I’ve always loved writing, and I blame this partly because of how much I read and partly on how my imagination is bigger than Antarctica. Thankfully it's a bit warmer too. I remember my very first story, and since it is so short, I’ll just drop the unedited beauty down below.
Once upon a time there was a magic rose. The rose turned into a bus.
I have to say that story just brings tears to my eyes every time. The prose, the characters, the plot, and the theme is just so moving. The metaphor of how we all turn into things to protect ourselves really represents life.
I’ll cut myself some slack here; it was kindergarten. It amuses me that I probably thought this story was the best thing ever (at least I didn’t have problems with a gigantic wordcount).
My writing has gotten better, I promise.
As the one page novels about magic roses faded into kindergarten memories, I moved onto the journals teachers tried to enthuse me with by giving 'fun little prompts’. Occasionally I dotted the pages with illustrated works that were rip-offs of every Spiderwick novel. Ever.
Some of it sucked (including the spelling).
One day I met a girl that could fly. Her name was Lilly. She lived in a cloud with her pet tortoise, his name was Slowpoke. One day she flew with her flying tortoise to my house. But when she flew near a road she made a car crash, but luckly she saved the people in car by flying near them and grabbing them. The police man saw this and said she was a hero! At my house, I said, “Where is she?” because she was late for our playdate. But when she came near my house and landed with Slowpoke I saw her medal and it said what she did to get the medal. Then I knew why she was late. So the next day we had a party to celebrate. The end.
Others entries had interesting concepts.
I woke up in a sweat. “It’s just a dream, it’s just a dream,” I told myself.
“Hah, you wish,” a voice said from somewhere in the room. The moon shone and pecked its light through the window. A girl with pale blue hair and snow white skin stepped into my view, smirking. But...she had wings.
Then I noticed she had a dark blue gun in her hand.
“You,” I said.
“Yes, me,” she said. She was wearing jeans and a white shirt with angel sleeves.
Then, she shot me.
Later, I woke up. I think. I remembered my dream. It was exactly what just happened. Then I realized I was in a tank. It was full of water and black glitter. Strange. My back started tickling. Something was growing from it. Then something sprouted from it. I felt it.
The fairy looked at me. She dived in and pulled me out. “Welcome to ‘Black Fairy Training Camp!’”
Then the journal entries faded to the dust, and I started on my first novel: Sharissa’s Story. I wrote it ages ago around the sixth grade (because I’m obviously so old now), and though it didn’t really have an ending so to speak, it was so fun.
Sharissa’s Story was essentially the story of, you guessed it, Sharissa. She was the best female thief of all time, who discovered the enemy country’s war plans, but was also tasked to steal the biggest black diamond of all time because…she wanted the money. The plot is a mesh of pure coincidences, my weird sense of humour, a random war, a surprising love triangle, people who tend fireplaces for a living, and way too many exclamation marks.
A good friend also named a water bottle after the love interest.
I consider that a win.
I looked up, my eyes red, and saw Twane standing over me. He didn’t say anything, just stood there, with his hand on my shoulder.
“Oh, sit down already.” I said tearfully.
Twane sat down next to me. “I’m sorry. I…I didn’t think you would react like that.”
I sniffed. “I didn’t either.” I put my head on his shoulder. “I’m sorry I ran off.”
“I’m sorry I tickled you.”
“I’m sorry I missed when I tried to punch you."
Twane smiled and stroked my hair. “Now that’s the Sharissa I know and—” He stopped and blushed, pulling his gorgeously muscular arm away from me.
I looked at him suspiciously. “And what, squirrel boy?”
Twane’s face turned even redder and he turned his face away from me and looked at the rising sun.
Here's a later scene:
Johnathen’s eyes turned dark and hardened like polished steel. “I’ll tell you,” he growled. Then before I could think he dragged me into a nearby empty shed crammed with gardening supplies and pinned me to the wall with his strong hands.
This wasn’t good.
I prepared myself to grab my dagger from my brace up my sleeve I always kept there. Something about Jonathen’s eyes told me I was in huge trouble. His grip tightened on my shoulders until he was almost crushing them. His eyes burned with fury, and for one of the first times in my life, I felt scared.
“I know who you are,” he snarled. “I know what you’ve done."
I felt myself go pale. He knew who I was? He knew I was Sharissa Shadore and a thief? Carefully, I spoke. “Of course you know who I am. I’m Rose Esorevet and I’ve travelled around Centuria in an acting troupe before coming here."
“No,” Jonathen hissed. “You’re a dirty, lying, thieving maggot. You are Sharissa Shadore, the one who killed my brother.” His last words were spoken with such anger I felt it. It was a venomous, writhing snake in his burning eyes. A snake of pain and anger, desperate for revenge.
Thankfully my writing has improved a lot since I wrote these excerpts.
I had so much fun reading through my old stuff to find all of this. And though I realized I have several characters with the same names throughout several novels (which really confused me), the read made me appreciate how much we can grow as writers in a few years.
Do you enjoy reading through your own old writing? Is it great, or cringe-worthy? What were your first stories about? Share them in the comments below; I’d love to hear about them!