Maple Syrup

by Garbo

East Canterlot Toodle-Oo (Incomplete)

Author's Note:

Disclaimer: Story cuts off suddenly as it is incomplete. Not sure if I'm going to use this idea in the future, but the text is from a year ago so I'm not going to use this. Any critique on the concept would be appreciated, as I would love to write this story someday, even though this story gives very little insight into what it's supposed to be.

Suddenly, it was all very real. In front of the young stallion lay the stage, empty save a drum set, a base with amp to match, and the pair of musicians tending to these instruments. It wasn’t a particularly large one; the drum set alone took up a good quarter of it. From above, a half dozen stage lights cast a harsh glow on the faded wooden boards and reflected off of the drummer’s cymbals. On the left was a thick brick wall and on the right was an audience he could not yet see. He could hear the clinking of pints of cider and the merry conversations of the denizens of Discord’s Den, the premier tavern on this side of Canterlot, not just for a pony looking for a drink, but for musicians looking for a gig.

There was one direction the very nervous pony had not looked yet. He turned his head, looking backward towards the stage door. The door lead outside, and from there one could go anywhere – avoid anything – if they took that path. Gulping, he looked back at the stage, peeking around the corner of the wall between him and the crowd. It was a full house, every seat was packed with ponies eager to see the new hotshot sax player, the son of the bartender, and the colt who graduated the Canterlot Conservatory of Music near the top of his class. He was a true musician.

At the moment, he felt like anything but. He felt like a little cold again, fumbling with an instrument that did not yet feel right in his hooves. He remembered how it was back then, all the squeaks and notes played wrong, and getting just a little bit better every day. In fact, it didn’t feel like it was all that long ago. He closed his eyes and he could almost see himself back in that time.

---

And then he was. He opened his eyes to find himself 20 lengths to the left, in the crowd rather than on the stage. Or at least, he was where the crowd was supposed to be. The tavern was now empty, both of ponies and the noises of them. He felt like he should be shocked, and he was, but his body didn’t seem to act the part. His hooves were shifting nervously but he didn’t remember wanting them to move.

It was like his body was on autopilot; he was in the cockpit, but the plane had long since taken control. It was a frightening experience, and he wanted to be scared, but he wasn’t. He was a visitor - no, a prisoner - in his own mind. He could see, hear, smell and feel everything he normally could, but he couldn’t close his eyes, plug his ears or cover his nose, and if ponies had the capability to stop feeling, he wouldn’t have been able to do that either.

Not being able to control his body made it hard to get his bearings, but he managed. He was in the bar room, facing the double doors that lead to the restaurant section of the tavern. On the table to his right as a bucket of soapy water and a rag, meaning that he’d just finished cleaning the tables. But other than that, there wasn’t much to tell him where he was. The room was the same as it always was: nine large tables in a three by three square with just enough room between them for a waiter to fit. The abandoned glasses and plates were stacked on a counter in the corner, waiting to be cleaned. The stage, which was on the wall opposite the door, was probably empty, although he couldn’t tell since his head didn’t feel like turning that far around.

It would be nice if I had a mirror, he thought. Maybe then I’d be able to tell what year this is.

Suddenly, he heard a noise coming from behind the door in front of him and his body moved his head to look up at it. His ears flattened as they always did when he was worried about something. He still couldn’t remember where he was and what he was doing, but he was fairly sure he knew who was coming in his direction, and that all of this had something to do with them.

The door in front of him opened, and his body lurched in surprise. If his brain could’ve lurched, it would’ve too.

“You’re already done cleaning the tables? That’s fast!” Walking between them, he seemed to be checking my - or at least, my former self’s - work. “And you didn’t miss anything either. That’s impressive, no doubt about it. But why are you still here? I’ve told you before that you can leave whenever you’re done. That’s why you have the housekey.”

It occurred to him that he would have to speak, but he didn’t know how. he waited for a few seconds, hoping his body would do the rest of the work like it had before. Just when he was starting to panic, his lips started moving, and the words came out.

“Well, no, it’s not that. It’s just that I’ve got something to ask you.”

“Shoot.” His dad motioned to a nearby table, and they both sat down. It was a relief to know that everything seemed to be going as it had been.

“Well, I’ve been practicing sax a lot, you know?” he said, fumbling over his words.

“I know, and I’m really impressed,” he said with a smile. “And you know I’ve seen my fair share of sax players in my time.”

“Yep, I do. So you know how seriously I’ve been taking it, right?”

His father only nodded, his eyes narrowing.

“You know, I’ve always wanted to be up on that stage, ever since I was little.”

“If you wanna ask me something, just say it. You’re not a stallion yet, but you’re old enough to act the part.”

His dad was right, of course. There really wasn’t any sense of putting it off. The question was going to be hard no matter how long he waited. But his younger self hadn’t thought of it that way, was still the nervous little colt he’d always been, and still was in many ways. That younger self didn’t want to speak, and the other pony in the room was starting to pick up on that.

“Listen, I’m sorry if I startled you, but you’re going to have to ask sooner or later. From the way you’re acting, I’d say this something pretty serious, right?”

He nodded, part of him grateful to not have to speak.

“So just say it, then.”

Well, so much for that, he thought. He honestly couldn’t remember how long this conversation had taken, nor what He looked up at his father, and was greeted by that rare compassionate look that sometimes broke his usual stoic air.