Tender Rows was careful not to catch a thorn as she pulled back the branches of the bush to reveal a tiny, new rose bud. The twirled lips were still very tight but the color had developed from a yellowed green to a poached pink. Careful to mind the thorny stem, Tender used a pair of shears to clip away the slightly curled, brown edged leaves encroaching upon the new life. Accustomed to the work, the mare expertly snipped away the dying and dead to make room for the young in moments and without being pricked or pierced by the sharp defenses of the plant. Most of the roses of this bush were incarnadine and blooming vibrantly despite the cold.
Winter had fallen early this year and the mare chided herself for not buying that new, warm coat she had looked upon while visiting Ponyville not long ago. It was lined with a soft fur that would surely hold in the heat better than her old, stitched flannel. Not only that, it had never known an owner and was marked down due to a minor tailoring mistake, or, at least, that’s what it had said. Tender had looked the garment over several times but had found nothing resembling a flaw but decided against purchasing the peach-colored coat due to the strict budget she had made for herself. It wasn’t feasible to spend so many bits on one item despite how pretty or warm it may be. Her flannels had another year or two left if she was careful and avoided thorns.
A wailing caught her attention and she turned to watch a family huddling together and saying soft, soothing consolations as they pressed together around a grave and simpered. Preacher Solace Spirit was presiding over the burial and had finished his sermon already. He now stood a few feet away from the group as they said their goodbyes and began to depart one by one. Some paused to commend the preacher for his services before they began their trek from the graveside back towards Ponyville while others herded together in defense of the cold or simply to give comfort with their proximity to their grieving kin.
Tender watched from the rose bush she had been pruning and postulated. She had seen many funerals during her time as caretaker of the Ponyville Memorial Gardens and it seemed to her that the grieving could be broken down into three categories.
The elderly. Many of the older ponies were leaving together and were bleakly quiet. They grieved the hardest and she had come to realize. Probably because death reminded them that their time in Equestria was running out.
The young. Several young colts and fillies chased one another playfully and it brought a smile to Tender’s lips. It hadn’t been long ago that she, herself, was a filly and it always touched her to see those with many grains of sand in their hourglasses frolicking and using their energy for themselves instead of others. These ponies were resilient and usually had a limited understanding of what was happening: Grandpa was going to a better place, Grandma wasn’t sick anymore, or Auntie was finally getting to rest. They grieved the least.
Finally, ponies who were in their prime. They grieved the most pure as their tears flowed from genuine pain of loss and not the lack of clarity about death or the fear of impending doom. Tender Rows felt for those whose pain was so pronounced. She wished to give them comfort in some way but had no voice to give it. She simply lowered her head in respect when they walked past.
A small filly with poofy orange curls like cheese doodles skipped up beside Tender and smiled. The filly wore thick, rectangular glasses and stood close to the rose bush Tender had been working on. Squinting her eyes, the filly searched the blooms intently for what seemed like a very long time before exclaiming, “Oh! They are roses!” and jerking her head to engage Tender.
Tender smiled softly and her brow scrunched slightly at the filly. Her lenses were thicker than most window panes and appeared to be shaped into a deep oval. She realized the young pony’s eyesight must be very poor. Tender nodded timidly.
“They are so pretty. Do you think I could have one?” the filly asked. Tender looked to the flowers; there were many on this bush and it was thriving. It was one of a multitude of bushes that lined the inside of the tall iron fence surrounding the cemetery. She didn’t suppose letting the filly have one would hurt anything.
Tender Rows took her shears firmly into her mouth and used her hooves to alienate a bright, red-pink rose in the prime of its life and snipped the stem in one quick, sharp motion. Using the shears once more, Tender removed the thorns from the stem and, after replacing the shears in their pouch, held the flower to the spectacled filly.
“Oh!!! I’ll make sure to give it a drink of water and press it in a book when the time comes!” The filly swooned while bringing the flower so close to her glasses that they practically touched. Tender nodded and patted the thick, squirrely mane of the filly.
