He knew that it was pointless to pretend. He knew that whatever imaginary paradisal worlds he could create inside his head, whatever utopia he could visualize, it had no bearing on his reality.

But it felt good.

He was acutely aware of the saxophone within his grip, reed held between his lips. He was playing Wild Mare Heart, eyes shut as his hooves traveled up and down the brass skin of his instrument. As he blew into it, he demonstrated his mastery over the instrument: he knew every inch of it, knew how to make it mumble and roar, shriek and squeal, producing the exact sound he wanted it to.

That was where reality ended for him. In his mind's eye, he imagined that he was back on the stage at Sydneigh Opera House, playing to a packed audience that had gathered underneath the sail-shaped roof. He could feel the smooth, polished wooden surface of the stage beneath his hooves, feel the heat of the lights on his face, and smell the salt of the sea air that had blown in through the opened windows and doors.

And he further imagined that he was not alone on the stage. He could distinctly picture, standing to his left, the String sisters, Rock and Roll, both of them mirror images of each other--standing back to back, same auburn coats, same startlingly blue eyes, same coal black manes with a dyed dark red stripe styled into the same manestyle--as they jammed on their guitars. The only difference between them was their cutie marks: Rock had a treble cleft and a guitar pointing towards the left, and Roll had a bass cleft and a guitar pointing towards the right.

Next to them was Timmy Slide, oily slicked-back brown name shining beneath the stage lights as he sounded out on his trombone. His dark green flank swayed side to side, displaying a miniature version of the brass instrument on his sides as he grinned and winked his gray eyes at the mares in the audience through glasses that were artfully perched on his snout (no doubt deciding which ones he was going to ask out to join him for a seaweed slider after the show).

Behind himself, Phillip imagined distinct crashes and clangs and knew--even though it wasn't--that Ella "Beats" Hoovesgerald was working her magic on the drum set (literally, as she was a unicorn--the only unicorn on the stage, in fact). He could picture her shaking out her wild yellow and red mane that always seemed to cover her freckled face and green eyes as she brought the sticks down on the drums with the same barely controlled enthusiasm and energy that she always approached every task with, even before she had gotten the crossed drumsticks on her chocolate brown flank.

And then to her right was the grand piano at which Charlie Ivory sat. A sparkling white ear-to-ear grin was spread across his black-coated face, his eyes hidden behind a pair of shades that reflected the stage lights that Charlie himself could not see due to a foalhood accident at the cooking stove. Despite his handicap, he hit every note perfectly, and Phillip knew that Charlie wasn't even trying: he was lost in the music, lost in the wondrous sounds and smells of the stage. It was almost as if he was flying through the music with the wings of his heart, like he had with his own wings as a youth before the accident grounded him permanently.

And finally, his father, Bobby "Dizzy" Baseline would be standing directly to Phillip's right. His father's skill with the trumpet exceeded his own with the saxophone, as he demonstrated by weaving a perfect counterpoint to his own music in the air with his instrument, tapping his hoof and shaking his long reddish tail to the beat as he did so, his lips smiling as he pressed them against the trumpet's mouth.

Finally, the song ended. Phillip imagined that the hall erupted in the cheers of the delighted crowd. As one, the band stepped forward and bowed. Phillip imagined that he opened his eyes and saw a glimmer of light to his right, and he imagined that he would look up to find that the light was the light reflecting off his father's trumpet. As he looked up, he imagined that his father would meet his gaze with his own proud smile that shone through his full red beard, his green eyes sparkling with love.

And Phillip did not want to open his eyes, because he knew that when he did, there would be no light reflecting off his father's trumpet, because his father, just like Rock, Roll, Timmy, Ella, Charlie, the audience, and all the other ponies that had once lived in the city that had stood upon the shore north of the now rotting Opera House, were dead.

But he could not stay in the dream forever. So he opened his eyes and raised his head.

The audience sat before him. It was nowhere near the number of the crowds that he had once played for, but all of them applauding, and all of them were smiling. He looked around and realized that he was on the open-air stage in Ponyville.

He turned to his left to find Flash Sentry standing there, guitar in hoof, nodding to him. Next to him was Lyra, who was holding her lyre in a magical grip, the polished metal gleaming gold in the sun. Behind him was Spike on a small drum set, and Bon Bon on piano. And to his right was Pinkie Pie, who was somehow simultaneously playing a trombone and a trumpet.

He felt the rough wooden floor beneath his hooves, smelled the cool wind that was blowing through his mane, and realized that he didn't have to pretend at all.

Author's Notes:

A quick short story where Phillip silently reminisces about his old home.