.” Maud’s face reddened. She was thankful she did not have Pinkie’s temperament, but the section of the table beneath her hoof cracked a little. “You don’t know that for sure.” “No? Well, the pattern speaks for yourself, don’t you think?” It did, no matter how much Maud didn’t want to admit it. Her mind flickered back to her poems. None of them fit that pattern. Then she thought about the previous performers, how the room had reacted, how she had. No matter how she thought about it, her poems weren’t those poems. Could it be that she stood no chance in the slightest? Elegy sipped her coffee. “It’s a shame, you know. I myself don’t particularly care for that kind of criteria, but it does eliminate the wiggle room a pony can have. Your poem…” She trailed. Her eyes darted towards Maud. “Your poem… you have it with you, right?” Maud blinked. “Yes, I do. Why?” “Here.” Elegy moved her cup out of the way. “I’ll take a look at it. Give you a few suggestions here and there. You’ll be able to make them before you have to go up.” Maud stared at her. Elegy maintained her smile, but she couldn’t keep an even gaze. She looked past Maud at some unknown party, then sighed and shook her head. “Stars above, you don’t think I want to steal your poem, do you? You know the only poems we can read are the ones we submit. I just want to help.” “Why?” Elegy tilted her head. “Because I’m good at what I do and I want to share that ability with you?” Maud frowned at her. “You’ve never wanted to help me before.” Elegy shrugged. “Ponies change. You know what doesn’t? The tastes of critics. And the artists among us suffer at the hooves of critics. Unjustly, mind you, but do they care? Course they don’t. But that just means that you have to play to their tastes if you want to get anywhere with this.” She paused, then gestured aimlessly with her hoof. “Consider this me offering a golden branch after everything I’ve done in the past. One poet to another.” Now she stared at Maud, her smile careful, plastered. Maud stared back; but the title struck several notes in her mind, and she felt a sighing in her, like one of relief. It seemed as though she’d just been inducted into a select group of individuals— the true poets, as it were. So who was she to deny their offer? “All right,” Maud said. Turning around to undo the flaps to her bag, Maud carefully pushed her snout in and took out the one she meant to read. She turned it around with her hoof, then hesitated. The upside-down words seemed to stare back at her, scared to be judged, to be changed. But now she was just being silly, wasn’t she? With a bit more force than she might have wanted, Maud pushed the paper towards Elegy. It flew up a bit, but was caught in Elegy’s magic, and she set it down. The magic moved to her own bag, and she took out a quill pen and inkwell. She dipped it and began to read. From her spot across the table, Maud could have sworn that her smile had turned triumphant, like a shark’s. “Well, here,” Elegy said, tapping the parchment with the tip of the quill. “I’m already starting to see an issue with this line…” Stanza 4Two broken pencil stubs lay hidden in the dirt. Maud reached into her bag to pull out a third. The taste of eraser and wood coincided with the smell of graphite, but while normally she would have found the smell just a bit too artificial for her liking, she put it out of her mind and continued to scribble. A raven watched her. She wasn’t sure if it was the same one that had greeted her. She barely glanced at it, her pencil rolling furiously around her tongue. She was biting so hard into it, she nearly popped the eraser off the end, a mistake that, as with the two other stubs, had resulted in her turning and spitting the pink bits to her side, where they had landed in a globular heap next to the rain barrel. The raven flapped its wings and flew away. The resulting wind was enough to ruffle her papers. Maud stomped her hoof down on them, accidentally snapping the pencil in her mouth in the process. She sighed, spat out the eraser, placed the broken item in the other pile, and reached into her bag for a fourth. She was still searching when she heard the door to the cafe open. Starlight’s worried voice drifted around the corner, before the unicorn herself appeared. “Maud?” she asked, her eyes narrowed with confusion. “What are you doing out here?” “Revising,” Maud said. She still had not found a pencil. She could have sworn she’d brought more than three, but… “Revising? Oh.” Starlight scuffed a hoof through the dirt. “Uh, is that what you’ve been doing all this time, then?” “Yes.” Maud heard her voice tremble. She was thankful that she was turned away, so that Starlight wouldn’t see her grit her teeth just a bit harder. “And… the coffee and bagels?” Oh, yes. She did promise to get the girls those things. “They’re inside. On the table.” The matter resolved, she resumed her search, digging through each compartment of her bag, making sure too that her papers wouldn’t flutter about. Actually. Starlight might have an extra pencil on her. I probably shouldn’t have told her to leave… As she was thinking this, Maud turned, disappointment preceding her. It was with great surprise, then, marked only by the slight twitching of her eye, that she saw Starlight still standing before her. “Maud,” Starlight began. She took a step forward, then stopped, tilting her head. “You know it’s the fourth performer’s turn, now. Is everything okay?” “Everything’s fine,” Maud said. But she knew her voice had trembled again. She looked behind at her papers. Starlight came closer. She looked past Maud at the papers, too. “Those look like some awfully heavy revisions, Maud. I thought you were satisfied with what you had.” “I was. But then Elegy had some good ideas and—” “Whoa, whoa, hold the phone. Elegy? Maud, what was she doing looking at your stuff? That’s gotta be in violation of some sort of rule!” Maud was quiet for a moment, considering. Then she said, “She had some good suggestions.” Starlight looked at her. Then her eyes traveled to the broken pencil stubs. The papers, meanwhile, fluttered angrily under Maud’s hoof. Starlight brushed the stubs aside and sat down next to her. “Can I see them, at least?” Maud nodded. She grabbed her poems and carefully passed them over to Starlight, who took them in her magic. Under that light turquoise glow, the series of scribbles and scratches looked less like the product of intense work and thought and more like a tangled web of creepy crawlies and other undesirables. “They were good suggestions,” Maud repeated as Starlight began to read. “I wouldn’t have made them if I hadn’t thought the poems needed them.” “Are you sure? I mean, you changed this word to ‘grandiloquent.’ I live with Twilight, but even I’m not sure I know what that means.” “It describes the use of excessively flowery, fancy words. I used it to describe a metamorphic rock.” “Okay, I can see that, but—well, look, now you’ve got lines that stretch across the page. I thought you were into more minimal stuff?” “I was. I am. But this is better. That’s what Elegy said. That’s what all the past winners have in common.” “The winners? I thought you didn’t really care about winning!” “This is what the judges want poets to write.” “But what about you, Maud?” Starlight pushed the papers back into her hooves, her magic dissipating. “What do you want to write? This overly sentimental, archaic nonsense that somepony with too much of a stick up their butt calls poetry?” Maud tried to respond, but Starlight pushed ahead with one other remark. “These poems don’t even sound like you anymore!” All the justifications Maud had been quietly generating in her head gave out. Her mind froze. It seized upon those words, trying to dissect them, crack them open and find the fatal flaw. But it found it could not. Her jaw slackened, and her grasp on the papers loosened ever so slightly. An errant breeze alerted her that they were in danger of flying off, but she made no move to correct herself. Then immediately, both ponies heard something screech nearby, and that same something landed hard on the ground in front of them, fluttering its wings. It was the raven, and it had a juicy worm sticking out from its beak. The wind that it generated, combined with the breeze, gushed over the both of them. Maud realized too late what was about to happen, and Starlight, too startled by the bird, could not help her. The wind grabbed ahold of Maud’s poems and shuffled them up in a spiral, before unceremoniously dropping them into the nearby rain barrel. Maud was quick enough, however, to nab one of them with her teeth just before it fell in. The raven blinked, cawed again in what might have been a laugh, then flew off. “Oh, no!” Starlight cried. She rushed over to the