//------------------------------// // Midnight Gem // Story: Emmy // by Selbi //------------------------------// The last few hours have been spent singing. It didn’t matter what kind of music was on the radio; all I needed was something to sing along to. And now, the time to get a cab to the Gym Hall is almost here. I’m nervous. Very nervous. And I haven’t even left my alleyway yet. Instead, I’m just staring at the pouch of bits in front of me. Not all of them are in there; I’ve put the greatest share of them into the carved-out, secret spot behind the brick wall. It only contains barely enough to afford the cabs, and maybe something to snack on, should they have a stand there. Just to imagine that I this is something I wouldn’t have even dreamed about: buying a snack. Sure, I may still live in a box, but my situation has gone from from “downright pathetic” to an average form of “saddening.” I snap out of my thoughts. What am I doing here? I should get going. And that’s what I do. I put on my pouch, then leave my home. Something feels different this time. I can’t put to words what exactly I mean, but I feel like I’m leaving something behind this time. Something I’ve been taking with me everytime I left this place. Was it sorrow? Was it unsureness? Was it fear? I don’t know. But regardless of what it was, it feels good to let go of something that has plagued me for years. I walk towards the cab rank, which is just a few minutes away. It still feels so weird to go there, but I must remain calm. Losing my composure just because something is new for me would only hinder my singing. “Hello, sir,” I say to one of the cab stallions waiting for customers as I arrive. Thinking about singing did help—I feel much less insecure. “Hello there, young lady. What can I do for you?” he asks me. “I’d like to go to the Gym Hall,” I explain calmly, almost completely zoned-out and barely recognizing what he says. “Sure thing. Hop in! We can go immediately.” I climb into the carriage, and wait for the cab to start moving. That happens mere seconds later, after the stallion finishes writing something down. My guess is that it’s just to take records of all his customers. “Alright, here we go,” he says, and then the yellow vehicle starts shaking. The stallion is definitely someone who has been doing this for his whole life. His gallop is fast, almost flawless. He can run on cobblestone like it’s a part of him. He was built for it. He was trained for it. It is a part of him. I think about that for a while. Is a pony’s destiny is really dictated by its cutie mark? This stallion has a yellow wheel with black and white stripes on it; clearly his destiny is being a cab driver. But what was he like before he discovered it? Was he always fond of bringing other ponies to different locations. Or was it an a simple turn of events, and he discovered his special talent in mere moments? I think about that for a little longer. “We’re here, young lady. That’d be seven bits.” I snap out of my thoughts. Looks like I’d gotten carried away by my thoughts of cutie marks and destinies, and had fallen asleep. “How long have we been driving?” I ask out of curiosity. “A little over half an hour,” he explains. “I must admit, you’re quite lucky. The traffic is usually much tougher at this time of day in Manehatten.” “Ah, okay. Thank you, sir!” I give him the requested bits plus one. I’m not living in poverty, but a small tip is the least I could do. We nod our heads, say our farewells, and leave our separate ways. I walk to the Gym Hall. I’m overwhelmed by the sight before me. The queue in front of the hall is so long it extends outside of the entrance. Why would so many ponies be interested in seeing young foals sing? I expected a few dozen, not what seems like at least one hundred. I sigh, no longer feeling the calmness I felt earlier. What would the ponies think about me? I’m just a homeless filly that wants to try her luck at a karaoke contest, not a superstar. The line of attendants is obviously much shorter, but still way longer than I expected. I stand in line and nervously wait for it to move on. I stop in front of a small box office once it’s my turn. “Name and age?” the pony asks in a rather rough tone. ’m eight years old.” The pony scribbles something down on a piece of paper, and gives me a card on a lanyard. “28” is says on it. I guess that’s my participant number. I put it around my neck, and move on. I enter something that looks like a lounge for all the contestants. Young ponies, some smaller and some larger than me, all stood around, chatting happily with each other. I can hear the different types of voices. Some have a sweet, raspy voice, not much unlike mine. Others, colts of course, have much deeper, bassy voices. I start feeling more nervous. Amongst this huge variety of voices, how am I going to stand out with mine, which is still a little chipped from my recent cold? And more importantly, what about the confidence? All the foals here look so sure about their goal. They’re sure they will win—at least that’s what I’m currently reading from their eyes. Wait a minute, who’s that? There seems to be a young filly over there, and she doesn’t seem so proud of herself, much unlike the others. She isn’t talking to anypony either, she’s just standing there. Should I try doing that? Yes. I walk over to her, and she turns her head towards me. “Hi,” I say, “I’m Emerald Sky. Who’re you.” She turns her head away from me again, although I can’t exactly tell what expression she has on her face. “Midnight Gem,” she says, almost whispering. My nervousness has been replaced by awkwardness. What should I do now? She definitely doesn’t seem like the kind of pony who wants to socialize much. I’m not usually that kind of pony either, but right now I feel like a little chat could help me unwind. “So, uh… what brings you here? Also singing?” I almost want to slap myself for that silly question. Of course she came here to sing; why else would she have an participant’s lanyard around her neck? But then something happens that I haven’t expected at all. Instead of glaring at me for annoying her, she walks to a nearby window and puts her forehooves on the windowsill. “I… need the money,” I hear her saying with a slight hint of sadness. Finally I understand what’s going on here. I haven’t taken a closer look at her yet, but now I can see it very clearly. She’s dirty, her mane is unkempt, and she lacks a cutie mark. Just like me. “You aren’t the only one,” I say, and join her staring out of the window. “I’m… homeless. I need money to stay alive, or I have to steal or beg.” “What?!” she suddenly says surprised, and turns towards me. “You are homeless? Why aren’t you living in the orphanage?” “I was kicked out when they cut down the staff. I couldn’t afford going anywhere else, so I had to stay here.” Normally, whenever I tell somepony my story, I begin to feel sad and melancholic. Somehow, though, I feel perfectly fine explaining it now. “I… I…” Midnight Gem starts saying. “Hmm?” “I thought I was the only one here…” She motions to the ponies behind us. “These ponies here are all living in poverty and rich families. They didn’t come here to win money, they just want to compete. I thought I was the only one who actually came here because of the money.” “Don’t worry, you aren’t,” I reassure her. “I’d feel better having less… financial interests for this competition, but sometimes you have to take any chance you can get, right?” She nods. “I live with my mother in the basement of an abandoned house. It’s pretty big for just the two of us, but it’s very, very cold in there. We can’t afford something fancy like an oven, so we have to use candles and similar things to keep our hooves warm.” She waits for a while, obviously expecting me to say something. When she realizes I don’t have any comments, she asks, “What do you need the money for?” “Food, mostly,” I tell her. “I live in an alleyway and keep myself warm with blankets and cardboard boxes.” “You live alone?” she asks. “Yes, I’m an orphan. Didn’t I say that earlier?” “No, you just said you’re homeless, but not both!” I just shrug at that. “Looks like destiny was extra cruel to me.” I giggle. That has always helped: laughing at my own misfortune. It eases the pain. A voice from behind us interrupts us. “Alright, everypony,” an older mare says. She’s probably one of the organizers. “The contest starts in five minutes. I want you all to stand in line and sort yourself, in ascending order, with your numbers.” “I’m number fourteen,” Midnight Gem says. “Which one are you?” “Twenty-eight, twice as much as you,” I say playfully. “Alright. Well, thanks for the talk, uhm… What was your name again?” “Emerald Sky. You can call me Emmy.” “Oh, okay. Well, good luck, Emmy!” “You too, Midnight!”