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Descriptive and Narrative Writing Guide

Hannah Tyreman

Week No

Week Commencing Content Notes

13 3 December Descriptive writing intro- appealing to the senses/ personification/ devices practice

14 10 December Art gallery lesson and write-up! Whilst 1-1s and S&L feedback takes place

Assessment point 3

15 17 December Examples of creative writing- what have they done? Review of devices

24 & 31 December HOLIDAY

16 7 January More discussion and examples of creative writing- mark schemes

Titles handed out

17 14 January Final prep

19th/ 21st January Controlled assessment 2

18 21 January Narrative writing intro

19 28 January Development of narrative writing whilst 1-1s take place

Titles handed out

20 4 February Final prep

9th/ 11th February Controlled assessment 3

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Contents Page

Creative writing guides 3- 13

DESCRIPTIVE WRITING

Vocabulary: shades of meaning 14

Creating sensational settings 15

Language techniques 16

Appealing to the senses 17

Improve these pieces of writing 18- 19

Story extracts 1- 6 20- 31

Descriptive writing mark scheme 32- 33

Sample descriptive writing pieces 34- 47

NARRATIVE WRITING

Sentence effects 48

Character portraits 49- 50

Narrative strategies 50- 55

Narrator/ voice 56

Plot 56

Characters 57

Setting 57

Writing for effect 58

Plot and structure checklist 59

Characterisation and POV 60

Dialogue and style 60

Setting and atmosphere 61

Narrative writing mark scheme 62- 63

Sample narrative writing pieces 64- 76

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VOCABULARY: Shades of Meaning.

Words can have degrees of meaning; for example,

big large enormous.

Now do the same with the following words, write them in the grid below.

hurry good loathe dash acceptable call

dislike naughty cross brilliant furious yell

excellent creepy hate angry thrilled weird

wicked shout bright delighted mischievous clever

happy wicked shout

mild medium strong

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Creating sensational settings

When writing a descriptive passage you need to think of suitable words and phrases to create a vivid image. A creepy cave an overgrown forest a hot planet

The word bank contains groups of three words or phrases. Divide the words or phrases on each line between the three settings in the way that you think is most suitable.

Damp / cool / stifling

Dusty / uneven / spongy Sharp / echoing / muffled

burning sun / pitch black / dappled shade overgrown pathways / bare landscape / glistening walls

charcoal burning / unrecognisable smell / stale air dark opening / wooden hut / white building

rattle of chain saw / hum of machinery / knocking sound

SETTINGS

Dead man’s Cave Green Forest Planet Zor

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Alliteration

Where consonants are repeated. It’s often used in poetry to give a nice pattern to a phrase. E.g. Sally’s slipper slipped on a slimy slug.

Assonance

When words share the same vowel sound, but the consonants are different. E.g. Lisa had a piece of cheese before she went to sleep, to help her dream.

Contrast

When two things are described in a way which emphasises how different they are. E.g. Two garbagemen in red plastic blazers/ The man in a hip three-piece linen suit

Empathy

When someone feels like they understand what someone else is experiencing and how they feel about it. E.g. As the day wore on at work, I felt a cramp beginning to form at the nape of my neck, my eyes began to feel droopy, and the computer screen in front of me began blurring.

Imagery

Language that creates a picture in your mind, bringing the text to life. E.g. Though I was on the sheer face of a mountain, the feeling of

swinging through the air was euphoric, almost like flying without wings.

Metaphor A way of describing something that it is something else, to create a vivid image. E.g. His eyes were deep, black, oily pools.

Onomatopoeia

A word that sounds like what it’s supposed to mean. E.g. Buzz/ Crunch/ Bang/ Pop/ Ding

Personification A special kind of metaphor where you write about something as if it’s a person with thoughts and feelings. E.g. The sea growled hungrily.

Pun A “play on words”- a word or phrase that’s deliberately used because it has more than one meaning. E.g. she lies on the couch at the psychiatrist’s where lies could mean lies down/ tells lies.

Repetition Where a word/ phrase is repeated to emphasise a point or idea. E.g. We want freedom by any means necessary. We want justice by any means necessary. We want equality by any means necessary.

Simile A way of describing something by comparing it to something else, usually by using the words like/ as. E.g. He was as pale as the moon/ Her hair was like a bird’s nest

Stereotype An inaccurate, generalised view of a particular group of people. E.g. a stereotype of football fans might be that they’re all hooligans

Symbolism When an object stands for something else. E.g. a candle might be a symbol of hope/ a dying flower might be the end of a relationship

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Appealing to the senses

Sight- easiest to describe.

Colours are useful.

Be precise:If it’s red- a pale/faded/deep red?What can we compare it to? Blood/ nail varnish/ velvet?

SkyBedsheets

Sound-do you prefer noise or silence?

Be precise:Don’t just say there was sound of traffic

Was there a boom?/ Was it shrill? Did something chime?

DogPhotocopier

Smell- most effective

Roasting coffee beans/ tang of sea air/ granny’s home baking.These smells can evoke strong and often fond memories of the past.

To this day, the delicious aroma of fresh ground coffee reminds me of those Sunday mornings long ago.

Touch & Taste- can provide something extra

Be precise:Sticky/ ooze/ sugary/ bitter- this can set the imagination off!

Eating chilliTouching velvet

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Improve these pieces of writing.

Stars twinkled overhead in the midnight sky. The only sounds that punctuated the night

were the crackling and spitting of the flames in the campfire. A gentle, cool breeze drifted

across the forest landscape, kissing the faces of the mesmerized children. The smell of

marshmallows toasting over the flickering fire wound their way up the children’s noses.

Flames stood tall and proud, their sparks illuminating the dark, creating dancing shadows on

the children’s eager faces. All present were completely silent, as still as marble statues.

They sat, watching, waiting, for the tales of old to begin.

The house was dark. Not a sound could be heard, it was as still as a graveyard. The

windows were shut. The door was unpainted. It looked as though the house had been

empty for some time. The lawn was unkempt and the driveway full of weeds. Children

didn’t venture near the haunted house. Its reputation was bloody.

The garden flowers were in full bloom. Violets and roses were in every corner of the vast

garden. The air was filled with the scent of freshly cut grass. Children’s voices could be

heard in the distance. The sun shone brightly overhead. Bees buzzed in and around the

flowers.

The vast volcano towered over the rocky landscape. Its angry rumblings could be heard

from miles away. The town’s residents looked warily at the foreboding mountain. It was

like an angry child – ready to explode at any moment. Animals fled the area, even birds did

not fly by the mountain any more.

The villagers of Little Hangleton still called it "the Riddle House," even though it had been

many years since the Riddle family had lived there. It stood on a hill overlooking the village,

some of its windows boarded, tiles missing from its roof, and ivy spreading unchecked over

its face. Once a fine-looking manor, and easily the largest and grandest building for miles

around, the Riddle House was now damp, derelict, and unoccupied.

Looking into the inside, Lucy saw several coats hanging up - mostly long fur coats. There was

nothing Lucy liked so much as the smell and feel of fur. She immediately stepped into the

wardrobe and got in among the coats and rubbed her face against them, leaving the door

open, of course, because she knew that it is very foolish to shut oneself into any wardrobe.

Soon, she went further in and found there was a second row of coats hanging up behind the

first one. It was almost dark in there and she kept her arms stretched out in front of her so

as not to bump her face into the back of the wardrobe. She took a step further in - then two

or three steps - always expecting to feel woodwork against the tips of her fingers. But she

could not feel it.

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Jake was still frowning and grumbling as he stomped across the wide, flat square in front of

the school and the leafy park that lay beyond. Bike riders and other walkers wove around

him as he strode onward to the meeting place by the fountain.

The car glided from the ramp and slipped onto the main road. Dad flicked on the AutoDrive

and, it merged seamlessly into the steady stream of traffic that whizzed by all around. Cars,

buses and trams flowed smoothly along the wide, flat roads between the buildings.

Overhead, long transparent cyclotubes mad criss-crossing bridges between the rooftops.

Jake squinted to see the bike riders inside, pedalling from one green, grass covered rooftop

to the next.

The way to Uncle Montague’s house lay through a small wood. The path coiled between the

trees like a snake hiding in a thicket, and though the path was not long and the wood not at

all large, that part of the journey always seemed to take far longer than I would ever have

thought it could.

I nearly got into the garage that Sunday morning. I took my own torch and shone it in. The

outside doors to the back lane must have fallen off years ago and there were dozens of

massive planks nailed across the entrance. The timbers holding the roof were rotten and

the roof was sagging in. The bits of floor you could see between the rubbish were full of

cracks and holes. The people that took the rubbish out of the house were supposed to take

it out of the garage as well, but they took one look at the place and said they wouldn’t go in

even for danger money.

Something little and black scuttled across the floor. The door creaked and cracked for a

moment before it was still. Dust poured through the torch beam. Something scratched and

scratched in the corner. I tiptoed further in and felt spider webs breaking on my brow.

Everything was packed in tight – ancient furniture, kitchen units, rolled-up carpets, pipes

and crates and planks. I kept ducking down under the hose pipes and ropes and kitbags that

hung from the roof. More cobwebs snapped on my clothes and skin. The floor was broken

and crumbly. I opened the cupboard an inch, shone the torch in, and saw a million woodlice

scattering away.

Dead blue bottles were everyone. There were ancient newspapers and magazines. I shone

the torch onto one and saw that it came from nearly fifty years ago. I moved so carefully. I

was scard every moment that the whole thing was going to collapse. There was dust

clogging my throat and nose. I knew they’d be yelling at me soon and I knew I’d better get

out. I leaned across a heap of tea chests and shone the torch into the space and that’s

when I saw him.

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Extract 1

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Extract 2

Extract 3

I WAS set down from the carrier’s cart at the age of three; and there with a sense of bewilderment

and terror my life in the village began.

The June grass, amongst which I stood, was taller than I was, and I wept. I had never been so close to

grass before. It towered above me and all around me, each blade tattooed with tiger-skins of

sunlight. It was knife-edged, dark, and a wicked green, thick as a forest and alive with grasshoppers

that chirped and chattered and leapt through the air like monkeys.

I was lost and didn’t know where to move. A tropic heat oozed up from the ground, rank with sharp

odours of roots and nettles. Snowclouds of elder-blossom banked in the sky, showering upon me the

fumes and flakes of their sweet and giddy suffocation. High overhead ran frenzied larks, screaming,

as though the sky were tearing apart.

For the first time in my life I was out of the sight of humans. For the first time in my life I was alone

in a world whose behaviour I could neither predict nor fathom: a world of birds that squealed, of

plants that stank, of insects that sprang about without warning. I was lost and I did not expect to be

found again. I put back my head and howled, and the sun hit me smartly on the face, like a bully.

From this daylight nightmare I was awakened, as from many another, by the appearance of my

sisters. They came scrambling and calling up the steep rough bank, and parting the long grass found

me. Faces of rose, familiar, living; huge shining faces hung up like shields between me and the sky;

faces with grins and white teeth (some broken) to be conjured up like genii with a howl, brushing off

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terror with their broad scoldings and affection. They leaned over me one, two, three – their mouths

smeared with red currants and their hands, dripping with juice.

‘There, there, it’s all right, don’t you wail any more. Come down ’ome and we’ll stuff you with

currants.’

And Marjorie, the eldest, lifted me into her long brown hair, and ran me jogging down the path and

through the steep rose-filled garden, and set me down on the cottage doorstep, which was our

home, though I couldn’t believe it.

That was the day we came to the village, in the summer of the last year of the First World War. To a

cottage that stood in a half-acre of garden on a steep bank above a lake; a cottage with three floors

and a cellar and a treasure in the walls, with a pump and apple trees, syringa and strawberries, rooks

in the chimneys, frogs in the cellar, mushrooms on the ceiling, and all for three and sixpence a week.

I don’t know where I lived before then. My life began on the carrier’s cart which brought me up the

long slow hills to the village, and dumped me in the high grass, and lost me. I had ridden wrapped up

in a Union Jack to protect me from the sun, and when I rolled out of it, and stood piping loud among

the buzzing jungle of that summer bank, then, I feel, was I born. And to all the rest of us, the whole

family of eight, it was the beginning of a life.

But on that first day we were all lost. Chaos was come in cartloads of furniture, and I crawled the

kitchen floor through forests of upturned chair- legs and crystal fields of glass. We were washed up

in a new land, and began to spread out searching its springs and treasures. The sisters spent the light

of that first day stripping the fruit bushes in the garden. The currants were at their prime, clusters of

red, black and yellow berries all tangled up with wild roses. Here was bounty the girls had never

known before, and they darted squawking from bush to bush, clawing the fruit like sparrows.

Extract 4

Dearest Kitty,

Yesterday was a very tumultuous day, and we're still all wound up. Actually, you may wonder if

there's ever a day that passes without some kind of excitement.

The first warning siren went off in the morning while we were at breakfast, but we paid no attention,

because it only meant that the planes were crossing the coast. I had a terrible headache, so I lay

down for an hour after breakfast and then went to the office at about two. At two-thirty Margot had

finished her office work and was just gathering her things together when the sirens began wailing

again. So she and I trooped back upstairs. None too soon, it seems, for less than five minutes later

the guns were booming so loudly that we went and stood in the passage. The house shook and the

bombs kept falling. I was clutching my 'escape bag', more because I wanted to have something to

hold on to than because I wanted to run away. I know we can't leave here, but if we had to, being

seen on the streets would be just as dangerous as getting caught in an air raid. After half an hour the

drone of engines faded and the house began to hum with activity again. Peter emerged from his

lookout post in the front attic, Dussel remained in the front office, Mrs van D. felt safest in the

private office, Mr van Daan had been watching from the loft, and those of us on the landing spread

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out to watch the columns of smoke rising from the harbour. Before long the smell of fire was

everywhere, and outside it looked as if the city were enveloped in a thick fog.

