Kelly Rich
ENG 409
Short Fiction Unit
One
Purpose: To assess students’ prior knowledge and introduce them to the elements of a short
story. Students will identify characteristics of short stories and recognize the diverse possibilities
for a short story.
Preparation: Teacher will have prepared “Short Fiction” worksheet and elements worksheet.
Procedure: Teacher will handout “Short Fiction” worksheet and write the words SHORT
FICTION on the board. Students will take a couple of minutes and write as many words as they
can think of that relate to the words “short fiction” on the first part of their worksheet. Students
will share as the teacher writes their responses on the board. Students will then make groupings
using the second part of their worksheet. Teacher will hand out the elements worksheet and go
over with the class. Teacher will assign homework and give worksheet: Students will watch a
TV show and write down short story characteristics found in the show (one page).
Assessment: Students turn in “Short Fiction” worksheet for teacher to assess what they already
know to shape instruction. Students will have a few days to turn in a one page response about
the TV show for points to assess their ability to identify short fiction characteristics.
List-Group-Label Strategy
List
Make a list of words that might relate to the topic “story”.
1
6
11
2
7
12
3
8
13
4
9
14
5
10
15
Group and Label
Do you see some logical groupings of the words? Label the groups of words that you put
together.
Elements of Short Fiction
Plot – sequence of events or incidents that make up a story.
A. Exposition – designed to arouse reader’s interest; background is provided.
B. Conflict – struggle between opposing forces (protagonist vs. antagonist)
i. Person vs. Person – external struggle between two or more
individuals.
ii. Person vs. themselves – internal struggle concerning emotion and
decision.
iii. Person vs. nature – external struggle between person and an
element of nature or the environment.
C. Rising action – complication or development of the conflict.
D. Climax – turning point of the story; point of most intense interest.
E. Falling action – (denouement) events that lead to resolution.
F. Resolution – outcome of the conflict.
Character – is generally the central or focal element in a story.
A. Four types of characterization – techniques the writer uses to develop a
character.
i. Physical description.
ii. Speech and actions of the character.
iii. Direct comment from the narrator.
iv. Speech and other actions of other characters.
Themes of literature / Analyzing characters
A. Motivation – cause of / reason for actions.
B. Behavior – actions of the character.
C. Consequences – results of actions.
D. Responsibility – moral, legal, or mental accountability.
E. Expectations – what the reader expects.
Setting – the time and place in which the story is taking place, including
factors such as weather and social customs.
Tone – the mood to of the story.
Point of View
A. Omniscient – the author tells the story using the third person. Author knows
all of what is done, said, felt, and thought by the characters.
B. Limited omniscient – author tell the story from the third person, but limits
observations of thoughts and feelings to one character; the author presents the
story from this character’s eyes.
C. First person – one character tells the story in the first person. The reader sees
and knows only as much as the narrator.
D. Objective – the author is like a movie camera that moves around freely
recording objects. However, the author offers no comments on the characters
or their actions. Readers are not told the thoughts or feelings of the characters.
(Teaching Students To Read and Write Short Stories - A Sample Unit of Lessons for
Middle School Teachers. Jefferson County Public Schools. Version 2.0)
Two
Purpose: To read a mentor text and identify plot and conflict.
Preparation: Teacher will prepare copies of "On the Bridge" by Todd Strasser and the plot line
worksheets.
Procedure: Teacher will pass out "On the Bridge". Students will read the
story and fill out plot line worksheet. Class will identify the conflicts as a discussion.
Assessment: Teacher will check worksheet to see if students have understood plot.
Three
Purpose: To discover how an author builds character.
Preparation: Teacher will prepare copies of "Dipping a Character in Paint" activity and "Plot
Bank" folders.
Procedure: The class will respond to journal writing prompt: What do you think is the theme of
"on the bridge"? Share answers in class. Teacher hands out "Dipping a Character in Paint"
worksheet and explains it to the class. Students work on activity. Teacher hands out "Plot Bank"
folders and students decorate cover. Students add character worksheet to folder.
Assessment: Teacher walks around the room and monitors student understanding and progress.
“Dipping a Character in Paint”
Four Notebook Entries to Get a Writer Started
Created by Dewey Hensley, South Oldham High School
The best fiction centers around realistic, multi-dimensional characters (traditionally called round
or dynamic characters). Most writers rely upon their own knowledge and observations of
people to create real characters for their fiction. These four types of notebook entries can provide
writers the raw materials to build a character.
Entry 1: Who is the most peculiar, colorful, or unique person you know? Describe this person in
detail without using a name; try to capture all the little things the person does, says, believes that
makes him or her different. Also tell how the person looks, what he or she wears, and even how
others think about the person.
Entry 2: What are your “idiosyncracies”? Idiosyncracies are little mannerisms (things we do
unconsciously) that make us the way we are. Hensley puts his fingers together like a spider doing
push-ups on a mirror; Mrs. Anderson hums softly while walking around the room and runs her
fingers through her hair whenever Hensley says something stupid. What are some of your
idiosyncracies? Be specific; take time to reflect upon yourself.
Entry #3: Take 10 minutes to observe someone outside this classroom. Then, in your writer’s
notebook, write down every detail you can about this person. Draw a portrait of the person in
words. How does this person look? What are his or her idiosyncracies? (If you don’t see any very
clearly, predict what they might be.) What is the person’s history? If you don’t know anything
about the person, then create a history. What does the person smell like? Can you come up with a
simile or metaphor about this person?
Entry #4: Extended entry . . . Take time to use the observation entries you have already done:
the class discussions and books we have done in class; and your own observations to create a
character. Remember, you can draw on your previous entries to create this character. Provide this
“person” with a . . .
• Name
• Physical description
• List of objects that tell about him or her
• List of idiosyncracies he or she exhibits when certain things happen (when he or she is
sad, scared, challenged, etc.)
• History: where has this person been; what things have happened that really make this
person who he or she is
Teaching the Short Story
Four
Purpose: To read a mentor text.
Preparation: Teacher will prepare copies of "The Stolen Party" by Lilana Hecker.
Procedure: Teacher hands out copies of "The Stolen Party". Students read silently. Then,
students respond to journal writing prompt: What is the significance of the line "You really and
truly earned this." Students discuss their responses in pairs and then as a class.
Assessment: Teacher will monitor partner discussion and class discussion to see if there is
understanding or need for more explanation.
THE STOLEN PARTY, BY LILIANA HEKER
As soon as she arrived she went straight to the kitchen to see if the monkey was there. It was: what a
relief! She wouldn't have liked to admit that her
Mother had been right. Monkeys at a birthday? Her mother had sneered. Get away with you, believing any
nonsense you're told! She was cross, but not because of the monkey, the girl thought; it's just because of
the party.
"I don't like you going," she- told her. "It's a rich, people's party." "Rich people go to Heaven too," said
the girl, who studied religion at school.
"Get away with Heaven," said the mother. "The problem with you, young lady, is that you like to fart
higher than your ass."
The girl didn't approve of the way her mother spoke. She was barely nine, and one of the best in her class.
"I’m going because I’ve been invited," she said. "And I’ve been invited because Luciana is my friend. So
there."
"Ah yes, your friend," her mother grumbled. She paused. "Listen, Rosaura," she said at last. "That one’s
not your friend. You know what you are to them? The maid’s daughter, that’s what."
Rosaura blinked hard: she wasn't going to cry. Then she yelled: "Shut up! You know nothing about being
friends!"
Every afternoon she used to go t o Luciana's house and they would both finish their homework while
Rosaura's mother did the cleaning. They had their tea in the kitchen, and they told each other secrets.
Rosaura loved everything in the big house, and she also loved the people who lived there.
"I'm going because it will be the most lovely party in the whole world. Luclana told me it would. There
will be a magician and he will bring a monkey and everything."
The mother swung around to take a good look at her child, and pompously put her hands on her hips.
"Monkeys at a birthday?" she said. "Get away with you, believing any nonsense you're told!"
