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SHSAT ELA · Reading Comprehension
Figurative Language Practice Quiz
Interpret metaphors, similes, imagery, and symbolism. Answer all 6 questions below, then submit to see your score and an explanation for each question. Free, no account needed. This topic quiz helps you practice the skills used on the computer-based SHSAT.
Read the passage, then answer all 6 questions
Passage
The Library of Dreams
The old Carnegie Library stood on the corner like a wise
grandmother, its limestone facade weathered by decades of stories
and secrets. Ivy climbed its walls like green fingers reaching
for knowledge, while tall windows gazed out at the world with the
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patient eyes of someone who has seen everything and judges
nothing.
Sixteen-year-old Maya Chen pushed through the heavy oak doors
that groaned like tired giants awakening from slumber. Inside,
the library breathed with the whispered conversations of
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countless readers, its air thick as velvet with the perfume of
aging paper and leather bindings. Dust motes danced in cathedral
beams of afternoon sunlight, each speck a tiny dancer celebrating
the sacred quiet.
Maya had been visiting this literary sanctuary every day after
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school for three weeks, ever since her family had moved to
Millbrook. The transition had been rougher than sandpaper on her
nerves—new school, new classmates who had known each other since
kindergarten, new teachers who looked at her like a puzzle
missing crucial pieces.
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But here, among the towering shelves that reached toward heaven
like prayers made of books, Maya found solace. The library didn't
care that she was the outsider, the new girl whose accent carried
traces of three different cities. Books didn't whisper behind her
back or exclude her from conversations that died like flowers
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when she approached.
Mrs. Kowalski, the head librarian, moved through the stacks like
a ship navigating familiar waters, her silver hair pinned back in
a bun that had probably witnessed decades of young people seeking
refuge in reading. She had kind eyes that sparkled like stars
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behind wire-rimmed glasses and a voice soft as turning pages.
"Finding everything you need, dear?" Mrs. Kowalski asked,
appearing beside Maya like a literary fairy godmother.
Maya glanced up from the poetry section, where she'd been losing
herself in verses that sang of longing and belonging. "Yes,
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ma'am. Just... exploring."
"Ah, exploration," Mrs. Kowalski smiled, her voice warm as hot
cocoa on winter mornings. "The best kind of reading. You know,
this library has been a refuge for wandering souls for over a
hundred years. These walls have absorbed more dreams than you
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could count."
As if summoned by her words, Maya noticed something she'd somehow
missed during her previous visits. Hidden in the corner near the
old card catalog that stood like a wooden monument to pre-digital
days, there was a small alcove she'd never seen before. Curiosity
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drew her forward like a moth to flame.
The alcove housed a collection unlike anything in the main
library. These weren't published books but handmade volumes,
their covers crafted from unusual materials—fabric, wood, metal,
even what appeared to be leaves pressed between glass. A small
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placard read: "The Dream Collection: Stories Written by Millbrook
Residents, 1923-Present."
Maya's fingers traced the spines like a pianist touching keys.
One volume called to her: a journal bound in midnight-blue cloth
with silver thread that caught the light like captured moonbeams.
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She opened it carefully, the pages releasing a sigh that seemed
to carry decades of hopes and wishes.
The first entry was dated 1943, written in careful script that
flowed like water across yellowed pages:
"My name is Eleanor Walsh, and I am seventeen years old. I dream
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of becoming a doctor, though Papa says medicine is no profession
for ladies. I write this dream here in Mrs. Patterson's special
collection, where dreams are safe from those who would clip their
wings."
Maya's heart fluttered like a caged bird suddenly seeing open
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sky. Page after page revealed dreams from different eras: a young
man in 1961 who wanted to integrate the local schools, a girl in
1978 who dreamed of becoming an astronaut, a boy in 1995 who
wrote poetry in two languages and felt caught between worlds like
a bridge spanning cultures.
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"Beautiful, isn't it?" Mrs. Kowalski's voice was gentle as
rainfall on garden leaves. "Every generation has found their way
to these pages. Dreams written down become harder to destroy, you
know. They take root."
Maya looked up, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "Did any of
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them... did their dreams come true?"
Mrs. Kowalski smiled with the wisdom of someone who had watched
decades of dreamers. "Eleanor Walsh became Dr. Eleanor Walsh in
1951, one of the first female physicians in the county. James
Rodriguez integrated our schools and later became principal of
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Millbrook High. Sarah Kim did become an astronaut—she sent us a
letter from the International Space Station. And Manuel Santos?
He published three books of bilingual poetry."
The weight of possibility settled around Maya's shoulders like a
warm shawl. These pages held more than dreams—they held proof
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that dreams could survive and flourish even when they seemed
impossible.
"Could I..." Maya's voice was smaller than a whisper. "Could I
write in here too?"
Mrs. Kowalski's eyes sparkled with approval. "That's exactly what
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it's for, dear. Dreams need witnesses, and these books are
patient listeners."
Maya found a fresh page and picked up the pen that rested nearby
like a magic wand waiting for the right dreamer. Her handwriting
flowed across the paper, each word a small act of courage:
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"My name is Maya Chen, and I am sixteen years old. I dream of
becoming a storyteller who helps people feel less alone. I want
to write books that build bridges between different worlds,
different hearts. I write this dream here where it will be safe,
where it can grow alongside the dreams of others who dared to
100
hope."
As she finished writing, Maya felt something shift inside her
chest, like a door opening to let light into a long-dark room.
The library around her seemed to pulse with approval, its walls
holding not just books but the collective courage of everyone who
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had ever dared to dream on paper.
From that day forward, Maya's visits to the library took on new
purpose. She still found solace in the poetry section and comfort
in the fiction stacks, but now she also had a living connection
to the dreamers who had walked these floors before her. The
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library was no longer just a refuge—it was a promise that dreams,
once written down and witnessed, could weather any storm and grow
into reality.
The old Carnegie Library continued to stand on its corner, its
limestone walls holding centuries of stories. But now, in a small
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alcove near the card catalog, one more dream joined the chorus of
hope that had echoed through its halls for generations—a dream
written in careful script by a girl who had learned that
sometimes, the most powerful thing you can do is believe in the
impossible and write it down.
Question 1 of 6
The simile comparing the library to "a wise grandmother" suggests the building has:
Question 2 of 6
The personification of doors that "groaned like tired giants awakening from slumber" creates what kind of atmosphere?
Question 3 of 6
The comparison of the towering shelves to “prayers made of books” suggests that:
Question 4 of 6
The description of dust motes as “tiny dancers celebrating the sacred quiet” most strongly emphasizes which aspects of the scene?
Question 5 of 6
The simile comparing Maya's curiosity to "a moth to flame" suggests that her interest in the Dream Collection is:
Question 6 of 6
The symbolism of dreams "taking root" when written down represents:
0 of 6 answered
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