Jimi Clawrix didn’t feel quite at home.

Even when he stayed the whole day in his hole of a flat - his hole, his very personal, not rented hole - and roamed the only room that lacked furniture pathetically, and flung himself into one of those chairs that were always restrictive on the wings; and when he mindlessly trod the streets of Los Pegasus, an alien in an alien city, his guitar sack on his back, again, restrictive on the wings, damn pony tech and convenience - he didn’t feel quite at home.

He was born in Equestria, true; but there was never a time when he felt at home in his homeland. He was born after the war, and he never knew his mother, who decided it for the best to leave the kid and escape to the Empire. His father, a griffin nationalist, soon took up little Jimi and tried to escape too; but wasn’t let through. Suffering from being unable to go home, he soon died, presumably of a broken heart.

Ever since his childhood - and he couldn’t say he really had one - he had often wondered: why was he verbally berated in the streets when they thought he couldn’t see him? Why was he verbally berated in the streets when they thought he could? Why wasn’t he let into theatres and restaurants? Why couldn’t he find a proper job? Why couldn’t he go to university and get a degree? No griffins allowed, they said. No feathered beaks, the signs read. Get out of my way, you feathered bastard, the ponies said.

So, there were a select number of things he could do: drink (he drank), smoke cigarettes (he smoked), find odd jobs (he did), and play the guitar in small ‘feathered’ bars (he played). He also got laid very frequently. Something in his disposition made the female griffin population of Los Pegasus want to have babies with him. He certainly didn’t mind this one positive outlet in his life.

When he walked home from the gig, he sometimes looked at the sun rising over the only world he had ever known and he thought that, maybe, if Celestia were aware of the situation, life would be different. But then he remembered that it was Celestia who had waged a war against his nation, and that it was Celestia who supported the segregation policy. But then again, he didn’t mind a little sun as he returned to his (very small) private domicile.

Jimi Clawrix performed on the guitar for his feathered kin, but he was, guiltily, thinking of - even dreaming about - performing for rich snooty ponies in Golden Ground clubs and in the Bohemia Bar, and he could almost hear the hooves stomping, yes, it was his guilty secret, he despised those equines, but he, he, for some reason he so sought their approval, their excitement, their love.

That evening was hardly any different: Jimi Clawrix came home without a pretty griffin female on his wing - he’d already ditched the one he’d slept with two hours ago - dreaming of fame and fortune; or, at least, relative well-knowness and a little money. Knowing that tonight’s gig would be as upsetting as the previous one was somewhat filling him with a sense of stability. Passing by the old wardrobe that never hosted anything but his worn-out leather jacket, he pondered on his most recent dilemma: he finally had enough money to buy winter boots, and he was planning on giving himself exactly those as a present for Hearth’s Warming Eve, or, Bravery Day, as it was known in the Griffin Empire, but… “But the damn ponies don’t have boots for a griffin leg,” he said aloud, popping open a beer and propping himself on the sofa. He cast a glance at his inferior guitar and frowned. Some day, he said to himself, some day I’ll have so much money I’ll buy a Les Pone. ...In spite of the name.

Gently still, he took up the guitar and plugged it into a small 10-watt combo, setting the beer aside. He started out with a riff, then his imagination supplied a drum beat to which he tapped his foot, the bass notes which he hummed in his low voice, and then the riff grew into a solo and it was late evening, and the moon jammed its shiny head to the tune, and he knew this tune he’d memorise, as all of his tunes - for he could not write or read a note - and perform it tonight, and he could already picture himself in the light of the stage, and, thus, the song was born.

***

“Gah, I can’t do it.” Gliss touched her forehead, feeling the pain returning. Gently, she placed her Les Pone next to her on the stand. “It’s that damn headache,” she complained to her mothers, who didn’t seem upset by the filly’s inability to perform, but rather, only her health. “It’s like, I have the song in my head, but I can’t play it out loud.

“It’s just the concussion, Slidey,” Vinyl chimed in, sipping on a beer. “It’ll get better soon.” She smiled at her daughter. “See, you’re already sleeping in your room.”

“Yeah.” Gliss narrowed her brow. “If my room were a room, you know, and not a pass-through living room.” But then again, I guess a living room is still a room…

The silence was awkward, but it was nothing new; Octavia carried herself primly, and Vinyl sipped on her fourth (fifth? sixth?) beer today. She glanced at the clock. Ah, it’s almost midnight. Another day gone, and thank Celestia for that.

Octavia yawned theatrically, covering her mouth with a hoof. "Come on, sweetie. Time to go to bed." She smiled at her daughter the way only mothers can smile. You don't want the headache to get worse, do you?"

Gliss groaned quietly. Always with the ifs and predictions. She opened her mouth to argue but decided against it. She turned off the Mareshall amp and freed her guitar of the cord. "Sure thing, mother," she replied, faking exhaustion. "Good night, mother. Good night, Mom." In turn, she let her cheeks be kissed by the perfumed lips of Octavia and the boozy lips of Vinyl.

"Sweet dreams, honey," Octavia cooed, patting the filly on the head, making her shake her long mane disapprovingly.

"Night, Slidey." Vinyl patted her daughter on the shoulder and followed her wife into the bedroom. "May your dreams be filled with pretty mares!" she called out from behind her shoulder and, with laughter and an embarrassed 'Mooom!' closed the door behind the two of them.

Gliss sighed and tried to close her eyes and just lie still, but the sound of the flat didn't let her: the screeching of the bed soon ceased - Gliss knew her mothers were not making love anymore - and the snoring soon filled the room through the door; but there were sounds coming through the closed window, sounds of the busy city that was waking up, again, from its daily awakening, waking in its wake, it roared with music, it drummed with hoofsteps, it blared with laughter; the days of bop were ending, Gliss knew it, but they were still clinging to it, the bop was still in the city, she knew she wanted to play something different, but how could she put the melody to life when-

Gliss groaned and picked up her unplugged Les Pone. She ran a hoof across the neck, feeling the frets rubbing against her, like a warning, like a storm, like a lover. She tried a few notes. Somehow, the soft, gentle sound of an unplugged electric guitar soothed her, didn't make her head blaze with pain.

Suddenly, inspiration hit. Why don’t I just play that tune of mine with intervals, and maybe… Quickly taking a round-about glance, as if she were doing something dirty, she tapped the neck boldly with one hoof, then with two hooves. That’s just like Mom playing the piano… Embracing the new technique was easy, after a few minutes of practice.

The tune surfaced in her mind with effect, an after-delay, and a pre-reverb, it resonated inside her mind, healing her; the headache was gone, and she was glad, and she was trying something new, and it felt like a nocturnal kind of thing, and she was smiling, eyes closed, guitar unplugged, and, thus, the song was born.