Rosaura was deeply offended. She thought it unfair of her mother to accuse other people of being liars
simply because they were rich. Rosaura too wanted to be rich, of course. If one day she managed to live
in a beautiful palace, would her mother stop loving her? She felt very sad. She wanted to go to that party
more than anything else in the world.
"I'll die if I don't go," she whispered, almost without moving her lips.
And she wasn't sure whether she had been heard, but on the morning of the party she discovered that her
mother had starched her Christmas dress. And in the afternoon, after washing her hair, her mother rinsed
it in apple vinegar so that it would be all nice and shiny. Before going out, Rosaura admired herself in the
mirror, with her white dress and glossy hair, and thought she looked terribly pretty.
Sefiora Ines also seemed to notice. As soon as she saw her, she said: "How lovely you look today,
Rosaura."
Rosaura gave her starched skirt a slight toss with her hands and walked into the party with a firm step.
She said hello to Luciana and asked about the monkey. Luciana put on a secretive look and whispered
into Rosaura's car: "He's in the kitchen. But don't tell anyone, because it's a surprise."
Rosaura wanted to make sure. Carefully she entered the kitchen and there she saw it: deep In thought,
inside its cage. It looked so funny that the girl stood there for a while, watching it, and later, every so
often, she would slip out of the party unseen and go and admire it. Rosaura was the only one allowed into
the kitchen. Sefiora Ines had said: "You yes, but not the others, they're much too boisterous, they might
break something." Rosaura had never broken anything. She even managed the jug of orange juice,
carrying it from the kitchen into the dining room. She held it carefully and didn't spill a single drop. And
Sefiora Ines had said: "Are you sure you can manage a jug as big as that?" Of course she could manage.
She wasn't a butterfingers, like the others. Like that blonde girl with the bow in her hair.
As soon as she saw Rosaura, the girl with the bow had said: "And you? Who are you?"
"I'm a friend of Luciana," said Rosaura.
"No," said the girl with the bow, "you are not a friend of Luciana because I'm her cousin and I know all
her friends. And I don't know you."
"So what," said Rosaura. "I come here every afternoon with my mother and we do our homework
together."
"You and your mother do your homework together?" asked the girl laughing.
"I and Luciana do our homework together," said Rosaura, very seriously.
The girl with the bow shrugged her shoulders. "That's not being friends," she said. "Do you go to school
together?'
"No."
"So where do you know her from?" said the girl, getting impatient.
Rosaura remembered her mother's words perfectly. She took a deep breath. "I'm the daughter of the
employee," she said.
Her mother had said very clearly: "If someone asks, you say you're the daughter of the employee; that's
all." She also told her to add: "And proud of it." But Rosaura thought that never in her life would she dare
say something of the sort.
"What employee?" said the girl with the bow. "Employee in a shop?'
"No," said Rosaura angrily. "My mother doesn't sell anything in any shop, so there."
"So how come she's an employee?" said the girl with the bow.
Just then Sefiora Ines arrived saying shh shh, and asked Rosaura if she wouldn't mind helping serve out
the hot dogs, as she knew the house so much better than the others.
"See?" said Rosaura to the girl with the bow, and when no one was looking she kicked her in the shin.
Apart from the girl with the bow, all the others were delightful. The one she liked best was Luclana, with
her golden birthday crown; and then the boys. . Rosaura won the sack race, and nobody managed to catch
her when they played tag. When they split into two teams to play charades all the boys wanted her for
their side. Rosaura felt she had never been so happy in all her life.
But the best was still to come. The best came after Luciana blew out Ithe candies. First the cake. Sefiora
Ines had asked her to help pass the cake around, and Rosaura had enjoyed the task immensely, because
ever one called out to her, shouting "Me, me!"
Rosaura remembered a story in which there was a queen who had the power of life or death over her
subjects. She had always loved that, having the power of life or death. To Luciana and the boys she gave
the largest pieces, and to the girl with the bow she gave a slice so thin one could see through it.
After the cake came the magician, tall and bony, with a fine red cape. A true magician: he could untie
handkerchiefs by blowing on them and make a chain with links that had no openings. He could guess
what cards were pulled out from a pack, and the monkey was his assistant. He called the monkey
"partner."
"Let's see here, partner," he would say, "Turn over a card." And, "Don't run away, partner: time to work
now."
The final trick was wonderful. One of the children had to hold the monkey in his arms and the magician
said he would make him disappear.
"What, the boy?" they all shouted.
"No, the monkey!" shouted back the magician. Rosaura thought that this was truly the most amusing party
in the whole world.
The magician asked a small fat boy to come and help, but the small fat boy got frightened almost at once
and dropped the monkey on the floor. The magician picked him up carefully, whispered something in his
ear, and the monkey nodded almost as if he understood.
"You mustn't be so unmanly, my friend," the magician said to the fat boy.
"What's unmanly?" said the fat boy.
The magician turned around as if to look for spies. "A sissy," said the magician. "Go sit down."
Then he stared at all the faces one by one. Rosaura felt her heart tremble.
"You, with the Spanish eyes," said the magician. And everyone saw that he was pointing at her.
She wasn't afraid. Neither holding the monkey, nor when the magician made him vanish; not even when,
at the end, the magician flung his red cape over Rosaura's head and uttered a few magic words . . . and the
monkey reappeared, chattering happily, in her arms. The children clapped furiously.
And before Rosaura returned to her seat, the magician said: "Thank you very much, my little countess."
She was so pleased with the compliment that a while later, when her mother came to fetch her, that was
the first thing she told her.
"I helped the magician and he said to me, 'Thank you very much, my little countess.'” It was strange
because up to then Rosaura had thought that she was angry with her mother. All along Rosaura had
imagined that she would say to her: "See that the monkey wasn't a lie?" But instead she was so thrilled
that she told her mother all about the wonderful magician.
Her mother tapped her on the head and said: "So now we're a countess!" But one could see that she was
beaming.
And now they both stood in the entrance, because a moment ago Sefiora Ines, smiling, had said: "Please
wait here a second."
Her mother suddenly seemed worried. "What is it?" she asked Rosaura.
"What is what?" said Rosaura. "It's nothing; she just wants to get the presents for those who are leaving,
see?"
She pointed at the fat boy and at a girl with pigtails who were also waiting there, next to their mothers.
And she explained about the presents. She knew, because she had been watching those who left before
her. When one of the girls was about to leave, Sefiora Ines would give her a bracelet. When a boy left,
Sefiora Ines gave him a yo-yo. Rosaura preferred the yo-yo because it sparkled, but she didn't mention
that to her mother.
Her mother might have said: "So why don't you ask for one, you blockhead?" That's what her mother was
like. Rosaura didn't feel like explaining that she'd be horribly ashamed to be the odd one out.
Instead she said: "I was the best-behaved at the party." And she said no more because Sefiora Ines came
out into the hall with two bags, one pink and one blue.
First she went up to the fat boy, gave him a yo-yo out of the blue bag, and the fat boy left with his mother.
Then she went up to the girl and gave her a bracelet out of the pink bag, and the girl with the pigtails left
as well.
Finally she came up to Rosaura and her mother. She had a big smile on her face and Rosaura liked that.
Sefiora Ines looked down at her, then looked up at her mother, and then said something that made
Rosaura proud: "What a marvellous daughter you have, Herminia."
For an instant, Rosaura thought that she'd give her two presents: the bracelet and the yo-yo. Sefiora Ines
bent down as if about to look for something. Rosaura also leaned forward, stretching out her arm. But she
never completed the movement.
Sefiora Ines didn't look in the pink bag. Nor did she look in the blue bag. Instead she rummaged in her
purse. In her hand appeared two bills.
"You really and truly earned this," she said handing them over. "Thank you for all your help, my pet."
Rosaura felt her arms stiffen, stick close to her body, and then she noticed her mother's hand on her
shoulder. Instinctively she pressed herself against her mother's body. That was all.
Except her eyes. Rosaura's eyes had a cold, clear look that fixed itself on Sefiora Ines's face.
Sefiora Ines, motionless, stood there with her hand outstretched. As if she didn't dare draw it back. As if
the slightest change might shatter an infinitely delicate balance.
