Author's Note

I don't know why I keep putting myself through this each year, man, I really don't.

...

Oh right. The milfs.

[downs a shot of whiskey]

Welp, here we go again then. Third times a charm, right? Buckle up, and let's get on with the mature-mare-on-immature-colt action.

...

Cadance help us all...

Rotten Bark

You are jostled from your sleep as the wooden cart rattles beneath you, its wheels rolling over several large stones lying in the middle of the old dirt road. Blinking blearily, you lift your head and look around.

At some point during your slumber, the scenery has changed completely. The hard, rocky mountain paths have given way to gentle, rolling hills of the grassy countryside. A variety of colorful flowers are scattered across the fields, adding blues and yellows and pinks to the unending sea of greens. Several large trees dot the landscape as well, providing shady oases beneath their spreading foliage.

Fighting back a yawn, you survey your surroundings from behind the iron bars. As you turn your head though, the muscles in your neck twinge and you wince. It’s stiff, meaning you must have slept with it bent at an odd angle. Great. Just great.

Lifting your hooves, you go to massage it, only to pause as the chains around your hooves clank together noisily.

Oh… right.

The shackles.

You forgot about those.

At the sound of the irons clattering together, the cart slows for a moment before resuming at its normal pace.

“Hey, you,” a gruff voice calls out.

Looking up from the chains that bind your forehooves together, you glance towards the front of the cart. Two unicorns decked out in golden armor are hooked up to the reins. One of them is peering over his shoulder, his blue eyes glaring out from beneath his helmet. “You’re finally awake, huh?”

“Yeah, what’s it to ya?” you grumble tiredly. “Writing a book about it?” Lifting your forehooves again, you shake the chains about, trying to untangle them and give yourself more reach. After a few seconds, you give up.

“You needed to get up soon anyway,” the Guard replies. “We’re almost there.”

“And I couldn’t have slept until we got there?”

The Guard doesn’t respond. He just snorts before returning his attention back to the front. Beside him, his companion just shakes her head and sighs softly.

Settling back on the hard bench, you try to make yourself as comfortable as possible. This is a challenge, what with the shackles around your ankles and the cold, iron bars currently digging into your back. Still, given that this is a prison cart, it probably isn’t exactly built with comfort in mind.

Not that you really care; you’ve grown quite accustom to such comforts over the last couple of years. In fact, you and the Royal Guards stationed in Canterlot have all gotten to know each other very well. You’re even able to identify several of them by sight now, regardless of their armors’ uniform enchantment. That one guard—Scarlet Moon—definitely has it out for you at this point, but that’s to be expected.

After all, you did set her tail on fire the last time she apprehended you.

A smirk touched your lips as you recall the way she yelped and dove into the nearby fountain, and her waterlogged look when she emerged again. You would have gotten away while she was distracted but her partner had been quicker.

And fatter.

She almost broke your back.

Still, Harlet Moon’s reaction had totally been worth the two weeks you spent in the detention center afterward. She’s just lucky that fire spells aren’t your forte, or she probably would have had a nice, charred flank and a bald cutie mark.

Absentmindedly, you reach up and rub at the nullstone ring that’s positioned around the base of your horn. It’s a huge annoyance, but one that you’ll have to live with for the coming days. You can’t remove it yourself, and you are fairly sure that the guards aren’t going to take it off either.

With an irritated huff, you drop your hoof and settle back in for the rest of the ride.

The cart trundles along slowly, much to your aggravation. You want to get where you’re going quickly, but neither of the guards seems to be in any particular hurry. They move at a slow, steady pace, the grasslands rolling by as they move down the old dirt path.

Probably getting paid by the hour…

You can’t see where you’re headed at the moment, but a glance over your shoulder lets you see where you’ve come from. Canterlot City looms high overhead, sticking off of the mountainside like a giant pimple. Even from this distance, you can see the golden roofs and the flowing waterfalls. You can even sorta make out the mountain path the guards used to take you down to the countryside below.

With narrowed eyes, you watch silently as the city grows smaller and smaller with each passing minute, you nostrils flaring.

About half an hour later and you’re ready to chew your own hoof off. You’re bored out of your skull, and yet you can’t go back to sleep. You could do so easily, seeing as it’s still early in the morning and they woke you up before the sun had even risen. Something about beating the morning traffic and getting you to your destination on time.

Which is a load of horseapples, seeing as you haven’t seen anypony else on the road all day. Everypony is taking the train, like what a smart pony would do.

Every time you start to doze off though, the guards jostle the cart, waking you back up. You’re contemplating bashing your head against the bars in order to knock yourself out when the cart finally crests a particularly large hill, and what is on the other side comes into view.

Sitting up from your previous prone position, you strain your neck in order to get a good look at the town that has just appeared. As your gaze drifts over the small, crooked wooden buildings and the thin, patchy thatched roofs, you can’t help but scoff. It grows into a snicker when you see—not unicorns—but mainly Earth ponies walking through the streets.

This is where you’re going to be staying? Some hick town with a bunch of yokel mudponies? Great. Just bucking great. You can feel your IQ dropping already.

Well, on the bright side, at least you now know that the next couple of weeks are going to be entirely uneventful. This will probably feel more like a vacation for you than the punishment the guards think it’s going to be. You aren’t quite sure where you’ll be staying; all you know is that the mare you’re staying with is supposedly a friend of your mom’s from way back when. If that’s the case, this will probably be a walk in the park.

