Assignment 1 - informative,analytical and/or argumentative
The most successful writing for this assignment often draws on personal experiences or interests. If you have experienced something unusual, have lived somewhere amazing or feel very strongly about a particular issue, then write about it.
Examples:
A persuasive article about a topical issue
An account of a holiday
A personal reflection on the experience of living in more than one culture
An informative article about a sport or hobby
In your groups read through your article and complete the following tasks:
1 What is the topic of this article?
2 Who is the audience?
3 What is the purpose of this piece of writing?
4 Where would it appear?
5 Comment on the structure of this essay. Explain your ideas with reference to the article.
6 Comment on the language and style. Explain your ideas with reference to the article.
7 Using your mark scheme, which band does it belong to? Explain your ideas.
8 Re –wind time and imagine you are going to write this essay. Write out an essay plan for this essay that would exist before the essay.
jueves, 22 de noviembre de 2007
Analysing the Articles
Assignment 1 - informative,analytical and/or argumentative
The most successful writing for this assignment often draws on personal experiences or interests. If you have experienced something unusual, have lived somewhere amazing or feel very strongly about a particular issue, then write about it.
Examples:
A persuasive article about a topical issue
An account of a holiday
A personal reflection on the experience of living in more than one culture
An informative article about a sport or hobby
In your groups read through your article and complete the following tasks:
1 What is the topic of this article?
2 Who is the audience?
3 What is the purpose of this piece of writing?
4 Where would it appear?
5 Comment on the structure of this essay. Explain your ideas with reference to the article.
6 Comment on the language and style. Explain your ideas with reference to the article.
7 Using your mark scheme, which band does it belong to? Explain your ideas.
8 Re –wind time and imagine you are going to write this essay. Write out an essay plan for this essay that would exist before the essay.
The most successful writing for this assignment often draws on personal experiences or interests. If you have experienced something unusual, have lived somewhere amazing or feel very strongly about a particular issue, then write about it.
Examples:
A persuasive article about a topical issue
An account of a holiday
A personal reflection on the experience of living in more than one culture
An informative article about a sport or hobby
In your groups read through your article and complete the following tasks:
1 What is the topic of this article?
2 Who is the audience?
3 What is the purpose of this piece of writing?
4 Where would it appear?
5 Comment on the structure of this essay. Explain your ideas with reference to the article.
6 Comment on the language and style. Explain your ideas with reference to the article.
7 Using your mark scheme, which band does it belong to? Explain your ideas.
8 Re –wind time and imagine you are going to write this essay. Write out an essay plan for this essay that would exist before the essay.
The IGCSE Course outlined! Show this to your parents!
IGCSE First Language Syllabus for 2008
Coursework is 50% of the assessment
The aims of the English Language IGCSE are to enable you to:
Communicate accurately, appropriately and effectively
Understand and respond appropriately to what you hear, read or experience
Enjoy and appreciate variety of language
Develop general skills, which will help in other areas of study (e.g. analysis)
Develop understanding of yourselves and others
The Extended Examination
This is a 2 hour exam.
There are 2 passages linked by theme to read.
There are 3 questions, which might be subdivided, to answer.
The exam counts for 50% of your overall mark.
Coursework
You submit three word-processed assignments, each of about 800 words.
Coursework counts for 50% of your overall mark.
Extended Examination in detail
PART 1
Passage A, of approximately 600 words, is followed by Questions 1 and 2:
Question 1 (20 marks)
This question tests your reading skills. You are asked to respond to the first passage. You need to show that you have understood both explicit and implicit meanings and attitudes in the passage and that you are able to select and evaluate information from the passage for a particular purpose.
15 marks are awarded for reading skills and 5 marks are awarded for writing skills.
Question 2 (10 marks)
This question asks you to comment on how the writer of the first passage has used language to achieve particular effects. You need to select words and phrases of significance from the passage and comment in detail on the effects of their effects.
PART 2
Passage B, of approximately 600 words, linked by theme to passage A, is followed by Question 3:
Question 3 (20 marks)
This question asks you to write a summary based on both passages A and B. You need to show your ability to select, and organise what is relevant to the specific summary task.
15 marks are awarded for the content of your summary and 5 marks are awarded for your writing skills
You need to make sure you spend approximately 15 minutes reading the passages and planning your answers.
