Sand is a resource, and like most resources on Earth, it’s bound to run out sometime.
But we’ve got that covered; there’s still plenty of places we’ve been that can be visited again, and again.
Most sand mines can only stay in operation for so long. Erosion is a serious problem for the environment around it, especially when it comes to beach mining. Unfortunately for us, sand mining is a necessity for modern civilization to go on, so while the federal government does as much neck-breathing as it can to ensure that mining companies don’t stick to one place for too long, there’s only so many places out in the wilderness that they can watch at a time.
Not that a sand mine surrounded by seven golf courses, two major cities, and a couple thousand family homes can be said to be in the midst of the wilderness, but the fact of the matter is that the government can’t always be watching us work out here. That’s precisely why we make this trip every year.
This time around, the company’s decided to pull us in to work deep into the holiday season. Why? I can’t exactly say. Most years, we work around spring in early April, and while the mines are usually rainy and wet around that time, it sure beats having to deal with the cold nights of December. All I really know is that the usual contractors hired to work this mine probably won’t be around due to the holiday season; I’m glad it’s not my problem to figure out where we’re going to get our hired help. It will be my problem, however, if we can’t get loaded up with as much sandstone as possible before we pull out for the night, because that means I won’t get paid what’s due.
By today, though, I’d already put all those problems out of my mind; I was busy jumping into a heavy dump truck to hitch a ride to the dig site.
It’s about seven at night—fairly early for our work—and the wind chill has already picked up on our presence and decided to give us its worst. The rest of the company still has yet to get here, and from the looks of the pit, I’m stuck with drain duty for the time being. It’s an important job though, so I may as well try to make sure everyone else doesn’t live through hell with muddy boots on a wintry night. Thankfully, the pump we used last year is still there, and in mostly working condition. With a bit of fiddling and rearrangement, I have the loud machine whirring and doing its magic.
While I try my best to monitor the machine, I spend most of the time watching the floodlights go up around the pit. A light hint of fog graces the top of the murky standing water, bouncing light along the dark surface and onto the walls of the man-made gorge. Before long, the first trucks pulling trailers of CAT excavators and front-loaders comes in, followed closely by a convoy of dump trucks ready to depart with sandstone at a moment’s notice. I leave my station to a friend, and head on over to greet the company’s selected contractors for the night.
I almost laugh when I see a pony climb out of one of the trailer-trucks.
While ponies aren’t too recent of a development on Earth, I wasn’t quite expecting to see one working—likely as a contractor—in a sand mine of all places. The ‘port-of-entry’ between ponies and the Earth is up in Canada, and while most have apparently settled there, it’s a surprise to see one this far south; I figured it would take a little while longer before the invasion would continue! I suppose Canada could only hold them off for so long.
I quickly meet with the rest of the contractors—thankfully, they’re mostly familiar faces, so we might get paid after all—and trudge over to where the pony is fiddling with the bulky industrial straps holding the excavator in place. I’ve never seen a pony in person before, at least not this closely, but I make a conscious effort to abate my curiosity before either of us have said a word.
“Hey, welcome to the party.”
The pony grunts through the strap in her teeth, and steps back. She turns and flashes a beaming, fanged smile. “Happy to help!”
Her voice is chiming, but not overly piercing, and somehow clear of a southern accent; she’s either a ‘tourist’ passing through, or someone who’s managed not to get sucked into the drawl by living here. Either way, it’s a miracle for sure.
Surprisingly, it’s not the fangs that are the first features I hone in on, but rather the intimacy of the pony’s colors: she has gentle mauve eyes sharpened to two points, an earthy tan coat—which wouldn’t seem too out of place on some of the local horses—and a rose-pink mane and tail. Her colors are far more pleasant to the eye than what I’ve gleaned from the ponies on TV, but then again, I hadn’t expected fangs and translucent wings on a pony to be nice on the eyes either; she has wings like a pegasus, but they’re made of some kind of membrane-filament that’s also that same rose-pink.
I point to what she’s working with. “Mind if I lend a hand?”
“Nope, go ahead!”
