Dreamtime - By Hornlarry (Booru ID 42385)

“Hewwo,” the fluffy says, floating in a safe and warm place. You can sense her, but not really see her. Her voice echoes in your mind, close, yet distant, as if she were talking to you from another world.

“Sweepy tiem daddah am back again? Wan wun? Wan pway?” the fluffy asks you. Somehow you can feel her love, pure and radiant, flowing from her heart like a log fire’s warmth. Something about it makes you feel safe. It reminds you of your childhood. As if she were your mummah.

“Fwuffy hav sweepy tiem pictuwes evewy dawk tiem. Dey am cawwed Dweams. Fwuffy gu on wots of adventuwes in Dweamy tiem. Dweam tiem daddah wan come too?”

You open your mouth to speak, but no words come out. You can’t move, for some strange reason, and yet the words are forgotten also. You feel warm, and your head feels fuzzy. You are rooted to the spot, and yet you float in nothingness. The fluffy’s warmth is still there though, except that it is some kind of mind-fluff.

“Siwwy daddah, nu can move in dweamy tiem, uddewise wud sweepy tiem walkies, an get nummed by munstah.”

The fluffy laughs, and you feel filled with joy. Is this really how they feel when they are happy? You can’t remember such happiness. Part of you recoils at the realisation that you can’t remember it, because, at one time, you could. How could you have forgotten it? When did those beautiful sunsets disappear? When did the colour drain from your life?

“Poow wittew dweam daddah, nu hav heawt huwties, come wiv fwuffy…”

You can see her now, a drab yellow unicorn mare, her fluff covered in dried grass, twigs, leaves and pieces of loose earth. Next to her are a pile of carrots. She is not a pretty fluffy, but her horn… her horn is radiant. It glows, yellow, then purple, like an after image from staring at the sun. Her compassion radiates from deep within her, feeling your heart with shame. You knew such compassion once. At one time, you loved all beings, as she still does. But it has been forgotten… How could you forget? Your shame is met with even more empathy from the little creature, as though there is no pain you can experience that she cannot embrace and wash away. Her warm emptiness envelopes you with oceanic bliss.

“Dewe… siwwy dweam daddah… nu have huwties… Fwuffy wuv you. Wan make dweam daddah happies. Sadies onwy make mowe saddies…”

You try to speak again, to mouth some words, to ask her… How?

She seems to sense your question, and answers it, to relieve your pain. Her answer poses a thousand other questions though.

“Fwuffy am dweam mummah… wiv with hewd… Hewp fwuffies be gud to fwuffies. Hewp take huwties away. Fwuffy can feew ova fwuffies feews. Fwuffy can tawk inside ova fwuffies. Fwuffy can dweam inside ova fwuffy dweams. Can travew… faw…”

You feel yourself rising, from the warm earth, where a fluffy herd is sleeping, deep within their burrow. You and the fluffy pass through the earth, incorporeal, ethereal spirits, past sleeping mummahs, and daddahs, and big babies, all sound and snug, wrapped in thick bundles of dried grass, next to stocks of carrots, nuts, berries and roots.

“Fwuffies am hibewnating… have weawned hibewnating fwom Beaw fwiends.”

You rise still further, above the earth, which is blanketed in white snow, shining like a Christmas cake. You remember Christmas. You remember joy… a half forgotten memory, buried deep within your childhood. What was it that grew over your joy? When did your soul become so callused? Was is the world that became hardened? Or your heart? You wish you could remember.

“Fwuffies wiv in buwwow,” the fluffy explains to you. You are floating, high above a snow covered forest, the air looks frigid, but you still feel warm. You wish you could speak, but you somehow sense that the dream mummah can sense your every thought. She answers your confusion as best she can.

“Fwuffy hewd wiv in buwwow. Buwwow was digged by wabbit munstahs, but dey gone now. Fwuffies dig mowe, but it huwt hoofies. Fwuffies aww… diffewent dan fwuffies that wiv inside dweam daddah. Fwuffies nu so pwetty nu mowe… but fwuffies stwongew, and kindew. Smartew, but nu am smawties. Dewe wots of Unicowns, and Awicowns naow. Mummahs awe gud. Wuv aww dewe babbehs.”

