FICTION: Lost by Christopher Moore

15 hours ago

5 min read

Penned in Rage Journal, Amplifying Marginalized Voices

My friends and I are sitting on a log near a stream. We didn’t plan to get lost in the woods, but we wandered off the path and lost our sense of direction, and now here we are, far from home. It’s scary to not know where you are, but at least I’m not alone. The three of us will figure out a way to get home, to get back to our tablets and games consoles and safe bedrooms. We just have to be clever and come up with a plan.

Ben looks up at the sky, and says:

‘I don’t want to be grown-up.’

I turn to him and ask: ‘Why not?’

‘Because we look so sad,’ he answers.

Luke stares at him and asks: ‘What do you mean?’

Ben looks up at the sky again and points.

‘Look at us.’

Luke and I frown and follow his gaze.

And gasp in fright.

Far above us, looming over the forest and the stream, hangs a reflected image of us. A mirror forest, a mirror stream, mirror trees, pointing directly at us. Completely upside down, but somehow not falling on us. Just hovering there, suspended in the air, following a law of gravity all its own. It should be impossible, and yet all three of us can see it. As sharp and detailed and real as our own forest and river, down to the last branch and bubble.

And there, in a clearing right above our heads, as though hanging from the ceiling…

Reflections of ourselves.

Except…

Not quite ourselves.

These three people are older. Adult. Faces lined, more worn. Shadows under their eyes. One of them, the one right above me, in a smart business suit with a briefcase sitting on the log, has a tired, drained look on his face. One of his friends, right above Ben, is in scruffy, dirty clothes, with an overgrown beard and a woollen hat, fidgeting nervously every couple of seconds, unable to keep still. The third, right above Luke, is overweight and bloated, with thin hair, and a red and puffy face. Taking a drink every few seconds from a bottle. Wiping his mouth after every sip, before quickly taking another. As though he can’t stop himself.

Is this us? I shudder at the thought. These three people don’t look happy at all. They’re still together, still friends, but none of them look like they’re where they want to be. I look worn out from a job I don’t like. Ben looks like he has nowhere to live. Luke can’t seem to stop himself drinking. They’re all a little bit broken. Damaged. Not where they should be.

Suddenly, even though we’re somewhere completely unfamiliar down here, I don’t feel so lost after all.

All three of us shiver with fright at the sight before us. I turn to Ben again.

‘Why do we look this way?’ I ask him, not entirely sure why he should know the answer any more than the two of us, but he did spot everything first. ‘Why do we look so unhappy?’

Ben sits back, craning his neck further to look up, and points away from our reflections, away to the edge of the mirror scene, miles away from where the three adults are sitting.

‘Because of all of that,’ he guesses.

And as we look in the direction he’s pointing, suddenly it all seems to make horrible sense.

On the edges of the mirror forest is a world on fire. Angry, orange flames licking their way across dead earth and charred plants, working steadily through the last bit of greenery and forest surrounding the three men, consuming everything it touches and moving steadily inwards, shrinking the protective circle around our mirror selves with each passing moment. As if this wasn’t scary enough, Ben points again, and we all look further away, beyond the edge of the forest, beyond the fire.

Where we see men with armour and guns patrolling the ruined landscape, soldiers jealously guarding the destruction. Doing nothing to stop the fire making its way towards the middle of the wood, towards our adult selves, but doing everything, I think to myself, to make the people outside the forest feel frightened and helpless. People like that, soldiers, guards, should be doing what they can to help, to stop things being destroyed. But all they seem to want to do is rule over the destruction.

‘What can we do?’ cries Luke in a panic. ‘The fire is going to destroy them. Destroy us, if we ever become them.’

‘Maybe we’ve been shown this so we can stop it,’ I suggest. ‘Maybe we’re supposed to go back and warn everyone, warn all the grown-ups, so they can make sure it never actually happens, and save us.’

I want to hope that’s true. I want to make Ben and Luke feel better. But maybe I’m just trying to make myself feel better.

Because even though I find the news boring, I do hear it sometimes when Mum and Dad have the TV on after dinner, and it always seems like the world is already on fire, like forests are already burning, like men with guns are already patrolling the world making people feel scared and trapped. And nobody ever seems to stop it, or even to really try. So, would anyone really listen to us if we warned them what we saw? Would it make any difference?

‘Maybe we’re just supposed to enjoy being here right now,’ Ben suggests, pointing around us at the green summer trees, at the singing chorus of birds, at the clear running water, at the peaceful hills not yet on fire. And as the mirror scene above us slowly fades and gives way to bright blue sky, I’m suddenly not desperate to get back to my bedroom and games consoles and closed-in spaces. I suddenly don’t feel like I’m lost at all, but that I’d quite like to stay here as long as possible.

And I think perhaps he’s right.