//------------------------------// // Brown Snout // Story: Near the Tree // by Comma Typer //------------------------------// Today has been a good day for Cookie. Last night, Apple Bloom brought her friends along to test out moving buckets on wheels. Horse-attached buckets on wheels, that is. She and her horse friends were the guinea pigs, such human advancements stuck to her sides with nothing but rope, some nails, and flimsy hook-and-loop straps. The gal was a good person and her friends were only a tad unrulier than her, but all Cookie wanted was to rest in the stall, eat hay, then sleep, not conduct some experiment, whatever that human word means. But today, she and her horse friends—ebony Oakley and toasty Cinnamon—can graze in peace, gallop around, and rest. The next rodeo won’t be for another month, and with Thanksgiving close at hoof, there’d be lots of apples to chew on come harvest time. Speaking of, Apple Bloom was very behaved and obedient with Granny earlier before leaving, picking apples with the greatest of care. Past the trouble-making surface, she really is a (misguided, clumsy) sweetheart. But there’s galloping. The call of the wild thunders down the road. She turns her head around: There, a horse! Horse down the road; a strange sight! But that’s no cart: it’s the old jalopy! The truck is being pulled by a horse! She’s seen everything now; when that Sunset Shimmer took a ride with her, she said something about a magic land across some portal where horses reigned supreme— “Make way, make way!” That’s Apple Bloom shouting, commanding the wheel while some stallion drags the truck along! And Apple Bloom’s off the driver seat to catch apples. It’s been a roller-coaster of a ride, Big Mac having pulled them through a parade of traffic still searching for Expo parking lot spots, certainly nabbing a few tourists’ pictures here and there, and somehow still abiding by speed limits, if the lack of wailing sirens is of any note. “Sweetie Belle, lead Big Mac to the apple trees! Scoots, come with me and get the scooters while I grab the bushels!” Off she dashes into the barn-garage, grabbing baskets, straps and ropes dangling off of them. They’re stashes into a little wagon, pulled outside with Scootaloo and their new scooters; wouldn’t be too heavy for the truck to handle even after they’re filled to the brim. Right outside stands Oakley and Cinnamon, taking a gander at Big Mac, the primitive whinnying scared against the cool and collected other. She bites her lip. A third horse shoots Apple Bloom an asking glance. Spotting the straps and ropes in hand, Cookie recoils, stares at Big Mac, whickers a demand from the Apple girl an explanation for this new non-horse horse and whatever her new experiment is. “She’s from the magic horse land, yes, ma’am! So…uh, Canterlot Movie Club and Big Mac… are we ready for the fastest apple harvest in the world?!” “Uh, why can’t we just do it slow and old-fashioned… and safe?” Sweetie asks, sweat down her forehead at the sight of scooters roped tight to Big Mac’s barrel. “Isn’t that your family’s way?” “Granny doesn’t seem slow and old-fashioned with how she was shoutin’ down the truck back there.” But she walks up to him, places a hand on his withers, just like with her beloved horsies, though more than recognition bubbles in his eyes. “Look, I know this is all out of the blue, and I’m sorry for that and all that bad business back at the pizza place. But at least… thank you for at least giving this one a shot.” Big Mac lets out a little grunt. “My sister and her best friends… they can get real rowdy, just like you. I’m used to it.” “Hey, we’re not rowdy!” Scootaloo protests. “We’re just, well, uh, we get covered in tree sap some of the time. In the forest. And sometimes not in the forest. And with the Xbronc One—ow! Apple Bloom! Was that really necessary?” Having ignored her own pinch, Apple Bloom ties the straps around her shoes, hitched them to the yoke on his back. “Well, Big Mac, we know that this ain’t exactly super safe, but it’s fun, you know! And—“ butterflies flutter in her stomach, but she swallows them down “—maybe… this is how we’ll show that we can be together… Earth and Equestria… with family, right?” “You’re… pretty sappy yourself, actually, Apple Bloom.” “Don’t ruin the moment for me, Scoots.” Even with enough straps and safety measures to keep herself and the other Filmies chained to her pseudo-brother, the ride becomes a psychotic whirlwind. Screams rock the way, scooter dragging off, kicking up dirt as Big Mac rears up and gallops. The world shrinks into them, him, and infinite farm fields; grass blades fill her mouth, and Apple Bloom spits it out, only for disgusting dirt to fly against a horrified Sweetie’s helmet. Steady, steady, fast approaching the target: kick the tree. Her feet, strapped and taped and roped onto the surface of the scooter itself, cling on. Her friends catch a breath, stuck to each other in this one claustrophobic set of wheels, hanging on to their bushels and to each other for dear life. In snot-busting adrenaline, arms squeeze on to each other