Adolescence
What is beauty?
Beauty is a meaning, but people mostly know it as a word. Many people think beauty is just about how someone looks, like their face, their clothes or how perfect they seem. But I think beauty is much more than that. Real beauty is something you feel, not just something you see.
For me, beauty can be the way someone laughs without caring what others think, or how a person helps someone when they don’t have to. It can be the small things, like the colors of the sky during sunset or the feeling you get when you spend time with people who truly understand you.
Sometimes the most beautiful people are not the ones who look perfect, but the ones who are kind, honest and real. Their beauty comes from the way they treat others and how they make people feel. So, in my eyes, beauty is not about being perfect. It is about being yourself, showing kindness and finding happiness in the simple things around you.
What is love to you?
Love isn’t limited to romantic relationships. Love for me can exist between a person and an idea or even a way of seeing the world. Love is curiosity, it’ s the act of noticing, truly noticing, truly noticing. Paying attention to how someone speaks, what they avoid, what excites them, their passions, and so much more. It’s all about discovering, seeing what others don’t, noticing small details, a space for growth. Love is also about giving, not grand gestures or carelessly chosen gifts, but small thoughtful actions that show you’re there, for example checking in after something important to you, showing that you understand and care. It’s about someone’s soul.
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Heroism and Women
What is a hero?
According to the British Psychological Society, heroes are perceived as being significantly more altruistic, compassionate, courageous, selfless, protective, and morally upright, and more inclined to save others and sacrifice themselves. Furthermore, they influence our world in ways that were previously unimagined. Hearing this, a group of people comes to mind that fits exactly this definition: women!
More specifically, women have made their mark on the world in unforeseen ways! For example, in the scientific field, Marie Curie discovered the radioactive elements polonium and radium and developed techniques for isolating radioactive isotopes. In politics, Rosa Parks with her refusal to give up her bus seat, sparked the Montgomery Bus Boycott, a pivotal moment in the American Civil Rights Movement and Greta Thunberg addressed climate change and social issues. Also, in art, Artemisia Gentileschi reshaped the baroque painting style and in sports, Ellie Simmonds became a powerful voice for people with disabilities. In addition to this, women share all the characteristics that are mentioned in this definition. Mothers are willing to sacrifice everything for their children including their own lives. In friendships, women are concerned for each other and they always look out for, protect and help one another. In the workplace, companies with female representation outperform those with male representation and they are the key of our world’s economy. Finally, in society, women are brave and fearless and
they speak out against injustice and they put the welfare of the world above their personal gain. To sum up, all women are heroes, as they have changed our world through their work, their love and empathy for each other and their desire to make it a better place, they all share these characteristics that makes them brave individuals and inspiring role models. And as Qiu Jin, a Chinese revolutionary said: ‘Do not tell me that women do not have the flesh of a hero!’
Η Τεχνητή Νοημοσύνη (AI)
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Τhe ghost girl
It was quiet, deadly quiet when I first set foot in the graveyard next to my house. I was young, about 10 and we had just moved in. My new friends dared me to go in there alone and sit on a gravestone for 10 whole minutes. I was terrified, to say the least. But as I sat there, on the ground (not on a gravestone, because I deemed that way too disrespectful), a strange calm came over me. Throughout the years, I started going there more often, at first out of morbid curiosity and soon because the place had started to feel more like my backyard. I started studying there, hanging out by myself reading. Some nights, when I couldn’t sleep, I snuck out to sit on the grass next to the polished marble slabs.
One sunlit afternoon, after a rough day at school, I spotted a girl around my age sitting on a tree. She was wearing a white button up shirt and an old worn - down vest. Her hair was short and fluffy, almost like a cloud on her head. As I came a little closer, I realised she was chattering to a crow.
«What a peculiar girl...» I thought to myself but, again, who was I to talk.
I started walking towards her.
«Hey!» I called out, trying to sound friendly. The girl stopped talking to the crow that was now cleaning its wings with its beak beside her, and smiled excitedly at me.
