It was an ordinary shovel. Just an ordinary shovel.
Nothing special about it. No curse. Nothing. I bought it at a shop in town. I still have the receipt if you’d like to see it.
It’s my fault Twilight’s dead.
I’m sure you know I like strawberries, right? Or more accurately, I love them. They’re my cutie mark, after all. It’s even in my name. Strawberry Sunrise. Ironic. I’m named after an alcoholic drink and yet I don’t drink alcohol. What kind of parents would name their filly “Strawberry Sunrise”? I wouldn’t know. I never knew them. Maybe they drank too much. But I digress.
Everypony knows I love strawberries, but less know that I hate apples. Applejack knows. Rarity knows. Twilight knew. She saw me turn down a piece of apple pie at one of Pinkie’s parties once and I told her. Tasteless, mealyworm-filled things. Rarity once brought Applejack by my house to give her my opinion on apples. I told her. There was no reason to hold back.
No reason at the time.
It was just a week ago. I should have held back.
The next day, Applejack sent me...let’s call it a strongly worded letter. She explained how hard her family worked to make their apples “perfect.” Her word, not mine. She tried to convince me that they were sweet and delicious. As if you could convince someone of something like that with words.
I burned the letter.
I wrote her my own letter after that. I told her of my time back at the orphanage when I tried my first apple. It was half-rotten. I took a bite, anyway. It was food. Food was scarce. The caretakers had taken in too many foals and fillies, and they were having trouble feeding them all. A half-rotten apple it was. There were mealworms in it. I threw it away. Later, I threw up. I was hungry.
Two days passed after I sent that letter. I thought at first that Applejack was going to leave me alone. Then she showed up at my door again. “I understand,” she said. She didn’t. Nopony could. “I’m sorry about what happened, I really am,” she said. Sure she was. “But if you’d just give them another try, I’m sure you’d see…” There it was. She held out an apple. I took it. I stomped on it. And I slammed the door.
A knock. I should have ignored it, but I didn’t. I opened the door. “We’re going to expand the orchard soon,” she said. I started to shut the door again, but she put her hoof in the way. “We’ll be digging the holes this week. You should come. You could see-” I pushed her hoof out of the way and forced the door closed. It didn’t matter how hard her family worked. It wouldn’t change my mind.
Applejack let it go after that. I would have let it go after that.
Or at least I’d like to think so.
The next day, I found the quill. Or maybe it found me.
I occasionally visit an old antique shop on the edge of Ponyville. The original proprietor, Shining Trinket, was the first to welcome me to town. Pinkie Pie was still a filly then. I was disheveled, and I was broke, but she took me in. I was still a filly then. She gave me strawberries. I had never had strawberries. That’s when I got my cutie mark.
Shining was old. She died a long time ago. I was no longer a filly, but I was still young. Somepony else runs the shop now, but I still go back. The pull of memory is too strong. Usually, I just look around. That day I did more. I bought the quill.
No. I won’t lie. There’s no point.
I stole the quill.
From the moment I entered the shop, I felt a strange pull. Not the pull of memory that kept bringing me back, I was used to that, but an almost physical pull. I didn’t recognize it then, but in hindsight, I know. It was calling me. I didn’t take the time to peruse the shelves. I didn’t browse the new additions. I went straight to the corner, a section of the shop far from any window and framed mostly in shadow. And I saw the quill.
There was nothing special about it. Or at least nothing I could see then. It was a simple, unassuming quill, on a shelf in the corner. I had never been much of a writer. I didn’t need another quill. But when I saw that quill, I took it. And I left the shop.
I went home after that. I left the quill on my desk and forgot about the whole thing. Until that night.
That night, I sat down at the desk. I had forgotten to buy strawberries. There was a vendor just down the street, but surely if I forgot strawberries - strawberries - I must have forgotten other things, too. So I’d make a list.
I picked up the quill. I took a piece of paper. And I wrote “strawberries.” I realized immediately after writing that I’d forgotten to use any ink. And yet it still worked. Strange, but not overly so. Self-inking quills weren’t particularly rare.
For the next minute or two, I sat in silence. I looked out my window, pondering whether I had forgotten anything else. I looked back down at the paper. There was a tap on the window. Then more taps. I looked up.
Outside my window...were strawberries. At least twenty of them. They were levitating on their own, not even the magic aura of a unicorn surrounding them. I was surprised for just a moment, but then I knew. Somehow I knew. It was the quill. I had only written one word, not even a sentence, and it had brought them to me.
