Mentor Texts

“The Asteroid Attack” is a short story by Julia Hershon, age 11. The story is written in the close third person. The protagonist, Evangeline, lives with her parents on a farm in France that she will one day own. Their crops keep dying. They live near mountains, but Evangeline has never been to the mountains, and finds them frightening. One day, Evangenline goes to school where there is a new girl named Clara. We learn that Clara’s parents are scientists and they have come here to study and replicate some nearby ancient cave paintings. All of a sudden, giant asteroids start falling from the sky. All of the children panic completely, except for Clara and Evangeline, who keep their cool. They try to help one especially upset student named Pierre to safety. The three of them run away from the asteroids until they are blasted into the air. They land and regain consciousness on a mountain. They then go to try to find Evangeline’s parents and make sure they are okay. On the journey, Evangeline falls into a sinkhole on the mountain. Her friends can’t save her, and she thinks she is going to die. But then, her parents rescue her. Evangeline gets over her fear of mountains.  How does this writer choose words thoughtfully?  This story is extremely suspenseful—after all, it tells the story of an asteroid attack—but it’s also resplendent with detail. The author uses adjectives, metaphors, and similes to make every single description in the story unique. The result is a piece that delights in language, image, and sound. One way that the writer makes details come to life is by comparing geographical features to humans or animals.  Light glimmered on the vast plains of France and on the sparkly stones that lay around like lazy cats. The stones rose angrily above the ground, glistening in the sun’s radiant light. Endless fields danced in the glorious, full light emanating from the brilliant ball of fire above the crystal blue sky that stretched as far as the eye could see. Blurry rivers sang around gleaming, round stones, creating elegant rippling sounds that filtered through the immense plain. Through personifying the geographical features with human or animal traits like “lazy,” or “angrily,” and using verbs like “lay around,” “danced” and “sang,” the writer helps the reader understand that the scenery in this story is just as alive as the characters. This description foreshadows what comes later, when the world is split apart by giant asteroids and the very landscape seems to come to life. The writing is full of satisfying assonance, consonance, and alliteration: There were tangly roots that seemed to appear from nowhere and pesky pebbles strewn all over the place. Evangeline remembered to be terrified of the towering mountain, but Clara was enjoying every step that she took. As a reader, I can’t help but enjoy every step I take through these sounds. The passage starts with the ts in “there were tangly roots” to the p sounds in “pesky” “pebbles” and “place.” Then, we move back to t sounds—“terrified” and “towering” and even later on in “mountain.” Finally, we land on some assonance—“enjoying,” “every,” and “she.”  Discussion questions: What are some other places in the story where the world comes to life? How does the writer use words in these moments to help transform things like rocks and mountains into sentient beings? What were some similes in the story that you found particularly memorable? What made them stick out to you? The Asteroid Attack Light glimmered on the vast plains of France and on the sparkly stones that lay around like lazy cats. The stones rose angrily above the ground, glistening in the sun’s radiant light. Endless fields danced in the glorious, full light emanating from the brilliant ball of fire above the crystal blue sky that stretched as far as the eye could see. Blurry rivers sang around gleaming, round stones, creating elegant rippling sounds that filtered through the immense plain. Grasses tingled in the clear morning air; the wind flowed like rain through the long expanse to field after field after field. In the far blue distance, mountains arose like clouds soaring across an endless sky. Sheer white snow sparkled, sending thousands of points of diamond light across the plentiful land. Erect stones and points jutted from the mountains; the steep hills looked ominous even from such a long distance. Splotches of brilliant green sparkled in the crooks of mountains far away—dew glinting and opulent green hills soaring through the landscape. A few scraggly caves jutted through the fertile soil; the dark, dreary, dim center hidden from view by craggy and rugged cave walls that whispered in the wind. The landscape blended together into one big mush of land; the colors blurred, but the regions themselves were very different. Thus, a single farmer could get lost in unknown territory; the spaces were so vastly different, whether plain, river, mountain, or valley. As dawn seeped across the sky like milk pouring into a bowl, a young girl carefully climbed out of her microscopic bed. She tried, ever so carefully, to prevent the dusty wood floors from creaking. Her name was Evangeline; her hair was as pure as dark chocolate and her eyes as green as the plentiful valleys that surrounded her home on her parents’ farm. Her hair swept across her shoulders like waves rolling onto the beach in the far distance, every single strand falling into place as if her hair moved not as many single strands, but as one whole. Her skin was the color of the grainy sand that spilled around the cliffs and the fields, a dark tan color. Her skin was as soft as a feather and warm and silky to the touch. Her eyes gleamed emerald fire as the sun shone brilliant, warming rays down through the dusty windows onto her face. She was elegant, although her body was rugged and powerful after many long, hard days of

“Scared” is a very short story by Kaydence Sweitzer, age 9. In it, the narrator is sitting in a fort they made, reading a book at night when suddenly, they hear a frightening noise through the window. Horrified, they hide under the covers (we begin to realize the fort is perhaps in the narrator’s bed). Some time passes, and the narrator doesn’t notice any other scary noises. Thinking it might be safe to come out, they start to read again. But then, whatever the narrator heard comes close to them. The narrator starts to cry, and their tears wash away the words from the pages of their library book. The narrator finally pulls back the covers to reveal . . . nothing. They conclude it must have been the wind, and go to sleep. How does this writer choose words thoughtfully?  This story is only a paragraph long, but the writer makes sure every single word counts. The result is a story rife with gripping suspense and detailed images. We start on an incredibly unique description of night: The moon was strangling the sun and winning for the next eight hours until he was finally defeated at dawn.  This description offers a fresh, and kind of spooky, new way to think about nighttime: a violent battle between the sun and the moon. It helps set the scene for the story that’s about to unfold—one where the narrator feels threatened by the forces of the night, forces that perhaps have just as much frightful power as the moon does.  Throughout the story, the writer makes their language come to life:  A frightening sound whispered through the window.  