Hoofcrafted, Made in Turkey
For the following event to be possible, three assumptions have to be satisfied. One: that the Equestrian calendar is precisely identical to the Gregorian calendar (which included the rather complicated leap year rules). Two: that time in Equestria paces at exactly the same rate as time on Earth. And Three: that birthdays, or some anniversary of one’s birth, carry some informal significance in Equestria, and are celebrated accordingly, as they are on Earth.
All of these assumptions, you found, are satisfied. Your birthday could be celebrated on 4 June of this year.
Your toaster/friend, Ginger-Bread, realizes this.
“Hi Anon!” she greets, as she does every day when you come home from work. She’s unplugged, with her cord-tail swishing side to side, signaling excitement. “How’d your day go?”
“Tough,” you reply. “Fluttershy needed some extra help today with cleaning her home. This included the ponds. . . .” You shudder. The horrors that you saw down within. . . especially when drained, when exposed to the naked sunlight and air. . . “Let us never speak of that again.”
“Well,” she starts, “I know tomorrow’s your birthday, so I got you a little surprise present.”
“Oh?” Is there no end to her wonders as a good friend? “What is it?”
“I can’t tell you, silly!” She walks over and lightly taps you on the nose. “It’s a surprise! You’ll get to see it tomorrow. . . .”
O, foolish you for not listening carefully! “Well, I’ll go get dinner started,” you say.
“Need any help?” She’s already walking towards the stovetop. “I can—”
“No, it’s fine,” you quickly reply, with a wave of your hand. “I can take care of it myself.”
In your house, “dinner” means “roast pork with sides of steamed carrots and mashed potatoes.” For a society founded upon herbivorous equine beings, these ponies have an uncanny knowledge of meats.
Though none of this matters; your birthday’s tomorrow, so surely you can wait that long.
⁂
Surely you can not.
It’s four in the morning, you can’t sleep, you’re getting impatient for Celestia to raise the sun, and you have an odd craving for chocolate pudding. The last of these was marginal compared to the other three; you have control over your life, after all.
You sigh—loudly. Time has a funny way of slowing to a crawl in impatience, and speeding up to a breakneck pace otherwise.
The door creaks open—it’s Ginger-Bread. “Anon?” she asks. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” you reply. “Just waiting for the Sun to rise.”
“I can join you if you want,” she says. She leaps into the bed and sits down in your lap. The two of you then stare out the window, admiring the artwork Luna was showcasing at this hour. “Look!” she says. “It’s a full moon out tonight. Isn’t it lovely?”
You have to disagree. The moonlight streams into your bedroom window, meaning that a full moon keeps you awake.
“Well, if nothing else. . . .” She trails off a bit, then gets out of your lap and walks to the head of your bed. Her tail-plug finds the outlet and plugs itself in. “. . . I know exactly how to get you to fall back to sleep.”
Might as well. You lean back into your bed, dragging the covers with you, making sure to drape them over Ginger-Bread as well. Once she’s within your arms, her heating-elements kick in, and none are the wiser.
⁂
Ding-dong! The doorbell rings. You and Ginger-Bread are still in bed; the morning is only just beginning. You grumble, pulling yourself out of bed. “Who in Equestria knocks at this ungodly hour?” you ask.
“What does ‘ungodly’ mean?” asks Ginger-Bread.
“Never mind. . . .” In your half-dazed state, you somehow manage to find your way to the front door. Upon opening it, you find that somepony had rang and ran, leaving a cardboard package upon your doorstep.
This must be the “surprise” that Ginger-Bread mentioned. So you pick it up, shut the door, and carry it back into your bedroom. “Was this the surprise?” you ask Ginger-Bread.
“Yup! That’s it!” she says. “Go ahead and open it—I just know you’re gonna love it!”
You stare at the package. It’s a rectangular prism in shape, very flat and long, as long as you are tall, reminiscent of a short book. A typical brown cardboard in construction, labeled on its two large faces handle with care. There is a small tab indicated on one end of a side, labelled with pull here. Heeding this instruction, you grab the tab, pull upon it, hearing the packaging rip along hidden seams, revealing what looked like an oversize pillow.
What? This is the surprise?
You stare at it further. It’s white-colored, with fine, intricate craftsmanship, with a small white label sewn into the side seam. Hoofcrafted, the label reads. Made in Turkey. No wash instructions. Not much more to say about it, so you proceed to pull it out of the box.
As you pull it out of the box, you see that there’s a design of a pony—a mare—printed on either side. She’s blue-“furred”, with a lilac mane and tail, falling down her back in waves. She stared up at the ceiling with blue-iris eyes. Then you realize it. An image of a mare—sewn into a pillow—one as tall as you. Of course. This is a dakimakura. And a darn well-made one at that; the pony printed on its faces is amazingly lifelike.
Then it speaks.
“Hi there!” she greets. “My name’s Yastic! Who are you?”
You’re startled. This is officially more than lifelike—it’s alive! “Um, hello Yastic. . . ,” you cautiously greet. “I’m Anon. It’s. . . it’s nice to meet you—”
“What’s wrong?” she interrupts. “Why so nervous?” Unexpectedly for a pillow, it leaps up from the floor and tackles you, throwing you to the floor. “Can’t we be just casual?”
You try to make out a complaint, but Yastic’s body muffled whatever you said. A pillow fight may be bad enough on Earth, but this is nothing—at least on Earth the pillows don’t come to life.
“Oh, sorry Anon,” she says. She gets up off of you. She then stands upon two legs, the fabric stretching to accommodate these, and a head poked up on top. Like any other pony. Then she sees Ginger-Bread in bed with you. “And who are you?”
“Hi!” Ginger-Bread greets, much more naturally. “I’m Ginger-Bread. I’m not a pillow though; I’m a toaster. . . .” She turns around to show her the bread-slots. “I was just in here to keep Anon here company. Today’s his birthday, after all.”
“Oh, is it?” says Yastic. “Well, let’s snuggle together, birthday-boy!” With some unexpected strength, she flips you onto your bed, then pounces upon you. “I can take it from here, Ginger.”
“Alright.” Ginger-Bread unplugs herself and makes her way back out to the kitchen. “I’ll see you in the morning, Anon. G’night!” She shuts the door behind her.
“Well?” asks Yastic. “How’s it feel?”
You respond with only some incoherent mumbling. Then you flop over onto your side. She nuzzles your side, lovingly. “Um, this might be a little much to ask for,” you ask, “but. . . do you mind if we spoon together?”
“With you as the big spoon?” says she. “Sure!” She flops herself over onto her back, pushing herself into your arms. “I was made for this, after all.”
As you two lay there, you are reminded of a thought, from a few months back, on Hearts and Hooves Day:
She fits neatly next to you—like another pillow. You briefly entertain the thought of having a dakimakura of Ginger. But, then again, it wouldn’t nearly be as warm as her.
This holds steadily true. But, then again, this is June—one of the hot months in Equestria. You don’t need to be warm in bed; rather, one would take comfort in being kept cool. And so far, Yastic is doing this job just fine.
You snuggle in closer, and Yastic’s front hoof reaches up around your shoulder, holding the two of you together, waiting for a sunrise that now you hope would never come.
Author's Note
Yastic's name is derived from Turkish yastık, "pillow".
