Rough Around the Edges

So, uh.  This is sort of inconvenient for me, isn’t it?  Before I clarify what’s so inconvenient, let’s start with the basic formalities.

Name’s Thomas.  Thomas Flint.  Nineteen year-old male.  Single.  No occupation.

Now that you know a little about me, allow me to humbly explain the details of my current state.

I’m precariously sitting at an edge of a slanted cliff just by a thread, and judging by the sound of ocean waves below I’d say it’s a several hundred-foot drop to the bottom, inevitably ending in death.  Did I also forget to mention that I’m a boulder?  Maybe that inclusion is partially crucial to the plight I’ve gotten myself into.  You may probably be asking how I got myself in this mess.  It’s quite a long story, actually, and a funny one at that.  Not that anyone probably would care if it’s funny or not.  Anyway.  Much as I’d love to reel a flashback montage for you folks, but seriously now isn’t the best of times.

Atop of it all, why am I talking so comprehensively when I’m on the verge of falling to my death?  Trust me, I’ve cut more dangerous corners than the Daredevil himself, so it’s nothing out of the ordinary.

I consider myself fortunate that Lady Luck’s been mercifully kind to me, since there hasn’t been any sign of strong winds or heavy rain as of late.  That’s a sobering thought, at least.  While my chances of survival seem slim, I’m glad that the scales are tipped in my favor and I continue to pray to Lady Luck it remains that way.

I’ll tell you, though, that it’s been nothing but sun since I’ve been here.  Seeing as how I no longer have skin, bone, organs, or any flesh of any kind, what would have been relentless, scorching, and unforgiving day, the heat doesn’t bother me at all.  I can’t say the same for the grass as they have shriveled up to an ugly brown colour.  Sadly there aren’t any trees for miles in any direction, because I sure as heck would love to listen to some leaves rustling in the breeze instead of the roaring waves smacking against the reef intermittently.

Other than that, I’m simply sitting at the edge of a cliff, enjoying Mother Nature’s serenade as means of passing the seemingly perfect day, waiting for whatever fate throws at me next.

Even Lady Luck has her unlucky moments.  Deciding to make things interesting, she bets my life down on the table, going all in or nothing.  Conjuring a black pair of dice with starry-shaped dots, she rattles them in her hand, softly blows into her hand for good measure, and, dramatically, tosses them down on the universe’s game board.

As the dice rolls Lady Luck bites her bottom lip and crosses her fingers, hoping for the jackpot.  The dice land, and you can plainly guess what the results are.  Yup.  Two ones, or infamously known as the Snake Eyes.

A whistling gust of wind sails along.  I can feel its chilling touch as it brushes past me.  Evidently this causes me to incline slightly towards the ocean.  Welp.  I guess this it for me.  Do I have any parting words?  Well here’s how they should be written on my gravestone.

Here Lies ThomasHe lived and died a virgin.

As I lean evermore closer to the edge, I get a clean and cringing sight of the spiky, jagged rocks protruding the water’s surface below.  A gravely unpleasant view indeed.  With my last breath, I clap my invisible hands together and whisper a solemn prayer.  If, in a stroke of luck, I survive the fall without a scratch I guess I could always look forward to sleeping with the fishes in my new watery home.  I do mean that in the literal sense, not the metaphorical kind.

I ready myself to knock on Davy Jones’ locker door, when all of a sudden I freeze midway as pieces of dry dirt and stony rubble break loose and plummet down to the deadly spikes.  Why did I stop?  Is this where the “saved by the last second” cliché kicks in like from my previous perils?  It seems Lady Luck still hasn’t given up on me; shockingly, I start wobbling back and forth, staggering on the spot as if Fate and Lady Luck are having a game of tug-of-war with a rope with my name on it.

It’s still too early to get my hopes up.  I just know that I’m going to end up tumbling into the ocean or roll down the hill.  With every part of my being, I opt for the latter.

The tug-of-war goes on for possibly a minute until a seagull makes an appearance out of nowhere.  The noisy avian utters a high-pitched caw, descending gracefully like an angel of heaven.  It contently perches on top of my head and proceeds preening its wings.  The added weight slightly shifts my inclination towards the hill, tearing my vision away from the spiky rocks.  Shortly after cleaning its feathers the seagull then takes flight, never to be seen again.

