Flowers, Blossom!

Extend your heart;
see into the light.
Listen away,
to that eternal song,
rhythms and oceans hence,
rise to the melody of the eternal sky.

Let the candle flicker,
until it burns out.

~*~

Mah sista said that ah was neva te speak of what’er happened last night again. Not like ah rememba all tha’ much te’begin with. But ah sure as well ain’t ne’r woken up in the professor’s bed before, Sweetie next to me. Professor an Mistress Dash nowhere to be found.

“Wait, wait, wait…” you sayin’ that some mud pony can out drink a pegasus – ain’t no fuckin chance!”
“Com’on Dashie, *hiccup* don’t need to start that now.”
“Oh Professor, ah feel that Miss Dash already dun start somethin’!”
“Oh Jackie—manners don’t make me take you back to the shed—“
“Fer what? Te fuck me silly, Rare?”
“Would serve you right, muddie *hiccup*!”
“Hey, hey, hey… language Miss Belle!”
“Oh com’on Doctor, just for fun… ooh! Hey I’ll take on both-a-yous!”
“Um Pinkie.”
“Who’s got the whiskey—no—get these muddies some calvados!”
“You gonna take on two earth ponies with hooch… Mistress?”
“Na, this is the real shit form Prance…”

In a kinda silly way ah was worried about Scoots, not that she couldn’t a handled herself… but that she got so far gone so quick. She can finally fly now, Mistress Dash been helpin’er—she flew up into the chandelier, still don’t know fer what. She is somewhere round here… just don’t know where.

There was some sort of pulsin; Ms. Pie had gotten hold of the piano. Mac had taken to drinking wine out the bottle, the cellar, cool. The floorboards creaked against a mass of—

They called it the devil’s water, an ah lapp’d it up!

Mistress Dash had passed out with Sweetie’s sister in the wine cella; still can’t find the Professor.

They lined up twelve sherry glasses in two rows on the small writin’ table; filled’em to the brim with that fancy hooch Mistress Dash got from Prance.

Mah sista and the Mistress locked eyes, in a drunken grin with steadfast determination. Miss Pie took out a small derringer-lookin thing that popped out confetti; round one started.

Miss Pie then took the bottle and started chuggin.

Professor Sparkle was also in the wine cella, passed out in‘tween two barrels.

The contest musta been forgotten; Sweetie’s sister’s kissin mine. Doctor Shy and the Professor have been ridin’ around on Mac’s back for a bit now, but he don’t seem to mind… or notice as he’s been runnin about the house.

Milly said the fancy Persian rug in the parlor is ruined.

~*~

The train ride was at least scenic. Cotton… cotton… cotton pretty in the fields. I made an oath to only wear silk from then on out.

My Crystalian friend, a sculptor who had been hired to do some work on a plantation house’s façade, had opted to keep then faux horn so long as was to linger in Dixie, not a bad idea.

We arrived only an hour late, of course Dr. Pants was still waiting for me. I knew him well—the very model of Atlantic debauchery and refinement; tightly coiled with the little ghastly ideas that, oh so righteously, will be our damnation.

“Dr. Pants,” I said, stepping off the train.
“Professor Discord, the pleasure is all mine.”

I shook his extended hoof. His eyes betrayed his nervousness; they had the usually curious luster of a learned man utterly content with the status quo, but they were coaxed and shifting.

“Come, allow me to demonstrate some authentic Southern hospitality.”
“Certainly.”

I can only assume that his earthgro chauffer had never seen a draconequu.

~*~

A quiet nook, some pub in Oxford, Oxfordshire, England, the United Kingdom, the British Empire, the world, the universe—flames burning gently. A young scholar plucks away at a tome, self-confident, rigorous, sipping scotch with ice—still American.

Across the ocean his mentor lies curled up between two large wine casks in her cellar.

Elsewhere in the pub, near a rain streaked window, a black woman with acid straitened hair, an All Souls Fellow, eyes a small stone via a magnifying glass. She sips beer in out of the stein she purchased in Salzburg.

Across the ocean her sister lies in a large, empty bathtub, a bottle of calvados still clenched twixt her fingers.

~*~

Sloppy jubilee, riding high against better judgments—the floor was cool, comfortable stone.

I do not believe that Dr. Fluttershy enjoys the companionship of mares, but she did not resist my lips or tongue.

We lost Scoots.

Rare keeps smacking Jackie’s… hind… moaning like some—where is—

The muses are having a field day, some kind of breezy holiday. Verticality is irrelevant and the constitution has been contaminated.

No one can dance, yet everyone’s trying.

We found Pinkie lying in the bathtub, she won the game.

Rhythms and mistakes—

Still breathing, all.

~*~

Scoots stumbled back on in round what ah though was noon. That fancy dress she had worn was all ripped up and muddy.

Her eyes were sorta bloodshot.

“Scoots, where’d ya get off to?”
“I went up to the hideout.”
“Why”

She shrugged.

“What you two doin out’ere?”
“Headin’ to the bath to get cleaned up,” Sweetie said, groggily.
“Can’t you wash up in the house?”
“Pinkie’s still passed out in the tub.”
“Ain’t there more than one tub?”

Sweetie an’ ah shrugged.

“Ah ain’t no house muddy, shit, you’d know betta.”
“Well screw it, let’s jus’ get cleaned up.”

The three of us made our way to the small wash house.

“Well… all consider,” Sweetie started, “I think that it was a fun night—“

She opened the door to up, and lord almighty, there was mah brother curled up with Doctor Shy, both still out hard as a rock.

None of us said a word as we grabbed some soap and made our way o’er t’the stream.

It was the kinda messa things that get made when ponies decide that good decisions are just no fun.

Bad decisions, the best kind that can be made.