//------------------------------// // Chapter 1: Bittersweet Nostalgia // Story: Sparké // by moviemaster8510 //------------------------------// It was late at night, and the glow from the moonlight as well as the torches that lined the corridors provided the only light inside the castle. Tiptoeing down the halls was a young boy with fuzzy black hair in plush, green pajamas. In one hand, he held a silver cake server and three forks. In the other, he held three small china plates. Next to him, equally as silent was a lavender unicorn filly with a purple Hime-style manecut with a lavender streak. On both sides of her flank was a mark of a lavender six-pronged star with sparkling stars around it. Hovering next to her and wrapped in a purplish aura was a sizable cake with white icing and puffs of yellow frosting outlining each tier it. The top tier had a large blue candle that stayed alight as the two walked through the halls to a large door. The door was guarded by two pegasus stallions with blue manes and tails in golden armor. However, upon seeing the child and foal they smiled and moved to the sides, allowing them to enter. “You don’t think Princess Celestia will be mad, do you, Peter?” the filly asked with a hint of apprehension in her voice. “Come on, Sparky,” goaded Peter, “Celestia’s gonna’ love this!” “I sure hope so…” “I know so.” “On three, then?” “On three.” One,” they both counted. “Two. Three!” Peter opened the doors up while the filly he named “Sparky” stepped in. Inside, the room was a lavish blue room with a purple fireplace. Lying down on a large, purple-and-gold rug with a gold, cylindrical pillow behind her was a pure-white alicorn with a long mane with streaks of pink, blue, purple, and green flowing in an absent breeze. She was adorned with gold jewelry that consisted of a broach, a tiara, and slippers for her hooves. With a magical aura around her horn and a white quill, she was writing a letter on a browning piece of parchment. The sound of the door to her room opening brought her attention to the noise. Her surprised and heartfelt smile appeared when she saw the boy and filly with the cake and candle. “Happy birthday to you, sung Peter and Sparky, “Happy birthday to you, happy birthday, Princess Celestia, happy birthday to you." Tears had formed in Celestia’s eyes as her birthday cake was placed in front of her. Being that it was the first time a birthday had come for Celestia since Twilight became her pupil and Peter had been taken in, she was touched that they would go through the trouble of making her a cake to celebrate it. Princess Celestia blew out the candle atop of her cake, the wisps of smoke from the wick dancing around Peter’s and Twilight’s head. “Twilight, Peter, thank you so very much,” Celestia spoke in a motherly and heartfelt tone. “It means the world to me that you two remembered my birthday.” “Of course,” Twilight answered. “Why wouldn’t I remember my teacher’s birthday?” “Besides,” said Peter as he took the candle out and sliced the cake up with the server, “I wanted to make you a cake.” “Wait,” butted in Celestia. “You made this cake?” “Well, Crème Fraiche helped me out just a little.” “Oh, bless her heart. Where is she now?” “She was feeling very tired and went to bed,” responded Twilight, “but she asked us to tell you ‘Happy Birthday’ for her.” “But the whole cake thing was my idea!” Peter exclaimed, pointing his thumb at his chest. “It was ours!” Twilight shouted, shocked over his betrayal. Peter gave Twilight a coy and lighthearted pout, telling Twilight that her was just playing around. Twilight’s slight frown turned into a smile as a generous wedge of cake was placed before her on a plate. Twilight turned to see that Celestia had already been served, spearing a bite for herself with her fork. Once Peter had served himself, the two ponies and the boy began eating. “Mmm,” Celestia said before she swallowed. “Compliments to the chefs.” Peter giggled at the plural use of “chefs” that implied that he was involved. “And that’s just what I’m going to be,” said Peter. The two ponies looked at him, wishing for an answer. “When I grow up, I want to become a chef, just like Crème Fraiche and my own pop.” “If you can make cakes like this,” spoke Celestia, “then I can see you doing very well at that.” Celestia’s approval meant the world to Peter as he crawled over to her and wrapped his arms around and rested his head upon her swanlike neck. The act surprised Celestia, but she soon rested her chin on his shoulder and wrapped her right wing over his back. Twilight, feeling left out, ran to Princess Celestia and hugged the part of her left half of her chest that Peter left exposed. Celestia unfurled her other wing and wrapped its downy softness around Twilght’s body. “Happy birthday, Princess Celestia,” whispered Twilight. “Yeah,” agreed Peter. “Happy birthday.” Celestia was in too much in motherly bliss to answer as she went between Peter and Twilight and rubbed both of the sides of her head with theirs. If there was one thing Peter loved about Princess Celestia’s hugs, it was when she did this. Her smooth coat and the