//------------------------------//
// A Familiar Story 
// Story: Hair Flips in Twelve Parts 
// by Penguifyer 
//------------------------------//

“So if you’re such a softy despite your confident facade, what’s with your music and poetry?”
Feather Bangs tilted his head and raised an eyebrow at the mare across the table. For a first date, he wasn’t sure if this was a red flag or not. “Huh?”
The mare chuckled and brushed her hair to the side. “I mean, you were terrified to talk to me.”
A jolt of fear struck his heart. “How’d you know that?”
She giggled, moving her eyes up and away. “A mare can tell, just saying.”
He slumped into his chair, a tad defeated. “Whatcha trying to say?”
“I guess I just find it ironic,” she smiled. “I understand the whole facade thing. To be honest, you’re not the first stallion I’ve seen rely on a facade. I guess it makes me view your poetry and music differently. Like it’s not actually real. At least, it’s not actually you.”
The mare probably thought she was poking fun at Feather. He chuckled in response. “I don’t know. I think you’re thinkin’ too hard.”
“Probably, but I like to push buttons,” she giggled.
They laughed together over their food, with Feather’s heart sinking behind his smile. Something about her comment dug beneath his skin and dragged down his soul. Was he really that shallow? If all of his art was just a ruse to hide his inner insecurities, was his art just a lie? Could somepony even say it was meaningless?
The dinner date didn’t last much longer. They exchanged a couple of embarrassing stories and Feather fully admitted to being a lot more nervous than he let himself on to be. Yet throughout the rest of the meal, the thought lingered in his head and gnawed at his confidence.
After they left the restaurant, exchanged goodbyes, and winked at each other with an open invitation for another date, Feather trotted to the nearest bench and sat down, burying his face in his hooves. Just the thought that his poetry was only a means to get mares to go out with him shook him. He loved poetry and sometimes loved working that poetry into songwriting. His poetry had to be worth more than just a flirtatious wink.
He rubbed his eyes and yawned. These were questions for philosophers and he certainly wasn’t one of those. The barrage of thoughts left him drained as he stumbled back to his hooves. He needed to do some thinking.


— — —


When he got home to his apartment, Feather gathered every poem he could find littered about his place, threw them into a box, and stuffed it in the closet. He then sat down at his desk, ripped out a piece of paper from a notebook, and stared at it with a pen in mouth. This was his turning point. He was gonna write something meaningful for once.
A minute passed, then another, and another. He took a swig from the glass of water beside him and stared back at the paper. More minutes passed without a single word on the page. Pushing himself as far as he could, he lowered the pen onto the paper and drew a line.
He let out a deep breath, dropped the pen, and inspected his work. A single line the size of a letter sat on his page.
“C’mon!” he shouted, knocking his pen off of the table.
He paced around in circles. Why was it so hard? With a mare in his sights, he could come up with witty lines off of the top of his head. But when he wanted to write about something he actually believed in, his mind ground to a halt.
At that moment, it hit him. “What do I even believe in?” At the end of the day, he didn’t even know what he wanted to write about. No talent could make up for that.
He collapsed and fell to the ground. A throbbing headache dulled his head as he sat up and rubbed it. He needed a break. Maybe some fresh evening air would clear his head.