Five
Purpose: To teach students how to summarize a story and identify the plot. Students will also
practice creative writing.
Preparation: Teacher will prepare plot idea examples.
Procedure: Teacher will introduce “Plot idea” (a sentence or two which includes the situation,
character(s), and complication of a short story). Teacher will show two examples:
Ex 1) Two families from Verona are bitter enemies. The daughter of one family falls in
love with the son of the other family.
Ex 2) A poor girl dreams of escaping her life as a maid for her stepmother and
stepsisters. Her stepmother does not allow her to attend the prince’s ball at which he will
choose his bride.
Students will then take out a piece of paper and write the plot idea for well-known stories such as
“Goldilocks and the Three Bears”, “Little Red Riding Hood”, “The Three Little Pigs”, "Jack and
the Beanstalk", etc. (Students can also choose their own stories to accommodate students who
are unfamiliar with these stories.)
Assessment: Students will turn in the “Plot Idea” assignment so that the teacher can asses their
understanding of plot, character, and complication in short stories.
Six
Purpose: Students will read a mentor text and identify short story elements.
Preparation: Teacher will prepare copies of “Thank you, Ma’m” by Langston Hughes.
Procedure: Class will read “Thank you, Ma’m” by Langston Hughes. Then they will identify
the elements.
Assessment: Students will turn elements from story so that the teacher can assess their ability to
identify short story elements.
Thank You, Ma'am (by Langston Hughes)
She was a large woman with a large purse that had everything in it but hammer and nails. It had a long
strap, and she carried it slung across her shoulder. It was about eleven o’clock at night, and she was
walking alone, when a boy ran up behind her and tried to snatch her purse. The strap broke with the single
tug the boy gave it from behind. But the boy’s weight and the weight of the purse combined caused him to
lose his balance so, intsead of taking off full blast as he had hoped, the boy fell on his back on the
sidewalk, and his legs flew up. the large woman simply turned around and kicked him right square in his
blue-jeaned sitter. Then she reached down, picked the boy up by his shirt front, and shook him until his
teeth rattled.
After that the woman said, “Pick up my pocketbook, boy, and give it here.” She still held him. But she
bent down enough to permit him to stoop and pick up her purse. Then she said, “Now ain’t you ashamed
of yourself?”
Firmly gripped by his shirt front, the boy said, “Yes’m.”
The woman said, “What did you want to do it for?”
The boy said, “I didn’t aim to.”
She said, “You a lie!”
By that time two or three people passed, stopped, turned to look, and some stood watching.
“If I turn you loose, will you run?” asked the woman.
“Yes’m,” said the boy.
“Then I won’t turn you loose,” said the woman. She did not release him.
“I’m very sorry, lady, I’m sorry,” whispered the boy.
“Um-hum! And your face is dirty. I got a great mind to wash your face for you. Ain’t you got nobody
home to tell you to wash your face?”
“No’m,” said the boy.
“Then it will get washed this evening,” said the large woman starting up the street, dragging the
frightened boy behind her.
He looked as if he were fourteen or fifteen, frail and willow-wild, in tennis shoes and blue jeans.
The woman said, “You ought to be my son. I would teach you right from wrong. Least I can do right now
is to wash your face. Are you hungry?”
“No’m,” said the being dragged boy. “I just want you to turn me loose.”
“Was I bothering you when I turned that corner?” asked the woman.
“No’m.”
“But you put yourself in contact with me,” said the woman. “If you think that that contact is not going to
last awhile, you got another thought coming. When I get through with you, sir, you are going to remember
Mrs. Luella Bates Washington Jones.”
Sweat popped out on the boy’s face and he began to struggle. Mrs. Jones stopped, jerked him around in
front of her, put a half-nelson about his neck, and continued to drag him up the street. When she got to her
door, she dragged the boy inside, down a hall, and into a large kitchenette- furnished room at the rear of
the house. She switched on the light and left the door open. The boy could hear other roomers laughing
and talking in the large house. Some of their doors were open, too, so he knew he and the woman were
not alone. The woman still had him by the neck in the middle of her room.
She said, “What is your name?”
“Roger,” answered the boy.
“Then, Roger, you go to that sink and wash your face,” said the woman, whereupon she turned him loose
—at last. Roger looked at the door—looked at the woman—looked at the door—and went to the sink.
Let the water run until it gets warm,” she said. “Here’s a clean towel.”
“You gonna take me to jail?” asked the boy, bending over the sink.
“Not with that face, I would not take you nowhere,” said the woman. “Here I am trying to get home to
cook me a bite to eat and you snatch my pocketbook! Maybe, you ain’t been to your supper either, late as
it be. Have you?”
“There’s nobody home at my house,” said the boy.
“Then we’ll eat,” said the woman, “I believe you’re hungry—or been hungry—to try to snatch my
pockekbook.”
“I wanted a pair of blue suede shoes,” said the boy.
“Well, you didn’t have to snatch my pocketbook to get some suede shoes,” said Mrs. Luella Bates
Washington Jones. “You could of asked me.”
“M’am?”
The water dripping from his face, the boy looked at her. There was a long pause. A very long pause. After
he had dried his face and not knowing what else to do dried it again, the boy turned around, wondering
what next. The door was open. He could make a dash for it down the hall. He could run, run, run, run,
run!
The woman was sitting on the day-bed. After a while she said, “I were young once and I wanted things I
could not get.”
There was another long pause. The boy’s mouth opened. Then he frowned, but not knowing he frowned.
The woman said, “Um-hum! You thought I was going to say but, didn’t you? You thought I was going to
say, but I didn’t snatch people’s pocketbooks. Well, I wasn’t going to say that.” Pause. Silence. “I have
done things, too, which I would not tell you, son—neither tell God, if he didn’t already know. So you set
down while I fix us something to eat. You might run that comb through your hair so you will look
presentable.”
In another corner of the room behind a screen was a gas plate and an icebox. Mrs. Jones got up and went
behind the screen. The woman did not watch the boy to see if he was going to run now, nor did she watch
her purse which she left behind her on the day-bed. But the boy took care to sit on the far side of the room
where he thought she could easily see him out of the corner of her eye, if she wanted to. He did not trust
the woman not to trust him. And he did not want to be mistrusted now.
“Do you need somebody to go to the store,” asked the boy, “maybe to get some milk or
something?”
“Don’t believe I do,” said the woman, “unless you just want sweet milk yourself. I was going to make
cocoa out of this canned milk I got here.”
“That will be fine,” said the boy.
She heated some lima beans and ham she had in the icebox, made the cocoa, and set the table. The
woman did not ask the boy anything about where he lived, or his folks, or anything else that would
embarrass him. Instead, as they ate, she told him about her job in a hotel beauty-shop that stayed open
late, what the work was like, and how all kinds of women came in and out, blondes, red-heads, and
Spanish. Then she cut him a half of her ten-cent cake.
“Eat some more, son,” she said.
When they were finished eating she got up and said, “Now, here, take this ten dollars and buy yourself
some blue suede shoes. And next time, do not make the mistake of latching onto my pocketbook nor
nobody else’s—because shoes come by devilish like that will burn your feet. I got to get my rest now. But
I wish you would behave yourself, son, from here on in.”
She led him down the hall to the front door and opened it. “Good-night! Behave yourself, boy!” she said,
looking out into the street.
The boy wanted to say something else other than “Thank you, m’am” to Mrs. Luella Bates
Washington Jones, but he couldn’t do so as he turned at the barren stoop and looked back at the large
woman in the door. He barely managed to say “Thank you” before she shut the door. And he never saw
her again.
Seven
Purpose: Students will interpret vague text and images to create a bank of short story ideas.
Preparation: Teacher will prepare pictures and fortune cookies for class.
Procedure: Students will create a plot idea “bank” through multiple activities. First, the teacher
will show pictures on a powerpoint. Students will quickly write a plot idea for each picture using
their own interpretation of what they think might be happening. Next, the teacher will pass out
fortune cookies. Each student will write a plot idea based on the the writing inside of their
cookie.
