New Years Shorts
by Oculus
~
Bedtime Stories
(continued from Mummah Lucy and Babbeh Derek)
You are Wendy
Its Christmas day, and the family just finished having their Christmas supper
your husband, Robert, has decided to retire early, after a rather hectic day, and your son, Derek, is now sleeping in his cot
you’re currently finishing up chores before heading to bed
you’ve enjoyed a fairly good year. You’ve experienced the joy of being a mother again
And it was all thanks to Lucy, who you adopted a few years back
it took a while, but over time, Derek has gotten used to calling “you” mama, and not Lucy
he still loves and hugs the fluffy everyday though
sometimes, you’re a little jealous of the attention Derek gives Lucy.
But in all fairness, it was Lucy who did find Derek, and raised him during those crucial months
“Mummah?”
Its Lucy. She’s at the front of the kitchen. She had been up for most of the day but, for some reason or other, didn’t seem particularly tired.
“Yes Lucy, what do you need?”
“Can mummah teww Wucy a bedtime stowy?”
That seems a little unusual, as Lucy never asked for a bedtime story before
still, it is Christmas, and Lucy has been a good guardian to Derek in the past year
You set yourself beside the fireside
Lucy waddles in, then climbs up, and rests on your lap. As you stoke her mane, you ask her a question
“So, what kind of story would you like? A story about a group of travelling musicians? Or a story about fluffies? Or a Christmas story?”
Lucy looks up to you, and smiles, as she asks
“Fwuffy wan teww a stowy Derek wud wub.”
You’re a bit surprised by that suggestion
“Why would you want to do that?”
“Weww, fwufffy wiww teww babbehs stowwies so dat babbehs can hab guud sweepies. But fwuffy onwy know stowwies from Fwuffteevee. Fwuffteevee teww fwuffy stowies for guud mummahs an’ guud daddehs to teww babbehs. Bu’, fwuffy dunno hummeh stowies dat hummeh mummahs teww to hummeh babbehs.”
“Ah,” you sigh, realizing what Lucy meant.
“Well Lucy, I watch FluffTV, and a lot of the stories they have on FluffTV are a lot like our human stories. Do you remember the story about Jack and the Beanstalk?”
Lucy claps her hooves in excitement, as she says, “Fwuffy wub dat stowwy!”
“And do you remember the musicians of Bremen? Or the little red hen?”
“Fwuffy ‘memba! Fwuffy mu’ wowk hawd, ‘den fwuffy wiww get sketties!”
“That’s right Lucy, and all those stories are human stories. Sometimes, a good story for fluffies is also a good story for humans.”
“Fwuffy undahstan nao! Fwuffy wiww teww a guud stowwy to Dewick!”
“I’m sure you will, Lucy,” you smile.
However, before you can suggest sleepie times to Lucy, she looks at you again pensively.
“Mummah Wendee, wut was Ewick wike?”
The name shocks you a bit. Despite the lisp, Lucy clearly said Eric. Without the D, like in Derek’s case. You wonder why it’s the case, but fluffies have an innate curiosity.
Close to stammering, you try your best to answer
“He was a very good boy. He was very loving, and he enjoyed hugs.”
“Did Mummah teww Ewick bedtime stowwies?”
“Oh yes, all the time. Even when.”
you feel a hardness in your throat, as you try to complete your sentence
“Even when he was sick.”
You cannot help but cry
Lucy looks at you, and apologies
“Am sowwy mummah. Fwuffy nu mean-“
“No.
No Lucy, its okay.”
Holding Lucy up, you give her a hug. As the tears stream down your cheeks, you say what you always wanted to say to Lucy
“You mean a lot to me, Lucy. Thank you.”
That night, Lucy slept by your side
~
Happy Hour
(Continued from Policefluffs 1 and Two )
It is Christmas day at Police Outpost 31, but the men, women, replicants, dogs and fluffies of the law enforcement unit do not take a day off. With crime running rampant in the cities of the future, the police force is constantly strained, with the constant need to remain vigilant. This is true even for the Police fluffy unit which, while still its infancy, is constantly monitored and given assignment even on holidays. The most recreation that the policefluffs will get is when they’re assigned as additional security detail for large events, and currently, both Buddy and Outback are assigned to the New Year Celebrations at the City Square.