ENGLISH LANGUAGE IGCSE: Coursework in detail
Coursework now comprises 50% of the overall English IGCSE marks and so you must make sure you do yourself full justice in the work you produce. This is your opportunity to show that you can:
write accurately and fluently using varied sentence structures and vocabulary
structure your work effectively
write with a sense of audience and entertain your readers
argue convincingly using appropriate supporting information and persuasive language
reflect upon experience and be thoughtful in your accounts of what is felt and imagined
(the above bullet points are based on the A grade coursework criteria)
Although you need to check the suitability of chosen topics and tasks with your teacher you have a great deal of choice in selecting what to write about. You will produce your best work when writing enthusiastically about something you care about so choose topics carefully. Your coursework will be completed in class and at home using your laptops. Planning and redrafting are important stages of the process, which you can involve friends and family in. Discuss ideas, share memories, ask friends to read your work and comment. You must include a first draft for one of the 3 assignments in your final coursework folder.
Assignment :1 Informative, analytical and/or argumentative
The most successful writing for this assignment often draws on personal experiences or interests. If you have experienced something unusual, have lived somewhere amazing or feel very strongly about a particular issue, then write about it.
Examples:
A persuasive article about a topical issue
An account of a holiday
A personal reflection on the experience of living in more than one culture
An informative article about a sport or hobby
Assignment 2: Imaginative, descriptive and/or narrative
You are not expected to write a complete story for this coursework assignment as writing a successful story in just 800 words is very difficult. You could write the opening or closing section of a story, or portray a character or setting.
Examples:
A narrative opening in which a character is introduced.
A description of a setting, which conveys atmosphere and introduces themes.
An autobiographical piece e.g. description of a childhood experience conveying emotion and atmosphere.
Assignment 3: A response to a text containing facts, opinions and arguments, such as an article or speech.
Your written response should select, analyse and evaluate points from the stimulus material. An additional 10 marks are awarded for the reading skills demonstrated in this assignment.
Examples:
A letter responding to a persuasive newspaper article
An article responding to a political speech
A letter responding to a campaign leaflet
REMEMBER: Coursework =50% so set yourself high standards and produce excellent work!
Coursework is 50% of the assessment
The aims of the English Language IGCSE are to enable you to:
Communicate accurately, appropriately and effectively
Understand and respond appropriately to what you hear, read or experience
Enjoy and appreciate variety of language
Develop general skills, which will help in other areas of study (e.g. analysis)
Develop understanding of yourselves and others
The Extended Examination
This is a 2 hour exam.
There are 2 passages linked by theme to read.
There are 3 questions, which might be subdivided, to answer.
The exam counts for 50% of your overall mark.
Coursework
You submit three word-processed assignments, each of about 800 words.
Coursework counts for 50% of your overall mark.
Extended Examination in detail
PART 1
Passage A, of approximately 600 words, is followed by Questions 1 and 2:
Question 1 (20 marks)
This question tests your reading skills. You are asked to respond to the first passage. You need to show that you have understood both explicit and implicit meanings and attitudes in the passage and that you are able to select and evaluate information from the passage for a particular purpose.
15 marks are awarded for reading skills and 5 marks are awarded for writing skills.
Question 2 (10 marks)
This question asks you to comment on how the writer of the first passage has used language to achieve particular effects. You need to select words and phrases of significance from the passage and comment in detail on the effects of their effects.
PART 2
Passage B, of approximately 600 words, linked by theme to passage A, is followed by Question 3:
Question 3 (20 marks)
This question asks you to write a summary based on both passages A and B. You need to show your ability to select, and organise what is relevant to the specific summary task.
15 marks are awarded for the content of your summary and 5 marks are awarded for your writing skills
You need to make sure you spend approximately 15 minutes reading the passages and planning your answers.
ENGLISH LANGUAGE IGCSE: Coursework in detail
Coursework now comprises 50% of the overall English IGCSE marks and so you must make sure you do yourself full justice in the work you produce. This is your opportunity to show that you can:
write accurately and fluently using varied sentence structures and vocabulary
structure your work effectively
write with a sense of audience and entertain your readers
argue convincingly using appropriate supporting information and persuasive language
reflect upon experience and be thoughtful in your accounts of what is felt and imagined
(the above bullet points are based on the A grade coursework criteria)
Although you need to check the suitability of chosen topics and tasks with your teacher you have a great deal of choice in selecting what to write about. You will produce your best work when writing enthusiastically about something you care about so choose topics carefully. Your coursework will be completed in class and at home using your laptops. Planning and redrafting are important stages of the process, which you can involve friends and family in. Discuss ideas, share memories, ask friends to read your work and comment. You must include a first draft for one of the 3 assignments in your final coursework folder.