I opened the window and they floated into a neat pile on the desk. A moment later, the strawberry vendor approached the window. He was not pleased.
I told him I didn’t know what happened. I didn’t tell him about the quill. I think he believed me. I wasn’t a unicorn, after all. I couldn’t do magic of any typical kind, levitation or otherwise. I paid for the strawberries, and he left. I closed the window.
For the rest of the night, I experimented. By morning, it was clear how it worked, or at least I felt like I understood. Anything that I wrote would become true...to a point. It couldn’t create anything. It could summon existing objects, like the strawberries, but it couldn’t make new ones. I didn’t know what the range was. I didn’t summon anything else from outside my house. Well, okay, I tried one thing. Maybe there’s still a virgin strawberry daiquiri from the Las Pegasus resort on its way here even now. I don’t know.
I said it couldn’t create objects. And that’s true. But it could modify them. I turned a strawberry blue. It still tasted the same. I ate a piece of lettuce. It tasted like a strawberry. No matter how general or how specific what I wrote was, the quill seemed to understand my intent. I still preferred to be specific.
I tried some other experiments that night. The details aren’t important. I opened and closed my cabinets. I cooked dinner. I did something I’m not proud of...something embarrassing.
And all through the night, my thoughts turned more and more toward Applejack. Toward how she had refused to respect my feelings about apples. Toward how she thought she was better than me. Or at least that’s how I saw it. The more I used the quill, the more the fixation increased, the more the obsession took hold. It wasn’t my fault...I hope.
The next morning I went to work. I left the quill behind, but I still couldn’t stop thinking about Applejack. I hadn’t gotten any sleep.
I work in a jam factory on the edge of town. Not the antique shop side, but the opposite side. The side near the Everfree Forest. We make...well, jam. Blueberry jam, boysenberry jam, strawberry jam (my favorite) - you name it, we make it. Except zap apple jam. Only the Apple family makes that. The head of the factory once tried to get them to sell us some zap apples to use. They refused. They think they’re better than us.
I worked in a jam factory on the edge of town. I said that I work there, but do I still have a job? I don’t know. Probably not. I haven’t been to work for two days. Two days ago, I went to work. Things went alright for a while. And then they didn’t.
The factory is mostly one large room, one large floor. We take fruit deliveries at the back. Some ponies bring them in, climb the ladders, dump them in the big fruit-mashing bins perched over the conveyor belts. Sometimes they add other ingredients, like sugar. Others run on treadmills that make the mashers mash, the conveyors convey. Still others place jars on the belts to receive the completed jam and move it along its way. And the rest put lids on the jars and load them into carts in the front. The lids have handles so even earth ponies can carry them.
It’s always busy during the day. Can you picture it? Ponies rushing around the place with fruit or with jars, others running on the treadmills, the machinery in near-constant motion. You might wonder how we could afford so many workers. It’s not too surprising. We serviced the whole region, not just Ponyville, and aside from that, what can I say? Ponies love their jam.
I was a lid pony. A loading pony. Not exactly what I’d dreamed of doing back when I was a filly. Even back at the orphanage, even before Shining took me in, I’d had high hopes. I’d wished with all my might to do something better with my life than this. It didn’t happen. It’s a living. It was a living.
I took a jar of strawberry jam, I snapped a lid onto it, and I rushed it to the delivery cart. The two hundredth jar of the day. After a jar reaches you, you have about forty seconds to rush it to the cart and rush back before the next one arrives. Applejack thinks she works hard, and she probably does. I’ll admit that now. But I worked hard, too. I ran back and forth all day. If you were too late, the jar would smash on the ground. Too many misses and you’d get fired. It happened to a couple ponies I knew. I don’t know where they are now.
Even obsessing over Applejack, even with no sleep, I was still keeping on track. Mostly. One jar had broken. There was no time to clean it up. That wouldn’t happen until the end of the work day. Lid ponies have to wear good shoes.
The day went on. Another jar broke.
Then another.
And another.
My distraction and lack of sleep were catching up with me. Increasing panic over the number of broken jars did nothing to speed my sluggish legs. I blamed Applejack. It was her fault that I was thinking about her all night. It was her fault that I didn’t get any sleep. It was her fault that the jars were broken. I didn’t even think about the quill or all of the time I had wasted with it.
