What My Cutie Mark is Telling Me

Pinkamena Diane Pie was different, she had known that for a while, her father Clyde Pie was dull copper. Her mother Sue and her sisters Blinkie and Inkie were shades of gray. But Pinkamena was different, she was pink. Granny Pie had told her she was special. She told her she was meant for great things, but Pinkamena didn’t feel special.

The rock farm was a ways away from Vanhoover. It was cold and nothing wanted to grow. Her family cultivated rocks for their income. Often one could ask what they were used for, but the Pies knew their many uses and so did their clients.

Her parents and sisters were content with their lives. Stock, rotate, harvest, sell, stock, this process was repeated on and on as far back as she could remember. Upon wishing to play with her sisters they would merely shrug, murmuring something about being too tired.

Unlike her family, she wasn’t content. She didn’t like the unsatisfying work that came from rocks. The rocks were so dull and dead. They didn’t grow or change, they remained unyielding, always gray,always the same- rather like her family.But she loved her family, she really did. Sure, at times they were strict and grumpy, but family was family.

One day, out of boredom when the rock rotating had been done, she wandered off into the nearby forest. Now, this forest wasn’t like those big green forests. It had thin gray trunks and dying leaves all-year round. When she had been even younger Granny Pie had told her of living, healthy trees. She’d say they were the most vibrant greens and grew the most delicious apples. Apples of all colors; red, green, yellow, they must have been such dazzling sights. She never got to see green, and the only yellow was the sun. She would see red when she cut herself on the sharp rocks though. But she liked red. Red was apples, red was life, red was not gray.

She smiled in the breeze, walking deeper into the dry forest. Her blue eyes scanning the gray, until they came upon a splash of color. She slowly walked towards it, a small, thin tree was growing there. Small green leaves stuck out, with a few dying leaves around it, and hanging in the center was a pink bloom. Hungrily, she stared at the tree, absorbing its tiny green leaves, and pink little flower. The tree was small and weak, many dried blossoms lay upon the floor. ‘It’s dying,’ she thought. Her eyes widened. She’d been smiling, thought she only noticed when she felt a frown creep back into her face.‘I can’t let it die,’ Pinkamena thought. Remembering an old spring nearby, she quickly trotted off.

Upon arriving, she found that it was still frozen over from last winter. Grabbing a stick in her mouth she began chipping at the ice until a steady stream replaced the ice. She put her mouth to the stream and held the icy water in her cheeks to their capacity. Pinkamena ran back to the tree and spat the water onto it. She did this several more times until the earth around it was completely moist.

She caught herself smiling at the little tree again, when a crow cawed in the distance. Looking up, she saw the sun was setting. “Ah’ll be back later.” she said and trotted off.

The next day a storm from Vanhoover kept the Pies inside all day. Her father and mother spoke of business, while her sisters played with their rock collections. Pinkamena pushed a chair to the window, her short, chubby legs too small to give her any visibility outside. “Pa, do yah think the storm is gonna get worse?” She asked her father, turning to him.

Her father looked at her, confused, “Ah don’t know, Pinkamena. But it don’t matter none, the rocks can take it.” He said giving her a reassuring look. She smiled back and looked back out to the brambly trees in the distance.

The next day the fields were too muddy to work and their parents had given the girls the day to play.

“Pinkamena, do ya wanna go looking for rocks?” Blinkie asked.

“Yeah, the storm could have brought some cool new ones!” Inkie agreed.

“Uhm... I think I’ll walk around, girls.” She answered, though her sisters’ smiles deflated. “But I’ll keep an eye out for any good ones.” Her sisters smiled back and trotted off into one of the fields.

She walked up to her mother, who sat knitting a gray scarf near the door. “Ma, do we have a watering pail?” Pinkamena asked.

Sue looked at her, confused. “No dear we don’t. Don’t have any use for one. Why?”

“Oh, no reason,” Pinkamena simpered meekly and trotted off to the trees. When she arrived at the tree she gasped in horror. It had been uprooted and laid on the floor. With her little hooves she began digging a hole and gently placed the tree in, filling it with dirt afterwards. But the little tree still wilted. Looking around she found a tall branch. With all the might her little body had she dragged it to the tree. After several exhausting minutes she was able to place the branch as a support. She smiled, and went to the stream again to fetch water for the little tree. After finishing, she sat down in front of it and admired it again.

The leaves were as green as last time, with the small pink blossom holding on tight to a scrawny branch. “It sure is hard work, but it’s worth it.” She beamed.

And so this continued for several months. Pinkamena would sneak off to the forest when done with her chores and would take care of her little tree. Each time, more green leaves appeared and the little tree grew stronger. Only the one blossom grew, but each time she visited, it was more beautiful and vibrant. At the end of the watering and any other miscellaneous works she would stare at the tree. The tree had become an indulgence to her, with its bright living colors in a desert of gray. Each and every time, her eyes gazed at the hues of green, the sturdy brown trunk and the ever-beautiful pink blossom. She loved this tree. It was her little secret, her sin. Life amongst the dead.

