//------------------------------//
// A Simple Stalk of Grass 
// Story: A Simple Stalk of Grass 
// by Galrion 
//------------------------------//

	Big Mac hefted another barrel up and set it onto the wagon. He pushed it farther onto the bed, the wood scraping on wood, the boards groaning under the added weight.
“That’s the last one, Big Mac,” Applebloom said, beaming.
“Eeyup.” He lifted and slammed the wagon’s tailgate, double-checking the latches, as he always did.
“Boy, am I hungry,” Applebloom huffed. She wiped the sweat from her brow and jumped onto the wagon, claiming her perch. “Think Granny has dinner ready?”
Of course she does, he thought with a chuckle. She always has our meal ready by now. “Eeyup,” he said, looking at his little sister, perched among the barrels. It was days like today, when it was just him and Applebloom, that Big Mac felt a little nostalgic. It seemed like forever ago when he used to ride that wagon and his pa used to pull it.
From the corner of his eye, he spotted a tuft of wheat and smiled. He walked over and ran his hoof over the top of the grasses. After a moment he selected one and plucked it. Turning it in his mouth, he sucked on the broken end, crushing the stalk between his teeth and savoring the sweet taste before returning to the wagon.
“Ya know, Big Mac, I’ve been meaning to ask you something: why do you always chew on a stalk of grass?” Applebloom asked as he started adjusting the hitch so he could pull the day’s harvest to the barn.
Big Mac stopped. He looked up at his little sister, her expectant eyes staring down at him. How can I explain it? he wondered to himself. Applesauce... Where would I even start? It wasn’t that easy to put into words….


