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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There Goes the Sun” is a short story by Phoebe Donovan, age 11. It is written in close third person, in past tense. The protagonist is a boy named Robin. In the opening scene, Robin is on the subway on his way to his trumpet lesson. He is thinking about his father, a Beatles fan who loved the song “Yellow Submarine.” We find out later that his dad is deployed in the army. All of a sudden, Robin has a vision—he feels transported to a strange yet familiar place, all while staying exactly where he is. He goes to his trumpet lesson but feels very shaky. His teacher, Mrs. Merry, notices he is behaving oddly and asks him about it, but he evades her question.  When Robin gets home, there is a man taking a shower in his house and singing “Yellow Submarine.” Robin asks if he is his dad, but the man says no. After a few more Beatles songs, the man gets dressed and emerges from the bathroom. He explains that he is General X, leader of the Infinity Army. They need Robin to join them—he is special. They go get ice cream, something Robin likes to do with his dad, and they explain that they are at war with the Purple Witherers, purple baby dragons who, once killed, spawn new dragons from their withering skin. If they lose, Queen Elementa, the leader of the Purple Witherers, will lock all the citizens of the Infinity Realm in a dungeon forever.  Mrs. Merry continues to worry about Robin, and eventually calls his mother on the phone. Robin’s mother says that Robin is fine, and then they go to the pool. On the subway on his way to his next trumpet lesson, the car Robin is in is overrun with Purple Witherers, who kill most of the people in the car. Robin manages to get away and runs to Mrs. Merry’s house. During his lesson, General X tells Robin telepathically that they lost. Then, Queen Elementa attacks Robin. When he wakes up, Queen Elementa—who is possibly Mrs. Merry?—is standing over him. His mother nods to her and then takes him to the children’s hospital.  What makes this world believable?  This is an action-packed story that takes place in a very detailed, precise world. Part of what makes the world so effective is that there are several locations that we return to again and again throughout the story. First, there’s the subway as described in the opening scene: Robin stared at the orange plaid subway seat across from him, thinking about his father. . . . The subway seats went fuzzy as visions and voices swam into focus. It was as if he’d been transported somewhere else entirely without moving an inch, somewhere strange and unpleasant, yet oddly familiar. And as quickly as it came, it left, and he found himself staring at the empty seat cushion, where he saw only fabric and thread and heard only the grinding of the subway wheels. Orange plaid is such a unique pattern for a subway seat—it’s a memorable opening image. The writer uses this precision to jar us, right away, out of the world that she has so carefully created. It’s a comfort to return to the familiarity of the subway’s fabric seats, its lurching movement. Throughout the story, the writer continues to build the scenes that establish Robin’s world. Robin takes the subway to his trumpet lesson each week: Robin climbed Ms. Merry’s marble steps and passed the colorful flowers lining them. Birds chittered in the trees. He felt more at home here than anywhere else. The front door was never locked, so Robin stepped into the foyer and listened as the boy before him finished his lesson in the study. He smirked; it was nice to hear someone who was worse at trumpet, even though that wasn’t the nicest thing to think. Ms. Merry welcomed him into the study. Her kind eyes smiled warmly as she offered him a plate of freshly baked cookies. All of this description helps make Mrs. Merry’s house just as important of a space to the story as the subway. These two spaces become anchoring points that help us watch how Robin changes throughout the story. By returning to the same, constant spaces, we are able to witness the people in those spaces change. When he awakened, his mum was standing over him. “Watch out for Queen Elementa!” he warned her, “She’s dangerous! She put General X in an Infinity Dungeon!” His mum nodded at Queen Elementa. Robin’s mum steered him out to her car. She placed him in the backseat. The sun shone through the front windscreen, making it hard to see. It felt as though this were his own prison, hot and sticky. As though he was sharing the same fate as his beloved friend. Robin’s mother typed “Bluebird Children’s Hospital” into the GPS system. Then she drove off. This all happens at Robin’s trumpet lesson. It’s striking that by the end of the story, Mrs. Merry’s house is no longer a place of peace and home, but rather one of turmoil and loss.  Discussion questions:  What are some “anchoring details” that you can trace consistently throughout the story? Do you think Mrs. Merry was Queen Elementa?  The world of this story might be believable—but is its protagonist believable? Do you trust Robin’s perspective to be accurate in this story? Why or why not? There Goes the Sun Robin stared at the orange plaid subway seat across from him, thinking about his father. How he always liked listening to “Yellow Submarine.” How after all that Robin had been through, his dad’s favorite song was still played all across the world. The subway seats went fuzzy as visions and voices swam into focus. It was as if he’d been transported somewhere else entirely without moving an inch, somewhere strange and unpleasant, yet oddly familiar. And as quickly as it came, it left, and he

