Arts and Crafts
As the sun set on a warm Saturday evening, a man sat at a desk with a paintbrush about the size of a pencil in his hand. His window open wide and his drapes thrown back, the man let the natural peace from outside envelop his workspace, as he delicately tapped his brush tip to a tiny plastic soldier. Meticulously, over several minutes, he would repeat the process: dip the brush in thinned watery paint, spin the tip so that it sharpened to a fine point, and touch that point to another tiny spot on the soldier. To the keen eyed witness, the process would repeat, but the subject of it would not, as the man would occasionally swap which of his numerous soldiers was raised to his brush.
Over the course of several minutes, each soldier would receive the same treatment, and each one completed would lower the manâs tension a step further. It was his sanctuary, his method of unwinding after a hard week. He enjoyed the freedom and steadiness of his art medium, taking it at his own pace, slowly bringing a wider vision to life one tiny step at a time. It helped him work through and slowly shed his frustrations with his routine, which he needed desperately.
His work was not so hard, but did prove to be tedious at times. His coworkers were frustrating to engage with, as he preferred to keep to himself and avoid idle chitchat. His commute was unforgiving and involved necessary public transportation as well as fighting through bustling busy city streets. All of these paled in comparison, however, to the main reason his daily routine was wholly insufferable.
Fluffies.
How he loathed the creatures. They struck a nerve with him that heâd never fully understood. The most he had reflected on his hatred of them was that he felt as though they mocked him with their naivety. Beyond that, he never figured out for certain, or cared, why he despised them more than anything else. Of course, they showed up everywhere, and it was impossible to get away from them for more than a short while, which didnât help alleviate his vitriol towards them. He would trip over one begging for food on his way to lunch. He would find fecal matter on the bottom of his nice shoe the day he had an important meeting with a big client. He would have to listen to a nest of them talking nonstop directly under his office window. They made him furious like nothing else he knew of.
Unfortunately for him, as it was still Friday evening, his week was not quite over just yet. Fate intended to remind him of that.
It started with a distant babble. A quiet echo of broken-up nonsensical chatter. He didnât notice it at first, not fully, and he was so focused on his brush strokes that he couldnât pay any attention to it yet. Until the chatter got closer, and more voices became audible. Then it had his attention, and he paused his brush to look out his window. There, on the edge of his property, emerging from the trees, was his worst nightmare.
A portly purple mare was strolling across the grass, incessantly jabbering to the spoiled children riding on her back all the way. Currently, she was yammering something about a âsafe roomâ and âlots of yummy foodâ; this implied that she had seen the house and, as is a fluffyâs nature, assumed its owner would let her in. Little did she know what man awaited her inside, who currently glowered through his window like a hungry vulture.
As he watched his most reviled enemy stroll so casually across his manicured yard, the man felt the tension rise in his body again, a seething twisting sensation that strained every muscle. It infuriated him to see this entitled childlike creature come to his home, his sanctuary, expecting it to be their next free meal at least. He dropped his brush, screwed the cap back on his paint jar, and left his work on the desk. The man had new subjects upon which to sharpen his skills.
âââ
Frank opened the door with a perfectly practiced smoothness, not so quick as to startle his new guests, and not so soon as to hint that he had been watching. With a rehearsed smile on his face, he looked down at the globe of fur on his step and spoke.
âHello there, little miss,â he crooned. âHow may I help you today?â
âHewwo nice mistah, am Debwah! Am mummah in neeâ of new housie! Pwease be nyu daddeh foâ good fwuffy mummah and eben bettah babbehs?â
Frank pretended to consider, with a deeply pensive expression written across his brow. In his mind, however, he carefully analyzed each fluffy in front of him for their personalities, fortitude, and quirks. As she was distracted by his apparent uncertainty and continued pleading her case, he worked his eyes over each baby the fluffy mare carried.
Of the three on her back, there were two fillies and one colt. They were quite young, as they didnât have proper manes or tails grown in yet, only small spikes of color. The colt was shy, a bright sky blue with tan accents, and smaller than his siblings. Frank mused that he was likely the least favorite and was denied fair shares of food. As for the fillies, one was considerably heavier than the other, and shared her motherâs purple color. Undoubtedly the âbestestâ, especially when considering the ugly facial expression it was giving him. The less impish filly, though, was unremarkably average. Normal size, plain red fluff with a grey tail, staring vacantly and curiously at him. Frank concluded that they were a nice range of subjects, and finally answered the begging mare.
