1. Paragraph 1 - Mystery
Tell-Tale Heart by Edgar Allen Poe
True! --nervous --very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say
that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses --not destroyed --not dulled them.
Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I
heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily --how
calmly I can tell you the whole story.
It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted
me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He
had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it
was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture --a pale blue eye, with a film over it.
Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees --very gradually --I made
up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.

2. Para. 2 – Biography
O. Henry (1862–1910)
From Writing New York: A Literary Anthology
Yet, in one significant way, “Red Chief” is not typical of O. Henry’s stories. Although he was raised in
North Carolina, worked as a banker in Texas, lived as a fugitive in New Orleans and Honduras, and
served time in a federal penitentiary in Ohio, the majority of his stories—and certainly most of his best
fiction—are about New York and New Yorkers. He had initially set his earliest stories in Central
America and Texas, but by the time he published his second book, The Four Million, he was dedicating
most of his writing to the residents of the city where he lived for the last eight years of his life. The
vastness and diversity of the metropolis not only allowed him to escape and hide his past as a felon but
also inspired the weekly pieces he wrote for the New York World. He was entranced by the city’s many
distractions and temptations: “When I first came to New York, I spent a great deal of time knocking
about around the streets. I did things I wouldn’t think of doing now.” His friend Charles Alphonso
Smith agreed, “If O. Henry’s chief quest in New York was for ‘What’s around the corner,’ his underlying
purpose was to get first-hand material for short stories.”
For the last decade New York City has particularly haunted as well as enchanted us each year on the
anniversary of 9/11—which is also, as it happens, O. Henry’s birthday. And so we offer as tribute one of
the many parables he set in New York, the city in which he rebuilt his image and re-created his own
version of the American dream. A reminder of the resilience of New Yorkers, “The Duel” is a parable
about two new additions to O. Henry’s “four million.” The first, a businessman, boasts that he has
managed to grab the city by the throat in conquest; the second, an artist, seems world-weary and
beaten down by the “challenge to a duel” the city offers to its newcomers. In the words of literary
historian Shaun O’Connell, O. Henry portrays both men as addicted to a hallucinatory city with “vast
powers to shape the wills and color the minds of its residents.”
Notes: O. Henry’s story is sprinkled with several New York City references of the period. Hendrik Hudson (p.
382) refers to Henry Hudson, the English navigator who explored the region around the area that became
New York; it was also the name of a steamboat stationed in New York City in the middle of the nineteenth
century. John L. Sullivan (p. 383) was the first heavyweight champion in gloved boxing. The hero Lockinvar,
or Lochinvar (p. 384), was featured in a ballad by Sir Walter Scott. May Irwin (p. 384) was a popular
vaudeville actress; E. S. Willard (p. 384) was a British actor who appeared in many successful Broadway
productions between 1890 and 1905. Famous for his extravagant gambling habits, John W. Gates (p. 385)
owned American Steel and Wire Company, which was eventually sold to J. P. Morgan’s U.S. Steel. Edna May
Pettie (p. 385) was an American actress who became famous in the London production of The Belle of New
York. Mandragora (p. 386) is the genus name for mandrake, which causes delirium and hallucinations when
ingested.

3. Paragraph 3 – Historical Fiction
The Landlady by Roald Dahl (Also wrote James & the Giant Peach)
Billy was seventeen years old. He was wearing a new navy-blue overcoat, a new brown
trilby hat, and a new brown suit, and he was feeling fine. He walked briskly down the
street. He was trying to do everything briskly these days. Briskness, he had decided,
was the one common characteristic of all successful businessmen. The big shots up at
the head office were absolutely fantastically brisk all the time. They were amazing.
There were no shops on this wide street that he was walking along, only a line of tall
houses on each side, all of them identical. They had porches and pillars and four or five
steps going up to their front doors, and it was obvious that once upon a time they had
been very swanky residences. But now, even in the darkness, he could see that the
paint was peeling from the woodwork on their doors and windows and that the
handsome white facades were cracked and blotchy from neglect.

