A collection of 30 short stories written by Korean students have been recently published to mark Canada Day.

The collection of short stories is the result of “Canada 150: Creative Writing Contest for Youth” organized by the Embassy of Canada in Korea and the Seoul Metropolitan Government to celebrate Canada’s 150th anniversary.

In commemoration of the 150th Canada Day, South Korean students participated in the writing contest by turning in their short stories on the topic of “150” in English or French.

A total of 205 articles had been submitted and juries announced 30 award winners in July after a two-month screening process.

The Korea Herald, the country’s biggest English language newspaper, is a partner for the writing contest, and the following are the four articles from the 30 finalists.
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The Silent War

Prologue

 In this book, I shall not talk about my name, my true parents’ names, and even though I know some readers will be curious about the first conversation I had had with my parents, I will not mention it.

 I am a lawyer, and writing this book in order to tell the world about all of the pain I had to go through just because of my parents’ past. I hope the readers learn something from my efforts.

Chapter 1

 The rough stone floor, the warm touch of my mother’s calloused but at the same time, tender hand, and the stink of rats that every prison seems to share, these were the first things I sensed when Allah first gave me life.

Our family was not exactly the best family there was. Both of my parents were from Merca, Somalia. They were, as these Americans call them, Somali pirates. I was, as they saw me, “a pitiful boy who had been born with the wrong parents at the wrong time”. But that did not stop them from tearing me away from my mother’s desperate hands the moment I was born. And nor did it stop them from sending me to an orphanage, just as if I didn’t have any parents, and that was how I lived for 13 years of my life.

It was a sunny Saturday afternoon. I, as normal, had been denied any lunch with the exception of a piece of hard, burnt bread and nothing else. The reason the teachers never gave me more than that was because I was “born poor, live poor”, and that “thieves don’t get nothin’ in our school”. So, my normal day continued, but that was not to last. I was sitting in my bunk, listening to the sounds of the kids who shared my room snickering and whispering about my messy hair, when a different sound joined those of any normal day – a car screeching on the pavement.

Cars normally never come, so this was indeed a special day. Shoving other people aside, I managed to get a look out of the window before I was pushed away, and the sight made me, like every other child who saw it, stop in horror, for it was a police car. Instantly, my insides clenched in terror as thoughts raced through my head. ‘Police cars… they’re supposed to keep the law. No, it can’t be…had Miss Grestor spotted me stealing her box of apples?’. As I thought this, my eyes darted to the nearly invisible line that indicated a hole where everything I had pilfered lay.

But my guess was wrong, for the police had not come to apprehend me. Rather, they had come for me in order to, as I only learned later on, to take me to a foster family. The inside of the police car was plain, and I soon fell asleep. Where I arrived was a small house that looked to be clean, on the outside, at least. A quick look inside taught me that the inside was the same. Curious, I looked around, searching for my new family when the policeman stepped inside and locked the door. Upon hearing the sound of the lock, I spun around, arms raised, determined to at least give a fight before he could lock me up.

 Seeing this, the man looked surprised, then amused as he raised his arms in an unthreatening manner, and told me that he was my new family. Noticing that though my hands were lowered my eyes never left him, he assured me that he was telling the truth. After an hour of showing me around my house, he finally stopped in front of a door. Grinning widely, he opened the door and held it open as I walked in, and quickly stepped in behind me. As soon as I stepped in, my jaws dropped in shock, but a good kind of shock.

 In front of me is a plain but soothing room. It was comfortable and clean, pure and soothing, but most importantly, mine.

 When I finally started to feel at home, I started talking back to Nicolas, which was his name. When he also started feeling comfortable around me, he asked me if I would go to school. My answer was no. It took him several hours and more than a few bribes, but I agreed. After promising me a computer and the newest phone, he lied back on the couch, wiped his sweaty forehead with his sleeve and grinned. “You,” he accused playfully. “You planned this, didn’t you?” When I nodded, and smiled back at him he laughed. “Well, at least you’re going to school.”

Chapter 2

 Going to school was a new experience for me. I had been born in prison and raised in an orphanage, so going to school was an entirely new prospect for me.

 But on the day I was supposed to go to school, my mind was strangely calm and peaceful as I walked, I wondered about everything I would do at school. I was in the last year of elementary school. My classroom was the furthest room to the right, and was quite small. It was said that it had previously been used as a storage.