And then I came to jar three hundred and twelve. I snapped the lid on, I bit down on the handle, and I turned toward the cart. My eyes flicked closed for a moment. Just a moment, barely longer than a blink, but it was enough. I misstepped, and I tripped over a large piece of a broken jar. I slipped on the spilled jam. The jar flew out of my mouth and smashed several feet away.
The conveyor belt stopped - the one for strawberry jam, that is. A voice called for me over the intercom. It was the head of the factory. He told me to go home. He didn’t say I was fired, but I knew what he meant. And if I was wrong...well, I’m probably fired, anyway. I haven’t been to work for two days.
It was Applejack’s fault. That was all I could think as I left the factory. I had to do something about it. I went back home to the quill. It was still afternoon. I spun it on my desk with my hoof as I considered plans for revenge.
I could kill her. I dreamt up multiple scenarios for that. From impaling her on an apple branch to simply stopping her heart, they all involved the quill. But even under its influence, some level of reason, some level of empathy broke through. I knew I could never do that.
I could kill somepony else. One of her family members. I stopped right there without considering any more detail. That was even worse. And besides, Granny Smith reminded me of Shining Trinket. Not her personality, not her looks, but her voice. I hated her for it, but I still couldn’t kill her.
I could kill the orchard. All the apple trees suddenly dying would certainly have an effect. Applejack wouldn’t think she was so great anymore when her family’s business was in ruins and they had to sell the farm. But that still seemed like too much. Not to mention that destroying the apple supply would hurt the entire town.
I ran through scenario after scenario into the evening until I’d finally talked myself down to something much more petty. Something I could deal with. It would be a start, at least. I went to sleep and dreamt of getting revenge.
In the morning, yesterday morning, I put the quill and some paper in my saddlebags. Then I went out to buy a shovel. I didn’t own a shovel, and while I could perhaps have summoned one with the quill, this seemed less likely to cause issues. It wouldn’t do to have somepony running after a stolen shovel that would lead them right to me, now, would it?
I paid for the shovel and then headed to Sweet Apple Acres. Climbing over a fence, I entered from the side and began looking for a tree with a nice, thick trunk. One that I could hide behind, and preferably one at the edge of a clearing. I hoped nopony would see me before I put my plan into action. If they did, I’d say I was just taking a walk. Hopefully they wouldn’t care too much that I was trespassing. I passed by a row of freshly dug holes. They seemed too small for trees, except maybe seedlings, but I wasn’t particularly interested in whatever their purpose actually was. I passed a pile of long boards on the way, too. I didn’t know what they were for. I kept walking.
Before long, I found what I was looking for - a tree with a wide trunk next to a clearing about ten yards wide. There was even a small hole worn through the trunk, perhaps created by some animal that used to live there. Though it was relatively early, the sun was already high in the sky, the trees around the clearing positioned just right to allow the sun to illuminate the area. Nopony was around yet. Perfect.
I placed the shovel in the center of the clearing. I hid behind the tree and took out the quill and the paper. I peeked through the hole. If I was right, Applejack would be on her daily rounds soon. I’d heard she always kept a tight schedule. I hoped she’d see the shovel before she saw me, but now that I had my writing supplies out, I could work with the alternative if necessary. Just wipe her memory with a quick flick of the quill.
And soon enough, there she was. I watched as she picked up the shovel and began to walk away. I took a deep breath. And I began to write.
It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and Applejack was digging a hole.
As I said, I had finally settled on a rather petty revenge, at least for a start. Applejack had wanted me to come watch her dig a hole. So I would watch her dig a hole. My work had been ruined because of her, or at least so I saw it at the time, so I’d ruin her work. It wasn’t as permanent, but at least watching her neglect her duties and waste her whole day digging a pointless hole might be kind of funny.
The magic took hold immediately. With no warning, Applejack began sliding across the ground, moving backwards as she floated back toward the center of the clearing. Her progress was impossibly smooth, as if she was being pulled by an invisible thread over a perfectly level patch of ice.
“What in tarnation?” she said. And then she started digging.
She wasn’t quite sure why she was digging the hole. It just felt like something she should do.
I watched for a while, and it was kind of funny at first, but it got boring fast once she was too deep to see. At least I could see the dirt being thrown out of the hole. I still held the quill. It was time to make things a bit more interesting.
The day went on and Applejack began to sweat from the heat and exertion. The hole was three yards wide, and four yards deep at its deepest point. It was time to take a break. She put the shovel down to go get a drink, or rather…she tried to. A few half-hearted jerking motions later and she found herself still digging the hole.
