"The Mad Mare" By fluffstory (https://pastebin.com/u/fluffstory) URL: https://pastebin.com/7VWN1x74 Created on: Saturday 4th of January 2020 07:51:42 AM CDT Retrieved on: Friday 30 of October 2020 11:21:15 AM UTC AnonymousFluffery, March 15, 2013; 04:16 / FB 9666 ======================================================================================================================================= The Mad Mare by Anonymous Fluffery >Be Patty, fluffy mummah. >For a long time after you started to live alone, you lived with a herd, with a smarty friend. >Except he wasn't a smarty friend, he was a dummy! >You were eating nice grassy nummies from a hoomin lawn, see... >"Mm-mmm!" you said between bites. "Make gud nummies fow babbeh wif dese gwassies!" >You only had one baby, unlike some mummahs, but because of that you were able to lie on your side and eat grassies while she drank from your milkie-place. It was no trouble for her. Since you had lots of grassies, there were lots of milkies, and you could be the Best Mummah to your little green ball of love! What a great place the hoomin grassies were! >But the smarty friend made you leave! Of course it made sense to you at the time - the scary hoomin had come out, and started using a hose to shoo wawa at the pink flower-bushies where you tried to hide! That was so scary. So scary, in fact, that you made scaredy-poopies and ran away with all of your friends... forgetting you had put your baby down on the ground to nurse! >"Paddee haf tu get baybeh!" you squealed a few minutes later, when you were done running and had regrouped with he herd, hidden behind a dumpster. Your leggies were on fire with exertion, but you tried to waddle away, back towards the lawn to find your beloved foal. >"Nuu!" the smarty friend ordered, and blocked your path. "Nuu wose mawe AN' baybeh. Baybeh gone, Paddee nuu can go hoomin gwassies 'gain." >You didn't care if there was a hoomin, or if hoomins were meanies to the herd! Your precious baby needed you, your every instinct insisted upon it. "Baybeh nee' mummah! Nee' miwkies an' wuv!" you cried, trying to push past him. But tuffy friends bit your fluff and pulled you away, and you could not escape. >By dark-time you and the herd were far from the dumpster and the lawn where you had left your beloved baby, and you dared not wander off alone in the dark when you would be unable to find your way. You could not even remember what turns you had taken, though you stressed your thinky-place trying to remember. "Pwease!" you cried to the smarty friend, "Nee' go back fo' baybeh! Baybeh am gud baybeh, Paddee wuv suuuu much!" >He just hit you and made you cry even harder, until you slept and dreamt of your poor baby, under the bushies alone, mewling for milk... with the dangerous hoomin no doubt looking for it, ready to do who-knows-what... >A few dark-times and bright-times passed, and you did not stop begging the other fluffies to help you, even as they began to forget that you'd ever had a baby. They were even stupid enough to ask why you would even call yourself a mummah, if you didn't have a baby with you. >Perhaps you couldn't forget the loss of your baby because you only had one, unlike the other mummahs who might lose a baby here or there... but you take every measure to ensure that you don't forget. Every night you envision the place, the baby, what you must do. >After you hit them out of rage, the smarty and his tuffies gave you owwies and you were finally desperate enough to run away crying. This was how you began your hunt for your precious baby on your own. >It isn't easy. Part of the days you have to spend finding nummies, and so you find yourself wandering away from where you mean to go. Sometimes the buildings get taller, which you know is wrong, but you never forget that house with the lawn, with the blue shutters on the windows and the shape of the bushies where your precious baby is all alone, needing your milkies and love. >It's hard out there for a fluffy. Overturning the trashy-cans to get your half-rotted food, often only to have it snatched away by hungry rats before you can enjoy it. A hoomin sees you in an alley once and throws a bottle he was drinking from at you; it spun in the air, shining brilliantly in the light of a streetlamp, and for a moment you were transfixed by its beauty. >Then it shattered on the asphalt and shards of it sprayed in all directions, some of them cutting your face and shoulder. You ran away, weeping while he laughed. >One of the pieces didn't come out no matter how you nibbled at it - that just pushed it in deeper, so even though it healed over, it hurts every time you take a step. >But you keep walking. Your baby needs you - you're not one of those dummy mummahs who will forget, you recall her image to your mind not just nightly anymore, but constantly. She is green, just a little lighter than the grass, outside