My son the writer?

I am just so so so amazed at my sons’ writing skills at 12 years old!! Last week I gave him a prompt to write about a boy and his three best memories…this is his story (typos and all, I do count off on those when I grade, but you can still get the gist of it).

Lemonwire

My name is Lemont Weere, or, as my friends call me, Lemonwire. Well, I assume the people that called me that were my friends. I don’t remember much, because, frankly… There isn’t much. Everything is just, sort of, gone. No people, no buildings, no rubble… Just me. And some sheep. I don’t know why sheep are still alive.

I woke up one day in the only “building” I’ve encountered. I only knew my name, and basic motor skills, along with some faint memories. Three, in fact.

I stumbled towards the door, wondering where I was and why I was alone. I opened it slowly, and stepped outside on to a cliff. It was beautiful. Small black pieces of what I later found out was ash slowly drifted downwards like snow, gently covering the hills and valleys below with a soft black blanket.

As I was alone, and it didn’t seem like I had anything to do, I sat down on that cliff, letting my legs dangle, and watched the ashes drift for hours. Eventually, it got to dark to see them, so I returned to the tiny wooden house I had awoken in. I laid down on a small cot in the back room, and tried my hardest to sleep. But I couldn’t. I could, however, remember. I remembered the first of the memories I had.

It began with me and some other people walking into a…. park? Yes. A park. There were these large, metal contraptions with people in them, going around hoops and crashing down hills as crazy speeds. It was an amazing thing to watch. There were also smells. Oh, the smells were the best part. Sweets and salts and spices of the street vendors’ food drifted about the place, making everything smell like a five star restaurant.

I was then woken up because I couldn’t remember anything else from that memory. Just… Blank. Oh, and I suppose the fact that ash had began to seep through the cracks in the wood had something to do with it. I scrambled upwards out of and off of the cot, and rash out the door. It was black everywhere. I couldn’t see, breath, or small anything. I ran in the direction I knew was opposite from the cliff but not into the house. I just ran and kept on running. Eventually, I found a small cave like structure to hide in. I went inside, thinking it would be empty, but not quite. There was a book.

This book was thick and burned around the edges, with a cover and spine which were to damaged to read. However, I could make out the remnant letters H r P tt r, but I didn’t know what it could be. The insides were burned as well, so I used it as a pillow when I went to “sleep”. That night, my memory was less bright and happy. Still happy, mind you, but more in a relieving way. I was sitting alone in a chair in a small room, looking at the floor. Suddenly, a small woman came out of the door and told me, “She’ll be ok. We caught it before it could get too serious.” She said some other things, dates, I think, but I didn’t pay attention. I was giddy over the news.

This dream ended quickly, but not because the ashes had caught up with me, it just ran out. I grabbed the book and ran out of the cave. The ashes were spreading out towards my direction still, and I wanted to know why. I ran towards the ashes until I found it. The city. It was grand and beatiful, with gold buildings and people draped in silver and silk. But it was burning. The city was on fire, physically melting and crying out, but none of the people seemed to care. I set down my book and ran towards it, trying to save anyone I could. But they didn’t care. So many of them simply said there was nothing we could do about it, or that it didn’t matter. I asked them about their children and familys, but they just ignored me. It was hopeless. I hopelessly walked out of the city, grabbed my book and walked away. On my way out, I found a small pen with an eraser.

That night, after finding a relatively safe looking field, I had my final memory. I was on a beach, with the waves lapping at my feet very softly. Beside me way a girl. A very small girl…. A daughter, maybe? Yes, it had to be, because on the other side of her was a woman about my age in the dream. It was so peaceful. I looked back to the water, but then a bright flash on the horizon turned everything white, and I woke up. I saw the ash growing ever thicker, and so, I’m what I decided would be my final hours, I wrote this. The final memory of the end of the world.

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