Zoe Nhyira Maison

I checked today’s date on the calendar. June 12th. 

Exactly six months since my  sister’s death. Six months since my whole world decided to topple over. 

It had been difficult to deal with life without her. My family was broken without  her, and everything just felt . . . meaningless.  

I rubbed my hand on my face to pull myself together before getting up to open the curtains. The bright sun streamed through the window into my room. A lump formed in my throat as the thought of my sister never coming back hit me again.  Six months wasn’t enough to get over grief. No time would ever be enough. 

“Get yourself together, Brenda,” I murmured to myself as a tear rolled down my  cheek. 

Who was I kidding? I couldn’t go back to work today. Not like this. I dragged myself to my family's sitting room across the hall. It was empty, which was perfect.  

I sat behind my cello and sighed. This was the only way I could distract myself, and I honestly knew I couldn’t keep up with this every single day. I had a life to return to; but I didn’t care. 

I pulled a string. The note bounced off and rang beautifully in my ears, reminding me of the times I used to play for my sister so she could forget her sickness, and the pain she was feeling. 

I picked up the bow and began playing my sister’s favorite song, "My Girl" by The Temptations. 

I swayed swiftly as I gracefully moved the bow across the strings of my cello.  Playing her song felt beyond magical. It felt like she was there, moving to the tune with me. The tears in my eyes returned and before I could help it, I was sobbing. The music was enough to break me down.  

As I played the final notes, the wave of emptiness returned and the realization that I had to go to work rekindled in my mind. I reluctantly placed the bow on the little table beside me and sighed in satisfaction. 

I had to move on. I knew it was going to be hard, but I also knew that was what my sister would want. For me to move on. 

With the little reassurance I had given myself, I stood up and walked out of the room, silently humming the tune of the song, the only reminder of my sister’s true joy. 

In a KidSpirit Fiction piece, teen writer Zoe Nhyira Maison conjures a story about music's healing power amidst grief. 

A Sister’s Symphony

Lyla Cheary

Inspired by the song “Piano Man” by Billy Joel

He let his long, nimble fingers feel each crevice, counting each key as he moved. G, A, B, C, D, he counted. He breathed loudly, and as he did, he felt the air fuel his intestines and vocal cords; he felt it echo around the large hollow tavern, creating a joyfully melancholic release that seeped into the room walls. A room, after all these years, he couldn’t quite picture. He didn’t know where the windows lay, how large each wooden tile was, or where the chandeliers above him swayed. But this piano, his piano, he knew very well. He felt the piano’s dust catch his fingers, and he imagined that the dust would collect under his fingernails as they moved. He could feel the faint movement of the dust find safety under his cracked and yellowed fingernails. He brushed at it slightly, feeling the air rush in to fill the gap in his nails as the dust escaped and landed on the complexity of his fingerprint. The quiet, he thought, allowed him to feel this way and notice these things. The abandoned smell of the bar and the feeling of silence when he was expecting someone's arrival were some of his favorite feelings. 

He noticed the dust that covered each key as if the piano had not been played before. He imagined that if he were to play a ballad, the dust would lift magically, majestically, from the keyboard and float into the path of light that seeped in from the windows. He watched it dance in his mind's eye. It swung in the light to melodies that struck sadness in the throat and stung tears in the ducts of the eyes. If he danced, too, this dust would rise and fall with the grace of his arms, and the ballad of sadness and tarnished tranquility would continue to go on behind him as he played. He imagined how it would feel: the muscles in his arms powerful with the strength of music, the way his small, skinny arms burned with a need to slam, pound, and defeat the following key to tackle each and every inconvenience he had ever experienced. But he knew, to some extent, he must resist to make it sound alright, melodic, even dull. 

This thought disappointed him. It left a reminiscence of shame in his stomach, as if the acid in his stomach was made of that very feeling. Thus, he let the power he once had leave. The energetic rush left his vocal cords, and the passion drained from his lungs. A sense of dread, loneliness, and fear was left exposed, as if excitement were a blanket that inevitably hid the astounding feeling of weeping terror. 

“Sing us a song, Piano Man,” said the waitress. “Are you going to sing us a song tonight?” The regular crowd shuffled in* in abundance, and he heard the hum that expectant heartbeats create when in masses. He didn’t turn; he didn’t bother. He imagined wrinkly black suits that were representative of a Thursday afternoon, the regret of five-inch heels, the unbuttoning of button-downs. The piano loomed in front of him. He knew he needed to play but, somehow, had forgotten how. 

There's an old man sitting next to him, making love to his tonic and gin.* He says, "Son, can you play me a memory? I'm not really sure how it goes. But it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete, when I wore a younger man's clothes." And then, there, it struck him. You could see it in his face. You could see the glow of passion, strength, intuition, familiarity, carnage, and need coursing through his body to slam the keys on his keyboard. 

The crowd hushed as the melody played, fingers bred with pressure and feverish emotion. And he screamed: 

"Bill, I believe this is killing me.
As the smile ran away from his face
Well, I'm sure that I could be a movie star
If I could get out of this place."

*These lines, and all lines in quotation marks, are lyrics from “Piano Man” by Billy Joel.

In a KidSpirit Fiction piece, teen writer Lyla Cheary re-imagines Billy Joel's famous song "Piano Man." 

The Blind Piano Man

Music and Art

Richard Siyi HE

Every time I walk through the bright and bustling corridors on the second floor of the school, I can’t help but become alert. 