While I try my best to focus on my side of things, I can’t help but watch the pony use her mouth to work the buckles. Low and behold, she manages to undo one, then two of them, just as easily as I can; we finish with our straps at about the same time. Without a word, she flaps her way up to the excavator, pulls a door open, and slips into the cabin.
The excavator rumbles to life with a growl, and I hear her call out, “Can you drop the ramp, please?”
“Sure!” I reply. I make my way over to the release at the back of the trailer and switch it. The metal hinges squeak as the ramp thuds to a rest against the barren earth. I step back and allow myself a few moments to watch the pony maneuver the excavator down the ramp and out of the way.
As she’s passing me by, I soak in her skill with the machine. Not once during the process of offloading the excavator from the trailer did she make a mistake, even a minor one. I’ve seen people who’ve been working with us for years consistently stall the excavator on start-up, throttle in the wrong direction, and just generally fail at going down the ramp. Here’s a pony—a pony who has been on Earth for, at the least, less than two years—driving this excavator like she’s been born to do it.
When she rolls to a stop, I clamber up onto the side of her excavator and knock on the glass. “You drive pretty well for a pony!”
The pony rolls her eyes and sticks her orange tongue out at me. “Get off my excavator!” She playfully wiggles one of the joysticks with a wing; I take that as my cue and hop off. “I’ll see you in the pit!”
As she rumbles off towards the top of the spiral leading into the mine, I scratch my head. I’m kind of caught somewhere between ‘impressed’ and ‘bewildered.’ Who knew ponies could operate heavy machinery?
As far as mining goes, it’s less about doing work, and more about letting the machines do the work. But with her around? This pony might as well be the machine.
I think the foreman may have had prior experience with the pony, because he had no qualms whatsoever with bringing her into the planning process for the blasting. Not only did she perform a large amount of fieldwork in terms of literally ‘sounding out’ the mine for weak points—because I’m pretty sure tapping and pressing her ears against the walls of the mine wasn’t just a farce—but post-blasting, her skill with the heavy machinery may as well have been limitless. For a moment there, we all probably thought the same thing: ‘We’re out of a job!’
Thankfully, though, she decided to show us all some mercy and gave us a chance to lift our own stones. Truckloads of sand and sandstone left the mine hour-by-hour, and by the time midnight struck, we had far surpassed expectations and were looking forward to finishing up early for the night. The pony seemed a little downcast after the foreman told her there would be no more blasting tonight, because she up and disappeared. Most of us split off into our usual little groups to have ourselves the classic ‘midnight lunch,’ because there’s nothing that says graveyard shift like packing a lunch for midnight.
I, on the other hand, had plans to find myself a perky pony.
It didn’t take much time to find her; an old treehouse and the hint of a pink tail hanging over the edge of some aging boards was enough to do the trick.
I tug on the rope ladder experimentally. It doesn’t give way as I put one foot on, then the next. I’m a pretty bulky guy, but I guess I’ll have to trust that this thing will hold me. Up I go.
I figure she hears me coming by the time I’m halfway up; she’s already shifting her weight and making the boards creak. I pull myself up the rest of the way and peek over the edges of the hole leading into where the ‘house’ part of the treehouse would have been. I spot her laying on the edge of the house, looking toward the northern horizon. Huffing, I nearly collapse on the boards next to her.
The pony looks at me with her brows furrowed. I smile at her, and lift the strap of my cooler over my head. I dig around for a moment in the moonlight, and retrieve one of my cold cuts. The cheese has melted in that perfect, lukewarm way, where the sandwich is still cold, but the meat and cheese have become one. As I take my first bite, I hear her sniff.
“That’s not mayonnaise,” she says pointedly. “But it looks like it.”
I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand (I got sweaty by climbing twenty feet? Am I really that out of shape?) and swallow my bite. “Yeah, yeah, it’s Miracle Whip. Everyone hates it but me. Bite me.”
She laughs a little bit. “Actually, I hate mayonnaise.”
My heart skips a beat; I thump an empty palm against my chest. “My God, are you a woman after my own heart?”
