At 7:10 a.m., Mr. Luna, the custodian, tugged the gym door and leaned toward Coach Reyes. 'They've got a surprise for you at the end of homeroom,' he whispered, sealing the secret with a mop-handle salute. Coach laughed under his breath and, in the glossy reflection of the trophy case, practiced a stunned face that would pass muster. 'Mouth open, eyes wide, no tears,' he muttered.

Down the hall, Mia and Jay hunched over a shoebox of cupcakes like spies. They argued about sprinkles and timed their steps so Coach wouldn't suspect anything. Every locker that shut sounded like a drumroll. They taped crooked streamers behind the bleachers and rehearsed a cheer that was supposed to explode out of nowhere. When the assistant principal strolled by, he said, 'Big day?' far too casually, but they only grinned, hearts hammering with the thrill of being sneaky.

None of them noticed Coach duck into his office to hide the thank-you note he'd already written. As the bell rang, the gym lights hummed to life, and the students hid behind the bleachers, convinced the plan was airtight, unaware the guest of honor was already prepared to be surprised.

Which literary device is most clearly used in this passage, and what effect does it create for readers?

At the Mesquite Bend town hall, the council introduced Ordinance 47-B, a proposal to protect 'the visual serenity of sidewalks during barbecue season.' The clerk read, stone-faced, that smoke from pits must travel in 'respectful wisps,' not 'boastful billows,' and that brisket may be turned only clockwise to prevent 'chaos at festivals.' A tourism representative testified that visitors loved the food but disliked 'suitcases smelling delicious for weeks.' The council nodded gravely, as if barbecue were a storm that needed sandbags.

Old Ms. Garrison raised a hand to ask how wind would be cited. The mayor suggested flags on porches could double as official direction indicators. A pitmaster in an apron embroidered with tiny stars—no larger than a quarter inch, per Section 12—promised to retrain his smoke to behave. 'This isn't about changing who we are,' the mayor concluded, tapping the gavel, 'just about organizing who we are by the minute.'

When the motion passed, folks clapped with the polite enthusiasm reserved for library calendars. Outside, the scent of pepper and oak drifted across the square, stubborn, joyful, and utterly uninterested in curfews.

Which literary device is primarily used in this passage, and to what purpose?

By noon the parade route baked, chalk-white under a sun that had not blinked for weeks. Volunteers strung blue paper stars across Main Street and stacked coolers beneath the judges' table. The announcer tested a microphone and joked about sunscreen. 'Not a cloud all week,' someone said, nodding at the sky, bare as a polished plate. Ranchers parked their pickups by the feed store and compared cracks in their fields like old scars.

The marching band lined up behind a float shaped like a giant longhorn, its horns made of crepe that rustled like dry grass. The mayor, wearing a sash, adjusted the ribbon for the ceremonial ribbon cutting, the scissors wobbling in the heat.

Then, with no warning, the sky unlatched. Rain fell hard, first like a rumor, then like a drumline, soaking posters, ungluing stars, turning the street into a mirror. The longhorn's horns wilted. The parade dissolved in squeals and laughter, people bolting for awnings.

And the ranchers stood in the open with their hats held high, faces tipped up, cheering. The celebration they had planned washed away, and the celebration they needed finally arrived, puddling around their boots.

Which device best describes the central effect in this passage, and what does it accomplish?

In the quiet after we cleared the last box, the kitchen looked too clean, like a page with no margins. On the windowsill sat the glass jar my grandmother kept near the stove. A thin crack ran from the lip to the base, a red line of glue sealing it years ago. Inside were a few pecan halves and cards smudged with butter, edges soft from fingers. I lifted the jar, and a narrow blade of evening light slipped through the crack and drew a bright stripe across the table.

The stripe touched the dents where a rolling pin had thunked, the splash marks on the wall that never quite scrubbed away. I could have thrown the jar out months ago when I wrapped the plates, but I never did. It felt wrong to call it broken when it had held so much for so long. I rinsed it, set it back, and the room looked less empty.

The jar didn't tell stories aloud. It simply stayed, proof that something could carry a lifetime and still be chipped, still be useful, still shine when the light found the right angle.

Which device best captures how the passage creates deeper meaning, and what effect does it have?