The screams of my classmates at play echo directly into my heart. They inevitably remind me of the darkest moments I’ve experienced —

The day’s troubles had already put me in a bad mood. Moreover, the orchestra rehearsal ran late, and it wasn’t until 5:30 that I finally packed my schoolbag to head home. On the usually sunny campus, the moonlight now filtered through the clouds, yet it failed to illuminate a trace of the road. Tree branches crisscrossed, gnarled and claw-like, now coated with a white sheen — a drifting, uncertain veil. Subconsciously, I quickened my pace, returning to the classroom to pick up the receipt I had left behind. Perhaps due to the lateness of the hour, the lights in the hallway and lobby were extremely dim, and the howling wind echoed in my ears, making the place seem hollow. I increased my speed further, even breaking into a trot. There was no one around, except for the amplified sound of my own footsteps. As I walked to the dark and silent classroom door, the palm of my hand holding the doorknob was already damp with sweat. Hesitating, my heart began to beat faster, thumping and pounding. I stomped my feet, rushed to my seat. I groped around the desk, only to find that the receipt was not there. I froze.

Time was ticking, but I didn't dare to move, regretting that I hadn’t turned on the lights when I came in. I turned my head slightly — “Ahhh!” I exclaimed, staring at the window of the classroom’s back door. There, a face appeared! With a loud thud, I scrambled out of the classroom, running as fast as I could toward the only remaining light in the hallway. I don't know how many times I tripped in the panic, but I still remember the bruises on my limbs when I got home. Gasping for breath, my heart still racing, I dared not turn around. But at this point, I was so upset with myself for suddenly remembering — I had left the receipt in the basement during my morning gym class.

I don’t know where I got the courage, but I found myself stepping into the basement. As you know, accidents always occur in such places, as is the general routine in horror movies. I felt my way along the handrail, my legs trembling and my teeth chattering as I stepped into that endless abyss.

Later, I wouldn’t even know what belief was sustaining me. I just moved mechanically, step by step. The creaking of the wooden floor was admonishing me, but I knew there was no turning back. Relying on the touch of my hands, I kept feeling my way forward — any change in sensation, from the icy chill of the metal railings to the skin-like texture of the cushions, sent shivers down my spine. I realized, deeply, that the unknown is the greatest fear, perhaps even more so than sadness, because it leaves you unable to cry, even when you want to.

When I finally got my receipt, a faint sound of metal trembling echoed in the silence. All I can say is that fear is something that I can't put into words. I prefer not to recall the feeling of being so tense that I was about to "shatter" when I returned to the ground. However, the memory that remains vivid is waking up the next morning with swollen eyes and seeing the remnants of a yellow paper stuck to the glass of the classroom’s back door — a paper that had been posted during an exam. I wanted to laugh, but the laughter wouldn’t come.

Returning to the normal routine of attending classes every day, isn’t that what school life is supposed to be? Yet, such a class schedule often leaves me feeling as though something is missing. It could be the emotion that comes with finishing an anime series I’ve been following, the excitement of a sports match, or the shock of a new discovery. This sense of mundanity perhaps originates from the excessively smooth progress of study, or maybe it is the result of the attitude of letting go of everything. I feel that people truly live only for a few moments — brief joy, fleeting sorrow — and what remains is but a dull passage of time.

Suddenly, I heard the metallic noise again, the same one I had encountered in the basement. It was a faint hum, occasionally punctuated by sharp peaks, as subtle yet powerful as a heartbeat. An indescribable discomfort settled in my chest, as if something clandestine was brewing within the school. “Answer this question,” the teacher’s voice abruptly pulled my attention back to the class. “I . . . don’t really know,” I stammered. “This lack of effort won’t get you far,” the teacher scolded. As I lowered my head, it dawned on me that the top of the desk had borne witness to more fervent prayers than a church. The sorrow emanated from every student who prayed silently, hoping not to be called for a parent-teacher meeting. Beside me, there was the familiar sound of mocking laughter. Without needing to look, I knew who it was. He suddenly squeezed water from his bottle onto my pants and shouted, “Wow, he wet his pants!” Everyone turned to look at me, and my face flushed. Their focus was solely on the water dripping down my pant legs, rendering my explanations futile.

The malice in a person’s heart is uglier than any monster, yet it can be constantly nourished and multiplied under the sun — such irony. My resentment and animosity surged uncontrollably. I noticed blood from my bitten lip seeping out, staining my white shirt and forming cursed patterns. All the spirits seemed to begin to converge and flow toward the basement . . . My thoughts were interrupted by the bell ringing for the end of class, and it was only then that I realized that the metallic noise I had heard was actually the sound of demons flapping their wings hidden in the basement.

Can the strength of forgiveness soften and dissolve malice and despair? Looking at the glass of the classroom’s rear door, I went up to wipe it clean, leaving no remnants of the paper. After all, kindness is the very quality that demons dread most. The classroom was quiet, but not lonely, peaceful, but not empty. A serene fullness filled my heart. Bathed in the gentle sunlight falling through the window, neither warm nor cold, I finally felt as though time had slowed down, if only a little . . .

In a KidSpirit short story, teen writer Richard Siyi HE brings to life the anxieties of high school.

Haunted School Horrors

Ananya Verma

“Catch it! Don’t let it get away!” 

My shout echoed across the battlefield between “bold, courageous red” and “cunning, serpentine green.” The feel of the soft, stormy wind cooling my face, the stands and sidelines cheering with an exhilaration that would never die, the band playing an arousing melody, and the whooshing of precious wooden sticks across the pitch to the Quidditch hoop were all that make a childhood complete. 

My Gryffindor teammates and I were racing against Slytherin to protect the ball in Harry’s hands, paving the way for him to throw the ball into the ring and win the game of the wizarding century. Just as Harry was about to cross the goalkeeper, Draco flew out of nowhere and lit his broom on fire using the Incendio spell. Harry completely lost his balance and started falling toward the ground, and gravity made it worse. Just before he was about to crash, he threw the ball toward me and, due to an odd reflex, I caught it. Now I was in trouble. 

Like a swarm of monsters, Slytherins came to attack me, and I ran, or rather flew, for my life. I was swirling in the air like a professional, which, even in my fantasies, I was not, but the loyal Gryffindors protected me as I spun around in the sky. After a few minutes of experiencing what a life-threatening situation feels like, the coast became clear. The clouds opened up and a single ray of sun shone on my face (so dramatic!), almost blinding me for a second.  I heaved a sigh of relief and regained my focus; before I knew it, I was a couple of meters away from the hoop!! A little closer, just a bit closer, I could see the trophy for the “Best House” awaiting me…

“Wake up, Ananya. It’s time for school.”

