No matter what her mother said, Jitterbug wasn’t about to go digging in the garden. Of all the chores she had to do, working in the garden was the worst. The dirt was dirty, there were slugs and other gross, icky things lurking under every leaf, and there was a smell. Something about the smell of the garden on a hot summer day was just unpleasant and nasty. The smell of hot vegetation wasn’t too bad, but when combined with the stench of dung and hot earth—blech!
Even worse, if she worked in the garden, there was the ever-so-dreadful risk of getting a cutie mark related to gardening, garden-work, or farming, which would be the most awfulest of all awful things ever, and then she’d be stuck with a lifetime of boredom and grossness. At night, Princess Luna brought the most awful dreams of the most awful cutie marks, things like hoes, spades, shovels, trowels, and other grotesque gardening gear.
Moving with as much stealth as possible, the little pigtailed filly crept into the kitchen, her pigtails bobbing, and her face was scrunched into an intense scowl of concentration as she planned her clever heist. Tilting her head back, she looked up, hoping to catch a glimpse of what she was after. Atop the tallest tower of the gleaming white mighty fortress of the Mighty Land of Kitchen, there was a priceless treasure: a cookie jar in the shape of a crowing rooster was up on top of the fridge, kept out of her reach.
It just wasn’t fair!
But today she was going to be triumphant, because she had something that her mother, Junebug, didn’t have. Jitterbug had magic, if only she could just coax a little bit of extra oomph from out of her stubby horn. Getting the cookie jar down was quite a challenge, but getting it down without shattering it on the floor was the Epic Quest of Epicness of Epic Proportions. Or something. A devious smile appeared upon the pigtailed filly’s face when she realised that she was thinking comic-book thoughts again.
Forgetting that she was supposed to be stealthy, she began humming to herself, and then burst out into song, singing the sort of music that her mother had forbade her to listen to. The good kind of music, awesome music, the most awesomest of awesomosity—music that was made of Rainbow Dash grades of awesomeness.
“When I see what I want, I'm going to take it… if it's against some law you can bet I'll break it! My need to feed gives me the will to survive… I gotta find it fast… to keep me alive!”
The sudden burst of good mood proved beneficial, and the magic came easy. She felt it, welling up inside of her, a great and wonderful sensation of ticklish glee. A shower of glittery sparks burst from the tip of her stubby, chubby horn and dazzled her eyes, making it difficult to see. But this didn’t stop her, no, she persisted and maintained her concentration, even going as far as sticking out her tongue to aid her in her task.
Summoning a bubble of magic, she willed it to float up to the very top of the shiny white tower where her much-wanted treasure was held captive and protected by the mighty stompy giantess. The glittery blobby bubble of light paused for a moment, not wanting to go higher, and Jitterbug was forced to wonder if it was afraid of heights. Well, if it was, it was just going to have to get over it, because she needed rations to go on her adventure. Straining, she willed it to go higher, but her magic was strongest when it was closest and became weaker as it moved further away.
Distance was the enemy and Jitterbug fought a mighty battle to keep her magic flowing as it went up and up and up. Near the top of the fridge, it began to flicker a bit, and her horn had a most peculiar sensation of weight pressing down on it, making it feel that it might get pushed into her brain. Or something. It was unpleasant and made her think scary thoughts, all while giving her the unwanted sensation of having bubble-guts. Having bubble-guts was the worst because it felt as though your innards would go squirting out. Ew.
Never before had she made her magic manifest so far away. Squinting, her tail twitching, Jitterbug began tapping her right rear hoof against the scuffed wooden floor. A sensation that was very much like brain freeze threatened to overwhelm her, but she persisted in her efforts even with the new pain that appeared behind her eyes. When she ‘felt’ the rooster cookie jar, a surge of renewal shot through her body, and she somehow found the strength to keep going.
She almost lowered the cookie jar, but realised just how stupid that was. Almost biting down on her tongue, she pulled the lid from the rooster cookie jar and began to feel around inside. There were cookies in there, plenty of them, so she grabbed them. There was a loud clunk when the lid fell back into place, but much to her relief, the cookie jar did not shatter or break as she had feared that it might.
Five cookies floated down, five enormous cookies because her mother, a stocky earth pony, detested small cookies. Or small anything, really, when it came to food, and was always going on and on about substantial meals. Everything on the plate had to be eaten, no matter what, and not one scrap of food could be wasted. Those were the rules.
No matter how much Jitterbug ate, she could not stop being scrawny, much to her mother’s eternal dismay. Jitterbug wondered if it was because she was so, well, jittery. It was impossible to sit still, or to behave, or to walk in a reasonable manner. Sitting still was just so boring and it was so much more fun to dance.
