“Young New Music”
The very old stallion sat on a park bench, near the bandstand. His body was wrinkled and shrunken in on itself like a dried apple, and he clutched a cane like a lifeline between his hooves. A fedora perched atop his sparse white mane, but below the brim his eyes shone, sharp and clear, young eyes in a wizened face.
On the stage, a young new band was playing, their instruments assisted by large speakers and amplifiers, the music more of a distorted electronic squeal than anything the very old stallion recognized as music.
He didn’t care much for it; it hurt his ears. But around the bandstand were young new ponies of every description, dancing like they were born to it, like this was the moment their entire lives had led up to. They danced like this moment would last forever and the music would never end.
But the very old stallion knew that the music always ended. And he had learned, especially now when his own concerto was playing its last movement, that the fact of the music’s ending meant that you had to dance all the harder while it was playing.
He looked at the young new crowd dancing to the young new music, and he watched their firm muscles move beneath their taut skins, and he saw their untroubled smiles below unclouded eyes, and he pitied them as he rejoiced for them as he envied them.
He closed very old eyelids over young eyes and remembered the words of a favorite poem:
They danced
until rivers of sweat
poured down their sides
until their muscles
trembled
until they panted for air.
They danced
with all that they had and
all that they were.
They danced
because it was when
they danced
that they were
free.
As the poem stepped through his mind, he heard the young new music afresh and realized that the young new band was playing the same music he had danced to when he was young, when he was new; it was only that it had changed to stay young and new and he himself had changed to become so very old.
He saw himself reflected in the ponies dancing to the music as though in a reverse funhouse mirror, one that improved your reflection to make you better than you are, that showed you as everything you wanted to be, carefree, and beautiful, and young, so young.
He closed his wrinkled eyelids again and tilted his head back and let the young new music wash over him and through him, and he imagined that one particular song was still playing. He imagined the curly mane compressing against his shoulder, and the smell of soap and perfume, and he smiled. “Oh, Eunice, do you remember?” he asked, silently.
He imagined her eyes—bright blue, undimmed in his memory—opening and taking in the dancing young ponies, and he imagined her smile and silent nod, and he imagined that she laid her head back on his shoulder, right on the spot that had been empty for so long. And she said, “Why don’t we dance anymore, Henry? What happened to us?”
And the very old stallion could only shrug his empty shoulders, and listen to the young new music, and press together his very old eyelids to hold back his tears.
- - - - -
A/N: This was written for prompt #8 at Thirty Minute Ponies. The prompt was named “Poetry In Motion,” and the prompt is at the bottom of this author’s note. That prompt produced a surprising number of dead ponies, and my entry was no exception.
The prompt:
They danced
until rivers of sweat
poured down their sides
until their muscles
trembled
until they panted for air.
They danced
with all that they had and
all that they were.
They danced
because it was when
they danced
that they were
free.
(Edited to add: Write a story about ponies dancing. The above is offered to help inspire you as to determining these ponies’ motivations, feelings about dancing, etc.)