ABOWMINAYSHUNS

FractalFluff, May 24, 2014; 09:38 / FB 21936
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(Contains a little hugbox and a little abuse, but much sadbox.)

ABOWMINAYSHUNS

"Huuhuuhuuhuu!"

You're a fluffy mummah, sobbing as you run. It's a little muffled, as you have your orange colt in your mouth. His sister is clinging to your back-fluff; you're terrified that your precious blue wingie baby might fall, but too terrified to look back and check. A hard thing flies very close to your ear, and you squeal as another hits your rump.

"That's right! Clear off, you fucking freak!"

It's not fair! All you did was go up to that hoomin housie and tap on the door. After you got chased away from your safe-place behind the hoomin Kah-Fay housie, it's been sooo hard to get nummies. So you walked and walked, tapping on doors with your hoofsie and asking if the hoomins would give you some. Not all the housies had hoomins, and the ones that did just chased you away. Even though you were careful that everyone made god poopies before you went on the hoomins' Land, even though you asked very nicely and used your bestest pretty-words, they hit you with owwie sorry-sticks or threw hard things. Some of them sprayed you with coldest wawa from a hissy-monster! And this hoomin came out of her housie and chased you down the road!

Why are people so mean to fluffies? All you want are some nummies for you to make milkies for your little colt and filly. You feel like the worstest mummah ever when you don't have milkies, but you can't make any if hoomins won't let you have food. You can't even nibble the grassies and leaves that come through the hoomin's fences; if they catch you, they shout and kick you away. The grassies by the side of the big blackrocky are always too short and too yikky with metal-monster breath and dog poopies to make nummies.

Your wobbly leggies won't run anymore, but the hard things have stopped flying anyway. You know you can't stop in the open, though; if a hoomin sees you, they'll give you and your babies worstest owwies. Maybe even make you have longest sleepies.

You're outside a big hoomin housie with lots of Land. Some wooden steppies go up to the door. You're too tired to climb up, but there's some space behind them. You know you shouldn't go on hoomin Land without asking, but you need to hide. Hurrying as much as you can, you scurry up the path. It won't hide you completely, but perhaps it will keep you secret until you can have some nappies. Then you'll go on and look for nummies, a safer place to stay...

***

You're a homeowner returning from the store. You mount the steps to your door and are dipping in your handbag for your keys, when a faint sound catches your attention. It's a soft chirping, peep peep speep peep... Bird? Baby squirrel? You look around, but can't see the source. Eventually, you pinpoint it as coming from under the steps. You walk back down and peer into the recess. Definitely looks like some kind of animal. Far too big for a squirrel; could it be a cat? Or is it...

The creature raises its head and looks at you.

"Oh God..." you stumble backwards, face blanching. "Oh God..."

"H-huwwo?" says the Thing under the steps. "Nice wady? Pwease nu gif huwties, am gud fwuffy. Jus wan safe pwace an nummies fow babbehs..."

You don't hear the rest. Reeling, you turn away and vomit.

***

You're a fluffy pony, and you've just been discovered in your hidey-hole. The hoomin who found you isn't hurting you, though; instead, she's making biggest sickie-wawas.

"Hoomin otay?" you ask her, concerned.

"Oh God!" she chokes, and runs away.

You huddle down. You don't understand what's happening, but it can't be good.

After a pause, the lady comes back. She crouches next to the hidey-hole, but doesn't look at you.

"Don't talk!" she says urgently. "Okay. Uh... fluffy. I'm going to ask some questions, and I don't want you to talk. I don't want you to talk, and I don't want you to come out until I tell you to. Now, tap your... your hoof... once for yes and two for no. Do you understand?"

You think for a second, then tap once. You don't really understand, but the lady told you not to talk.

"Right. Okay. Now, do you have an owner? A human you live with?"

You tap twice.

"Are you alone?"

Two taps.

"The other fluffies... are they foals? Babies?"

One tap.

"Are any of you hurt?"

You're sore in places, but you don't have any big owwies. You tap No.

"Are you hungry?"

You tap once, harder than all your other taps. You're bursting to tell the lady how badly you need nummies to make milk, but she told you not to talk. You know better than to disobey humans. Not only do they punish you, but you hate to do anything that doesn't make them happy. Deep in your heart you know that you and your babies exist to make humans happy; if you make them sad or angry, it feels like the end of the world.

"Right," says the lady. "Well... I suppose I can give you some food. But I want you to wait there — don't come out. And don't say anything."

