The following is a standalone short introducing some OCs for something I’ve been trying to start for a while. Mostly I’m just trying to break my writers’ block and get into fluffy writing.
Nina’s nails tapped on the glass of the tabletop, making tiny splashes in the condensation from her iced coffee. It was a high summer high noon and her drink was sweating almost as much as she was. The umbrella over the cafe table offered some shelter from being microwaved by the sun. However, she felt her Fluffy Oreo had the right idea of it, huddled in the shadow of the table itself right at her feet. His blue leash hung loose on her wrist, but she had worked hard to train him over the years, so between that and his built-in loyalty she knew he wasn’t liable to run. With her right hand she reached down and gave him a little scratch behind the ear, just to let him know she was proud of him for behaving himself.
Pleased, the dark brown Fluffy let out that pigeon-like coo you so often hear from a fully contented Fluffy. Probably, she thought, from the pigeon genes. Not that most people would know about that.
“I don’t understand why you drag that thing around,” her friend Marcus said, calling her attention back across the table rather than under it. His thumbs fluttered across the screen of his iPhone. He was a two-conversations-at-once kind of guy.
“I don’t drag him,” Nina said. “He walks by himself. And be nice, he can understand you.”
Marcus scoffed, but out of respect he said no more. Respect for her and not her pet certainly. No, not pet. Toy. That’s how everyone put it.
The sound of a shrill squeal pulled her gaze across the street.
Just outside the local co-op branch, tucked in the alley where it wouldn’t offend the eye, was one of those awful machines. Nina understood, of course. She knew the overpopulation was an issue. She was a biologist, for god’s sake. Any biologist worth their salt knew that a surplus of any one creature could throw an entire biome out of balance. The solutions proffered by her colleagues, however, struck her as… macabre sometimes.
Take for instance the Foals-for-Sketties program. This machine, like so many others, was a simple drop chute just about a foot off the ground. When the machine detected a Fluffy foal had entered the chute, the helpless little critter would be swiftly euthanized by the trash compactor inside. In return, the machine would dispense a helping of dollar store off-brand Spaghetti-O’s. Not that the quality mattered; any pasta was sufficient to satisfy the biotoys’ instinctive drive for “sketties.”
“Why spaghetti,” she had once asked Kat, years back.
Kat shrugged, stooped over a microscope, squinting at gene sequences. “It’s nearly impossible to get without human intervention. That increases their drive to bond with humans.”
“But why spaghetti specifically.”
Kat had turned to her with that cutting grin of hers. “Have you ever heard one of these things try to say ‘spaghetti’? It’s hilarious.”
Sometimes Nina wondered where she’d be today if she’d been able to argue with that grin more often. Where the Fluffies would be.
Well, she knew where one of them was right now. The squeal had come from a scrawny, malnourished pink foal, currently being dragged to the machine. “Nuu mummah!” the pitiful little beast cried, flailing its stumpy legs. “Am gud babbeh! Dun wan be nummies! Pwease no make babbeh nummies!”
The machine, of course, didn’t turn the foals into spaghetti, or even meatballs. That would require a much more complex machine than most businesses were willing to sponsor, even for population control. Not that most Fluffies would understand the difference.
“Sowwy wastest babbeh,” said the dam, a matted pale yellow pegasus, branches and trash tangled in her downy feathers and seafoam green mane. She plopped the youngling from her mouth to between her rubbery forehooves. “Mummah su hungwy, and nu can make miwkies.”
“Aw fuck yeah,” Marcus said, prying his eyes from his phone. “Brunch and a show.”
“Don’t be a dickhead, Marcus,” Nina muttered.
From under the table came a call of, “Mummah! Bad wowd. Huu.” Oreo was looking up at her, sulking, his ears pressed back against his soft round head.
She reached down to tussle his white mane. “Sorry, buddy.”
“I’m not a dickhead!” Marcus said with theatrical affront, hand pressed against his heart. “I’m a faggot, and I work very hard at it, thank you very much.”
Nina snorted.
“Mummah, whas a fagit?”
“Don’t worry about it, pal. And don’t say that.”
“Otay.”
