Smokestacks and Lightning

by PeaceColt112

Rating: everyone
Tags: Slice of Life, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Sad, Octavia
Length: 1894

Octavia's thoughts on the world around her.

Octavia's concert sales have gone down and she has become poor, turning to thought during her long hours alone. Sitting in the perpetual cold of her little room, she begins to question reality, her own talent, society, tyranny, control and the false comfort that surrounds her.

Published 2012-11-16 19:30:01 UTC
Last updated 2012-11-16 19:30:01 UTC

Smokestacks and Lightning

Another lonely night, another rainy evening, another day of solitude for the cellist. Outside, the blackness fell over the moist streets, the gaslights of Canterlot illuminating the way for the lone pedestrians that lined the ancient sidewalks. She sat at the windowsill, her magenta eyes peering out, catching glimpses of the faceless figures that blew around in the cool fall winds.

Playing an instrument eventually takes its toll on the hooves and Octavia was no exception. Even through the fur she could see the blisters that had formed; deep gashes and ravines, string like shapes climbing up her skin like the webs of an invisible spider, its venom biting her. She sighed, and looked around her poorly decorated apartment. One chair in the corner, a gas lamp flickering on the nightstand, the yellow light dancing on the music sheets that lay arranged on the desk.

Hunger became normality for Octavia; the few bits that came in were spent on string and wax. She took better care of her cello then herself. Slowly, darkness invaded the tiny, cold room and Octavia shuddered. The gas company cut her heating some weeks ago and now she had to spend most of her days in bed, covered by the skimpy sheets, her grey shape shivering with the needles of cold. Even in the darkness, she could see the object of her affection, the single item in the room that didn’t look old, its wooden surface glowing in the half-light.

Sometimes, she looked at the instrument; she looked at the wooden curves and the clef-shaped holes, her eyes running up and down the slender stringed neck. She looked at it and sighed. In her mind, she wept. How happy some little filly would be if she had access to such a fantastic instrument, such a masterfully designed musical tool, it’s tone as sharp as the dew on the morning grass, as soft as the most gentle of summer winds. How many others the little filly could fulfill with the sound of music, the warm notes making the room move to the song.

Maybe it was wrong of her to throw all the possibilities she had out the window simply to do what she loved? Maybe Octavia should have followed the example of her brother, the one who was good at guitar but gave that talent up for a job in the Royal Guard. He was unhappy, yes. He wanted out, he hated killing and anger and violence but at least he had comfort. He had a house to go to; he had food to eat and a solid roof over his head. The mare he loved cheated on him and Octavia knew it but hey, what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him, right?

How rotten did she feel, Octavia asked herself? She had kept that secret from him for years now, well knowing how manipulative and morally corrupt his wife was. On her own eyes, she had seen the corruption; she had seen the evil that the eyes of the one he gave his soul to could dish out, the sheer anger that could be communicated by a simple gaze. It was on the Christmas dinner a few years ago when she snapped, when she could take it no more. Octavia wanted to tell him, she had to but the words just fell away.

He was happy, he was satisfied and he was at peace with the position of a meager slave. Day to day, week to week, month to month he worked, walking through the gardens during both rain and shine, sometimes coming home with a fever and a racking cough, long guard times taking their toll on him. And yet, even with the cough and the fever, he would stand, unmoving, guarding the metal gates that no one had attempted to breach in centuries now.

And here she was .The famous cellist, the awarded cellist, the wunderkind of Canterlot, the one in whom so much hope had been laid and for whom expectations have been raised to an immense level. She had all the means, all the things she needed to do what she wanted and she did, she followed her dreams, years and years of practice invested in the instrument of her dreams and now where was she? Hungry, cold, alone, empty and dead, she sat in her bed, musing over things long passed, over chances she had overshot a long time ago, chances that she could have taken but instead decided not to take any risks, to simply accept her fate as the tortured artist.

A few times she thought of the future she could have had, the safe, warm future of giving your dreams up, the future in which she did not hope or dream or even try. They had offered her a job in a firm, a desk job that went from nine ‘till five, where you asked no questions and no one asked you any in return. You simply sat there, from nine in the morning until the early evening hours, working on pointless spreadsheets and bunk papers, signing endless amounts of forms and filling out countless contracts. Safety, slavery and stupidity she called it, you do not ask any questions and that’s that.

