What this quiz covers
This quiz focuses on Identifying Figurative Language, giving you a quick way to practice the rules, question types, and explanations that matter most for SHSAT English Language Arts.
(1) Mr. Anya was a man carved from sea-salt and patience. He taught sailing not by lecturing from the dock, but by putting you at the tiller of his small, weathered boat, the Sea Lark, and letting the wind do the talking. My first lesson was on a blustery afternoon. The sail cracked and popped like a whip, and the boat heeled over so far I was certain we would capsize. My knuckles were white on the tiller. "Feel the boat," was all he said, his voice calm as the deep water beneath us. "She's telling you what she wants."
(2) I didn't understand. The boat was telling me it wanted to throw me into the churning grey waves. I wrestled with the tiller, trying to force the boat upright, to impose my will on the wind. The more I fought, the more stubborn the Sea Lark became, her sail luffing uselessly, her momentum lost. We sat dead in the water, rocking in the chop. Mr. Anya didn't sigh or correct me. He simply waited, letting me feel the full, frustrating weight of my failure.
(3) "You are fighting the wind," he said at last. "You cannot win that fight. You must listen to it. Use it." He placed his hand gently over mine on the tiller. He didn't push or pull. Instead, he seemed to just relax, and through his hand, I felt a subtle vibration. It was a slight pressure, a hum. He made a minuscule adjustment, and instantly, the sail filled with a satisfying whoomp, the boat leaned into a graceful angle, and we were moving again, slicing cleanly through the water. It felt like magic.
(4) "There," he said. "You feel that? That is the conversation. The wind pushes the sail, the sail pushes the boat, the water pushes back. And you, at the tiller, are the interpreter. Not the dictator." For the rest of the afternoon, I tried to stop dictating and start interpreting. I focused on that hum, that subtle pressure. It was a new language, spoken not in words, but in forces. By the time we sailed back into the harbor, my knuckles were no longer white. I was holding the tiller lightly, feeling the story the boat was telling me, and for the first time, I felt like I was beginning to understand.
Which of the following phrases from the passage contains a simile?
SHSAT English Language Arts Quiz
Practice Identifying Figurative Language in SHSAT English Language Arts with focused quiz questions that help you check what you know, review explanations, and build confidence with test-style prompts.
This quiz focuses on Identifying Figurative Language, giving you a quick way to practice the rules, question types, and explanations that matter most for SHSAT English Language Arts.
Try each quiz question before looking at the correct answer. Use the explanations to review missed ideas, then come back to similar questions until the pattern feels familiar.
(1) Mr. Anya was a man carved from sea-salt and patience. He taught sailing not by lecturing from the dock, but by putting you at the tiller of his small, weathered boat, the Sea Lark, and letting the wind do the talking. My first lesson was on a blustery afternoon. The sail cracked and popped like a whip, and the boat heeled over so far I was certain we would capsize. My knuckles were white on the tiller. "Feel the boat," was all he said, his voice calm as the deep water beneath us. "She's telling you what she wants."
(2) I didn't understand. The boat was telling me it wanted to throw me into the churning grey waves. I wrestled with the tiller, trying to force the boat upright, to impose my will on the wind. The more I fought, the more stubborn the Sea Lark became, her sail luffing uselessly, her momentum lost. We sat dead in the water, rocking in the chop. Mr. Anya didn't sigh or correct me. He simply waited, letting me feel the full, frustrating weight of my failure.
(3) "You are fighting the wind," he said at last. "You cannot win that fight. You must listen to it. Use it." He placed his hand gently over mine on the tiller. He didn't push or pull. Instead, he seemed to just relax, and through his hand, I felt a subtle vibration. It was a slight pressure, a hum. He made a minuscule adjustment, and instantly, the sail filled with a satisfying whoomp, the boat leaned into a graceful angle, and we were moving again, slicing cleanly through the water. It felt like magic.
(4) "There," he said. "You feel that? That is the conversation. The wind pushes the sail, the sail pushes the boat, the water pushes back. And you, at the tiller, are the interpreter. Not the dictator." For the rest of the afternoon, I tried to stop dictating and start interpreting. I focused on that hum, that subtle pressure. It was a new language, spoken not in words, but in forces. By the time we sailed back into the harbor, my knuckles were no longer white. I was holding the tiller lightly, feeling the story the boat was telling me, and for the first time, I felt like I was beginning to understand.
Which of the following phrases from the passage contains a simile?
(1) The city air tasted like metal and exhaust, a stark contrast to the scent of pine and damp earth that had been the backdrop to my entire life. My new school was a fortress of red brick, three stories high, looming over a street crowded with cars and unfamiliar faces. Inside, the hallways were a roaring river of people, and I was a stone, motionless and silent, getting battered by the current. Everyone seemed to have a place to be, a friend to greet, a locker to slam. I clutched the wrinkled schedule in my hand, its crisp corners now softened by my nervous grip. Room 204: English. It felt a world away.