“What do we say, Chrysanthemum?” A pallid blue mare asked the filly as she moved towards the pair with the preacher following closely.
The filly, Chrysanthemum, looked up to Tender, her spectacles making her yellow eyes appear twice as large as they actually were. There was joy there, Tender noticed, mixed with pain.
“Oh! Thank you, … uh” Chrysanthemum stumbled over the words, realizing she was talking to a stranger. “What’s your name, miss?” she asked.
Tender frowned and shook her head, locks of blonde mane haloed her head and bounced playfully from the motion.
“You don’t … have a name?” The filly’s face screwed up with confusion and her eyes squinted as if she had not understood what she had seen.
“Her name is Tender Rows, young filly,” the tall, late middle aged preacher answered for Tender. “She’s the caretaker of the graveyard. She has many responsibilities around here such as taking care of the flowers and cleaning up the graves. She does a wonderful job too. Ponyville is lucky to have such a dedicated worker living on site. Unfortunately, Tender is mute.”
“Mute?” The filly gave a strange look and said the word to herself again as if repeating it may discern the meaning.
“It means she can’t talk, young filly.”
Tender smiled weakly when her disability was brought up. She was grateful preacher Solace had spoken for her because she always felt so awkward trying to convey that she couldn’t speak on her own. Her cheeks felt hot and she looked away from the filly’s stare.
“That must be really hard.”
“Chrys!” Chrysanthemum’s mother started, her eyes flickering from her daughter to Tender Rows. “I… I’m sorry, Miss Tender. She sometimes says things without thinking.”
The heat blanching Tender’s cheeks spread under her eyes and down towards her embarrassed smile. She shook her head quickly and waved away the apology with one foreleg.
“I’m sorry, Miss Tender. Thank you for the flower. I promise I’ll take care of it.”
“Chrys, let’s go say goodbye to grandpa. Everyone else is on their way home and it’s about to get dark. Thank you, reverend. Miss Tender,” Chrys’ mother led the girl away. Chrysanthemum stopped to look back, squinting heavily, and waved the reverend and Tender Rows goodbye before trotting to catch up with her mother at the grave.
“There’s a good gal,” Solace Spirit commented and watched the ponies kneel at the grave. The grieving ponies soon stood up and began the trek to Ponyville. “Much too young to understand what death truly is. She’s a sweet one.”
A pair of gravediggers appeared from a small shack to the northwest of the cemetery. Both were stallions with thick, squat bodies and they carried shovels which were spotted with rust and nicked and dented from use. One had a large crack running halfway through the spade. They pulled a thick, blue tarp from a large heap of dirt near the grave and began shoveling it into the open grave. Each shovelfull made a clattering noise that irked Tender Rows. She had always hated that sound. It signified the end of life to her.
“I meant what I said about your work ethic, Miss Rows. I’ve never seen a more beautiful resting place than this. The Gardens are breathtaking as usual and I can’t help but wonder how you can keep the flowers growing year round. You are a far better horticulturist than I ever was. That cultivator cutie mark is well deserved I believe.” The preacher watched the gravediggers hard at work and shifted uncomfortably. Tender made a pained, sorrowful expression to Solace. “Oh, it’s nothing. Just some old injury from my younger days.”
Tender shrugged lightly at the tall stallion and smiled softly. The pink evening light spread across her orange coat, making her appear several shades darker. A chill wind whipped across the cemetery and all four of the remaining ponies shivered.
“I looked in your supply shed and it appears that the tools of your trade are in ill-repair. Just look at those shovels. If those two aren’t lucky they will be filling the grave with their hooves before the job is done. I will ask Mayor Mare again to purchase new tools. Not just shovels, but all of them. It seems nearly every gardening implement you have has fallen into disrepair. The wood chipper has especially seen better days.”
Another shrug, this one sharper. Tender smiled at the preacher. He always complimented the gardens even though it was no big deal for her to keep the flowers alive. Keeping the rose bushes growing wasn’t even her primary job; it was just something she was talented with.
