//------------------------------// // Stanza 3 // Story: Maud Slam // by Jarvy Jared //------------------------------// In the hypnotic haze that followed, Maud was exposed to a variety of poems and poets. Their first performer, a tall, bulky minotaur, launched into a melancholic sestina about his grandmother and his childhood home; it had the “scent” of earth, like the musk of fresh, fertile soil, and the warmth of a clay fireplace. A female hippogriff ascended to the stage and sung an ode to their old home, all about the majesty of the waves and how they could see the moon in the glowing jellyfish, yet for some reason, upon its utterance, Maud had a vision of the Pie Family rock farm and the crystal quarry she’d taken Apple Bloom when the Apples had visited for Hearthswarming. She remembered their conversation, the sweetness of it. The third performer was one of the kirins. She seemed the most nervous of the first bunch, and when she initially spoke into the microphone, her soft voice screeched with feedback. But once the noise had settled and she could begin, her timidity became the voice of a song to the forest and to the river—which forest and which river, she never said, but Maud got the feeling she meant each and every one. Instinctively she thought of the one that swam through the crystal cave, and that inevitably brought her thoughts to Mudbriar and Boulder. Electric warmth spread through her, and she could barely contain the excitement in her own applause. So caught up in the acts, Maud almost missed when intermission was called. The sound of sniffling was what did the trick, and as she blinked and turned her head back towards her table, she realized that the source was none other than Starlight. “Really, Starlight?” Trixie said, snickering. Yet her own eyes had a slightly misty appearance to them. “I mean, I knew you were emotional, but this…” “I-it’s nothing! It’s the candle smoke, that’s all. Really!” Starlight blew her nose in the pamphlet, then crumpled it in her magic and threw it into the nearby trash can. “B-besides, Trixie, that just means I have a heart, unlike somepony I know!” “Trixie does have a heart! Hers just isn’t shaken so easily!” “Oh, poo, we both know that isn’t true.” “Yes, Trixie,” Maud said. “You remember when you first met Thorax, don’t you?” The magician’s cheeks burned red against her usual blueness. “T-that’s completely different,” she began to say, but a series of coughs interrupted her. “Sounds like you need a drink,” Maud said. “Actually, a cup of coffee doesn’t sound that bad,” Starlight said. She made to stand, but Maud put a hoof on her shoulder. “I’ll go grab us some.” “Really? But, Maud, there’s no need to—” “I need to stretch my legs. And being up helps me think. About my poems.” “Oh.” Starlight hesitated, then nodded. “All right. I think two cups should do the trick. Trixie? Do you want anything else?” Trixie, still coughing, managed to squeak out something about “trying those blueberry bagels.” Then Maud was ascending the staircase again, heading back into the world of the cafe. She took her bag with her, the parcel bouncing comfortingly close to her hip. Maud had to pause at the top in order to let her eyes re-adjust to the copper glow of the cafe proper. A line of customers, some of whom had been a part of the audience below, stretched from the counter to the chairs and tables. Once her eyes were ready, Maud joined them. Thankfully, none appeared to recognize that she was a participant, and so she could simply relax and listen to the conversations happening all around her. Many consisted of murmurs about what had just been heard. Each customer expressed more than a little bit of wonderment and awe. There were rumblings of compliments and excited guesses at what the next half of the event would bring. And some, perhaps still enraptured by the performances themselves, stood with mouths half-open and their thoughts visibly churning through the pile of emotions conducted through them. Maud couldn’t blame them. For some reason this event felt different than plenty of others she’d been to. Perhaps it had something to do with the atmosphere, the sense that they were all privy to some secret of the universe when they were gathered there and listening. Like following a trail of rocks to a particularly magnificent, moss-covered boulder, the poems thus presented had taken them all on a trip through the hearts of their speakers. She hoped that her poems could do the same—but truthfully, she was beginning to think otherwise. As the line continued to shift up, Maud decided that she ought to review her selected poem. She shifted her satchel and took the sheet out, balancing it against her hoof. The words there were familiar—she had studied them on the way to San Franciscolt—but now, after hearing what the other poets had to offer, they no longer felt as comforting. There was no form, no set rhythm or “scheme” of any sort. They were words. When the pony behind the counter asked for her order, Maud was still thinking this, and as she put the poem away and replaced its spot on her hoof with a tray of bagels and coffee, she continued to do so. She wondered what the judges would think. Maybe nothing. But wouldn’t that be bad? That her poem had made so little of an impression so as to draw no other thought to it? “So what’s your poem about?” Maud blinked. She slightly twisted her head and saw Elegy Mixer sitting at a table, watching her. Her own papers were laid out before her, while her magic hummed softly, levitating a cup of coffee. She’d taken off her beret and had draped it lazily behind her chair. Most curiously was the fact she was smiling, without the apparent mockery from before. “Rocks,” Maud said, once she realized Elegy was waiting for an answer. Elegy kept on smiling. “Rocks. Of course. Well, they say write what you know.” “Yes. They do.” Maud glanced at the stairs. She thought about excusing herself, then thought, Why bother? She turned to leave. “Of course, they also say that the judges here have a particular