A big fire like that is not a pleasant sight, but fortunately for us it was all over, and we went back to

our various jobs. Just as we were starting dinner: another air-raid alarm. The food was good, but I

lost my appetite the moment I heard the siren. Nothing happened, however, and forty-five minutes

later the all-clear was sounded. After the washing-up: another air-raid warning, gunfire and swarms

of planes. 'Oh gosh, twice in one day,' we thought, 'that's twice too many.' Little good that did us,

because once again the bombs rained down, this time on the other side of the city. According to

British reports, Schiphol Airport was bombed. The planes dived and climbed, the air was abuzz with

the drone of engines. It was very scary, and the whole time I kept thinking, 'Here it comes, this is it.'

I can assure you that when I went to bed at nine, my legs were still shaking. At the stroke of midnight

I woke up again: more planes! Dussel was undressing, but I took no notice and leapt up, wide awake,

at the sound of the first shot. I stayed in Father's bed until one, in my own bed until one-thirty, and

was back in Father's bed at two. But the planes kept on coming.

Extract 5

Every now and again, a plain grey cardboard box was dished out to each boy in our House, and this, believe it or not, was a present from the great chocolate manufacturers, Cadbury. Inside the box there were twelve bars of chocolate, all of different shapes, all with different fillings and all with numbers from one to twelve stamped on the chocolate underneath. Eleven of these bars were new inventions from the factory. The twelfth was the "control" bar,1 one that we all knew well, usually a Cadbury's Coffee Cream bar. Also in the box was a sheet of paper with the numbers one to twelve on it as well as two blank columns, one for giving marks to each chocolate from nought2 to ten, and the other for comments. All we were required to do in return for this splendid gift was to taste very carefully each bar of chocolate, give it marks and make an intelligent comment on why we liked it or disliked it.

It was a clever stunt. Cadbury's were using some of the greatest chocolate- bar experts in the world to test out their new inventions. We were of a sensible age, between thirteen and eighteen, and we knew intimately3 every chocolate bar in existence, from the Milk Flake to the Lemon Marshmallow. Quite obviously our opinions on anything new would be valuable. All of us entered into this game with great gusto, sitting in our studies and nibbling each bar with the air of connoisseurs, giving our marks and making our comments. "Too subtle4 for the common palate," was one note that I remember writing down.

For me, the importance of all this was that I began to realise that the large chocolate companies actually did possess inventing rooms and they took their inventing very seriously. I used to picture a long white room like a laboratory with pots of chocolate and

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fudge and all sorts of other delicious fillings bubbling away on the stoves, while men and women in white coats moved between the bubbling pots, tasting and mixing and concocting their wonderful new inventions. I used to imagine myself working in one of these labs and suddenly I would come up with something so absolutely unbearably delicious that I would grab it in my hand and go rushing out of the lab and along the corridor and right into the office of the great Mr Cadbury himself. "I've got it, sir!" I would shout, putting the chocolate in front of him. "It's fantastic! It's fabulous! It's marvelous! It's irresistible!"

Slowly, the great man would pick up my newly invented chocolate and he would take a small bite. He would roll it round his mouth. Then all at once, he would leap up from his chair, crying, "You've got it! You've done it! It's a miracle!" He would slap me on the back and shout, "We'll sell it by the million! We'll sweep the world with this one! How on earth did you do it? Your salary is doubled!"

Extract 6

Billy Weaver had traveled down from London on the slow afternoon train, with a change at Reading on the way, and by the time he got to Bath, it was about nine o’clock in the evening, and the moon was coming up out of a clear starry sky over the houses opposite the station entrance. But the air was deadly cold and the wind was like a flat blade of ice on his cheeks.

“Excuse me,” he said, “but is there a fairly cheap hotel not too far away from here?”

“Try The Bell and Dragon,” the porter answered, pointing down the road. “They might take you in. It’s about a quarter of a mile along on the other side.” Billy thanked him and picked up his suitcase and set out to walk the quarter-mile to The Bell and Dragon. He had never been to Bath before. He didn’t know anyone who lived there. But Mr. Greenslade at the head office in London had told him it was a splendid town. “Find your own lodgings,” he had said, “and then go along and report to the branch manager as soon as you’ve got yourself settled.”

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.

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Suddenly, in a downstairs window that was brilliantly illuminated by a street lamp not six yards away, Billy caught sight of a printed notice propped up against the glass in one of the upper panes. It said BED AND BREAKFAST. There was a vase of yellow chrysanthemums, tall and beautiful, standing just underneath the notice.

He stopped walking. He moved a bit closer. Green curtains (some sort of velvety material) were hanging down on either side of the window. The chrysanthemums looked wonderful beside them. He went right up and peered through the glass into the room, and the first thing he saw was a bright fire burning in the hearth. On the carpet in front of the fire, a pretty little dachshund was curled up asleep with its nose tucked into its belly. The room itself, so far as he could see in the half darkness, was filled with pleasant furniture. There was a baby grand piano and a big sofa and several plump armchairs, and in one corner he spotted a large parrot in a cage. Animals were usually a good sign in a place like this, Billy told himself; and all in all, it looked to him as though it would be a pretty decent house to stay in. Certainly it would be more comfortable than The Bell and Dragon.

On the other hand, a pub would be more congenial than a boardinghouse. There would be beer and darts in the evenings, and lots of people to talk to, and it would probably be a good bit cheaper, too. He had stayed a couple of nights in a pub once before and he had liked it. He had never stayed in any boardinghouses, and, to be perfectly honest, he was a tiny bit frightened of them. The name itself conjured up images of watery cabbage, rapacious landladies, and a powerful smell of kippers in the living room.

After dithering about like this in the cold for two or three minutes, Billy decided that he would walk on and take a look at The Bell and Dragon before making up his mind. He turned to go. And now a queer thing happened to him. He was in the act of stepping back and turning away from the window when all at once his eye was caught and held in the most peculiar manner by the small notice that was there. BED AND BREAKFAST, it said. BED AND BREAKFAST, BED AND BREAKFAST, BED AND BREAKFAST. Each word was like a large black eye staring at him through the glass, holding him, compelling him, forcing him to stay where he was and not to walk away from that house, and the next thing he knew, he was actually moving across from the window to the front door of the house, climbing the steps that led up to it, and reaching for the bell.

He pressed the bell. Far away in a back room he heard it ringing, and then at once —it must have been at once because he hadn’t even had time to take his finger from the bell button—the door swung open and a woman was standing there. Normally you ring the bell and you have at least a half-minute’s wait before the door opens. But this dame was like a jack-in-the-box. He pressed the bell—and out she popped! It made him jump.

She was about forty-five or fifty years old, and the moment she saw him, she gave him a warm, welcoming smile. “ Please come in,” she said pleasantly. She stepped aside, holding the door wide open, and

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Billy found himself automatically starting forward. The compulsion or, more accurately, the desire to follow after her into that house was extraordinarily strong.

“I saw the notice in the window,” he said, holding himself back.

“Yes, I know.”

“I was wondering about a room.”

“It’s all ready for you, my dear,” she said. She had a round pink face and very gentle blue eyes.

“I was on my way to The Bell and Dragon,” Billy told her. “But the notice in your window just happened to catch my eye.”

“My dear boy,” she said, “why don’t you come in out of the cold?”

“How much do you charge?”

“Five and sixpence a night, including breakfast.”

It was fantastically cheap. It was less than half of what he had been willing to pay.

“If that is too much,” she added, “then perhaps I can reduce it just a tiny bit. Do you desire an egg for breakfast? Eggs are expensive at the moment. It would be sixpence less without the egg.”

“Five and sixpence is fine,” he answered. “I should like very much to stay here.”

“I knew you would. Do come in.”

She seemed terribly nice. She looked exactly like the mother of one’s best school friend welcoming one into the house to stay for the Christmas holidays. Billy took off his hat and stepped over the threshold.

“Just hang it there,” she said, “and let me help you with your coat.”

There were no other hats or coats in the hall. There were no umbrellas, no walking sticks—nothing.

“We have it all to ourselves,” she said, smiling at him over her shoulder as she led the way upstairs. “You see, it isn’t very often I have the pleasure of taking a visitor into my little nest.”

The old girl is slightly dotty, Billy told himself. But at five and sixpence a night, who cares about that? “I should’ve thought you’d be simply swamped with applicants,” he said politely.

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“Oh, I am, my dear, I am, of course I am. But the trouble is that I’m inclined to be just a teeny-weeny bit choosy and particular—if you see what I mean.”

“Ah, yes.”

“But I’m always ready. Everything is always ready day and night in this house just on the off chance that an acceptable young gentleman will come along. And it is such a pleasure, my dear, such a very great pleasure when now and again I open the door and I see someone standing there who is just exactly right.” She was halfway up the stairs, and she paused with one hand on the stair rail, turning her head and smiling down at him with pale lips. “Like you,” she added, and her blue eyes traveled slowly all the way down the length of Billy’s body, to his feet, and then up again.

On the second-floor landing she said to him, “This floor is mine.”

They climbed up another flight. “And this one is all yours,” she said. “Here’s your room. I do hope you’ll like it.” She took him into a small but charming front bedroom, switching on the light as she went in.

“The morning sun comes right in the window, Mr. Perkins. It is Mr. Perkins, isn’t it?”

“No,” he said. “It’s Weaver.”

“Mr. Weaver. How nice. I’ve put a water bottle between the sheets to air them out, Mr. Weaver. It’s such a comfort to have a hot-water bottle in a strange bed with clean sheets, don’t you agree? And you may light the gas fire at any time if you feel chilly.”

“Thank you,” Billy said. “Thank you ever so much.” He noticed that the bedspread had been taken off the bed and that the bedclothes had been neatly turned back on one side, all ready for someone to get in.

“I’m so glad you appeared,” she said, looking earnestly into his face. “I was beginning to get worried.”

“That’s all right,” Billy answered brightly. “You mustn’t worry about me.” He put his suitcase on the chair and started to open it.

“And what about supper, my dear? Did you manage to get anything to eat before you came here?”

“I’m not a bit hungry, thank you,” he said. “I think I’ll just go to bed as soon as possible because tomorrow I’ve got to get up rather early and report to the office.”

“Very well, then. I’ll leave you now so that you can unpack. But before you go to bed, would you be kind enough to pop into the sitting room on the ground floor and sign the book? Everyone has to do that because it’s the law of the land, and we don’t want to go breaking any laws at this stage in the proceedings, do we?” She gave him a little wave of the hand and went quickly out of the room and closed the door.

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Now, the fact that his landlady appeared to be slightly off her rocker didn’t worry Billy in the least. After all, she not only was harmless—there was no question about that—but she was also quite obviously a kind and generous soul. He guessed that she had probably lost a son in the war, or something like that, and had never gotten over it.

So a few minutes later, after unpacking his suitcase and washing his hands, he trotted downstairs to the ground floor and entered the living room. His landlady wasn’t there, but the fire was glowing in the hearth, and the little dachshund was still sleeping soundly in front of it. The room was wonderfully warm and cozy. I’m a lucky fellow, he thought, rubbing his hands. This is a bit of all right.

He found the guest book lying open on the piano, so he took out his pen and wrote down his name and address. There were only two other entries above his on the page, and as one always does with guest books, he started to read them. One was a Christopher Mulholland from Cardiff. The other was Gregory W. Temple from Bristol.

That’s funny, he thought suddenly. Christopher Mulholland. It rings a bell.

Now where on earth had he heard that rather unusual name before?

Was it a boy at school? No. Was it one of his sister’s numerous young men, perhaps, or a friend of his father’s? No, no, it wasn’t any of those. He glanced down again at the book.

Christopher Mulholland 231 Cathedral Road, Cardiff

Gregory W. Temple 27 Sycamore Drive, Bristol

As a matter of fact, now he came to think of it, he wasn’t at all sure that the second name didn’t have almost as much of a familiar ring about it as the first.

“Gregory Temple?” he said aloud, searching his memory. “Christopher Mulholland? . . .”

“Such charming boys,” a voice behind him answered, and he turned and saw his landlady sailing into the room with a large silver tea tray in her hands. She was holding it well out in front of her, and rather high up, as though the tray were a pair of reins on a frisky horse.

“They sound somehow familiar,” he said.

“They do? How interesting.”

“I’m almost positive I’ve heard those names before somewhere. Isn’t that odd? Maybe it was in the newspapers. They weren’t famous in any way, were they? I mean famous cricketers7 or footballers or something like that?” “Famous,” she said, setting the tea tray down on the low table in front of the sofa. “Oh no, I

29

don’t think they were famous. But they were incredibly handsome, both of them, I can promise you that. They were tall and young and handsome, my dear, just exactly like you.”

Once more, Billy glanced down at the book. “Look here,” he said, noticing the dates. “This last entry is over two years old.”

“It is?”

“Yes, indeed. And Christopher Mulholland’s is nearly a year before that—more than three years ago.”

“Dear me,” she said, shaking her head and heaving a dainty little sigh. “I would never have thought it. How time does fly away from us all, doesn’t it, Mr. Wilkins?”

“It’s Weaver,” Billy said. “W-e-a-v-e-r.”

“Oh, of course it is!” she cried, sitting down on the sofa. “How silly of me. I do apologize. In one ear and out the other, that’s me, Mr. Weaver.”

“You know something?” Billy said. “Something that’s really quite extraordinary about all this?”

“No, dear, I don’t.”

“Well, you see, both of these names—Mulholland and Temple—I not only seem to remember each one of them separately, so to speak, but somehow or other, in some peculiar way, they both appear to be sort of connected together as well. As though they were both famous for the same sort of thing, if you see what I mean—like . . . well . . . like Dempsey and Tunney, for example, or Churchill and Roosevelt.” “How amusing,” she said. “But come over here now, dear, and sit down beside me on the sofa and I’ll give you a nice cup of tea and a ginger biscuit before you go to bed.” “You really shouldn’t bother,” Billy said. “I didn’t mean you to do anything like that.” He stood by the piano, watching her as she fussed about with the cups and saucers. He noticed that she had small, white, quickly moving hands and red fingernails.

