As a parent I have always encouraged my children to read and write. The habit of reading has multiple benefits. It is something I have developed over the years myself. Reading creates a sense of curiosity, the need to always know more, builds vocabulary and comprehension skills. Reading on a regular basis also improves writing skills, It helps you empathise better and mentally stimulates the brain.
As an educator I have emphasised on both reading and writing.
While not everyone is overly fond of reading, there are some of us who would rather read than do anything else. Then there are those who read as well as write. Writing is a form of expressing your deepest thoughts.
I read so that I can learn new things all the time, I write because it challenges me to explore my thoughts. I do both because it reminds me of the power of words. It creates a gateway of expression.
And so my blog this week is a story written by one of the kids I have been teaching for a long time.
She is an avid reader and from a very young age has been writing her own short stories and I hope some day she will write a book. Every time she writes, whether it is an essay, a dialogue or one of her stories, she always leaves me impressed and surprised at the way she uses words to describe every thought and idea.
She has a vivid imagination and it shows in her writing. The story I am sharing was written by her when she was 9 years old. She is now 15 years old and writes more and more interesting stories.
As a budding writer she wishes to stay anonymous only using her pen name _Snazzleton_
Her story –
I knew I was late. We were supposed to talk. There were so many things I wanted to talk about. I tried to walk up the hill as fast as I could, the autumn leaves crunching beneath my feet.
The cold air made my feet stiff making it harder to get to the top faster. When I finally reached the abandoned lamp post at the top of the hill, I saw the horizon. Darkness seemed to envelope the earth, except for the bright red flames inching closer to the city with each passing second.
“You’re late”, whispered a voice behind me, I’ve only heard it twice before in my life. Once when I was a child, and the second was last night.
I turned around and came face to face with my reflection. Every scar on my face and every bump on my body, he looked exactly like me. The only difference was his wings. The wings were translucent with bright blue electricity coursing through the air around him, forming the shape of the wings of a dove.
“I tried to get here as fast as I could, it was hard not to say goodbye”, I said breathlessly, while I wiped my sweaty hands on the sides of my pants with anxiousness. I was not prepared for what was to come. It would be millions of years before I would ever be ready.
Silently the angel sat down on a grassy patch near me, as I stared at the great flames coming closer with each passing second.
I wanted to scream, I wanted to shout, I wanted to wake up tomorrow in my bed realising it was all just a dream. Unfortunately, this is as real as it gets.
The houses below were dark, with sleeping people without a care in the world, dreaming about the day that would never come. I felt like I was sitting on a throne of despair and broken dreams, knowing their future and not being able to do anything to help them.
“It’s alright, this was supposed to happen, but I always felt the end was too soon”, his voice sounded like liquid gold. I wanted the angel to comfort me more, to tell me it was going to be okay, but he knew that it was his end too, he was tethered to my soul. Where I go he follows. His fate is worse than mine.
“Why do I have to watch?”, I asked. My voice was itchy and hoarse. I was still trying my best to hold back the tears.
”Because it is our fate, immortals like you and me always have to watch the end of worlds. It is our curse, we watch empires and cities rise and fall, along with the people we love”.
His face was emotionless, but I could hear the pain in his voice. “Few more seconds”, as the flames began burning the outline of the city. It was silent and quick, and that’s what made it more frightful to watch.
“You can close your eyes if you want”, the angel whispered, but I couldn’t stop staring at the bright red flames inching closer, causing inevitable death and destruction in its wake.
“Thank you for watching over me”, I whispered, so softly, I wasn’t sure he heard. When I looked over to where he was sitting, he was already gone.
Story telling is an art. The art of being able to weave a plot, keeping your readers mesmerised. The plot may seem similar to many other stories you have read, but how you tell it is what makes it different.
Every one of us has a story to tell. We have all grown up listening to the many wonderful stories told to us by our parents and elders and in time have created our own. So…
** If anyone has an ending to the story told here, share it in the comments. Surprise us.**