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Organised by
RogerDodger
Word limit
400–750
Sweet
That insufferable mare. She’s been nothing but trouble since day one.
Octavia stormed through the streets of Canterlot, her cello slung precariously across her back, the crowd parting from the grumbling mare.
Of course, I wouldn’t expect anything less from her, but of all the times! I have half a mind to have her find another home.
Octavia swerved suddenly, cutting in front of a pair of ponies and marching through a set of heavy wooden doors. The steady murmur from the concert hall proper carried backstage. Had she peeked through the curtains, Octavia would have seen a steady stream of ponies filing into their seats. A full house.
However, Octavia was not in the mood to go peeking through curtains.
“There you are!” said a slightly hushed voice. Fleur de Lis, a slender, pink mare, hurried towards the cellist. “You’re almost late! Where were you?”
“I had to rush here Fleur, there were—”
Fleur waved a dismissive hoof. “No matter, we don’t have the time. Are you ready? Is your cello tuned?”
“Yes, I tuned it a few hours ago,” said Octavia, taking carefully taking off her case and extracting her instrument.
“Well, that’s one thing going for us,” muttered Fleur. Then, more loudly: “You should hurry, we don’t want to keep the crowd waiting.”
“I need a bow.”
Fleur paused, her brow slowly knitting together. “A bow? Do you not have yours?”
“Not currently, no.”
“But you always have your bow. Do you really not have your bow?”
Octavia scowled, a note of venom seeping into her tone. “Not currently, no.”
The elder mare ran a hoof through her mane, flattening imagined imperfections. “What did you do, sit on it?”
The cellist’s scowl deepened. “I didn’t,” she snapped. “Is there an extra bow somewhere or not?”
Fleur de Lis looked at Octavia for a time. Then she turned away, walking deeper into the room. Her magic flared briefly, throwing a tinge of pink onto the walls. A bow floated silently to Octavia, quickly followed by a bag of resin.
The cellist took both objects silently, spending some minutes preparing her bow. Then, with a nod and a hurried “Thank you” to Fleur, Octavia stepped through the curtain.
The murmur dropped almost entirely as Octavia made her way to the center of the stage. The cellist made an effort to smooth her features, to reach impassivity, that cool demeanor that she always put on to play.
It didn’t work. There was a furrow in her brow as she reared onto her hindhooves and touched her new bow to her cello’s strings. The bow felt awkward in her hooves.
Stupid bow, she thought, even as sweet, calming notes flowed from her instrument. And Fleur as well. And Vinyl is the most idiotic of them all, not even taking the time to check her seat before taking it. Octavia almost snorted. A mistake indeed. I’ll have her pay for a new bow, we’ll see how she—
The bow slipped, striking two strings, a sour sound that ripped apart the sweet. Octavia jolted out of her stupor, blood rushing to her cheeks. A ripple ran through the crowd, quickly followed by renewed mutters.
Octavia needed to play again, to ignore the sour note as a professional would, to continue from… Where? She didn’t know. There was no sheet music in front of her, no way to tell where to pick up from. She’d just been playing, how was she supposed to—
“WOOOOOO! YEAH, TAVI!” The shout ripped through the concert hall. Every head turned towards the doorway, to the white unicorn with the two-toned mane. “YOU’RE THE BEST, FILLY!”
In the middle of a concert hall, surrounded by member of the highest class of Canterlot, Vinyl Scratch hollered and pumped her hoof and continued to do so until to rather large ponies dressed in blue ran towards her. They gave chase as Vinyl ran back outside and through Canterlot.
Octavia bit back a laugh and touched her bow back to her cello. The music flowed again, not awkward or sour, only sweet.
“That was one of the silliest things I’ve ever seen.”
Vinyl shrugged. “It worked, didn’t it?”
“I suppose.” A pause. “But I’m still mad at you.”
“Taviiiii,” whined Vinyl.
Octavia nuzzled into Vinyl’s neck “Though not as mad as before.”
“Then you forgive me?”