(2) I had imagined this moment for weeks. In my daydreams, I was confident, striding through the halls with a purpose. Someone would recognize a book I was carrying or a pin on my bag, and a friendship would spark. Reality was a cold splash of water. The book in my bag felt heavy and pretentious, and the pin, a small silver bird my grandmother had given me, seemed childish. I was an outsider, marked by my new shoes that squeaked on the polished floor and my bewildered expression that was a magnet for fleeting, curious glances.
(3) I found Room 204 and slipped into a desk at the back, hoping to become part of the wallpaper. The teacher, Mr. Harrison, had a kind face, but his welcoming speech about "new beginnings" and "finding your voice" felt like it was broadcast from another galaxy. My voice was trapped somewhere in my throat, tangled in a knot of anxiety. He asked us to write a short paragraph about a meaningful memory. My mind, which usually overflowed with stories from my summers by the lake, went completely blank. The page stared back at me, a vast, white desert.
(4) A girl with bright green hair and a cascade of silver bracelets sat down in the desk next to mine. She didn't look at me, but I heard her pen scratching furiously against her paper. After a few minutes, she paused, sighed dramatically, and then turned to me. "Mind if I borrow your brain? Mine seems to have gone on vacation." Her smile was wide and genuine. I was so startled that a small laugh escaped me. "I think mine went with it," I managed to say. The knot in my throat loosened, just a little. Maybe this new world wasn't a world away, but just a few words.
Which phrase from paragraph 3 uses personification?
(1) The city air tasted like metal and exhaust, a stark contrast to the scent of pine and damp earth that had been the backdrop to my entire life. My new school was a fortress of red brick, three stories high, looming over a street crowded with cars and unfamiliar faces. Inside, the hallways were a roaring river of people, and I was a stone, motionless and silent, getting battered by the current. Everyone seemed to have a place to be, a friend to greet, a locker to slam. I clutched the wrinkled schedule in my hand, its crisp corners now softened by my nervous grip. Room 204: English. It felt a world away.
(2) I had imagined this moment for weeks. In my daydreams, I was confident, striding through the halls with a purpose. Someone would recognize a book I was carrying or a pin on my bag, and a friendship would spark. Reality was a cold splash of water. The book in my bag felt heavy and pretentious, and the pin, a small silver bird my grandmother had given me, seemed childish. I was an outsider, marked by my new shoes that squeaked on the polished floor and my bewildered expression that was a magnet for fleeting, curious glances.
(3) I found Room 204 and slipped into a desk at the back, hoping to become part of the wallpaper. The teacher, Mr. Harrison, had a kind face, but his welcoming speech about "new beginnings" and "finding your voice" felt like it was broadcast from another galaxy. My voice was trapped somewhere in my throat, tangled in a knot of anxiety. He asked us to write a short paragraph about a meaningful memory. My mind, which usually overflowed with stories from my summers by the lake, went completely blank. The page stared back at me, a vast, white desert.
(4) A girl with bright green hair and a cascade of silver bracelets sat down in the desk next to mine. She didn't look at me, but I heard her pen scratching furiously against her paper. After a few minutes, she paused, sighed dramatically, and then turned to me. "Mind if I borrow your brain? Mine seems to have gone on vacation." Her smile was wide and genuine. I was so startled that a small laugh escaped me. "I think mine went with it," I managed to say. The knot in my throat loosened, just a little. Maybe this new world wasn't a world away, but just a few words.
In paragraph 4, the girl asks to borrow the narrator's brain because hers "seems to have gone on vacation." The narrator answers, "I think mine went with it." Through this figurative reply, what is the narrator saying?
(1) The old suitcase sat open on my bed, a hollow mouth waiting to be filled. For a week, I had circled it, picking up a book only to put it down, folding a shirt and then unfolding it. Moving to the city was supposed to be an adventure, the thrilling next chapter Liam had so enthusiastically described. He spoke of bustling streets, endless opportunities, and a life vibrant with energy. He couldn't understand my hesitation. "It's just a place, Elara," he'd said, his voice laced with a gentle impatience that was becoming all too familiar. (2) But for me, it wasn't "just a place." It was the absence of this place: the scent of rain on dry soil, the silhouette of the oak tree against the sunset, the low hum of the cicadas that had been the soundtrack to every summer of my life. These were the things I was packing away, not just my clothes and books. I walked to the window and looked out at the rolling fields, now washed in the soft gold of late afternoon. Mrs. Gable's dog, Buster, was chasing a butterfly in her yard, a small, familiar drama. (3) Liam saw a dead-end town; I saw a tapestry of moments. He saw quiet; I heard peace. He saw a beginning in the city, but all I could feel was the weight of this ending. I picked up a small, smooth stone from my windowsill, one I had found by the creek when I was ten. Its cool weight was a comfort in my palm. How could I explain that leaving felt like tearing a page out of my own story? I placed the stone carefully in a side pocket of the suitcase. It was a small, silent rebellion, a piece of home I refused to leave behind.
