//------------------------------//
// Denial 
// Story: The Five Stages of Grief with Trixie Lulamoon 
// by Curly Q 
//------------------------------//

The paper slips away from the quivering, sky blue hoof, lazily drifting to the furnished planks that comprise the floor of the cart. Above, lavender eyes remain fixed upon the point in space once occupied by the lettering, pupils having shrunk to the size of pinheads, slightly obscured by the curl of the silver mane that drapes over her face. One could think that the unicorn is a statue if not for the twitch nagging at the underside of her left eyelid.

“This is not happening.”

The words are spoken, in the solitude of Trixie’s cart, the only structure for miles in any direction, because they have to be spoken. They are the lone voice of reason in a world that must be ruled by Discord itself, for there can be no other explanation for the insanity presented on that scrap of parchment.

“This is not happening.”

As the sentence concludes itself, the unicorn snatches the unfurled scroll from its resting place upon the ground. She does so with a hoof rather than a horn, as if she fears it should take to laughing should it scent even a hint of magic. Like it waits to mock any claim she might have to greatness and power. Her eyes, still wide as dinner plates, rake over the arrangement of lettering and rows of sentences once more, scrutinizing them for some hidden meaning: a cipher, a message, anything that would subvert the plainly ludicrous declaration professed by the ink.

“This cannot be happening!”

Trixie finds nothing. Nothing beneath the words. Just the candid statement they had made as soon as she’d brushed away ashes left over from the emerald dragonfire and warily read the message just as she does now. For the seventh time. The words are the same, if a bit wobbily, though that may be from the lack of oxygen reaching her brain. The short, panicked breaths she takes are insufficient to properly sustain her. At this point, outrage alone is keeping her conscious, her horn flickering with a lilac glow as plants wilt and the whole carriage begins to shake, the ferocity of her ire spilling over into the delicate balance of the Hymn.

“THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING!”

Exactly twenty-seven minutes later, a pegasus that had witnessed the resultant lavender mushroom cloud beholds a smoking crater that once passed for a tranquil meadow where one particularly vain showmare had decided to set down her wagon for the night. At the center of it sits four scorched wheels, one blue unicorn, staring into space and grinding her teeth, and a singed yet intact (for the fire-retardant charm woven into its fibers is the work of a master) piece of parchment that reads: “You are cordially invited to the coronation of Princess Twilight Sparkle.”.