The cellist smiled, gently kissing her marefriend. “Always. I might be angry, Vinyl, but I’d never let one little mistake come between us.”
Octavia stormed through the streets of Canterlot, her cello slung precariously across her back, the crowd parting from the grumbling mare.
Of course, I wouldn’t expect anything less from her, but of all the times! I have half a mind to have her find another home.
Octavia swerved suddenly, cutting in front of a pair of ponies and marching through a set of heavy wooden doors. The steady murmur from the concert hall proper carried backstage. Had she peeked through the curtains, Octavia would have seen a steady stream of ponies filing into their seats. A full house.
However, Octavia was not in the mood to go peeking through curtains.
“There you are!” said a slightly hushed voice. Fleur de Lis, a slender, pink mare, hurried towards the cellist. “You’re almost late! Where were you?”
“I had to rush here Fleur, there were—”
Fleur waved a dismissive hoof. “No matter, we don’t have the time. Are you ready? Is your cello tuned?”
“Yes, I tuned it a few hours ago,” said Octavia, taking carefully taking off her case and extracting her instrument.
“Well, that’s one thing going for us,” muttered Fleur. Then, more loudly: “You should hurry, we don’t want to keep the crowd waiting.”
“I need a bow.”
Fleur paused, her brow slowly knitting together. “A bow? Do you not have yours?”
“Not currently, no.”
“But you always have your bow. Do you really not have your bow?”
Octavia scowled, a note of venom seeping into her tone. “Not currently, no.”
The elder mare ran a hoof through her mane, flattening imagined imperfections. “What did you do, sit on it?”
The cellist’s scowl deepened. “I didn’t,” she snapped. “Is there an extra bow somewhere or not?”
Fleur de Lis looked at Octavia for a time. Then she turned away, walking deeper into the room. Her magic flared briefly, throwing a tinge of pink onto the walls. A bow floated silently to Octavia, quickly followed by a bag of resin.
The cellist took both objects silently, spending some minutes preparing her bow. Then, with a nod and a hurried “Thank you” to Fleur, Octavia stepped through the curtain.
The murmur dropped almost entirely as Octavia made her way to the center of the stage. The cellist made an effort to smooth her features, to reach impassivity, that cool demeanor that she always put on to play.
It didn’t work. There was a furrow in her brow as she reared onto her hindhooves and touched her new bow to her cello’s strings. The bow felt awkward in her hooves.
Stupid bow, she thought, even as sweet, calming notes flowed from her instrument. And Fleur as well. And Vinyl is the most idiotic of them all, not even taking the time to check her seat before taking it. Octavia almost snorted. A mistake indeed. I’ll have her pay for a new bow, we’ll see how she—
The bow slipped, striking two strings, a sour sound that ripped apart the sweet. Octavia jolted out of her stupor, blood rushing to her cheeks. A ripple ran through the crowd, quickly followed by renewed mutters.
Octavia needed to play again, to ignore the sour note as a professional would, to continue from… Where? She didn’t know. There was no sheet music in front of her, no way to tell where to pick up from. She’d just been playing, how was she supposed to—
“WOOOOOO! YEAH, TAVI!” The shout ripped through the concert hall. Every head turned towards the doorway, to the white unicorn with the two-toned mane. “YOU’RE THE BEST, FILLY!”
In the middle of a concert hall, surrounded by member of the highest class of Canterlot, Vinyl Scratch hollered and pumped her hoof and continued to do so until to rather large ponies dressed in blue ran towards her. They gave chase as Vinyl ran back outside and through Canterlot.
Octavia bit back a laugh and touched her bow back to her cello. The music flowed again, not awkward or sour, only sweet.
“That was one of the silliest things I’ve ever seen.”
Vinyl shrugged. “It worked, didn’t it?”
“I suppose.” A pause. “But I’m still mad at you.”
“Taviiiii,” whined Vinyl.
Octavia nuzzled into Vinyl’s neck “Though not as mad as before.”
“Then you forgive me?”
The cellist smiled, gently kissing her marefriend. “Always. I might be angry, Vinyl, but I’d never let one little mistake come between us.”