//------------------------------// // Week of May 22 // Story: Wishberry // by mushroompone //------------------------------// “Am I being completely ridiculous?” Strawberry Sunrise choked back a derisive laugh as she smoothed the last wrinkle out of her tablecloth. “You mean always? Or just right now?” “Straaaawbs,” Redheart whined, throwing herself melodramatically across the table. “I really like this mare!” “You barely know this mare.” “But I—” “Sometimes I think that cutie mark of yours has less to do with nursing and more to do with being the world’s most hopeless romantic,” Strawberry quipped. She shooed Redheart off her stand, and she glumly withdrew. “How is Blossomforth any different from Sparkler? Or Star Hunter? Or—who was the bowler?” “Pinny Lane?” “No…” “Allie Way?” “No, the stallion.” Redheart sighed wearily. “Walter?” “Walter!” Strawberry snickered at the name as she set out her first pint of fresh-picked fruits. “Oh, Walter. Y’know, you never thanked me for that.” “For what?” “For stopping you from dating a third pro-bowler. As if the first two weren’t enough,” Strawberry said simply, angling her next pint just so in the early-morning sunshine. “And what a stupid name. Walter. What in the hay were his parents thinking?” “Strawbs, can we focus?” Redheart pressed. “Blossomforth is different. I can just feel it!” “So ask her out.” “But what if she doesn’t like me back?” “So don’t ask her out.” “But what if she does and she’s just waiting for me to make the first move?” “So ask her out.” “But—” “Red.” Strawberry grabbed her friend by the shoulders. “She’s not going to just fall in your lap! You have to do something. Stuff doesn’t happen just ‘cause you want it to.” Redheart rolled her eyes. “Sure. You would say that.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” Strawberry asked. “You’re kidding.” Strawberry shook her head. Redheart rolled her eyes and gestured grandly to Strawberry’s market stall. It was fairly simple, even as far as the Ponyville farmer’s market went. Strawberry never had more than a few pints of strawberries available for sale—her backyard was only so big, after all—and those pints were never accompanied by any other goods of any kind. No jam, no juice, no flavored lemonade. Certainly no other produce. What could possibly be sold alongside the sheer perfection of Strawberry’s strawberries without looking like a consolation prize? The real kicker, however, was the chalkboard sign leaning against the front left leg: STRAWBERRIES FOR SALE Fresh and delicious! Perfect for baking Limited wish-granting capabilities 12 bits/pint Strawberry spluttered something incoherent. “That’s a sales tactic, Redheart.” “Sure it is.” “It’s cute!” “Is it?” “Look. You’re a nurse. You wouldn’t know about business-type stuff like that,” Strawberry said, waving her friend off. “It’s okay. You’re smart in other ways.” Redheart arched a brow. “Well, I may only be a nurse,” she said, “but I certainly know a cover-your-plot move when I see one. ‘Limited wish-granting capabilities’?” “What?” Strawberry shrugged. “They are limited—Limited to make-believe fantasy worlds.” Redheart snorted. "So what? It makes ponies laugh, and then suddenly they're willing to pay a few extra bits," Strawberry said with a superior smile. "Everyone wins." "I'm just glad you're not in the pharmaceutical business," Redheart grumbled coyly. “Whatever. The customers love it,” Strawberry said with a wave of her hoof as she took her seat behind her stall. “Speaking of customers, if you're going to insist on chattering about Blossomforth, could you at least sit behind the stall?" Redheart sighed and shook her head. "I should go. I've got a shift starting soon, and I need some breakfast or I’ll keel right over," she said. "Do you want me to pick you up anything at Café Hay? Maybe some time-traveling orange slices?" "Hilarious." Redheart only giggled in response. "Later!" "Bye, Red." And so began another slow, quiet day behind the stall. The market wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t exactly loud, either, but it had that pleasant bustling quality of a warm bookstore on a cold winter day; customers chattering happily, farmers and bakers and candle-makers counting change, a busker or two playing gentle guitar and softly crooning familiar songs…  But that all happened at the other end of the market. Down here, Strawberry rarely sold a pint. She was more expensive, but not for any reason the average buyer could discern. Sure, her friends sometimes stopped by and picked some up, but that was more of a pity purchase than anything. And that was fine. Probably deserved, honestly. Where did Strawberry get off charging twelve bits a pint, anyway?  