barrel and tried to retrieve the papers. But Maud could already tell it was too late; the tan parchment was completely soaked through, and all the letters dripped in a garbled mess down the face of each page. Desperately, Starlight tried to shake them dry, but all she did was throw water everywhere. Maud watched as all her chances drowned right before her eyes. She slowly sat down on her haunches. She thought she would never move again, or at least anytime soon. “That… that can’t have been all of them,” Starlight said breathlessly. She looked like she was on the verge of tears, though Maud couldn’t quite understand why; after all, it wasn’t her work that had been so sloppily baptized, was it? “Maud, was that all of them?” “Hmm,” Maud intoned. She glanced down at the sheet she’d been able to grab. “No.” “Oh, thank Celestia! That means you can still use it!” Maud turned her head and blinked at Starlight, who frantically waved her hoof at the sheet. “But I haven’t even read it over yet,” Maud said. “It’s the only one you’ve got!” “But it’s not the one I wanted to read.” Maud looked down at the sheet. “I can always just drop out. Let the judges know—” “No, no, absolutely not!” Starlight came over and placed a hoof on Maud’s shoulder. “Maud, you’re here for a reason. You’re here to share what you’ve written! Why risk throwing it all away?” “Because now I know for sure that I’m not going to win,” Maud deftly replied. “And since when did you care about winning this silly thing?” Starlight paused, then took a breath. “Maud, I get that Elegy got to you. And I’m sure you think she’s being helpful. But she’s not. She’s just trying to get your confidence down, trying to get you out of the competition. That means she knows you’re a talented poet! And I’d bet any number of bits that what you’ve got with you is ten times better than whatever she can pull.” Starlight removed her hoof. “But that means you have to try, Maud. Look.” She lit her horn, and tugged the sheet out from under Maud. She held it in front of her. “I know this poem doesn’t have any of the stuff Elegy said your poems should have. But that makes it truer to you, don’t you think? And while I don’t know a whole lot about poetry, I believe that most importantly it has to be true to you. Otherwise, what is it if not just a bunch of fancy words?” Maud tried looking directly at her, but Starlight simply waved the poem in her face, blocking her view. So Maud looked at it. It was short. It had none of the flair, none of the fanciful language or imagery that Elegy had so convincingly said was to the judge’s liking. But… undeniably, Maud sensed herself in it, herself and all of her flaws, and also all of her inner beauty. It was a poem. No, it was her poem. “... Okay, Starlight,” she said quietly. “Okay… as in…” “I’ll go up there. And I’ll share this poem myself.” “That’s the Maud I know!” Starlight grinned, but her expression quickly became a determined one. “Now, come on. Hopefully we won’t have missed your turn.” She handed the poem back to Maud, who slipped it snugly into her bag. They rushed back inside, briefly passing the tray of bagels and coffee. Maud asked, “What about them?” But Starlight simply shook her head. “Trixie will make do, trust me. This is more important.” They trotted quickly but also silently down the stairs, and did not get far before they heard a familiar voice transcribing page to air. Maud saw Elegy on the stage, and for a moment, was struck by the scene: the judges, other performers, and the rest of the attendees all watched in stark amazement, their jaws agape and their eyes fixated on the bard-pony before them. Even Trixie watched, her earlier remarks about Elegy’s character apparently having been forgotten. Elegy’s voice swelled as the two returned to their table. It was impossible to ignore the sonorous way she recited her poem, or how compelling was her language, how terrifically terrifying were her conjurations. Maud couldn’t understand half the words she said, but she had a sinking feeling that it didn’t matter; Elegy had successfully won the crowd over, won the judges over. The feeling of doubt began to creep back into her heart. But then Starlight nudged Maud. Maud looked down at her hoof, and found it was pointing at her chest. Starlight gestured to it twice, then once to the poem, then looked up at Maud, checking to make sure she understood. She did; and just in time, too, because wealthy applause erupted just as Elegy finished. She had a victorious grin. It remained as she exited the stage. “Thank you, Elegy, for that wonderful performance,” First Draft said once the applause had died down. She seemed to want to say more, but chewed on her lip, seemingly confused—or perhaps still coming out of that haze. “Now, then. Onto our next and final performer. Please welcome to the stage: Maud Pie.” “You’ve got this!” Starlight whispered to her. The steps leading to the microphone and podium seemed impossibly long, and Maud could feel everypony’s gaze on her. They all seemed distant and judgemental, no doubt riding still on the high of that last performance. In the back sat Elegy Mixer, and Maud could feel her feral grin settle on her, silently telling her that it was of no use. But Maud swallowed that feeling of dread. The judges waited patiently for her to arrive. She reached the podium and paused. Starlight and Trixie were both looking at her, the latter finally breaking out of her reverie to nod encouragingly. Maud reached around and took out her poem, placing it onto the wooden surface. She read the title, then glanced at the lines, then stopped; could she do this? Did it even matter? “Whenever you’re ready,” First Draft whispered. Now or never. “My poem,” Maud said, returning to the top of the page, “is called: The Pebble.” For the most part there was silence, sweet and merciful. But in the back, somepony snickered. Maud already knew who it was, but she fought to push her out of her mind. She took another deep breath. Then, she began to read: Fairy pink A pebble Lies waiting in The shingle clast Blue veins Crystalized into quartz A touch warmer than limestone You tell me your name Like sweet rock candy Laughing as you bounce From hoof back to the clast To find you again I have To sift through the others But they try to help Moving and sifting Accepting my hoof though it is not of stone Until you appear When it is my turn I find a lilac and blue pair And though both are cracked The line drawn down the middle A healed-over scar for two It is like the pile of pebbles Knows and departs When it is us three it Feels right Maybe that’s how it always is On beaches or in caves Where there are the recollections Of old stones Old faces Names But that’s okay As I carry you all I crumble Happily Now We are all Pebbles Maud didn’t let out a breath as she backed away from the podium. In fact, no other sound escaped or accompanied her, the page of her poem fluttering against her coat. But what she was aware of, as she made her way back to her seat, was the sound of thunderous applause, first coming from the table, and then from the judges, and then, just as she sat down, from all across the room.. “You were amazing, Maud!” Starlight exclaimed. “I told you that poem was going to be great!” “I agree,” Trixie said. “Seriously, if those judges don’t pick you for the winner automatically, then they don’t know what they’re doing!” Maud smiled at them. “Thank you, girls.” But though her heart was light, there still remained some lingering nervous air in her. The judges were the first to cease their applause. They stood and shuffled onto the stage, with First Draft stepping up to the microphone. “Thank you, evercreature, for your wonderful performances,” she said. “Right now, the judges will be convening in the back to evaluate your performance, and in a short while we will return to announce the winner of this year’s Scribble and Quibble Awards. But regardless of who that ends up being, we want you all to know that, to us, and to everyone else in the audience, you are all poets.” As they disappeared backstage, the word was left ringing in Maud’s head. Gradually, a smile grew. Time passed unaccounted. Maud’s attention was instead captivated by Trixie darting upstairs and returning with three fresh bagels and coffees, and also by some of the members of the audience coming up to her and complimenting her poem. One Yak was particularly emotional, crying in a deep voice that he now longed to find his own pebble one day. Maud assured him he would. Once the bagels had been half-finished and the coffee drained, the judges returned. Instantly the room clammed up, for their faces were solemn. First Draft stepped up to the microphone and cleared her throat, the sound echoing across the entire room. Inky Quill and