Oneshots and Rewords

On Impulse
[Slice-of-Life][Tragedy]
Staring: Pinkie Pie, Poundcake

Reword of: parts or a chapter from the novel Surrender with some OC thrown in. (~65% OC)

Pinkie Pie opened her eyes to the sounds of morning rain; a staccato of light taps against her windows and thunder rolling across the clouds above Sugarcube Corner. She laid silently underneath her tangled blankets and listened to the thunder as subsequent flashes cut through the dim light that filled her room with its cold fluorescence.

"Some day for a storm, huh?" Pinkie asked aloud to herself. "The Pegasus ponies sure have outdone themselves this morning."

Pinkie freed herself from her blankets and trotted over to her window and looked outside: The rain was pelting the window, pitter-pattering between gusts of wind and snaking down the glass towards the windowsill.

It was pouring outside. The kind of rain that gushes over the tops of rain gutters in such a hurry to hit the Earth that it has no time to flow down the spout. The town’s sewer drains were filled to capacity, some even blocked with leaves and twigs, so that huge puddles made lakes in the streets.

The town square was deserted, save for a hoof-full of ponies with identities hidden behind umbrellas and raincoats frantically galloping through the puddles; irritated that the Weather Team had disrupted their hurried day.

Pinkie was mesmerized by the rainfall: The wet sounds, the cold smell, the goosebumps rising on her body. It all reminded her of the many times her and her mother would get caught in the stormy weather on their trips to town:

“Mom, let’s run through the rain.” Pinkie said
“What?” Mom asked.
“Let’s run through the rain.” Pinkie repeated.
“No, honey. We’ll wait until it slows down a bit”

Pinkie waited another minute and repeated her statement.

“Mom. Let’s run through the rain.”
“We’ll get soaked if we do.” Mom said.

The lightning danced across the sky like yellow cobwebs and the thunder echoed off the sides of houses, pulling pinkie out of her trance. She got lost in the sound and sight of the heavens washing away the dirt and dust of the world so easily that she didn’t even notice that her warm breath had already fogged up the window. She raised a hoof to the glass and wiped the fog away; Shivering as the cool water that gathered at the edge of her hoof forced her to draw it back.

Pinkie returned her gaze back towards the stormy town and was fading into another memory when then came a knock at her bedroom door.

“Pinkie,” Mr. Cake said, poking his head into the room. “Cupcake isn’t feeling well this morning so I’m going to be doing the delivery by myself.”

After the pregnancy, Mrs. Cake became the victim of frequent migraines that could shatter her for days. The curtains would be drawn in her bedroom, the sheets of her big bed turned back, and the door inflexibly closed. Pinkie liked to imagined Mrs. Cake in the dimness of her bedroom, lying motionless as an effigy, and the shape of her pain as that of a shut door.

“Would you be able to take care of the twins today?” Mr. Cake asked.

Experience told Pinkie what he meant. She was to keep the twins quiet, because If their fussings were to invade Mrs. Cake’s room, her head would surely cave in or explode.

“I’ll take care of them.” Pinkie said. “It’s raining pretty bad today, so all my plans have been cancelled.”

“Oh, thank you Pinkie!” Mr. Cake said half frantic, half relieved. “Be sure to help Cupcake if she needs anything, too.”

Mr. Cake Departed and Pinkie was left with the door-of-pain and the twins, who were cooing peacefully in their cribs. When Pinkie heard the door click shut behind Mr. Cake, she wandered the hallway aimlessly, savoring the sound of the raindrops falling on Sugarcube Corner’s rooftop. It was rhythmic and purposeful, like morse code sent down from the clouds. She wished she could decipher it. She wished it was a message meant just for her, a plan or some gentle permission that might inspire her to do something great or to be something greater than what she already was.

Pinkie decided to give the foals their breakfast early- Food sometimes made them sleepy and once they were asleep Pinkie would be more at liberty to enjoy her stormy morning.

Pinkie mashed a banana for Poundcake and warmed it on the stove, adding milk and a little sugar. She brought the meal and a cloth to the Poundcake’s bedroom, when she entered the room they grinned and snuffled to see her.

“Binkie!” Poundcake yelled, stretching his hooves through his crib towards Pinkie.

“Hush, hush, Poundcake” Pinkie breathed past the bars of his crib. “You’ll make mama angry if you make too much noise.”

She maneuvered Poundcake until he was propped upright and waved the bowl under his nose.

“Who’s hungry?” Pinkie grinned. “I brought some banana!”

Poundcake seemed eager, smacking his lips at the smell. When Pinkie brought the spoon to his mouth, however, he jerked his head away.

