//------------------------------// // Sweetie Belle // Story: An Understanding Heart // by Alaborn //------------------------------// An Understanding Heart By Alaborn Standard disclaimer: This is a not for profit fan work. My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic is copyright Hasbro, Inc. I make no claim to any copyrighted material mentioned herein. Chapter 8: Sweetie Belle With Apple Bloom refusing to talk further, Open Book ended his counseling session early. He dismissed the filly, and kept an eye on her as she left the school. Confident she wasn’t going to get in trouble on her own, he returned to his office. A knock indicated that the unicorn filly had arrived punctually. “Come in,” the counselor said. “Hello again, Mr. Open Book,” Sweetie Belle said. She perched on a bench and looked expectantly at the earth pony. “I hope you’ve had a chance to think about what we talked about two days ago,” Open Book said. “I’d like to start with a visualization exercise. Picture yourself one year from now. You’ve earned your cutie mark; it doesn’t matter what it is. What are you doing right now?” Sweetie Belle thought. “I can’t give you an answer until I know what my cutie mark is!” she said. “Are you sure?” asked Open Book. “Very sure,” Sweetie Belle replied. “Like, if my talent is in fashion or gems, I’m probably with my sister. But if it’s something else, I’m with my parents. Or if it’s a talent I can’t pursue in Ponyville, I could be somewhere else entirely.” “That’s well thought out, though a bit specific,” Open Book said. “What talents couldn’t you pursue in Ponyville?” he asked. “You know, like you said today. There’s no medical school in Ponyville, so what if my special talent is medicine?” Sweetie Belle explained. Open Book talked mostly about educational opportunities for ponies after they graduated from their local school. He suspected Sweetie Belle actually had something else in mind when she made that comment, something she could practice at her age. He tapped his notepad and waited to see if the filly would elaborate. When she didn’t, he tried a different approach. “There’s a story I remember from my youth, back when we all were concerned as you about finding our special talents,” Open Book said. “But strangely, the pony who wanted my help already had his cutie mark.” Long Quill, an aquamarine earth pony colt, shuffled nervously on his hooves. He really didn’t want to be here, but he needed help, and this classmate he didn’t know well had helped one of his friends discover his special talent. Open Book noticed the awkward colt standing by him when he turned to pick up his saddlebags. “What’s up, Long Quill?” he asked. “Could we walk somewhere?” Long Quill asked. “I have a favor to ask, and I hope you’ll be willing to help me.” The brown earth pony colt assessed his classmate. He wasn’t really a close friend, but Open Book got along well enough with Long Quill. Open Book had helped two classmates uncover their special talents, but noticing Long Quill’s quill and inkpot cutie mark, that couldn’t be why he needed help. Still, it just felt right to help. “Okay,” he replied. “Where to?” “Let’s just walk,” Long Quill replied. The aquamarine pony glanced around as they walked away from their school, down one of the busy streets of Canterlot. Open Book noticed his classmate held his tongue until the last of their classmates left their sight. “I need your help to speak to Sunset,” Long Quill finally admitted. “Are you sure you’re talking to the right colt?” Open Book asked. “I know it isn’t the kind of help you’re used to doing, but I need somepony to keep me from chickening out. And if it doesn’t work, you can give me honest feedback,” Long Quill explained. “It sounds like you’re expecting it won’t work. Why is that?” Open Book wondered. “Look, I have some doubts, but what I’m planning has to be personal,” Long Quill said. “Meet me tomorrow outside this café, a half hour before sunset, if you’re willing to help me.” Open Book nodded. “I’ll help as best I can.” The next evening, Open Book met Long Quill at the designated location. The aquamarine pony had slicked back his violet mane and wore a bowtie around his neck. Those changes made his everyday saddlebags look out of place. Long Quill took a deep breath to steady himself. “Now will you tell me what your plan is?” said Open Book. “This evening, when Celestia raises the moon, I will pour out my heart to Sunset, with the poetry I wrote for her,” Long Quill said. Open Book facehoofed. This would not end well. While his classmate did have a cutie mark common to writers, and came from a family with a talent for writing, even a pony with a gift for writing tends to wince when reading what he wrote during his foalhood. “Do you want any advice on what you wrote?” Open Book asked. “No!” Long Quill replied, a bit too quickly. “I have to do this myself. And you have to make sure I do this.” “Okay,” Open Book said. They walked to the house where Sunset lived with her parents, Long Quill constantly checking his saddlebags to make sure his writing was still there. Once they arrived, the two earth ponies hid in the bushes, waiting for Celestia to lower the sun and raise the moon. “That is so corny,” Sweetie Belle interrupted. “It sounds like something from those books my sister reads and doesn’t want me to see.” “Hush, Sweetie Belle,” Open Book chided. “That was considered the epitome of gentlestallionly behavior when I was your age,” he explained. “Now let’s get back to the story.” A beautiful full moon illuminated the Canterlot night, the Mare in the Moon present as always. Long Quill gave his poetry a final review, and then stepped out of the bushes. The