Rock Farm

by Shigawan

Rating: everyone
Tags: My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Comedy, Horror, Pinkie Pie
Length: 2244

Pinkie grew up on a farm surrounded by rocks and it definitely didn't affect her at all.

A short look into an AU where Pinkie's early life on her family farm, surrounded by rocks keeping her company, had absolutely no effect on her mental well being.

A bit silly and a bit sad.

Published 2021-09-06 05:40:00 UTC
Last updated 2021-09-06 05:40:00 UTC

Farm Life Rocks

This morning I woke up and looked at the ceiling of our family farm house. I had never considered before how the knots in the wooden ceiling had gotten their names. Why were they called knots? Was it because they were not a lot of things? When a tree is cut down and used for lumber, is it not a tree anymore, or is only a small bit of it that is knot? I suppose if the tree was used to make something else, it would no longer be a tree. Except for the knot, which would not.

“How silly,” I thought to myself. So many things are made of wood, but what is made of knot? Sometimes string is made of knot. Sometimes ships travel in knots. Trees themselves are most often made of wood, excepting, of course, the parts that are knot.

Many things are made of wood, however.

Now here I paused to allow myself a minute to breathe, as I have been told I often forget to do, and in my pause I began to think of carpenters and I wondered if they ever pondered if wood would or should be material of choice? Does a chair made of wood give better lumbar support? Would a pin for a medal on a vest be better if it were made of wood, or is metal the best vest sticker?

I once got a splinter from the gnarly old stairs down to the kitchen, so I know wood from a tree can be plenty sticky. But splinters hurt, so I don’t think a good carpenter would use splinters to pin medals. They would use wood to make happier things. A good carpenter should make even the biggest, grumbliest ponies lumber out on the dance floor.

And so I decided I wanted to learn to play the accordion.

I threw my throw pillow out the window and took a quick trip downstairs to see my father. When I reached the kitchen, I righted myself and decided I would have to wait another full year before I could allow one of my springs to precede a fall.

I saw my father sitting at the kitchen table and decided to make a solemn accord with him.

“Father,” I said in my most serious voice, “I want to learn to play the accordion.”

My father did not look up from the book he used to keep track of the family expenses. I slipped closer to him, carefully sliding to a stop with my face between him and his book. I was then embroiled to spoil the oil soiling my hoofsies. I wanted my father to see how serious I was and although I don't know where the oil came from I accepted and ignored it. It was in oil's nature to be slippery.

My father was slow to respond, as he was in all things these days. My father's voice was like gravel, but it rang with the authority of a gavel when he was upset, making me want to grovel. It was hard to imitate.

“Why would you want to do a fool thing like that?” My father had no interest in my musical inclinations. He likely would rather see my musical declinations but all he would be seeing was my curly hair obstructing his view. I believe he decided to move away from his mane problem and confront his main problem. “Accordions are sad instruments to play, Pinkie. You depress the instrument to elate the listener. Such selfish music could never be beautiful in context.”

I pondered my father’s wisdom. “I suppose that’s true,” I said before throwing myself bodily off of a ledger so that my father could once again count on his books. "Suppose instead I learn the drums?"

"Oh, fool daughter of mine, only language professors can make good drummers. You cannot tap out a living on drums alone, after all. You must have a firm understanding of cymbal-ism."

"Then I will play the tuba."

"You aren't a unicorn either, Pinkie. You have no horn. Besides, what does learning to play the tuba get you? Two bucks to buy a tube of toothpaste. Not much else."

"What a treble-ing point of view," I noted. "I don't know what you bass your claims on, but you obviously have no love of music."

My father did not rest. "You're right, Pinkie. I have no love for lock-less keys or noisy notes, and I prefer my chords tied in tight, functional knots. Still I love you, my little Pinkie, and I only want to see your smile refrain at the end of each moment of the day. Go talk to your mother."

I smiled widely at his narrow-minded obstruction and began construction of a production that followed his instruction.

As I bounced outside, I admit that my mind began to wander. I wanted to see the matron of our home, but I didn’t want to be a nuisance. I didn’t want to smother my mother with bother and pother. I wanted her in a good mood so that her face, so stiff and stern, might turn. I want to see it crack a smile to cross the miles of long face she’s grown alongside the rock crop.

Life on my family’s farm isn't just rocky. It’s terra-ble. Us rock farmers don’t boast that we’re boulder, though as we grow older we shoulder the colder weather of life with a heavy, stony heart. My family has grown gray and dull to match their surroundings, like camouflaged prey praying that misfortune will pass. We have rules, set in stone, to avoid becoming upset. We don’t live in a glass house and we don’t sail for fear of rocking the boat.

My mind was still restless so I stooped to scoop the pillow I had encouraged to fly the coop and followed my wandering thoughts out to the rock fields to see my sister Limestone fielding the rocks. I was determined to put the matter of seeing my mother to bed.

With my usual gait of a skip, I skipped our gate and bounced right up to my Limestone. Her eyes were locked onto a particular slow growing rock. She was concentrating so much I figured I could pick her nose, but I knew I couldn't pick the lock of her gaze. Limestone was born with stubby legs that kept her physically close to the rocks and a stubborn heart that kept her emotionally closer. Still, I remembered her voice well and was overjoyed at the thought of hearing it again.

