The pressure builds
Sometimes, life was just ruined to the point that it was over and there was nothing that one could do but accept that. Such was the fate of Cerulean Skies, a unicorn born to a family of proud pegasus ponies, who, by the very act of her birth, had ruined the lives of so many. Her own life, the collected lives of the entire city of Fillydelphia, and all of the lives of her classmates in the Lulamoon Secondary Education & Trade School. No doubt, the school itself had ruined the life of one Trixie Lulamoon, because what did they do when you didn’t become a princess with pretty alicorn wings and they wanted to remember you? That’s right, you had a school named after you!
With her lip curled back in a bored sneer of disgust, Cerulean Skies glanced down at what she had written, which was most certainly not her reproductive biology notes. Nothing had been written about how her and her classmates’ bodies were changing, becoming biological factories ready to churn out the next generation of Equestrians. Gross!
Slumping over in her chair as her teacher, Miss Pie, droned on and on about hormones, pheromones, and flehmen responses, Cerulean crossed her legs and tried not to think about the big throbbing pimple on her left teat. It was hot, had its own heartbeat, and would no doubt make a huge mess of pimple porridge if she squeezed it. As one hind leg crossed over the other, she felt the Ghost of Breakfasts Past go traipsing through the corridors of her hindgut.
Eat more oatmeal, her mother had said. It will make your coat sleek and shiny, your eyes bright, and will help you fill out so you’ll find a nice colt and stop being such a weirdo. Her mother had even put slivers of carrots, raisins, and cinnamon into the oatmeal this morning to make the glop more appetising. Now, her mother’s brilliant master plan for breakfast was about to backfire, quite literally in this instance.
Holding as still as possible, Cerulean raised one front leg and waited for Miss Pie to call on her so that she could be excused. Rather than be a responsible, decent adult, Miss Pie talked about the magical, invisible telegraph system that all ponies had within them, a system to communicate sexual readiness. Pegasus ponies even had a helpful sexual semaphore system with their wings, which they could use to signal all kinds of things. At the mention of the word ‘pegasus,’ Cerulean cringed with guilt and shame, thinking about all of the things her family had given up because of her being a unicorn. Little unicorns tended to fall through the clouds of Cloudsdale and her birth had ruined everything.
Crossing her legs put pressure on her pimple, this pressure made everything hotter, and with the thermostat in her nethers turned up, she began to squirm a bit in her chair. Hoping to convey her sense of urgency, she waved her raised foreleg around, and was ignored. Why was Miss Pie ignoring her? Because Cerulean ruined everything, that’s why. Meanwhile, the Ghost of Breakfast Past was now thundering through her guts, seeking out an exit.
Cerulean’s pleading eyes were magnified by her oversized, bargain bin eyeglasses—the only eyeglasses her parents could afford. They were hideous things and her big brother called them ‘filly rape protection goggles.’ Surely, Miss Pie had to notice and was just being mean. This was an emergency of the highest order and Cerulean needed to vacate the premises now.
“—and showering at least twice a day will help you to not smell like an oversexed harlot from down by the wharf district—”
“MISS PIE I GOTTA GO! EMERGENCY!”
The teacher’s stern gaze fell upon Cerulean and she wiggled in her seat, ready to take off running as soon as she had permission. Every muscle in her body tensed when she heard Miss Pie say, “No, you don’t gotta go. You need to pay attention. I know this class makes you uncomfortable, but running away from it won’t help.”
All around her, Cerulean’s classmates snickered and her cheeks grew hot. “But I need to go to the restroom—”
“You need to be a grownup and not some little yearling that can’t hold their bladder. Is that what you want to be? A yearling? Or do you wish to be an adult?”
“But I—”
“But nothing. Shut up, sit down, and stop disrupting the journey of sexual discovery that we are all experiencing together.”
Her pimple now had a rival for burning her alive, and that was humiliation. Cerulean tried sitting still, but that was impossible. Perhaps leaning over to one side and easing it out might help, or it might not. Even if it was totally silent, it might still be lethal, and Miss Pie was canny enough as a teacher to detect even the slightest variation in the vertical orientation of her students. Yes, Miss Pie would know.
The last thing that Cerulean wanted was a journey of sexual discovery in the company of her classmates, almost all of whom hated her. At best, she was tolerated, at worst, she was ridiculed for being a weirdo, the filly that did not fit in. No cutie mark, poor parents, great big ridiculous eyeglasses, and all of the whispering about how her mother was a cheating whore. Cerulean’s ears had grown sensitive from all of the strained listening she had done in her short, miserable life.
In times of trouble, Cerulean Skies thought of her idol, her role model, the greatest pony in all of Equestria: Twilight Sparkle’s friend, and the pony who was certain to be behind Twilight’s success, Moondancer. What would Moondancer do in this situation? Probably something brilliant, because that’s what Moondancer did. At home, in her closet, Cerulean had an elaborate shrine dedicated to Moondancer, the Nerd-Goddess, the Great and Almighty Alpha Nerd.
Cerulean was convinced that Moondancer was the greatest pony who had ever lived.
