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My Little Muffin - Part 1 Soft, classical music echoed through the halls and rooms of the humble abode that night. It was a gentle tune, violins and bass bringing forth a powerful, yet emotional crescendo. For some reason, ponies liked playing Posh Ball's 'Canon in D Major' at weddings, possibly to reflect what they hoped the future would bring. Meanwhile, Derpy Hooves busied herself with fixing her dinner: she was not nearly conceited enough to play this sort of thing while reading.
The amber-eyed pony hummed along with the tune as she chopped up some celery to put in her salad, looking out her window and into the night sky. Although it grew warmer in her house by the minute, she didn't dare open the windows or else succumb to the horrid stench that came when hundreds of ponies expelled the contents of their stomachs. Derpy shook her head at the thought, dumping the chopped vegetable into her salad.
It all started out innocently enough. The town
My Little Muffin - Part 3 The doors to the court opened with a click, a bailiff pony dressed much like the guards outside approaching the grey Pegasus and her friends and beckoned them forward. It was an impressive room filled with intricate and dark wood paneling, etched with elaborate designs that would not look out of place in Celestia's personal chambers. Over a hundred ponies jammed the seats in front of them as they approached the central aisle, all eyes on the three mares.
"Presenting to the court," spoke the stallion after clearing his throat, "The plaintiff, Ms. Derpy Hooves of Ponyville, her personal translator, Ms. Pinkamena Diane Pie, also of Ponyville, and her attorney, Lady Twilight Sparkle of Canterlot." Murmurs echoed through the room as the last name was read aloud. In fact, even Derpy found herself at a loss over the announcement. Since when had Twilight been known as "Lady"? The blonde Pegasus had a sneaking suspicion about what caused the sudden pomp, but
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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