Chapter 1: The Day Before the Solstice
Percival J. Bumblebee was not a man prone to existential dread, yet as the Solstice of Forgotten Dreams approached, he found himself clutching his alarm clock like a lifebuoy in a sea of anxiety. Percival lived in a small English village called Fiddlesticks-on-the-Moor, which was known for its annual festivals, questionable cheese, and the Solstice tradition that had more confusing rules than a wizard’s chess tournament.
The Solstice of Forgotten Dreams, celebrated on the longest day of the year, was an event where the villagers tried to remember the dreams they’d forgotten over the past twelve months. Not the big dreams of fame or fortune—those were reserved for New Year’s resolutions—but the odd, fleeting ones: the dream where they’d befriended a talking salad, or flown to Paris on a giant duck, or accidentally become mayor of Fiddlesticks-on-the-Moor while wearing only lemon meringue pie.
The Festival was a jolly occasion, but for Percival, it was a living nightmare. He never remembered his dreams. Not one. Every year he’d stand in the village square, surrounded by people recounting their most ludicrous subconscious adventures, and he’d have to fabricate something on the spot. He’d been caught out at the last three Solstices—most recently when he claimed to have dreamt about a tap-dancing llama, only to be informed that was last year’s dream from Mrs. Wiggins, who had the memory of a steel trap and the temper of a hungry magpie.
So, this year, Percival was determined to remember a dream. Any dream. He’d read books on lucid dreaming, consumed copious amounts of cheese before bed (on the advice of the local cheese-monger, who was deeply biased), and even tried sleeping upside down. Nothing worked. With the festival only hours away, Percival was desperate.
Chapter 2: The Local Dreamologist
On the morning of the Solstice, Percival visited the most eccentric resident of Fiddlesticks-on-the-Moor: Professor Ophelia Oddwinkle, PhD, MBE, and self-proclaimed Dreamologist. Her cottage was a riot of dreamcatchers, wind chimes, and books with titles like “101 Uses for a Discarded Subconscious,” and “Dreams: Why Your Cat is Plotting Against You (And Other Revelations).”
Percival shuffled through her gate, nearly tripping over a suspiciously sentient-looking gnome.
Ophelia herself stood at the door in a robe covered in tiny moons and, for reasons unknown, oven mitts.
Ah, Percival! she exclaimed, You’ve come for emergency dream extraction, haven’t you? I can see it in your aura. It’s slightly beige.
Percival, who had never thought much about the color of his aura, nodded.
Ophelia ushered him inside, plopped him onto a beanbag, and produced a device that looked like a cross between a colander and a car battery. With much ceremony, she placed the contraption on his head and began to wind a crank.
Now, just relax and repeat after me: “Squidgy wumpus, bring forth my dreamus.”
Percival, with nothing left to lose, did as instructed. The device hummed, sparks flew, and for a brief moment, he thought he saw a parade of penguins in tutus marching through his mind. Then the machine sputtered, coughed, and spat out a slip of paper that read: “NO DATA FOUND.”
Ophelia patted his shoulder sympathetically. I’m afraid your subconscious is on strike, dear. Perhaps you should try yoga. Or interpretive dance.
Percival left, gloomier than ever, and resolved to try one last method: hypnosis.
Chapter 3: The Hypnotist’s Hut
The local hypnotist, Griselda Smudge, lived on the edge of town in a hut festooned with swirling patterns and mirrors. She had a voice that could lull a caffeinated squirrel to sleep and wore more scarves than any one human ought.
Lie back, Mr. Bumblebee, and focus on the sound of my voice. You are drifting…drifting…
Percival’s mind began to drift indeed, and soon he found himself floating above Fiddlesticks-on-the-Moor, looking down at a crowd of villagers with enormous ears waving at him from below.
You are in your dream, Griselda intoned. What do you see?
Percival tried to remember. The images flickered: a herd of cows doing synchronized swimming, a bicycle made of toast, a postbox reciting poetry. He clung to the memory of the swimming cows, certain it was significant.
When he awoke, Griselda handed him a bill for fifty pounds and a note: “Your dream is bovine in nature. Congratulations.”
Feeling rejuvenated, Percival marched home, determined to recount the tale of the synchronized swimming cows at the festival. Surely, no one else would have dreamt that.
Chapter 4: The Festival Begins
That evening, the village square was transformed into a riot of color and chaos. Bunting fluttered, cakes towered, and the air rang with the sound of the local accordion band’s greatest hits (mostly polkas and one ill-advised attempt at Bohemian Rhapsody).
The festival began with a parade, led by Mrs. Wiggins atop a horse dressed as a carrot. Children threw confetti and old Mr. Tuttleby’s dog began to chase its own tail in circles, convinced it was the reincarnation of last year’s dream about an Olympic gold-medalist dachshund.
The main event, however, was the “Recounting of Forgotten Dreams.” One by one, villagers took the stage to share their most bizarre night-time adventures.