Which reminded her, Cerulean had to go to the salon with her mother this afternoon when school was out so that she could get her monobrow trimmed back. The monstrous hedgerow that went from ear to ear had to be plucked into submission again, and this was never fun. Even worse, the beautician would want to talk about how Cerulean was just the right age to find a nice colt—blech.
The Ghost of Breakfast Past was now on the expressway to Tuba Town, which caused Cerulean some panic because she couldn’t remember when her next tuba lesson was with Mrs. Redbone, the nice diamond dog that lived upstairs. Tuba lessons were the only source of sanity in young Cerulean’s life, her one source of joy, of comfort, they were the very thing that kept her going.
Bracing herself, her ears rising and falling, Cerulean leaned over on one cheek in the hopes that the monster lurking within could be coaxed out a little at a time. She could handle this, having practiced a few times in the library. Miss Pie talked about sexual hygiene and moral hygiene; sex was for making foals, and Equestria needed foals, but it was important to finish school first, of course, blah blah blah, but nopony would be too upset if a filly dropped out to get a head start on making a family.
The filly, who believed herself wise to the ways of the world, couldn’t help but think her teacher was biased; colts were expected to stay in school and learn a trade, one of the skills needed to work in one of the local factories or the shipyards. Fillies though? Home-ec. Homemaking. Cooking. Foal-rearing and family planning. The fact that her mother worked and didn’t stay at home was just one of the many reasons that Cerulean was teased day after day. Other mothers worked too, but Cerulean felt that she was an easy target compared to the other foals.
Licking her lips, the sound of her own breathing was almost too much for Cerulean’s ears. Somehow, her heart had found its way into her throat and it was beating in time to the throbbing of the moon-sized pimple on her teat. Stupid hormones. The muscles of her dock clenched tight as she tried to exert control over the ghost haunting her basement. It had to be banished, but in silence.
“—fillies, all of Equestria is depending upon you to raise the next generation. Be inviting. Be accomodating. Don’t be picky. Be realistic with your goals. Pretty much everypony in this classroom is going to turn out to be just like their parents. Colts, there is no shame in working in the factories and the shipyards. Somepony has to do it. Somepony has to pull wagons through the city and move goods through the canals. All of you are growing up and these last few years in school are to prepare you for your next phase of life, adulthood—”
Tartarus opened beneath Cerulean, and all of the horrors trapped within began to escape. The sound? Furious and beyond all mortal description. Sulfurous musk began its bilious conquest of weak, hapless mortal flesh. Eyes bulged, nostrils flared, betraying their owners, making an inviting, wide opening for the diabolical, demoniac fumes—a befouled miasma that had a peculiar cinnamon scent.
Could a filly get a cutie mark for farting, and, if so, what might it look like?
Colts and fillies scrambled away, leaping out of their chairs and shoving their desks away. Chaos—like maple syrup over pancakes—spread with a slow, certain finality. Could a filly die from mortal embarrassment? It seemed possible, and being a unicorn, Cerulean believed that anything was possible when magic was involved.
“More like Foggy Skies, amiright?” a colt said while holding his school bag in front of him like a shield.
A brassy high pitched squeal signaled the end of all things, the coming finality, the trumpet finale to the tuba concerto. After a shrill, pealing blast, there was silence. Dreadful silence. The worst kind of silence, the kind that you wish would end, but also hope that it lasts forever, because once it is broken, the trouble—in whichever form it took—began.
“Miss Skies, such a disruption is unacceptable!” Miss Pie snapped as she stomped her hoof against the dingy tile floor. “Why didn’t you excuse yourself to the restroom?”
“I TRIED!” Fed up, angry, embarrassed, humiliated, Cerulean couldn’t hold it in even if she made a heroic effort, but she didn’t want to hold it in, no, everything had to be let out. Everything was ruined, so there was no point in holding back. “I asked to go and you wouldn’t let me. The whole class heard you, so don’t you even try to blame this on me!”
“Miss Skies, you need to grow up and take responsibility for your gross, maladjusted behaviour—”
“SHUT YOUR FRONKING FACE, YOU DAFT CUNT! I AM SICK OF YOUR SHIT!”
Silence returned in force, or maybe it was ringing in Cerulean’s ears, because she couldn’t hear anything. Her teacher, Miss Pie, was blinking at her in stunned shock. Her classmates, all pressed against the walls and leaving her alone in the center of the room, every last one of them stared, mouths gaping, eyes wide with disbelief.
“Miss Skies, you will report for detention after school.” Now, Miss Pie’s voice held an alarming, unsettling calm. “You are also removed from my class with a failing mark. Now get out of my sight.”
“You made a shitty decision and I’m the one that has to suffer for it. Typical!”
“Miss Skies, leave. At once. Right now. This instant. Begone from my sight.”
“This is all we have to look forwards to,” Cerulean said to her classmates. “Compromise. Conformity. Submission.” No tears fell, it felt as though her anger had boiled them into nothingness before they could trickle down her cheeks. “Just accept your lot in life and suffer. Never question. Always obey.”
“Get out!” Miss Pie commanded while pointing at the door with her hoof.
