Chapter 1: Repetition, Rinse, Repeat
It was late at night and everybody had left the bar. The moon sat heavy and waning in the sky. It was bloated, fat, and fit to spill its silver bounty on the world. The stars gobbled this gift up, so very little of this gift ever reached the surface. The moon was slothful, the stars gluttonous, and both of them very greedy for attention.
Celestia fixated her eyes on the night's dainty dance. Onto a nebula coaxing the horizon in smooth sailings, then over to a star cluster spinning and tittering on the brink of collapse before it could find its footing again, then of course the winking face of the moon that was more puppy dog eyes than lewd glances.
The bartender refilled her glass of whiskey. It wasn't of any notable brand and its taste was even less notable. Even the bar itself was as memorable as a newspaper fluttering in the breeze. It served a purpose, it was relatively clean, the lights were on, and the window was clear.
For Celestia, this was enough.
The two sat together and stared out the window at the empty courtyard where the tables were empty, the chairs were tucked in, the umbrellas closed up, and a gust of wind blew errant leaves across the street. It was utterly desolate, other than the flickering shadows from the light of the bar inside. The shadows still managed to dance and laugh as much as their earthly counterparts, albeit more fluid and less colorful.
"You want more?" the bartender asked.
"Not right now."
"More ice?"
Celestia shook her head. "My drink is cold enough, thank you."
The bartender grunted and continued to clean the glasses. All of them were already spotless, of course, but it was such a force of habit that he committed it to his deepest subconscious and could practically do it in his sleep. He often had. Even in death he could already picture himself a skeletal figure cleaning a nonexistent glass in a coffin. The thought was somehow comforting.
Celestia sipped her whiskey, forgetting the taste the moment it went down her throat. The warm sensation cooled almost instantly. Even in her stomach the liquor sat heavy, lukewarm, a lead ball in her gut that prevented her from flying.
"You've had a lot tonight," the bartender said in simple observation.
"It's been one of those nights." Celestia pursed her lips. "Or days, rather. The day led into the night."
"And the night led into the day."
"As the saying goes."
"Mmm."
The bartender set his glass down and glanced up at the moon. What he saw was just a white circle with dots of grey in a vast, open sky of so many different colors of purple one could spend an entire lifetime finding each one. He couldn't see the behemoth above that craved attention from the mortals below, but rarely ever received it. To his eyes it was just the moon. To Celestia, it was an eye staring right at her.
"You often wonder why I come here."
The bartender shrugged. "Yeah. Obviously."
"And yet you never bothered to ask?"
"You never bothered to bring it up," the bartender said.
Celestia sipped from her glass, empty droplets tasteless on her tongue. "You don't pry often, then?"
"I work at a bar that stays open for most of the night. Whenever someone comes in, prying is the last thing they want on their mind." He shrugged again. "Plus, I'm just trying to get by with a decent tip."
"Money is that important to you?"
"Typically yes. Typically no. I'm just going through life bit by bit," he said to Celestia. "I mean, the last place I expected to end up in life was behind a bar. Didn't exactly turn out peachy keen to me. But hey, living's a living, so might as well as make the most of it."
"By not talking to customers unless prompted for a refill?"
"In a way."
Celestia stared blankly at her half empty glass. The ice cubes made not a sound as the whiskey's presence sucked the life from them, ripping each particle of its existence until it was contorted to liquid again. The whiskey absorbed this as well. Soon there would be nothing of the ice, the water, the coldness, everything absorbed by the whiskey eventually. No one cared for the ice's death. It was to be expected.
"What did you imagine in life?" Celestia finally asked, breaking the pregnant silence. "Where do you imagine your life will take you?"
The bartender didn't answer immediately. Whether that was because he was mulling over the question or the meaning of his eventual response, Celestia didn't know.
After a few seconds he spoke up: "I guess still working at this bar."
"That can't just be the only thing you aspire for."
