Fluttershy Falls In Love With Lightning
It was a dark and symbolic night.
Pouring torrential deluges of rancorous, snot-globbed humidity drenched Fluttershy's cottage rafters. Bending her hare over under her hair, Fluttershy stood, wearing no underwear, under the overpass, where she understood the overbearing thunder’s understated, overwrought insistence:
Oh Blundershy, my sweety-patootie mothwing girl, my delectable spud, come hither and grant unto the chin of my thunderbolt your nectarine kisses.
Mothwingshy fluttered a-sponging, bunny abandoned, muttering sweet nothings, tracing a curling helix towards the numinous shinesoaked nugget. A brilliant lighthouse in the sky, attracting magnetic in high immortal glory gold.
She sang through soaked lips: “A hop, a skip, and a jump, and move my little rump! I’m coming, my prince, my dove, be patient with me, O love!”
Drafts of living sentient wind sapped her songbird’s throat of meaning and melody. As she wended above along the canopy, floral blooms erupted and fell to earth as spring and winter merged and surged at her urge. Rivulets of life and death erupted from springs to converge and be lost among mile-wide rivers of souls: a solitary lucid moment of giving imparting meaning to the staticky, dissolving remains of hearts and minds, as stone-heavy raindrops plunged like cannonballs on a battlefield.
In the reflection of her eyes, the curve of the earth ripped through the void of unreality, a shell, a constant bastion of solidity standing firm against the insane, wild blackness of deep and inconceivable distances. And from those distances, the piercing, manic glow of celestial eyes returned her gaze, communicating the only reality they knew: burning.
Distant dueling harpsichords argued the merits of sky and earth as Fluttearthsky unwound cordlike heavenward. Aerial bliss jangled softly aloft, prancing out a counterpoint of act against the sludgy moral invocation of existence which haunted the lower register. A burning merkaba appeared overhead, lit with the fluorescence of the fugue, jerking and spinning in synchronized heartache, while underneath the sleepy hollow of Ponyville swirled and floated along the currents of the planet’s liquid mantle. Shrubs and berries and ferns and mushrooms strongarmed their way out of the soil under a tree whose branches looked like muscular human arms trying to seize the sky.
The flutterseed of the earth sprouted skyward, lost in adoration of its golden glowing sun.
A stuffed-plush mist of darkness enveloped her as a new sign appeared in the sky: the hollows, the toymaker’s creations, plastic static lifeless smiles—a plastic shiv, little smiling hooks.
In a dreamscape, the Leviathan’s ravenous stomach rumbled; and the ascended masters, those who had labored under the seismic will of sonic electronic crashes, foresaw a meaning. The great whale quickly swallowed the hollow ponies, and when this had taken place, a poem was read solemnly:
Hidden elements lurk in the clouds;
Prying eyes cannot find them.
Only in the darkness and silence
They disrobe
And flounce around in the nude,
Nymphs of the mental realm,
The leprechauns' true gold.
Golden sun, heart of light, infinite bliss, thunderbolt.
* * *
Thundershy sizzled and glowed, united with the light, effusing a sacred scent, having made a pleasing sacrifice upon the altar of the sky god. Her heart was burned through with love and became ash, while choirs of angels descended and ascended upon the site of the miraculous conversion, chanting hymns in dodecatuple-part harmonies. The hazy odour of burnt incense sanctified Ponyville, and signs of good luck and favor were discerned in the stars.
Upon the imaginal ascendance of Fluttersky, closed-eye wordless motions voiced the silenced agonies, the cracked insect carapaces of the world’s suburbanites. Heart palpitations enthralled the consciences, livers and kidneys of the dead and half-dead. Severed legs and cut hair drifted together through the newly empowered magnetism of life force, joining skulls and vertebrae, clotting into sacred geometrical forms.
A sword pierced Fluttershy's soul, and she saw: harmonious amoeba globs fornicating joyfully in the puddles of rain, the mud of boots and excrement, the incarnated burning heart thrashing fitfully, shaking trembling bleeding through sorcery and alchemy, magic carving life into trees and grass, fish breathing liquid love of snow-covered mountaintops and eddying ocean currents. She saw the orgastic explosion of consciousness fueled and driven by love, the inexorable force, one heart singing another into existence; phyla and orders, genera and species, unassailable premise and foundation, the cornerstone of being; the knife of the suicide driving in as blood gushes free and honest, giving the lie to tortured souls; the nexus of becoming and being, the subjective-objective, infallible identification card, power and presence and personality—
Fluttershy witnessed the inexpressible heartache of having seven children, the joy of being killed before your time, the antecedent simplicity of complexity, the shapes for which mathematicians have no names, a spurned lover composing a sad sonnet, the unity inherent in a single turning of a wheel, the mysterious growth of children into adults, the secrets behind every spoken word, the frightening whisper in the dark that cuts you to your innermost, and the harmony of meanings which shapes, preserves, and exalts all of the fleshy, squishy, gooey and gross monstrosities misbegotten by the cosmos.
Then spoke the thunder
DA
Damyata: I compare you, my love,
to a mare of Pharoah's chariots.
Your cheeks are comely with ornaments,
your neck with strings of jewels.
We will make you ornaments of gold,
studded with silver.
Arise, my love, my fair one,
and come away;
for lo, the winter is past,
the rain is over and gone.
The flowers appear on the earth,
the time of singing has come.
Alongside her friends to whom she stays unseen, she unfurls her wing, takes off, floats, and curls upon the brisk midsummer's breeze. Her cottage has new songs to sing, and opens its doors to melodies of endless spring. What is this place, filled with so many thunders, drawing bitterness and sweetness from the well of existence in a single pail, casting its spell of heart-burning love that the world is now and eternally under, where the absurd is the normal and natural? Birds on their skis and hirsute little bunnies—and O the butterflies, the butterflies, the butterflies!