Everyone has a secret. You, me, the pony that lives across the road. A secret that, no matter how petty it may seem, they would rather die than let out into public. It could be something as innocent as sneaking in an extra cookie after dinner, or an act as sinister as stealing your best friend's new bike out of jealousy. Whatever that secret is, everypony will stop at nothing to keep it just as that: a secret.
It’s said that the quiet ones always have the darkest secrets. Something so dreadful that it would compel them to a life of silence. At first one might assume that they’re just happy with life and accept it without complaining. Yet if you look at their lives with more detail, observe the patterns of a specific pony, you can find the most cryptic lies woven to protect their secret. A secret so dreadful that it makes the most hardened stallions shiver and fillies cry in torment as their innocent minds are warped by such a horrid idea.
One might ask what vices could demand that somepony hide the truth. The only response to that question is, why not find out? It’s simple really, if you seek hard enough for the truth, the truth you shall find. But heed this warning those who begin this quest for knowledge. Somethings are better left as secrets.
******
Big Macintosh always found pride in his quiet secluded life. He never did like standing out in a crowd; too much pressure, too many eyes focused on you at one time. While others might seek to be the centre of attention, he was content watching from the sidelines. After all, if somepony leads a life of attention, it will never leave them. Eventually it will begin to erode the barriers separating social life from personal life, and turn over all the leaves left strewn about their mental front yard.
He shivered at the mere thought of it.
That time when he was just a little colt and got his head stuck in between the slats of a lawnchair.
They would find out about that.
The time Granny Smith caught him doing certain things alone in his bedroom as a teenager.
Everpony would eventually know about that too.
How Applejack had managed to beat him at the Apple Family Rodeo’s plough pulling competition for five consecutive years.
How he secretly had a crush on his school teacher as a colt.
How he had been “borrowing” Twilight’s stuffed donkey Ms.Smartypants for over three months now.
If he were a social extrovert, all that would be uncovered.
Big Mac rested his haunches up against a steadfast tree stump and admired the late spring’s evening scent. Just as he was about to reach a place of complete mental relaxation, an unwelcome secret reared its ugly head, as it always did prior to pondering such things.
Where he went every night under the shrouding cover of darkness.
Mac cringed. It wasn’t something he was particularly shameful of; in fact he regarded what he did each night at a secluded mining shack as a form of art. Yet, if anypony knew — if anypony found out about it — he would be as good as dead.
It’s just a guilty pleasure Mac. Ain’t nothin’ outta the ordinary. Everypony’s got one.
Big Macintosh sighed and let the cool evening air set his worrisome mind at ease. It was so quiet, so peaceful, just like how everypony thought he was. The stars danced childishly at the corners of the sky and by the smell of the late evening air — a mixture of tall grass and early summer dried soil — Mac could tell it was almost time for dinner.
As if on cue, his sister’s voice rang out from the southwest. Carried with it were the aromas of mashed potatoes, freshly husked corn, and the ever predictable apple pie.
He dropped his plow where it stood and lazily dragged his hooves back through the fields. It was a good five minute walk, but it built up the desire for a hot meal to the point that he was almost drooling at the mouth.
Granny Smith, Applejack, and Applebloom were already seated, waiting to dig in. As usual, Mac took his place at the head of the table without a sound, and nodded to the rest of his family to begin. While he was still just a brother and grandson to them, he had taken on the responsibility of being the stallion of the family. The sense of respect he got from them was empowering; so much so that he didn’t feel the need to speak to them either.
In a way, he was afraid that they would find out too. After all, if some random stranger on the street can uncover a hidden truth with the simplistic act of eavesdropping, then somepony so close to you must be able to find out much more easily.
Before long they had finished supper, and Mac was back out in the field clearing up as dusk fell on the horizon. By the time he got back it would be well past nine, and, being farmers, the rest of the Apple family would be well into dream land.
Safe to leave without being seen.
He dragged the plow and an assortment of barrels back to the barn as enticing thoughts danced in his mind. What was he going to do tonight? The thought made him slightly giddy something very rare for Big Macintosh. How was he going to manipulate his subjects? Maybe by using that machine he lugged up from the basement of the farmstead last week. Or maybe by hoof, with nothing but a small sharpened sliver of metal to aid him. With warped delight, he imagined with dragging that little spear across his victims fragile pelt. A gentle push could breach their flesh and send a familiar coppery liquid trickling to the floor.