Lifting the strap of her bookbag, she slid her muzzle through it, mindful of her glasses, and then let it fall down the length of her skinny neck. Every muscle jerked, her throat was dry, and she had a sweaty, quivering belly that she knew would soon feel clammy. At this moment, she hated everything, absolutely everything about her life. Her parents were probably going to kill her, because a promise had been made that one more failing grade would mean the end.
With her bag slung against her side, Cerulean Skies departed, fleeing the humiliating incident.
The corridor leading to Vice Principal Withers’ office was a dismal place. The bare overhead light flickered and the filaments inside of the yellowed bulb burned far too bright. Mildew grew along the cracked plaster walls, everything was musty, and the long wooden bench was almost certain to give you splinters in unspeakable places. At the end of the corridor was a green door with faded, cracked paint that was coming off in flakes.
Getting kicked out of a class meant you came here, to this place. There was already a long line, the bench was full and now, it was standing room only. Shouting could be heard from inside of Vice Principal Withers’ office and he was no doubt berating somepony for being a contemptible loser that wouldn’t amount to anything.
Mister Withers had come right out and said it to her face that he didn’t want to see her in his office again. Cerulean looked at the line of students, then at the door, then back at the line of students once more. A few jocks, a few of the so-called preppies that did everything they could to look rich, but they were the foals of factory workers and not the factory owners. A pair of the metal shop metalheads sat far too close to the door, their doom, and Cerulean found that she pitied those poor meatheads the most, because they had fully embraced their life of drudgery.
Some ponies got to grow up, become princesses, and live in a magical, mighty friendship castle, but those selected for such a wonderful life were few and far between. What about the rest of us? Cerulean asked herself in defeated silence. Not everypony was born to be a princess… some ponies had to pick up trash for a living. Others had to pull wagons, work as welders, pull levers in a factory all day, operate lathes, go deaf in a machine shop, or if one was really lucky, get mangled by heavy equipment.
Turning away from Vice Principal Withers’ door, Cerulean decided that she had endured enough for today, and with her bag bouncing against her side, she strolled away, knowing there would be consequences, but not caring about them in the slightest. At least, not right now. Her parents would end their shift, would be exhausted, worn out, and at some point, all of this would blow up in some spectacular way.
But that would come later and Cerulean had to live with herself right now.
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Doesn't seem like such a comedy, but it does intrigue me.
Yeahp, definitely sounds like the typical ineffective, bullshit education system. those days can be bleak for sure.
though the hell is this filly talking bout. outmeal with raisins and cinnamon is fuckin delicious!
Yeah, life usually sucks, even from a young age...
I'm curious how she knows so much about Moondancer. It didn't occur to me that she was in the limelight aside from being one of the unicorns working for Twilight.
Very curious where this goes.
8633582
Well, you learn just a little about somebody, and then you build a narrative in your head, and then you obsess over them. And you think you know them so well. Like, better than anybody else. And you convince yourself that you know everything about them, because it makes you feel important and accomplished. This is how obsession and mania works.
.....thinking of these things!
abc.net.au/news/image/9225554-3x2-940x627.jpg
I've known so many teachers like Miss Pie here. Hated every single one of them. Granted some were better than others but there were a few that made me wonder why they decided to be teachers in the first place.
I'm also really curious how Cloudy came to the conclusion of her ideas about Moondancer.
8633616
Cloudy?
8633620
Sorry... Foggy comment in the story made me think fog which is kinda a cloud and am still only half awake.
The description scares me.
I'm scared of reading this story.
I'm scared of it tearing old wounds.
I'm going to read it anyway.
The Unreliable Narrator Is STRONG With This Story!
Good Job!
Some ponies make you want to request a visit from Luna's Wardens. (Apologies if I've gotten the name of the unit wrong.)
8633982
Sadly, no crime was committed, and that would just waste their precious time.
8633994
Well there's crime, and there's what a proto-revolutionary considers to be a crime against the proletariat.
Yeah, I think all of us know something about getting the blame when somebody else screws up.
But hey, uh... at least once you finish secondary school, literally nothing that happens in it matters anymore?
8633679
Her name is Cerulean Skies, mocked as Foggy Skies because of the "fog" she emitted during lesson.
Hmm I'm trying to place this in the timeline...
For it to be a school named after Trixie it must be after she reemerged from the wandering... that means after the opening of Twilight school.
Hmm dunno...
I HATE these kinds of teachers! I had one when i was a kid, made me piss myself in class because either they didn't grasp the "holy shit, this is real, why would i embarrass myself otherwise" body language, or the fakers who came before were do convincing that they can't possibly distinguish an excuse to leave from a bodily catastrophe waiting to happen.
Ugh, poor dear.
8633616
I had a teacher that did exactly what Miss Pie did, only instead of the tushy tuba, I actually shat my pants, and got suspended for it.
How is it that Moondancer hasn't come in to overhaul this place yet: by which I mean ask the foals to leave, set a fire, and then inform the teachers.
... i can’t relate, everyone in the comments is like “same!” But ive never had a teacher that shitty, i feel bad honestly...
I've had some less than stellar teachers, but none that were as cruel as this woman.
if you ever want to hear why I hate geometry or my overly relaxed pervy sexual anthropology teacher just say the word!