 After checking that everyone was here, the teacher told us that we would have different teachers for every subject except for math and literature, which she would teach us. However, as it was the first class, she said, they would take some time to learn about each other instead of studying. First, she asked us to introduce ourselves, which I did with no problem. The next thing she did was to ask us the jobs of our parents, and for homework, to think of our own ones. There were doctors to taxi drivers, architects to teachers. At first, it was just interesting for me, but when it was going to be my turn four turns later, I started worrying. I didn’t know my birth parents’ jobs. When it was my turn, after thinking for a few moments, I answered “A policeman, Miss Sophia.”.

 At home, I waited for Nico to come home. As soon as he did, I rushed downstairs to meet him, but instead of leaping into his arms, as I usually would have done, I planted my feet and asked a question that had been floating in the back of my mind ever since school. “Who were my parents?”

Chapter 3

 On the way to the prison, my thoughts were restless. ‘If my parents were at prison, they must be criminals. But if they were criminals, why did Nico adopt me?’. I felt just as I had when I had been taken to Nico’s house to live there, except that instead of being excited and nervous, I was just nervous. A little scared too, I think. But this time, it wasn’t the good kind of nervousness. Rather, it was the bad kind.

 When we finally arrived, Nico wordlessly held up his name tag and identification card, and after a brief check, the guard opened the door silently. The room we went into was plain and a thick wall made of glass with several very small holes. After a few minutes had elapsed, the same guard who had let us in brought in two people, a man and a woman, with shrunken faces, and though we had lived in a different environment, I felt as if I were looking into mirror.

 I shall not mention the conversation I had with my parents, for though I am a writer, I have my own privacy. But I can and will tell you that during this conversation, I felt a stirring deep inside my chest, I screamed at the world for letting a country stay like this, at Allah for shaping mankind to have fear, to have greed, and to have spite. I screamed at everyone, at everything, and I cried the whole way home, and still cried in bed, sobbing desperately, praying for a miracle. But Allah does not give out free miracles. I would have to make one myself.

 As I dried my wet and bloodshot eyes with a tissue my adopted father handed me, I realized my homework could be a whole lot easier than I thought it would be. My dream was chosen.

Chapter 4

 10 years later, I found myself in front of the law school I wanted to go to but couldn’t because of the high tuition cost. Learning it just a few hours ago, I had fallen into despair. Trying to search for a job while I found another school, I bought a newspaper with what little money I had in my pocket. As I read, my eyes suddenly lighted up as I found a solution.

 Back at home, I opened my computer that I had received from Nico as a final present before he died from a stroke, and wrote a message explaining my situation. Three hours later, I leaned back and with a tired but excited voice recited it to myself. It was a bit rough and blunt, but it would do. As I was about to send it, my hand stopped, hovering above the ‘enter’ key. It would be easier to just get another job, but it would not be what I wanted. I pressed it.

 Almost instantly people started viewing it, and in an hour, 62 people had sent me two thousand dollars. Within the week, 150 people, including the heed of Harvard, sent me 5 thousand dollars. It was not all, but I was confident that I would be able to get it. At the entrance to the school, I hesitated before enlisting my name. I was in. As I walked out, the manager quickly glanced at my home country, which I had written down, and said clearly “I was one of the people who sent you that money.” When I looked back at him, eyes wide, he laughed and made a shooing motion with his hands, amused at my reaction.

 In the hallway, I nervously opened the door after knocking on it to see at least thirty more students listening to a professor. Smiling widely, he stopped his speech, and after welcoming me, he said “Now that we are all here, why don’t we introduce ourselves, starting with you.”, pointing to a student in the front.

 What we were asked were simple questions for everyone, but not for me, because they included the question “Who are your parents?”. When it was my turn, I hesitated before answering. If I told the truth, no one would accept me, and I might even be kicked out of the school. But if I lied, I would die inside, and life would lose its light for me.

 After pondering for a few moments, I clenched my jaws and squared my shoulders in determination as I came upon a decision, thinking on the decision I had made. Standing up, I said in a clear voice that rang out through the silent room, I answered proudly. “Somalian pirates.”
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Your Numbered Days

They tell you to wait it out, because the first few months are always the worst.150 days, they say, 150 days are enough time for one to feel the newness, the rejection, the shock, the confusion, then hopefully the concession. Firsts are simply a matter of adjustment and compromise with yourself and the outer source that is inflicting you such discomfort.