"Well, not really," the bartender said, nodding his head. "But I serve drinks, listening to interesting ponies tell their tales. Heck, tonight I'm serving a princess." Celestia noticed as he regarded the glass in his hoof. It was just like the dozens of other, with nary an imperfection or stain visible. "You don't get to do something like that every day."
Celestia returned her eyes back to the window. "I suppose not."
The buildings were giving her odd looks. The Canterlot architecture always seemed nefarious to her. So pristine, so elegant, with the gold trimmings and marble floors. They whispered and connived with one another; waited until their owners were asleep before they opened their doors and spilled their secrets across the cobblestone streets that shuddered at the foreboding arrival of hooves to trample them. The buildings were as pretentious as they were devious.
"I think it's going to be morning soon," the bartender said, breaking her out of her spell.
"Another ten minutes until the crack of dawn."
The bartender glanced at the clock over his head and whistled. "Nice guess. Right on the clock."
"You get pretty good at it after a few centuries," Celestia said, swirling the amber liquid in her glass, just another foreshadowing of her duty to be performed. "I raise the sun every single day. Every night, I set it. Always on the dot. I could never be late. Ever. My duty was essential to the entire kingdom, and thus it has to be performed without fail for the rest of my life."
The bartender sighed. He had nowhere to be in the morning. Just an empty house. He wasn't sad with it, of course. It was just a place to sleep, after all, even if sleep almost never came. Then he'd be back at the bar at first telltale sign of night. He'd clean it from top to bottom, turn the lights on, and then serve drinks to whoever walked through. Then repeat it again the next day.
The sun was calling for her over the horizon. Celestia could hear its shrill screams. A crying child, wanting attention once again and throwing up a fuss until it got what it wanted. Oh, how it ever so loved to bask in the attention of its subjects down below. It gloated before them with its fiery ego ablaze with no sign of disdain, all the while soaking their love until it practically gorged itself on it.
The bartender refilled her glass of whiskey. She drank some to deafen the sun's tone, even if it was for a few more precious minutes. Once it was in the sky, there'd be no end to its incoherent chatter and proclamations of greatness. Even when the sun had set, Celestia could still detect the telltale echoes of its cries for attention. Those cries had reverberated in her mind for centuries now. Centuries to come, too.
She sipped her drink again.
The ice cubes were nearly melted away. She noticed it when the bartender's lax gaze suddenly focused on her glass. The ice cubes knew not of their purpose in this world. Their only duty was to provide chill to her drink, and they did this job with nary a whisper of protest nor desperate plea for attention. Soon their existence would come to an end, and they will never realize their impact in the world. Born so quickly, their lives melt away in mere minutes, and no one was the wiser.
Except, of course, for Celestia.
"You want more?" the bartender asked.
"Not right now."
"More ice?"
Celestia stared at her glass.
The sun was kicking up a fit. It wanted to rise.
Celestia stared at the bartender. He was oblivious to the heavenly shrieks.
Sunrise was just seconds away. It couldn't wait. Wouldn't. She'd have to give in and release it upon the world.
"More ice?" the bartender repeated.
"Yes," Celestia said, just as the first rays of light spilled and pierced the skies in a tsunami of gold waves across its surface.
"I would love some."
Once the day had passed, once the sun had quieted down to only whispers, once the moon reclaimed the sky and shyly winked for her attention, once all that was over, she'd be back here. It'll all become yet another routine she'd develop over the centuries. And like any other routine, it'll become stale, tasteless, and no longer worth cherishing. Just another routine to alienate her from the world.
But currently, she liked it, so she held onto that for a few seconds longer, before the sun engulfed her yet again.
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She just needed a clean, well-lit place to drink.
I liked it. +A
6238671
Oh man, so critical!
This isn't about Dim Sum. I am disappoint, son.
Rather sad. I wonder when this story takes place.
6238797
In a time in a place in a setting that eventually faded away to be replaced again and again and again.
...I've never seen you this grounded, Bob.
Are you all right?
