Curriculum

“Swirling Arabesques” is a personal narrative written by Zoe Kyriakakis, age 10. It’s written in the first person present tense. The entire piece takes place on the narrator’s school bus ride home. The piece starts with vivid descriptions of the noises of the school bus. Then, the writer describes the intense fog that has fallen over Philadelphia. The fog puts the narrator into a reverie, and suddenly we are transported earlier in the day, to the narrator’s class’s field trip to a show at an art museum about Islamic art. At the show, the narrator’s teacher described the spiraling features of the artwork as “swirling arabesques,” a term the narrator finds extremely compelling. The story ends when the narrator’s bus ride is over.  How does this writer paint a picture with words?  One way to paint a picture with words is to craft a scene using compelling details. In “Swirling Arabesques,” Zoe Kyriakakis takes this one step further by pairing vivid sensory details—sights, sounds, and movements—with imagined details. The reader is able to not only see what the narrator saw but also imagine what she imagined. The writer begins the story by plunging us straight into the scene: The long, yellow school bus is full of noise—laughing, yelling, chatting, gossiping, squealing, groaning, and singing. The writer doesn’t mince words. There’s no “Once upon a time, I took the bus home from school.” Instead, she cuts right to the chase. The bus is full of noise. And what’s more, there are many different types of noises going on all at once. By listing them, the writer already begins to paint a kind of auditory picture of the scene. But then, something very strange happens: Cars swarm the busy intersection and large, green route signs hang overhead proclaiming “Boulevard This” or “Lane That” in shiny, white lettering. Even if you’ve never been to Philadelphia, I think it is fairly easy to assume that signs probably don’t literally say “Boulevard This” or “Lane That.” But through the writer’s use of quotations, and through descriptive details like “shiny white lettering,” you can almost imagine it. More than just a picture of an intersection, we get the feeling of what the writer is trying to convey—a complex jumble of traffic and instructions on familiar, green signs. The narrator tells us later that she does not even need to read the signs to know what they say:  I’ve been on this homeward-bound school bus route precisely 157 times (and counting) every Friday for the past four-and-a-half-ish years. It’s safe to say that I’m familiar enough with this particular intersection. What I’m really staring at through the window is the fog. The fact that the signs were covered in fog makes that description even more interesting. Through words, the writer painted a picture of something she had only ever imagined, something that had previously been totally covered up by fog.  Another interesting place where the writer paints a picture with words is in her exploration of the phrase that forms the focus of the last section of the story: “swirling arabesques.”  Though the narrator’s teacher used the phrase to describe artwork, the narrator describes all that she saw when she heard them. Swirling arabesques. Those words reminded me of dancing ballerinas, twirling with flouncy full skirts. Swirling arabesques. They reminded me of the rising of the sun in the morning, warm on my face the second before I opened my eyes. Reading that description of the sun, I can almost feel it myself, even though the morning sun was not directly a part of the story. By bringing strong physical descriptions to an abstract concept, the writer helps us see what she envisioned when she heard those words. Finally, the writer helps us do our own imagining. The more times the phrase “swirling arabesques” is repeated, the easier it is for us as readers to see them all around us too—in the sky in the form of clouds, being exhaled from the backs of trucks, or in a bowl of soup.  Discussion questions: Are there other phrases like “swirling arabesques” in the piece that made you imagine new images?  Why do you think the writer chose to focus on the fog before talking about the story’s ultimate focus of swirling arabesques? Swirling Arabesques The long, yellow school bus is full of noise—laughing, yelling, chatting, gossiping, squealing, groaning, and singing (a bunch of third-graders, all of whom are rather loud and out of tune). Kids shout across the narrow aisle, crowding over iPads and other electronics and noisily chattering away. I quietly stare out the window, watching the crowded roads as the bus zooms by. Cars swarm the busy intersection and large, green route signs hang overhead proclaiming “Boulevard This” or “Lane That” in shiny, white lettering. There is noise outside the bus as well as in—honking, beeping, shouting, car engines, and the occasional urgent wail of an ambulance or cheerful chirp of a bird in a nearby tree. Cars zip by at breakneck speed, flashing white lights in front and reddish-yellow in the back. Nobody on the road is dawdling around or wasting time. Everyone on the busy road seems to have a place to be, a person to be, a thing that must be done. In the distance is the skyline of the city of Philadelphia—bright, massive, crowded with skyscrapers and normal-sized houses alike. Although the intersection is all very interesting, it isn’t what I’m watching. I’ve been on this homeward-bound school bus route precisely 157 times (and counting) every Friday for the past four-and-a-half-ish years. It’s safe to say that I’m familiar enough with this particular intersection. What I’m really staring at through the window is the fog. A thick white blanket of fog hangs over Philadelphia and seemingly everywhere around it, stretching out as far as the eye can see. There isn’t a trace of blue in the sky, and judging from the gloomy whiteness, it almost seems like there never was. The

“Ripples in the Pond” is a very short story by Karen Susanto, 13. The story is divided into two sequences. The first sequence is written in the second person and describes the forest—a beautiful, serene space full of animals and trees. The writing is full of vivid, tangible descriptions. The “you” in the story seems to be a human, and they go to the forest because it makes them feel “alive.” At the end of the first section, the writer foreshadows the fox who will later become the focus of the story.  The second section of the story is written in the third person. The writer describes a fox peacefully drinking water from a pond in the forest. Suddenly, malicious humans throw a rock at the fox. The fox narrowly avoids being struck and retreats into the forest as the humans run away, laughing mockingly. How does this writer paint a picture with words?  “Ripples in the Pond” is chock-full of images that make every aspect of the forest feel alive and present. Almost as soon as the story starts, the writer brings the forest to life with vivid descriptions that incorporate the five senses.  The forest had always been peaceful. The forest was where you would stand still and feel the earth beneath your feet. It was where you would inhale the sweet forest air that was full of the invigorating scent of tree bark and green leaves and fresh earth. The forest had that unmistakable feel of authenticity: it made you feel alive. The first sentence in this sequence is relatively abstract. By abstract, I mean that it is hard to picture, or that if two people both tried to picture it, they might imagine completely different things. A peaceful forest might look like a few acres of solitary pine trees on the top of a mountain, or else a bustling rainforest full of many creatures living in harmony with one another. To know for sure, we need some more concrete details. Luckily, the writer provides some right away. We start with the sense of touch—“you stand still and feel the earth beneath your feet.” Then, we move to taste with “sweet forest air” and smell with “the invigorating scent of tree bark.” Finally, we get sight, with “green leaves.” All of these sensory details help the reader to better imagine the forest.  But my favorite part of this sequence is the final sentence, when the writer says, “The forest had that unmistakable feel of authenticity—it made you feel alive.” Up until now, the writer has been using physical senses. But even though they are paired with the word “feel,” authenticity and aliveness aren’t things someone can actually touch. Instead, the writer is describing an emotion—one produced by the forest.  