Thirty Minute Ponies Collection

“Sweetie Belle, it’s time to get up,” I call out up the stairs. As she steps out of her room, she looks down at me, still half-asleep. “Breakfast is ready,” I say, and almost immediately she perks up, running down to the main floor of my home, almost knocking me over in the process. I just roll my eyes and walk back into the kitchen where our food is waiting for us.

“Rarity, why do I have to get up early on Saturday?” she asks between mouthfuls.

Clearing my throat like I’ve practiced this a dozen times, which I probably have, I explain that if she were to sleep in on the weekends, it would only make it harder to get up early the next week for school. One day she will understand this... hopefully.

Once we’ve finished eating, Sweetie Belle began cleaning up. She’s actually gotten quite good at it, never even breaking dishes anymore. As I make my way for the porch, I hear a crashing noise come from the kitchen. Well, almost never.

Opening the front door, I take a look outside. It’s another absolutely beautiful day in Ponyville, without a cloud in the sky. Collecting the mail, I sift through it on the way to the house. As I close the door behind me, I find one letter that stands out from the rest of the mail. It’s a letter from our mother.

‘That’s odd...’ I think to myself, ‘they don’t usually correspond while on vacation.’ I open it and begin to read.

Dear Rarity,

I’m afraid there’s been an accident.

My heart sinks, as do I onto the floor, as I continue to read the letter. I can see what looks to have been dried tears on the piece of paper.

Your father and I arrived at the cabin, got unpacked, and were starting to prepare dinner, when he decided to build a fire in the stove. We also needed ice, so I went to the office, which was nearly a mile away, to get some. And by the time I got back... the whole cabin had caught on fire. I tried to get in, but the only entrance was blocked by debris. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you this in person, the train only makes the trip up here once a week.

Rarity, your father didn’t make it out.

By this point I couldn’t tell the difference between my tears and the dried ones. Sweetie Belle must have overheard me, and came running in.

“Rarity, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?” she asks, concerned.

“Sweetie Belle, we need to have a talk.” I say, getting up onto my hooves. We head into the kitchen once more and sit down.

We just sat there for a moment, me quietly sobbing, Sweetie Belle wondering why. I look into her eyes and I’m only able to utter two words.

“It’s dad...”

It takes her a second to realise what I mean by that, but as soon as she does, I can tell. I walk over to the other side of the table, scooping her up into my hooves, trying to comfort her.

I wish I could tell her it would be all right. That it would get better. But the only problem is, I don’t know if it will be all right, or if it will get better. So how can I tell her that?

“Rarity?” she asks through broken sobs.

“Yes, Sweetie Belle?” I say, running a hoof along her mane.

“I don’t know what to do!” she cries, clenching onto me.

“Neither do I, but I’ll tell you what,” I pause to pull her away far enough so that we can see each others eyes, “We’re going to get through this, okay?” She nods. “Okay,” I manage to say, in a voice barely louder than a whisper.

We must get through this. We must.