Fraggle Rock fic: Runt

[Slackbot]

Runt
Part 1 of 4: Winter's Fraggle
By Kim McFarland​

*****

In a small, dark cave, little more than a nook, flames danced in a fire bowl, illuminating the room with a flickering orange light. The fire bowl was made of clay, as wide as a Fraggle was tall and waist high. Inside, resting on the coals on one side, was a smaller bowl filled with bubbling liquid.

Two Fraggles occupied the room. That was as many as the room could hold without crowding it and risking accidents with the fire bowl. There were more on the other side of the heavy curtain that separated this room from the ouside cave. They could wait.

One of the two Fraggles in the room was lying on her side, facing the fire. Her face, the only part of her not covered by warm clothing and blankets, was damp with sweat, which the other, a Fraggle known only as the Herbalist, had to wipe away. Even in this relatively warm room, sweat could chill a Fraggle dangerously fast in winter, and she was especially vulnerable now. The Herbalist watched her and stirred the bubbling liquid. It was just water with aromatic herbs. It had no medicinal purpose, but it gave the air a pleasant scent, and right now any comfort was welcome. The herbs were dried spring plants, to make the air smell like spring.

This should be happening in spring, the Herbalist thought as she stirred the water. The other Fraggle, Leilah, was resting now. She needed sleep—she had not slept in too long—and, she judged, maybe she would finally be able to rest soon. Yes, she thought as she saw Leilah's face 0tighten with pain. Soon.

**

After several more hours, during which the Herbalist made broth and got Leilah to drink some to keep up her energy and keep her from becoming dehydrated, the Herbalist said, "It's time. Get up."

Leilah clumsily pushed herself to a sitting position with her arms. Now her shape was much more visible, her stomach hugely swollen. She was a small Fraggle, and the added bulk of her warm winter clothing on top of her pregnancy made her look double her normal size. And yet she had not reached the end of her term. Fraggle babies, conceived at the end of summer, were always born in spring, when the world was warm and ready to welcome new life. The world was not ready now and, the Herbalist feared, neither was this baby.

Well, there was nothing to do about that now. 'Should' and 'ought' had no meaning for a baby, and precious little for a mother in labor. She helped Leilah get into position, crouched over so gravity could assist the process, and raised the blankets over her waist. She took a look, then told her, "You're very close now. It won't be another hour."

Leilah nodded mutely. She hurt too badly to try to frame a coherent answer. Even though she had known what to expect—she had even assisted others during childbirth—going through it yourself was beyond description. She would talk after this was over. For now, all she could do was focus on following directions.

The Herbalist told her, "With the next squeeze, push. Do you understand?"

Leilah nodded. The Herbalist said, "Good. Now, one, two..."

When she reached eight Leilah gasped and tensed. She bore down with all of her strength. Nothing was happening! But the Herbalist told her, "You're doing good, it's on its way!"

Leilah nodded. The Herbalist came around and quickly wiped the sweat from her face. Then she went back and began counting again.

**

Leilah lost track of the time, and could not have guessed how many times the Herbalist had told her that she was doing fine. It was getting worse and worse, and she felt like she was going to turn herself inside out.

The Herbalist said, "Now! As hard as you can! Hard! Now!"

Leilah did, her hands balled into fists. She felt a sudden, burning pain, and cried out.

"Don't stop! Keep pushing! Don't stop!"

The Herbalist was holding the child's head. She slipped her fingers under its arms and, when Leilah pushed, drew the baby out in one smooth movement. Holding the infant, she said, "It's born!"

Leilah lowered herself to her side, exhausted, and looked at the squirming bundle in the Herbalist's hands. The Herbalist held it up by its hind legs with one hand and tickled the soles of its feet. It wriggled and gasped, expelling fluid from its lungs and breathing for the first time, then laughed in a tiny, squeaky voice.

Leilah held out her arms eagerly. The Herbalist severed the cord and tied it off, then rubbed the baby with an absorbent cloth to dry it off. To her dismay she saw that the child was not only small, its limbs thin; it had no fur. It—he—had been born much too early. She gave him to Leilah—a newborn needed to be warmed by his mother's touch, not a piece of cloth—and then laid a thick blanket on top of both. Folding it up to expose Leilah's legs, she said, "You're not quite done, but the worst is over."