In paragraph 2, the narrator describes "the low hum of the cicadas that had been the soundtrack to every summer of my life." This phrase is best classified as
(1) The attic was Elara's sanctuary, a dusty, sun-drenched kingdom smelling of cedar and old paper. Up here, under the steep-sloping roof, the world outside—the drone of her parents' arguments, the relentless ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall—seemed to fade into a distant hum. A single round window, like a ship's porthole, looked out over the tangle of oak branches in the backyard, framing a small, perfect circle of sky.
(2) It was her grandmother who had first shown her the way, unlocking the small, stiff door at the top of the narrow stairs. "Every house has a heart," she'd whispered, her voice raspy like dry leaves, "and this is ours." She had left Elara there with a carton of her old books, their pages brittle and yellowed, filled with tales of forgotten queens and star-faring adventurers. The books became Elara's companions, their stories weaving themselves into the dust motes dancing in the shafts of light.
(3) Today, however, the usual comfort of the space felt elusive. A letter lay on the rough-hewn floorboards beside her, its crisp, official-looking paper a stark intruder in her haven of aged things. It was an acceptance letter from a music conservatory three states away, a place she had only dreamed of. It represented a future, a path leading far away from the familiar scent of cedar and the comfort of her books. The very weight of it felt immense, a promise and a burden all at once.
(4) She picked it up, tracing the embossed seal with her fingertip. Downstairs, a door slammed, and the muffled sound of a raised voice reached her. It was the same argument, the same tired words circling each other like weary vultures. The conservatory would be an escape, a chance to build something of her own, separate from the crumbling foundation of her family's home. Yet, the thought of leaving the attic, of closing the door on this quiet, dusty heart of the house, felt like a betrayal.
(5) Looking out the porthole window, she watched a lone crow land on an oak limb, its dark eye seeming to stare right at her. The world beyond the window was vast and unknown, just like the future the letter offered. For the first time, the attic felt less like a sanctuary and more like a cage, its comforting familiarity now a barrier to the person she might become.
In paragraph 2, the grandmother whispers, "Every house has a heart," and then adds, "and this is ours." Based on paragraph 4, what does the metaphor of the house's "heart" refer to?
Excerpt from "Winter Wheat" by Mildred Walker
(1) I love Dad's way of talking that makes him seem different from other ranchers. He's lived here twenty-three years, but he still says "back East where I come from." He's the one who gets excited when I do about spring coming or a serial running in the magazine we're both reading, but it's what Mom says that I depend on. When Mom used to say "Don't worry" about my pet chicken or dog or new calf, it always got well. Dad is always talking of going some place, not now, but next year, maybe. Mom seems to think of nothing farther away than today or perhaps yesterday or tomorrow morning.
(2) Mom folded the ironing board and put it inside their bedroom that was just off the kitchen. She carried in the freshly ironed clothes. Dad went back to his paper. When Mom came back she took beans from the cupboard to soak for tomorrow. Dad always said Mom could make all the dishes he'd had back in Vermont as well as though she were a New Englander herself, instead of a Russian. All of a sudden, I realized that tomorrow when those beans would be ready to eat I'd be going away. It gave me a funny feeling.
(3) "I'll be taking the train tomorrow night," I said aloud, more to hear it myself.
(4) "We can drive you into town in the afternoon," Dad said, dropping his paper on the floor.
(5) "There's no need to go to town; she can catch the train at Gotham just as well. We haven't nothing to take us into town for," Mom said.
(6) "Well, we don't have to decide tonight," Dad said, but I knew he wanted to go into Clark City. It wouldn't be so flat as just seeing me go off on the train from Gotham. My going away was hard on both of them; they were so different—and I was part of them both. It made me uncomfortable to think of leaving them.
(7) While I was getting ready for bed in my room that's off the front room, I saw how it would be if I left from town. We'd go in right after dinner and go around to the stores, Dad going one way and Mom and I another. Dad would probably have his hair cut at the barbershop and stop in the bank and meet someone he knew to talk to. Then we'd meet at the big store on the corner and go to the cafeteria for supper. The train stops ten minutes or so at the station in town and there are other people and excitement and you have time to wave from the platform and then again from your window by your seat. We went to the station in Clark City to see the Goodals off when they went back to Iowa.
