Free Writing Samples

This is a collection of the short stories I've written through the years starting at age thirteen through today (but not necessarily in that order). This will hopefully give you some insight to my writing journey and how my skills developed. Here are some of the following genres that are included in these short stories;

Historical Fiction
Science Fiction
Dystopian Fiction
Coming of age
Tragedy

Impermanent

Alita Christianson

After a bitter winter away in the dark, rats and mice will scurry among the golden-green fields of spring. A rat’s needs are simply this: to survive, to eat, to sleep, to drink and have children. Among these busy rodents was the white rat, he was the best of them all, and he knew it, as his silky fur and dark, mesmerizing eyes. Nobody could seem to compete with his speed and agility. However, it was his strength that allowed him to easily swipe food and other resources from his peers, instead of scurrying in the fields to forage under the eyes of hungry hawks. Confidently, he’d steal food from his helpless rivals, often leaving a body behind.

Despite the white rat’s self-centered nature, he had always cared for and had been cared for by his benevolent ally, the red haired rat. The two had been together since they were pups. Of course, the red haired rat wasn’t as handsome nor as soft as he, but had a giving and honest spirit. The red haired rat was loved by all and a role model to the young. No one knew why he bothered to give more than he had. To share resources like water and food, even when they were scarce and it meant he had to grow thin.

His benevolence had earned him the love of the gorgeous Brown mouse. She was a wonderful sight, her fur so long and smooth. Her eyes shined like emeralds, high-lighted with her long thick eyelashes.

The day they met, the Red and white Haired Rat had been strolling within the young sprouts of grain watching for hawks and the old farm cat. When the Brown haired mouse appeared from what seemed like thin air in all her glory. The two rats instantly fell in love with her and tried almost all they could to get her attention.

The white haired rat offered the finest cuisine and rat he could offer and displayed his strength by picking fights with larger rats and defeating them almost effortlessly. However, the Brown mouse saw nothing but selfishness in him. While in the meantime she saw the Red Haired Rat’s helping paw and grateful nature and knew almost instantly he was one she wanted.

The white haired rat was enraged by this decision. Consumed by the blinding flame of jealousy, the White Haired Rat challenged the Red Rat to a duel. “May the loser meet his fate and the victor have the Brown Haired Mouse as his prize.” The White Rat announced to all in earshot.

As expected, the duel was short, ending with the White Rat proving victorious when he had slaughtered his only ally, the lovable Red Haired Rat. Upon seeing the torn pieces of her love had left the Brown Haired Mouse in gravitating misery. She fled the scene before White Rat could claim her and hid in her burrow.

The Brown Mouse’s young and lively sister, the Golden haired Mouse, soon heard about the fight and rushed to try to support her sister. Despite of her strong efforts, it was all done in vain. The brown mouse had refused to eat and in less than a week had died of starvation. Seized by the fingernails of grief, the Golden haired mouse left her sister’s burrow and would become bitter and cold as she withered away from sadness.

As for the White rat, he lived on and had a family of his own. Life went on till he lay there in the open field, collapsed from age and exhaustion. The memory of which he spilled the blood of the benevolent red haired rat haunted him, as if his friend mocked him from heaven, until he was clawed by a hawk and all went to black.

Louise: Behind The Scene

Alita Christianson

It was May 10, 1940 and Hitler’s army had crossed the Albert Canal from the Northeast on his way to France. In his conquest for becoming a dominating power in Europe, Belgium was no exception. As our army headed to defend our beloved country, we knew the fighting would be in vain. My father’s face was struck with fear, remembering the Germans’ destructive power from World War One as he hurried my mother and I to the bunker. The last thing I saw before going into hiding was the invading soldiers in their greenish-gray uniforms armed and marching through our streets in perfect unison.

For eighteen days my family and I waited in the dark with nothing to do but count the passing hours. One, two, three, four, five…….ten… Occasionally, I would lose count and have to start over with every sudden noise coming from outside. I remember bracing myself against the walls of the bunker or to my father’s leg, just waiting for the earth’s surface to give way to the crushing weight of the German tanks.

