“I believe narrative is what makes environmental writing breathe. We hear statistics all the time, but stories are what stay,” said Runner-Up Fatima Hussain. And she is absolutely right. These are teens who wrote the stories that stayed with Guest Judge Anna Farro Henderson for our Environmental Writing Competition – learn more about the beautiful backstories behind their narratives.
Read the winning piece here!
1) Guest Judge Anna Farro Henderson said “I love the transition that the narrator makes throughout the emotional arc of the piece.” How is writing an important tool for capturing this arc?
What’s great about writing is that there are so many different ways to communicate the same message, meaning everyone can express themselves on their own terms. Whether that be through the use of simple phrases or complex symbols, a person’s voice in their writing can change the direction of the narrative. In a piece that aims to capture an entire story, I find that including literary patterns can make the story impactful. In my essay, I think the repeated mention of the “Made in India” tags served as a device for me to communicate my complex feelings easily. What began as pride quickly turned into regret: a cycle I would probably have a hard time explaining without the aid of an image. So really, writing can be used in many ways to capture an emotional arc. In my opinion, the grammar or syntax of a sentence isn’t what makes it impactful; rather, it's the intent behind the words and a writer’s effort to portray their most authentic selves.
2) Towards the end of your winning piece, you write “So, when the last tree falls, and the final silkworm cocoon shrivels into dust, will you weep, wrapped in the very fabrics that contributed to their deaths? Will you cling to the pictures of the cheetah’s fading spots or the magnolia’s wilted petals, until they too start to melt?” Can you dive more into these beautiful sentences?
I've always thought it was interesting how fashion mimicked our landscapes and natural surroundings despite posing a direct threat to those very things. As humans, we are drawn to things that reflect our homes and desires; however, this appeal can also blind us from tragedies going on elsewhere. I also have a strong passion for fashion that leads me to various “upcoming trends” rabbit holes on the internet that predict what will soon be in style. I’ve noticed that most trends are cheap interpretations of our animals and plants, and it made me wonder if the desire to mass-produce clothing in this category was because our planet was dying. In other words, if people could no longer appreciate nature, they would mimic it. I found this self-sabotaging cycle to be interesting and wanted to communicate it in a way that would be powerful for readers. For that reason, I tried to address the individuals buying these clothes and urge them to question the ethics of the trends they so "desperately needed”.
Read the runner-up piece here!
1) Throughout the first few paragraphs of your piece, you set the scene in Lahore, describing a peaceful atmosphere where jugnoos danced. What do you think is the importance of framing a narrative in environmental writing?
I believe narrative is what makes environmental writing breathe. We hear statistics all the time, but stories are what stay.
When I wrote about Lahore, the neem tree dripping after rain, shelling peas with my grandmother, the jugnoos blinking like stars, I wasn’t just describing a scene. Instead, I was trying to pull the reader into a memory that felt alive, even if it’s now fading. Framing the piece this way wasn’t just a creative choice; it was personal. Because to me, climate change isn’t only a global crisis. It’s deeply intimate. It’s the reason a firefly no longer visits a garden, the reason silence feels heavier than it used to.
Narrative lets us show how these losses affect our homes, our families, our childhoods. It gives emotion to fact and once something becomes emotional, it becomes unforgettable — and maybe even worth fighting for. That’s why I believe, stories, especially environmental ones, need to begin with a heart before they ask for change.
2) Your title, “The Silence After Rain,” is a beautiful metaphor that finds truth in our reality. Can you tell us more about how you developed it and how it connects to the deeper message in your piece?
The title came quietly, like the rain. Not all at once, not with a plan, but in a moment that felt too still.
It had rained that evening. The kind of rain that smells like soil and memory, like something older than you. I sat outside, waiting. Not for anything in particular, just… waiting. Perhaps for the air to shimmer again, for the jugnoos to rise from the grass like they used to, for the world to respond the way it always did. But nothing came. The rain had passed, and the silence that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was sharp. A little too clean. And I remember thinking — so this is what it feels like when something you loved quietly leaves.
That silence wasn’t just a sound. It was a sign. That the world I had once known, once trusted, had changed. And not because someone told me it had, but because it no longer moved the same way.
That’s what the title means.
The Silence After Rain is the moment right after you expect something magical to happen, and it doesn’t. It’s the space where wonder used to live. It’s the realization that climate change isn’t always destruction in flames or floods. Sometimes, it’s just absence. Quietness. Unremarked. Gone.
But in that absence, there’s memory. And I think memory has its own kind of resistance.
That’s why I included this in my piece,
“Maybe this fight isn’t about winning yet. Maybe it’s about remembering loudly until the world has no choice but to listen.”
Because maybe remembering is the first step toward return. Toward tenderness. Maybe the silence doesn’t mean the story has ended. Maybe it just means we’re being asked to speak.
Read the winning peer review here!
Honestly, I think that balance is everything. If you’re only kind, the feedback becomes vague and basically useless. But if you’re just blunt without care, it can feel more like criticism than guidance. For me, the goal is to be honest in a way that’s thoughtful—clear about what could be stronger, but still respectful of the work and the effort behind it. Especially when someone’s writing from a personal place, they deserve feedback that pushes them forward without making them shrink. A good peer review should be a mix of precision and compassion—kind of like editing with a scalpel instead of a hammer.
2) What is your favorite genre to peer review in?
Science fiction, without a doubt. There’s something exhilarating about stepping into an unfamiliar world and figuring out how it works—what’s possible, what’s forbidden, and what it’s trying to say beneath all the strange tech or dystopian tension. When I review sci-fi, I focus on worldbuilding, internal logic, and the details that make imaginary places feel strangely real. I also love how sci-fi sneaks in big philosophical questions—about power, identity, survival—under the disguise of robots or collapsing planets. It gives writers room to experiment, and I can help them sharpen that vision without losing the wonder. It’s one of the few genres where being a little nerdy really pays off.