Spark Notes

by Sharp Spark

Trixie and Pumpkin Cake Save the World

There’s something about the desert that makes a pony want to drink.

And I don’t mean water. It’s not a simple being-thirsty thing. It’s those long, long days of crushing heat, where you all you can do is stare out into the dunes in the distance as the shimmer of the air plays tricks on your eyes.

The desert just has a finality to it. You’re here. It’s hot. There’s sand. Those things aren’t going to change.

You’d think being in Las Pegasus would be different, what with all the glitz and glamour and sparkling nightlife. What you forget is you wake up the next day and you’re still in the damn desert. Take one step out of the magically-cooled casino strip and you’ll remember soon enough.

When you’re in town for a vacation, it’s easy enough to brush aside, but when you live here? It doesn’t take long for the shine to rub off of this particular imitation diamond. You find a way to deal with it.

For me, that was drinking. Turns out it’s a pretty popular pastime ‘round here.

When I stumbled into the Bruised Lizard it was a little after noon. I had left my hat behind and chosen a plain purple cloak, keeping my identity clear without drawing unwanted attention. The darkness inside the bar was a thankful relief from the glaring sun, and I could already feel my headache softening. Either from the dim light or anticipation of what was to come. Best hangover cure’s always the hair of the dog, or so I say.

The Liz is more of a dive than a bar, a far cry from the fancy clubs on the strip. You don’t show up here for the ‘ambience’ or in hopes of seeing a celebrity. It’s a place locals go, on those regular occasions when you’re confronted with the problem of not-being-drunk and find the best course of action to be seriously tackling the issue head-on.

In fact, there were a few ponies already hunched over the bar. My eyes ran across them, subconsciously categorizing and filing away the information. Stallion, indentations in his coat around the neck, hooves rough and dusty – a long freight hauler passing through town and familiar enough to not be bled dry in the casinos. Mare, far too thin, twitchy, and vaguely attractive without being beautiful – backup dancer for one of the shows. Stallion, bunched muscles in the haunches, hard hat on his head – too easy. Construction worker on one of the new hotels that kept sprouting up like weeds. They’d wither away in a few years, and a new, bigger monstrosity would pop up in their place. There was always construction in Las Pegasus.

The first step in being a good magician is seeing the things that other ponies miss. It’s a nice little trick to drop in my act when I use an audience volunteer, but more importantly, it’s gotten me out of more than a few sketchy situations long ago when I was on the road. And by now, it was an old habit hard to break.

I trotted up to the bar and perched on a stool a fair distance from the rest of them. It’s not unfriendliness. No one’s there to talk. I raised a hoof to flag down Full Mug, the bartender, and when he turned to me, he had his namesake in hoof and ready.

“Trixie,” he said in way of greeting.

I nodded and devoted my attentions to the beer. I drained the mug in one long pull, barely registering the taste. When I looked up, Muggy was still standing there, a dopey smile on his face. I knew what that meant.

“Nope,” I said. “I’m not working. You can come to my show like everypony else.”

“C’mon Trixie.” His grin widened. “Nothin’ fancy. Just a little trick, and the next one’s on the house.”

“It’s not a trick. It’s an illusion.” His head tilted sideways, eyes still imploring and I sighed, putting a little more begrudging resignation into it than I was actually feeling. Best not to give him the impression I’d do this all the time. “Pour.”

As he did, I slipped a pair of bits from a pocket sewn into my cloak, setting one on the table while keeping the second hidden, balanced in the crook of my left foreleg. My eyes shot over to the other ponies to see if we had a wider audience, but they kept their muzzles planted in their drinks.

Easier, but a little disappointing.

He set the refilled mug down in front of me and I flipped the bit on the table up in the air to spin a few times before landing in the beer with a plunk. I scooped the mug up with my right foreleg, turning aside and flinging my left out theatrically as I made a show of chugging the drink, squirreling away the bit to the side of one cheek as it passed my teeth. My eyes were open just a shade, enough to see as Full Mug leaned forward, enraptured. His eyes, of course, were on the mug.