~ | ~


McIntosh put his head to the side of the barrel and pushed. It had been a long, hard day in the orchards but he always enjoyed the hard work.  “Only three more barrels, pa,” he said as he reached the wagon, his orange mane sticking to his neck for the sweat.
“Ahright, son. Ah’m sure dinner’s almost ready. We take much longer and my stomach’ll start ta talkin’,” his father replied, lifting another barrel onto the wagon and pushing it deep onto the bed to make room for the others. McIntosh hoped he would be as big as his pa one day. That would be nice, he thought, watching the moss-green stallion work. The color of his coat made the half-eaten red apple on his flank stand out.
“Right!” McIntosh trotted back into the orchard to retrieve another barrel. He placed his head low on its side, so not to upset its balance, and pushed the container back to the wagon, huffing as he went.
“Now, don’t overdo ‘er, lad,” his father told him when he arrived.
“Ah’m ahright!” McIntosh said, turning to retrieve the next barrel.
“Hold up, son. Two more barrels, we can both carry one,” said the older stallion, taking the just-delivered barrel and lifting it onto the wagon with a grunt.
McIntosh nodded, waiting.  His father jumped down from the wagon and joined him, ruffling his mane with a grin. “You’ve done good today, Big Mac.”
“Big?” McIntosh scowled. He was one of the smallest in his class. Some of the other colts had taken to picking on him over his size; they all but ignored the fact that his flank was still blank. It made school torture. His mother knew about that, but he didn’t think his pa did. He didn’t want his pa to know about those troubles. “I’m not big.”
His father chuckled. “Yer still young. Before long, ah’m sure you’ll be taller ‘n me, son.”
“Sure,” he said under his breath.
“You just wait. We Apples‘re known fer late growth spurts,” said his father as they approached the last barrels.
McIntosh wanted to believe it, but he had his doubts. It was true his father was a large stallion, and whenever Granny got into the hard cider she did go on and on about how gramps was the strongest stallion Equestria had ever seen. Maybe, one day, he would be “Big Mac.” But that didn’t help him now.
He watched his father lift one of the barrels and place it on his back. The sight helped build his hope. “Coming?”
“Eeyup!” he said, getting behind his own barrel and pushing it along with his father.
They walked in silence back to the wagon. McIntosh could tell something was on his father’s mind. He wondered what it was. Normally his father talked about anything and everything while they worked. When they reached their destination his father first lifted his own barrel to the wagon bed, then McIntosh’s. He slammed the tailgate closed and double-checked the latches, like he always did.
McIntosh started climbing the spokes of the wagon so he could take his place at the front of the wagon for the trip home.
His father sighed from behind the wagon. McIntosh leaned out, looking to see if something was wrong. The stallion turned and started walking back into the orchard. “Come with me, McIntosh.”
The colt’s brow furrowed, but he did as he was bade and jumped back down from the wagon, following his father. They walked through the trees in silence again. It was an eerie feeling and McIntosh found himself looking into the apple trees' branches, scanning for any fruit they might have missed. They must have done their job well today, as he could spot none.
McIntosh truly enjoyed days like today, days when he didn’t have to deal with school mates, when he got to spend the entire day working with his father in the orchards. He loved a hard day’s work. He couldn’t wait until he was done with school and he could stay at the farm, working long weeks with his family. 
Finally, his father stopped. It brought McIntosh back to reality. They were standing on the eastern hill. It was probably his favorite spot on the entire farm. Though it sat under a canopy of apple trees, it still had a grand view of the orchard. It was always so peaceful here. His father sat down. 
“Uh, pa? Dinner is prolly waitin’….”
“It’ll keep,” his father said. He was searching the ground next to him; it looked like he was looking for something in the tall grass. “Have a seat, McIntosh.”
The colt stepped up and sat next to his father, watching him examine the grass. After a moment his father plucked a piece of it and placed it between his teeth, chewing the end of it slowly. They sat there in silence a moment before McIntosh spoke up.
“Why do you chew those grass stalks, pa?”
His father smiled softly. “Ya know, son, it’s somethin’ my father taught me,” he said, pulling the stalk from his mouth and holding it out in front of them. “This is called ‘Big Bluestem.’ It’s sweet; tastes just like watermelon.”
“Really?” he asked, staring at the grass as his father placed it back into his mouth with a nod.
“That it does,” he said, looking at the tuft of grass next to him again before selecting a piece, pulling it free and offering it to McIntosh.
The colt stared at it for a moment before accepting it; a moment longer and he placed it between his lips.
“No, no,” his father said. “Ya want ta place the stem between yer teeth, like this.” The stallion opened his mouth, revealing the stem resting on his molars all the way in the back of his mouth. “Ya want ta crush some of the stem to get the juices out of it.”
McIntosh readjusted the stem, sliding it deeper into his mouth, between his teeth, gingerly crushing the stem, skeptical that the flavor could really be so sweet. When the juice did manage to touch his tongue, his eyes widened. It was sweet. “Yer right, pa!” he said, smiling up to his father.
His father smiled back, ruffling the colt’s mane again, before his face went stern once more. He lifted his hoof from his son’s head, placing it back on the ground, and looked out over the orchard. He switched the stalk of grass to the other side of his mouth as his son watched him before he began to speak. “Ah’m glad ya felt you could talk to yer mom,” his father said, pausing. “But, ya know, son, if yer having problems at school you can talk to me about them.”
McIntosh turned away quickly, not wanting to meet his father’s eyes. Why had ma told him? He told her he didn’t want his dad to know he was having trouble with bullies. 
“Now, don’t be upset with her that she told me. Ah dragged it out of her, and ah can’t say ah’ll always have the best advice, but once upon a time ah had to deal with bullies too,” came his father’s voice. The statement drew McIntosh’s eyes back to the stallion.
“You did?” he asked, somewhat in awe.
His father smiled with a small nod. “Back when ah was your age, ah was the smallest colt in my class.”
“Nuh-uh!”
“Eeyup, it’s true. Ah used to get teased like you wouldn’t believe. They used to say the orchards would never get picked because ah was too small to buck a tree,” he said with a chuckle. His face fell then and became more serious. “My father told me that ah shouldn’t worry about it; that ah would get bigger with time, but, while he was right, that didn’t help with the bullies.
“They were relentless, calling me ‘Toyon’ or ‘Crabapple.’” McIntosh had gotten used to being called Crabapple now. He had never heard of “Toyon,” though. “What ah want you to realize, son, is that it isn’t yer fault, being bullied. Sometimes bullies act as they do because they are bullied as well, even if you don’t see it.”
McIntosh let his gaze wander to his own hooves as he mulled over his dad's words. Bullies being bullied? He couldn't picture a pony mean enough to taunt the colts the way they taunted him. It didn't make sense. He certainly didn't bully anypony. Sure, he argued and squabbled with Applejack every now and again, but he'd never picked on her just to be mean; at least he didn’t think so.
“But, pa, ah’m not a bully.”
His father chuckled, looking at the colt with a smile. "No, yer not, son, and ah'm proud of you for that.”
“And yer sure it’s not my fault they pick on me?” he asked, looking up at his father expectantly.
“Ah’m positive,” the stallion reassured his son. 
McIntosh nodded slowly, his eyes passing back over the orchard below. Then why? If it wasn’t his fault, whose was it? Maybe their parents didn’t teach them like his had taught him. Like with honesty, and how it meant more than just telling the truth; you had to understand when the truth was what a pony needed to hear, and know how to speak the truth in a way that builds others up instead of upsetting them. He already knew he was small. He wanted to be bigger. Maybe the bullies just didn’t understand---
"What's on yer mind, son? Yer brow is furrowed so deep it’s ripe for plantin’.”His father’s words cut into his train of thought like an axe.
“Ah guess ah don’t understand why they would choose to pick on me,” the colt said finally, looking up into his father’s amber eyes.
“A lot of the time there isn’t a good reason, son,” the stallion said with a sigh. “Sometimes it’s just how they choose to handle a difficult situation. Now... Ah’m fixin' ta talk with your teacher abou-"
"No! Please don't… Sir…” he blurted, barely remembering his manners.
“What?” asked his father, puzzled.
“Ah want ta handle it on my own."
His father watched him for a long moment. It made McIntosh uncomfortable sitting in that silence under the trees, his father’s knowing eyes upon him. "Ah won't have you fightin', McIntosh."
The colt shook his head vigorously. "Won't be no fightin', promise."
His father sighed and looked back over the orchard. After a while he nodded. "Very well. Ah'll let you handle it, but on one condition. You come ta me and let me know how things are goin'. Ah want to hear about it every day after school."
"Ahright."
"Promise?"
"Yes, sir. Ah promise." 
“Good. If things get any worse, though, we’re goin’ ta have a talk with your teacher.”
McIntosh nodded with a small smile.
“Ahright. Ah’m glad we had this talk, McIntosh,” his father said, smiling as he ruffled the colt’s mane once more. “C’mon, we best not keep the girls waitin’ any longer.”


~ | ~


Big Mac undid the clasp and stepped away from the wagon, back to the tall tuft of grasses. He examined them a moment and finally pulled one from the others and walked back to the cart, offering it up to Applebloom.  She took it without hesitation, quickly placing it in her mouth and he smiled softly.
“Is… Is that watermelon?” she asked, puzzlement plain on her face.
Big Mac chuckled and nodded his head, his smile growing. 
“How’d ya know that grass tasted so sweet, Mac?”
He started to hitch the wagon again and took a deep breath. “Pa taught me,” he said after a while, the straps now secured.
“Oh,” she said. After a long pause she spoke again. “Big Mac, what was he like?”
Big Mac chewed the stalk of grass a moment. “Well…” he began as he started to pull the wagon. There were few things he felt deserved talking about, these days. This was one that did.