This is such an important moment in the story! Why pair it with so much detail? Well, imagine if the writer hadn’t. What if instead, we just kept the two most abstract sentences?  The forest had always been peaceful. The forest had that unmistakable feel of authenticity—it made you feel alive. It loses its power, doesn’t it? The thing is, any number of things could cause a forest to feel authentic, and all kinds of things in a forest could make someone feel alive. Awash in the possibilities, the reader may not ever see what the writer wants them to. By pairing abstract moments with concrete details, it is clear to the reader that it is the foret’s sweet air, its tree bark and fresh earth, that is so enlivening for the story’s “you.” Concrete details—things that can be described with the five senses—help bring abstract moments to life.  Another interesting thing about this story is that after that first section, the piece gets a lot less abstract and reflective. Instead, it is purely descriptive: we hear human footsteps and laughter in the forest, the “(Thud, whiz—)” of a thrown rock. By using precise, sensory details and keeping analysis to a minimum within the narrative, the piece is able to subtly yet effectively convey a more abstract message about the harmful impact of humans on the natural world.  Discussion questions: Why do you think the writer chose to put the first part of the story in second person?  Why do you think the writer mostly chooses to avoid point of view in the second half of the story? Ripples in the Pond The forest had always been peaceful. The forest was where you would stand still and feel the earth beneath your feet. It was where you would inhale the sweet forest air that was full of the invigorating scent of tree bark and green leaves and fresh earth. The forest had that unmistakable feel of authenticity: it made you feel alive. It was where you would hear the gentle cooing of birds from their perches in the trees, where you would hear the crackle of leaves and the occasional sound of a single leaf softly falling from its branch. You would hear the mellifluous echo of the flowing river as the water coursed smoothly down, making small white waves. You would see fluffy little rabbits hopping to and fro, and you would see busy squirrels scampering up the sturdy trunks of leafy oaks. You would see birds with wings outstretched circling high above the topmost branches of tall pines. You would see wood ducks splashing through the river and turtles basking on the rocks beside it. And if you went deeper in, you would see the small circular pond, sheltered by slender white birches, reflecting its surroundings in the clear, unbroken mirror of its water. You might even glimpse the antlers of a stag. Or you might see a bushy red tail just before its owner scrambled off into the depths of the woods . . . *          *          * A thirsty fox makes his way toward the pond for a drink of water. The soft flutter of

“Slaying Monsters” is a short story by Liam Hancock, age 11. Written in the first person in present tense, the story’s protagonist is William Morgan, a young surfer. William is preparing to compete in a surfing competition called the Mavericks. He has won the competition three times, but today, the waves are bigger than ever. William’s mother brings him his favorite breakfast, a maple bar donut. We learn that William’s father died surfing these very same waves. His mother makes him promise he will come home in one piece.  At the competition, the waves are fierce and large. Sandy, William’s friend and surfing partner who used to surf with William’s father, is there too. When it’s their turn to compete, the waves are enormous. William manages to surf, and the crowd cheers. But then, he realizes Sandy never resurfaced. He dives back in and rescues his friend. He wins the competition for a fourth time. A month after William wins, it’s his father’s birthday. He and his mom visit his father’s grave, and William buries his Mavericks trophy next to his father.  What makes this plot strong? This story is a nail-biter! A lot of that has to do with the surfing sequences themselves. But much of this story takes place out of the water, and the plot remains just as gripping even in those scenes. The writer achieves this not just through action-packed sequences but also through subtle, well-placed description. By incorporating disquieting details and foreshadowing, the story keeps readers at the edges of their seats from beginning to end. As soon as we enter into the narrative, we get our first clue that all is not right in the world of the story. The weather out the protagonist’s window is eerie: The usual morning fog is persistent today. The long jetty near Pillar Point is swallowed by the soupy grey, seemingly disappearing into the abyss.  Words like “abyss” help set a tone and gear us up for what is to come. This disquieting feeling persists. When William’s mother brings him maple bars, his favorite breakfast, William reacts in a surprising way: “Donuts, Mom?” I ask, shocked. I open them up . . . My favorite—maple bars. “C’mon. An athlete doesn’t eat donuts on a day like this. My stomach will weigh me down more than the waves themselves!” Mom gives me one of those mom looks. “Now, last time I checked, donuts don’t weigh hundreds of thousands of pounds. And I spent good money on these, so eat. Mom’s orders.” This is another detail that puts readers on edge. Even as the scene transitions and William describes how much he is enjoying his maple bar donut, it is hard to read this scene without wanting to stop him.  Another way the writer builds narrative tension is through well-placed repetition. As William is preparing to leave his mom’s van and make his way to the beach for the competition, his mother asks him if he’s sure. As readers, we want to scream “NO!” But William says he’s sure. Then, his mother repeats something she said earlier: She jumps out of the van, embraces me in a tight hug, then gets back in. As she pulls away, she calls, “I expect to see you at home at seven tonight. Promise me I’ll see you at seven. Mom’s orders.” William followed his mom’s orders about the donut, and so far, we have not seen any ill effects of this. But the second “mom’s orders” feels more chilling. It is easy to doubt, as a reader, that things will go as smoothly.  Even in the action sequence—when William and Sandy are in the water—the writer ups the ante of the tension with well-placed foreshadowing: “Hey!” I call. “How’re you feeling?” He doesn’t respond, which means he’s probably in game mode. I paddle out just a little farther, hoping to get into the best position possible. The water begins to build up. I scramble to my feet and drop down a breathless 20 feet. As always, my life flashes before my eyes. I remember my dad and his kind smile, my mom and her hugs, and the maple bars covered with bacon. Sandy’s non-response stands out. If all had really been well with Sandy, the writer might not have included this detail. Even so, the writer muddies the waters by making us once again concerned for William’s safety instead of Sandy’s. His life flashes before his eyes: usually not a good sign! As such, when Sandy is the one who gets trapped under the waves, even though the writer dropped hints that this might happen, it’s still surprising. Discussion questions: What are moments where the writer uses sensory details to draw out the action and suspense? Can you identify any more moments of foreshadowing in the story? Where does the writer choose to speed up the narrative? Where does the writer choose to slow down the narrative? Why do you think the writer made these choices? Slaying Monsters The usual morning fog is persistent today. The long jetty near Pillar Point is swallowed by the soupy grey, seemingly disappearing into the abyss. Through the panoramic view of my bedroom window, I see Half Moon Bay coming to life in the early morning. A man is taking a jog down the steep beach with his stumpy bulldog. A couple of early commuters’ headlights are slicing through the fog and heading into the overshadowing mountains. The occasional surf shop is lighting up and un-shuttering its windows. The ocean is roaring today, and an excitement bubbles up inside me as I remember that today is Mavericks. I hear the hissing of bacon hitting the frying pan and the hum of the espresso machine. My mouth waters as I stumble down the stairs. Mom is plating up my breakfast. A pink box is set in the center of the table. Wait, a pink box? I settle into my chair. “Donuts, Mom?” I ask, shocked. I open