“I’m almost positive it was in the newspapers I saw them,” Billy said. “I’ll think of it in a second. I’m sure I will.”

There is nothing more tantalizing than a thing like this that lingers just outside the borders of one’s memory. He hated to give up.

“Now wait a minute,” he said. “Wait just a minute. Mulholland . . . Christopher Mulholland . . . wasn’t that the name of the Eton schoolboy who was on a walking tour through the West Country, and then all of a sudden . . .”

“Milk?” she said. “And sugar?”

30

“Yes, please. And then all of a sudden . . .”

“Eton schoolboy?” she said. “Oh no, my dear, that can’t possibly be right, because my Mr. Mulholland was certainly not an Eton schoolboy when he came to me. He was a Cambridge undergraduate. Come over here now and sit next to me and warm yourself in front of this lovely fire. Come on. Your tea’s all ready for you.” She patted the empty place beside her on the sofa, and she sat there smiling at Billy and waiting for him to come over. He crossed the room slowly and sat down on the edge of the sofa. She placed his teacup on the table in front of him.

“ There we are,” she said. “How nice and cozy this is, isn’t it?”

Billy started sipping his tea. She did the same. For half a minute or so, neither of them spoke. But Billy knew that she was looking at him. Her body was half turned toward him, and he could feel her eyes resting on his face, watching him over the rim of her teacup. Now and again, he caught a whiff of a peculiar smell that seemed to emanate directly from her person. It was not in the least unpleasant, and it reminded him—well, he wasn’t quite sure what it reminded him of. Pickled walnuts? New leather? Or was it the corridors of a hospital?

At length, she said, “Mr. Mulholland was a great one for his tea. Never in my life have I seen anyone drink as much tea as dear, sweet Mr. Mulholland.”

“I suppose he left fairly recently,” Billy said. He was still puzzling his head about the two names. He was positive now that he had seen them in the newspapers—in the headlines.

“Left?” she said, arching her brows. “But my dear boy, he never left. He’s still here. Mr. Temple is also here. They’re on the fourth floor, both of them together.”

Billy set his cup down slowly on the table and stared at his landlady. She smiled back at him, and then she put out one of her white hands and patted him comfortingly on the knee. “How old are you, my dear?” she asked.

“Seventeen.”

“Seventeen!” she cried. “Oh, it’s the perfect age! Mr. Mulholland was also seventeen. But I think he was a trifle shorter than you are; in fact I’m sure he was, and his teeth weren’t quite so white. You have the most beautiful teeth, Mr. Weaver, did you know that?”

“They’re not as good as they look,” Billy said. “They’ve got simply masses of fillings in them at the back.”

“Mr. Temple, of course, was a little older,” she said, ignoring his remark. “He was actually twenty-eight. And yet I never would have guessed it if he hadn’t told me, never in my whole life. There wasn’t a blemish on his body.”

“A what?” Billy said.

31

“His skin was just like a baby’s.”

There was a pause. Billy picked up his teacup and took another sip of his tea; then he set it down again gently in its saucer. He waited for her to say something else, but she seemed to have lapsed into another of her silences. He sat there staring straight ahead of him into the far corner of the room, biting his lower lip.

“That parrot,” he said at last. “You know something? It had me completely fooled when I first saw it through the window. I could have sworn it was alive.”

“Alas, no longer.”

“It’s most terribly clever the way it’s been done,” he said. “It doesn’t look in the least bit dead. Who did it?”

“I did.”

“ You did?”

“Of course,” she said. “And have you met my little Basil as well?” She nodded toward the dachshund curled up so comfortably in front of the fire. Billy looked at it. And suddenly, he realized that this animal had all the time been just as silent and motionless as the parrot. He put out a hand and touched it gently on the top of its back. The back was hard and cold, and when he pushed the hair to one side with his fingers, he could see the skin underneath, grayish black and dry and perfectly preserved.

“Good gracious me,” he said. “How absolutely fascinating.” He turned away from the dog and stared with deep admiration at the little woman beside him on the sofa. “It must be most awfully difficult to do a thing like that.”

“Not in the least,” she said. “I stuff all my little pets myself when they pass away. Will you have another cup of tea?”

“No, thank you,” Billy said. The tea tasted faintly of bitter almonds, and he didn’t much care for it.

“You did sign the book, didn’t you?”

“Oh, yes.”

“That’s good. Because later on, if I happen to forget what you were called, then I could always come down here and look it up. I still do that almost every day with Mr. Mulholland and Mr. . . . Mr. . . .”

“Temple,” Billy said, “Gregory Temple. Excuse my asking, but haven’t there been any other guests here except them in the last two or three years?”

Holding her teacup high in one hand, inclining her head slightly to the left, she looked up at him out of the corners of her eyes and gave him another gentle little smile.

“No, my dear,” she said. “Only you.”

32

33

34

1. A School lunch hall

Condensation slides its way down the window, leaving behind it a ribbon of smooth, murky darkness. The

sheer suffocating heat and humidity inside suggests the number of drenched bodies seeking refuge from the

relentless onslaught of rain. In one corner, a single teacher loses the battle to restrain a group of shouting

children and is swamped in a wave of uniformed bodies. Buzzing with anticipation, their instincts triggered by

the promise of food, the mass of children charges past him into the canteen. Dragging back some small

measure of control, he finally manages to stem the flow and continues to thin out the crowd at a steadier pace

with many jealous glances towards the table where several of his fellow teachers lounge, indulging in a few

sweet, children-free minutes.

As the room fills, the shouts, yells and vague discussion coming from the hoard of tatty teenagers rise to a

pitch and volume that could shame a football crowd. Wanting to live up to their reputation, the children

continue their barrage of sound, undeterred by the half—hearted efforts of their teachers. Finally, however, as

the initial rush of eager bodies reduces, the disruption falls to a minimum and the children split off into groups.

At the centre of one such gathering sits a rather plain girl putting up with the unwanted attention of several of

her social superiors. She is clearly used to this type of bullying, and she continues her meal in silence. Finally

bored with watching their comments bounce off the girl without effect, the group turn their attention to a

table surrounded by an invisible force field apparently coming from its dozen or so occupants. This group

seems to reject any lesser being that attempts to come within three feet of their sacred ground. This creates a

ring of admirers who look up to the mixture of reputation and charisma within.

Those teenagers within this bubble of admiration seem to have no intention of letting any others into the

group. Enough gold and fake diamonds to replicate the entire crown jewels covers the same uniforms that

seem to repel any similar attempt by any other pupil. One particular girl, smiling with all the dazzling intensity

of a chat show host, is obviously a new addition to the group. Ecstatic at her place in this most sacred of

circles, she looks down from the Mount Olympus of the dinner hall at the insignificant drones beneath her,

attempting to display some of the haughty dignity of the established members of the gang.

As the initial lure of the dinner hall lessens, several of the hardier students decide to brave the weather

outside and leave the overcrowded, damp stuffiness to those willing to endure it for its relative comfort and

the knowledge that hours spent on hair will not have been in vain. Suddenly a loud crash echoes around the

hall bringing most of the children out of their relaxed stupor. For once the whole student body is united in

hilarity, all eagerly scanning the three-hundred or more people for the guilty party.

The culprit (a minute, year seven boy) stands next to the offending pile of broken china and, as several of the

older students begin to whoop, proceeds to flush a deep red as he prays for an escape from the blinding

spotlight. Unfortunately, the hole in the ground fails to appear for him as it has failed so many others in similar

situations and he is left at the mercy of hundreds of delighted teenagers.

Finally, the yells subside, quelled by steely glances from several of the teachers, and they are replaced by the

ominous tinny chime of the bell, forcing all the children out into the merciless rain.

35

2. The Scene at a Funfair

Dazzling those around, the bright lights flash, almost blinding any who dare to look their way. The

cacophony of sounds, each clashing horribly with the next, is almost deafening. The acrid taste of

diesel fumes burns the back of the throat of anyone who gets too close to the rickety Teacup ride.

A group of excitable toddlers are being herded along by over protective mothers - bobbing along like

brightly shining Chinese lanterns. One lags behind, gazing wistfully at the waltzers, while his mother

tries to persuade him to go on the Teacups.

Teenagers are huddled on a corner, one clutching his can of lager like a newborn son. Another

crushes his can beneath his foot and lobs it over the heads of the unsuspecting crowd. He is

oblivious to his girlfriend, whose face is tearstained, as she shouts at him. "I can't believe you," she

cries, hurls her last insult, and storms away, quickly followed by a small group of girls. They spend

the rest of the evening throwing dirty looks at the boys, none of whom seem to care.

Spinning faster and faster, the waltzer's occupants scream hysterically. "The louder you scream, the

faster we go," an impersonal voice claims on the intercom. As the ride explodes with noise, the

operator yawns and throws a lever. Outside his soundproof hut the ride accelerates, then, climax

over, it slows and stops. The controller stumbles out of the box and lets the flushed people off of

the ride. Some go straight to the back of the queue, others teeter off, stumbling over their own feet.

Gritting his teeth, a man in the car park presses the accelerator to the floor, but to no avail. The

grass is unrecognisable under all of the mud that has been churned up by the cars that have been

coming and going all day. His face reddens as the wheels spin, spraying mud on to a shiny red

Ferrari that someone was unsuspecting enough to bring. People are pointing and laughing and the

owner of the Ferrari is shouting. Finally, someone is helpful enough to push him on his way and he

leaves at top speed, without even bothering to say thank you.

On the rollercoaster, a young girl screams, while her older brother looks almost ready to fall asleep.

Her best friend in the seat behind is looking slightly green and is very much ready to go home. The

little girl whoops even louder at the top of a precipice and tries to get her brother to do the same.

He is not going to comply, however, as he has resolved to never take his sister to a funfair again as

she is embarrassing him.

Tantalizing wafts of delicious scents pour from the hotdog stalls and burger vans, enticing the weak

willed civillians to sample their goods. Mothers turn out their pockets for enough to buy the over

priced food for their screaming toddlers. Teenagers squabble over who owes who money, and the

girl who split up with her boyfriend is treated to a hotdog by her friends.

36

3. The Beach

Carefully choosing their places among the sea of sunbathers, the new arrivals to the beach lay down

their towels on the glistening sand as a red-faced toddler chants, "I want ice cream, I want ice

cream!" as he passes the multicoloured van with his already exasperated mother.

Shops and cafés line the beach, a cool summer's breeze wafting the savoury scent of hotdogs and

burgers towards beach-goers and tourists, tempting them to buy the delicious treats. Seagulls circle

the beach like vultures, occasionally pouncing on an empty crisps packet or fallen ice cream, only to

be scared away by intrigued children or angry parents.

Lounging on their luxurious houseboats, the wealthy residents of the marina gaze out to sea,

watching the gentle waves move against weathered rocky outcrops. On one of the larger

houseboats, a family of five dine on a bronzed lobster talking happily to each other.

Scuttling along the sea-stained sand, crabs of all shapes and sizes frantically make their escape from

determined rock poolers. Wielding her flimsy pink net, a young girl of around five perches on a

boulder, laughing joyously as she scatters shrimp and prawns alike.

Staring happily at his collection of shells, a young boy laughs as the waves lap at his feet. Ice cream

in hand, his mother watches him lazily from under the cheap, colourful umbrella. As if on a mission,

a younger boy of around three digs at the sand, sweating as the sun beats down on him.

On a cliff, high above the beach, stands an aged man, grimacing at the inferior beings below. Clad in

a huge overcoat, heavy black boots and a scarf wrapped around his neck, the greying individual turns

and begins his journey home.

Carelessly floating on a pair of lilos, two teenagers talk ceaselessly - breaking out in laughter and

falling off their bright pink lilos every so often. The scent of hotdogs makes them hungry as they

drag their lilos to the shore, intent on coercing their parents into opening their wallets.

Rain begins to fall on the beach, awakening sunbathers and scattering beach goers. As people start

to pack up and leave, the rain grows heavier, causing bikini-clad girls to scream and take cover under

umbrellas and food stalls. Engines roar in to life, and the beach is completely empty.

37

4. The scene at a funfair

As the ground, caked in thick, slushy mud, vibrated, crowds swarmed like ants. Thumping through

the rides, a myriad of sounds boom through the speakers; passers by are sub-consciously moving

away from speakers as if in a trance.

One little boy, with chestnut locks, ivory skin and frightened, emerald eyes, stands shivering in a

corner. As a rowdy bunch of drunken lads shove past, his small, soft, blue teddy bear is knocked out

of his hands. Scared still and speechless, he begins to wail even more heartily. His hands clutch

tightly to his dummy, his knees are cutely knocked and his toes pointing inwards. Slowly, snot

trickles down as his face begin to sweat slightly.

Meanwhile, a blond teenager, dressed in a skimpy top and high heels like stilts, eats her generously

filled chip butty with a bored expression. Boys surrounding her are childishly goofing around and

she sighs deeply. Her shoulders are slumped forward, her elbows perched on her crossed legs and

her lipstick smudged. She isn't noticed by anyone around and slumps off sulkily.

Bright lights pierce through gaps between rides and children are momentarily blinded. Couples kiss

passionately, children gape in awe, girls gleefully giggle and parents protectively cling to their

children.

A couple are striding towards the hotdog stall, allured by the tempting aroma. Gently, the man

guides his girlfriend while fishing out his loaded wallet. He lifts his chin to smell the delicious

tantalizing smell of hotdogs and grins. Hungrily, he licks his dry lips and smacks them together.

