FOR the past six months, children in Minhang have been on a writing spree. More than 2,000 elementary and high school students participated in a writing contest, with winning entries compiled into a book. Children wrote about everything and anything that made them happy or sorrowful. They expressed emotions that are sometimes hidden from adults.

“You wouldn’t believe that the inner world of a child could be so full,” said Zhu Hongzhao, a journalist who was one of the judges. “It’s amazing to see how closely they observe daily life and the changes in their immediate environment.”

When writing something familiar, the children showed great perception, Zhu said. But when they strayed into imaginary realms, they showed more immaturity in their writing.

“It was the same when they tried to write about their travels,” said Zhu. “Then, they just tagged along after their parents and didn’t communicate with nature or local people enough.”

But judge for yourselves. Here are some excerpts from children’s pens.

THE Story of Egg Protection

TODAY in Chinese class, my teacher gave us a special assignment. She said, “You take an egg and keep it with you for a day, like it is your child. Don’t let it break.”

That sounded so easy, right? Just protecting an egg for a day.

After school, I went home and took an egg from the refrigerator. I wrapped it up in paper towel and my handkerchief, and put it in a small cardboard box. I thought it would be perfectly safe.

The next morning, my grandfather drove me to school. I said to myself, “Where should I keep the egg? A pocket is not a good choice because it may break. It would be safer just holding it in my hands. Right, I’ll just hold it in my hands.”

I held it carefully after reaching school and going into the classroom.

Suddenly, someone bumped into me and I almost lost my egg baby. I sweated and turned red. “Can’t you be careful?” I shouted. “You almost broke my egg baby.”

I nervously checked and fortunately, it remained in one piece.

Relieved, I went to hand in my homework. Maybe because I was so distracted, I completely forgot that I was still holding the egg. As I handed in the homework, I lost my grip on it. There went my egg baby, broken on the floor!

The moral of the story was that I tasted how hard parenting could be. I was a parent for an egg for one single day and failed to keep it alive. I would be good to my parents in the future.

DON’T Break the Home

IN my family, I have an abusive father, an abusive mother and an abusive big sister. Seriously, I feel that I have a particularly low position at home. Sometimes, I would lean on the windowsill and think I should run away from home, just to prove that I’m not worthless.

But if I ran away, what would I eat? What would I drink? Where would I stay? Where would I sleep? All these questions made me give up the idea. So, I can only think about running away.

But am I right in thinking of running away?

I saw that children with such thoughts on TV all ended up in bad places. And when I was younger, how did Mom and Dad treat me?

I lean on the windowsill and think hard, and the memory comes back:

I was seven years old. My father was put in prison for hurting people.

They said he would stay in there for a year. The whole family fell onto Mom’s shoulder.

I remember she started to work from dawn into the night. And one day, seeing that she was so tired, we decided to heat up the leftovers for her. But we didn’t think that she would be furious and smash all the bowls. She was weeping while smashing the bowls.

I didn’t know the adult world could be so complicated. I didn’t know why Dad and Mom cried when they hit me.

I never think over such things usually. But today, my teacher asked me to write a composition about my family. I think that, maybe, they love me after all.

Though reluctant, I still want to say, “I love my family and please don’t let it break up.”

THE Red Brick

MY father was a bricklayer. Usually the first impression he gives people is “dirty.” His shabby pair of sneakers and a brown coat stained with dirt are his iconic outfit. It made me feel ashamed when talking about parents at school.

Recently my school decided to build a new flowerbed and the project was undertaken by my father’s company. Unfortunately, my father was one of the bricklayers coming to work on campus.

Sometimes during the lunch break, some of my fellow students would look at the garden under construction absentmindedly, and I would feel self-conscious and say: “What’s so interesting? They’re just building a flowerbed.”

In PE, when we jogged pass the construction site, I always avoided eye contact with my father, even though I knew he would stop and watch me.

But one day it was raining and I forgot to take my umbrella with me when I left home. After school, my father gave the umbrella to me on campus. Looking at his shabby sneakers and stained coat, and looking at classmates passing by, whispering and giggling, I went bright red in the face and burst out, “No, I’m fine.”

I left without looking back, afraid that just one more word would make people “assume” things. My father seemed to understand and said nothing.

I fell ill soon after reaching home because of walking in the rain and fell asleep on my bed.

When I woke up, I saw hot food and pills at my bedside. I sneaked to the door and peaked through the keyhole. I saw my father sitting and smoking on the sofa in the living room, soaked and looking lonely.

I finally took courage and walked to his side. I said. “I’m so sorry, dad. I shouldn’t have rejected you.”

My father just smiled. I hadn’t seen that smile for a long time.

He stood up, took off his working gloves and patted my head. For a moment, though brief, I saw his callused hand, which looks like a red brick, and the ridge-like vein stretching to the arm. Suddenly I was shaken.

“What are you pondering? C’mon, go eat your dinner.”

“Right,” I said.

And so the flowerbed was completed and my father was gone from the campus. Students looked at the flowers and said, “They are so pretty.”

The flowerbed looks very warm to me. It seemed that the bricks were laid there by my father and me.