“The Schnitzelbird” is a short story by Elaina Heinitz, age 10. Told in the close third-person past tense, the story takes place in a town called Schnitzelberg. Every morning in Schnitzelberg, a bird called the Schnitzelbird flies overhead singing a four-note song to wake the townspeople up. Everyone loves it, except a middle-aged man named Jack who values his sleep. One day, Jack kidnaps the Schnitzelbird and puts it in a cage. The townspeople are anguished—everyone oversleeps. They miss the bird. Meanwhile, the Schnitzelbird makes Jack’s life as miserable as possible by banging on the bars of his cage each night. That Saturday, Jack sees that the townspeople are all meeting. He goes to see what the fuss is all about and finds out they are having a funeral for the Schnitzelbird! Jack goes home and frees the Schnitzelbird. The Schnitzelbird swoops into its own funeral. The townspeople all burn their alarm clocks. Jack learns to appreciate the bird—and his life.  What makes this plot strong? When the story begins, it is easy to think it centers on a single, primary conflict: that the wake-up bird his neighbors love is ruining Jack’s life, and he believes life would be better for everyone without it.  But the conflict is really more complicated than that. The real conflict of the story is that Jack and his neighbors are all a little bit selfish. Everyone in the story convinces themselves that everyone else must want what they want.  But one thing that makes this plot so interesting is that for much of the story, no one understands that this is the conflict. From Jack’s perspective, the problem was the bird and was solved at the very beginning: Jack was a middle-aged man who loved his sleep. He thought the bird woke up much too early every morning and that the people of Schnitzelberg might feel better if they slept more. So he devised a plan. The next morning, when the Schnitzelbird came around for its wake-up call, he caught it and put it into a cage. “Oh, don’t complain,” said Jack to the bird. “It’s your fault you wake up so early. My people will be happy to have their sleep, you’ll see.” For Jack, this should be the end of the story—his problem is resolved. The bird won’t wake everyone up. But through the third-person omniscient narration, we are able to begin to see what Jack can’t—the chaos caused by the loss of the Schnitzelbird. “Mommy, where is the Schnitzelbird?” a little girl asked, clutching her mother’s arm. “I’m late to school!” “Oh darling, I’m sure the bird will come back tomorrow—probably just needed its sleep. It must be exhausted flying around like that every morning.” Murmurs like that were heard all over the town. Everyone was telling their kid that it was going to be ok, that the bird would probably be back tomorrow, but worry was spread across all of their faces nonetheless. Now the story’s conflict has shifted. Jack is no longer the unhappy one—now, it is everyone else who is suffering instead. Their problem is that they are oversleeping. But meanwhile, Jack develops a new problem too: the bird is keeping him up at night.  Everyone returned with alarm clocks that night, grief spread across their faces, and Jack moved into his guest room because of the bird’s racket. “You’re not doing anyone any good, you know!” Jack yelled at the bird before shutting his door. The next day everyone woke up on time, but all of their glum faces could prove to anyone that something was wrong. The bird couldn’t have affected these people that much, could it? Is it affecting their work? Is it affecting their life? No, silly me. They’ll thank me soon. It’s just an old bird, nothing more than that.  As we see above, Jack tries hard to convince himself that by acting in his own best interests, everyone else will benefit too. But he begins to doubt himself. This doubt is solidified when Jack sees the townspeople having a bird funeral.  Jack was astounded! It was a funeral! A funeral for the bird, and not only that, every single townsperson had come! . . . Everyone screamed their applause, but tears were still in their eyes. Jack knew what he had to do. He ran back to his house, up the stairs, and into his old room. Jack realizes what the real conflict of the story was all along—he had been unhappy in his life. He had seen everything for its pragmatic ends, and he hadn’t bothered to stop and listen to the music. Seeing his neighbors celebrate the return of the bird, Jack realizes the power of his community. That night, everyone went to bed with full tummies and happy thoughts, and Jack not once ever again wasn’t happy to wake up to the Schnitzelbird, and his life, a little early every day. By embracing the Schnitzelbird, Jack is able to embrace his own life.  Discussion questions: Do you think the ending of this story was fair to Jack? Why or why not? We never learn whether Jack reveals to the other townspeople that he kidnapped the Schnitzelbird. Given what you know of his character, do you think he will ever tell anyone what he did? The Schnitzelbird Once there was a town named Schnitzelberg, and every morning a bird would fly over the town singing a four-note song. The bird was soon named after the town; everyone called it the Schnitzelbird. Not one person through the whole town of Schnitzelberg had an alarm clock. The bird woke them up every day, and everyone loved it. That is, everyone except Jack. Jack was a middle-aged man who loved his sleep. He thought the bird woke up much too early every morning and that the people of Schnitzelberg might feel better if they slept more. So he devised a plan. The next morning, when the Schnitzelbird came around for its wake-up

“Thank You, Bernie” is a short story by Sadie Primack, age 13. The story is written in the first person and is in present tense. We open on fourteen-year-old Bernadette’s first day in group therapy. When Miss Hunt, the group leader, asks why she is there, Bernadette tells the group that her parents died ten years ago, and that she is completely over it. She then looks away and notices a girl, Sam, with a blue streak in her hair who she is mysteriously drawn to. She quickly runs away—Sam seems like friend material, and Bernadette does not want friends. But during the next therapy session, Sam is called on and is very reluctant to share. Bernadette comes up to her after, determined to know what her deal is. Sam won’t say a word. Bernadette starts keeping a notebook, in which she writes about her emotions, and about her curiosity about Sam. The two characters continue to have conflict—Sam steals Bernadette’s notebook, and they are generally rude to one another. But finally, Sam comes over to apologize. She reveals her own difficulties: her parents got divorced, her dad got in a drunk driving accident. The two of them bond and both learn to share and trust a little more easily. What makes this plot strong? One thing that’s interesting about this plot is the way both Bernadette and Sam push and pull throughout the story. At the beginning of the story, it is Sam who seeks out Bernadette’s friendship. “You, um, just seemed cool. I wanted to know your deal. I’m Sam.” She blushes. The girl stares at me. I stare back at her. “Bernadette.” Sam seems mysterious and cool, and potential friend material. Which means I have to stay as far away as possible from her. In this passage, Bernadette runs from Sam’s attempts at friendship. As readers, we may expect Sam to continue to reach out to Bernadette until Bernadette eventually lets her in. But instead, something more complicated happens. During the next group therapy session, Bernadette hears Sam evade Miss Hunt’s question and is suddenly curious. After therapy, the two repeat the same dynamic as last time, but in reverse:  I walk up to Sam after the session. “What’s your deal?” I ask. “What do you mean?” she replies evenly. “You know what I’m talking about. That look with Miss Hunt when she asked you a question. So, spill.” “Now, why should I tell you?” Sam smiles and heads out the door. This complicates the plot in an interesting way. Now Sam is the one pulling back. Repetition and surprise are two different ways to make a text compelling. The passage above gives us both. Bernadette and Sam are variations off of a theme, and it’s anyone’s guess what will happen next.  