“I’m a mare, but maybe.” She licks her lips, and I suddenly get nervous about the look she’s giving my sandwich. “I’ve never heard of it before. Is it any good?”
“Well, they market it as a dressing, but I think it’s a lot better than mayonnaise. At least when it comes to sandwiches.”
“Can I try some?”
I pause mid-bite and stare at her. “There’s meat in this.”
“What kind?”
That catches me off-guard. “Uh…” I look at my sandwich and back at her. “Ham?”
Her face hardens. She’s quiet for a moment. “What does that come from?”
“... Pigs.”
She loosens instantly. “Oh! You mean pork.” A blush as pink as her mane overtakes her. “Sorry, the ‘Ponies-On-Earth’ orientation didn’t mention that. Trust me, I took notes!”
I give her a good-natured grin. “Eh, yeah… I think ham is like… processed pork, or something.” I shake my head. “Anyway, you sure you want some still? I thought ponies didn’t eat meat.”
“Well, I’m not exactly your usual pony, but I’d like to try some.”
I shrug; it’s a yes. “Alright then.” I tear off a piece of my sandwich and offer it to her.
She takes it carefully from my hand with a hoof, sniffs it tentatively, then pops it into her mouth. She chews briefly, then swallows. “Huh, that’s different.”
“Good different, or?”
“Good, it’s good.” She nods. “I might have to pick some of that up the next time I go out for groceries.”
I smile. “Nice to finally have somebody—somepony else on Team Whip!” I laugh and she smiles. We lapse into a comfortable silence, but I choose to break it next. “Say, what did you mean by ‘usual pony?’”
“Hm?” She looks back from the view. “Oh, I’m a thestral.” She shines her fangs and sports her membrane-wings. “Most ponies call us bat ponies, and… I’m sure you can figure out where that particular name comes from. We have better eyesight, better hearing,” she flicks her tufted ears with a hoof, “dare I say better flying, and can digest meat a lot more easily than say, a pegasus.” She licks her lips. “Meat also probably tastes a lot better to us than normal ponies because of our sense of smell.”
“That’s pretty cool,” I comment earnestly. “I figure those ears of yours are why you’re so good at knowing where to place det-cords, then?”
She nods again, but enthusiastically. “It’s pretty easy once you get the hang of it. You just have to figure out the right frequencies the rocks bounce back from for the thinner segments.”
“And how long have you been working with us?”
She rubs her chin with a hoof. “About two months, give or take. I’ve been here for a lot longer than I thought I would. But the Grand Strand is really pretty, especially when you can fly over it.” She sighs dreamily. “It’s like the Manehattan Beaches out there, except you don’t have to deal with as many pegasi.”
As she goes back to looking over the view, I realize I can’t hold back my curiosity any longer. “Not to pry, but, what are you doing here in Myrtle?”
She doesn’t turn back from the view this time, but I can see her thinking her words over carefully. “Seeing what your world has to offer, I guess. While everypony else is up in New Caneighda, I’m out here striking out on my own.” Her shoulders hunch. “It’s just so tiring to get around, though. The only reason I’m here is that Myrtle Beach International is one of the few airports that hosts airliners for ponies, and even then, there’s not enough interest outside of Canada to make life more pony-accessible.”
New Caneighda is a city that Equestria and the Canadian government have been cooperating to create. To my knowledge—and the fact that the news is covering it almost daily—it’s proving to be a pretty successful attraction for both tourism and cultural development.
“I’m sure Canada is just the start, though,” I say. “It should just be a matter of time.”
“And that’s just it!” she blurts. “I want ponies to make those changes in more than just Canada, in more than just North America! But nopony really cares about expanding past New Caneighda! They’re perfectly fine with sticking to the hotspots!” She huffs and crosses her forelegs. “Not everypony wants to go on vacation in the Bahamas, and yet they have the most pony-accessible areas over there. I want to go to South America, I want to go to Europe, I want to go to Africa, I want to go to Asia, I want to go to Oceania!” She deflates, and finally says, “But I’ll just be stuck here in Myrtle Beach, making bits by blowing holes in your planet.”