âAlrightâ, he began with a faux hesitation. âI suppose I could help you, but your babies will have to be on their best behavior, or else the machines will get them.â
Debra paused before she celebrated, then began to look nervous. âWhaâ am musheen? Am munstah?â
âYes,â Frank kept from chuckling, and made his face very serious. âThey are scary metal monsters who live under my house and make bad fluffies go âforever sleepiesâ. They stop you from going to Skettiland and chase you in dark time thoughts forever. As long as your babies behave, though, they will leave you be.â
Debra looked for a moment as though she would flee in terror, and a tiny trickle of urine slid from under her through the porch planks. However, to Frankâs surprise, the âbestestâ baby stepped up.
âNu am to wowwy Mummah, musheen munstahs nu com fow bwudda ow sissy, caws am bestesâ! Am bestesâ an dat mean nu can be bad fwuffy.â The confident filly gave a matter-of-fact nod to conclude its claim. It firmly believed that it was without fault, and no such fate would ever befall it.
Frank beckoned inside without another word, and at the clamorous insistence of her children, the mare finally trotted through the door. As it closed behind her, Frank noted the shy colt was shaking on its motherâs back. Its eyes kept darting around the room, settling on furniture with small tight spaces underneath. He would have to move quick if the foal bolted for a hiding place. For the moment, though, he followed them calmly into the kitchen.
âDis am suuuu pwetty! Bestest nummie makinâ pwace!â Debra babbled ceaselessly about the towels, the knife block, the metal trash can. âBabbehs, wook! Am shinee poopies box!â
Frank reached into cabinets and produced a can opener, a bowl, a pill container, and finally a spilling of spaghetti. The fluffies cheered shrilly and ran to the bowl, instantly forgetting their earlier uncertainty in the face of their favorite food. As they ate, Frank made sure their eyes were turned down as he quietly packed some different utensils into his pockets. Kabob skewers, a wine bottle corkscrew, measuring spoons, and a pair of kitchen shears were stowed away. Then, he turned to watch them earnestly polish off their meal, oblivious to what lay within it.
As they finished, he spoke again. âHow would you like to see where I sleep next?â With their eager confirmation, he ushered them down the hall.
In the scuffle to get their spaghetti, the foals had gained some confidence, and waddled back and forth on their own while Frank told them about all of the conveniences of his bedroom. He regaled them with fascinating details of his sleeping mask while he carefully watched for any symptoms of their snack. Fortunately, fluffies are not known for subtlety, and the unassuming middle child filly furrowed her tiny brow as she realized something was upsetting her stomach. With that as his cue, Frank smoothly transitioned his tour to his rec room.
âBabbehs, wook! Am Daddehâs toysies!â Debra pointed to the shelves as they entered, spotting the rows of seemingly endless small soldiers. âDis wun am bwue anâ hab nu smeww-pwace! Dese am funny wookinâ toysies, nyu Daddeh.â
Frank nodded along, and watched both other babies begin to show signs of discomfort, right as the red filly spoke up to her mother. He quietly slid the door shut, then stayed in the mareâs blind spot as she turned to see why her baby was upset. With the window also closed, he stepped a bit closer to his bookshelf, before his trap finally sprung.
Without much warning, the colt was the first one to break. If not for his blue fluff, he would have turned redder than his sister, as he voided his bowels fiercely onto the floor with a loud plop. Before he could be scolded by his mother, however, the bestest baby outdid him, launching a brown stream so pressurized that it made a perfect line across the floor. Immediately after, the red filly leaked fluid on herself from the effort of trying to keep her urge under control, then abruptly fired a rapid burst of small half-solid feces piles. In short order, all three babies were sitting in a giant mess of poop, with Debra utterly stunned by their outburst.
âBabbehs!â the mother finally shouted, breaking the silence. âWhy bad poopies on nyu Daddehâs fwoow?!â
Despite having spiked their food with a laxative and knowing what would happen, Frank was still startled, but quickly let his surprise wash away to allow his other urges in. As the mare hastily corralled her children and began washing their bottoms, he put a very grave look on his face before getting their attention in a low voice.