(8) If I left from Gotham, we'd just drive down in the truck and wait till the train came. It only stops long enough for you to get on and you hardly have time to taste the flavor of going away.
(9) I sat on the bed in my pyjamas with my arms around my knees. I couldn't keep from thinking of that time Dad went back East. I tried to, and then I just sat still and looked straight at it. Sometimes that's better than working so hard to keep from looking at what's in your mind.
(10) Dad went all the way back to Vermont. ... It was in November and it was already dark when the train came through Gotham. Even now, I could feel how cold and dark it was. I held Mom's hand. Dad was so dressed-up he seemed strange.... We stood there without saying anything until Dad told Mom to remember to call Mr. Bardich, our neighbor, if the cow didn't calve tomorrow.
(11) "I'll manage," Mom snapped back.
(12) "I wish you could go, Anna," Dad said to Mom, "and we could take Ellen." ...
(13) "Good-by, Anna Petrovna," he said, looking at Mom. I had never heard him call her by two names before.
(14) "Good-by," Mom said, standing still, without smiling.
(15) Then he was gone and the crossroads were darker than ever. The train light shone on the high window in the top of the grain elevator for a moment and then that too was dark. We got into our old Ford and Mom drove back to the house. My throat ached all the way. The name Dad had called Mom kept saying itself in my ears: "Anna Petrovna, Anna Petrovna." ...
(16) Our house seemed lonely when we came back to it. It seemed to be hiding under the coulee. I went with Mom to put the truck in the barn that was bigger than the house. I think Mom was prouder of our barn than the house, anyway. We walked back to look at the cow that was going to calve. She was just a big light blob in the dark, waiting. I had thought she was exciting this morning, but now she seemed sad, too.
(17) The wind blew when we walked across the open space to the house and I couldn't help shivering with the cold. Inside the house it was warm, but empty.
(18) "Bring your nightgown in here and I heat you some milk," Mom said.
(19) I drank the milk sitting on a stool in front of the stove. It tasted good, but the lonely ache in my throat was still there. I picked up my clothes and hung them neatly behind the stove and put my cup on the sink board. Mom was fixing oatmeal for tomorrow morning.
(20) "Good night, Mom," I said almost timidly, standing beside her. She seemed wrapped around in a kind of strangeness. Then she turned around and drew me to her. The front of her dress was warm from the stove. I felt the comfortable heat through my gown. She laid her hand against my face and it felt rough and hard but firm. I dared ask her something I wanted to know.
(21) "Mom, was that really your name—what Dad called you?"
(22) Her voice sounded surprised. "Why, Yelena, you know that; Anna Petrovna. You know I am born in Russia, in Seletskoe."
(23) "Yes, but I didn't know your other name," I said.
(24) "Anna Petrovna Webb." She pronounced it slowly. "Once I think what a funny name Ben Webb is!" She laughed. Her laugh was warm and low like our kitchen, and comfortable. The house seemed natural and right again....
(25) But now that I am grown, I feel the wall of strangeness between them, more than when I was a child. I wondered how they would get along without me.
Of the following quotations from paragraphs 20 through 25, which one is a metaphor?
(1) Mr. Anya was a man carved from sea-salt and patience. He taught sailing not by lecturing from the dock, but by putting you at the tiller of his small, weathered boat, the Sea Lark, and letting the wind do the talking. My first lesson was on a blustery afternoon. The sail cracked and popped like a whip, and the boat heeled over so far I was certain we would capsize. My knuckles were white on the tiller. "Feel the boat," was all he said, his voice calm as the deep water beneath us. "She's telling you what she wants."
(2) I didn't understand. The boat was telling me it wanted to throw me into the churning grey waves. I wrestled with the tiller, trying to force the boat upright, to impose my will on the wind. The more I fought, the more stubborn the Sea Lark became, her sail luffing uselessly, her momentum lost. We sat dead in the water, rocking in the chop. Mr. Anya didn't sigh or correct me. He simply waited, letting me feel the full, frustrating weight of my failure.
(3) "You are fighting the wind," he said at last. "You cannot win that fight. You must listen to it. Use it." He placed his hand gently over mine on the tiller. He didn't push or pull. Instead, he seemed to just relax, and through his hand, I felt a subtle vibration. It was a slight pressure, a hum. He made a minuscule adjustment, and instantly, the sail filled with a satisfying whoomp, the boat leaned into a graceful angle, and we were moving again, slicing cleanly through the water. It felt like magic.
