Vignettes From A Scribbling Ghost

by WritingSpirit

Neon Bruschetta

Above all, Coco Pommel considers herself fortunate.

Within these towering pillars of glass were the most attentive of stares. Perturbed at first, she had grown accustomed to it, savored it even, mildly so. They have the loudest whispers here too, or the thinnest walls maybe. Nevertheless, she had heard her name in them a couple of times before. Day and night, she had heard them. She relished them, in fact. Mildly so, of course.

Nighttime. Her hooves gently tapped to a distant drumbeat, lost within the cacophonous malaise of Manehatten life. Upon a rusted iron chair, Coco threw her glance about, watching the world around her as much as she imagined had been watching her. It scurried. It sauntered. It stumbled and strutted and scuttled with the loudest of hoofsteps. Sometimes, on a cold night like this one, it shivered. Not this night, no. This night was too busy for the more superficial of instincts. It strode instead, and it strode proud.

On this night, her coffee was paler. Her eyes were a little heavier. Her mane was in need of a light trim, yet she found its fluttering in the occasional wind soothing, at times nostalgic. Stifling a wistful hum, she carried on, one hoof reaching out towards the plate on the glass table before her. A passing carriage roughly threw her mane before her eyes, though she spared not a thought about it. Life wouldn't be life without such trivial pains, and she should expect them, having lived in this affluent kingdom of trivial pains for so long.

She soon grasped, in her hooves, a bruschetta from the cluster, the crumbs clattering onto the plate with a crinkle. The crusted carriage soared, carrying with it the slivers of thinly-sliced tomatoes, all cluttered underneath a square of cheese and a fine dash of black pepper. There was a gleam about them, bestowed to it by the minuscule sheet of olive oil. It looked almost bioluminescent, one could say: bright cyan one thing, deep purple the next, fresh amber afterwards. For a moment, Cocoa stared at her dinner, marveling at its indecision, if only for a moment.

A whirlwind. Not in Manehatten — never in Manehatten — but in her head. Coco could picture it, yet she knew not of achieving it. Perhaps Rarity might know a thing or two? Surely Rarity knows— she still remembers clearly the dress she made on the day they first met. Coco giggled at that fond memory, hoof at her lips. She contemplated on it, for a moment, before she gave a firm nod. Once more, her eyes gazed upon her dinner, her chest swelling with a bit of pride. Mildly so, of course.

Rarity, she reminded herself. First thing tomorrow.

With that, Coco Pommel finished her dinner.

A truly fortunate mare indeed.

Comments

[abrony-mouse]

"cacophonous malaise" is so awesome in this story. a) love the meaning, b) love the sound c) it's used in a fic about Coco :p

very neat well written lil fic which suits Coco really well.