A Little Bit of Pink
The clucking of agitated chickens filled the air, mixing with the occasional rustling of leaves as the wind blew lazily over the orchard. The farm was not loud, nor was it quiet. It was normal. Everything about the farm, from the trees that stretched from over the horizon, to the rickety old sheds, was normal. The schedule was always regulated and nothing happened to fast or too slow. Everything about this establishment was, in one word, dependable. Or, maybe more akin to being, in one word, boring. Even the look of the place was normal. No offending colors, but no dull and dusty ones either. Except, it seemed, for one. In the uniform mix of brown, red, and green sat a little bit of pink.
The bit of pink sat up, watching the retreating backs of two other bits of colour, in this case purple. When they had finally been removed and the scenery had once again returned to normal, the regular background sound was cut through by an inaudibly loud sigh, coming from the bit of pink, who sat in the middle of the orchard, out of place.
The pink moved. It stood up on its bruised back legs and raised its battered head. It trotted over the discarded apples which were scattered across the roots of a normal sized tree. It bent down to pick up the red and green and return them to the basket, one by one. Once it was done, the pink lifted the apple-filled basket and, teetering ever so slightly as it walked, took it over to one of the old buildings, and left it on the ground, and soon joined the basket on the ground as the pink collapsed next to it.
Her name was Pinkie Pie. Or, at least, she thought it was. There was definitely no pink in her life, and, to be frank, there weren’t any pies either, which was a shame. This pony called “Pinkie Pie” wasn’t a Pinkie Pie.
The thing she was, was unhappy.
Of course, she knew why she was unhappy. It was that blasted mark on her hind-quarters. Three red apples, which, right about then, were left lying on the dusty ground, just like her. She didn’t want them. But they were a part of her. Just like if you swallow a quarter and it sits inside you for a little while, reluctant to leave, which, to be fair, I would probably be too if faced with those exit options. It was more like that than what others had told her it was supposed to be. It wasn’t her treasured destiny. It was her treasured tumor.
~Not Complete~