"Look at him," Leilah said softly. Now that the pain was easing off her mind was clearing, and she saw that the child resting against her chest was tiny and furless. He would not be as strong at first as a full-term baby, and that was dangerous because of the lingering cold. But he would live. She would protect him, sharing her body heat with him, until the world warmed. When his eyes opened, whether that was a few weeks from now or a few weeks after he should have been born, he would be ready for the world.

The Herbalist, waiting by Leilah's feet, said, "What are you going to name him?"

Leilah said softly, "He needs a good, strong name to start him off."

The Herbalist nodded. He would need every bit of help he could get. She knew Leilah well. She might be small, but she was intelligent and tenacious. In her hands, this child just might survive.

*****

Fraggle Rock is copyright © The Jim Henson Company, and is used without permission but with much respect and affection. The overall story is copyright © Kim McFarland (negaduck9@aol.com). Permission is given by the author to copy it for personal use only.

 

[Slackbot]

Runt
Part 2 of 4: Luck
By Kim McFarland​

*****

It was late winter. The worst had passed, and although it was still cold and there was very little food to be had a sense of cheerful anticipation was spreading through the Fraggle colony, triggered by the sound of dripping water. The thaw was coming, and with it spring.

A small Fraggle, heavily bundled up against the cold and the attendant danger of sickness, wandered through the Great Tunnel that linked all the smaller tunnels of the colony. A stream ran down the center of the passage. During the winter it was iced over, and Fraggles played on the ice instead of swimming. Nobody was on it now, though. Everywhere he went, he could hear at least one voice singing The Carol of The Promise. The song was a prayer for the spring, and they began singing it on the coldest day of the winter. The song, passed from Fraggle to Fraggle, would not stop until the ice broke on the stream. The tradition was so deeply ingrained it hardly seemed to be a tradition; they could not imagine not singing it.

The small Fraggle sang as well. He believed in the carol as firmly as any other Fraggle did. It called to spring, and spring came. What more proof did anyone need? Not singing it would certainly lead to catastrophe, but nobody would be foolish enough to silence the song. Especially with spring almost within reach, he thought as he watched water plink from the ceiling far above onto the surface of the stream.

His reflection in the ice looked back up at him. He was a small, moss-colored child, his shape all but hidden in the layers of clothes. Only his nose and his fire-colored hair were visible. He raised the cap he wore to keep his head warm, briefly revealing his eyes. Instead of rising above his head as was normal for Fraggles, his were half sunk into his head, as if he were an infant whose eyes had just opened. That and his small size led people to underestimate his age and treat him like a baby. Or stare at him. But that happened less often now that he had a hat that covered his eyes, leaving enough room under the brim for him to see out.

He looked around. The mouths of the other caves were blocked by heavy cloth curtains decorated with springtime scenes. Fraggles unencumbered by heavy winter clothes, young animals, and of course the plants that they looked forward to eating instead of gnawing tough old roots. Spring was the season of renewal, of birth.

But he had been born in winter. He looked at his reflection again. It was nobody's fault that he was strange-looking and small and got sick easily. It was simple bad luck, caused by having been born at the wrong time. As he listened to the carol, he wondered how you courted good luck. He needed some. Luck was how you influenced the future; good luck would make it better and bad luck would make it worse. His mother said that his name was lucky: it was the name of a folktale hero. She had told him the story of the Fraggle who, when tied to a rock by clinging creepers, had burst through the vines and escaped. He often thought that if the name was going to do him some good, he wished it would hurry up and start.

He considered. Hunger and cold were bad luck because they made you unhappy. Being unclean was bad luck because it led to sickness. Then the opposite must be true: cleanliness, plenty, and warmth were lucky. He had never been told this, but it was obvious.

He looked past his reflection, and saw the water flowing under the ice. The ice was very thin here; he thought he could see something moving in the water, a fish or piece of debris. He had not swum in months. Nobody had. But spring came, he thought suddenly, when the ice broke!

He pushed through one of the heavy curtains leading to an uninhabited tunnel. It was bitingly cold on the other side of the cloth. Hurriedly he searched around, then picked up the heaviest rock he could manage. He carried it a few feet, then dropped it and went back to select a smaller one. He was able to carry this to the curtain, push it underneath, then go back into the Great Tunnel. He picked up the rock again and carried it to the stream. He scanned the icy surface for what looked like the thinnest area, then with some effort raised the stone above his head and threw it down hard.

The ice shattered under him, plunging him into the water beneath. It was shockingly cold. His clothes dragged at him as he struggled and the cold quickly sapped his strength. He gasped, and water rushed into his lungs like cold fire.