I was writing a story, that was all. Nopony would really get hurt. I wouldn’t let that happen. Well, maybe a little. Just then, I noticed Apple Bloom coming from the distance on the other side of the clearing, her head turning back and forth as if looking for somepony.
“I’m digging a hole! I’m digging a hole! I’m digging a hole!” Applejack shouted, sounding strangely cheerful. What? She wasn’t supposed to like it. I looked down, ready to write something else, when I realized that I had still been moving my mouth. I had been writing even as I looked out at the scene. I skimmed the new lines.
The shovel must have been enchanted. It was the only explanation...
“I don’t know. I think this shovel might be cursed,” Applejack said.
I didn’t remember writing that, but that was basically the idea. I’d let her think it was the shovel and when this was over, when I left, I’d take it with me again, leaving no trace. Just another example of the quill reading my intent...right?
“Why do you keep saying that?” she asked.
“Why do you keep saying that?” I heard Apple Bloom ask. I was still skimming the paper.
“Saying what?” Applejack asked.
“I’m digging a hole!” Applejack shouted cheerfully.
“You keep just saying ‘I’m digging a hole,’” she said. “And you sound really cheerful about it. It’s…weird.”
Apple Bloom almost immediately repeated those exact words.
That was a little more than I’d been going for. Suddenly my obsession dissipated and I felt uneasy. It was time to stop. I tried to put the quill down. I couldn’t open my mouth. I shook my head. It wouldn’t fall.
Applejack felt like she might pass out if she kept digging much longer, but nevertheless she kept digging. It wasn’t like she had any choice. And if she understood what Apple Bloom was telling her correctly, the curse must even extend to what she was saying.
I shook my head even harder, trying to dislodge the quill from my mouth, but I kept finding my head drawn back to the paper. I tried to yell. I didn’t care anymore if I was caught. This wasn’t what I wanted. The quill muffled any sound I could make. I tried to run. I was rooted to the spot.
At least it didn’t extend to her thoughts. Now that would have been dangerous.
Finally, I managed to exert my will strongly enough to stop writing. Or maybe the quill stopped writing on its own. I don’t know. It was probably the quill. I still couldn’t drop it.
I considered what options I had. Applejack might really pass out from dehydration if she didn’t get help soon. She might get heat stroke. Knowing even as I did it that it was probably a bad idea, I used the quill again. Maybe I could ride this out. That’s what I told myself.
With some effort, Applejack managed to lift one hoof from the shovel, still digging with the other, and make a motion like drinking from a glass.
I kept writing, setting up a situation I was sure would get Applejack enough water for a while. I’d seen some boards on my way here, and I was sure the farm would have a bucket and some rope. The quill colored my phrasing a bit, it prevented me from just ending the whole thing and letting Applejack go, but I was able to give it some direction. Before long, Apple Bloom had lain a long board across the hole and lowered a bucket of water to Applejack from the middle.
“Are you okay for now?” Apple Bloom asked. “I could go find Twilight, but I don’t want to leave you here alone if...“
Finding Twilight was the quill’s idea, not mine. I wanted to get this over with and hopefully never use it again. Bringing somepony else into the story was the last thing I wanted to do. But Apple Bloom left all the same.
Applejack kept digging, and started humming to herself. This really wasn’t so bad after all. She could go like this all day!
The quill wrote the last sentence, and then it stopped again. But only for a little while.
A little while later and she was too deep to reach the bucket of water.
I couldn’t see how deep she was, but I had no reason to question it. Applejack was still humming, a tune that I didn’t recognize but which apparently was similar to one from “the human world.” I’d heard that there was another world, a world with creatures called “humans,” but I didn’t know anything about it. Apparently the quill did. Soon I saw Apple Bloom and Twilight coming from the distance.
I didn’t know where this was going, but I had a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. Twilight and Apple Bloom looked down into the hole together.
Twilight teleported down into the hole and tried to tell her something, but all that Applejack heard was a cheerful “You’re digging a hole.” Well, thank you Twilight for noticing! She kept digging.
I couldn’t quite make out whatever Twilight actually said, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t “You’re digging a hole.” I should never have tried to humor the quill at all. I redoubled my efforts to drop it, but if anything it felt even more impossible than before. With the exception of my mouthwriting and the associated movement of my head, I couldn’t even move. I shouldn’t have looked up again. I was still writing. I couldn’t see what I was writing.
I heard a loud “thunk” from the hole and Apple Bloom screamed. “TWILIGHT!”
I finally managed to jerk my head downward.