You remember your first days well, of coming here I mean. That trip from the airport to your new home in a new country, which was ironically your home for the first year of your life, is etched into your brain by times design. Of course, you don’t remember a single thing.

The newness stretches along the rolling hills bordering the highway for the first couple hours until the patchy rice fields fill in the void for the next few. A couple rounds of iSpy and one nap later, the toll gate soon looms into vision and you are finally home, what was going to be home anyway. You remember seeing the Korean summer heat shimmer off the cement for the first time, the Hangeul dance on the shop signs lining the streets. The buildings, no more than five stories high, are packed and you think of dominoes. Old white collar folk are out for their smoke break; they’re killing themselves. And you see the little children running. The children, you notice, look like you, like your sister, like your brother. Every single one of them. Their black hair shines bright against the clear blue sky as the wind chases them in the street. You never knew black could suffice as bright, but it does. The drivers on either side of your car look like Umma and Appa. Their hands on the steering wheel are a warm-toned tan, their dark almond eyes on the road starkly resemble yours, and their hair too is as black as can be. The moving men look like you, and you realize that everyone looks like you, your neighbors will look like you! No longer would you have to through the inconvenience of explaining where you’re from, whether you’re Chinese or Japanese. For the record, you’re neither, but it doesn’t matter anymore. You will no longer have to be worry about foreign noses taking a whiff of your homemade lunchbox in the cafeteria and cringe their noses at the peppery spices. People here would accept you for you with no questions of suspicion asked.

But the shame and regret comes creeping in on the hottest day of the year. The heat should have struck you as a bad omen, for there are better ways to start your first day of school. The stairs winding up all the way to the fifth floor are treacherous in itself but what awaits at the top not one could fathom. Your homeroom teacher you remember, Ms. Lee her name was, has a pink smile plastered on her face, until she hears you speak, the broken Korean spewing forth. She cringes at the black ink spraying her perfect makeup, her perfect hair, her perfect clothes, her perfect reputation and your heart is squeezed by some metallic vice as your own mother tongue feels coarse rolling off your lips. The rough texture of it is far fetched from natural. A decade of near dead silence has taken its toll and it is flashing like a warning sign on your forehead. Ms. Lee takes not even a second to acknowledge this.

“Uhmuhnee, did you by any chance stay abroad before coming?”

“Yes, we just moved in ten days ago from New York.”

“How long was your stay?”

“Over ten years.”

No further explanation is needed before rejection slams its doors. You know it was too good to be true. You’ll always be the different one. You’re emotionally connected to one place but don’t look the part; the next you look the part but don’t feel the same. Which is preferable or better put, which is less painful? If you ask me, I’d rather not choose.

The question follows you down to the vice principal's office. You can’t hear anything, both figuratively and literally. Your mother is a desperate soul trying to figure out what went wrong; Ms. Lee is a rash being doing whatever it takes to safeguard herself from the alien. Because that’s what you are in your own motherland, an alien.

You’re eventually placed in Ms. Lee’s class, for better or for worse. The fans on the ceiling make a sad rat-a-tat. They don’t help with the heat, just funnel it down onto your poor head. But their gazes are hotter, they scald your entire body. Down the hallway to the bathroom, in line for lunch. Everything burns. Your classmates crowd around you while you eat; they say they want to teach you how to use chopsticks, make sure you can eat kimchi without turning away from the pungent odor that is supposed to sting your Yankee nose. Do you even like rice? You say thanks as you wrap the thin piece of kimchi around your rice along with a sheet of dried laver using your chopsticks, just like Umma taught you when you were just a little girl. They hide behind their lunch trays while they snicker at your poor oral performance but you see them, you see everything.

You see a lot of other things you haven’t seen before. Those carvings in the bathroom stalls never looked so complicated they never had a story until your fingers trace them on and on and on. You used to look at the sky and have an argument on whether that cloud is an elephant or a truck; you’re now memorizing the brick road leading home. They look like snakes hiding from the thud of running children. Those children used to be so beautiful. That hair used to be so bright. You were probably blind.