The trouble begins when the sewer people decide to form a government

“The Lonely Radio,” by Avital Sagan, age 12, is a short story told from the first-person present perspective of a radio. The radio lives in a city called Floracion at the top of a skyscraper. Floracion is unique because of the giant moonflowers called “gigantics” that only bloom at night and grow to over twelve feet wide all over the city. Most people are awake at night so they can go and see the flowers, and the radio loves them too. The radio’s main human contact is a man called the Communicator who uses the radio to talk to people in cities far away. But one day, the Communicator does not come to see the radio. That night, no one comes outside—no cars drive on the streets, the lights are out. The radio checks the other stations but only hears static. Looking out the window, the radio sees with horror that the gigantics have come alive and are hunting. After a while, a young boy named Daniel staggers in and begs the radio to work, to not let him die there. The radio, thinking it can help, tries to connect Daniel to a person in a distant city who he thinks could help. But the woman on the other end thinks it’s a prank. Then Daniel’s mother comes, holding a moonflower, and forces him to smell it. Daniel collapses and the two of them leave. The lonely radio at the top of the skyscraper resigns itself to its fate: it will be in this forgotten city until the city burns or is covered up by the ocean. What makes this world believable?  This story is written in the style of magical realism. Most of the details of the story feel a bit like realistic fiction—this is a world that resembles the world here on Earth. There are radios, skyscrapers, cities, and businesspeople. There are parents and children, music, and even photos of dogs. The only two magical elements in the story are the talking radio and the giant living flowers.  When writing about a world where there is magic, or where things don’t work like they do here on Earth, one way to make it believable is to limit the number of unique details. By making the world mostly resemble our own and then incorporating those few, odd magical details, the writer directs the reader’s attention to the most important elements of the world.  The radio says: My room is near the top of a skyscraper that towers over the rest of the city. There are impressively tall buildings and people constantly going about their business, but that’s not the best part. The best part is the flowers. This description’s power starts with the surprising nature of the revelation. When the writer tells us that the skyscrapers aren’t even the best part, as readers we expect the best part to be something else you’d find in a city—the best part is the zoo, or the best part is the beautiful park. When the writer says “flowers,” once again, as readers, we expect something different than what we get. I imagine flowers in cute window boxes, or in garden plots, or lining the streets. What I don’t imagine is this:  Floracion is overrun with moonflowers, aptly called “gigantics,” white flowers that only bloom at night and sometimes grow over a dozen feet wide. People make room for them everywhere. On the sides of buildings, in storefronts, on roofs. Beyond the surprise of the flowers themselves, another thing that makes this description powerful is where the gigantics appear. As a reader, I can really see them—opening in front of the local coffee shop, or on the side of the bookstore. It’s such an odd, precise image, and its precision is helped along by the fact that we know what buildings, storefronts, and flowers are. None of these elements on their own are unexpected.  Similarly, the very fact of our protagonist is an interesting exercise in both a realistic and unrealistic approach. Radios are very ordinary—but sentient radios aren’t (at least, not that we know of). Even in this magical world, the writer is careful not to allow the radio to break the rules of its physical form. When Daniel, a young boy, comes to ask for help, the radio can change the stations. But it can’t help in other ways, even when it perceives danger:  Hide, I try to yell, but my speakers can only release static. You’re not safe here.  Even though it is sentient, the radio is still bound by the rules that constrain it on Earth—it can speak in static or in radio stations. It can transmit other people’s broadcasts, but it cannot speak for itself. In a strange, extraordinary world, this radio’s ordinary function helps us, as readers, orient to the new reality.  Discussion questions: What are other moments in the story where the ordinary rules of reality on Earth are blended with the extraordinary realities of life in Floracion?  The writer builds a believable world through a radio—a strange choice of protagonist. Why do you think the writer chose a radio to be the protagonist? How would the story have felt different if the main character had been Daniel, the human child who tries to escape the moonflowers, or the Communicator? The Lonely Radio Radios have become old-fashioned. I know that through the snippets of conversation I hear as I sit on my table. Despite that, they’ve never done more than talk about replacing me. There’s a man who uses me the most often. He has an impressive mustache and is often referred to as “the Communicator” by the people who talk through me. I connect people who are far away. It may not be the most exciting job—I care very little about human politics—but it’s fulfilling to know what I’m doing is helping people. And when people aren’t using me, I can look out at the island of Floracion. My room is near the top

