• Published 3rd Oct 2012
  • 4,621 Views, 1,089 Comments

The Album - Peregrine Caged



A collection of 'snapshots', short stories that represent Moments in the lives of various ponies

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Sapphire Shores -- Latte

Written by: Midnight herald
Rated Everyone


Was it really too much to ask for a latte? Of course it was. In place of her favorite fix, dark espresso - two shots - and a bit of extra foam, a soymilk and rosehip monstrosity sat and mocked her in its paper travel cup. But of course, lactose would clog her throat with fresh phlegm, and caffeine could make her voice scratchy. Well, really, scratchier than its usual, signature husk. Never mind that the audience wouldn’t tell the difference. Never mind that she used to toss back straight whiskey during her sets at the Stomping Grounds, before her lovely agent catapulted her into the nationwide spotlight. Back when she crooned bittersweet ballads and shouted the blues in the dingy basement lounge, singing her soul out nightly for a small crowd of quiet, nameless mares and colts nursing their drinks and sorrows, cradled in a haze of cigarette smoke and broken dreams. That’d make for a nice song... Slow blues maybe; organ, bass, drums... Back before the populace placed her high on a pedestal and packaged her up as the ‘pony of pop’; back when strangers looked her in the eye or asked her name, back when ponies still told her no without cringing. Nopony but Lucky said ‘no’ these days. He’d earned it twice over with his careful guidance and indulgence in her little eccentricities, if not in her beverage of choice.

Still, there was nothing for it but to smile at the nervous intern holding the cup for her - Wouldn’t do to scuff the hooves, now would it? - and take a sip through the ridiculous pink straw jutting through the travel lid. Ginger, echinacea, and habanera hit her tongue like a hoof to the face. Ah, yes. The lauded ‘cold kicker’. It wouldn’t do to lose the most carefully guarded voice in Equestria. Not on tour. Her signature voice could not waver once, could not lose its lustre, its shimmering, wild tambor. No, every city, from Manehattan to Vanhoover, deserved to hear her absolute best. And tonight, she needed to be absolutely sensational. Her hometown always had a great turnout, and she needed to respect that; she needed to be somepony worth seeing tour after tour, showing the generations of carriage builders and farriers that something else could become their children’s future, that they could dream beyond steel suspensions and lightweight axles.

It had been a miracle when she met Lucky Break. He showed her the ins and outs, introduced her to the greats, spread word and polished hooves and got her to the right places at the right times. She had come this far by his knowledge as much as her own talents. She owed it to him to take care of herself and finish the eye-watering cocktail, just as she owed it to him to keep her reputation spotless. Just as she owed it to the world to give back in thanks of the good fortune that had sent him her way.

Sunny Meadows ran through harmony lines one last time before the curtain call. She’d been a real find, busking on a corner outside a Fillydelphian cafe. Although she had a sweet, distinctive voice, what had caught Sapphire’s ear had been the songs the young mare wrote. Her careful, witty lyrics and melodic intricacy put her miles beyond most of the big names already in the field. Truly, Meadows was an up-and-coming powerhouse. Up-and-coming: her three favorite words in the Equestrian language. Snappy and full of pizazz, much like the mares and colts that fit the description. And whenever she said those words, a ghost of the old thrill hit her, hearkening back to the days when her demo became a single became an album became a discography, and when she moved from background noise to an opener to a headliner to a household name. After this tour, she would record one of Sunny Meadows’ songs on a new album. Help spread the word around about her, help her make connections, set her off on the path to greatness.

After all, what was the point of fame and fortune without the leverage that came with it? The paparazzi and fans that followed her every move with flashes and shutters made her see red sometimes with their crazy stunts. They were half the reason she frequented small dive-bars when she needed to unwind, although those venues came with the adventure of new, unknown artists waiting to be heard. Some surprising ponies lived their lives in obscurity, performing soulfully to an audience more interested in their hayfries than the insightful phrasings and and haunting lyrics of an acoustic songwriter on the dimly lit stage. And with the right advice, the right nudges towards the right people, or sometimes a bit of sponsorship, they could rise through the cracks in the pavement and make a name for themselves. All of us growing like weeds, and I'm the biggest thistle of them all. Every so often, she would run into somepony she had helped out. The old pride she always felt Would warm her chest again as they talked about their careers and how far they'd come since they 'graduated' her area of direct influence. The rush she had gotten when she first extended a hoof to a young DJ and watched her gain fame and an influence of her own (She played the royal wedding, for Pete's sake) had only grown over time as she found she could hire more sidemen and road crew and stoke interest in youth for the fine arts. Slowly but surely she gave back to the world that had given her so much to begin with. Her life was a bad dimestore novella, a perfect rags-to-riches story of epic proportion. The lonely bar singer who caught her break and became the pony everypony wanted to be. Fame, riches, and a small army if she ever wanted it. Almost half the newer greats in the industry owed at least some of their success to her. And though armies win battles, music won hearts. Not that she would ever abuse her position like that, but the knowledge that she could had gotten her through terrible tours filled with slimy managers and flaky sidemen.

Her straw let out a sickening gurgle as she reached the bottom of the cup. She stretched luxuriously and left the cushion behind, trotting to her costume rack as a unicorn carefully extracted the curlers from her mane. She hummed through casual warm-ups while stepping into the emerald jumpsuit that genius Rarity had thrown together, tightening the hidden buckles in the chest with her teeth. She pranced in place to loosen up her knees and tossed her head to catch any kinks in her neck. One belted scale run from a low D to as high as she could reach, and she was ready. Through the stage door, the murmurs and shiftings of a full house provided a soothing soundtrack to wait by. Moments like these were her fuel, her food and water, her greatest vice, the highlight of her day.

“Stage in 2, Ms. Shores.” She nodded to the crewpony and smiled. Two minutes before that first hit. Two minutes before she struck like thunder, two minutes before crowd would surge and flow to her music, to her voice, to her soul’s melody. It can’t get much better than this.

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