“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, 9Virginia Beach, VA Jeremy Nohrnberg, 10Cambridge, 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