firmness of her face was a perfect combination. Celestia then moved her lips to Peter’s cheek and gave a gentle smooch. This was why Peter loved these hugs most of all; was when she kissed him. It made him feel loved in a way his father couldn’t do back at home. It felt like having a real mother… ======================================== *BEEP**BEEP**BEEP**BEEP**BEEP**BEEP* Peter shot his eyes open. He couldn’t stand the sound of his phone alarm, which served to make it a great device for waking him up in the morning. With as much agility as his still tired bones would allow him, Peter reached for the black iPhone 5 sitting on the floor besides his bed. Picking it up, he tapped the snooze button on the screen and disabled the dreaded siren. Now completely awake, Peter tossed the vegetable-decorated comforter off of his body, revealing him to be in grey sweatpants with a black t-shirt that was one size too large for him. His hair, since childhood, had grown long, down to his upper back. As he sat up, he felt his bush of a head sweep in front of his eyes. Pulling his hair back, he looked upon his room, completely barren minus the bed which he slept on, a change of clothes, and a small duffle bag. He slid out of bed and walked outside his room, greeted to the smell of butter melting in a pan. Knowing that he had to get a move on, he made his way into the bathroom where he showered, shaved, and wrapped his hair into a ponytail with a red band. By the time he exited his room, he could hear eggs sizzling in a skillet, breathing in the heavenly scent of garlic, spinach, and artichokes with it. Not wanting to delay a second longer, Peter quickened his pace back to his room, where he placed his sleeping attire from the bathroom into his duffle bag and put on his clothes that sat on the floor: underwear, black ankle-cut socks, khaki pants, and a t-shirt featuring the artwork to the poster of the film Amadeus. Knowing that breakfast would be ready soon, he eagerly made his way back out of his room and down the stairs into the kitchen/dining room. At the counter, sliding two large pancakes onto a plate with a spatula was an older man in his mid-fifties. His hair was buzzed so short that from a distance, one could say he was bald. He had a light goatee on his chin with an equally short moustache that traveled down around his lips to the side of his beard. He was wearing a worn REO Speedwagon t-shirt and black athletic shorts. Once the pancakes were on, the man also plated the frittata that was in the skillet on a separate dish, carrying both the pancakes and frittata to the counter/table in front of a tall seat that was pulled out for Peter. “Morning, pop,” greeted Peter. “Smells delicious as always.” “Just the way you like it,” Peter’s father said with a smile. Without a second’s hesitation, Peter sliced a decent pat of butter from the stick on the dish in the center of the table and slathered it over his pancakes. “So,” said Peter’s father, sitting at the table with pancakes and sausage on a single plate, “tell me exactly what’s in that frittata there.” Peter paused with the butter and cut a bite of the frittata with his fork. He placed the morsel into his mouth and let the flavors roll on his tongue before swallowing. “Let’s see here,” pondered Peter. “Eggs, surprise surprise, touch of salt, I smelled garlic on the way down, and I’m going to take a wild guess that they didn’t go into the pancakes…” The statement earned a chuckle from his old man. “…I can feel and taste the spinach and artichokes. The cheese, now… is… feta! That’s it! And some diced tomatoes!” “Very good! And tell me the spices in the pancakes.” Cleaning his fork of the egg with his mouth as best as possible, he poured a bottle of maple syrup onto the edge of his stack and cut where the syrup lay. Taking a bite and swishing around in his mouth, he tried again. “Cinnamon, nutmeg, and a touch of… almond extract. Interesting…” “Hahaha!” Peter’s father laughed with applause. “I know you’re going to do fine in the Big Apple.” “Thanks, pop,” said Peter, his mouth almost stuffed with pancake. “Still, New York is practically the Paris of America in the culinary world. It’s a lot to live up to.” “And again, I’m sure you’ll do fine. With your palate and love of food, there’s no way people are going to resist.” “I sure hope so. I don’t want six years saving up working at Falwell’s to go to waste. I don’t even know how I could pick myself up after that.” “But I thought you liked working at our restaurant.” “But you know that it’s been my dream to run my own. And now that I finally got to secure enough for a down payment, it’s going to become your–” he lightly punched his father in the shoulder, “–restaurant again.” “It won’t be the same without you, you know. It’s just going to be so hard with you gone again.” Peter’s dad placed his hand on his son’s shoulder, and couldn’t help but feel saddened about the memory of when Peter disappeared. Peter knew what he was talking about when he said “again.” If only he could tell him where he really was and he could believe him. Peter took his father’s hand off his arm and set