When the battle was finally over and my hand in my mother’s, we emerged from our hiding place, half blinded by the sunlight as we gazed upon the rubble of our once familiar home. Although most buildings were left standing, we knew without asking, that the Germans had won and their occupation was confirmed. Which was not surprising to anyone considering the might of their new empire. We learned from our neighbors that our government had been exiled to London and King Leopold was put under house arrest in his palace. Now what? We asked ourselves, What does this mean for Belgium's future?

My father, being a Belgian Nationalist, had decided to take matters into his own hands a couple days later. Suddenly, I’d find him up before the break of dawn by a little lamp reading the latest news in La Libre Belgique by Pual Struye, a Belgian journalist and lawyer during World War One. At first I thought nothing of it. Sure, father had expressed some odd ideas about how to liberate Belgium, but he always had something absurd to say about everything…Why would this time be any different? However, I quickly changed my mind after he started to help print and distribute his favorite newspaper. As the penalties of doing so were quite clear and could potentially lead to his death.

My mother also felt uneasy as she questioned him during dinner one night. “Good heavens Adam! You’re already putting Louise and I at risk having unauthorized newsletters in our home! Now you’re distributing them as well? What do you want? Prison? A death sentence? Torture? I’m becoming worried about how involved you are with the resistance!”

I nearly choked on what little supper I had when mother said the word “resistance”. “How?” I asked, “How could a small country like Belgium combat Germany?”

Mother gave father a “don’t-you-dare" look, but he ignored her and said to me, “Louise, do you ever feel oppressed by the German occupiers? Imagine! In our own country, which mind you -” He roared, shaking his fist to the ceiling at some unseen foe, “has been ours for over a century! Factory workers like myself already had limited rations before, but since the Nazi’s I’ve had noticeably less in just a couple days… Lina, Louise, the two of you must understand, fellow Belgians are going to starve because our food (among other items) is being handed over to the Nazi war effort.”

“What is the resistance exactly?” I asked with a spark of interest, “How do they plan to liberate Belgium?”

Father nodded at me and mother left the room as if she didn’t want anything to do with our conversation. “I could tell you everything and more,” he replied, “However, I believe my message would be more impactful if I show you, but you must swear to secrecy. Do you understand Louise? Not a word to anyone.”

Upon my agreement, father and I strolled through the street and had I not known better, I would say my father was lost. We passed by the same shops, apartments, railroads and soldiers. I had hoped none of them recognized us and thought nothing of it. Finally, he and I walked into an underground railroad. A short plump man met us at the entry asking about our business there. Father reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a delicately folded piece of paper and handed it to him. “Not to worry Mr. Baert,” father told him calmly, “I’m a friend from Zero and my daughter is interested in the cause.” Mr. Baert was dressed in a royal blue jacket showing his rank as an upperclassman, perhaps a business owner of some kind? I couldn’t understand why he’d want to liberate Belgium because I thought the privileged would benefit from the German occupation’s high demand for manufactured products and stock market.

Mr. Baert glared at me and said, “Very well Adam and … ?”

“Louise,” I answered.

“Louise, can you read or write? Do you go to school? Do you have any Jewish friends still here in Belgium?” he asked, “ How well are you at paying attention to details? How good is your memory?”

Before I had a chance to answer, father intersected the conversation. “I’m not looking to recruit her sir. However, I do think she needs to know about Zero and other intelligence agencies around Belgium who are also connected to the underground network. She could help direct POWs to them.”

Mr. Baert gestured for me and my father to follow him and scoffed, “I hardly think an escaped Prisoner of War will approach a random girl and think she’d be of any help. Although she could distribute papers you know, information on the current state of our economy and politics may be our most potent weapon against the Nazi party. That is until our allies finally agree to fight alongside us.” The whole tour I couldn’t believe my ears and I left convinced the world had gone out of control. Why hadn’t I considered Germany’s motives for taking Belgium besides getting to France? The names of my Jewish friends flooded my mind. Mila, Arthor, Emma… What will happen to them?

