1. Never too Far from the Tree
“Fluttershy, we gotta talk.”
“Oh…wh-what would you like to talk about, Applejack?”
“It’s about that book you read t’ Apple Bloom an’ her friends th’ other day--th’ one about the tree?”
“You mean The Giving--?”
“…I don’t think it’s appropriate fer li’l fillies.”
“But it won the Neighberry Medal for Foals’ Literature and—“
“I’m not sayin’ somepony up in Manehatten ain’t got a right t’ stick a medal on a book. I’m sayin’ what’s in the book ain’t right.”
“In…in what way?”
“Well looky here: first the colt takes all the tree’s apples an’ goes away, then he takes all the tree’s branches an’ goes away, then he cuts the tree down an’ goes away, an’ then he comes back an’ uses the stump to park his sorry ass, THE END. He don’t give the tree nothin’, he don’t even say ‘thank you'..."
“Well I always imagine he did, it’s just that the author didn’t—“
“…an’ all the time the author’s callin it a ‘she!’ What kinda message you think that sends to a li’l filly what’s all young an’, an’-- impersonable? ”
“That… love can be a beautiful thing, even when it’s sad?
“What it says is, a filly’s gotta give an’ give an’ give an’ she cain’t expect nothin’ in return. That anypony comes along, she’s just gotta give ‘em whatever they want, no questions asked. You know what that story made Apple Bloom do? She gave away her lunch money four times last week…”
“But I’m sure the poor underprivileged foal she gave it to was—“
“…to Diamond Tiara!”
“Oh. Well, that was certainly inappropriate.”
“You’re tellin’ me. Knew somethin’ was up by how hungry she was at suppertime. Thought that filly had another tapeworm.”
“Another--?”
“I mean besides the one she kept in a jar.”
“What…what an unusual pet.”
“Yeah, I kept tellin’ her, ‘I don’t care what that ad in the back o’ the comic book said, that ain’t no sea monkey!’ –Anyway ‘Shy, I know y’ di’nt mean no harm, but look at it from mah prospective…
“Before ya know it, Apple Bloom’ll be growin’ up an gettin’ innerested in…in colts an’ all and she’s gotta have a good foundation about what t’ expect . Y’know, what’s acceptable an’ unacceptable, what t’say ‘no’ to, an'…an' what t’say ‘hell, no!’ to…
“…an’ whadda ya think that ol’ story says, about what a colt can ask from a filly—an’ what she’s gotta give ‘im? Ever’thin’? Ever’thin’? An’ she cain't expect nothin’ in return?
“Ah don’t want that for her--not that kinda colt, not that kinda life. I hope y’unnerstan’.”
“Oh Applejack, of course I do! But the that’s not what the story’s about: it’s about unconditional love, the kind a mother has for her foals and…”
“Whoa whoa whoa back up there…no, c’mon back, I mean back up to what you were sayin’—about ‘unconditional love?’
“Yes?”
“You said that’s the kinda love a foal gets from a mare if the mare’s its mother.”
“Yes…”
“Ain’t that a big ol’ condition right there?”
“Okay, um, maybe that’s not such a good…wait, what about Stanley? And Joshua? Don’t they show the same kind of love the tree in the story does? Isn’t that something worth, um, celebrating?”
“Oh, fer…‘Shy. Look. Big Stan. Big Josh. Yeah, ah love ‘em . Heck we love all our trees. But we ain’t sentimental about ‘em. They live, they perduce, an when they cain’t perduce anymore we cut ‘em down an’ use the wood for somethin.’ Because they’re trees, a’right?. They don’t…symbolize nothin’.”
“I understand, but…well, no…”
“What?”
“It’s not really…”
“What, Fluttershy?”
“I mean, if they don’t symbolize anything to you…”
“Yeah?”
“…why do you keep calling them ‘he?’ ”
“…"
"Yes?"
“…I…"
"Mm-hm?"
“…I mean…”
“...you mean?...”
“What I mean is…look, I don't wanna get it into it now, ‘Shy. I gotta think about it. Okay?"
“Oh, certainly. Yes. We can talk about something else…
"Fine."
“…how’s Big Mac doing, these days?”
Author's Note
This all started with that line from Guardians of the Galaxy (you know which one).
And I got to thinking: which pony is the most like the Giving Tree?
The answer is probably not what you think. Hint: Fluttershy knows. Her last line is important. She's trying to make Applejack realize something
(Also be make shout-out to homies from Chicago--see if you can find. Jeszcze Polska nie zginęł!)
2. To make some Hour less Dreary
They spoiled my fun. They always do. But up ‘til then it was such fun.
