Wisp

by Night_Shine

8. Spark of Life

Long shadows stretched into a room overflowing with darkness, made evident by the beautiful rays of light spilling in through the open door. Though shadows festered inside, wisps of that black smoke that pours eternally from the dark Void who gave them the gift of existence, they stood before the light not hissing but fading.

These shadows, unlike so many of their brethren, did not fight the inevitable power of Fate enforced by Time; these shadows took up their destinies in a warm embrace, welcoming the unknown force that would bring about their end, knowing that it would bring greater joy into the world than they ever could. The light that would destroy them…welcomed them to their final departure from this life.

Such was the flickering glow that radiated from one tiny candle, a herald of beautiful light into a dark and dusty storage room in Canterlot Castle, the room that held countlessmemories that had been forgotten by Time…or so one would think.

This room, this very space within the palace of the greatest society ever upheld, was living proof that Time does not forget its children. All of the memories recorded upon the thousands of scrolls within the thousands of crates in this one simple storage room could live on, beyond the reach of the Void. Time has let these memories live…forever.

One such crate shifted from its position inside the ancient wooden shelf, stirring up a maelstrom of dust that elicited one short cough from the room’s silent visitor. Displacing the dusty air, the heavy wooden crate sailed out of its hiding place among the thousands of others, indistinguishable…and yet one tiny detail, hardly noticeable to the average passing glance, made it like no other such crate in the world.

This was a simple phrase, a tiny last-minute inscription marked upon the crate before it was locked away, inscribed with inconspicuous ink that had lasted over a thousand years. What message had been hidden away on this simple box full of ancient messages from an era seemingly forgotten by Time?

Three words: Thou knowest thyself.

Not a question, but a declarative statement.

Using wisps of gray magic, cast from the once-powerful instrument whose power had all but drained away into his psychological jail cell, the dream realm, he lifted the lid off of its crate, stirring up another torrent of dust. Floating it through the air, he placed it on the ground not in a careless toss but a gentle touch, birthing only the tiniest of noises to echo through the ancient halls. Scanning carefully with buried eyes, he sorted through the scrolls, flipping through them one by one until he found the final letter, marked with the date that had passed at this very midnight one thousand and one years prior, a midnight that some would think Time had forgotten, a moment that some would say had passed and gone forever, left without mercy to drift into the Void.

Some would say that that moment’s generation, beautiful creatures who had always carried on the unique spark that made homes from the fertile ground of their souls, were gone and dead for eternity.

However.

Time does not forget its children, the great and the beautiful children of existence who are chosen to carry on the essential spark of life. Children such as these are doomed to see only from their own perspective, locked in one straight path through the dimension of time, moving at the ongoing speed of one second per second. Through magic some have transcended this existence for fleeting moments, and yet they catch barely a glimpse of the great truth of the “cruelty” of Time.

Time does not forget its children because Time does not forget. Some may think that as life moves on and they pass down its spark, all that they have done is forgotten, and that all memories are destined to die in the Void. The many and the few who believe this forget the quintessential nature of Time. Every memory that is made, is made, and no Void can take that away. Every moment that passes still lies at its point of birth upon the linear dimension of Time.

Though the carriers of the spark may be forced to move from it, to carry on their grand tradition through which all things are possible, their departure from that moment does not destroy it. Rather that moment rests in its eternal home we call the Past, calm in the knowledge that it shall forever mark all that occurred within it when it was the Present for the carriers of the spark. Every single ripple that the carriers of the spark make across the fabric of the universe does not die; rather, it rests at its point of conception, visible only to Time and to itself. The Void cannot consume that which will never truly die.

Staring through forgotten eyes, the long-dead stallion—only a wisp of a memory of the beautiful soul that once resided within his body—began to read.

To Princess Luna, my brilliant teacher,

I wanted to write this letter, record this memory, because it could be my last. I know what you have suffered over the past years, a disease so beyond my power to cure it that I have been driven to desperation to help you; I have ensured that no one will suffer from this disease ever again. If this crazy plan works, you could very well be the last to ever have to look in the mirror and see somepony you do not even recognize.