Assignment :1 Informative, analytical and/or argumentative
The most successful writing for this assignment often draws on personal experiences or interests. If you have experienced something unusual, have lived somewhere amazing or feel very strongly about a particular issue, then write about it.
Examples:
A persuasive article about a topical issue
An account of a holiday
A personal reflection on the experience of living in more than one culture
An informative article about a sport or hobby
Assignment 2: Imaginative, descriptive and/or narrative
You are not expected to write a complete story for this coursework assignment as writing a successful story in just 800 words is very difficult. You could write the opening or closing section of a story, or portray a character or setting.
Examples:
A narrative opening in which a character is introduced.
A description of a setting, which conveys atmosphere and introduces themes.
An autobiographical piece e.g. description of a childhood experience conveying emotion and atmosphere.
Assignment 3: A response to a text containing facts, opinions and arguments, such as an article or speech.
Your written response should select, analyse and evaluate points from the stimulus material. An additional 10 marks are awarded for the reading skills demonstrated in this assignment.
Examples:
A letter responding to a persuasive newspaper article
An article responding to a political speech
A letter responding to a campaign leaflet
REMEMBER: Coursework =50% so set yourself high standards and produce excellent work!
Assignment 3 - Response to a text containing facts, opinions and arguments
Assignment 3 - Response to a text containing facts, opinions and arguments
Your written response should select, analyse and evaluate points from the stimulus material. An additional 10 marks are awarded for the reading skills demonstrated in this assignment.
Examples:
A letter responding to a persuasive newspaper article
An article responding to a political speech
A letter responding to a campaign leaflet
Your written response should select, analyse and evaluate points from the stimulus material. An additional 10 marks are awarded for the reading skills demonstrated in this assignment.
Examples:
A letter responding to a persuasive newspaper article
An article responding to a political speech
A letter responding to a campaign leaflet
Scratch - a sample descriptive story
France
- Creative Writing -
Scratch
A scrape of wood against cardboard box and a sudden burst of light. The hand quivers slightly, surprised by the unexpected brightness then drops the match into a water glass, already littered by dead burnt ends. Then another scrape, another burst of light, another silent drop into darkness… Another, then another, and then another… Monotonous. Repetitive. Rhythmic. An endless routine. Scratch. Light. Darkness.
Scratch…
Outside the dark, blurred windowpanes, twisted and knurled trees distort themselves in the wind like the screaming people, an occasional flicker of light reflected off black, skin-like bark. The sky, threateningly black, swallows its landscape whole and refuses to spit it out. All sound is lost in the vacuum of hell.
Light…
A teardrop of fire coils into a face, the bluish tint near the ensnarled tip of black etches into features of horror, screaming, begging and then gone as it tumbles into the depths of the dark water below. Soon another face appears; so near the fingers… Recognition dawns… Was that not? But before any answer becomes clear, the light goes out, the face falls, darkness returns.
Darkness…
Bloodstains against the flesh have still not disappeared. Dark they’ve become, so like the gloomy obscurity that suffocates the evening. Red bleeds as the pride suffers and dies, white lies like bleached and parched skin purged of all dreams of hope and blackness clouds the heart that lies crucified on a hard broken cross.
Scratch…
A shadowy oblivion, a treacherous memory, a deadly fear, the last pleas for life, over? The features of a woman distorted and warped in the flame, the look of a tear-stricken child numb with fear, the flow of red seeping down the black beard of one man. So many of them, smeared into one: the undying enemy.
Light…
Yellow inferno draws closer and closer each time, the wooden stick shorter and shorter, the lapse in time greater and greater before the sinister gloom returns.
Darkness…
The clang of doors, the whistles of officers, the shrieks of women and children being pulled apart, the occasional shot in the air, and the parting of the crowd as one more collapses. Again and Again. Over and Over.