And so time continued with the young filly, her tree ever growing and life never changing. In time her sisters gained their cutie marks, related to rocks of course. But little Pinkamena couldn’t get hers. At times she would complain to her mother, but she would smile and say, “Don’t worry, in time you too shall have a rock of sorts upon your flank.”

At night, while her sisters slept, she would ponder her mother’s words. She tried imagining a stone on her flank, but she couldn’t, even with all the imagination Granny Pie had told her she had. ‘A rock cutie mark...’ Her heart felt heavy for some reason thinking about it. ‘I don’t think I want a rock cutie mark...’ She felt a pang of guilt, how not to want to have one? It was her family’s business, they all had one,Ma, Pa, her sisters, even Granny Pie. ‘But ah don’t want one!’ she screamed in her head. Upset with herself, her mind drifted to her tree.

It was still small, barely taller than her. She smiled at the thought of its green leaves compared to the gray all around. She thought of the pink blossom, the only one, so pretty and filled with expectancy. ‘I wonder what kind of tree it is?’ She asked herself. She couldn’t figure it out. She had never seen another like it and and none of the books at home spoke of trees. But still, she continued to care for it. Finally lulling herself to sleep with thought of what the fruit would be.

Winter came again, as brutal as ever, but Pinkamena kept visiting her tree. The leaves were not as green, nor the blossom as pink, but with her help they prevailed to the end. Spring was a few weeks away after she heard her father mock something called Winter Wrap-Up. He said it was some foolish thing they were doing in the south, instead of using magic, like Vanhoover did.

Pinkamina didn’t agree though. She smiled, thinking of her little tree, it must be beautiful being part of bringing new life, waking critters and and planting seeds. ‘PLANTING!’, she thought ‘how fun!’ Often, Pinkamena had thought of trying to grow more trees, but she had no seeds, and to ask her father would be suicidal. She had remembered the last time she had been foolish enough to mention growing nature to her father. It had been several months ago:

“Pa, why do we farm rocks?” She had asked at dinner.

Her father looked at her. “Pinkamena, you know why, we sell them for uses like- ” But he was cut off.

“No, I don’t mean that. I mean why rocks? Why not plants, like flowers or trees?”

Her parents looked at her like she had just said a foul word.

“Why grow plants, that’s so boring. Rocks are better”, her sisters said in unison.

Her father cleared his throat. “Pinkamena, the Pies have a rich history of being rock farmers, why would we throw it all away?” he said bluntly.

“I don’t know... I guess you’re right...” She frowned.

It was a memory Pinkamena did not like. That day she had felt so isolated. Never had she felt so distant from her family. Never again did she mention trees, instead keeping her little indulgence to her self.

Pinkie awoke the following day to the sun in her face. After a breakfast of plain oatmeal, she and her sisters headed outside to rotate the rocks again. This lasted until late afternoon, and by then Pinkamena was too tired to move. But she had to go water her tree. Her tired muscles groaned when she got up.

“Ah’m gonna walk,” she told her sisters and left towards the trees.

By then she had acquired a bucket for the water instead of carrying it by the mouthful. The last rays of Celestia’s sun cast a shadow upon the tree as Pinkamena indulged on its colors. She looked at the blossom when she noticed a round bulge forming from it.

Though the bulge was small, she recognized it. Granny Pie had brought this for her when she came back from one of her trips to Vanhoover, an apple. Pinkamina stared at the young fruit with bewildered joy. Yes, the fruit was green and unripe, but nonetheless it was there. Pinkamena could not stop smiling, this was the largest smile she could ever remember having. She could not wait to see it ripen. Gently, she touched the little bulge with her hoof, feeling bliss. After several minutes more she adjusted the tree’s support and left.

Each day she visited her tree, and just like the apple, she felt herself growing. Many a time her family would question her whereabouts, but she would nervously dismiss them. Pinkamena felt bad lying to her family, but she had no other choice.

Slowly spring came, the birds flew by more often and the apple began to show shades of red. But along with the apple, her father’s suspicions grew as well.

“Pinkamena, where do you go all the time?” her father would ask.

“Just walking around seems boring, that’s not like you,” her sisters would say.

One day, after Pinkamena had come back from preening the tree by hoof, a leaf fell out of her mane at dinner.

“Where did you get that leaf?” her mother asked.

“Oh um...I fell, it must have flown from one of the trees,” Pinkamena stuttered.

Her father looked at her. “All the trees around here don’t have leaves, it can’t be from them.”

“O-oh well...I don’t know then...he...he. Um...Mother, may I have some more hay casserole?” She said.

Her family looked at her suspiciously, but her sisters began talking about their rock collection, and Pinkamena’s leaf was dropped.

It was in the middle of the spring when the apple had fully ripened. She had snuck away from the middle of her chores to come look at it. It was big and red, as big as a saucer. She sat there looking at it, her heart filled with pride. She stared at it until she could only see red in her mind. Its beautiful greens and red, the sweet smell. The feeling of life that surrounded it. An oasis in a desert.

But looking at it she felt sad. “Now what?”