And, if this plan works... I will I might never live in this world again, never again see the beautiful faces of all of the friends who led me to become the colt stallion that I am on the dawn of this day in the three-thousand-and-twelfth year of you and your sister's reign of peace and serenity, born from the ashes of Discord’s destruction. I am who I am not only from the flourishing of my own mind, but of my friends’ who have grown me.

When I first realized what was happening to you, I…I would never have gone this far. If only I had realized just a few days sooner, so that I could have told your sister…! Alas, she was busy defending her subjects friends from your reflection, that heartless puppet of the Void. She has chosen her method of defending the children of life, and I have chosen mine…a choice I never could have made without knowing that my true self lived on through the friends who will carry on my memory forever.

Now I will lock myself into prison with you, awaiting the day that we both can be freed, to free each other and to free everyone from the monster who wrought both of our wretched fates.

I can see my friends now, see them in the pure rays of sunlight that pour out from beyond the horizon and spill through my window-sill; I can feel their spirits carrying me, easing this horrible burden I must bear. But for them and for all I shall bear it…if it takes ten years, or even if it takes one hundred. I can see them now…yet someday, if all goes according to plan, I may not recall their beautiful faces. This final picture, capturing the life that we have shared as a family, will preserve their memories now and forever.

Enclosed in the scroll was a small picture, a photo of five friends sitting together in the shade of a great sycamore tree. Brilliant rays of sunlight gushed from the apex of the sky, glorious and powerful, capturing the essence of life. The sky was a wash of ocean blue behind them, laid flat against the crown of the world. All of the friends’ mouths were stretched wide in delight, seized by the merriment of this moment preserved by Time. Looking at each of the five as his gaze swept over the instant cradled within the loving caress of Time, an explosion of memories burst through the rusted barriers within the stallion’s mind, filling him with new life.

Sitting on the far left of the photo, a cocky half-smile etched into his face, sat a grey pegasus with tar-black hooves and gray-fringed pupils staring up out of the memory etched into this ancient parchment. His mane splayed in every direction; hairs of brown and black and everything in between bustled out of his skin and formed an untidy cap of a mane atop his head. His long legs rested against the ground, folded beneath his thick body.

Staring at the pegasus’s image in curious fascination, one memory broke loose from its bonds within the stallion’s mind and seized his attention for naught but a second:

The sun was setting crimson beyond the horizon; its soft rays dripped over the sky beneath the pink-tinted clouds. Sitting beneath this beautiful dusk, the gray pegasus sat with his wings folded and his eyes closed, humming a tune that only he could truly know. The earth listened to him and reflected his soft melodies, casting back his music into the open air; the ground itself resonated with waves of harmony.

Standing nearby, the unicorn colt initially did not dare to approach, frozen in sheer awe. Suddenly the pegasus’s eyes opened, not in a snap but in a gentle awakening. He turned to see the colt standing and staring at him, who immediately turned and blushed, hiding his face in embarrassment. His voice infused with youthful kindliness, the pegasus called out, “Hello there, friend! What’s your name?”

Shaking his head from side to side, the stallion turned to the next figure in the photo, another pegasus who he recognized instantly. This face was scrunched into a brash smile, infused with the most powerful and resolute spirit that the stallion had ever known.

Just a younger stallion, his own age at the time, his face embodied the fundamental nature of youth, full of adventure, brimming over with life. His mane alternated between the black of midnight and the gold of the sun, shooting out from his head with the inherent ecstasy of youth; his coat was splashed with vibrant turquoise, a lively fusion of sea-blue and emerald-green. His deep blue eyes carried a fiery passion that perfectly displayed his vivacious spirit, and yet beneath them they carried a deep wisdom far beyond his years.

Another memory burst from its chains within the depths of the faceless stallion’s mind, blossoming into his consciousness as clearly as if it was only yesterday:

Seated right beside his friend in the serenity of the night, the unicorn colt fostered one tiny secret that festered in his otherwise-pure mind. For a long time he had watched his friend soar through the skies faster than lightning, than the bolt of indigo-grey lightning across his flank that befit a master of the air, riding upon the brilliant rays of the dawn as they sped out from the horizon and into the world. The pegasus looked over at his friend, his forehead creasing into a concerned frown. “Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked, his voice infused with curious sympathy. Taking a deep breath, the unicorn colt responded, “I…don’t want to talk about it.” A wing stretched around his back, soothing him; such a simple touch was a gentle reminder that no secret could shatter the thick bonds of a true friendship.