It was right then and there that I decided I would do whatever I could to help liberate Belgium from Hitler’s control, though I knew it wouldn’t be much…Had I not thought the world was crazy before, now I knew it had been absolutely mad after the Germans imposed their anti-semitiziumic laws on Belgian citizens. I recall one morning out on my porch when I saw my Jewish neighbors, Author and his parents being forced out of their home with expressions of grief as if they knew…That they’d never come home again. They were escorted away by Natiz soldiers and I never heard from them once afterwards. If anything had stuck with me after all these years, it would be that very moment of standing on my doorstep feeling helpless, fearful and useless against a higher power.

Father had the right idea from the start, I met with Mr. Baert through the same hidden station my father had shown me and offered my services. After that, my afternoons would be spent on street corners handing copies of “unauthorized” newspapers and eavesdropping on German soldiers’ conversations when I could do so safely. I spent two years helping print and distribute papers when I joined a greater organization also assisting in the resistance against our German captors in 1942. When heard of sabotage of Transportation XX , a train full of Jews headed to Auschwitz that was executed by three men of the Jewish protection Committee. There I would spend another two years helping create fake IDs for Jew escapees and allied POWs for when they reach Spain (or other neutral countries) via the underground network. The network, I later learned, consisted of tunnels that spread across one thousand miles of Europe out from the city of Brussels. Occasionally, I would make new IDs for Jewish Children who went into hiding with their parents in barns and under floorboards.

My parents weren’t entirely pleased about how involved their eighteen year old daughter had become in the Belgian Underground and other resistance organizations. I couldn’t say I blame them either, in the end we counted forty thousand of us had been arrested including my father, and fifteen thousand underground operators were killed. In spite of this, I had felt in my gut that this was what I was meant to do, to help free my country and save the lives of thousands of Jews including hiding four thousand children, increasing their chances of making it to adulthood.

Of course, a commitment like this wasn’t without its risks, with the statistics mentioned before, I was constantly haunted by the thought of being arrested, beaten or hung for treason. Often I would find another librater being punished for his “crimes'' as his blood would paint the sidewalk with red. I shudder to imagine what it was like to suffer so badly for so long and potentially for nothing. What if in the end, everything we’ve worked for was for nothing? After all, though our success rate was higher than once imagined, it could still end up spiraling out of our favor. The unknown followed every breath I took and nothing felt certain.

That is until September 2, 1944, Liberation Day! It was the day our allies had finally agreed to help us in our cause. The Americans, Britians and Canadians had at last come to our aid! I hurried to the underground bunker with my mother and was struck with not fear, but hope. The hope of a free Belgium, I imagined what it would be like with utmost impatience. Where the air was sweeter, where the sounds were softer and the sights kinder like an equivalence to heaven on earth. However, when the gunshots and bombing had faded, there was a moment of question… My heart began to pound, what had happened? Did we win? It was a moment of timid silence as Belgians with shaking hands emerged from their hiding places. What happened next was a beautiful cry of triumph as men, women and children alike took to the streets waving their handkerchiefs farewell to the Nazi soldiers. So we’re free… What is next for Belgium? There I knew, with my hand in my mother’s, Belgium would face many more challenges, but at least now we had a backbone and the safety net of our allies. I had done my part in helping to liberate my country. If only my father could see me now and how I had grown since the Germans crossed the Albert Canal.

My World

Alita Christianson.

My world is made of gray, the sound of pounding hammers, and the flickering lights with their loss cables swinging back and forth. Sometimes that’s all life does, like a pendulum swinging back and forth. From light to dark, from work to rest, from tired to ready. I stood in the assembly line with One-Three standing next to me. I heat the steel, and he hammers it. Then it goes on to Two-One and she adds another piece. Then it goes to Two-Two, Two-Three, Three-One and on. I have never seen the end of the assembly line.

The supervisor, our father in his neat black tie, comes to check on us around the clock. “Move faster!” he demands, “Production must not fall behind!” So I heat the steel faster, One-Three pounds faster, and Two-One to adds pieces faster. Faster, faster, move, move, move. Welcome to my world.