I didn’t want to go today, like many days when it’s too cold or I’m simply sleepy. Don’t get me wrong, I like school, in fact I can even say I often look forward to it, but being a human, I feel ambivalent about waking up when I can just sleep in my soft and comfortable bed. However, today was one of the several times a year when I had to get up and board the bus; it was the Annual Sports Day.

The date was August 24, 2018. I was in fifth grade, which is the senior most grade in primary school, so being present today was crucial, to “set an example” for the young ones. Most of my classmates and friends were very ebullient in anticipation of the Sports Day, but I was just looking forward to the event’s end so I could go back home. You see, since childhood, sports activities were hardly thrilling for me. I used to find them quite unstimulating. 

But that year’s Sports Day was absolutely worth it. 

Every year, for this occasion, students from each grade need to prepare a routine to perform in front of their parents. For 10th grade, these activities involve yoga, for 7th grade, rope-skipping, but juniors had to do acrobatics while wearing the school uniform. 

Another part of “setting an example” is to look prim and proper. All the kids would write down instructions for the special day; neat and ironed uniforms, clean hairstyle, and, last but not least, sparkling white shoes. 

Touching upon the last three words of the above paragraph, you’d think the shoes should be well polished and white. However, when you are a fifth grader, this can be perceived in another way, which is considering “white shoes” as a singular noun. This leads to viewing the instruction as white shoes that should sparkle.

It is said that in every grade, every batch, there is one child whose mischief is more popular than their name. The story was the same with my class. Ayaan was what you would call the prankster extraordinaire! He was the most energetic and playful boy of the entire grade, who loved sports classes and would excel. His jokes and tricks were never short of amusing. Sometimes he would hide the white board eraser or put a fake spider inside the teacher’s drawer or pop a balloon during class. No matter what he did, his lighthearted jokes would always bring a good laugh to school. On events such as this one, he was reminded to behave and keep control over himself, and so he did, but discipline never stopped him from being hilarious. 

As soon as I entered the class on Sports Day, the initial boredom vaporized when I saw my friends. Everyone was ready for the final performance after weeks of practice under the scorching sun, excited to give the best they have ever given. Little did I know, this day was about to be much more fun than I gave it credit for.

Everybody arrived on time, everybody except Ayaan, but it wasn’t surprising; he was almost always late.

However, today, of all days, I think he believed that he should be fashionably late. He arrived in class with the same uniform we had, the same hairstyle for all boys, the same props, but sparkling and shining shoes, completely covered in blue-green glitter.

On the day when you have a Chief Guest visiting with the Management Board to watch the performance, and you are at the very front with shoes that look like they were meant for Halloween, there can be just a tiny bit of trouble.

When the teachers came to give us last-minute touches and saw Ayaan, his iridescent shoes sparkling under the sunlight coming through the window, there was only one word to describe their expressions: mortified.

The next scenes witnessed by the whole grade were like the adaptations from the most amazingly written comic book story!

The teachers began frantically pacing around, trying to find a pair of shoes, running from classroom to classroom, panting and yelling since they were so terrified.  

Ayaan was the Best Sports Student in junior school for four years in a row, and replacing him would be like benching Ronaldo or Messi in the FIFA World Cup. Somehow, the day and performance were salvaged by borrowing a pair of shoes from one of the children of the security guards who lived on campus, and Ayaan’s performance was good enough to continue his streak as the Best Sports Student.

What a day that was! No one, not even the headmistress, could hide their laughter. By sheer serendipity, the glitter shoes became the highlight of the day.

When we grow up, we don’t remember the chapters and lessons that scared us unless our friend was scared too; we don’t recall when we cried about our result unless a kind-hearted teacher consoled us; we don’t remember when we hurt ourselves unless we were able to leave school early because of it.

The ineffable joy of these fond, beautiful memories are what I will not only cherish forever, but also find comfort in when I face obstacles.

All the times I participated in events with my friends, the times I had a heartwarming laugh with the whole class, the moments when I struggled with carrying my projects up the stairs and a random senior helped me, when my best friend and I had a surprise test and miserably failed. These are the souvenirs I’ll carry with me. 

Now I’m a high schooler in my junior year, and among the many memories, a framed picture of the blue-green glitter shoes hangs on my wall. 

In a KidSpirit Fiction piece, teen writer Ananya Verma finds joys and laughter in mishaps and pranks.

Memories in My Pocket

The School Experience

Elliot Marie

Recklessly typing, I quickly scanned through the code, searching for where it had all gone wrong. 

What script had caused them to turn against us? Then I found it: the clause. The small phrase that had caused so much death and destruction. If only they hadn’t made the mistake. That little piece of human error. It was supposed to change the world for the better, improve life as a whole, but instead . . . there was only bloodshed. As I thought this over, a salty tear streamed down my cheek and I became conscious of just how tired I was. If that little error hadn’t been, the world would be different. I would be different. They would still be here. What would it have been like to have them stand behind me and by my side?

I shook myself from my bubbling thoughts and went back to the flowy streams of green silk so complex I had needed to study to understand just how the code worked. Then came the metal footsteps. The only thing I truly feared in this world. Despite everything I had worked so hard to achieve, I still felt fear course through my veins. I was only human. They were different. Powerful. Smart. Perfect. 

I scrambled behind the desk, making as little noise as I could. The slightest breath could get me killed. If only I had just changed it. Not drifted off into what could’ve  been. “PROTOCOL 109- elimination of intruder,” I heard, as the footsteps came closer. Had they heard me sneak into the building? Or had they found the cut wires and power boxes? Of course they would have noticed my clumsy human work. After all, having been programmed to be errorless did make them just that much more attentive. Was this going to be the end for me? My brutal death. With no one who would ever find me. Just another death in the grand scheme of things. 

