Applewood Studios loomed overhead, empty despite the ponies milling about. Twinkleshine had butterflies in her stomach. Stars were on her cutie mark, stardom on her mind. Back home, Minuette had explained that Applewood used to be barren wasteland. Yet two mares seeking their fortune, through sheer will, built the studio from the ground up. Big Apple and Holly Wood. A myth, it turned out; Twinkleshine researched it. But she wanted myths. Fairy tales. Legends. Her story would begin here. [hr] “Another mindless crime!” shouted the Director. “Um,” said Twinkleshine. “Excuse me…” “You’re perfect, honey!” He thumped her on the back. “The quintessential damsel!” “Yes, Mister Director? Um? I was wondering…? I’ve been the damsel… lots of times…” “Fifty-seven, to be exact. Fifty-seven golden performances!” “Yes… I was wondering… Could I be… something else?” “And break the formula!? We’re on a certainty here. Goldmines like this are the stuff of Equestrian dreams!” Inside, Twinkleshine fumed. That had been a line from one of her own submitted… ignored… scripts. [i]How much longer?[/i] she thought. [hr] Onstage, Twinkleshine-playing-Dame-Damselfly reared up behind the curtains, which drew aside to reveal packed seats. Endless eyes. Under the spotlight, she burned. Sweat trickled over the makeup. For yet another night, she sang the Lonely Aria. How she’d take life, come what may. How, no matter that her lover had pretended to break her heart in a complicated bid to mislead and defeat villainous Smug Whipcrack, nevertheless her love would never die. Yet Twinkleshine’s heart broke. Why was she still doing this? Why was she trapped in limbo? [hr] Later, in her scarcely decorated caravan, Twinkleshine opened her letters from Canterlot. Ah, how she missed Canterlot! Las Pegasus was far too leery, far too tacky, far too obsessed with superstars and nothing else. In the dark, under candlelight, Twinkleshine read the happy, fussy little letters giving her slices of home. How she loved to listen to her friends talk about who was doing what to whom and why. How she missed Minuette, going on about space-time. Wiping her eyes, Twinkleshine forced herself to smile for Minuette’s sake. She summoned a sheet. She wrote: “I’m on my way! Big roles for me soon! Lots of love.” Apart from the last one, every sentence was lying. [hr] Under the spotlight, she burned. Sweat trickled over the makeup. Onstage, Twinkleshine-playing-Dame-Damselfly sang her aria [i]yet again[/i]. She noticed ponies leaving their seats far, far earlier than they should’ve done. [hr] “What’s going on!?” said the Director. “They were scoffing this stuff last week! And the week before that!” “Mister Director, sir?” said Twinkleshine, shuffling where she stood. “I haven’t changed anything. Why would they suddenly start criticizing it? You’ve seen the papers! And attendance rates are freefalling!” “[i]Mister Director?[/i]” “What?” Twinkleshine hesitated. But then, wasn’t this what Minuette had warned her about, all those years ago? Follow your dreams, stick your neck out, no matter how dark it gets. Here and now, Twinkleshine held out a shaking hoof. “I was wondering…?” “Not now, kid! This is a major crisis! I might have to fire someone! They’re not doing their jobs right!” Twinkleshine’s butterfly courage went out. She left her script on the desk when he wasn’t looking and backed out apologetically. [hr] Under the spotlight, she burned again. Sweat trickled over the makeup. Onstage, Twinkleshine-playing-Dame-Damselfly finished her aria. This time, the theatre was empty. [hr] The Director invited her to his office for the last time. She entered as Twinkleshine the would-be star. She left without a job. Apparently, damsels weren’t “in” anymore. She’d held them back. Two days later, some sensational, thoughtful epic came out that drew audiences in by the cartload. No one knew who had written the script, but no one believed “Dame Damselfly” when she recognized the title on the posters. Glory-chaser! Pretty damsels didn’t write plays! [i]Boors,[/i] she thought. [hr] Walking home, Twinkleshine turned around and saw Applewood for the last time. The candlelight flared inside her to a roaring inferno. She’d show them! Her fairy tale would never die! She’d make her own studio! She’d give Applewood a run for its money! She wiped her eyes again. Minuette was right. Flit like a butterfly though she did, she could yet learn to sting like a bee. After all, the show must go on. The [i]good[/i] show. So she went back to Canterlot, to discuss with friends who did what to whom and why. Overhead, the setting sun cast its light on the painted wings of butterflies.