Last of the Zap-Apple Cider
Complete Story (One-Shot)
Granny Smith lifted one hoof, sighed, and set it down again. The sloshing pack weighed heavy on her back. The aches and pains in her hip came to trouble her, but she knew how to deal with them. She waited. The pain would pass, just like everything else. Anyway, pain wasn't much to complain about. Pain meant you were still alive. That wasn't something she could take for granted at her age.
Berry Punch and Colgate tramped passed her. Heartstrings and Bon Bon overtook her. Even a flimsy unicorn could outmatch her pace. She sighed. She was almost there. It wasn't her fault they had moved the government buildings miles away from the edge of Sweet Apple Acres.
Rarity's Boutique loomed over her, all shiny and perfect like a ripe Honey Crisp apple.
The dresses inside were unfathomable confections of lace and gold thread, more like wedding cakes than anything a pony could wear. Granny Smith felt glad that her grand-daughter got along fine with that fancy unicorn with fancier aspirations. She didn't understand why they got along now, but she was still glad. She never found unicorns that easy to relate to, aside from the mouth-watering Sandy Banks, but he'd passed away decades ago.
A young stallion browsed the long coats. His snout was a little short, his eyes a little watery, but he had a smooth, golden coat and strong, thick legs. He reminded Granny Smith of her first husband, Sage Bloom.
Rarity moved in to close a sale. She reached one hoof over to gently brush the stallion's mane, a tender, restrained gesture. Everything about her was restrained. For a moment, Granny Smith wondered what it was like to be a unicorn, to have all that unseen power, and how much Rarity was holding back. She tossed aside such speculations like a rotten apple and continued plodding along.
A mere couple of decades ago, that Dress Boutique had been Black Cherry's Salt Lick and Saloon. All the women would trot in their after a long hot day of bucking hard labor. The applejack flowed like water, and the dancing stallions pranced around in their lacy kilts. Black Cherry had moved on to Appleoosa. She had four children, eleven grandchildren, two boyfriends, and still no husband. Granny Smith snorted. Some ponies had all the luck and no standards.
Everything changed. That was plain enough, as she watched her granddaughter hopping around with that crazy Pegasus and charming Unicorn.
"Cutie Mark Crusaders Charter Accountants, yay!" they shouted, encumbered by stacks of paper and magical adding machines as they chased after the grey unicorn, Account Balance. Granny Smith chuckled. They grew up so fast. She'd waited years before chasing after unattached accountants.
Now the saloon was a "boutique", the general store was a "confectionery", and the train station was a big crowded mess. She snorted and kicked at an empty bottle of Prince Blueblood's Choice Cider. Things changed for the worse, and everything good withered away. Everything except for Celestia in Canterlot and the sparkling stars.
Granny Smith finally arrived in front of the Mayor's house. Her joints screamed. Her bones ached. Her muscles groaned. She ignored them.
Ponyville had gotten far too big. Everything now seemed vague and blurry, not just because of the growing cataracts that eleven out of twelve unicorns said were incurable by magic. The new growths in this town seemed unreal. The savage glory of the Everfree Forest had been hacked back to make room for high-rise Pegasus apartments and unicorn condominiums, plus the occasional market square.
Granny Smith gripped the knocker between her crooked old teeth and swung it. Bronze reverberated against wood. A squeal sounded from within, followed by rustling and banging sounds. Granny Smith chuckled. After all these years, the mayor still felt the need to get dolled up for her.
The door swung inward and Mayor Mare greeted her. The lovely earth pony presented a sight for sore eyes alright. Her wet hair hung over her eyes in an elegant sheet. The bathrobe clung around her body, suggesting rather than revealing. Granny Smith wiped away a little drool as she took in the show.
"Oh, Granny Smith isn't it? How may I help you?" Mayor Mare purred.
"Just invite me in. I got a six-percent alcohol content campaign contribution," Granny Smith said, completing the ritual. Mayor Mare closed her teeth on Granny's mane and yanked her inside.
The House is Haunted rolled out on the Mayor's magic-powered phonograph. The machine was new, but the song was old as the hills. Her great grandmother had danced with her great grandpa to that tune, and they'd sung it together at the all-mare ball, back in that long-gone summer that seemed richer and realer than any other day of her life.
Mayor Mare nuzzled her neck. "You grow more beautiful every day, Smith Apple."
"And you get better at lying every day," Granny Smith snorted. It was another old joke between them, reinforced by truth. Granny Smith suffered no delusions about her wrinkled skin, stiff joints, and thinning mane.
Mayor Mare laughed in that "oh never you mind" way of hers. She had a laugh as tasty as a salt lick, intoxicating as fine apple brandy. It set aside everything you knew to be true with a "no, really, listen to this."
