• Published 26th Jul 2015
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The Things Tavi Says - shortskirtsandexplosions



Let me tell you a few things about my roommate, Octavia. After all, she saved my life.

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Homely Things

Author's Note:

A crimson screech.

The rust red bolts of steel against steel.

Then, covering it all, a serene blue mist.

My eyes flutter awake in time to see the jostle of passengers all around me. The train has come to a complete stop.

"All clear!" spouts a conductor from outside. His voice is a mix of red urgency and gold mirth, blending in a beautiful amber that tickles my chin into smiling. "Welcome to Ponyville, folks."

Outside, the world moans with green. Birds streak through it in gold trails while platinum clouds hover over the thatched rooftops.

I sigh quietly, slowly, filling the air in front of me with a magenta mist.

Home.

With a grin, I gather my headphones. My aching body shuffles out of the warm seat and into the even warmer air. A blue haze issues outward from the train engine, kissing my fetlocks as I trot a straight line to the supply car. There, I am graciously hoofed my belongings by a depot operator. I offer the young stallion a tip, to which he responds with a yellow exhale and a tilt of his cap. I mirror his smile, turn about with my travelling cases enveloped in a magical tug, and set off for my long awaited stroll home.

Ponies call me a musician. Several of them even claim that I'm a good one. Little do they know that I'm just a single note tossing in the sheets of a beautiful symphony vibrating all around us. The world is a mess of ribbons, and my ears and eyes are the hooks that dig in and pull tender morsels loose to savor and sing. Wagons roll red across the emerald earth. Sprinklers tingle with cold blue percussion while age-old cottages settle into their foundations with an orange hush.

Nature is just a backdrop. Ponies are the greatest contributors of all; each forming a kaleidoscopic chorus of merry golds, contented ambers, violent reds, and mulling browns. It's an earthen collage made from earth ponies, and I roll right through it like a happy hog through mud.

And then I reach Ponyville's merchant district, where everything is happy and pink. The voices here are like flutes, harp strings, and honey. I feel a blade of lavender slicing through it all, and that's how I know that Miss Cheerilee is making her weekly waltz to the vegetable vendor. The only other time I bask in a voice so bright and colorful is when the Princess Herself pays a visit.

Winter Wrap-Up isn't the only day when this town sings. Every second spent here is a crash course down the rapids of inspiration, and I am the sponge that sings to the bottom of the riverbed, drowning in mirth.

I am a blessed pony to know this, and yet I am not alone. Everypony feels it, even if they don't sense it like I do. My hope is that I can share the lengths of this town—every beat, note, and refrain—through the samples I collect and the collages I make of them.

What results is my gift, my sessions, my manic celebrations of all things visible and invisible. So what if ponies want to pack that up and resell it like processed foods? I certainly can't blame them, and if it's a path towards a better quality of life, then I'm not one to throw a wrench into the works. But for me to get sick off of that? Like... disgustingly ginormously rich?

Some part of me would die. Some part of me would cease to dance upon these prismatic webs that I've been so awkwardly bestowed. The part of me who realizes how rich she already is would fall apart, decay, and bleed into something else... something less alive.

And considering who saved my life, and the things she's given up to save her own, I very much doubt I'd be willing to commit another needless sacrifice.

I turn the corner of Faust Street and I gaze ahead. There, our apartment lies. And, sure enough, one half of it lingers in a cold purple haze.

I smile.

She's home. And sleeping. I'd best be quiet then...

And thus, as fate would have it, the complete and cacophonous opposite drills itself into my ears.

"Stop this crazy thing, Scoots!"

"I'm tr-trying!"

"Well try harder!"

"Hit the brakes!"

"I-I can't! It's all that extra weight!"

"Just whose idea was it for us to get cutie marks in metalworks anyways?!"

"Ah jeez—Look out!"

"Get out of the way! We can't stop!"

I'm not a sluggish mare. By this time, I have turned around, spotted the runaway wagon with the three little bodies in it, and done my best to gallop out of the way. However—in my panic—I've left my super expensive and super fragile equipment behind in their transport cases. So, with a seething expression, I dash back and shove them out of the way.

As for myself...

"Aaaaaiiiieee—" Three voices converge on me—two golden and one an ocean blue. I think it's the sudden curious surprise at that last odd part of the chorus that anchors me. I linger for one second too late, and the three fillies collide with their inevitable target.

The flash of crimson is blinding. I lose count of how many times my body has toppeled over. I hear the breaths of the three fillies grunting with minimal pain, and that's my only source of relief as I slam on the ground with another red flash.

Everything turns violently dizzy, spinning me deep down the vomit green funnel of the world, and that's how I know that my shades have flown off my face.

I clench my eyes, shutting out the inevitable stab of hot white pain.

Awwwwwwwwwwwww crud.

Not again...

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