High up on a hill, a lone sentry snoozed at the entrance to a burrow under a gnarled tree. the morning mist evaporated in the climbing sunrise, settling into dewdrops on the rusted, crumpled hoods of cars and delicate spiderwebs alike.
Beneath the ancient tree, clumsy architects had woven forked branches into walls and stuffed the cracks with shed fluff, leaves, scraps of cloth, and shiny bits of cellophane. All that remained of humanity was their detritius. The new masters who held dominion over the land had soft leathery hooves instead of hands or weapons.
The burrow stretched deep underground, weaving through the thick, tough roots in unorganized clusters of nests, food stores, and pockets of animal waste. Far beneath the great twisted tree, tiny animals could live for years without ever needing to go to the surface. They ate the tender roots and tubers of the flowers of the hillside, and ventured out for water and fresh greenery.
When fires ripped through the forest the little creatures could hide deep in their burrow and stay safe from the flames and smoke. They collected the ash in bright colored plastic cups with handles, perfect for a fluffy’s mouth. Sippy cups that had been used for generations of fluffies, to fetch water, to collect supplies, and to spread wood ash over their latrines. Keeps the smell down almost as well as baking soda.
Predators were a constant worry to the small creatures. As were roving gangs of other fluffies who caused misery and destruction. Only the stupidest of weasels or foxes would dare to wander too close to the little hill’s furthest perimeters. A peaceful existence had been established with the black bears who roamed the hillside, too large to enter the burrows and too distracted by the delights of the south side of the hill.
A hundred or more generations of fluffies had carefully disturbed the earth, dropped the best fruits into the fresh turned soil, watered the seedlings with their sippy cups, and ate the tender weeds before they could take root. the youngest fluffies made games of catching and eating the aphids and shiny beetles foolish enough to enter the garden of the fluffies. After so much tending and love, the south side of the hill under the great tree was a thick mat of blueberries. Bold fluffies would hop from boulder to boulder, grab berries by the branchful to bring back to their nest.
A young stallion with a healthy tawny coat and thoughtful eyes gathered berries in the pastel sunrise and climbed the craggy north face of the hill. His soft little hooves offered no aid to climbing the flat slate, damp with morning dew and chilly in the morning air. Determined, the stallion climbed further.
Until he came upon a great deep cavern in the rocks. No other creature ventured here. Even the birds of the air gave respectful silence around the gaping abyss on the north side of the hill. The little stallion neatly laid his tender burden upon a leaf at the precipice of the great darkness.
“Hewwo Old Fren,” the tiny voice echoed into the void. my void.
I remember the first time a fluffy spoke to me. The age of humans was grinding down, like unoiled gears, and I too, felt i grew rusted and stiff. I could feel myself shrinking. I could feel the fears and worries of humans extinguishing, because humans were rapidly dying out. In the flux of my own changing existence, i thought in fleeting moments, that I too might perish.
I thrashed and cried and had shrunk down so small I could fit snugly in the hollow of that very old tree up on the hill. There I slept. I don’t know how long. The silence woke me. Living so close to humans the noise is constant and incessant. buzzing electricity and engines and fighting… but silence?
I wept. i was happy with my old form and did not want to change.
“Hewwo, nyu fren?” a tiny voice echoed through my solitude. One of man’s little abominations in its innocence and stupidity decided to acknowledge me. I didnt know what else i was supposed to do, so i replied. I made my voice a soft whisper, to not frighten the small creature.
“Hello, new friend.”
“wan pway? fluffy found toysies.”
I paused, unsure of how to answer. “no. but thank you.”
The little fluffy visited me often. He would chatter about his day, his toys, his special friend, their babies, their babies’ babies. Then nothing for awhile.
I slept.
“h…hewwo? fren?” a hesitant little voice squeaked softly into my darkness. “Gam-paw-paw go foreva sleepies, and he told stowwies about his Old Fren. Can old fren be Peetaw’s nyu fren? Peetaw nu hab many fren. Brought Pressies.”
Peter was small and runty and very soft spoken. he was bullied by the stronger stallions. Still he managed to climb the treacherous rocks with a large branch of blueberries in the hopes of buying my friendship. I dont know why, but that little tiny offering warmed the darkness of my cave. The first of many presents the fluffies would give me.
I’ve had temples. I’ve had thousands of voices crying out for me in unison in agony and in ecstacy. I was there when they built cathedrals full of colored glass to keep me out, and I was there when beautiful, nude human women in black robes pleaded for me to come to them. Little Peter with his blueberries was my first priest, and my first offering in a long time.
I answered every question Peter had. I told him story after story, long into the night. Granted, I had to simplify a great deal, fluffy ponies are not clever creatures. I taught him about blueberries. seeds. germination. how to make even more blueberries.
I taught Peter’s foals to weave forked twigs into mats to keep them off the damp gound. I taught Peter’s descendants everything their little minds would hold.
the fluffy population swelled. they had cups and tools they could use with their mouths, they had a safe nest, lots of food. Our little village drew the attention of predators, fanged and hoofed alike. Even though I’m rather lazy and content to stay in my cave, I can, when pressed, still rise like a mythological horror to frighten away wolves and roving bandits. I’m just a great deal smaller than you might imagine an eldritch terror.
The bears, though, are thoroughly unimpressed by me, so the fluffies hide in their burrow until the threat has had his fill of berries and moves on.
I think it is very fitting that these little creatures born from humanity’s hubris and greed not only survived, but are protected by an entity that used to feed on human fear and suffering. Instead of worship, I have little friends. I was the most ancient of adversaries, I was darkness and destruction and chaos… and now i am just an Old Friend.
In this smaller form I am actually the happiest I’ve ever been.
I am the God of the Fluffy Ponies now.
.
and i fuckin love blueberries.