***

You're a homeowner, leaning your back against your front door and waiting for the nausea to subside. Those things. God, those things! You don't hate them, exactly; if anything, they seem quite pitiful to you. No, what you have is a kind of deep-seated horror, a loathing that has an edge of phobia to it. There's a wrongness about them: the way they look like horses, yet not, the way they look like toys, yet they move and talk... they're like something out of a nightmare. There's a purely unheimlich quality to fluffy ponies that you've never been able to get past. Why anyone would create such a — such a monstrosity! — it's beyond you. And they were supposed to be a children's toy...

But it's not their fault, and certainly not the fault of the poor little — mare, you suppose? — under your steps. The thing said she had foals; she may well be starving.

You go into the kitchen and raid your pantry. You don't have canned spaghetti, and you certainly don't have fluffy kibble. You do have muesli; that's mostly oats and fruit, right? You suppose it'll do. You put some of the dry cereal into a bowl, then chop a raw carrot into crude chunks and drop that in as well. You fill a shallower bowl with water. Loaded down, trying not to slop the water too much, you return to the fluffy.

"I'm coming back now," you tell it. "Don't come out, and don't talk." Hands shaking, you put the bowls under the steps and retreat as fast as you can.

Back inside, you rush to the downstairs washroom and hover retching over the sink. It's a false alarm — you've probably nothing left to throw up. When the dry heaves subside, you splash water on your face and try to think.

Shelters. They have shelters for these things, don't they? Your brother is coming by in a couple of days for one of his periodic visits, ostensibly to help you with some running repairs, but mostly to hit you up for some spare cash. You don't mind. You've been lucky — a published author by 22, able to live comfortably off your writing before you were 30, while he had that awful back injury at work...

Yes, your brother. You can ask him if he'd mind driving the fluffies to a shelter. A no-kill one; you don't want the poor creatures put down, not if they have the chance of a happy life with someone who feels differently to you.

In the meantime, you don't want them under your steps. You might see them again, or hear that horrid babble. You shudder.

Pulling yourself together, you head for your boxroom. You used to have a cat: a sweet old tom, but rather aloof. When you moved to your current house from one a few streets over, you brought him with you; he had other ideas, however. After you'd retrieved him for the third time, only to have him flee back to his old address yet again, you decided to leave him to it. You still have his bed, however, along with his pet blankets and some of his toys. You also have his cat carrier.

Your next stop is the small toolshed in an overgrown corner of the back garden. You cleared it out when you moved in, but you've never used it — there's a larger, newer one nearer the house. The small shed is still empty of everything but a few odds and ends in a cardboard box — half-empty paint cans, it looks like, and what could be a bottle of white spirit or lighter fuel. There's plenty of room for the bed; you dump it and blankets on the floor.

The shed door has a large catflap set into it, or maybe it was a doggy door. You nudge the door with your toe; it swings fairly freely, and looks plenty big enough for a fluffy.

Fetching the kitty carrier, you return to the front of the house.

"Okay, fluffy, I have another question. Tap once for yes, twice for no. Do you understand?"

Tap.

"Okay. Very soon, you and your babies are going to a — a nice new home. Until then, you can have food here and a safe place to sleep. Do you want to stay here?"

There's a hesitant tap.

"You won't be under the steps. There's — there's a sort of little house round the back. You'd stay there. Does that sound all right?"

TAP.

"Okay. Now, I'm going to put a box next to the steps. I want you ad your babies to get inside it. It's a safe box, nothing bad will happen to you or your foals. I promise. I want you to wait till I tell you to come out, though. Do you understand?"

Tap.

"Will you go in the box?"

Tap.

You turn your back. "Ready? I want you to get in the box, then tap once when everyone's inside."

You hear shuffling, and that chirping sound again. Then there's a tap from the box.

You shut the door hastily, trying not to look. With your eyes averted, you carry the box to the shed.

"Now then, fluffy. I'm going to put you inside your new house." You set the carrier on the floor of the shed and open the front, still averting your eyes. You hurriedly leave the shed and close the door.

"Can you hear me, fluffy?" you call.

Tap.

"There's a little door that you can use to get in and out. Do you see it?" You nudge the door so it swings a little. There's another single tap.

"You can, um, make poopies in the long grass by the shed. Just not inside, and not on the path. Do you understand?"

Tap.

"Okay. Well, I'm going now. Um. Look after yourself."

Later, you push a bowl with some more muesli and carrot chunks and a dish of water into the shed.

"Are you and your babies alright, fluffy?" you ask.

Tap.

"I forgot to say — don't touch any of the things in the box at the back, all right? There are things in there that could make you sick. Especially in the bottle — that's not water. It could kill you or your babies if you drank it. Even if you breathed in too much of the smell. Leave it alone, okay?"