Red Rhetoric darted back behind the curtain. “We have come to a decision,” she said, her eyes sweeping over everycreature. The curtain moved, and the others re-emerged, hoisting between them the golden trophy itself, the Scribble and Quibble Award. They set it down just off-stage, then waited beside First Draft. “The winner of this year’s Scribble and Quibble Award goes to…” And what a pause it was; what a space! Every thought and feeling was condensed into it. Maud felt herself leaning forward, a cold anxiety shooting through her, like the time she’d seen that rock tumbling towards Pinkie Pie. Consciously, she knew that the pause was but a breath, a butterfly’s flapping, and yet in it, time fell away, meaning fell away, until all that was left was a pregnant waiting “... Elegy Mixer!” The audience awoke once more with applause and cheers. Maud sat back in her chair, hardly noticing the shocked and sympathetic looks that Trixie and Starlight gave her. And yet, she did not think she felt sick, or shocked, or even upset. A breath escaped and relieved her, and, after a moment, she joined in, clapping with surprisingly just as much enthusiasm as anyone else. Elegy pranced onto the stage in an instant. Her horn lit, and she pulled the award toward her. The sudden movement caused First Draft to turn the microphone her way, and as Elegy danced past her, the microphone caught her saying, “But was there any other doubt?” First Draft frowned, as did the other two judges. “As a matter of fact,” said Red Rhetoric, the mic also picking his voice up, “there was.” “You and another contestant were neck-and-neck,” Inky Quill added. Her voice betrayed her displeasure with Elegy’s attitude. “What?” Elegy exclaimed. “Well, who was it? You’ve got to tell me!” First Draft turned away and cleared her throat again. “We’d like to announce the runner-up,” she said into the microphone. “The second-place finisher for this year’s contest is… Maud Pie!” A hush—broken then by Starlight and Trixie furiously howling and clapping. Their enthusiasm spread, and the rest of the audience joined in. Propelled by her friends’ and strangers’ hooves alike, Maud stumbled onto the stage before she could even blink. Her head felt like it was in a cloud. “Congratulations,” First Draft said, but Elegy interrupted her. “Maud?” She stood protectively in front of the award, glaring at her, then at the judges. “How? All she did was write a stupid poem about a rock!” “A pebble,” Maud automatically corrected. “Rock is a general term. Pebbles are—” “I don’t care! How can you possibly say she could come even close to my quality of work?” “Actually,” Inky Quill said, looking directly at Maud and smiling, “she would have won.” Maud blinked. Elegy gaped. “She… would have?” “Oh, yes,” Red Rhetoric said. “We quite enjoyed her poem, you know. Unfortunately, because it wasn’t the poem she’d initially submitted with the reservation, we had to dock a few points. Next year, though…” He winked at Maud. “B-but that’s impossible! What about my form? The imagery? The language? The necessary ambiguity, the-the—” And when she ran out of things to say, Elegy shook her head and stomped her hoof. “How could I have almost lost to somepony who doesn’t even know the first thing about writing good poetry?” Out of the corner of her eye, Maud saw Trixie and Starlight stand, glowering. Elegy was looking at her with a half-sneering, half-still-befuddled expression. The crow-feet around her eyes mocked her. Backhanded compliments waited behind flashing teeth and tongue. And yet, looking at her, thinking about what she said, Maud didn’t feel a thing. “You’re right, Elegy,” she said. “Exactly! I’m… what?!” “You’re right.” Maud pointed at the Scribble and Quibble award, which, despite the prevalence of purple lights, seemed to shine just a bit dimmer, like mere topaz. “I don’t know what makes a good poem. Not really. You do, though, and that’s why you won.” Elegy stared at her silently, so Maud continued, “But I do know a lot about rocks, and about family, and friends.” She looked back at Starlight and Trixie. She smiled at them, before looking back at Elegy. “So yes. It’s true, I don’t know anything about writing a good poem. But I do know what poetry means to me, and what my poems are about. I guess that’s enough.” “Well said, Maud Pie,” First Draft said. “Miss Elegy, while we commend you for your excellent poem, do be aware that gloating will not be tolerated at these kinds of events.” “B-but that’s—and I—the award—” She was saying more, but frankly, Maud didn’t care. She nodded to the three judges, then trotted off stage, back to the table, where Starlight and Trixie were waiting for her. Starlight stepped forward. “Maud…” It wasn’t quite a question, but Maud understood. “I’m okay, girls.” She glanced at the clock that hung just to the side. “We’d better get going. Don’t want to miss the train.” They grabbed their bags and the leftover bagels and began to leave. Maud could still hear Elegy spluttering, and she saw Trixie unable to resist blowing a raspberry in her direction. A few parting goodbyes from newly made acquaintances joined them up the stairs before vanishing into the evening air. And just like that, the slam contest was over. It had lasted only a few hours, yet felt like more. Maud breathed in the cool night, smelling strange sediments from someplace unknown. Starlight sidled up to her. “It’s a shame you didn’t win, Maud. I really thought you would have.” “Aw, come on, Starlight,” Trixie said, taking up the other side. She was grinning. “Second place isn’t that bad. And neither is showing up that showmare. Ooh, I wish I had brought my camera! Priceless!” “You’re not too upset, are you?” Starlight then asked. Maud didn’t immediately respond. Instead, her mind wandered back to the poem she’d read, to the words on the page, the weight they carried, the truth. Herself made real in words. She looked at Starlight and smiled once more. “No. Not at all.” The three of them headed towards the train station, hearts full of something warm and pure. Watching them was the raven, its red beady eyes curious, its beak twisted into some attempt at a smile. Then it flapped its wings, twice, took off, and became one with the approaching darkness.
Stanza 1 Maud Slam By Jarvy Jared La Galería Sestina (the name was printed humbly across the front) was, undoubtedly, the most Spaneish-looking building that Maud had ever seen. It had sand-colored walls and pepper-red awnings that covered the exterior in a pleasant amount of shade. The windows had ornate carvings transcribed onto the glass. The mahogany door was held back by a green chalkboard menu, on which were listed the day’s specials, in both plain Equish and Spaneish. Beyond the door, ponies sat at round wooden tables, sipping at coffee or dipping pastries into them, or reading a newspaper under the light of copper lamps. The smell of bagels gently wafted through the air and into her nose, and for a moment, Maud forgot for what reason she stood in front of it. The sound of flapping drew her attention away from the delicious smell. Her eyes followed a dark form as it landed, quite suddenly, atop the menu. It was a raven, and its beady, red eyes blinked curiously at her. Maud stared back, intrigued. Ravens were a rare sight in the inner city of San Franciscolt, and she doubted it had been drawn here by the temptation of bagels. After a few moments had passed, the raven let out a single squawk—not even a full word—then darted back into the sky, vanishing from view. “Well. That’s certainly ominous.” “I don’t know. I think it’s kind of fitting.” Maud turned her head. Next to her were Starlight and Trixie, and both of them were looking at the spot that the raven had just vacated. “Fitting how, Starlight?” Trixie said. “Think about it,” Starlight said. “That’s a raven. We’re standing outside what’s supposed to be the place where the poetry slam is being held. And everypony knows that a raven was the subject of a very famous poem. You’ve heard of it, haven’t you, Maud?” Maud nodded. “It’s all right. For a poem not about rocks.” “See? Fitting!” They went inside, the bell chiming behind them. Starlight looked around the cafe. “You know, I still can’t believe this is where it’s going to be held. It looks so small, you know? Where are they going to have a stage? Actually, are they?” “The reservation said it would be here,” Maud replied. “Oh! Are you here for the poetry slam, then?” That was one of the ponies in the line. After Maud had nodded, the pony pointed towards the side of the cafe, where a stone staircase descended into the basement level. “It’s going to be held down there. Say! Are you competing?” She was looking at Starlight for some reason. “Just me,” Maud said. The pony’s eyes swiveled in her direction, and for a moment, surprise flashed through them. “Oh! Well, in any case, good luck! You’d better get seated right away. They want every competitor to be there on time.” “The cafe doesn’t mind?” Starlight asked. “Not at all! In fact, you’ll be able to come up during intermission for food and drinks!” Maud thanked the pony and began to trot towards the stairs. Hearing her friends follow, she turned around. “You know. You don’t have to come.” “Maud Pie,” Starlight said with a slight huff, “we did not come all this way just to drink coffee and eat bagels while you performed before a live audience.” “So we,” Trixie added, smiling, “are most certainly going to come with you!” Maud couldn’t help but smile. So be it. Together, the three trotted down the stairs.
