Death of a Furby

The following is a small piece of fiction, presented for your reading pleasure:


I killed my Furby. I didn’t want to, but it was self-defence. Once it became possessed it was either me or the fuzzy toy.

I didn’t mean to raise a demon, and I certainly never wanted that annoying, furry toy to morph into a curse spitting, blood-thirsty hell spawn. I was just trying to finish the assignment for my class on Dark Spectral Magic. I needed to conjure a shadow hound, plus document the process, so I tried to book a workroom at school, but they were all in use. In order to finish before the deadline I decided to work out of my dorm room; I swear I didn’t think it would cause a potential disaster.

I set up my equipment and the spellbook, and that yappy little Furby was sitting on my shelf, looking innocent. I hadn’t even bought the thing; it was a joke Christmas gift from my girlfriend. I don’t know where she got the stupid relic, but it never shut up, constantly spewing its nonsensical noise. That’s part of the reason I made the mistake.

It was just one word, one inane word. I was in the middle of the spell, and I accidentally repeated some silly phrase that daft Furby said. The minute the word left my lips I knew I was in trouble; it turned out that infuriating piece of fluff was spouting Ancient Daemon! That was a shock to be sure; I didn’t expect dark magic to be involved with a toy! (Although it does explain quite a bit about that particular toy).

As you might expect, uttering a word in Ancient Daemon transformed the whole spell. It opened a freaking portal to the underworld, drew a demon straight into my little furball. In a blink, an inanimate object twisted into a small, pointy-eared, fanged, slavering fiend. The nasty little beast was fast, springing forward to clamp its teeth on my arm, trying to chew on my flesh. I screamed, (that thing had sharp teeth), but I still managed to zap it with a fire spell. It let go of my arm, but I think it liked being set on fire; it appeared to eat the flames!

That kind of freaked me. I don’t really remember picking up the baseball bat, but I do remember beating the crap out of that possessed toy. By the time I was done, there was just an oozing pool of fur, guts and rather ominous dark blood spread over the floor (not to mention the sticky splatters over the walls and my clothes).

Now my assignment is ruined, my room is in shambles, and I don’t know how I’m going to justify this incident to my professors.

I just hope it won’t influence my grade.


Copyright© 2009 A. F. Stewart