First of all—there’s a wonderful alliteration between “whisper” and “window.” The whisper itself really fits the general image-landscape of the story. Whispering connotes concealment, secrets—forces that want to go undetected. It also can be associated with nighttime. It’s interesting how specific the idea of something whispering through a window feels compared to how abstract “a frightening sound” is. In a way, it makes it even more frightening—we know where it is, but we don’t know what it is. The writer continues to pair abstract images with very concrete ones:  Slow as a sloth, I unfolded my covers, accidentally leaving my bravery behind. The sentence starts out with “slow as a sloth”—another great example of alliteration, and also a simile. The simile evokes a specific, but also outlandish image: a sloth. To bring us back to reality, the next part of the sentence is pretty direct: “I unfold my covers.” Finally, we land on a metaphor (and yet another alliteration!)—when the narrator accidentally leaves their bravery behind.  Discussion questions: Can you find any more examples of alliteration in this story? Do you think the story is resolved at the ending, or does it feel like kind of a cliffhanger? Why? Scared My eyes were wandering around the page of my book as I was sitting in the fort I made. The moon was strangling the sun and winning for the next eight hours until he was finally defeated at dawn. A frightening sound whispered through the window. Horrified as a person could be, I abruptly hid under the covers. The time went by and I didn’t notice a thing, so I quietly read so I could hear if anything came close. As I heard something come close, tears rolled down my face and dripped on the page, slowly washing away the words. “Man, that was my library book!” I exclaimed, quickly covering my mouth just in case. Slow as a sloth, I unfolded my covers, accidentally leaving my bravery behind. I got closer and closer to finding out what was making that noise. The covers were finally letting me see what was around my room. My eyes scanned the room: nothing was there. “I guess it was just the wind,” I mumbled to myself as the wind whistled, and I went to sleep. Kaydence Sweitzer, 9 Virginia Beach, VA Jeremy Nohrnberg, 10 Cambridge, MA

“A Windy Spring Day” is a short story by Jack Meyer, age 13. The story is told in the first person in past tense. When it begins, our protagonist is crawling through a hole in a fence between his house and that of his next-door neighbor, Kyle. We learn that he and Kyle are best friends and have been since they were very young. We learn about some of their similarities and differences: Kyle is shyer than the narrator, and hates math. Kyle also spends a lot of time with his parents, whereas our protagonist’s parents travel a lot. For the rest of the story, we join Kyle and the narrator in their afternoon activities of eating mint chocolate chip ice cream and playing video games. The narrator focuses on listening actively as Kyle talks about his family’s vacation. At the end, the narrator’s mother calls him back home. How does this writer choose words thoughtfully?  This story is, at its core, a portrait of close friendship. Being best friends with someone, especially when you’re young, often means more than just hanging out a lot or having each other’s backs. There are so many details that go into a best friendship—inside jokes, routines, favorite snacks to share. You get to know one another’s families and pets, the quirks of each other’s houses.  “A Windy Spring Day” encapsulates this perfectly. This isn’t a story particularly concerned with plot. Instead, the writer sets a vivid scene:  I hear footsteps on wet grass and peer through the hole. I squeeze through the hole shoulder-first, and Kyle greets me with a bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream and a wide, toothless smile. His dad, Rick, is a strong believer in mint chip. After dinner, he always pulls out a quart of the stuff and drops it on the dinner table dramatically. There are so many details in this scene! I can almost feel the wet grass myself. The detail about squeezing through the hole shoulder-first is just specific enough to give a precise image but also vague enough that we are able to move on quickly with the story without getting too caught up in the logistics of fence-crawling, something the writer addressed earlier in more detail. Further, we learn a lot in this moment. Kyle is toothless, his dad’s name is Rick, their family seems to have a good sense of humor. We learn that the narrator probably eats there often. And, we learn that Kyle is a thoughtful friend.  Kyle just got back from Mexico, his first trip outside of the country. We talk about it as we eat our mint chocolate chip ice cream on the big leather couch in the living room, knowing his mom would be furious if she saw us. She loves that couch. The green scoops start melting. Kyle loves ice cream soup; I don’t. I pick up my pace, talk less and listen more as we stop talking about his trip to Mexico and move on to our thoughts on the elusive purple shore crab. Once again, the writer balances detailed scene-setting with narrative and blurs the two together. We see how much time the narrator must spend here to know Kyle’s mother’s opinions about the sofa. The conversation about the purple shore crab picks up on something the narrator told us early on about how marine biology was a shared passion. Seeing the writer come back to it now helps establish the story’s world. Through returning to carefully interspersed details, as readers we develop the same comfort and familiarity in Kyle’s house as the narrator has.  Discussion questions: Which details from the story did you find most memorable? Why? Which moments in the story felt least memorable? Why?  Why do you think the writer chose to put this story in the present tense?   A Windy Spring Day I am poking my head through a hole in my fence, a fence made of oak that gives me splinters when I touch it. It creaks and squeaks when it is pushed. The raspberry bushes and plum trees are blown against it by the wind. The vines of the raspberry bushes climb up the old fence, blooming with new flowers—white and pink berries too, the kind that make me cringe when they hit my tongue. The hole is small. I can barely fit through it now— not easily as I used to. It’s quiet-yet-loud with the deafening sound of leaves wrestling each other in the wind. I break the roaring silence. I yell, “Kyle!” My voice inflects the same way one does when asking a question. There is a vociferous pause as the wind picks up and lets out a quiet scream. The inconsistent and forceful sound of a screen door sliding off its track breaks the blaring stillness. The mesh of the screen hits the wood of the house as the wind forces it back. The door slides in, surges a little bit, pauses, then a little bit more. It’s a windy, hot spring day in California. The smell of honeysuckle and chlorine from the neighbor’s pool can be smelled from houses away. A dog barks from a few houses down. Rick’s motorcycle pulls into his driveway. A squirrel dashes across our lawn and up the stump of the oak tree. Fifteen seconds go by, but it feels like thirty. A high-pitched voice calls back: “Yeah?” The voice belongs to a boy named Kyle. He and I have known each other for years. We go to the same school, White Oaks Elementary. He was four when I met him. I was three. He didn’t have many friends. I didn’t either. We are next-door neighbors and have been for five years. He and I are very different. He is shy and quiet with people he doesn’t know. He hates math; he really hates it. He tried to pull the “my cat ate my math homework” excuse a few weeks ago. Kyle thought it would work.