(4) "There," he said. "You feel that? That is the conversation. The wind pushes the sail, the sail pushes the boat, the water pushes back. And you, at the tiller, are the interpreter. Not the dictator." For the rest of the afternoon, I tried to stop dictating and start interpreting. I focused on that hum, that subtle pressure. It was a new language, spoken not in words, but in forces. By the time we sailed back into the harbor, my knuckles were no longer white. I was holding the tiller lightly, feeling the story the boat was telling me, and for the first time, I felt like I was beginning to understand.
Read the sentences from paragraph 4.
"And you, at the tiller, are the interpreter. Not the dictator."
Which statement best describes the figurative language in these sentences?
Excerpt from "Winter Wheat" by Mildred Walker
(1) I love Dad's way of talking that makes him seem different from other ranchers. He's lived here twenty-three years, but he still says "back East where I come from." He's the one who gets excited when I do about spring coming or a serial running in the magazine we're both reading, but it's what Mom says that I depend on. When Mom used to say "Don't worry" about my pet chicken or dog or new calf, it always got well. Dad is always talking of going some place, not now, but next year, maybe. Mom seems to think of nothing farther away than today or perhaps yesterday or tomorrow morning.
(2) Mom folded the ironing board and put it inside their bedroom that was just off the kitchen. She carried in the freshly ironed clothes. Dad went back to his paper. When Mom came back she took beans from the cupboard to soak for tomorrow. Dad always said Mom could make all the dishes he'd had back in Vermont as well as though she were a New Englander herself, instead of a Russian. All of a sudden, I realized that tomorrow when those beans would be ready to eat I'd be going away. It gave me a funny feeling.
(3) "I'll be taking the train tomorrow night," I said aloud, more to hear it myself.
(4) "We can drive you into town in the afternoon," Dad said, dropping his paper on the floor.
(5) "There's no need to go to town; she can catch the train at Gotham just as well. We haven't nothing to take us into town for," Mom said.
(6) "Well, we don't have to decide tonight," Dad said, but I knew he wanted to go into Clark City. It wouldn't be so flat as just seeing me go off on the train from Gotham. My going away was hard on both of them; they were so different—and I was part of them both. It made me uncomfortable to think of leaving them.
(7) While I was getting ready for bed in my room that's off the front room, I saw how it would be if I left from town. We'd go in right after dinner and go around to the stores, Dad going one way and Mom and I another. Dad would probably have his hair cut at the barbershop and stop in the bank and meet someone he knew to talk to. Then we'd meet at the big store on the corner and go to the cafeteria for supper. The train stops ten minutes or so at the station in town and there are other people and excitement and you have time to wave from the platform and then again from your window by your seat. We went to the station in Clark City to see the Goodals off when they went back to Iowa.
(8) If I left from Gotham, we'd just drive down in the truck and wait till the train came. It only stops long enough for you to get on and you hardly have time to taste the flavor of going away.
(9) I sat on the bed in my pyjamas with my arms around my knees. I couldn't keep from thinking of that time Dad went back East. I tried to, and then I just sat still and looked straight at it. Sometimes that's better than working so hard to keep from looking at what's in your mind.
(10) Dad went all the way back to Vermont. ... It was in November and it was already dark when the train came through Gotham. Even now, I could feel how cold and dark it was. I held Mom's hand. Dad was so dressed-up he seemed strange.... We stood there without saying anything until Dad told Mom to remember to call Mr. Bardich, our neighbor, if the cow didn't calve tomorrow.
(11) "I'll manage," Mom snapped back.
(12) "I wish you could go, Anna," Dad said to Mom, "and we could take Ellen." ...
(13) "Good-by, Anna Petrovna," he said, looking at Mom. I had never heard him call her by two names before.
(14) "Good-by," Mom said, standing still, without smiling.
(15) Then he was gone and the crossroads were darker than ever. The train light shone on the high window in the top of the grain elevator for a moment and then that too was dark. We got into our old Ford and Mom drove back to the house. My throat ached all the way. The name Dad had called Mom kept saying itself in my ears: "Anna Petrovna, Anna Petrovna." ...
(16) Our house seemed lonely when we came back to it. It seemed to be hiding under the coulee. I went with Mom to put the truck in the barn that was bigger than the house. I think Mom was prouder of our barn than the house, anyway. We walked back to look at the cow that was going to calve. She was just a big light blob in the dark, waiting. I had thought she was exciting this morning, but now she seemed sad, too.
(17) The wind blew when we walked across the open space to the house and I couldn't help shivering with the cold. Inside the house it was warm, but empty.
(18) "Bring your nightgown in here and I heat you some milk," Mom said.
(19) I drank the milk sitting on a stool in front of the stove. It tasted good, but the lonely ache in my throat was still there. I picked up my clothes and hung them neatly behind the stove and put my cup on the sink board. Mom was fixing oatmeal for tomorrow morning.