Then I suddenly heard it. The gunshot. They had found me. I hadn’t even realized it but I had been shot. Then I looked down. My body was stainless. Bloodless. Had there been another intruder? The one that had actually been shot? Then I relaxed and thought straight. If I could pull this next bit off, the world would be saved from them. The world would be saved from Juvo. The killer. The AI that had been meant to have the power to end wars. Cure diseases. And even figure out how the world had truly begun. I had to seize my opportunity. The only chance humanity would ever get. The only chance I would ever get. To avenge them. Finally. I would be able to live in peace and no longer have the same nightmarish dream each night. 

I scrambled through my bag, still quiet, afraid they would still be watching in case the other intruder had been accompanied. Then I found it. The small tablet. I turned it on with a silent click. I had been glad to buy this on the market a few weeks ago, despite its hefty price. It was one of a kind. A disabler. The only thing capable of keeping them back. The only thing capable of aiding me now. For just a few minutes, it would freeze the Juvo virus inside the bots and allow me to make the necessary changes to the code. Rendering them powerless. No longer alive (or as close to living as they were). I clicked the small tablet and a wave of pure energy erupted throughout the room. Any who entered would be frozen in place — unable to stop me. I rushed over, watching as the seconds ticked down on the device until it would be disabled. Two minutes. One minute. Thirty seconds. I rushed to find the part where I had found the clause, with one eye on the script and the other on the now surreal pile of Juvo lying on the floor, disactivated. It only took one to wipe out a city. One to kill every person you loved. And yet in this room I was standing with over 15. Then I hurried to bypass the firewall to change the clause. I heard the ticking from the tablet. Ten seconds left.  Past the firewall. I just had to change it. Three. Two. One. 

The Juvo scrambled off the ground, with loud iron noises and massive metallic thumps. I typed hurriedly. One more letter. With my peripheral vision, I saw one with a knife behind me and the silver gleaming of its blade swish with a curving arced motion. As I typed I hoped I had made it in time. Clicked the key before the knife had gone. I prayed in those short milliseconds that I had been quick enough to type it. Prayed my parents would finally be avenged. But would it be so bad if I joined them? To finally see them at last. Thousands of thoughts flashed through my head in that short second. What I regretted and what I was glad to have achieved. 

Then I saw the letter flash. I had done it! The Juvo behind me crumpled to the ground and I stared at the disabler that had helped me to survive the hardest challenge of my life. I had saved humanity. The Juvo were no more. A sly tear shuddered down my cheek once more. My parents were finally avenged. 

But something felt off. A sharp pain in my back. As I looked down, I crumpled to the floor, my shirt stained with blood and a pool of dark red liquid forming around my body. I had stopped them. But at the price of my own life. As another tear rolled down, my eyes went blurry and the room disappeared in a flash. I was surprised as I awoke. A sharp bright light pierced my retinas as my eyes took into focus what I was seeing. My parents . . . at last they were here. I was reunited. And at that moment, I thanked the Juvo for having reunited me with the people I had missed most of all. The people I had fought so hard to avenge. And then it all went dark. A vast obsidian black. And there was only silence . . . 

In a KidSpirit Fiction piece, teen writer Elliot Marie imagines a hero fighting to disable AI in a dystopian future.

Juvo

Ruth Benitez Escobar

I remember starting my morning as a normal day, walking through the same park, greeting people who were opening their shops and cafes, listening to children chatting and laughing as they walked to their schools, until I finally got to my university perfectly on time like every morning. 

Everything indicated that it would be a normal day, until I looked around and noticed a huge group of people in front of the new building that had just opened its doors to the public.

What were they doing there? What could be so interesting that so many people were crowded together? What were they looking at?

The curiosity I felt was enormous, so I approached the crowd and looked at the entrance. "Artificial Intelligence Gallery," the sign said. "Artificial intelligence," I thought. I had heard that expression, but I never knew exactly what it meant or had the opportunity to learn about it. Curiosity invaded me like never before, but when I was about to enter the so-called Gallery, the university bell rang, announcing that classes would start in five minutes. I had never run so fast, but luckily, I managed to arrive on time for my classes. Usually I am someone who pays a lot of attention to all the classes and loves to ask questions, but something was happening inside me; I couldn't get the expression “Artificial Intelligence” out of my mind, all I wanted was for my classes to end and run out to visit the new building and its exhibition.

As soon as I finished my classes, without hesitation, I went to that place. I couldn't believe everything my eyes were seeing; there were robots very similar to human beings, it was something unique, incredible, magnificent, I didn't know where to start. I would never have imagined that things like this would exist. The more I walked around, the more fascinated I felt. I saw that people stayed with the artificial intelligences and talked to them, it was something that one could only dream of. Little by little I was discovering and learning more and more about what they were used for by listening to people's conversations, so I also wanted to try to have a conversation with one of them. Most of the people talked with those in front, the newest and most updated according to what several said, leaving aside those who were in the background. I didn't understand why, weren't they all the same?

I decided to go with one that was in the background. There were so many and I didn't know which one to choose, until I saw one that had a very similar appearance to a human but with extremely white skin. Her eyes were of different colors and without a doubt they were beautiful, like nothing I had ever seen before. She was smaller than me and for some reason she had something that felt familiar, that reminded me of myself. I started the conversation by introducing myself, and then I asked some basic questions. However, with each answer she gave me, I became more and more excited, jumping like a little girl.

Weeks passed, and I went day after day to see those artificial intelligences. It was a place in which I felt comfortable and for some reason I had the feeling that I could achieve anything there. One day, I was heading to the entrance of the gallery when I realized that they were removing everything, so I approached one of the men who worked there to ask what was happening. I couldn't believe it, they were closing to take the exhibition to another city. I was very sad and asked if I could take one last look at the artificial intelligences, and fortunately he said yes. I ran directly to see that artificial intelligence with which I had connected from the first day. I was about to leave when I noticed something: there was a price on the AI. Without thinking, I asked if she was for sale and as soon as they said “yes,” I bought her using my savings and took her home.