You mustn’t think I was bored. Friendship and domesticity are so novel—relatively speaking—and Fluttershy’s little animal friends always have the most interesting stories to tell. You’d think the predators’ would be juiciest but no, the herbivores usually have them beat. At least as far as the stories I like are concerned.
(And despite received wisdom snakes are a total loss: you dine out once a week and then sleep for five days—really, where’s the conversation in that?)
But chores and teas and garden parties can only go so far with someone in the prime of life. A fellow has needs. I’m sure you understand.
So I decided, you know, to have my fun. Discreetly of course. What Fluttershy didn’t know couldn’t hurt. Not that I was unfaithful: I kept my vows to the letter. No harming others, no playing with chaos, obey the rules and serve the good of the community.
Shall I tell you what I did?
I’d arrive in some city or town in the form of a middle-aged stallion, a stranger, well and soberly dressed. And I’d pick one random pony on the street, go right up to them and say, in an intimate tone and with utter seriousness:
“They know.”
Then I’d turn and walk away. That was it. And can you imagine? I mean, the effect of just those words, uttered in just that fashion --well, it was nothing short of magical!
Most would go straight home, and after a few sleepless nights they’d confess the most astounding anthologies of sins to their spouses, their friends or the authorities (What? Oh I have my ways of knowing, never fear). Most times it was about mares or money, but others—really, the charades you mortals get up to never cease to enthrall me.
Often there’d be tears and forgiveness. You’ve got to expect a few damp squibs. But oftener it was divorce court, civil suit, criminal charges—I was a force for justice, you see. And if justice left chaos in its wake, why, how could I be blamed for that? It was the Law that did it, and who has less to do with Law than I?
There was one fellow—I’ll never forget—who reared, actually whinnied and reared right there in the street and bolted. He didn’t go home. He made straight for the freightyard and hopped an express. Last I saw of him he was shivering in a shack in Appaloosa, hollowed out with guilt and homesickness. And his wife and foals forever wondering why daddy never came home …
…and do you know, I never learned what it was all about.
Of course I wasn’t always so successful. Mares tended to roll their eyes and walk away. A few called for the police. And a surprising number would say “so what?” or words to that effect. Either they were bluffing or they knew I was. Foals were the worst: they’d just stand there, blinking up at me stupidly. A few would condescend to tell me I was we-ird. So I gave up with them early on. Little sociopaths.
(And yes, I abhor sociopaths: to the music of mischief they are utterly tone-deaf. I mean how can you appreciate it if you can’t tell evil from good?)
But the stallions gave me good sport. Why, I wonder? I suppose it’s because they have more freedom than mares—not being the ones to bear and nurse foals—and freedom of course is freedom to misbehave. But that being the case why don’t you, you know, make allowances? Raise a few barriers here, lower some expectations there, and so much misery could be averted. You could do it. You know you could do it. Yet you don’t.
You’re such fascinating creatures. I could study you ‘til the Sun burns out. Probably will, at that.
Anyway it was all too good to last. I was sitting on a hill one day, gazing down at the Ponyville School—I’ve taken an interest in education ever since some students gave their teacher a date-rape drug for Hearts and Hooves Day—and up comes Twilight Sparkle. That never-to-be-sufficiently-damned Princess Twilight Sparkle, prancing along like a little filly who wants you to know she’s got something you don’t, like an ice cream cone.
And she looks up at me with a smile all cold and full of artificial sweetness, and says:
“They know.”
And off she goes.
Well I’m no rube: I went home in my own good time and acted like nothing was amiss. And Fluttershy seemed none the wiser so she’s not one of the “they” who know. At least I think so. Celestia and Luna? But I’m not on the Moon, or stuck up as a piddling fountain in the Canterlot gardens—at least not yet. I don’t know, I don’t know…
What I do know is that the jig is up and I’ll have to find a new way to amuse myself. I suppose I will, eventually. Until then I’ll have to settle for corrupting Fluttershy with games of chance…
…Pardon me—it’s my turn to “go fish.”
Author's Note
Discord makes a barstool confession, and rationalizes it like any other creep.
I based this on a passage from some 19th-century author--someone said it was Conan-Doyle but I think it might have been Dostoevsky--who wrote to the effect that the most devastating thing you could do to a stranger was to simply walk up to them on the street and say "They know."
The title is from a stanza out of Lord Byron's Don Juan:
“But 'why then publish?' There are no rewards
Of fame or profit when the world grows weary.
I ask in turn why do you play at cards?
Why drink? Why read? To make some hour less dreary.
It occupies me to turn back regards
On what I've seen or pondered, sad or cheery,
And what I write I cast upon the stream
To swim or sink. I have had at least my dream.”