Discussion questions: This story is divided by sequences of asterisks to form scenes. Why do you think the writer has chosen to section the story off in this way? Do you notice any trends in how sections tend to end and begin? How does the fact of the notebook—both Bernadette’s entries and the physical object itself—help propel the plot in the story? Thank You, Bernie “Bernadette.” As Miss Hunt says it, her voice seems far away. I’m sitting on one of the cold, grey chairs in the small, stuffy room they put the kids in. I’ve been told that my loose, grey sweatshirt with the hood up—and my baggy jeans—give me a scary, mysterious vibe. And that’s the reason I wear them. Miss Hunt’s shouting jolts me back to the present. “Bernadette! I know you may not like going to therapy, but it can help you. So please participate!” I feel the stares of the other people in the room. They’re waiting to see what I will do next. Guess I should give the people what they want. A little drama. I sit up from my slouch and roll my eyes. “Fine. I’m feeling just swell. Really. I don’t even know why I’m at therapy. My parents died ten years ago. I’m over it. Really.” Miss Hunt doesn’t seem happy with my answer. Determined to leave it at that, I look away. Four seats away from me sits a girl. She looks about my age— fourteen. She has shoulder-length straight, blonde hair with a thin blue streak starting at her left temple. She has big hazel eyes and freckles. She’s wearing a Paddington-style navy blue coat, black tights, and chunky black combat boots. I don’t know why I didn’t notice her until now, though this is my first therapy session. It doesn’t matter. We are finally released. My uncle texts me, letting me know he’s waiting outside. As I’m walking out the door, the Paddington-coat girl bumps into me, and I fall back a step. I catch a faceful of her hair. I wish I had hair like that, I think, staring at my ugly, knotted ginger hair that my uncle won’t let me dye because “it’s so beautiful” and “it won’t grow back the same.” I jolt back. “I’m so sorry!” she says. “I didn’t mean to. I just wanted to catch you before you left.” “Um, why?” I’m only partially effective at restraining my snarl. “You, um, just seemed cool. I wanted to know your deal. I’m Sam.” She blushes. The girl stares at me. I stare back at her. “Bernadette.” Sam seems mysterious and cool, and potential friend material. Which means I have to stay as far away as possible from her. *          *          * The following week, I find myself back in that bleak therapy room, in that cold, uncomfortable chair, looking at that annoying Miss Hunt. She’s not a bad person, but she doesn’t get us. I’m in a black sweatshirt today, black leggings, and high-top white sneakers. “So,” Miss Hunt turns to a boy a few seats away from me. “What’s going on, Charlie?” The boy looks down at his

“Awaiting a Letter” is a short story by Lila C. Kassouf, age 12. The story is written in the first-person past tense from the perspective of Celeste. Celeste lives with her mother, whom she calls Maman. They don’t have a lot of money. The story opens on a newspaper clipping describing a bank robbery in the town of Bridgeham, where Celeste and Maman live—the third that week. Celeste is obsessed with mysteries, and she keeps a notebook about the recent crimes. When she grows up, she wants to become a detective, or at least play one on TV. In the restaurant Maman runs, instead of helping out, Celeste starts taking notes about the patrons. Maman gets angry and tells Celeste not to obsess. Then she suggests that Celeste write to her aunt Marjorie, Maman’s younger sister, to tell her about the thefts.  Marjorie is a poet who dropped out of school to pursue her craft. Celeste and Maman think she might be insane. Maman sends Marjorie a letter every day and money every week. But Marjorie almost never answers. After doing some digging during the story, Celeste discovers eventually that when Marjorie does reply, she mostly asks Maman to leave her alone. Slowly, Celeste discovers more about the sacrifices—both personal and financial—that her mother made to protect Marjorie. Near the end of the story, Celeste receives a letter back from Marjorie stating that there is a problem closer to home that needs solving. Celeste realizes that she has a real mystery to solve—but it’s not the bank robberies. It’s her family. What makes this plot strong?  One thing that many writers employ is something called a plot twist—a sudden, unexpected turn in the narrative that changes the stakes or facts of the story. A plot twist can help a story break out of familiar genre tropes, or just reveal something unexpected. In this case, we enter into the story expecting it to be about a bank robbery.  “Maman,” I said, looking up from the newspaper. “Did you hear about the robbery?” “What is it, the third one you’ve told me about this week?” my mother asked, washing dishes at the sink. “Yeah. And all of the eyewitness reports agree that it’s the same person!” “Celeste, eat your oatmeal,” she said. “It’s getting cold.” The first-person narration, and Maman’s avoidance of the subject, help make the reader feel sure that Celeste is onto something. We’re on her side, and we want her to find the bank robber. The story carries on in this way—Maman discouraging Celeste and Celeste doubling down. But over time, it becomes clear that Celeste is getting nowhere on the case.  I wrote Aunt Marjorie a long letter telling her all about the robberies and how I’d compiled all the information I knew about the robber. He was male, blond, tall, skinny, and fast. I had even devoted a notebook to it, and I carried it with me everywhere in case I saw a clue or had a sudden realization. A tall, skinny, fast, blond man does not tell us a great deal—there are many of those. We begin to realize that as much as Celeste wants to be a criminal detective, she isn’t very good at it.  But subtly interspersed with the narrative are clues to another mystery—one that we as readers begin to notice even before Celeste does. Searching for thumbtacks and poster board to attach crime facts to, Celeste goes into her mother’s closet: Maman’s bedroom had the big closet, so that was where we kept things that I needed for school supplies. I went in there to look for poster board and thumbtacks. A small cardboard box caught my eye. I opened it and realized that it was all the letters that Aunt Marjorie had ever sent Maman. Celeste gets caught reading the letters and her mother refuses to tell her anything—or give her the art supplies. I turned back to the robberies. A crime spree made far more sense than my mother’s family. I would have to do without the thumbtacks and poster board. By keeping the reader’s focus with Celeste’s, we are able to eventually begin to see past the false mystery to the real one—the mystery of Aunt Marjorie. The plot twist of the story is that this is no bank heist mystery. Instead, it’s an even higher-stakes mystery—that of family. Through strong first-person writing, the readers discover this as Celeste does—gradually, and almost by accident.  Discussion questions: Can you identify ways that the writer hints, early on, that this is not an ordinary mystery story? Why do you think the writer chose to use first-person perspective for this story? How would it have been different if it had been written with third-person omniscient narration? Awaiting a Letter Eighteen-thousand dollars were stolen from the Bridgeham Regional Bank on Nov. 2. Eyewitnesses say the robber was a man wearing all black, carrying a gun. “He had a slight figure and he ran very quickly,” said one woman who had witnessed the event. This is the third armed robbery this week. Witness reports from each of the robberies confirm it was the same person. —Page 1 of The Bridgeham Times “Maman,” I said, looking up from the newspaper. “Did you hear about the robbery?” “What is it, the third one you’ve told me about this week?” my mother asked, washing dishes at the sink. “Yeah. And all of the eyewitness reports agree that it’s the same person!” “Celeste, eat your oatmeal,” she said. “It’s getting cold.” I ignored her. “But isn’t that weird? I mean, this isn’t the kind of place you’d expect to hear about three armed robberies in one week by the same person.” “What do you mean?” she asked, turning around. “No place on Earth is safe from people doing horrible things. People kill, steal, cheat, lie. You name it.” She turned back around. “Now eat your oatmeal. You’ll be late for school.” At dinner, I brought up the

