//------------------------------//
// April 8 
// Story: Octavia Takes The Bus 
// by TheDorkside99 
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April 8, 2012
1st Bus Ride – 8:00 am
Southwest corner of N. 43rd Ave and W. Bell Rd

For the first time in many months, I find myself at odds with my doctor.

Forgive me, father. How are you this morning? Today I arose from my bed with a slight pain in my neck. I could not tell you why, it just happened to appear this morning. And it’s getting worse. I can’t turn my neck to the left otherwise a sharp pain shoots down to my shoulder. Perhaps I am overworking myself practicing for the big concert coming up in a little over two weeks. The solo I am composing is set in rapid arpeggios with short breaks to intensify the mood. The notes will fly off the chords and dance furiously yet gracefully in the ears of those in the audience. It is a song meant not to scare, but to elicit awe. I think it’s my neck that awes this composition the most however! I tried to ice it a little this morning before leaving and it helped a little. This song is so powerful, it would make “The Flight of the Bumblebee” look like a crash landing into a field of nursery rhymes.

But you didn’t wake this early in the morning to hear me self-praise my musical ingenuity, have you? You want to hear about my appointment with the doctor. 

Very well then. It all started as usual. We greeted at the door and delved right into the thick of things. I am not one to dawdle in meaningless talk, especially now when any free time I excavate from my mountainous schedule is dedicated to practicing. He was very pleased with my progress towards talking to other ponies, which I found to be affirming, but a tad embarrassing. I mean, I know I’ve always had trouble initiating conversations, but some ponies make it seem so natural. So easy. And I still get the butterflies when I need to use the telephone. I highly doubt I will find any pony who struggles with relating socially as much as I do.

This brings me to the doctor’s “challenge”. Although he was pleased that I have engaged in meaningful conversation, he’s noticed that they were initiated by something other me. With Twilight Sparkle, it was her snooping that started the conversation. And I have Winona’s friendliness to thank for hearing Applejack’s tale. I remember he took off his glasses and gave me that signature smirk. That look always meant something sinister was about to be said that would turn the tide against my favor, swallow me into its perturbing force, and drop me off like a cast away on the island of discomfort. He asked me to start a conversation with a complete stranger next time I board each bus. But not just anypony. The strangest, weirdest, odd-looking pony I could find.

Imagine this for a minute, my dearest father. Imagine a tower. A strong and beautiful tower built using the most tender care and affection by hooves of conviction and fervor. The sun beat endlessly, the rains fell mercilessly, but unwaveringly the hooves worked and worked and worked until the tower stood erect. The only one of its kind. Now father, imagine the mayor comes along, and declares this tower for purposes that existed not even in the subconscious of the loving builder and he adamantly refuses to comply with the demands given to him. Has he forgotten his place? Why of course! He’s a contractor for the state, and any demands from his hirer are to be followed as law. Thus, he gives the leading man the keys to his tower and he walks away. 

Introversion is not a weakness, father. In fact, I find it to be one of my greatest gifts. The fact that I am capable of keeping to myself and withhold any sudden urges is a testament to strength and wisdom. Who would ever want to rob me of this? This challenge poses a risk to everything that I have built up for myself the past few years of my life. My reputation could be ruined! My protective instincts would become unarmed! And worst of all, I would have to sit through ten minutes of the worst conversation anypony has ever heard since existence! The strangest pony I could find? I would rather hear the babbles of babes!

However, I am not one to disobey the voice of tried wisdom. It is possible that my introversion poses a sort of barrier to figuring out what troubles me so. And I cannot deny the joy I have come to discover after getting to know the two mares from Ponyville. Therefore, I have accepted the challenge in the name of improvement, and am now seeking which pony to strum up a conversation with as we speak. There are the regulars who though not ideal ponies don’t seem to convey any weirdness vibes at all. In fact, they’re just there. There is nothing peculiar about them. This is going to be harder than I thought. Perhaps I should wait after a few stops before I make my choice.

And will contestant number one please come on down! There she is, father. The ideal strange pony. It has to be. Just look at her. 

A springy hairstyle. 

A pair of joke glasses on her face. 

Two party hats worn over her ears. 

Balloons for a cutie mark? 

She is outrageous! She looks like a catalogue for children’s birthday party favors. What on earth has this pony been drinking!? Oh my, I simply cannot get ahold of myself over this spectacle. Okay.