Celebrations usually go smoothly. Just the odd drunk that requires an escort to safer areas, and the occasional fainter. But, and with any gathering in the far future, there will always be the presence of the genetically-engineered humanoids who have even less rights than fluffies.
“What do we want?”
The man yelling this has all the features and shape of a human man, but completely lacks any presence of hair. His skin is pale, perhaps owing to his background as a deep space miner working in conditions deprived of the presence of light. His eyes show a presence of augmentation, and he is yelling on the microphone to his crowd of like-minded individuals, some pale like him, and some a deep red of skin hue.
“Freedom!!”
“And we do we want it?”
“NOW!!”
Buddy stands behind the line with his three good boys by his side. Huey is already agitated and is barking at the rioters to stay back.
“Easy there, Huey.”
As Buddy uses his hoof to placate his Good Boy, Outback remains steadfast. Neither Huey’s barking, nor the chanting from the protesting replicants seem to have an effect on him as he retains an upright posture, his face looking forward.
A red can of aluminium, devoid of drink, flies from the red hands of the replicant, and makes it way through the air, until it reaches the brow of Outback’s head. Unflinching, Outback remains in position, undeterred by the action.
The other police detail aren’t as caring. As if to punish the protesters for an action most transgressive, the riot police come in, wielding their batons. The lead protestor drops his mic and tries his best to get away, only to be tackled. The protest leader puts on a brave fight but is poorly equipped to deal with a police human in full riot gear, and with stun weaponry. As he is pinned to the ground, his bloodied face looks up to Buddy.
He sees a face of hatred. A face angry with the world. Angry for being born through artificial means, and being born in a society that recognises him as having less rights than even some animals.
~
Huey and Outback are now at a bar. Huey was going to go to one of the refreshment stations to recuperate but Outback said, “Fact that. There’s something else you should try, mate.”
The bar, while mainly serving human customers, has a special area designed for fluffies. Feral fluffies, mainly those who have been documented and have enough social credit, are capable of using what meager credit they have through the simple jobs they can do in the future society to pay for an alcoholic beverage of their choice, or a plate of spaghetti. The fluffy who works at this part of the bar is a rehabilitated feral, who now earns a living as a bartender to deal with this crowd.
“Wut can fwuffy get fow ‘ou tuu?”
“Tuu beews pwease,” asks Buddy, in Fluffspeak.
The bartender fluffy proceeds to use his hoof to pour the beer into two bowls, similar to the dog bowls the police fluffies usually eat (and drink) from. Huey rarely gets a chance to try out the alcoholic beverages, and this is his first time attending an establishment like this. Relishing the moment, he brings his muzzle down to drink the liquid, as it feels its bitter, but refreshing taste, calming his mood.
Outback takes a sip of the brew and remains silent. Its not to his liking. He proceeds to take a look around and observe the establishment. This isn’t the first time he has been to this bar, and the situation hasn’t really changed. Most of the fluffies in this bar are destined to be rehabilitated in some form, while others, now meagre servants to the economy, spend what little money they have that is accredited to their account, spend it on booze and spaghetti. But today, the fluffies in the bar have their attentions elsewhere. The new year celebrations are being streamed live inside the bar, and the fluffies here are eagerly anticipating the new year as a human celebration, even though they themselves don’t understand it as the concept of a year is a human concept and not really translatable in the fluffy concept of “forever”.
As if to interrupt his train of thought, Outback feels a nudge on his shoulder, as he hears a question.
“Do you ever argue with your dad?”
Outback wonders if Buddy is a lightweight, as he answers his question.
“Not that often, but I do ‘av some problems with my old fella.”
“Well, I feel like my dad was belittling my mom,” says he laps up the beer with his tongue. He continues, “She’s not perfect, but she does try her best.”
“Well mate, I nevah 'ad a old lady. I’m a bloody genetic clone, that’s what I am.”
“But surely you knew some fluffalo mother down in ‘Staya?”