“Banana!” Pinkie reminded him. “You like bananas.”

Poundcake gazed at Pinkie with watery eyes, flapping his hooves in a fret.

Pinkie knew what the problem was. The foals couldn’t tell time, they didn’t even know what a clock was, but they knew it isn't breakfast time. Their lives ran to a routine and they liked it that way. Routine gave their early existence some order, and by bringing Poundcake breakfast early Pinkie was undermining the mainstay of their world.

She’d known Poundcake wouldn’t like it, and expected him to fight. But this morning was like none other for Pinkie and she was selfishly determined to make it last.

“Just eat it.” Pinkie begged. “Banana, see look!”

Pinkie zoomed the spoon into her own mouth and ate a dollop of the creamy mess. Poundcake squeezed his eyes shut, whimpering flutily. Pinkie put the spoon to his lips and he batted it blindly away, splattering banana on the rubber sheets of his crib.

“Please, Pound?”

Sometimes he could be asked nicely, and he would comply, not this morning: he thrashed his head. Pinkie thought perhaps he wanted to be alone. He’d be no harm in his crib and she could make regular rushes from the window to his crib to check if he was indeed all right.

She wiped the banana off the sheet, hauled up the crib wall, and trotted to the door. Poundcake whined and Pinkie hesitated. Looking back, Poundcake had his face jammed between the bars, he wanted her to stay.

“Pinkie’s busy, Poundcake.”

Poundcake stared at her with eyes like black stone and gave a short, shrill shriek. Pinkie cringed, shutting the door quickly and waving her hooves to quiet him.
“Pinkie’s busy, please be a good boy!”

He curled his lip and Pinkie knew he didn’t agree. Pinkie knew he was brewing a blood curdling scream that would wake Mrs. Cake and ruin the day. Pinkie thought fast. Maybe she could take him outside and watch the rain with her. She could carry him easily. He wasn’t allowed in the front yard but he couldn’t get far in the rear yard. He’d get wet, and covered in mud, but as least he would be quiet and away from Mrs. Cake.

She lowered the walls of his crib and slid her hooves under his.

“Poundcake come outside!” Pinkie enthused. “See the rain? See the clouds?”

Poundcake looked at Pinkie uncivilly and twisted himself away. Pinkie grappled for him, and Poundcake kicked at her and threw himself back like a mule. His head hit a post of the crib and he yelled with outrage, his face instantly awash with tears.

Pinkie clapped her forehooves, bounced on her back, made silly faces, any
thing to get Poundcake to stop scrying.

“Rainclouds!” Pinkie sang madly. “Come see the rainclouds, Poundcake!”

Pinkie reached out again, and Poundcake lashed at her. Although too young to wear horseshoes, Poundcake’s hooves were nonetheless strong as a full grown stallion and welted Pinkie’s cheek. The pain of it rocked through Pinkie. On impulse, her hoof came up and slapped him hard across the face.

Poundcake gasped, sucking in all the air in the room. He straightened his shouldered and filled the house with his scream. With one hoof pressed to her wounded cheek, she could only block one ear. Poundcake arched his back and screamed again. Pinkie put a hoof over his mouth and he jerked away, thrashing his hooves and screaming again. Pinkie felt a plasma of wetness between her hoof and her cheek.

Pinkie thought she heard mutterings from Mrs. Cake’s room already.

“Shh, shh,” Pinkie moaned, but the great tide of noise that Poundcake made drowned out her mousy sounds; he simply roared.

His mouth was stretched as wide as it would go, his lips were jaundice-yellow. Pinkie imagined his skull shattering beneath the force of his cries. Her hooves grabbed for the cloth and jammed it into his mouth.

Immediately, the crying was muffled, his eyes flew open in surprise. From Mrs. Cake’s room along the hall, Pinkie heard sounds. Her only thought now was to hide herself and the monster she had made out of Poundcake. She needed to put him somewhere that would contain his noise and keep him safe, and hide him until Mrs. Cake fell back asleep.

Poundcake was struggling to breath, his frail rib cage heaving. Pinkie wrapped her hooves around him and carried him from the crib. He was light and stunned and did not struggle. She carried him down the stairs and made her way through the house. Poundcake lay like a dog on Pinkie’s back, his face rosy and his hooves moving lostly in the air. The door to the laundry room was open and the door of the unused refrigerator that was kept in there was likewise off its latch.

Pinkie held Poundcake to her chest and used one of her backhooves to dislodge the refrigerator’s metal racks, which clanged one after another to the floor. In their place, Pinkie placed Poundcake, who fitted the space easily. He folded onto the refrigerator floor, his hooves tucked in his lap. Pinkie shut the door before he could escape. It swung and the rubber seal stuck tight.

