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// August 25 
// Story: Dear Rainbow Dash 
// by fluttershywriter 
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Dear Rainbow Dash,

Well, maybe you've figured out what's happened by now.
My parents have decided that it's necessary to move AGAIN. The weird thing is, though, there was no discussing it before. And I don't know who's in our house now. And we're living in Grandma's house suddenly.
Daddy woke me up early this morning, even though it's the end of summer vacation and I should be allowed to savor my sleep. Of course, I didn't argue. I know I'm supposed to stand up for myself, but I swear, if you saw the look in his eyes, you would have gone along with what he said, too. You would.
Anyway, what he said was something along the lines of "throw everything important in a bag, leave everything else, and get your blank flank downstairs as soon as possible."
I did, of course—and trust me, it wasn't easy, since Daddy was breathing down my neck and yelling all about how my photograph of Sweetie Belle and Applebloom wasn't important, and how I wouldn't need a scooter where we were going.
It was then that I got really curious. "Where are we going?" I asked him, shying away from him in case he was in a bad enough mood to hit me. Trust me, it's happened before, and it gets scary.
Weirdly, as soon as I spoke, he lost all of the anger that he had expressed earlier. Covering his face with a hoof, he sort of crumpled onto my bed and sat there weakly. "We're staying with Grandma in Cloudsdale for a bit," he said softly, and the tone of his voice was so sad that I decided I'd shut up and keep on packing.
I finished packing in the span of a few minutes—with my scooter gone, there was plenty of space to pack "important" things like a toothbrush. More scared now that Daddy had begun being depressed, I stumbled down our rickety stairs, puffing under the weight of my box. Daddy followed behind me, and though I was bursting with questions—why were we going to Grandma's? Is it just for a day-long visit? If it is, why do I need to pack everything? How long is this "bit" that we'll be staying there?—I stayed silent, terrified that if I spoke again, he'd either start moving his hooves in the direction of my face or start crying.
Momma was downstairs, looking agitated and tapping her hoof. She gave me a sharp look, then stomped towards Daddy. "How long does it take to get your daughter to pack?" he hissed, speaking in the tone of voice that's supposed to be quiet but is louder than any scream.
"Scootaloo and I were trying our hardest," he muttered, losing a bit of his sadness and growing angrier.
"Of course," said Momma, rolling her eyes. "Just like you were trying your hardest when you lost your job, right?"
Daddy went white and stomped out the door, heading in the direction of our chariot. Momma followed him, making a lot of noise and mumbling curses.
For a few seconds, I stood alone in the house. Some things were missing—the blankets that lay on the couch, the school picture on the fridge, the rug in the front hall. That was when I started to get really scared. If Momma and Daddy were taking the rug, it was probably unlikely that we were going to Grandma's for a brief visit. Were we . . . were we moving again? But if that was true, why hadn't the real estate mares come and checked out our house? 
Momma stuck her head through the open door, looking angry. "Well, Scootaloo? Are you planning to come, or are you planning to stay in this house?"
I'm planning on staying here, thanks, I was tempted to say. Instead, I grabbed the box and trotted out the door, hoping that her question didn't really require an answer.
I jumped in the back seat of our chariot, watching silently as Momma and Daddy laced themselves up into their saddles. With a couple of whinnies and bucks, they flapped their wings and began the journey to Cloudsdale.
Glancing around the car, I noticed that there were other boxes, most likely filled with Momma and Daddy's ever-so-important belongings. Growing uncomfortable with the corrugated cardboard—it reminds me of the many times I've moved—I peered over the side of our chariot ,trying to make out ponies I knew in the streets. But the clouds blocked my view, and we quickly grew high enough so that I could barely make out the houses. 
Only when I looked away from the ground did I notice the silence in the chariot. "Why are we going to Grandma's?" I asked timidly. Both my parents kept staring straight ahead, and it was about thirty seconds before Daddy finally spoke.
"We're having some problems getting enough bits," he said carefully. "When I lost my job, we lost a significant amount of money, and we can't pay rent any more. We thought it might be a good idea to live with Grandma for a little while."
"How long?" I asked, a dark pit forming in my stomach. "Can I still go to school in Ponyville? Will I get to see Applebloom and Sweetie?"
Momma twisted back and gave me a long, hard look. "Do you really think that we're going to have enough time to bring you down to see your friends every day? And they do have schools in Cloudsdale, you know. We thought it would be a good idea to move in late summer, so you can have a bit of time to adjust to your surroundings before school starts."
"Considerate," I said under my breath after she had turned around. Really polite. Oh, we're moving with no warning—but we'll move in late summer so you can adjust!
The rest of the chariot ride was silent. It's a pretty short ride, you know—lots of ponies fly all the way from Ponyville to Cloudsdale. We couldn't do that, obviously, because of all our boxes, and frankly, I was glad. Who wants to ride on their mother's back when she looks like she wants to buck everypony in the face?
When we arrived at Grandma's, I didn't move for a few seconds. (You have to understand that it was only eight in the morning, and I had been told more information than a filly should have to digest in her whole lifetime.) Momma and Daddy were unlacing their saddles and grabbing a few boxes, so they didn't seem to care. It was only when Momma glared at me, as if to say, "Get your scrawny flank out of there and help," that I grabbed my box and trotted towards Grandma's house.
Whenever we go to Grandma's, there's always a big scene when we walk in. She makes a big fuss of pinching my cheeks, and Momma and Daddy get along for a little while, and she comments on how small my wings are. I would mind the small-wing comment, except she says the solution for wing growth is to eat more. That means she practically shoves gingerbread down my throat, which I don't have a problem with.
But today's entrance was different. There wasn't the scent of gingerbread, and Grandma was quiet when we came in. Momma and Daddy snapped at each other like Grandma wasn't even there. And when I looked at Grandma, she sighed and shook her head—not in a mean way, in a "what have I gotten myself into" way.
"Let's go up to your new room," she whispered, placing a warm hoof on my back and nudging me in the direction of a guest room.
(Okay, I know that this isn't the biggeset problem right now, but can I just complain about how small my room is? And how ugly the orange fuzzy quilt is? And how lumpy the mattress is? I thought that clouds were supposed to be comfortable, but Grandma's are all lumpy and gray.)
I sort of tossed my box of items on the ground and glanced around. Grandma sat down on my (new, ugly) bed, and I noticed for the first time how old she looks. I mean, she's like ten years younger than Granny Smith, but Granny Smith always looks like she's having fun. In the few quiet moments that Grandma and I stayed in my new room, I could only think of how incredibly wrinkly and sad she looked. Even her wings looked wrinkled. (I would have made a joke to her about how her wings were getting smaller, but it would have been so tacky.)
When Momma and Daddy really started going nuts, Grandma touched my shoulder.
"Why don't you go outside?" she asked, except it was more like a command than a question. So I went out and walked around the block a few times. This is the complete list of what I saw:

