Form 6 Descriptive Writing - Up High
This term, Form 6 have been exploring what it’s like to write descriptively, unconstrained by plot. The results of these creative experiments have been wonderful; I’m incredibly pleased with the linguistic gusto with which the class have thrown themselves into each task. I was reading through some of these pieces while Form 8 were in my room, working on their own compositions, and had to share some of the best phrases out loud. The Form 8 pupils’ response was, “Wow… oh no… they’re better than us!” Not yet, maybe, but watch this space…
As the sun sets, Kilimanjaro comes to life. The copper colours shine over as the ruddy clouds sweep out of view. The clouds turn plum, and the sky goes teal. Lion cubs run out, and so do boisterous wolves.
The loitering villagers walk back into their small villages, as nosy hikers trek their way down the mountain. A herd of gazelle stampede down. All of a sudden, it is quiet. Tumbleweed rolls down the hill daintily.
The vulture swoops over, looking for lonely animals to eat. The mirage is disappearing. There is no noise, apart from the wind whispering. Not many people would get to see this alluring sight. The stars shine and reflect on the river below. It’s like they’re communicating.
The gas of the hot air balloon ruins it. The harsh noises don’t fit in the beauty of Africa.
by Harriet W-B
The sky was an artist’s masterpiece. Ribbons of pink, red and lilac swirled in a never-ending waltz. Touches of blue tinged the pink, before shying away, like a scared infant. The clouds loitered in the sky, as though spectating the show of colour and brilliance. Dark birds swooped and dived and glided through the ribbons of colour, ducking and weaving like serpents with wings. Down below, the sand was still, asleep in a blanket of golden grain. Heat waves rose to watch the show of colour, before gently wafting up to join the parade.
Suddenly, a trumpeting noise pierced like a blade through the silent morning. The sand woke in alarm. A magnificent beast had woken morning’s fitful sleep. The beast was many metres tall, and built of sturdy muscle. A long trunk uncurled itself and hesitantly touched the cool air, before letting out another disruptive trumpet. As though it had been an elephant alarm clock, the Safari Centre awoke. Giraffes craned their elegant necks upward and fluttered their hooded eyes as though they were flirting with the beautiful skies. Scorpions scuttled across the golden grains of sand, waving their pincers menacingly.
Then… ROAR! One of the safari trucks revved into life. The wheels did two full rotations before the sand released its hold and the truck raced across the track. The wheels popped over the empty Coke cans, grinding them down. The friction of the wheels rattled the bars of the enclosures as the animals awoke.
The truck eventually ground to a stop outside the Gift Shop. A hose was thrown out the window, and a small, skinny man with metal glasses began to water the array of beautiful pansies, lilies and roses that stood guard outside the shop.
As the man had his back to the enclosures, a girl snuck through. She was small and skinny, with a messy mop of brown hair that stood up like a brush. She was carrying two plastic bags that rustled and crackled. The girl stopped at the animal enclosure, and dug her hand into the bag. She took it out again and plunged her arm through the bars, before flattening her palms. A baby elephant lumbered forward out of curiosity. The girl had brought leaves from an acacia tree. The baby trumpeted in delight, and snuffled up the leaves. The elephant made such a noise, the man spun around and yelled at the girl, who ran off, a cheeky grin on her face. Just as she departed, the first car ground up the track. Daytime had come.
by Cameron P
The vines melted down the grey, colourless buildings, into the abandoned, dead-looking city. The vines descend into manholes and the undying grass, drab with colour. In the park, the grass died, and the trees fell totally rotten. As you move through the park, rusty, losing-colour children’s rides creak and croak for oil. Every slow-moving, forever-lasting call for help was an evil, dastardly laugh, as if a clown was watching every step you take. As you move through, you see a black, dried-out pit, filled with small bones.
Whilst moving out of the lagoon of terror and dread, you see skinny, lonely wolves carrying decaying cubs on their lonesome backs, their spines falling into their rib-cages. Wearily, the wolves move back into the street, rocking every broken slab walked on, walking past empty-to-the-bone gun stores with fragmented cases and perished dust. Wolves as a pack move up the street, with down-trodden relatives on their crumbling backs, and sharp teeth. They meet the point of a pistol. A survivor, with packs of ammunition all over his insulating armour.
In front of the survivor lie crashed, broken, taunting tanks and army trucks from that terrorising event that hit. Near the manholes gurgles atomic waste, slowly taking the wretched, smashed city. Broken and fragile propellers from a crashed helicopter fall into the wasteful, dusty, distant life of the past.
Back in the city, buildings of dapple were wrecked and undermined. Offices upon offices, flats upon flats, destroyed, with glass panes burst, dust piling like a teenager’s clothes basket. This city, filled with dread and slaughter, falls to dusk in the smoky, ashen mist it was recently covered by.