Dream Journal Ultimate
Date: 11/14/2025
By amandalyle
I have been entrusted — quite irresponsibly, I might add — with a magical contraption full of swirling orange liquid. It looks like a flute, if a flute had been redesigned by someone who drinks potions recreationally. Apparently, if I blow into it, it plays a soundless tune that scares away evil. A silent anti-evil flute. Sure. Why not? I cradle it like it’s the holy grail, then, in a moment of profound genius, hide it in my underwear drawer. “It’ll be safe there,” I announce proudly to absolutely no one. A heartbeat later, I’m suddenly unhappy with that choice — something about sacred, mystical objects nestled against knickers that haven’t seen daylight in months feels morally dubious. I yank it out again. I hold it up, marvelling at the absurdity. Maybe I should give it a blow? Tempting, eh? Just a tiny one. A polite puff. And so I do. Reality folds like cheap origami and reassembles into an entirely different era. I’m standing on cobbled streets. Tiny Tudor houses line the road, each one crooked like they were built by well-meaning drunks. Monkey, my cat, pads beside me on a lead as though he’s been a medieval gentleman all his life. There’s a commotion up ahead — clusters of people whispering urgently. I lean in. “Lucid dream,” one says. But I, champion of missing the point, stroll on without letting the words land. A familiar shape comes into view — Alex, my son — standing oddly with his hand clamped over his mouth. “What’s wrong?” I ask. “My teeth,” he groans. I take a closer look, and horror slaps me square in the face. His teeth are now blackened nubs, swaying in the breeze like morbid little pendulums. “Jesus, Alex,” I gasp. “When did you last brush these?” He scuffs the cobbles with his shoe. “Couple of years?” Guilt gnaws at my toes… until I realise guilt is not metaphorical. A rat is literally chewing on my toes. I shake the little bastard off. My hand darts to my pocket — the flute. Still there. Still warm. I pull it out, stare at it, then shove it back. I want to blow it again, desperately, absurdly. But what if something worse happens? After all, last time I blew it, my son’s teeth basically resigned from being teeth. Still… curiosity is a powerful enemy. I draw it out, bring it to my lips, and blow. Leaves spiral around me like a frantic dance. Birds abandon the sky in panicked flocks. Mum emerging from a bakery, smelling of fresh bread and childhood breakfasts. “I feel ever so sick,” she says, looking greyer than a Victorian ghost. Before I can respond, she bolts — hand clamped over her mouth — letting out soft gagging sounds before producing a spectacular stream of vomit against a cobbled wall. A performance piece, really. A Victorian lady stands before me — stiff and shadowed — her gaze so bleak and unwavering it feels like she’s already counted my sins. “You shouldn’t be doing that,” she says sharply. Doing what, I wonder — until the flute pulses in my pocket, glowing with the sort of energy that screams ‘you absolute moron.’ Before I can speak, she crumbles — literally crumbles — into dust at my feet. A human sandcastle slapped by a petty god. “Maybe… maybe I am dreaming.” “No shit,” Alex mumbles through teeth so loose they might fall out mid-sentence. And just like that — I’m awake.