âOh, no, Debra.â
The mare froze, baby clutched in the air and tongue half extended. She looked up at her new daddeh, who had become suddenly very scary and evil, and began to shake.
âYour babies have been very, very bad, Debra. I warned you earlier what happens to fluffies who are bad in my house. Now I have to punish you all, before the machines come to get you.â
Debra took her turn to defecate on herself, as Frank made a show of revealing his wicked arsenal from seemingly nowhere. Immediately began the kowtowing, as the mare begged and prostrated for forgiveness, while the babies started running around in panic. Just as Frank predicted, the coltâs reaction was to turn tail and dash for the pitch-black recess under his bookshelf. He had already positioned himself to intercept, and in a terrifying burst of speed, the colt found out that Frank was much more powerful and terrifying than he could have imagined. Snatched from the floor and hoisted to a dizzying height, the blue foal broke down.
âSCREEEEEEEEEEEEE! MUMMAH! MUNSTAH DADDEH! MUMMAAAAAAH REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-â
Frank clapped the coltâs mouth shut with two fingers, but hadnât been quite fast enough, as the mother and siblings exploded in a new level of terror. Working to lock down the situation, he strapped the colt by its mouth into a loop of leather on the desk, tight enough that he saw it begin to chafe the babyâs sensitive skin as it struggled in vain. Next Frank snatched the mother before she could protest or demand her colt back, stuffing her into a tight undersized fluffy carrier that sat on the deskâs top shelf. Finally, he clamped his hands down on the two fillies, before finally sinking slowly into his chair.
With butcherâs twine, he tied shut the mouth of the red filly, and dropped the âbestestâ into a jar with a hole-filled lid for air flow. All the while, Debra begged and whined for him to forgive them and spare his wrath. The babies could do nothing but peep and cry. Once every fluffy was secured, Frank raised his hand and shushed them until he could speak in low tones again.
âI am sorry, but this is how it goes. You babies were very bad fluffies, so I must punish you, or else the machines will come. If they do come, someone must go âforever sleepiesâ to make them go away. Those are the rules.â
Debra composed herself enough to speak. âBuâ dey am onwy babbehs, dey nu mean tu make bad poopies, Daddeh! Dey ams just too smaww fow sketties, hab sickies in tummehs! Pwease Daddeh, wet mummah gu so can gib huggies, huhuhuuuâŚâ
Frank ignored her plea, pressing the red filly flat against his desk and pulling out his kebab skewers. Before either mother or child could react, he slammed the first one through a back leg into the desk.
âMMMMMMMMMMMHMMHMMHMMM,â was all the foal could say through the butcherâs twine. Frank began driving the other three skewers through the other legs. âMmfmhmmfmgmMMMMMMM!â
âNUUU, Daddeh! Nu gib huwties tu pweshus babbeh! She am nu bad babbeh!â Debra bargained in vain, to an uncaring and silent Frank.
Soon the red baby was pinned to the desk, in shock from the sudden trauma, unable and unwilling to speak or move. Frank glanced at the other two babies, and saw the bestest filly cowering in the jar, unable to look. As for the colt, he was still trapped against the edge of the desk, his snout rubbed raw by the strap he strained against. Content that they were unable to escape, Frank next revealed his kitchen shears, and snipped the twine holding the fillyâs mouth shut.
âHuuhuu, wy gib babbeh wowstest weggie huwties,â the filly whined. âDiâ nu mean tu make bad poopies wike mummah said! Pwease scawy Daddeh! Wet babbeh gu, nu huwt weggiEEEEEEES!!â
Frank slipped the kitchen shears over the first leg of the filly, and watched as she struggled to pull free. She knew what was coming. After a few moments of futile attempts, he closed the shears, feeling the soft gritty resistance on the blades as if cutting through kinetic sand or clay.
âSCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE, WY DADDEH WYYYYYY, EEEEEEEEEEEPEEPEEP CHIRP CHIRP PEEPEEPEEEEEEEP!â The filly turned hysterical under the pain, regressing to an infantile state. Frank slowly carved the blades through each remaining leg as she screeched.