Big Mac shook his head and returned from fantasy land. There would plenty of time for that later, for now he needed to finish with the farm.
He hoisted the plow up onto a hook that hung on the far side of the barn and placed each barrel in their respective spots. With the last of the farming equipment stowed away, Mac blew out the solitary lantern, and shut the doors. Accompanied by nothing but the gentle chirping of crickets, he walked the short distance to his home before climbing up the front steps.
Careful as to not wake the rest of his family Big Mac carefully pushed the front door open and slipped inside without a sound. His efforts were in vain though, as his sister greeted him with weary eyes from the couch, a book cradled in her hooves.
Mac grumbled before making his way into the kitchen.
Darn it AJ, why couldn’t you just be asleep like everypony else?
He retrieved a cup from the cupboard and stared at his reflection in its glossy finish. The thoughts from earlier splashed across his mind, and he quickly looked away. It was peculiar, really. Mac prided himself over his handy work in the mining shed. Yet, when he looked at himself in the cups reflective surface, he couldn’t return the gaze of the stallion staring at him.
The cup slipped from his hoof and shattered, sending bits of glass skidding across the porcelain tile floor. Big Macintosh’s heart sank as his sister’s voice erupted from the living room, probing to see if he was alright. Still bitter about the fact he had to wait for Applejack to fall asleep before leaving, the frustration of the broken glass tipped Mac over the edge.
His mouth twitched as a scowl stretched across his face. Applejack poked her head around the corner just in time to see him stomp at the ground.
Mac noticed her hovering in the doorway and spun around on his hooves. Blinded with anger he resorted to something he swore never to do.
He spoke.
Applejack growled as a barrage of angry comments and retorts spouted from her brother’s usually gentle and sealed lips. Mac reassured her through the tactful use of rage and insults that he was fine as Applejack stepped into the kitchen. She glowered at her brother and quickly reminded him that he was still her sibling via two rear hooves, planted in the centre of his chest.
Big Mac shamefully picked himself up off the floor, just in time to see his sisters flank disappearing up stairs, her thoughts shrouded in a storm of anger.
With a sigh he scooped the broken glass into his hoof and placed it in the trash bin beside the sink. Mac rested his haunches on the breakfast table, and shook his head. It was in this moment of regret that he realised a string of words that slipped from his lips moments earlier. Had he said it? Had he unintentionally informed his sister about the anger of having to wait for her to go to bed? His eyes widened in horror as he racked his mind to remember if he had. If so, his secret could be blown wide open.
In an act of self preservation he leapt from the table and followed her upstairs. Light streamed out from underneath her bedroom door at the end of the hall. He paced back and forth across the short width of the passage, willing himself to confront his sister and redirect any wayward thoughts he might have planted in her mind.
He continued to fight a mental battle well into the next half hour. It was only after the gentle sound of snoring snaked its way into his thoughts, that Mac realised he had been walking back and forth for a good deal of time. With a precautionary glance, he noticed that light no longer trickled out from beneath Applejack’s door. He relaxed as the idea of his escape came within reach.
Without a second thought, he turned from the worries of their confrontation and retrieved a saddle bag from his room. He double checked that all the necessary tools were still safely stowed inside before descending the staircase. Despite his burly physique, Mac was able to leave the home without so much of a squeak from the floor boards. The cool night air greeted him with calming wisps as the kitchen door slipped from his grasp and slammed against its fittings. Big Mac winced and glared up at the window of Applejack’s room, half expecting it to be thrown open at any moment. He waited in stone cold silence for the next fifteen minutes, waiting for his late night plans to be foiled by a woken sibling.
Eventually the decision to continue on was made, and Macintosh continued on his way towards the edge of the Everfree forest.
As he marched over Sweet Apple Acres’ soft soil, his thoughts returned to a land of fantasy and excitement. The image of his victim’s trembling forms entrapped and helpless, with no one but each other for comfort blossomed in his mind. Waiting in tortuous anticipation for him to return, and relieve them of their confines just so he could plaster his suppressed emotions over their flesh. An imaginary jab here, a fictitious slash there and he couldn’t help but grin as the thought of subjecting them to future antics played about in his mind. Maybe tonight he would need more, after all he had gone through so many the previous session. Sessions, that’s what he called them; as if they were nothing more than short fifteen minute interviews. Yes, tonight he would definitely need more. Tonight he had something big planned, a climax that would go down in history... if anypony were there to witness it.
