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87
Lost in the Forest
Syed Murtaza Hussain
M1A3
The plane’s descent had been like a nightmare painted in fiery streaks
of orange and red. My ears roared with the sound of tearing metal as the world spun out of
control. When I woke up, my head throbbed, and the smell of burnt plastic hung heavy in
the air. Broken seats and luggage were scattered around me. My father lay unconscious
nearby, his face pale against the eerie flicker of flames.
I didn’t have time to shout or even move. Shadows danced beyond the wreckage, and before
I could react, cold hands grabbed me. Panic swelled as a group of terrifying figures emerged,
their faces painted with streaks of white and red: cannibals. They hauled me away, their
guttural chants echoing in the dark forest. My heart pounded like a trapped bird.
The forest was alive, a chaotic web of sounds and movements. Every rustling leaf and snap-
ping twig seemed to mock my helplessness. The cannibals dragged me to a grim clearing
where a makeshift wooden cage stood. My world shrank to the size of those wooden bars as
I waited, hoping my father would find me.
Meanwhile, my father awoke to the shattered remains of the plane, disoriented but driven by
an unbreakable resolve to find me, he stumbled into the forest, armed with nothing but a
crude axe he had crafted from the wreckage. The forest wasn’t just a backdrop; it was a
relentless adversary. He battled swarms of biting insects, scaled slippery cliffs, and avoided
traps hidden by the cunning cannibals.
Night after night, he lit small fires to keep predators away and ate wild berries to survive.
His once-soft hands grew rough and calloused, his eyes sharp with determination. Each clue
he found—a torn piece of my shirt snagged on a branch, a faint trail of footprints—urged
him forward.
On the fifth day, he finally reached the cannibals’ camp. Hidden behind thick foliage, he
studied their movements, his heart pounding at the sight of me in the cage. As night fell, the
camp sank into an eerie quiet. My father moved like a shadow, his steps light and precise.
He struck with the ferocity of a cornered wolf. The cannibals were caught off guard, their
cries piercing the silent night. My father’s makeshift axe became a whirlwind of motion, and
in the chaos, he broke open the cage. “Run, Timmy!” he shouted.
We fled together, our path lit by moonlight and the burning desire to escape. Behind us, the
cannibals’ furious shouts faded into the distance. When we finally emerged from the forest,
the rising sun painted the horizon with hues of hope. My father collapsed beside me,
exhausted but victorious. The forest had tried to swallow us whole, but it underestimated
the bond between a father and his son.