The Muffin stood two feet tall and one foot in diameter. It looked heavenly. Cooked to perfection, it was perfectly browned. Peeking through its crust was every color imaginable, plus a few more; every conceivable muffin topping, filling, or flavoring had been added to a level of precision that made sure that conflicting flavors didn’t mix. A mere glance could render a pony unable to speak due to the excessive amount of drool that pooled in his or her mouth.
It sat under lock and key beneath ballistic glass capable of withstanding the force of an angry dragon. The glass also doubled as an airtight container and had been magically enchanted with the ability to keep things fresh beyond normal timeframes.
The Muffin’s rather unusual size and delectable looks attracted much attention and many questions.
If a pony were to inquire as to what kind of muffin it was, the only reply would be “yes.” Many a pony were more than slightly confused by this response and asked, “I don’t think you heard me properly. What kind of muffin is it?”
The store clerk, a stallion by the name of Baked Bread, would respond tiredly, “The Muffin is all types of muffins at the same time.”
“How is that physically possible?” the generic customer would ask, usually scratching his or her head in confusion.
Baked Bread would simply reply with, “It just is.”
The confused customer would then walk out of the store, muttering to him—or her—self about the scientific properties of muffins.
But today was different.
“This place looks just as good as any for lunch,” murmured Ditzy, standing in front of a sturdy—yet clearly old—building. She looked at the small watch attached firmly to her foreleg. Closing her left eye and looking at the watch, she mumbled to herself, “About a half an hour till my lunch break is over.”
She pushed open the old wooden door with her hooves, the cracked, cloudy, and aging glass in the door providing no preview of what she would find inside.
Entering the small building, Ditzy’s nose was immediately assaulted with the holiest of scents: the smell of freshly baked muffin.
“Mmmmm . . .” she hummed, looking around the room. Peeling white paint, warped floorboards, and flickering candles filled the room that was scarcely more than a short hallway with a counter at one end, the door that she had just walked through at the other, and a table with two chairs in the middle.
The chairs were little more than blocks of wood, polished to a shine from years of constant use. They were circling what looked like a plank of wood sitting on a tree stump, also heavily worn.
Ditzy walked past the seating area and up to the solid-looking counter, once again made from wood. Though, it was clearly a much more finished piece, as opposed to worn into a state of smoothness. The store clerk, a dark brown earth pony stallion with a sandy-colored mane, was fast asleep on the counter and snoring loudly.
“Hello!” she said happily, putting her hooves on the counter.
“Hzzzzzzwhaa?!” snorted the stallion, jerking his head up and focusing his sleepy, light blue eyes on the grey mare.
“I said hello,” she replied, smiling.
The young stallion rubbed his face with a forehoof, muttering something about beauty sleep. “Welcome to Ye Olde Muffen Shoppe, how can I help you today?” he said in the monotonous tone of voice that befalls ponies who say the same words over and over and over and over and over again.
“I’d like a blueberry muffin, please!” she chirped.
Nodding, the stallion removed his hoof from his forehead and yawned. He reached down into the hollow counter and over to where he had put the fresh blueberry muffins that morning.
“What is that!” she suddenly screamed, causing the stallion to smash his head into the bottom of the counter with a resounding thud.
“What is what?” he groaned, peering over the top of the counter.
“That!” she screamed, pointing to The Muffin.
However, the clerk was more preoccupied with the customer than what she was pointing to. Finally awake enough to appreciate her beauty, appreciate her he did. Her coat was a beautiful grey color, the kind of color one would find streaming from the moon on a summer's night: a soft, somehow warm color that seemed to give off a little bit of light. She was wearing a well-worn saddlebag that had her cutie mark—a collection of small bubbles—emblazoned on the clasp, and the tips of her wings poked out from the edge nearest to her hips. Her mane was a gentle gold, like the color of sunshine in the early morning. And her eyes—they were the most unique thing about her: stunning, golden irises that sparkled with barely contained joy. As he continued admiring her, he noticed that her right eye was focused on what he knew to be the direction of The Muffin, but her left eye was pointing at the ceiling.