Yeah. Too easy. I knew at least three different ways to do something showy, but settled for the simplest.

With a barely visible motion, the bit slid down the length of my left foreleg and I flipped it up to lightly toss it forward into the pocket on his apron. He didn’t notice a thing, his eyes still on my face and horn.

I slammed the mug down loudly, that finally getting a surprised glance from the mare a few seats down. “Too many free beers, my good barkeep,” I said, my voice taking on a richer intonation as I veered into performance mode, “and you may find your customers drinking away your profits.”

I turned the mug upside down and a few specks of froth dripped, with no bit left behind. His muzzle moved to frame a question, but I beat him to it, the bit swishing to settle under my tongue before I opened my mouth and revealed it as apparently empty.

He blinked, and I let the moment last just long enough to build the anticipation. “Maybe your money is closer to your heart.” My foreleg reached out to tap him in the chest, right on that apron pocket, and he gawped as he put it together. His hooves fumbled, but the bit came out to clink against the wooden countertop.

His eyes flickered between the bit and myself, and I rolled a hoof in the air in a bored flourish. That got a big smile out of him, and he stomped his hooves against the floor in applause, causing the others to look up at us.

Far too easy. I used to get such a rush out of performing, no matter when or where. The idea of making other ponies gape in awe was a driving force, leading me on to bigger and better things. I reached up with a hoof to wearily rub my face, filching the bit from my mouth to stow it away in my cloak again with another motion.

Now look at me, playing hide-the-bit for free beer in a dive bar.

It made me feel tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. I sighed and slumped forward, pressing my forehead against the cool counter. “You ever wake up one morning, Muggy, and realize that somehow, without ever noticing it, you’ve gotten old?”

“You’re only as old as you feel, so they say.”

I paused for a moment to consider his words. “That doesn’t help.”

His smile melted away, replaced by a look of concern. “You alright, Trix? You’re not normally this down when you’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk. Maybe that’s the problem.”

“Is this about the new magician down at the Fillagio? Hey, I bet he can’t hold a candle to—”

“What?” The question came out flat, a statement of disbelief rather than an inquiry.

Full Mug rubbed one hoof at the back of his mane. “You hadn’t heard? There’s a new act in town. I’m surprised you didn’t see any of the banners, they’ve been advertising all over the strip.”

I wanted to snap back at him that I didn’t go on the strip. That it was for tourists. Instead I kept silent, my glare still drilling holes in his head.

“Some earth pony named Silverlea. Silverlea the… Super? Surprising? Some fancy S word.” He shook his head. “Like I said though, I’m sure your act is much better. I mean, you’ve been doing this for what, years and years?”

I could feel my teeth grinding together. “Which means I’m old hat, and he’s new and exciting. And an earth pony? That’s going to draw a crowd.”

“Have to admit I’m a bit curious myself,” Full Mug said. He raised an eyebrow at the expression on my muzzle. “Let me pour you another.”

I put my hoof over the mug. “No. I’ve got somewhere to go.”

“Oh?”

“The Fillagio, right?”

“You’re not—”

I stood up, swirling my cape around myself, and storming towards the door.

As I left I heard Full Mug calling out after me. “Don’t do anything stupid, Trixie!”

----------

“But I don’t wanna be the cupcake!”

I was going for passionate insistence from a thoughtful young lady. When the words squeaked out of my muzzle, I realized instead I had accidentally hit full-on whine.

I heard Pound snickering beside me and I shot him a dark look. He stuck his tongue out and I kicked him in the leg hard where Dad couldn’t see. That shut him up.

“Listen, sweetheart, we’re very busy today what with Syrup out on vacation and your mother having to teach Diamond Mint how to run the register.” Dad tried to put on a cheery smile. “So we’re all gonna have to pitch in and do our parts. And that means a very special job, just for you!”

Yeah right. I got to dress up in a hot, uncomfortable cupcake costume and hand out free samples to tourists. It was my duty partly because I could fit in the suit, but mostly because Mom and Dad didn’t trust me to do anything else.