That salty, brandy-rich laugh had turned aside finance reforms and embezzlement charges. It had also kept the town council listening to her lengthy filly-buster during the Hearth-Warming Eve session. It had swayed the hearts of Filthy Rich, Small Potatoes, and Granny Smith herself, when the openly earth-pony centrist mayor had pushed forth the legislation to allow Unicorns and Pegasi equal settlement shares, and even the right to market fermentation and flower-shops, within Ponyville boundaries.
Granny Smith shook her head. She'd never understand Mayor Mare's politics.
"Can I get you something to drink?" the Mayor said. She pushed a button on her desk, and the map of Ponyville slid back to reveal a top notch liquor cabinet. Neighpolean brandy, finest Cloudsdale Scotch, and Ahuizotle-brand rum glistened in their decanters.
"I’ll go first," she said, pulling out sparkling bottle with her tail. Hues brighter than any dress played across the buzzing liquid. The sweet, spicy, ozone-tinged smell as she popped open a bottle intoxicated as much as the cider itself. They each drained their glasses in a single gulp. She’d filled a whole punchbowl with the stuff at that potluck dance, two months after her first husband's funeral.
The Denairs had played Tender Nightmares best, the band with deep instruments and their long-maned Pegasus singer. Her partner was chatting up some young mare while the future Mayor's date threw up in the back lot. She'd had confidence then, enough to stride up to the pretty, younger thing with rich magenta hair, glistening eyes, and said
"You gonna take my hoof or what?"
The young mayor had said "You're Ms Smith, right? The Ms Smith?"
She'd nodded, and the upwardly mobile young pony had said "Then the answer is not what."
They'd swayed together, and the mayor-to-be had mentioned what an influential public figure the town founder was. She'd asked if Smith could put in a good word with the town council, and get her appointed as Secretary of Agriculture.
Smith had said “It depends on how well you dance.”
The mayor repeated the statement, whispering it into Granny’s ear. The hot breath drew her back to the present.
"I remember that night too," the mayor purred, "you greenhorn."
"Shut up old woman," Granny Smith snickered. "And pucker up."
She planted a wet, long kiss on the Mayor's lips. They were still full as a barrel of rainwater and sweet as Gala apples.
The Mayor filled a couple of Nightmare Moon shot glasses. Granny Smith eyed her flank. It was still nice and firm, after all these years. She gave it a smack.
“Mrs Smith, how could you?" Mayor Mare laughed. No matter how the mare aged, her laughter remained fresh and girlish.
The house is haunted by the echoes of your last goodbye, the record wailed.
"If yeh have any objections, I'll stop," Granny Smith snarled. The Mayor rolled her eyes with anticipation.
The house is haunted by the memories that refuse to die…no don't die
Mayor Mare bit her neck.
Granny Smith forgot the past and lived in the present.
..
"Thank you for your…campaign consultation." Mayor Smith said, hours later, wringing sweat out of her thick grey mane.
"My pleasure," Granny Smith said weakly. She ached all over, but it was a good kind of pain, the soreness she got after a long day of apple-bucking. Filing papers and turning around laws was one thing, but you knew you'd accomplished something when you had a big barrel of apples to show for it.
"I feel I can…trust you," the Mayor said, with an apologetic little smile. "You always speak your mind. You say when I'm…not acting in the town's best interest."
"Darn tootin!" Granny Smith howled. "And you bet if you hike up the agricultural taxes any higher, you'll have to find somepony else to smooch yer unmentionables, and I'll vote you outta office for that whippersnapper Ron Foal!"
They both laughed. Granny Smith had been a faithful neighterian since birth.
"Thank you for the…enchanting cider, Mrs Smith," the mayor said, only swaying slightly. That was impressive. Most ponies began bouncing off the walls (literally) after their third bottle of zap-apple cider, and the Mayor had gone through the whole pack without lowering her "performance" or focus on the task at hand.
Granny Smith sighed and began trekking down the long dusty road. The saloon had become a boutique. The general store was a confectionery, with food so fancy that it seemed a blasphemy to ruin it by taking a bite. What was the world coming too?
"Blarrgh, I'm a tragically misunderstood but darkly romantic creature from the everfree forest!" Snails bellowed.
"Oh no, I'm a moody codependent foal with nothing to lose!" Snips chuckled as his friend chased after him.
True, decades ago this land was pristine wilderness, with only a few friendly earth ponies setting up shop here. On the other hand, decades ago, this patch of ground would be thick with manticores, wyverns, and timber wolves.
Maybe things did change for the better sometimes.
Granny Smith thought of her first husband, and the mayor, and her second husband. She remembered holding up the squealing form of her new-born daughter Sweet Apple, saying "May she be a better pony than her mother."
The End