— — —


The cool evening summer air blew through Feather’s mane as he let out a deep breath. Something about being away from his room and the piece of paper let his body unwind and his mind relax. The warm glow of the sunset coupled with the sounds of the breeze and laughter of ponies over with friends added to the tranquility.
Feather trotted down the Ponyville streets trying to clear his mind. He hoped stuffing the box of poems in his closest would put an end to lying to himself. But that facade defined his personality and his life. Even his feather and heart cutie mark testified to that. Without it, he didn’t know who he was.
He spotted a rock and kicked it down the street, watching it roll in front of the Ponyville Theater. Trotting up to it, a small group of ponies walked out of the doorway, faces plastered with disgust. Curious, Feather peeked inside the doors, hearing the echoes of a piano. He sneaked through the lobby and put his ears to the doors of the house. Something about the music sounded off. The door opened, almost squishing him between it and the wall. Three more ponies walked out with faces of disappointment. Seeing his chance, he sneaked through the opening in the door and silently sat down.
Ponies only occupied less than half of the seats, with a few even dozing off. A lone pianist sat on stage with her hooves gliding up and down the keyboard with the utmost precision. Yet, the music sounded garbled and incoherent, spewing notes with no apparent direction. Feather knew a bit of guitar and only the basics of chord theory. For a classical music concert (at least, that’s what he thought it was), he was more confused than impressed. He even had a few records or symphonies from the Canterlot Symphony Orchestra despite his pop-oriented exterior, which told him enough to know something was wrong.
When the pianist finished, she slid off of her seat, gave a weak bow with a stern face, and walked offstage to mild applause. As the audience died down, a stallion blew out of his nose into a chuckle. Another stallion dressed in formal attire (probably a critic) stood eyeing the crowd and spotting the offender.
“What?” the stallion rolled his eyes.
The critic pointed at the stallion. “Wanna laugh again?”
The stallion shrugged. “Why not?” His friends joined in and chuckled. “It’s still garbage.”
A few other ponies joined in with the laughter. Furious, the critic threw up his hooves, pointed at the remaining crowd, and shouted “Who cares if you listen!? Who cares if any of you listen!?” He then stormed out of the theater, his face radiating rage as he passed Feather.
The whole situation left Feather in a state of shock. Before, he didn’t know what to do with his art. Now, he didn’t even know what was happening around him. Unsure of what to do next, he sat still as stage ponies rolled the piano away and set up seven chairs, two of them behind synthesizers. Once done, five ponies with flutes, saxophones, and one with clarinets walked onstage and sat down. Of all ponies, Octavia and Vinyl Scratch (what was she doing here?) walked on stage and sat down behind the synths. With a grin and a nod, they played a slow but mesmerizing synth backdrop with light saxophone and flute melodies over it.
Something about it was simple and calming, soothing out the dissonance of Feather’s thoughts. His body relaxed, letting go of its tension and letting him slump in his chair. Despite its simplicity, the music sounded new of all things. At least, not something he was familiar with. And while he would’ve glanced over it any other time, the repetitive melodies and stable harmony eased his mind and, dare he say it, captivated him.
After a while of collecting his thoughts and relaxing to the music, it picked up instantly with a driving beat. His ears shifted to the new sound as he leaned forward. Despite its repetitiveness, something about the music felt fun. Maybe it was seeing Octavia spouting a slightly disheveled mane and Vinyl with a bowtie, both of them with wide grins. Maybe it was how the music felt like a jazz jam session, to some degree at least. It all caught his ear and left him intrigued.
He scanned the ground and found a program lying on the ground. Scanning the entries for Octavia and Vinyl, he found the piece.

