Every painting has a story. This one is no different.
Every painting has a story. This one is no different.
Written as a submission for the Quills and Sofas Speedwriting group's "Plain Jane" contest. Originally written in the span of one hour without a prompt and edited later.
Mounted on the far side of the room was a painting, wrapped up in a golden frame and hanging stoically from the wall. The canvas was buried beneath layers and layers of paint, applied in sweeping strokes and dabs. The left side of the painting was dark and purple, with blended shades of inky midnight and mountain purple. The right side was bright and orange, with lighter tones dancing atop of each other.
And on the right was a strange shape, one that vaguely resembled an upside-down pony.
From behind the door came muffled voices, leaking through the cracks beneath. For a scarce second the room fell still, turning its eyes to the door and waiting, anticipating any sign of movement that would dare intrude upon the silence.
The voices drew closer, coupled with the sound of hooves clopping against the floor. The door creaked open and the words rushed in. “... acquired it quite recently, in fact. From, believe it or not, a flea market in the center of Manehattan.”
The first pony led the way, pausing in front of the painting and adjusting their glasses. “Now personally I don’t think it’s a hidden gem from a famous artist or anything along those lines, but I did find it quite intriguing.”
The second pony let out a low hum as they considered the artwork in their gaze. “Do tell? Yes, this is quite the piece.” She approached it, giving a satisfied nod. “Perhaps not done by a professional, but the passion is present nonetheless. The color choices are intriguing as well, and the implications of this upside down character…” they trailed off for a second before continuing. “And there is no signature or mark of the artist?”
“The only thing was an inscription on the back,” confirmed the first pony. “From S.W. to B.A. Love you, forever and always,” he recited. “Do you think there’s some story behind this work?”
The second pony smiled. “Oh, there’s a story behind everything, my friend.” She leaned in closer, peering down at the painting with a curious gaze. “Tell me, my friend… what stories are you hiding?”
The easy spring breeze cut in between the tombstones and cold gray statues like a firefly in the summer air, dodging in between bouquets and cast iron fences freely.
Soarin was alone in the graveyard, although he didn’t seem to notice. He stood stock still in front of a grave, eyes locked on the name in front of him.
He blinked, but the name didn’t change. He wished it would.
Glancing up at the sky briefly, Soarin chewed his lip in thought. His eyes drifted back down, to the bouquet of roses that sat in front of the headstone, like an offering to a ghost.
Soarin felt tired. But above all he felt an uneasy numbness building inside of his body. A part of him wanted to cry, because then he’d feel something. But the other part knew that he had no tears left to give, and his heart wouldn’t break any more than it already had.
He shifted on his hooves and sighed quietly. A gust of wind passed through the graveyard unnoticed by him, and a few leaves danced through the air past him.
“I…” His voice cracked, because he wasn’t quite sure if he was ready to speak. Soarin shook his head and cleared his throat before starting again. “I miss you.”
The sun began to sink over the horizon, creating an orange streak against a purple sky. The colors were vibrant today, and they pulled and tugged at his heart.
He looked up at the gravestone again. It stared back at him.
Soarin shot awake in his seat, startling the mare in front of him. “Wuh?”
Spitfire quickly recovered, offering him a styrofoam cup filled with brown liquid. “I, uh, got you some coffee.”
He glanced at the cup for a few seconds before processing her words. “Oh. Oh. For me. Thanks.” Soarin accepted it, but didn’t raise it to his mouth. He wasn’t thirsty.
Spitfire shifted on her hooves awkwardly as an indistinct voice rattled off an announcement over the public address system. “So… I’m guessing there's still no news?”
“No. They said they’d tell me. They said… they said they’d tell me.” His voice was hollow and his eyes were empty, staring at a set of double doors leading to some room unknown.
The white walls of the hospital were brutally foreboding. They invaded his peripherals and stood menacingly around him, leaving him a virtual island surrounded by seas of dread, or a fake ocean in a scorching desert.
Spitfire said something, but he didn’t hear it. He didn’t care to ask her to repeat.
The doors swung open and Nurse Redheart walked out. She pulled her medical mask off her face and eyed the waiting room wearily. She locked her eyes on him and made her way over.
