A Big Nothing

Rambling With Big Mac / A Big Nothing

Big Macintosh reclined lazily on his porch, loathing the spiteful sun for taking such long time to be gone with its despicable brightness. Each day he would lay there, barring outside circumstances, and pass the sunset by silently waiting, sucking on a stem of wheat, savoring the wick of his life slowly burning away. But today would be different, not to mean that all others had always been the same, for every new day is built on the previous and undoubtedly different—at least in the small things—but that this usual routine of his would not take place in the way it occurred more often than not.

As the stallion relaxed there on the porch, one of the precious few times he was allowed to forget his existence, his sister Applejack appeared, likely from inside the farmhouse but maybe not, to question him. She strode in the proud manner all healthy young mares with four working legs tend to do, not a care in the world, for she was able to unload hers onto her docile brother, and she advised, “Ya better count the trees again, before they count you.”

Now Big Macintosh was on the whole a quiet pony, usually murmuring placating sounds to avoid genuine communication and when this was not possible, preferring to give simple replies such as ‘Eyup’ or ‘Enope’ as it was often all that was necessary to suffice, things are already so hard to understand without excess speech clouding the mind. But for the upkeep of family relations, he was willing to supply more and it was in this sake of conversation that he said, “Well, Ah reckon it’d be easier for them to count.”

His sister took her time responding to this, carefully considering his words as it was a rarity for him to give away so many thoughts at once, and then she still had to plan her response. But this did not take as long due to her nature of leaping straight into action headfirst, and she asked, “Cuz there’s more of them than you?”

And the red stallion did not need to take as long for his part in this conversation either, this insipid form of interaction supposed to cement the bonds between two beings, as he had used his precious time carefully while Applejack was thinking and was prepared. “Nah, cuz they got all them branches ta count on and ponies don’t got fingers,” was his reply, which took quite a bit of his already meager energy as he was unaccustomed to expelling so much air at once.

This was unpleasant. Applejack did not enjoy hearing this for it forced her to think of herself in context, to be reminded of her miserable existence as a pony, which here means making out a bare survival on her insignificant scrap of world by constantly repeating the same stale activities so that they might be repeated once again. She tried to explain these feelings away, to reason that it was not so bad as that was all she had ever known, but at the same time that made it all the worse. For unable to know the difference, to have experienced being as something else in a different form, left her only to speculation, which is all too easily tinted by desires and prejudices that cause it to appear more desirable than it might really be.

However the orange pony did not let herself succumb to depression because of this, as she is a stubborn, tempered mare. Past unpleasant experiences, including some with her parents before they had been embraced by the void, though she did not consciously recognize these things as the source of her behaviors and taste for strength, had developed for her a habit of converting sadness to anger. This anger now welling up inside her chest fueled her to act out against the world in multiple ways, one being to yell at her brother and demand he go out to purchase more horseshoes before the shop closes.

And these things are told for the sake of the narrative, but it is understood they really mean nothing, it’s all a big nothing. So Big Mac went out the path to the big nothing of Ponyville, which he might have done anyway for a number of reasons, occasionally stopping to admire the soil or observe the odd animal eating its intestines. And along the way he got a few things in his head, some insects, a few pebbles, and a twig that would likely require an operation, but chiefly it occurred to the modest stallion that he would like to date his sister’s librarian friend.

He could not really recall just which one she was, he’d only had the occasional passing encounter among them, but the little impression Big Mac did have was that they were largely the same. As he understood the matter, his sister’s friends were each of the female gender, all mares, they were all bound to possess that feminine slit. And if by chance one of them didn’t have that certain hole between her legs, well then surely he would be able to find another cavity on her body upon which he could do the job, all the same. And as to why he’d chosen the librarian, it was firstly a practical point, he thought he might be able to use her knowledge to learn new skills for the farm. Certainly none would object to his desire to make work easier. But beside this were more vain reasons as well, for he knew that as an avid book reader, she would likely wear glasses, which he had always found quite attractive.

