|Story by Carrot Quill|Editing by Editor Omnibus|Art provided by Thesomewhatevil|
|Original concept from Jade Meteor|Original concept|google doc link|
(Filler story I wrote awhile back for Jade after being inspired by their update.)
A young filly stood in the centre of her room, propped against her cello awkwardly holding the bow across the strings. She gently pulled back and stopped with a cringe, she had accidentally played a note higher then she meant to. Again she tried, pulling the bow along the strings in rhythm, this time hitting the notes just right. After ten seconds of perfect playing another screech sounded and she stopped, disgust plastered across her tiny face. She growled and started again from the beginning, she only got 3 notes in this time before hitting another sour note. “ARGH this is impossible!” She roared tossing her bow to the ground in disgust, staring at the offending object with malice in her eye. “I give up,” she huffed dropping on all fours with a pout. She slowly turned her gaze out the window with a heavy sigh.
A few days passed, the house had fallen silent of the young fillies attempts, her mother paced the living room with a worried look. “She had he heart set on becoming a cellist,” she sighed “I blame myself, I pushed her too hard.”
“now dear,” the filly’s father intervened looking from over his newspaper, “It is not your fault that Octavia has lost hope, it is merely the evolution of an artist, they must realise for themselves what it means to do their craft.” He said, puffing on his pipe.
“I know, I know,” sighed Octavia’s mother stopping her pacing, “I wish there was just a way to show her that.”
“Well.” said the father popping up from his seat, “Perhaps there is a way, I know for a fact there is a concert tonight. Perhaps we should take little Octavia, show her what she could become.”
The mother sat on the ground with a huff, “I suppose it couldn’t hurt to try.”
“Then it’s settled, I will ready myself.” Said the father heading upstairs to change.
That evening Octavia found herself in the crowded concert hall, the most elite of Canterlot were there to enjoy the show. As the maestro entered the stage and tapped his baton against the pedestal everyone fell silent. And then it began, the heavy soaring music of a masters work, every instrument playing it’s role, every note struck in perfection. Except…there were mistakes, Octavia could hear them clearly, but no one stopped, noticed, or cared. And what she noticed more then the horrible sound of missed and ill struck notes, was the blessed sound of imperfection, she was not hearing something stagnant, she was hearing something ever changing, something not afraid of its own beauty, or in fact it’s own ugliness. It embraced that which made it great and that which humbled it all the same. Her eyes sparkled and her smile grew as she listened, her heart was pounding with excitement, ‘That’s it.’ She thought, ‘That’s what I’m missing.’
Latter in the night Octavia stood at her cello, bow in hand. She took a deep breath and looked over her sheet music, then closed her eyes, and played. Every few notes was either wrong or missed, but she did not stop, she continued to play, and as she played her heart swelled. She understood now, beauty is nothing without ugliness, they were two heads of the same coin, and the ugliness only made the beauty so much more pleasing. Like a rose and its thorns proudly displayed, Octavia played.
Her flank began to glow, and in an instant there it sat, a treble-cleft. From then on Octavia knew her special talent, and she could not have been any happier about it.