He felt Spitfire take his hoof and squeeze it tightly. He felt himself squeeze in a quick breath and hold it. His mind formed a picture of an upside down silhouette, against a split orange and purple background. A stupid painting on a farmhouse wall.
Redheart’s eyes were filled with compassion, and the bags under her eyes felt more pronounced. She whispered something to Spitfire before turning to Soarin. Redheart took a deep breath and Soarin held his.
Then, she said two words and his entire world ended.
Soarin stared at the papers he had been given before glancing up at Nurse Redheart, who nodded patiently.
“Just… just give it to me straight.”
“It’s his heart,” Redheart said quietly. “He has a condition called dilated cardiomyopathy. His heart has trouble pumping blood because of a birth defect.”
Soarin shot to his hooves and the clipboard flew out of his lap, clattering to the floor. “Is it… is it bad?”
Redheart hesitated. “Unfortunately, yes. It’s beginning to a be a problem now that he’s getting older, and--”
“Can you help him?”
“We can do our best,” Redheart affirmed. “But the heart is very tricky to heal. Magic and experimental surgery may help, but the fact of the matter is we are very limited in what we can do without risking further complications.”
The silence around them was deafening. Soarin blinked once, then twice. “I… damnit, just… just fix him.”
Redheart put a hoof on his shoulder. “I can only promise our best,” she answered.
“Is he going to live?” he whispered.
“I can’t say,” Redheart replied. “He wanted to see you.”
Soarin sighed, rubbing at his eyes. “Yeah, okay.”
He walked past her and entered the plain white room, locking his eyes on the bed.
Braeburn gave him a weary smile and tried to sit up.
“Well, it’s a strange little thing, I’ll give you that much.”
Soarin chuckled as Fiddlesticks tilted her head in confusion, staring at the painting. “It’s supposed to be.”
“I dunno. Art don’t make much sense to me, but I love the colors.” She touched the frame gently. “Braeburn loves this thing. Shows it to every guest that comes by, y’know. When’re you gonna marry him already?”
Soarin raised an eyebrow. “Well… whenever we’re ready for it, I guess. I mean, we’ve got all the time in the world to sort that out.
Her smile wavered at that. “Soarin… I’m worried about him.”
Soarin frowned, glancing up from his newspaper. “Why’s that?”
“He ain’t the same,” she replied. “He’s been gettin’ weaker lately, complained that he’s feelin’ dizzy. Says he’s got some chest pains too. I’ve been tryin’ to get him to a doctor, but he ain’t budgin’. But hay, if he ain’t gonna listen to his sister, he might listen to you.”
Soarin nodded, folding up his paper. “Yeah. Alright, I’ll talk to him.”
Fiddlesticks nodded in thanks, and Soarin left the living room and headed into the kitchen.
The Appleoosan sunset was one that he had come to enjoy. Soarin had been all over the world, but he was convinced that somehow, the sun set differently out here. The way the oranges and reds bounced off of the sand and into the air was something special, and he loved the way it contrasted with the inky dark of the night.
Braeburn was standing by the counter, his head low and breathing shaky.
Soarin was immediately concerned. “Hey, what’s wrong buddy?”
“Nothin’,” he quickly replied. “Feelin’ a mite dizzy is all.”
Soarin was by his side instantly and wrapped him in a hug. “You working yourself too hard again?”
“Ain’t that,” Braeburn answered, shaking his head. “Probably just tired is all.”
Soarin kissed his neck gently. “You gotta get more rest, Brae. I don’t want to see you all worn out again.”
“I know,” Braeburn answered with a nuzzle. “I know. But you don’t need to worry about me, ya big oaf. I’ll be just fine.”
Soarin nodded. “Alright chief, but how have you been feeling? I heard you were having chest pains and stuff.”
“Yeah,” Braeburn said with a sigh. “Been going on for awhile. But it’s nothin’, I reckon.”
“Hey. Take this seriously,” Soarin said. “I don’t want this ‘nothing’ to become a ‘something.’ I’ll take you to the doctor’s tomorrow, okay? If anything, it’ll help me sleep easier at night.”
Braeburn lowered his head and sighed. “Alright, fine. But I’m tellin’ you, I’m… just fine. But, if anything happens...” he absently raised a hoof to his chest. “Promise me you’ll be there?”
Soarin nodded, “Every step of the way.”