Like the roots of a great tree growing up from the fertile earth, friends form strong connections over time that no small insecurity or difference can shatter. Taking a deep breath, the unicorn responded; his words blended with the winds, soothing the uneasiness within and fostering a new bond between two friends who sat together under the starlit sky, close as two brothers…

The stallion looked over to the next figure in the photo, his heart thumping violently in his chest, breaking loose from the chains that had held it in place for so long. Looking at the earth pony near the center of the photo, he again recognized her face instantly, staring into the lidded olive-fringed eyes that had never failed to soothe his soul.

Her lush mane flowed over her head like a gentle ocean wave, grey-blue; her pale grey body blended into the grassy fields and emerald forests that she often wandered. The emerald-green shade of the tree that marked her flank perfectly matched the trees upon which her symphonies of birds sat, singing in beautifully moving harmonies that ran joyously through the forest.

Joining its two brethren, a third memory broke free and snatched the stallion’s attention, recalling feelings buried long ago beneath centuries of endless walking:

No words could describe the beauteous song that flowed from the choir of feathered angels that rested upon the branches of the softly swaying trees, waving to the tempo of the music. The intricate melodies and murmuring harmonies swept through the forest like a cool breeze; truly, no experience in the world could surpass such a cool night breeze blowing its listeners away with beautiful music. Quietly trotting up from behind, so as not to disturb the earth pony’s music, the unicorn colt sat down beside the three other ponies who had gathered to listen and to let the music flow through them.

She turned to the group, a petite smile playing across her face in the morning sunlight. In a voice no louder than a whisper on the wind, she said, “Thank you for coming here to listen. I always try to put my deepest expression into my music, and to know you guys appreciate it makes me really glad…” A wave of contentment washed over the colt, derived from the pleasant surprise of knowing that some of the indescribably sweet music’s inspiration came from him…

Standing on the far left of the photo was a very familiar stallion, a slightly older earth pony whose smile betrayed pure bliss on the highest plane of being, merged in perfect harmony with the ecstatic joy of his friends. His coat was the pale gold of flowing honey, his ruffled mane an olive green. Though his confident expression clearly portrayed the strength of a leader, the depth of his emerald eyes hid a passionate tenderness, a vulnerability that had ascended into a virtuous strength by the tangible presence of his friends standing beside him. Even if only his closest friends knew it, those who had travelled far and learned much could see it in his eyes—this pony was a wanderer, of the kind destined to roam forever. Yet, unlike so many of his brethren, life had granted him the greatest gift he ever wanted: in his friends he had found a family and a home, a place where he belonged to a group that had grown to love him.

One final memory surged into the grey stallion’s mind, shattering the dark despair that had loomed over him for so many years:

Sitting alone under the beautiful stars that twinkled with life, two friends laid beside each other on the grassy meadow, swept by the cool touch of a murmuring breeze, a breeze that whispered of arcane secrets hidden in the caring embrace of the night. The elder stallion turned to the younger, his trusted friend; deep whispered words passed between them and a tear fell from the elder’s eye.

For this stallion had spent a life wandering the world…yet now, in a world and with a friend he knew he could trust, he had found the family that he had been searching for all along. The two hugged in a tight embrace, together in harmony, together in friendship, together in the beautiful experience of life.

One of the stallion’s hooves was wrapped around the shoulder of the unicorn colt who sat in the center of the photo, a colt whose face…

His face…

His face was a reflection of the face that looked upon this letter with pride after writing it, so many years ago.

He looked down at the picture of his friends, his family all around him, and…a most peculiar feeling rose within him. A tiny drop splashed against the ancient paper of the scroll, forming a dark blot next to the photo.

The stallion blinked.

Beneath the photo there were only a few short paragraphs, forming one final conclusion to this chapter of life:

With my waking eyes I can see a pure nation rising from the ashes cast by the shadow of the rising “Nightmare Moon”, and by all of our race’s struggles from the struggles that have passed us by and the struggles that live on, existing only to strengthen the descendants of this generation of life. Equestria’s history is only just beginning, and I have played my part in ensuring its future, so that no pony will have to suffer the imprisonment…that I march to now, a coffin of immortality to rest in I know not how long.