Stanza 2There were more than just ponies here. In the hush of purple bubble lights several minotaurs and hippogryphs sat, for the most part quiet. There were even some kirins, and if Fluttershy’s account of when she and Applejack went to their home was accurate, then this was not a surprise: more than a few missed rhyming, it seemed. Maud, Trixie, and Starlight chose a table in the middle row, where an orange candle had been lighted. A pamphlet was at each seat. Up at the front of the room was a wide wooden stage, with a dark red curtain and a microphone. “Quite a crowd,” Starlight murmured. “Are they all going to perform?” “No,” Maud said. “This place is called La Galería Sestina. The Six-Line Gallery. When they hold these kinds of events, they only allow six performers for the night.” “You being one of them, that leaves five more.” Starlight paused, casting a careful gaze over the other creatures there. “Is it just me, or does everycreature seem a bit… tense?” “Of course they’d be tense!” Trixie said. “They’re probably really nervous about the competition. Trixie supposes she can’t blame them; if you aren’t used to the stage as I am, you’d be tense, too!” Starlight ignored that bit of Trixie’s ego showing. “Competition? I thought this was, you know, a bunch of individual performances. Like an improv night, but with poetry.” “Nope! It’s a competition, and here’s the prize!” Trixie lit her horn and flipped a few pages into the pamphlet, stopping at the one that had a page-sized picture. A large, bronze quill sat glittering on display. The caption read: Quibble and Scribble Award - Given to poets whose writing invokes the essence of what it means to be a poet of the world. “Wow,” Starlight said. “You know, I bet Twilight wouldn’t mind having one of those—if she ever wrote anything other than reports. Though I’m surprised you want a chance at that, Maud. You never struck me as somepony who cares about awards.” Maud shrugged. “It seemed like a fun idea. Mudbriar said I should share some of what I write. And if I win, well… it’ll look nice in the cave, at least. If not…” She shrugged again. Starlight smiled at her. “If there’s anypony who has the talent to earn that quill, it’s definitely you, Maud!” “Is that right?” Maud’s smile, involuntary and secretive, slipped away at the new voice. She worked it into what she hoped was a neutral line, before turning her head. If one were to look at the pony standing behind Trixie for the first time after stepping out from the street, one would have immediately thought she came straight from the brickwork. Her apricot coat meshed nicely with her maroon mane, which was split by a lighter carmine-red shade. A gray beret rested just behind her horn, which glowed with magical exertion as she carried a small folder with her. When she turned to place the folder back into her carry-on bag, they all got a look at her Cutie Mark: it was of an albatross, holding up a wreath of tulip bulbs. She turned back to them. She was smiling; but the smile, all teeth, suggested not kindness, but mockery. “Well, I do declare!” she exclaimed. “Maud Pie! Is that really you?” Maud gave a terse nod, careful not to look too closely at her face. She could feel those cobalt eyes judging her in secret. “What a surprise! I would not have imagined that you’d be coming to one of these events! And with, ehh, other ponies, no less!” Starlight and Trixie looked at Maud, the obvious question hidden. Maud sighed inwardly. “Girls, this is Elegy Mixer,” she said, pointing to the newcomer. “Elegy, these are my friends, Starlight Glimmer and Trixie Lulamoon.” Elegy turned and smiled at the two of them—it was the same smile that she had for Maud. “Friends! Well, that’s something. You know, Maud wasn’t much of a friend-maker back at school. But I guess anything can change!” “Yes,” Maud said, mostly because she didn’t think staying silent would do any good. Starlight, Maud noticed, was looking at Elegy with bewilderment, for which Maud couldn’t blame her. Yet Trixie, meanwhile, seemed just as uncomfortable as Maud was. She shifted in her seat, and though her smile and demeanor were otherwise polite, she kept glancing back and forth between Maud and Elegy. “Starlight!” Elegy suddenly said. “You look like a poet. Are you the one entering today’s contest?” “What? No, no, oh no! No, that’s Maud.” “Really? But I thought—” “Thought what?” Trixie said. She was leaning slightly forward, and her face suggested she’d drank something repugnant recently. Elegy’s smile dropped into pursed lips. “Well, it’s just… Well, Maud, you’re working in the geological field, aren’t you?” “I am.” “I suppose I am just, well, surprised, then, to see you here. After all…” She paused, glancing up at Maud. Then she shook her head slightly, and reclaimed her smile. . “But anyway! Good luck, I suppose. I am surprised, though. Very surprised.” And she repeated that word to herself as she trotted back towards a distant corner, up until Maud could no longer audibly hear her. A moment passed at the table, before Starlight let out a low whistle. “Wow. She’s…” “A diva,” Trixie finished. They both looked at her. “What? It takes one to know one. I can tell.” “And based on what she said, you two went to school together? But I thought you went to school for your rockterate.” “I did,” Maud said. She suddenly felt a bit heated, and rubbed the side of her head. “But I also attended the school’s literary arts magazine club. That’s where I started writing my poems. Elegy Mixer was the club’s President and Supervisor.” She paused, then added, “She basically ran it herself. It was admirable.” “That doesn’t explain why she was like that,” Starlight said. Maud took a moment to open up her bags and pull out some sheets of paper. She lay them out, careful not to crinkle the pages. “Elegy doesn’t think ponies who don’t specialize in writing should write,” she simply said. “That’s what she got her Cutie Mark in. Wrote a poem. Got it published. Poof. Mark.” She pointed to one of the papers. “Here’s something I wrote in school that I’ve polished up a bit. I submitted it to the magazine. Elegy rejected it.” The faintest hint of a tremor passed through her. “She said it wasn’t a poem, that it was just a geological lab report.” Starlight winced. “Oog.” “Well, that’s just silly,” Trixie said. “I mean, I’ve heard and read some of your poems before, Maud. They’re all really good! That pony doesn’t know what she’s talking about.” “I agree.” Starlight nodded vehemently. “But that makes this contest all the more important to you, right? Because now you’ve got a chance to prove her wrong.” “And win that sweet trophy,” Trixie added. “Yes, that, too. So don’t you worry, Maud.” “I’m not worried,” Maud said. Still, she could not help but look, out of the corner of her eye, to where Elegy now sat. She had taken out her folder again and was juggling several pages at once. No doubt they were some of her finest poems; her talent nopony could deny. Maud looked down at her own poems. She’d glanced at them during the train ride, though it wasn’t necessary, since the rules of the contest were that she could only perform aloud the poem she’d submitted with the reservation. She’d brought the extras mostly because she liked having them close. Having her writing there with her made them feel somehow more real. But now, new doubts wormed their way into her mind, and it took a valiant effort to set them aside. The lights in the cellar dimmed. From behind the curtain on the stage, an aged, liver-spotted, silver-maned pony wearing a red, striped vest stepped out, her legs quivering beneath her, and her glasses threatening to spill. She walked up to the microphone and cleared her throat. At once, all chatter ceased, and all eyes turned attentive towards her. “Good evening,” she said in a somewhat humorously high-pitched voice. The microphone squealed. “My name is First Draft. Thank you, everycreature, for coming to the thirty-ninth annual Scribble and Quibble Poetry Slam. As always, I would