(20) "Good night, Mom," I said almost timidly, standing beside her. She seemed wrapped around in a kind of strangeness. Then she turned around and drew me to her. The front of her dress was warm from the stove. I felt the comfortable heat through my gown. She laid her hand against my face and it felt rough and hard but firm. I dared ask her something I wanted to know.
(21) "Mom, was that really your name—what Dad called you?"
(22) Her voice sounded surprised. "Why, Yelena, you know that; Anna Petrovna. You know I am born in Russia, in Seletskoe."
(23) "Yes, but I didn't know your other name," I said.
(24) "Anna Petrovna Webb." She pronounced it slowly. "Once I think what a funny name Ben Webb is!" She laughed. Her laugh was warm and low like our kitchen, and comfortable. The house seemed natural and right again....
(25) But now that I am grown, I feel the wall of strangeness between them, more than when I was a child. I wondered how they would get along without me.
Which quotation from the passage gives a non-human thing a human action?
(1) Mr. Anya was a man carved from sea-salt and patience. He taught sailing not by lecturing from the dock, but by putting you at the tiller of his small, weathered boat, the Sea Lark, and letting the wind do the talking. My first lesson was on a blustery afternoon. The sail cracked and popped like a whip, and the boat heeled over so far I was certain we would capsize. My knuckles were white on the tiller. "Feel the boat," was all he said, his voice calm as the deep water beneath us. "She's telling you what she wants."
(2) I didn't understand. The boat was telling me it wanted to throw me into the churning grey waves. I wrestled with the tiller, trying to force the boat upright, to impose my will on the wind. The more I fought, the more stubborn the Sea Lark became, her sail luffing uselessly, her momentum lost. We sat dead in the water, rocking in the chop. Mr. Anya didn't sigh or correct me. He simply waited, letting me feel the full, frustrating weight of my failure.
(3) "You are fighting the wind," he said at last. "You cannot win that fight. You must listen to it. Use it." He placed his hand gently over mine on the tiller. He didn't push or pull. Instead, he seemed to just relax, and through his hand, I felt a subtle vibration. It was a slight pressure, a hum. He made a minuscule adjustment, and instantly, the sail filled with a satisfying whoomp, the boat leaned into a graceful angle, and we were moving again, slicing cleanly through the water. It felt like magic.
(4) "There," he said. "You feel that? That is the conversation. The wind pushes the sail, the sail pushes the boat, the water pushes back. And you, at the tiller, are the interpreter. Not the dictator." For the rest of the afternoon, I tried to stop dictating and start interpreting. I focused on that hum, that subtle pressure. It was a new language, spoken not in words, but in forces. By the time we sailed back into the harbor, my knuckles were no longer white. I was holding the tiller lightly, feeling the story the boat was telling me, and for the first time, I felt like I was beginning to understand.
Which phrase from paragraph 1 uses personification?
(1) The attic was Elara's sanctuary, a dusty, sun-drenched kingdom smelling of cedar and old paper. Up here, under the steep-sloping roof, the world outside—the drone of her parents' arguments, the relentless ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall—seemed to fade into a distant hum. A single round window, like a ship's porthole, looked out over the tangle of oak branches in the backyard, framing a small, perfect circle of sky.
(2) It was her grandmother who had first shown her the way, unlocking the small, stiff door at the top of the narrow stairs. "Every house has a heart," she'd whispered, her voice raspy like dry leaves, "and this is ours." She had left Elara there with a carton of her old books, their pages brittle and yellowed, filled with tales of forgotten queens and star-faring adventurers. The books became Elara's companions, their stories weaving themselves into the dust motes dancing in the shafts of light.
(3) Today, however, the usual comfort of the space felt elusive. A letter lay on the rough-hewn floorboards beside her, its crisp, official-looking paper a stark intruder in her haven of aged things. It was an acceptance letter from a music conservatory three states away, a place she had only dreamed of. It represented a future, a path leading far away from the familiar scent of cedar and the comfort of her books. The very weight of it felt immense, a promise and a burden all at once.
(4) She picked it up, tracing the embossed seal with her fingertip. Downstairs, a door slammed, and the muffled sound of a raised voice reached her. It was the same argument, the same tired words circling each other like weary vultures. The conservatory would be an escape, a chance to build something of her own, separate from the crumbling foundation of her family's home. Yet, the thought of leaving the attic, of closing the door on this quiet, dusty heart of the house, felt like a betrayal.
(5) Looking out the porthole window, she watched a lone crow land on an oak limb, its dark eye seeming to stare right at her. The world beyond the window was vast and unknown, just like the future the letter offered. For the first time, the attic felt less like a sanctuary and more like a cage, its comforting familiarity now a barrier to the person she might become.
Which phrase from paragraphs 1 and 2 uses personification?
