They were six peaches, and she was Twilight.

The bowl sat before her like all bowls did, and ever would. It glinted slightly in the light, its lacquer finish reflecting a dark brown imitation of the world. But what of the world? It did not exist, and never would unless Twilight went out to meet it. No—for now, the world consisted of her.

And the peaches.

“Twilight,” said Spike, who was not a peach and did not exist. “Are you ever going to eat those?”

“I will,” said Twilight. A promise to the peaches and herself. “I will eat you. I just need to find the right mindset.”

The right mindset, though, did not exist, for it was not a peach either. There were only so many ways to be a peach, she supposed. A fuzzy fruit skin, to retain precious moisture. The juicy sweet flesh that made up its innards. A solid brown core at its center—life itself, for without it there would be no more peaches, and no more of the world.

It was strange, she thought, how much a peach was like a pony. Perhaps those existed after all.

Hesitantly, she took a peach from the did-not-exist. She cradled it carefully, not daring to mar its perfection with her magic. Her hooves ran over its peachoid curves, marveling at how such a wonderful thing could come into being. From the seed to the tree to the peach yet again. Not just another peach, but peaches. Many more peaches the next time, and yet more after that—forever. She closed her eyes, and brought the peach to her mouth.

This was only the beginning.

Her teeth slowly peeled off the skin, chewing it thoughtfully before it was washed down her gullet and into her own being. Its orange peach-sweet flesh soon followed, bursting with juice where she bit. She chewed slowly, savoring the experience for as long as she could, but soon enough the peach flesh melted away into her mouth, and she was forced to bite again.

The core was all that remained, soon enough, encased in what was left of the peach. She bit carefully away at the surrounding flesh, leaving only the wrinkled brown pit, cleaned of all imperfections. She set that aside on the did-not-exist and kept a close eye on it—she would plant it in the garden later, when she rejoined the world beyond peaches.

And that was one.

She selected another peach. This one was flawed, damaged in a way, in the dark brown blotch that ruined its peachness. Imperfect, and yet perfect, in a way, for it was still a peach and could still be eaten. She ate it too, delighting in the sweetness of the bruise. Strange again how much the peaches were like the ponies beyond her pale, for in its one flaw she had found something she could adore.

Another pit, set beside the first. That made two.

“Twilight, you gotta stop,” said a pony in the world beyond. The peaches of the other, outside her awareness. “Eatin’ all them peaches ain’t good for you.”

“Apples to apples, Peachlejack,” Twilight droned sleepily. “Dust to dust. Trust me, I am fine.”

She took a third, wondering for a moment if it would be good for her. Perhaps the voices from beyond made more sense than she believed. Could it be true that she could stop?

No, no dark thoughts—only peaches now.

She bit into it, reveling again in the peachy sweetness. How could it be bad for her, to enjoy this? By what right did those others think they could impeach upon the peach? What else could com-pear?

Nothing, really.

She stripped the flesh again from the pit and set it aside. Third of six. Almost—but not quite—half. She would make it this time.

“Dear me, Twilight,” said Peachity. “I wouldn’t advise you to continue.”

“But I must,” said Twilight. “They call me.”

She grabbed a fourth. She ate a fourth. Would the voices ever be right? It didn’t seem as if they would be. The wonderful juice of the peach, though, the trickling sound as it ran down her throat—that was truth. Pure, sugary truth.

A fourth pit. She would have an orchard, when she left this realm.

“She’s going for another one!” said Peachy Pie. “Peach peach peach peach’em!”

“Peach to peach you too, Peachpeach,” she slurred.

A fifth peach disappeared down into her mouth orifice, its pit the only survivor of her teeth's gentle care. Her belly gurgled and ached as yet more peach sank into it, but she ignored the illusory pains of her body, as she could no longer call it her own. There were no longer any such divisions as Twilight and peaches now, for the peaches owned her completely. They were peaches, and she was peach too. All was as peach, so far as peach could see.

“Peach,” said the voices.

“Peach,” she agreed. She reached for the sixth and final peach, but faltered. Peach’s hoof shook beyond her control, but she pushed it forward, clattering into the not-peach and fumbling until it reached peach.

The peach’s stomach gurgled and protested. A frightening illusion in this peach’s reality. She brought the shaking peach to the peach with her peach, but it would not go in her mouth-peach. The peach collided with her peacheek, just shy of the peachteeth, and the golden peachjuice ran down her peach.

“Peaches!” cried the voices around her, closing in, pressing against the barrier between her peach reality and the peach imagination. Perhaps they had been right after all, but to believe that would be a blasphemy against peach. There could be no blasphemies against peach. The peach would not allow it.

“Peachesh,” she slurred, falling peach-first into the peach, her bitter peachless tears intermingling with the sweet peach juice. Five peach-pits sat beside her, but not a sixth, and that was a terrible peach indeed.

No—it was not peachy at all, for in the great peach-eating contest of life, and indeed her friends’ picnic, she had failed.