Leaking out, fatty smells enclose customers and circle them almost tempting them to leave without

paying.

Trapped by cold, steel bars people are locked into rides and pushed against the hard, chipped plastic

seats. Kids squirm. Uncomfortably, they wriggle around until noticing the thrilling view of the

funfair. Gasping in true amazement, a scrawny girl - with two French plaits - points and cries, "Oh

mama! Look there!" in her high pitched, squeaking voice. A mammoth of a woman, dressed in pink,

replies smiling and tugs her back as if afraid her most precious treasure may fall.

38

5. The scene at a funfair

The fair was shining with all the lights gleaming and glinting in the night sky. Every stall and ride was

a buzz with excitement. The sound of laughter filled the air as a jolly old man was dunked into a

pool of ice cold foul smelling gunge by a cocky teen having a night out with his girlfriend. The

texture of the cotton candy that tasted oh so sweet in your mouth as you greedily scoff it down.

Every time a prize was won by a small child, having the time of his life, you could see the delight on

his face while he hugged his new novelty bear.

The line for the helter-skelter was nearly out of the entrance booth as one by one a small girl or boy

would come wizzing into view on the tatty, worn out rug that was then passed along to the next

person in the line. A tall and lanky girl made the twenty foot climb up the stairs to continue the

cycle. Down she went, the view un-noticed by dripping eyes as she accelerated down. Safely

landing at the bottom, she handed over the rug and raced to the back of the line.

Over at the hook a duck stall, prizes were going like hot cakes. Every lucky person bagging one of the

bigger prizes, while every unlucky person won a smaller and less enjoyable prize. One boy, about

sixteen, hanging out with his friends was teasing a certain duck with the long metal pole that was

there. "Here ducky, come to daddy, come on ducky." He tempted but, being made of plastic, the

duck did not respond and carried on drifting away lazily to the other side of the pond. Accusing the

game of 'being fixed' he stomped off throwing his Hello Kitty doll to the dirt.

The fair was now packed with eager children, tugging on their parent's arms to get them a hot dog or

let them go on the ghost train or... well you get the picture. Gambeling dads bet on the 'test your

strength games' and anxious mothers kept a vicelike grip onto the utterly bewildered children by

their sides.

A gang of hooded teens had just been allowed entry to the park. and immediately ran behind the

bouncy castle and lit up their cigeretes, gingerly puffing out smoke to impress each other. One

started to cough and wheeze as he drew in and almost immediately collapsed to the floor. The

majority of the boys laughed but the smartest of them all whipped out his phone and, dailing 999 he

summoned an ambulence to rescue the choaking boy and another rang his mother, who was their

faster than the ambulance, to smother her son and give him, and the others, an earful about why

smoking is bad as the sound of the siren vanished into the buzz and excitment of the continued fair

ground fun.

39

6. Fun Fair

It was early evening when I first approached the fun fair. It was full of life and everyone was laughing

and smiling. Lights lit up the dark sky. There were queues around the main stalls, forming a snake

shape so people could get past.

In one corner of the park was a sweet stall. It had everything from gum, sweets and chocolates to

slushys! Kids were crowding around so they could get first pick of the sugary goodness, climbing over

and pushing each other like a group of wild apes fighting for the last banana. They waved their hotly

clenched money in their hands looking for attention. The older people looked on in disgust at their

greed.

To the right was the ultimate fun fair ride- the Bumper cars with the sound of bangs when they hit

each other, the screeching of the tyres. Parents with their children laughed as they were shoved and

jolted from side to side. Standing in the corner was a tall boy, with dark spiky hair and big brown

eyes. He wore ripped jeans and an old top and looked really bored and day dreamy as he was

exchanging money so people could go for the bumper thrilling fun. Walking further up, I could hear

screams from the Ghost Train which was clearly being enjoyed by the daredevil groups of teenage

boys determined to frighten their petrified girl friends. Further on, excited children queued for the

Helter Skelter each receiving a mat before rushing up the stairs to slide down cheered on by doting

parents. Many returned to the queue wanting to repeat the experience.

In the distance was a stall of hot food. The smell of bacon sandwiches invited me in. As I approached

the stall I could hear the sizzling of the bacon. Cuts of chicken and turkey were ready to be served as

the hunger driven people to desperately feed their appetites.

40

7. Railway Station

Great white pillars guard the entrance to the railway which hold hand crafted iron gates, that have

been there since the place has been built, now rusting under the attack from rain.

Chaotic noises fill the inside: the quick paced footsteps of travelers searching for their train or train

times and the frantic voice of the tannoy alerting people where to go. Ammoungst the myriad of

confused people, there stands a frail old lady, her hair a delecate grey colour like when, on a

cloudless night, the moon shines upon water. Glasses perched on nose, she scans the plethora of

train facts and figures to try locate the stand where her train is. To the right of the old lady, next to

an out of date dull red phone box, there sits a sleepy beggar who smells like a unpleasant concoction

of alchohol and vomit. Grasping his cup, the man pleads for spare change from passers-by. Speech

slurred, noone understands him and they walk quickly on by. The sadness which the beggar is

feeling at this point intoxicates the room like ink in water.

Later on as the day draws to a close, the once busy station is now a ghost town. Rail workers pack

their bag and return to loving familys whereas for the night watchers the day has just began. The

sun climbs down turning everything orangy chrome colour and short sharp breezes continue to turn

the litter into the only thing bieng heard. In the distance, a final train, probobly with no more than

20 people on it, can be spotted. Mice dart from shadow to shadow quite noticably yet sneakly. The

station now waits for another day of people to come.

8. Funfair

Carnival chaos causing crazy cookey corruption fills the frantic atmosphere whilst bundles of smiling,

exhilerated faces shiver at the ear-wrenching, spine tingling screams which escape the living

nightmare which is the horrific House of Horrors.

A myriad of peaceful melodic music echoed smoothy from the merry-go-round, soothing the manic

emotions which uplifted the firey fair. Panting, plastic ponies aimlessly drifted around the multi-

coloured stage, each individual taking its turn to be admired by envious children.

Immense, electric lights franticly flash, spin, turn tumble then rapidly change, shooting into the

ebony black sky, mascarading as silver colonies of shimmering stars. Like a moth to a flame, the

hyponotized audience pushed, shoved and grasped at the magical illusion the merry-go-round was

creating, intising them to experience the adreniline which pumped through their veins, keeping the

ride alive. The essence of sweet rippling candy-floss hinted the air, distracting the hyperative

families. A plump, peachy women smiled whilst she elegantly coiled and twisted the fluffy

concoction around a stick, playfully perfecting the sugary mixture.

41

9. Beach

The huts lay across the path like a giant Rainbow in the sky. All different colours, the sheds sitting

silentley; staring out too sea in content. Each shed lay in perfect distance apart; never were there

two colours the same.

People, familys and couples gentley passed. Admiring their beautiful beach. The smiles on their

faces showed how proud they were to say that this wonderful place belonged to them.

Families often wandered past; raising their index finger and pointing out to the unique blue sea,

showing their children that there was a wonderful world out there.

Childrens faces gleamed! as if father christmas had came early, their faces lit up as if they had never

seen a beach like this before. But they were right, they haddent.

The beaches sand always seemed to be silky smooth. As if someone had sat out late and night had

made the same into complete perfection. Butterflies were always around, flying gracefully without a

care in the world. Beautiful coloure they were, bright shocking blue ones landed within close

distance and passed slowley; like they knew no harm would come upon them.

Couples would lay down on the beach together, holding hands. It was as if their bodies sank into the

thick sand as soon as they sat down. Hand in hand they would just sit and watch life go by. Smiling

into complete nothingness, but the glistening shore and the tight clench of each others palms.

Further down the beach. Mayhem struck; tiny children clenching onto their buckets and spades

whining at their worn out looking parents to move faster. Sandcastle off all heights, shapes and sizes

lay across the small section of the beach with their creators towering over them no one dare too

knock them down.

Inside the cafe gazing out of the windows were stressed out mothers, taking time out. They stopped

every few seconds too check every thing was okay; and when they saw there children playing in

complete content. They would swivel their heads round and sip on their tea. Only to be forced to

gaze again from that steamed out window, trying to make sure every thing was in place. The smells

of strong coffee floated in the air. Women buying cookies for the dribbling children. Sitting

anxiousley waiting to dig there gritty nails into the soggy cookies. As the cookies were laid out

directly in-front of them mums would whisper 'now what do you say' and the children with confused

faces would answer with hesitation, ‘Thank you. Mum’. After this there was no stopping the greedy

animals, as they dug their claws in and made all signs of food scarce.

The blissfull beach has lots of amazing views. This beach is my home.

42

10. Railway Station

I first saw the Train station on a misrable, wet day in London. The stairs leading down to the under

ground were Damp and dirty from Peoples foot prints. The handrail was even more gritty, There

was chewing gum underneath, Old Train ticket stuck to the bottom and Spray paint along it.

The smell was unbarable, it smelt like 3 month old curry and garlic mayonise. When you open your

mouth you could even taste the curry.

The sound of the station was seriouly terrofiing, The sound of Rumbling train tracks, screaching

breaks and the muttering of Thousands of people entering the Train Station.

In the corner there were some young dancers Busking for money. One of them was wearing a

strange hoodie with a zip going all the way up to the top of the hood. The Sound of the music was

getting quiter as the big crowd of Buisness men and women were scampering to get a Seat on the

train. As the train arrived the sound of thumping feet got louder as more People came down the

stairs.

As the seconds went by more and more people arrived and left, then a fight broke out. The fight

lasted for about 5 minutes until a police Man came and arrested both of the boys. Then there was a

quiet muffled voice saying "welcome to london my Italian Friend".

The sound of sirens got quieter and quieter as it drove away into the distance. Then there was a cry

of laughter as a young girl was getting tickled by her dad. A beam of happiness shone from her

smile, the world is full of kindness for her but for us it is full of war and hate

43

11. The scene at a fun fair

Brightly, the lights beam of illuminous hot pink, baby green and blinding yellow. The music booms

like an elephant running through a forest. Then another flash of illuminous colours. Walking

through the rusty, pyramid-shaped entrance. A whole new atmosphere envelopes you. Peircing,

screams of joy and happiness. Reving sounds of rides preparing to zoom away. Music booming out

like an elephant running through a jungle and then 'BANG' the ride finishes and the next load is led

on.

A little Boy brimmed with happiness. His smile taking over his chubby cheeks. He sprinted over to

the big dipper and cwtched on to the front of cart. Anxiously, his mum watched on "be careful and

hold on," she yelled. Before he could reply the ride set off. Twisting and turning through all the

different obstacles in the ride. Upsidedown and then back again. 2 minutes later and the ride

zoom's back to base. The boy's cheeks little chubby and red now. But his smile still rapidly getting

bigger. His mother sighed with relief and glared at her little puff ball son that was nicely wrapped up

in his overly insulated coat, with pride.

Looking round, some little children seemed to be engulfed by the magic within these walls.

However, a group of teenagers didn't seem to be that impressed. Sitting intimadatingly by the

waltzers. There faces bored and unhealthily pale. One smoked a cigerette whilst another gulped 2

cans of lager. Parents stared in awe as to why they were wasting their lifes and influencing littler

children into bad habits. An elderly lady timidly walked past them. Chucking a can of larger at her,

one of them chuckled away to herself and widened her merry brown eyes to try and take - a rise out

of her.

12. Funfair

Walking towards the fairground was a thrill in itself - One that built with everystep. The night was

cool but dry; perfect for a great night out! The fair wouldn't be visible until we turned the final

corner but already our expectations and the sheer suspense of it all were building to a peak. Sounds

were already beginning to pour through the air, "Boom Boom Boom!" and laser lights were lighting

up the clouds making them seem somehow unearthly and weird. we were going to have the time of

our lives.

London and wow was it big! It shone like a circle of diamonds in the sky. Spangled, bright and vivid.

Surly the london eye can't be bigger than this right? How can they transport such hugh things on a

back of a lorry?

The next thing that us was a glourious warm smell smell unique to funfairs: a mingling of frying hot

dogs, chees burgers, fried onions, candyfloos toffie apples and diesal fumes! This was a delight for

the sences.

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13. Beach scene

As I look at the beach I can see the rocks with waves crashing agenst then and I can also see a boat

that is lonely as a planit in a black hole and as crooked as a broken photo frame. The sand looks

sticky as a swamp and the sky is as grau as my mums jumper.

I can smell the slaty sae. I can smell fish and chips from the van. And I can hear a dog barking down

the beach.

I can hear the seagulls sqaking and the waves crashing against the rocks and the little children

shouting about there sandcastles, I can taste the salt and vinegar in my crisps. I can hear my mum

calling me to go and have a picknick.

Match the essays to the commentaries

Essay Commentary

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

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1. In this piece, the student is perhaps too ambitious with the vocabulary which results in the

description having a slightly forced feel to it. Some sections, for example those relating to

the little boy and the teenage girl, are not clearly linked to the task. Nevertheless, the

work is competent and interesting. The student could have given it more shape ─ returning

to the little boy at the end perhaps. As it stands, it seems to be a bit fragmented with a

number of free standing sections. Still, this is good work and deserves a mark of 15 (10 +5),

Band 3/4.

2. This piece is too brief. Clearly the student is able but the overall effect of the writing is not

convincing. The ability to use ambitious vocabulary is a valuable asset but it must be used

with restraint. In this piece, it is clear the student is determined to make the prose as

dense as possible. This has a negative affect disengaging the reader who is left wondering

why candyfloss should be ‘rippling’ and why faces should be described as ‘bundles’.

‘Myriad’ of ‘music’ also sounds strained. The student is too consciously trying to show the

width of the vocabulary choices available without always thinking about which words are

the most suitable. Hence, the work becomes over-rich and artificial. This is not an

uncommon problem in descriptive writing and students are best advised to be as realistic

as possible. The work should remain natural. In addition, this piece is fragmented and has

no clear structure. The SSPS aspects are by no means perfect and there are number of

errors. This piece is just worth a mark of 11 (7+4), Band 3, given the brevity and the

occasional confusion.