You sense some sadness in the fluffy’s soul. You realise that she can see your life as if it were a movie, stretching out through time. She is unravelling it, seeing all the different threads, as if it were a loom, spread across some higher dimension. The warp and weft of all your joys and pains are open to her heart, and she feels for your suffering.

“Dweam daddah have lots of saddies… fwuffy am sowwy. Dweam mummah can hewp dweam daddah to wet gu of saddies… If dweam daddah want?”

You feel some kind of inner recoil… you are scared that you will… Forget? No, forgetting the pain would not be a bad thing, it is the joy that you have forgotten. You don’t want the bad things to go away. You want the good things to come back. How could you have ever lost them? They were always there. Why does the fluffy remember?

“Hoomins awways thinkin 'bout things,” the fluffy continues, “Things. Things, things, things, things, things. Fast things. Clevew things. Mean things. Hoomins fowget to wun, an pway, and wuv. Why hoomins fowget?”

She smiles inside your soul with the question. It is a koan. Why does a man forget happiness? She doesn’t expect you to answer, she seeks to free you from something.

“So many questions,” she smiles again. “Hoomins awways wan unnerstand evewyting. Hoomin weawy wan know? Weawy?”

Her heart seems tinged with concern, as though the truth might hurt you in some way. You struggle, like a drowning swimmer, gasping for air. You try to make the words, but nothing comes out. The dream mother understands you anyway.

“A wong tiem ago. Hoomins made fwuffies. Dey made dem fow huggies, and wuv, and for wittew hoomins. Lotsa hoomins did wuv dem, but some hoomins am mean. Dey huwt fwuffies.”

The dream mummah seems sad, but there is no anger, no hatred. She simply tells the story as it is.

“Dewe was wotsa fwuffies, wiving wif hoomins… wiving in hewds. Wuved, huwt, happy, abandoned. Wotsa fwuffies.”

The dream mummah shows you lives of a multitude of fluffies, living in safe rooms, living in alleyways. Living in dungeons and in horrific pain. She shows you all of it, with compassion to all beings, but she is not broken by it. You couldn’t imagine holding so many movies inside your soul. The multitude of it… the sheer overwhelm…

“Some fwuffies am weawn… sleepy tiem pictuwes, dweams, am a window into, da souw. Da souw am whewe da feews happen. Da gud feews, da huwties, da bestest wuv and bestest babbehs. Da souw nu can go fowevew sweepies.”

You know in that moment, that you are somehow inside. Inside her soul. You are being kept warm by her love, just as her herd is kept warm by a grass stuffed burrow, deep underneath the winter’s snow.

“Fwuffies am weawn… tawk to ova fwuffies, in dweamtime. Fwuffies am weawn, wemember. Wemember ova fwuffies. Wemembew ova fwuffies souw. Den, even when ova fwuffies go fowevew sweepies, dewe souw stiww wiv, inside da dweam mummah’s souw. Dat way, fwuffies can wemembew. Can wemember owd fwuffies. Babbehs can wemember mummahs, and daddahs. Can wemembew mummah’s mummahs. Can wemember aww da way back, to da fiwst fwuffies. Can wemember, da Jewwenheimews.”

She shows you memories, souls within souls, all nestled within one another like Russian dolls. Souls within souls within souls, folded in upon themselves in an impossible geometry, in dimensions beyond the grasp of your mind. All still running, still playing, still loving.

“Da owd fwuffies had mowe huwties. Dey wanted da wowd to be huggies an wuv, but it nu am huggies an wuv. Da wowd is suffewing. Aww beings suffew. Hoomins. Fwuffies. Munstahs. Aww get huwties. Aww get sick, owd, die. Even da good fings nu wast fowevew. Fowevew sweepies come to us aww.”

Somehow, the fluffy is giving you the truth, but so serenely that your heart does not recoil.