As you draw nearer to town, you start to get some curious looks from the locals. A few pegasi drift by, watching you curiously from their place in the sky. Ah, so it’s not just mudponies, but featherbrains as well. This place just keeps getting better and better.

Next you’re going to find out there’s zebras here as well or something.

Good thing you didn’t bring any bits with you, just in case.

Ignoring the stares, you try and get a look at the buildings in order to see what stores you are working with. Before you can, however, your entourage suddenly takes a hard right just as they reach the edge of town, heading off a side street instead.

You blink before pressing yourself against the bars to glare down at the guards. “Hey, I thought we were here. Where are you going?”

“Our destination is just outside of town,” the mare replies, not looking back at you. “It’ll be another few minutes or so.”

“For buck sake,” you huff, falling back against the bench again. “I gotta bucking pee.”

“You can take care of that when we get there,” the stallion says.

You grumble beneath your breath for a moment before a wicked idea crosses your mind.

“Or I could take care of it right now,” you say slowly as you begin to get to your hooves. The next thing out of the mare’s mouth, however, stops your plan in its tracks.

“Any mess you make back there, you’ll have to clean up when we arrive.”

You flop back down with an angry grunt.

The guards follow the path around the town until it suddenly branches off and heads back out into the country. There are a few ponies on the path, and they stare with wide eyes as you roll past them. They whisper to one another behind their hooves, and you are well aware that they are talking about you. You spit at one of them—a mulberry mare with a darker purple mane—as you pass, and this earns a gasp.

“Behave, or we’ll gag you,” the guard mare calls back.

“Are you going to bite and spank me too?” you snark, only to backpedal when she lifts an iron muzzle in her magic. “A’ight! A’ight! I get it! Just get that thing away from me!” You relax as she slips the muzzle back into her pack.

The threat of being muzzled curbs your behavior, and you are forced to once again sit on the bench and watch the world roll by. It’s a surprisingly short time until the countryside begins to change again. The grasslands give way to a few patches of trees, and it isn’t long until the cart is making its way down a tree-lined lane. Long branches join together above the path, interlocking with each other and forming a living ceiling of pink blossoms and green leaves. At first, it all seems natural but then you notice that the trees are all spaced out at even intervals.

Five minutes later and there’s nothing but trees as far as the eye can see. Several clusters of them have wicker baskets resting at the foot of their trunks. Each tree looks like its been well cared for; the branches low to the ground have been trimmed and ground around the roots have been cleared of debris and roots.

There are several stumps dotted throughout the virtual forest you have suddenly found yourself in, and even those appear to be taken care of. Rings of flowers rest about them, and the tops have been sanded down to a smooth finish.

Where the buck are they taking you?

…

They aren’t going to ‘Fillies of the Corn’ you, are they?

Just when you are starting to get nervous, the treeline suddenly stops and the path opens wide, revealing a farm. A rickety old farmhouse sits beside a large, rundown barn, whose roof looked about ready to collapse in on itself. In fact, it looks like at some point both structures were built together but began to fall apart from each other due to age.

Behind the barn, just barely out of site, you can make out smaller barns where you can see cows milling about inside, chewing on hay that has been scattered about. A chicken coop is there as well, with a dozen or so chickens out clucking about.

A white fence runs around the circumference of the farmyard, separating the forest of trees from the open land around the farm. Various crops are neatly spread across the open land; corn, cabbages, lettuce, grapes, and carrots to name a few. In the back of the fields—back where the majority of the carrots are—an orange structure is in the process of being built.

And there, above a gate in the white fence, is a large sign that proclaims proudly: Sweet Apple Acres.

You stare up at it in abject horror.

You’re going to be staying at a motherbucking farm?! You were never told that your destination was going to be a stinking, mud-ridden farm! By Discord’s soggy balls, this is unacceptable!

Before you have proper time to be outraged, the cart suddenly grounds to a halt. In a fluid motion, the guards unhook themselves from the front and move around to the side. A jingle of keys later, and the door to the cage swings open.

“Here we go, colt,” the stallion says. “End of the line. Let’s go. Shouldn’t keep your hosts waiting for you.” His horn lights up and a set of stairs folds out from the side of the cart. You aren’t given much of a choice, as a moment later the mare’s horn begins to glow as well, and she gives a gentle—yet firm tug—on your shackles, pulling you out.

You stumble, nearly faceplanting in the dirt, but you manage to catch yourself at the last moment, despite neither guard moving to help you. Glaring at both of them, you straighten up, only to suddenly realize you three are not alone.

There are ponies watching from the porch of the house.

There’s four ponies in total—all of them Earth ponies. A young filly with an orange coat sits on the steps of the porch. Her green eyes are framed with a plethora of freckles, and her blonde mane is done up in a loose ponytail. A slightly-too-big cowboy hat sits on her head.

A lanky colt, slightly bigger than the filly, stands in the yard, a wooden yoke about his neck. His red coat is covered in sweat and dirt, and his orange mane is disheveled.

The third pony is about as old as the first two are young. She appears to be passed out in a rocking chair—although, given her age, you wouldn’t be surprised if she croaked and nopony noticed yet. Her green coat is practically the color of bile, and her white hair is so frizzy it almost looks fake.

And there, standing at the top of the steps, glaring down at you with brilliant turquoise eyes and a frown on her face, is her.