A Sound Like-Unto That of Hooves on Cobblestones
For months, the two had stolen furtive glimpses at each other: he, a handsome straw, proud and bendy, the crown jewel of their mistress Pinkie Pie’s collection; she, a flour bag of humble origins, made of plain burlap and slightly ripped at one corner, but as fine and fulsome as any of her kind. The pure, almost animal magnetism they felt was powerful, and would have quickened both their hearts, had they been furnished with such.
For countless nights, they gazed upon each other from afar: he from the nightstand next to the pink mare who kept them apart; she, propped up against the side of a cupboard in an adjoining room. The bedroom door had noticed their longings by day, and, being no stranger to the pining of forbidden lovers, took pains to swing itself wide open each night as their mistress dozed, the better to allow the pair however little contact that it could.
But alas, each morning their mistress would awaken, take Fernando up into her prehensile mane, and bounce off to parts unknown. Madame le Flour, alone, would weep the few white tear-like particulates that might fall from her ripped corner. And each night, he returned within Pinkie’s clutches, languishing upon the nightstand once again.
There came one fateful night when darkness fell upon the land, yet neither Fernando nor Pinkie had returned. Madame le Flour fell into a lugubrious melancholy, and sagged in such a way as to resemble a deep frown. Pinkie had shared many tales of their adventures, and deep down, Madame le Flour had come to live in fear that some dark fate might one day befall her slender, flexible Fernando.
A loud “BANG!” split the night as the apartment’s door slammed open, shattering her fitful slumber. Pinkie staggered in, appearing far more weary than was usual. Madame le Flour wracked herself with the myriad possibilities of what horrors she must have endured, and what might have become of her one-and-only amidst them.
But then, the pink one brought a shaky hoof up to her mane. And, like a banished prisoner seeing the sun for the first time in decades, le Flour was overcome with euphoria; for out he came.
Moonlight streamed in from a nearby window, illuminating the full, proud length of Fernando. He flexed his upper portion toward Madame le Flour, speaking volumes of his triumph over the day’s adversity. She blushed at the sight of her fair hero, or she would have, had she not been made of vegetable fibres and powder.
Madame le Flour sighed, her yearning for him reaching an apex that rivalled the tallest of the Saddleback Mountains. She knew he longed to be with her as well, to quench the fire of his pride and ardor within the soothing comfort of her white, cloud-like poofyness.
But then something truly exceptional happened. Instead of placing Fernando upon the deserted island that was the room’s nightstand once more, Pinkie flung herself onto the bed with all her might, in an uncharacteristic display of exhaustion. The resultant impact sent him ricocheting off the headboard and hurtling towards the adjoining room at bendy-neck speed.
He sailed majestically towards her. In ages to come, it was oft debated whether his trajectory was simple chance, or if, perhaps, Pinkie had possessed some subconscious sense of sympathy for the unrequited lovers, stirred to wakefulness by her day’s thrilling brush with death.
Regardless, as Fernando arced high toward the ceiling, both he and Madame le Flour realized that this might be their one fleeting chance to live the dream that they had both long shared.
Small doubts began to pluck at them, despite their honest yearning. Fernando knew that he desired her, but questioned whether he could muster the strength to be her bastion in times of tumult while still remaining thoroughly flexible (particularly at the point of his articulation). In contrast, Madame le Flour felt embarrassment about her considerably greater girth; she wondered if he could truly love her, and if she could truly keep him satisfied, or if a day might come when he would seek a smaller, younger bag of flour.
But as Fernando's flight path stopped increasing altitude and started losing it, the two dared cast their doubts to the wind. Madame le Flour desperately settled lower, pointing her ripped corner toward him. Fernando used his upper portion to control his descent, knowing he would only have one chance…
Perhaps by the grace of Celestia herself—or, more appropriately, Cadance, patron Princess of Love—Fernando’s aim was true, and soon he plunged into Madame le Flour’s enveloping whiteness, sinking deep up to his bendy-portion. She gasped a tiny puff of white, and he attempted to bend himself in what he hoped would be a touch of reassurance. In time, she calmed, and her trepidation turned to joy, then abandon, at the thrill of their embrace.
She had no frame of reference for the experience, never having been intimate with a straw before; but then these were verdant, untamed fields for him as well, being newly initiated unto the realm of bags of flour. However, both soon found instinct, or whatever it is inanimate beings possess, coming naturally to them as it unfolded. They spent long moments relishing the new sensations that each brought the other. All time, all space, even fears of what their pink oppressor might do if—nay, when—she found them: these things fell away, as all that occupied Fernando’s world was Madame le Flour, and all that occupied Madame le Flour’s world was Fernando.