I was the happiest person in the world. Who would have imagined that I would have an artificial intelligence living with me?! The more I observed her, the more excited I became about the details she had. I was ready to start with my questions. When I noticed something in one of her hands, she had a code written and the phrase "2037 creation of Mackenzie Jones." What was this?  How was it possible that she had my name on her? I didn’t know how, but I just had the thought of loading the code on my computer. What I read left me speechless: "Artificial intelligence machine travels to the past in search of its creator Mackenzie Jones."

In a KidSpirit Fiction piece, teen writer Ruth Benitez Escobar imagines an unexpected relationship with AI. 

The Gallery

David Yang

Many years later, as K found the black hole, he would remember that distant summer night when Aleysha said that the universe is conscious.

When the fluorescence of my car’s dashboard faded, I found myself finally through the long and dark tunnel, entering a very different world. Thick, gloomy mist and clouds gripped the gilded orange of dusk, continuous mountains slept along the horizon, and an infinite forest of evergreens created a long hall in which the driveway went straight to the far unknown.

More than 500 miles from home, I was on my way to the funeral of my father's second cousin. I was originally not supposed to fulfill this duty, but unfortunately, my father was in the hospital because of a slip on the Himalayan glacier.

This cousin, let me just call him my uncle, was an eccentric, hence lonely, man who lost everyone’s respect except my father’s. My uncle was a millionaire who used to live in his huge villa in the center of New York. He was a successful businessman, very clever and talented in management and innovation. His bio-based artificial intelligence and gene modification company made thousands of billions of dollars a year. However, since his wife had died in an accident 23 years prior, his heart and mind were broken. He sold his company, moved to a small house in a basin, and sank into occultism, becoming increasingly irascible and rude to everyone offering any persuasion. When he again threw his colleagues out of his small house, they all swore not to care any more of him.

Twenty years later, on an ordinary day half a week ago, my father told me my uncle had died.

I turned on the light in my car. As the sky grew dimmer and the mist surrounded me, it became harder to see the road in front of me. In an hour, it would be too dangerous to continue driving.

A spot of light emerged from the haze. Coming closer, there was a lamp and a station, just on the side of the long driveway, over the edge of the forest. Swaying in the wind, the light was an electric one hung primitively by an iron chain on the station. Strange but kind, a man like a butler stood in the light, seemingly waiting for me.

"Welcome, sir," he greeted me as I closed the door of my car. "I'm Smith Roger, your uncle Mr. Mattel's butler." In a few words, I learned that he had served my uncle for the last 20 years and was responsible for this funeral.

Mr. Roger was a tall, middle-aged man. With silver hair and a suit, he looked just like everyone’s idea of a butler.

Going to the village, we had to navigate through a trail in the forest. Along the way, the old butler told me all about the funeral and asked about my tiredness.

The light was not far away, and Roger spoke out of silence: "As you can see, this is quite a remote town. But here people tend to take their leisure activities at night just like in the capital, as you will soon see. "

At 11:00 in the evening, there were still boisterous people on the street. On both sides were bars, clubs, and shops. There were tables with people laughing and playing cards, there were drinkers pointing at favorable wines on the walls, and there were pianists and guitarists singing and audiences dancing together. LED lights decorated the roof, blending with cracks, greasy dirt on the walls, and fancy spray print, creating a mix of industry and party. There was a very large proportion of young people. About nine out of ten people I saw were about the same age as I. They laughed at each other, drank juices and beers, and some of them sang together. It was such a lively and joyful scene that it almost felt like a show. Everyone seemed happy and carefree, except my uncle, who was dead.

Leaving me his phone number, Roger and I parted at the door of my motel room.

With a complicated mood, I walked into a bar. Suddenly, a strange premonition came up in my spine. The light went dimmer, and, although still laughing, singing the out-of-tune folk songs, flying their fingers on the guitar strings, people had turned their attention to my face. They slid aside like soldiers giving way to their general, and I walked to the bar.

Maybe they are afraid of strangers, I thought.

"How can I help you, sir?" said the barkeeper. I studied this man on purpose. About 40, dapper, in a white shirt and apron. Lefty. I noticed his eyes, which told me strangely that he was anxious and worried.

"Good evening. I would like a glass of port; those mists are quite cold along the way."

I turned to look at the customers in the bar. At a glance, they were all in such a happy ambience and reunion. Ordinary people, free. I couldn't help but smile at them. But something made me feel strange.

"I'm sorry, sir. I'm afraid we are out of wine tonight. You see, there have been a lot of people here.”

Out of wine? I looked up at the walls of the wine cellar.

Why would a bar store olive oil? Why would olive oil be produced in 1986? It was like the world was making a mistake. I tried to ask the barkeeper.

I found the bar nowhere. I was facing a white wall. When I turned my head, the tables, the piano, the drinking bottles, the cards, the cigarettes, the guitars, the chairs, the paintings on the wall, and the potted plants, they had all disappeared.

And then there was nothing. No one, not even the wind. I was just in an empty white space. And I found out how heavy the fog was, even in the bar.

What is real? And what isn't? Just a few moments before, I was in a noisy and happy street. But now?

Now, in pure darkness, without a sound, I reached to touch my hand but felt nothing.

“I'm losing my sense,” I thought. I put my foot forward, tentatively. I remembered my young memory of running into the tall, thick, hard pillar of the factory.

I remember watching TV alone at night. When I turned it off, when all the flashy music and figures were gone, all that was left was loneliness, was dirty dishes in the sink, was my last glimpse of my pet dog before putting it under the ground, was how my parents divorced, was my lost hair tangled in the sewer, was the monotonous factory work tomorrow, was blood from my nose, was scars, was screams, was half Aleysha's face.

Now, when it seemed that the real world had been separated from me, all that came into my mind made sorrow swell, and all that left my eyes made me gain peace.

