Q.1. Write a story, or part of a story, beginning with the words: ‘Something had changed this time.’
… Something had changed this time.
Probably, this was because it was the last time, but how could even I have known that then?
I’ve always had a talent for knowing things I wasn’t supposed to know, or couldn’t possibly know. ‘The child has a gift,’ my grandmother would tell my mother gravely. The younger me would just laugh and continue with my drawing.
What if she had listened as she set out that morning? What if Mum had looked me in the eye and asked me what exactly I’d pictured this time? Could she have seen what was to come for us as well?
And you, that day. Would you have listened if I had said that something had changed? If I had explained that there was a haze, a fuzziness around the edges of you as you headed towards our front door, would you have laughed and told me you’d be late if you didn’t go now. If I’d said I thought I might be feeling poorly again, that the pictures in my head were clearer, more vivid, more real, would you have stopped with me until Mum got back?
Would you have sat back down and finished your coffee? Would you have tucked me up on the sofa with a book and more toast? Would you have given in if I’d said I felt really bad, and worked from home that day? Would we have switched on the news later that morning, together?
I worry that you would, that we would, that you would have come back that day as you always had done. I worry that I should have told you more.
I watch it again in my mind, picturing you rushing around, hearing the sound track as you struggle into your coat: toast first in your one hand, then between your teeth; swearing as your arm gets stuck on the way into your sleeve. Crumbs, a smear of peanut butter and strawberry jam, smudge into a dark, sticky mess on your tie as you try to wipe it with a piece of kitchen roll and just make matters worse.
‘Why doesn’t Sarah have to clear up? I whine. It’s always my turn.
‘Oh, don’t start,’ you say. Then smile at my sulking. ‘I’ll see you later. Make sure you start that revision before lunchtime. No watching daytime telly.’
I had meant to start. I’d even cleared the mugs and cereals from the table and put them in the dishwasher so that Mum wouldn’t moan when she got in. But the television had gone on and the news had broken. The pictures in my mind had played out.
By the time Mum arrived back, one look told me she’d seen it too.
Examiner Comment
The content here is complex, engaging and realistic. We imagine as readers what has happened. The news event is made all the more frightening since details are not revealed. Meanwhile, the idea that the narrator has some kind of ability to predict or envisage future events is built up gradually along with his/her sense of guilt for not having done more to change events that day.There is a sense of cohesion with the overall structure clearly planned and controlled. Constituent parts are well-balanced as the narrator looks back on what happened and the ending in particular is carefully managed for deliberate effect. Elements of fiction such as subtle use of descriptive detail demonstrate some sophistication. Characterisation for example relies on what is not said, as well as what is. Cogent detail helps to create a picture of a ‘typical’ family with two children – one nearing exams, the parent(s) work. There is still much left unsaid about the person who is addressed throughout. The response might perhaps have included more clues about them, though we are clearly meant to fill in the gaps ourselves and deduce from clues given that the character is the father. The mention of a tie suggests the person is male and employed in some sort of business/office work as they can choose to work from home. Careful use of dialogue – realistic and economically used – creates both a sense of character and relationship.
A range of vocabulary is included. The choices are not complicated but deliberate and evocative for example, smear, smudge and whine. Punctuation is almost always accurate and the style here is highly effective.
Q.2. Write a story, or part of a story, that involves an argument or misunderstanding between friends.
‘You’re kidding?’ said Gemma, already knowing I wasn’t and beginning to panic that we were going to be in trouble.
‘No, there’s no sign of her,’ I said shutting the door again. ‘She’s not come back here after all.’
The realisation of what that meant hit us. Gemma’s nine year-old sister lost somewhere between here and the park could be anywhere by now, with anyone. Anything could have happened to her and everybody would say it was our fault.
The argument had been stupid anyway, as usual. Gemma and I were too similar and often argued. Our arguments were intense and ferocious but always fizzled out eventually. One of us would sulk under her fringe, whichever one was most wrong that time, until the other one starting giggling and then we’d both fall about crying with laughter as we played back through the childish drama of the things we’d said.
This time the argument had blazed longer than usual. The scars would take longer to heal. Gemma’s eyes had glinted with hatred as I’d screamed into them the worst insults I could imagine. Friends know secrets and friends are the worst enemies you can have. Friends know how to use those secrets to hurt you, flashing memories of embarrassment, twisting the blade of shame in a frenzy of jealous rage until reality sinks in and you both just stop.
The quiet had been unreal. The silence once we’d stopped yelling at each other was solid, scary and forced itself to be noticed. Rose was nowhere to be seen. The swing was empty, the climbing frame loomed like a metal skeleton against the grey sky. We’d meant to be watching her, keeping an eye on her as she played. Instead we’d got sucked into our own world and ignored what was happening in hers.
Panicking we’d circled the outskirts of the play area through the plastic bags and burger wrappers being blown about by the wind. It was raining slightly now and much colder. The mothers with toddlers who’d stared at us shouting had left hours before. No one was there to say if they’d seen Rose or knew where she’d gone.
‘She’s hiding,’ said Gemma, ’or just gone home in a huff.’
We’d agreed and made our way back, trying to convince ourselves as we raced along the uneven pavements and dodged traffic as we crossed the main road that we were only running because of the cold.
As we went through the side gate into the garden Gemma hung back. I’d seen the key still behind the plant pot too. I unlocked the back door and checked but we’d both known Rose wouldn’t be there.
I wasn’t kidding. The house was still empty. Gemma’s mother would be back from work soon.
Examiner Comment
The narrative shows some complexity and the decision not to give details of the argument is consistent with the idea that the dispute itself pales into insignificance compared to the disappearance of the younger sister. The story involves an argument between friends but is not limited by the argument or distracted with how it started and why. There are realistic details of the park and its other occupants with the reaction of the mothers to the friends’ loud behaviour typical of how parents might well react to rowdy teenagers. The sense of shock when the friends realise that the sister is nowhere to be seen is convincing. The skeleton image suggests their fears that something awful might have happened.Constituent parts of the narrative are controlled and balanced with a crafted ending suggesting there is more to come and this is just part of the story. Vocabulary is carefully chosen and though there is occasional reliance on cliché, the audience has clearly been considered throughout. Dialogue is used to move the narrative forward, engage the reader and suggest something of the characters themselves with a strong sense of the narrator’s voice and their mounting panic strong. Grammar and punctuation are almost always accurate.
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