The children’s literature writer.
It is an afternoon in the summer; a man is walking home. The colour of the sky when the twilight is fading looks like the mood of that walking man. That man is Henry, a famous children’s author around the world. After a long meeting with the publishers, Henry feels stress because of the complaint words from them. The due date for the new writing is coming soon, but he still has no engaged idea for kid’s stories. His age seems to be inversely proportional to his creative ability. When Henry was a university student, he was soon famous for his short stories for children published in notable children’s book magazines in Canada. After graduation, Henry got a desirable job as a sought-after famous writer and being a literary professor at the university where he studied.
Now, that famous author has nothing but his family with out-dated stories. In recent years, due to the development of the game industry, kids prefer to play a game than reading a picture book. Publishers are in a war with game companies to take back their share in the children’s product market. As a result, the pressure of publishers is now shared with writers; the war between publishers and game companies soon becomes the silent war between game designers and children’s authors. Immediately after coming home, Henry sits down and sighs deeply in his spirit, a sign of prolonged stress working day.
“Are you good, honey,” Henry’s wife asks “You look tired today!”
“As always, my love,” Henry says.
“No worry,” the wife consoles. “Let take a rest, and your idea comes back soon.”
“Being an adult for a long time enough may make me no more a children’s author.” Henry sighs.
“But not of your previous writings were the best seller?” the wife explains.
“Haha, my writing style now is suitable for parents, and the parents read the stories before deciding to buy for their kids,” Henry cackles.
“You may be right,” the wife agrees. “Not only parents, communication today may help decide what is good for kids without asking them.”
Henry’s wife is a senior marketer for a newspaper, and she understands that the world nowadays is operated and controlled by communication activities. People are more affected by communication, social networks and controlled by them.
“Why don’t spend money on book advertising instead of wasting of time for content,” the wife suggests.
“Oh honey, don’t spoil me,” Henry smiles. “The meaning of an author’s life comes from the readers, not praise from communication.”
“You may be right again,” says the wife. “Why doesn’t an adult author ask a kid for seeking new ideas for children’s books.”
“Oops, why didn’t I think of this sooner?” says Henry.
After taking off the suit, in a short and a plain white shirt, Henry reaches to his son’s room. It is a colourful room decorated with fake trees and giant mushrooms, which looks like a miniature world of fairy tale stories. In the room, a kid sitting on the floor doodles on a paper.
“Oh, what are you doing, son,” Henry moves forward to behind the son.
“Daddy, you are here,” the kid hugs his father. “Let see what I am drawing.”
“Let me guess,” Henry says. “It looks like a bright sun in the blue sky, isn’t it?.”
“No, it is a door,” the kid says.
“A door?” Henry repeats and points to the rectangular door behind him. “A door must look like that.”
“No, papa, the door I saw looks like a small circle,” the kid affirms.
“Great, how about this one,” Henry points to another part of the picture.
“My friend, Jizo,” the kid exclaims. “He opens this door to invite me to his world.”
“My son is so highly imaginative; he names a dragonfly he saw in the garden is Jizo; an awkward name,” Henry thinks to himself. “His imagination can help me a little bit in writing children’s stories.”
“Can you introduce your friend to me, my son,” Henry says. “I am eager to see him.”
“You cannot, papa,” the kid looks sad. “He said the adult could not see him.”
“It is interesting,” Henry asks. “Only children can see him?.”
“Yes, only children.”
“But, I also used to be a kid like you, my son!”
“And when the kids grow up, they tend to forget my friend, Jizo!”
As soon as the kid finish his words, Henry’s countenance suddenly changes, he seems to remember something in the past he forgot.
“I think your friend is very special,” Henry smiles. “I hope he is a good friend.”
After that, Henry leaves his son’s room and comes back to his working area. Sitting back in the chair, Henry lights a cigarette. He hopes the nicotine from the tobacco can help his brain retrace something he is trying to remember. In the ambiguous smoke, Henry seems to remember he used to have a friend, namely Jizo.
It was a scorching summer afternoon when playing in the garden Henry, a 4-year-old kid at that time, suddenly found another kid can float in the air. Henry could not believe in his eye when he first saw that scene.
“Daddy, Mami, let see what I found,” Henry screams.
“Keep silent, Henry, it is noon,” Henry’s mother shouted. “You can keep playing in silent or go to bed now.”
“They cannot see me, Henry,” the floating kid said.
“Oh, you know my name?” Henry asked.
“Your mother has called your name,” the floating kid cackled.
“Can I know your name please,” Henry said.
“You can call me Jizo.”
“Wow, it is a wonderful name.”
And since then, Henry had a meaningful summer with Jizo in his hometown. Henry’s mother, Mrs. Cindy, was happy because her son may seem to love the landscape and the weather in Oshawa. Sometimes Henry was disappeared suddenly, and his mother must shout out loud to call him to come back. Henry tried to explain he had been invited to a magic world with his friend, going through a circle door, but Mrs. Cindy did not believe it. After every day playing outside, Henry told his mother about what he saw in the magic world, and Mrs. Cindy also repeats: “You should be a writer when you grow up, my son.”
One day near the end of the summer, Henry sat back in a tree while Jizo sat on a bough above Henry, they looked tired after chasing each other around.
“Should I be a writer, Jizo?” asked Henry.
“What for?” Jizo querries.
“I wanna tell everyone about your world.”
“It is useless, people never believe it except the children like you,” Jizo cackled.
“Oh right, I will be a children’s writer when I grow up,” Henry exclaimed.
“When you grow up, you only can write children’s stories for adults,” Jizo sighed.
“No way!’ Henry said. “I will tell other kids what I saw and about you, Jizo.”
