Fiction: Group 4
by mass tourism. I liked unexplored territories; there is no fun in going to a place where everyone has been.
I strolled casually along the main streets of the town while villagers casted me curious glances. Ancient
Chinese styled architecture and modern town houses with brightly colored roofs lined the streets. Suddenly,
a tall building with a cross at its top came into sight. “A church!” I gasped in surprise as I stepped back to
inspect it. This church was obviously built long ago and it wasn’t very large, but its antique beauties did not
diminish with time. Looking up at it, three pointed arches rose into the sky as swirling patterns of humans
and animals were carved into the marble walls. Filled with curiosity, I pushed open the door and slid in,
careful not to make a single noise. There was no one in there that afternoon, and though I am not religious,
something about the peace and sacredness in the halls kept me silent. I took a couple hesitant steps towards
the center of the room and looked around. All around me hung heavy velvet drapes and oil paintings, and
everywhere I looked there were more carved marble statues. It was as if time transcended and I was
suddenly taken back to the Renaissance Ages, where the grandest cathedrals were built and people prayed to
the rhythms of ancient hymns.
After a while, the church door cracked open as an old woman walked in, pulling me from my daze. With a
broad smile on her face, she proudly explained to me that this faith was brought in by groups of missionaries
who built this church even before she was born, and that her parents have both contributed to its cause.
Then she lifted her weathered hand and stroked the marble walls with affection. Not wanting to interrupt
her moment, I politely asked her where she would suggest me to go next as a tourist. “Everywhere in this
town is unique to me,” she chuckled in Chinese, “but if you cross that bridge to the right of this church and
walk straight ahead, you can go visit the riverside.” Warmed by her deep connections to this town, I
thanked her and went on my way.
Evening begun to fall when I approached the riverside and a true marvel was presented in front of my
eyes. The sun was slowly sinking from the West into the river, and it was burning like a glowing orb of fire.
Along the shore, I saw an artist who was painting alone on a wooden bridge that extended into the river, so
I dropped my backpack in delight and flew towards the bridge. The painter did not notice my presence until
I told him that I thought his blending of shades looked perfect. He laughed at the realization that I spoke
English too as he told me that he was from Britain. “All I do is travel and paint; this is what I’ve dreamed
of,” he said, “It wasn’t till I finally let go of everything I wanted before that I understand what true freedom
is.”
I took my sandals off to dip my toes into the water and pondered upon what he said. The sun set further
and the colors became more vivid. Red and orange and pink intensified all around us until it felt like we
were sitting in the center of Earth itself, right among its burning embers. The water beneath my feet turned
into the color of molten lava, and I felt life running through my veins like this flowing river. This subtle stir
started at the bottom of my heart then my spirit began to expand with the strangest sense of freedom and
renewal I ever felt, like an invisible bond just bursted and disappeared into the sunset. Wasn’t this what the
Pearl River Delta symbolized as a whole after all? Wasn’t this the place that was built up by groups of
fearless youths who sought freedom, liberty, and renewal, into thriving cities? This used to be the place
