//------------------------------// // MONDAY, JUNE 25, 11:12 AM // Story: Analemma, or A Year in the Sunlight // by Dubs Rewatcher //------------------------------// I flip through my art class portfolio. “Sucks. Shit. Crap. Eh. Horrible.” All the while, Pinkie is leaning over my shoulder. “Cool! Cool! Cool! Adorable! Cool!” We both just got out of our Art class final — er, “final.” No test or anything. Mrs. Vermillion just handed us back portfolios filled with our “best work,” and we had to give a presentation explaining each piece. Gave us our grades back in, like, five minutes. I got an A! I’d be ecstatic if I deserved it. I don’t talk about it a lot, but I love to draw. Always have, even as a filly, doodling pictures of Celestia on the wall next to my bed. When I came to Earth, I learned how to use my hands by drawing every night before bed. I still carry a sketchbook with me everywhere, and I try to fill at least half of a page each day. Got a bunch of colored pencils and a digital tablet back at my apartment too. If you ever catch me staring intently at my notebook during class, rest assured that I’m not studying — I’m drawing. In other words: There’s no reason why my art portfolio should have so much garbage in it. Wobbly lines, terrible attempts at perspective, alien anatomy, color combos that make me want to gouge my eyes out — an endless conga line of trash. My portraits look like I drew them while strapped to the roof of a moving car. I barely deserve a C, let alone an A. That’s why I can only cringe when Pinkie hugs me from behind and says, “Gosh, Sunset! You’re, like, the best artist in the world!” “Right.” I shake Pinkie off and close my portfolio. “C’mon, you don’t need to sugarcoat it. You know my stuff sucks.” Her face lights up at the word ‘sugarcoat,’ but darkens at ‘sucks.’ She sits down across from me and pouts. “I think your drawings are super-tastic! Especially compared to mine…” Unlike me, Pinkie’s got the contents of her portfolio scattered across the cafeteria table. Also unlike me, hers is actually good. Pinkie’s art is vibrant and wild and expressive, just like her. Her sketches jolt around the page like lightning, and I swear she’s managed to invent at least five new colors, none of which stay inside the lines. Acrylic landscapes, abstract collages, pastel portraits — everything she produces radiates joy and life. She doesn’t always follow the “rules” of art (she never does, really) but that just makes her work all the more stunning. I grab one of her pieces — a portrait she painted of me, just a few weeks after the Fall Formal. I’m smothered in fiery oranges and reds, more inferno than human. “Are you serious?” I ask, smiling. “I’d kill to be as creative as you! You’re a brilliant artist, a legit inspiration for me.” When Pinkie blushes, it’s hard to tell. She’s never not pink. But when I compliment her like that, I can see her cheeks go red. She beams and giggles and bounces in her seat. Takes a second to even get her attention when I hand the painting back. As she puts her portfolio back together, I pull my sketchbook out and crack it open. The early pages embarrass me just as much as anything from art class, but the more recent stuff — cleaner shading, more expressive poses. I’m getting better every day. I skip through the fan art and half-assed action comics to this past weekend’s drawings. That’s when I hunch over the book, hiding it from Pinkie’s ever-moving eyes. Over the weekend, we all went to the beach again. I brought my sketchbook. And while my friends were playing and swimming and laughing, I drew them all. Nude. Okay, not really nude. I didn’t give them any, y’know, details. But I didn’t give them any clothes, either. I was trying to get a handle on their different body shapes. Fluttershy’s long neck, Rainbow’s toned tummy, Pinkie’s thick thighs. Purely for artistic purposes. Clothing not required. The anatomy is almost perfect, faces on point. These studies are probably the best work I’ve ever done. And no one is ever going to see them. Not my friends, not Mrs. Vermillion, not the Goddess above. I’ll eat this sketchbook before I let that happen. Of all the portraits, I think Twilight’s is my favorite. The hard thing about Twi is that she’s not tall, but she’s lanky. She’s got these spindly stick figure limbs, with thin hips and small, softly curved breasts. You can see her ribs when she stretches. When I first met her she’d walk with a permanent hunch, curled in on herself like a withered flower. And though she’s still a bit slouchy — like I’m one to talk — she stands so much straighter now. Her knees don’t knock together anymore. She looks proud, not petrified. She’s beautiful, honestly. No wonder Timber made sure to snag her the same weekend they met. Even without