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The Ballad of Carmine - The Swift
Nopony knew how exactly the conflicts started. Some say that our hero was ashamed by the ways his fellows. Others say it was a much needed swift and cunning act of noble justice. Regardless, they all knew how the battle began. A mighty thunderous roar was heard by everyone in the castle, as they continued praising their vile king. The glorious exclamation echoed through the surrounding forests, shaking off the wintry snow from the oak trees and plywood that surrounded the mighty stronghold.
"I demand you to heed my warnings, and recognize the error of your ways!"
The king stood up from his mock throne, walking upon the backs of his acolytes as they bent over themselves in order to bridge the king's path towards the balcony. Frigid goosebumps crawled through his spine, as he looked upon the sole pony that dared to invade his domain. On the distance stood our hero, coat as white as the pure alabaster snow. His crimson eyes were fixed upon the king, who stood many stories above him
Disclaimer: Best read at FiMFiction in the following link. It also contains the Author's Notes, which may explain some of your doubts after reading the story. (http://www.fimfiction.net/story/15307/Equidae)
Lyra's heart pounded against her chest. She never felt so afraid her entire life. Moments ago she was chasing after her friend, Bon Bon, playfully galloping through the cold winter snow. Now the mint unicorn found herself plummeting through a deep hole with increasing speed. Her eyes widened in fright as time seemed to slow down. Glancing towards the end of the hole, she saw that the many spiked rocks seemed almost eager, awaiting her arrival. In shock, Lyra realized that she couldn't possibly live through the fall. She began to black out as the bottom slowly grew closer and closer. She forced her lungs into a final shriek of terror before slipping into unconsciousness.
* * *
She felt numb. Every inch of her body seemed to burn with a searing pain. Lyra tried to focus but her
IowaIf you visit Iowa,
you'll call her fields empty,
but she wasn't born that way.
A part of her was carved out
when she was ripped between Virginia
and the purple mountains of New Mexico.
Her gold hair, she tore it out when she realized
it didn't make her a princess.
She laid her locks strung along every road
leading somewhere else.
White hairs on her cheeks
are scars from winter.
Her hair darkens with the dampness
of summer rains.
The storms are never silent,
but neither is life when there's a tear
in your childhood where
a parent ought to be.
I've been flooded by Iowa's sorrow.
The only way I can distract her from her own voided landscape
is if I hate myself harder than she cries.
She just wants to fly
and I want to bus or train,
not because I fear death, but because
I want to take living slow.
It's the only way I ever feel.
From the air it's hard to watch Earth's hips move.
But Earth can't compare to the country.
That's my girl.
Full grown even when harvesting season's j
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