like to extend my sincerest gratitude to our host, La Galería Sestina, for this performance space. While we would rather you sit through the performances completely, during intermission you are more than welcome to go and grab some refreshments and a bite to eat. Attendees have ten percent off of every main item, in any case. My fellow judges would say you should try the blueberry bagels. My fellow judges are wrong.” Some applause, and some laughing, followed. Draft’s lips twitched into a smile. “We are fortunate to have gathered six entries for this contest—six entries, six poems, and six performers. The order has already been decided; you will find that in the beginning of the pamphlets.” Maud opened hers. She was slotted for the last position, just after Elegy Mixer. “Saving the best for last,” Starlight said. “Each performer, once we begin, will come up to the stage and read the poem out loud to us. This poem is the one they’ve submitted with their RSVP, and this will be the only poem being performed. A short break will follow so that the next may get ready. Three judges—myself, Inky Quill, and Red Rhetoric” —nearest to the stage, two ponies, a mare and a stallion, stood and did a short bow—“will preside over the whole event. At the end we will discuss our results, and then we will announce the winner of the award.” First Draft paused to straighten her glasses, then glanced back up, smiling still. “We’d like to thank all of our performers in the audience, and we cannot wait to hear what you have to say. Thank you.” More applause as she left the stage to join the other judges at their table. Trixie leaned over. “That reminds me, Maud. Which poem are you going to show us?” Wordlessly, Maud shuffled the papers aside until she found the one she’d submitted. It was called Rock In The Cave. Trixie looked down the lines quickly. “It’s about a rock,” Maud added helpfully. “I can see that. Still! It definitely sounds good. To me, anyway. I’m sure the judges will love it!” Maud nodded, but could not quite bring herself to smile. Instead, her mind traveled back to Elegy Mixer. There was a curious feeling on the back of her neck, like somepony was staring fire into her, but when Maud turned around and looked in Elegy’s direction, she saw that she had her nose buried in her own poem, apparently busy. The lights brightened again, and as the first poet trotted up to the platform, Maud knew that the Poetry Slam had begun.
Stanza 3In the hypnotic haze that followed, Maud was exposed to a variety of poems and poets. Their first performer, a tall, bulky minotaur, launched into a melancholic sestina about his grandmother and his childhood home; it had the “scent” of earth, like the musk of fresh, fertile soil, and the warmth of a clay fireplace. A female hippogriff ascended to the stage and sung an ode to their old home, all about the majesty of the waves and how they could see the moon in the glowing jellyfish, yet for some reason, upon its utterance, Maud had a vision of the Pie Family rock farm and the crystal quarry she’d taken Apple Bloom when the Apples had visited for Hearthswarming. She remembered their conversation, the sweetness of it. The third performer was one of the kirins. She seemed the most nervous of the first bunch, and when she initially spoke into the microphone, her soft voice screeched with feedback. But once the noise had settled and she could begin, her timidity became the voice of a song to the forest and to the river—which forest and which river, she never said, but Maud got the feeling she meant each and every one. Instinctively she thought of the one that swam through the crystal cave, and that inevitably brought her thoughts to Mudbriar and Boulder. Electric warmth spread through her, and she could barely contain the excitement in her own applause. So caught up in the acts, Maud almost missed when intermission was called. The sound of sniffling was what did the trick, and as she blinked and turned her head back towards her table, she realized that the source was none other than Starlight. “Really, Starlight?” Trixie said, snickering. Yet her own eyes had a slightly misty appearance to them. “I mean, I knew you were emotional, but this…” “I-it’s nothing! It’s the candle smoke, that’s all. Really!” Starlight blew her nose in the pamphlet, then crumpled it in her magic and threw it into the nearby trash can. “B-besides, Trixie, that just means I have a heart, unlike somepony I know!” “Trixie does have a heart! Hers just isn’t shaken so easily!” “Oh, poo, we both know that isn’t true.” “Yes, Trixie,” Maud said. “You remember when you first met Thorax, don’t you?” The magician’s cheeks burned red against her usual blueness. “T-that’s completely different,” she began to say, but a series of coughs interrupted her. “Sounds like you need a drink,” Maud said. “Actually, a cup of coffee doesn’t sound that bad,” Starlight said. She made to stand, but Maud put a hoof on her shoulder. “I’ll go grab us some.” “Really? But, Maud, there’s no need to—” “I need to stretch my legs. And being up helps me think. About my poems.” “Oh.” Starlight hesitated, then nodded. “All right. I think two cups should do the trick. Trixie? Do you want anything else?” Trixie, still coughing, managed to squeak out something about “trying those blueberry bagels.” Then Maud was ascending the staircase again, heading back into the world of the cafe. She took her bag with her, the parcel bouncing comfortingly close to her hip. Maud had to pause at the top in order to let her eyes re-adjust to the copper glow of the cafe proper. A line of customers, some of whom had been a part of the audience below, stretched from the counter to the chairs and tables. Once her eyes were ready, Maud joined them. Thankfully, none appeared to recognize that she was a participant, and so she could simply relax and listen to the conversations happening all around her. Many consisted of murmurs about what had just been heard. Each customer expressed more than a little bit of wonderment and awe. There were rumblings of compliments and excited guesses at what the next half of the event would bring. And some, perhaps still enraptured by the performances themselves, stood with mouths half-open and their thoughts visibly churning through the pile of emotions conducted through them. Maud couldn’t blame them. For some reason this event felt different than plenty of others she’d been to. Perhaps it had something to do with the atmosphere, the sense that they were all privy to some secret of the universe when they were gathered there and listening. Like following a trail of rocks to a particularly magnificent, moss-covered boulder, the poems thus presented had taken them all on a trip through the hearts of their speakers. She hoped that her poems could do the same—but truthfully, she was beginning to think otherwise. As the line continued to shift up, Maud decided that she ought to review her selected poem. She shifted her satchel and took the sheet out, balancing it against her hoof. The words there were familiar—she had studied them on the way to San Franciscolt—but now, after hearing what the other poets had to offer, they no longer felt as comforting. There was no form, no set rhythm or “scheme” of any sort. They were words. When the pony behind the counter asked for her order, Maud was still thinking this, and as she put the poem away and replaced its spot on her hoof with a tray of bagels and coffee, she continued to do so. She wondered what the judges would think. Maybe nothing. But wouldn’t that be bad? That her poem had made so little of an impression so as to draw no other thought to it? “So what’s your poem about?” Maud blinked. She slightly twisted her head and saw Elegy Mixer sitting at a table, watching her. Her own papers were laid out before her, while her magic hummed softly, levitating a cup of coffee. She’d taken off her beret and had draped it lazily behind her chair. Most curiously was the fact she was smiling, without the apparent mockery from before. “Rocks,” Maud said, once she realized Elegy was waiting for an answer. Elegy kept on smiling. “Rocks. Of course. Well, they say write what you know.” “Yes. They do.” Maud glanced at the stairs. She thought about excusing herself, then thought, Why bother? She turned to leave. “Of course, they also say that the judges here have a particular kind of taste that doesn’t always apply to ponies who write… differently.” Elegy set her cup down. Her magic transferred over to the sugar packets, and she ripped two open, dumping their contents into the cup, before taking a spoon and stirring it. Maud watched her. “What do you mean?” “Have a seat and I’ll show you.” Maud knew that tone of voice. It was the same smugness of a showmare that Trixie had, the kind