it back on the table. “Pop,” said Peter, giving his dad an assuring grin, “you worry too much. I know it’s been tough having to raise me all alone and bearing the burden of watching your son go away, but I promise you that I’ll be alright. I always have been. Now come on. I’d hate to have my big send off breakfast under this roof to end in tears.” Being true to his word, Peter grabbed his knife and fork and cut another bite of pancakes. Looking at his son’s confident face as he continued to eat, it gave him the strength to realize that everything would be alright. With the negative air in the room fading, Peter’s father speared a link of sausage with his fork. ____________________________________________________________ Peter had grabbed the last of his belongings from the house: the duffle bag with last night’s pajamas and his vegetable-decorated comforter. He tossed them into the back of a red Nissan Xterra on the driveway, which was loaded with other things, such as a couple of cotton cases, one being smaller than the other, some luggage containing clothes, a bag of snacks, and a cooler filled with bottles of water and cans of soda, the latter of which was placed on the front passenger seat. Latched behind the van was a moving trailer that was filled to the brim with cardboard boxes, a state-of-the-art bicycle, and a large metallic crate. With his covers and final duffle bag in the back seats, Peter’s dad closed the door for him. “Well,” spoke Peter’s father with finality, “this is it. Your journey to achieving your dream is finally going to reach its destination.” “But it’s not going to be the end,” Peter stated. “The journey never ends.” The father and son looked at each other for about ten seconds before they walked towards each other and gave each other a tight hug, knowing that it would be the last contact either one of them would have for a long time. “Mom would be so proud of you,” his father said, choking up. “I know she would,” Peter replied, looking up at the sky. “I love you so much, Peter.” “I… I love you too, dad.” As much as he wanted to avoid tears on this day, Peter knew that he couldn’t suppress them. As hard as he tried to grip his father’s shirt and suck them back, it only forced the tears to come out even harder. As embarrassing as it felt then, by the time he was done, he felt rejuvenated, ready to begin his trek to New York. The two broke away from their hug, allowing Peter to leave. “You might as well get a move on,” advised Peter’s dad. “If you want to get to New York around nightfall, that is.” “Right,” Peter replied, patting his father on the shoulders. Pulling a pair of keys from his pocket, Peter walked to the Nissan and climbed inside. Putting the keys into the ignition, he turned them once, bringing the engine to life. As the left hand gripped the steering wheel with his right on the gears, he took one last look at the house that he lived in for all of his life. Then, he shared a final glance with his dad before he put the car in reverse and backed out of his driveway. Turning out of it, Peter couldn’t help but take one last glance at the house and his old man, all now visible in one sight. Wasting not another minute, he shifted the car into drive and accelerated forwards. However, before he could hit the highway, there was one last stop he had to make. ____________________________________________________________ Peter was parked along the street, glancing at a modest looking bistro on the corner of the T-intersection. On it was a small sign that read in bold Verdana font: Falwell’s. As Peter sat in his car, looking at the building, he couldn’t help but recall the fond memories that he would be leaving behind. From his first time at the restaurant, he still remembered his first meal there as a kid: panko-crusted chicken fingers with homemade potato chips. The memory left Peter’s mouth watering. Then there was the tour his father gave him of the kitchen and showed him all of the different devices and utensils. He recalled every visit back there like being a kid in a candy store. Then there was the time where he saw a dinner service from the kitchen itself. Seeing the people there with as much of a love for food as his father and seeing everything come together the way that it did was nothing short of inspirational. It was like watching Crème Fraiche back in Equestria work her magic all over again. It was then in Peter’s teenage years, after years of observing and hands-on apprenticing with him, that he gave his son an apron and allowed him to work alongside him in the restaurant as an official employee. Tears began to form in his eyes at the recollection of what he considered one of the greatest days of his life. And now, after almost ten years of working under his father, he finally was able to take the next step in making a mark in the culinary world. With his memories and journey thus far only strengthening his reserve, he dramatically blew a kiss to his former home-away-from-home, shifted the Xterra into drive, and rolled off. Twilight, thought Peter. Celestia. Crème. If only you could see me now. ======================================== Peter