“Best Friends Forever” by Charlotte Moore, age 12, is a short story told in the first person past tense. In the story the protagonist, Lola, is touring an old, spooky castle with her class. Lola reveals that she isn’t friends with her classmates. She used to have a best friend named Olivia, but in the fifth grade they began to drift apart. Lola had struggled to make friends after that. In the castle, Lola sees a door that says “DO NOT ENTER.” As she is looking at it, her classmate makes fun of her for staring off into space and calls her weird. Lola identifies with the passage marked “DO NOT ENTER.” She too feels separated from others. So she goes down the hallway. After what feels like an eternity, she opens the doorway to a glowing door.  When Lola walks in, the door slams shut behind her. For a while she is alone, but then someone opens the door. Instead of rescuing her, she locks herself in with Lola. The girl reveals she is named Jane. She is dressed in a very old-fashioned outfit and has strange mannerisms. Jane says her dog is lost and asks Lola if she wants to be best friends. Lola agrees in order to get Jane to open the door, but Jane still won’t. Then the teacher finally shows up. She notices Lola talking to Jane, who she seems to not be able to see, and tells Lola that her parents will be upset if she is talking to imaginary friends again. As they leave the castle, Jane hovers over Lola and then vanishes, possessing Lola with her voice. What makes this plot strong?  This story expertly builds, and sustains, narrative tension. Much of it is written in long narrative sequences that almost feel reminiscent of the spooky tunnels they describe. It’s the kind of story you want to read quickly to get to the action. But the narrative is long and contemplative—almost tantalizingly slow: This hallway reminded me of when I was little and my family would drive through a tunnel. I would feel that the tunnel went on forever. I would ask my parents over and over how much longer, but they would brush off the questions and tell me we were almost there. That’s what this passage felt like, except no one was there to assure me that everything was going to be okay. Reading it, it’s hard not to want to enter the hallway yourself and tell Lola to stop, to turn back. Instead, each step she describes feels excruciating. She arrives, finally, at a door: I walked toward it and noticed the dark-brown wood. It was curved at the top and covered with an immense amount of detail, swirls upon swirls tumbling on top of each other and making it hard to focus on one part; the swirls were intertwined, resembling vines or knots of messy hair strewn together. I wondered what was behind the door. Did it lead somewhere else? I imagined walking inside. Maybe I would find some stairs that led to a series of underground tunnels? Walking away seemed out of the question—I had to take one quick look. It was different from the other doors: more intricate, more menacing. I was fascinated. My eyes searched for a doorknob. Instead, there was an old-fashioned door knocker. Every creak of the door made me flinch. My stomach was in knots. The reader knows as well as the writer that nothing good could be waiting for Lola at the other end of the door. But by sustaining the tension, we are compelled to keep reading. The writer also plays with reader expectation as far as how the plot is structured. When Lola is rescued, there’s a sense of relief: maybe all is right in the world now. Instead, the teacher drops a hint that foreshadows the end of the story:  “Lola, who are you talking to?” my teacher asked. “Oh, um . . . this is my friend, Jane.” My teacher gave me a strange stare. “Come on. Let’s go,” she said. Then to herself, she muttered, “Her parents will be even more worried if they discover she has imaginary friends again.” That “again” is so crucial—it’s what clues us in as readers that all is not yet right in the world of the story. It plants necessary seeds of doubt: imaginary friends? We haven’t heard about that. Could Olivia have been imaginary too? As if on cue, the story then delves into a flashback of a camping trip Lola and Olivia took.  Olivia came up with this story about a deeply troubled boy who became possessed by a ghost. Olivia told the story with ghoulish relish. I couldn’t go to sleep that night or many nights after. But Jane wasn’t a ghost, was she? The writer uses flashbacks throughout the story to propel the plot along. In this case, the flashback helps us re-examine our assumptions about Jane. It also makes us once again question the imaginary friend thing: perhaps we can trust Lola. Maybe this world is not what it seems. Discussion questions: Do you think Lola is a reliable protagonist? Do we trust her to accurately tell us this story? If not, at what point in the story do you start to doubt her?  Why do you think the writer chose to include so many details about Olivia? Can you identify moments in the story where the writer introduces details that foreshadow things that happen later? Best Friends Forever The castle loomed large and ominous above me. I heard the tour guide blabber on about some people who had died inside the castle, probably trying to make it appear scarier than it was—something about ghosts and people hearing screams when no one was there. I wasn’t scared; I just didn’t want to be there. All I wanted to do was go home and be with my cat, the only being I felt I could

“A Trip to Paris?” is a short story by Claire Rinterknecht, 13, written in the close third person that follows a travel writer named Matthew. As a travel writer, Matthew is tasked with actually traveling abroad and writing about his experiences. However, as Matthew turns in his latest article, about a trip to Japan, in the opening scene, his interactions with his colleagues seem suspicious, making us wonder if he really did travel to Japan at all. Why would a travel writer not . . . travel?  Through Matthew’s interactions with his young niece, Nancie, we learn more about him—namely, that he is still grieving the loss of Blossom, the woman he loved. In the story’s climax, Nancie discovers that Matthew is writing his article about Paris, his next destination, without having yet gone there. He then confesses that since Blossom’s death on a trip to Colorado, he has been too scared to travel anywhere.  What makes this plot strong?  This is a subtle story that relies on small, well-placed details rather than large gestures and actions to drive its plot forward. It is about a travel writer who does not travel—but we don’t know that until the end of the story.  Rinterknecht builds a sense of suspense with seemingly minor details that raise questions about Matthew’s past as well as his truthfulness. The first clue we get that something is not quite as it seems is when Matthew’s colleague asks him about the earthquake in Japan. Matthew is less than forthcoming and seems to even evade providing further detail:  “Oh yes . . . I was alright . . .” Matthew hesitated. How had she heard about the earthquake? “The epicenter was in the northern part of the island. Is Jane in her office?” This moment also functions as the inciting incident: it is when others begin to doubt Matthew’s veracity, when his armor begins to crack. The stakes rise as others begin to notice his evasive behavior. When his assigning editor, Jane, asks about the trip, he is noticeably reticent:  “How was Japan?” “Wonderful,” Matthew replied without further explanation. “It must have been amazing!” Jane prompted, but when she didn’t get any details, she moved on.  And later, when Nancie asks him to take her on his next trip, to Paris, he is unable to meet her eyes:  “Sorry, Nance, I can’t take you. Anyway your mother wouldn’t let you,” Matthew said genially, but his gaze didn’t quite reach her eyes.  The story reaches a climax when Matthew is at the playground with Nancie. He is working on his article about Paris when she falls off the climbing structure and hurts her arm. He runs to her, releasing his papers in the process. As Nancie, startled but not hurt, helps him retrieve them, she realizes that he’s writing the article—without having even traveled to Paris.  