(1) The attic was Elara's sanctuary, a dusty, sun-drenched kingdom smelling of cedar and old paper. Up here, under the steep-sloping roof, the world outside—the drone of her parents' arguments, the relentless ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall—seemed to fade into a distant hum. A single round window, like a ship's porthole, looked out over the tangle of oak branches in the backyard, framing a small, perfect circle of sky.
(2) It was her grandmother who had first shown her the way, unlocking the small, stiff door at the top of the narrow stairs. "Every house has a heart," she'd whispered, her voice raspy like dry leaves, "and this is ours." She had left Elara there with a carton of her old books, their pages brittle and yellowed, filled with tales of forgotten queens and star-faring adventurers. The books became Elara's companions, their stories weaving themselves into the dust motes dancing in the shafts of light.
(3) Today, however, the usual comfort of the space felt elusive. A letter lay on the rough-hewn floorboards beside her, its crisp, official-looking paper a stark intruder in her haven of aged things. It was an acceptance letter from a music conservatory three states away, a place she had only dreamed of. It represented a future, a path leading far away from the familiar scent of cedar and the comfort of her books. The very weight of it felt immense, a promise and a burden all at once.
(4) She picked it up, tracing the embossed seal with her fingertip. Downstairs, a door slammed, and the muffled sound of a raised voice reached her. It was the same argument, the same tired words circling each other like weary vultures. The conservatory would be an escape, a chance to build something of her own, separate from the crumbling foundation of her family's home. Yet, the thought of leaving the attic, of closing the door on this quiet, dusty heart of the house, felt like a betrayal.
(5) Looking out the porthole window, she watched a lone crow land on an oak limb, its dark eye seeming to stare right at her. The world beyond the window was vast and unknown, just like the future the letter offered. For the first time, the attic felt less like a sanctuary and more like a cage, its comforting familiarity now a barrier to the person she might become.
Which statement describes how the figurative language about the attic changes from paragraph 1 to paragraph 5?
(1) The city air tasted like metal and exhaust, a stark contrast to the scent of pine and damp earth that had been the backdrop to my entire life. My new school was a fortress of red brick, three stories high, looming over a street crowded with cars and unfamiliar faces. Inside, the hallways were a roaring river of people, and I was a stone, motionless and silent, getting battered by the current. Everyone seemed to have a place to be, a friend to greet, a locker to slam. I clutched the wrinkled schedule in my hand, its crisp corners now softened by my nervous grip. Room 204: English. It felt a world away.
(2) I had imagined this moment for weeks. In my daydreams, I was confident, striding through the halls with a purpose. Someone would recognize a book I was carrying or a pin on my bag, and a friendship would spark. Reality was a cold splash of water. The book in my bag felt heavy and pretentious, and the pin, a small silver bird my grandmother had given me, seemed childish. I was an outsider, marked by my new shoes that squeaked on the polished floor and my bewildered expression that was a magnet for fleeting, curious glances.
(3) I found Room 204 and slipped into a desk at the back, hoping to become part of the wallpaper. The teacher, Mr. Harrison, had a kind face, but his welcoming speech about "new beginnings" and "finding your voice" felt like it was broadcast from another galaxy. My voice was trapped somewhere in my throat, tangled in a knot of anxiety. He asked us to write a short paragraph about a meaningful memory. My mind, which usually overflowed with stories from my summers by the lake, went completely blank. The page stared back at me, a vast, white desert.
(4) A girl with bright green hair and a cascade of silver bracelets sat down in the desk next to mine. She didn't look at me, but I heard her pen scratching furiously against her paper. After a few minutes, she paused, sighed dramatically, and then turned to me. "Mind if I borrow your brain? Mine seems to have gone on vacation." Her smile was wide and genuine. I was so startled that a small laugh escaped me. "I think mine went with it," I managed to say. The knot in my throat loosened, just a little. Maybe this new world wasn't a world away, but just a few words.
Read the sentence from paragraph 1.
"Inside, the hallways were a roaring river of people, and I was a stone, motionless and silent, getting battered by the current."
How is figurative language used in this sentence?