- A bunch of cloud houses
- A baby playing with its doll
- A few teenage ponies wearing too much eyeliner, who all looked at me like they knew I didn't belong
- No trees, dirt, or anything reminiscent of Ponyville
- Clouds, clouds, clouds, and . . . oh, yeah, there were more clouds. I don't think I've ever hated clouds more.


When it started to get dark, I went back to Grandma's and found that the house was filled with the scent of gingerbread and vegetable loaf. Somehow, though, it didn't comfort me. And neither did our equally tense and boring dinner, where Daddy said maybe two words, Momma muttered about the crazy amount of bits that houses cost, and Grandma tried to fill in the silence by making incredibly lame jokes. I ate my veggie loaf so fast I practically choked and didn't stay for gingerbread, even though Grandma makes such good gingerbread it should be sold at Sugarcube Corner.
Ponyfeathers. Now I miss Sugarcube Corner along with a billion other things about Ponyville.
Anyway, once I had tossed my plate in the sink, I hurried off to my stupid new room. I felt like I couldn't breathe, but I didn't want to go outside and see all the lame clouds. I know that I'm supposed to like clouds, and even have a job working with clouds someday, but I swear, I can't stand them.
Instead of getting some fresh air, I climbed onto my bed and lay there for a moment, feeling the uncomfortable squish of the stupid bed beneath my hooves. Then, completely randomly, I thought of you.
I wonder if you're missing me, Rainbow. Actually, I wonder if you even know that I've left. I'm sure that Applebloom and Sweetie Belle are freaking out, and the thing that's killing me is how I can't even tell them. Well, obviously there's the mail, but that's not what I mean by can't. I mean that I'm humiliated to tell them that we're short of bits and have to live with my grandmother in Cloudsdale, and I can't bear to tell them that the whole reason we're here is that Daddy lost his job. Then they'd try to raise money, and they'd fail, and it would all just be too horrible.
So I thought, Hey, maybe I should write to Rainbow Dash. And so here I am, writing this stupid letter to you on some stupid stationary that I found in this stupid room.
You know what? I've been writing all about how stupid everything is, but maybe it's really me who's stupid. Maybe I'm the stupid pony, thinking that you won't spill everything to Bloom and Belle. I'm an idiot for even thinking that you'll want to read this letter. I'm stupid for thinking that you'll even know who I am. You'll look at the return address and think, "Who's Scootaloo?" And then you'll throw this stupid letter away.
You know what? I'm not even going to send this letter to you. I'm going to toss this in the trash can and pretend I never wrote anything to you. This is stupid. I'm stupid. My parents are stupid.
. . . Why did we have to move?
Great, just monumentally great. Now I'm crying. I'm gonna crumple this up and hide it somewhere far away, so that nopony can find it and know how stupid I am. ("What's this? Oh, a letter from Scootaloo. Ha! She's hoping that the coolest pony in all of Equestria will care about her foalish problems! Not a chance!") And then I'm gonna try to sleep on this stupid bed. Maybe when I wake up, this will all be a bad dream.

-Scootaloo