In the resolution, Matthew explains that he has been too afraid to travel since Blossom’s sudden death on a trip together, but also too afraid to quit his job. As the story ends, it is suggested that Matthew may begin traveling again—perhaps with Nancie. Discussion questions: How does the story’s title set us up for the narrative that is to come? We have seen some examples of moments of dialogue that push us to start doubting Matthew. Are there moments where Matthew’s actions also reveal that he might be hiding something?  How do you think this story’s plot would have changed if it had been told in first-person narration instead of third-person? A Trip to Paris? I visited the Shugakuin Imperial Villa on the last day of my trip. The garden is situated in the hills of the eastern suburbs of Kyoto. Tangerine, magenta, and gold maple leaves glided down and settled on calm water like peaceful raindrops. The smudged greens and oranges of the foliage and the shadow of the rounded stone bridge merged on the pond to create a rainbow. The harmonic gong of a bell brought my gaze to a little scarlet and white pagoda. Its up-turned roof corners and nine-tiered tower made it easily recognizable. For Buddhists, each tier on the pagoda’s tower represents one of nine levels of heaven. The scent of pond weed and lilies drifted up on the damp breeze. Camera snaps and elevated tourist chatter reminded me that I did not belong there. Box shrubs clustered around the edge of the pebble path. Behind them were the famous Japanese cherry blossom trees. And, every once in a while, bonsai also twisted and curled. Bonsai symbolize harmony and balance. They are grown with purposeful imperfection and the asymmetrical triangle used for their design symbolizes a continuation of life. Japan was definitely worth the trip. It was a little frightening at first to walk around in Kyoto, so I suggest you use the subways until you get the hang of the streets. I found the Japanese were varied in their reception of an English tourist. Some grinned hugely at my accent and were willing to try to understand me, but some got annoyed at my lack of vocabulary and avoided me. Nevertheless, I wholeheartedly encourage you to plan a trip to Japan and to make sure you have the Shugakuin Imperial Villa at the top of your ‘to do’ list! Matthew set down his quill and stared at his ink-stained fingers. He thought about how Blossom would have loved the Imperial Villa. Shaking his head as if to rid himself of the thought, he placed the leaves of cream paper in a brown envelope and wrote: Travel column: Japan by Matthew Stevens For: The Daily Telegraph He plucked his hat off its hook and shrugged on his green corduroy coat. His scuffed, battered briefcase in one hand, and the rattling doorknob in the other, he let himself out of the flat. The sidewalk was cool in the early evening. Birds were singing and families were strolling home from a day at the park. Bird song is

“A Perfect World” is a short story written in the close third-person point of view. It shifts focus between two protagonists: One, a girl living in a perfect world that she doesn’t know is a computer simulation, and Selena, the daughter of the doctor who is helping run the experiment that has trapped One.  One day, while at her mother’s work, Selena discovers the experiment and confronts her mother. Her mother explains that a group of scientists, interested in knowing how a person would react growing up in a perfect world, had kidnapped three kids who would live their whole lives in a simulated perfect world. Selena and her mother resolve to help free the kids—called simply One, Two, and Three. After weeks of preparation and a tense confrontation, their plan succeeds. Six months later, they are reunited with their parents and happily attending school—in our imperfect world. What makes this plot strong?  This is a fast-paced story with a strong element of suspense and all of the key elements of a strong plot: the inciting incident, which introduces the story’s primary conflict; rising action, or events which raise the stakes of these conflicts; and a climax, followed by a satisfying resolution.  Ava Isabella Angeles, 11, opens the story from One’s perspective. One has begun to notice some flaws in her supposedly perfect world—her handwriting seems less than perfect, her brown house appears yellow. Seeing One’s world and its flaws sets up the context for the story while simultaneously building suspense. We can’t help but wonder, what is this world? And, is it unraveling?  When Selena’s perspective takes over in the following section, Angeles immediately provides the inciting incident: Selena discovers the control room for her mother’s top-secret work project and learns that the three subjects are kids who were kidnapped at a very young age. Selena and her mother decide to try to free them—a decision that sparks the action in the rest of the story.  In the next couple of sections, the action rises as Selena crafts a plan and reaches out to the kids/test subjects, who must decide whether to trust and believe her—or not.  The story reaches a climax when Selena and her mother actually enter the “perfect” world to free the kids, setting off a lab alarm in the process. But they are ultimately successful and, in the epilogue, we get to see the kids reunited with their parents and enjoying a normal life. Discussion questions: How does shifting between two points of view help propel the plot along? Throughout the story, the writer divides up scenes with three stars. What is the impact of this type of divide on the narrative? A Perfect World “One!” The Perfection teacher’s shrill voice sliced the silence of the still room like a knife. One jumped, startled. The teacher’s voice sounded flat. “Please pay attention!” One shifted in her chair. She decided to try to concentrate on the teacher’s lecture to the class. The teacher droned on, her toneless voice never changing: “Perfection is part of life. Without it, no one can live. That is why we teach it.” Then, quite suddenly, a bell rang. The sound was like a wake-up call to the sleepy and bored students. One lined up with her classmates in a long line, then followed behind them as the teacher led the class to the cafeteria, a train of children following behind her as she went. At the cafeteria, One took her assigned seat at the front of the table, next to Two. A multitude of unappetizing white cubes adorned her plate. The food tasted bland like it always did. But even though it tasted like a piece of thin cardboard, as the teachers always said, it was “perfect.” After lunch, it was time for English. The kids lined up again and trailed behind the teacher like a snake of silence. In English, One practiced her handwriting on a sheet of milky-white paper, enjoying the perfect shape of her handwriting. She was copying a sentence from The Book of Perfection, a leather-bound tome on how to be perfect, when a sudden abnormality in her handwriting made her hand come to a stop: an a had not turned out the way it should. The curve of the letter was lopsided, like it was leaning out. One frowned. Whenever she practiced her handwriting, her a’s always turned out perfect. But this one hadn’t—was there something wrong? One shook the thought out of her head. Nonsense, she told herself. It must have been a trick of the light. She looked at it again. A now-perfect a stared back at her as if daring her to believe it had been imperfect a second ago. After school, One walked home with her friends Two and Three. Two was a shy boy who never said a word. Normally, he preferred to walk alone in silent thought, but today he walked with One and Three. Three was an energetic girl, much like One herself, but since talking to each other was not allowed in school, she expressed herself while walking home with One, when no teachers or parents could hear them. One told her about the lopsided a. She asked Three, “Could it be that this world is not perfect?” Three stopped and looked at her. “Of course not! Why would we be learning Perfection if not to help ourselves become perfect?” she said. “However, I always feel like I don’t fit in for some reason.” Saying this, she skipped up the road and, after saying goodbye to One and Two, walked into her house, a sturdy brick structure painted a deep shade of brown. Of course, in this perfect world, all houses are like that, thought One, whose house was identical to Three’s. After walking with Two a short way down the street, they arrived at his house, which, of course, was completely identical to Three’s in size and color, except for a number painted on the door:

