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12/24/10(Fri)17:49 No.22140929>>22140905
But Sparks was old when I met him. He never complained, but I could see. The shows drained him, and the road was hard. One morning about a year ago, on our way to the next town, he simply didn't emerge from his wagon.
His wagon, that I took after I buried him, to carry on with the show because he had no family and I had no other life.
His wagon, that was my home, my stage, my safe place, and my reminder of him.
My wagon. That was now a heap of rubble, probably on the way to some backwater dump.
I lay there for a long time. Trembling, raging at the the hecklers, the crazy marks, the ursa, everything that had lined up to snatch the last bit of Sparks away from me.
Then I swear I heard him speak.
"What you /want/, filly?"
I drew a deep breath and listened hard.
He'd never explained it, but that was his blue skies and sunshine question. It was what you aimed for, what kept your head up and hooves snapping when life was trying to crush you down. He'd ask it, I'd clamp my jaw and wait. He'd keep asking me, over and over, until I told him some kind of silly dream.
Another breath. I was pretty sure I had imagined it, but this time I didn't want to wait him out. Shaking my head at myself, I answered him aloud.
"I want to live free."
"I want to show the marks their dreams, make them beg me to take their money and pine for the day I'll be back."
"I want them to whisper that Celestia herself couldn't be more amazing than The Great and Powerful Trixie!"
I paused and listened again. Nothing but wind and rustling leaves, but somehow that was enough.
"And I want you to be proud of me, Sparks."
I laid my head on my hooves and closed my eyes. Tomorrow, a dumb tourist would wander into Ponyville, pick up a few supplies, listen in awe to the tale of the ursa attack, and pick a few choice souvenirs out of the rubble. |