You have a new name now. Yankee, New Yorker, American, the works. You don’t like baseball; you lived in the state, not the city; you’re Korean. But you’re drowned out by their white noise and blank faces. It’s endless buzzing in the crowd that too, goes on, and on, and on, and … on.

The next weeks are a repeat of some version of this. There’s another word you don’t understand but what’s the point, you won’t know the next fifty anyways. You feel that your sleeves are too short, you should be less active, your tongue is too short. You help them with their English homework for Hagwon because that’s where they go everyday while you stay in bed, counting your 150 days. Counting the number of times the boys called you Yankees would have gotten you far past 200.

You stop counting around day 40 and you hit yourself for it because it’s not even a quarter of the way. You’re pathetic, you’re a loser. You can’t even count. You’d always be the Asian kid or the Yankee. It’s ironic when you think about the contrast of these two terms but that’s what they call you, so that’s what you must be.

You’re on the swing set while everyone else is at Hagwon. Your feet skid past the pebbles below you, ruining the orderly arrangement that now ceases to exist. You see a small bundle of younger kids clustered next to the wall of bamboo. They’re eating ice cream now a third decapitated by the blazing sun and hungry sticky mouths, droplets of white and brown oozing onto the pavement beneath them. That should be your head.

Confusion sets himself in your dreams behind closed doors. He likes the dark so he comes at night when everyone is sleeping and no one can help you. One gesture and you will snap. You’re hanging by the thread onto whatever is real. The cool side of your pillow which you normally search for in the midst of your sleep is now stone cold. So you turn the lights on to take down the framed picture of you and your friends from three months ago, back home an ocean away. What is home? Your fingers trace their grainy faces all in thanks to the crappy printer.

You try to squeeze out some childhood memory of this place that may have miraculously settled in your subconsciousness. Perhaps a key to some portal that will place you in a better version of reality will magically appear in the palm of your hand. In the vague distance you feel something closing in. You become hopeful; it’s only tears on the verge of spilling. They press against your eyelids and you pray for them not to fall. But you were never much of a crier so this feeling is foreign to you, like this room, and control is not within your ability. One by one they fall, down your cheek, your nose, your poor heart that is slit to the core through your spine and the skin on your back. Confusion comes to a conclusion of despair and defeat and it cripples you to the ground, not far from hell.

Appa comes home drunk one night. He usually doesn’t come home when he is. Maybe confusion paid him a visit too. He sees you standing in the hallway. You think his eyes are swollen and red but you can’t really tell because you’re no better off. You get your confirmation when he shuffles over and engulfs you in all his teary drunk glory. He was supposed to be an unswerving figure, what happened? Your shoulder is damp from his tears, or maybe they’re your own, running down his face.: “Mee-ahn-hae, mee-ahn-hae, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says over and over again. You should be, Appa. It’s your fault you put me in this mess: why I have a different name, why I know that there are 316 bricks from the playground to our front door. Maybe a warning of what it might have been like could have treated you better. You could have watched some baseball. You would have cut off your tongue because it certainly doesn’t work anymore. At least you would have been numb from the glass that tore your lips. They’re bleeding can’t you see? But you stay still against the sobs racking your old man’s body because you know that all the apologies, blaming, and tears of guilt in the world couldn’t save you from this hole fate cruelly dug for you. He keeps crying, you keep bleeding.

You wait out the rest of your 150 days You haven’t started counting again, but I have. I’m counting for you, so you can live. Living out numbered days is what criminals on death row do; you’re not a criminal. But you’re just hoping for that shot of concession that is sure to follow up sometime soon. Probably. Maybe.

You’re still not counting but it’s over, the 150 days. I counted, just like I promised. Have you lived? Have you found the concession? Let me know, give me a call. Facebook is pretty reliable, keep me updated, because I think that shot of concession is around the corner, with a pinch of bliss.
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150 Days of Depression

Day 1

Beauty.

The one thing that any girl could wish for.

As I scrolled down to only see more hate comments, I realised that it was impossible. Unreachable. Unattainable. It was not something anyone could get overnight. I wasn’t a very appealing girl, so it made sense that they despised me on Instagram. My body wasn’t “on fleek”, even though I am a dancer. I thought my posts could encourage people to love who you are… Why couldn’t they understand?

Hiding my tears, I curled up in a ball; even though there was no-one to see me weep. Gritting my teeth in grief, I contemplated life -- just like I always do. My house wasn’t particularly a place that I would call home. My parents shut me out all the time, and I never knew why.