6238987
My parents took away my video games and I'm stuck in my room. So no, I'm not alright. I'm grounded.
The needle returns to the start of the song, and we all sing along like before.
Awesome piece, Bobby-boy.
Bro... This was such a... I'm not sure what word I'm looking for, but it's definitely a take on immortality that you don't talk about.
That sentence alone made this story reach a whole new level of sad and sobriety. Because Celestia must have things eventually get stale for her after centuries of living... Maybe this is why she likes cake so much. Because she knows that one day she won't like it like she used to and she just wants to enjoy it before it's too late.
Well, I feel tone and prose were quite right for the story. Great job!
A strangely sober story from the great and often strange mind of RainbowBob. Very well done.
Damn. This makes me want to watch the sunset, or moonrise, or both, and think. Not too many stories do that.
Good job, Bob!
However, I noticed a few things:
Missed your period.
Missed your space.
Zero need for zero.
Have a fave anyhow.
6239392
Our little Boblet is preggers.
Routine. The worst thing that can happen indeed, as it sucks to joy out of everything after a time.
Kind of overdone. I loved Celestia personifying everything around her, but I think you did too good a job of capturing the atmosphere of toil and drudgery. Reading this felt like a slog, especially the philosophizing. Though going by the other reactions, maybe that's just me.
Bob, this reminds me of when I was a kid.
I was about fifteen or sixteen, and I wanted to be a sailor, but my dad kept telling me that I would get sick out in the ocean, so we stuck with fresh waters where we spent many days of the summer rowing our canoe upriver. We lived in a heavily forested area, somewhere between Mississippi and the fourth rock from the sun and would pass the time while on the river telling stories like this one, except we had to make them up as we went along because at that point in my life I had only done so much so I didn't have a lot of experiences to talk to my dad about, who was nice by lumberjack standards.
One day, sometime between four in the afternoon and seven in the evening, we took a detour while on our way from a small town to the north back home, and after awhile we came upon several minor settlements along the riverside, although many of these log cabins were abandoned at the turn of the millennium and were mostly nests and graveyards for mammals and birds at this point. The air around us was humid, heavy, almost blinding, as if the clouds had come down to earth to say hello. The trees were stretching their arms out which were covered in primitive clothe, supposedly what was once the skin of soldiers who committed atrocities while stationed in the Philippines, and my dad argued the skin was Spanish because they were holding what was rightfully ours and I argued back that there's no proof the trees were wearing skins that were from the Philippines, but more likely from Ireland.
As the sun was nearing its daily demise, which meant this must've been close to seven since the night didn't come around until late in the evening, I realized that my dad was no longer at the tail end of the boat, and his oar was gone too, and it had finally occurred to me that the boat had stopped moving while the river continues its slow crawl toward the sea that was way too distant to get to within a day. The canoe remained stationary while a nebulous body of water and bugs tried to choke me, and I had no choice but to lean over the side of the boat to puke out insects that made their way into my mouth and down my throat, making clicking sounds and an occasional crunch that should've killed me.
I looked down through the surface of the water, my vomit which had some unnerving black and brown mixed in with the green was piercing the water's depths like airborne torpedoes which had exploded on impact, and I saw that fish were swimming past my boat while I remained still like a heavy stone when faced with daring opposition. The fish were unnatural shades of blue and silver, making their way through a deathly black abyss, and I reached out through the surface to grab one of the fish but I became unbalanced and went over the side of the canoe, only to be stuck in a conversation with my fiancee's brother who was yammering about a particularly bad toothache he kept having and secretly ranting about how his sister decided to marry a bum like me and how 1914 couldn't get any worse.
What do you think happened to me?
Huh. Well, that was a thing.
This was depressing.
I reviewed this! Um, over a year ago. But since you left Fimfiction in 2016 anyway, I suppose that isn't a big deal.
Anyway, in short: it's nicely written and I like the bartender OC, but Celestia seems too far removed from her canon character for me to really enjoy this.