Braeburn returned the smile, and Soarin turned to walk out of the room.
“Soarin…”
Soarin turned around just in time to see Braeburn fall to the floor, limp and unconscious.
“What in tarnation is so important you had to do all of this for?”
Soarin giggled, tugging on Braeburn’s hoof. “Hey, trust me man, it’s going to be worth it.”
Braeburn grumbled, pulling gently on his blindfold. “...better not be like your last surprise.”
“Oh, trust me, it’s way, way better!” Soarin let go of his hoof to pull the barn doors open with a grunt. “Come on, this way.”
As Braeburn trotted into the barn, Soarin yanked his blindfold off. Braeburn glared at him and adjusted his hat, before turning his attention to the draped object in the center of the barn. “What’s this?”
Soarin trotted around the easel in circles giddily. “This is my masterpiece. My gift from me to you. A treasure! Something you’ll cherish forever and always!” He seized the sheet in his mouth and yanked it off. “Ta-da!”
Braeburn’s eyes went wide as he stared at the painting. “It… it’s beautiful,” he whispered, walking towards it.
“You like it? I incorporated all of those colors you were talking about when we went stargazing,” Soarin said proudly. “Of course Spits wasn’t too happy since I missed a few practices doing this, but hey, I told her--”
He was cut off when Braeburn grabbed him and pulled him into a kiss. “I love it, you big oaf,” he whispered.
“Good,” replied Soarin as he nuzzled Braeburn lovingly. “Happy birthday, cowpony. I love you.”
“Love you too,” Braeburn replied. “Forever and always.”
The air was crisp above Appleoosa, as it always was during the cool summer nights. The town was still moving as ponies headed home from long days at work, and a few stray tumbleweeds ducked and weaved across the horizon.
Soarin took it all in from the hill he was sitting on with a lazy smile. “You were right, Brae. It really is something different from up here.”
“Yeah? Just wait until we get to the good part,” Braeburn replied from next to him. “When the sun starts to set and the stars start to come out… it’s really somethin’ else.”
Soarin nodded, taking a bite from his apple and glancing up again. Not a single cloud dotted the sky, leaving it empty like a blank white canvas, ready to be painted.
“So, you gonna be in town for much longer?” Braeburn asked.
“Two weeks, then I gotta go back and start summer training,” Soarin replied. “But don’t sweat it, I’ll be back by your birthday.”
“Heh. That’s all I could ever ask for,” he replied.
Soarin reached over and tousled his mane. “I told you, Brae, you don’t have to worry about anything.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” Braeburn pointed up at the sky. The sun was now barely visible over the horizon and the sky above was turning dark. “But watch. See the way the orange sits against the purple?”
“Yeah, yeah. Wow, that’s… you don’t see that in Canterlot,” Soarin replied. “Or even Cloudsdale for that matter.”
“Sky’s really different out here,” Braeburn said. “It’s somethin’ beautiful, ain’t it. I’d put it in a paintin’ if I could.”
Soarin glanced at him in thought. “A painting, huh?” An idea bounced into his head. “Interesting.”
“There’s a picture I saw a while ago,” Braeburn said as he poked at his salad.
Soarin looked up from a mouthful of pie. “Hm?”
“It showed this weird shape that looks sort of like a pony, except its upside down.”
“Really? What does it mean?”
Braeburn shrugged. “Dunno. I asked the artist, and they said it was some commentary about life. And how we’re always moving forwards and stuff. Never lookin’ back.”
Soarin chewed on his food in thought. “That’s interesting.”
“Yeah. He said the piece was called Falling in Reverse. Because that’s what it represents, a pony on their deathbed looking back on their life, wonderin’ if they did enough.”
Soarin set his fork down and glanced at Braeburn. “... why are you bringing this up?”
“Well… Soarin, where do we go from here?” he asked nervously. “You’ve gotta get back on your tour, I’ve gotta tend to the farm… how’re we gonna make this work?”
Soarin reached out and took Braeburn’s hoof in his own. “Hey, calm down. We’ll figure it out, alright?”
“...how do you know for sure?”
“Because we’ve got all the time in the world to get through it,” Soarin replied. “Trust me.”
Braeburn exhaled. “I do.”
“Alright,” Soarin said with a smile. “I love you, Brae. Forever and always.”