“I did know some sheilas but nevah ‘ad a facking interest in any of them.”
“What I mean is,” and then Buddy stops mid-sentence. He realizes that, despite his attempt to appeal to Outback’s sense of empathy, most Australian fluffies, especially the fluffalo, speak in Strine, and not flusspeak.
“Look mate, I get watcha be meanin’. Us fluffy blokes, we don’t really get a fair go at Life. I mean, for fack’s sake, I most likely could have ended up as a steak, tossed onto the barbie. I’m lucky that I’m a huge fucker, like me pa.”
“And, you killed a jellenheimer.”
“Aye that I did. And so did you.
We’re a bunch of natural battlers, you and I. Many of our kind aren’t as lucky. And we gotta appreciate the little gold things, mate.”
In the distance, Buddy could hear the fireworks go off. On the television screens in the bar, the fireworks could be seen, streamed live, as the fluffies within the bar cheer on the new year.
“Well, fancy that. A New Year just like any other, and it’s a few minutes its back to work.”
Buddy, seeking to relish at least some enjoyment of the moment before he is called back, takes his bowl and, in a swift motion, moves it such that it taps Outback’s bowl.
“Merry Christmas, Outback.”
Outback raises an eyebrow. He then snorts in slight appreciation.
“Aye, and a Happy facking New Year.”
~
Work as Usual
Muthu does not celebrate New Years Day.
To Muthu, a Hindu from the state of Tamil Nadu, the New Year starts in April, that being Puthandu. It is one of the few days that he tries to keep free, along with Deepavali. So the Western holidays of Christmas and the New Year mean little to Muthu, and are just another day of work.
Well, it’s a bit more complicated for Muthu’s case lately. Muthu used to operate the day shift, but for New Years Day, and with some of the Christian tech support taking the week off, Muthu had to cover for the tech support during the night shift, which meant more work hours. And to make things worse, it would still be at the same hourly rate.
Surprisingly, Muthu was rather understanding of these inconveniences. But he did have one concern, and he voiced it to his superior. His superior was wide-eyed and a bit taken aback but, and understanding the difficulty of the situation, and being a Hindu himself, nodded.
“I’ll have to check with my superiors, but I’ll let you know.”
It is an hour to midnight, the 31st of December. Muthu is currently seated at another office, headset ready, and the PC on. But there is somebody who is by his side and is busy playing Aadu puli aatam. A few hours earlier, Muthu had brought a rather eager and excited Raahul to the callcentre where he worked.
“Fwuffy am su essited! Fwuffy awways wanna knu abou’ daddeh’s wowk!”
But of course, Raahul is a fluffalo, and thus, got bored after a while. Nevertheless, Muthu figured out that having a game would keep his fluffalo occupied, while he went about doing his work.
~
Excerpt from the Diary of Kapitan Ahad
(Continued from Excerpts from the Diary of Tan Teck Sing, James)
I am back at Sanctuary. The past two days have been very difficult, but we have managed to carry out a successful raid against one of the internment camps in the Xinjiang Province of China. By the time we had conducted the raid on the camp there, most of the children were either dead, or further incapacitated. However, we managed to rescue a few of them.
I remember speaking to one of the children that I rescued, most likely the second boy I met. His name is Zhang Wen Ji.
“How wong hab fwen ben in bad pwace?”
“Fwuffy nu know,” says the Chinese boy, speaking in fluffspeak. “Babbeh hab been in bad pwace fow so wong. Babbeh nu see mummah or daddeh fow foreba. Bad mistah take fwuffy away an’ gib huwties aww ovah.”
There was no question about it. The boy was incapable of speaking any form of Mandarin, his native language, nor could he even speak a recognizable form of English. The only language he could converse in was the “open-source” version of English Fluffspeak, the variant that had been developed before Hasbio laid claim to the language. We had been observing the quiet disappearing of various young individuals in the English speaking world due to their inability to speak proper English, but now, in this emerging superpower, the harsh regime against this rising language is definite. And this is even without the presence of the fluffy pony biotoy in their country. Even worse, they are using the very same means that they had to forcefully Sinicize the native Uighurs a decade ago.