3. This student confidently fulfils the requirements of the descriptive task. The individual

scenes are well observed and the whole piece is structured around a sensible time frame.

SSPS aspects are handled with assurance and the vocabulary is extensive. This work

deserves a mark of 20 (Band 4).

4. This is brief work. As the student does not actually reach the funfair until the second

paragraph (i.e. half way through), there is a problem of relevance as well. The opening of

the second paragraph does not make much sense (‘London and wow was it big.’). On the

plus side, the work is fairly accurate until the final paragraph when the spelling collapses.

Brevity, however, remains the main problem since the student has not included a great

deal of detail in her work apart from the ‘smell’ paragraph. This is a major weakness. Ever

since descriptive writing became a requirement in the legacy specification, we have

suggested that the best approach for the student is to ‘zoom in’ on detail if he/she wants

high marks. This work is worth 8 marks (5+3) ─ Band 2. Lack of detail, too much time spent

on the arrival and brevity are the main problems along with the spelling weaknesses in the

last paragraph.

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5. This is an ambitious piece in terms of the vocabulary used but sometimes the student

over-reaches a little making it slightly artificial. Occasionally, words are misused

(‘…intoxicates…’). The expression is also awkward in places (‘Great white pillars guard the

entrance to the railway which hold hand crafted iron gates, that have been there…’) The

detailed descriptions of the old lady and the beggar are good but there are a number of

errors within the piece with simple words misspelled (‘ammoungst’, ‘delecate’, ‘bieng’

etc.) and also an agreement error (‘…pack their bag…). It is also brief. All in all, balancing

the ambition with the brevity and errors this work deserves 12 marks (9+3), Band 3/2.

6. This description is accurate, has good details, and is written in the third person which is

probably the best way to attempt it. The student takes a non-narrative approach using

impressive vocabulary which is not overdone. Towards the end it becomes a little

fragmented but the last few lines tie up with the opening, referring to the toddlers and

teenager, though these references could be more explicit. There is a good range of well-

chosen vocabulary and the description has some life and energy. The SSPS element is

strong and suggests a secure grasp of the mechanics. This is good quality work and

deserves a mark of 18 (12+6), Band 4.

7. This piece is very brief and often inaccurate. However, it is on task and attempts to convey

some of the experiences one may come across on a beach. The student chooses to work

through the ‘senses’ and this does her few favours as the sentence structures are

repetitive. There are a large number of errors though sentence demarcation is clear and

she attempts some imagery. This is worth a mark of 6 (4+2) – Band 1.

8. The student tries very hard with this piece and it is clear that she has grasped the basic

idea of looking at detail closely. The shaky sentence construction and other errors

(Childrens faces gleamed! as if father Christmas had come early.) are worrying. There are a

number of verbless sentences too (e.g. lines 2-4) which reduce the overall effect. Spelling

is sometimes wayward (‘haddent’, ‘there children’) but the content is quite reasonable and

it is a good length. The final paragraph adds little to the essay as a whole. This essay is a

perfect example of a piece where, if the mechanics had been correct, the candidate could

have achieved a Band 3, however, the SSPS aspects are so weak (particularly the problem

with verbs) that a lower mark of 10 (7+3) ─ Band 2 ─ must be given.

9. This work is accurate and stays on task. A number of scenes are considered in a ‘zoomed

in’ and clear fashion but the work is the rather fragmented. The structure and links could

be better. However, the accuracy is impressive and this deserves a mark of 16 (10+6), Band

3/4.

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10. The main problem with this piece is brevity. However, the student draws some interesting

pictures and the vocabulary is varied and appropriate. The approach is a little narrative

driven which is often the case when the first person is chosen but there are some detailed

sections to the work. The SSPS aspect is strong. This balances the relative brevity a little to

result in a mark of 13 (8+5), Band 3/4.

11. There is some ambition in this work and some of the descriptive details are sound.

However, the sentence structuring and the mechanics are weak in places and this reduces

that aspect of the mark. Also the student twice includes similes which do not work very

effectively and this demonstrates the point that it is important any imagery used is

appropriate and sensible. Some images become so common (e.g. ‘as fast as a cheetah’)

that they become clichéd. Others are so inappropriate as to be ridiculous. Such approaches

will not impress the moderators. This work is worthy of a mark of 9 (6+3), Band 2. If the

student had been prepared to check for incorrect punctuation and sentence structure, the

mark could have been considerably higher.

12. In places this description becomes a little generalised and the end is over-dramatic and

moving towards narrative. A number of the details could have been developed more fully.

The inclusion of the speech fragment is good and adds life to the description. The piece is

not overlong but contains a lively view of the situation with some respectable vocabulary.

SSPS aspects are generally sound though there are a number of spelling errors and the

occasional verbless sentence. Nevertheless, the work deserves 14 (9+5), Band 3/4.

13. This is a good try from a student of obviously limited ability. He has included a variety of

detail with some attempt at development (e.g. in the first paragraph) and the contrast of

the sirens with the girl’s laugh at the end is pleasing. The problem is, of course, the

mechanical aspect. He tends to use capital letters indiscriminately and comma splices

abound. However, it’s not a bad length and covers some ground, fulfilling the

requirements of the task. A mark of 9 (7+2) ─ Band 2/1 ─ does not seem unreasonable.

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Narrative writing.

The effect of sentence structures in narrative writing

Example 1

Jane stood in the doorway, collecting her thoughts, delaying her decision until the last possible

moment. As she waited for her courage to arrive, like a slow train moving into the last station on the

line, she studied the door in front of her. It was crafted from an ancient-looking wood, the handle a

simple metal ring. Jane glanced down as she stretched her arm out towards the handle. Her hand

was shaking, and the deep red nail polish on her nails reminded her of blood. She retracted her hand

and took two deep breaths, brushing her fringe from her face with her pale fingers. She stood a

while, contemplating everything that might happen once she went inside. Then, at last, she was

ready. She summoned up every ounce of courage in her body and grabbed the handle. Turning it

slowly, and pushing the heavy door open in front of her, she stepped into the hallway.

Example 2

Jane ran to the door. She grasped the handle and turned it. Pushing the door open, she moved inside.

She sped down the hallway and reached the room at the far end. No one was there. She turned and

ran in the opposite direction.

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READING TASK: CHARACTER PORTRAITS

Extract A: WHO’S AFRAID OF THE BWGAN WOOD? There was only one human inside the room: a very thin, wrinkly human with white hair

sticking out from under the flat brown cap he wore. He was sitting in a big chair with a

checked rug tucked around his knees. He had huge bony, knuckly hands which rested on his

lap as though they were too big and too heavy for the rest of him. His eyes were closed: he

was asleep………

The sitting-room door opened, and a youngish woman came in. She was wearing a coat and

carrying a shopping-bag.

‘All right now, Gramps?’ she said in a loud, too-cheerful voice. ‘I’ll just draw the curtains

for you and then I’ll be off home. Anything else you want before I go?’

The old man opened his eyes and looked sourer and grumpier than ever.

‘You don’t have to shout,’ he told her. ‘I can hear you quite well without shouting.’

The woman took no notice. She pulled the curtains across the big window (shutting the

little top light as she did so), and picked up a cup and saucer from the table beside the old

man’s chair.

‘See you tomorrow then – all right?’

‘Aye, most likely,’ the old man said.

‘Good night, then, Gramps.’

Extract B: The Secret Garden Colin:

The boy had a sharp, delicate face, the colour of ivory, and he seemed to have eyes too big

for it. He had also a lot of hair which tumbled over his forehead in heavy locks and made his

face seem smaller. He looked like a boy who had been ill, but he was crying more as if he

were tired and cross than as if he were in pain.

Mary stood near the door with her candle in her hand, holding her breath. Then she crept

across the room, and as she drew nearer the light attracted the boy’s attention and he

turned his head on his pillow and stared at her, his grey eyes opening so wide that they

seemed immense……

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Extract C: Matilda, Roald Dahl

Miss Trunchball, the Headmistress, was something else altogether. She was a gigantic holy

terror, a fierce tyrannical monster who frightened the life out of the pupils and teachers

alike. There was an aura of menace about her even at a distance, and when she came up

close you could almost feel the dangerous heat radiating from her as from a red-hot rod of

metal. When she marched – Miss Trucnhball never walked, she always marched like a

storm-trooper with long strides and arms aswinging – when she marched along a corridor

you could actually hear her snorting as she went, and if a group of children happened to be

in her path, she ploughed right on through them like a tank, with small people bouncing off

her to left and right.

Narrative Strategies

The opening of a novel or a short story is very important because it is here that the writer must

capture the interest of the reader and make them want to read on. A writer often begins with the

story by presenting important situations, characters or themes right from the start.

Each of the examples below shows a deliberate action on the part of the author in adopting a

particular way of telling a story to achieve a particular effect, and some of the meaning of a novel

will always come from how a story is told – that is why narrative strategies are important.

Two points you might want consider about narrative strategy are the person and the tense adopted

in the narration.

1st person: I, me, my, mine. Tells the story through their eyes and is more personal.

You probably already know that stories are often told through the words of one of the characters in

the book- the narrator.

Advantages include:

The character/ narrator is right in the action

The narrator can tell us exactly what he/she feels or thinks and can give the book an original

tone, sometimes amusing.

We are immediately involved because the narrator is talking directly to us. As you read you

feel close to the person telling the story and build up a relationship with this character. You

able to connect to this person, as you get to know them from the inside. Writing in first

person allows is to see into the minds of characters.

The reader may feel they are getting the story from a reliable source.

Disadvantages:

The technique has some limitations, because the narrator cannot tell us for certain what

other people are thinking or what their motivation is, only what the narrator thinks or

assumes about them.

The narrator’s voice can be an obstacle to our involvement to the story.

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Third person: he, she, they. This is the standard form of many novels in which the author is

recounting the lives of the characters. Gives the reader an insight into what the characters are

thinking and why they act as they do, but is more distanced from them. Even though an author may

use third-person narrative, we still get to know their inner thoughts because the author tells us.

Advantages:

Gives the author great freedom because they do not have to write in the voice of one

character all the time.

Sometimes, the author will switch from one narrator to another. Occasionally an author who is

writing in the third person might hand over to the first person narrator by using a character’s journal

or long monologue to tell part of the story.

Split narrative:

The narrator tells the story through the eyes and voice of more than one speaker.

Advantages:

The reader always knows more than what the characters know- a form of dramatic irony.

Vary the perspective on a situation or event, so that you see more than one event, and therefore more than one viewpoint. Two sides to the story.

Consider this extract from ‘Miss Smilla’s Feelings for Snow’ by Peter Hoeg.

‘Now they are lowering him into the ground. The coffin is made of dark wood, it looks so small,

and there is already a layer of snow on it. The flakes are no bigger than feathers, and that’s the

way the snow is, it’s not necessarily cold. What is happening at this moment is that the heavens

are weeping for Isaiah, and the tears are running into a down of frost that is covering him up. In

this way the universe is pulling an eiderdown over him, so that he will never again feel the cold.’

1) What tense is the narrator writing in? Present, describing what is happening now. 2) What effect does this have on the reader? It gives the writing a special urgency and

immediacy.

Here are the openings from different novels. Read through them carefully and think about what you

learn from each and what effect is created.

You might want to consider:

Who the narrator is

What you learn about the characters

What setting or context is created.

What you notice about the writer’s style

Whether it makes you want to read on, and why

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A Kestrel For a Knave by Barry Hines

There were no curtains up. The window was a hard edged block the colour of the night sky. Inside

the bedroom the darkness was of a gritty texture. The wardrobe and the bed were blurred shapes in

the darkness. Silence.

Billy moved over, towards the outside of the bed. Jud moved with him, leaving one side of the bed

empty. He snorted and rubbed his nose. Billy whimpered. They settled. Wind whipped the window

and swept along the wall outside.

Analysis

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Great Expectations by Charles Dickens

My father’s name being Pirrip, and my Christian name Philip, my infant tongue could make of both

names nothing longer or more explicit than Pip.

I gave Pirrip as my father’s name, on the authority of his tombstone and my sister – Mrs Joe Gargery,

who married the blacksmith. As I never saw my father or mother, and never saw any likeness of

either of them (for their days were long before the days of photographs), my first fancies regarding

what they were like, were unreasonably derived from their tombstones. The shape of the letters on

my father’s gave me an odd idea that he was a square, stout, dark man with curly black hair. From

the character and turn of the inscription, ‘Also Georgina Wife of the Above,’ I drew a childish

conclusion that my mother was freckled and sickly. To five little stone lozenges, each about a foot

and a half long, which were arranged in a neat row beside their grave, and were sacred to the

memory of five little brothers of mine – who gave up trying to get a living, exceedingly early in that

universal struggle – I am indebted for a belief I religiously entertained that they had all been born on

their backs with their hands in their trouser pockets, and had never taken them out in this state of

existence.

Analysis

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Your Shoes by Michele Roberts

I thought I knew you as well as I know this house. No secret places, no hidey holes, nothing in you I

couldn’t see. Now I realise how you kept yourself from me, how I didn’t really know you at all.

You’re not here any longer so how can I speak to you? You can’t speak to someone who isn’t there.

Only mad people speak to a chest of drawers, a bed that hasn’t been slept in for weeks. Someone

half mad, with grief that is, might pick up a shoe from the rug and hold it like a baby. Someone like

me might do that. As if the shoe might still be warm and give me a clue to where you’ve gone. One

shoe pointed in fact towards the bedroom window, the view of the garden, and the other one

pointed towards the door. They wanted to get out, to get away, just like you did. I made them neat

again. I stowed them in the wardrobe. Just in case. I locked the wardrobe door on those rebellious

shoes. They could be like me and grieve in the darkness. For a bit. Then I let them out. I’m not cruel.