«Oh! Hi there! I didn’t expect anyone would be here!» She blinked down to me from her perch. «I’m Lily!»
I chuckled and started climbing the tree. I sat down next to her. To my surprise, the crow took a good look at me but then continued his feather-picking.
«That’s a Jasper. He’s a little grumpy but he’s good company.”
She giggled brightly. The crow just glared at her. We talked until the sun went down. She was a lot like me.
She liked the same things as I did. We understood each other in some unexplainable way.
«So! When did you die?» she said casually.
The moon was riding high in the sky now.
I blinked, looking at her features glowing in the moonlight.
«Sorry?» I must have misheard... right?
«Oh my god... You’ re alive, aren’t you?!» she said, equally shocked as she examined me better.
She scrambled away from me, her eyes wide, as if scared. We stared at each other for a few moments. I stifled a laugh.
“I think, I’m supposed to be scared of you and not the other way around.” I said, smirking a little.
Lily just rolled her eyes. “No way! Humans are way scarier than ghosts!”
“How so?” I asked, intrigued.
“Ghosts are harmless. We’re just kind of there most of the time. No one sees us, we have no reason to hurt anyone. Humans on the other hand, are creatures with needs, with fears. A desperate human is one of the scariest things in the world.”
I nodded and let out a sigh. “I get what you mean. We really can be a horrible bunch but…there’s always a silver lining to every cloud, right?”
I moved a little closer to the ghost girl.
“I’m not scary, am I?”
She chuckled a little and shaked her head. Jasper moved a little closer as well, pecking around my hand.
Soon I had to leave my new friend—sorry, friends— because I heard my mother calling me home.
“I have to go.” I said sadly as I slid down the tree.
Lily groaned and adjusted her position on the tree.
“Fine…But be back tomorrow yeah? Ghosts may not have needs but that means that we don’t have any goals either. It gets very boring.”
I chuckled and waved goodbye to the ghost girl, my bad day forgotten.
Urban ghost stories
I’ve read quite a number of ghost stories. In fact, a lot of books filled with them live in the bookshop where I work. Here in the city centre, they have been proven to be quite popular among all ages. Most of them are set in cottages and lonely villages, only few of them featuring haunted urban edifices that someone living here could ever encounter. But that doesn’t seem to have any impact on the great number of glimpses customers cast upon them.
Some of them come from lonely faces of people who have visited the wooden shelves alone, spending hours of searching just to select a single read. Other glances sparkle with livelier curiosity, accompanied by conversations over read books and recommendations for friends. Several people don’t even need to enter the shop for their gazes to fall on the ghost stories – sometimes unconsciously, accidentally – for their stares to dance over the spines of the books whose pages are visited by phantoms. I’ve seen people who lean on the exterior of the bookshop’s pastel walls, distancing themselves for a moment from the city centre’s busy haze, just to take a call, sometimes furiously, rage burning like fire in a bottle against the phone; occasionally heartbroken, tears fighting to show themselves and simultaneously drowning to stay forever hidden; and periodically laughing, a sacred sound that glows in the dark even more radiant than the traffic lights of the city centre. And even those people, their eyes trailing automatically over the books of the vitrines, finally find comfort in this shelf at the back, whose residents of pages are written to visualize the ghosts that are otherwise invisible, to materialize the wraiths of souls and also actions that were never done, and to spell words that were never spoken.