No, no, no, never, not someone like her, not someone who wanted to dream, for whom dreaming was a necessity, as important as the very food she needed so badly. If she abandoned her dreams and hopes, what would she become? What would she be? Would she really be happier, would she really feel safer under the watchful eye of tyranny? Is it a real safety or merely an illusion? Even now, the kingdom of Equestria is teetering on the fine line between war and peace, threats arising in the Far East. Slowly, mass armies gather, ready to strike, exploding in a cloud of violence and greed. And how will Celestia protect us? How will she stop the armies massing in the hundreds of thousands?

And yet, the ponies, the minions, they walk the wet streets, eyes wide shut, faces as empty as the blackest caves. They do not care. They never did. Even if war comes, even if bombs drop form the skies, houses exploding in a mass of brilliant debris, even if piles of corpses appear suddenly and overnight, they will not care. They think only of themselves, a burning ruin coaxing out nothing but a quiet “at least it’s not me”. Sometimes, Octavia watched them; she listened to what they talked about. It was always nothing, nothing useful or even intelligent, mentioning a lot of places they had no ambition to visit and a lot of ponies they hated and sometimes, they talked about the others in terrible, hurtful ways.

Suddenly, like mass pile of stone falling on her head, the realization hit her, waking her out of the dreamless sleep. Music was her salvation; music was her expression, the very fabric of her mind woven to the notes and the bars. Now was the time, now was the moment of decision, the choice. Would she rather imprison herself, accept the fact that it was all hopeless and just join the masses, the legions, capturing deserts and proclaiming them to be the lush forests, teeming with life?

It is then that she had accepted her true fate, the path that she had chosen, the path of the artist who sings songs of the deserts, not glorifying them, not pretending that they are anything more than piles of sand, masses of dust and bushes, occasionally oases appearing from in between the mighty dunes. She would have to accept the fact that she was different, that she wanted freedom and knowledge in its purest form, that she wanted know how it all came together. Deep inside, Octavia dreamt of changing the world with her music, she believed that true gravity lay hidden in the notes and bars and keys, she deeply believed that change could come and will come.

A loner is what she was, forever destined to stray across the millions and millions of little paths that lay engraved within the skin of her hooves, the ravines and valleys of time. The little piece of the universe she was granted, the small section of the great symphony of time, to be played in whatever way she desired to play it. Even though her body was thin, her muscles were weak and her face stood exasperated, she was strong and free, flight and magic something that she did not possess even though those sensation were deeply embedded within her art. She was not a unicorn, she was not a Pegasus and yet, she knew of the feelings and the forces that they experienced, that they controlled and utilized.

Control is where it all laid hidden, cowering amidst the grey faces and the empty eyes, the places where the tyrant ruler pulled her strings. Now, more and more police were present on the streets, ponies afraid to even say anything against or for the tyrant under whom they lived. She had read “Thus Spoke Zarathustra”, she realized that within the wastelands of their souls they desired power, pure, unbridled control and command. She stood up once again and walked over to the window, peering into the streets.

Oh, brave new world. Oh, oh the greater spirit of ponykind, believing to be united under the flag of Celestia, instead divided according to race and class, segregated, alone in under the blazing sun and the gray clouds. Over in the distance, deep into the city, a personal drama unfolded, somepony dying, somepony thrown out into the desolate streets, somepony’s love on its deathbed, laying it’s life down in the name of ponykind. How she wanted to help the ones who were alone and dejected, how she wanted to assist the faceless ones and help them get over their personal tragedies. Oh, brave new world.

Thunder in the distance, lightning crashing down upon the bricked houses of the city, rain pattering onto the thin windows. Over the hills, war was being fought, ponies killing ponies over the trivialities of life, brothers murdering brothers. What was the point of it all? Couldn’t they simply accept their differences, shake hooves and walk away, accepting that life is to be lived to the fullest? When she was younger, they beat her; hit her when she was a filly just because she was different. With sticks and stones they ripped her and slashed her, eroding her soul up to the point of suicide.

Once they beat her, she ran to the Everfree, hiding amidst the bushes, sitting on top of the stumps, feeling nature. The energy touched her and trough her bruised eyes and battered face she saw it all, how it truly was. More thunder in the distance, thought after though passing through her mind as she sat at the wet window. That day, that rainy, cold Canterlot day, sitting at the window she saw it once again, she saw what she had seen so many years ago. She saw the faces of her family, she saw the spirit of ponykind, and she saw the deserts and the pretend forests. She found new passion in music, new hope and life everlasting.

That day, she discovered time and death and god.