“Cheating” by Kyler Min, age 8, follows two central characters in a dystopian future where people travel between multiple planets. The story is divided into sections, and each section follows one of two characters: Evelyn or Kyler. We open with a sequence about Evelyn, a second-grader who is preparing to take a test to get into the Gifted and Honors program at her school. Evelyn’s classmate, Sophie, often cheats off of her tests. At the end of the first section, Evelyn’s parents tell her that whether or not she gets into the gifted program, they still love her and will take her to the food festival on planet Keplar-15u.  We then switch to the story of Kyler, who lives on planet Keplar-22b and is a student in the Gifted and Honors program. Students in the program never see their parents and are also expected not to take medicine—the teachers say they have to be strong enough mentally and physically not to get sick. Kyler’s friend hears of a bad disease going around and so sneaks Kyler a pill. Kyler does not take it, but one day, he comes down with the bad disease. He takes the pill secretly and recovers. In the final scene of the story, Evelyn makes it into the Gifted and Honors Program and goes with her parents to the food festival. There, they find a box labeled “Kyler”—a certified organic human. It is also revealed that Sophie, who had tried to cheat off Evelyn’s test, did not make it into the honors program. What makes this world believable?  A big component of world-building, especially when you are creating a fantastical world, is pairing believable details with the more “out there” ones. In his story, Kyler Min strikes this balance beautifully. Take, for instance, spaceships. In the world of the story, the characters often travel or communicate between multiple planets and must travel by spaceship. A spaceship is not something most of us have seen in person. But there’s something very familiar about the spaceships in “Cheating.”  The State Honor Roll had always been a topic during Kyler’s video conversations with his parents—they were very proud that Kyler had been selected as an honor student. They told Kyler that they had put a bumper sticker on their space shuttle. During one video chat, Kyler’s mom was even wearing a T-shirt that read “Proud Mother of an Honor Student.”  The bumper sticker is clearly a nod to a phenomenon here on Earth, where parents often put stickers like these on their cars. A car is not a space shuttle, but we can clearly see the parallel, and as a result we move from an unfamiliar idea—space shuttles—to a much more familiar one—minivans. Further, every other detail in this passage, from Kyler’s mother’s shirt to the video chat, feel familiar to the world the readers live in. By having the space shuttle be the one unusual feature of the paragraph, and by helping us contextualize that spaceships are kind of like cars, the reader can suspend their disbelief more easily. Another moment where the writer compellingly pairs ordinary with extraordinary to produce a convincing world is the moment where Kyler gets sick. “Blow,” Mrs. King ordered as she handed Kyler yet another tissue. He had already used up two boxes of tissues. He guessed that he had finally developed an allergy to the wild plants around the playground, as many older students had. I’m a big boy now, Kyler thought to himself. He also felt a little sorry because he had laughed at those big kids who suffered from allergies every spring. How could I have been so mean? Soon after this moment, it becomes clear that Kyler actually doesn’t have allergies at all—he is suffering from a serious illness. But by letting Kyler be wrong, we learn more details about the world he lives in. Wild plants grow around the recess playground. The older students have seasonal allergies—and Kyler had felt that this was something to make fun of. This helps reinforce a larger truth about the world of the story: that susceptibility to illness of any kind is considered a sign of weakness. Kyler has picked up the ideas around him. We even learn something about Kyler as a person—he has the capacity to be both mean and empathetic. All of this from a few sentences about allergies! Finally, the story is full of lots of memorable moments of detail. Pills in this world can be chewed up like candy and taste just as good. Just like with cars, sometimes parents let their kids steer the spaceship. Like fruits and vegetables, humans can bear certificates proving they are organic. Evelyn’s parents’ spaceship is called an Odyssey, just like the Honda minivan—and when Evelyn makes the honor roll, they even put a bumper sticker on it. All of these details help paint a world that reminds us a little of our own.  Discussion questions: Do you think Kyler’s decision to take the blue pill was believable, considering the fact that he had always been encouraged to be “mentally strong”? If so, how does the writer make his decision feel believable? If not, what doesn’t feel convincing about it? Were there any other moments where the writer used familiar images or ideas to make sense of something otherworldly? A big part of world-building is the order in which we are introduced to things. In this story, does the order in which the author reveals details help develop the world of the story? Cheating Evelyn could never forget Sophie’s eyes—they were like black holes that sucked up every answer that Evelyn had written down. Even though Mrs. Walls watched the students closely, Sophie still managed to glance around the privacy boards a few times. It was at the beginning of the second grade, when all the students took a test called MRA. The student with the highest score in the class would be selected to join the Gifted and

“Ma’s Riches” is a short story about a mouse family, written in the style of a fairy tale; it is in the third-person point of view. The Lily family, consisting of Ma Lily, Da Lily, and twin girls Corn and Day, is very poor. To make their situation worse, they live on dry, cracked ground. Because Day Lily has a bad leg, however, they are unable to make the journey to a richer, more fertile land. One day, the Lily family hears that the royal family plans to pay a visit to every mouse’s house; they are very nervous to receive them in their humble home. And indeed, the royal family is snobby and scornful of their poverty. But Ma Lily defends their life and her home, claiming she is richer than the royal family because she loves her family and is happy.  What makes this world believable?  Part of successful world-building is having confidence, as a writer, in the world you are building! As a narrator, Fiona Clare Altschuler, 11, possesses an assuredness that is immediately apparent in the straightforward, declarative sentences that open the story:  Corn Lily and Day Lily lived several miles from an abundant wood. They were twin mice, and their family was very poor. Altschuler’s choice of words also contributes to our sense of this world as a real place; her narrator does not seem to come from our world but from the Lilys’. An example of this is the way she describes Ma Lily’s cursed plants: “the plants died before they were knee-high to a splinter.” Detail is the backbone of a believable world, and Altschuler’s story is filled with it—from the mother who plants seeds that are destined to die in the dry ground every year to the father who walks hours every day to the abundant wood to collect nuts and the rich description of the royal family’s clothing and bearing:  The rich robes the royal family wore were fringed with rubies and emeralds. Queen Birch’s paws shone with rings, and a golden crown lay on King Straw’s head. Corn Lily was amazed by their fine garments, and self-consciously glanced down at her plain, russet gown. Then the little mouse peered past the jewels and fine silk and studied the king, queen, and prince’s faces. They didn’t look happy, she realized. The queen’s ears drooped, the king’s eyes were dark with gloom, and the prince’s brow was wrinkled in a sulky frown. She wondered how they could be so sad when they were so rich. Discussion questions: One challenge of building a believable world when your protagonists are not human is creating details specific to the species that they are. How does the writer incorporate mouse-specific details to help readers believe not only in the reality of the world, but in the reality of its characters? How does the writer incorporate backstory