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> There’s a bar on Earth’s edge, a mirror to The Portal in Ponyville, where pony magic tangles with human grit. It’s a hub for packages slipped through “gray points”—apples, honey, love—for families split by worlds. Humans and ponies mix here, chasing dreams or drowning sorrows. Mixed foals? Always fillies, pure pony. Human boys, plenty; pony colts, rare as a comet’s tail. These tales keep my dive alive, even under a darkening sky.
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> I’m Sam, human, scruffy beard, pouring drinks with a smirk and a steady hand. My mare, Starbloom, dusk-coated and sharp-eyed, runs this place with me. We bought this bar twenty years back, built a life, raised a son—human, fifteen, and tougher than he looks. Earth’s watching us close now, with that ambassador’s law dragging men back from Equestria. Starbloom’s pouring whisky, her horn flickering, and I’m holding her tight, promising we’ll fight. Here’s what’s breaking on this side of the portal.
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> Eighty years since the portal opened, a gate from Earth’s mess to Equestria’s magic. Equestria got two embassies, one by The Portal on Ponyvile, where packages flow like hope. Here, we’ve got one, right by our bar, its shadow looming over every crate we pass. Earth’s not the world it was. Too many women, not enough men, a balance broken by old policies that favored daughters. Everyone works now—hauling steel, swinging hammers, no matter who you are. Sperm banks? Gone, killed by lawsuits chasing donors for coin. It’s why men like me, like Anon, looked to Equestria for a fresh start. I found Starbloom, my mare, my home, but the world didn’t cheer. Women here, some bitter, some lost, called our love a betrayal. Didn’t help that our first kid was a human boy, my spitting image. Starbloom fell hard for him, our little colt, and we’ve fought tooth and nail to keep him safe from laws that call him a spare in a world out of whack.
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> Earth’s split, hearts pulling opposite ways, and no fix heals the rift. The ambassador’s law hit hard, yanking men aged nineteen to thirty-one back from Equestria, tearing marriages apart. They stumble into our bar, eyes hollow, carrying Equestria’s dust. One guy, Anon, came through last week. Tall, grumpy, thirty-five but caught by some legal snag. He dropped a package for his mom—muffins, honey-dripped, the kind that heals what Earth’s doctors can’t. His mom, sixty-seven, gray hair but walking strong, met him at the bar. Four years back, those Equestrian goods cured her, and she’s been slipping extras to family, dodging the government’s eyes. She hugged Anon tight, first time in fifteen years, whispering, “You did good, son.” His eyes went wet, but he held it in, smiling like his dad taught him. “Men don’t cry for joy,” he said, but I saw him falter, muttering about a pink pony, a party mare who stole his heart. Starbloom tucked a note from him, promised we’d try to get it to Equestria.
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> We’re hanging by a thread. The embassy’s goons sniff around, calling our packages contraband, threatening to shut us down. Starbloom’s scared for our boy, for us—mixed couples might be next. I hold her, swear we’ll keep this bar open, keep the portal’s thread alive. Families come here, clutching Equestrian goods—mothers, sisters, wives left behind. Anon’s mom, fierce as ever, said those muffins are her lifeline. We hear whispers from Equestria—princesses fighting, a sun and moon pushing back. Starbloom says we gotta smuggle hope ‘til the worlds mend. She’s right, my mare, my spark.
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> Starbloom here, stealing Sam’s spotlight. That hug, Anon and his mom? That’s a heart Equestria’s mares would cheer, bold and true. Something beautiful came from this mess—families seeing sons who left this broken world for a better one. We’ll keep this bar running, passing love across the portal, for them, for our boy, for every heart still beating. Come back, folks—this tale’s not done. Raise a glass to the ties that hold us.
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To be continued.
by AT_123
by AT_123
by AT_123
by AT_123
by AT_123