Maybe 5 more, possibly even 10.
While his demands were high, it would not be a problem to acquire the necessary components without question. It was late enough for the majority of Ponyville to be asleep; however, the odd shop or two were still open. They could easily provide what he needed, more subjects. But first he needed to return to his studio and complete what had been started the previous night.
A twig snapped behind Big Mac and he quickly whisked around to apprehend the perpetrator. He rubbed his eyes and gazed at the path behind him. The moon’s pale light splashed across tree trunks and shrouded the dense forest that surrounded the dirt trail in a blanket of darkness. Floaters danced across the front of his sight line, and fooled with his perception of the scene, which persistently presented nothing. However, Mac could have sworn that a blob of orange had darted out of sight just as he was turning around. He rubbed his eyes once more, and gave the path one more glance before continuing on his journey.
Big Macintosh comforted himself with the deduction that it was just his mind playing tricks with him as a familiar landmark came into view. A battered, decorticating mining cart sat upside down and deserted on the side of the road. Mac stepped up beside it and ran his hooves over its coarse metal shell.
Almost there.
Glancing around nervously to make sure he had not missed anypony that might be hiding in the treeline, Mac pressed his back to the mining cart. With an almighty shove, he rolled the cart back onto its wheels and uncovered a hidden entrance to an old mine shaft. The stuffy aroma of stagnant air filled his nose as he swung open the wooden trap door in the ground. Big Mac rummaged in his bag for a moment before finding a miniature oil lamp. A puny flame erupted from the spout, protected by a glass dome as Mac shut the tiny door on the side. As he closed the access panel, he caught a glimpse of his reflection once again. He quickly shut his eyes and bowed his head, still unable to look at himself as he realized what he was about to do.
Part of him wanted to shut the trap door and go home; sneak back into bed and leave everything behind. Another part of him, a more powerful and poignant part, urged him to step inside and continue the atrocities he committed each night for the past two months. The latter half of his mind trumped the other with little to no effort.
Big Macintosh gave one last survey of the area around him, before stepping down into the old shaft.
The following leg of his outing was much like the state of his thoughts. Mine shafts branched off and tangled with each other like snakes in a pit, seemingly doing their best to confuse and disorient. If it wasn’t for Mac’s mental map of the mine, he would have been lost in a crow's nest of random and sporadic paths. He recalled, with expert precision, the corners and junctions that would take him to his studio. All the while conflicting memories and images crossed paths, tying his Entorhinal Cortex and Brainstem into a dead knot.
Was what he was doing right?
No, there was no way it was... but yet it felt as if so. It felt as if his true calling was the masterpieces he created alone. Well not really alone, if you could call the victims of his creativity company.
The last of the corners disappeared before him, and a heavy metal door materialized at the end of the hall. His heart skipped a beat. His breathing struggled for a moment. His hooves tripped over themselves. His mind set things back at ease.
Without a moment's hesitation Mac reached for the door and undid the deadlock. The door that kept him from the room he had been fantasizing about for the past 24 hours swung open. He ascended the short flight of stairs that lead to the main floor of the mining shed. As he clambered over the final step, the comforting sight of his workshop came into view.
On the far side by the front door, which was sealed shut with an assortment of wooden planks, was a metal cage where the rest of his victims were waiting. Their clean and untouched demeanor called out to him as he waltzed up to their confinement. He ran a hoof over the metal bars. The ones he had already used were laying in a haphazard pile in the corner of the cage. Mac took a deep breath in through his nose and savored every morsel of the scent they gave off, a mixture of ingenuity and carmine. His attention turned to the metal contraption he had brought from the basement of the farm earlier that week. It was unconventional and slightly less emotional than he would like to admit, but it made things so much easier. Mac stepped up beside the monstrosity and played with its buttons. The victim he had left strung up inside of it half completed erupted into shrieks of inspiration. Creativity flowed through his body. Mac pondered the possibilities and deduced that he would rather finish this one by hand. He grabbed a small metal blade that resembled a scalpel and dipped it in the blood of awakening ideas. He pressed the tip of the creationists tool into the top of his victim, letting a bit of crimson dribble down its face.