Assessment: For homework, students will find a news headline and write a plot idea based
solely on the headline. Student will cut out original headline, paste it on a piece of paper, and
write their plot idea beneath it. The teacher will use this to assess students’ ability to creatively
interpret a text and create a plot idea.
Eight
Purpose: To read a mentor text and relate to themes.
Preparation: Teacher prepares copies of "The Games at Twilight" by Anita Desai and plot story
starts worksheet.
Procedure: Teacher passes out copies of "The Games at Twilight" and reads outloud to class.
Teacher hands out plot story starters worksheet and students work on them in class. They will
add this to their plot bank folder.
Assessment: Teacher will move around the class and talk to students individually about their
bank progress and any ideas they may have for their story.
Games at Twilight by Anita Desai It was still too hot to play outdoors. They had had their tea, they had been washed and had their hair
brushed, and after the long day of confinement in the house that was not cool but at least a protection
from the sun, the children strained to get out. Their faces were red and bloated with the effort, but their
mother would not open the door, everything was still curtained and shuttered in a way that stifled the
children, made them feel that their lungs were stuffed with cotton wool and their noses with dust and if
they didn’t burst out into the light and see the sun and feel the air, they would choke. “Please, ma, please,” they begged. “We’ll play in the veranda and porch—we won’t go a step out of the
porch.” “You will, I know you will, and then——” “No—we won’t, we won’t,” they wailed so horrendously that she actually let down the bolt of the front
door so that they burst out like seeds from a crackling, overripe pod into the veranda, with such wild,
maniacal yells that she retreated to her bath and the shower of talcum powder and the fresh sari that were
to help her face the summer evening. They faced the afternoon. It was too hot. Too bright. The white walls of the veranda glared stridently in
the sun. The bougainvillea hung about it, purple and magenta, in livid balloons. The garden outside was
like a tray made of beaten brass, flattened out on the red gravel and the stony soil in all shades of metal—
aluminum, tin, copper, and brass. No life stirred at this arid time of day—the birds still drooped, like dead
fruit, in the papery tents of the trees; some squirrels lay limp on the wet earth under the garden tap. The
outdoor dog lay stretched as if dead on the veranda mat, his paws and ears and tail all reaching out like
dying travelers in search of water. He rolled his eyes at the children—two white marbles rolling in the
purple sockets, begging for sympathy—and attempted to lift his tail in a wag but could not. It only
twitched and lay still. Then, perhaps roused by the shrieks of the children, a band of parrots suddenly fell out of the eucalyptus
tree, tumbled frantically in the still, sizzling air, then sorted themselves out into battle formation and
streaked away across the white sky. The children, too, felt released. They too began tumbling, shoving, pushing against each other, frantic to
start. Start what? Start their business. The business of the children’s day which is—play. “Let’s play hide-and-seek.” “Who’ll be It?” “You be It.” “Why should I? You be——” “You’re the eldest——” “That doesn’t mean——” The shoves became harder. Some kicked out. The motherly Mira intervened. She pulled the boys roughly
apart. There was a tearing sound of cloth, but it was lost in the heavy panting and angry grumbling, and
no one paid attention to the small sleeve hanging loosely off a shoulder. “Make a circle, make a circle!” she shouted, firmly pulling and pushing till a kind of vague circle was
formed. “Now clap!” she roared, and, clapping, they all chanted in melancholy unison: “Dip, dip, dip—
my blue ship——” and every now and then one or the other saw he was safe by the way his hands fell at
the crucial moment—palm on palm, or back of hand on palm—and dropped out of the circle with a yell
and a jump of relief and jubilation. Raghu was It. He started to protest, to cry “You cheated—Mira cheated—Anu cheated——” but it was
too late, the others had all already streaked away. There was no one to hear when he called out, “Only in
the veranda—the porch—Ma said—Ma said to stay in the porch!” No one had stopped to listen, all he
saw were their brown legs flashing through the dusty shrubs, scrambling up brick walls, leaping over
compost heaps and hedges, and then the porch stood empty in the purple shade of the bougainvillea, and
the garden was as empty as before; even the limp squirrels had whisked away, leaving everything
gleaming, brassy, and bare. Only small Manu suddenly reappeared, as if he had dropped out of an invisible cloud or from a bird’s
claws, and stood for a moment in the center of the yellow lawn, chewing his finger and near to tears as he
heard Raghu shouting, with his head pressed against the veranda wall, “Eighty-three, eighty-five, eightynine, ninety . . .” and then made off in a panic, half of him wanting to fly north, the other half counseling
south. Raghu turned just in time to see the flash of his white shorts and the uncertain skittering of his red
sandals, and charged after him with such a bloodcurdling yell that Manu stumbled over the hosepipe, fell
into its rubber coils, and lay there weeping, “I won’t be It—you have to find them all—all—All!” “I know I have to, idiot,” Raghu said, superciliously kicking him with his toe. “You’re dead,” he said with
satisfaction, licking the beads of perspiration off his upper lip, and then stalked off in search of worthier
prey, whistling spiritedly so that the hiders should hear and tremble. Ravi heard the whistling and picked his nose in a panic, trying to find comfort by burrowing the finger
deep—deep into that soft tunnel. He felt himself too exposed, sitting on an upturned flowerpot behind the
garage. Where could he burrow? He could run around the garage if he heard Raghu come—around and
around and around—but he hadn’t much faith in his short legs when matched against Raghu’s long, hefty,
hairy footballer legs. Ravi had a frightening glimpse of them as Raghu combed the hedge of crotons and
hibiscus, trampling delicate ferns underfoot as he did so. Ravi looked about him desperately, swallowing a
small ball of snot in his fear. The garage was locked with a great heavy lock to which the driver had the key in his room, hanging from
a nail on the wall under his workshirt. Ravi had peeped in and seen him still sprawling on his string cot in
his vest and striped underpants, the hair on his chest and the hair in his nose shaking with the vibrations of
his phlegm-obstructed snores. Ravi had wished he were tall enough, big enough to reach the key on the
nail, but it was impossible, beyond his reach for years to come. He had sidled away and sat dejectedly on
the flowerpot. That at least was cut to his own size. But next to the garage was another shed with a big green door. Also locked. No one even knew who had
the key to the lock. That shed wasn’t opened more than once a year, when Ma turned out all the old
broken bits of furniture and rolls of matting and leaking buckets, and the white anthills were broken and
swept away and Flit sprayed into the spider webs and rat holes so that the whole operation was like the
looting of a poor, ruined, and conquered city. The green leaves of the door sagged. They were nearly off
their rusty hinges. The hinges were large and made a small gap between the door and the walls—only just
large enough for rats, dogs, and, possibly, Ravi to slip through. Ravi had never cared to enter such a dark and depressing mortuary of defunct household goods seething
with such unspeakable and alarming animal life but, as Raghu’s whistling grew angrier and sharper and
his crashing and storming in the hedge wilder, Ravi suddenly slipped off the flowerpot and through the
crack and was gone. He chuckled aloud with astonishment at his own temerity so that Raghu came out of
the hedge, stood silent with his hands on his hips, listening, and finally shouted, “I heard you! I’m
coming! Got you——” and came charging round the garage only to find the upturned flowerpot, the
yellow dust, the crawling of white ants in a mud hill against the closed shed door—nothing. Snarling, he
bent to pick up a stick and went off, whacking it against the garage and shed walls as if to beat out his
prey. Ravi shook, then shivered with delight, with self-congratulation. Also with fear. It was dark, spooky in the
shed. It had a muffled smell, as of graves. Ravi had once got locked into the linen cupboard and sat there
weeping for half an hour before he was rescued. But at least that had been a familiar place, and even
smelled pleasantly of starch, laundry, and, reassuringly, of his mother. But the shed smelled of rats,
anthills, dust, and spider webs. Also of less definable, less recognizable horrors. And it was dark. Except
for the white-hot cracks along the door, there was no light. The roof was very low. Although Ravi was
small, he felt as if he could reach up and touch it with his fingertips. But he didn’t stretch. He hunched
himself into a ball so as not to bump into anything, touch or feel anything. What might there not be to
touch him and feel him as he stood there, trying to see in the dark? Something cold, or slimy—like a
snake. Snakes! He leapt up as Raghu whacked the wall with his stick—then, quickly realizing what it
was, felt almost relieved to hear Raghu, hear his stick. It made him feel protected. But Raghu soon moved away. There wasn’t a sound once his footsteps had gone around the garage and
disappeared. Ravi stood frozen inside the shed. Then he shivered all over. Something had tickled the back
of his neck. It took him a while to pick up the courage to lift his hand and explore. It was an insect—
perhaps a spider—exploring him. He squashed it and wondered how many more creatures were watching
him, waiting to reach out and touch him, the stranger. There was nothing now. After standing in that position—his hand still on his neck, feeling the wet splodge
of the squashed spider gradually dry—for minutes, hours, his legs began to tremble with the effort, the
inaction. By now he could see enough in the dark to make out the large solid shapes of old wardrobes,
broken buckets, and bedsteads piled on top of each other around him. He recognized an old bathtub—
patches of enamel glimmered at him, and at last he lowered himself onto its edge. He contemplated slipping out of the shed and into the fray. He wondered if it would not be better to be
captured by Raghu and be returned to the milling crowd as long as he could be in the sun, the light, the
free spaces of the garden, and the familiarity of his brothers, sisters, and cousins. It would be evening
soon. Their games would become legitimate. The parents would sit out on the lawn on cane basket chairs
and watch them as they tore around the garden or gathered in knots to share a loot of mulberries or black,
teeth-splitting jamun from the garden trees. The gardener would fix the hosepipe to the water tap, and
water would fall lavishly through the air to the ground, soaking the dry yellow grass and the red gravel
and arousing the sweet, the intoxicating scent of water on dry earth—that loveliest scent in the world.
