Siren Night

by MetaSkipper

Sunset

Sonata ran. It had been a week since that fateful day. Since that end to the Battle of the Bands. She had just been kicked out of the house by Adagio and Aria. Something about being stupid and being the worst and ruining their plans. She didn’t bother to remember. She didn’t know where she was running to, nor did she care. And so she ran.

Eventually, her body gave way, and she collapsed onto a bench, slouching. She tried to breath in between her sobs. The sun began to dip into the horizon; the sky began to darken. She hardly noticed.

Why, she wondered. Why had they shattered her pendants, taken away her singing? Sure, she had planned to take over the world and enslave all of humanity with it, but it was her singing! She was a siren! She sang!

She sat there, crying. Ever since that day, she couldn’t carry a tune. She was off-key, off-beat, and off on her own. But in that moment, she didn’t care.

Suddenly, she composed herself, sniffling. She sat up. She sang. Because that was what sirens do.

She sang the old songs. Even now, she remembered her first songs. The songs of manipulation and hatred. The songs that had almost taken over this world. She opened her mouth, and out came a broken voice. She saw ponies fighting amongst themselves, empowering her songs even more. She remembered the taste of hatred, the scent of paranoia, the sensation of dissent. Memories were all she had now. She saw herself, her only companions for a thousand years, strutting in a cafeteria. Her voice sounded akin to an un-tuned piano, a violin wound too tight. She saw a crowed enthralled, her true form revealed. Even the scraps of arguing would have sated her, if only for a while. But even such lowly things were beyond her reach. But she tried anyway. Out of foolishness or determination, she did not know, nor care. She started to shake, twitch, just a little. Her song would have driven away any living being that could hear, and even a few that couldn’t, with her singing. But there was no one to hear her. And she sang.

Her tune changed. Her songs were no longer about others but herself. She sang a cry for her old life back, a cry for her ability to sing, to enthrall once more. The old songs still echoed in her mind, but they were fading. They had been fading for a week now. She didn’t want to believe it. She tried again, tried to sing the songs that had been her life since time immemorial. But her voice failed her, and she opened her mouth, and all she heard was silence. Desperate, she started to cry for anything, anything at all to make her day better. Tears ran through her makeup and stain her clothes, or perhaps it had started to rain, or maybe she had finally snapped and was drooling in her delirium. She could not tell, nor did she care to try. No longer could she sit straight. She heaved over, arched back. Her voice, her song became primal, instinctual… beautiful. Not the beautiful that earns standing ovations, or the beautiful that gets a crowd to sing along, or the beautiful that transforms into half-ponies. It was the beautiful that reminds a child of a mother’s heartbeat, that demands that you feel a chill run through you. But there was no one to hear her. And she sang.

She kept singing. The sun had long since set, and the stars shone above. She had long since stopped singing anything that resembled words. Thoughts, concepts, vocalizations, but not words or phrases. In her voice, she reached out, tried to grab something, anything that she could dream for, but it always slipped between her fingers, always merely an illusion to tease her. A friend, a warm bed, a little duckling riding a taco.

Wait, what?

There it was – a little ducking, clad in sailor hat, sailing a fish taco in a sea of salsa. Even through a storm of shredded sharp cheddar and waves of ground beef, that taco boat sailed on. And it looked mighty tasty, too. The spontaneity, the comedy of it all took her. Her former friends… no, her former companions, would probably have scolded her for such a silly thought. But they weren’t here. They couldn’t see what she saw. Her song was still that primal cry, but now it was lighter, happier. A little bell rang, but could only be heard if you believed. And she dared believe. First it was a giggle in between the notes. Then out slipped a chuckle. Then, laughter; pure, childish laughter. Her singing and laugher became one. She was hopping up and down on that bench, and only heaven above knows why she was not leaping, dancing, twirling. She didn’t need words. Words would have limited her vision, her story of that little duckling, her story about herself. She had to tell that story, to anyone and everyone that would, no, could hear her. But there was no one to hear her. And she sang.

In the morning, she would be found by a girl who had come to school early because her “Pinkie Intuition” told her to. She would be found, collapsed and snoring, on a bench on the way to school. She would be offered a change of change of clothes, an ear to hear her story. She would try to share it, and find her voice lost. She would try to pantomime it, and fail, fail quite miserably. But the details of her story would not be that important, not in the grand scheme of life. She would find a friend to laugh with. She would sit with that girl, later that day, at lunch. She would sit with that girl, and her friends, at lunch.

But for now, she sang about a duckling sailor in a fish taco boat. And she remembered what it is to enjoy singing.

Author's Note:

If there's one thing I learned from this exercise, it is that descriptive writing is hard.

EDIT: And writing properly is harder.

Comments

[Seratina]

Not bad, I enjoyed the overall sense of the story, it was just a bit fragmented and clunky. Try separating large paragraphs smaller ones, that should help a bit with the flow.

[Csquared08]

That was really weird. Huh.

[Awesomo3000]

...Trippy.

[Snowfall1775]

Off to a start.
Here's something I caught.
She would be offered a change of change of clothes, an ear to hear her story.
A little redundant there.

[Sapphire the Gem]

Awww a duck sailing on a taco. That is adorable.

[Sexay Shie]

What's up with you people making Adagio or Aria out to to be the bad cop all the time? Sonata is just as nasty as they are, if not worse. She's responsible for herself as well.

[knightcommander]

6534090
Because they can write what they want

[redandready45]

Adorable and moving.