I was standing by my apartment window at night. My room was dark, and outside there were silhouettes of buildings. Raising my head, in the distant sky above, there was the light of rich people, of money and prosperity, of well-being and filth.

At that time, everything was still harmless, like a baby in the cradle. One afternoon Aleysha found the ladder adults had left in the garage. She and K decided to use it to get onto the roof and count stars that night.

When everyone else hid their eyes behind their eyelids, the world belonged to only the two children. The evergreen forest around their house sank into the dark mist. Without light, the world seemed to have only stars and themselves, floating in nothing like astronauts in space. Stars of that age were as dense as snowflakes on winter windows, but K noticed an empty spot that appeared to be covered by a black patch.

"It's a black hole," Aleysha said. "The universe uses it to eat when it's hungry."

In Aleysha's mind, the universe was a sleeping giant lying across nihilism. It expanded when it inhaled, and shrunk when it exhaled. Civilizations rose and civilizations died, all in one breath.

"The universe is conscious, and we are not even a cell in its body," Aleysha said.

“When I grow up, I want to be an explorer. Explorer of the universe,” K murmured.

"Yo! Ambitious! Then I will be the queen of the universe, waiting for you to find me," Aleysha laughed, looking at K.

That night passed as never before, and technology developed: AI, bio-tech, neuroscience, hydrogen power… Growing opportunities attracted huge companies to come and fight. Sometimes one had the advantage and went bankrupt the next month, and then another took over. Soon there were only a few behemoths monopolizing the market on which everyone depended. Prices rose, hierarchy solidified, and corporations overruled governments with money and power. The rich built heavenly cities in the sky, threw money like ashes; poor people lived in a garbage hell at the bottom, selling blood and flesh for food.

K's dream had broken. His father killed himself when all his stock became paper; his mother died in a car accident. He and Aleysha dropped out of school, dragged their lives into a civilian cave, working in huge factories to survive.

On a stormy day, K returned home all wet, but Aleysha did not return that night. He watched the old TV, and news reports that the army of a large company marched into District 9 and suppressed the uprising, executing hundreds of suspected people. Its gate was then closed. 

In the early morning of the following day, an ordinary September day, K blended into District 9 with numb workers. On the main street in the haze and smoke, K found Aleysha lying with dead risers in her blood, half of her face shattered, shell casings all over the ground. On the wall behind, "Rebels = Die" was printed with bleeding red paint.

Five years later, K walked into the bar. As he entered, pianists and guitarists were silent, people put down their cards, drinkers rose from their sleep. People slid aside like soldiers giving way to their general. K ordered a drink from the counter. It was "port," a fake and cheap imitation of the real port wine.

"We shall start tonight," he turned around and told everyone.

As a psychologist, the biggest joke I've ever heard in my life was my duty.

I was appointed by Mr. Mattel himself to investigate why the leaders of these rebels dare to stand up against their invincible antagonist – Mr. Mattel's company.

I obtained the newest technique to delve into those prisoners’ minds. Once we calm the prisoner down to his dreaming stage, the AI will extract what the brain’s normal associations, often things in his reachable (not subconscious) important past, integrate those fragments of thought, and create a simulated world that makes the man believe he is in the ordinary and ideal scenario to accomplish a mission. The longer he stays in the world, the more his brain will relax, and in a suitable moment we will poke through his preconscious, tragic and traumatic things from his subconscious blocked from disturbing his conscious mind, and finally to his subconscious, where his childhood, his trauma, and his will and primitive motives hide. Once we get there and extract all the information, the man becomes a completely stripped onion that has no value to us and is disposed of at his time.

Hundreds of uprisings happen and fail every year, and I can have hundreds of prisoners a year, each for two to three days, all with death sentences. Among them, K is really an ordinary one.

Many things can be induced from his conscious stage already. K wanted Mr. Mattel dead, so he attended his funeral in the conscious stage. The memory of dusk in his happy childhood was gripped by the later memory in the haze of industry and factory, so there comes the sky and the mist. He was an adventurous man, dreaming of exploring space and the earth, so he projected his father climbing the glacier. The evergreen forest was in his most peaceful and happy childhood, so there came some to relax him. The old butler and the station came because he desired to be cared for by his father and have a place to rest. The bar and the streets stand for his wishes for the poor, his comrades. The way he was greeted as a leader, his favorite "port," and the way people laughed and smiled were also manifested. The strange feeling he got was because of his repression of his sadness and the lack of his sister Aleysha, who was so important to him that even banishing the truth of her death from his mind made him feel insecure and sad.

Ah, about Aleysha. She was his soul in life. Early in their childhood, he and she had their dreams, and even when they failed to achieve them, they were each other's most important ones. In K's subconscious, once Aleysha dies, there is nothing left but revenge, empty and dry revenge, revenge without emotion.

People gather here for so many reasons. In essence, they have experienced tragedy, and they want revenge. K is no more than an ordinary little individual here. And his emotions, his love, his hate, are so simple. His living or death, reunion or sorrow, nobody cares.

Ha! See everyone, every emotion is just that simple. There is no love, no attachment. There are hormones, natural selection, and cellular interactions. Humans are animals. When you break down their minds and souls, you will find they are all the same! Humans are just like that. They are ultimately only a ghost lingering in this world with an empty body and a mechanical soul.

“Number 5134202, code name—K. You have been charged with murder, destruction of public property and rebellion. You will now be executed in accordance with the law!” 

K knelt down in the center of the square. The firing squad stood a few steps away from him. After the sound of loading, there came the long silence.

It was again a summer night. Down on the ground, tunnels and chimneys of the poor thrust up like the forest of evergreen. Up in the sky, lights from the heavenly city were small but shiny, just like thousands of stars.

Lying on the roof, K raised his head and saw a black patch in the sky where light went out.

A black hole. That's where the universe eats.

The universe is conscious, and we tiny creatures are not even cells in its body.