light shining from Sunset’s second story window suggested she was inside. He exhaled slowly, steadying his nerves. “I can do this,” he thought. Grabbing a pebble, Long Quill tossed it at Sunset’s window. It clattered off the glass. Ten seconds later, he tossed a second pebble. A confused-looking orange pegasus filly opened the window and checked the sky. Finally, she looked down, and saw Long Quill standing there. Long Quill smiled as he gazed upon the cute filly. Her yellow mane, looking so effortlessly wind-tousled. The orange coat that darkened to red near her hooves and muzzle, much like her namesake. That charming smile. “Dear Sunset, I have come to you under the rising moon to say to you these words, from my heart,” started Long Quill. From his vantage point in the bushes, Open Book watched his classmate face his fears. He smiled as he recited his poetry. By the tenth word, that smile was gone, replaced by an expression that combined pain and disgust. This had to be the worst poetry anypony had ever written. Open Book chanced a peek through the branches. Sunset’s own face reflected shock and confusion. When Long Quill finished his poetry reading, Sunset took a while to recover her senses. Finally, she spoke. “Thank you, Long Quill. But… ahh… I guess all I can say is that I like you more than I like your poetry.” Both earth ponies tried to figure out if that was a good thing or a bad thing. “I think I hear my parents. You better get out of here!” Sunset warned. “So what happened after that?” asked Sweetie Belle. “Well, we took off,” Open Book said. “I gave him my honest feedback on his poetry.” “No, what happened with Long Quill and Sunset?” Sweetie Belle clarified. She smiled, visions of romantic young love filling her head. “It was just a foalhood crush. Nothing permanent came of it, but they remained friends until Sunset went off to flight school and then the Academy,” the earth pony replied. “But there’s something important to learn from this story.” The next day, Long Quill invited Open Book over to his house. “Is this about Sunset?” Open Book asked. “No, I’m worried about something else,” Long Quill admitted. “Well, I am worried that I ruined things with Sunset, but there’s something else. Could you take a look at more of my writing?” Open Book shrugged. “I guess, but wouldn’t your parents be the better ponies to talk to?” he said. “No, they…. Look. I think I just need to show you,” Long Quill said. The two ponies headed to Long Quill’s house, and into his bedroom. It looked typical for a young colt’s room, except for the fine writing desk in the corner. Books and papers cluttered the desk, and a nearby wastebasket was filled with the results of many failed writing endeavors. “Could I ask you for your honest opinion on some writing?” Long Quill asked. Open Book nodded. Long Quill passed him a variety of written works. There were several short stories, a sonnet, the opening act of a play, and some more experimental works. Long Quill rubbed his hooves together nervously as Open Book read. Once Open Book set the papers aside, Long Quill asked, “What do you think?” “You asked for my honest opinion, so here it is. It’s better than your poetry from last night, but overall, nothing here catches my interest,” Open Book said. “That was what I was afraid of,” Long Quill said. “Do you think I have the wrong cutie mark?” “I don’t think that happens,” Open Book said. “Will you tell me how you earned your cutie mark?” “It started with the annual Young Writers competition last year,” Long Quill began. “Mom and Dad have always encouraged me to write, so they suggested I try my hoof at writing a short story. So I did. I wrote it, revised it, and carefully scribed it on some of Mom’s good paper. When I brought down the envelope with my submission, Dad pointed to my flank. I had been so intent on my writing, I didn’t even notice that I got my cutie mark!” “And you won the competition?” Open Book asked. “That’s just it. You’d think that discovering my special talent would result in winning first place with my story, but I didn’t win. I didn’t get third place, or honorable mention, or even a best in my age group award. I got nothing,” Long Quill said. “So I’ve been trying all kinds of writing, but nothing has been successful!” he continued. “Every time I fail, I grow more and more worried.” Open Book thought about his classmate’s story. He glanced back at the sonnet. “Would you try writing something right now?” Open Book suggested. “Write what? I need an idea,” Long Quill said. Open Book searched his mind for an idea. “Why don’t you try writing from the perspective of a filly who just received a moonlight confession from the colt she loves?” Long Quill considered the idea. Open Book was afraid his suggestion might rub Long Quill the wrong way, but the aquamarine colt got to work. He pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and centered it on the desk’s writing surface. He plucked a fresh quill from the drawer and chewed it, ideas running through the colt’s head. After a moment, he dipped the quill in the inkpot and started to write. Open Book watched as Long Quill wrote. The quill in his mouth scribed elegant cursive script on the page. He would write a sentence or two, and then scratch out some words or a phrase, making edits as he went. “You write with a quill?” Open Book said. Long Quill returned the quill to the inkpot. “Yeah, of course,” he said. “How? I mean, I find a quill too thin and flexible to use,” Open Book said. “I’ve always written with a pencil. Come to think of it, I can’t remember seeing anyone but a unicorn use a quill.” “I’ve never thought about how,” Long Quill admitted. “I guess it’s