“Wow, Falkor! That was awesome!" I excalimed, wiping a tear from the corner of my eye. "You were right. This is, like, way better than the Tower of Terror at Disney World. I'll never doubt you again.”
“I’m glad you’re having fun, J-tron. But you still have wishes to make!”
We dove again sharply and skimmed the meadow. I reached out with my fingers and felt the grass whip by my fingertips.
“Hey, you know what would make this dream uber?” Falkor’s ears perked up slightly. “The Von Trapp family singers.”
Falkor sighed heavily. His breath smelled like cotton candy. Then his tone changed. When he spoke, he sounded disturbingly like my college Creative Writing teacher.
“J-tron, you can’t just haphazardly mix movie references like this. You can’t have the The Sound of Music and The Never-Ending Story in the same dream. It’s not charming. It’s not whimsical. It’s sloppy and betrays a deeply disordered mind.”
I was deeply stung by this—and disappointed—but my hurt pride was quickly replaced by indignation.
“Of all the four-letter words in the English language, I never would have expected ‘can’t’ to be in your vocabulary. I mean, you are a goddamned luck dragon.”
“And let's talk about this dream you are having: Don't you think there is an astounding lack of creativity here? You are blatantly ripping off other people's work."
How droll. I was being criticized by my own subconscious. But I was not about to be gainsaid by a furry pink naysayer.
"This isn’t the most original dream you’ve ever had—you’ve done a lot better in the past. I mean, you’ve done a lot worse too. At least this is pleasant and nobody’s getting brutally murdered.”
I could feel my face getting hot.
“Look, Falkor, I don’t think you have the right to criticize this dream, since you are the copyrighted piece of Michael Ende’s intellectual property that is being called into question. As such, it would be unwise to continue on this point, as this whole discussion threatens your immediate existence--I might suddenly decide to turn you into a hang glider, because hang-gliders don’t talk back and they don't criticize my dreams. Now, unless they want to be thrown into the deepest part of my subconscious where Cthulu dwells with my garbage heap of repressed memories, I recommend that you indulge me a little. Alles klar?" I took Falkor's silence as a yes. "Now let’s see some fucking lederhosen."
We took an abrupt turn through a valley, following the curve of the mountainside closely. Finally, we emerged onto a large open meadow where we happened upon a bunch of singing Austrians wearing lederhosen made of drapes. They waved up at us as we glided by.
“See, isn’t that nice--the sound of children’s voices raised in song?”
Suddenly, from somewhere beyond the clouds, I could hear a strange and distant sound that certainly wasn’t Edelweiss. It wasn’t terribly loud, but it echoed in the sky the way an airplane does as it flies overhead. It was a muffled, persistent sound, having what I perceived to be a cadence.
“Falkor?”
“Yes?”
“Do you hear that noise?”
“Yes, I hear it.”
“Oh my God, what is it? It’s awful.”
“That? It's your cell phone. Don't worry, it’s just one of your best friends calling to tell you that she’s getting married and she wants you to be the maid of honor.”
Just as my mouth started to frame a response, I happened upon the startling revelation that I was hurtling toward the ground at an alarming speed. The luck dragon had disappeared.
Fucking luck dragons.
*Luck dragon: Of the genus Serpentius Fortunas, the luck dragon is characterized by its ability to fly, it canine facial features and serpentine body, its fondness of children, and its serendipitous nature. Native to the land of Fantasia.
~Fin~
_________________________________________________
Thankfully, the luck dragon was wrong. In fact, it was my mother calling. Although, that can be equally horrifying:
"Jenny?"
"Yes, mother?"
"How do I save the thing?"
"What thing?"
"You know--"
"No, I don't."
"Come on. You know, the thing I'm typing. I can't find the thing on the screen that lets me save it."
"Hold on... You're calling me at 6am to ask me where the save button is in Microsoft Word?"
"Yeah, that."
"It's at the top of the screen for fuck's sake. It looks like a little DISK."
"Where?"
"Oh my god... at the top of the screen. In the task bar."
"Oh wait, I think I found it." Starts laughing hysterically.
"What is so funny?"
"I thought that was a face..." Snort, snort.
"What? Are you on drugs?"
More laughing.
"Okay mom, I'm hanging up now."
Five minutes later, the phone rings again.
"Jenny, how do I print it?"
*stabs self*
Amazing. The woman is a political genius, but can't tie her shoes.