I can see a beautiful world rising up against the abyss, full of beautiful lives woven together with the harmony of friendship. I can see the spark of life, glorious and brilliant, shining in the night from every soul united against the darkness. A new dawn will rise, a dawn whose light shall pierce every nook and every cranny of every dream upon this wounded earth, healing it with unbreakable permanence.

Now I go to my grave not with despair but with confidence, confidence that the life within myself and within all who dare to live will be passed down, from now into eternity.

Author's Note:

On a night not unlike this one, less than a month ago, I stated that I hoped that "someday I would possess the wisdom to answer that question...of the meaning of [my] own existence". Now, thanks to the concepts I have delved into so deeply by writing this story, that day has come. I can now define the purpose of my life:

For me, at least, the purpose of life is to have purpose. The meaning of life is to have meaning. None can say that their life is meaningless, for, by living, they fulfill their purpose as one individual against the Void which we struggle against for all of our lives.

Imagine a blank canvas...covered in nothingness, yet with infinite possibilities. Every man and woman on this earth is given one square inch of the canvas to paint with whatever they please; as long as they paint something, their purpose is fulfilled. I plan to make my tiny contribution to the canvas as beautiful as possible; it shall flow in harmony with all around it, creating, on the whole, a much more beautiful Life than existed before my input.

Thank you for taking the time to read "Wisp", my dear friend. Never give up the struggle, no matter your place, no matter your stance, no matter the individual Self you have painted for yourself and for everyone in this life.

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Comments

[PresentPerfect]

No story with a hundred views should have zero comments, though I can perhaps understand why mine is the first. I don't know how to react to this. In fact, at the moment, I'm not, I'm just saying, Hello, I've read this, this mattered. Stay tuned.

[horizon]

Hi there! Thanks for writing this. Let me take a stab at providing the first proper reaction to the story.

It caught me more than I was expecting; two chapters in I was thinking, "This is grabbing my attention for many of the same reasons the indie video game 'Off' did." (If you haven't played that, i dont know if i can easily explain, other than to mutter about coherent presentation of foreign qualia.) The language was a little odd — but that was part of its presentation, and largely reinforced its dreamlike quality. I even found myself thinking, "I shouldn't be liking this. My tolerance for flowery, verbose descriptions is low and the pace is deliberately languid. But it's still holding me in, so it's doing something right."

Chapter 4: "Mare Cognitum." Actual lunar location. Beautiful. Clever on multiple levels.

The start of chapter 7: THIS.

Unfortunately, as it went on, the writing *really* wore on me, like, story-killing wore. The descriptions went from florid to repetitive, and repeated themselves in ways that were unnecessary because they'd been said a different way before and now were redundantly describing the same thing in an alternate fashion. For example:

"[The moon] conveyed the feeling not of an alien setting but of a home, a place of rest, a sanctuary. Within the depths of the mind, it conveyed that they were far beyond the range of harm. A thousand rays of light spilled from her surface, flooding the landscape below her, although this flood was not a violent flood—an inferno of light that consumed the landscape, such as the moon’s sister unleashed upon its children, such that they could behold her glory—but rather a gentle wash of pale fluid that gradually wandered down to the seven travelers, swirling around them with a caressing touch, bathing them in a tangible aura of contented relaxation."

To a point, you get a Poe-ish or Lovecraft-esque effect with that sort of digression into metaphor, but when you've already established a "home, a place of rest, a sanctuary" (third repetition) and then spend an entire sentence establishing that they're beyond range of harm (fourth repetition), and then FURTHER, at great length, that it's not violent (5) and gentle (6) and caressing (7) and contentedly relaxing (8), I feel like I've just spent an entire paragraph getting hit on the head with a hammer.

This repetition got especially noticeable in the middle sections, when ponies held conversations, and dialogue got thick with tags like:

“Dreams?” interrupted Pinkie, her head cocking to the side, intrigued.

Deciding when to tell ("intrigued") and when to show (head cocking to the side, which already implies interest via body language) is admittedly difficult, but splitting the difference and using both to say the same thing is not a good answer to that dilemma. If that were an occasional problem, my complaint would be something of a nitpick, but it's pervasive.