Scratch…
Time is growing short now. Memories are growing stronger. Regret? Not possible. Another match, another rupture of light, another shattering darkness. How long now? An hour or more? How long then? A year or more? How many faces, how many pleas, how many lives had he ignored? One smudge. One enemy. The devil and his advocates. He was right. They were wrong.
Light…
Stronger gusts of winds against the glass panes push and shove, threaten and consol both at once. A small fiend at the end of the wood derides and ridicules. A bloody hand reaches out, and holds tight. Whispered prayers of help? One blast. The hand falls short. Dusk and blood mingle in the air. Silence returns.
Darkness…
Obscurity falls short of doom itself. Voices of torment mingle around one’s head, suffocating, strangling, shocking, torturing… The unbreakable sound of ones boot against the pavement, the barked orders to lie down, and the haphazard shots fired into random people’s skulls, painting a picture of small rivers pouring from waterfalls of demise into one massive ocean of anguish.
Scratch…
Rats scuttles about the mangled bodies, feasting on the flesh of all evil. Bones, stretched skin, dried blood. Wood, scratch, flame.
Light…
Piles upon piles lay stacked in holes, as piles upon piles of records lie stacked below his feet. The red flag with the black bent cross would forever fly. One was meant to believe, without question. They were evil. They wanted our downfall. They wanted to destroy all we had worked so hard for. They wanted the destruction of our pride. They had to be gotten rid of. Gas, flames, guns… Who cared? Get rid of them before they get rid of us. But that was over now. Records remained still. We were meant to forget that it had happened. Destroy all evidence. They were winning. We had waited too long. Destruction was at hand.
Darkness…
Papers, papers… Names, birth dates, pictures, fingerprints, weights, heights…Yellow tint, yellow flame… red blood, red flag… A voice, few cries, several screams….
Scratch…
Young and old gathered orderly… a burst of light in the hand… to the melting pot as they called it… Showers… only to bathe? Do they sense our lying smiles? In they go… of course its only water… Yes they’ll see the day again we say…if only they hurry up… but the day will be saturated with agony.
Light…
They knew… but we don’t care. So many… can’t they just disappear? Why keep coming, why keep fighting?
Darkness…
They were like us. They fought for their beliefs; we fought for ours. We seek to destroy them; they seek to destroy us. It was they or we. We had no choice. They were the enemy… But then you felt them grab your arm… a tear-drenched woman… she pleads; she begs… does she sense your weakness? You try to pull away… her skeleton hands won’t let go. You shout, she prays… She knows you’re about to crack… You pull out your gun; swiftly point it at her forehead….
Those eyes…
The bang, the fall, the vanishing of life in those eyes… it’s over. Yet they still stare at you.
A foot kicks. A harsh snicker. Well done.
Scratch…
Get rid of the evidence. Get rid of the memory. Stop letting them fall aimlessly… put them to use before the end. Stacks upon stacks… flashes of light… dropped…and then the devouring light spreads, smoke rising almost immediately, blinding… It’s almost over.
Light…
Orange glows all around.
One match left… one last unburnt end… One last reminder…
Get rid of it… purge yourself… You can forget… you can go on living. They were wrong.
But the hand can’t light it.
One stick.
Falls.
Unburnt.
Ends.
Darkness…
- Creative Writing -
Scratch
A scrape of wood against cardboard box and a sudden burst of light. The hand quivers slightly, surprised by the unexpected brightness then drops the match into a water glass, already littered by dead burnt ends. Then another scrape, another burst of light, another silent drop into darkness… Another, then another, and then another… Monotonous. Repetitive. Rhythmic. An endless routine. Scratch. Light. Darkness.
Scratch…
Outside the dark, blurred windowpanes, twisted and knurled trees distort themselves in the wind like the screaming people, an occasional flicker of light reflected off black, skin-like bark. The sky, threateningly black, swallows its landscape whole and refuses to spit it out. All sound is lost in the vacuum of hell.
Light…
A teardrop of fire coils into a face, the bluish tint near the ensnarled tip of black etches into features of horror, screaming, begging and then gone as it tumbles into the depths of the dark water below. Soon another face appears; so near the fingers… Recognition dawns… Was that not? But before any answer becomes clear, the light goes out, the face falls, darkness returns.
