The Streets of Canterlot
Lyra Heartstrings strolled along at a sluggish pace, her head bowed towards the cobblestone streets of Canterlot. The creaking of wagon wheels and the rattling of royal guard armor formed a hushed chorus that echoed off the magnificent silver-and-blue spires of the lofty capital. It was a sound that she had known most of her young life... but now—for some reason—it was grating for her.
The mare winced, longing for the quiet of Ponyville—like a virtual sound booth in the navel of Equestria where she was fortunate enough to live in. Everyday, she came up with thoughts and ideas, and they escaped her mind in song.
Here—back up in Canterlot—the continuous groan of the mountain scared the melody back in, until everything between her ears compressed into a big ball of certainly green mush.
"Hrmmmmfff... I... do k-kinda miss the thin air, though." She paused to contemplate that. On a whim, she opened her jaw as wide as she could. Pop! Her ear canals gargled as if she was under water. The mare sighed, waiting for the sensation to pass. "Grade A idiot. The 'A' is for extra assetry."
Just then, a loud bell rang out. The citizens of Canterlot kept trotting back and forth, unaffected. Lyra—however—scuffled to a stop and looked straight up. Her amber eyes reflected a clock tower looming halfway uphill between where she stood and the enormous Palace of the Royal Sisters uphill. The short hand was on the "one" and the long hand on the "twelve."
"Hrmmmm..." Lyra's ears drooped as she contemplated the tragic time she had lost along with the money for the birthday gig. "...Lemon Hearts and the other gals should be leaving the office at two... and they were planning on swinging by the shopping district around three." Her eyes darted around. "If I keep to the west and east sides of town for each hour slot respectfully... then I should be able to avoid them even as late as four o'clock when my train to Ponyville leaves the station." She cleared her throat, squinting off in thought. "Aaaaaaaaaaaand... next time I see them, I could just... uh... say that I forgot where the doctor's office was!"
She grinned into the afternoon sky... then rolled her eyes.
"Nah. They'll see right through that." Her hooves squirmed. "I could... just say that I got mugged!"
Silence.
"Yeah. Definitely mugged. That's slightly sexier than early onset dementia. Worse comes to worst..." Lyra continued trotting forward. "...I'll smack myself in the skull a few times and earn the scars to back it up. Hrmmmff... can't be any worse than theirs."
She passed by armored equines on patrol. For a brief moment, Lyra thought she spotted a flicker of blue on orange.
The mare's heart skipped a beat. She spun to the side, eyes wide.
The guards continued to march past her in double-file. She didn't recognize a single one.
Another dull sigh. "The sooner I'm off this rock-cap, the better." Her brow furrowed. "But how do I kill time for three hours?"
She came to a stop at an intersection. Pivoting about, the mare gazed east... west... and then smelled the scent of tulips in the air. Instantly, her insides tightened up. Against her better judgment, she gazed up a sloping hill that curved towards the west end of town.
"Hrmmmmff... don't do it," she muttered aloud. "It's not worth it. Nostalgia kills. For real. It's worse than cancer. Griffon cancer."
Silence.
Lyra growled, her tail flicking in angry little swipes. "Friggin'... mottled beaks... coming up featherless..."
The floral scent persisted... penetrating.
"Unnnngh..." Enslaved to the memories carried aloft by the fragrance, Lyra eventually relented... shuffling west in a crooked lurch.
"Buck me... why can't I not go to therapy sessions in Mareami one of these days?"
West Canterlot – Middle Class Apartment District – Upper Streets
Houses... duplexes... cottages...
Mailboxes... lampposts... fire hydrants...
Lyra recognized each and every one by heart—down to the shape, color, and texture. But it was more than memory leading her to her destination. She followed the scent of flowers, growing more and more intoxicating.
At last... turning the last bend and ending at a cul-de-sac hugged by four two-story apartments...
...she came to a quiet stop before a patch of green earth. Her eyes reflected a lush little garden of pastel bright flowers—nestled oddly between the bodies of two looming residences. The patch of garden was the only of its kind in the neighborhood, and it covered an area roughly identical in size to the apartment foundations surrounding it.
Hedges flanked by tulips surrounded a tiny wooden bench—partially dilapidated through time and neglect.
"Hrmmmf..." Lyra sighed. "...are they ever going to replace you?"
But Lyra did not come there to talk to exterior furniture. Trotting softly onto the exposed grass, she took her saddlebag, laid it beside the tulips, and pulled out her golden instrument. Levitating the lyre beside her, the unicorn smiled warmly.