“The Birth of Samira” is a piece from a collection of personal narratives called “Autobiographical Vignettes” by Anushka Trivedi, age 10. In it, the author opens by describing her mother’s pregnancy with her sister, Samira. Anushka is so excited because she is going to be a sister any day. Each day, a rotating cast of family members pick her up from the school bus. When it is her mother, Anushka greets her and then she greets Samira by hugging and kissing her mother’s belly. One day, Anushka’s grandpa picks her up from the school bus and tells her that her mother had the baby! They go to the hospital to visit. The writer is so excited she can hardly wait. Finally, Anushka gets to hold Samira for the first time. She knows she has a friend for life. How does this writer choose words thoughtfully?  This memoir is full of beautiful, careful descriptions. In the opening sequence, the writer tells us all of the different sizes that her sister was as she grew:  My parents told me how big she must be each month. She had grown from the size of a sesame seed to a pomegranate seed, to a pea, to a peanut, to an orange, to the size of my palm, to a baby with tiny arms and legs, to a baby with fingernails, to a soccer ball, to a watermelon, to a baby with a tail, to a baby with no tail and a head full of hair! It was such a mystery. This sequence is so visually engaging! It’s easy to see Samira at each stage of her growth. It’s especially interesting, and kind of funny, how Samira switches to and from being a baby and being other things, like a pomegranate seed or a watermelon, and back again. As many words as there are for the different sizes that Samira has been, the writer laments, in other parts of the story, the lack of words for things. She writes: Is there a word for the excitement you feel when you wait for a joyous occasion? I have felt this excitement often—waiting for the airplane to land at the Ahmedabad airport so I can see my grandparents’ faces; waiting for the airplane to land at the Dulles airport to see my grandparents’ faces when they come to visit us; looking out of the train window to see my cousins’ faces in Pune; waiting in daycare for my parents to return from the university. Though the passage is about the writer’s search for a word, she cycles through images expertly—the airport, her grandparents’ faces, a train window, names for places. Details like these fill the narrative with words—so many words that they all come together to form the word the narrator is missing about waiting.  Discussion questions: Before Samira is born, the writer compares her to many things, but mostly foods. After Samira is born, Anushka compares her to teacups and a small bowl. Why do you think the writer decided to change the types of images she used to describe her sister? What are moments in the story where the writer shows the reader her impatience through the use of details, rather than simply telling us she was impatient? Autobiographical Vignettes THE BIRTH OF SAMIRA It was a lovely fall day. The leaves were beginning to turn. Some leaves fell gently to the ground in the light September breeze. I was going to be a sister any day now. I had waited so long, watching my mother’s belly grow, imagining what my sister would be like. My parents told me how big she must be each month. She had grown from the size of a sesame seed to a pomegranate seed, to a pea, to a peanut, to an orange, to the size of my palm, to a baby with tiny arms and legs, to a baby with fingernails, to a soccer ball, to a watermelon, to a baby with a tail, to a baby with no tail and a head full of hair! It was such a mystery. Ever since I saw her on the screen as the doctor checked my mother, I could not wait any longer. It looked like she was giving me a “thumbs up” on the screen that day. She knows I am watching her, I thought. She knows I am her big sister, I imagined. I can’t wait to see you, Samira. The September breeze blew on my face as I looked outside the bus window on my way back from school that day. It was the first couple of weeks of kindergarten, and it was not what I had expected. One of the things that shocked me most about school was how much we had to sit and how little we talked or played. I was full of questions about everything, but I felt I never got the chance to ask any of them. Getting on the bus to get back home was the best part of my day. I had memorized the route from school to the bus stop. I found a window seat and knew it was my stop when I saw either my grandpa, dad, or mom waiting for me at a distance. If it was my mom, it was my routine to jump out of the bus and give her belly a big hug and kiss, and greet Samira. The bus was noisy, as it was every day. It was one of the several things that bothered me about school. How loud the day could be! I longed to get back to my room and immerse myself in my toys for the next few hours until I had forgotten all about school. When is Samira going to be born? I have waited and waited and waited. I ignored the loud children and looked through the bus window. I watched the birds perched on the trees and flying through the sky and let the noises

“Treacherous Climb” is a short story by Sarah Süel, age 10. The story is written in the first person in past tense. We open onto the protagonist, Kate, feeding cheese to her pet mouse, Hammy. We learn that Kate lives on a dairy farm. After milking the cows, she makes a wish by blowing on a dandelion—she wants an adventure. The wish works almost immediately: she decides to climb Mt. Treacherous, a large mountain adjacent to her town. Mt. Treacherous is aptly named, and Kate and Hammy the mouse get into all kinds of scrapes, from falling off a cliff into a river to getting caught in a rockslide. At one point, they are trapped in a cave and must follow a bear cub to get out! Finally, on their journey home, they ride a log down the river. Back home, everyone is very impressed, and even re-name the mountain Mt. Hammy.  How does this writer choose words thoughtfully?  In “Treacherous Climb,” Kate’s narrative voice is hilarious and eloquent in equal measure. The word choice is incredibly precise, and also often a little goofy. A good example is the name of Kate’s mouse, Hammy—a strange name for a small rodent who is not a hamster!  