While I’m happy about this, I am still unhappy with the fact that now I’m slowly but surely toppling down the hill.  Given that the hill’s end is not within several miles, give or take, my rolling speed grows from lazy to moderate, and then from moderate to uncontrollably fast.  This could go disastrously well…  Emphasis on disastrously.

Soon enough, I’m a getaway boulder, rolling viciously as I bounce through fields and fields of dead grass heading straight towards a shabby farm house surrounded by a myriad of rocks in the middle of nowhere.  I seriously hope it’s vacant, otherwise things are definitely going to get messy…

The Pie family finally hop off the train after their visit to Ponyville.  They were on vacation and thought that they come to Ponyville to see their bubbly relative, Pinkie Pie, for the weekend.

They were glad they went off to see Pinkie Pie.  Even after working at a rock farm for nearly a couple years, the family with a passion for rocks needed some time off.  They got to know what Pinkie Pie did for a living.  Of course they already know this because of the pink letters they receive from Pinkie Pie that inexplicably had a ludicrous amounts of glitter and were smeared with cake frosting on a weekly basis.  But they never got to see her bake in person, and honestly they loved her baking so much that they took a basket full of it with them on their way back home.

As they near their destination, Igneous Rock turns to his daughters and wife half-expressionless.  “Alright, girls,” He says, his manly voice thick and dry, “When we reach the farm, first order of business is gathering up some boulders for the Princess’ sculptors.  We got to make sure that…”

Igneous trails off as they arrive at their wonderful… shattered home that is nothing more than a heaping pile of debris scattered over the entire property.  The ground is practically littered with splintered lumber and half-broken furniture.  The rock farmer’s mouth hangs agape in utter disbelief, the dried grain of straw he’d been chewing on dangles on his bottom lip.  A small breeze swiftly rides by and snatches the piece of grain from his mouth, carrying it off to Celestia-knows-where.

The stallion hurries over and brakes to a halt before the site, appalled beyond belief.  “Our…” He utters, lips trembling.  “Our house!  What in Sam’s Hell happened?!”

“Igneous!” Igneous’ wife, Cloudy Quartz, chides his name as she trots up besides him.   “We do not use that kind of language around our daughters!”

“I’ll say whatever I bloody want!” Igneous snaps.  “Do you not see that the house is in ruin!?”  Igneous clambers over the pile of planks, plowing through them in hopes to find any sign of undamaged belonging.  “Now how are we going to run a rock farm without a home?” He whines.

“We can always rebuild it!” Cloudy exclaims suggestively.

Igneous picks up a plank with his mouth, only to find nothing at the bottom of it.  “The tools were inside the house!  How can we rebuild a house without tools, woman!?”

“Well they wouldn’t be in the house if we had a darn shed!  I told you dozens of times to build one.  But nooooo.  You thought we didn't need one!”

“Don’t take that tone with me lady!” Igneous retorts after tossing yet another wooden plank.  “We're just going to have to take the ride back to Ponyville and ask for some help.  We should have more than enough bits for two rides forth and back.”

“Well in that case why don’t we ask Pinkamena if we can stay with her for a while?” Cloudy suggests.

Igneous ceases for a moment.  He hovers over to his wife, shooting her a glare.  “There ain't no way I’m asking her that!  I can book us a room in those, what did Pinkamena call em…” Igneous scratches his head. “Motel rooms?  We can stay in one of those until the house is fixed.”

Cloudy shoots back an even glare.  “Oh, no.  We most certainly will not do that!  How will we be able to afford food, then?”  The rock farmer’s wife jabs a hoof in his chest.  “If you don’t ask Pinkamena, then you can live in a motel room by yourself!”

The couple continue to glare at one another, brows furrowing narrower and narrower.  Igneous looks over past his wife’s head at the trio of daughters and goes back to glaring at the mare.  He does this several of times until coming to a conclusion.

Igneous snorts.  “Fine!” He says submissively.  “Girls!  We're bunking with Pinkamena until the house gets rebuilt.”

Now if only Maud, Marble and Limestone weren't such calm, stoic characters, they’d be bouncing around like silly fillies getting a raise in their allowance.  Instead they just stand there exchanging expressionless glances before giving off a listless “Yay.”