In my opinion, this could be a great story — I mean that; there is potential here to transcend "good" — if you did two things:

1) hack the story size down from 18.5k words to, say, 15.5k, without removing any plot elements or scenes. Trim nothing but the language. Metaphor and imagery is good, but when you use it, use it briefly and boldly, at a single stroke, avoiding repetition. (See how I did it there, too? I could have said the same thing with only one of the three. A second adds emphasis. A third is pushing it.)

2) add in a few more scenes to bring the wordcount back up — beefing up the interactions with the dreamworld, one of the story's strong points; exploring the main antagonist a little more; and thematically tying together the OC and Mane Six elements, since there are some juicy parallels there waiting to be teased out. (I think the implication of the faceless pony's identity is good — Clover, right? — although the final chapter introduces a ton of new characters we never see again and who it's hard to identify. Foreshadowing all of that could give it actual impact.)

Anyway, best wishes with your writing. This is certainly a cut above the usual dreck on the site, and with some reining in of its linguistic excess, could be even better.

Best,

Horizon

[Inquisitor M]

I've been trying to decide what to actually say about this so that it didn't come across as just author bashing. I don't mean to shirk the fact that I found this work a struggle to force myself to read; I just think that such a reaction deserves to go hand-in-hand with some specific reasons as to why.

I think I can boil it all down to show versus tell—but from two very different manifestations.

First is the more standard interpretation regarding the prose itself. It was so amazingly overboard that it felt like it didn't want me to read it. It was almost 100% telling, which left almost nothing to get my brain working. Granted, this style was was not only normal but popular a century or so ago, but to modern tastes and literature, it's generally bland and uninspiring.

Secondly—and probably more importantly for me personally—the story presents some concepts as fundamentals without ever giving them explanatory depth. For many things this isn't an issue; you don't have to explain every facet of a world you're creating. However, where it touches on concepts that would be assumed to cross realities, those concepts need to either be explored enough for the reader to understand, or sufficiently close to our reality for assumptions to transpose. What you absolutely cannot do is make assumption that a reader can reasonably disagree with in such a way as the reader is made out to be wrong for those assumptions. This is exactly how I felt when the the text was speaking of the nature of dreams and the 'essential spark of life'. Both were phrased in such a way as to be commentaries on what is real, rather then explaining what is real for this story, and as such, they felt somewhere between annoying and insulting to read. A good story shouldn't try to tell a reader how something is in reality: at best, it should speak within the framework of the fictional world, and preferably show it, rather than tell it. In this way, I found the story to be quite, quite awful. It wasn't interested in exploring the idea—it was beating me in the face with it. (there were many similar factors, like the cause of insanity, that grated as well, but I don't think it helps to rag on them pointlessly)

That said, the author's notes clearly state the purpose of the story and with that in mind fully endorse that purpose. But as a philosopher, I'd have to say it has the feel of someone struggling to answer the question of 'why are we here', rather than realizing the question itself isn't philosophically sound.

-Scott

P.S. I really hope that doesn't come off as just being a whiny bitch. I'm always happy to answer questions and expand on my comments where required.

[Night_Shine]

3034322
"Granted, this style was was not only normal but popular a century or so ago, but to modern tastes and literature, it's generally bland and uninspiring."
Oh, that explains everything. This story was inspired by the writing style of Charles Dickens in the beginning of A Tale of Two Cities, and I tried to stick to that style throughout.
Interestingly enough, the reason that I did that was because I was annoyed with the way people view fan-fiction as different from any other writing. I thought, "Why can't we call it 'fan-literature'?". So, I tried to make an extraordinary work of fan-fiction that was also an extraordinary work of literature. Needless to say, my little 'experiment' failed.
Your criticism as far as not having a line between what is real in the story and what is actually real definitely makes sense to me, and I now understand that it would probably be very annoying for the reader to read a story that tries to convince you something as an absolute truth which you might disagree with. However, (and this may be the quintessential problem with this story), I didn't write it to convince the reader of any of those things. I wrote it to convince myself.
"That said, the author's notes clearly state the purpose of the story and with that in mind fully endorse that purpose. But as a philosopher, I'd have to say it has the feel of someone struggling to answer the question of 'why are we here', rather than realizing the question itself isn't philosophically sound."
Exactly. I'm not saying this as a justification (probably more as a regret), but it has the feel of someone struggling to answer the question of 'why are we here' because it IS someone struggling to answer the question of 'why are we here'. As referenced in the opening quote and the ending author's note, the primary reason I wrote this story was to write my way out of an existential crisis...and that might be all that the story is, unless someone found it intriguing or entertaining just as a fan-fiction, which apparently one or two people did. Still, at the time that I wrote it, I thought it also had value as a 'good fanfiction'.