Music in Twelve Parts, Parts 1 and 2

	P. Glass



— — —


Feather Bangs paced in circles outside of the back door to the stage. Sweat dripped from his bangs as his knees vibrated under him. Being a stallion with swooning mares that occasionally followed him, the irony of the situation was not lost on him. Knowing that didn’t quelch the nerves though.
Midway through a circle, he noticed a crack in the doorway and walked up to it. He placed his ear up to the crack and listened inside, picking out the voices in the chatter.
“Pfft, Pfft… my lips are shot after that.”
“Come on, we only played for thirty minutes. You practice longer than that for crying out loud.”
“Yeah, with breaks. How long is the whole thing?”
“About two and a half hours.”
A loud spitting sound cut through the door. “That for two and half hours!? How are we supposed to do that?”
“We’ll work up to it. It’s simple, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy.”
A few gulps and a breath followed. “At least it doesn’t sound like garbage.”
“Welcome to the club.”
Another voice spoke up. “Octavia, the three of us are heading out. You good?”
“Yup, thank you for the night.”
“No prop.”
A second later the door opened causing Feather to jump back to the wall. Three ponies with bowties and woodwinds trotted off of the stage. Left on the stage was a stallion packing up his saxophones while Octavia and Vinyl rolled up cables to the synthesizers. Feather retreated behind the door trying not to cause a fuss.
“I’m heading out too,” the stallion noted, zipping up his case. “Gotta get back before my wife gets mad.”
“Octavia chuckled. “All good.”
The stallion threw the case onto his back and trotted out too, zooming past Feather.
Vinyl zipped up her synth case and threw it over her back too. “How do you think the night went?”
“You know, rather well actually.”
“Well, the audience was a far cry from what I’m used to,” she winked.
“Hey, we’re getting there.”
Vinyl smirked. “Just teasing.”
“I know.” Octavia sighed and looked toward the empty chairs. “You know, it just felt fun.”
“And now you’re starting to understand why I do my DJ thing.”
Octavia held up a hoof to Vinyl. “Fine, but that’s not the point. It’s just strange to think of “new” music being fun and simple. After years of refining my cello skills, playing this piece feels so alien yet so refreshing.”
“Hey,” Vinyl pointed to her bowtie. “I never thought I’d end up in a theater playing classical music with you and wearing this, let alone that it’d sound like this.”
“You and me both.”
“Anyway, I’m gonna head out. See ya back home.”
“I’ll be right behind you. It’ll take me a sec first.”
Vinyl trotted through the door, her hoofsteps heavy from the weight on the synth. She caught a glimpse of Feather by the door, giving her a face of confusion. It didn’t stop her as she trotted down the hall and out the door. She might have recognized him, adding to the oddity of the situation. But that didn’t matter anymore.
Feather let out a deep sigh, knowing this was his chance. He inched through the doorway, keeping his head low.
Octavia went back to rolling up cables and stuffing them in the case. “I saw you earlier. I don’t bite.”
Feather froze. “I… u-uh…”
Octavia paused, turning her head towards him. “Huh?”
He inhaled. “I, uh… I-I like your performance.”
“Um, thanks.” She still sat there confused.
Feather stepped forward. “I, uh… I want…”
“Have I seen you before?”
Feather’s eyes widened as adrenaline surged through his body. “I can explain!”
Octavia brought a hoof to her mouth and chuckled. “Go ahead, I’m not in a rush.”
He sat down and controlled his breathing. “I’m uh… I’m Feather Bangs.”
Octavia let out a soft “hmm.”
Feather paused. “You don’t actually know me?”
Octavia looked up. “I swear I’ve heard that name before.”
“Really?”
“I don’t know, Vinyl might have mentioned it once. Go on.”
Feather shook his head and got to the point. “Okay, I was on a date earlier tonight and she commented on how if I’m just an insecure softy underneath, does that mean all of my mane flippin’, jugglin’, pick-up lines, and especially my poetry is just fake?”
Octavia tilted her head. “Huh?”
“I love poetry, I really do. But something about this feels so wrong.” He held his hooves to his head. “Am I crazy or does any of this make sense?”
Octavia brought her hoof to her chin and sat for a second. “That’s quite the predicament. Mind if I ask you something?”
Feather paused, setting his hooves down “Uh, I guess.”
“Why, of all ponies, are you asking me?”
“I don’t know. I saw some ponies walking out, got curious, and heard you play. It just sounded cool and nothing like anything I’ve heard before.”
“Hmm.” Octavia fished through her case and pulled out a couple of sheets of paper covered in black lines and dots. It was sheet music. “It’s not easy to get your hands on this at the moment, although he finally warmed up to me and is relaxing his control a bit.”
“Who?”
“The composer,” she winked. “We send each other letters every week or so, although the shipping can be a bit slow. Met him in a cab. Long story.”
“How does that work?”
“He drove it,” she winked. She walked over to an upright piano off stage, placed the music on it, and sat down behind it. “My piano skills aren’t that great. I learned a bit back at the conservatory, but it’s been a while since. Forgive me.”
