Backstage, the curtain breathed like a sleeping giant, slow and shallow, while my pulse beat a drum roll in my wrists. The microphone waited at center stage, a small moon pulling at the tide of my courage. My thoughts buzzed like a jar of bees, bumping and ricocheting, hunting for a way out. I rubbed my palms, and the heat in them crackled like paper just before a spark. Beyond the gap, the audience was a dark ocean, and I was a paper boat wondering if I would float. When the cue light winked, it felt like the room held its breath with me, expecting a choice.

How does the figurative language help achieve the author's purpose in this passage?

Every Texas summer asks us to balance our water the way we balance a paycheck. The Edwards Aquifer is not a bottomless well; it is a savings account we share, and every leaky faucet is change slipping through open fingers. When sprinklers mist the sidewalk, it's like paying for groceries and leaving half the bags in the parking lot. The Guadalupe River runs clear when we live within our budget—shorter showers, native plants, fixed leaks. These choices aren't punishment; they are smart spending. If we treat water like money we need for rent, we'll keep enough for tomorrow, and our neighbors downstream will, too.

What effect does the author achieve by comparing water use to managing money?

Evening settled over the Hill Country, and the wind began herding the day's heat like a slow-moving line of cattle. Mesquite branches whispered secrets to the creek, and cicadas tuned themselves into a dusty choir. The sky pulled on a quilt of early stars, and the limestone glowed as if it remembered sunlight. I sat on the porch steps, boots quiet, breath steady. The longer I listened, the less the worry rattled in my chest. The land wasn't rushing; it was teaching me its pace, patient and deliberate. When the first firefly blinked, it felt like a nod: you're here; you can wait, too.

How does the figurative language contribute to the author's purpose in this scene?

The gun cracked, and doubt grabbed at my shoulders, a backpack I refused to carry. I leaned into the curve; my legs were pistons, clean and sure, pumping heat into the cool evening air. The track unspooled beneath me like a ribbon someone kept pulling, and the finish line became a magnet tugging the iron in my ribs. My breath barked, but I would not heel. I counted the last strides not as numbers but as doors I could kick open. Behind me, footsteps chattered; ahead, the tape waited, thin as a dare. I ran toward it until the backpack forgot my name.

What is the main effect of the figurative language in this passage?

By noon the blue norther rolled over the prairie like a dark quilt being pulled across the sky, and the sun, surprised, hid its face. The wind found the gaps in our jackets with greedy fingers, snatching our breath and snapping the clothesline into a whip. Mesquite trees bowed, whispering secrets they didn't want to share, and the cattle pressed together as if a single shaggy animal. We hurried, boots thudding, while the storm shouldered the barn door and rattled the tin roof like a drummer warming up. The temperature fell in a breath, and the road that had shimmered all morning turned to a long, gray ribbon, suddenly stiff and cold.

How does the figurative language help achieve the author's purpose in this passage?

Our school's trash cans are like a leaky bucket. We pour in effort—sorting bottles here, tossing paper there—but because there's no clear system, the good intentions drip away. Imagine trying to fill a bucket riddled with holes; no matter how fast you pour, the water slips out. That's our recycling program. Without labeled bins in every hallway and a schedule that makes pickup as regular as the morning bell, we are wasting energy and money. When we patch the holes—simple signs, matching lids, and reminders during announcements—the bucket holds. The same students, the same effort, but now the results collect, visible and useful for our campus and community.

What effect does the analogy of the "leaky bucket" have in this persuasive excerpt?

Abuela's voice wrapped around me like a quilt warmed by afternoon sun, stitched with stories and cinnamon. Even the kettle seemed to hum along, a shy choir in the corner of the kitchen. When she laughed, the windows caught the sound and tossed it back, a gentle echo that made the table feel steadier beneath my elbows. I had come home carrying a backpack stuffed with bricks—tests, deadlines, worries with sharp corners—but her words sanded them smooth. "Mija," she said, and the word itself was a porch light. In that circle of light, my clenched thoughts loosened, and I could see myself not as failing, but as unfinished.

How does the author's figurative language develop the narrator's experience?

Under the San Antonio lights, the arena wore a crown of bulbs, and the dirt kept the night's heartbeat. The bronc burst from the chute like a slingshot, all muscle and lightning, and the crowd rose as one tall wave. Spurs chimed; the announcer's voice braided with the band until the air felt like a rope you could hold. Somewhere beyond the fences, the river slid past like a quiet thought, but in here the noise was thunder bottled. I wasn't riding, but my nerves bucked anyway, each second a wild hoof. When the bell finally rang, dust lifted like prayer, and the rider grinned, a lantern switching on.

What effect does the figurative language have on the setting and mood of this scene?