Rarity's dreams were rarely pleasant.
Often they were stress induced nightmares of work: An army of fashionistas coming to burn down her store as an affront to their industry, or a torrent of bad reviews washing her away in a wave of papers. Other times, they were sad memories of her father's last days, and how he had sacrificed so much to make her happy.
Tonight Rarity dreamed that she stood in a blank room, stretching to infinity with endless possibility. With her, she had a delicate wooden paintbrush. Why paint, she had no idea. She had never been much for the traditional arts, but found that in this dream, the brush created real things.
Hey there. I just wanted to say I got tracked here from MaximillianVeers' e-reader of your story 'Happily Ever After', which I'm enjoying immensely. I was talking about it to a friend and that scene where Pokey's slide of him on roses comes up - and she had to draw it. Hope you like!