So he resolved, or rather found himself going ahead since there was nothing to stop him, that he would go to the library and ask that pony, and he was at least certain of her species, to go on a date with him. Perhaps she would agree and intimate relations might ensue, which he expected to be more enjoyable, meaning more fondly remembered later on if he was obligated to drag out memories, than his farm work. It did not matter either way, the results would be the same, but even if they were not, the outcome still would have little consequence to the stallion. No matter which outcome Big Macintosh endured, he would get on. And if he didn’t, he still had the void to look forward to or perhaps not, depending on its nature. But he did not phrase these things so eloquently, rather it was a basic truth he kept always in his heart.

        Yet that desire stuck in his head, which he found unusual for a thought to do based on his previous exposures to thinking, but maybe this was common for those with more experience and he was the unusual one. And at the tree library, he met the librarian and discovered she was the purple one, though the color had no impact on him, but was something near pleased that the gender seemed to indeed be female. It was still all the same. They went through what resembled a greeting and when he got around to somehow indicating he wanted to discuss personal matters, the pony invited him to the kitchen for coffee.

He sat at the table waiting, and time ticked away at the usual pace, but Macintosh was unconcerned as he felt it was being well spent, well not really, but perhaps not as awful as it might be doing other things. He wasn’t too sure of the difference. Then the librarian returned with the coffee and she too sat, attempting to make idle conversation. He responded in the typical way to this, replying only what was necessary to sustain the flows of communication, for his mind was preoccupied and he’d yet to figure how to stop it.

        He thought about the mare, whose name he was fairly certain he had gathered was Twilight Sparkle, her appeal, and of his prospects with her. It seemed that this relationship had a good possibility of prospering, and they might succeed at passing a fair amount of the years in this manner, her initiating and him reciprocating encouragingly. This would not be so difficult a way to get on, he made at musing by gathering a sum of stray thoughts, and perhaps they might grow old without notice if they worked at it.

His stomach gave off a rumble, and Big Macintosh felt obligated to express embarrassment as he’d seen other ponies do, if memory was to be trusted. It’s all very vague and he did not like to work at sorting through the muck if it could be avoided. But he was certain what he felt now was hunger, among many other distasteful sensations such as the rough chair or the constant ache of his legs, and the stallion decided—oh we’ve been through this before—that he would go about getting food. He killed the librarian and took to rummaging through the cupboards, and other storage containers, taking inventory of the things he found.

And as the number of items grew, Big Macintosh found himself repeatedly having to start over after losing track, which was no new occurrence for him, and so he decided to write a list. The stallion was very proud at this idea and it made him feel intelligent, like a foal pretending at professionalism, pretending at being a person, that he was going through the same routines a qualified librarian underwent. This was to his liking and he went to further the illusion by donning librarian garments and parading about, simulating a work day as he imagined it, or rather how he would enjoy it.

Taking cautious steps in the manner of a bibliophile, which was not much of a stretch for him despite having little experience with literature, he surveyed the shelves and arranged the books according to a system he did not understand. But he knew this was how these things were done, likely how most things were, even if he could never get the hang of it himself. He expanded the list to also include a log of his activities, such as dusting off extraneous knick-knacks and corralling the roaches. This seemed a futile effort, he wasn’t sure what was not, but it seemed more so than other things and resembled his farm work.

Big Mac let them to their devices and instead greeted fictitious customers, helping them find their desired books. One in particular, a green stallion with a name, was unruly and exceedingly foul-mouthed, displaying no care for the etiquette of a library. He would not allow Macintosh to assist him, despite almost successfully communicating, and upon being unable to find what he was searching for, began vandalizing. He went around the room shouting and knocking books from shelves, being generally more of a nuisance than the other customers. Big Macintosh was stern at this. It is common knowledge, one of the few things he had in his head that he’d gathered others did also, that certain things must be done in certain places for certain reasons. Therefore this stallion’s behavior was unacceptable and he was forced to leave in order to preserve the library’s semblance of standards, carried out of course in the manner of an irate bibliosoph.

But this acting like something more than an animal wallowing in dirt could not last forever, or at least a predominant portion of his existence as Big Macintosh knew he was very finite, constantly withering, what might be considered the best of all the years having gone by. And he was reminded of this by a chance glance out the window, night having long fallen, another cycle persevered. A little bit more over with.

So Big Macintosh left, thinking to head home where he might get over with sleeping as well, but he didn’t know and would have to find out as it happened.