just a matter of applying the right pressure.” “What if your talent isn’t what you write, but how you write?” Open Book said. “What do you mean?” Long Quill asked. “Pass me a quill, and I’ll demonstrate,” Open Book responded. Long Quill placed a clean sheet of paper on the desk. He mouthed over a quill, and stepped back. Open Book stepped up to the desk and sat down. He dipped the quill into the inkpot, and wrote a sentence. The brown earth pony rested the quill in the inkpot. “Take a look at this,” he said. Long Quill looked at the paper. Was that was supposed to be writing? Some of the marks were vaguely letter-shaped, but either misshapen or incomplete. Further, spatters of ink marred the page. “What is it?” he finally asked. “It says, ‘This is a sentence written by Open Book, using a quill.’” Open Book said. “I suspect most earth ponies and pegasi write like this when holding a quill. But you write beautifully. One might say it’s a talent.” “It turns out his talent was calligraphy, not composition. Today, if you’re invited to a high society party in Canterlot, your invitation was probably written by Long Quill,” Open Book told Sweetie Belle. “Now, do you have any questions?” “Yeah, how come you didn’t repeat Long Quill’s poetry when you told me that story?” asked Sweetie Belle. “Can’t you remember it?” Open Book pulled out two sheets of paper. “Thanks to your town librarian, I was able to recall every horrid stanza”, he said. “Are you really sure you want to read it? I wasn’t exaggerating when I said it was bad.” “I’ve dealt with bad before,” Sweetie Belle said. “Let’s see it.” Open Book passed her the papers. He turned and picked up the books he borrowed from the library. “If it will help, I borrowed some books of poetry from the library….” Open Book trailed off as he saw Sweetie Belle deeply immersed in the colt’s poetry. “’An angel with a coat of orange / I look at you and would never cringe’? Seriously? Didn’t his writer parents ever teach him about synonyms? Or metaphors? Or even reordering words? I never thought I’d see worse than digestia.” As Sweetie Belle complained, the pencil clutched in her magical aura scratched replacement words on the paper. “’The sky’s warm glow at end of day could never be / more pretty than the one I see who flies o’er me,’” Open Book read over Sweetie Belle’s shoulder. Her quick editing bypassed the colt’s poor attempt to find a rhyme for the word orange. But she also changed the meter and just made it sound more poetic. After another five minutes, she had boiled down two pages of adolescent dreck into a tight eight lines of poetry. “That’s a remarkable improvement for such a short time,” Open Book commented. “Why did you choose to change the meter like that?” he asked. “I was picturing the words as part of a song,” Sweetie Belle replied. “Would you mind singing it?” said Open Book. Sweetie Belle closed her eyes and began to sing, her sweet voice filling the small room. Open Book recognized the tune, To Celestia In Heaven, a notoriously difficult song to sing. He held his breath as she reached the high notes in the middle of the song. The unicorn filly nailed it, her voice losing none of its clarity over the song’s one and a half octave range. “That was beautiful,” Open Book said. “Have you thought about trying your hoof at singing?” “Oh, I couldn’t get on stage like that,” Sweetie Belle said. “It’s too embarrassing.” “There are other things you could do, such as songwriting. Now, I heard you and your friends tried other kinds of performing?” Open Book said, quickly changing subjects. “Yes, we discovered a lot of things that weren’t our talents,” Sweetie Belle said. “Tell me all about it,” Open Book said. “Well, we each tried stand-up comedy. None of us were good at it. We did a funny puppet play. It wasn’t very funny. I tried ventriloquism. It seems no one considers a unicorn doing ventriloquism to be noteworthy. Scootaloo thought about doing something more physical, so she tried mime. We discovered nopony likes mime,” Sweetie Belle said. “Was it easier being on stage doing something you were bad at?” Open Book interrupted. Sweetie Belle paused, her mouth slightly open. “Let’s go back to what we talked about first thing today. You mentioned a talent you couldn’t pursue in Ponyville. Were you thinking about singing when you said that?” asked Open Book. “I guess, maybe,” Sweetie Belle said reluctantly. “You’ve obviously been thinking about singing. So why haven’t you spent more time on it?” Open Book asked. “If that’s my talent, then I’ll have to go away. Leave my parents, leave my friends. I don’t want that,” Sweetie Belle said. “I’m sure you know that just because you discover your talent, it doesn’t mean you have to pursue it immediately. Your parents would probably be happy for you to spend a few more years as a normal filly,” Open Book said. “I guess,” Sweetie Belle said again. Open Book reflected on this breakthrough. Sweetie Belle had opened up, but he realized she didn’t mention someone. “Now, what would your sister think?” Sweetie Belle looked down. “I don’t know,” she said. Is that what she’s worried about? Open Book thought to himself. To Sweetie Belle, he said, “Why don’t you tell me, what’s the worst thing that could happen if your talent were singing?” “For my sister to be known the world over as Sweetie Belle’s sister,” the unicorn said. It took a moment, but Open Book finally realized what she meant. Before he could respond, he heard a knock on the door. “Five o’clock already? My, how the time flew,” he said. “I’ll leave you with only one request, Sweetie Belle. Please have a heart-to-heart talk with your sister before you go off on your next crusade.”