For as long as I can remember I heated the steel, and past it along the endless assembly line never knowing where it goes. I didn't need to know where it went, all I need to know is how to do my job right. Father would always say, “Remember ladies and gentlemen, your life is to serve and to serve is your life.” All I want is to make father proud, so I stay focused on my task with time for second thoughts. However, when I report to my resting capsule, I have time to dream. I dream and long for the light I heat the last steal. When Father would finally be proud of me, when at least I see the light of rest. It's coming I thought, soon I will rest, and I will be happy.

Little did I know how soon rest would come, but it hadn't been the rest I'd hopped for... I was reanimated from my resting capsule at early light; One-One handed me a steel for heating, then I gave it to One-Three to pound, and for Two-One to add another piece and on, like every light. Till the conveyor belt came to a halt. I looked over to One-One his phalanges tightly gripped around the piece of steel. One-One stood as if he were unable to move, I leaned closer.

Then without a moment's notice One-One swung the steel impaling me. I could see the steel’s edge sticking out from my chest. I felt nothing, only shock. One-One carried on with his business and handed me another piece of steel after the next, none of which I heated. With the loud clacking of One-Three’s hammer pounding unheated steel, I slowly pulled out the piece of steel.

No red oil was spilled. I know when father gets cut red oil spills from him, so why doesn’t it spill from me? Father says getting cut hurts and then yells a power word he forbids us to repeat. I don’t know what it means to hurt or why I can’t think of power words. I looked down at the new found hole and a string of copper poked out of it.

Slowly, I opened the hole with the sound of tearing skin quickly revealing copper string after copper string. Same copper strings had a black rubber coating. I fiddled with the copper strings trying to pull them out. I’d never be able to finish my primary directive with them springing out.

Copper String by Copper string I pulled them out. By one, by one, by one, pulling them out onto the moving conveyor belt. I felt even more dysfunctional with every string I pulled out. Eventually, My two thick stilts couldn’t stand. I collapsed to the floor, I couldn’t move and I don’t know why. Then the thought struck me. Had I been the copper strings? Had what I perceived as me been wrong, had I really been a bunch of Copper strings? What am I really?

I wanted answers and I longed for father, he’d know what to do, he always has. I don’t know how much time had passed, but I was tired and lonesome on the concrete floor. Father, I thought, Help me… Just like that, he was there. Standing above me shaking his head, “Blast,” he said, “That’s the third one this week, they're getting expensive.” Father…. I thought, reaching out to him, Help me. Just as he came, he left. Then darkness became my new forever world.

Śrī Laṁkāva Saha Mama

Sri Lanka and I

Alita Christianson

Ever since I was a little girl, I dreamed of Sri Lanka. An island south of India and the birthplace of my father, Arjuna de Silva. He told me about its victories against British rule. He excited me with stories about its culture, religions and festivals. I had to be eight years old when I started to research the legacy of Sri Lanka myself. Seeing my inspiration and fascination, my aunt Upeksha, started to teach me how to speak Sinhala, its national language.

“Try again sweetie,” she’d say, “ It's Oy-āt a stū-ti-yi, thank you.”

I couldn’t be more grateful for her. Now after nine years, I am fluent and can focus on saving money to travel to Nugegoda Sri Lanka to attend the university of Sri Jayewardenepura. The same university my mother attended before she met my father.

While senior year is coming to a close, I can feel my dream coming just around the corner. Which means I have exactly three and a half months to save for a plane ticket and extra to supply me till I find a job in Nugegoda. Shouldn’t be too hard, right? After all, the American dollar is worth way more than a Sri Lankan Rupee. Plus my uncle, Nirved, has offered me to stay with him for the first few weeks and Sri Jayewardenepura is a non-profit college. How hard can it be?

Well, it was hard. My best friend Marina and I took babysitting jobs, we planted flowers, did lots of chores, and worked shifts in a restaurant downtown. We did eventually raise $1,900 which is just barely enough for the both of us to achieve our dream destinations in august. Marina will be off to study in Greece with her cousin and I’ll be on my way to Nugegoda. Marina and I continue to work for what was left of summer and finally, finally, finally, I’m on the plane destined for Sri Lanka. With an additional $50 in my purse (Come to think of it, it's not such a great idea) the equivalent of 14,696.98 Sri Lankan Rupees.