that suggested both amusement and condescension. But whereas she had grown used to Trixie’s boasts, hearing that tone from Elegy brought up painful memories of her college years. It was the voice she’d used to hack away at submissions, not just Maud’s, to describe in great detail the myriad of ways that the piece had failed at existing. In one instance, when reviewing a fellow student’s submission, Elegy pointed to the fact that the attempts at short, rhyming couplets “elicited nothing from me but a bored yawn—you weren’t even trying to be clever or interesting!” The student had reddened, taken the piece of writing away, and sprinted out the door; she never came back to the literary magazine. Perhaps Maud’s face wasn’t as stoic as it used to be, because Elegy’s smile dropped ever so slightly. “Come on. I’m not going to bite you, Maud. Celestia, it’s been ages anyway since school. We’re practically strangers.” She remained personally unresolved, but, guided by some hidden desire, Maud took the opposite seat, placing the tray to the side. Elegy’s smile returned. She pushed her papers aside, then levitated out another pamphlet, different from the ones downstairs. “Here’s a list of all the previous winners,” she said, flipping to a certain page. “You know of them, of course, if you’ve read poetry before. Starscribe Swirl, Radiant Jewel, Allen Winnisberg, Shadow Brooks, a bunch. Here. They have excerpts from their pieces that won.” She flipped the page and pointed. What Maud noticed right away was the tone of voice they all took. In a word, they were emotional, much like how a lot of performance poetry was portrayed, but she could see the nuance of their words and of their language, the way they charged into the nature of their subjects. They were ballads, odes, songs, eulogies, free-verse, lengthy, expressive—they were the kinds of poems that a pony like Elegy Mixer would appreciate, would have allowed to be published. Maud returned to the list of poets. Next to each was a small portrait, and each one held the Scribble and Quibble Award in their hooves. They all looked serious, their faces engraved with the weight of their words. “You see?” Elegy said. “This is the kind of stuff that gets the judges rolling. You write that sort of thing, and you’ll have them eating out of your hoof in no time.” “That would be unsanitary,” Maud said. Elegy ignored the comment. “If you ask me, Maud, you’ve gone in rather blind. You know the judges will rule you out almost immediately. They won’t even care to let you try.” Maud’s face reddened. She was thankful she did not have Pinkie’s temperament, but the section of the table beneath her hoof cracked a little. “You don’t know that for sure.” “No? Well, the pattern speaks for yourself, don’t you think?” It did, no matter how much Maud didn’t want to admit it. Her mind flickered back to her poems. None of them fit that pattern. Then she thought about the previous performers, how the room had reacted, how she had. No matter how she thought about it, her poems weren’t those poems. Could it be that she stood no chance in the slightest? Elegy sipped her coffee. “It’s a shame, you know. I myself don’t particularly care for that kind of criteria, but it does eliminate the wiggle room a pony can have. Your poem…” She trailed. Her eyes darted towards Maud. “Your poem… you have it with you, right?” Maud blinked. “Yes, I do. Why?” “Here.” Elegy moved her cup out of the way. “I’ll take a look at it. Give you a few suggestions here and there. You’ll be able to make them before you have to go up.” Maud stared at her. Elegy maintained her smile, but she couldn’t keep an even gaze. She looked past Maud at some unknown party, then sighed and shook her head. “Stars above, you don’t think I want to steal your poem, do you? You know the only poems we can read are the ones we submit. I just want to help.” “Why?” Elegy tilted her head. “Because I’m good at what I do and I want to share that ability with you?” Maud frowned at her. “You’ve never wanted to help me before.” Elegy shrugged. “Ponies change. You know what doesn’t? The tastes of critics. And the artists among us suffer at the hooves of critics. Unjustly, mind you, but do they care? Course they don’t. But that just means that you have to play to their tastes if you want to get anywhere with this.” She paused, then gestured aimlessly with her hoof. “Consider this me offering a golden branch after everything I’ve done in the past. One poet to another.” Now she stared at Maud, her smile careful, plastered. Maud stared back; but the title struck several notes in her mind, and she felt a sighing in her, like one of relief. It seemed as though she’d just been inducted into a select group of individuals— the true poets, as it were. So who was she to deny their offer? “All right,” Maud said. Turning around to undo the flaps to her bag, Maud carefully pushed her snout in and took out the one she meant to read. She turned it around with her hoof, then hesitated. The upside-down words seemed to stare back at her, scared to be judged, to be changed. But now she was just being silly, wasn’t she? With a bit more force than she might have wanted, Maud pushed the paper towards Elegy. It flew up a bit, but was caught in Elegy’s magic, and she set it down. The magic moved to her own bag, and she took out a quill pen and inkwell. She dipped it and began to read. From her spot across the table, Maud could have sworn that her smile had turned triumphant, like a shark’s. “Well, here,” Elegy said, tapping the parchment with the tip of the quill. “I’m already starting to see an issue with this line…”
Stanza 4Two broken pencil stubs lay hidden in the dirt. Maud reached into her bag to pull out a third. The taste of eraser and wood coincided with the smell of graphite, but while normally she would have found the smell just a bit too artificial for her liking, she put it out of her mind and continued to scribble. A raven watched her. She wasn’t sure if it was the same one that had greeted her. She barely glanced at it, her pencil rolling furiously around her tongue. She was biting so hard into it, she nearly popped the eraser off the end, a mistake that, as with the two other stubs, had resulted in her turning and spitting the pink bits to her side, where they had landed in a globular heap next to the rain barrel. The raven flapped its wings and flew away. The resulting wind was enough to ruffle her papers. Maud stomped her hoof down on them, accidentally snapping the pencil in her mouth in the process. She sighed, spat out the eraser, placed the broken item in the other pile, and reached into her bag for a fourth. She was still searching when she heard the door to the cafe open. Starlight’s worried voice drifted around the corner, before the unicorn herself appeared. “Maud?” she asked, her eyes narrowed with confusion. “What are you doing out here?” “Revising,” Maud said. She still had not found a pencil. She could have sworn she’d brought more than three, but… “Revising? Oh.” Starlight scuffed a hoof through the dirt. “Uh, is that what you’ve been doing all this time, then?” “Yes.” Maud heard her voice tremble. She was thankful that she was turned away, so that Starlight wouldn’t see her grit her teeth just a bit harder. “And… the coffee and bagels?” Oh, yes. She did promise to get the girls those things. “They’re inside. On the table.” The matter resolved, she resumed her search, digging through each compartment of her bag, making sure too that her papers wouldn’t flutter about. Actually. Starlight might have an extra pencil on her. I probably shouldn’t have told her to leave… As she was thinking this, Maud turned, disappointment preceding her. It was with great surprise, then, marked only by the slight twitching of her eye, that she saw Starlight still standing before her. “Maud,” Starlight began. She took a step forward, then stopped, tilting her head. “You know it’s the fourth performer’s turn, now. Is everything okay?” “Everything’s fine,” Maud said. But she knew her voice had trembled again. She looked behind at her papers. Starlight came closer. She looked past Maud at the papers, too. “Those look like some awfully heavy revisions, Maud. I thought you were satisfied with what you had.” “I was. But then Elegy had some good ideas and—” “Whoa, whoa, hold the phone. Elegy? Maud, what was she doing looking at your stuff? That’s gotta be in violation of some sort of rule!” Maud was quiet for a moment, considering. Then she said, “She had some good suggestions.” Starlight looked at her. Then her eyes traveled to the broken pencil stubs. The papers, meanwhile, fluttered angrily under Maud’s hoof. Starlight brushed the stubs aside and sat down next to her. “Can I see them, at least?” Maud nodded. She grabbed her poems and carefully passed them over to Starlight, who took them in her magic. Under that light turquoise glow, the series of scribbles and scratches looked less like the product of intense work and thought and more like a tangled web of creepy crawlies and other undesirables. “They were good suggestions,” Maud repeated as Starlight began to read. “I wouldn’t have made them if I hadn’t thought the poems needed them.” “Are you sure? I mean, you changed this word to ‘grandiloquent.’ I live with Twilight, but even I’m not sure I know what that means.” “It describes the use of excessively flowery, fancy words. I used it to describe a metamorphic rock.” “Okay, I can see that, but—well, look, now you’ve got lines that stretch across the page. I thought you were into more minimal stuff?” “I was. I am. But this is better. That’s what Elegy said. That’s what all the past winners have in common.” “The winners? I thought you didn’t really care about winning!” “This is what the judges want poets to write.” “But what about you, Maud?” Starlight pushed the papers back into her hooves, her magic dissipating. “What do you want to write? This overly sentimental, archaic nonsense that somepony with too much of a stick up their butt calls poetry?” Maud tried to respond, but Starlight pushed ahead with one other remark. “These poems don’t even sound like you anymore!” All the justifications Maud had been quietly generating in her head gave out. Her mind froze. It seized upon those words, trying to dissect them, crack them open and find the fatal flaw. But it found it could not. Her jaw slackened, and her grasp on the papers loosened ever so slightly. An errant breeze alerted her that they were in danger of flying off, but she made no move to correct herself. Then immediately, both ponies heard something screech nearby, and that same something landed hard on the ground in front of them, fluttering its wings. It was the raven, and it had a juicy worm sticking out from its beak. The wind that it generated, combined with the breeze, gushed over the both of them. Maud realized too late what was about to happen, and Starlight, too startled by the bird, could not help her. The wind grabbed ahold of Maud’s poems and shuffled them up in a spiral, before unceremoniously dropping them into the nearby rain barrel. Maud was quick enough, however, to nab one of them with her teeth just before it fell in. The raven blinked, cawed again in what might have been a laugh, then flew off. “Oh, no!” Starlight cried. She rushed over to the barrel and tried to retrieve the papers. But Maud could already tell it was too late; the tan parchment was completely soaked through, and all the letters dripped in a garbled mess down the face of each page. Desperately, Starlight tried to shake them dry, but all she did was throw water everywhere. Maud watched as all her chances drowned right before her eyes. She slowly sat down on her haunches. She thought she would never move again, or at least anytime soon. “That… that can’t have been all of them,” Starlight said breathlessly. She looked like she was on the verge of tears, though Maud couldn’t quite understand why; after all, it wasn’t her work that had been so sloppily baptized, was it? “Maud, was that all of them?” “Hmm,” Maud intoned. She glanced down at the sheet she’d been able to grab. “No.” “Oh, thank Celestia! That means you can still use it!” Maud turned her head and blinked at Starlight, who frantically waved her hoof at the sheet. “But I haven’t even read it over yet,” Maud said. “It’s the only one you’ve got!” “But it’s not the one I wanted to read.” Maud looked down at the sheet. “I can always just drop out. Let the judges know—” “No, no, absolutely not!” Starlight came over and placed a hoof on Maud’s shoulder. “Maud, you’re here for a reason. You’re here to share what you’ve written! Why risk throwing it all away?” “Because now I know for sure that I’m not going to win,” Maud deftly replied. “And since when did you care about winning this silly thing?” Starlight paused, then took a breath. “Maud, I get that Elegy got to you. And I’m sure you think she’s being helpful. But she’s not. She’s just trying to get your confidence down, trying to get you out of the competition. That means she knows you’re a talented poet! And I’d bet any number of bits that what you’ve got with you is ten times better than whatever she can pull.” Starlight removed her hoof. “But that means you have to try, Maud. Look.” She lit her horn, and tugged the sheet out from under Maud. She held it in front of her. “I know this poem doesn’t have any of the stuff Elegy said your poems should have. But that makes it truer to you, don’t you think? And while I don’t know a whole lot about poetry, I believe that most importantly it has to be true to you. Otherwise, what is it if not just a bunch of fancy words?” Maud tried looking directly at her, but Starlight simply waved the poem in her face, blocking her view. So Maud looked at it. It was short. It had none of the flair, none of the fanciful language or imagery that Elegy had so convincingly said was to the judge’s liking. But… undeniably, Maud sensed herself in it, herself and all of her flaws, and also all of her inner beauty. It was a poem. No, it was her poem. “... Okay, Starlight,” she said quietly. “Okay… as in…” “I’ll go up there. And I’ll share this poem myself.” “That’s the Maud I know!” Starlight grinned, but her expression quickly became a determined one. “Now, come on. Hopefully we won’t have missed your turn.” She handed the poem back to Maud, who slipped it snugly into her bag. They rushed back inside, briefly passing the tray of bagels and coffee. Maud asked, “What about them?” But Starlight simply shook her head. “Trixie will make do, trust me. This is more important.” They trotted quickly but also silently down the stairs, and did not get far before they heard a familiar voice transcribing page to air. Maud saw Elegy on the stage, and for a moment, was struck by the scene: the judges, other performers, and the rest of the attendees all watched in stark amazement, their jaws agape and their eyes fixated on the bard-pony before them. Even Trixie watched, her earlier remarks about Elegy’s character apparently having been forgotten. Elegy’s voice swelled as the two returned to their table. It was impossible to ignore the sonorous way she recited her poem, or how compelling was her language, how terrifically terrifying were her conjurations. Maud couldn’t understand half the words she said, but she had a sinking feeling that it didn’t matter; Elegy had successfully won the crowd over, won the judges over. The feeling of doubt began to creep back into her heart. But then Starlight nudged Maud. Maud looked down at her hoof, and found it was pointing at her chest. Starlight gestured to it twice, then once to the poem, then looked up at Maud, checking to make sure she understood. She did; and just in time, too, because wealthy applause erupted just as Elegy finished. She had a victorious grin. It remained as she exited the stage. “Thank you, Elegy, for that wonderful performance,” First Draft said once the applause had died down. She seemed to want to say more, but chewed on her lip, seemingly confused—or perhaps still coming out of that haze. “Now, then. Onto our next and final performer. Please welcome to the stage: Maud Pie.” “You’ve got this!” Starlight whispered to her. The steps leading to the microphone and podium seemed impossibly long, and Maud could feel everypony’s gaze on her. They all seemed distant and judgemental, no doubt riding still on the high of that last performance. In the back sat Elegy Mixer, and Maud could feel her feral grin settle on her, silently telling her that it was of no use. But Maud swallowed that feeling of dread. The judges waited patiently for her to arrive. She reached the podium and paused. Starlight and Trixie were both looking at her, the latter finally breaking out of her reverie to nod encouragingly. Maud reached around and took out her poem, placing it onto the wooden surface. She read the title, then glanced at the lines, then stopped; could she do this? Did it even matter? “Whenever you’re ready,” First Draft whispered. Now or never. “My poem,” Maud said, returning to the top of the page, “is called: The Pebble.” For the most part there was silence, sweet and merciful. But in the back, somepony snickered. Maud already knew who it was, but she fought to push her out of her mind. She took another deep breath. Then, she began to read: Fairy pink A pebble Lies waiting in The shingle clast Blue veins Crystalized into quartz A touch warmer than limestone You tell me your name Like sweet rock candy Laughing as you bounce From hoof back to the clast To find you again I have To sift