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// Incipit (Lynne's Last Day) 
// Story: Under Every Lamppost 
// by SwiperTheFox 
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Lynne’s Story – Part I

It all started over at the intersection of 43rd and Vine over in downtown Ponyville. Nopony knows who the first stallion was. Some evening— sometime in a dull, dreary working day just like any other— that stallion walked up to the corner lamppost. He had that wonderful mix of dirt, dust, and sweat that dripped slowly off of his mane. He kicked his hardhat to the ground.

Then, he took that fateful step onto the curb, twisted his front hooves around the post, and threw his body straight into the light. He opened up that ugly mug of his— scarred by too many knocks of a steel pole and too many 5am shifts— and something magical happened. He sang.

That stallion probably had more guts in his front left hoof than I have in my entire body. He just opened up his heart and poured every last bit of it onto the pavement. Then, some of the bold little colts nearby joined in. I suppose it’s like planting a little seed that will eventually end up giving you a whole forest. New singing groups spread all across Ponyville.

That’s when I come in. Or, I should say, where I came in. The day that that first stallion sung at the intersection of 43rd and Vine also just so happened to be the second year anniversary of another momentous day in my life. It's an anniversary that I would rather not talk about too much. I commemorated that morning before work by leaving a pretty set of Roseluck’s flowers at the gravesite. Let’s just say that if my parents had still been around, they would have loved to hear that stallion sing at the 43rd and Vine lamppost. I sure loved seeing it.

I worked on the other construction site nearby the one with the fateful stallion. The building companies may have been fierce competitors, but we we’re close enough to wave ‘hi’ and always did. Almost every builder was a ‘traveler’— like myself. You know them. They're that race of pony that live in trailers and shacks away from the regular houses and have used salt licks thrown at them where they walk. You also might have spotted them getting kicked out of hotels or having shopkeepers stare at them to make sure they don't steal anything.

Anyways, my friends and I watched that first stallion sing with eyes the size of dinner plates. The three of us— Blackberry, Spring Step, and I— knew that we’d be singing ourselves sooner or later. We stuck together pretty close and stayed aloof from the rest of our co-workers.

We always called ourselves ‘The Three Lovers’. I still can’t help chuckling at it. Of course, I guess that it seemed like a pretty sick joke. Blackberry brought a little bedroom experience, at least, thanks to a lonely cleaning mare that looked old enough to be his mother and a whole lot of champagne. I should cut us some slack, though.

All of us had been stuck in that horrible black hole between foal and stallion. For Pete’s sake, Spring Step didn’t even have his cutie mark yet. He didn’t worry too much, though, since the site was just a job to him. Blackberry had about the same story. They had parents. They had careers planned out. They had hopes, dreams, longings, deep thoughts… the whole shebang.

Not me, however. I worked to live. I had to eat. I had to survive. Still, I never be like the other dirt-poor ponies at the construction site. Those workers— travelers, almost all of them— sucked up every last bit of scorn, every glance, every smirk, every gesture, and everything else that the Ponyville natives dished out. Then, those construction ponies decided that the natives could just stuff it. That negative attitude just wasn’t my style, even though I felt the same stinging prejudice.

It couldn’t work for me, for Blackberry, or for Spring Step. That's why we stuck so close. My co-workers thought nothing about some fencing on the side. They took some special discounts. They cut corners. I could go on for a while. Blackberry, Spring Step, and I set ourselves apart since, in our minds, hating somepony that hates you is just letting them win. You fight fire with water, darkness with light, hunger with food, cold with heat, blah-blah-blah… What can I say? My parents raised this big, ugly bluish-brown goon to have the heart of a little filly.

But my co-workers, praise Celestia, rationalized their lives by boiling this pot of hate inside them for everypony else in this city. Their eyes narrowed into slits as, say, Rarity or the other ponies of privilege walked by. My goodness, if Rarity had just stepped a few more feet into the site… She might have had a knife in her flank and her dress ripped right off.

I could never be like that. I had to have a greater purpose. I had to believe in something. I felt destined to believe in something. I just didn’t know what that something was.

The singing groups grew like apples on a tree after that first stallion had a go. Our construction site held out for a while, day after day going by. I knew I would sing sooner or later. My coworkers— expect for my two friends, of course— would rather use a guitar to bash a pony upside the head in a robbery than play the blasted instrument.

When did I start singing? I can’t recall exactly, but I guess around five weeks had passed since that first stallion on 43rd Street. I had somewhat of a low mood that particular day as I went to work. Yet I soon had this one tune stuck in my head and it never got out. I’m sure I picked it up from Pinkie Pie and her flamboyant showponyship right in front of Sugarcube Corner. She picked up Ponyville’s new musical atmosphere almost immediately, and she had encouraged any colt— regardless of talent— to belt out tunes outside the bakery. Pinkie grew so excited that she produced this worn out piano from goodness knows where and set it out for public use. She often sang whenever she met a clot with the same kind of happy, bouncy musical style.