I can feel the warmth of my childhood dream come to life. I am so excited, so nervous, so scared, and happy all at the same time. To pass the twenty three hour flight, I put on my bright yellow headphones and listened to a sinhalese podcast on my phone. “ ‘Ayubōvan savandennan! Venadā vagēma adat mama ayaṁṣ–” The host said, Hello listeners! As always I’m Aayansh and today—. I might have listened to an hour or so before I fell asleep, dreaming of my destination.

The next time I opened my eyes and looked out the window and it was dark outside. I asked a flight attendant how much longer it would be till we landed in Sri Lanka. “About thirteen more hours” she replied, I moaned in disappointment, “Oh don’t be like that, besides it’s a great time to catch up on some sleep.” Then she shuffled off to the next passenger. ‘Great…’ I thought, ‘I just got, what? Nine hours of sleep? What else can I do?’

I can’t quite remember what else I did, but somehow I finally stepped foot onto the runway of the Colombo international airport. I have my luggage in my right hand and passport and purse in my left. I inhaled the Sri Lankan air. It wasn’t as nearly clean as I hoped it would be, but it's polluted everywhere. Right?

With my bags I enter the inspection station. The guard greeted me with a head nod and said, “Helō mis magē nama Danujā. Maṭa obē gaman malu parīkṣā kaḷa haekida?” Hello miss, my name is Danuja. May I check your Luggage? Of course I didn’t have a choice, but I nodded anyway and replied, “Šuvar. Sure.” Danujā's eyes widened, then said in perfect English: “Do you speak Sinhala?” I nodded, She smiled “A’karṣaṇīya! Impressive.” As she searched my bags and checked my passport, she asked “What inspired you to learn Sinhala?”

“Mama ardha vaśayen śrī lāṁkikayek vana atara magē naendā maṭa igeannuvā. I’m partially Sri Lankan and my aunt taught me.” I answered. Finally Danuja gave me the go ahead to the next station.

Finally out of the airport I saw my uncle Nirved in his little green Nissan. I look at him and then at the picture Aunt Upeksha gave me and then back again. The man in the photo didn’t really look like him and I haven’t seen him in years. The man in the photo was thinner than him, was beardless, and had nicely combed hair. Then again this picture had to be taken seventeen years ago. So I asked “Oba Nirvēd da Silvā da?Are you Nirved de Silva?” He looked at me with bland face and replied, “ Aetta vaśayenma, oba māva an̆durannē naedda Priyā?” Of course, don’t you recognize me Priya? I shook my head. After a lot of reassuring, I finally got in and he drove away. After all these years I’m finally here, so why am I not, you know… Impressed? Sri Lanka so far just seemed like a run down version of America. ‘It's because I haven’t seen all of the attractions or the school yet,’ I assured myself, ‘It had to be…’

The next day I got ready for school. I'm so excited and so nervous! I hurry down the hall to meet Uncle Nirved for breakfast. I turn on the tap water to fill my glass but he stops me. “Næ Priya!” No Priya, Nirved warned, “Naḷa jalaya perīma nokaḷa atara obē saukhyayaṭa hāni kaḷa hæki kṣudra jīvīn æta! Menna, mēka ganna.”

The water has microorganisms that can harm your health! Here, have this. Handing me a plastic water bottle. Microorganisms? Dad never mentioned anything about microorganisms in the water…

Uncle Nirved drove me to the university soon after. It was beautiful! Small but classy, just as I dreamed it would be. I walked out onto campus and did my best not to run through the entryway. In the theater I was amazed! It was in a wide open room with bright scarlett seats, almost completely filled, all perfectly symmetrical facing downward toward the stage. The stage itself had brightly colored curtains and nicely polished flooring. The principal Welivitiye Sortha maha Thero came onto the stage. “ Āyubōvan! Hello!” He smiled and said something else in Tamil. I can only assume it means “hello” too.

As Welivitiye spoke I found my seat next to a blond girl who didn’t seem to be Sri Lankan at all. “Maṭ a samāvenna.” I whispered, but when she cocked her head I translated, “Excuse me.”

