Descriptive Pieces - Form 8
For Common Entrance, Form 8 often have the choice of writing a descriptive piece, instead of a story. Here are some lovely compositions from the tail end of last term, where they tried their hand against three vague but potential-filled titles: ‘Waking Up’, ‘The Clifftop’ and ‘A Foreign City’.
by Sasha R
The sun heated the room which was now full of warmth. It looked hot outside, but a light breeze whispered the bushes. Grey clouds were slowly disappearing, and new, fresh, fluffy ones were waking up to the lovely morning. The time of waking was coming.
Bodies lay still in their beds, as still as pencils, their heads popping out like rubbers. Their warm cheeks glowing, they didn’t know yet that they would have to do the thing that everyone hates: leave their nice, warm bed and wake up. They lay there, stiff, not moving, not even one leg stretching out to say good morning to the sun shining into their bedrooms. They didn’t want to move a single muscle.
The birds were awake, and flapped their wings, getting food for themselves and their hungry babies. Their blue eyes were open to see their big new world in front of them. The frogs in the pond stayed right under the water. Bubbles floated up to the surface, the frogs’ slippery hands sticking to rock like a koala on a tree. Of all the animals, only the birds seemed never to sleep.
But then, a horrible noise met the pencil bodies’ ears, a sound that was hard and loud, and it got quicker and louder. It was like a bomb going off. Although the bodies did not like the sound, they were no stranger to it. They heard it every day, apart from those two special days which they called the weekend. On those two days, they didn’t hear anything, apart from the sweet sound of silence.
The sound was a BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, and it got louder and louder. The still, calm and now sad bodies slowly reached out to touch the button that would stop that horrible sound from killing the room. They knew, and all the animals knew, they had to wake up… sometime.
by Georgie N
Foam rapidly climbed up the chalky cliff. The giant piece of rock was being showered by the spitting sea. Shells sheltered on the edge of a welcoming cave, but the shark-like waves dragged the helpless organisms away from their homes. Mixtures of prints peacefully lay on the damp sand. Shells were scattered everywhere as if a bomb had blown their weak souls away from their community. Emerald pieces of seaweed glinted in the sun that gazed down. The seaweed was a home, until the ocean sprinted up and dragged it into its midnight depths.
Like a baby wolf calling for its mother, the wind howled endlessly. It enraged the ocean, which caused every type of chaos. The sky had mixed emotions, projecting the sun sometimes, but other times the clouds rolled in like a rose Rolls Royce. Life was darkened as that vehicle strode in, the sea turned from a glimmering sapphire to a cobalt bath. Gently, the sun had begun to drop down, and the world began to darken further. Shaving foam was left on the beach by the clumsy sea, though thankfully the sand subtly broke it down and digested it.
The wings of filthy seagulls flapped rapidly in the fuchsia sky, desperately trying to find some poor soul to dive like an Olympic diver down, and rudely snatch some revolting or delicious meal from their hand. Endlessly, the wind would gallop away, and then just as the atmosphere was still, it came racing back, which disturbed the playful flowers, who sat quietly swaying backwards and forwards together, clinging to teeth-like rocks, which, coated in steel, stood regimentally.
A Foreign City
by Cameron L
Dust rose up like a ghost awakening from a light, drowsy slumber, shaking itself vigorously. It clawed at the silks, bathed on rusty cars and powdered itself lightly onto old buildings. Stray dogs, feral and rabid, ran through the streets like merchants, pompously busying themselves in their day’s work, whilst terrifying the occasional tourist with their frothing, foaming, spitting mouths.
Old shops clung to each other for support, for the first one to go would be the end of them all. United they stood, divided, they would fall. They looked like a motley crew, some selling tea and tobacco, others cheap televisions and phones, non-existent because of their age in the Western world.
Outside the shops but in the shade, wizened old men chatted slowly, gently inhaling the aromatic scents from their pipes. Cricket was often the subject of conversation, with the odd raised voice about who would win the local derby.
Just down the street, the hubbub could be heard of the open air market, traders vigorously displaying their goods to passers-by in a chaos of noise and commotion. Large hessian sacks of rice, brown, white and black, were displayed alongside spice ranging from bright orange to deep purple in hue. Pots and pans, shining, almost silver in colour, also lined the stalls.
Rickshaws ran past like scurrying rats racing towards a piece of cheese, zigzagging erratically like a computer having a glitch as it tries to draw a straight line. The people seated atop the cart hollered hoarsely to, “get out of the way!” or “crank up the speed!”
Up, rising above it all, in the not too near distance, were the dark, ominous high rise blocks, like giants wading slowly towards you across the river of slum.
My stark, white linen shirt and pale skin stood out like a sore thumb here, in the middle of Mumbai.