the house with the blue shutters where the grassies are so tasty. >As you sleep under a thrown-out couch one night buggy-munstas cover your body and bite you. You itch constantly from then on, dozens of swollen spots covering you. It will be hard to feed your darling baybeh when you get her back, but on you go, searching, obsessed. >One day the sun becomes so hot as you slog down the sidewalk that you almost want to tear your fluff out. It has been falling out in patches, and you worry that your baybeh won't have an easy time snuggling, but better that it have its nummies and some huggies than nothing. Nothing, which is what it is having right now, alone on the grassies. >The heat makes you crave wawa, but there are no puddles to be found, only a few drops on leaves after the sky-ball has first risen. None of the hoomin lawns are using their wawa-spray sprinklie hoses that so frighten fluffies, but also provide the fluids they badly need. So in the day the sun just beats down, overheating you. >You begin to see things through the heat-haze, things that you normally only dream about in sleepies-time. Your own mummah, who used to give you milkies and tell you about the world. The meanie smarty, who wouldn't let you go back to the baybeh you loved so. And that lawn of grassies with the blue shutters and the bushies where your baybeh will at least blend in because she is green, but the hoomin, the hoomin is a born munsta and will want to hurt her... >You stop dead in your tracks. >There it is. >This is the house with the grassies and the bushes and the blue shutters! >But it is wrong. It must be wrong. >The grassies aren't as green as you remember, there are a few patches of brown sticking out. There are no pretty flowers on the bushes, and the blue shutters seem bleached to a lighter color, faded... >Did you remember wrong? Everything is still in the same place... your baybeh must be too! >Panting from the heat, you nevertheless rush into the bushes to search. >"Mummah hewe baybeh, mummah cum back, mummah wuv baybeh suuuu much..." >You go over it a dozen times. >She. >Isn't. >Here. >Then, you must have the wrong house, you must, your baybeh is still out there, in need of saving, it's the only thing you know for sure anymore! >"Daddeh, hu dat fwuffy?" >"Huh? Where do you mean, Lottie?" >You freeze in the bushies, tense. The first voice was a fluffy, but the second was obviously a hoomin munsta. You begin to shake. What if... this IS the right house, but the hoomin has taken your baybeh? What if he gave it to a bad fluffy?! >You come bursting out, nearly knocking over a girl-fluffy that was in your way. You lock eyes with the hoomin, who is standing on the grassies looking surprised. >"'Ou take mummah's babbeh, dummy hoomin?!" >"What?" he scratches his head. "The fuck are you talkin' about, you mangy feral?" >You bare your teeth. That'll show him! "Whewe babbeh, hoomin? Babbeh by bushies, dis house wif bushies, GIF BACK BABBEH ow 'ou get BIGGIEST OUCHIES!" >"Why fwuffy meanie tu daddeh?" his house-fluffy asks, sitting back so that the bow around her neck sags against her clean, round belly. "Nee' huggies fow make happeh?" >"Look, you must have the wrong house, I don't have any baby fluffies he--" He pauses. "Wait. What does your baby look like?" >You cry out in anguish the words you've forced yourself to remember, facts your fluffy little mind was never engineered to retain in the absence of reinforcement. "Gween babbeh! Wots gwassies! Bushies, an' bwue tingies on house! Gif! Back! BABBEH!" >"Shit. I found that foal months ago. That was spring. This is the end of summer. Do you not understand that time passes? Do you really not see what's happened here?" >You don't follow his big words, but he's just trying to confuse you. "Babbeh nao!" you round on the house fluffy angrily. "Gif babbeh, dummy fwuffy!" >"Bitch, THINK. That IS your baby." >You stare at the house-fluffy. >She is light green, like your baby, true. And she has eyes of the same orangey color, which are pretty. But she is too big to be your baby, she has already grown a mane, and what's more, she belongs to this scary hoomin munsta. Your "baybeh" is yours. ONLY yours. >"Nyu fwiend?" the girl-fluffy asks, interested. >No, no! Your baby would know you if you saw it, just as you would know it! >"Dat nuu baybeh!" you shout. "Wottie wemembah baybeh, a'ways tink 'bout baybeh! Baybeh wittow! Dat big fwuffy!" >"No shit. I've been taking care of her all this time, she's MY pet and she AGED. So now she's a grown, well-adjusted fluffy pony and her name is Lottie." >"Am Wottie!" the girl-fluffy announces. "Wuv baww, an' cwayons, an' daddeh! New fwiend wan' pway?" >You don't care about play anymore. You haven't since you set your mind to focusing on the solitary task of recovering your daughter. "Ou twy twick mummah, dummy hoomin. Dis nu am baybeh, dis nu am pwace