Ravi sniffed for a whiff of it. He half-rose from the bathtub, then heard the despairing scream of one of
the girls as Raghu bore down upon her. There was the sound of a crash, and of rolling about in the bushes,
the shrubs, then screams and accusing sobs of “I touched the den——” “You did not——” “I did——”
“You liar, you did not” and then a fading away and silence again. Ravi sat back on the harsh edge of the tub, deciding to hold out a bit longer. What fun if they were all
found and caught—he alone left unconquered! He had never known that sensation. Nothing more
wonderful had ever happened to him than being taken out by an uncle and bought a whole slab of
chocolate all to himself, or being flung into the soda man’s pony cart and driven up to the gate by the
friendly driver with the red beard and pointed ears. To defeat Raghu—that hirsute, hoarse-voiced football
champion—and to be the winner in a circle of older, bigger, luckier children—that would be thrilling
beyond imagination. He hugged his knees together and smiled to himself almost shyly at the thought of so
much victory, such laurels. There he sat smiling, knocking his heels against the bathtub, now and then getting up and going to the
door to put his ear to the broad crack and listening for sounds of the game, the pursuer and the pursued,
and then returning to his seat with the dogged determination of the true winner, a breaker of records, a
champion.
It grew darker in the shed as the light at the door grew softer, fuzzier, turned to a kind of crumbling
yellow pollen that turned to yellow fur, blue fur, gray fur. Evening. Twilight. The sound of water gushing,
falling. The scent of earth receiving water, slaking its thirst in great gulps and releasing that green scent of
freshness, coolness. Through the crack Ravi saw the long purple shadows of the shed and the garage lying
still across the yard. Beyond that, the white walls of the house. The bougainvillea had lost its lividity,
hung in dark bundles that quaked and twittered and seethed with masses of homing sparrows. The lawn
was shut off from his view. Could he hear the children’s voices? It seemed to him that he could. It seemed
to him that he could hear them chanting, singing, laughing. But what about the game? What had
happened? Could it be over? How could it when he was still not found? It then occurred to him that he could have slipped out long ago, dashed across the yard to the veranda, and
touched the “den.” It was necessary to do that to win. He had forgotten. He had only remembered the part
of hiding and trying to elude the seeker. He had done that so successfully, his success had occupied him
so wholly, that he had quite forgotten that success had to be clinched by that final dash to victory and the
ringing cry of “Den!” With a whimper he burst through the crack, fell on his knees, got up, and stumbled on stiff, benumbed
legs across the shadowy yard, crying heartily by the time he reached the veranda so that when he flung
himself at the white pillar and bawled, “Den! Den! Den!” his voice broke with rage and pity at the
disgrace of it all, and he felt himself flooded with tears and misery. Out on the lawn, the children stopped chanting. They all turned to stare at him in amazement. Their faces
were pale and triangular in the dusk. The trees and bushes around them stood inky and sepulchral, spilling
long shadows across them. They stared, wondering at his reappearance, his passion, his wild animal
howling. Their mother rose from her basket chair and came toward him, worried, annoyed, saying, “Stop
it, stop it, Ravi. Don’t be a baby. Have you hurt yourself?” Seeing him attended to, the children went back
to clasping their hands and chanting, “The grass is green, the rose is red. . . .” But Ravi would not let them. He tore himself out of his mother’s grasp and pounded across the lawn into
their midst, charging at them with his head lowered so that they scattered in surprise. “I won, I won, I
won,” he bawled, shaking his head so that the big tears flew. “Raghu didn’t find me. I won, I won——” It took them a minute to grasp what he was saying, even who he was. They had quite forgotten him.
Raghu had found all the others long ago. There had been a fight about who was to be It next. It had been
so fierce that their mother had emerged from her bath and made them change to another game. Then they
had played another and another. Broken mulberries from the tree and eaten them. Helped the driver wash
the car when their father returned from work. Helped the gardener water the beds till he roared at them
and swore he would complain to their parents. The parents had come out, taken up their positions on the
cane chairs. They had begun to play again, sing and chant. All this time no one had remembered Ravi.
Having disappeared from the scene, he had disappeared from their minds. Clean. “Don’t be a fool,” Raghu said roughly, pushing him aside, and even Mira said, “Stop howling, Ravi. If
you want to play, you can stand at the end of the line,” and she put him there very firmly. The game proceeded. Two pairs of arms reached up and met in an arc. The children trooped under it again
and again in a lugubrious circle, ducking their heads and intoning
“The grass is green, The rose is red; Remember me When I am dead, dead, dead, dead . . .” And the arc of thin arms trembled in the twilight, and the heads were bowed so sadly, and their feet
tramped to that melancholy refrain so mournfully, so helplessly, that Ravi could not bear it. He would not
follow them, he would not be included in this funereal game. He had wanted victory and triumph—not a
funeral. But he had been forgotten, left out, and he would not join them now. The ignominy of being
forgotten—how could he face it? He felt his heart go heavy and ache inside him unbearably. He lay down
full length on the damp grass, crushing his face into it, no longer crying, silenced by a terrible sense of his
insignificance.
Plot Story Starters
Use the following plot starters to complete the story on a separate sheet of paper.
He went to school, expecting a normal day. When he got to class, he saw something that he
would never forget. The room was...
Her mom dropped them off at the movie theatre. They waved goodbye and pretended to walk
towards the building. As soon as she had driven away, they crossed the street and...
Her mom called her downstairs. Her family was assembled at the dining room table, but she
could tell that something was wrong...
He woke up suddenly at 3:17 am. He flipped on his light to get up for a glass of water and saw a
strange bag next to his bed with his name on it. He knew it wasn't there when he went to bed,
and he was the last one to bed and no one was awake in the house. He slowly unzipped it...
As the plane landed, she looked out the window, anticipating the change of scenery. She knew
that this summer vacation would be the best one yet. Nothing could possibly go wrong...
Nine
Purpose: Students will read mentor texts written by students in order to model a realistic level of
writing.
Preparation: Teacher will prepare copies of “The Heartbeat of a Dinosaur” by Delia G, “Junk”
by Joy Rayner, and “Skating in the Shipping Lanes” by Will Lent.
