Amazing Kids! Magazine

To Write, Or Not To Write

By Sehen Gamhewa, Contributing Writer


Shannon gazed at her work. It was finally complete. This huge pile of papers, which had been birthed by a simple sentence, was finally done. Her story was over. The happiness was too much. For hours, every day, she had gone to her room, sat down on her wooden ‘thinking’ chair, and written and written.

“Finally,” Shannon said to herself, “persistence has paid off.”

The Wish-Wapper had finally finished spinning its tale, and had exhausted the yarn of ideas that had filled up her mind.

That night, Shannon slept easily. Her mind was at peace, not having to worry about conjuring up any more ideas. Easy dreams swept through her mind.

She saw the pure expressions of delight on everyone’s faces as they analyzed her book, their awed expressions becoming clearer with each and every passing moment. But then, a heat wave struck. Shannon was becoming annoyed. If there was one thing she hated more than anything, it was heat and…fire…

Now, she felt like the heat was burning her. Her books were burning up! They just dissolved into thin air, and so was she! The heat was unbearable!

Shannon jerked up, gasping and trying to calm herself down. Sweat glittered on her forehead and slid down her face. Shannon still felt the burning heat. She looked around. And then she uttered a single, ear-piercing scream.

“It’s all right, dearie, calm down.” Shannon’s mom, a graceful lady with beautiful black hair like her daughter’s, tried to stop her from sobbing. It was days later, but Shannon was still disheveled, broken and completely… completely… there was no word for it.

Shannon looked at the burnt remains of her house.

“Besides, dearie,” her mum plowed on, “you saved all of us from the bolt of lightning.”

Shannon spoke for the first time since her most horrible night. “It’s not that, mum,” she said quietly. “My book. It’s—” She broke into sobs, just barely managing to splutter out the final word, “—gone.”

Days passed, and slowly, Shannon grew moodier and gloomier. Often, she locked herself up in her room, staring at a new huge pile of papers. She had a pen in her hand, and her hand was poised as if ready to write, but in the end, always ended up dropping limply to her side.

Those days were the worst of Shannon’s life. Each day was like living a nightmare, and even the added bonus of no school couldn’t cheer her up. She imagined her book chiding her about betrayal, and at times, she saw hallucinations. And it was always fire.

The nights were even worse. She would always have nightmares, filled to the brim with fire…terrible, dreadful, horrible fire…it slithered into every nook and cranny of her dreams.

Shannon always awoke about to scream or bathed in sweat. And the culprit of all of these horrifying and freakish dreams was her book.

One particularly significant Wednesday, Shannon finally managed to scribble two words onto one of the papers from her ginormous pad. In dirty handwriting, it read, ‘Fire Hurts.’

Shannon sighed. How was The Wish-Wapper connected with Fire Hurts? She shrugged. She didn’t really mind…Shannon started to write some more gibberish.

It read, ‘And so does bad music. I have quite a lot of experience with it, for my dead friend sings it every day.’ Shannon frowned, that didn’t seem right. Rubbing it out, she re-wrote the last part. ‘For I myself sing it all the time.’ She grinned. The deep, inner core of her subconscious knew that she was doing it for her own entertainment and not for her book, but she really didn’t care.

“Dearie!” her mom shouted from the living room.

Shannon nearly jumped. She let the pen drop from her hand, and then, she got up to go. A smile filled her face for the first time since the Great Fire. She had finally written…

Letting out a deep breath, Shannon traipsed into the living room to meet her mother. She felt contented, but then again, she felt squirmy inside. Shannon knew that she was supposed to be writing a book, not a collection of trash.

“This is simply wonderful!” an old voice croaked.

Shannon opened her eyes, and the sight she met was bizarre. There was her long gone grandmother, and there was…Shannon? But, she seemed very young. Very, very young.

“You are so talented, aren’t you, my little fuzzy-pie?” Her grandmother tickled Shannon’s young self.

Seeing the scene, the real Shannon couldn’t suppress a smile. She remembered it. She had only been seven, and she had written a “wonderful piece of fiction,” as her grandma put it.

“You’ll become a great writer one day, fuzzy…One day…you will become a great author.” Her grandmother trailed off. Then she winked and added, “Count it as a guarantee from Old Granny.”

As the dream faded away, Shannon realized what she had to do.

Shannon jerked up, and looked around. She felt sleepy and groggy, but she knew she couldn’t put it off any more. The burden was too heavy.

She rushed to her writing room, and she plopped down upon the chair. Shannon started to brainstorm, while sucking on a strand of her black hair.

An idea struck her. Slowly, she started to write. Within ten minutes, she was in a kind of writing frenzy. Her pen scribbled furiously across her paper, leaving dots of ink everywhere, from her nose to her sheets to her dress. The near-stale stack of old papers that had sat there for about a month was nearly crumbling to pieces from the pens pressure.

She wrote, and wrote, and wrote. That was all she did for the next few days. Writing. The passion of writing had once again flared in her.

It was exhilarating, it was exciting, and the new Shannon that had prowled the corridors of her house finally felt like her old self. Young and jubilant.

Shannon was almost beside herself with anxiety. She looked like a child waiting for a dentist’s appointment, but the truth couldn’t be more different. She was waiting for the results of the International Young Geniuses Meet of 2015.

After a few long, boring and sleepy speeches, her hero herself came onto the stage. As soon as J.K. Rowling walked onto the platform with a couple of books in her arms, enormous applause burst from the audience.

After a few moments of sustained cheering, and a little more of a boring speech including thanking some sponsors, Mrs. Rowling got to the point.

“In Third Place,” she started. “Mr. Jelly Box!”

A fat young boy, looking just like a box filled to the brim with jelly walked onto the stage. As applause filled the hall, his trophy was given to him, a photo was taken, and he left the stage.

“In Second Place, is a most delightful little girl,” Mrs. Rowling stated, looking at the audience. “Her book has been chosen for the Legacy Prize, which is, for those of you who don’t read the information pamphlets like me,” she winked, “is the book chosen as the best by me.”

Shannon was impressed. That author must be one heck of a girl.

“Her name is Miss Shannon Grace.”

Shannon gasped. Silence filled the hall.

“Go on, darling, quick,” her mother urged her.

Shannon yelped and ran all the way to the platform. She was stunned, her senses only jarred back to reality by the earsplitting applause that followed.

J.K. Rowling beckoned to her, and Shannon almost ran toward her favorite writer. She just managed to bring along a pen with her.

“Well done, my girl.” And saying so, her hero smiled at her. Shannon felt like she was in heaven. “Now, as the rules state, our little girl here has to read from her book, as it was chosen for the Legacy prize,” Mrs. Rowling concluded.

She nudged Shannon, who collected herself and began to read primly.

“Fire hurts,” she said, then paused. She continued hesitantly, “And so does bad music. I have quite a lot of experience with it, for I myself sing it all the time.” She paused once again. And then, grinning, she added, “Of course, like my old neighbor, I do it in the showers. I consider myself quite lucky to have escaped the police, you know.”

A mix of laughter and applause filled the room as everyone gave her a standing ovation for a wonderful start.

Then Shannon turned back and asked her hero one thing, “Madam, your autograph, please?”