She heard Apple Bloom give a cheerful shout of “You’re digging a hole!” from the rim of the hole, waved to her with one hoof, then bashed Twilight’s head a few more times for good measure.
I tried to scream, but I couldn’t. I hadn’t heard any more “thunks” yet, but I knew they were coming. I shook my head as hard as I possibly could, trying in vain to cross out what the quill had just written. What I had just written. I didn’t know if it would matter, but there was nothing else I could do. I couldn’t even do that. I managed to make a short line, just a little blip out in the margin beside that last sentence and that was it. Then I heard those awful sounds, and somehow, some way, I just knew that Twilight was dead.
I burst into tears. At least I could do that. Twilight didn’t deserve this; even Applejack didn’t deserve this.
After the last bash to Twilight’s head, Applejack suddenly didn’t feel like digging a hole anymore. She felt like filling this one in.
Silent tears poured down my cheeks. I looked back up, able to move my head somewhat more easily again. Apple Bloom had left. I felt nauseous. I could only watch as Applejack climbed out of the hole and began to fill it in. Before long, the top of the hole had been smoothed down so perfectly that nopony would have ever known it was there. Just like the quill said.
Still crying, I forced three more sentences onto the page, a small mercy for Applejack. I didn’t know if she could live with the memory of what she had done. With what the quill had made her do. With what I had made her do. This was my fault. I wiped her memory.
Blinking a few times, Applejack looked around. What happened? The last thing she remembered was picking up an abandoned shovel that was on Sweet Apple Acres’ property for some reason, but she must have blacked out for a moment, because now it was on the ground again.
Even after that, the quill kept going. It kept making me write. It announced the return of Apple Bloom, along with Twilight’s friends. I didn’t know what might be coming now, but I had to end this. One last shake and I somehow dislodged the quill from my mouth. I think it let me.
I vomited. It seemed loud to me, but I don’t think anypony noticed.
“What’s wrong, sugarcube?” I heard Applejack ask her sister.
I looked up to see the quill writing on its own, the paper still against the tree where I had held it, a strange flourish to its strokes.
The End
The quill fell, the paper along with it. I stuffed the paper into my saddlebag, but I left the quill where it lay.
A story had been written. But it wasn’t my story. It wasn’t the story that I had wanted to write. I no longer wanted any kind of revenge on Applejack. I no longer felt that even the “harmless” prank I had tried to pull had been appropriate. Nothing had been appropriate.
Twilight had never done anything to me. It wouldn’t matter if she had. Nopony deserves to die.
Nopony.
I watched as Apple Bloom ran to the center of the clearing and started desperately hoofing at the ground. Twilight’s friends soon came to join her. I would have joined them if it would have made a difference. But I knew she was gone. Nopony had noticed I was there. I looked away.
I stared at the quill. Could it bring Twilight back to life? I was already feeling its pull again. I reached toward it. I looked up at the ponies feverishly trying to dig up their dead friend, the ponies who were still mercifully alive after what I had done. Even Applejack.
I left the quill, and I ran. A roundabout route, to avoid being seen by the group gathered in the clearing. I don’t know if it would have mattered. They had other concerns then. On the way out of Sweet Apple Acres, I passed the small holes again. There was a sign by them now. Big Mac must have put it up.
“Strawberries.”
They were going to plant strawberries. Perhaps a peace offering of a sort. That must have been what Applejack had wanted me to see.
Tears streaming, I ran the rest of the way home, stopping only to buy something from a fruit vendor on the way. I didn’t sleep last night.
I hear they took Applejack in for questioning. She doesn’t remember anything. It doesn’t matter. They’ll trace the shovel. They’ll trace the quill. They might even trace the vomit.
Twilight knew that kind of magic. It would happen faster if Twilight was alive.
It wouldn’t need to happen if Twilight was alive.
They dug up her body. When their hooves failed, they got a shovel. A different one. I heard about it this morning. It wouldn’t have mattered. The funeral is tomorrow.
Remember earlier, when I said I hate apples? I lied. I used to hate apples. There’s an apple next to me now. I just took a bite. After what happened, I had to know. I tried one for just the second time last night.
Apples are sweet.
They are delicious.
I’d just had a bad one.
I’m sorry, Twilight.
Author's Note
I've marked this as "alternate universe" because I consider it a sort of "What If?" that isn't necessarily canon to the original story. As of now, the personality and backstory of Strawberry Sunrise as described here are only canon to this story and may change if I write anything else featuring her in the future.