Debra wept from her shelf. âDaddeh WY take babbeh weggies, dey ams GUD babbehs, nu desewb wose weggies! PWEASE Daddeh!â
Frank lifted the now-legless screaming ball of fluff from his desk and shoved her into the blue coltâs face. He squirmed and thrashed in terror under his binding, as his sister bled on the desk in front of him. Next, Frank spun the bestest babyâs jar to suddenly face her mutilated sister. The bestest yelped and scrambled against the side of the jar. So much for her earlier confidence, Frank mused. Finally, he tossed the doomed red foal into the can by his desk, as she howled herself hoarse the entire way down. With a quiet puff, she hit the air cushioned bottom of the empty trash bag, left to her miserable slow fate.
Frank tugged the skewers from the desk and reached into his drawer for a pair of tweezers. While Debra looked on in horror, he delicately plied a bone from each of the red foalâs legs, and fastened them together with bloodstained twine. When he was finished, the legs formed a gruesome staff, only about the size of a toothpick. Frank dropped the leftover legs into the trash with the filly who once owned them, ignoring her quietly fading sobs.
The blue colt, up until now, had been utterly horrified by his sisterâs brutal punishment at the hands of a man they were going to call Daddeh. However, in the midst of his burst of fear when she was shoved in his face, he had bucked hard enough to loosen the leather strap on his muzzle. He hadnât dared take advantage of it yet, as he knew Munstah Daddeh was too fast for him to outrun. But as he watched his sisterâs killer fiddle with the tools on the desk, he knew he needed to seize the chance to sneak away while Munstah Daddeh was distracted. He slowly slid his bleeding snout from under the leather and began inching towards the desk edge.
Frank was finally content with the bone staff heâd fastened. The string looked much like miniature entrails, a happy accident byproduct of the blood staining it from the fresh viscera on the desk. As he admired his work and contemplated how to further improve on it, he was startled by the mare suddenly crying out.
âNU, babbeh, be GUD fow Daddeh ow ewse get HUWTIES! Nu wun away!â
Frank looked up, and there was that tricky blue colt again. Somehow it had slipped its bond and was about to jump from the edge of the desk. The height of it had given him pause, though, and his mother inadvertently blowing his cover and betraying him had further stunned him. As Frankâs iron hand slammed shut on his body for a second time, the colt could only look at his mother with a face that asked why she had forsaken him.
âAms sowwy Munstah Daddeh,â the colt meekly sputtered out. âNu mean tu be bad babbeh, buâ nu wan gu foebah sweepies wike sissie. Pwease nu gib weggie huwties, pwetty pwease?â
Frank stated at him coldly before pulling the corkscrew from his pocket. The coltâs eyes widened in fear, then in panic, as he saw the sharp metal point near his no-no place.
âNu, Daddeh, PWEASE, nu gib shy babbeh huwties tuu! Pwomise he wiww be GUD babbeh, PWEASE DADDEH!â Debra was beyond distraught, battering the cage and crying out, but otherwise forced to watch her children be tortured without reprieve.
âHuuhuu, nu pwease, nut babbehâs nu-nu pwace, nebah make bad poopies again, pwomise! PweEEEEEEEEEE!â With a small prod, the screw entered the coltâs anus, and began snaking into his intestine as he shrieked.
Frankâs hands were excellent at minute, delicate movements. He was careful not to cause damage to the baby, as he had another plan next. Slowly, he spun the corkscrew one quarter turn at a time, every one eliciting a fresh wave of peeps and thrashing legs from the blue foal. With each turn, he had to adjust the screw to prevent from tearing any internals, and could feel it pressing against taut walls inside the baby, like a balloon neck. He had the corkscrew as deep as he dared to push it, and could see a distinct spiral shape imprinting out of the foalâs belly, as it flailed and cheeped and cried in his grasp. Surely this time the sneaky thing wouldnât be able to escape, Frank thought, and set him back on the desk.
The blue foal stammered out shrill noises to its mother, able to just barely roll itself onto its distended stomach and face her on the upper shelf. Debra wailed for her baby as it slapped the desk with its hooves, begging for her to save it. Frank hummed to himself, ignoring their despair, and pulled out his last set of tools. As the foal peeped and squealed, Frank flipped through the loop of measuring spoons in his hands, holding each one up to the foalâs head as he went. He found a perfect match, at the one half teaspoon, and picked up the foal by its newly installed handle. In one swift scoop, he spooned out its eyeball from its skull to dangle by the optic nerve.