and context into the narrative? Ma’s Riches Corn Lily and Day Lily lived several miles from an abundant wood. They were twin mice, and their family was very poor. They lived in a small burrow, poorly furnished, on dry, cracked ground. Their mother planted little seeds every year, but the plants died before they were knee-high to a splinter. Their father walked for many hours beneath the blazing sun to gather nuts where the grass was lush and the trees tall and fruitful. But he was often exhausted by the time he got there, and never had enough time or strength to pick enough acorns and hazelnuts for his family. Day Lily and Corn Lily worked very hard, but still they were never properly fed or clothed. They might have moved to richer ground if it were not for one thing. Day Lily was very quiet and sickly, and one of her hind legs was crooked, and she walked with a limp. She couldn’t walk all that far, and a journey to suitable land would take a day at the very least. Although thin and light, she was much too heavy to carry for hours on end. Corn Lily was different. She was strong and outgoing, and a great help to her parents. “Oh, Ma,” Day Lily said tremulously one day, while sewing a shabby apron for Corn Lily. “Yes, my darling Day Lily?” Ma said quietly, catching sight of her daughter’s face. “If it weren’t for me, we might have moved to richer ground. It’s because of me we’re so poor,” the little mouse whispered, tears in her soft brown eyes. “But I’m just a burden. Just a b-burden!” “Oh, you aren’t a burden. Look at your sewing. And you cook and knit wonderfully. You aren’t a burden. Don’t cry, child.” Suddenly Corn Lily ran in. “Ma, Ma!” she cried in excitement. “King Straw, Queen Birch, and little Prince Barberry are coming! They are stopping at every mouse’s house, and that includes us!” “Good rivers!” Ma gasped. “Oh, Corn Lily!” Day Lily shouted, leaping up and grabbing her sister’s paws. Just then, Da slipped into the little burrow. “What’s all the noise?” he asked. “Slope, the king, queen, and prince are coming!” Ma told him breathlessly. “Oh, Poppy!” Da said. He smiled in amazement, and then his smile faded slowly. “Da, what’s wrong?” Day Lily asked. “Oh, they’ll scorn us,” he sighed. “The royal family is proud. And they’ll scorn us for being poor.” “Oh, Da, they wouldn’t scorn someone who works so hard!” Day Lily cried, flinging her arms around Da’s neck. “Or someone who’s so nice like you, Da,” Corn Lily shouted. “I don’t believe anyone in the world has such wonderful daughters,” Da said. *          *          * Three days later, there was a brisk knock on the door. Corn Lily opened the door and gasped, giving a hasty bow. Day Lily looked up from her knitting and scrambled to her feet. “H-hello—I mean, Your Majesty,” Corn Lily stuttered. “Please, d-do come in.” Day Lily said, self-consciously aware

“The Fossil” is a short story by Marlena Kilian, age 11. Our protagonist is Corian Monseur, the son of a Spanish nobleman architect who is designing the king’s chambers. Corian and his younger brother Ceon live in luxury in a mansion full of servants who wait on them hand and foot. One day, they are out for a walk in the garden when they notice that their mother’s prized lilac bush has been mysteriously crushed. Ceon starts to cry. As Corian bends down to console his brother, he notices something strange and shiny on the ground that looks almost like an animal’s tooth—but they aren’t sure.  Corian and Ceon take the object inside, where everyone who sees it is astonished. They decide to mail it off to a team of Russian scientists. After thirty excruciating days of waiting for a reply, Corian finally receives a letter from the scientists stating that they believe the object is the fossil of an ancient baby dragon’s tooth! They send it to other experts for confirmation who promise to be in touch soon. Five years later, Corian has long given up ever hearing from them again, but the scientists finally write back. They apologize for losing track of time and confirm that the fossil is, indeed, a dragon’s tooth. The tooth is put in a museum and becomes world renowned—and so does Corian.  What makes this world believable? The world that Marlena Kilian builds in “The Fossil” is clearly established from the moment the story starts, and is one of the most vivid parts of the narrative. Though there is no specific year given in the story, we get the sense that this is a very long time ago. The historic feeling of the story helps make the world immediately feel realistic because the language is so noticeably different.  Corian finally said, “Ceon, we must get Molly, for I think in my hand is an animal’s tooth,” and they ran hastily to the patio, where servants were brushing the dusty furniture. Throughout the story, the characters’ language feels as antiquated as it does in the example above. The world’s reaction to the fossil is another clue as to the time period—it seems that fossils are a very new invention. Finally, the author uses historical details like telegrams to further give readers a sense for the rules of this world.  The descriptions of the castle are another thing that help build a believable world.  Their backyard was a courtyard made up of rows of flower beds and perfect oaks rising as high as the mansion’s roof. The pride of Corian’s family was the lake beyond the courtyard, which flowed into many brooks and creeks behind and along the sides of the mansion. The writer’s choice of details is careful. After establishing this courtyard at the beginning of the story, the two brothers return there soon after to play at Ceon’s behest. But now, disaster has struck those same flowers we learned about above.  When Corian caught up with Ceon, he could not take in what lay before him: a creek ran between the last two rows of the flower beds, and where the creek flowed, the lilacs lay wilted with the front side of the wooden bed crushing their stems and petals.  By establishing the world of the garden before describing the brothers’ escapade there, the writer is able to more quickly move the narrative along. We know what the garden looks like already, which helps us focus entirely on the devastation of the lilacs. Discussion questions:  Clearly there is magic in the world of this story because the two brothers found the fossilized tooth of a baby dragon. Why don’t you think any dragons or other magical creatures appeared in this story? The first time Corian is waiting for a letter from the experts, he is very impatient. The second time, he almost forgets it is coming. Why do you think there is such a stark difference between these two periods of waiting?  The Fossil Corian Monseur lounged on a couch with lace trimmings, gazing lazily through the window. His father was a nobleman and an architect busy designing the King of Spain’s chambers. His family lived in a mansion with servants and rich bedrooms with halls leading to each one. Their backyard was a courtyard made up of rows of flower beds and perfect oaks rising as high as the mansion’s roof. The pride of Corian’s family was the lake beyond the courtyard, which flowed into many brooks and creeks behind and along the sides of the mansion. Corian yearned for the tempting freedom he could enjoy not under the mansion’s roof, but under the blue sky. Although he was permitted to go outside, he could only go along the endless flower beds, but they were not of any fascination to Corian. Ceon, his younger brother, darted into the room with pleading eyes and said, “Corian, please come with me outside. Mother tells you not to idle.” Corian’s gleaming eyes glanced at his brother, and he spoke solemnly, “I am 12 years old, yet we always seem to have an adventure together.” Then he gave an awkward smile as Ceon happily went to get their moccasins and their light coats. Molly, a servant who was like an aunt to them, sternly said, “Tsch, tsch, boys. Be sure not to get dirty or walk into one of these chambers with a frog like last time.” Ceon chuckled but Corian remained silent in his deep thoughts. They went out of the wooden door and ran through the flower beds. As much as Corian wanted to carry out his brother’s desire, he also got exasperated at having to leave his desirable chamber. Suddenly Ceon halted, greatly surprised. When Corian caught up with Ceon, he could not take in what lay before him: a creek ran between the last two rows of the flower beds, and where the creek flowed, the lilacs lay wilted with the