"Well, Mom and Dad... here I am... and the place looks prettier than ever." She started plucking the strings one by one. "It's almost as though it never b—"
"Hey!" A wavering voice echoed from several feet over. "Knock it off! Scram! Shoo!"
Lyra fumbled through a discordant string or two. She pivoted about, gawking. "Huh?" The handle of a garden shovel bounced off her head. Bonk! "Owww!"
A sweaty old mare with a red coat squatted on a gardening wagon two hedges over. Dirt flecked her fetlocks as she continued pulling weeds and slapping fresh tulips into the sliver of soft earth. "There! Now maybe your skull will have a conversation with your ears that will carry you far away! Mmmmmm! Hooligan! Begone!"
"Celestia on a bike!" Lyra stammered. "Can't a girl reminisce at the place where she gr—?!"
"Uh uh! Take your somber, sauntering serenades of expostionary malarkey somewhere else!" The old mare's nostrils flared. "We've got a neighborhood watch here, y'know!"
"You don't say!" Lyra huffed, shoving her lyre back into her saddlebags and shuffling off. "Gotta have a good eye for that sort of a thing, lady. Speaking of which, you ever look in the mirror lately? Lord Tirek called; he wants his scrotum back."
"Gaaaah!" The old mare picked up an even bigger shovel. "Begone harder!" She swung the instrument threateningly. "Before I fetch the guard and have them send you back to Mexicolt in a glove box!" At last, half-a-minute following Lyra's flustered departure, the old mare sighed and stared down at her gardening with dull eyes. "Dear goddess, I miss demolition derbies..."
Central Canterlot – Park District
Lyra shuffled off the beaten path.
She found a fountain covered with pigeons that flapped away upon her arrival. Squirrels barked from the nearby trees. In the distance, foals chased each other over the grassy knolls—giggling—as their mothers and fathers looked on from islands of spread picnic blankets.
Lyra sat daintily on the fountain's edge. Pulling out her lyre, she finally calmed herself with a deep breath... then began plucking away at the strings of her instrument.
"Well, Mom... Dad... the park is just the way we left it. I even remember the songs we used to—"
"Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to leave," grunted a deep voice.
Lyra blinked. The strings of her lyre stopped vibrating as she looked up. "Uhhhhhhhh... excuse me?"
A police officer in a dark-blue uniform and matching hat pointed at a nearby sign. "There are rules to be enforced around here."
Lyra craned her neck. At last, she saw the police officer's night-stick pointed at a white square sign featuring a golden harp with a big red "X" slapped across it.
"Oh, you've gotta be kidding me!" Lyra gawked, jaw dropping. "That is too sinfully specific to be real!"
"Ma'am, are you familiar with the holocaustal Harp Riots of the Late Seventy-Second Century?"
"Uh... no?"
"And we'd like to keep it that way." The officer trotted forward, practically shoving her off the fountain. "Now please go. You're disturbing the peace."
"Disturbing the peace?!" Lyra huffed, gazing at the furthest ends of the park. "Why, these ponies couldn't possibly give a flying buck about—" She clammed up as she saw angry faces scowling at her from multiple picnic spreads. "Okay. What's in the water today? Seriously? Did the jerk main burst beneath a construction site or what?"
"Please, Ma'am. Move along. I'm sure you can find another place for poetic musical introspection."
"Yeah, and I'm sure you can find another place for that nightstick."
"What was that—?"
A mint-green cloud replaced Lyra, and soon she was sprinting out of earshot.
Northwest Canterlot – Landfill – Yes, That's Right, a Friggin' Landfill
Lyra fought the urge to puke from the sick fumes of rancid garbage.
Nevertheless...
Bordering upon the northernmost fringe of Canterlot... ...
She stood between two enormously tall stacks of cubicly crushed garbage. She glanced to her left.
All was still, save for the occasionally flutter of loose newspapers.
Swallowing, she glanced to her right.
Stallions with five o'clock shadows emptied wagons of filth into the landfill before rolling back into the more pristine side of town.
Lyra breathed with relief. Smiling, she unsheathed her lyre and began plucking the strings with meditative grace. "Okay, Mom... Dad..." She hummed in between the melodious chords. "...at last, here I am, surrounded by mountains of garbage and—"
Skriiii! A flock of seagulls descended on her, pecking at the mare's horn and mane.
"Aacck! Yaaaaaugh! Goddess damn it! Why?!?" Lyra fought and wriggled and swung her lyre at the offending fowl. "Rrrrrrngh!" At last, she stomped her hoof. "That's it!" She shoved her instrument back into her saddlebags and marched out of the site. "I'm going to the damn train station now!"