kind of taste that doesn’t always apply to ponies who write… differently.” Elegy set her cup down. Her magic transferred over to the sugar packets, and she ripped two open, dumping their contents into the cup, before taking a spoon and stirring it. Maud watched her. “What do you mean?” “Have a seat and I’ll show you.” Maud knew that tone of voice. It was the same smugness of a showmare that Trixie had, the kind that suggested both amusement and condescension. But whereas she had grown used to Trixie’s boasts, hearing that tone from Elegy brought up painful memories of her college years. It was the voice she’d used to hack away at submissions, not just Maud’s, to describe in great detail the myriad of ways that the piece had failed at existing. In one instance, when reviewing a fellow student’s submission, Elegy pointed to the fact that the attempts at short, rhyming couplets “elicited nothing from me but a bored yawn—you weren’t even trying to be clever or interesting!” The student had reddened, taken the piece of writing away, and sprinted out the door; she never came back to the literary magazine. Perhaps Maud’s face wasn’t as stoic as it used to be, because Elegy’s smile dropped ever so slightly. “Come on. I’m not going to bite you, Maud. Celestia, it’s been ages anyway since school. We’re practically strangers.” She remained personally unresolved, but, guided by some hidden desire, Maud took the opposite seat, placing the tray to the side. Elegy’s smile returned. She pushed her papers aside, then levitated out another pamphlet, different from the ones downstairs. “Here’s a list of all the previous winners,” she said, flipping to a certain page. “You know of them, of course, if you’ve read poetry before. Starscribe Swirl, Radiant Jewel, Allen Winnisberg, Shadow Brooks, a bunch. Here. They have excerpts from their pieces that won.” She flipped the page and pointed. What Maud noticed right away was the tone of voice they all took. In a word, they were emotional, much like how a lot of performance poetry was portrayed, but she could see the nuance of their words and of their language, the way they charged into the nature of their subjects. They were ballads, odes, songs, eulogies, free-verse, lengthy, expressive—they were the kinds of poems that a pony like Elegy Mixer would appreciate, would have allowed to be published. Maud returned to the list of poets. Next to each was a small portrait, and each one held the Scribble and Quibble Award in their hooves. They all looked serious, their faces engraved with the weight of their words. “You see?” Elegy said. “This is the kind of stuff that gets the judges rolling. You write that sort of thing, and you’ll have them eating out of your hoof in no time.” “That would be unsanitary,” Maud said. Elegy ignored the comment. “If you ask me, Maud, you’ve gone in rather blind. You know the judges will rule you out almost immediately. They won’t even care to let you try.” Maud’s face reddened. She was thankful she did not have Pinkie’s temperament, but the section of the table beneath her hoof cracked a little. “You don’t know that for sure.” “No? Well, the pattern speaks for yourself, don’t you think?” It did, no matter how much Maud didn’t want to admit it. Her mind flickered back to her poems. None of them fit that pattern. Then she thought about the previous performers, how the room had reacted, how she had. No matter how she thought about it, her poems weren’t those poems. Could it be that she stood no chance in the slightest? Elegy sipped her coffee. “It’s a shame, you know. I myself don’t particularly care for that kind of criteria, but it does eliminate the wiggle room a pony can have. Your poem…” She trailed. Her eyes darted towards Maud. “Your poem… you have it with you, right?” Maud blinked. “Yes, I do. Why?” “Here.” Elegy moved her cup out of the way. “I’ll take a look at it. Give you a few suggestions here and there. You’ll be able to make them before you have to go up.” Maud stared at her. Elegy maintained her smile, but she couldn’t keep an even gaze. She looked past Maud at some unknown party, then sighed and shook her head. “Stars above, you don’t think I want to steal your poem, do you? You know the only poems we can read are the ones we submit. I just want to help.” “Why?” Elegy tilted her head. “Because I’m good at what I do and I want to share that ability with you?” Maud frowned at her. “You’ve never wanted to help me before.” Elegy shrugged. “Ponies change. You know what doesn’t? The tastes of critics. And the artists among us suffer at the hooves of critics. Unjustly, mind you, but do they care? Course they don’t. But that just means that you have to play to their tastes if you want to get anywhere with this.” She paused, then gestured aimlessly with her hoof. “Consider this me offering a golden branch after everything I’ve done in the past. One poet to another.” Now she stared at Maud, her smile careful, plastered. Maud stared back; but the title struck several notes in her mind, and she felt a sighing in her, like one of relief. It seemed as though she’d just been inducted into a select group of individuals— the true poets, as it were. So who was she to deny their offer? “All right,” Maud said. Turning around to undo the flaps to her bag, Maud carefully pushed her snout in and took out the one she meant to read. She turned it around with her hoof, then hesitated. The upside-down words seemed to stare back at her, scared to be judged, to be changed. But now she was just being silly, wasn’t she? With a bit more force than she might have wanted, Maud pushed the paper towards Elegy. It flew up a bit, but was caught in Elegy’s magic, and she set it down. The magic moved to her own bag, and she took out a quill pen and inkwell. She dipped it and began to read. From her spot across the table, Maud could have sworn that her smile had turned triumphant, like a shark’s. “Well, here,” Elegy said, tapping the parchment with the tip of the quill. “I’m already starting to see an issue with this line…”