Tap.

You should probably have moved the box out of the shed. With the fluffies ensconced inside, you can't even make yourself open the door. Still, you reflect as you walk away, some dried-up old paint can't hurt them. The paint thinner or whatever had a childproof cap. Impossible to open with hooves; plus you've heard that these things have a hypersensitive sense of smell, which should deter the mother from messing with solvents.

***

You're a fluffy mummah with two beautiful chirpy babies. You have a safe place to sleep, a soft nestie (despite its pervasive smell of kitty-munstah) and plenty of nummies — amazingly good nummies, by your standards. Even if the lady stops you food, you'll be fine — the grassies here are long and lush, full of juice. You've even been promised a nice new home soon. Everything is perfect, but you still have the biggest saddies.

The lady is the nicest hoomin you've ever met, ever. She must like fluffies the bestest, better than most hoomins — and she can't even stand to look at you. Just the sound of your voice makes her have a sickie-tummy.

You always thought that if you met nice hoomins, you'd be able to make them smile. But now you've finally met a good, kind lady-hoomin, and all you do is make her have saddies and sickies. You thought you had such pretty, good babies — and the nice lady hates even them. You can't even make babies right! Maybe the meanie hoomins are right? Maybe you are a "freak", a "mutant", a "shit-rat"?

You feel terrible, like the worstest, poopiest fluffy ever. You watch your babies bumble around on the floor, stumbling after a ballie with a jingly noise inside. You try not to huuhuu.

You spend the rest of the bright-time and all of the dark-time recovering and hoping your saddie feels will go away. When it gets light, you take your babies outside to play in the sun, staying in the long grass so that the lady won't see you.

"Babbehs stah wif Mummah, otay?" you tell them. "Nu gu 'way fwom Mummah, dat bad. Gud babbehs stah wif Mummah awwa time, du wat Mummah teww. Otay?"

"'Tay, Mummah," they respond.

You talk very quietly, in case she's near enough to hear. Fortunately your babies are only just talkie-babbehs; they've only recently got past the "Mummah, miwk, wub" stage and begun talking properly. Their voices are still little and quiet.

You hear a door open and close. The lady must be coming! You grab your babies and hustle them through the swingy-door, getting them out of sight as fast as you can. You see her walking down the path. She has a brown bag in one hand and a bottle of wawa in the other. You duck through the swingy-door just in time to avoid being spotted.

"Fluffy? Are you in the shed?" calls the lady from outside.

Tap.

"I'm going to open the door in a moment. I'm going to give you some more food and water, but I want you and your babies out of sight, okay? And don't talk."

You pick your babies and put them in the carry-boxie, then climb in after them.

"Are you out of sight?"

Tap.

The door opens. There's a rustling noise, a rattle, and then the glugging sound of water being poured. The door opens and closes again.

"I'm leaving now," says the lady. You hear her feet scrunch scrunch off up the path.

Your heart hurts so much that you don't even want nummies, but you can't let your babies get tummy-owwies. You manage to choke down some food and water. Your babies want you to play ball with them, but it's all you can do to curl up in the beddie and watch.

You used to dream of being able to see your babies play like this: safely, without fear, with toys that were real toys and not trashies. Now you just feel sad.

***

A few bright-times come and go. Your heart-hurties don't go 'way, but you get better at ignoring them. You play with your babies, nurse them, and teach them important things like Good Poopies and Pretty Words. They can't learn many Pretty Words yet, but you've managed to get the pointy baby to say "Peas!" when he wants something.

You've also started to teach them tricks, like Standy-Up (you can only do that for a few seconds before your leggies get tired, but it makes some hoomins laugh), and Dancies (some hoomins like dancie-babbehs; going dancies has sometimes saved you from a beating). They can't go standies yet, but they're getting better and better at dancies. "Wookit Mummah!" you say, lifting your forelegs and wiggling from side to side. "Du wat mummah du!" The pointy isn't smiling, and you admonish him: "Happy smiwies, babbeh. Happy dancie smiwies!" He manages a little smile, and you beam back at him. You're determined that your babies will make their hoomin friends happy one day.

You see the wingie baby start to squat, and boop her nosie. "Bad babbeh!" you tell her. You take her outside, and then get her brother, too. "Babbehs make gud poopies whewe Mummah teww!" you say sternly. The wingie rolls over and huuhuus, but the pointy makes a good poopy. You hug the pointy and call him a "gud babbeh!"

