Princess Twilight walked down the hallway towards her castle’s kitchen. She was going to pick up the plate of brownies that she and Spike had baked the previous night for the town-wide picnic today. Twilight and the mayor had set up the picnic almost on a whim, to celebrate the zap-apple harvest in a much-needed break from petty conflicts, and Twilight was looking forward to it.
She walked, humming cheerfully, down the hallway, bouncing a little in time to her improvised music. She knew she had plenty of time before the picnic started; she’d scheduled this all out well in advance and had made sure to allow a few free minutes for any unexpected complications. But no crisis had come up so far, so it looked like she’d be early!
Lost in her thoughts, happily re-reviewing her mental schedule-slash-checklist for the day, Twilight turned a corner and came to the kitchen. The doors were closed, and she automatically reached out with her magic to open the one on the right (no need to open both gigantic, glass-and-crystal doors for just one small pony).
She barely stopped in time to avoid bonking her nose. The door hadn’t opened.
“Huh,” Twilight muttered. “Is it stuck?”
She applied a little more pressure with her magic, pushing on the door. It didn’t budge. She tried pulling instead—she could have sworn these doors opened inward, but maybe they were “pull” rather than “push”?—but nothing happened. The door didn’t seem to react to her magic at all. Twilight pursed her lips, then tried pushing again. This time, she didn’t stop. Slowly, she increased her power output. Her magic reserves, as an Alicorn, were significant, so it took almost a minute before her horn started to spark and glow brighter. Then beads of sweat began to appear on her forehead. She gritted her teeth, leaning forward and digging her hooves into the ground, as she pushed harder and harder. And still the door didn’t move, so she kept pouring more magic into her telekinesis.
“What… is wrong… with this door?!” Twilight grunted from between clenched teeth. She was starting to get seriously irritated, and it didn’t occur to her to stop and try a different approach—she was too committed now to forcing the door open. She added the last of her strength. The door wouldn’t open. Her ears rang from the intensity of the magic surrounding her, and she could barely think because of all the effort she was pouring into maintaining and strengthening her spell. She was using every last bit of magical force she possessed, and it was starting to hurt. And it wasn’t enough.
Twilight snapped. She screamed—or maybe roared—in fury as her wings snapped aggressively outward and her hair burst into flames. The sheer force of her telekinetic pushing backlashed, and lifted her off the floor. Rage overloaded her thoughts, her feelings, and all her senses. She thrust again at the door, her fury giving her new strength, turning her telekinesis into a blast of pure destructive force: the unsuppressed wrath of an Alicorn given shape. There was a resounding, eardrum-shattering boom, followed by a shockwave of intense heat—which Twilight barely felt, in her literally flaming fury—and the smell of smoke. Then Twilight collapsed to the ground, the echoes of her scream dying out with the echoes of the explosion.
She lay there for a minute on the floor, eyes closed, panting from exhaustion. Her rage was spent, and though her magic was quickly beginning to gather itself again, her whole body ached from the stress of such high-intensity casting. Her horn hurt worst of all, but slowly, the ache subsided and she regained her breath. At least it was over now, she thought. She’d have to replace the door, but that could be done. After she got her brownies and went to the picnic. Smiling, calm, she pushed herself into a sitting position and opened her eyes.
Her jaw (figuratively) hit the floor. The door was still there. And it still hadn’t moved.
She looked around, hardly daring to believe her eyes. The blast had rebounded, and hit the wall behind her. A massive chunk of castle wall and floor was missing, blown apart completely, but the kitchen was still intact, and the entrance into it was still very much blocked by an impossible door.
“What—what in Equestria…” Twilight got up, and walked up to the door. She stared at it for a minute.
“No,” she said. She closed her eyes, and dredged up the little of her magic that had returned, charging up a teleport. There was a familiar popping sound, and the slight disorienting feeling of movement in a direction that couldn’t be described as she slid her body between… and then she opened her eyes.
The door. The door was in front of her. She was still on the outside of it.
“WHAT—THE—BUCK?!” She screamed. “NO! NO, NO, NO! YOU DON’T GET TO DO THIS! THIS IS MY KITCHEN! IN MY CASTLE! YOU DON’T GET TO KEEP ME OUT OF IT, YOU STUPID DOOR! I HAVE PLANS FOR TODAY AND YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO MESS WITH THEM! SO GET—OUT—OF—THE—BUCKING—WAY!” And she turned, and, more out of fury than an actual attempt to once again open the door, gave it a solid buck with her hind legs.
With a resounding crash, the door slammed open.
Twilight turned. She stared at the now-open door. Her eyelid twitched. Slowly, she walked up to the threshold, and put a hoof across. Nothing happened. She took another step. Still nothing; there clearly wasn’t anything else trying to keep her out of the kitchen. She tentatively walked all the way in. Nothing. No curses, no invisible boundaries… the kitchen entrance acted exactly as it should. And that bothered Twilight.
She took a deep breath, placing a hoof at her chest and slowly drawing it outward. She went up to the now-open door. She pushed at it with her hoof. It moved easily, swinging smoothly back and forth with the lightest touch.
Her eyelid twitched.
She reached out with her telekinesis. The door wouldn’t budge.
Another twitch. A curl of hair sprung out of her mane.
Twilight took another deep breath. She walked up to the plate of brownies resting calmly, innocently, on the counter, and picked it up with her teeth. She set it on her back and silently, with measuredly patient movements, trotted out of the kitchen. She walked down the hallway and didn’t look back.
Twilight was oddly quiet during the picnic. Her friends questioned her about it, but her only response to their inquiries was a wry smile and a hollow stare. Eventually, they went back to their own conversation, though a bit uneasily. Twilight would chime in every now and then, and though her answers were a bit more philosophical and large-scale than usual, her friends didn’t seem to mind.
The next day, the door worked normally again. Twilight repaired the wall with as little notice as possible, hiring Maud to regrow it. She never spoke of what happened that day, and eventually her friends stopped questioning Twilight’s reluctance to use, speak of, or even remotely acknowledge the existence of the kitchen. Spike did all the cooking there from then on, and Twilight had a small, personal kitchen installed near her bedroom.
Over time, everyone forgot the mystery of the explosion and Twilight’s distant demeanor during the picnic. Everyone except Twilight, and she preferred to pretend she didn’t, even to herself.
Well… everyone except Twilight… and Discord. He had a good laugh over the whole thing, safely hidden in his private disaster area. Fortunately for him, he was wise enough to never bring it up to anyone.
Author's Note
This story was written as writing practice, nothing more. I realize that Twilight may be a little out of character (for one, she would certainly never swear in the show), and I also realize that her emotions may have escalated too quickly. However, constructive criticism is appreciated; if you noticed these issues or others, feel free to point them out (KINDLY)! I would like to hear feedback, even if it's just that people noticed the same problems I did.
If you would like to read more about the writing process behind this story, check out this blog post!