**

The nearby Fraggles had heard the sharp crack, and one had looked up in time to see the child disappear under the surface of the water. He shouted, "Help! Someone's fallen in!"

Others quickly brought a rope made of root fibers and tied it around his waist. He jumped into the water. He looked around—nothing—then saw, underneath himself, a splash of red hair drifting in the water like seaweed. He reached down, caught a handful of cloth with one hand, then swam lower and wrapped his arms and legs around the still form. With one hand he yanked hard on the rope. It tightened around him, hauling him back up.

A bunch of Fraggles were on the side of the stream, hauling on the rope. They pulled both the chilled Fraggles out. The adult said, "I'm all right." The child was not moving. Several people picked him up, turned him upside-down, and slapped his back. He choked water out of his lungs and stomach, then began to cry.

As other Fraggles were stripping him of his sodden clothing and wrapping blankets around him to dry his fur and warm him, his mother rushed in. She took the shivering, crying boy in her arms and asked, "What happened? Are you all right?"

He choked back his tears and said in a whimpering voice, "I broke the ice. I didn't mean to fall in."

"Why in the earth did you break the ice?" she asked.

"To make spring come."

"Oh, Boober, breaking the ice won't bring spring. It's spring that makes the ice break." He began to cry again, and she sat down, lifted him into her lap, and rocked him. Someone offered a scarf, and she wrapped it loosely around his wet hair to keep off the chill. When he calmed down, she led him back to their home for a change of clothes and some warm food.

**

Despite her efforts, he soon developed pneumonia. Though the memory of his near-drowning was gone by the time he recovered, he would not swim in the stream again.

*****

Fraggle Rock is copyright © The Jim Henson Company, and is used without permission but with much respect and affection. The overall story is copyright © Kim McFarland (negaduck9@aol.com). Permission is given by the author to copy it for personal use only.

 

[Puckrox]

I swear I'm gonna get around to reading this. Maybe later tonight. Stupid busy life, keeping me from awesome fanfiction!

 

[bazingababe24]

This is beautiful! When I finished the first chapter I was saying to myself, "Boober!"

The imagery you create in this fic is stunning, and the atmospheres you convey (cold, warmth, tension --- especially tension) are nearly tangible. This is a really insightful backstory for Boober, BTW, just the way you explain in detail the events that helped make him who he is. I always had a feeling that he hid his eyes because he was self-conscious about them.

Please continue!

 

[Slackbot]

Heh, thanks! I was wondering if it was obvious in the first chapter who this would be. I deliberately omitted any mention of color--it's hard to see correct colors by firelight, that's my excuse--and I haven't posted any of the pictures because they would be spoilers.

Anyway, I'm glad you're liking this! I've written the whole thing, and am editing the last chapter into shape now. It'll be up soon. I think this is the fastest I've ever written a story, but what the heck, surf the wave you're on!

 

[Slackbot]

Runt
Part 3 of 4: Trial of Tears
By Kim McFarland​

*****

A small Fraggle wandered through the tunnels. He was old enough to have traveled alone through the caves near his colony's home. Now he was farther out than he had ever gone before. The tunnels were unfamiliar, and for all he knew had never been explored by Fraggles before.

As he traveled he sniffed the air. He sensed clean water nearby, though he was not close enough to hear it. He recognized plants as he passed them. This kind of moss was good for astringent infusions. Yellow flowers for the tea that most women drank in the summer. Various plants that had medicinal properties, or were spices, or were just good to eat. He passed some orange berries, and remembered that you should eat them if you were poisoned, and quickly. You'd regret eating them, but you'd be rid of the poison afterward.

He had been taught some of this lore by his mother and the Herbalist. Some of it he knew on a deeper level. He had been born a weakling, and had spent much of his early years sick with every ailment known to Fraggledom. The scents of the medicines that had preserved his life stayed with him. He may not have known the names of the plants, but if he could smell them he knew how to use them as if by instinct.

His sense of smell was his one gift. He was small and strange-looking and his health was weak—though not as weak as it used to be—but he had the most sensitive nose in the colony. It could lead him through unfamiliar tunnels in the dark, pointing food and water, warning him away from dangerous creatures and unstable passages. It was now leading him away from the colony, and he wasn't going back.