You ache to hug your precious wingie too, but it's just so important that she learns good poopies. There's nothing hoomins hate worse than a poopy-fluffy, and she has to learn to make a new mummah or daddah happy. You know that you might not always be with her to clean up or boop her nosie. But when she realizes that huuhuuing won't get her any huggies, the wingie sits up and stumbles over to deposit a poop next to her brothers. You swoop her up in your leggies and tell her what a good, clever, pretty baby she is!

Then you hear the hoomin-housie door again, and chivvy your babies back to the shed. You hide in the boxie while the lady pours out more water — you don't need fresh nummies — and when you're certain she's gone, you take the babies back outside.

"Stah wif Mummah, otay?" you remind them. "Nu wunnin off!"

"Otay!" says the pointy colt.

"'Tay!" echoes his sister.

It's so nice to play in the sunshine with your babies. You almost start to feel not-poopie again. The babies are getting more and more active, asking questions about everything around them. The wingie's favourite words are "wat dat?" You explain birdie (big birdies can be munstahs, but little ones are pretty), buzzy-munstah (not to be made angry), fluttery-buggies (not to be chased), and flowers (not to be eaten, because that makes hoomins sad). You're so busy dissuading your wingie from eating a dandelion that you don't notice the colt stumbling off in pursuit of a butterfly; and then you're so busy chasing and telling-off and giving sorries to the colt that you don't notice the wingie scamper away in the opposite direction. You grab the bawling colt in your mouth and go to fetch her back, but you loose sight of her in the long grass.

You drop the colt for a moment. "Babbeh?" you call. "Whewe babbeh?" You think you see movement in the grass off to your left, but when you check, there's nothing there. You grab the colt again. Looking high and low, you wander through the grassies. Finally you come to the part of the grassies that are short and little, and see your wingie! She's gone a long way, a bright spot of blue on the grass. And... oh no... here comes the lady!

You set the pointy colt down. "Babbeh!" you hiss. "Wingie babbeh! 'Ou come back wite nao! Bad babbeh!"

She looks over her shoulder and blows a raspberry. What can you do? If you leave the long grass the lady will see you and have big sickies again! You feel powerless, and begin to huuhuu. "Babbeh! Babbeh!" You want to shout, but fear of upsetting the lady makes you keep your voice down.

She's heading right for the lady! Now she's sitting by the path, right where the lady can see her... she's trying to go standy-uppies, but falls on her bum. You think she might be upset enough to run back, but she just pulls herself up and starts making dancies. "Da, da, da," sings the baby, and now the lady is getting closer, closer...

Her eyes fall on the baby. She freezes in place. "Da, da, da," sings the wingie-filly. "Hewwo, nice wady! Gif huggies? Gif wub tu dancie babbeh?"

For a long moment, it seems as if everything might be all right. The lady doesn't run or do sickies. She just stands there and watches the baby dance. But then she clasps her hand to her mouth and screams: "AAAAAUGH!"

"Nu wub dancie babbeh?"

"Oh God! Get away! Get away from me! Get away, you FREAK!" The lady runs away up the path and out of eyeshot. You hear her making sickies, then she shouts: "Fluffy? Get that THING out of my sight! It'd better be gone when I come back!"

Huuhuuing, you run out of the tall grassies and grab the baby in your mouth. You rush back to your colt, who's too busy huuhuuing to run away. You alternately carry and shove the babies back to the shed.

Once inside, you set the babies on the floor. They hug each other instinctively; you separate them. "Nu! Nu huggies! Nu huggies fow WOWSEST BABBEHS!"

"Peas, mummah! Nu haf angwies?" begs the wingie. You desperately want to reward her for learning "please", but you know you have to make this lesson stick.

"Mummah TEWW babbehs, 'stah wif Mummah'! BOUF babbehs wun 'way Mummah! Bwoo wingie get wosted, an nice wady seed! Nao nice wady haf angwies an sickies! Mummah teww babbehs, 'fwuffies du wat nice hoomin teww!' 'Ou nu du! Nu am gud babbehs! Ou am du-wat-wan babbehs!"

"Huuhuuhuu! Nu wan be bad babbeh! Peas wub, Mummah? Peas!"

"Bouf babbehs bad! Bwoo babbeh WOWSTEST! Bouf babbehs gettin sowwy-hoofsies! Bwoo wingie fiwwy gettin sowwy-hoofsies an NU MIWKIES!"

"Waaaahhh!"

You make good your threat, spanking both babies on the bum and only nursing the pointy colt afterwards. The wingie filly hugs her tail and huuhuus, gazing up at you with tear-filled eyes.