Throughout the story, the writer makes strong (and abundant) use of simile. The similes are often densely packed. Take this passage at the beginning, where Kate is feeding Hammy:  My eyes, as blue as the sea that peeked over the top of the trees . . . poked around the mountain that loomed above us. . . . I was sitting with my legs crossed on a bench as rough as sandpaper, but it never had given me a splinter. I wore a light dress and simple shoes. My cheeks were as pink as a rose, and my hair went from brown to a gold like the sun when it has just risen. I wore earrings the color of the lovely lavender that grows in a clearing in the forest; they are made out of a pearl and shaped into a heart. When we compare things to other things in our writing, we bring those things into the room too. Reading the passage above feels a bit like watching a slideshow—so many images jam-packed into so short of a space! Alongside the protagonist and the mouse, there is the sun, a rose, a forest with lavender growing in a clearing. Throughout the story, the similes are all extremely specific and unique. At dusk I sat on the bench and gazed outside at the mountain above us. Then an idea popped into my head like popcorn does when it’s roasted over a fire.  By taking the comparison of an idea popping into your head like popcorn one step further—popcorn roasted over a fire—the writer creates an intensely specific image that the reader can envision as clearly as the mountain the narrator is looking at. Sometimes, the writer uses metaphors or takes images to the extreme. In these cases, the images are just as strikingly specific: I was rudely awakened by the mountain growling, or by what I thought at first was the mountain growling.  First of all, “mountain growling” is such a beautiful sound. There’s an assonance between the o’s and i’s across the two, and they almost have a slant rhyme to them—the n’s near the end of both really resonate. Beyond the musicality of the language, it’s also an extremely memorable image because it’s so unique. It also vividly encapsulates the danger of the situation by making the mountain become threatening in a whole new way.  Discussion questions: This story is image-packed, but it’s also action-packed! How does the writer balance description with fast-paced narrative in the story? What parts of the story feel like they move quickly? What parts of the story feel like they move slowly? Treacherous Climb “Squeak!” I was feeding my pet mouse, Hammy, some savory cheese I’d ripped off my sandwich. My eyes, as blue as the sea that peeked over the top of the trees and poked around the mountain that loomed above us, gazed affectionately at him. His cheeks were ballooned up, his eyes were bright and full of life, his fluffy grey fur was glowing in the morning sun, and his tiny but sharp claws held the cheese tight. I was sitting with my legs crossed on a bench as rough as sandpaper, but it never had given me a splinter. I wore a light dress and simple shoes. My cheeks were as pink as a rose, and my hair went from brown to a gold like the sun when it has just risen. I wore earrings the color of the lovely lavender that grows in a clearing in the forest; they are made out of a pearl and shaped into a heart. I had my hair in a braid to keep it neat while I worked. After we were done with our breakfast, I put Hammy in my pocket and went out to milk the cow. I came back a few minutes later holding two buckets full of milk that looked like the milk that comes out of a dandelion stem when you pull it out of the ground to make a wish. I gave the buckets to my mother to strain and make into cheese. I went outside and grabbed a dandelion. I blew a warm stream of air at it and watched the fluffy seeds float into the sky till they disappeared. I gazed across the freshwater lake that was right outside our village. As I gazed there, I remembered that I wished for an adventure and, if I looked, I would find one. And if I did, I would be ready. At dusk I sat on the bench and gazed outside at the mountain above us. Then an idea popped into my head like popcorn does when it’s roasted over a fire. I would climb that mountain! It didn’t have an

“Regrets and Broken Gas Pumps” is a short short story written by Sydney Burr, age 13. It is written in close first person and is in the present tense. The first half of the story is in italics and is from the point of view of someone pumping gas. It is very hot, and the narrator is talking about how she cannot think. The pumps are not working and she’s extremely frustrated. She reveals that she can’t afford to send her daughter to Disneyland.  In the second half, we switch perspectives and realize that the narrator is now Anna, the daughter of the original narrator. The writing is no longer in italics. From the car, Anna watches her mother pump gas and tells us about her family—how her parents got divorced and how, before that, her brother Joel had died when his bike was hit by a car.  How does this writer choose words thoughtfully?  Throughout the story, both mother and daughter speak pretty much exclusively in run-on sentences. Though a run-on sentence seems uncareful at first glance, in this case, the writer is playing with usual notions of grammar and style to craft a more vivid character.  Throughout the story, the writer thoughtfully conveys an incredibly realistic (and heartbreaking) internal monologue. There is a complicated grammatical definition of a run-on sentence, but a good way to check is to try reading a sentence out loud. If you have to stop to breathe midway through, you might have a run-on sentence on your hands. Anyway, the story is written this way and it creates a really interesting stylistic effect—almost like listening to someone’s thoughts. Anna talks about this in the second half of the story:  Ms. Hawthorne always pointed out that I write a lot of run-on sentences but my mom says that’s okay because most people think in run-on sentences and writing is supposed to express thoughts.  