Darkness…
Bloodstains against the flesh have still not disappeared. Dark they’ve become, so like the gloomy obscurity that suffocates the evening. Red bleeds as the pride suffers and dies, white lies like bleached and parched skin purged of all dreams of hope and blackness clouds the heart that lies crucified on a hard broken cross.
Scratch…
A shadowy oblivion, a treacherous memory, a deadly fear, the last pleas for life, over? The features of a woman distorted and warped in the flame, the look of a tear-stricken child numb with fear, the flow of red seeping down the black beard of one man. So many of them, smeared into one: the undying enemy.
Light…
Yellow inferno draws closer and closer each time, the wooden stick shorter and shorter, the lapse in time greater and greater before the sinister gloom returns.
Darkness…
The clang of doors, the whistles of officers, the shrieks of women and children being pulled apart, the occasional shot in the air, and the parting of the crowd as one more collapses. Again and Again. Over and Over.
Scratch…
Time is growing short now. Memories are growing stronger. Regret? Not possible. Another match, another rupture of light, another shattering darkness. How long now? An hour or more? How long then? A year or more? How many faces, how many pleas, how many lives had he ignored? One smudge. One enemy. The devil and his advocates. He was right. They were wrong.
Light…
Stronger gusts of winds against the glass panes push and shove, threaten and consol both at once. A small fiend at the end of the wood derides and ridicules. A bloody hand reaches out, and holds tight. Whispered prayers of help? One blast. The hand falls short. Dusk and blood mingle in the air. Silence returns.
Darkness…
Obscurity falls short of doom itself. Voices of torment mingle around one’s head, suffocating, strangling, shocking, torturing… The unbreakable sound of ones boot against the pavement, the barked orders to lie down, and the haphazard shots fired into random people’s skulls, painting a picture of small rivers pouring from waterfalls of demise into one massive ocean of anguish.
Scratch…
Rats scuttles about the mangled bodies, feasting on the flesh of all evil. Bones, stretched skin, dried blood. Wood, scratch, flame.
Light…
Piles upon piles lay stacked in holes, as piles upon piles of records lie stacked below his feet. The red flag with the black bent cross would forever fly. One was meant to believe, without question. They were evil. They wanted our downfall. They wanted to destroy all we had worked so hard for. They wanted the destruction of our pride. They had to be gotten rid of. Gas, flames, guns… Who cared? Get rid of them before they get rid of us. But that was over now. Records remained still. We were meant to forget that it had happened. Destroy all evidence. They were winning. We had waited too long. Destruction was at hand.
Darkness…
Papers, papers… Names, birth dates, pictures, fingerprints, weights, heights…Yellow tint, yellow flame… red blood, red flag… A voice, few cries, several screams….
Scratch…
Young and old gathered orderly… a burst of light in the hand… to the melting pot as they called it… Showers… only to bathe? Do they sense our lying smiles? In they go… of course its only water… Yes they’ll see the day again we say…if only they hurry up… but the day will be saturated with agony.
Light…
They knew… but we don’t care. So many… can’t they just disappear? Why keep coming, why keep fighting?
Darkness…
They were like us. They fought for their beliefs; we fought for ours. We seek to destroy them; they seek to destroy us. It was they or we. We had no choice. They were the enemy… But then you felt them grab your arm… a tear-drenched woman… she pleads; she begs… does she sense your weakness? You try to pull away… her skeleton hands won’t let go. You shout, she prays… She knows you’re about to crack… You pull out your gun; swiftly point it at her forehead….
Those eyes…
The bang, the fall, the vanishing of life in those eyes… it’s over. Yet they still stare at you.
A foot kicks. A harsh snicker. Well done.
Scratch…
Get rid of the evidence. Get rid of the memory. Stop letting them fall aimlessly… put them to use before the end. Stacks upon stacks… flashes of light… dropped…and then the devouring light spreads, smoke rising almost immediately, blinding… It’s almost over.
Light…
Orange glows all around.
One match left… one last unburnt end… One last reminder…
Get rid of it… purge yourself… You can forget… you can go on living. They were wrong.
But the hand can’t light it.
One stick.
Falls.
Unburnt.
Ends.