“I know you get by with inferior, old tools but you really need more. You need more too, Miss Rows. You deserve more. I know the budget barely keeps you fed up here.” The preacher cast a worried glance to the orange mare who simply smiled sweetly in reply. “I don’t think Ponyville understands the importance of a good caretaker. I believe some of those tools were the ones I used back when it was my duty. I’ll talk to Mayor Mare.”
Solace began to walk away just as snow began to silently fall. He sported a pronounced limp.“First snow of the year,” he grinned. Tender smirked and watched the snow float before her. It was dainty and delightful. She had read somewhere that water meant rebirth and it tickled her to think that Chrys’ grandfather may be on his way to a new life. His spirit may be free, leaving only his body to remain in the cold ground of her graveyard.
The preacher was walking away but stopped and looked back. He cast a nervous eye to the grave, now nearly filled, and then back to Tender. “Maybe someday ponies will understand the peace our kind give their loved ones who come to rest here. Maybe, in time, they will learn to appreciate our duty a little more forthcoming. I’m certain you have work to do, my dear. You’ll have a new Rose this night, I do believe. In your cabin you will find a small donation to your cause. From one old caretaker to another.”
Tender waved a hoof to the preacher and watched his shape as he headed toward town. He was right, there was still work to do. She needed to prepare her gardening essentials.
The gravediggers had finished their job just as the last of the evening light died, crashing into the distant mountains. Another day was over, another life had ended and now there was only the dark. Tender Rows sat at her meager table and sipped from a bowl of hot carrot soup. She had made it a little too spicy, but the spice would help her stay awake.
It was imperative that she stay awake. It was Caretakers Association guideline number one: always sit up with the dead on burial night.
The shack was small with only a restroom and one other in which all of her pots, pans, furniture, and utensils must vye for space. At any point she was only a few steps from her bed, the bathroom, or anything she may need. A pot belly stove glowed in one corner, radiating heat and keeping the rest of her soup hot. On this cold night she would need to keep feeding the stove wood every few hours to keep the temperature high enough for comfort. She would let it cool off some however, she didn’t want to be too comfortable and fall asleep.
A noise caught in Tender’s ear and she moved to the only window of the shack. Snow was still falling and had covered the ground with what looked like a couple inches of cotton. She narrowed her eyes to get a better look and nodded to herself. The snow wasn’t powdery at all and piled in wet, thick heaps; snow that crunched.
Tender returned to her steaming bowl of soup and let the rich, carroty flavor envelop her tongue. On the table was a stack of bits. It was the donation the preacher had spoken of. She wished he hadn’t given her this money and resolved herself to give it back the next they met. She was used to seeing him at least once a week. Ponyville was small but death still stalked its streets. Time stopped for nopony and those whose time had run out found themselves in her cemetery.
The stove pumped wood-fueled heat and Tender became lulled by its embrace. She closed her eyes and let herself think. She had found it difficult to keep a job without being able to converse effectively. She had tried dozens of jobs but had failed at nearly all of them, not from lack of skill, but because almost all positions required one to talk: waiting tables, running a register, the newspaper, even local government positions had terminated her employment due to her disability.
Solace Spirit, however, had given her a job that required very little conversation. She simply had to prune the roses and keep the Memorial Gardens in order. She chuckled soundlessly to herself and grinned to the ceiling. Keep the roses pruned. If she had any idea what that meant when she accepted the position and swore her oath of silence, which the irony of caused another breathy chuckle to escape her throat, to the Caretakers Association.
Still, she had a home and a purpose. She served a cause and it filled her with pride. This mute pony who couldn’t keep a simple cashier position had found something she could do after all. A wispy smile floated across her cheeks and a deep sigh escaped from her chest. She was happy to work in the Memorial Gardens.
A sound snapped Tender from her thoughts and she moved to the window again. The Gardens was a plane of bright moonlight because of the snow. Dark gray headstones stuck out like lifeless tongues. The blooming roses were now salted with snow and glittered in the darkness.