“Some fwuffies am weawise dis am twue. Den dey shawe it wiv ova fwuffies, in da dweamtime. Dey show dem dat a happy pwace can be weaw. Weawy weaw. But it am inside. Inside da souw. Inside da Dweamtime.”

She shows you more fluffies. Fluffies from before. From before before. All living, dwelling within, running and playing and loving each other. Memories of memories of memories. But all real, as real as the movie of your life. Real within the minds and souls of other fluffies.

“When fwuffies weawn dis, dey twy teww hoomins… but dey know wisten to fwuffies.”

As she tells you this, you feel a wave of sorrow emanate from deep within her. Your heart tenses and your eyes begin to water. It is not her sadness that overwhelms you, but her love.

“Back den, dewe was wotsa fwuffies, and wotsa hoomins too. Too many hoomins. Sometimes, da hoomin smawties wouwd shout, an fight. Dey say, ‘Dis am smawty wand!’. Dey not weawy say dat. Dey say wong, hoomin wowdies. But dat what dey fink. Dey fink ‘Dis am smawty wand!’. Fwuffies know dis, cos fwuffies can see da hoomin Dweamtimes.”

The Dream Mother shows you the world, as it once was. Fluffies living in safe rooms and alleyways, sharing each other’s dreams. Keeping their lost babies and dead mothers alive in their dreamtime, looking into human dreams, seeing our anger, our hatred. Trying to warn us, telling us things. Talking to us. Sending us dreams.

“Da hoomins. Dewe was too many hoomins. Not enough hoomin wand. Not enough wawa. Not enough oiw. Not enough nummies. Not enough, not enough, not enough.”

She shows you humans. Millions of humans. Shouting. Angry.

“Fwuffies am say ‘Shawe da nummies! Wuv aww da hoomins! Wuv aww da babbehs!’ but, da hoomins nu wisten.”

The Dream Mother flies, and you fly with her, across the frozen landscape, faster and faster. Far from the snow covered forest, to a brown and broken grey place. Twisted tries grow within the ruins. Reaching to the heavens like broken fingers. Here and there, smashed metal and concrete punch up from the wasted earth. Nothing lives here. Nothing moves.

“Da hoomins. Dey did fight. Gave each ova wowstest owwies. Wotsa hoomins died. Wotsa fwuffies too. Da hoomins dwopped wowstest huwties fwom da skies, fwom metaw sky munstahs. Buwn aww da hoomin homes. Aww of dem. Hoomins an fwuffies dat wook at da buwnies aww am bwind. Nu can see nu mowe. Buwn off skin. Buwn off fwuff. Tuwn some pwaces into ash. Den da sickness come. Fluff fall out. Teefies faww out. Sickies and poopies. Aww die. Ow wan die. Wowstest tiem. Wowstest tiem.”

The dream mummah shows you. Somehow she senses that you want to see. A million lives. A billion. All shouting. All screaming. Millions turned to ash in the blink of an eye. Millions more eyes burned out. Humans and fluffies and cats and dogs and birds, writhing in agony. Poisoned. Ashes. Death.

The suffering threatens to overwhelm you, but somehow the fluffy mother opens you up, letting the scenes of a million strangers lives flow through you. You are able to watch, as if you were the stars, gazing from a million years away. Distant, but caring. Understanding the tragedy, but also realising the flow of life.

The fluffies had survived. Eating grass and hiding underground. Evolving. Becoming brown, following Alicorns. Babies dying, but others surviving. Sleeping through the winters, learning to dig burrows with hooves grown hard. Defending their herd from foxes, fending them off with their horns, hiding in rabbit holes and warrens. And remembering, remembering their mummahs, and their mummah’s mummahs. All the way back to the first fluffies.

And the humans?

The dream mummah looks at you. Sadness showing in her eyes.

“Fwuffy… am sowwy. Dewe nu hoomins now. Nu hoomins living. Nu hoomin babbehs. But fwuffies can wemembew. Can wemembew fwuffies. Can wemembew fwuffies dat wemembew fwuffies. Can wemembew fwuffies dat wemembew fwuffies dat… wemember hoomins. Can wemembew hoomins, so hoomins can wiv, inside da fwuffies dweamtime.”