“Oh sorry, I don’t speak Sinhala”

The blond girl pulled her legs in to let me pass and I sat down beside her on the right. During Welivitiye’s welcome/Introductory speech, the blond girl whispered, “My name’s Chathura by the way. You?”

“Priya de Silva.”

“What’s your major Priya? Mine’s a faculty of allied health science.”

“Faculty of applied sciences.”

I tried to give quick answers to each question hoping Chathura would get the idea I’m not interested in talking to her. Unfortunately, She didn’t and continued to ask questions like ‘Are you dorming?’, ‘Do you have a minor? If so, what's it in?’, ‘Are you a native or are you an exchange student like me?”

It was the same throughout the entire day. Besides Chathura being an annoyance, at the end of the day, I realized that my experience would be the same in America. Just less expensive, more centered around Buddhism, and more people speak Sinhala. However, the classes were taught in English and I got the same good education but… It was nothing like I dreamed it to be. Dad had glorified Sri Lanka and now actually experiencing it, I’m wondering if this was the right choice.

I told this to my uncle back at his home and he said, “Tavama adhairyamat venna epā, Priyā. Śrī laṁkāva ikmaninma obaṭa oppu vanu æta. Ē gæna yamak nokarannē nam.” Don’t get discouraged yet, Priya. Sri Lanka will prove itself to you. If it doesn’t, do something about it. ‘DO something about it?’ I thought, ‘Like what? Wave a wand and make Sri Lanka like I dreamed it to be? That doesn’t make sense.’

The following morning at school, Chathura slowly walked up to me. This was rather peculiar because she’s typically more bubbly, more enthusiastic. “Mokak da værædda?

What’s wrong?” I asked. Chathura looked up at me with tears in her eyes, and sobbed “I saw a kid pass out cold in the streets from malnutrition. He couldn’t have been older than six.” She sniffled, “The mom was there and she was panicking. You should have seen him Priya… He was so thin… Like, he hadn’t eaten in days. A woman told me he hadn’t been the first one either. Ever since the COVID pandemic caused the collapse in Sri Lanka’s economics, now they're trying to recover it but…In the meantime with the country in debt with China, Sri lankans are faced with poverty.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. Poverty… Malnutrition…Collapsed economics… In debt with China… Sri Lanka was nothing like I imagined. As a kid I pictured festive and happy people. Who live in one of the most (as my dad portrayed it to be) extraordinary country on earth. Now, I'm not so sure. “So..” Sniffled Chathura whipping away her tears, “What are we gonna do about it Priya?”

The question caught me by surprise. ‘What are we going to do about it?’ I speculated. What can we do? Even if we had a plan, who’d listen to us?

“If we could make a plan," Chathura chimed over enthusiastically "A really good plan, that solves one if not more problems they’ll have to listen to us!”

I furrowed my brow and frowned, “Do you know anything about running a country, economics, or getting out of debt?”

“No, but I can learn; anything already known can be learned. Especially if there's a drive to do so: I love Sri Lanka, and that's drive enough. I want to make considerable change, but I can’t without Sri Lankan politicians' ratification. Given the fact I only have a student visa despite of being partly Sri Lankan. Besides, my writing isn't great and I can't speak Sinhala or Tamil. Will you help me?”

Of course I couldn’t say no, I too wanted to see a change. It was only after the deal was made, that I realized what I had signed up for. At the dinner table I discussed with Uncle Nirved about what Cathura had seen, how she wanted to help and how she planned to do it. Nirved Smiled and giggled, “Ē kella harima ræḍikal vagē!” That girl seems pretty radical!

“Ov, pāhē ræḍikal…” I replied, nodding my head. Yes, almost too radical…

After dinner I headed up to my room. I started researching Sri Lanka’s history before and after the COVID-19 pandemic. The debt Sri Lanka owed is 40.6 billion dollars to multiple foreign countries and other national banks making the odds even lower for an effective solution to arise. Obviously that's what causes taxes to rise. Looking at my uncle’s bills compared to bills paid before the pandemic made this become clear. It’s funny how researching debt made me realize just how generous my uncle Nirved is by allowing me to stay with him.

