Seashell (print rewrite)

SEASHELL

Excerpt VIII
From the journal of Sunburst, June 7, YS 1329:

This afternoon I took a walk in the city, thinking about what I’d seen. I do a lot of my best thinking when I can pace around aimlessly by myself. It’s another virtue of the life lived alone, I guess, plenty of time for reflection.

Sometimes it can be a double-edged sword.

At some point along the unplanned path of my wandering, I came across a little flower shop at a street corner. It was really more of a stand than an enclosed building. It had an open storefront and there was a pale pink earth pony with a deeper pink mane standing behind a wooden counter. She was surrounded by an immense multitude of all kinds of flowers. But most of all…

Most of all…

Roses.

Roses in incredible great profusions were wreathed all around her little shop in all the various colors they come in: red, yellow, pink, oranges, lavenders… and white. Her white roses were like the brightest pure snow fallen fresh from the finest winter clouds.

I walked up to the stand and I stood there for a second looking around at all the different varieties. The scent was exquisite perfume, and the sight a spectacular endless floral rainbow. I didn’t know where to even start taking it all in.

“Hi! How can I help you?” The pony behind the counter welcomed me cheerfully. Somehow, through the overwhelming splendor of the flowers, I noticed even more that she had such pretty jade green eyes.

Maybe I stared into them just a tiny slice of a second longer than I think I meant to.

“Your roses,” I finally said, when the words came to me. “I just… they come in so many different colors.”

“Oh, yes.” She nodded, with a small smile of pride. “Almost anything you could want, except black and blue. Breeders haven’t quite figured those out yet. I think they’re a pipe dream, myself, but… eh, you know. Gardeners will keep trying just so somepony can say they were the first to breed a truly black rose.” She shrugged. “Although I’m not sure what we’d ever do with them. I can’t see a black rose being a very attractive flower, honestly.”

I looked around and noted the most abundant color. “I’m guessing there’s more demand for red.”

“Definitely,” she agreed. “Red roses are the classic choice; a great way of saying ‘I love you’ in that special somepony kind of way. They’re the best seller of any flower I have.”

I’d suspected as much already, partly because it’s a well known cliché and partly because it’s just logical. Red is a strong color, after all. It’s the color of blood, and the heart that pumps it, and the feelings of passion and strong emotions and lusts associated with those things.

White, though, seemed so quiet and reserved by contrast. It was almost a contradiction for a flower as bold as a rose.

“What about white?” I asked. “Why do ponies buy those?”

“White?” She thought for a moment. “Well, a few different things. Sometimes they’re used in funeral arrangements. It’s a mourning color. But it’s kind of funny, because on the other hoof, I also supply them for lots of weddings. I guess it’s… you know, like the reason a bride wears a white dress. It’s a pure color, it’s clean and fresh. It’s supposed to be innocent. I guess it’s not always totally platonic like ‘let’s be friends’, but also not like how red is more direct and kinda says ‘I want you in bed with me.’ It's more subtle. Love but not lust.”

I stood there pondering the roses, white and red and all the hues in-between.

“Anything else you’d like to know?” the pony behind the counter asked politely after a few seconds.

“No.” I shook my head. “Thanks. I just have some things to think about.”

“Not a problem.” She smiled. “Come by anytime. I’m always here. Just me and the roses.”

I nodded and walked on, lost within my own thoughts about the language of flowers; of the expressive power in the vocabulary of their manifold colors.

I drifted my way on down the street and kept rolling what she’d said about white over in my mind.

Subtle, was it?

The color was, maybe. The things it reflected, though, certainly were not necessarily so. It was muted on the surface, but underneath there was a strong undercurrent of emotion. Captain Dash hadn't completely broken down crying, but the tears… those were in her eyes, sure as anything. Her response to those white roses was like the flowers themselves.

What was it about, though, exactly? All I could do was wonder.

Mourning.

Pure, high love.

Either one of those could fit.

Either, or both.

Maybe the intensity of one emotion tends to fuel another.

Princess Twilight knew what it was, I was sure, by the way she was comforting Captain Dash. I began to wonder just how close the two of them were.

They came from the same place before they came here, after all.

Maybe the princess isn't so completely alone as I'd thought. I hope not, anyway, for her sake and the captain’s. I guess hoping is about all I can do.

I thought about all these things for a while as I walked.

But then not too long later, I passed a pair of elegant-looking unicorn nobles in funny hats walking side by side with their snoots in the air. They were chatting back and forth, something about how dreadful the hors d'oeuvres were at last week’s high society parties. And not to even start on the under-chilled champagne! Apparently this week had been an absolute tragedy in the higher social circles. Giggling inside and trying not to let it show sort of broke my concentration on more serious subjects. Even if it was a bit of emotional whiplash, I welcomed the distraction because it was a relief that I needed by that point, if I’m being honest.

Canterlot sure is an interesting town.
 
 
I guess that’s interesting enough for today.