Day 10

I’m staring at the dark ceiling with a blank state of mind. I’ve gotten better at pretending to be a happy person but I’m so sick and tired of being a person that I no longer am. It’s as if someone is constantly telling to stop what you’re doing. My eyes start to close gently. I drift off into another world.

“Wow Janelle. People have it worse than you. Stop being so sad. It’s just a phase.”

Voices are echoing in my brain, voices that don’t understand me.

I reach for the innocent transparent tangerine medicine bottle. I pop the cap open, revealing a heaven of antidepressants. They escape from my hands, gently landing into my mouth. I gulp some water and I feel the pills and the water trickling down my narrow throat.

The world starts spinning in circles. I feel my head churning in a colossal ocean of suicidal thoughts. My field of vision dims.

I am jolted awake in tears and sweaty palms. It was just a dream. I sigh in relief and flop back heavily into my pillow.

“Stay in bed… You don’t have to finish that project that’s due in a day… You can do that later.”

I can’t listen to these voices. I need to get things done. Depression can’t conquer me. I need to learn how to conquer depression.

Day 30

Days, hours, minutes and seconds pass. I beg depression to go away but it refuses to do so. You don’t choose to live with depression; depression chooses to live with you. You’re dragging around a nuisance that will stay there until you finally commit suicide. That’s why it’s so hard to live. It’s as if a broken cassette is playing it’s message on repeat; except you can’t take it out of the cassette deck… And it’s in your head.

Day 75

What is life? Why do we live? To die again? I don’t get the point of living if people just judge you for having a disorder that you can’t control.

Day 100

I will live today. I will live today. I will live today. I will live today. I will live today. I will live today. I will live today. I will live today. I will live today. I will live today. I will live today. I will live today. I will live today. I will live today. I will live today. I will live today. I will live today. I will live today.

Day 149

No one cares about my depression.

And they don’t need to because they never dare to help. The only reason I’m staying alive is because I’m afraid to scar other people’s lives. There’s something in my brain that’s shouting that at least someone cares. Hot tears ran down my face. I was hopeless. Did anyone care about me?

“Oh, you should go to a support group Janelle! ” They said. “It can’t be that bad Janelle.” They said. “Try dancing or exercising, Janelle.” They said.

Nothing worked. I’ve tried them all.

Even though I adored dancing when I was an innocent little girl, I lost interest in it. What’s the point of living if there’s nothing that you love? My dance teachers caned me for not having the “right body” and they only do that to me. In pain, I cringed as I cautiously peeled the scabs off my petite hands.

Oh no. It’s coming.

A tsunami of agonizing thoughts rushed through my brain. The water sloshed violently against my skull. It leaks into my eyes, blocking my field of vision, eventually dripping down into my cold hands. The most terrifying thing of having depression is not knowing when it will hit you like a sledgehammer.

A few moments later, I realize I’m shaking like a rattlesnake’s tail. I couldn’t stop. The springs of my bed were vibrating so much to the point that it’s about to shatter into pieces.

The reason why I avoided at all costs going to support group is because I’ve realized how petrifying it is to go through what Julia did. It only caused us more pain.

She didn’t make it.

I’m desperate to stay above the water. I don’t want to cause as much pain to others as she did to me. I miss her. She was the only one that cared. My best friend. My only home.

Rushing to the kitchen, I urgently searched for a sharp knife. If I can’t die now, I need to do something to keep myself satisfied.

First cut.

I paused to see my arm gushing out a pure, crimson red.

No. This isn’t enough. I take a glance at the clock from the corner of my eye. It’s 3:33 am. No-one to stay up with. No-one to reach for help. No-one to talk to. I leaned on the refrigerator with a thud in agony.

*****

What was that? Something must’ve dropped from somewhere. I threw my blankets to the side and heavily dragged my feet to open the door.

WHAT. IS. SHE. DOING!

I’m shocked myself that I’m this worried for her for once. Have I missed something? I pinch my arm. I feel an intense chill down my spine after I realize this is not a dream.

The first thing I see is her arm slit open with a knife. My heart dropped to my feet.

“Mum… I... I can explain.“

Breathe. Breathe Janelle.

“...I have depression. I’m suicidal, too.”