How surreal, she thought, The world outside has become monochromatic and how strikingly different those colors are. If only everything were so black and white.
Everything the snow touched was illuminated, almost glowing white while the sky and those still hidden from the thick, bright flakes were the color of onyx or close to it.
Life and death. And those caught in the middle.
Something moved at the corner of her eye and Tender reached for her cultivator. The long, wooden hafted tool hung on the wall by three steel, rounded spikes used for digging. The gardening implement was ancient and rust-pocked. The dark oak haft marred with deep cracks, it was a wonder the device hadn’t completely broken. Wrapped, yellowed tape supported the tool in several locations and one of the rib-like claws on the head was bent at an odd angle.
Caretakers Association guideline number two said: Always take the utmost care of your tools. That was an important tenet but, funding as it was in such a small town, Tender Rows could only keep basic maintenance on the ancient instruments. She retrieved the tool without breaking eye-contact with the outside. Time for some gardening.
Tender threw her patched flannel coat about her lithe frame and opened the door to her shack. A blast of frozen wind threw its weight against the door and the mare had to put some shoulder behind it to enter the cold night.
Her warm breath danced visibly as her lungs puffed quickly from the icy touch of winter. Snow continued to fall in wide, cotton ball flakes that accumulated beneath the mare. Already her hooves were buried deep in the gelid, clutching grip of the wet snow. It seemed to suck onto her hooves like mud and each step took more energy than she would like.
She needed to be fresh, weather had no real effect on a blooming Rose.
Crossing behind her shack, Tender moved into the Gardens primary set of graves. The Gardens were somewhat large and had many tracks of land waiting for future plot owners but the main portion held 20 rows of headstones arranged in a circular pattern around a brick path.
In the very center stood a marble statue of Luna, Princess of the Night, standing on hind legs and looking into the abyssal night. Tender moved to the statue and paused, sweeping her head in each direction before dipping her head into a bow, reciting the prayer of the Caretaker’s Association in her mind.
Our Lady, please look over us, your wayward children, and shield us from those who stalk the wonders of your night.
Tender lifted her head and turned from the statue. She made her way through the rows of rose bushes and came to the fresh grave of Chrysanthmum’s grandfather.. Soil was scattered across the new snow, blots of ink on the white parchments from the heavens. Piles of black soil looked as if it had erupted from the coffin below. A hole leading down to the shattered cover of the coffin, skewers of wood splintering up like wretched, jagged teeth from the pitch of the frozen grave. The rose has bloomed, she thought to herself and made a throaty grunt.
She could clearly see the shredded remains of the lid was marred with deep lacerations. Hooves or teeth, she could not be sure which had tore through the stalwart coffin or the locked, frozen soil but all Roses had thorns. She would need to be careful not to get caught by them.
Thankfully, the snow hadn’t completely covered the tracks from the open grave and she could make out the lumped and spiraling patterns of disturbed snow where the Rose had stumbled deeper into the graveyard.
The night was silent except for the crunching of her hooves in the snow. She followed the tracks towards the rear of the Memorial Gardens. Luckily the Rose was leading her towards the shed where many of her tools were stored. The disrupted trail was fresher here and Tender nodded to herself. The Rose was close. She wondered if it was searching for a way out of the graveyard. Did it have any intelligence left? It seemed that most Roses wandered aimlessly but sometimes, sometimes they followed some residual instinct or purpose.
The shed came into sight and Tender trotted up to it. She fumbled a key from her tool belt and used her mouth to open the padlock. The door opened with a scream of rusty hinges like the squawl of a cat at midnight. Inside was a variety of antique, damaged tools. Rakes, Pruning scissors, the shovels used by the gravediggers, a roll of tape so old that it drooped like an oval instead of a circle, a short hatchet that’s head wobbled on the handle, and, in the center of the room, the wood chipper.
Stained dark from sap and rust, the blades of the chipper remained sharp and edged. Tender had spent many hours filing away at the device’s hungry, toothed gullet. She stepped inside the shed and looked the machine over. The chipper had been her most potent tool and she made sure to keep its moving parts free of entropy’s clutches. The only problem was starting the thing. Sometimes it was stubborn.
