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FLUFFS
By Daniel I Russell
















www.danielirussell.com

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Fluffs
Copyright © 2008
By Daniel I Russell
Originally featured in the anthology Weirdly: A Collection of Strange Stories
Volume 2: Eldritch.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be copied or reprinted without
the written authorization of the author, with the exception of review
purposes.

This chapbook is a work of fiction and any similarity to any location, event
or person living or dead is coincidental. If it was, I’d be living in a sealed
bunker somewhere…

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About the author

Daniel I. Russell was born near Wigan in 1980. He has soiled the horror
anthologies Malpractice: Anthology of Bedside Terror, From the Asylum,
Decimate, Weirdly Volume 2 and Creature Feature (alongside Guy N Smith)
with many other magazine and ezine appearances, such as Afterburn SF,
Necrotic Tissue #1 and Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine in 2010.
His novel Samhane is available from Wild Child Publishing. He is a member
of the Australian Horror Writers' Association and the newly appointed
associate editor for the Necrotic Tissue print magazine. Daniel lives in
Western Australia with his horror-poet partner and two children.

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One

“So, Shaun, how are we feeling today? Better?”
“A little.”
“Albert said that you’re making wonderful progress. Not even the need
for isolation anymore. How are you sleeping?”
Shaun snorted.
“I see,” said the doctor. “Probably a side effect of the chemicals washing
out of your system.” He looked down at the charts that lay spread out on the
desk. “Ah, yes. Your levels have dropped significantly.”
Shaun’s gaze fixed on the sink at the rear of the doctor’s office. The long,
arched tap slowly dripped onto the white porcelain beneath.
...drip...drip...drip...
“How are the hallucinations? Easing off?”
Shaun looked across at the doctor’s face.
This man, this man of medicine, with his kind, wrinkled face and tufts of
white hair, seemed willing to listen to whatever Shaun had to tell him. After
all, wasn’t that his job? To hear the insane mutterings of the freak shows
locked up in here? The various framed certificates on the wall showed that

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he was capable of analysing these crazy tales into something more mundane,
something easily explainable.
But he knew nothing.
Shaun returned his vision to the sink.
...drip...drip...drip...
“How many more times do I have to tell you?” Shaun answered, a sharp
edge of frustration in his voice. “They are not hallucinations!”
“So you still believe these things are real?”
“They are real.”
“And that they are after you?”
“Yes!”
“And that they want to kill you?”
Shaun fell silent.
“You do know,” the doctor continued, his practiced, understanding smile
transforming his face, “that the first step towards recovery is admitting that
all this is drug related. The hallucinogens mixed with your guilt have
combined to create this...this horrific fantasy.”
...drip...drip...
Shaun sat motionless and stared at the tap, waiting for the dripping water
to stop, waiting for one of them to show itself.
“Just say, for argument’s sake, that these creatures are real...” continued
the doctor.
“Fluffs.”
“Excuse me?”
Shaun looked at the doctor.
“The creatures. I call them Fluffs.”
“Why Fluffs?”
“You’ll know when you see one.”
The doctor’s smile widened.

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“Okay then, suppose that these Fluffs are real. Why would they want to
kill you?”
Shaun sighed, sick of continually telling his story.
“Once, when I was a kid, I found a bumblebee in my Grandfather’s
greenhouse. It had managed to squeeze in through a crack in the glass and
damaged its wings at the same time. It lay on its back, legs twitching in the
air. I remember it all so clearly—the heat of the sun through the panes of
glass, the smells of rich soil and plant food, the fascination of this dying
insect.”
The doctor picked up a pen and scribbled down a quick note on Shaun’s
file. “Go on.”
“Being curious, I picked up a trowel and cut the bee in half, to see what
was inside.”
“A-ha.”
Another note.
“My big brother caught me in the act and warned me to be careful. He
said that if any of the bee’s family knew what I’d done, they would come
and get me. Of course, he was only trying to scare me, but it really shit me
up.”
The doctor nodded. His pen continuously fluttered across the top page of
the medical file.
“And that’s why they are going to kill me,” said Shaun, finished.
The pen stopped its furious jotting.
“Explain.”
…drip…
Shaun looked up as the rhythm from the tap stopped. A drop hung heavy
from the metal, swelled, and fell into the basin.
…drip…drip…drip…
Shaun, heart racing, gasped in relief and returned his attention back to the
doctor.

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“Well, I did a lot of drugs, as you know…

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Two

Shaun always described his Sundays with one word:
Mellow.
Worshippers hurried past his window and up the hill towards the tolling
bell of the old church. Shaun sat and watched with pity: the women in their
best dresses and fancy hats, dragging some reluctant child along behind
them. The men, leaving their pompous wives at the first chance, joined their
mates to discuss the football, darts, and who was getting the first round in at
the pub.
Young and old, rich and poor. They all made the same journey up the hill
on a Sunday, week in, week out.
Shaun, on the other hand, yawned, disinterested.
Sunday, God’s day, the day of our Lord. Shaun liked the other name more:
the day of rest.
He did nothing through the week. His lack of employment allowed
enough time to indulge in his favourite hobby—doing as little as possible.

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Benefits kept him in his pig sty of a house. His income barely stretched to
cover food for Scamp, his Jack Russell terrier, week by week. He rarely had
a few quid spare to take Vanessa for a pint and a bag of chips every so often.
But drugs. He always had the money for drugs.
Late parishioners hurried by the streaked glass of his window. Shaun
settled into his beaten old armchair. Scamp curled in his lap.
“Dumb bastards,” Shaun chuckled. He scratched Scamp behind the ears,
and the dog moaned, low and contented.
Shaun had treated Scamp to a rarity that morning: a walk. Nothing too
strenuous. Just up the street and back, but far enough for Scamp to take a
piss on Mrs. Brown’s garden at the end of the row of terraces. Shaun smiled
at the memory–the old woman had appeared at the window, her face a mask
of anger.
“What should we do today, Scamp? Vanessa’s working, so we have the
day at our leisure.”
The dog lay still, enjoying the attention. He lay on his back, legs in the air.
“I know…”
Shaun raised his hand from the dog, and Scamp instantly awoke, eyes
wide and ears pricked. He quickly rolled over and hopped from his master’s
lap as Shaun rose from the chair.
In the corner of the lounge stood a mismatch of different stereo parts—the
Frankenstein’s monster of sound systems—on a plywood cabinet. A 1986
Sony with a cheap Alba CD player plugged into the top with new Panasonic
speakers on each side. A cord from a broken electric kettle supplied the
power. Shaun’s parents had bought him the speakers as a present
congratulating him on finally finding a job. He’d lasted two days before he
quit, but he kept the speakers.

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