Did she just eat it? Hide it till it rots? Tell her family the truth? No she couldn’t tell them, her father would be mad, a rock farmer growing apples. She looked at her little tree, with bittersweet emotion. This would be the only apple, even with her little knowledge of agriculture she knew the tree was stunted. After a time the tree would grow no longer, no more blossoms would come back. The trunk was rubbery and would always need a support. She understood, it had been a miracle it had even grown at all. A miracle that an apple bloomed, as if it’s destiny had been magically changed. But it didn’t matter, this tree has given her so much. She reached to touch the trunk, but heard a squelch of mud from behind. Immediately she turned around.

Her family stood there. Their eyes shifted from her to the tree. Pinkamina stood in front of her tree unable to speak.

“Pinkamena, what is this?” Her father said bluntly.

“I-it’s an a-apple tree...” She whimpered.

“Pinkamena, did you grow it?” he said without emotion.

She couldn’t answer him, she was too afraid.

“Answer me, Pinkamena.”

“Yes,” she said, lowering her head.

“Pinkamina, we are rock farmers. It would have been one thing if it was something else like horseshoe making or-or something else...but apples... You betray the rock farm!” He said, his voice icy. His words cut her like a sharpened knife and sapped her of hope.

She looked at her mother and sisters, they didn't look at her. Her father walked to the tree and, with a swift buck, broke the support. The tree wilted. Pinkamina tried reaching her father, but her mother grabbed her and pulled her to her chest. Her sisters hid behind her. Her father continued to step on the tree, as tears fell down her cheeks, dampening her fur. Eventually she sunk her head into her mother’s chest, only to hear the crunching of wood and squish of mud.

Finally her mother released her and Pinkamena turned to the tree. Broken branches and dirty leaves lay everywhere. There vibrant colors fading even now, covered in the gray mud. And in the center lay the apple, bruised and covered in the dull muck. With shaky hooves she gingerly picked it up. and rubbed part of the mud on her fur. The apple shined from behind. She looked at her father, silent tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Pinkamena, it was for your own good.” he said, panting lightly.

“Dear, we did this ‘cause we love ya,” her mother agreed with a weak smile.

Her eyebrows furrowed and she clenched her teeth. “T-this is what love is?” She gasped. “This is love?! No, it’s not!” Tears poured more heavily and she began to rub the mud off the apple furiously.

“Don’t you raise your voice at me young mare,” her father said.

“No! I loved this tree! It was the only good thing here! I hate farming rocks! Hate it!” she screamed, tears not falling continuously. “Ma, Pa, sisters...Ah love ya, but I don’t want to do this all my life. Growing this tree was the best thing to happen to me! I loved that apple tree!”

Suddenly she felt a sensation on her flanks and a small flash from the back of her eyes. Her parents stared at her, wide-eyed, her father like she was toxic. She turned around to see her flank. Upon it was a trio of red apples.

“You. Are. Grounded!” he yelled.

Pinkamena had never been grounded. She was always good filly. She had never yelled at her parents or gone against them. She didn’t do it because they were family and family loved one another. But she had yelled at them. She had been rebellious.

“No, Pa, you can’t. Ah did nothing wrong,” she said, hurt.

“Pinkamena Diane Pie! I am your father, you will obey me,” he said.

“A father lets his little filly find her own talent, not force her to get a dumb rock. This is my free will. Destiny chose this for me, this was meant to happen!”

“You better stop now...” He said.

“Clyde, maybe you should let her-” Sue began but was interrupted by him.

“No. No daughter of mine will be like this.”

“Then ah WON’T be your daughter!” She froze at what she had just said. Pinkie gasped at her own words. But it was too late to take it back.

Inkie and Blinkie stood wide-eyed behind their mother. “Is that how its going to be? I knew I should have kept you away from Granny Pie, she gave all these wild ideas.”

She loved pa, but she loved Granny too. She had always told her to giggle at the ghosties, to be herself. So yes she did give her these ideas, but no they were not bad.

“Granny Pie loved me! She treated me like myself, not like another rock farmer!” Pinkamena cried. “If that’s how you feel pa, A-Ah don’t think ah want to live here.”

“Fine! Leave, but I’ll be waiting for you to came back, begging for forgiveness.” He roared.

Pinkamena held on to her apple and ran to her home. She ran to her room and opened up a suitcase, beginning to pack her few possessions immediately. She heard the door open. There was yelling downstairs, but Pinkamena ignored it. She finished packing her few things along with the apple. Pinkamina shattered her piggy bank and put her few bits in a small bag around her neck.

Case in mouth, she trotted downstairs. Her mother and sisters stood together looking sad. Her father separated, with an angry face. She looked straight to the door and marched to it.

“Pinkamena, don’t leave,” Blinkie said, her other sister nodding in agreement.

“Inkaline, Blinkany, let her be. She chose this,” their father said.

Pinkamena walked faster, looking at her mother for the last time. She was silently crying. Pinkamena gave her a sad smile and walked out. Closing the door for the last time.

She began running as fast as she could. Past the house, past the farm gate, past the dead trees. When she was a ways away she stopped, gasping for breath. Releasing her case, she fell to the floor and sobbed. Looking to her flanks, she looked at the apples now residing there. She felt a great warmth in her chest. Again, she stood, grabbed her case, and began walking towards Vanhoover.