Writing – My actual GCSE answer 36/40

Hey, it’s Katherine. So I got a level 8 in my English language GCSE. I was so happy when my English teacher decided she wanted to recall my paper so that it could be used as an example piece. I got 36/40 for this question: 23/24 for content and 13/16 for grammar. I have changed a couple of grammatical errors that I spotted but other then that and a word I had to guess at because it was covered by the examiners marking, it is completely unchanged. I couldn’t find the same image that the exam board used but the image is a pretty close to the tone of the original image and to the tone of my writing. I am so proud of this piece of work and hope you enjoy or that this is helpful to you if you are studying for your GCSEs.

The rumble of the engine hummed into life. The gentle clunk of stopping and starting; neverending was the cycle of oppression for the gears and wires and fumes that keep the hulking great beast alive. Faded seat covers fraying, still smelling of sour nicotine and depression from times when clouds of fog were heavied into dying lungs by the general public. They were too lost in their working lives to see the graves they dug for themselves. These buses, the hearses that would drive them through.

Sighing the beast stops, its riders dismount. New footsteps trail their new lives through the old. The past is written in foggy finger-smears from the youngest of this world: a smiley face, a house, some clouds. Like snail trails, each mark shows where they have been and where they now go.

Engine hums, lights go on. Engine hums, light go out. The cycle continues.

New life stirs inside one beast rider. Her high-pitched voice laughing away with the husband who waits at home. His lies seep through the phone line and lie at the bottom of the lake of fog, his own despair. He hopes her child is his.

The student frantically writes. Her mind is lost in highlighters and post-it notes. The exams that drain her life of colour, force her to remember the world in neon yellow and green pen. She missed her stop. Again. The cycle of desperation rolls swiftly forward. She will lose her notes tomorrow. The cycle will begin again.

Wheels screech to a halt. The beast pulls into the station, driver tugging at its reins. The other animals of transport will discuss the day’s events. Secrets shared. Lies told. Objects lost. Another day in the endless cycle. The disjointed hum of longing and loss, whirring to a stop.



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