That one day— the day that I finally started singing— I spent my lunch break sitting over right across from Pinkie. I felt like I needed all the cheering up that day that I could get. She hopped around and cheered as some random colt plinked her piano. I couldn't help feeling that she was singing for me, although it made no sense. I didn't really see her as potential... marefriend really. She looked so sunny, so bubbly, and so perfect— more like an unapproachable goddess than an earth pony. But as that old song lyrics goes, 'every fire comes from a spark'. Pinkie's song stuck around on my mind the rest of that day. 

Time dragged on, and I sang very quietly to myself. Soon, we only had a few hours to go on that late shift. But— holy smokes— the clock couldn’t seem to move any slower. The foreman called a break. Of course, he knew as well as anypony that we needed a rest or else we wouldn’t do anything else productive all night. I thought he was a great stallion, back then. Later, I found out that wasn’t necessarily so.

Anyways, I kept hearing Pinkie’s voice in my head that day. It kept me from feeling pretty alone since Spring Step didn’t come in that day. I learned much later that everypony in his family had freaked out— thinking an unusual rash of his meant the ‘cutie pox’ was back in town. I didn't really want to break, to be honest, I just wanted to be home and finish that day off for good.

The other workers played cards. They complained about the weather, their aching backs, their sore hooves, and anything else that you could possibly complain about while keeping a straight face. Most of them bragged about their sexual escapades. Given that my score on that front was a big fat goose egg, I had no desire to take part of any of that. I stood off at the corner, like always. Blackberry felt sorry and moved over next to me, like always once again. What can I say? That’s what friends are for, and I really only had two friends in the whole world for Pete’s sake.

Blackberry tapped his hooves upon that curb. I found myself swinging my own hooves to the same beat. He had Pinkie’s song in his mind as well. Before I could say ‘cupcakes’, I had jumped up right alongside the lamppost. The light bathed me so intensely that I almost went into shock. I opened my mouth, and it just all burst out. Blackberry bounced up right alongside. Our eyes didn’t even meet, but he was swinging and I was jumping. I guess you could say it was all just instinct.

Those hardened stallions out there? They just seemed to beam. I suppose it was quite a sight. I just knew that we were singing like birds. And I didn’t have a care in the world anymore.

A few days went by after that fateful day. I guess our own little lonely lamppost was due for its own group. Just like every other one this side of Ponyville, we didn’t organize anything. We didn’t plan. We didn’t even think about songs. We just stepped right up when the twilight felt right.

Day after day went by. I wish I could say that the Three Lovers meant something or did something profound. I can’t even say that we got better. But, hey, practice burned spare time even if it didn’t make perfect.

One fateful day— a full week on after the group got together— has been burned right into my memory. I could tell you anything— what I had for breakfast that day, how many ponies I said ‘hello’ too, how many beams I put into place, how many bites I took from my sandwich, and so on. Five minutes on the dot after lunchtime, I got a call from the assistant foreman. He says the big stallion wanted to see me.

Naturally, I felt rather… nervous. A more honest word would be ‘petrified’. He perched over that enormous sandy brown desk of his. He had his hooves folded. That thick brow of his had transmogrified into something else. He opened his mouth and said ‘hello’ and, at that exact moment, I knew my goose had cooked. He went on and on about how I had been a great member of the team, how nopony would say a word against me, how the economic times kept changing, how he had to think about what’s best for the whole group, et cetera. It all finished too blasted fast.

One friendly nudge later, I found myself leaning on that same lamppost. That ten foot distance from the construction site used to mean nothing. Then, it meant everything. I might as well have stepped off a cliff.

Blackberry tried to cheer me up best he could. Bless his heart. Spring Step did his best as well. He said his mother would bake me a nice pie. I forced out a smile. I told myself it would all be alright. I told them. At least they bought it.

Things sort of went off on a detour after that. I had no idea what would happen. I still don’t quite understand it, right now. I have to say, despite everything, that even if I never saw the rest of the Four Stairsteps again— I would forever be grateful. When Ruby Raindrops tripped a little bit over my back left hoof, he found me a broken stallion with not a bit to his name. I had crumbled onto the street with my head in my hooves. I couldn’t even bear to sing the pain away. Just a low whistle…

Then, I gazed up into those young eyes. I saw a matching smile. He rested his orangish-red mane on the post. He opened his mouth. I can’t put into words what I heard. As I kept whistling, he kept on singing. I couldn’t believe my ears. I don’t remember— to be honest— whatever pleasantries we exchanged when we finished. I’ll never forget for as long as I live the first words out of his mouth after that foul first heard my whistling.

“Ooooh… Our love's… gonna be written down… in history-yyyyyyyy…  A-Just… like… Romeo and Juliet…”