This is a short story told in the close third-person point of view. It follows Violet, a thirteen-year-old girl who lives in the Divided States of America, a country split between the Purple People in the West and the Green People in the East. In the middle, dividing the two sides, is the Forbidden Strip—where people from the East and West have chosen to live together. The Forbidden Strip is considered a very dangerous place, but Violet, a business courier, must travel there to deliver documents.  On this particular trip, a mudslide halts train service, trapping Violet overnight in the Forbidden Strip. Desperate for a safe place to spend the night, she sneaks into an attic. In the morning, she is discovered by Unum, the girl who lives there with her family—a blended family, with Green and Purple parents. As they discuss their country, Violet’s perspective on the Green People changes, and she resolves to work to unite the two lands.  What makes this world believable?  Harper Fortgang, 13, uses a mix of specific details, memories, and context to build her believable world—not just the larger universe, with its Divided States, but also Unum’s home and Violet’s home.  I awake to the sounds of feet thumping below me and little voices begging for a pancake breakfast. For a blissful moment, I am convinced that I am lying in my own comfortable bed back in the West and these are my two younger siblings, Iris and Mauve. I am the last one up, probably exhausted from my adventure in the Forbidden Strip. I roll onto my side and open my eyes. Instead of finding my purple wall, I see a cobweb-filled ceiling, a dusty mattress, and an attic stuffed with old bicycles, worn chairs, and dusty paintings. The moment of bliss slips away as I remember my current situation. From the sounds of Unum’s family enjoying breakfast downstairs to Violet’s memories of her own home and the detailed description of the attic and its contents, the world Fortgang describes is brought to life. Fortgang adds depth to the world by delving into Violet’s memories, showing us that this fictional world has a history and a background—which makes it feel more real, more like our world: I think back to when I was younger and first learned that Green People lived in the Divided States of America when a neighbor reported a Green person sneaking around our street. I remember my fear as my mother told me to hide under my bed. Were the Green People trying to break in and harm us? Was this the first step toward another war? I learned to be afraid of the Green People and look down on those who lived in the Forbidden Strip. For thirteen years, I believed this was the truth and never questioned these assumptions.  Fortgang does an excellent job of subtly weaving in contextual details that give us the information we need to understand Violet’s world and situation. We can appreciate how Fortgang gives us just the information we need to understand the world—not overloading us with unnecessary information or details.  Delivering business documents in the Forbidden Strip is dangerous, especially for a thirteen-year-old Purple girl like me. My parents would have never let me come here, but we are struggling for money, so I became a business courier. The Forbidden Strip is part of the Divided States of America, which consists of three separate lands. I hail from the West, a land solely for the Purple People, and the Green People occupy the East. My parents tell me the West is far superior and our brilliant shade of lavender should remain separate from the East’s pale-green skin. Discussion questions:  One way the writer builds a believable world is through using specific details that remind us of our own. By placing these details alongside those that are unique to the world of the story, the reader is able to feel more grounded in the narrative. What are some moments where the author uses familiar details to introduce unfamiliar ones?  In the story, the author uses the roof both as a setting and as an extended metaphor. What, if anything, do you think the roof represents in the story?  Does the conflict that this story describes remind you of any conflicts in our world today? Up on the Roof “Who’s there?” I call into the empty blackness, a chill running down my spine. I watch as a black cat leaps past me and around a corner, disappearing into the darkness. I exhale a sigh of relief and try to convince myself, yet again, there is nothing to fear. I begin walking, squeezing the strap of my satchel filled with documents like a four-year-old clinging to her mother’s hand. I dart across the street, heading toward a haunted-looking building with decaying red trim. Delivering business documents in the Forbidden Strip is dangerous, especially for a thirteen-year-old Purple girl like me. My parents would have never let me come here, but we are struggling for money, so I became a business courier. The Forbidden Strip is part of the Divided States of America, which consists of three separate lands. I hail from the West, a land solely for the Purple People, and the Green People occupy the East. My parents tell me the West is far superior and our brilliant shade of lavender should remain separate from the East’s pale-green skin. We believe in individual achievement and preserving traditions while the East advocates a new direction, putting the government’s interests ahead of citizens’ needs. I am told that the people from the East look down on us and we have a long history of conflict, causing mistrust and fear. Between both lands lies the Forbidden Strip, where people from the West and East choose to live together. I have heard terrible rumors about the people who live here. However, important documents still need to be transferred from the West, even if we are