As their fervent passion spiralled out of control, she tipped over, spilling a bewildered Fernando, as well as a generous portion of her floury contents, out upon the floor. The two laughed, or would have had they been capable, for what else could they do? They felt only a moment’s embarrassment at their inexperienced fumbling, and each took it as something that endeared them to each other.
But, unable to move under their own volition, there was little they could do to remedy the situation; and so they simply lay there in the moonlight, merely content with each other’s presence, feeling a joy so unique that it could not be expressed in words—not by the tongues of ponies or princesses, and certainly not by a pair of inanimate objects.
Madame le Flour was first to wake upon the morn, as sunlight pierced the heady fog suffusing her consciousness. She smiled, or, rather, sagged in such a manner as to approximate a smile, at the feeling of Fernando snuggling close. He was indeed as smooth as he appeared, and his bendy-portion was so very... bendy.
But Madame le Flour’s reverie was interrupted by her sudden realization that their mistress should be up by now. And if she wasn’t yet, she soon would be.
Madame le Flour made a number of attempts to rouse Fernando, none of which would have been obvious to an outside observer, and all of which were unsuccessful. He continued what she considered a charming, if ill-timed, slumber.
The bedroom door had been courteous enough to shut itself during the night, giving the two lovers a modicum of privacy. But it was not thick enough to block out the resounding clop-clop of hooves upon the wooden floor of the adjoining room.
In a somewhat muted explosion of streamers and confetti, Pinkie Pie burst through the door, looking disheveled and groggy. Her cerulean eyes fell upon the couple, seemingly confused for a few moments before going wide with shock and outrage.
“Madame le Flour!” Her eyes flitted between the two of them. “Fernando!” She turned away in disgust. “I told you that this was forbidden. I told you this could never be!”
She spun back around to face them, and her eyebrows furrowed. “Don’t you even think of trying to run from this, missy! And you, long, tall and bendy! Yeah—” she pointed an accusatory hoof “—I’m lookin’ at you, mister! You’re gonna do the right thing by your little love-toy there, or my name ain’t Pinkamena Diane Responsibility Pie!”
With that, she dove through the second story window and away to parts unknown. The two were left to hold each other, shivering at the uncertainty of their fate.
After what seemed like an eternity, they started at the sound of doors slamming and hooves clopping somewhere downstairs. They steeled themselves for whatever might come, resolving that there would be no regrets for what had happened between them.
Suddenly, the door burst open, and a tan mare with glasses was thrust forcibly into the room.
“There they are!” shouted the pink manifestation of indignance from behind the nonplussed newcomer. “See them lying there, so brazen in their shame!”
Fernando glared at his accuser, insisting—silently—that what he felt was not shame, but a new awareness of what life could offer.
“Oh, is that how you feel?! Mayor Mare, can you believe the cheek? The gall?”
The grey-maned mare turned with pursed lips and furrowed brows. “Pinkie, I don’t understand. I thought you said I needed to come here right away and marry somepony?”
“Well, duuuuuuuhhh,” she scoffed, pointing a hoof at the lovers. “What do ya call that?!”
Mayor Mare eyed them. “That looks to me like a tipped-over sack of flour with a straw sticking out of it.”
Pinkie gazed at her, wide-eyed. “And you’re just going to let this kind of depravity go on in your town? You aren’t going to marry them right on the spot?!”
The mayor frowned at Fernando and Madame le Flour. “Pinkie… let’s assume that what you’re seeing here is some kind of… star-crossed love affair, and that you’ve caught these two otherwise completely inanimate objects in a compromising position, and now you want me to invoke the powers vested in me to force these two to commit to the relationship their current… positioning suggests. Am I correct?”
“Oh, right! Right! You’re gooooooood, Mayor Mare!”
“Why thank you, it isn’t always easy. But Pinkie, I’ve seen cases such as these before, where two sets of parents drag their shamefaced teens before me, usually with shotgun in hoof, and insist I do the same. And let me tell you, nine times out of ten, it turns out for the worst if I do.”
Pinkie bristled. “What? How can you say that?! But… they’re doing…” She pantomimed wildly with her hooves. “They’re making…” Her voice hushed to an embarrassed whisper. “Mommy-daddy-time!”
The other one slowly nodded. “Sure. And don’t get me wrong, it can have detrimental socioeconomic effects if ponies go about doing that willy-nilly with no regard to anything at all. But, much as it pains me to say it, you can’t force ponies to make a commitment to each other, even if you don’t approve of what they’re doing. A commitment represents a choice two ponies have to make for themselves…” She waved a hoof. “And… I guess the same goes for drinking implements and… flour… bags?”