I give her a second to breathe. Then, as gently as a man with sausage hands can, I clasp a hand on her withers. She looks up at me, shaking.
“The modern world moves fast,” I say. “You were born at just the right time to experience all of this. Just like kids nowadays, who were born just in time to see ponies come to Earth. How do you think those kids, those people, those humans who want to go to Equestria feel? They have yet to see a sign that they’ll be invited to stay there, while Canada has been working as hard as it can to make sure you ponies have a place on this planet.” I squeeze with my hand. “You have a lot of time to think about this, and even more time that you can wait. Trust me when I say you won’t have to wait forever; I used to think I’d never see a pony in person, but then you showed up.”
“You’ve made a lot of people happy tonight, and I think it’s safe to say you’ve made a lot of other people happy in the past. Miracles happen everyday, and ponies are bringing even more by the day.”
There’s a long silence as she looks between my hand on her withers, and me. Finally, she lunges at me with both hooves. Her hooves wrap tight around me, and as I hug her back, she begins to cry.
“Hey, hey, I don’t think ponies should cry.” I run a hand through her mane and down her back as she stiffens. “You know, I never got your name.”
“S-Sandpiper,” she mumbles. “S-Stupid name for a bat, I k-know.”
“Sandpiper…” I pull away from her, but still hold her firmly as I look down at the small, fragile pony. “You’re just a little pony in a big, big world. It’ll take a little time, but you’ll learn to appreciate this little bit of the world we live in now.”
She says nothing, but her shaking does come to an end. As I pull her back in to hold her, I rest my chin on her head.
A thought strikes me suddenly. “Why don’t you join me and my family for Christmas dinner?”
“R-Really?” She peeps. “I don’t want to be a bother.”
“You wouldn’t be! Besides, my daughter would love to meet you.”
She laughs nervously. “Where do you even live?”
I point down to the view that she’s been watching this whole time, and pull her close. My neighborhood, full of flashing holiday decorations, and family homes with the lights flicking off into the late night, bathes us both.
“Welcome to my world, little bird.”
Author's Note
This story is a tribute to the local sand mine just outside my neighborhood that's supposedly 'inactive' according to my state's database of active mines. Thanks for the decade of random explosions in the middle of the night. And leaving sand on all of our roads.
And happy New Year to the rest of you! I worked really hard on this one, and did try to mess with tenses a little bit (yay, experimentation!) so:
Thank you so much for reading!
For Biscuit: I kind of took off with the whole point of the 'Ponies in the workplace' theme of the contest, but I hope this SoL appeases the King of Slice of Life!
So, I should probably go into detail about some things this story presents:
Sand mining comes in several types, but mostly I've seen these three: you have 'open-pit' (the type this story follows) where a dig site is dug from the topsoil to the sandstone beneath, and excavated using blasting (here, it's blasting with detonation cords [det-cords]) to separate sandstone and collect it for processing; 'beach mining' where they basically scoop up sand from a beach (not viable for the beautiful Grand Strand!); and what I like to call 'mining of the sand from the dunes' (because research papers love to say 'sand dune') where sand is excavated from areas of silica-rich silty-sand, which you can see particularly in the Great Lakes region.
Sand mining is important in several industries (construction [steel, and glass] is a big one), and before you say "Just go to the desert smh" (an actual quote), the kinds of sand used in manufacturing are very specific, which is why there's only so many places where sandstone is usable, and why the silty-sand of the Great Lakes' dunes is so valuable to sand mining.
There is an actual illegal market for sand. Yes, you heard that right. I know this story and its characters gloss over the fact that they're mining once a year because it's illegal, but it happens; inactive mining sites get mined at when they really shouldn't. Active mines of all types, including sand, may be seen for South Carolina here, if you're interested!
Also, every hurricane season, we get people bagging sand from the Grand Strand and selling it in sandbags. Yes, it's really bad, and yes, it's very illegal, and ~~yes it's very profitable~~ you should stay in school and not bag sand!!