Darkness…
A Judgement of Solomon - A creative piece
A Judgement of Solomon
My arms surround the tiny bundle, enveloping her. I am crouched over her, we are eye to eye, and I can see how my breath ruffles her eyelashes. I study her face carefully, committing every feature to memory. The sparse light that trickles through the gaps in the wall glints off her hair. So little hair – fair and so thin that it barely covers the blue-veined scalp. Her mouth lies open, toothless and pink. The lips, parted now, their soft skin delicate against my coarse hands supporting her. Her skin, downy and translucent, glows, ethereal in the gloom. The pink blanket wrapped tightly around her warms my hands, frozen in the icy coldness of the room.
In the shadows I can make out the whites of Sara’s eyes as she stares up at me with passive incredulity. She and Johan huddle together in a corner, her arm around his shoulders, giving him all the protection a twelve year old can. None of us move. I am paralysed by the freezing blood thumping rhythmically through me, reminding me at every beat of what I am holding in my arms. Sara shuffles slightly and there is a sudden noise outside. Terror takes hold of me and I am unable to breathe. Johan’s eyes widen and I grip tightly, grasping the fragile infant in my desperate, twisting fingers. A metrical tread sounds, the boots stamping out a tattoo on the floor. I am scarcely breathing, my mouth as dry and airless as the tiny bundle against my heart. With my other hand I grasp Johan, only nine years old, his eyes are squeezed shut against the faceless danger. My fingers trace the line of the rough yellow pattern sewn onto the rough cloth of his jacket. He and Sara know better than to stir: the slightest sound means the end for us.
For an eternity we stay, motionless and hushed, figures frozen in a grotesque sculpture. I feel sweat pearling into droplets, gliding down my backbone, pooling above my skirt. Sara is crying, silently, desperately. Her stare screams up at me, silently accusing. I look, but the only eyes I see now lie lifeless beneath blankets in my arms.
There, in the darkness and stench, I remember the anguish of watching my baby grow gradually thinner, her skin become yellow and the china-thin bones stretch at the surface, threatening to break through. I had no more milk, yet she would suck desperately at my empty breast, clutching at me with her hands, unable to comprehend. At night, her reedy voice would pierce through the building. Never had I imagined such a tiny, frail body could make so much noise. I remember the miniscule fingers grasping at me, my face, my body, my hair, twisting in my hair until it snared and broke. Her pink mouth open, eyes all but invisible as she stormed out her fear, her cold, her hunger, her rage.
Awkwardly, my hands aching from cramp and cold, I unwind my hair from her stiff little fingers. It snags, a last rebellion. As the last of the footsteps fades outside I lay the corpse at my feet, giving it one last look before I turn, with an arm around each of my children, and open the door.
My arms surround the tiny bundle, enveloping her. I am crouched over her, we are eye to eye, and I can see how my breath ruffles her eyelashes. I study her face carefully, committing every feature to memory. The sparse light that trickles through the gaps in the wall glints off her hair. So little hair – fair and so thin that it barely covers the blue-veined scalp. Her mouth lies open, toothless and pink. The lips, parted now, their soft skin delicate against my coarse hands supporting her. Her skin, downy and translucent, glows, ethereal in the gloom. The pink blanket wrapped tightly around her warms my hands, frozen in the icy coldness of the room.
In the shadows I can make out the whites of Sara’s eyes as she stares up at me with passive incredulity. She and Johan huddle together in a corner, her arm around his shoulders, giving him all the protection a twelve year old can. None of us move. I am paralysed by the freezing blood thumping rhythmically through me, reminding me at every beat of what I am holding in my arms. Sara shuffles slightly and there is a sudden noise outside. Terror takes hold of me and I am unable to breathe. Johan’s eyes widen and I grip tightly, grasping the fragile infant in my desperate, twisting fingers. A metrical tread sounds, the boots stamping out a tattoo on the floor. I am scarcely breathing, my mouth as dry and airless as the tiny bundle against my heart. With my other hand I grasp Johan, only nine years old, his eyes are squeezed shut against the faceless danger. My fingers trace the line of the rough yellow pattern sewn onto the rough cloth of his jacket. He and Sara know better than to stir: the slightest sound means the end for us.
For an eternity we stay, motionless and hushed, figures frozen in a grotesque sculpture. I feel sweat pearling into droplets, gliding down my backbone, pooling above my skirt. Sara is crying, silently, desperately. Her stare screams up at me, silently accusing. I look, but the only eyes I see now lie lifeless beneath blankets in my arms.
