(I threw this together and didn’t reread. I hope it’s OK. LMK if it needs to be in Controversial.)
As the old story goes, the beasts appeared on Tracy’s front lawn. She chased them away with a broom, but they left something behind.
One of their own.
Sooner or later, one of the mares would realise it dropped its sensitive slug. For now, though, the thing screamed on its back, struggling to roll itself to its feet, the sickly yellow fur on its chest rising and jerking as it fought its girth to breathe.
The thing was so fat, it was a wonder its feet stuck out far enough to see.
With the broom, Tracy rolled the jiggling atrocity towards her house. As it went, shit and piss spewed from one end, a nauseating fountain for a stray dog to gnaw from the grass. The fountain turned to a dribble short of the step.
Tracy took its scruff to lift the thing. It screamed once more, and its delicate skin split. Tracy cringed, and lifted the thing with both her hands to support its intimidating weight. Indeed, like a pregnant mare, it was too fat for to walk. Its lard lifted its flailing hooves from her palms so it sat, shrieking for rescue.
Tracy shut the door. She locked it with her toes.
The house, having been built in the 1920s, was a beast of small rooms and thick plaster walls. The bathroom window was corrugated glass, which dimmed in comparison to the 100 watt bulbs above the sink.
The foal quieted to a wheezing snuffle. It craned its head to see the stark room: everything white, easy to clean. It squealed as she set it in the sink, cold porcelain against its belly. A sputter of shit sprayed the glaze behind it. Tracy turned on the tap.
Despite its bulk keeping it from the water, the foal screamed, and screamed again. Tracy took off her glasses and squinted at the wound on the foal’s neck. She left it to sob short of the running water, and returned with her things.
A dash of rubbing alcohol cleansed the wound. The foal’s echos turned hoarse at the first splash. Tracy took an arm’s length of yellow sewing thread left from a blouse she had made. A moment to thread, and she pinched the foal’s wound shut. Her sewing needle slipped through its skin as she stitched, the thread following with hushed friction. The foal waved all four legs as hard as it could.
Tracy flinched when milky vomit burst from the foal’s mouth. She turned the water high enough to rise a fraction of the way up the foal’s gut so it thrashed until another glut shot from its mouth. She let the water carry it away, and returned to stitching, folding an edge of skin inside the wound, just in case it survived.
After all, no-one could say exactly what a fluffy could tolerate.
Stitch. Stitch. Nine per inch, just as her grandmother taught her when she was young.
Soon, she knotted the thread and snipped it short. The foal sat, panting, its eyes wide and crazed. It looked to Tracy again and again, as though expecting better than it deserved. Another dose of alcohol, another dimming scream.
Tracy shut off the tap.
The foal’s horror dimmed to relief. It looked to Tracy, a smile on its fat face as though testing her for care. Tracy looked at her tools. The herd would return soon for its young. Maybe.
With a paring knife that had survived four generations, Tracy lifted one of the foal’s useless legs on her finger. The foal cooed, a scratchy noise. The coo broke when Tracy cut loose its soft hoof. She held the leg still as she picked up her tweezers.
Unlike a horse, the foal had only a few bones. With her tweezers, she sought the ulna. The foal’s cry broke as she twisted the bone. It stammered. Breath entered its sad body in pants.
As though cleaning a fish, she drew the bone from the foal’s leg. Blood followed. She set the bone aside and did the same to the radius.
Alcohol. Screams, weaker and hoarser. She dug for the humerus and pulled it free.
With stiff cyanoacrylate glue, Tracy glued the foal’s hoof in place to hide the flow of blood.
The herd would return soon.
Three more legs. Tibia, fibula, femur in the back. Another burst of shit and vomit. Tracy tucked a doll’s rubber nipple in the foal’s mouth. It sucked, still whimpering, its voice drowned in wet, squelching greed. In the lust for milk that would never come.
The foal was female. Tracy lifted it to see its foul arsehole, and the lurid bulges of its labia. It whined when Tracy spread it wide with her fingers. A female, destined to feed and feed, and shit more of its kind across a dying world.
Tracy tucked a tube of Vaseline between the foal’s labia. She squeezed. The foal screeched as it filled her. It squirmed. Tracy tightened her grip. The foal fought to move, but its boneless legs hung, as useless as they had ever been.
One at a time, Tracy slid the foal’s bones into its cunt, into its womb. It whined, but its strength dimmed as blood pooled above its hooves. The final bone slid inside, deep and firm, the Vaseline on which it glided flecked red with tissue and blood.
A dash of alcohol on a cotton ball let Tracy clean the Vaseline from the foal’s labia. She followed with more glue. Pinched the lips shut. Pulled them until the foal whined to test her work.
The herd would be there. But not yet.
Tracy gathered needles from her mother’s old pincushion. For years, they had gone untouched in favour of newer, better tools. But now Tracy withdrew them. She bunched them between her fingers, twenty or more, so they stood thicker than the bones she had removed and replaced.
The foal whined as she set it once more in the sink and lifted its thin, pink tail. She tugged so the foal’s arsehole fluttered, as though awaiting its mother’s foul tongue. She pressed the bundle of needles deep inside.
Something cracked when the foal screamed. Blood bubbled in its mouth, and only the hiss of breath broke its surface. The foal shrieked again and again, silent, terrible, like the Earth as such abominations stormed across its face like dire horsemen—
A knock at the door. Soft. Low to the ground. Tracy answered, the foal limp and breathless in her fingers.
One of the beasts, eye swollen from Tracy’s broom, glared from the steps. “Whewe babbeh, dummeh hoomun?”
Tracy set the foal beside it, and looked it in the eye. “Never return.”
It was smart. It only nodded.
Tracy locked the door and went to wash her hands, an apocalyptic cacophony rising outside as the beasts of damnation mourned one of their own.
/
I needed a break from it.