magic, there’s a sparkle to her. Hell, even a shimmer. Keeping my face close to the page, I giggle. Goddess, I’m good at puns. Twilight pulls out the chair next to me and sits down. In a burst of total instinct, I slam my sketchbook shut and jump out of my chair fast enough to knock it over. Both Twilight and Pinkie recoil away, staring at me in confusion and shock. I’ve got the book clutched so tight to my chest that it’s hard to breathe. “Sorry,” I say, eyes flicking between them. I put my sketchbook away and sit back down. “Coffee just hit.” Pinkie’s eternal grin returns. But Twi’s already stopped paying attention. She’s got a Chemistry textbook open in front of her, and she’s flipping through the pages faster than I can comprehend them. I scooch my chair closer to her. “Studying for the Chem exam?” “No,” she says. “I just finished it.” “Did you win?” Pinkie asks. “I don’t know!” Twilight skims faster. “I think I did well. But I didn’t finish breakfast this morning, and halfway through I forgot whether antimony is a pnictogen or a chalcogen, which is such a beginner mistake, and my short responses might have been too long, it’s hard to accurately describe the concept of a half-life in only five sentences, but—” I put my hand over hers, stopping it in place. “Twi. Breathe. If you didn’t ace that exam, I’ll walk Spike for the next month.” It takes a moment, but eventually Twilight folds her hands, closes her eyes, and takes a long breath. When she exhales, she looks at me and says, “I’m holding you to that.” I hold up three fingers. “Filly Scout’s honor.” Twilight snorts and puts away her textbook. “What are you two doing? Getting ready for a test?” “Nah,” I say, “we just got out of a final too.” “Studio Art!” Pinkie adds, holding up her folder. “I only got a B, but you should check out Sunset’s. She got an A!” Twilight turns to me, and I want to crawl under the table. I don’t need anyone to see the crap I’ve wasted this year on, let alone my best friend. But then she smiles that adorable smile of hers and asks, “Can I see?”  Resistance is futile. I slide my portfolio folder over to her and cover my eyes, then wait for the laughter. But it doesn’t come. Nothing comes. Silence. And when I edge open my eyes to see what’s going on, I just find Twilight slowly sifting through my drawings. She’s studying the art with the same sharp eyes that she usually reserves for difficult tests or intense fighting game matches. Her fingers traipse over the lines, as if she’s seeing them by feel instead of sight. She doesn’t say anything as she moves through the collection. It almost makes me jump again when she reaches the last drawing and lightly gasps. “This is brilliant,” she says, eyes darting from corner to corner. “You really drew this?” I lean in to get a better look, then immediately cringe back. It’s a charcoal sketch of a ruined city. Broken concrete and destroyed buildings cover the page, jagged blocks of black and gray. A burning crimson sky hangs above it all. But below, thick green vines — they look more like tentacles — snake up from the dirt and wrap around the rubble, sprouting with leaves and flowers. I don’t know what it means. I drew it during a depressive episode in January. Colors clash, perspective is non-existent. It’s edgy and awful, one of the worst pieces in there. So I don’t say yes. I just nod. And right when I do, Twi asks, “Can I have it?” “What?” I stare into her eyes, trying to find the joke, but there’s nothing. “I can draw you something way better, you know.” “I like this one!” Twilight says, studying it again. “The colors are so vivid. And there’s so much feeling in it!” Goddess, she sounds like Mrs. Vermillion. I throw a hand into the air and let it fall. “Sure, whatever. Keep it.” She beams like I’ve given her a diamond ring. “The rest is lovely too,” she says, handing the folder back to me. “Told you,” Pinkie intones, reaching over to ruffle my hair. I scoff and brush my bangs out of my eyes. “Speaking of which,” Pinkie says as she pulls two sheets out of her portfolio, “I’ve got some presents for you too!” She hands the sheets to us. Mine is the portrait from before, and Twi’s is a portrait of her. She’s practically glowing with purple glitter, and she’s surrounded by massive golden stars. Her smile is as thick as her torso. Pinkie’s signed her name at the bottom of both in big block letters, and finished them with a wet pink kiss. “Like ‘em?” Pinkie asks, hand on her hip. Her lips twinkle with fresh lipstick and old glitter. “These are gonna be worth big bucks someday, so hold onto them!” “Now, this,” I say, showing off my portrait to Twi. “This is real art.” Twi’s not looking. She’s squinting at her portrait and adjusting her glasses. I’m not sure she’s even figured out that it’s her yet.