(1) The city hummed with a rhythm Leo was still trying to learn. Back home, the loudest sounds were the wind in the pines and the distant lowing of cattle. Here, the symphony was one of sirens, the rumble of subway trains beneath his feet, and a thousand overlapping conversations in languages he didn't recognize. His uncle, Mark, navigated the crowded sidewalks with an effortless grace, weaving through pedestrians as if he were part of the current. "You'll get used to it," Mark had promised, clapping him on the shoulder. "Give it a week, and you won't even notice the noise." (2) Leo wasn't so sure. He felt like a ship in a bottle, carefully placed in a scene where he didn't quite fit. Everything was vertical—the buildings scraping the sky, the impossibly tall cranes, even the ambitions of the people who rushed past him, their eyes fixed on some unseen destination. At a street corner, a vendor was roasting chestnuts, and the smoky, sweet smell was a sudden, welcome anchor in the sensory overload. It was a scent he knew, a small piece of familiarity in the vast, overwhelming newness. (3) Mark pointed to a towering glass structure. "That's my office building. We're almost there." Leo tilted his head back, his neck craning to see the top, which seemed to disappear into the low-hanging clouds. He thought of his father's workshop, a low-slung wooden building with wide-open doors and the scent of sawdust. The contrast was dizzying. Mark was offering him an opportunity, a summer internship that everyone said he'd be foolish to refuse. But as he stood there, dwarfed by the sheer scale of it all, Leo wondered if he was built for a world of such heights.
Which phrase in paragraph 1 is a simile?
(1) The old suitcase sat open on my bed, a hollow mouth waiting to be filled. For a week, I had circled it, picking up a book only to put it down, folding a shirt and then unfolding it. Moving to the city was supposed to be an adventure, the thrilling next chapter Liam had so enthusiastically described. He spoke of bustling streets, endless opportunities, and a life vibrant with energy. He couldn't understand my hesitation. "It's just a place, Elara," he'd said, his voice laced with a gentle impatience that was becoming all too familiar. (2) But for me, it wasn't "just a place." It was the absence of this place: the scent of rain on dry soil, the silhouette of the oak tree against the sunset, the low hum of the cicadas that had been the soundtrack to every summer of my life. These were the things I was packing away, not just my clothes and books. I walked to the window and looked out at the rolling fields, now washed in the soft gold of late afternoon. Mrs. Gable's dog, Buster, was chasing a butterfly in her yard, a small, familiar drama. (3) Liam saw a dead-end town; I saw a tapestry of moments. He saw quiet; I heard peace. He saw a beginning in the city, but all I could feel was the weight of this ending. I picked up a small, smooth stone from my windowsill, one I had found by the creek when I was ten. Its cool weight was a comfort in my palm. How could I explain that leaving felt like tearing a page out of my own story? I placed the stone carefully in a side pocket of the suitcase. It was a small, silent rebellion, a piece of home I refused to leave behind.
Which sentence from paragraph 3 contains a metaphor rather than a simile or a literal statement?
(1) The city hummed with a rhythm Leo was still trying to learn. Back home, the loudest sounds were the wind in the pines and the distant lowing of cattle. Here, the symphony was one of sirens, the rumble of subway trains beneath his feet, and a thousand overlapping conversations in languages he didn't recognize. His uncle, Mark, navigated the crowded sidewalks with an effortless grace, weaving through pedestrians as if he were part of the current. "You'll get used to it," Mark had promised, clapping him on the shoulder. "Give it a week, and you won't even notice the noise." (2) Leo wasn't so sure. He felt like a ship in a bottle, carefully placed in a scene where he didn't quite fit. Everything was vertical—the buildings scraping the sky, the impossibly tall cranes, even the ambitions of the people who rushed past him, their eyes fixed on some unseen destination. At a street corner, a vendor was roasting chestnuts, and the smoky, sweet smell was a sudden, welcome anchor in the sensory overload. It was a scent he knew, a small piece of familiarity in the vast, overwhelming newness. (3) Mark pointed to a towering glass structure. "That's my office building. We're almost there." Leo tilted his head back, his neck craning to see the top, which seemed to disappear into the low-hanging clouds. He thought of his father's workshop, a low-slung wooden building with wide-open doors and the scent of sawdust. The contrast was dizzying. Mark was offering him an opportunity, a summer internship that everyone said he'd be foolish to refuse. But as he stood there, dwarfed by the sheer scale of it all, Leo wondered if he was built for a world of such heights.
In paragraph 2, the smell of roasting chestnuts is called "a sudden, welcome anchor in the sensory overload." What does this metaphor suggest the smell does for Leo?
The rumor spread through the school like wildfire, reaching every classroom by lunchtime.
The simile "spread through the school like wildfire" emphasizes the...
The politician's promises were a fragile house of cards, ready to collapse with the slightest breath of public scrutiny.
The metaphor in this sentence suggests that the politician's promises were...
The car engine coughed once, sputtered, and then fell silent, refusing to cooperate any further.
Which words in the sentence most clearly represent an example of personification?
The lawyer's argument was a fortress, carefully constructed and impervious to the attacks of the opposing counsel.
The metaphor "The lawyer's argument was a fortress" suggests that the argument was...
The angry clouds gathered on the horizon, preparing to unleash their fury on the landscape below.
The phrase "unleash their fury" is an example of personification used to suggest that the coming storm will be...