It scares the skin out of my bones. How did I not know this? She always looked so happy… I feel a sting at the back of my eyes. I feel so stupid… I’m such a terrible mother. I should’ve known.

“Mum. I’m not trying to hurt anyone except for myself.”

I pulled back to see her heavy-hearted face.

“Honey… I’m so sorry I didn’t know…”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.” Her voice cracks a little. Poor thing.

*****

Day 150

The golden rays of the sun peek through the curtains.

I’m still shocked by how sorry my mum felt for me.

Then it popped into my head -- she must’ve thought that I was okay because I was acting like I was satisfied with life.

Blindly, I search my phone with my delicate hands. Click. The screen brightens, shaping letters. Letters that shape bitter words.

“Why r u always ignoring us? If ur gonna do that, u don’t need us. We don’t need to be ur ‘friends’ if u hate us that much. U keep on actin like u have a mental disorder.”

Depression is a mental disorder.

“Stop being sorry for yourself. I don’t think anyone likes it.”

I’m not being sorry for myself. I’m doing the exact opposite of that.

150 days with depression. 3,600 hours of panic attacks. 216,000 minutes of struggling to have the will to live. 12,960,000 seconds of being trapped in a cage I’ve set up for myself.

Why do I live if everyone hates me? What the point of living if everyone hates you, even yourself?

My hands start to shake. The rest of the day goes by in a blur. I find myself back at home. The home where all the dark thoughts drift in the air.

The voices are coming back.

No one likes you. You’re worthless. You’re fat. You’re ugly.

I take a look at my damaged self in the crystal clear mirror.

I am ugly. But somewhere in my mind tells me I’m not.

I’ve had enough. This is the reason why I hate being alive. You want to die; so, so, badly, but there are people around you; people who care. It’s too much.

Violently, I searched inside my parent’s cabinet, which was forbidden for me to touch it.

My lifeless fingers wrapped around the cold, metal trigger. I grasped it, free from doubt. I placed it on the temple of my forehead. This was it. I was only a pull away to my definition of joy.

But then I saw…

My parents dashing for me in tears.

“J-Janelle…” I’ve never seen my parents in such shock before. I thought they hated me…

The pale terror of their skin… The trembling of their hands…

My mother wept heavily into my father’s shoulder in misery.

I can’t do this. I choose my life.

I lower the gun, grab my phone, and shoot it instead.

Nothing can stop me.
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The Priestess and the Prey

The Girl and her basket of pinkish flowers stuck out from the sand like a sore; it stung 150 with a special kind of pain. 150 shielded her eyes and looked away. Since she had first run into the Girl, 150 had adopted a nagging hunch that had since metastasized into a personal taboo. The Girl meant bad luck. Once, after bumping into the Girl, 150 spilled porridge on her uniform in the middle of the dining hall. After that, she tripped while scurrying to class and snapped her ankle in two. If not for the Priestess’ prophecy, 150 would have guessed that her talent was attracting awful luck in the most inconvenient moments. Her real prophecy, unfortunately, was not much of an improvement.

On Xandar, everyone was special: each person was especially, uniquely talented at something - and "something" usually meant anything. 171 was She Who is Best at Calculating Second Derivatives. 616 was She Who is Best at Penciling Comics. 412 was She Who is Best at Matching Wine with Pasta. 150 was usually unimpressed.

“Screw off, 150,” 412 spat as she passed him.

150’s official title was, “She Who is Best at Pointing Out Imperfections While Being Kind of Snarky.” Her classmates preferred “bitch.”

She hadn’t always been snarky, or friendless. She remembered being bubbly and excited - just like the others - eagerly tiptoeing to catch a glimpse of the Temple on her seventh birthday: the day of the Assignment, the ceremony that would unveil her prophecy and teach her who she was truly meant to be.

The temple doors sucked her in and shut behind her, leaving her in blinding darkness.

“150,” an enchanting voice called. There was no body, nor mouth. Yet 150 knew it was the Priestess.

“Yes?” she called out, hesitant. The ceiling roared into a black abyss.

“You have come for your prophecy,” the Priestess echoed into the emptiness. “It has been conceived. It has been decided. And now,” she announced, “It shall be decreed.”

“You shall be,” The Priestess stopped for dramatic flair, “She Who is Best at Pointing Out Imperfections . . .” She paused. “While Being Kind of Snarky.”