Perhaps Anna’s mother is right. Writers often use run-on sentences to put us right into the narrator’s head. But it’s interesting that this was Anna’s mother’s idea, not her’s. Maybe this is a clue that there might be another reason Anna uses run-on sentences. And sure enough, in just the next sentence we begin to see the other power run-on sentences have. I don’t know if she’s right but I do know she was right when she told Joel not to ride his bike in the street and I think she was wrong when she said some things I won’t repeat about Dad. Here, Anna starts out by talking about her teacher’s critique of her grammar and quickly lands, via run-on sentence, in things that speak to more difficult aspects of her life than school or grammar: her mother’s futile warnings to her brother, the fighting that led to her parents’ divorce. Run-on sentences let the narrator reveal the undercurrents—what’s going on behind the scenes—while maintaining this narrative of the car. They allow her to flit between past and present, sometimes staying for a long time in difficult details and sometimes entering and exiting them quickly.  Like any good pattern, the writer sometimes changes it up: He had dark eyes like mine and Mom’s but that was before he got mowed over by a pickup truck which was before the divorce back when Mom made a lot of jokes and still loved Dad and me. The driver was texting. I don’t have a phone and I don’t want one now anyway. In this passage, a short sentence follows a very long and painful one. Though at the point where we land on “The driver was texting” we are two-dozen words past the discussions of Joel, the short sentence pulls us back to that story, and its brevity is cutting. Finally, the narrator retreats to a slightly safer topic: “I don’t have a phone now and I don’t want one now anyway.” Discussion questions: Why do you think the writer chose to open the piece with the mother’s perspective? How are the mother’s voice and the daughter’s voice similar and different in the piece? In what way do the writer’s stylistic choices reflect these similarities and differences? Regrets and Broken Gas Pumps I’m pumping gas in the summer sun but the only gallons I can think about are the gallons of sweat that I’m sweating although it doesn’t make a difference anyhow and there are no good movies out and the flock in the sky has wandered to float far away above the mountains so there’s nothing to stop anyone from frying an egg or themselves on the sidewalk. The dull lifeless hot air is not stimulated until a breeze awakens but the breeze is even hotter and the skating rink is closed for refurbishment and the darned pump isn’t working so I collapse into the driver’s seat and pull forward to try the next pump which I don’t think is encouraged but I’m too hot to think. The blue of the sky is a hazy blue because of the smog and I’d get an electric car because I don’t want to contribute to the pollution or keep dealing with this pump which isn’t working either but I can’t afford one and I can’t afford Disneyland but I couldn’t really send Anna there anyway in this heat plus there’s no one to send her there with either. My mom is outside cussing at the gas pump like it’s Dad and I’m in the car and can almost hear my skin sizzling because the car is like an opposite freezer in the summer when the sun is shining and the air conditioning is off and my life stinks. Ms. Hawthorne always pointed out that I write a lot of run-on sentences but my mom says that’s okay because most people think in run-on sentences and writing is supposed to express thoughts. I don’t know if she’s right but I do know she was right when she told Joel not to ride his bike

“The Mourning Dove” by Meital Fried, age 13, is a short story written in the first-person past tense. The story opens on our protagonist, who is sitting with her two moms, Aunt Jasmine and Aunt Mama, looking at a mourning dove on the roof of their house that will not leave. The protagonist explains that a bomb is heading toward their house, a bomb no one is brave enough to name, a bomb that will ruin everything. At first, we think it may be an actual bomb, but quickly we start to realize the bomb is a metaphor for impending disaster. To distract the narrator from the bomb, Aunt Jasmine and Aunt Mama start to ask her questions about birds, a shared family passion. Eventually, the protagonist’s biological mother calls. The protagonist does not want to speak to her. We learn that Aunt Mama is the protagonist’s biological mother’s half-sister, and that her mother is not really in her life. Eventually, Aunt Jasmine and Aunt Mama go inside, and the protagonist and the dove make eye contact. The protagonist says that she can’t describe with words what she felt in that moment. The bird flies off. Near the end of the story, we learn that Aunt Mama is dying. The three family members go back outside. The bird is gone. They all admit they’re scared.  How does this writer choose words thoughtfully?  This is a story very much at odds with, and engaged with, words. Let’s start with the original focus of the story, and its title—the mourning dove. A mourning dove is a type of bird, but “mourning” is also a word for what we do when we are grieving. In this story, the mourning dove is physically there, but it also serves as a kind of metaphor—it represents a grief that is about to occur, that is coming nearer and nearer.  In the case of the mourning dove, language is almost mockingly close to the family—a brutal reminder that they will soon themselves be in mourning. But in other ways, the story is about a world that is shying away from language and its brutal realities. Aunt Mama is dying, but no one will say the word “death.” Instead, the protagonist decides to call what is coming a bomb, because no one else will ascribe language to it: Most of the time, we say one word because a better word doesn’t exist. For example, if there was a word that meant there is a bomb whistling toward your family and all you can do is wait for the explosion which will ruin your life, then the nurse with purple lipstick would have said it, instead of just “I’m sorry.” With no better word than bomb, and nothing to stop the bomb falling, the protagonist and her family turn to other pursuits. They watch the mourning dove, they hug, they try to carry on. But the bomb is coming closer and closer, and it makes it hard for the protagonist to focus on finding the right words—even bird facts, her favorite, are elusive: Sometimes bird facts would jumble themselves up in my brain. It mostly happened when I was little, but it had been happening more and more frequently. The bomb had changed everything, even how I remembered bird facts. Another moment of uncertain language has to do with the protagonist’s biological mother, whom she refers to as “The Woman Who Gave Birth to Me.” She writes: The Woman Who Gave Birth to Me’s name was Mira. When she was younger than she should have been, she did the kind of thing that gets you called the kind of names people write on the inside of bathroom stalls. She made the kind of mistake that leaves you with a baby that you don’t want. That baby was me. The mother’s backstory, and the story of the protagonist’s birth, are things the adults in her life feel embarrassed by or awkward about. So they avoid language and stick to uncertain phrases. The protagonist, ever looking for answers, has ascribed titles to the uncertainty, perhaps as a way of establishing her own place in the world.  