Morning pulled at the cover of night and the sun warmed the frozen dew from every blade of grass. Already, ponies were preparing for the day. A strong red colt wheeled a cart of glistening green apples, their skins perfectly smooth from being picked from the orchards. Young fillies ran here and there, playing a game of chase before the school bell rang. Closed sings were flipped to a cheery greeting of welcome as shops opened. The sweet smell of sticky cinnamon buns and shared oak wood rose up from the chimney of the bakery. Poneyville was bustling with activity and it was only a few hours past dawn. Birds sang happily, flying from one branch to another.
One single home did not stir. The home was a small, shabby cottage, falling apart in its many years of occupancy. The walls were overdue for a new coat of paint, but the house was not all that bad. The wooden door swayed softly back and forth, its hinges squeaking with every movement. The house had only two rooms, the kitchen and bed taking up the larger while the toilet occupied the smaller.
The thin cotton blanket that covered the bed rises up and down. A small body stirred in the cotton linens. Dark emerald eyes cracked open and peeked out from under the covers. A glow emitted from the blanket, throwing it to the dirt floor. A mauve colored mare lay on the bed, her face buried in the single pillow, her horn's glow slowly fading away.
"Pitchwaves, musician of the year," she mumbled, her eyelids still heavy with dreams. Her hair fell in waves of purple and white over her eyes as she turned over to face the ceiling. She blew at the strands of hair, her efforts useless in the end. A thump sounded at the door, making the mare jump upright.
"Good morning, Miss Pitch!" the friendly voice of the mail pony called. Pitchwaves rolled her eyes, smirking at her easy startlement. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and stifled a yawn.
Pitchwaves walked to the shabby door, pushing it open to pick up the new paper. She tossed it onto the counter, its pages splaying every which was. A glow surrounded the cabinet as it opened, Pitchwaves yawning one more as she pulled out a mug and tea bag with her magic. She proceeded to pour water in the mug and start to boil the water. As steam began to rise from the cup, Pitchwaves walked to the bathroom to brush her teeth.
The water bubbled as she returned to the kitchen. She looked at the cluttered counter for the tea bag. A small heading in the corner of the newspaper caught her eye.
Cupcakes of the Crime
October 25th, feathers of one of the missing ponies are found in the party girl we all know and love's cupcakes, Miss Pinkamena Diane Pie. She claims "She had been over earlier to see about an order and asked to help out! I'd never turn down any pony who wanted to help!" Further investigations will be needed for any charges to be pressed against Miss Pie.
Pitchwaves stared blankly at the page, her ming slowly processing the article.
"She's always so happy and cheery..." she said softly to herself. Her heart tugged at her emotions, why she wasn't sure. She shook her head. "Snap out of it, it's just the media over exaggerating." Pitchwaves smirked and reached for the cup. THe wind blew the door in, slamming it against the wall with a crash. The mare jumped, the boiling water spilling all over her flank.
"Dear Celestia, that BURNS!!!"
(Not finished)
The night was moonless, the air crisp with late-fall air. The soft crunching of leaves filled the empty town. Only a single mare walked the streets at this wee hour. Her face was covered with a mask of white and red stripes. The stripes spilled from the open hole on the forehead of the mask, revealing a thin, mauve colored horn. Shadows hid her eyes, leaving only deep hallow black sockets. All of the lights in every little cottage were out, the alley ways in-between dark with mystery. The mare was a ghostly figure in the darkness, a beautiful witch of the night. She walked slowly down the pathway, looking straight ahead. A single leaf fell from the oak canopy above her head. Her ear twitched and her legs pushed away from the ground. The mare flew through the air swiftly, landing without a sound on a low hanging branch. Shadows hid her pale flesh well, casting a devilish grin across her masked face. She sang a soft tune, looking up into the graying dawn. Two sides to every face, two parts to every day. You can not touch the music, but my music will touch you.
