Cara's Collection of Curious Curios

by Esalen

Days of the Six (Panic!)

Author's Note:

Prompt was 'A Sentimental Journey'. Placed second.

A sky blue feather, tied to a fraying rope necklace hanging over the door. A pin-the-tail-on-the-pony tail stuck into the old timber. An empty bottle sits in the window, Strix gripping my shoulder, and a tarnished silver locket upon my chest.

Time just seems to get away from me. It seems like only yesterday that I was a naive filly hiding behind books. Hiding in this very tower, nose buried in a tome. Now I am old, simply content to sit and stare, and wonder how it all went by so quickly. I levitate the feather, worn down by time, and slip the rope around my neck, so that it rests side by side with the locket.

Dash used to say that she lived in the moment, because “once you start thinking about the future, it’s like you’re hurtling through the sky at 50 miles an hour. You’re speeding through life and you can’t stop it, can’t fight it. If you think about all the things that need to be done eventually, rather than all the things that you could do now, you’ll end up down a never-ending rabbit hole. And if you slow down, then you’re going to explode with anxiety, gonna want to get back to planning for the future.” Of course, I’d laugh at that, because it was an absurd statement, coming from a young adult who hadn’t even made it to her thirties. She sure as Tartarus knew what she was talking about, though.

I gently tug the faux tail from the woodwork, running my hooves over the coarse hair. I place it down next to me on the floor, careful not to break the delicate fibers. The lone bottle joins the tail on the floor next to me, a memory of a different time, of parties among friends, rather than the formal parties for publicity.

Strix hoots softly, and flutters down to rest on my hoof. She is a direct descendant of Owlowiscious, a final gift from Fluttershy shortly before she laid down with Angel for one last time.

Finally, I turn my attention to the silver locket hanging around my neck. Almost reverently, I pop open the locket and turn my gaze to the lock of coiled purple hair. Rarity’s, from when we got married. Instead of rings or bands, we gave each other lockets with a lock of hair-her idea, from one of the sappy romance novels she loved to read in bed.

I may skip and jump through time as I grow old, but they will not be forgotten to the dark abyssm of time.