The
idea that teens can’t handle deep and dark themes in literature is a pretty
obsolete notion. It isn’t just the Internet that has exposed adolescents to the
trials and tribulations of the world. Children live; therefore, they are
exposed to poverty, abuse, strife, inequity, and prejudice. They might not
experience it all themselves, but they can see it. They know about it. The eyes
and ears of the young are far keener than anyone might expect.
So
why would we put it in literature as well? Why would we write about slavery,
intolerance, or racism instead of more cheerful topics? Won’t this just remind
the readers of the injustices in the world and how there is so much darkness
surrounding them?
Yes.
But it’s also a way to show characters experiencing unfortunate events … and
surviving. Even thriving. YA books can show protagonists enduring and overcoming.
Not only that, but having an impact on the world they live in, changing it for
the better. What could be a more positive, uplifting thought than that? Isn’t
that why the original fairy tales were created? To show horrific circumstances
and people overcoming them. Facing adversity and overcoming the odds.
That’s
really the power of all literature. Sure, not every book will tackle issues at
extreme depth and emotion, but every story has a conflict of some sort. A
struggle. And even those that don’t end happily, still end. That is a
resolution, of sort, which the reader must sort through internally. And,
whether they know it or not, that emotional turmoil will stay with them and, to
a degree, help them as they continue with their life.
And
who needs these tools better than children?
I
can’t think of anyone.
Sure,
the images have to be presented in an age-appropriate manner. Some action must
take place ‘off-stage’ or be inferred to, rather than seen. But the base
conflicts can be present. And, yes, adolescents can handle it.
Too many missing coefficients.
Raven ran her ungloved hand over the smooth, cool metal of the missile. She needed it to shatter the barrier—opening the way down so that she could destroy the Science Council. She knew enough about terminal ballistics to be able to calculate its exact impact on the crystal tube that led to the Science Council’s underground lair when it struck. The only problem was that the makeup of the tube was so unique…
“It’s a thing of beauty, Raven,” Sayers commented. He stared at her hungrily from his spot amongst her people, seeking approval.
“Yes, it is,” she offered, and he smiled.
“The only problem is, because the substance we’re striking has never been studied, there’s no way to tell if it will work without testing it. Our likelihood for success is still low.” She glanced around the interior of the Dome of Artifacts, taking in the relics from the original Earth with an appreciative eye. “And I’m not willing to risk destroying all of these artifacts by blowing up the whole place when the chance of it failing to destroy the tube is unacceptably high.”
Her soldiers stood around her, silent, waiting for her suggestions. She’d been trying to puzzle this out for three weeks, and the answer was painfully obvious: a last straw plan. And yet, she hesitated, because there was a small part of her that wanted to try every other possible scenario before resorting to what she knew would work, even though she knew that wasn’t logical.
Damn my weakness.
“We’ll need something softer,” she said at last. “Something that will turn to mush on impact rather than ricocheting off the crystal and taking out this whole place. Also, we’ll need something much bigger… heavier.” She scrutinized the crystal tube housing of the elevator platform that had, thus far, been impossible to penetrate.
“Would you like us to try crafting a hollow missile that’s twice this size?” asked Larson. “We’d have to melt this down first.” He gestured toward the missile they’d taken three weeks to craft and painstakingly calibrated.
“No.”
The time to divulge her last straw plan was now. She knew a missile wouldn’t work. A rain of bullets wouldn’t work. But she happened to have a special tool—a former friend who could run at the speed of a bullet and who was close to two hundred pounds.
A human body hitting the tube at that speed would spread adequate weight over a large enough surface area to crack open the entryway to the Science Council’s underground world like an egg. Also, a body would explode upon impact, resulting in a mostly liquid byproduct, causing minimal damage to the artifacts.
Finn’s sacrifice would save the planet.
Search This Blog
Previous Posts
Labels