Well, she has passed my seat and decided to take residence in the middle of the bus. But who could blame her? It’s not like my looks invite ponies to rest their rumps and bask in the glory of my glowing charm. This mare, on the other hoof, could blind the blind a second time, until their perpetual blackness becomes a pleasurable memory. This makes my next move exponentially uncomfortable by default. Let us not postpone the inevitable, father, and dive right in. Though if I were to be honest, I would rather dive into a pool of vicious alligators than sit next to a walking birthday cake.

Hello. That was all I said. A simple yet respectful greeting and then poof! Confetti fell from an unidentified source and the pink pony spoke at a pace that would put motor cars to shame. I picked out “hello” and “oh my galloping gumshoes with gumdrops”, but that was all. The volume of her voice was so loud and high pitch, it was like a parasprite playing a violin badly with a hoof file. And it never stopped! She kept going and going and going! How did her parents survive with her!?

Okay, now she just scared me. When she stopped to take a breath (which sounded more like a desperate gasp for air), she said in a more normal pace that diving in a pool of vicious alligators would more likely result in lots of injuries. Or in her terms, “boo-boos.” 

I was still trying to figure out how in the name of all things logical she could know these things when out of nowhere she pulled out a cupcake and showed it to me. She said it was a new recipe and that I looked like the perfect candidate to test it. Not being one to turn down a baked treat, I put the pastry in question to my mouth and took a small bite.

I lost all sense of direction for that short moment as I savored the sweetness of this incredible cupcake. The texture of the bread was just right and felt good on my tongue. The flavor was a harmonious composition of chocolate and strawberry, with a smooth peach cream icing. It felt like a cascade of silk rushing down my throat every time I swallowed. When I finished, I could not believe I had just ingested an entire cupcake given to me by a complete stranger dressed as a party table. But at the same time I could not believe how unbelievably good it tasted! 

She asked in a surprisingly normal voice what I thought of it. I responded that it was the best cupcake I had ever tasted. Then out of nowhere, she pulled out a ukulele and offered to explain in song how to make cupcakes. 

I said sure.

If I recall correctly, one must mix a cup flour, place something sweet not sour, and a bit of salt, a pinch really. A teaspoon of vanilla comes next, with an extra douse of the extract for good measure. Then one, two, three, four, you have a batch of delectable cupcakes. I would have imagined baking cupcakes would be a tad more involved than that, but I am talking to a mare who can read minds and produce confetti from nothing. I question nothing. Catchy tune.

I wanted to start a nice little chat to find out more about this eccentric mare, but before I could even mutter a word she forced another cupcake into my mouth causing me to choke on its rich texture. As I was struggling to chew the cupcake, she rammed a bright pink hoofkerchief onto my face and cleaned up all the frosting that packed onto my lips. She apologized then threw the hoofkerchief out the window. 

That was when we heard a gruff voice coming from the front of the bus. It was the conductor, and it was apparent he did not appreciate this pony’s littering. Leave it to the party ponified to take this curt callout as an invitation to offer him one of her moist cupcakes, for that was exactly what she did. Ignoring all physics whatsoever, she stood on the ceiling on the bus, hoofed with what appeared to me to be gumshoes, and brought down a cupcake to the conductor’s eyes. Luckily we were at a stop so no danger was posed to the passengers on board. And perhaps it was my eyes playing tricks on me, but I swear I saw small fireworks sparkle in her eyes. What happened next was truly a spectacle, and downright atrocious.

The conductor grabbed the pony by the neck, said some choice words, and threw her precisely back into her seat with a thump. He held the cupcake in his hoof for a few seconds before depositing it into the small trash bin he always had near him, making sure she was looking. Then a peculiar thing happened. Her mane began to deflate like a pricked balloon. Her smile slowly degraded into a heartbreaking frown. Her eyes lost that exploding sparkle and were replaced by tears. It was as if the party was sucked out of her. For the first time during the ride, she didn’t say a word.

Well, I have a few words to say to the conductor. How dare he disrespect a paying customer as if she were a bag of Monday’s trash? Such customer service is unspeakable! I believe a verbal correction is in order. Please wait a moment father, while I give this bloated bastard not a piece, but my whole damn mind!


The feeling of justice is thick in the air. The morning sun basks in the glory of unwavering valor and strong hooves strike the cold ground with triumph. Not a cloud dots the sky for they know and fear for the arrival of Octavia, defender of the defenseless and leader of the lost!