“Where I’m From” is a prose poem by Talia Moro, age 10. The poem is written in the first-person perspective. The speaker talks about all of the different places they are from: the hot deserts of Africa, Europe, New Jersey, Zimbabwe, the piano, a village in France, New Orleans, summer night barbecues, and giving Lotta (the dog) a bath. For each place the speaker is from, they spend the paragraph describing the scene and incorporating a wide array of sensory details.  How does this poet play with poetic form? “Where I’m From” is a prose poem. If you were to glance at it without reading any of the words, you might think it was a short story or a memoir or an essay or an article because it is written in paragraphs with traditionally capitalized sentences. But on a language level, this is very much a poem: it uses wordplay, strong images, and repetition, and there’s a real musicality to the language. Prose poems don’t use line breaks or enjambment, which poets often use as rhythmic structures. In “Where I’m From,” Talia E. Moyo creates rhythm within the poem in other ways. She uses anaphora to great effect:  I’m from Louisiana, New Orleans, with Louis Amstrong on every street and Mardi Gras beads hanging on electricity poles. And homemade spicy crab mix, my favorite of all time. I’m from summer night barbecues and side dishes of haricots (rice and beans), and running my home-made “ninja course.” With Lotta biting at my clippety-cloppety, sparkling, muddy boots. The repeated phrase helps make the poem feel more musical. Repeating “I’m from” also allows the poet to move through space and time very quickly. We move from New Orleans to New Jersey swiftly. No matter where the speaker is, they are from all of these places—and they help bring us there too.  I’m from staring on a starry night into the clear nighttime sky way past midnight. But on the rainy days, you’ll find me in a light raincoat and without an umbrella running around my yard with a little puppy running and slipping at my heels. At times, the repetition feels more like a musical element than like something the poet needs to say in order to make sense to the reader. A good example is above, with the line that starts “I’m from staring on a starry night . . .” In these cases, the repeated “I’m from” feels less like they are telling us where the speaker is from and more like a way to create a unit of pause in the poem without line breaks.  Whenever you find a pattern in a poem, you should always look for where the poet breaks it—often, these can be some of the most important moments in the poem. Toward the end of the poem, the “I’m from” switches to “I’ll always be from” in two instances. Here’s the first: I’ll always be from giving Lotta a bath and seeing her look almost as skinny as a single sheet of paper.  What an image! As skinny as a single sheet of paper—the poet also makes excellent use of alliteration. Anyway, here’s the second “I’ll always be from”: And I’ll always be from the really special place—my home. By changing the repeated phrase subtly, the writer creates more variation in the poem and shows us two of the most important things to them: Lotta the dog, and home.  Discussion questions:  Sometimes, the “I am from”s in the poem switch between physical places and things like music. What do you think the speaker of the poem means when they say, “I am from”? What does “from” really mean in this poem? Can you identify other places where the poet breaks a pattern they have created within the poem? How do you think this poem would have felt if it had line breaks instead of being a prose poem? Where I’m From I’m from the hot deserts of Africa, with Sekuru’s delectable, rich mushroom stew, and Mama’s avocado pudding, and the African adventures with waterfalls and dancing in the night with fireflies as night lights. And the red dusty villages of Cameroon, with rains that come almost once every month. And Sekuru’s little straw hut-like chapel, where stories and the Bible are read. The big continent of Europe is where I’m from, with silly, little, annoying, cute, frustrating cousins who follow me everywhere I go. And aunties, who make delicious cake pops and table grill and German sausages and treats and grow mouth-watering fruits that drip down my shirt, and cook everything possible everywhere they go. I’m from Hopewell, New Jersey, with its green luscious forests, and with Lotta, our dog, following my every single step. And seeing her perform a routine of sit, lie down, paw and guess which hand your treat is under. And the soft sandy beaches of the New Jersey shore and their warm grains of sand cushioning my feet under cool water with shells of all shapes, sizes and colors. I’m from Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe, with drops of water splashing my face like rain. I’m from hiking up mountains to reach for the heavens above us. With my Sekuru who tells me stories of his trips from Australia to Los Angeles and all around the world. And I’m from the frightening animals, like charging elephants and yawning hippos with enormous teeth and lions crossing roads. The piano is where I’m from, with notes from lowest A to highest C, and violins and cellos that follow me. They sing the songs of Mr. Louis with a past as old as dirt itself. And when strummed, fill the air with dust and history of an old jazz band rocking out on the streets all night. I’m from a village in France, with water crystal blue and caves with plenty of history to go around. And little French schools with children running around and screaming with joy. I’m from lollipops the size of my head.