The Lost Story

by Meg Shaffer

They were gone long enough that people had stopped referring to them as “missing,” which implied a temporary state of being, and now simply called them “lost.” You looked for missing children. You mourned lost ones.

His words were like the sound of dry leaves rustling and skittering on the breeze through an autumn wood.

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

“I’m nothing. What are you?” “I’m everything,” he said.

“A labyrinth is a spiritual journey in miniature.

“Find yourself? How many of you are there?”

And his dad had called him “son” in the same way people said “Mr. President,” because the office mattered more than the person holding it.

“I want to be courageous, I swear. I just would prefer to be courageous inside my house.”

“I’m not brave. I’m just very susceptible to peer pressure.”

But scared is a feeling, not an excuse.”

So she went along, like a needle in a record’s groove.

Brothers. Lovers. Best friends. Partners in crime. Cellmates. Soul mates. There was no bond that bound hearts that did not bind theirs.

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.