But they’ve got to learn, haven’t they. Kids these days.

…If you opened the door now and came in you’d find me here in your room. I’m lying curled up in the

middle of the bed, on top of the duvet. I’ve drawn the curtains because the light hurts my eyes. It’s

already lunchtime but I don’t want to face the fridge…

Analysis

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To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee

When he was nearly thirteen my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow. When it

healed, and Jem’s fears of never being able to play football were assuaged, he was seldom self-

conscious about his injury. His left arm was somewhat sharper than his right; when he stood or

walked, the back of his hand was at right-angles to his body, his thumb paralleled to his thigh. He

couldn’t have cared less, so long as he could pass and punt.

When enough years had gone by to enable us to look back on them, we sometimes discussed the

events leading to his accident. I maintain that the Ewells started it all, but Jem, who was four years

my senior, said it started long before that. He said it began the summer Dill came to us, when Dill

first gave us the idea of making Boo Radley com out.

I said if he wanted to take a broad view of the thing, it really began with Andrew Jackson. If General

Jackson hadn’t run the Creeks up the creek, Simon Finch would never have paddled up the Alabama,

and where would we be if he hadn’t? We were far too old to settle an argument with a fistfight, so

we consulted Atticus. Our father said we were both right.

Analysis

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Narrator/Voice

Who is telling the story?

Is it first person? Is someone in the story telling the reader directly? In these kinds of narratives the narrator might be the main character – or it might be someone who is very minor. Imagine the story of Cinderella told from the point of view of the mouse who gets turned into her footman. He’d have a very different view of the story – and what would life be like after he’s turned back into a mouse.

If the narrator is a specific character, that character needs to be reflected in the way the story gets told – the comments or ‘asides’ which they make to the reader might show who they really are. Perhaps the narrator in the example above would keep making comments about cheese. If it’s someone unexpected then keeping that quiet for a while can lead to an effective ending.

Are you an all-knowing narrator? The story is told in the third person, but the narrator might need to tell the audience what the characters are thinking. Or perhaps there is a secret in the character’s past which the reader needs to know to understand what’s going on.

Or, is the narration limited to what a single observer can see? This works well for stories which are shrouded in mystery, or follow a small event in detail. Twist in the tale stories need these kinds of limits.

The person who is supposed to be telling the story will determine the ‘voice’ you write in. If the narrator is someone serious, the tone will be serious. If the narrator is a bit of a joker, the tone will be more informal. Don’t tell the reader about the narrator directly – let the way you write do it for you.

Exercise

Practice writing in the character of different narrators. Imagine the narrator is writing about eating breakfast. What kind of things does he notice? What words does he or she use to describe the food or the people around?

Plot

Plot is what turns a list of events into a story. It’s the connection between different events that show cause and effect. Make sure that events in your story happen for a reason, and that they affect the characters.

Exercise: pick a word at random. Give yourself two minutes to think of as many different possible stories related to that word as possible – the more creatively you use the word the better.

‘Lost’, for example, might be a story about getting lost in a wood, or losing a game, or a story set in a lost property office. Or maybe someone has lost something which is very important to them – but the reader doesn’t understand why it’s so important until the very end of the story. The plot is why it’s important, how it got lost, and why it’s needed now.

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The order in which you tell the story is important. It might seem natural to tell a story from beginning to end but mixing up the chronology or timeline of a story is a good way to make it more interesting. It still needs to make sense, but it doesn’t have to be in order.

Some different possibilities are telling the story in flashback, starting from the most dramatic point and then explaining how everyone got there. Or you might want to start at the end and work your way back to the beginning. Starting in the middle of the action is a good way to capture the interest of the reader.

In the exam, make a quick bullet point plan of the plot and then write numbers next to the bullet points to remind yourself what order you’re going to write them in.

Because creative writing assessments are quite short, it’s best not to get too complicated with plot or ordering – one twist is enough, or one change to the chronology.

Characters

In a short story you don’t have time to include a lot of characters– one or two main characters is enough. You can include some other minor characters if you need them to make the plot work, but not too many. Only give names to major characters – it will help the reader to work out who matters enough to remember.

Make each character distinctive. Think of one characteristic – physical or personal – which summarises them. In your planning, note down each character and their unique identifying point, with two or three different ways of referring to it. Referring to the same thing in different ways reinforces the character and it adds cohesion to the whole story.

When you check through your work make sure that each character talks in the way you’d expect them to. If you’ve got a member of the royal family in your story, they won’t talk like you and your friends.

Who’s talking?:

“Dunno, shurrup. Weren’t me.” “I’m not entirely sure. Could you perhaps repeat yourself?”

Setting

An unusual setting can be a way to make a narrative really interesting. Changing the setting can make a story out of something everyday. There are some events listed below. First think where they normally occur, and then choose somewhere completely different to produce an interesting story idea.

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Event Normal setting Unusual setting Football game Park Zoo A wedding Lessons Sleeping Listening to music

You might have done writing to describe as part of your controlled assessment. The same techniques apply to writing narrative – make sure to use the five different senses to evoke the setting. What can your characters smell? It’s a good way to get the reader really imagining the setting of your story.

Pick two or three key details to establish your setting, but don’t describe it all at once. Unless you’ve made a deliberate choice to start with the setting – perhaps the place is the main character in the story – don’t describe it in your first paragraph. Starting in the middle of the action is the best way to grab your reader. Then they need an idea of where the action is happening. But you don’t want to bring everything to a halt while you describe everything in depth. Sprinkle details about the setting throughout the story.

Writing for effect

Don’t forget to use your usual toolkit of effective writing techniques. Vary your sentences for effect – long ones to build suspense, and short ones to provide punchlines. Use a variety of punctuation.

You should make sure that you include some literary devices – but only where they have effect. A metaphor or a simile is a great way of creating an image for the reader, but it needs to be appropriate. Pick a simile which emphasises an important characteristic, or an important plot point. If a main character is cross, then perhaps his face ‘looked like a raincloud’. Try to avoid using clichés. Don’t use metaphors which don’t support the effect you are aiming for.

Choose the words you use carefully, to create an impact on the reader. Adjectives can tell us a lot about a character, but use too many and they lose strength. Even when writing prose you can use techniques like onomatopoeia (words that sound like their meaning) or alliteration (repetition of the same sound) to create an effect.

Don’t forget to check that you’ve got the basics right –capitals, full stops and spelling. There is no point in using advanced techniques if you forget the basics – you won’t get full credit when it comes to being marked. At least a third of the marks for writing go to accurate sentences, varied for effect.

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PLOT AND STRUCTURE: Checklist.

Plan a convincing /realistic story

Make sure some form of CONFLICT is at the centre. CONFLICT between two or more people, someone in conflict with themselves (making a decision, perhaps), conflict between a person and society, or a person and nature.

Simple and personal ideas work well

Start from what you know and build/ elaborate on this.

Avoid fantasy fiction, ghost stories and complicated adventure stories.

Avoid a plot which ends with : ‘I woke up and it was all a dream/nightmare’ (although a dream might happen inside the story, in a paragraph, perhaps).

Decide whether to use a linear (chronological) structure-

Or a structure using temporal shifts/ time changes such as flashbacks.

Choose third or first person according to task and STICK WITH IT (although there might be an opportunity for selective use of embedded narrative- another voice telling the story).

Try to use narrative hooks- intrigue your readers, perhaps keep them in suspense or keep them guessing!

Plan a definite opening and ending.

Task : plan a story using this classic five part structure-

Exposition (opening- it sets the scene and kick off the action)

Encounter – a meeting or key event involving two or more characters.

Complication or conflict- the difficulty.

Climax- the most intense moment of the story.

Resolution- the ending- sad, happy, mixed, open ending, surprise ending or ‘twist in the tail of the tale.

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CHARACTERISATION AND POINT OF VIEW.

Focus on two or three main characters only.

Try to make them realistic and ‘rounded’ (with depth).

Select key details.

Avoid giving a long, boring description of their entire appearance –pick significant features.

Help the readers to understand the personality of the characters including the speaker.

Try to SHOW NOT TELL.

Choose which point of view you will use to tell the story- first or third.

Task: research a book of your choice and make notes about how characters are

conveyed effectively.

DIALOGUE & STYLE

Use selectively- not too much or too boringly.

It should add something to your characterisation- how do your characters speak? Formally/ informally? Do they use different word choices?

Avoid trying to show accent by the way you spell words- spell them normally.

Dialogue can also move the action on.

STYLE: some VERY, VERY IMPORTANT TIPS! 1) Vary your sentence structures

2)Use interesting vocabulary

3)Use metaphor, simile, alliteration, rhetorical questions.

Task : write a paragraph showing the encounter in the picture and include

dialogue.

Extension task: the scene is from Charles Dickens’ ‘Great Expectations’,

Chapter One. Research this on the internet or read the actual book and

compare your version with the original.

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SETTING AND ATMOSPHERE.

Choose words which will colour your readers’ reactions.

Use interesting vocabulary to set the scene.

Use metaphor and simile imaginatively.

Start from what you know and add to your mental picture- for example, if describing a storm blowing up at sea, think of a real beach you’ve been to.

Use the five senses- sight, hearing, smell, taste and touch.

Avoid too much description- be very selective and choose description which adds atmosphere to the story (you’ve already been tested on descriptive writing).

The scene setting could be a narrative hook to capture your readers’ attention.

Task: describe the scene above. How do you want your readers to feel?

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1. My most special moments There are some for whom convenience food is a lifesaver. Preparing a meal isn’t something they do naturally. Plucking it out of the freezer, reading instructions, removing the outer packaging, piercing the transparent film and bunging it into the microwave requires no effort at all. A ready meal in two to three minutes, garnished with an exotic name. Others take to cooking like fish to water, taking every care even when it comes to preparing a simple dish. Mum belongs to the latter group. She was completely in her zone as soon as she placed a pot on the burner. This wasn’t just routine. To her this was an art. A science. She was creating something- something beautiful, tantalising and even unbelievable. She resembled the fervour of a conductor orchestrating a symphony, the grace and dexterity of a ballet choreographer and the incisive intuition of a surgeon- she was the master chef if you get my drift; especially if it was on a special occasion like Eid celebrations. To this day I remain puzzled by the fact that nothing was weighed or measured. They say you can always tell a novice in the kitchen because they’ll obsess with getting it perfect by weighing and measuring every ingredient- ounce-by-ounce, millilitre-by-millilitre. But virtuosos like my mum weigh with their hands and measure with their eyes. They’ll know instinctively if it’s too much or too little. Solomon’s wisdom, I call it- an acquired judgement that would put politicians to shame. I’m tempted to ask and put my curiosity to rest- but I won’t. There’s a magic about it, an enigma is only as enigmatic as the curiosity behind it. Occasionally she’d look up at you. I always got confused about what she expected me to do or say, because she just looked and never spoke, before then, as if in a trance, returning to what she was engrossed in. This weird flash of concentration was accompanied by a mild intake of breath; it was probably her way of energising, regrouping and mustering together her concentration and focus. This wide-eyed stare wasn’t an angry or searching look; it wasn’t even a look as if to say, ‘What the hell are you doing in my domain?’ It was a warm, yet assured look. No, I wasn’t an intruder or trespasser. It was safe to pass by. From amongst the clutter of spoons, knives, pots and pans, one object stood out. It was unique. It was the flat round metallic tin. This was no ordinary metal box. It was the container holding probably the most identifiable Indian ingredient. Ghee! As my mum prized open the airtight lid, it made a sound I can only describe as the reverse action of a vacuum cleaner. Anyway, into the pot went spoonfuls of semi-solidified Ghee- the mother of all ingredients. Golden rivulets, like syrupy treacle, would emerge from the sides of these golden Ghee mountains, merge into rivers and gush out from the estuaries into a molten liquid lake. The brass volcanic lava would then soak into mounds of masala-fluorescent turmeric, piquant red chilli, khaki green coriander, barky-brown cinnamon and aromatic cardamom pods. A bubbling paint pot of colour all mingling into one My favourite bit was watching her skin the onions. The layers would come unshelled- and then with her delicate fingertips she would capture the membrane-sheathed heart and reveal it like a jewel. Once again, like a true connoisseur, she crafts the cuisine to her time-honoured recipes. She knows if it’s too hot or not sweet enough by instinct. It was her sixth sense. It was all a bit like beholding some kind of performance. You’d never known how much time and effort and passion she had put into the rehearsal. All you would get to see is the actual performance

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which was always delivered with effortless ease and grace. It was ironic, because she’d never make a song and dance about anything. I can truly say that watching her cook for a family gathering was like theatre. You can bet for certain though that she would never be around to take the final bow, even if there was an encore. * * * * * * * * * * I like celebrations and parties; they are a good excuse to enjoy good company and let yourself go. However, as I have grown older, my perspective on celebrations has changed. When you are young, it seems as if the celebrations revolve around you; the adults smother you with their doting and shower you with presents only because they see you as an innocent little tot. You have no idea about the significance of the day. You just enjoy the attention. As you grow older, you gain more knowledge and understanding about the significance of the practices and festivals. You enjoy everything but with a sense of responsibility and knowing. Waking up early, really early, is my biggest bugbear. With all the excitement, anticipation and preparation the night before, an early rise is not always that easy. It’s all worth it though when you put on your newest clothes- the best outfit you have been saving for this day. You feel special. You look special. However, it is not just about dressing up and feeling good. You have to fulfil your religious duties too. So early morning prayers, giving charity and remembering the deceased are an integral part of the celebrations. Occasions bring people together. There are some you look forward to sharing the day with and some colourful characters that you have to call ‘family’. Gifts exchange hands. Handshakes and hugs come thick and fast. Reminding myself to steer clear of one of my aunties, I head for the back room. I dread being hugged out of breath by her. From a distance she could be mistaken for Pat Butcher from Eastenders. Rotund and robust, she stands formidable with arms wide open and a huge comic strip smile, ready and waiting to give you that huge hug. Occasionally, there’s a little lift if she’s feeling a tad hearty. And yet, despite my best efforts, there’s just no escaping the ‘great squeeze’. This time it’s with a pat on the head as well! She probably still sees me as a ten year old just because I’m shorter than her grandson. Why does she always wind me up? I grin and grit my teeth. Stay calm. Remember it is Eid. It’ll be over soon… The family meal is the best part. Food is a good congregator, especially when there is plenty of it. The decorations add to the ambience of the occasion. Everyone waits in nervous anticipation. The atmosphere is buzzing. Let the feast begin! I try to grab a seat near one of my uncles. He’s hilarious! You’re guaranteed a bundle of laughs when he’s around. A wicked combination of Del Boy and David Brent, he’s a crafty salesman who just hasn’t made the big time yet. He’s got that glint of tragic stardom about him. I bet he thinks he could have been big in Bollywood, which is probably why he’s always got that ‘If only…’ look in his eyes. I remember him this time last year telling us about a dodgy job-lot of ‘authentic’ Indian woodcarvings made in some back street workshop in Birmingham he had managed to flog! It’s like listening to a heroic traveller narrating the chronicles of his epic adventure to his people who themselves just don’t have the bottle to take risks.

