Peachy Pie and Misty Moon Keep the Realm Safe Until Dinnertime
“We can’t go in the basement,” Misty Moon said, “’cause that’s where the monsters are.”
She said it quite assuredly and with a little flick of a nod. For children rarely have doubts about such things, and they need not dally on maybes and what-ifs. So Peachy Pie did not ask about the door again, at least not yet. Of course, the quickest way to make sure a child remembers something is to tell her to forget it, and so the little gears and flywheels clicked and whirred in Peachy Pie’s head.
With a shrug, Peachy Pie bump-stumbled her way across the floor, tripping and slipping on the train of her long princess gown. It was, naturally, a very impressive garment, as befit the generous ruler of her realm. But with a sparkle-glint to her eye, she did note that even good princesses required a dungeon. Perfection never absolved one of having enemies. Perhaps she would broach the subject again later when Misty had lost the characteristic hunch to her shoulders that always accompanied a mention of the basement.
Misty Moon, her most trusted advisor, led her back to the playroom. They had acquired enough sustenance in the form of applesauce and carrot sticks to tide them over until a proper feast could be arranged, after all, and the pretty prancing procession proceeded back to their base of operations. They still needed to plot their campaign against the marauding diamond dogs.
“What shall we do about the invaders?” Peachy said, removing the dress and, unfortunately, the wings with it. Her conical cap hid the fact that she also lacked a horn, but off it went, as she needed to don her most resplendent battle armor, crafted from the finest cardboard.
Misty had little more than old towels to build her own suit of armor. Her guest got to use the choice equipment; if decorum did not prevail while playing princesses, then when would it? So with threadbare breastplate and frayed bracers, she appeared quite the terrible tatterdemalion. No matter, as any true foe would not judge her by such superficial standards. Not one who wished to remain in good health, anyway. Prowess on the battlefield had the last word, so she clambered and climbed over their pillow bulwarks strewn with blankets. Everypony knew that blankets protected one from monsters. When pulled up over the head, they formed an infinitely impenetrable barrier to any ferocious beasts who might eat a pony. What better material for a fortress?
Peachy Pie had agreed that if she got the better armor, Misty surely deserved the better weapon. A balance of power would serve them well, even if they were on the same side. “I say we charge ’em head-on!” Misty declared, brandishing her broom-lance. “Take no prisoners!”
“If we have no prisoners, how are we going to make them confess?” Peachy asked in her haughtiest tone. A princess out of her regalia was still a princess, and she needed to carry her office among the troops. Perhaps Misty would take the hint as well.
“You’re on about that dungeon thing again?” Misty said with a sigh.
“Fine,” Peachy said, hunching her shoulders. She leapt over the moat with her lopsided ladle-mace, and once more unto the breach, dear friends. They could both hear the clash of metal blade against metal blade in the distance, the soldiers giving their all in defense of the realm. The battle had raged on for as long as fifteen minutes, perhaps, and victory had been in doubt more than once. But the metallic ringing pushed further away from the fortress now, the enemy in full retreat. Or perhaps it was merely Misty’s mother mixing up something in the kitchen.
Whatever the source, they threw the whole kit and kaboodle of their armory against the diamond dogs and efficiently dispatched the dastardly degenerates, save one. Peachy had kept her prize hidden, but when she presented the prisoner with a telltale triumphant grin, Misty heaved another great sigh and shook her head. “Please tell me you didn’t.”
Peachy had known Misty for several months, and they had played together frequently, ever since Misty had moved to town. Their adventures had taken them to every room in the house except the basement so far. And whenever Peachy mentioned the curious omission, Misty always gave the same excuse: “There’s monsters down there.” She never sounded worried about it, so how bad could they be? Certainly not a convincing argument, but then why continue to resist? Sheer obstinacy? Misty would only stomp her hoof and roll her eyes the same way Peachy’s mother did when repeatedly asked for some candy, annoyed at being pestered.
“What’s so secret about the basement?” Peachy said.
“Nothing,” Misty uttered with a great deal of breath and slouching; Peachy could imagine clouds of fog streaming out with it. “Fine. We’ll intergate your prisoner.”
“Interrogate,” Peachy corrected.
Misty only folded her forehooves. “You won’t even take a blanket?” she asked. Peachy shook her head, like a resolute ruler should. She knew as well as any foal what power blankets held, but in broad daylight, and with the only naysayer far from concerned about it, Peachy simply had no reason to quail before an empty threat.
So Peachy Pie flung open the door, flicked on the light, and flounced down the staircase, bumble-trundling about in her unwieldy armor to the bottom.
“Ooh, there’s some cool stuff down here!” she said.
Misty soon appeared at her side. She didn’t see what was so interesting about the same old junk. Neither did the monster.
“Misty!” her mother called. “Peachy’s mom just came by looking for her. Has she gone home yet?”
“No,” Misty answered with a sheepish hang of her head as she trudged into the kitchen, her fangs only now fading away.
Her mother scowled at her. “You didn’t…”
“But Mom!” Misty wailed. “She wouldn’t stop askin’ about the basement, and she’d pretty much figured out by now I was hidin’ something.” She shrugged. “Nothin’ I could do about it.”
Her mother harrumphed and leaned against the counter, her forelegs folded. “You didn’t even save me any, did you? And now we’ll have to move again.” She clicked her tongue and shook her head, and Misty’s heart sank. She was going to get grounded again.
Curiously, children are right about blankets.
Author's Note
This was my first attempt to write a children's-style story. Well, “The Gift That Keeps On Giving” kind of was, but I didn't commit fully to the style there. Obviously this one takes a darker turn than most children's stories would, but I felt inspired by how dark a lot of the really old traditional ones are. But the early, whimsical part was so much fun to write that I went for it again in a much longer story when I wrote “Dinkin’ Donuts”. If you like the style here, go check it out. No dark ending to it either, I promise!