Feather trotted behind her and eyed the music. “No prob.” He learned to read music way back in school, but only at a basic level. Still, he could see the same eighth note and triple idea repeated several times with only slight changes.
Octavia pressed the keys, filling the stage with a resonant major chord. Two bars later, and a haunting minor chord with a deep base note permeated the room. Her hooves continued, plopping on the keys with the occasional hesitation. About a minute into the piece, Feather noticed it only had three chords. But despite its simplicity, it sounded so tranquil.
Feather followed Octavia as she played through each page, turning the pages when needed. Halfway through the fifth, Octavia stopped and scooched back on the bench. “I can’t do the next part. It’s a bit fast for me and I’m still relearning piano.”
“I don’t mind.”
“You know?” She leaned back. “As a music student and especially as a professional musician, you know you’re not gonna make a ton of money right off of the bat. You get over it fairly quickly, justifying it by saying our music is more complex than that popular stuff. We have more chord changes, more rhythmic variation, more motifs, more structure, theory, development, yada yada… And eventually, your music is so complex that even I can’t tell what’s going on.”
She paused and took a deep breath. “And here I am playing a piece with only three chords: Major one, minor three, and minor two.” She lifted her hooves and played the chords as she spoke. “F major, A minor, and G minor. Put this into perspective, I make fun of ‘four-chord songs,’ but I love a piece with only three!”
Feather chuckled, causing Octavia to giggle a bit too before they both broke out into laughter. Just that moment helped Feather ease up and relax. Boy, he needed to laugh.
“It gets worse, too,” Octavia smirked, wiping a tear from her eye. “When ponies talk about what music is good or bad, they say things like it’s “emotional” or “expressive” or better yet “sincere.” And when you start composing, they always tell you to “write from the heart” or even “follow your passion” or whatever. What does any of that mean!? How am I supposed to know I’m writing from the heart? I put notes on the page and sometimes they sound good.”
“Thank sweet Celestia somepony knows my pain!” Feather shouted, sitting down and relaxing. “Yeah, I want to write a poem with meaning for once. Then I stare at a piece of paper for minutes straight and have no idea what I’m doing.”
“I know. Here I am just wanting a bit of tangible advice and everypony is speaking in abstractions.”
They sat together for a moment, basking in their shared understanding. Feather cherished the moment knowing that for once another pony truthfully understood him.
“I think I get it now, though,” Octavia noted, breaking the silence. “I like this piece not because it only has three chords, but because it’s confident in those three chords.”
“Woah there,” Feather teased.
“Yeah, yeah, let me explain myself. I don’t mean confidently walk up to a publisher with a piece of garbage and expect it to get published. I mean the piece is confident in the execution of its three chords. Hear me out. Every four bars, the piece adds a little bit to the idea which catches your ear and keeps you listening. And when there’s a new chord or the piece spits out fast piano runs, it’s overwhelming. It’s like it knows it only has three chords and has to make the most of them.”
“Yeah, but in poetry?”
“Pfft, I don’t know. I think it’d be awfully naive to expect you to either join my ensemble or become my acolyte.” She paused. “Are you a musician?”
Feather looked away and scratched his head. “A bit of guitar a couple times a week. Not like you, though.”
“Shucks.”
“I kinda get it, I think.”
“Oh really?”
Feather stood up, turned to the side, and pointed at his cutie mark. Octavia leaned back. “Oh, you’re one of those flirtatious ones.”
“That’s the point. That’s who I thought I was.” He sat on the floor and looked down. “All I’ve done is win over over mares with my confident demeanor but I’m not confident in myself. I think this talent is only about getting dates with clever phrases and all that, but I can do so much more with…” He paused, staring off into the distance.
Octavia leaned forward and tilted her head a tad confused. “Everything all right?”
“I got an idea.”
“Oh? What is it?”
“I’m so stupid. Hearts aren’t just for pretty mares. They represent love. And there’s so much more to love than…” He froze again. “I gotta write this down.” He galloped towards the door, letting out a muffled “thankyougoodbye” as he bolted through the door.
A brief moment of silence and Octavia burst into laughter. A moment later, she hoisted her synth case onto her back after packing up the cables and left the stage with a smile.  “A very old story, and yet it is so new.”


— — —


Feather scribbled down the last word, leaned back, and let out a deep breath. He only wrote down one stanza, and it was quite embarrassing at the moment. Still, the rest of it would come with time and he had a lot of thinking to do to work it all out. This kind of poetry wouldn’t come in a day, but that didn’t bother him. It was freeing to finally write something he believed in.
Hesitating for a moment, he looked down and read the four lines.

Shells exist to be broken
Down beneath our hooves
As I emerge from mine and present myself to you
I pray you’ll embrace me as I beyond a simple woo

“It’s something’,” Feather muttered, his mind racing with where to go next.