Well, in case you haven’t noticed father, I was kicked out of the bus for my “behavior.” Evidently, the conductor didn’t like having his actions accounted for or his weight problem interpreted as laziness. But somepony had to hold the mirror to his self-righteousness. But that wasn’t even the best part father. After I had convincingly hoofed his plot to him, I picked the delicacy he discarded and, using the technique I learned from the pink pony, smashed his wobbly face with sweet justice! Oh, the richness that shines against the flames and fire of the beast! His screams panged my delicate ears, but I never let my guard down. It was at this moment he opened the door and roared that if he ever saw me on his bus again, he would kill me. I simply looked his way with a smirk and quipped, “Fat chance!”

I was not alone in my honorable discharge from the bus, father. For right after I stepped out of the bus, who should be shoved right into my back but the pink pony herself. I asked what happened after I regained my stance. With a smile, she said that she was so moved by my act of defense, that she pulled out thirteen and three quarters cupcakes, stuffed them into her party cannon, and fired full blast at the conductor until he was completely covered in gooey goodness. At first I couldn’t believe what I heard, but then we broke into laughter of victory. I could see that the sparkle returned to her eyes and her hair rejuvenated into her former spongy spunk. She leaned close to me as if she was going to tell me a secret, but then she was gone.

I am walking alone now father and writing in sync with my steps is harder than it seems. I look like a limp. There must be an easier way. The pink pony?  I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again. Perhaps she left her oven on back in Ponyville and so she broke into a mad dash clear across the street towards her hometown. She vanished in the blink of an eye at speeds that would rival the Wonderbolts. Too bad she wasn’t a pegasus. No she did not thank me for sticking up for her, but oddly enough I feel that it wasn’t necessary. Sure it would’ve been nice, but it felt good to stand up for her. It was like a release of some kind. I feel like I can do anything. No, a thank you would have just been extra. Kind of like sprinkles on a cupcake. I can’t seem to get something out of mind. I don’t know why, but I have this eerie feeling that I‘ve seen her before. But where?

Call me crazy father. Perhaps even paranoid, but did I just feel a kiss on my cheek? And that hug on my body. It seemed awfully familiar. It was like cotton candy rubbing against my rump. I have definitely felt that before. Wait a minute! 

Pinkie Pie! 

The Grand Galloping Gala! 

Yes, it’s all so clear now! During the night’s performance at the gala, that disrespectful little Pinkie Pie grabbed hold of my hoof and nearly made me break every single string on my cello! That little bugger! I knew there was something striking about her the moment I saw her. She’s a menace!

Destroyer of decency! 

Flattener of fancy! 

Embarrassment of equines! 


Queen of cupcakes. 

Lady of laughter. 

Princess of parties. 

A kind and generous spirit!

I must hurry. At this rate I’ll probably arrive late, and I am never late to a rehearsal. Until later, father.

Octavia


April 8, 2012
11:30 am

I am so exhausted of these poor excuses for musicians. Oh, how I wished they would just evaporate from my life and let me live out my dreams. Why must they do this to me? Why?	

Allow me to explain, father. When I finally arrived at the theater for our rehearsals, I found the podium to be lacking in ponies. I looked for them backstage. 

Nopony. 

I walked upstairs to the second level. 

Empty. 

I even checked the restrooms, both sexes. Empty as well. 

There was nopony in sight. Just as I was about to ask the front desk where my compatriots were, a note was handed to me by a young usher who looked no older than sixteen. It basically read that rehearsals were moved to a music studio three blocks due south. They would wait for me. 

Now, what possible reason would you imagine they gave me when I arrived for…

1) Moving rehearsals to a music studio, and 

2) Not telling me beforehoof? 

Simple. They had just decided to move the rehearsals that very morning and because I was riding the bus there was no way to contact me. Why did they move them in the first place? Because it was closer to everypony.

All seemed very suspicious from the outset, and of course I discovered their real plan quickly. You see, as I was getting a drink of water from the cooler during break, I caught a glimpse of a conversation between Frederic and a stallion I have never seen before. He was dressed very fashionably, and that is a notable comment for a Canterlotan to make. While I kept my face hidden behind the door, I could hear certain words from their little talk. 

Music. 

Studio. 

Space. 

Wonderful. 

Deal. 

Money. 

That was all I needed to hear. I burst through the door to confront Frederic and the gentlecolt that he invited. How dare he try to strike a deal with this stallion without consulting the other members of the quartet? And since when did we perform in hopes to land a record label? When we started this group, we all agreed that we played for the love of music and to one day play in front of large audiences not for high ticket prices, but to share the wonders of unified and harmonic sound. That is all we’ve ever been about. And for this detestable maggot to freely invite this equally disgraceful assortment of suits and sags and make a deal is just preposterous! We are not some lavish pop singer with real issues and fake talents! We are not a bunch of rich children who are too slack to seek personal fulfillment and too adamant about our parents buying out our lame dreams for fame. 