through the others But they try to help Moving and sifting Accepting my hoof though it is not of stone Until you appear When it is my turn I find a lilac and blue pair And though both are cracked The line drawn down the middle A healed-over scar for two It is like the pile of pebbles Knows and departs When it is us three it Feels right Maybe that’s how it always is On beaches or in caves Where there are the recollections Of old stones Old faces Names But that’s okay As I carry you all I crumble Happily Now We are all Pebbles Maud didn’t let out a breath as she backed away from the podium. In fact, no other sound escaped or accompanied her, the page of her poem fluttering against her coat. But what she was aware of, as she made her way back to her seat, was the sound of thunderous applause, first coming from the table, and then from the judges, and then, just as she sat down, from all across the room.. “You were amazing, Maud!” Starlight exclaimed. “I told you that poem was going to be great!” “I agree,” Trixie said. “Seriously, if those judges don’t pick you for the winner automatically, then they don’t know what they’re doing!” Maud smiled at them. “Thank you, girls.” But though her heart was light, there still remained some lingering nervous air in her. The judges were the first to cease their applause. They stood and shuffled onto the stage, with First Draft stepping up to the microphone. “Thank you, evercreature, for your wonderful performances,” she said. “Right now, the judges will be convening in the back to evaluate your performance, and in a short while we will return to announce the winner of this year’s Scribble and Quibble Awards. But regardless of who that ends up being, we want you all to know that, to us, and to everyone else in the audience, you are all poets.” As they disappeared backstage, the word was left ringing in Maud’s head. Gradually, a smile grew. Time passed unaccounted. Maud’s attention was instead captivated by Trixie darting upstairs and returning with three fresh bagels and coffees, and also by some of the members of the audience coming up to her and complimenting her poem. One Yak was particularly emotional, crying in a deep voice that he now longed to find his own pebble one day. Maud assured him he would. Once the bagels had been half-finished and the coffee drained, the judges returned. Instantly the room clammed up, for their faces were solemn. First Draft stepped up to the microphone and cleared her throat, the sound echoing across the entire room. Inky Quill and Red Rhetoric darted back behind the curtain. “We have come to a decision,” she said, her eyes sweeping over everycreature. The curtain moved, and the others re-emerged, hoisting between them the golden trophy itself, the Scribble and Quibble Award. They set it down just off-stage, then waited beside First Draft. “The winner of this year’s Scribble and Quibble Award goes to…” And what a pause it was; what a space! Every thought and feeling was condensed into it. Maud felt herself leaning forward, a cold anxiety shooting through her, like the time she’d seen that rock tumbling towards Pinkie Pie. Consciously, she knew that the pause was but a breath, a butterfly’s flapping, and yet in it, time fell away, meaning fell away, until all that was left was a pregnant waiting “... Elegy Mixer!” The audience awoke once more with applause and cheers. Maud sat back in her chair, hardly noticing the shocked and sympathetic looks that Trixie and Starlight gave her. And yet, she did not think she felt sick, or shocked, or even upset. A breath escaped and relieved her, and, after a moment, she joined in, clapping with surprisingly just as much enthusiasm as anyone else. Elegy pranced onto the stage in an instant. Her horn lit, and she pulled the award toward her. The sudden movement caused First Draft to turn the microphone her way, and as Elegy danced past her, the microphone caught her saying, “But was there any other doubt?” First Draft frowned, as did the other two judges. “As a matter of fact,” said Red Rhetoric, the mic also picking his voice up, “there was.” “You and another contestant were neck-and-neck,” Inky Quill added. Her voice betrayed her displeasure with Elegy’s attitude. “What?” Elegy exclaimed. “Well, who was it? You’ve got to tell me!” First Draft turned away and cleared her throat again. “We’d like to announce the runner-up,” she said into the microphone. “The second-place finisher for this year’s contest is… Maud Pie!” A hush—broken then by Starlight and Trixie furiously howling and clapping. Their enthusiasm spread, and the rest of the audience joined in. Propelled by her friends’ and strangers’ hooves alike, Maud stumbled onto the stage before she could even blink. Her head felt like it was in a cloud. “Congratulations,” First Draft said, but Elegy interrupted her. “Maud?” She stood protectively in front of the award, glaring at her, then at the judges. “How? All she did was write a stupid poem about a rock!” “A pebble,” Maud automatically corrected. “Rock is a general term. Pebbles are—” “I don’t care! How can you possibly say she could come even close to my quality of work?” “Actually,” Inky Quill said, looking directly at Maud and smiling, “she would have won.” Maud blinked. Elegy gaped. “She… would have?” “Oh, yes,” Red Rhetoric said. “We quite enjoyed her poem, you know. Unfortunately, because it wasn’t the poem she’d initially submitted with the reservation, we had to dock a few points. Next year, though…” He winked at Maud. “B-but that’s impossible! What about my form? The imagery? The language? The necessary ambiguity, the-the—” And when she ran out of things to say, Elegy shook her head and stomped her hoof. “How could I have almost lost to somepony who doesn’t even know the first thing about writing good poetry?” Out of the corner of her eye, Maud saw Trixie and Starlight stand, glowering. Elegy was looking at her with a half-sneering, half-still-befuddled expression. The crow-feet around her eyes mocked her. Backhanded compliments waited behind flashing teeth and tongue. And yet, looking at her, thinking about what she said, Maud didn’t feel a thing. “You’re right, Elegy,” she said. “Exactly! I’m… what?!” “You’re right.” Maud pointed at the Scribble and Quibble award, which, despite the prevalence of purple lights, seemed to shine just a bit dimmer, like mere topaz. “I don’t know what makes a good poem. Not really. You do, though, and that’s why you won.” Elegy stared at her silently, so Maud continued, “But I do know a lot about rocks, and about family, and friends.” She looked back at Starlight and Trixie. She smiled at them, before looking back at Elegy. “So yes. It’s true, I don’t know anything about writing a good poem. But I do know what poetry means to me, and what my poems are about. I guess that’s enough.” “Well said, Maud Pie,” First Draft said. “Miss Elegy, while we commend you for your excellent poem, do be aware that gloating will not be tolerated at these kinds of events.” “B-but that’s—and I—the award—” She was saying more, but frankly, Maud didn’t care. She nodded to the three judges, then trotted off stage, back to the table, where Starlight and Trixie were waiting for her. Starlight stepped forward. “Maud…” It wasn’t quite a question, but Maud understood. “I’m okay, girls.” She glanced at the clock that hung just to the side. “We’d better get going. Don’t want to miss the train.” They grabbed their bags and the leftover bagels and began to leave. Maud could still hear Elegy spluttering, and she saw Trixie unable to resist blowing a raspberry in her direction. A few parting goodbyes from newly made acquaintances joined them up the stairs before vanishing into the evening air. And just like that, the slam contest was over. It had lasted only a few hours, yet felt like more. Maud breathed in the cool night, smelling strange sediments from someplace unknown. Starlight sidled up to her. “It’s a shame you didn’t win, Maud. I really thought you would have.” “Aw, come on, Starlight,” Trixie said, taking up the other side. She was grinning. “Second place isn’t that bad. And neither is showing up that showmare. Ooh, I wish I had brought my camera! Priceless!” “You’re not too upset, are you?” Starlight then asked. Maud didn’t immediately respond. Instead, her mind wandered back to the poem she’d read, to the words on the page, the weight they carried, the truth. Herself made real in words. She looked at Starlight and smiled once more. “No. Not at all.” The three of them headed towards the train station, hearts full of something warm and pure. Watching them was the raven, its red beady eyes curious, its beak twisted into some attempt at a smile. Then it flapped its wings, twice, took off, and became one with the approaching darkness.
