“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

“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