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At the end of the meal, there’s lots of getting up and moving around, as everyone begins to clump together in groups. There are the kiddies who randomly run around screaming. Then there are the boys standing around acting cool and casual desperately trying to attract the girls’ attention but they are far too busy gasping at each other’s latest hairstyles and henna hand designs. Over there is the ‘30’s to 40’s’ club who like to relax and have a laugh, measuring up their career progress against each other, or canvassing ideas for the name of their next baby. Finally there’s the over-50s crowd who sit and mull over the latest news headlines and muse over the politics of the day, occasionally glancing at the younger generation in silent disapproval as if to say, ‘You pretty little things haven’t got a clue about life. We do. We’ve lived it!’ Celebrations are great. They bring people together- the weird and the wonderful. It’s what celebrations are all about I suppose, bringing people together. It all ends with compliments and farewells. Everyone takes away with them the memories of the day that they will probably reminisce over until the same time next year.

2. Only my mother could embarrass me like that! "What do you think you’re doing?” Mum asked. "Doing my art homework. What does it look like?" I snapped. "Not on my antique table, you’re not." "But mum, I need to get this done,” I moaned. "Oh and you’re going to pay for a new one when you get paint stains all over it?" What kind of a question was that? Of course I wasn’t going to be able to pay for it. I would have to sell my organs if I was even going to get close to affording a new table like this. I just stood there, scowling. “Exactly," mum said smugly. "I didn’t think so. Pack up your things and find somewhere else to do your art work." But where else was I going to do my work? There was nowhere. My parents were interior designers and with it they had more money than sense. The house looked more like a show room. Each room had a colour scheme to create a "mood" and give it "character," as my mum had once told me, after I had questioned the décor. Although, that still didn’t explain to me why it had to be so boring. All rooms had a neutral colour on the walls with antique, coloured furnishing all designed along with the colour plan. The living room walls for instance, were painted a matt beige shade with mid-brown leather sofas. A couple of two-seaters were placed against the two walls, while a reclining armchair sat in front of the window. Placed neatly in these seats were real, animal skin cushions making the sofas look unwelcoming. However, the cushions were only for show and not to be used or touched too often- not that I would want to use one. On the remaining wall a carved, marble mantle piece dominated the room, polished to perfection and above it a giant mirror, which apparently "expanded" the room. A huge plasma T.V with cinema sound system occupied the far comer and apart from the few professional family portraits, which I hated, the rest of the walls were fashionably bare. The floor was covered with a cream carpet and in the centre sat a brown, buffalo fur rug. On top of this rug

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stood the wooden, antique table from which I had been banished. Packing up my equipment, I headed up to my bedroom. My room wasn’t like the rest of the house; it had character. It was a small room, which I liked, and nothing matched. Everything was tacky and clashing greens, pinks, blues and yellows, coated my walls, as it was the only room my parents didn’t have control over. All that populated my room were my three-chest of drawers and dressing table along one wall and opposite was where my dinky, single bed lay. At the foot of it was my wardrobe. Taking a couple of strides over my untidy floor, covered in clothes and junk, I reached my dressing table. Pushing the clutter away and setting down my canvas artwork, which was far too big to fit on my small table, I got to work. By the time I had finished, it was late. Slipping into bed, my thoughts twigged on the date of the next day. Friday 19th July - my 16th birthday. With this delight resting in my mind, I drifted off to sleep. I rushed downstairs early next morning to find my presents stacked, with my fry up breakfast, already waiting on the dining room table. My parents followed me in, chorusing "Happy Birthday." No sooner had they finished singing, their smiles faded to guilty looks. I looked up at them from my breakfast. "Poppet, I know it’s your l6th, but…” my dad started, glancing at mum for assistance. I knew what was coming. This was when they announced that there was this really important business meeting they had to attend, so they wouldn’t be there that night and therefore I couldn’t have my party. I shrugged it off. This wasn’t the first time I had been let down by them. My parents weren’t the sort to ever come to things like my school plays or fetes and I couldn’t remember the last time they had been there for a birthday party. Work always came first. However, I thought they may have made more of an effort for my l6th birthday; I was wrong. As soon as I got into school, I explained the bad news to Jessica, my best friend. "Well, that’s perfect," Jessica gleamed with excitement. She noticed my look of confusion and went on to explain her happiness. "You say they’re not coming back until tomorrow, yeah?" I nodded in reply. "Then you can have a house party. Come on, don’t let them spoil your l6th and anyway you have the biggest house. You could have loads of people.” Although I would get into masses of trouble if my parents ever found out, it was my 16th birthday. Why shouldn’t I have a party? It was they who had spoiled everything by going to some work thing; they should be here for my birthday. Anyway they wouldn’t be back until tomorrow evening — that would give me enough time to tidy the house and make sure all the evidence had been cleared. They would never know. “Yeah okay," I agreed, "Why not?" The party had started and news had spread. Not only had majority, of my year arrived, but also extra guests from other years had turned up- most of whom I did not know. Deafening music, pumping from the surround sound, filled the crammed rooms downstairs. People were chatting, dancing and drinking, making the neatly decorated rooms turn into my parents’ nightmare. The living room was the worst. The once glinting mantle piece was covered in sticky, spilt drinks, whilst the carpet had crunched snacks, trodden into it. The sofas, with their cushions, were trashed as they were covered in empty cups and crisp debris. Ring marks remained where every cup had been placed on the antique table. It now wouldn’t have mattered about paint stains and for some reason, I felt a thriving buzz for the mess and disorganisation; a contrast from the normal perfection.

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I turned to head out of the chaos and there stood my nightmare. Mum stormed over to me. She growled. "And what do you think you’re doing?”

3. My Most Special Moment The morning of September 14th 2000, I woke early to find a brand new bright pink pushbike wrapped in shiny silver paper. It was my birthday and like all seven-year-old girls, I was desperate for a bike like all the older children. Finally I had got one. At seven o’clock, I began begging my dad to take me for a ride. ‘Not now, love, go back to bed,’ he replied drowsily. How could I sleep when my brand new bike was sitting downstairs waiting for me? Every five minutes I returned to his bedroom to force him to take me out. Finally at 8.30, he gave up and agreed to do it. It was not a particularly warm day so I put on my brand new pale blue jumper and my navy leggings. As we rode down the steep grassy hill towards the canal, the dew glistened in the sunlight like diamonds hanging from a pure green chain. The cool autumn breeze rushed through the holes in my matching pink helmet. We raced alongside the deep blue waters for miles. My legs were aching, shrieking out for me to stop and give them a rest but was I going to give in to them? Never! As the slope up to a bridge began, my muscles started to give up. ‘If only I could stop,’ I thought miserably. Suddenly I could feel myself falling backwards downhill slowly at first but then picking up speed quite noticeably. I began to feel panic building inside of me. ‘Dad! Dad, help me!’ I called. My chest felt as though someone was hammering from the inside. All I could think was, ‘My mum’s going to kill me if I get my new jersey dirty.’ As I reached the water’s edge, I saw my dad sprint down from the top of the bridge. ‘Ellie,’ he shouted, ‘use your brakes!’ It was the last thing I remember hearing before hitting the icy cold water. Water bubbles filled my ears as though someone was gurgling mouthwash into them. I opened my mouth to scream when foul tasting liquid flooded in, blocking my speech from coming out. All of a sudden I realised I could not breathe. I wasn’t rising to the surface and I physically didn’t have the strength to push myself up. I remember thinking, ‘Oh God, I am going to die!’ Suddenly big hands were around my waist, tugging me upwards. I was being rescued! But my oxygen supply was fast running out, everything went still and my eyelids became too heavy to hold open. The next thing I knew I was lying on the canal bank deep in the long grass, soaked to the skin and freezing. I had so much to say but only two words escaped from my lips, ‘My bike!’ I later found out that my dad has seen my downhill ride by the bridge and had raced down to save me. However, I’d fallen into the icy blue canal, so he was forced to dive in after his seven-year-old daughter. My bike was save too, thankfully. Unfortunately though the same could not be said about my pale blue jumper! I rode that shiny pink bike for years to come but I never went back to the canal bank.

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4. Holiday Romance “Is your rage putting you in danger?” Ria read. These words echoed in her mind, if only she had read this article a month ago, everything would be so different. Her tragic experience would never have happened. Last month, on an exciting trip with her mates, a time to relax and not think about the other stresses in her life, she never thought it could turn into the holiday from hell. Zack was the boy of her dreams, he had blond hair as bright as the sun, blue eyes, that type of blue where you could just get lost in them. From the first moment she saw him she knew something would happen between the two of them. They had so much in common: loved the same type of music, both enjoyed playing sports, they were just perfect for each other; it was fate that they met! Zack was just the perfect boy for Ria.......A great holiday romance, just beginning. A big group of them would meet at the beach during the day; Ria and her friends, and Zack and his group would lay on the beach and sunbath or go and do some water sports; this was the holiday of a lifetime. At the end of the day, the girls would go and get ready and they would all meet up at ‘Le Rumba’ – the bar they had deemed theirs for the time being. There Ria and Zack would see no one else in the world, when she was in his arms, she felt nothing else mattered; although she had only known him a couple of days, she trusted him and lusted after him when he wasn’t there. Although Ria always had the feeling that she was being watched, she shared her concern with Zack, but he told her she was being silly. But she still had a strange feeling in the back of her mind. Before Ria knew it, the end of the holiday had sprung upon them, they had been having such a good time together they had never thought about the fact that, the two of them were going to go their separate ways. It was a scary thought but Ria thought she would make the best of the night and not to let it get in their way. The girls dressed up in their best clothes and did their make up, determined to make it the best end to a brilliant holiday. Ria thought tonight was going to be excellent, something she would never forget..........but for all the wrong reasons. Ria and the girls got down to ‘Le Rumba’ at about eight o’clock, just for when everyone else was going to meet. Zack and Ria greeted with a hug and kiss. “Alright babe, how are you?” Zack had asked; being in his arms just felt right. “Yeh, I’m good thanks, lets get the drinks in” Ria had replied. After two rounds of drinks, Ria had noticed someone staring at her: Matt; he had been quiet and reserved but now she realised he has always made a special effort to talk and make her happy. But she just smiled nervously, brushed off his looks and carried on chatting to Zack. When Ria thought about going home it brought tears to her eyes, she didn’t want to leave the paradise that she and the others had created, Ria wanted to stay forever. She decided to give her parents a ring, just to confirm with them her flight times, the time she would leave the fantasy island. Ria knew her and Zack would see each other after the holiday, they had each others numbers and knew where they lived, but it just wouldn’t be the same, she didn’t want to leave. After the phone call, walking back towards the bar, looking out for that gorgeous face waiting for her to come back, she saw that face but he certainly wasn’t looking out for Ria. He was too busy kissing her best mate, Mair. Ria was confused. What was going on? She was enraged. How could they do this? Ria was uncontrollable with anger; she had never felt so hurt before. She stormed over and without even thinking, slapped Mair. She pulled Zack over to the side of the bar to find out what was going on. He claimed it was all just a big mistake, it hadn’t meant anything.

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Ria was furious; how could they have done this to her? She knew it was only a holiday romance but she did feel a lot for him, and Mair knew that. She wanted to go home; this had completely ruined the holiday. What had she done to deserve this? Ria was livid, she didn’t know what else to do but cry, but she wasn’t going to let anyone else see. She just walked away heading back towards the hotel...or so she thought. It was late, pitch black, the stillness of the street was ominous, and something didn’t feel right, as if somebody was watching her, the same feeling from before but a lot stronger. Ria carried on walking, not knowing where she was going, the adrenaline just taking her, hoping soon she would recognise her surroundings. Her heels were the only noise breaking the eerie silence of the night. Ria was all dressed with no where to go; she wanted someone with her something certainly didn’t feel right. The black of the night was mystifying. Ria’s paradise didn’t seem the same, no longer was it inviting and colourful but black, dull and so awful. Why was there no one there with her; of all her mates she had with her and all the people she had met. Suddenly it wasn’t only her heels splitting the silence; another set of footsteps were fast approaching. Ria was wary of turning around, hoping it was one of her friends, scared that it wasn’t. She knew she had to look otherwise she would panic. Ria slowly turned around and with a gasp of breath, she saw Matt. Why wasn’t she pleased to see him? Surely he was going to help her? “Are you ok?” he asked leeringly, “I saw what happened back there” “Yes, I’m fine” Ria knew he would tell in her voice that it wasn’t, she felt uncomfortable with the situation she was in. “Do you want to come back to my hotel?” Matt asked. “You look like you’ve been crying.” “No I’m ok thanks” Ria snapped back and with this she started to walk away, back towards the bar, being with Zack wouldn’t be as bad as this. “Where are you going?” Matt shouted, grabbing her arm. “LET GO OF ME” Ria screamed. Before Ria knew it his hand was over her mouth, her voice was paralysed, and she couldn’t call for help, what was Matt doing? He carried her round the corner, where he released her. “How about we have our own little party here, Hun?” “No thanks, I’ve got to get back, I only told Zack I was going for a little walk to cool down” A blatant lie but she was hoping Matt wouldn’t now this. She was feeling very uncomfortable about what was going on. “Stay for a bit!” Matt ordered, he pushed her to sit down on the wall. Ria was quiet. She didn’t know what to do or say. Her whole body was still. She thought any movement would anger him anymore. “Come on babe, I know you like me, I saw the looks and the smiles” Matt said. “I...I...was just trying to be friendly” Ria stuttered, a friendly smile had got her into this. “Don’t you want to be with me then?” Matt questioned.