It was something to do. But one something frequently turned into another: kicking back in the shade, reading a good book, and covertly listening in on the gossip that flew between tents. It was in this way that, despite Strawberry Sunrise’s frequently unpleasant demeanor, she knew more about most folks in Ponyville than they seemed to know about themselves. On this particular day, Strawberry Sunrise was half-enjoying a paperback teen drama and half-listening to Lily Valley’s latest lament when an old friend approached her table. “Hiya, Strawberry!” She winced and tried to finish the paragraph, but failed to even finish the sentence she’d been reading before the visitor piped up a second time: “Hey, you got cotton in your ears or something?” the mare said with a hint of laughter. “Strawbs!” Strawberry peered over the top of her novel at the overly-cheerful customer, though she recognized the familiar raspy voice. “Dust Devil!” She did her best to smile, but it felt like it came out more of a snarl. “Um… didn’t you buy some strawberries last week?” Dust Devil, a small mare with disheveled, wild hair, beamed. “Sure did!” she announced. “And they granted my wish!” Strawberry blinked.  Dust Devil kept on beaming. Strawberry cleared her throat. “Excuse me?” “My wish!” Dust repeated. “Your strawberries granted it!” Strawberry’s mouth hung open, searching for words and coming up empty. “You know, like… on your sign?” Dust offered, gesturing weakly to the chalkboard. “Oh!” Strawberry laughed hoarsely. “Right. Funny. You’re very funny, Dust.” Dust frowned. “Uh… thanks, I guess. But I wasn’t makin’ a joke,” she said. “They really granted my wish!” Strawberry Sunrise looked down at her book, back up at Dust Devil, then back down at her book. She decided she ought to set the book down for now. “My strawberries grant wishes?” she asked, her voice already tight and brimming with barely-maintained composure. “Oh, I dunno about wishes,” Dust specified with a loose shrug. “Just my wish.” “My strawberries granted your wish,” Strawberry repeated, more of a statement than a question. “Yes'm. That's what I said.” “How?” The word slipped out of Strawberry’s mouth before she could stuff it into the back of her mind. “I mean, what—how—h-how do you know?” “'Cause I wished I would get a bonus,” Dust Devil said simply. “And—well, wouldn’t you know it, as soon as I ate the last one of the pint, right as the sun was coming up, I had a bonus check posted through my mail slot!” Strawberry made an uncertain sound somewhere between a derisive laugh and a disbelieving scoff. “That's not my strawberries,” she said. “That's just good timing.” “No, no. I wished for it,” Dust corrected. “On the strawberries.” Strawberry frowned. “Who wishes on strawberries?” she asked with a little nervous laugh. “That's stupid.” “They were pretty flippin’ awesome. Plus I remembered the bit on your sign,” Dust added, pointing again to the chalkboard. “I figured maybe they had some magic. Guess I was right!” She just stood there, grinning, sort of rocking back and forth. Dust Devil had always been a bit odd. Strawberry had known her for a long time, just like she knew nearly everyone else; she was a weather mare, specializing in controlling rogue storms. Her brain had been knocked loose by a freak hurricane years ago, and continued to spiral further out of control with each successful chase.  She had earned a bonus. Definitely. She was willing to throw herself into a tornado nearly every day for little more than peanuts. Strawberry was certainly rooting for her to get a big, fat raise sooner or later. Preferably sooner. That was all it was… right? “So, let me get this straight:” Strawberry shimmied in her seat. “You came to the farmer's market to tell me you got a bonus check while you were eating my strawberries?”  Dust Devil hesitated, then nodded, a dopey smile spreading over her face. Strawberry snorted. “Do you tell every farmer your life story?” She asked. “Did you tell Roma what you had for breakfast? Did—did you tell Golden Harvest about your nightmares?” Dust frowned. “No, why would I do that?” A genuine question. Strawberry sighed and fell into the back of her folding chair. “No reason.” “I just wanted to tell you they worked! Plus I wanted to get some more,” Dust explained, the hint of a malicious giggle in her voice as she snuck another pint off the table. “You can never have too many wishes, ammirite?” Strawberry spluttered something else incoherent and wordless. “They didn't grant you a wish! I didn't make them grant wishes, you just—” “Well, fine,” Dust cut in with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “I guess I'm here to tell you that your strawberries granted my wish, and maybe they’ll grant some more. Could I buy another pint?” “That depends,” Strawberry grumbled. “Are you gonna wish on 'em?” “That depends,” Dust echoed. “Do you want the twelve bits or not?” Strawberry wordlessly accepted Dust Devil’s payment, who smiled and waved as she disappeared back into the crowds.  Strawberry looked down at the pint of fruit in front of her. They looked good. She would allow herself that. But good didn’t mean great, and even great didn’t mean flippin’ awesome, and even that didn’t mean wish-granting. Almost none of it meant twelve bits, despite her consistent upcharge. Strawberry Sunrise was nothing if not consistent. She contemplated popping a strawberry in her mouth and wishing for some more customers, but ultimately decided against it.