We are musicians.

We love music. 

If we are to be adored as kings and queens, then it will be because we have earned that right because of hard work and gentle vision. I have not worked my plot off perfecting my craft and composing my solo in order to sell my soul to some sweet talker in a suit! I would not have it!

That was when the other members walked in, and that was when I found out the entire group was in it together. The gentlecolt, whom I found was some hotshot named Fancy Pants, was answering a call made two weeks ago from a member of the “Sunshine Quartet” to come in a give a listen to their beautifully arranged music headed by one of the greatest cellists of all time, Octavia. Oh, I could feel the butter boiling all over me! 

I turned to my compatriots and every one of them looked to the floor. Only Susie Tuba stepped out and spoke when obviously no other pony dared. Sweet Susie Tuba. She plays the loudest instrument with the softest blows. She opened her sweet mouth and oozed the sour, bitter, filthy, murky words that gave reason to their treachery and season for my misery: Somepony found out about my plans to go solo after the concert. And so in a dual attempt to make money before my departure and seduce me into staying with the group, they contacted Fancy Pants and arranged a practice session in the studio and masked their scheme with fibs of facilitation. As I looked around the room, all I saw was silent faces. Silent faces marked with disdainful deception and garish greed. At that moment, I lifted my head and my cello case and faced the exit. 

What was I to do, father? Do I stay to play into a microphone, selling my precious music to a bunch of business ponies, or walk out the door with my creative integrity?



The wind has picked up speed since this morning and I feel the beginnings of a drizzle at the end of my muzzle. What to do for five hours. It’s such a strange feeling when all your life you’ve always had something to do for every minute of it, only to find yourself with nothing important to focus on. It’s like losing a map halfway through the journey. You could say that’s exactly how I feel right now. I don’t know where to go from here. 

Well father, I’ve settled here at the bus stop. Just me, my pad, and my cello case. It’s all I really have right now. It’s all that really matters. How do they do it? How can a group of ponies just brush another pony to the side as if she were crumbs fallen to the floor? Do they not understand that these crumbs were once an object? What power does absence have over us that we allow it to make life changing decisions so simple? How does it make us forget our compatriots? How does it render our memories useless? Could it be that absence is the key to change? 

Of presence. 

Of mind. 

Of heart. 

Of reason. Of so many damn things. 

What am I missing here father? What have I possibly given to perdition that would cause my friends to ditch me like a raggedy doll. My loyalty? I wouldn’t have left the group without telling them about it. I would’ve given them plenty of time to seek a fourth member, but they jumped the gun. I hadn’t even gone and they already wooed a label to label us as sellouts. 

Even the potential of absence is powerful enough to separate and decompose. Absence does not make the heart grow fonder. Absence breaks it. It pummels the heart with unfounded threats and paranoia and leaves the pieces scattered all over where the winds of doubt carry them off into the abyss of fear.

A bus is approaching, but it is much too early for me to board. But, on the other hoof, there may be a chance I could see the doctor for a while longer. I have much to discuss with him. Besides, I still have part two of the challenge to complete and I want to get it over with as soon as possible. Not to say Pinkie Pie was a complete disaster. I ended up enjoying that encounter. Alright, here it is.


April 8, 2012
2nd Bus Ride – 12:00 pm
Southwest corner of N. 43rd Ave and W. Bell Rd

My, my! The noon route is absolutely jam packed! I hardly had room to squeeze through the little hallway. I was fortunate enough to find a seat in the middle of the bus near the back exit, but I am forced to hold my cello in between my legs. This makes writing a chore, forcing me to rest my pad on my case giving me the space of about one foot to write in. Maybe this is how a praying mantis would write her thoughts, praying that as stops pass by, passengers too would pass off the bus. Did I mention that the vast majority of the passengers are of high school age? My guess is the school north of the studio held a short day. But even this is quite a ridiculous number of young ponies. Something else must be causing the numbers explosion, but what?

What in the world? Father, a pony has just boarded that sent the bus into an uproar of clops and whistles. I can’t quite see the famous guest, namely because the pony seated next to me got up and rudely squeezed her way out. At least I can place my cello in the unoccupied seat so I can write in a more orthodox way. 

As soon as I was about to write, I heard a raspy throat clearing. I looked up to find a white unicorn with a most frazzled blue mane sporting purple sunglasses. She said (more like demanded) she wanted to have a seat next to me. I moved to the window seat and placed the cello between my legs. She crossed her hooves and said that she wanted the window seat. Begrudgingly, I got up and allowed her to squeeze into the window seat. I must have rubbed up against five flanks in that transfer. Some ponies can be such snobs, I tell you!