3033053
Thank you for the advice on how to improve. I am currently in the process of trimming the redundant imagery from the story (I'm up to Chapter 5 and so far have deleted ~400 words per chapter, trying to follow your advice). I'm glad to know that you did like the story, even if I stuffed way too much imagery into it--which I am attempting to fix now. Hopefully, by the end of my edits, the language won't wear on the reader so much that it kills the story.
The faceless pony, as well as the seemingly random five ponies from the last chapter...well...I don't know who I wanted the reader to think they are when I wrote it. Heck, I'm still not sure who the mysterious one is, although I am pretty sure that he's me as a self-insert.
Still, I'm glad that you picked up that the mysterious one was good (or at least good by the end) even though he intentionally appeared as almost completely morally ambiguous.

Thank you both for the politeness and depth of your criticism.

3006241 "Hello, I've read this, this mattered."
Given the reason that I wrote this (as explained above)....that may actually be one of the best compliments I have ever received.

...thank you.

[PresentPerfect]

3095961
So, after reading this story, I tried to give it some attention, both in my normal journal reviews and elsewhere. The "stay tuned" is the two comments you see above. Things didn't turn out quite as well as I'd hoped, maybe, but you did get some great feedback there, and that little spike in the view stats back on the 10th of this month makes me feel good. :) I hope it makes you feel good too.

As for me, well, I'm not sure whether this story was "objectively" good or not, but it was definitely an experience, and I think that counts for a lot. I for one appreciate the old literary style you used (though I won't begrudge you toning it down), and I think that might be what resonated with me the most. Like you, I appreciate literary fanfic and anyone who seeks to elevate the medium beyond what most view it as.

Really, this is a story I felt more than anything. Which is weird, since you're supposed to read them and all. But again, that matters, and I'm glad to have read your work. :)

[Soge]

Interesting story, very surreal and though provoking. The thick prose was well used, if a little self-indulgent at times, and the plot was nice, even if it was, at times, convoluted in ways that didn't really help the story. In the end, it was an enjoyable read, and ultimately good, and while its flaws stop it from being great, they are what made it memorable to me.

By the way, the chapter titles could have been the tracklist for a black metal album.

[Sypher]

I'm going to echo one o the earlier comments and say tha his story was definitely an experience. I found the imagery to be very vivid and I very much like the plot structure. I'm not quite sure how I feel about the prose, which is purple enough that I got a headache (or maybe it just exacerbated one that I already had), but it did a good job of toeing the line between unbearable and stylistic. I found it really interesting how well you pulled off a style that would have made me fall asleep in almost any other case.
I think this story could have benefitted from a more developed climax. It never really felt like Applejack did anything to change the situation. That might just be because, for that scene, it's primarily just telling us about Applejack's actions without describing the feelings or thoughts behind what she's doing. "Things just happen" is how I'd have to describe that part.

Might I ask what Rarity saw in the mirror? I could figure out the other ones easily enough, but I'm drawing a blank for her. After the failed fashion show, perhaps.

I'm not sure this is a story I could read twice, but it wasn't anything close to a regrettable experience.

[Night_Shine]

4597405 I'm glad you were able to enjoy it. I can't remember what I had Rarity see in the mirror...I think it was her freaking out at Sweetie Belle, or freaking out after making dresses for all of her friends in S1. And yeah, I can totally see what you're saying about Applejack's investment or lack thereof in her own actions. Still, I am pretty sure that aspect was, like the other weird/unappealing parts, stylistic and intentional to add to the dreamlike quality of the story. In my dreams, I often feel like the character Me is always doing things and I'm sitting back watching. But that is yet another example of my adhering to a personal overly-deep ideas and screwing over the readers in this story.

All the same, I am glad that this was memorable to you.