You're sooo scared, for yourself and for them. What if they're so bad that only you can ever love them? You're just a fluffy mummah! They have to be good enough for a hoomin mummah! You think and think of some way to make them learn. You can't keep giving them sorry-hoofsies, they're too tiny. And you can't leave them with tummy-owwies for too long — that hurts babies. You think and think, and then your eyes fall on the boxie in the corner. You walk over, and find that you can get your forelegs over the side. Tottering backwards, you manage to tip the box; the metal round things and the smelly bottle of nu-wawa all roll out. You feel a sudden pain in your leggie; looking round, you see a mean pointy-up metal thing sticking through the floor. A nay-ul. "Meanie nay-ul," you complain, but the scratchie doesn't look bad.

You turn the boxie on its side, then set your huuhuuing babies inside it. Then you turn the boxie round so the open part is against the wall of the shed. "Dewe!" you say. "Bad babbehs get sowwy-box!"

"Huuhuuhuu! Nu wike sowwy-box!"

"Huuhuuuu! Nu smeww pwetty! Babbeh scawe, babbeh nu wike!"

"Nu 'sposed wike! Bad babbehs! Dummeh babbehs! In Twubbew babbehs!"

You curl up on your bed and huuhuu into your blankie, so that your poor little babies won't hear you. It must be very yikky in the box, and very dark; but how else will they be good babies?

After a long time, you move the box and rescue the foals. They seem wobbly, groggy; they can't keep their feet, and complain of headie-owwies. They cling to your fluff, sobbing with terror. After checking outside, you let them make very quick poopies.

"Nu pway ousside?" begs the colt.

"Nu, babbeh," you say sadly. "Nu can twus' babbehs nu mowe. Babbehs wun 'way Mummah 'gain, den wady see an haf sickies."

They promise not to run away, but you don't believe them. You all fall asleep in a sad little fluff-pile.

When you wake up, it's dark-time. The big dark-sky-ball is shining brightly through the window of the shed. Your babies are restless too, so you let them nurse.

You look down at them, their fluff almost grey in the silvery light. "Pwetty babbehs," you say. "Gud babbehs." But are they? They look good and pretty to you; even when she was being bad today, the little filly looked so good, sooo pretty, while she was dancing. And you've worked your hardest to teach them Good Fluffy things.

But it's not enough.

You can never be a good fluffy. You realize that now. No matter how hard you try, all you and your babies will ever do is make hoomins sick and angry and sad.

You cuddle your babies as they nurse, and sing mummah-songs to them. They murmur "wub mummah", and drift happily off to sleep. Your heart aches in your chestie, but you know what you have to do.

You wait till your babies are fast asleep again.

You go to the corner of the shed where the things from the boxie have rolled. You roll the nu-wawa bottle over to the nay-ul; with some pressure, you pop a hole in its side. You push and pull the bottle to make the hole bigger, then pull it free. A dribble of nu-wawa is running out, so you quickly roll the bottle back to the nestie. The nestie soaks up the nu-wawa; the yikkie smell gets very strong, very quickly. You get spinnies just from breathing it a little. But what if the forever-sleepies smell runs 'way before you're sleeping forever? You need something to keep it from running.

You pull the boxie over and get into the nestie, dragging it after you. You curl up around your babies with the box over all of you. You try to take the deepest breaths you can.

"Mah babbehs," you sob. "Mummah's pwetty babbehs. Mummah an babbehs be gud fwuffies nao."

***

You're a homeowner and temporary fluffy custodian. Your brother is here, and you're walking him to the shed to get the fluffies.

"...They weren't really badly behaved," you're explaining. "The mare actually seemed, well, she seemed quite nice, really. She did everything I told her."

"Sounds pretty intelligent, from what you've told me," he remarks. "That's good. People like the clever ones."

You feel a pang of guilt. "That was the problem. I mean, they're animals, but they're intelligent."

"Mmm-hm."

"And they look like toys, they look exactly like stuffed toys, but they move around and talk. Just seeing it walking was like a bad dream... it's so creepy. you know?"

"Not really," says your brother cheerfully. Before you can stop him, he's pulled open the shed door.

"No!" you shout, but there's no sign of the fluffies. The cardboard box has been upended over the bed; the reek of solvents makes you both recoil. Your brother steps into the shed. Gingerly, he lifts up the box.

The fluffies are a small, still pile, curled up next to the leaking bottle of paint thinner. Your brother reaches down and feels the mare's throat.

"Well," says standing up, "Looks like your problem's solved itself. None of these'll be doing much moving anymore."

***