[Note: A bit of a writing exercise I wanted to try, having a story with almost no emphasis placed on human characters at all. Also, for the sake of making this not painful to write or read, the fluffies will have self-given names, even though I generally treat names as something that fluffies can only be given by humans, since it makes the difference in status between feral and domestic fluffies even wider and adds to the general helplessness of feral fluffies. In this case I thought it was better to have the fluffies have names regardless, though.]
The air smelled wrong, but Mint couldn’t identify the smell. He opened his eyes, looking around the nest and wondering why he’d woken up before dawn. Then he remembered, and began to shake, eyes tearing up from dread.
“Pwease, sunny-fwiend, nu hide nu mowe,” he murmured.
At least the ground wasn’t shaking anymore, the horrible violent tremors that’d knocked them all off their hoofsies and left many injured. The awful sound, too, hadn’t returned, although there was still a sharp, painful ringing in his hearing-places. But it was still dark.
In his mind, the events of the day prior were still so clear. The wave of shaking, like the ground was trying to give them sorry-hoofsies. It didn’t last long, but it was so frightening, and several members of the herd got hurt. That was bad, since it meant fewer of them were able to forage. Then, as they huddled in fear, a wave of sound, so loud it made their hearing-places stop working, so loud it felt like they’d gotten sorry-hoofsies all over, washed over them.
They’d barely managed to stop panicking when they saw it, high above. A deep dark cloud covering the sun, trapping them all in darkness. That, at last, was too much to bear, and they’d all desperately retreated into the nest. Eventually, they’d fallen asleep, the panic giving way to exhaustion.
Now, Mint was awake, looking around the dim red light that’d replaced the wonderful, golden sunlight they’d taken for granted for so long. He took deep breaths, ignoring the bitter, acrid taste in the air, trying to remain calm. They would be fine. It was just a scary storm, that was all. They’d wait it out in the nest. They had more than enough nummies to last.
He felt doubt, though. Fear and a sense of foreboding made the summer air seem unnaturally cold, and he shivered in the feeble light.
…
“Speshow-fwiend!” Mint was shaken awake with frantic soft kicks. “Am snowin’!”
He jolted to his feet, feeling a wave of queasiness as he took another bitter breath. He would have vomited, but they’d all had so few nummies lately, trying to make the ever-shrinking pile last. His tummeh growled even as it heaved. He blinked a few times, wondering why it seemed even darker.
Then the words fully set in, and his eyes widened. “Snow? Bu’ nu am cowd times!” he stated the obvious, too incredulous to even care that it made him look like a dummeh.
“Wut du? Nu hab nummies fow anodda cowd-times! Soon-mummahs nu wan hab babbehs in cowd-times! Pwease, speshow-fwiend, hewp!”
“Nu be scawed, speshow-fwiend.” he told Daisy, trying to show confidence and calm he certainly didn’t feel. He forced himself to walk to the exit of the nest, suppressing the urge to break into a run. The rest of the herd huddled around, a few of the spring babbehs chirping in fear, while the adults muttered and argued. Mint would have to show them not to be afraid.
He stepped out of the nest, into the cold, acrid wind. It wasn’t cold enough to be cold-times, but this weather was far too cold for early summer. He stepped into the light, fluffy snow, but realized it wasn’t snow at all. It was a dirty gray, far too warm to be snow, and smelled even more bitter than the wind. No, it wasn’t snow, but he couldn’t identify what it was.
All he knew was that it was deep enough that the grass would die like in cold-times. They had to hurry.
…
“Huwwy! Gu gu gu!” Mint shouted, drawing a few terrified sobs. All of the adults were digging through the yicky not-snow, trying to find nummies. They had to find enough to last these strange not-cold-times. Soon, all the plants would be dead, and there would be no more nummies to find! Then, he knew, there would be hard choices to make.
Dust, his gray coat almost invisible in the not-snow, so he looked like a floating neon-green mane and tail, wheezed softly with each step. One of his leggies had been broken during the scary shaking, the worst injury in the herd, but he’d refused to rest and let the others forage without him. Seeing him work made Mint both proud and sad.
“Huwties…” the old stallion murmured, continuing to dig through the light not-snow. He grabbed a mouthful of sweet grass, gagging at the strange, bitter flavor of the not-snow clinging to the blades. His tummeh growled, but he didn’t eat. They had no time to eat now, and soon there might not be enough nummies for even the babbehs.
Poppy, one of the youngest of the mares and newly a soon-mummah, sniffled as she waded through the not-snow. The unnatural darkness, like the last few minutes before the sun hide behind the mountains, was terrifying. The world she knew and understood had turned into some kind of reeking nightmare. Darkness, not-snow, and cold.
Mint, however, was only partially paying attention to foraging. He was concerned, almost terrified. He had no idea how long it’d been since the not-dark-time began, but he could already see how thick the layer of not-snow was. Would it stop falling? What would they do if it got too deep to trudge through, like the cold-time before last, when they’d been trapped in the nest for many bright-times? He didn’t want to have to ever do what they’d had to do again.
What if it never stopped? What if the sun never came back? What if the air kept getting more and more rancid? What if they ran out of nummies? So many horrible possibilities, and no answers. Mint tried to focus on the present, tried to just do what he could, but the gnawing dread grew worse and worse.
…
The not-snow stopped falling, but it was so deep. It almost submerged Mint’s head when he moved through it, and he was much bigger than some of the others. He and a few others were trying to dig paths through it, so the smaller mares could move around outside the nest. They’d pushed the not-snow into the poopies hole, which had mostly filled it, but there was a little clearing now. At least the babbehs could move around outside the nest now.
The bigger concern was food and water. They’d chosen the nest location because of the nearby stream, but as the not-snow fell the water grew more and more foul, and now they couldn’t even drink from it. The plants were dead, and while they hadn’t rotted, they’d also become yicky from the not-snow, and anything they scavenged now couldn’t be eaten.
Mint didn’t know what to do. He kept a strong facade, told the others everything was going to be okay, but he was out of ideas. The way things were looking, if the sun didn’t come back soon, if the air didn’t stop getting colder…
Eyes red from lack of sleep, he finally made a decision. They had to leave, abandon safety to try to find some place where the not-snow hadn’t fallen, where the sun still shone. He knew it wouldn’t be easy. The mares and babbehs couldn’t travel unassisted through the not-snow. But if they stayed here, the only thing to ever tell their story would be bones buried in the not-snow.
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Interesting. Supervolcano eruption, asteroid impact, or nuclear war?
Disaster stories like this give me hope someone will do something about fluffies in ohio.
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Sounds like a volcanic eruption nearby. Looking forward to what’ll happen with them.