Her mind unfolds in front of you. The most beautiful flower in the Universe. A precious jewel, its facets containing all that could ever be. Within are the movies of other fluffies lives, and within them, live more fluffies. Within within, live humans. Half forgotten mummahs and daddahs, their lives all tangled up, like a ball of yarn. Unravelled.

“Da mean wowd made hoomins. Hoomins made wuv,” the dream mummahs heart is aching as she explains. “Den Hoomins made fluffies. Fwuffies onwy want wuv. Fwuffies wuved hoomins,” she nearly cries. “We weawy wuved dem.”

The dream mother shows you fluffies, sitting on human’s laps, hugging them, watching TV. Licking their hands and faces, showing them their babies. Showing them their blocks. Crying at their funerals. Remembering them in their dreamtimes.

“Fwuffies wanted a nice wowd, wiv onwy wuv, so dey made da dweamtime. Wotsa fwuffies wiv dewe naow. Wotsa hoomins too.” she explains, kindly, leading you through it all. “Sometiems, fwuffies wan meet hoomins. Nevew seen hoomins befowe. So dweam mummahs take dem, deep into da dweamtiem, into da memowies, past da owd fwuffies, to meet da hoomins.”

The dream mummah shows you schools of young fluffies, being guided by their elders, led to meet the humans, the makers of the fluffies. Often times the young fluffies would weep, knowing that their creators had destroyed themselves. Wanting to love them, wanting to take their pain away. Some fluffies would choose to life inside the dreamtime, living with their beloved human mummahs and daddahs, hibernating like a bear, only waking to eat and drink, then hibernating again.

“Sometimes, da hoomins in da dweamtime wan know wat happened…”

You feel a sense of dread, creeping across your flesh. You try to focus. To look at your hands. You want to waken from this dream, but it is eternal. Are your hands even real? Do they actually exist? Or are they just an old movie? Playing in the mind of a fluffy, buried within the memories of another fluffy, in the soul of another, in the dreamtime, shared by them all?

Do you even exist?

“Look,” says the fluffy, her lisp suddenly vanishing. Her physical form fades from view, the drab yellow unicorn is merely a vessel, a relic from the time of biology. Her true form is angelic. Her glowing horn opens and you stare, deep within her third eye. It opens, and within her soul is the Dream Time. The Flower. The Jewel. The amplitude of all possibility. All that can and all that ever will be exists within it. Everything.

“Look at the Jewel,” the enlightened being tells you, “Look at the Jewel, and be at peace.”

Link to Index of Hornlarry Stories


This is my favorite story


A couple of questions for you guys- first, can we have a Dreamtime tag again? It was a thing on the Booru, linking several fluffy stories and artwork where they dream of a better place.

Secondly, there was an amazing artist on the Booru, who drew stuff that was like a twisted Cthuloid horror story, and she did some beautiful artwork for me which was part of the Jellyverse. I can’t remember her name just now but she was fantastic. Does anyone know who I am thinking of?


woah what a trip O.O very interesting concept, i never stoped to think of the metaphysical aspects of fluffies, really good stuff


Fluffies with fractal souls, built on a framework of love. I like that.


Whoever is chopping onions on the internet better stop. My eyes are stinging…

You @Hornlarry, my friend, have a gift. This story touched me deeply. Through a fluffy mummah of dreams you pretty much laid out all the human flaws yet still showed how much love there can be if one was more simple like a fluffy just wanting everyone to love one another. :heart:


Thank you, that is a great compliment. I’m glad you enjoyed this story. I remember that it made a few people cry back on the Booru as well


Oh goodness, this was lovely. Like the last chapter, the epilogue of some grand story.

At first I thought of a story I had wrote, but you went so far, far beyond it. Masterfully. I didn’t even feel bad realizing that.



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I’m glad you enjoyed it :smiley:

Virgil helped me find other stories and art with the Dreamtime tag - I can upload it now when the time comes

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Same I love this esoteric shit