With a gasp of relief, she set the cookies down upon the counter beside the fridge and with her magic bubble of trouble still thrumming, she pulled open the drawer beside the fridge. In the drawer were the brown paper bags that her mother used to pack lunch in, and after a bit of feeling around in the drawer, she pulled out a single bag. Once more, she lifted up her haul of hard-won cookies, stuffed them into the bag, and licked her lips in anticipation of what was sure to be a wonderful lunch.
Humming to herself, her tongue now inside of her mouth once more, she pulled open the fridge to find more food. In the bottom, in a bin, there were apples of all colours and sizes. What she wanted wasn’t visible, so she had to dig around until she spotted a bit of green. Gasping, she hauled the fat green apple out and began to drool when she thought about how sour it would be. Her mother didn’t like sour apples, but Jitterbug sure did. According to her mother, sour apples were only fit to be eaten in pies, with lots of sugar and cinnamon.
Her mother, Junebug, had a right to be wrong.
The humming, overly-excited filly also grabbed two big, fat carrots and then slammed the refrigerator door shut. Her fine collection of produce was stuffed into the brown paper sack with her cookies and she set this down on the floor so that she could rest her horn. There was still more work to do however, more tasks that had to be accomplished. Little Jitterbug was a filly in need of weapons, and her mother kept taking them away, which was so rude.
Hanging on a hook that stuck out from the white plaster wall was her weapon, her trusty spatula with the worn wooden handle. It was big, it was long, it was metal, and she had made a few kills with it already. Of course, her mother was quite disgusted by all of this, and wanted her to cut that right out, but Jitterbug refused to listen. There were gross things that just had to be smooshed with the big, heavy metal spatula. It was a fantastic, fearsome weapon, and it was a real pity that Jitterbug’s mother just couldn’t see it that way.
Reaching out with her magic, she claimed her weapon and held it aloft over her head. For a moment, it was almost as if she could hear strange music playing, but that was probably just her overactive imagination. Now armed with her trusty weapon, she needed her shield, and that was easy enough to get. Opening the cabinet door with her hoof, she crawled inside where the pots and pans were stored. Pushed up against the back was her mother’s enormous stock pot, a cooking vessel so big that Jitterbug could be boiled alive inside of it. Thankfully, her mother didn’t use it to cook boisterous fillies, which was a relief. The massive pot was used when her mother canned stuff from the garden so that they would have food for the winter.
Grinning, she plucked the shiny steel lid from the pot, and this magically transformed into her trusty shield. Her mother would protest, but a filly needed her shield when leaving home to go on an adventure, and her mother would just have to get over it. Now that she had what she needed, she backed out of the dark, dusty cupboard space and into the well-lighted kitchen.
Equipped with spatula and shield, Jitterbug felt ready enough to take on anything. One day, she was going to be a mighty hero, like Twilight Sparkle, or Rainbow Dash, or maybe even like Mister Teapot, but her mother had forbidden her from speaking to Mister Teapot, so she could not listen to his wonderful stories of glory. Getting caught listening was pretty horrific, because it usually got her grounded to her room or even worse, sent to bed early without dessert, which was pretty much the worst possible thing that could ever happen. Even worse, her mother would go chasing after the marvellous Mister Teapot and lecture him almost to death.
Being an adventurer had to be tough, because one had to deal with irate mothers.
In the garden, sitting among the tomato plants, Jitterbug saw her mother. With luck, she might be able to slip away without her mother’s notice. Strapped to her side was her schoolbag, which was heavy but reassuring, and inside of it was her lunch. Her spatula was slipped through her strap and her shield was secured on with a loop.
The hosepipe was on, because a tell-tale stream of water went spurting out of the faucet where it was connected. There was a bluejay atop the outhouse, saying whatever it was that bluejays had to say, and a few butterflies fluttered in and about the garden. Jitterbug slipped down the back steps, moving with slow caution, and eyeballed the rear gate.
For some reason, the filly had forgotten that she could slip out the front door unnoticed.
Adventure lay beyond the gate and Jitterbug would not be deterred. In near-silence, she slipped down the creaky wooden stairs, avoided the treacherous flagstone that wobbled but had never been fixed, and then crept along the path to the gate. Remembering that the gate needed oiling and had a bit of a squeal to it, Jitterbug opened it up just enough to squeeze out without it telling on her. Grinning with glee, she slipped away for a grand day out with her mother none the wiser.