The echoes died, smothered by the curtains, leaving only an expectant silence. Two attendants began shuffling out of the curtains.

“You may leave now,” they chanted, touching 150’s shoulders.

Their touch broke 150’s spell of silence. “Wait!” she cried. “That - that can’t be! That doesn’t make any sense! That last part, that just sounds like an afterthought!”

“She Who is Best at Pointing Out Imperfections While Being Kind of Snarky,” the Priestess reiterated, monotone. “Is something unclear?”

“But - but what does that mean?” asked 150.

Silence.

“What am I supposed to do?”

Silence.

“Why?” she pleaded. “Why me?”

“What do you mean, ‘why’ - it just is,” the Priestess said. “You just are. It has been conceived, decided, decreed. What else?” the Priestess’s voice concluded. She was doing a poor job at concealing her annoyance. “Now please, I have 700 children to assign. My servants shall escort you.”

150 struggled against their iron hold, but they thrust her unceremoniously back into the piercing sun. Its glow was no longer promising nor encouraging; it only brought an inescapable sense of doom. She crawled down the clay steps and stumbled into the crowd, until it regurgitated her back onto the dirt. She crouched, back against the wall, cheeks smothered in the dusty pillow of her knees. She smelled of bricks, sweat, and heartbreak.

She was still roaring with disappointment, shoulders breaking with each sob, when she felt a small hand on her temple. 150 peered up.

“Here you go,” said a tiny girl. In her chubby mud-caked fingers was a little pink hydrangea. She held the blossom out to 150. “Take it. I have more,” she gestured to a basket overflowing with blooms.

In her wonder, 150 reached out and accepted the flower. Xandar was a desert city. No one grew flowers, much less found a point in them. They were too puny and died too quickly. 150 hadn’t ever held one before.

“Why?” she asked the little girl. “Why flowers?”

“I like them,” the girl smiled simply. “I grow them, and it makes me happy,” she paused. “Why are you crying?”

She heard the Priestess’ voice uttering the prophecy again, and felt it being branded into her heart. She felt sick. Wrath pierced her stomach.

“Why do you need to know?” She dropped the flower into the dirt. She was jealous of the girl’s smile, her innocence, her sureness.

As she stormed off, 150 couldn’t help but spare a look back. The girl had disappeared, but the hydrangea was still there. Sobbing, 150 ran.

*****

She was halfway through the Student Lounge when she was planted into the carpet by a brick-hard shoulder. A familiar shadow of a gigantic torso enveloped her.

“Dunce,” its arrogant voice crooned. Here was 002, He Who is Best at Building Deltoid Muscles.

“I’m really not looking for a scene, 002,” 150 muttered, nursing her palms. “Please, take your pre-pubescent ego somewhere else. I’m really not worth your energy.”

A smooth blonde head rose over the crowd.

‘Oh, no,’ 150 bit back a curse. ‘Priestess, no.’

001 skimmed two satin gloves down her pristine white uniform. She descended with a brash elegance that reminded the crowd, once again, that she was the one and the only - She Who is Best at Being Beautiful.

“150,” she sang. “Heard you had a little problem with 212’s attitude yesterday.” Her posse came flocking around her, encircling them.

212 was 001’s younger sister, and had not been assigned a role yet, but had taken to her sister’s sense of imperious superiority and had made a nursery game out of tormenting the weaker ones of her fold. After witnessing a particularly puny child stripped of her lunch portion, 150 had decided that it was finally time to use her talent for some good; she let her tongue loose with the fury of all hell.

“Of course, your attitude is quite infamous, as well. I mean, you’re literally called 'the bitch,'” 001 exclaimed into the crowd, arms spread like the opening act of a carnival. “What makes you think you’re so impeccable?” The crowd murmured in agreement.

150, in fact, did not find herself impeccable. Ever since she was tall enough to reach above the bathroom sink, 150 had avoided mirrors like the plague. Her reflection, of course, was in no way immune to her own gift. In the glass, she saw a pitiful creature rife with imperfections, marred with abnormalities and mistakes. With an audience of one - imprisoned in her own body - her mind could berate her heart to its full content.

“Answer me,” 001’s imperious eyes pressed down upon her. She feasted on collective attention, now blazing into them like solar flare.

