• Published 26th Jul 2015
  • 10,641 Views, 4,220 Comments

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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Finding Things

Author's Note:

Neigh Jersey...

Dear Celestia on a bike...

...how did I end up in Neigh Jersey?

I sigh, shuffling south through thick sand. It's early morning. Waves crash with gentle reds and rubies to my left. A platinum sun rises over the ocean, splitting the green hum in two while seagulls waft overhead with golden song.

It's a nice beach. A quiet beach. I got here by ferry... or was it a taxi? A train? I've lost track of how many stations I've entered and exited. I'm running out of money in my bit bag. Unless I find another bank soon, I'll be flat broke, and the only other way to pay for transit into the next town would be to sell my turntable.

Oh goddess... my friggin' turntable...

I turn and look back at the deep trails my luggage is making in the sand. The two cases are beat up... scuffed up... battered by travel and heat and the elements. Funny to think that they were almost pristine things when I made the first initial leap from Ponyville to Detrot. Now—instead of travel stickers and postcards—they're slathered all over with sand and grit.

I sigh.

I miss my headphones.

I miss Dr. Pony.

I miss Sugarcube Corner and Lyra and Bon Bon...

I miss Beau...

... ... ...and I miss you, Tavi.


These are all shades of a past life... a plastic life...

And until I can find my way onto the other side... ...

... ... ...what would be the point of returning?

My thoughts turn, twirl, and they take me west. I turn right, following a dilapidated line of narrow wooden fence posts stuck deep in the sand alongside a mess of sawgrass.

There's a town nearby. It's a tiny, humble thing, nestled between a thicket of woods and the Neigh Jersey shore. Manehattan is countless screams away. Nopony traveling abroad would ever bother to be here... which is what makes it so perfect. I've been on tour all across Equestria, and there are times that I feel as though I miss the best places... the tiny places.

It's still early morning by the time I stumble upon a narrow little main street. Moisture clings in dewdrops to road signs and carriage parking meters. There are a few ponies out and about—ancient, wrinkled things who greet each other with weathered smiles while opening their cute little shops. This must be a retirement community. Or perhaps the runoff of a nameless bed and breakfast inn.

A golden ripple. There's a bell ringing to my left. I glance curiously.

A two story building provides blissful shade against the rising sun. My shaded eyes adjust, spotting an old mare as she twirls the hanging sign of an antique store window from "Closed" to "Open." I smell coffee and doughnuts. My stomach gurgles.

Oh what the Hell...

I take a full two minutes to shake the fresh sand off my hooves. My luggage and turntable? I don't even bother. I leave that crud outside as I shuffle into the store. The mare greets me with a smile. She smells like flowers. Everything smells like flowers. I feel like this is the only place in all of Equestria that turquoise hasn't reached.

There's a plate of pastries on the counter. Half-bit for each bite. That's nice enough.

I fiddle with my bit bag, stifling a yawn.

I sniff—and I smell paper. But not just any kind of paper.

Curious, I tilt my head to the side.

Two rows away from me—hugging the south wall of the claustrophobic shop—is a "music aisle." I see a few worn out violins, the remnants of a drum kit, and some fine, shiny clarinets. But sitting on a lone shelf—in small box—is a stack of no less than ten vinyls in dusty album sleeves.

I breathe in... and out.

Pivoting, I trot towards the container. I take gentle steps, careful not to knock over a porcelain dog or two as I breeze past the antique collectibles. At last, I reach the box, and I feel inside it with telekinesis, flipping through the meager allotment of discs.

I mean, it's not as if it would ever hurt anypony, and...

And... ...

I blink.

... ... ...I must be dreaming.

And yet—I'm not.

For there she stands—half of her, at least. The album cover has partially dissolved, the unmistakable side effect of water damage. I can scarcely make out her smiling muzzle as she belts a blue tune into the glowing spotlight before her. Who knows how many years she's been passsed around... abandoned... thrown from one shelf to another in complete ignorance and disregard.


Could that mean...?

I take a deep breath. My heart hasn't stopped racing, and now it practically zooms... now as I pull the album cover loose and slide the disc out.


The record is pristine.

No, it is perfect.

For the first time in my life... I think I can finally admit that.

And I can finally smile.

So I do.

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