Pinkie slumped against the refridgerator, panting.

When she gathered herself and stepped back to look, there was no sign of him. The fridge stood silent and white as a secret, and the house was mercifully quiet. Only her ears were ringing.

Pinkie figured it would take some time for Poundcake to calm down, so she went to the bathroom and looked into the mirror. Across her right cheek blazed a scarlet lump. She put a wet cloth to it and the coolness eased the pain. The mirror showed her hair bedraggled, her eyes shining with tears. Her hooves were trembling like jelly. She brushed her hair, washed her face, cupped her hooves beneath the faucet to drink.

Feeling better, Pinkie headed back to the laundry room. She would take Poundcake outside, or whatever he liked.

“Pinkie.”

Pinke whirled around on her hooves at the laundry room door. Mrs. Cake was standing behind, her long pink hair fanned at her shoulders. She wore a nightgown that reached the floor, its hem was baubled with dust-balls. Her gaze was distant and she leaned against the wall.

“What’s going on?” She asked. The words came out ponderously, one at a time.
“Nothing Mrs. Cake.” Pinkie breathed.

“What was that noise, Pinkie? I heard a noise.”

Pinkie’s throat was arid, her lips cracked. “I don’t think it was anything, Mrs. Cake.”

Mrs. Cake glanced at the backdoor.

“Where is Mr. Cake?”

“Out on a delivery.”

“Where is Poundcake?”

“In his room.”

Her eyes pecked like crows along the hall, her head craned slowly about. She stared down at Pinkie.

“You liar.” She said. “His room is empty, I walked past it just now.”

Pinkie felt blood her flooding through her body. In every direction was horror and lies. Her mind raced like a rat in a wheel and her heart squeezed, convulsed, and pained.

Mrs. Cake reached out a quivering hoof and laid it on Pinkie’s shoulder. She licked her lips and painstakingly said.

“What have you done with him, Pinkie?”

In an instant she composed a story and prepared herself to tell it, but first her eyes left Mrs. Cake’s face and dashed to the refrigerator. They touched it’s door and sprang away, a glance over in a second. But when she looked back at Mrs. Cake, she was not looking at Pinkie, but at the refrigerator.

“Pinkie.” She sighed.

“Yes Mrs. Cake?”

“... Where is Poundcake?”

Pinkie could not say, she could not dredge on the words. So she said,
“In the garden.”

There was a brief silence.

“Are you sure.”

Pinkie was terrified.

“Yes, He’s outside. I didn’t want him to wake you.”

Pinkie prayed Poundcake would stay quiet just a few moments more.

Mrs. Cake’s sights suddenly shifted, lurching back to Pinkie. She smiled thinly.

“I’m not well, I’ve been asleep all morning.”

Pinkie nodded vigorously and dared to say “You should go back to bed.”

Her smile lingered. “Should I?”

Pinkie swallowed, she was speechless. Mrs. Cake rocked vaguely, her hoof still on Pinkie’s shoulder.

“You’re a good babysitter, Pinkie.” She said.

She turned slowly as if she were old, and shuffled along the hallway. She did not know it, but Pinkie scurried in her wake. She wanted to be certain that she would disappear. She walked slowly, drifting through the hall, Pinkie almost bumped into her. But finally she reached her room and wafted through the door and it shut with a click. Pinkie pushed on it carefully and was certain it was closed.

Then Pinkie ran down the hall, almost skipping. When she opened the refrigerator door Poundcake fell out, like books spilling from a high shelf. At the same time, he seemed boneless, floppy as a rag. He somersaulted on the floor and lay still. His face was blue.

Pinkie pulled the cloth from his mouth. His eyes were swollen but not shut. Pinkie bit her lip. She shook him, tapped his chest, and spoke his name. She knelt on the floor beside him and didn’t know what to do. Small cat-like sounds piped up from her throat. She leaned very close to him and willed him to move. The wetness on his face had dried and marked his cheeks with snail trails. His hooves were perfect, tinged faintly blue. All around him rose the smell of sweet banana.

Pinkie dared not call Mrs. Cake. She sagged in the floor, paralyzed. She did not want to stay, yet didn’t dare to leave. She sensed that Poundcake was dead, but wasn’t sure if death was forever. It seemed best to stay nearby. So Pinkie and Poundcake stayed where they were while Mrs. Cake closed her eyes to the sounds of mourning rain: a staccato of light taps against her windows and thunder rolling across the clouds above Sugarcube Corner.