“That’s the most delicious-looking muffin ever! What kind is it?” she squealed, bringing her hooves up to her smiling mouth.
“Yes,” replied the clerk automatically, expecting the inevitable question. He kept his eyes on her lazily traveling left eye while her right didn’t shift its gaze from The Muffin. He was unable to close his mouth, so he left it open, such was his awe in her natural beauty.
He had to get to know her better. There was no alternative.
“Really? That’s awesome! How much?” she asked, turning to face him.
He quickly averted his gaze and closed his mouth. “Uhhhhhhhhhh . . . forty bits, I think. Let me check.” He walked over to the the case that held The Muffin, wondering to himself exactly what made her not question his answer. “Yup, forty,” he replied, reading the small, dusty price tag.
“It’s not polite to stare you know,” she stated, frowning.
“You, uhhhhh, saw that?” he asked sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head with a foreleg.
“What do you think?” she spat sarcastically.
“Hey, I’m sorry!” the clerk exclaimed.
“No you’re not. Don’t lie to me,” she muttered.
“Yes I, er, wait—I’m not lying,” he protested feebly.
“You think that just because my eyes are crooked, I’m retarded?” She lifted her eyes to meet his, and the stallion didn’t like what he saw there.
“Retarded? Where did that come from?” he asked.
“Don’t start with me; I know how this goes. First the staring, then the snickering behind my back, then the teasing, then the laughing. I’ve seen it before.”
“I wouldn’t do that!”
“Really? Then why were you staring?” she demanded, stomping her hoof on the floor.
“Because . . .” His eyes glanced around wildly, seeking an escape that would never come.
“Because why? Because you think I’m ugly?”
“No! . . . It’s because—” A single bead of sweat dripped down his forehead.
“Spit it out! Tell the re-tard what’s wrong with her!” she shouted, jumping on the counter.
“Nothing!” he returned, backing into the wall. “You’re not retarded! You’re—”
“Go on! I’ve heard them all! See if you can find a new one, I dare you!” she yelled.
“Pretty . . .” he mumbled.
“Oh, that’s a new one!” she spat. “I haven’t heard that one before! Congrat-u-la . . . Pretty?”
“I was staring because I think your eyes are beautiful, and I wanted to look at them! All right?” he shouted quickly, cowering under his forelegs.
“. . . Oh . . .” she said, digesting the information. “Do-do you really mean that?”
The clerk looked up to see that the mare’s cheeks were turning a bright red. “Yes,” he mumbled.
“Oh . . .” she said again, still blushing. She carefully stepped off the counter and down to a more respectable position on the floor.
“Yeah . . .” the clerk replied, standing up slowly.
The room was quiet for a few moments. A few long and exceedingly uncomfortable moments.
“I’m really sorry,” she mumbled, not quite meeting his eyes; through, whether it was because she was embarrassed about her red cheeks or her outburst, he couldn’t tell.
“I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have been staring.”
Again, silence reigned supreme.
“So, forty bits is the price of the muffin,” said the clerk suddenly.
“That much?” she asked hesitantly.
The clerk nodded. “My father put quite a bit of work into making it.”
The mare slowly turned around and looked in her saddlebag for a few moments, the sound of a few bits jangling around in a mostly empty bag filling the air. “I guess I’ll just take the blueberry muffin,” she sighed sadly, hanging her head slightly.
The clerk’s gaze alternated between the despondent-looking mare and The Muffin. He looked between the perfect mare and The Muffin.
“Do you want The Muffin?” the clerk asked, motioning towards the case.
“I can’t really afford it,” she whispered, each word getting quieter and quieter.
“I could put it on a tab, and tomorrow you can give me the rest of the bits,” he offered.
“You don’t quite get it . . . I can’t . . .” she murmured. “Just give me the blueberry please.”
