The Girl with No Nightmares

Creativity now is as important in education as literacy, and we should treat it with the same status.

—Sir Ken Robinson

So the girl they've been protecting, the onethey've kept at the clean brick house on the hillsurrounded by the scenic pine trees to the west,the pristine green fields with no power

lines to the south and east, and Crystal Laketo the north, she's changed. They didn'ttell her about the war, the sick kidsin the village, or the price of the air

purifier, her tutors, and the radiated food.Everyone wears gloves. They keep conflictaway. It's expensive to make the foodhealthy and taste like she likes, to bend

light so it's a hot day when she wants the sun,to find a plot for a new, fun story without fearand dragons. She believed everythingabout their world and never heard the shears

at night clipping the silent lawn or her split ends.But last week, she woke shaking and screaming,screaming about angels. She doesn't knowdemons or devils or the way paint chips

from walls. To her white room, they rushedcalmly with the hushed clownsand the happy juice, but she screamed, bitthe makeup face, and invented words. She screamed

until the doctor pilled her and listened to howthe angels quit singing. The angels quit singing?he asked. Not yet, but they will, she trembled,tapping her curly-haired head against the wainscoting.

Darling, there's no conflict in the world—the angelswill always sing. He inflicted a smile. No, no, she said,Ten thousand years from now on a Tuesday, they'll quitsinging for a while, less than a second, a blink, half

a blink, no singing. There will be no singing,and I think I'll go far away from this dreamyou've locked me inside. With that, she cried,and clinging to her sides, she fell asleep and hasn't woken.

No, no, I'm joking, I lied. She's eating well, playingwell, thinking their happy thoughts, and she has no ideathe angels will quit singing.