Reflections

Ever since I heard of the myth about mirrors, they stopped being everyday objects to me. I stared at my reflection in my eyeshadow palette mirror long and hard that day in the driver's seat of my car. Just what the hell happened?

A young blonde man with a pleasant face stopped me on the way out of a café, a cup of coffee in my hand.

“Are you busy, Missus?” He offered a polite smile. “I'd like it if you gave me a bit of your time.” He had a stack of papers in his arms, of which he began to separate a sheet and handed it to me.

“I'm... Yes, I am not really in a hurry. What is this?” I took the flyer with my free hand and moved aside from the café door; the man followed lead.

He beamed at my response and wasted no time explaining.

“Well, you see—” he cut himself off then began again.

“No, firstly, do you enjoy listening to stories?”

I nodded reluctantly. I liked listening to podcasts specifically. Two of my most recent podcasts were “Not Another DnD Podcast” and “What Are These Podcasts?” I sometimes read books, too. Those— they counted as storytelling, kind of, no?

Anyways, the guy continued.

“That's great!” - his speech then unexpectedly picked up the pace - “See, I have my friend who is debuting as a new storyteller at a social Community, but he needs to have at least one public event before really getting accepted by them. So we are all helping him set up one, and it will be performed for the first time on the 15th of September.”

By then, I had lost interest. I had not really felt like attending a social event, let alone going through the trouble to do so.

I suppose Blondie saw the disinterest on my face, because he added, “It'll be a free-of-charge event, and we'll be providing snacks for the duration too! I believe you would enjoy it; the story really is a worthy one.”

He grinned at me again and, I had to admit, this guy had the cutest smile I'd seen in a while — it flustered me a little.

“You have a cute smi—” Whoops. I had not meant for that to come out.

I tried wiping the little grin that started to form, but I suppose it was too late.

“Pardon?”

“Sorry, wrong thought process out. I meant — uhm — where is it taking place? The event, I mean. How many people will be there?”

“Ah... Thank you, regardless.” I smiled an awkward smile once I confirmed that he did, after all, catch the compliment — and that it turned his otherwise pale cheeks a little red. “Anyway... We will be carrying the event three times, actually, in three different places. The dates and times can be seen on the flyer, here.”

He leaned over his flyer pile and pointed at the one in my hand, to the top right corner.

Event, Times, Dates, and Address:

15 SEPT 5PM, Underground Center of Arts, XXX

17 SEPT 9AM, Merton Art Space, XXX

20 SEPT 2PM, Brixton Community Station, XXX

“Alright, thank you. I'll see if they fit on my schedule.”

“Thank you, Lady. Have a nice day!”

He left. I sat at one of the café outdoor tables and spent some time determining if I should go. I, of course, ended up going. It was free and might have been very insightful as well. What was the worst thing that could happen?

I attended the 17 Sept one, as it was the best timing for me and the easiest to reach.

The venue was in a two-story, red-brick building with all-white windows, the classic British style. It had several doors that, I assume, led to different gathering venues. I followed the directions on the flyer inside, then waited for the performer to appear.

It was a big room with many neat rows of chairs wrapped around a square central stage. The tables near the entrance were decorated with various snacks, drinks, napkins and sanitizers. Nothing too extravagant, and I liked it. Thankfully, there were quite a few people. I had worried about that the whole trip there. What if there were only 5 people? What if I was alone? I had forgotten to ask the all-important question of 'How many people will be there?' for my safety. Problem was solved, but that was still a fatal mistake. I should have turned around and gone back home.

Maybe then I would not have been caught by the spider webs.

Eventually, the storyteller walked onto the stage in the middle of the room, and the ambient chatter quieted. He was this 165-ish centimetre guy with a deep blue shirt tucked into dark grey jeans. His long hair — at least, long for a man (it was shoulder length) — bounced lightly in the air as he moved.

“Thank you, thank you everybody for taking the time to come here today, and give me a chance.” He offered a mini-bow and a slight grin, which I liked even better than the blondie's smile. Admittedly, he was overall more handsome. Were they all like this? A friend group of rich and handsome men? Even his clothes looked like they were expensive, and he was just wearing the most generic outfit combo. I suppose stereotypes are stereotypes for a reason.

Rinde Tillaw then introduced himself as a University graduate of Literature and Poetry, blah blah blah, more stuff about the community he's working on, etc. It was a phenomenal kind of boring, and I lost focus.

“Well, Friends. Let's get to the story.” I perked up, and I could see others had started to do so too. I took a bite of the pizza I got from the snacks section as Rinde began speaking, the clear change of tone telling me I was about to listen to something epic.

“Our story begins, with a family of religion. A religion so unknown, too little have heard of it. This family lived in their own little world, one they formatted from scratch, for fear of what they believe exists.” The storyteller spoke with an ominous, calm-before-the-storm kind of tone.

“They lived on an island. An isolated small community formed from scratch, a community of believers: In an Army of their world and a Force of another world, parallel to theirs. The two were always in competition, a constant show of power unparalleled by any other on this earth. Each side tried to dominate the other, to unite the earth — and, perhaps, all of the galaxies — as one.” He pauses to take a breath.

“It is said, the community on the island was abundant with everything of luxury and need, alll but one thing — mirrors. As told by their ancestors and more before that, mirrors where a device created by infiltrators, who, without the knowledge of anyone, planted them in our world. This, specifically, terrified them, for it meant that their side — our side — was wavering. They were scared. And although the gates were closed at the time, the people knew it was but a matter of time — the gates will open soon, and when they do, who was to know what will occur?”

Then Rinde continued, all while he roamed the stage and gestured with his hands as he saw suitable to it to tell the tale. It was enjoyable to watch, honestly. Rinde lowered or raised his tone of voice to match the story, and dramatically so, and it really looked like he deserved that acceptance he was doing all this for. He went on about how the Islanders trained themselves in various ways, both spiritually and physically, to prepare for the worst. They gained more followers as things progressed, and more mirrors were destroyed. Soon enough, whichever mirrors were NOT discarded by the rest of the world broke out with gut-wrenching monsters and creatures. The monsters were defeated in the end, and the world returned to a status quo again. This war broke out a second time, and we still won. The story itself was a bit cliche, but I liked the characters, and the presentation was top-notch.

An hour later, the Teller concluded the session with, “We have reached the end of the Legend of the Two Invasions.”

A round of applause was started; there were even some acclamations and whistles. Rinde waited until it died down before speaking again.

“Thank you. Thank you,” he bowed deeply this time, a friendly grin on his face.

“I’m glad you enjoyed. The event has ended, but I will be staying around for a while in the office.”

People began to get up and leave. I waited for him to exist before I stood, but he did not. He waited, then waited some more, until no more chairs were pushed against the floor, and people stopped leaving. About half of the audience stayed at that point. I drove back my chair just when he spoke again.

“Thank you, dear audience, for lingering some more. I have one more story to tell, and it is a real one this time.” I hovered over my chair and chose to stay. I was curious.

“What would you say, if I told you that story was true? That we are the Islanders?”

...

What?

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Thank you for reading!