There are also a couple of armchairs and a coffee table that stand on a soft, round carpet next to the books with the stories of the phantasms. Some customers prefer to read their books there, especially on cloudy, rainy days. I’ve seen and heard many things over the ghost tales that are perused in those chairs; I’ve spotted tears gently fall on dry, crisp pages; I’ve witnessed backs leaning closer to books as eyes shimmered with intensity; I’ve observed enough to catch the smiles that slowly form at the end of a sentence; I’ve heard silent curses followed by apologetic looks towards me; and I’ve listened to gasps of surprise that come with the turn of a page. Sometimes I’ve realized that behind them all are the
experiences of a million lives, of emotions whose screams were temporarily, lonesomely comforted, of memories and wishes and regrets and reliefs endured in the reality of the readers and then mirrored in the words read by them – them who seek for something in the infinite, wild spin of the city centre; something that finally lead them to this little bookshop. Maybe they are still searching, for their expressions paint a thousand worlds as they read, and the invisible threads they leave behind them still wait before them, writing countless possibilities, countless stories – in some endings letting them find what they needed, in others not at all. The city centre makes sure for both. So yes, I’ve read quite a number of ghost stories. But I think those, the smiles and tears that were kept or not, the laughs that stayed held, the overthought memories, the regrets and the patient possibilities that have visited every corner of this city, and especially this bookstore, are the most alive ones. And the most mortal, occurring for a moment or for none, whisking, like ghosts, in and out of sight, right here in the city centre, where even the car lights carry their own tales.
The soft, sun-baked sand has long turned into water - ultramarine waves and moonstone-colored foam dance beneath the bay mare’s galloping legs. The crisp breeze travels through her mane and tail and through my own hair as the cloudy sky gives me a bright stare between her chocolate-brown ears. It all seems wonderful, but it’s not. This is not just a joyful ride on the beach, but so much more. Soon, there will come the moment that will change everything; soon, this very moment will arrive, the same way it has arrived for so many pairs of horse and rider over the centuries. This single moment consists of an ancient tradition in our small village, which has almost forever been standing next to the sea and into a nonmagical world, seeming to be a part of it but in reality existing in its own little bubble. A bubble created by those moments that lead to discovery, those million moments that have and are and will be happening and can in fact uncover magic: the magic of each pair of horse and rider living in the village.
And today, the moment will uncover our own magic. As Sienna’s - my beloved brown mare’sgalloping strides become longer and quicker with each of her steps in the sea, so do my heart’s unsure leaps. They have nothing to do with our great speed, only with the moment that will come.
Darkness suddenly clouds my vision, the way stars dot the night sky. I can see nothing, but I can sense with my mind and heart that Sienna’s still with me, and I know she feels my presence too. My heart is not beating uncontrollably anymore, but trotting in a steadier rhythm. And this darkness and stillness that seems like nothingness is actually not. I can instinctively tell we are not really trapped in it. We just have to find the way out.
But it finds itself. And the moment of our magic’s revelation has passed, yet time has stopped for another one. We are back at the beach, but everything has stopped. Drops float over the frozen waves, and birds remain suspended under the unmoving clouds.
Drops fall over frozen waves
Only Sienna can walk anxiously to the coast as I turn my head around, dread creeping over me. I whisper to her and pat her neck, but my words and hands are trembling. I dismounted from her back, but dust doesn’t fly when my feet meet the ground. What has the moment uncovered?
The realisation hits me, and Sienna turns her ears towards me. This is our magic. We can stop time. So… we try to unstop it.
But hours seem to pass as we endeavour it in every way we can imagine, yet not a fraction of a second has moved. I try to feel comfortable with the fact that time will remain like this forever. But it’s impossible. Sienna is now searching for some fresh grass. It’ll be easy, since none of it is bound to ever decay during the journeys of time. Because these journeys have paused forever, lingering in a single moment. Which somehow ends.
And I’m back on the saddle, Sienna still galloping in the sea.As if none of these had ever happened.
We return to the village. During the coming weeks, we half-heartedly struggle to pause time once more. We never succeed, and soon the whole town believes we are the first pair in centuries without magic. Yet, in the following years, Sienna and I realised three things.
First, the village is right. We can’t pause or restart time. Second, that they’re wrong, we have magic: we can move while another pair freezes time. And third, not only do people have façades over their faces; magic, villages, darkness, moments and truth do too.