when everything crashes to a stop. Their dizzying eyes adjust, kept on the apples about to fall into their buckets. Big Mac, steady steed he is, readies himself into position, right where the bulk of the apples will fall. He hits the kick, he bucks; he scores. The scooter shakes and rattles, about to roll its passengers off, but their fingers are in death-grips against the bushel to fight bruises and scrapes. All hands raise their empty baskets high amid Sweetie’s scrambled screeching— Ploop! One apple down, swallowed up in an avalanche of falling fruit. Apple Bloom almost puts her hands up to protect herself, but the bushel is her shield against the sheer collective weight building up on her shaky arms. “Wow, that’s… fast!” she yells when it stops, in between strained breaths. “We’d… we’d take a minute with a ladder and all, but… this is just seconds!” A big smile arrives from Big Mac, of all people. Or ponies. “That’s the Apple family way.” “Well, we’ve also got the Apple family way! We can do it as quick as a hedge—aaaahhh!” Off again in speed uncontrollable, Apple Bloom hangs onto Sweetie Belle by the armpits, trying not to hoist her out of the scooter, shrieking as the earth splits into chasms beneath their wheels. They brake at another tree, its bark to strike her in the face and scoop her off the vehicle; hold your bushels high. “B-Big Mac, h-how’ll you make the apples… not spill?!” But in the corner of her eye, just a little shimmer: a faint warmth, a stealthy blush, like closing your eyes after staring at the sun, trying to zoom in on the little swarm of dazzling spots in your vision. Sweetie’s screams stab her ears as she heaves her bushel across her vision, Scootaloo steering her own bucket with as much precision and with as many reflexes as she can—able to hit all the apples, nothing missed. A complete storm, just like the time when Applejack took her out for a loop-de-looping water ride in Equestria Land long after the whole trapped-in-a-phone-but-not-really fiasco— And there’s Big Mac, captain of the cruise, composed as he leaps above the field. Nothing brutish about him: just galloping to stop at each tree. As strong as a horse, force rippling across the air, but to see it, to feel what must be magic, from her brother… Apple Bloom stretches her arms, aching, up high. Get the bushel up, catch falling apples, nothing will go wrong. A single apple tips over on the rim but falls back down just like a cartoon—all before her feet float inches above the ground, strapped, body bending but never falling, never breaking backs or muscles as they’re on the move, bushels to raise after a halt. She gets used to the scooter trembling with them as trees are kicked, as apples fall, as scooters are parked at just the right spots for full coverage. There are no commands to shout now; Sweetie Belle and Scootaloo follow Apple Bloom’s lead in sync, seizing the whole batch. Then Big Mac parks himself just right once more: stretch bushels into the air once again with wind lapping up their hair— Snap! Untethered from the sky, all passengers wreck face-first into the ground. Wind knocked out amid the groans of Scoots and Sweets. Scratching her knees, her joints, only to feel hard plastic. Safety pads still with her, helmet still by her side; a thankful sigh. Away from her reach, apples spill over. Poor apple, dented on the grass, all dirtied up, trying to reach out but rolling just out of her fingertips, her fellow Filmies clutching escaping, hopeless fruits. “Apple Bloom! Are ya’ alright?!” Shadows overcome; up above, the sight of his face, his dirtied hoof extended. She takes hold, the firm frog of his hoof as strong as metal. “Y-yeah… I-I think I’m alright!” She stands, rubbing her arm. Just some dirt and sticky grass. Poor grass. Poor apples, done rolling around. Only now, she notices broken wheels, feetpads gone, rope torn apart. “Well, so much for being fast,” Sweetie says, with a cough and some loose threads and fibers. A little stick juts out of her curled hair. “But at least we get to do it the old-fashioned Apple family way, right?” Scootaloo shakes her head, shedding off any scrapes like nothing. “No way! Don’t you know that Apple Bloom’s customers are in certain peril?!” “You’re overselling it, Scoots.” Apple Bloom spits out a tiny twig from between her teeth. “I mean, yeah. But it’s not like Big Mac’s gonna pull us around, right?” “We can hitch him to my scooter!” And Big Mac takes a glance at the rather lanky if metal scooter resting by the dead jalopy’s side. “Nah,” Sweetie pipes up. “All three of us on your scooter? We don’t want to risk getting another wreck. Again.” “So what, then?” Apple Bloom looks past her friends, seeking for answers on her family’s own apple field. Much ground has been covered, but a formidable army of unpicked trees still lay before them, unbeaten. Past Big Mac, her other two horses stare from the far end of the field; Oakley and Cinnamon staring, the ebony-brown duo. Cookie’s there too, staring dumbly, curiously. She raises her head, making eye contact with Apple Bloom. “Big Mac, I have an idea!”