Procedure: Students will silently read three mentor texts written by students (“The Heartbeat of
a Dinosaur” by Delia G, “Junk” by Joy Rayner, and “Skating in the Shipping Lanes” by Will
Lent.)
Assessment: Students will turn in a one page response to the readings: What is one thing you
liked about each of the three short stories? What did the authors do well? (If you did not like
the story, respond instead with what you didn’t like and what the author did not do well.)
Provide examples.
The idea for The Heartbeat of a Dinosaur came to me after a particularly frustrating dry spell.
One night, my neighbor asked me to sit for a while with her elderly husband, George, who'd
been sick. She and George had always been like grandparents to me, and my childhood was
filled with memories of George's generosity. Spending time with him reminded me how he had
profoundly shaped my childhood.
Editor's Comments:
The narrator in this story is a deaf girl with a refreshing, clear voice. Delia's conceit helps the
reader to see and feel the world with newly sharpened senses.
The Heartbeat of a Dinosaur
By Delia G age: 16
In between the first time Miss Jazzie opened our door and the last time she closed her eyes, the stars
shone brighter over our house. There was another seat at the dinner table and my nails were always
painted. Daddy used to say that she needed a house and we needed a home, so together we were beautiful
no matter how funny we looked. She, with her dark braided hair, crazy patterned dresses, and cinnamonscented skin, and I with my ears that didn't work and my big green eyes that she said could see straight
through anything. We were like a garden with all different types of flowers, growing in the same place.
Somehow, seeming more alive.
I always knew when Miss Jazzie was telling a lie. She would look down—instead of into my eyes—as if
she was afraid I could see into her soul, where she kept all those secrets. Then, when she gave me an
answer with those shaky, lying hands, I knew. Her lips were tight as if she didn't want me to read them at
all.
Why do you like this music so much Jazzie? I signed once, watching her rock to music one morning while
she was making breakfast. I didn't remember what music was like, but I had felt the tape player pulsing
and I had seen Miss Jazzie close her eyes and swing around while it was playing.
It reminds me of when I was young, she replied, signing with her hands wet from peeling potatoes, and
when I could swing dance like nobody's business.
Why was it nobody's business?
She tilted her head and smiled at me. I guess because I was the best there was, Babycakes.
Can you still dance like that? I couldn't tell if I was pushing her further than she wanted to go, but it
hadn't stopped me before.
She looked downwards, setting down a potato mid-peel, and her mouth got tight. Sweets, I danced with
the dinosaurs. Don't see none of them 'round, do ya? So you ain't gonna see me doin' no dance.
Even though I couldn't hear the words, I knew she'd been angry by the tensing muscles in her face and the
way she narrowed her lips. Angry, I guessed, because she missed those memories. She sensed my
disappointment. 'Less of course you find me some dinosaurs, she added, her eyes twinkling for just a
second.
Of course she was surprised when I came home with it the next day, but I was pretty sure she'd known
that I wouldn't let that twinkle disappear. I'd picked it up at a thrift store on the way home from school. It
had been two dollars, but the lady at the counter gave it to me one, she said, because I was smiling. Jazzie
always did say that I could charm December into skipping Christmas.
When she opened the box (which I had covered sloppily with her wrapping paper) she smiled quickly
before stifling it and raising an eyebrow. It was a wind-up dinosaur, green and scaly, and ancient, rusting
around its toothy mouth. Baby... what in heaven's name are you trying to get out of this?
Teach me to dance.
That evening, Miss Jazzie turned the music up so much that she and I could both feel it vibrating in our
bodies, up through our feet and into our hips. She mouthed, Darlin', good thing you're already deaf
'cause you certainly would be now with all this clamor.
When I hesitated towards her, she yanked my arm sternly. If we're gonna dance let's get to it. She was
smiling underneath that stiff jaw, those displeased eyes. I knew and she knew I knew. That was why she
put up with me, I guessed, because she didn't have to use so many words.
Slowly I moved with her—spinning and stepping and swinging and rolling into her body, which, just as
slowly, was beginning to ease. I let her energy flow through me like a splash of warm water, and when
we were finished, she laid on the floor gasping and smiling, gazing at me as I dramatically collapsed
beside her.
Not so bad, kiddo. Haven't felt so good since who knows when. She heaved herself upward. I got up and
pulled her off the floor by her limp arms. A'course, she mouthed, I'll feel it tomorrow.
*
*
*
She's an old woman, and old women don't stay around forever. The doctor was talking, but I saw less in
what he said than what I already knew. Daddy had spoken to him at the door with his back to me so I
couldn't read his lips. But I wasn't so concerned with their conversation as I was with the soup, which I
had been haphazardly preparing to bring to Jazzie's room.
Miss Jazmine, he went on, is in a lot of pain. She has been for a while now. She's refusing diagnosis, so I
don't know how long she has. I've tried to convince her to come to the hospital, he patted my shoulder,
but she wants to stay put.
I pretended to go to school that morning, and hid behind the house until Daddy left for work. When I
climbed into Jazzie's open window, I saw that she was awake, but her eyes seemed to be closing by
themselves. Home already? She smiled. I swear she knew all the secrets of the universe right then.
I sat down next to her. Jazzie, I signed, am I missing so much of the world... not being able to hear
words?
She took my wrist and squeezed it with the familiar powdery coolness of her hands. Baby... words ain't
nothin’. Fools use words to cover up for what they can't feel, what they can't see, or understand. But you
got eyes that see what can't be heard. She closed her eyes. Like the heartbeat of a dinosaur.
About 3 years ago, in my 9th grade English class, I was assigned an open creative piece for homework. I
wrote about what I love to do: ice skate. I set my story in Michigan, where I have spent part of every
summer of my life. I know the lakes of Michigan so well, but really only their warm summer condition.
The frozen, forbidding Lake Michigan in my story is a product of my imagination and stories my father
has told me about winters on the lake.
Editor's Comments:
Will's story takes the reader on thrilling late-night adventure across Lake Michigan. His knowledge of iceskating really comes through in this piece.
Skating in the Shipping Lanes
By Will Lent age: 17
The winter of ’62 was the year Lake Michigan froze clear across, from Manitowoc to Mackinaw, from
Shelby to Sheboygan. October 20th saw the temperature hit –10F. By December 1st we’d had twenty
consecutive days below –15F. The old timers said over and over that they’d never seen an early winter
quite like this.
The ice pack built up quickly from the shore. Every day we looked out over the great expanse of the lake
and saw a little less open water. At night, the prevailing west wind jammed huge flows up onto the beach
until there was a crazy landscape of twenty-foot-high mountains of jagged ice. The ice pack seemed alive.
It shifted, groaned and creaked as temperatures fell and the huge ice plates ground over and around each
other.
Our small, inland lake was frozen solid three feet down before Thanksgiving. Every afternoon we’d take
our shovels and skates, sticks and pucks down to the little lake. Our hockey nets were frozen solid into the
ice. We’d clear off whatever snow had fallen and build up the border around our rink. We couldn’t believe
our luck. This would be the longest skating season anyone could remember.
The channel that connects the little lake to Lake Michigan rarely freezes over and never very solidly. The
currents ripping through the narrow channel prevent the ice cover from taking hold. We never skated too
close to the mouth of the channel, knowing that the ice would be soft and unreliable. This winter, the cold
and the thick ice cover on the little lake made us bold and we skated closer and closer to the treacherous
channel. One day a wild shot off the crossbar of the net sent our puck skittering into the danger zone. I
sprinted after it without a second thought. I reached the puck and made a quick stop. Snow sprayed up
and my blades gripped with the satisfying low growl that you only hear on the hardest, most perfect ice. I
was half way out of the channel and knew I could keep going.
*****
If you grow up on the lake you learn to respect its power and unpredictability. In the summer, storms
spring up in minutes, turning a lazy, glassy lake into a snarling, purple and green monster of twelve-foot
breakers that snap small boats in two. In the winter, Lake Michigan’s majesty and immensity grow. Out at
the edge of the ice pack, huge waves twenty feet high crash and smash the growing mountains of ice. I
had grown up on this lake and knew never to fool with it.