I know its nothing new. But it makes me sick to my stomach.
I spent some time with Mas Ayu today.
“Is Daddeh otay?” she asks.
“I’m fine, fwen.”
“Daddeh nu wook otay. Daddeh am huwt!”
And my fluffy places her forehead on my face. She observes the bruise eye, caused by a PLAN marine punching me in the eye during the raid. He was a particularly tough motherfucker.
“Daddeh am otay. Met a munstah and gib him wotsa huwties.”
“Daddeh am so bwave!
Bu, fwuffy nu wike see daddeh get huwt.”
And Mas looks to the ground. She knows what I have to do, and my work. But it does take a toll on her to see me in this way.
“Mas wan huggies?”
And as I say this, I open my arms, allowing her to embrace me. As Mas does so, she softly whispers “Pease be caweful, daddeh.”
~
It is nighttime. I am now writing this in a journal that I had prepared. Ever since my “disappearance”, I took the name “Ahad”. In some places, I take the name “Khamis”. And I think I might have to change my name more often.
I recently heard that two of my friends have managed to reach Sanctuary. Despite difficulty, they reached safely. It is good. This place is safe and is far beyond the reach of any government or corporate entity. But we still have to be careful. As such, I cannot tell them who I am. That I am still alive. And that I had manage to secure their safety, in this most safe of places.
Everything about my old life seems gone. Everything, and even my homeland. I never had the chance to perform the most holy of pilgrimages to Mecca, and now in this state, I fear I may never be able to fulfil this obligation. For I have cut myself off from not only my friends, but also from the thing that ahs been dearest to me. I cannot remember the last time I have seen their faces, or whether they are still alive. Everyday, I pray to the Most High that they are alive and safety, and I regret everything that I have done.
Maafkanku, ibubapaku.
~
New Years day in London
It is New Years Day at Haddockspike Manor. Laura Hassenfeld is currently in her room, being spruced by her maid, much to her chagrin.
“Please keep still, Laura.”
Even worse, she is being forced to wear that most hideous of garments, the corset. As she could feel the tightness of the vestment around her abdomen and chest, she voices her frustration.
“I just don’t see the need for it. Father wishes to match me with some military man, but pretty much every suitor that he has selected is not to my taste.”
“Your father means well, Laura. You are a genteel woman, and it is only proper for a lady, especially of your class, to be matched with a respectable gentleman.”
“Oh I see the validity in that statement. I just find that most of his choices are rather poor.”
Laura is not too fond of Captain Sullivan. Ever since her sister had started courting the military man, her mouth has been filled with endless chatter about how dashing he is, as well as his exploits in the Dark Continent or the many other quarrels the Empire has in foreign lands. And, as expected of these attempts at matchmaking, they will introduce her to some young man in a military uniform. His face will usually be clean shaven and his hands pale, indicating that he had just finished his training as an officer cadet. An hour of pointless chatter will pass over a good meal, and both parties will find that they are not to each other’s liking. This rigmarole has occurred quite often in the past year or so, and has taken up Laura’s valuable time, which she’d rather devote to her studies in engineering.
Eyeing her mistress being dolled-up and prettied, Dolly, who is now resting on favourite pillow, laughs a little.
“Mummah wook siwwy.”
Laura, sighs, realizing the slight irony of the situation.
“Oh shut it, Dolly.”
~
In another part of London, a young Oliver is currently delivering postcards. The factories have been closed due to the New Year festivities, but our young Oliver still have to find work to make ends meet, even on a holiday. The mail has been the usual standard sealed envelopes, many addressed to “Santa” in the North Pole (those usually end up in the incinerator, as there is no such entity in the first place). The other mail, which Oliver has to deliver, are the typical well-wishes as it is still the season of Christmastide, and some folk send out their Christmas letters on the day itself. In other cases, some send out their New Year postcards in advance. And there is one such postcard that has caught Oliver’s eye.