There, in the darkness and stench, I remember the anguish of watching my baby grow gradually thinner, her skin become yellow and the china-thin bones stretch at the surface, threatening to break through. I had no more milk, yet she would suck desperately at my empty breast, clutching at me with her hands, unable to comprehend. At night, her reedy voice would pierce through the building. Never had I imagined such a tiny, frail body could make so much noise. I remember the miniscule fingers grasping at me, my face, my body, my hair, twisting in my hair until it snared and broke. Her pink mouth open, eyes all but invisible as she stormed out her fear, her cold, her hunger, her rage.
Awkwardly, my hands aching from cramp and cold, I unwind my hair from her stiff little fingers. It snags, a last rebellion. As the last of the footsteps fades outside I lay the corpse at my feet, giving it one last look before I turn, with an arm around each of my children, and open the door.
Morning - a descriptive story
Morning
It happened by chance because they were outside the window. They were in the hedge, nestled like purple jewels in their thorny bed. Juicy black secrets hanging off the branches, wet with moisture and dew from the English rain that had just fallen. The sky was dingy and grey, but the rain had awakened the world, so that every smell was tangible in the thick, wet air. Dung from the farm was mixing with the sodden damp smell of freshly cut grass, the mud of the ditches tingeing the musty aroma of the Somerset field. The red brick tang of Emma’s house grated our noses; making us blink each time we took a breath. Yellow were the windows that warmed our thoughts; black were the gloves that were damp, sticking to our hands with blackberry pips. Purple rivers ran down our wrists before black clusters found their way to the wicker basket usually used for carrying hens’ eggs.
We had to empty the berries out of the wicker basket because of the hens’ eggs that needed to go in it. Emma’s mum gave us some Tupperware boxes: they were cold and made out of rough plastic with a lid that had a little button at the top. Emma said that you knew it was closed properly when the button couldn’t be pressed anymore. I never did work out if I had got it closed. But I didn’t say anything to Emma because she might have thought I was arguing with her and she was my best friend. Emma’s room was up the stairs, turn left, second door to the right. The oak door had a panel with “Emmeline” written on it. I always wondered if it was because she might forget where her room was. I didn’t think she would but I always kept the directions in my mind just in case.
Becky was Emma’s sister and she was really thin, spindly and white. She was older, and at a posh school. Her hair was a mass of orange threads like Emma’s but her face was whiter; and her freckles small flecks of spiced red that dotted her face like bloodspots on bleached linen. My mum used to talk about her sometimes at our house and there was a word that was specially for her and it was called Leukaemia. She had an inhaler and some tablets that she took with orange juice. The inhaler was a long purple bottle and it looked like the big water pistol that I had wanted so much in the toyshop for a whole 20 pounds. But the inhaler wasn’t a toy, Emma told me, her hair covering her face while she looked for the friendship bracelet box of coloured beads, silvery threads, and large dull needles, the ones that we spent over half an hour with trying to get the thread through the eye, outside in the garden.
I knew that Becky took tablets every day because I stayed over at Emma’s a lot when we were doing our ballet exam. My mum always used to say that Emma was better at ballet than me because she was lanky and she let herself go. I didn’t like being near Emma in ballet class because I always felt stupid and I could feel the eyes of the teacher boring into my back because I was wobbling. I don’t know why she did it because it always made me wobble more.
The smooth wooden parquet of the ballet hall smelt of chalk and resin, and the grain went one way so that we didn’t scuff our ballet shoes. Emma’s ballet shoes were always muddy because of her farm. I really did like that farm, with the hedges and the red bricks, the cows giving birth, the sun hot on our necks as we played in the crops on the field, the strong smell we always savoured by the horses, placing our smooth hands on their rough coats, counting how many hands they were. Emma’s big strong dad was six foot four with large shoulders and huge rubber boots that came up to his knees. He would whip the russet hair out of his face and lift me up so I could continue counting, lifting me clear of the long green grass that whispered around my knees, softly chanting the sweet song of summer. The blue sky mirrored his crinkly periwinkle eyes that danced when he smiled. He was a beacon of gentle power against the backdrop of his working farm.
