The Lost Story

by Meg Shaffer

Some day you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again. —C. S. Lewis

You looked for missing children. You mourned lost ones.

Because that’s how it worked. First you were missing. Then you were lost. Then you were forgotten.

They didn’t have fairy tales in West Virginia. They were lucky to have a Target.

“It’s called ‘searching behavior,’ ” he said. “People who lose someone will find themselves walking for miles or driving for hours…Lots of theories on why. I think it’s guilt. Misplaced usually. We think we should have been able to stop it, but we can’t. Even after they’re gone, your body keeps trying to do something to help even though you can’t.”

“Oh great. Thought you were some big hero.” “I am, apparently. I’m also an asshole. They’re not mutually exclusive.”

“Are you Catholic?” “I’m nothing. What are you?” “I’m everything,” he said. “This is a bizarre conversation. I’m extremely freaked out.”

“You think the rats that live in sewers resent the one-percenter rats that live in castles?”

“Mom, I’m scared.” “I know, Emmielou. But scared is a feeling, not an excuse.”

The father in “Rumpelstiltskin” took parental bragging to a whole new level when he swore to all who would listen that his daughter could spin straw into gold. One imagines if his wife had been alive, she would have quickly shut those rumors down by explaining to all and sundry that she’d married a narcissist.

Katniss Everdeen had made it look so easy, but shooting arrows was not fun.

“I don’t know what’s worse, that he doesn’t remember I’m in love with him or that he doesn’t remember he was in love with me.”

Ask any question in an infinite universe, and the answer is yes. Always yes.”

Joy is quieter than people think it is. Especially the joy of getting back something you thought was lost forever.”

“New plan?” Emilie asked as she settled in behind her sister. “We didn’t even have an old plan.” “I’ll think of something,” Skya said. “I always do.”

“You always did think you were better than me.” “Never, Dad. I never thought that. I knew I was different, that’s all. You’re the one who took that as a personal insult.”

The universe listens when a child says he doesn’t want to go home. I listened.”

I wish I could tell the whole story, since it involved a failed seduction by sentient foliage, and at one point Rafe literally had to say, “You’re a lovely tree, but I’m in a relationship.”

If his father would do this to him, what would he do to Jeremy? His father is a bomb and only Rafe can defuse him before he blows again and takes everyone with him.

Apologies I’m sorry about this. To quote the queen, “I wrote the story. I don’t make the rules.”

“Dude,” Jeremy said, “Grandma was slow but she was old.” “You’re not funny. And I’m going thirty.” “The speed limit’s fifty.” “The limit’s fifty,” Rafe said. “You can go under.” “I’ll die of old age before we get home.”

“You’re getting a message from another world, and you’re complaining about the song choice?”

All books are magic. An object that can take you to another world without even leaving your room? A story written by a stranger and yet it seems they wrote it just for you or to you? Loving and hating people made out of ink and paper, not flesh and blood? Yes, books are magic. Maybe even the strongest magic there is.