âSC-R-REEE-mm-muh, muhm, mummmuhhhh,â the colt abruptly gurgled off. Perhaps he had spooned a little too quickly, Frank considered. His subject now seemed to lack full awareness and function, perhaps from jabbing his brain in the movement. He quickly brought up the kitchen shears and snipped the nerve, dropping the intact eye on the desk.
âBbbbBBBRRRRRAAAAAEEERRRrrr,â the foal spasmed as it wailed. Its mother slammed the cage door repeatedly as Frank worked.
âNU TAKE BABBEHâS SEE-PWACES, PWE-HEE-HEEEEAAAASE! NEEâ SEE-PWACES FOW SEE MUMMAH ANâ GEâ HUGGIE-HEEEES, HUUHUuuhuuuuâŚ.â She trailed off despondently, breaking down and accepting she could not save her family.
The colt, unlike his sister, was not shown a simple utilitarian fate. Frank had not just used the corkscrew for a convenient handle. He was perfectly capable of holding a fluffy foal by its head on his own. The corkscrew was for the next flourishing move he performed, where in one swift pull, he hauled the screw out of the foalâs body. With a violent, slimy, sopping plop, the blue coltâs body collapsed, and the majority of his organs came out in a tangle to slap the desktop. Giving one final sickly burp of blood and bile, his one good eye fixed on his traitorous mother, the coltâs life gave out. Frank discarded him to be with his sister. The mare could do nothing but bleat and scream.
With a delicate hand, Frank stuck the freshly harvested foal eye on top of the staff heâd crafted. It trickled fluid down the bones as he pressed just enough to keep it in place. Satisfied with his handiwork, Frank turned to the jar, lifting it to his face and beginning to speak again.
âYou know, I pride myself on my detailed work. Some call it monotonous, others say it is too hard or complicated. I find no greater satisfaction than to bring the tiniest of sights to the human eye, to fine tune something so small that no matter how long you look, it always has more to appreciate. It is the work of more than just an artist, it makes me an artisan. A master. It separates me from the rest who practice my craft half-heartedly.
âBut, a master is not born in a day. And a master is always seeking to improve his work. He knows it can always be better. Thus, he seeks the perfect tools. The perfect environment. The perfect inspiration for his work. For years, I have sought peace and quiet in my work. For years, I have hated you for interrupting my focus. Once, one of your kind even defecated over a package on my doorstep, which happened to contain my latest project. He suffered even greater torment than you have today."
Frank lifted the tiny staff and held it to the jar, forcing the final foal to look at it. âBut, I believe now I may have been flawed in my approach. I have destroyed your kind for years not out of enjoyment, but out of a need to exact balance. You desecrate my peace, which is most sacred to me, and I take what is most important to you in return. However, you are the first subjects that have helped me to explore an alternative. Your siblings held some of the ingredients I need to create my magnum opus. And you will serve the much simpler purpose of dispensing with what I do not need.â
Reaching for the shelf on the wall above, Frank pulled down a handful of small glass bottles. Each one held a different glittering liquid inside that swirled as they were disturbed. One by one, he opened them and emptied their contents into the larger jar and onto the fat purple filly. She began to protest loudly, finding a shred of her earlier confidence.
âDummeh Daddeh neeâ STAHP scawe BESTESâ BABBEH! NAO! NAO NAO NAO! Bwing back sissy anâ dummeh bwuddah anâ gib mummah WITE NAO! Stahp pouwin yicky spawkwe-wawa on babbeh NAAAOOOO! SCREEEEEEEEE!â
Frank jostled the jar enough to knock her over. Her whining was interrupted by a wave of murky paint washing into her throat. He continued pouring jar after jar of unused or undesired paint over the lid, the foal now struggling to keep above the waterline. Spluttering and coughing, she tried to bark out more demands, and every time was met with another small potâs contents over her head. Eventually, she realized that she could not stay above the liquid to breathe, and began to splash around, trying to kick herself up to no avail. Still, Frank continued. After the jar was nearly full, the fillyâs energy ran out. With a desperate gurgle, she sank into the dark substance, gone from sight. As he set the jar back on the desk, Frank saw two hooves faintly beating the glass, before they slowed and disappeared.