It is a postcard of a number of fluffies dancing and laughing. Some are drinking whiskey, while some are playing on the ice. A few years ago, it had been pigs who were on the face of these postcards. Now, the fluffy pony of Hasbio Biochemical has replaced the pig as the symbol of prosperity within the British Empire. The fluffy takes even more prominence, as it is the result of genetic engineering, a symbol of the Empire’s power over not only of machinery, but the genetic code as well.
Oliver places the postcard in the mailbox of a house. It is the last piece of mail that he had to send out today, and it is the one that he decided to deliver the last. As he proceeds to hide behind a wall, he notices the man that received the postcard is well-to-do, having a wife, a child, a fluffy, and a fireplace. As family gathers round to read the message on the back of the postcard, most likely from a relative, Oliver smiles.
“Daddeh, fwuffy am feewing cowd.”
Poor Chimney. He has been walking beside his owner for most of the day! Oliver, now no longer carrying all the mail, is free to carry his fluffy in his arms.
“Owivah am wawm. Fank ou, daddeh.”
~
Later that day, at the workhouse, Oliver had a surprise for Chimney.
“Merry Christmas, Chimney.”
As Oliver presents the gift to Chimney, the fluffy sees it is a postcard of various fluffies celebrating the New Year, much like the one that family Oliver saw earlier received. With the little money he had, he decided to get it as a gift for his fluffy.
“Aww da fwuffies wook so kyute! Fank ‘ou daddeh!”
Oliver smiles, as he ruffles the hair of his dear fluffy.
“And a Happy New Year as well, Chimney.”
“Same tu ‘ou, daddeh.”
~
Fireworks
Leafie is with Twig, and they are now approaching the edge of the forest
on this day, Leafie wanted to surprise Twig with something special
Sketties!
he had been eyeing the hummeh folk, who would congregate around the clearing near the forest
they would lay out a large thing of cloth-fluff on the grass, and then place the baskets filled with nummies
usually the nummies would be stuff that had a white nummie, with various nummies inside but, there was one time he definitely saw a bunch of hummehs eating that most holy of food
sketties!
the sketties were usually kept in a box of clear “pwastick”
and he had been seeing that particular family turn up regularly
the night before, after they had special huggies, Leafie whispered in Twig’s ear
“Tweag, tomowwow fwuffy wiww show you sketties.”
Twig murmurs in her sleep a simple
“Otay.”
she had heard Leafie talk at length about spaghetti as being the greatest nummy but, and so far, she has never gotten the chance to taste it
but alas, and much to Leafie’s horror, the clearing where the humans used to eat their nummies at was now filled with hummehs
lots and lots of hummehs
but they were not setting down their clothes fluffs, nor did they bring their baskets, their pwastiks
instead, they seemed to be setting up large tubes of sorts, as well as building large things
to Leafie, they looked like they came from the Seetee
Twig, feeling a bit wary, tells Leafie
“It nu am safe, Weafie. Wets go back.”
It is nightfall.
Currently, Twig and Leaf are back in their care, and they are eating what they usually eat when they can’t get the remnants of the hummeh food: berries and leaves (and the occasional dead animal)
for a meal, it suffices, but Leafie is a bit sad
“Weafie weawwy want tu show Tweag sketties.”
Twig sighs
“Sketties nu am for us, Weafie. Sketties am hummeh nummie.”
BOOM!!
A terrible sound shocks both Twig and Leaf.
It sounded like it came from the sky, but it didn’t sound like the sound of the “sky daddeh pwaying mawbwes”
Twig and Leaf come out of their cave, and their eyes are greeted with the dazzling display of lights in the nightsky
brighter than any star
and, as each flower of light blooms, then dissipates, a new one pops up
BOOM!!
the first flower of light was a flower of red, followed by a blue flower, then a green one
dazzling flowers of light, blooming, then dissipating
“Pwitty….”
Leafie smiles. Even though he didn’t get a chance to show his mate the greatest nummie, the day wasn’t all that bad, as they got a chance to see a sight most spectacular.
as the fireworks bloomed, two lone fluffies kissed beneath the New Year sky.
~
Milk
In a garden, there is a cotton shrub. Though a simple cotton shrub, it still produces the finest cotton.