The clerk nodded, understanding dawning. “Oh . . .” He had a rather strained look on his face. On one hoof, he could just give her the blueberry muffin like she had asked, and everything would go back to normal: she would leave and never return.
But on the other . . . he could give her The Muffin, his father’s pride and joy. It took twenty-four hours of uninterrupted baking to make it, and the forty bits would be enough to refinish the paint, something he had been meaning to do for a while. He was by no means pressured to make ends meet, but forty bits was still forty bits.
But, the second option had a much larger advantage over the first; she might come back.
The clerk nodded once, his decision made. He walked over to the case and entered the proper code into the combination lock. It sprung open with a click and fell onto the floor. He opened the case slowly.
A scent flooded the room, a scent like no other. Imagine the best smell there is, multiply it by five, add adorable kittens, and then think of every other smell in the world as the smell of decaying fish. Only then can one truly begin to understand what they smelled when the clerk opened the airtight container.
She immediately perked up, nose twitching uncontrollably. “Didn’t you hear me? I told you I couldn’t—that I wanted the blueberry muffin,” she said, watching him intently.
He grunted and groaned as he lifted the unreasonably sized confectionery delight in the air. It made a loud thump as he roughly set it down on a serving platter usually reserved for twenty regular-sized muffins.
Balancing the heavy platter on his back, he carefully walked around the counter. Shuffling, he slid the platter from his back to the table and placed The Muffin in front of one of the chairs. “It’s on the house,” he said, beckoning her over.
“But I couldn’t possibl—”
“Please?”
“But I don’t deserve this after blowing up in your face like that for no reason.”
“Everypony makes mistakes sometimes. Mine was not coming clean the first time you asked. Please, sit. I insist.”
She blushed lightly, a pink color gracing her cheeks. “I-I . . . Ok-ay, but only since you insist,” she stuttered. She walked over and gingerly sat down on the seat, her mouth watering from the smell of The Muffin.
She carefully leaned in and took a bite. As she chewed, her eyes closed, her wings quivered, and long, blissful moans came forth repeatedly.
“This is the best thing ever!” she squealed, leaning in for another bite.
“I’m glad you like it,” said the clerk, smiling slightly as he watched her begin to rapidly devour The Muffin. Every bite appeared to be pure bliss, and she looked as though she was floating of a cloud of euphoria as she chewed each flawless crumb.
After eating less than a sixth of the marvelous sustenance, she couldn’t eat any more. “I’m done,” she groaned, her mouth full of muffin. She swallowed then asked, “What am I going to do with the rest of this? There’s no way I can take this with me.”
“Well, I’ve got an idea,” said the clerk, having already planned for this particular question.
“What’s your idea?” she asked, looking at him with her right eye while her left continued to look at The Muffin.
“How about I keep The Muffin in its magical case to make sure it stays fresh, and then the next time when you come by, you can have a bit more of it.”
“Really? You’d do that for me?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow and smiling slightly.
“Sure, not a problem,” he shrugged.
“Thank you so much!” she exclaimed, throwing her forelegs around him.
“It’s nothing,” he replied, awkwardly hugging her back with one of his forelegs.
“But it means a lot to me,” she said. She leaned in and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. Like a gentle feather, she was there and gone, barely leaving a trace. If the stallion hadn’t seen it happen, he would never have known. “See you tomorrow . . .” she whispered, blushing heavily. She sprinted out the door, leaving a rather satisfied-looking stallion behind her.
Once the door slammed shut behind her, she let out a massive squee. “Woo-hoo!” she yelled, jumping up and down joyfully as she hastily trotted—or more accurately, bounced—back to work.
“Sounds good,” said the clerk with a goofy smile on his face. This was the first time he had spoken, or moved at all, since she left—two hours ago. “You know, I don’t even know what her name is . . .” he muttered.
“Tomorrow—wait?—tomorrow!” he yelled, grabbing a broom and sweeping the already swept floor. “Musht clean,” he muttered around the broom handle.