4. Paragraph 4 – Contemporary Realistic Fiction
Thank you, M’am – 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, instead 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?‖

5. Paragraph 5 – Informational Text
From: artinruins.com
Rocky Point Roller Coaster
It's a hot summer day. The smell of popcorn and cotton candy fill the air. There's a huge
crowd of people and their excitement surrounds you. Suddenly, an ear-piercing scream
rings out. A rush of wind pushes you back with such force you can hardly move! What is
going on? Is everyone okay?
Absolutely! You (and your coaster buddies) have just screamed your way down a
thrilling roller coaster! And now you are ready to wait in line and do it all over again. If
you like twisting and turning at theme parks, then read on. This book is full of some of
the world's greatest coasters. But I'm warning you, some of these coasters might make
you hoarse...or hurl!

6. Paragraph 6 – Fantasy
Eragon by Christopher Paolini
Wind howled through the night, carrying a scent that would change the world. A tall
Shade lifted his head and sniffed the air. He looked human except for his crimson hair
and maroon eyes.
He blinked in surprise. The message had been correct: they were here. Or was it a
trap? He weighed the odds, then said icily, "Spread out; hide behind trees and bushes.
Stop whoever is coming . . . or die."
Around him shuffled twelve Urgals with short swords and round iron shields painted with
black symbols. They resembled men with bowed legs and thick, brutish arms made for
crushing. A pair of twisted horns grew above their small ears. The monsters hurried into
the brush, grunting as they hid. Soon the rustling quieted and the forest was silent
again.

7. Paragraph 7 – Contemporary Realistic Fiction
4th of July – James Patterson and Maxine Paetro
IT WAS JUST BEFORE 4:00 a.m. on a weekday. My mind was racing even before
Jacobi nosed our car up in front of the Lorenzo, a grungy rent-by-the-hour ―tourist hotel‖
on a block in San Francisco’s Tenderloin District that’s so forbidding even the sun won’t
cross the street.
Three black-and-whites were at the curb, and Conklin, the first officer at the scene, was
taping off the area. So was another officer, Les Arou.
―What have we got?‖ I asked Conklin and Arou.
―White male, Lieutenant. Late teens, bug-eyed and done to a turn,‖ Conklin told me.
―Room twenty-one. No signs of forced entry. Vic’s in the bathtub, just like the last one.‖
The stink of piss and vomit washed over us as Jacobi and I entered the hotel. No
bellhops in this place. No elevators or room service, either. Night people faded back into
the shadows, except for one gray-skinned young prostitute who pulled Jacobi aside.

8. Paragraph 8 – Contemporary Realistic Fiction
The Choice – Nicholas Sparks
"Tell me again why I agreed to help you with this." Matt, red-faced and grunting,
continued to push the spa toward the recently cut square at the far edge of the deck.
His feet slipped, and he could feel sweat pouring from his forehead into the corners of
his eyes, making them sting. It was hot, way too hot for early May. Too damn hot for
this, that's for sure. Even Travis's dog, Moby, was hiding in the shade and panting, his
tongue hanging out.
Travis Parker, who was pushing the massive box alongside him, managed to shrug.
"Because you thought it would be fun," he said. He lowered his shoulder and shoved;
the spa—which must have weighed four hundred pounds—moved another couple of
inches. At this rate, the spa should be in place, oh . . . sometime next week.

9. Paragraph 9 – Mystery
The Davinci Code – Dan Brown
Renowned curator Jacques Saunière staggered through the vaulted archway of the
museum's Grand Gallery. He lunged for the nearest painting he could see, a
Carravagio. Grabbing the gilded frame, the seventy-three-year-old man heaved the
masterpiece toward himself until it tore from the wall and Saunière collapsed backward
in a heap beneath the canvas.
As he anticipated, a thundering iron gate fell nearby, barricading the entrance to the
suite. The parquet floor shook. Far off, an alarm began to ring.
The curator lay a moment, gasping for breath, taking stock. I am still alive. He crawled
out from under the canvas and scanned the cavernous space for someplace to hide.
A voice spoke, chillingly close. "Do not move."
On his hands and knees, the curator froze, turning his head slowly. Only fifteen feet
away, outside the sealed gate, the mountainous silhouette of his attacker stared through
the iron bars. He was broad and tall, with ghost-pale skin and thinning white hair. His
irises were pink with dark red pupils. The albino drew a pistol from his coat and aimed
the long silencer through the bars, directly at the curator. "You should not have run." His
accent was not easy to place. "Now tell me where it is."