"Blimey, Limey! Would it help if I took a picture? Ma and Pa have plenty in their albums and they wouldn't miss one."

"Ma doesn't miss a single thing in that house, Pinkie. You try taking photos and she will shoot you and add you to that album."

Sometimes, when I should be soundly asleep, I find myself silently awake and glued to an old travel brochure that an enterprising salespony left with Pa years ago. You would think that the bindings would have grown stale, but I sometimes find both my eyes and my hooves stuck to the vivid photos of scenic locations available for travel.

Anyways, the reason for this non sequestered non sequitur is that one photo of an exciting pegasus excursion always reminds me of Limestone. Clouds, like mountainous boulders, loom over a wild sea. Lightning cracks those boulders as violently as Limestone would grind our farm’s crops into proper gravel and that sea looked almost as rough as my sister’s voice. Indeed, the explosive energy of a storm caught in a photo could be a photo of Lime herself. She has often been described as someone you need to weather. However, unlike a storm, Limestone makes no promise of a rainbow.

Luckily, I have grown less fond of rainbows as of late and this distinction does not bother me too much.

Since wasting time ticked her off, Limestone normally only gave me only a couple moments to respond. On the second, her minute patience past tense, she tensed in the present to prepare for a future where she could spend her time demonstrating the definition of a raucous ruckus to everypony in earshot.

“Pinkie Pie, lately you’ve been slower than a tectonic shift. I'm doing an important stare and can't tear my gaze away just to laze away with you. Mom is in the barn as usual."

With a fond grin pulling at my lips and thoughts of my mother pulling at the pillow in my grasp, I gently stroked Lime's shoulder. She ignored me with practiced ease, pleased to seize the keys to her attention once more and lock it up tight.

I turned to open the barn.

Inside I saw that, as usual, I was not alone in visiting my mother. My baby sister, Marble, stood within. She had found a lost expression to place on her face. Unlike the rest of my family, Marble was reluctant to open her mouth expressly to express herself so I had honestly forgotten how to mimic her voice. I missed it so much.

"Marble, what do you suppose is missing from parties to make them a part-y instead of a complete-y? I've tried it all. Balloons to lift spirits, food to weigh the body and keep it from following the spirits, music to encourage burning off the food… and so so much more! What could be missing from what I adore?"

Marble didn't look at me, her long mane a curtain to curtail eye contact in favor of curt, monosyllabic responses.

"Of course I know the canon answer. A party cannon would be a blast. But despite that, wouldn't a party cannon be better for throwing balls rather than a party for -"

I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. I knew what had been missing from all my parties. I needed to talk to mom.

I found her further inside, curled in the corner. Her eyes were clenched tight. Her forelegs were clenched tighter around an empty space at her chest that I had once been intimately familiar with. I had long since outgrown it.

She was heavy and stiff. Her fur, once warm and comforting, was now smooth and cool. It had been ever since I got my cutie mark. Straining with everything I had, I pulled her out of the corner. I was bigger now than I had once been. I had even tried out a solo birthday party. It was definitely not a complete-y and I think I had always known what it was missing. I think about how I don't like to think about it.

I did my best to tip my mom over and onto the pillow I had brought, but I found it hard to see and the tight bun she had tied her mane up in hit the ground too hard and chipped. I hated to see anyone in my family fall to pieces, so I carefully collected each part of my mom that had separated and put it with the others. I was always sure to find them all, and by the time I was done the sun was at its zenith and peeking through holes in the barn roof.

I would try to fix the holes again later, but for now I finally let myself lay down against my mom. Her arms were frozen and gray, but I slipped one of my forelegs into her grasp the best I could and closed my eyes. I remembered the warmth of her breath, the softness of her fur and the proud lilt of her voice. I forgot the fear, the loneliness and the rainbow.

I spoke. "Mother, I have informed father of my plans to learn an instrument. I want to learn scales and strum strings and create notes. I want to tune and pluck and blow. I want to play. I want to know. I want to learn about Harmonies."

I responded. "Pinkamena, my youngest and pinkest daughter, while you live over my dirt you will obey my edicts. Scales are meant for weighing cargo. Strings are meant for tying it down. Notes are for the receipts after a sale. You can tune a tractor, pluck chickens and blow life into a fire. Playing is for foals, and you must not be a foal anymore. Until your sister returns from school we need you to take care of us, Pinkie, as we once took care of you. Can you do that?"

"Yeah," I sniffed, "I Pinkie Promised. You wish you knew you would be safe. I wish I knew you would be too. But I love you and I'll keep everything together until Maud returns."

I wiped my tears and righted my mother. I moved Marble a little further inside and found a new rock for Limestone to watch. I left my father to his vigil of the ledger.

The rocks on our farm tended to, I set about getting food so I could finish the chores. Rock soup would have to do, as we had little else. I hoped I wouldn't run out before Maud returned. But that was for future Pinkie to worry about. Today's Pinkie had some farming to do.

Author's Note

With thanks to an octopus and a crow, without which this tiny little weird story might have never seen the light of day.