One night late in January I was awoken by a loud crash. I bolted upright in bed and listened as the ice
pack rumbled and cracked. I went to the window and scraped away the frost. The thermometer read –22F
and the wind was ripping through the trees. I figured the gusts must be close to 40 miles per hour. The
wind whistled off the mountains of snow and ice on the lake. A huge, white moon spread light across the
snow covered dunes and the massive mounds of ice. Straight out to the horizon, to the north point and
south to Little Point Sable, all I saw was a white desert of ice.
It was perfect night for a moonlight skate. I grabbed my worn-in pair of Bauers from the closet. I quietly
snuck down the stairs, paying close attention to the steady breathing of my parents and brother. Running
out of the house, I tripped and my skates scattered across the floor. My perfect night of skating was
ruined! But the regular pattern of breathing stayed in beat and I ran out of the house for the little lake.
I laced up my skates and took my first step on to the ice. It was the best ice ever. The wind died down and
all that broke the silence of the night was my blades digging into the hard ice. I started to take laps all
around the lake slowing down at the channel to take a look at the frozen Lake Michigan.
I pushed off and took long strides toward the lighthouse that marks the entrance to the big lake. I didn’t
stop to think about the danger I might be in. I dug my edges deep into the crystal ice and fell into a strong,
easy rhythm, striding due west toward the middle of the lake.
The night was absolutely silent. Nothing existed beyond the narrow path I skated on and the open ice that
spread before me. I didn’t tire. I didn’t feel the cold. I felt as though I could keep up this pace forever.
“Where does the ice end?” I thought to myself.
Suddenly, a ghostly gray hulk rose out of the dark before me. A huge oil tanker, frozen in the grip of the
lake ice, blocked my progress toward the horizon. Where was I? Why was this huge vessel caught in the
ice? How far had I skated? I turned to look behind me, expecting to see the beach and the lighthouse.
There was no shoreline, no comforting green light from the lighthouse. I was consumed by an
overwhelming realization. I was skating in the shipping lanes in the middle of the great Lake Michigan.
I turned from the derelict tanker and saw that the full moon laid down a path of light across the ice sheet. I
pushed off and began the long, slow skate, following the moonlight back to shore, back to my warm bed.
"Junk" by Joy Rayner, Port Dover, ON, Canada - Student Writing from "Teen Ink"
magazine
She strung the beads on one by one, her cooked teeth sore from breaking the string with them.
Her fingers were aching from hours of braiding the cheap string on which the wooden beads
were hanging. It was a simple bracelet, handcrafted from recycled threat and bits of wood. For a
good cause. No money to pay for paint of varnish, she let them hang limp, and then she say in
the street and begged for money.
Pedestrians walked past her with long strides, arms laden with groceries, cell phones raised to
their ears and they giggled to someone on the other end. No one even stopped to look at her,
save the children, who were quick to point and yell "Look!" to their parents, who pulled them
away and whispered ferocious words about strangers on street corners begging for money or
food. She was poor and lonely, so why wouldn't she be dangerous?
One little boy stuck his tongue out at her. She had thought she wanted children, once when she
was very young and hopeful. (Pure and innocent in body and mind, a child of sorts her self.)
Now she knew better about people and about the world.
Finally, a man stopped and peered down this nose at her, glasses perched on his nose and hair
still gleaming from a fresh cut. A button boasting a few dollars given to some charity was
punned firmly to his sweater.
"A trade?" she asked, hopefully. Bread would do. An apple. Even a few dimes or quarters were
better than nothing.
His eyes stopped their exploration of her lack of cures and worn coat. He licked his lips and
walked away, sneering.
"Who would want that piece of junk?"
It wasn't the jewelry he was talking about.
Ten
Purpose: To practice different plot patterns.
Preparation: Teacher will prepare copies of plot patterns worksheet.
Procedure: Students will respond to journal writing prompt: Which of the three short stories
from yesterday was your favorite? What did you like about it?
Teacher will then hand out plot patterns worksheet. Each student will choose one of their
favorite plots from their plot bank. They will then use the “”Plot Patterns” handout to create
multiple plot patterns for their idea.
Assessment: Teacher will look at students' plot pattern worksheets to assess their understanding.
"PLOT PATTERNS" The main character wants something. He/she sets out to get it, encountering obstacles along the way. He/she overcomes the obstacles and gets what he/she wants. • What does he/she want? Why? • What are the obstacles? How does he/she overcome them? • How does he/she feel when he/she finally gets what he/she wants? The main character wants something. He/she overcomes all of the obstacles and gets what he/she wants. Then he/she loses it. • What does he/she want? Why? • What are the obstacles? How does he/she overcome them? • How does he/she feel when he/she finally gets what he/she wants? • How does he/she lose what he/she gained? • How does he/she feel when he/she loses it? The main character wants something. He/she overcomes all of the obstacles and gets what he/she wants. Then he/she realizes that what he/she wanted wasn’t so wonderful after all. • What does he/she want? Why? • What are the obstacles? How does he/she overcome them? • How does he/she feel when he/she finally gets what he/she wants? • How does he/she discover that what he/she wanted wasn’t so wonderful? • How does he/she feel at the end? The main character wants something. He/she tries to overcome all of the obstacles, but he/she can’t get want he/she wants. In the end, he/she doesn’t care because he/she has gained something better. • What does he/she want? Why? • What are the obstacles? Why doesn’t he/she overcome them? • How does he/she feel when he/she doesn’t get what he/she wants? • What does he/she gain? • How does he/she realize that what was gained was better than what as wanted in the first place? The main character has something. He/she is motivated to give it up for the sake of someone else. • What does he/she have? How did he/she get it? • For whom will he/she make the sacrifice? Why? • How does he/she make the sacrifice? • How does the story end for the other character? • How does the story end for the main character?
The main character wants something. He/she sets out to get it, encountering obstacles along the way. He/she overcomes the obstacles and gets what he/she wants. • What does he/she want? Why? • What are the obstacles? How does he/she overcome them? • How does he/she feel when he/she finally gets what he/she wants? The main character wants something. He/she overcomes all of the obstacles and gets what he/she wants. Then he/she loses it. • What does he/she want? Why? • What are the obstacles? How does he/she overcome them? • How does he/she feel when he/she finally gets what he/she wants? • How does he/she lose what he/she gained? • How does he/she feel when he/she loses it? The main character wants something. He/she overcomes all of the obstacles and gets what he/she wants. Then he/she realizes that what he/she wanted wasn’t so wonderful after all. The main character is wronged by someone. Then he/she gets even. • How is the main character wronged? By whom? Why? • How does he/she get even? • How does the story end for both characters? The main character is faced with a mystery or puzzle. The character solves the mystery or puzzle. • What is the mystery? • How does the character find out about the mystery? • What does the character do to solve the mystery? • How does the story end for the character?
(Teaching Students To Read and Write Short Stories - A Sample Unit of Lessons for
Middle School Teachers. Jefferson County Public Schools. Version 2.0)
Eleven
Students will start writing their stories.
Homework: Continue working on story. At any time, students may submit their drafts for
teacher response.
Twelve
Students will establish their main character and write a character biography.
Homework: Continue working on story. At any time, students may submit their drafts for
teacher response.
Thirteen
Students will list the scenes of their story. Then, as a class, students will look at the mentor texts
and identify the leads of the stories and how they differ. After they have looked at different ways
to lead a story, they will have time to work on their own leads.
Homework: Continue working on story. At any time, students may submit their drafts for
teacher response.
Fourteen
Writer’s Workshop. Students will work on their stories.
Homework: Continue working on story. At any time, students may submit their drafts for
teacher response.
Fifteen
Teacher will give a short lesson on showing instead of telling. The teacher will write examples
of telling sentences and the class will give examples of how to turn them into showing sentences.
Students will then fill out “Showing, Not Telling” worksheet.
Homework: Continue working on story. At any time, students may submit their drafts for
teacher response.
SHOWING, NOT TELLING
Telling sentence: She was pretty.