Shows what they knew. I was going to prove them wrong.

“Then let me help bake!”

Dad reached up to fiddle with his paper hat, a sign I knew all too well as nervousness. “Sweetie, remember last time we tried that…? We’re already stretched thin as it is…”

I deployed my secret weapon: maximum-strength puppy eyes.

“And… and…”

Critical hit! ...Ugh, I spending too much time around Pound and his nerd friends.

He closed his eyes and sighed. “Okay. You can help in the kitchen, but you have to do exactly as you’re told. No improvising!”

I straightened up to stand at attention. “Yes sir!”

“Pound, you’ll be at the back door. We’re expecting a shipment of ingredients and I need you to bring those in as soon as they get here.”

He snapped off a salute, and leaned over to whisper “Don’t screw up,” in my ear. I kicked out at him again, but he took off with a flap of his wings and fled the kitchen, only pausing to make sure I saw him sticking his tongue out one last time. Ugh.

Dad had already trotted over to the counter, and I dragged over the stepstool so I could see all the way over the top. He bit his lip as he looked at the ingredients spread out, ready for the day’s work.

My eyes scanned them too. Marshmallow-Mint-Muffins, from the bowl of fluffy marshmallows and pre-mixed dough. I nodded to myself, cause I knew the recipe. But I knew all the recipes, of course. I just needed to prove I could make them, without any completely explainable and out-of-my-control disasters or explosions.

I had a good feeling about it this time!

“Okay, sweetie, how about you… stir the dough.”

I stifled a groan. That was hardly baking. More like a chore – where was the excitement, the magic, the creativity? But… it was better than nothing.

I grabbed the spoon with both hooves and put my all into attacking the dough. It was still pretty thick, so it took more effort than you’d think. Dad watched me carefully for a moment before turning away to start getting something else ready.

I kept on, trying to keep from slinging dough everywhere and mostly succeeding. What would a stirring cutie mark look like, anyways? A spoon or a whisk? Lame, but at least it’d be something to do with baking. Ever since Pound had gotten his last month, he had been even more insufferable than usual.

It was totally stupid. We were twins! We were supposed to get these things at the same time! Instead, he’s got everything figured out and there’s Mom and Dad, fawning all over him. Not to mention he could fly and I couldn’t even—

I realized my stirring had gotten a little more violent than necessary, and backed off. I reached out to discreetly wipe some of the more visible globs that my attack on the bowl had flung across the table. Dad had his back to me, and hadn’t noticed.

The door to the main restaurant flung open with a bang, and Mom stuck her head in. “Dear, we—” She caught sight of me and frowned. “I thought Pumpkin was going to—”

“I’m baking,” I said firmly.

Her eyes narrowed. “Carrot, honey, didn’t we have a discussion after the… pistachio incident?”

I felt heat rising in my face. “Mooooom! I’m doing fine.”

“Just… just don’t—” Her eyes lit up. “Oh! But I need you out front, Carrot. We’ve got a VIP asking to meet the head chef. Straighten your bowtie!”

“On it!” Dad tugged at his bowtie and lifted his hat to slick back his hair before darting out the front.

Five, four, three, two—

Both of them popped their heads back in at the same time. “And don’t move from that spot, Pumpkin!”

I groaned loudly, and kept stirring. They disappeared again and I was left alone in the kitchen.

Jeez. You would think they’d trust me! They let Pound bake by himself, after all.

At this rate, I’d never get to get a chance to get my cutie mark. It was obvious, really. Just a matter of finding the right recipe, some sort of super awesome surprise combination that would taste great and be our number one seller and would show up right on my flank to let the whole world know my skills.

It happened for Dad, after all. And Mom. And Pound.

But if they wouldn’t let me even try… Ugh.

It was then that my eyes caught the bowl of chopped strawberries that Dad was getting ready for something. That gave me an idea.

A brilliant idea.

Strawberry-Marshmallow Muffins. It sounded… hm. A little odd. But in a good way! I think.

It was certainly worth a try.