The mare had long since giving up yelling. Debra lay against the door of her prison, cramped and squeezed, tears pouring down her face as she watched her favorite baby vanish into the evil dark water. When Frank set the jar back on the desk, she began to stutter a phrase he knew well and would not allow.
âW-w-wa-wan d-di-â
âNo,â Frank interrupted. âYou need to live. Because I have been too slow. I took too long and indulged too much. I did not punish you fast enough, and now the machines are coming.â
New life flickered into the despairing fluffyâs eyes, but only to flood her with fresh terror. âM-munstah musheens stiww cominâ??â
âThatâs right, they are. In fact, theyâre already here.â Frank reached into a large bottom drawer of his desk. As he pulled out an abnormally large model of a unique soldier, he sprung the carrier door to let the mare scramble free, and watched with a smile as she screamed her voice out at what she came to face.
A bulky, thick, wide-bodied piece of machinery was slammed directly onto the combined leftover viscera from the two foals. The spray of juices and blood from their remains only contributed to the stained and splattered legs of this behemoth, which stood easily as tall as the mare herself. It held a vaguely humanoid shape, but was covered in wide plates of red-painted armor, hunched forward with its faceless head jutting out, and had strange long round shapes or sharp claws in place of hooves or arms. Emblazoned with countless sigils and symbols the mare could never hope to understand, it marched forward to her, unaffected by the violent imagery and byproduct it was covered with.
Frank slowly pushed the model from behind, intentionally dragging its feet through the muck on his desk. An actual trail of death and misery followed in its wake as it smeared along, a true nightmare come to life. He watched as the fluffy cowered and screeched as the titanic machine-soldier monster advanced on her, but just as he brought it close enough to bump her with it, she froze. Hyperventilating at first, then her breath caught. Then, finally, the mare slumped in place, and her eyes drifted blankly. Frank was overwhelmingly disappointed to find that, upon prodding her side, she had died on the spot. A heart attack from pure fear had killed her. He sighed. Perhaps next time he will reach the finale.
As he put the model away, Frank plucked the small bone staff heâd made and dipped it into a strange lacquer substance heâd found on the internet, then propped it up to dry. He swept the paint mixture jar, the dead mare, and the smear of viscera into the trash. Over to his window, he opened it again to feel the fresh air grace his workspace once again, and dropped the trash bag over the sill into the large can just below. After thoroughly disinfecting and freshening the room, the surface, and the kitchen utensils, Frank returned to his desk and took out his brush again. He allowed the peace from outside to embrace the room once more, and produced his row of small half-finished soldiers from the shelf to start again. To the keen-eyed witness, his subjects had changed, but his processes had not.
With his brush in hand, Frank spun the tip to a sharp point and returned to the last detail he had left incomplete, as another approaching sound of babbling about toys and spaghetti glided in on a late evening breeze.
-fin-
âââ
Hello all,
Iâm a lurker who has enjoyed reading many of your stories and been inspired by the creativity and uniqueness of your work. You all have excellent skills in art and writing, and I felt compelled to contribute in some way. Here is my resulting one-shot work.
I had heard of fluffies a long time ago, but was recently surprised to find one or two hints that they still had a following somewhere. When I first came here and began browsing out of curiosity, I found myself fascinated by them and the strange or horrible or even amusing circumstances they get caught in. This community has some of the most unique and interesting artwork and stories on the internet, and I wish I had found it before the old site and past users all disappeared.
I have spent a decent amount of free time on this site silently getting regular enjoyment out of it, but I began to feel a bit guilty when I heard about user FluffyChimera (whose [Bad Mummah] story and artwork was one of the first to hook me on coming back here regularly) and their carpal tunnel concern with their drawing hand. All of these contributions here are from some of the most dedicated artists on the internet, even at the occasional expense of their own health, while I had essentially been leeching off the resulting fruits. Even though that probably happens often, from my perspective thatâs not fair to any of you.
As a result of this, I felt the need to make a contribution with all of my effort put in to reflect the passion you all hold, and try to give back some of what I enjoy about this place. I am by no means a practiced or experienced writer, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. Please feel free to give criticism or just mention what you liked about it. I eagerly look forward to what else the community creates going forward, and thank all of you for the content youâve made already.
-the redman
P.S. I owe credit to this WH40K titan model as the inspiration of Frankâs hobby. Think of it as a visual storytelling aide!