Another word that is important in the story is “uh-huh.” Of course, “uh-huh” is not a typical word, but a kind of wordless word, a confirmation, something that comes from the body and feels both close to and far from language. In the story, the aunts say “uh-huh” melodiously: But my aunts had this way of saying it which made it sound like maybe the most beautiful sound on the planet. The “uh” flowed into the “huh,” in a way that made the word sound as important as it was, not trying to run away from the word, not trying to make it feel unimportant, but celebrating it. But our protagonist can’t say it at all. And maybe on a deeper level, our protagonist can’t accept uncertainty the way her aunts can, at least not at first. Though the aunts are laughing, are smiling, are trying to convince our protagonist not to give up, she’s stuck in the uncertainty: the bomb will come, and she doesn’t know when. The moment when the protagonist finally accepts what is to come happens when she looks into the mourning dove’s eyes.  [R]ight then, I could see everything I needed to in the mourning dove’s eyes. I could never explain what I saw there to anyone. I think even if I could, they wouldn’t understand it. But I understood it. It was one of those things you don’t need words for. Words hardly ever do their job. Sometimes all you can do is feel. And I felt. In this moment, the protagonist finally accepts that there are things that we don’t need language for—feelings that go deeper. At the end, she taps into this experience to find hope:  “Uh-huh,” I said, and it sounded exactly right. Discussion questions:  In a story that so carefully considers language, why do

Anticipation builds as Emma awaits her father’s opening-night performance in a new opera

“Jennie’s House” is a short story by Bo-Violet Vig, age 13. Written in the close third person in past tense, “Jennie’s House” follows the story of Jennie and (surprise surprise) her house. Jennie lives with her family in a house on Gardener Street that she absolutely adores. She grew up in this house, and she knows every square inch of it. Sometimes her parents light the Chinese lanterns and have big parties where everyone in the neighborhood attends, including Jennie’s best friend who lives just down the street. Jennie imagines that she will raise her own family in this house when she is old enough. She wants to live here forever. But one day, Jennie’s father finds out that his father has cancer. He requests a job transfer to live closer to his parents and buys a house nearby—all the way across the country. When they first visit the new house, Jennie cries and hides in a closet. She can’t believe she has to leave the home she loves. But then, Jennie and her family go and visit her grandfather in the hospital. Seeing her grandfather, and seeing how happy her father is with his father, Jennie realizes that she will come to love the new house (even if it has a small dining room) because she is at home wherever her family is. How does this writer paint a picture with words?  When we experience a change, the things that we often miss most are not the big things but rather the little details: the coffee shop on the corner or the crack on the ceiling or the secret raspberry patch. “Jennie’s House” demonstrates this perfectly. The story is alive with specifics about the house on Gardener Street: Jennie loved that house, the one on Gardener Street with two oak trees in front and a cluster of pink rosebushes that crawled beneath the wide picture windows . . .  the little brick footpath leading to the maraschino cherry-red front door, the grapevines dripping like warm honey from the wooden ledge on the back porch, the lavender stalks, tall and gloriously purple, waving lethargically in the wind by the white fence at the edge of Jennie’s backyard—every little detail was a treasure to Jennie. The details help make the house come to life. Though people are often a little biased when they are moving house, it’s clear that the house on Gardener Street was truly a special, unique place. I found the lavender stalks especially striking. The story circles back to that detail later: Sometimes Jennie imagined herself as a mother with two children of her own, raising a family in the house she loved so, her own kids romping in the grass-covered backyard, picking lavender, laughing and shouting with delight.  But the details of the house on Gardener Street do more than just set a scene. They also establish a contrast for the new house, which Jennie describes very, very differently: The new house was a drab olive grey, a color Jennie loathed the way she did Brussels sprouts. . . .  It was quaint, only one story tall, with a sloping shingled roof, a wraparound porch, a snow-blanketed front yard, and a squeaking wooden gate that led down the driveway to a brick-paved backyard that had only a small patch of garden at the very edge. The inside of the house smelled like detergent and flowery perfume, a pungent scent that made Jennie’s head ache. And though the living room was beautiful, wide and spacious and painted a spritely yellow, the dining room was a condensed cramp of table, chairs, and a cabinet. Taken at face value, the house doesn’t seem that bad: a quaint green house with a spacious living room and—we find out in the same scene—a climbable magnolia tree out front. But the writer’s choice of words help us see it from Jennie’s perspective: this is not her home. We remember the house on Gardener Street—its rose bushes and its grapevines and the glorious stalks of lavender.  