watched as Crème Fraiche was garnishing and plating Celestia’s vegetable and barley soup. Peter looked impatient at Crème’s need for perfection. After all, Celestia was sick with a cold; she wouldn’t care how her soup looked, but the fact that she’d be getting soup at all was well enough. Peter watched intently as Crème put two sticks each of cooked carrot and celery into a narrow teepee before sprinkling a little basil and oregano inside. Her soft, white coat that looked to be made of satin, her sandy-blonde bobbed mane, and the sky-blue magic aura that caressed itself around every item that she used with her horn. Even if her perfectionism was tedious at times, she was still a beautiful creature to watch in action. “Wow,” Peter said, his sarcastic tone all but evident, “all that for a cup of soup?” Crème laughed at Peter’s naiveté. “You’re too young to understand,” she said in a delicate French accent, “but one day, you’ll learn that appearance could make all the difference between a good dish and a bad dish.” “How so?” asked Peter as they both walked from the kitchen and to Celestia’s chambers, the cup of soup balanced perfectly on a bed-tray perfectly in Crème’s magical grasp. “Why should it matter if the soup looks like the Eiffel Tower?” “Hm?” “You know, the– oh…” said Peter, remembering their cultural divide. “It’s this big, big building in this city in the world where I come from. But why does the soup need to look like that? Soup is soup no matter how it tastes.” “Just wait and see, Peter.” As they continued to walk down the halls, they eventually made it to Celestia’s bedroom. Opening the door to her room, Peter could see the state Celestia was in. There were used and discarded tissues all over her bed and her normally white nose was red with stuffiness and irritation. Her frown slightly faded upon seeing Crème walk into the room with her soup. “Dank you,” Celestia said, her stuffed nose muffling her voice. Upon lowering the soup down to Celestia, both Crème and Peter could see as Celestia’s smile grew even wider upon seeing the extravagant garnishing. “Mmy mmy,” gushed Celestia. “Dis soup looks delicious.” “Only the best for her majesty,” replied Crème with a bow. “Dank you onnce akainn.” Peter was amazed by Celestia’s reaction. It looked as if she was more excited by how the soup looked than by how it was going to taste. “Let’s leave,” Crème advised Peter. “She still needs to heal.” “She really must have liked how that soup looked,” Peter responded as the both began to walk back. “You see? Presentation is half of the dish. When you make food look as good as it can, the diner will be more inclined to enjoy it. Not to mention, colds tend to go away faster when the pony with the cold is in higher spirits. Plating and presentation can really help out in that way.” Every day, Crème Fraiche never ceased to amaze Peter. If it was his dad that got him intrigued in the culinary world, it was certainly Crème Fraiche that held his attention to it. To think, he could only wonder where he’d be if it wasn’t for her– ======================================== “Large red beans and rice and biscuit, for Peter!” called the Ebonics-ridden voice of a middle-aged African-American behind the counter in a Popeye’s Chicken uniform. Peter was shunted from his moment of reflection and quickly took the tray with his styrofoam carton of dinner and his biscuit on it from the woman, feeling sorry for any time of hers that he wasted. He shuffled to his table and sat down, hungrily prying open the top of his red beans and rice. As badly as he wanted some of their tasty smelling chicken fingers like a few of the customers around him had ordered, after being in Equestria, eating chickens (or most other meats) became a lot harder to swallow. Either way, his red beans and rice smelled equally good. Without another second’s hesitation, he spooned some red-bean gravy with his spork onto a portion of his biscuit, quickly chowing-down a large bite before the red-beans could drip onto the table. ____________________________________________________________ It was now just reaching sunset, the sky becoming a mellow orange that anticipated Peter further. He was now driving through Pennsylvanian hills that would soon take him to the state of New York. At his current speeds, he deduced, he would be able to find a motel well before midnight, where he would call his dad as he had promised during his Popeye’s dinner and rest stop. After hours upon hours of driving, Peter felt his heart soar in his chest, getting more excited with each new mile that he covered. He was already in his pre-celebratory mode as he mimicked Keith Emerson’s piano from Karn Evil 9: 2nd Impression. To think, he’d soon be in New York and living his dream. He was so close that he could practically taste it. As he drove through a particularly forested area, billows of grey fog began to seep from the trees and on both sides of the road. With the lack of cars, Peter jumped out of his joyful state of mind and reduced his speed and put the lights on. As expected, the fog blanketed the road and made seeing