“If you’re so good at critiquing, you pathetic oaf, criticize me.” She lifted her porcelain chin, proud to present what she knew was worshipped as impeccable.

Kneeling under the domineering sneer of the girl - and the boy, and every child in the room - 150 felt a fury fiercer than fear, an anger more scorching than shame.

“I didn’t choose to be horrible. I was made this way, 001. I tried, I tried to hide, to disappear, to be as nonexistent and harmless as I could to you all, but you wanted me, you wanted to see me explode,” 150's eyes burned, blinding. “They made me a witch, 001. But you - you chose to be one. They gave you a gift - a real gift -” she choked, “and you poisoned it.”

She felt 001’s slap carve a searing scar across her cheeks. 001’s face was seething with shame. The fury contorted even her countenance into something ugly.

“Get. Out,” 001 shuddered. “If we find you still in your dorm at midnight, you better be ready for some real hell before the night is over.”

150 wasn’t stupid enough to stay. Shaking only slightly, she found her way back to her room. She packed her small suitcase. She was sick of this place anyway, she thought, mindlessly snapping the case shut. As she stepped across the doorway, she froze. She was stabbed with an odd pang, a sudden sense of attachment. It had been the closest thing to home.

But 150 was used to leaving. She had known since her seventh birthday that for her, things would always be this way. She ran down the hallway, through the courtyard, past the side gates, and into the village, shrouded in the night. She didn’t look back.

*****

Panting through one alley, then the next, then whichever followed, she only stopped when her legs burned and her heart had turned to ash. She had no idea where she was. Smoothing her hair and catching her breath, she picked a street that she liked and started down the road.

Like all Xandarian nights, this one smelled of sand and chimney smoke. She passed one door and the next, each its characteristic dusty yellow. Suddenly, her eyes exploded with pink.

Hydrangeas. An entire porch full of hydrangeas. Among the fluffy blooms, a young girl stood, her hand on a rusty watering can and her eyes glued to 150’s figure.

“Hello,” the girl called.

“Hello,” 150 called back, like an old neighbor coming home.

“I know you,” she smiled.

“Me too,” 150 said. The two stood in a cozy silence. Crickets buzzed. Searching for words, 150 breathed in a full whiff of the sugared scent of sweet summer blooms.

“About that time - about your flowers,” she started. “I’m sorry. don’t know what came over me - I didn’t want to be mean,” she said.

“I know,” the girl said, understanding.

“I’m just - I’m built this way.” She lifted her hands, as if to present a failed experiment. Her words tumbled forth, free. “It’s who I am. I’m She Who Finds Imperfections in Everything. She Who Can’t Ever Be Happy. She Who’s Snarky and Mean and Never Invited to Things and No One Likes. It’s - it’s just how it is.”

“Why?” the girl asked, eyes open with curiosity.

“The Priestess said so,” 150 sighed.

“Who’s the Priestess?” the girl asked, head turning slightly.

“I… I don’t really know,” 150 hesitated. “She’s the goddess at the Temple. She tells us our fates, what we’re supposed to be good at, who we are. And we listen. It’s how it’s always been.”

“No,” the girl said, shaking her head. “I mean, who is she?”

“What?” 150 blanked.

“Who is she?” the girl blinked, smiling. “Why do you listen?”

“Because . . .” 150 deliberated, “because we’re supposed to. Because they all do. We all do.”

“Are you sure they all do?” the Girl asked, eyebrows arched in a smile. She tipped the watering can to an orange pot.

“How about you?” the girl asked. Met with a helpless look, the Girl asked again. “I mean, what do you like? What do you want to do? What would you be?”

150 thought. She labored, hard. Deep in her heart, she knew her answer mattered. She upturned all the drawers in her head, combing through the memories. This past year - nothing. The year before that - nothing. And the year before that, and before that - all nothing - until she arrived at the day of her Assignment.

“I,” her voice quivered, but her heart was set. “I liked your flowers.” She smiled - suddenly, sheepishly, hopefully. “Your hydrangea. I liked it. I wanted to keep it.”

“It was yours,” the girl grinned, “I gave it to you, remember?” Touching the head of a drooping bloom, she asked, “Think you’d still like them?”

150 nodded.

“Then come up,” the girl lifted her watering can. “Help me,” she said, and the two words were both soft and gay.

150 wanted to. 150 decided to. 150 did.