Discussion questions: Which details about the house on Gardener Street did you find most memorable from the story? Which details from the new house felt most memorable? Why do you think those details stuck out? What do you think this story might have been like if it had been told from Jennie’s father’s point of view? Do you think he would have described the houses differently than she did? Why? Jennie’s House Jennie knew every corner of the house she grew up in. Every rut down the center of her bedroom ceiling, every groove worn into the bamboo floorboards, every chip of peeling yellow paint behind the living room sofa. If you asked, she could show you the twining scrape on the laundry room floor from the time her father dragged the plastic hamper from there to the kitchen with Jennie in it; she could tell anyone why there were still streaks of red crayon across the wall in the foyer (no matter how hard they scrubbed, her mom and dad were never able to wash all of her brother Henry’s Crayola masterpiece out of the fading beige wallpaper). Jennie loved that house, the one on Gardener Street with two oak trees in front and a cluster of pink rosebushes that crawled beneath the wide picture windows, only a block away from the park where Jennie and her best friend, Elizabeth, had spent every day of every summer since they were four years old. The rambling lawn expanding from either side of the little brick footpath leading to the maraschino cherry-red front door, the grapevines dripping like warm honey from the wooden ledge on the back porch, the lavender stalks, tall and gloriously purple, waving lethargically in the wind by the white fence at the edge of Jennie’s backyard—every little detail was a treasure to Jennie. Everyone loved the house. Sometimes, on steamy Saturday evenings, Jennie’s parents would kindle the Chinese lanterns that teetered with trepidation on

“The Bakery” is a personal narrative by Rubina Davila, age 13. Written in the first person in past tense, the piece opens onto the sights and sounds the writer encountered when she walked into the bakery on Cesar Chavez Avenue in East Los Angeles. The writer then describes everything she can see, hear, taste, smell, and touch in the bakery. Reaching into the paper bag with warm grease at the bottom, she reflects on how her father always told her that a greasy bag meant good food.  When the writer bites into the concha she has bought, she is transported to her Aunt Lulu’s kitchen. She begins to reflect on all of her family members who lived in this neighborhood and enjoyed food from this bakery over the years. It is a tradition for them to come back here for holidays. She walks down the street and feels connected to her ancestors.  How does this writer paint a picture with words?  This personal narrative only spans the length of twenty minutes or so, and the plot is not particularly dramatic. Even so, from the moment you start reading this story it is hard not to be completely captivated by the vivid descriptions of the bakery and East Los Angeles and the mouthwatering descriptions of foods: The lights shone brightly on the sweet breads. I could feel the heat from the pot of homemade tamales, and I craved one of the Mexican sodas in the glass fridge.  The details in the story are densely packed and rooted in the five senses. As a reader, you can almost feel the cool of the soda, almost see the sweetbreads lined up in rows. The vivid description continues once the writer has purchased her food: I bit into the concha, and the familiar sweet smell and ridged texture flooded my senses. The top of the bread crumbled and filled my mouth with its sugary flavor. The center of the bread was especially warm and soft. The smell reminded me of my Aunt Lulu’s kitchen. I wondered what it was like for my father to walk to this bakery at four years old, clinging to the hand of my great-grandfather, Agustín, and to taste the delicious concha for the first time. As we see above, interspersed with these descriptions of food are captivating portraits of the writer’s family members as told through memories of their relationship to food. In the case of the passage above, the smell of the concha takes the writer back to her Aunt Lulu’s kitchen, and then to her father who she imagines as a small child, walking to this very same bakery, smelling this very same smell. They say smell is one of the most powerful conveyors of memory; it’s interesting here that the writer’s memory is a generational one formed from the history of her family.  As I walked to the car, I reflected on all of my family members who had once lived here, on the streets of East Los Angeles and nearby Boyle Heights: the Davilas, the Ramoses, the Ordoñezes, and the Villalobos. I could feel the presence of my ancestors who walked down these streets in the 1940s and 1950s enjoying the treats of this bakery. I could picture my grandfather’s little dog running down the sidewalk and my grandmother in her favorite orange dress. One thing that really brings this piece to life is the way the writer shares names. From the names of the streets to the names of the pastries to the names of the different branches of her family, the writer establishes a detailed world. And by pairing those names with visual details—like “my grandmother in her favorite orange dress”—we are able to put images to names, which makes the story’s world all the more compelling.  In the end, this narrative gives us a sense of the many ways in which food can connect people with their histories.  Discussion questions: Is there a food that you feel connects you to your own history (whether the history of the people who raised you, the history of the place you live, or the history of a culture you are part of)?  Why do you think the writer tells us the names of every family member, street, and type of food but never reveals the name of the bakery in the story?   The Bakery When I walked into the bakery on Cesar Chavez Avenue in East Los Angeles, my lungs were instantly flooded with the sweet air of butter and sugar wafting from the kitchen while pots and pans clanked and banged loudly and voices called out in Spanish. My mouth watered as my eyes scanned the many kinds of pan dulce displayed in neat rows. The lights shone brightly on the sweet breads. I could feel the heat from the pot of homemade tamales, and I craved one of the Mexican sodas in the glass fridge. I clutched my $5 bill, knowing I could walk out with a large bag of pan dulce for my family and a soda for myself and still have change. I ordered three kinds of pan dulce: elote, concha, and a large cuerno, named for their corn, shell, and horn shapes. I reached into the white paper bag of treats, the bottom stained with warm grease. My papa always said, “If the bottom is greasy, you know it’s good.” I bit into the concha, and the familiar sweet smell and ridged texture flooded my senses. The top of the bread crumbled and filled my mouth with its sugary flavor. The center of the bread was especially warm and soft. The smell reminded me of my Aunt Lulu’s kitchen. I wondered what it was like for my father to walk to this bakery at four years old, clinging to the hand of my great-grandfather, Agustín, and to taste the delicious concha for the first time. As I walked to the car, I reflected on all of my family