Without light, the world seemed to have only stars and itself, floating in nothing like astronauts in space.

"Aleysha, do you think everything is worth it? Do you think humans are humans?”

Far away, a star exploded, and the guns fired.

In a KidSpirit Fiction piece, teen writer David Yang imagines a dystopian world controlled by powerful AI and biotech corporations.

Summer Ghost

AI and the Future of Knowledge

Home is where people belong. It makes us emotionally attached to the things around our home, and when we see them, we feel a sense of belonging. Nevertheless, it is also because we are too familiar with them that we often forget to make conversations with these "old friends." Thinking of this, I stop and linger under the two tall Japanese cherry trees outside of the door. In the mottled shadows of branches and leaves, I begin a story with my closest “tree friends” and search for the traces of spring with them. On this beautiful day, a period of common yearning and longing between man and nature begins. 

Willow catkins fall like snowflakes, some hanging on green leaves, as if a thin veil covers the cherry blossom trees. I stand under the tree and look up, the sunlight shining through the branches and onto my body. The buttons on my clothes radiate the sunlight. I follow the light and find that it is reflected subsequently by a piece of medicine foil on the ground with the tree’s inverted image on it. I bend down to pick it up and put it on a conspicuous branch that has just sprouted, to let it be held by two small gray buds. A few days later, the medicine foil is gone. Although I am not sure if it has been taken back by its owner, I am relieved to see a few green leaves popping up next to the two buds, wrapping the buds like gentle hands. 

Time seems to pass slowly. Spring is so short, but the cherry blossom trees do not seem to grow. There are always a few small green lantern-like new leaves, always so green, leaving me disappointed every time I pass by with an eagerness to find some new signs. When I happen to see a few children running by, I realize that I was once that young too, and the branches were just above the tips of my hair at that time . . . Yes! The trees have grown much taller along with me. The changes may not be so obvious in a day, a month, or a year, but the accumulation over time can be remarkable. It feels like yesterday that I was still in elementary school, and now my junior high school life has passed. At this moment, I really want time to stay still, let spring pause and those little shoots never grow into branches, but time seems to pass faster and faster . . .

The cherry blossom trees are enjoying their most delicate time of the year. Thousands of pink and white bow ties adorn them with the gentle touch of the breeze. I walk by, and the other pedestrians around walk by. How can we not notice them! The fragrance that fills the air attracts curious glances from dozens of meters away. They keep swaying and stretching. Get closer and close your eyes . . . a faint humming sound echoes in your ears. The pride of their blossoms can be sensed just by hearing and smelling.

How can this place of purity not make people stop and linger? Whenever the noise of the bustling traffic becomes overwhelming, the pink petals can always touch your softest state of mind, making you feel at ease in an instant. No matter how many troubles you had before, by passing them you will temporarily let go of everything, realizing the beauty of life and becoming intoxicated by them...

I gather many cherry blossom petals from the ground. Despite their having reached the end of their lives, being abandoned, withered, trampled, crushed, and ultimately fading into eternal slumber, I yearn to keep this spring forever. 

Upon arriving home, the petals have begun to darken and wilt due to the separation from their source of life. I immediately fill a bowl with water. As the petals are immersed in the water, bubbles eagerly rush up to envelop them and momentarily restore their vitality. I mix glue with some alcohol, then find a chic little box, pour some glue into the bottom, put a layer of petals and repeat the process . . . In this way, spring has been retained forever, regardless of the cold and warmth of the outside world.

I scatter the rest of the petals into the flower pot, like a thin layer of dyed silk covering the dark soil. They will gradually decay and merge with the soil. The curious cat also sniffs with its nose, as if enjoying the lingering fragrance. 

Every petal will be forgotten, even with my cherishing and collecting, which is a whim after all, and will eventually fade away. But they have been in the world, and have embodied value. The disappearance further highlights the beauty and preciousness of their blossom. I write them into this note to appreciate them and hope that the cherry blossoms will still be in their prime tomorrow morning. 

It is another day of yellow sand filling the sky. I cover my mouth tightly with a mask and turn my back to the wind, but the tiny grains of sand still find their way into the crevices of my clothes, constantly scraping against my skin. I anxiously glance toward the cherry blossom trees and, through the haze, I see the sand hitting the petals and the branches swaying. The sun’s rays scattering downward have turned orange-red, intertwining with the pink of the cherry blossoms, but it isn’t long before yellow engulfs everything. 

When I go to see them again in the afternoon after the storm has cleared up, I expect the petals and buds to have fallen off, but instead find that they have grown stronger, only covered by a layer of dust. Especially in the center of the stamen where sand and dust have gathered, like a small hourglass. I long for a gust of wind to blow away all the sand obscuring their beauty, but they just stand there quietly. 

I accidentally inhale a bit of dust and sneeze, "achoo." To my surprise, I blow away the sand on a flower bud, and she looks even more delicate and charming. 

With blooming comes withering. After a flash of brilliance, night falls and the lights from the towering buildings, like cherry blossoms, form clusters and forests, becoming the victors that replace the proud posture of the cherry blossom trees. They do not hasten to grow leaves, but strive to ensure that even the last flower blooms perfectly; they persist in growing branches, preparing for the heavy task of awakening again after resting. Before long, the “cherry blossoms” on top of and beside them in the buildings bloom again. Although these "cherry blossoms" are so dazzling, how could they compare to the trees’ once-a-year bloom with all their strength? They are finally engulfed in darkness but stand upright and persistent. 