Tender pressed down on a clear, rubberized bulb, priming the chipper. Gas inside the bulb fed into the carburetor to replace that which had certainly evaporated since its last use. It seemed to Tender that the chipper’s hunger for gas was nearly as voracious as its hunger for Roses. She then inspected the gasket holding the huge, heavy bag at the back. She couldn’t discern any tears or holes. The machine seemed ready and she flipped the start switch.
The machine sputtered and coughed but went silent. She tried again, flipping the on switch and, again, the machine wheezed. A few teeth rotated a half circle of their belt-fed revolution but that was all.
Drat!
The door to the shed howled and Tender spun, a black figure stood awkwardly at the mouth of the shed. Caretakers Association guideline three was to remain vigilant. She had gotten caught up with starting the chipper and forgot to watch her backside.
Featureless in the dark room and illuminated from behind, the thing jerked and twitched as if its limbs would not cooperate with the signals from its brain. The Rose moved unnaturally as it stepped into the shed with vicious, quick steps that faltered and then snapped like breaking bones. A rasping snarl tore from the thing and the shed filled with a rancid stench: embalming fluid and desiccated flesh.
Tender gagged and stepped back, bumping her rump against the back wall of the shed. She attempted to fight the shriek that escaped her throat soundlessly but failed. She hadn’t expected the Rose to be so close. It must have heard the shed door caterwauling or the failed starts of the wood chipper. She had hoped to attract the Rose but not before the chipper had started. She wasn’t ready yet and yet here she was, cornered by a Rose that she had, as of yet, remained ignorant to its abilities.
Taking the cultivator into her mouth, Tender jabbed the long wooden pole into the chest of the Rose. It fell back a step but swiped the tool away with one jerky motion. The mare slammed the head of the tool into the Rose again and felt something pop. Roses didn’t care about pain so if a rib or collarbone had cracked or even broken, it wouldn’t notice but, in the dimness of the shed, she hoped it wasn’t the ancient, splitting wood of the haft.
This time the Rose stumbled back and Tender pressed forward with all of her might, forcing the Rose out into the snow. The creature fell back onto its haunches and rolled to its back, vertebrae popping and crackling as it met the ground hard.
The Rose still looked fresh, morticians cosmetics hid the yellowing color of the rotting body. Its eyes bulged and bugged as they rolled in the sockets. The sclera appeared the color of rotten pumpkins and the pupils darted in different, uncoordinated ways as if each eye were alive and searching independent of the other. Tender had surmised that these things relied less on eyesight and more uniformly on their other senses. The Rose attempted to howl but green fluid roiled from within and splashed across the ivory snow in disgusting splotches.
Tender swiped a wide semicircle with the cultivator, the three prongs catching the Rose in the ribs. She felt the steel hooking and catching ribs within the monster. As long as they held, she could control the direction of the former pony as it squirmed and fought to stand again. Holding tight, Tender kept the Rose off-balance and unable to stand. She knew she needed to get the chipper running soon because the creature wouldn’t tire and would flail until it rotted whereas she would exhaust if she couldn’t dispatch it soon.
The rose erupted another gout of brackish, algae-like fluid from its mouth, spewing like a water cannon towards the mare. She tried to leap away but the prongs held tightly inside the creature and stunted her attempt. The sickening spew smeared across her body. Tender nearly vomited as the rank smell filled her nostrils as the vile liquid burned her skin. Despite the discomfort of the liquid, she retained hold of the pole.
The Rose twisted awkwardly. A crack like a firecracker echoed through the graveyard as the old, damaged haft bent and splintered halfway between Tender and the Rose. Tender rolled away and spit the broken pole to the ground. Her heart leapt and skipped a beat as cold fear gripped her. She needed a weapon or the corpse would be difficult to deal with.