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“I’m with Zack” she replied, she didn’t know whether she was anymore but she didn’t want to look available. “I saw you two arguing, you aren’t together anymore, so you and me can get together.” And with that, he pinched her backside. “Get off me!” “O you know you like it, don’t tease me.” He tried to kiss her and as she pulled away, he grabbed her so she couldn’t. What was going on? She wasn’t kissing back so how could he enjoy it, and she was trying to imagine how nice it would be to be in Zack’s arms again, why had she ruined it? Ria was petrified, if he could force her to kiss him, what else could he do, she felt helpless. Ria’s mind didn’t seem to be in her body, she wouldn’t accept this normally, and with that thought Matt’s hands had risen up to her chest, unbuttoning her top. Someone help here! And before she knew it... “GET OFF HER!” a familiar voice, but whose; she opened her eyes to see Zack, standing over the knocked out Matt on the floor. “ZACK!” Ria screamed, she fell into his arms and cried. And now sitting here reading the magazine article, her rage did put her in danger, she had been such a fool and got herself in a situation she couldn’t get out off, if Zack hadn’t been there that evening, who knows what could have happened. But it was unquestionably a holiday that she will never forget.

5. My most Special moment Once I was training in my boxing gym and I was lifting 18kg weights. The other weights were set out on the floor for when I needed them. I was on my last set of ten when I fell back and the weight came crashing down and landed on my leg. I couldn’t feel my left leg. I twisted my ankle and then I was rolling around in excrushiating pain. My manager came in once he heard my call of pain. He sat me up and I hobuld over to the ring. He sat me down on the side of the ring and got me a glass of warter. Ten minutes later I gave my dad a call and he came straight to the gym. My dad and my manager took me to hospital. We arrived in an hours time. The traffic was bad and I hobuld over to a chair and sat there with my manager while my dad went to reseption. By the time we got to the hospital my leg had swollen up to the size of a baby elephants foot. I was called in, the doctor said ‘What is your name?’ I said ‘Mark.’ I was given an x-ray and sent to the emergency room and was told some hart breaking news considering that I had a big fight coming up, they said, you have broken your tibia and sprained your ankle. I had to stay in a hospital bed for 2 to 3 months. Each day my leg was getting better, My family visited every day and my manager to. I was getting better pritty fast. My manager came in the room and gave me good and bad news. I said, ‘Can I hear the good news first?’ ‘OK,’ he said. I was told that Joe Calzaghe, one of the best boxers in the world, was coming to see me in a few weeks time. And the bad news was that my boxing match was canceled but I wasn’t bothered about that.

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After a week, Joe came to see me. I was waiting with the door open. He came in and my dad and my manager left us to talk. We were just chatting about boxing and I was asking questions about how many fights he had won. He said just over 18 in his career. He asked me how any I had won and I told him six so far. We had a good chat and a cuple of moments later he said, ‘Will you be able to make it to my match. I’ll get you front row seats.’ I said, ‘I don’t have enough money.’ But he produced tickets from his pocket and they were for the front row by his corner. I said, ‘Thank you so much. You have made my day.’ I was out of hospital in no time. My dad came to pick me up and I was happy to see my street and most importantly my family. I was welcomed home with celebrations and we partied. The next day the boxing match was on and me and my family were ready to go. We got there in an hour and sat in our seats. Joe’s fight was over in three rounds with a clean knockout and the towel thrown in. I jumped up in excitment and after the match he called me and asked if I wanted to go clubbing. I said ‘yes.’ So we went out together and had a good time. We kept in touch and we are good friends even now.

6. Hero On a lovely morning Carl woke up to see the sun shining through the window and into his room. He got out of bed and decided to go out with his friends. So he got dressed and went down to get his breakfast and ring his mate Jamie he had brown hair blue eyes and was very funny. He answered and said “Hello” and Carl said “I Jamie I was wondering if to want to go out tonight?” he said “OK sure I will see you later then” “OK” Carl said. Then he realised that he might not have enough money. He went to cheak his walit “Oh no!” there was no money there. He got his car keys and ran out to his car. Got in put his seatbelt on and put the engine on and drove to the bank. On the way there he saw a supiceus black van driving to the back. He never thought anything of it. It parked outside the bank and Carl pulled over and parked on the other side of the road. He got out of his car and locked it up and went into the bank. He was waiting in the line in the bank then all of a sudden four robbers came in wereing black clothes and a black mask. The robbers were shouting “Get on the floor now!” every one got down petified. Two went down to the vault and put C4 on the vault door and the other two robbers was pointing guns at the hostages Carl was really scared and so was the hostages. There was a young girl lying down next to him who was praying. She had blonde hair, brown eyes and a lovely smile, Carl said to her that it was going to be OK, she said “thank you.” Then the other two robbers came up and said 2 minutes. All of them said “OK”. Then they stared whispering about how they are going to escape so Carl said to the young girl “whats your name” She said “Kelly” “OK Kelly I need your help to get all the innocent people out of here” and Kelly said “OK I’ll try my best” Carl smiled. The robbers counted down “5, 4, 3, 2, 1” There was a bang like fireworks in November. All the robbers ran down to the vault to get all the money then the police pulled up outside. Carl went around telling people its going to be OK and he was going to get them out. He was talking to the person behind the counter and said “is there any way out” he said yes and opened a secret hatch and I told everyone to go down and follow the path.

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Every one went down and followed the path and found a way out. Everyone was now thanking Carl and Kelly that they had saved everyone. And the police moved into the bank and down into the vault and only brought out three of the robbers. Carl was confused so he ran in and remembered the secret hatch he opened it and there was the last robber. Carl got his money out to go with Jamie and drove home to get dressed for his night out with Jamie. He said “what a day!”

7. The Cemetery One night Mark was driving in the misty darkness up to the cemetry with four of his friends called Jake, Stacey, and Jodie and jarred, it was Halloween they were going up the hill to the cemetry when the wheel went bang. And the girls screamed loudly. Jake when out to see what it was. It was the wheel with a knife sliced in it. The girls were scared, Mark and the boys said Lets go for a walk in the cemetery. The girls said I will if you keep close to me Jake and Mark said yes we will so they went in to the mist. They were walking up the top of the cemetry and Jarred said Look at that dead man up there. Stacey screamed saying wise up. Then Jarred said look the dead man is in the corner of the cemetry. Jodie said no he isn’t and slapped Jarred. Stacey was on her hands and knees crying saying to me don’t let go of me. Mark said OK. Every time Jarred tried to scare them they didn’t believe him so they was walking one time and Jarred saw a light but they said stop lying but 5 mins later Stacey saw it then they all saw it. It was a dead man with a flashlight. So they all started running then they stopped to see where the man was but he wasn’t behind them. So they kept walking then they saw him again. So they ran to the gate and kept going till they saw something and they ran again until they saw a caravan and they all ran there and knocked on the door. No one answered so they walked in and Mark used the phone to ask his mother to come and collect them. The phone was cut off and they saw the shadow of the man. They ran out and hit him on the head. It was Marks father walking the dogs out looking for them. Mark phoned the ambulance because he was knocked out he woke back up and said don’t phone an ambulance. So Mark phoned them and said don’t bother coming he’s OK now. Marks’s father was shouting at him for nicking a car and for popping the wheel then Jake and Jarrod was laughing Marks father said I don’t know why you are laughing for because I am telling your parent and the girls and he said yeah. Mark went home and his mother was shouting at him. And saying you are grounded for two weeks and you are paying for the wheel. And you are going to clean the car and clean the house up for two weeks. After he was grounded Mark phoned the boys and they said they was grounded to and he phoned the girls and they said they was grounded and not allowed to bother with Mark.

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8. The motorway drive. They was loud lafhs in the car me and Brady was excited we was going to Jamaca we was planning it for ages it was a hot sunny day flying down the motorway. There is wizing spinning cars shooting down the M1, I smell strong ova powering diesel flying up my nose There was a sound of good sweet engines, the wind was fundering. Brady was all ways the class clown and Jake was the cool popular won. Me and Jake was shooting down the motor way and Jake turned left and a car bumped Jake and then his tire fell off and then bang… Jake was knocked out and Brady maneged to stay up he got out of the car and ran he looked back and the car went bang. People was screeming and crying and when the car blew up sumet flung up and choped Brady head of in a split of a second and then the police came and they was shocked and they put the fire out and every thing went OK. But sadly Brady and Jake died. There names was remembered.

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1. The story has some structure and the student has taken care to organise his work. However, the opening is very conventional and does not greatly involve the reader. The choice of content is unselective with many unnecessary details, which do not advance the reader’s engagement. On the other hand, the chosen vocabulary is suitable if simple. The punctuation and spelling are sometimes accurate though the direct speech paragraphing is poor. Occasionally there are agreement problems. The content is event driven and relies on action to convince. The ending seems something of an anticlimax after the heroism. This is a very simple adventure story with some irrelevant sections. It is clear and direct but the choice of approach leaves the reader feeling uninvolved. An investigation of character, feelings and atmosphere and less action would have improved it. The story deserves to gain a low Band 2 mark for Content and Organisation and a Band 2 mark for the SSPS aspect, giving a total of 8 marks.

2. This student organises her third person narrative quite carefully and the content retains

the reader’s interest. The situation is well established in the opening paragraphs and characterisation is developed. The central relationship is reasonably convincing and the narrative has some pace. Details are generally well chosen and appropriate. Technically it is fairly competent though comma splicing also slightly weakens the overall effect. Direct speech is well-handled and sounds authentic although the punctuation is sometimes faulty. The spelling is mostly correct though the range of vocabulary is relatively limited and on occasion there are agreement errors. Both Content and Organisation and SSPS are worthy of a mark in the respective Band 3s, giving the piece a total of 13.

3. There are clear problems with spelling, punctuation and agreement in this piece which

reduce the SSPS mark to 1. The story is very brief without any development of character, atmosphere or feelings. The change of person is a weakness and the vocabulary range is fairly narrow. There is, however, a discernible narrative line with a clear start and end. For the Content and Organisation aspect it deserves a Band 1 mark of 4 giving a total of 5 marks.

4. The narrative is well shaped with effective plot and characterisation. The vocabulary is varied and well-suited to purpose. Dialogue is used effectively and, while the conclusion is a little predictable, the story is engaging and interests the reader. Detail is carefully selected with the contrasting of the minimalist and perfect décor and the student’s bedroom and the aftermath of the party. The SSPS aspects are sound with a variety of sentence types and accurate punctuation and spelling. This belongs in the lower part of Band 4 for both Content and Organisation and SSPS, giving a mark of 16.

5. This is highly sophisticated work. A wide range of well-selected and ambitious vocabulary

is employed to great effect in a reflective piece that never fails to hold the interest of the reader. Detail is carefully chosen and well described and the sentences are thoughtfully shaped. It is clear that the student has consciously shaped language for the reader’s entertainment. The characters are described in an interesting and engaging way as the student draws us into his family situation with assured wit and honesty in this excellent reflective piece. The SSPS aspect is flawless. This is Band 4 work and deserves full marks.

6. The work has an immediate reality and the student introduces the narrative with a simple

but clear description of the time and place. The accident is fairly carefully handled in a totally credible if simple way and the hospital scene is accurately portrayed. After Calzaghe’s visit, the work becomes more fanciful and the ending is less convincing. However, there is much to recommend this simple but reasonably engaging story. It has a

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clear beginning, middle and end and there are not many unnecessary details. Paragraphing is secure. The student has been wise to write about an aspect of life of which he has clear experience. This makes the work more convincing and engaging. On the other hand, there are spelling and grammatical errors and the punctuation is weak on occasion. It deserves a mark in the top end of the Band 2 Content and Organisation aspect and a Band 2 SSPS mark, giving it a total of 10.

7. This self-contained narrative has life and energy and the experience is related in an

immediate and engaging fashion. The details are well chosen and story progresses with some pace. Paragraphing is accurate as are other technical aspects though there is not a great deal of ambition in the vocabulary choices. This deserves a mid Band 3 mark for the Content and Organisation aspect and a low Band 4 mark for the SSPS element, giving a mark of 14.

8. This student tells a basic narrative with a clear development and outcome. He is able to

structure the story with a simple chronology but there is little development of character or atmosphere. The range of vocabulary is very limited and the work is flawed with many errors both in punctuation and agreement. It is paragraphed but lacks direct speech punctuation. His choice of topic and approach is limiting though he does not descend into totally unrealistic content as happens frequently when students are tempted to stray into cemeteries. This work deserves a low Band 2 mark for Content and Organisation and a Band 1 mark for SSPS. This gives the story a total of 7 marks.