As he walked he thought about his mother. She had done everything for him. She had kept him alive for the dangerous first few months after his birth in winter. It had been too cold for a baby, and there had been very little food left by then, but she had protected him. She had nursed him through all his illnesses and taught him everything about medicines and luck, the two most important forces in his life. She had loved him dearly. She had been his world. And now that he was strong enough not to need her constant care she had decided to add to their family. He would be an older brother.

Or he would have been. Neither had survived.

He understood death. It was an inescapable reality. Sometimes people died of cold or sickness in winter. People got fatally injured. If they lived long enough, they just generally died. Where there was life, there was death. But it seemed to him a vicious joke that his mother's effort to bring forth new life had cost her her own.

He had run away, distraught. Nobody had tried to stop him. They believed that, because he had never gone very far before, he would stay close now, and return when he was ready. But, he thought, he would never be ready. There was nobody for him now. He could not face the emptiness of the cave that was his former home.

He clutched his lucky scarf, which was damp and stained with recent tears. He knew it was lucky; he had worn it numerous times when things had gone well. His cap was lucky too; not only did it have the same history as his scarf, it also hid his eyes so people wouldn't stare at them. He carried a small satchel over one shoulder with some other things he had gathered over the years, pebbles and small carvings, and edibles he found in the caves. He had cut a walking stick. It was too early to know if it was lucky too; he would find out soon enough.

He had gathered every bit of luck he had before he had left. He had been dry-eyed then, having cried himself out earlier. But he had known that that wouldn't last. As long as he carried this aching emptiness in his heart, there would always be more tears.

**

He wandered for a long time; without other Fraggles or any change in the underground light he could only guess that he had been out for three days, or maybe five or six. He did not go hungry; the caves provided him with edible plants and fungus. But there were strange creatures out this far, and he was tired and shaky from being constantly alert for danger. Even when he found a decent nook in an apparently safe area to wedge himself into, he could only doze fitfully. Every unfamiliar sound popped him awake.

At first he had merely been lonely and miserable. Those emotions had been overtaken by fear. He had no idea where he was now, or how to get back home. He had been through so many unfamiliar tunnels that they all looked alike. All he knew was that he had followed a generally upward path, so home was somewhere downslope.

Now he huddled under a boulder, trembling and clutching the satchel containing all of his lucky charms like a drowning Fraggle grasped at the ripples of light on the surface of the water. Every time he did something impulsive, he thought, it led to disaster. He had tried to bring spring by breaking the ice on the stream, and had almost drowned himself. He had joined in games with other children, and because of his weakness and clumsiness had gotten hurt. There had been other injuries and terrors; they all blended into the certain knowledge that the only way to be safe was never to give in to impulse. If he had thought about this he wouldn't have run away from the only safety he had ever known. Staying there alone would have been terrible, but not so bad as dying out here, lost in the caves!

Still shaking, he edged out from beneath the boulder, his tail between his legs, and looked around. He was in a large room with many tunnels leading in. Which way should he go? The hard rock showed no footprints, so he could not retrace his steps. No direction looked any better than any other. Any step he took could take him even further from home!

He stood there, paralyzed by fear, for a minute, his satchel held tightly to his chest. Then he crawled back under the rock and called out in a thin, frightened voice, "Help!"

**

A Fraggle wearing hiking gear and a backpack turned his head, startled. There were no Fraggles this far out; he was exploring unexplored caverns. But after a moment he heard it again, and followed the sound, curious as to what kind of creature could imitate a Fraggle voice so accurately.

It took him a while to find the source of the voice; the echoes in the cave confounded his sense of direction. It was by luck that he finally entered the large room and, tired, leaned against a large boulder. When he heard a soft "Help?" beneath himself he startled and yelped. Then he took out his pickaxe, in case the creature turned out to be dangerous, and looked under the rock.

A child looked out at him.

He put the pickaxe aside. "Good heavens, you gave me a start. What are you doing under there? Come on out."

The boy crawled out and stood before him, wringing his scarf with both hands. Kneeling to put himself at eye level, the older Fraggle said in a high-pitched, singsong tone, "Hi there, little Fraggle. My name is Matthew. What's yours?"

Boober was too relieved to finally see an adult to be annoyed by his baby talk. He answered, "Boober."

"Well, little Boober, what are you doing out here all by yourself? You're very far from home. Are you lost?"

Boober nodded mutely and wiped his eyes with his scarf. Matt said, "There there, don't cry any more. I'll take you home. Come, follow me." He held out his hand. Boober took it. The child's hand was clammy, and Matt could feel him trembling.