One day my mum told me that one of the cows had accidentally kicked Emma’s dad in one of those kind blue eyes. Emma didn’t come to school the next day. When I went to her house she was quiet. The sun was piercing through the windows and the birds were singing their high-pitched melodies from far away in the trees. Emma would usually have been able to tell me the bird names but she didn’t that day. When my mum came to pick me up she said goodbye solemnly and I was abandoned, listening to our mums talking in hushed voices. She had closed the big oak door on me. Left me staring at the golden lion knocker on the worn wooden panels.
Alone in that bright, pure morning.
It happened by chance because they were outside the window. They were in the hedge, nestled like purple jewels in their thorny bed. Juicy black secrets hanging off the branches, wet with moisture and dew from the English rain that had just fallen. The sky was dingy and grey, but the rain had awakened the world, so that every smell was tangible in the thick, wet air. Dung from the farm was mixing with the sodden damp smell of freshly cut grass, the mud of the ditches tingeing the musty aroma of the Somerset field. The red brick tang of Emma’s house grated our noses; making us blink each time we took a breath. Yellow were the windows that warmed our thoughts; black were the gloves that were damp, sticking to our hands with blackberry pips. Purple rivers ran down our wrists before black clusters found their way to the wicker basket usually used for carrying hens’ eggs.
We had to empty the berries out of the wicker basket because of the hens’ eggs that needed to go in it. Emma’s mum gave us some Tupperware boxes: they were cold and made out of rough plastic with a lid that had a little button at the top. Emma said that you knew it was closed properly when the button couldn’t be pressed anymore. I never did work out if I had got it closed. But I didn’t say anything to Emma because she might have thought I was arguing with her and she was my best friend. Emma’s room was up the stairs, turn left, second door to the right. The oak door had a panel with “Emmeline” written on it. I always wondered if it was because she might forget where her room was. I didn’t think she would but I always kept the directions in my mind just in case.
Becky was Emma’s sister and she was really thin, spindly and white. She was older, and at a posh school. Her hair was a mass of orange threads like Emma’s but her face was whiter; and her freckles small flecks of spiced red that dotted her face like bloodspots on bleached linen. My mum used to talk about her sometimes at our house and there was a word that was specially for her and it was called Leukaemia. She had an inhaler and some tablets that she took with orange juice. The inhaler was a long purple bottle and it looked like the big water pistol that I had wanted so much in the toyshop for a whole 20 pounds. But the inhaler wasn’t a toy, Emma told me, her hair covering her face while she looked for the friendship bracelet box of coloured beads, silvery threads, and large dull needles, the ones that we spent over half an hour with trying to get the thread through the eye, outside in the garden.
I knew that Becky took tablets every day because I stayed over at Emma’s a lot when we were doing our ballet exam. My mum always used to say that Emma was better at ballet than me because she was lanky and she let herself go. I didn’t like being near Emma in ballet class because I always felt stupid and I could feel the eyes of the teacher boring into my back because I was wobbling. I don’t know why she did it because it always made me wobble more.
The smooth wooden parquet of the ballet hall smelt of chalk and resin, and the grain went one way so that we didn’t scuff our ballet shoes. Emma’s ballet shoes were always muddy because of her farm. I really did like that farm, with the hedges and the red bricks, the cows giving birth, the sun hot on our necks as we played in the crops on the field, the strong smell we always savoured by the horses, placing our smooth hands on their rough coats, counting how many hands they were. Emma’s big strong dad was six foot four with large shoulders and huge rubber boots that came up to his knees. He would whip the russet hair out of his face and lift me up so I could continue counting, lifting me clear of the long green grass that whispered around my knees, softly chanting the sweet song of summer. The blue sky mirrored his crinkly periwinkle eyes that danced when he smiled. He was a beacon of gentle power against the backdrop of his working farm.
One day my mum told me that one of the cows had accidentally kicked Emma’s dad in one of those kind blue eyes. Emma didn’t come to school the next day. When I went to her house she was quiet. The sun was piercing through the windows and the birds were singing their high-pitched melodies from far away in the trees. Emma would usually have been able to tell me the bird names but she didn’t that day. When my mum came to pick me up she said goodbye solemnly and I was abandoned, listening to our mums talking in hushed voices. She had closed the big oak door on me. Left me staring at the golden lion knocker on the worn wooden panels.
Alone in that bright, pure morning.
Suscribirse a:
Entradas (Atom)