For the first time ever, the author is given permission to go outside alone—in New York City

“Gentle Hands,” by Michelle Wang, age 12, is a story about a student on her first day of first grade, written in the first person. Michelle is extremely scared to be at school and can’t stop crying. She wants to be at home, where people speak Chinese, and where she understands everything that is going on. She meets her teacher and slowly begins to trust her, despite saying she has had bad experiences with teachers in the past. She cheers up for a moment, but then she starts to cry again. But then, another student taps her on the shoulder and invites her to play. She makes eye contact with her mother and feels encouraged and safe. She smiles and sits down with the other kids.  How does this writer paint a picture with words?  Throughout the story, Michelle is mostly too afraid to speak, so we get to know her through her observations. The story is mostly stitched together through a series of moment-to-moment descriptions. The writer makes excellent use of simile to describe both the protagonist’s observations and her fears.  When Michelle meets the teacher, Ms. Muzyka, she is immediately suspicious:  Her smile was so sweet and sincere, it felt misleading. Maybe it was like a needle inside a chocolate bar, gaining your trust, then stabbing you right back.  A needle in a chocolate bar is such a striking, terrifying image. It’s something irrational, but that’s part of what’s so scary about it—it’s awful to think that something so good could be so violent or dangerous. That image is contrasted right away with her actual interaction with the teacher: To my surprise, she took me by the hand and led me across the room. Her hands were warm and soft, like freshly washed towels, cradling me in warmness.  Even still, we remember the needle in the chocolate bar, and so does Michelle. She quickly starts to cry again, and then other kids show up and chaos ensues. Suddenly, the back door opened and I was hit with a wave of the cold, winter air, sending chills down my arms. The sound of ripping Velcro boots and shrieks and laughter filled the room. There was the loud chatter of words, some I could not wrap my head around. I felt the whooshing air pass by my ears whenever someone walked past me. I could feel the eyes staring and burning straight into my skin. I quickly looked at the ground and slouched into my winter coat, my face flushed red with embarrassment. The writer’s use of sensory detail really brings this passage to life. What’s especially striking is that there is no explanation between the different images—it’s all so sudden, the jumble of cold air, the words in an unfamiliar language, the eyes burning straight into her skin. Though she only reveals she is embarrassed at the end directly, we already have a visceral sense of that embarrassment through these descriptions.  Discussion questions:  How does the story explore Michelle’s relationship to language? We talked about the needle in the chocolate bar. What are other moments where the writer impactfully uses metaphor or simile to help bring a scene to life? Gentle Hands All I could see was the dark blue carpet beneath my feet, blurring and clearing as I held back the tears in my eyes. My hand, cold and frail from the lashing winds outside, latched on tightly to the corner of my mom’s winter jacket, afraid to let go. I dug my nails into the soft, velvety fabric so hard I was afraid it was going to rip into shreds. I felt the stitches, one by one, as I pressed my other hand down deep in my pocket. My eyes stung, as if someone had squirted fresh lemon juice straight into them, as I barely managed to hold back my tears from pouring out like an endless waterfall. I just wanted to go home. I wanted to go back to the comfort of my bed awaiting me and welcoming me into its affectionate arms. I wanted to go home, where someone, anyone, would wrap their strong arms around me as they comforted me and told me that everything was going to be fine. Suddenly, a woman walked into the room and bent down to me. “Hi! Welcome to first grade! I’m your teacher, Ms. Muzyka,” she greeted me cheerfully. “Can you understand me?” she asked, speaking slowly. I turned my head slightly and stared back at the bare ground. She was unlike any teacher I had ever seen before, with her chocolate-colored brown hair and bright caramel highlights. She had big round eyes, the color of the sky on a bright summer day. Her smile was so sweet and sincere, it felt misleading. Maybe it was like a needle inside a chocolate bar, gaining your trust, then stabbing you right back. Maybe seconds later, she would jump into reprimanding and screaming at me, like most teachers I’d had. But this time, I could not convince myself to believe so. I wished she could just flash out the mean side all teachers are supposed to have and scold and yell in the way I was used to, but she didn’t. To my surprise, she took me by the hand and led me across the room. Her hands were warm and soft, like freshly washed towels, cradling me in warmness. She dragged me to the opposite corner of the room, where the floor was lined with a rug filled with all the colors of the rainbow. There were baskets of stuffed animals with black beady eyes and soft bodies sitting by a shelf of books. On the walls were pictures of characters, from colorful, spiky dinosaurs to striped cats wearing giant red hats. I trotted toward the shelves of books to see even more characters woven between letters and words I could not make sense of. When I glanced at the windows, I saw messy drawings of all