Don’t Touch the Moon
John worked as an Estate Agent in a large office in the High Street. He had worked there since he left university seven years before. That was his day job. But his real passion was for collecting things, almost anything as long as it was unusual and possibly worth selling. He frequented charity shops, junk shops and auctions, usually buying one or more items to research. His small flat was creaking at the seams with boxes of things still awaiting his attention.
He was rummaging about in a charity shop, one of his favourite pastimes—when he found it: an old, dusty painting showing a huge full moon above a river, the light shimmering on the ripples. Trees lined the riverbank and nestled among them was a little cottage. An axe stood propped up next to the front door. A girl with long blonde hair and an elfin face gazed wistfully from one of the upstairs windows.
John lived alone, in a small flat above a chip shop. His latest girlfriend had dumped him and moved out. She had become fed up with negotiating the boxes and clutter in his flat, with not being able to hang up her clothes because the wardrobe was filled with two life size Star Wars figures and with negotiating the bathroom round a large plastic realistic looking shark. She had packed up her few belongings and left, unable to slam the front door because there was a stuffed owl in the way.
He didn’t know why, but he was drawn to the girl in the painting. She was looking straight at him—longing, pleading.
He forked out the princely sum of £5 and took the painting home. He dusted it carefully, and that evening he hung it above the fireplace, poured himself a drink, and settled into his chair to admire his purchase.
The painting had been executed with skill, that was clear. The way the moonlight illuminated the girl’s face was effective, he thought, and the moon, it looked so real. He stood up and moved closer, almost hypnotised by the glowing image. He moved closer still. He reached out with his hand…he touched the moon —and suddenly, like Alice Through the Looking Glass, he was no longer in his living room but standing on the riverbank by the little moonlit cottage from the painting. He could hear the ripple of the water, the breeze rustling the leaves in the trees. He could smell the roses growing round the front door.
The girl was there, at the upstairs window. She saw him.
“Quick!” she shouted. “We haven’t got much time. Rescue me!”
“What… how…?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Break the door down and RESCUE ME!”
John froze, mystified, his mouth open. How could this be happening? It couldn’t be real.
“What?” he mumbled. “How…?”
“USE THE AXE. Do I have to think of EVERYTHING?”
Sure enough, just as in the picture, there was an axe propped up by the front door. He picked it up. It felt real enough and it was heavy, but he felt reluctant to smash down a stranger’s door.
The girl’s voice rang out again, sharp and urgent.
“GET ON WITH IT! Rescue me NOW!”
Not believing that this was really happening, he picked it up and started to splinter the door. It took some doing, but eventually he managed to break the door open.
He raced upstairs, unbolted the door in front of him—and there she was. In the flesh. Even more beautiful than her picture.
“Oh,” he started to say, “how lovely…”
“At LAST,” she interrupted. “You took your time.”
“What…? Who are you? Why?”
“Not now. We need to get out of here.”
At that moment, there was an angry roar from downstairs.
“What’s that?”
“That’s the ogre. You must kill it.”
Ogre? OGRE?? He thought. There wasn’t one in the picture
“What… how?”
“WITH THE BLOODY AXE, FOR GOD’S SAKE!”
“I’m not sure I—” said John, thinking that this must be some extremely weird dream indeed.
“Oh, give it to ME.”
She snatched the axe and ran downstairs, John following close behind.
The ogre appeared at the bottom of the stairs. He was enormous, muscular and hairy, with lots of teeth—some of them in unexpected places. His brown face contorted into a scowl, and he roared so loudly that the cottage shook. Then he spied the girl waving the axe.
His eyes widened; he turned and fled.
“Come on,” she said. “We need to get away before he changes his mind.”
“How…?”
She started running towards the tree lined river. John followed. Suddenly the ogre’s roars could be heard again. He had decided to come after them.
“How will we get away?” he puffed as they ran.
“Head for the trees. This is a PAINTING. Climb the nearest tree and touch the moon.”
Dream or not, John was determined to drag himself and the girl away from the monster.
So he did, scratching his hands and arms in the process. She followed.
He touched the moon.
Suddenly, they were both on the rug in front of his fireplace. She was still clutching the axe.
Standing up, she dusted herself off, and said, “Thanks for getting me out of there. Must dash—things to see, people to do.”
With that, she opened the front door and left.
John blinked. Suddenly, he woke up. He was still in his armchair.
Thank goodness. Just a dream, he thought. But his hands were covered in scratches. How was that possible?
Then he looked at the picture. And looked again. And rubbed his eyes.
The girl was gone.
The axe was gone.
And the ogre—
The ogre was now at the upstairs window of the cottage, looking out at him with a wistful gaze.
