//------------------------------// // Dishes, Letters, and Muffins // Story: Melodious Desideratum // by Desideratium //------------------------------// Your alarm clock lets out an electronic whine, and you reach out blindly to silence it. Your entire body is under a thick blanket and comforter to attempt to ward of the winter chill, and you have to grope around for a while before locating the source of the unwelcome noise. Finally, you stop the unpleasant sound and roll out of bed, only getting partially tangled in bedsheets. After you’re clear of the crash site, your horn lights up grey, and a forcefield envelops the wad of bedding. With a flourish of movement, the sheets and blankets straighten themselves out and fold neatly at the foot of the bed. Your hoof nudges something on the floor and you look down to find a stray pillow. You sigh and toss it onto the bed with another flick of magic. Your apartment is usually quite clean, and your compulsiveness is triggered in a most unpleasant manner when you see the pile of dishes you had neglected to do the night before. Your horn ignites again and sink begins spouting hot water. The dishes slide across the pristine countertop and fall neatly into the rapidly-filling sink, where a sponge and dishcloth are hard at work scrubbing off whatever your last meal was. While this happens, you keep half your mind focused on controlling the cleaning, while your other half is longing for breakfast. You kick open your freezer and withdraw a frozen bagel. You blow a few ice shards off of it. The dishes stop moving for a second while you focus your magic to send a blast of warm air over the bagel, effectively unthawing it. You smile at your little trick, and the dishes resume progress. You use a knife from your neatly-organized wooden knife block to slice the bagel in half, and then insert it into your toaster. You turn your full attention back to the dishes. A pile of clean plates and glasses is forming, and you immediately send them to their appropriate locations in the cupboard. Several drawers slid open and silverware shoots into them, into clearly marked slots. You are one organized pony. Your mind splits off again to open the fridge and extract a tub of Fillydelphia cream cheese. You slide it across the counter to come to a halt right in front of you. At the same time, you hover one of the clean knives from the pile over to stick into the tub of cheese. With perfect timing, the bagel pops out of the toaster. You catch it in an ash-grey forcefield in midair and float it over to the waiting condiments. The knife scoops out a blob of cheese and spreads it evenly across the crispy surface of your bagel. You then hover the knife over to the dwindling pile of dishes and toss it into the frothy water. You take your breakfast over to your dining room table, which is only set for one—you don’t often entertain visitors. As you settle down into a chair, you notice a yellow note you had left for yourself yesterday, a reminder for what needed to be done during the day. You begin to eat as you look over your to-do list. -Take Magical Theory back to Library -Meet Noteworthy & Lyra for lunch—Sugarcube Corner—12:30 -Shopping • Milk • Apples • Stationary -Work starts—6:30 All in all, not a very busy day by your standards. You fold the note neatly and magic it into the stainless steel trash bin next to the refrigerator. Your mind splits off again as you focus simultaneously on putting away the last of the dishes, wiping down the countertop with a damp rag, and finishing your breakfast. You had taught yourself this trick, to focus on multiple planes of thought at once, during your time at Celestia’s School for Gifted Unicorns. Not feeling especially challenged by the curriculum, you often would sit in the back of the classroom and experiment with magic, while still keeping half your mind listening to the lecture that was being presented. It was a rather simple trick, and had been infinitely useful for your constant multitasking. You cast your eyes around your spotless apartment. The living room was connected to the kitchen, and from there, a doorway led to your bedroom. The only furniture that adorned the living space was an ugly green couch, end table, bookshelf, and an old upright piano in the corner. It was a little worn from use, but the piano was one of your most prized possessions, and it was what you had earned your cutie mark—a segment of curved keyboard—from. You finish cleaning up, and trot over to your instrument. You slide the ebony bench out with your hoof and take a seat. You take a moment to put your thoughts together—you always like to have your entire mind focused on your practicing. Your horn sparks, and a grey glow appears around the keyboard. This was another nifty skill you had learned at school, but this one had been introduced to you by your music teacher, Treble Clef, and not yourself. To warm up, you play a G Minor scale at a speed that would practically make the keyboard smoke, then key out the melody to Clopmaninhoof's Piano Concerto No. 4, while adding your own variations, intros, and outros. Now that you’re warmed up, you are ready to play in earnest. You roll your neck to work out the kinks and close your eyes. The music bursts out of you like a dammed river bursting through its bonds. What you are playing exactly, you don’t entirely know, and you probably couldn’t recreate it if asked; at this point, you’re running entirely off instinct. Almost every day you unintentionally write what could be a short symphony. Today, the music is haunting and epic, something at home in a high-ceilinged cathedral. The minor key raises the hairs on your back as the melody swells, and you finish with a long flourish from low to high, then back low again. As the music fades into nonexistence, the echo slowly fading, you hear a crisp knock at your door. Your eyes snap open and you look up. Through the warped glass on your door, you can see a grey and tan outline. You hurriedly slide the cover over the keys on the piano and quickly trot over to the door, but before you can open it, it falls off its hinges and lands with a crash on the floor. On top of it is a sheepish-looking grey pegasus named Derpy Hooves. “Oh, hello Derpy,” you say, wincing at the sight of powdered glass on the floor. Derpy grins, her yellow eyes gazing in opposite directions. One seems to be looking at you, but one can never be sure with Derpy. “Oops! My bad!” She struggles to stand, and you reach down to help her to her hooves. Once she’s regained her balance, she turns her head around and noses open the flap to her saddlebag. She clamps her teeth around something, and withdraws to for you to see. “Ih’ve goth a lether for you!” Derpy’s voice is considerably muffled by the envelope in her mouth, and when added to her already slurred speech, it’s basically unintelligible to anypony who isn’t used to speaking with her. “Thanks, Derpy.” You take the letter from her. The envelope isn’t marked; it only bears your name and address. “And a muffin!” “Huh?” Suddenly, Derpy is balancing a blueberry muffin on her head. You have no idea where it came from, but with Derpy, muffins are usually close at hand. She flicks her head, so the snack is flung at you. You yelp and reach out with magic to catch it before it explodes all over your face. Derpy grins proudly, and hops over the wreckage of your door and hovers outside. “That was some good music you were playing!” “Um . . . thanks?” But Derpy didn’t stick around long enough to acknowledge your response. She zoomed off to continue her deliveries, barely missing the spire on the top of Carousel Boutique.