Jumping to her hooves, Tender galloped towards the shed. The snow sucked at her hooves and she slipped just as the Rose lunged. The slip may have saved her as the creature’s gnashing teeth swept by her brow instead of into the taut muscles of her neck. She gasped and the creature pressed down upon her, limbs slashing at her from odd angles. The hooves of the Rose were ragged and sheared from pounding on the coffin and each time they found purchase on the mare they shredded through her flesh.
A silent scream tore from the mare and she struggled below the Rose as it flailed wildly. Many of the strikes missed completely but now and again a fresh wound opened on her shoulders or chest. Her flannel jacket ripped and began to pool with crimson. The broken pole of her cultivator jabbed out from the Rose and pressed down into her shoulder. It kept the biting head of the Rose away but also scraped and twisted into her muscle.
Getting her hooves under her, Tender rolled and sent the Rose crashing to the snowy ground. Her chest and shoulders burned like fire but the wounds were only superficial. They would bleed and ache but she would survive if she could block out the bubbling agony and find a weapon. Tender rolled to her haunches and dashed for the shed, slamming the door closed behind her as she entered.
Her eyes darted from tool to tool until they fell upon the hatchet. It was short and loose but, surely, it would last a few more good chops. She quickly grabbed the hatchet as the door buckled from the Rose slamming into the old, feeble wood. Once more, she flicked the starter switch on the woodchipper. It rumbled and spun for a moment before coughing out a soot cloud and falling silent.
The door crunched and crackled with each attack. Glancing trepidatiously, Tender could see cracks widening from the center in a broken spiral. A piece of plank flew across the room and rebounded off the wall. She could see the decaying body through the hole and a googly, ochre eyeball stared back for a moment before a vicious roar deafened the mare.
Tender slammed on the primer bulb and felt the gas squirting into the machine. Flipping the ignition switch again, the machine faltered once more. Tender would have cursed aloud had she the voice to do so.
The door bent inward and the cracks opened like seeping wounds. The flimsy door crashed inward and the Rose followed. Its legs were broken and sprouting shards of barbed bone through the putrid skin. Embalming fluid wept in streams from the ruined legs as it limped forward.
The Rose felt no pain, Tender knew, but the structural support of the bones, now erased, caused the legs to bend in unnatural ways and cleave the pony’s meat around the razor-like fragments of bone.
I’ve had enough of you! The mare thought to herself and pounced upon the creature with the hatchet. A throaty growl came from within the mare and she brought the small axe down upon the Rose again and again. Each blow bit deeply into the monster and rent flesh from bone and bone from socket. She aimed for the head and felt a sickening delight as the axe cleaved apart the skull within the elder pony’s reanimated corpse. The head came apart so easily and her stomach twisted. She felt splashes of blood, fluid, and brain but continued to attack even when the thing went suddenly still.
She gasped for air and stood over the Rose. What was left of the thing’s head was a mass of exploded meat and soured flesh. Pale fragments of bone jutted out at irregular angles and one eyeball hung languidly against its cheek. The creature was silent like the grave and Tender watched it for several seconds before dropping the gore-mired hatchet.
She turned once more to the woodchipper and leaned against it as her breath continued to lead her on a chase. She wiped absently with her foreleg to clear the muck and grime of the former pony from her face. Some of the mess had entered her mouth and she realized a sour, nasty taste filled her mouth. She felt her stomach contract and wretched up much of the carrot soup from earlier. She was suddenly very tired and wished for this night to be over.
She flicked the switch again and the chipper rumbled to life. The gaping maw of rotating teeth spun sadistically. Now you work… the mare thought to herself and silently cursed the machine’s fickleness. Once more the mare leaned on the machine and breathed deeply, filling her lungs with air thick with the disgusting smell of the Rose. She gagged again.
The machine was loud and angry, the sound filled the small shed and smothered all other noises to death. Tender didn’t hear the Rose struggling to stand up, or the stomach churning sounds of sucking wounds and tearing flesh as what was left of the Rose reached for the mare.
Time to finish… time to clean up the Gardens and get some sleep.