Look at her. When was the last time she combed her mane? And she smells like a convenience store. Where has the care for appearance gone this century?

She’s so engrossed in her cell phone, just typing away at those little keys. How can anypony master such a tedious task? It looks painful! I can’t stand cell phones father. I had a cell phone for one month, and I had to cancel it after getting over three hundred text messages a night from complete strangers who wrote some of the most grotesque things I’ve ever read. I’ll spare you the details, but believe me when I say the two hundred bits cancellation fee was a small price to pay for my privacy back. I am not a huge fan of social media either. Who cares what you had for breakfast? If you want attention, go outside and do something worth attending to. 

Should I start a conversation with her? There are plenty of candidates on the bus this hour, but perhaps chance has brought us here for some reason. I will start by asking her name and go from there. Not sure what I’ll get. Maybe a mumble I cannot decipher or a cloud of cigarette smoke that’ll singe my face. Here goes.

How was I supposed to know her name was Vinyl Scratch? Am I a mind reader? 

DJ Pon-3? These are all just symbols to me. 

She goes on to peek at my cello and scoff. Yes of course, because I am cultured I appear to be out of sync with reality. Says the mare with a blue mane! We entered into a bit of a verbal fest. I say she’s not cultured enough, she calls me yogurt. I say she should try something new, she says classical is too old for her. I suggest that classical music can be very lively; she says it’s impossible because all the composers are dead. I say that greats like Haythoven will never go out of style unlike electronic music, she says electronic music is just a highly evolved style that puts classical in the days of caveponies. At this point, I realize we were never going to agree and so I pulled out my ultimate zinger and say to her face that she is a sellout.

That brought the sunglasses down. She had a pair of bright red eyes that burned with anger. Very slowly, she asked me to repeat. At this point all eyes were on me. I wouldn’t have minded this if I was performing, but this was a little disturbing. I swallowed hard and tugged at my bow tie. Vinyl slapped my hoof off my bow tie and demanded that I repeat what I had just said. Why was this mare so sprung? 

I repeated my sentiment, that because she was into the new wave of music, that she must have signed with some label, thus allowing business ponies to dictate what she wrote. A sellout of her creativity. At this, Vinyl softened her gaze and shook her head. She wasn’t fierce anymore, and most of the ponies got the idea and turned back into whatever they were doing. Just sitting. Spectating.

What followed father, I could only describe as music to my ears. First, she snarled at me, mumbling that she was not a sellout. Sellouts were abominations to the world of music. They sleep their way to the top then prance around the world pretending to be talented when in fact they are nothing more than rich attention whores with nothing better to do. At that moment, she slid off her sunglasses completely and recounted a time when she almost fell into the trap of worldwide fame. They promised the world to her, but instead they only gave her a world of hurt and unmet expectations. They owned everything she made, even that which was not yet produced. They owned her mind. They owned her soul.  Buck them, she said. She was never about fame or money or anything that came with being a music producer. To her, music was an escape from the world. It was painting a picture for the blind. It was introducing a new concept of beauty to a stagnant world. It was innovation and originality and leaving your hoofmark in the sands of time. Music was passion. Music was love. Music was the little voice in your head that said you can make anything happen and anything was possible. Music made you want to fly. Higher and higher until there was no more sky to discover. Then, music made you search even harder for ways to outstretch the boundaries. Music was never meant to encapsulate, but to expand.

I felt like panting as if I had just ran a mile when Vinyl jerked her face into my own, and told me to never call her a sellout again. She fell back in her seat and pulled out her cell phone. 

Wow. 

I apologized to her for my forward assumptions and my prejudice against electronic musicians. It had been a hard day and all I wanted to do was straighten every crooked edge in the world I could find. She then asked what got me into such a tizzy. I told her everything. The morning bus. Pinkie Pie. The note. The studio. The betrayal of my friends. She asked what I did after I found out. Her eyes went soft after I told her that I literally walked out of the group. 
She smiled. She said that was cool. 

You know, hearing that from a pony such as herself was pretty satisfying. I have never been cool in my life, and to be validated as such from an electronic musician was very fulfilling. I chuckled, and so did she.

As I was getting off the bus (with much more room to wiggle through thankfully), Vinyl said that perhaps one day we could do a collaboration of some sort.

Yeah, like that will ever happen.



You know what father? I just realized not once today did I say a thing about the bus.

Not the seats.

Not the ride.

Not even the stains.

Am I a regular now?
Octavia