Half-Baked Dreams

"Do you guys mind?" Spike said with a growl. "I was up early fire-roasting those snacks you're all eating and I'm pooped!" Of course he had been. I'd been in the kitchen section of the dining car, helping him prepare. The day had passed to late evening, and I'd guiltily watched Spike try to sleep despite the endless conversations all the other ponies were having. I'd wanted to say something, but he was Twilight's assistant, not one of my many animal friends. It wasn't my place, and I couldn't have brought myself to interrupt or speak over the others anyway.

But Rainbow Dash, well, nopony can help who they are. She couldn't help being Rainbow Dash.

"Ah, speaking of - some of these popcorn kernels didn't get popped," she replied, her casual tone indicating the degree to which she had missed the point. I wondered how she even knew - the theater box she had been eating from was still full above the brim with poofy, buttery delight, but uncooked rejects always cowered together at the bottom. Thus they hid the truth as long as they could, and thus they doomed themselves to be discarded all at once. I didn't say anything, of course.

"Okay, fine," said Spike. I could tell his resignation was faked for effect, and I wanted to warn everypony off from further antagonizing him (no matter how oblivious they were to the fact of their doing so), but he was readier to act on his frustration than I first thought. He expelled a gout of bright green flame that Rainbow Dash ducked aside from just in time, but her popcorn wasn't so lucky. Where once stood buttery delight, a little tower of charcoal that had formerly been kernels looked down on the seared remains of the box, and on the still-burning corpses of their fluffy comrades.

The kernel at the top, glowing bright red, popped as Rainbow leaned in to inspect the damage, and hit her squarely in the face.

"Good night!" Spike told her, before disappearing completely under the covers. At that point, Twilight intervened to prevent any further trouble. She said that Spike was right, that we needed to sleep anyway. Then she enforced lights-out (much to Pinkie and Rainbow's shared chagrin) by putting out the quaint oil lamp, which happened to be right next to her bunk.

I made an honest attempt to sleep, but that was the night I learned how Spike snores. None of us could sleep, except for Applejack, who I assumed was in the car set aside for her tree. Dash and Pinkie were always less patient than the others, and I wasn't surprised when they started barely-whispering to each other from halfway across the car.

"Psst! Pinkie Pie! You asleep yet?" The snoring stopped, and I braced for the worst of what a sleep-deprived baby dragon could do, but nothing

"No! Are you asleep yet?" I stifled a giggle. Pinkie was endearingly ignorant - in both word and action - of continuity.

"If I was sleeping, how could I have asked you if you were asleep?" Rainbow Dash had found a candle somewhere and was out of bed, holding the flickering light too close to where Spike was sleeping.

"Oh yeah!" Pinkie Pie joined her "pranking buddy" in the candlelight.

"When we get to Appleloosa, do you think we'll have to carry the heavy tree all the way from the train to the orchard?"

"What tree? You mean Bloomberg?"

"No, Fluttershy." I must confess, despite the darkness, that I blinked in confusion.

"Fluttershy's not a tree, silly!" The more I thought about it, the less I thought I'd mind. Trees were never asked for much, only space to build a nest, leaves for shade, or sap for delicious syrup. Ponies protected them from things like fires and insects. When they died, they would be useful parts for all kinds of buildings. And of course, they never had to talk. But if I were a tree, I'd never be the Element of Kindness, or have friends, or - I shuddered - ever be able to take care of all my animals.

"Did you say she was a tree?" Twilight's voice reminded me I was missing the conversation.

"No! Well, yes, but not exactly - "

"You know she's not a tree, right?"

"She's not a tree, Dashie!" I finally decided to join in the joke. A little crack at my own expense never hurt, not compared to the simple pleasure I could give others by making it. I leaned out of my bunk and looked down at the others.

"I'd like to be a tree."

So I spoke. So I chose my fate.