wif baybeh! Gwassies bad, bushies nuu haf fwowahs. Bwue tingies nuu bwue enuff!" You stick out your tongue to taunt him for his pathetic attempt at a ruse. >"That's because we're in the middle of a drought, there's a sprinkler ban. And bushes don't flower in the summer, and the sun is peeling the cheap-ass paint off of my shutters, and-- wait, why am I explaining this to a fluffy pony." He sighs. "Look, Lottie is a good pet and you - despite all the mange - should stay with us. Have food and toys, and let me take care of you. You're her mother." >Lottie examines you, and there is a dim sort of recognition that flickers in her eyes - but it is gone in a moment as she looks around. "Nyu fwiend am mummah? Whewe nyu fwiend babbehs?" >You clench your jaw. They said that. They ALL said that. The mares in your herd, when you didn't have the baby with you, when your milkie-places got smaller, they said you weren't a mummah anymore. But you have a baby, out there, you KNOW you have a baby, it's the only thing that matters to you! >And this BITCH of a girl-fluffy has the gall to act like you aren't one?! >With all the ferocity in your feral heart you charge and bite her, swatting at her, dirtying her ribbon. You've never hated a fluffy pony more than you hate this one, not even the smarty friend, at least he wasn't trying to question what you were, what you are, at least he understood why you wanted what you wanted. >You don't feel your ribs shatter as the foot slams into your side, it happens too fast. But you are conscious of how you roll as you fly through the air, disorientingly, landing at the side of the street and then tipping over next to the gutter. One of your leggies becomes stuck - not that you could move anyway. It hurts too much. >"God dammit!" you hear. "Lottie, did she hurt you?" >The house-fluffy is crying. "Nyu fweind am meanie! Gif Wottie ouchies!" >"Nothing a band-aid and dinner won't fix. Come on, forget her. She forgot you, even though you were her baby." >Dummy munsta-human, you can never forget your baby! She is so small and green, she loves your milkies, and when you find her you will make them again, she will snuggle into your fluff and you'll feed her and hug her and give her the love a baby fluffy needs! >But you can't move. Your leggie is just sitting there, and even trying to wiggle it where it is stuck hurts. Between the sun and the pain of your broken bones, you pass out. >It isn't just dark time when you wake up, it is raining. >The drought has ended and all the dead grass and trash and withered leaves are being washed along. Water hits you in waves and debris bounce off of your body. You scream, but the downpour drowns you out even to your own ears. >You are saying "Baybeh! Baybeh! Mummah comin'!" >After all, she is alone, and babies need their mothers when the sky-wawas come so strongly. >You wiggle and twist but it is in vain, a plastic bag gets stuck on you, which then starts catching wet newspaper, dead leaf clumps, and fills up with water. It is bending your leg until it snaps as it pulls you towards the gaping open section of the gutter. You feel the leg snap and cry out in anguish - no, no! You'll never be able to walk back to your baby now! You need to get to the house with the grassies and the blue shutters and the flowery bushes, where she is! You've thought about it so long, you need to be there! >"Mummah gon' find 'ou!" you scream, "Mummah gon' gif 'ou huggies!" >Your baby must be so frightened of the storm, of the lightning! She needs you now more than ever! >Soon the bag pulls you out of where you were stuck, and for a moment you feel freed - until gushing water slides you into the blackness of the drain. >You are shouting "BAYBEH!" when your mouth and nose are filled with water, and soon you can never say anything again. *** >Be Ricardo, owner of Lottie. >Little thing has never seen a lightning storm before because of the drought, but she's not really skittish. Your double-paned windows keep the sound out, and besides, you've got Fluff-TV on and spaghetti cooling out. Everything's great from her perspective, once the initial confusion has worn off. >"By the way, sorry that fluffy bothered you today," you say. >She looks away from her program just to say, "Dat fwuffy meanie! Why say nu wan' be wif daddeh an Wottie?" and then goes back to watching the fluffies play ball. >You sigh to yourself. "I dunno, sweetie." But you have a strong suspicion. >Fluffy ponies form memories through trauma and joy. If losing her baby was the only thing associated with trauma, and having it the only thing to do with joy, of course she could do nothing but want that experience back - and want it exactly. >"We beat on," you mumble to yourself. "Boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past." >"Wat, daddeh?" Lottie asks, thinking you were talking to her. >"I said it's time for spaghetti."