The mare turned and was grappled before she could process what had happened. She fell back against the whirling maw of teeth and stared with frightened eyes as the Rose bore down upon her. She was trapped between the Rose and the woodchipper. Propped up by the chipper, she struggled to get her hooves between the creature and herself. The mouth, now hanging agape with a pared jaw flopped uselessly against her neck. Had the bones held together, it would have torn chunks of her esophagus free but the axe had ruined the mandible. The haft of the broken cultivator flailed against the side of her head as the Rose squeezed against her.
The Rose growled and bubbles of phlegmy fluid leaked down the wagging tongue and onto the mare. She made sounds, not words but noises as air blasted from her chest. Her forelegs were pinned by the hanging, pressing appendages of the Rose. The thing shouldn’t have survived the trauma of the axe but here it was, dangling, destroyed parts still searching for the meat of the mare.
Caretaker’s Association guideline four filled her scared mind: All Roses are unique in their own way. What may dispatch one might not work on another. Total body destruction is the only way to be sure.
She couldn’t get her legs free and the thing was pushing her back and into the mouth of the chipper. She struggled but her exhausted body barely responded. The might of the undead was staggering due to their inability of self preservation. A Rose didn’t care if it destroyed itself and would only stop moving when the rotting muscles no longer retained any fibrous connections.
Closer and closer the whirring blades of the woodchipper came and she could feel the distorted air tickling the back of her neck. She gasped for air as the Rose squeezed against her and forced the air from her lungs. It was like being caught by an anaconda; every breath that came out let the monster constrict a little tighter. She felt light headed and her body could no longer take in the oxygen it needed. She felt her body weakening and knew that in just a few moments the chipper would begin stripping her body of flesh and chewing up her bones into paste if she couldn’t get away.
The haft of the broken cultivator rotated and wagged from the ribs of the Rose. Spinning violently, it slammed against the side of her head and she woke up just enough to recognize that the pronged instrument was still caught inside the torso of the Rose. She shook herself awake and glanced from the broken instrument to the chipper.
With the last of her energy, Tender bit onto the pole of the broken tool and twisted her neck painfully around. Saliva, blood, and other unknown liquids greased her neck as the Rose attempted to bite her. She tilted hard and her teeth nearly shook loose of their sockets as the chipper bit the pole.
The chipper’s voracious appetite would not be satiated as it yanked the broken instrument and the Rose into its gaping, hungry gullet. Macerating and consuming the tool wasn’t nearly enough as the Rose’s splayed head fell victim to the ravenous appetite of the woodchipper. Bones, flesh, and muscle all minced and pulverized by the sharp teeth of the machine filled the bag behind the machine with gorey pulp.
The Rose felt no pain and made no sounds as the machine ripped it to pieces, dragging it in an inch at a time. Tender fell to the side of the machine unconscious. Breathing heavily, the mare slowly regained her senses and looked confusingly at the turmoil of blood that had spewed from the hungry machine.
She sighed with relief and wiped her brow of grime.Turning a tired eye to the distended stomach of the machine, she sighed again, this time with revulsion and disquiet for what the next few hours would bring.
The night was far from over.
Hours later, Tender Rows had spread the pulpy residue, mixed with fresh fertilizer, of the Rose to the flower bushes of the Gardens. She had also used one of the decrepit shovels to cover the grave once more with dirt and patted it out to an unsuspicious mound.
The worst part had been the snow. It was difficult to cover, bury, or hide so much stained substance. Thankfully, the weather had continued and the scene of the battle hid what little she couldn’t dispose of under a few more inches of cold, bright powder.
Caretakers Association guideline five: No pony but Association members must ever know the horrors of the night.
Tender stood at the door to her shack, eyes to the heavens as the pitch of the night had begun to lighten with the first glows of a new day. She stood silently, a testament to fetid abhorrence. Her flannels were soggy and shredded. What little remained intact was soaked and stained. She remembered the bits that Solace Spirit had left her and she smiled weakly.
Maybe I deserve that nice coat after all.