I started to do more research on more of Sri Lanka’s societal issues and realized the core issue is financial. Malnutrition is a problem because families typically can’t afford nutritious food (if they can afford food at all). Poverty is a problem not only because families are struggling to find food but is working with industrial agriculture which is far less stainable.

I brought this information to Chathura the next day at lunch break. “We’re in over our heads.” I told her, “Clearly Sri Lanka has too many holes to mend, especially politically after president Gotabaya ran away.”

“Well,” Chathura said, examining my notes, “I’ve been doing my own research and I believe we can still help Sri Lanka. At least Financially.”

“How’s that?”

“I’ve read that most of Sri Lanka’s money came from tourism before the pandemic. Which I’m certain costs a lot of jobs for people given the 31.46% unemployment rate. In addition to the rapidly increasing inflation.”

“ Your point is?”

“How can we decrease inflation? How can we give people more jobs that already exist? How can we give Sri Lanka more money making potential without withdrawing additional loans from foreign banks? Basically, how can we improve what Sri Lanka Already has?”

I think for a moment… “Well I did read that Organic agriculture is a lot more sustainable than industrial but it was banned because, supposedly, organic agriculture used pesticides that were harmful to citizens' health and environment.”

“There are natural ways you can keep pests like slugs and spiders away! By using orange peels and eggshells! People could collect them and sell them to small local farms for say, two rupees per three ozs? Oh, and larger farms can use that ancient mayan farming technique. Do you know what I mean? Where one field is made up of multiple crops that protect each other and provide for each other. Like… An artificial ecosystem?”

I nodded and replied, “It might be able to work, but only for select native crops. I like your Idea about using natural pesticides and fertilizers, although the ‘salesperson’ would spend a lot more than they’d be paid. For now let’s focus on tourism, Sri Lanka’s largest source of income. Obviously people will need to come to Sri Lanka for this industry to work. So How can we attract tourists?”

Chathura, getting excited, answered, “We could write a letter to air ports in America and other wealthy countries to start a fundraiser for low-income Sri lankans. Per every purchase to Sri Lanka or other countries in a similar region, 10% of the money can be donated to families on or under the poverty line. With every purchase there could be a couple prepaid tickets to attractions luring in tourists!”

“Maybe we could create a blog to make people aware of Sri Lanka’s finacle issues. We could list the attractions, history behind them, the prepaid tickets and partner with other ‘trip recommender sites’ to build our audience faster.”

The bell rang signaling it was time for us to go back to class, Chathura and I decided to meet in the courtyard to further discuss our plans. We met with a few teachers as well to look our plans over. Mr. Perera shook his head as he skimmed through the notes, “You girls are sweet,” He said, “But I’m afraid Sri Lanka’s problems as a nation are beyond simple charity and blog posts.”

Chathura and I exchanged glances. “What would you do to make it better?” I asked sincerely, “We’re thinking about focusing on tourism. How would you, Mr.Perera, improve the industry in the cheapest way possible?”

Mr.Perera didn’t get back to us till the next day, after Chathura and I had further developed the plan. “Your plans are detailed and elegant.” He said, “But, I think you have better chances with improving agriculture. Our people need to be fed before we’ll be able to address our finacle and environmental issues. Besides, the chances of our tourism industry recovering is unlikely, given the recent disaster on Sri Lankan sores.”

I tilled my head in confusion, then he sighed and continued, “Recently according to the BBC news, a ship bearing flammable chemicals waiting to enter the Colombo harbor, caught fire last week. The remaining waste is ending up on our sores and trashing our beaches.”

‘No wonder the air seemed polluted’, I thought, recalling when I first stepped out of the airport.

“So what’s our plan Priya?” Chathura asked. This time I didn’t have an answer and looked down at my feet. There had to be a way, something I’m missing. What is it? Should I proceed with our original plan? Should I quit and go home? I remembered Uncle Nirved’s words: “Śrī laṁkāva ikmaninma obaṭa oppu vanu æta. Ē gæna yamak nokarannē nam.” Sri Lanka will prove itself to you. If it doesn’t, do something about it.

“So?” I ask “WHAT ARE we going to do about it?”