Mac released his subject from the shackles of the machine and it collapsed to the floor. His prey folded unnaturally onto its back and he tutted quietly to himself before grasping its shoulders in his hooves. Mac set the flaccid form on an empty table and ran his hoof over the blank half of its pelt. Ideas flourished in his mind as he tapped the blade against wooden surface. Finally, inspiration fell upon Big Mac, and he began where he left off the night before.
His tool of choice cut into the flesh of the one laying on the table before him with ease. It screamed at him, begging for a hasty ending to its awaited completion. Mac smiled slightly as warm red ink splashed across his face. This was a delicate and painstaking process, and it required time. Before long the screams petered to a low gurgle as he continued to work; slashing and hacking at his victim’s torso as the others watched in horror.
The final leg of this particular page in his creationists portfolio succumbed to the metal point. Mac lifted his newest addition to the pile of completed work and admired the gouges and scrapes in its pelt. The crimson fluids of his handiwork flowed down the masterpieces completed form, like the ideas that were washing around in his mind.
Big Macintosh glided over to the metal cage and unlocked its front panel. The prison he had constructed wasn’t so much to keep his subjects from escaping, but more to keep unwanted visitors out. He pushed past their trembling forms and grasped the pile of completed.
A total of fifteen victims of his creationist vice were pressed against his chest as he once again locked the cage. Macintosh placed them on the floor beside his newest creation. He spread them out in order from oldest to newest, and took a step back. Macintosh smirked at his progress and admired the fruits of his determination and effort. Some would call him a monster, a butcher, but they were blind. They could not see that this was true art at its finest.
It was in this moment of natural ecstasy that a familiar orange mare stepped up beside him, a look of horror plastered across her face. Macintosh glanced over at his sister and grinned before greeting her as if he had just run across her in Ponyville’s market.
Wait a second... Applejack?
Eyes widening to the size of small moons, Mac leapt in front of the display on the floor and attempted to hide the scene from his sister.
“Applejack, you weren’t supposed to see this! No! How did you get here?”
She took a step forward and pushed her brother aside with, surprisingly, more force than she seemed to be capable of.
“Ah... Ah followed you after you slammed the door back home.” Applejack stammered in a stunned tone.
Big Mac attempted to push her back from the papers lying on the floor; but she persisted.
“Mac? What in the hay are y’all doin’ alone in an abandoned minin’ shed? Is that Granny’s old typewriter? And why is there paper strewn all over the place?”
Applejack grasped one of the fifteen sheets that were set on display before her. She stared at it for a moment before reading the script scrawled in red ink.
“What the- “Locomotives, Lanterns and Love?”” she read aloud, “Mac, is this what Ah think it is?”
Macintosh responded to her inquiry with a forlorn shrug and collapsed onto his flank. She had found out. Applejack turned her gaze back to the paper before her, and read the synopsis.
“In a small rural town just past Canterlot’s city limits lives a simple farming stallion. His life, while quaint has always been empty and left much to be desired. However, the arrival of a new unicorn, claiming to be the princess’ apprentice, sparks the flame of love in his heart. The flame ignites into a full forced blaze when he learns of her reciprocating emotions. At first all seems to be cordial and blithe, but the discovery of their love is ill recepted. Now banished from Equestria, one stallion will strain against his social shackles and stop at nothing to be reunited with his partner, proving that in the end love trumps all restraints?”
Silence filled the air as Applejack let the paper slip from her hooves and fall to the floor. Her shoulders began to shake and within moments laughter assaulted Big Macintosh’s ears.
“My brother!” she snorted, “the big and strong, alpha, silent, gung ho muscle man is a romance novelist? A romance novelist, quite possibly the worst author one could be?”
Macintosh’s ears drooped to the floor as he realised the gig was, in fact, up. He stepped past his sister who was now rolling on the floor laughing and compiled the pages of his story.
“And- and he’s writing it about himself and Twilight? Oh horse apples this is too rich, Mac! Wait until the girls hear about this! Ah can hear Rarity now, A romance novelist? But they’re butchers of modern literature, how crass!”
Macintosh placed the piles of paper on the table beside his quill, and hung his head. Months of late night trips and constant paranoia were all for nothing. His sister knew about his passion for writing romance novels, and it wouldn’t be long before the rest of Ponyville did too. Big Mac sighed and felt a sense of dread and realization wash over him. His social image was dead, struck down by his literary secret. In the end, no matter what you do, somepony will eventually find out your darkest secrets.