Across the street, the mare was struggling to deposit her foal into the machine. Unfortunately, the shrieking, wailing thing had managed to hook its front legs onto the edge of the chute and was holding on for dear life. “Why mummah no wuv babbeh no mowe!?” it squealed.
“Mummah wuv babbeh!” the mare insisted, even as she was shoving at her child with her muzzle. “Buh mummah nu can feed babbeh nu mowe! Mummah need nummies!”
A gentle tap-tapping at her shin called Nina away from the unfolding melodrama. She glanced down at Oreo, his hoof against her shin. His were a little harder than a modern Fluffy’s, but he’d learned to be gentle with them. His blue eyes grew big and damp with pleading. “Mummah?” he said quietly. “Hewp fwuffy?”
Nina sighed deeply. “I’m sorry, buddy. We… we can’t help every Fluffy we see.” As much as she would like to intervene… to what end? What kind of future would this mare and her foal even have to look forward to? Starving later as opposed to now? Being devoured by stray dogs? Getting scooped up by an abuser? Even if it worked out well, if she saved this one, sweet little Oreo would want her to save everyone. That was a lost cause at this point.
A server arrived with dishes balanced on one arm. “A quiche and a croissant?” He slid them onto the table in front of Marcus and Nina, before gently depositing a small helping of spaghetti in a red plastic bowl onto the ground. “And sketties, for your polite little gentleman.”
“Fank ou,” Oreo said, dutifully receiving a pat on the head before the server departed.
Unlike usual, he didn’t plant his face directly into his food. Instead, he stooped down and, gently nudging with his muzzle, shoved his bowl under the table and across, right up to the edge of the patio, where it bonked against the fence. He paused, little nose wrinkled with frustration, then pushed it again.
“Oreo?” Nina paused, croissant halfway to her mouth.
“Oweo gun feed fwuffy an babbeh!” he proudly announced, only to push the bowl once more in futility.
The fat little horse did have a way of yanking at her heartstrings. Hence why she went through all the trouble for him. All Fluffies were trouble, but especially him. Oh, he was well behaved, well trained, gentle and polite. But if anyone ever knew the truth about him, she wasn’t sure she could keep him safe. “Pal,” she said softly, “it’s not gonna fit.”
“Oweo keep twyin’!” he insisted. He gave the bowl another bonk, splashing a couple noodles on her shoes.
Nina had half a mind to give in, to hand that bowl over the edge of the fence herself to the mare and her baby. It seemed pointless, but at least it would make Oreo smile.
There was a terrible screech. The mother had finally resorted to stomping on her child’s head with her hoof to push it down. After three swift stamps, the foal, still having managed not to loosen its grip, instead lost its forelegs altogether as the metal edge of the chute sliced them off. Its echoing wails were cut off by a mechanical grinding as the mother stared at her baby’s legs in shock.
If they were very, very lucky, the machine had been cleaned out recently. Sometimes when the compactor got very full of foals, it would take a while for additional ones to be crushed or suffocated inside.
Oreo began to sob, and Nina pulled him up into her lap to hug him close and comfort him. Huggies, as the fluffy wisdom went, made everything better. Perhaps even this.
Marcus turned back to the quiche and his phone. “Aren’t you afraid he’s going to piss on you when he’s upset like that.”
“He’s litterbox trained,” Nina said flatly. She slipped Oreo a little of her croissant as an extra treat, which he miserably nibbled out of her fingers.
“Yeah, that’s what they all say,” Marcus muttered. He scooped a forkful into his mouth and rolled his eyes. “Man I knew you used to work for Hasbio but you really drank the Kool Aid there, huh?”
Nina sighed and squeezed Oreo a little tighter. “Why do you hate them so much, anyway? They’re just dumb, fat horses who love you.”
“Please,” Marcus drawled. “They don’t love you. They don’t love anything. They’re programmed to say they love you so you’ll spend money on them. Besides, maybe I don’t want something waddling around my house smelling bad and demanding snacks and hugs all the time.”
“Your three year old niece does too,” Nina pointed out.
“That’s different,” Marcus insisted. “She’s a person.”
Across the street, a weeping Fluffy mare stared into a dirty trough full of lukewarm Spaghetti-O’s, and did not eat.