Chatting cheerfully to try to raise the child's spirits, Matt led Boober to Fraggle Rock.

*****

Fraggle Rock and all characters therein are copyright © The Jim Henson Company, and is used without permission but with much respect and affection. The overall story is copyright © Kim McFarland (negaduck9@aol.com). Permission is given by the author to copy it for personal use only.

 

[bazingababe24]

No, you didn't make it obvious. I figured it was Boober because I've been following your work and he seems to be a favorite of yours. Also, you pointed out that his mother was a small Fraggle, so that gave me a clue, too.

So sad! *hugs l'il Boober* Please continue!

 

[Slackbot]

Heh, when you follow that logic, I guess it is pretty obvious. What can I say, I like taking quirky oddballs and giving them depressing backstories. Hmm, wonder what traumas are in Bunsen's background?

Here comes the fourth chapter. There may be a fifth; something occurred to me last night.

 

[Slackbot]

Runt
Part 4: Safety
By Kim McFarland​

*****

Matt led the small Fraggle into the Great Hall. It had taken them some time to get there, not because they had been very far away, but because Matt navigated by instinct rather than maps. Hs instincts always led him true, but often by long, circuitous, backtracking paths.

Boober looked around. This huge gallery was much like the Great Tunnel in his colony's caves. It even had a swimming hole in the center. There were dozens of Fraggles here, talking and playing games and running around. The friendly, homey air comforted him a little.

Matt, still holding Boober by the hand, asked, "Now, who are your parents?"

Boober shook his head and murmured, "I don't have any."

"Nonsense, everyone has at least one," Matt said cheerfully.

Boober took his hand from Matt's and folded his arms, saying nothing.

Aha, a runaway, Matt thought. He knelt in front of Boober and said, "I'll bet your family is worried sick about you. You don't want that, do you? Tell me where you live and I'll take you there."

Irked by the baby talk, Boober only pointed at the ground and said, "Downslope."

"Hmm. Well... yes. Well, don't worry, little Fraggle, I'm sure your family will come looking for you. Come with me."

**

He led Boober to a cave just off the Great Hall. It was smooth-walled, with lots of climbable walls and stalagmites and columns to play around in and a small pool. Because there were no dangerous plants or animals here, it was just about the safest place in Fraggle Rock, which was why it was known as the Messing-Around Cave. Freed from the need to be alert for everyday hazards, Fraggles could mess around to their hearts content here. It was where the oldest children of the colony often played.

One, a purple-haired orange boy who was halfway up a wall, called out, "Uncle Matt!"

"Nephew Gobo," Matt replied. "I've brought a little friend."

Gobo jumped off the wall at Matt. Matt caught him, and both went over backward. Gobo rolled and popped up onto his feet. Matt shook his head and retrieved his hat, laughing. Another child jumped off the wall, and two others emerged from the depths of the cave and looked at Boober with friendly curiosity. Gobo stepped forward and said, "Hi. I'm Gobo. Who are you?"

"Boober," he said quietly.

A pink Fraggle, the oldest-looking of the group said, "Hi, I'm Mokey. This is Red—"

"Hi!" said a yellow-and-orange Fraggle.

"And Wembley." She glanced down at a light green Fraggle who was Boober's size. He smiled at Boober.

Red said, "Gobo and I were having a wall race. Whoever can get from here to the double column the fastest without touching the ground first wins. Want to play?"

"No, thanks," Boober said.

"I'll play!" Wembley said eagerly.

"But you said you'd play with me," Mokey told him.

"Yeah," Wembley agreed.

"Come with us, Boober," Mokey said with a smile.

While Gobo and Red began climbing again Mokey led Boober and Wembley to a flat section of wall. There were sticks of colored chalk on the floor, and drawings on the wall. The ones higher up were nicely-drawn flowers; Boober could recognize the varieties by the shapes of the petals and the way they were grouped. Lower down, there were cartoonish doodles of flowers, ovals jutting out from circular centers.

Mokey said, "We were playing follow-the-leader, but with pictures. One of us draws something, and then the other draws the same thing, then we switch. Want to play with us?"

"I'll watch," Boober said.

He sat and watched while Mokey draw a bluerose—which was good for bringing down fevers, he noted in the back of his mind—and Wembley happily scribbled with a piece of blue chalk.

After a little while he heard a yell and a thump. Gobo's voice said, "Red!"