Madame le Flour pulled Fernando closer. Both were proud to not let their love be defined by anypony else, especially not by the one who had kept them apart for so very long.
Their oppressor’s countenance fell as she looked upon their defiance, and she seemed to deflate as she turned back toward the other mare. “Mayor Mare… I… I’m so sorry for wasting your time.”
The tan one laughed and turned toward the door. “It’s okay, Pinkie. Honestly, I’m just glad this didn’t turn out to be something bigger.”
Silence fell upon them as the mayor left the room. Madame le Flour and Fernando watched expectantly as Pinkie squeezed her eyes shut and began to sniffle.
At length, a single tear rolled down the sullen pink mare’s cheek. “I’m so sorry,” she breathed. “I feel awful for depriving you of each other for so long! I only wish that there was something I could do…” Her eyes fluttered open, and a smile swiftly overtook her face. “I know, I can throw a party for you! A public celebration of your love, in all of its unbridled beauty!”
Fernando and Madame le Flour shared a joyful embrace. Pinkie blushed and giggled. “Hey, come on, you two… get a room!” Her eyes went wide, and she leapt into the air again. “Oh, I’ve got a great idea! You guys wait here and enjoy some ‘alone time’ while I go and plan your party! It’ll be the biggest one we’ve seen since Dashie’s birthiversary.”
The pink mare continued to speak as she trotted off to work her magic, but for Madame le Flour and Fernando, a very different kind of magic was beginning again, fueled by the joy they felt at finally being able to be together openly. They couldn’t know what the future might hold for them, but as the smoldering embers of their passion stoked to a roaring blaze once more, they were overcome by the sheer sense of freedom to discover that future together, one euphoric moment at a time…
The midday sun shone brightly before Pinkie Pie returned to Sugarcube Corner. The Cakes greeted her as she pushed through the door, walking on her hind legs, but she was clutching masses of confetti and assorted party favors in her forehooves, and could barely hear their words. She took each step up the main staircase by faith, hoping to contain both the party supplies and the joy that fueled her need for them.
At last, she reached the spare room where she’d left the happy couple. She labored to set the mass of supplies down in a corner, then turned to greet them with the details of her plans for their big party.
She froze, spotting Fernando lying alone and weeping piteously in a limpid pile of white. She furrowed her brow at the sight of an unfamiliar khaki-colored bag occupying Madame le Flour’s former position against the cupboard.
“No,” she whispered, crossing to Fernando. Pinkie lifted him gently from his lover’s last remains, and held him close to her chest. Both wept for as long as they could bear.
In time, their weeping began to subside. Fernando shivered in her grasp. Fire burned in Pinkie’s eyes as she allowed her mane to subsume him once again. She turned, descended the staircase, and entered the kitchen, fuming at the smiling figures of Mr. and Mrs. Cake.
“Why, oh why, wouldst thou intrude upon my chambers?!”
Mr. Cake looked serious. “Now Pinkie, you know we wouldn’t go into your room.”
“No, but you… the room that’s next to mine…”
The Cakes gave each other meaningful looks. “Well… honestly, we did,” Mrs. Cake said. “But we were in a bind! You were supposed to bring back a cart-load of flour from the market yesterday.”
Mr. Cake nodded. “We didn’t realize that you hadn’t until we were halfway through our first order this morning. We were already cutting it close on that one… I couldn’t get out to the market until after it was in the oven. So, yes… I’m sorry that we raided your supplies, but we made sure to put everything back the way it was!”
Pinkie shook her head. Her eyes brimmed with tears. “No… it’s not the same. It’s not the same at all!”
Mr. Cake held up a hoof. “Pinkie, please, I know it was an imposition…” He ducked down beneath the counter, and brought up a laden tray. “But look, we saved a couple of the cupcakes that we made this morning for you. Try one; this batch was delicious!”
Her mouth drew back into a rictus of pure horror. “No. No! You… monsters!”
"Monsters?" he asked, nibbling one of the cupcakes. "All we did was borrow some—"
Pinkie recoiled, shielding her eyes. “Oh, Fernando! Woe is thee, for the nascent fire of your love has been snuffed out by the heartless maleficence of this cruel and random world!” Her features hardened, and she pointed a hoof at the Cakes. “But do not be deceived, thou heartless flame-snuffers; for I will see justice served!” She bolted for the door, shouting, “Mayor Mare! Mayor Mare!!!”
Mr. and Mrs. Cake exchanged quizzical glances.
“I wonder what’s eating her?” Mrs. Cake asked.
Mr. Cake frowned, then shrugged, and took a big bite of the cupcake.