We don’t always perceive them as they really are – the power of moving in frozen time seems like the one of stopping it; villages don’t show a spark of their magic despite being made of it; darkness feels like nothingness while it is actually not; and a simple ride on the beach hides moments that can seemingly change the history of a small village.
A rewriting from “A Tell-Tale Heart” by Edgar Allan Poe
The room was cold, everything was weird. He was touching him, trying to understand what was going on, but for some reason, the dead body looked like a doll. Never before had he seen a dead body at such a close distance, but what he did next was extremely unexpected. He cut off his limbs, leaving a dead body with just a creepy head, but no blood came out of his body. Nothing was there to clean up. The night was very uncommon, like something felt like he was living in a paranormal world, where only horror stories unravel. But the real question is, is he perhaps living in one? Is this body a symbol of his life, telling him that something is wrong?
The Scene where the man hides the dead body, told through a reliable narrator.
The man lunged into the room like a rabid dog, his eyes showing no remorse. Soon, the old man was dead, crushed by his very own bed. He had only managed a shriek before the maniac had shut his mouth, like someone would do to an animal, and before he had thrown the bed onto him.
But the maniac wasn’t done. First, he waited many minutes with his hand on the old man’s chest ensuring that the old man had met his demise. Afterwards, he dismembered the corpse with his bare hands, sometimes using his jaws to tear apart the old man’s wrinkled skin. Soon, both of them were unrecognizable. On the one hand the old man was ripped apart; on the other, the maniac was stained with blood. However, he continued his atrocities. He tore apart the floorboards just as he had done to the old
man and put in his limbs, torso and head. Being in a trance, he made a gruesome mess. There was blood everywhere and you could notice some of the old man’s guts sticking out through the floorboards. Despite that, it seemed the man thought that everything was clean even though the only thing he had done was get blood everywhere. Finally, the most haunting thing was his grin throughout the murder which was the grin you see on a child’s face when he has had the best time of his life.
Symbolism
by an excerpt from “A Christmas Carol” by Charles Dickens
I were to have a symbol that represents me, that would be an open book. An open book shows that my life is still being written. Every day is a new page in my story where I learn from my previous mistakes and experiences and continue to move forward. Each page that gets filled with my life brings me one page closer to achieving my goals. The “blank” pages of my book get filled with love from my family and friends. They are the main characters in my story. Those blank pages also represent that I still have a lot of time to grow, learn and mature before
Dear Mrs. Gibbs,
Hello. My name is Christina. I am fourteen years old and I live in Greece. Before you ask yourself anything, let me just clarify a few things: No, you do not know me and unfortunately we will probably never have the chance to meet. You see, I live in the year 2026, as absurd and outlandish as that claim sounds. You may not believe me but keep an open mind. Life in 2026 is very, very different from the one you know. We live in huge cities with buildings that almost seemingly reach the sky. We move around using machines called cars (basically a cart without a horse)
this chapter of my life ends and a new one begins. Last but not least, the book itself symbolizes my love for reading. Books inspire me, teach me new things and help me escape reality for a while and jump head-first into a different world.
and use a device called a cell phone to talk to each other over long distances and access a giant library of sorts called «the Internet» (I’m doing a very poor job of describing everything so you’ll have to forgive me). Here in the future, there is a play (a team theatre play) called «Our Town» written by a man called Thornton Wilder. In this play, we get to see how people lived in Grover’s Corners in your time (1901). You, as a character, are very interesting. You seem to feel almost trapped in your repetitive daily life. I get that. For most of my life, albeit short, I’ve wanted more. That’s why I wanted to write to you. I can see small bits and pieces of myself reflecting in you too. Finally, since I have to keep it short, I wanted to tell you that you should sell your highboy, take the money and go to Paris. Grim times are ahead of you and you should see as much as you can. Don’t feel ashamed of being curious and ambitious; People who tear you down for that are just cowards. You are ahead of your time Julia Gibbs. Don’t let others hold you back.
Inspired
A letter to a character from Thornton Wilder’s “Our Town”