Mokey hurried over. Red had fallen off the wall. Gobo hopped down, the contest forgotten. Mokey said, "Are you all right, Red?"

"Sure! Am I still winning?" she replied dizzily.

Boober glanced her over, then scurried off. When he came back she was getting to her feet, having shaken off the daze. When he began rubbing a cut on her knee with his scarf, which he had wetted in the pond, she said, "Hey, what're you doing?"

"Your leg is cut. If you let dirt get into cuts they'll get infected," he told her in a matter-of-fact tone. He wished he had a bandage for the cut. At least it was small; it would stop bleeding quickly.

"What's the big deal? It's only a cut." Red said.

He looked up. "Infected cuts hurt," he informed her.

Red looked down at him, startled by his tone. He was Wembley's size, but he didn't talk like a baby. And, she noticed for the first time, she could only see half of his face. "Hey, why do you wear a hat over your eyes? How can you see?"

"I can see under the brim."

"How do your eyes even fit under there?" She lifted his cap off.

Everyone stared. Normally a Fraggle's eyes were just above his or her head. Boober's eyes, visible under his red hair, were only half-risen, like a baby's whose eyes had only just opened. It gave him a froglike look—or, to a Fraggle, a babyish appearance. "Give it back!" he shouted.

"What happened to your eyes?" Gobo asked, startled.

"Nothing! Give it back!" He snatched his hat out of Red's hand, jammed it over his head, then turned and fled into the back of the cave.

**

They found him in a shallow tunnel under a rock. His moss-colored fur might have camouflaged him, but the red tuft on his tail, flared out like a dandelion head, gave him away. The angry lashing of his tail practically beckoned them over.

Red crouched by the tunnel and said, "I'm sorry, Boober. I didn't mean to make you mad."

The tail thumped against the floor. Gobo said, "If I made you mad by asking about your eyes, I'm sorry too."

Mokey sat on the ground and said calmly, "If you want to stay there for a while, that's all right. But we weren't trying to be mean to you."

A muffled voice said, "Nothing happened to my eyes. That's just how they are."

"You can see well enough, can't you?" Mokey asked.

"Yes."

"Then it doesn't matter, doesn't it? They're normal for you," she said gently.

"Yeah," Wembley said.

Boober looked over his shoulder at Mokey. She was serious. He half wanted to turn away and sulk some more, but after spending so long in the tunnels, afraid that he wouldn't live to see another Fraggle face, he couldn't take the chance that they would leave him alone. He glanced around at the others; they weren't teasing him either. Slowly, with a show of reluctance, he came out of the hole.

"Hey, do you want to play tug-of-tails?" Red said in lieu of a peace offering.

"No thanks. But I'll watch," Boober answered.

"Okay. But if you want to join, just jump in," Gobo told him.

Boober sat and watched as Gobo and Red twined their tails, then pulled in opposite directions. They were pretty evenly matched, but then Red lunged forward, pulling Gobo off his feet and tumbling them both into a heap on the ground. Wembley jumped up to play, and Red matched with him. She was gentler with the little Fraggle, letting him strain for all he was worth before she started forward. He didn't mind losing; he laughed as she dragged him backward across the floor. Even Mokey joined in after Red nagged her enough, and despite being the biggest she also lost to Red.

Boober knew that if he played he would lose. He had never been strong. Not that winning or losing seemed to mean much here; the fun was just in playing. Or in watching them play. He wished he could send someone in to play for him.

Despite their rough start, he could get to like these Fraggles, he thought. They seemed as nice as those he had known back home. Not that he would go back there, he told himself, and was surprised to realize that that was truly how he felt. He had run away from home after his mother had died, and the thought of going back, returning to that vacuum, made him feel sick. Here, there was no sense of emptiness and loss. He even felt safe. Maybe he could begin again. He'd stay here a while, he decided.

*****

Fraggle Rock and all characters therein is copyright © The Jim Henson Company, and is used without permission but with much respect and affection. The overall story is copyright © Kim McFarland (negaduck9@aol.com). Permission is given by the author to copy it for personal use only.

 

[redBoobergurl]

I just read this whole thing and I love it! I wrote a similar fic about the Fraggle five "reproducing" so to speak and I remember there was a debate about whether or not Fraggles hatched from eggs - but I treated it the same way you did, as if they were mammals. I like the fact that this was all about Boober, poor Boober gets very little love.

Overall great, I really liked it!