much more difficult. Peter had to be careful about his speed. If he was too slow, a car going fast would not see him through the haze and rear-end his trailer and break most, if not, all his equipment. If he was too fast, he’d probably do the same and rear-end someone else. Either scenario would work terribly for him. Peter leaned forwards in his seat, his brows beginning to sweat profusely. If there was one time things could not go wrong, it was on this trip. Whatever, Peter thought, it’s just a little fog; it’ll clear up. It always does. The fog didn't seem to let up, its thickness becoming the likeness of smoke. From the windshield, Peter couldn’t help but notice that the faint color of the sky that managed to bleed through the fog was more vibrant and that the sunlight was beginning to feel brighter. Suddenly the smooth asphalt highway surfaces became bumpy and unmanaged, as if he had suddenly transferred to a hilly plain. The car began to jerk and bump heavily with the speed that Peter was going. In his shock and lack of preparation, as well as the roads misconfiguring his aim, Peter pressed his foot onto the pedal, hoping he found the brake, but was horrified when the car lurched forwards. Moving his foot back to the correct pedal, he slammed it down, hearing the tires slide on the dirt and mud. Hoping that nothing was in the area, he tensed his body and shoved his arm into the horn to scare anyone and anything off. Peter put his hands back on the wheel, praying for nothing worse to happen. Nervousness and apprehension became full-fledged fright when a loud noise of breaking wood, metal and shattered glass sounded off immediately followed by a sudden jerking stop that activated the airbags. The second Peter heard the noise and felt the stop, the entirety of his body felt cold and clammy with agonizing shivers running down his spine. Peter, with hardly any strength in his arms, pushed the air from the bag and forced it down to look at what he crashed into. From the interior, there was hay, red paint with white framing on the walls, as well as some pens for pigs. It looked to be that he crashed his car into the most stereotypical barn of all time. As if to add insult to injury, the fog began to clear up and reveal where he was. He looked to be in a farmland area complete with chicken coops and patches of corn and carrots. All around him was a plethora of apple trees with bright, red apples growing from the branches. Peter couldn’t be bothered to admire the scenery, instead wondering how he could have possibly ended up here from the tollway, how he was going to fix this barn and his car, and more importantly, how he was going to get to New York any time soon. “What in tarnation was that?” asked a mature female Southern voice approaching him. Peter put the car in park, turned the lights off, and fumbled for the keys to turn the car off. As he did so, he looked out the windshield to see the person he’d more than likely be indebted to for his destructive act. The silhouette of an equine figure with a cowboy hat appeared in the entranceway. Upon looking at his car’s headlights, the creature shouted in fear and ran. “Wha… What?” Peter whispered, confusion mixing with his fear in an intangible mess. Peter quickly twisted the key from the ignition, unbuckled his seatbelt, and opened the door. His skyrocketing emotions rendered his body unstable as he felt to ground on a mound of hay, getting up as slowly and calmly as possible to avoid splinters of wood or pieces of broken glass. “Hold it!” yelled the same voice, causing Peter’s head to shoot up straight at who was talking. There were three silhouettes: the same one from before, a much larger equine figure, and a small one with a large bow on its head. Immediately, Peter lost all feeling in his legs as he sunk to his knees and threw his arms up. “Oh, God, I’m so sorry!” he broke down, sobbing. “I didn’t mean to! The fog was so thick! Just please, I’ll do anything, just don’t hurt me!” Peter sunk further to the ground, his elbows and face placed on the hay as he wept into it. Unbeknownst to him, the three equines looked at each other with confusion over his disposition. “Uh,” tried to speak the mature-female voice, “it’s alright, sugar. Ah’m… Ah’m sure you didn’t mean any harm, and thank Celestia that nopony was hurt.” Immediately, Peter looked up and sat up on his knees, his crying replaced by a head-on collision with déjà vu. Suddenly, he began to put two and two together as he saw the equines in front of him. “Celestia…” Peter muttered, his voice shaky with hyperventilation, “anypony… don’t tell me…” “Don’t tell you what?” asked the voice of a small-female child with a Southern accent. “Am I…” he began to ask. “Am I… in Equestria?” “Well, of course you are!” said the adult-female, walking over to Peter, her features becoming more defined in the light from the window at the top-front of the barn. “Where else could you be?” she said, her mouth visibly moving. Peter, his mind overcome with thousands of different thoughts, swooned to the left and fainted upon the hay, the world nothing but a silent void of black.