First was Mrs. Wiggins herself, who described a dream where she invented a hat that dispensed marmalade on command. The crowd applauded politely, though several people eyed her hat suspiciously.
Then came young Timothy, who claimed to have dreamt of a world where everything was made of socks. His mother looked mortified, having just spent three months knitting him a scarf.
Finally, it was Percival’s turn. Clutching his note from Griselda like a talisman, he stepped up to the microphone.
I dreamt, he announced, of a herd of cows doing synchronized swimming in the village pond. They wore tiny goggles, and at the end, they did a perfect backflip and spelled out “Fiddlesticks Rules” with their tails.
There was a long pause.
Then, from the back, came a small voice: That was MY dream!
Percival turned to see Old Mr. Tuttleby brandishing a half-eaten sausage roll. There was a murmur of agreement from the crowd.
And mine too!
Me as well!
Within moments, it became clear that at least half the village had apparently dreamt of synchronized swimming cows at some point in the past year. Percival’s dream was not only unoriginal; it was, by village standards, downright cliché.
Chapter 5: The Contest of the Most Forgotten Dream
With the cow dream debacle behind him, Percival slunk to the back of the crowd, his cheeks burning with embarrassment. He was just about to sneak away when Ophelia Oddwinkle appeared, brandishing a clipboard.
Cheer up, Percival! It’s time for the Contest of the Most Forgotten Dream. This is your chance!
Percival brightened. He’d heard of the contest—a relatively new tradition where villagers wrote down their strangest dream fragments on slips of paper, which were then mixed together in a giant teapot. The winner was the person whose dream was so odd, so utterly forgotten, that no one else could claim it.
The villagers gathered around as Ophelia began reading out the dreams.
I dreamt I was a potato, declared Ophelia, reading from a slip. Three hands went up.
I dreamt I was chased by a giant shoe! Four hands.
I dreamt I opened my fridge and found Narnia inside. Seven hands.
At last, Ophelia pulled out a particularly crumpled slip.
I dreamt I was standing at the top of a mountain, reciting the alphabet backwards, while a choir of slugs sang the national anthem, and I was wearing a dress made entirely of lettuce.
There was silence.
No one raised their hand.
Who submitted this one? Ophelia asked.
A figure in a trench coat and sunglasses stepped forward. It was Griselda Smudge.
I don’t remember dreaming this, she admitted, but the handwriting is definitely mine.
The crowd erupted in applause. Griselda was declared the winner and awarded the ceremonial hat: a top hat with a stuffed owl perched on top, which hooted every time someone said “lettuce.”
Percival’s dream, meanwhile, was quietly discarded.
Chapter 6: The Dreamless Speech
As the evening wore on, Percival nursed a glass of punch and sulked beneath a banner that read “Dream Big or Go Home.” He felt like the only person in Fiddlesticks-on-the-Moor who’d never had an original dream.
Ophelia found him and sat down beside him.
You know, Percival, she said gently, Sometimes the best dreams are the ones we haven’t had yet. Or the ones we live while we’re awake.
Percival considered this. All his life, he’d worried about not living up to the village’s expectations—about not having the right kind of dream. But maybe he didn’t need to remember his sleeping dreams. Maybe he could make his own, right here, right now.
He stood on a bench and, despite his nerves, addressed the assembled villagers.
Friends, I may not remember my dreams, but I do know this: Every day in Fiddlesticks-on-the-Moor is a little bit like a dream. Where else do you see horses dressed as carrots, synchronized swimming cows, and hats that dispense marmalade? Maybe we don’t need to remember our dreams. Maybe we just need to notice the magic around us. And if you ever do dream of synchronized swimming cows, know that you’re in very good company.
There was a pause. Then the villagers burst into laughter and applause. Someone started a conga line. The accordion band launched into a polka, and before he knew it, Percival was swept up in the festivities, wearing the ceremonial owl hat (which hooted with every step), and dancing with Mrs. Wiggins and the carrot horse.
Chapter 7: A Dream Come True
As midnight approached, Percival found himself at the edge of the village pond, watching the stars glimmer on the water. He sighed, feeling happier than he had in years. He might never remember his dreams, but tonight had been wonderful—absurd, hilarious, and utterly unforgettable.
He was about to head home when Ophelia joined him.
Did you know, she whispered conspiratorially, that the best dreams sometimes come when you’re awake?
Percival smiled. I think I’m beginning to understand that.
The Solstice of Forgotten Dreams ended as it always did, with fireworks, laughter, and a sense that, for one day at least, everyone’s dreams—forgotten or not—had a place in Fiddlesticks-on-the-Moor.
And as Percival drifted off to sleep that night, he dreamt of nothing in particular, and woke feeling content, ready for another year of unexpected, waking dreams.
And perhaps—just perhaps—next year he’d remember a dream or two. But if not, he knew that was perfectly all right.
After all, life in Fiddlesticks-on-the-Moor was dream enough for anyone.
The End.