The only problem was that they were all the way on the other side of the table, and Mom and Dad had very emphatically said not to move. But if I didn’t move… if they came to me instead. Well, then. That would be perfectly fine!

I took a deep breath, knowing that the next step would be the difficult one. I was confident I’d be able to handle it, but it’d take a lot of concentration.

I swallowed and closed my eyes, feeling the odd sensation of magic flickering to life around my horn. Levitation was supposed to be easy peasy lemon squeezy. I didn’t even need to lift the bowl, I could just sort of… drag it along the countertop. Any filly my age should be able to manage that much at least.

It simply takes a light touch. Very, very light. I could feel the shape of the bowl in my mind as my magic settled around it. I gave it a tiny tug, and could feel the bowl vibrate ever-so-slightly.

Perfect. A liiiiiiitle smidge harder and…

“She’s doing magic! Hit the deck!”

My eyes flew open to see Pound standing in the back doorway, one hoof flung out at me and his mouth hanging open in horror.

I could hear the thudding hooves coming from the front, and Dad burst into the room, just as I felt my grasp over my magic slip.

no no no no no

I clenched my teeth and sent another jolt to try and get it back under control, but I could feel the power sucked away as the glowing around my horn intensified.

Okay! No! I knew what to do. I had drilled it into my head in the aftermath of the last surge. Calm thoughts! Blank mind!

Don’t think of anything, even though it’s really hard cause when you try not to think about something, all you can think of is—

Definitely don’t think of pistachios.

I needed something neutral. My eyes flickered around the room, seeking something bland and unthreatening. The light blue sparks around my horn started crackling loudly.

Marshmallows! Safe, white, bland marshmallows. I let out a puff of relief. Okay. Now I just think about marshmallows and ride out the surge. Nice marshmallows. Big fluffy marshmallows.

A bolt arced out from my horn to slam into the bowl of marshmallows.

Wait. Not that big.

The marshmallows in the bowl weren’t always that big, right? Marshmallows aren’t supposed to be the size of softballs!

Uh oh.

I screwed my eyes shut around the time they swelled up to beachball-sized, but I could hear the gurgling sound intensifying.

I held my breath, cause I knew what was coming next.

To my credit, this time it wasn’t an explosion.

More of a really loud ‘plorp’ followed by a titanic wave of sticky goo.

I raised one hoof to wipe marshmallow gunk off my face and survey the damage. The entire kitchen was completely covered in white goo. The table and all the ingredients lined up on top weren’t even visible under the sea of white. It looked like there had been a freak blizzard in the middle of the kitchen. A sugary one.

As I watched, a large drip fell off of one of the cabinets with a wet plop. I swallowed and turned to see Dad’s eyes looking at me from beneath a pony-sized pile of marshmallow.

He didn’t even look angry. Just… disappointed.

That was kinda worse.

“I’ll go get the cupcake costume,” I said.

Author's Note:

This is a first chapter to a story very vaguely set in the same continuity of Einhander's Royals. The idea was to have Trixie mentoring an older/young teen Pumpkin Cake in the art of ~Magic~ (wherein actual magic is approximately the least important thing possible. It's all about showmareship!). Her parents would obviously not approve, but Pumpkin would sneak away and help Trixie rediscover her love for her craft, even as they put together a wonderful new act in which Trixie would (faux) huffily try to perform while Pumpkin endearingly 'messed' it up, only to all come together in the end to the delight of the audience. I sort of lost steam after putting this together and it didn't go anywhere, but I liked this first chapter a lot.

Comments

[PresentPerfect]

Shoot, because I'd love to see more.

[Icy Shake]

This one felt weird before getting to the author's note. Two strong scenes with only the most tenuous of ties: magic, bitterness, and perhaps ambition or pride, looking back. I actually scrolled back up to make sure I didn't switch chapters between them.

Do feel awfully bad for Pumpkin, here. The Cakes seem to be much more restrictive parent(al figure)s than the CMC have. :P It's almost like you mean to suggest screwups have consequences.

[Meridian Prime]

I would have loved to see this as a longer story. But out muses don't always do what we want them to I guess.