Showing sentences:
Telling sentence: He was upset.
Showing sentences:
Telling sentence: The person is strange.
Showing sentences:
Telling sentence: She had a nice house.
Showing sentences:
Telling sentence: He is funny.
Showing sentences:
Telling sentence: He is good at sports.
Showing sentences:
Telling sentence: My room is a mess.
Showing sentences:
Sixteen
Teacher will pass out "You Talkin' to Me?" handout and go over as a class. Teacher will then
bring up “Dialogue” transparency for students to practice how to properly use and punctuate
dialogue in a story. Students will take turns coming up to the overhead and correctly punctuating
parts of the sample story.
Homework: Continue working on story. At any time, students may submit their drafts for
teacher response.
“You Talkin’ to Me?” What Are the Rules for Quotation Marks?
Use quotation marks to show the exact words of a character.
“I don’t know when he will be back,” Jeff said as he stared down at Cindy’s feet.
She bent down slightly to catch his eyes. “Yes, you do, Jeff. Don’t you lie to me.”
New speaker means new paragraph.
I knew about Frankie and all the trouble he had at Glendale. He had spent more time in
detention than Algebra class. “So, Frankie, are you trying to be the valedictorian or what?” I
whispered to him as he sat there in the library staring intently at a book of poetry. He did not reply at
first. He just remained focused. I stood up and shook my head. “You sure are different than what I
expected,” I said.
“People change,” he said. “Maybe you should think about it.”
“Yeah, right,” I mumbled as I made my way toward the library doors.
Quotation marks stop when the direct words stop. They start up again when the direct
quote begins again.
“I can’t tell you,” Paula whispered, “because this could be really dangerous.”
Punctuation goes inside the quotation marks in dialogue.
She growled across the room, “Shut up.”
Don’t use quotation marks with indirect quotes.
William said he wanted to stop the violence, but he was too late.
Other times to use quotation marks . . .
To place emphasis on a word or phrase: Johnny was too “uptown” for the rest of us.
To indicate a short story title or title of a poem, song, or chapter:
“Feedsack”
“To an Athlete Dying Young”
“Stowawitch”
The name of the book or cd these came from would be underlined or italicized.
("Teaching the Short Story" Teacher's Packet - Kentucky Department of Education)
PUNCTUATING DIALOGUE “The Visit” by Ruth Kim, an 11th grade student what is it like to be old asked the curious little boy well the old woman said i don’t have to go to school and i don’t have to work really you must have fun all the time oh yes i don’t have to be responsible for little children who go poking their funny little heads into everything there just isn’t much that i have to do. i wish i could be old too the little boy said wistfully you will . . . someday when i get old, will i ever get to live in a nice place like this the little boy asked you are friends with all these people aren’t you you are a smart little man yes we are all friends maybe someday she explained after your children are all married they will send you to a place like this did your children put you in this nice place i would like to live with my friends that would be fun wouldn’t it the boy giggled yes is it fun the old woman said her voice quiet and emotionless maybe a long time from
now you will be just like me . . . perhaps even doing the same things oh boy i can’t wait until i’m old you really have it great grandma the old woman breathed a sigh and waited for him to continue the little boy glanced past his grandmother and out the window a car was pulling up at the curb i’m sorry i can’t stay longer grandma but it’s time for me to go now maybe i can see you again next year if mommy and daddy decide to visit the little boy stretched up and put his arms around the old woman’s neck he gently kissed her on the cheek she hugged him tightly and whispered her farewell then he ran out the door she went to the window and in a moment saw him running out to the car he did not see his grandmother standing at the window hand upraised in a last wave he was too busy telling his mother and father how great old age would be
Seventeen
Writer’s Workshop. Students will work on their stories.
Homework: Continue working on story. At any time, students may submit their drafts for
teacher response.
Eighteen
Students will examine the different endings in the mentor texts. Then, they will have time to
work on their own endings. For homework, students will find and read a short story of their
choosing. They will write a one-paragraph response about the author’s use of the title.
Homework: Continue working on story. At any time, students may submit their drafts for
teacher response.
Nineteen
Writer’s Workshop. Students will work on their stories.
Homework: Continue working on story. At any time, students may submit their drafts for
teacher response.
Twenty
Students will evaluate, revise, and edit their short story drafts using the “Rubric for Short Story”.
The worksheet will guide students in evaluating their writing by examining effectiveness of title,
beginning, grabbing reader’s attention, setting, characterization, theme, plot, style, and ending.
Homework: Continue working on story. At any time, students may submit their drafts for
teacher response.
()(teachervision.fen.com)
Twenty One
Students will peer edit each other’s stories using the peer editing rubric. Peers will look for
elements, respond about what they liked, and make suggestions for improvement.
Homework: Continue working on story. At any time, students may submit their drafts for
teacher response.
Peer Editing
Name of author:
Name of editor:
What do you like about this story? Give examples.
What suggestions do you have for improvement?
What plot idea would you write for this story?
Self-Evaluation
Write a 1-2 page response to your writing from this unit. Include answers to the following
questions in your response.
In what area(s) has your writing improved throughout the unit?
What was the most difficult part of writing your story?
What do you think you do best in your story?
How could you improve your story?
Did you enjoy writing your story? Why or why not?
Twenty Two
Students will use school computers to create “Animoto” trailers for their story.
Homework: Continue working on story. At any time, students may submit their drafts for
teacher response.
Twenty Three
Teacher will show all of the story trailers.
Homework: Finalize draft for portfolio submission. Put together portfolio.
Twenty Four
Portfolios are due. Class will celebrate with a Reader’s Cafe. Students will bring in snacks and
drinks and share their stories with the class.
Twenty Five
Reader’s Cafe continued.
SUMMATIVE ASSESSMENT
Students will submit a portfolio at the end of the unit. The portfolio will
contain the following:
Student Mentor Texts Response (5)
Plot Idea and Plot Patterns (10)
Character Biography (5)
Scene List (10)
Short Fiction Rubric Worksheet (10)
Peer Edit Sheet (10)
Two or More Drafts Showing Progress (10)
Student Self-Evaluation/Response to Writing (20)
Final Draft (20)
TOTAL: 100 pts
Artifacts
Mentor Texts
Response
Plot Idea/Patterns
Character
Biography
Scene List
Short Fiction Rubric
Peer Editing
Drafts
Self-Evaluation
Below Expectation
Acceptable
Target
1
3
5
Response does not identify
or provide examples of all
three stories.
Response identifies
and provides examples
for some of the stories.
One page response
that identifies and
provides examples or
what reader did/did not
like and what author
did/did not do well for
all three stories.
5
8
10
Plot idea or patterns sheet
missing.
Plot idea and at least
one pattern ais present.
Plot idea effectively
describes situation,
character(s), and
complication of the
story. At least 2
patterns are present.
1
3
5
Partially complete.
Mostly complete.
Complete.
5
8
10
Some scenes are listed
and/or plot is unclear.
Most scenes are listed
and/or plot somewhat
unclear.
All scenes are listed
and plot is clear.
5
8
10
Incomplete.
Complete, but lacks
detail.
Complete and detailed.
5
8
10
Complete.
Complete, but lacks
detail.
Complete and detailed.
5
8
10
Drafts show no evidence of
revising and editing.
Drafts show some
evidence of revising
and editing.
Drafts show clear
evidence of revising
and editing.
10
15
20
Responds to only some of
the questions and/or lacks
thoughtfulness.
Responds to most of
the questions and/or
lacks thoughtfulness.
Thoughtfully responds
to all questions.
Final Draft
Plot
Characterization
Point of View
Below
Expectation
Acceptable
Target
1
5
10
Hard to follow,
unclear, and/or
abrupt ending.
Fairly believable.
Sometimes unclear.
Simple, believable,
and organized with
a clear ending.
0
2
4
Unclear as to who
the main
character(s)
is(are).
Main character(s)
vaguely developed.
Main character(s)
clearly developed
through dialogue,
action, or thoughts.
1
-
4
Unclear.
0
Title
Title missing.
Consistent.
-
2
Title present.