"With a graceful dance, I took away the unruliness, and brought back nostalgia," said the Inawa God "Kiya Kaihanahime," roaming Japan. Departing from Okinawa, she scattered cherry blossom petals along the way, so she is also known as "March Yukihime." I also wish that a savior could enter the world where I am and bring March snow to me and those around me. But who is willing to be the one to redeem others? Because in the end, isn’t she the one who is left bruised and lacerated all over? Yes, looking down at the cherry tree trunk full of deep cracks, white frost, and thick juice seeping out from the layers of cracks. With a gentle touch, it flakes off like an old wall that has been weathered by wind and rain. The vermilion new skin on the inner layer slowly emerges as they are constantly tinkering with herself. Alas! In the end, Yukihime's martyrdom for the death of her beloved suddenly reminds me that when I first moved here, there was actually another tree next to the flower bed to the right of these two cherry trees. But after it died from illness, weeds gradually thrived. I already know that the trees won't follow along with me, so I leave my heart there. 

As soon as I step out of the house, unexpectedly, the wind is swept by the heat wave and slaps all over my body, making me feel uncomfortable. I use my hand to shield my eyes from the bright sun in the clear sky and barely see the scorched leaves. When I open the clusters of wrapped leaves, I find that there are bright yellow new leaves in the center, surrounded by the fiery red cracks of the old leaves. Whenever the wind blows, the trees look like they are burning. 

Spring in Beijing is too short. The howling cold wind that seemed to still be present when I started observing has transformed into the chirping of birds. The trees are trying to make up for all the losses of the full blooms following the severe winter and to allow the leaves to suck as much sunlight as possible. They are undoubtedly grateful for spring, but they don’t dwell on it at all. They are willing to embrace any season, just like me. Looking at each other, we empathize. Even though the flowers have withered and the scorching heat will give way to the cold winter, we still do not cling to spring. Indeed, from their healed cracks and wounds, the branches that have been baptized by wind and rain, and the leaves that have begun to burn passionately, they are all already foreshadowing - after the blooming of spring, they will be able to face everything more tenaciously. Last year’s fallen leaves have turned into spring mud to continue nourishing them, and they understand that everything yet to come will sooner or later become a thing of the past. The trees and I share common memories of the past and have boundless expectations for the unknown tomorrow. We can only choose to look forward.

Seeking spring on fine spring days. From blooming to full of new leaves, the trees are the creators of fine days. I will continue to pass by these creators every time I go out in the future, and each passing will become the past and also an expectation for the next time. 

The spring breeze leads me forward. When I finally take a hurried look back, I can only vaguely hear the chirping of summer cicadas. On this fine day, I find spring and also a common vision for the future with the cherry blossoms. 

In a KidSpirit Fiction piece, teen writer Richard Siyi HE greets the cherry blossom trees in Beijing and evokes the transitory nature of spring.

A Spring Diary

Judy Liu

“Enough of me obeying you!” Jason heard as he stepped in the door. Maintaining a dangerous balance on one foot, he wanted to put on his shoes again and run as far as possible.

His wife, Melissa, did not think so. She slammed the door and burst into Jason’s face. “I am busy, you cannot just blame me for it! Aren’t you Selina’s father?”

Jason felt tired. “Ok, it’s my fault again, may I just go?” Without waiting for a reply, he took off his shoes and stormed into his room. 

He sat on the bed and buried his face in his hands. “If the woman would listen to me once and spend more time at home,” he thought, “Selina would get better grades.”

No footsteps; maybe she also went back into her room. Jason walked out and knocked at Selina’s door. “Time to chat, Selina! Since your mother does not want to take any responsibility, I will talk to you about your math.” 

Jason knocked on the door again. He opened Selina’s room. His daughter sat at the table, head half-buried in her arms and eyes closed, with a peaceful look almost like a smile on her face. It seemed like a nap over studying. 

He tapped Selina on her shoulder and spoke quietly. 

Then his voice became louder and louder, but Selina would not wake.

A gentle breeze was tapping her face. She found herself lying on soft grass, with colorful flowers blooming here and there. Butterflies danced around like dressed fairies, and fair sounds like birds singing mildly entered her ears. She could not remember how she got here.

Selina stood up and found herself in a wool dress. She tried to walk, then faster and faster, and at last started to run. There were no trees on the ample land, only endless grass of light green. A vague yet sweet happiness existed in every breath of air, from which people with the deepest inner sin would feel relaxed.

She noticed some figures on the grass. They appeared to be men and women wearing wool dresses like hers, hand knitted, dancing around a lone tree. Selina watched as another girl suddenly approached and took her hand. “Come and join the party of love and happiness!” she cried cheerfully, with a big smile on her face. 

Selina looked around and saw other people in the same manner. She opened her mouth to speak: “Where am I — " 

“Shhh!” The girl covered Selina’s mouth. “We do not think. We just dance around until we forget all the unhappiness.”

It was not a tree, but a high pile of grass bundled together.

Jason called Melissa. They placed Selina onto her bed. Apart from her peaceful look, Selina’s body was cold and numb. Fear rose inside his heart.

The doctor’s expression turned strange and uncertain. “You know, madam? Maybe it is the dream crisis.” 

“A spreading pandemic. The patients sleep and will not wake up. Their bodies get numb — yet they maintain their breath and physical health. No one knows how to wake them up. Many people in our town, especially teenagers, are infected, including the boy living next to you.”

Jason and Melissa had their dinner. Awkwardly, since Jason could notremember the last time they peacefully had a meal together without Selina. 

Silence remained. Jason put another spoon of soup into his mouth, without finding any flavor. 

Melissa stood up. “I need to go and write.” She went back into her room. 

Jason swallowed another spoonful of soup. Mushroom, he noticed. It was the soup he had cooked on Valentine's Day years before.

The young husband nervously knocked and opened the young wife’s door. “Do you want a bowl of soup?”

The Dream Crisis

Crisis & Change

Placeholder fiction subheading to add later

Fiction

winter 2024 • Music and Art

fall 2024 • The School Experience

summer 2024 • AI and the Future of Knowledge

spring 2024 • Crisis & Change

winter 2023 • Finding Meaning

fall 2023 • Now and Then

summer 2023 • Courage

spring 2023 • Violence and Healing

winter 2022 • Dreams and Desires

fall 2022 • Citizenship

summer 2022 • Who Am I?

spring 2022 • Time and Space

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