Here’s my attempt at a ‘compelling’ GCSE Creative Writing Task. It can be manipulated to suit all manner of different titles and exam boards and has been engineered to reflect the marking criteria too. So the language is ‘ambitious’ and I have included many language techniques too. Structurally, I have also played with the narrative and included a range of punctuation. I hope it is helpful!
GCSE Creative Writing: Write about an event that can’t be explained.
Three years ago I was in a dark, dismal place. Suffice to say I was inert. Or should I describe it as writer’s block and keep it safe and uncomplicated? You might not believe me of course and for that, I wouldn’t blame you. But I blame myself for far more than you could ever imagine, as this story will reveal.
Back then, my lassitude felt like some stubborn, viral infection that had set in one Christmas and refused to heal. It lingered about me like a malevolent fungus and my once happy days as a student seemed long banished. I knew that my only hope of passing my year was the much-vaunted, independent project. Of course in more halcyon days, I would have flourished in the once inspirational library, but my lethargy followed me doggedly even to the top floor of that famous red-brick building.
Persistent devil.
So there I was that Friday night watching my trusty Dell illuminate itself, pointlessly yet AGAIN!
I experimented with the title in a pretty font; deleted it; typed it again. The time was dead on 10 pm. Outside, some desultory hail added atmosphere to my misery.
For not a single word of value crossed my mind. There was nothing left in my imagination. Nothing. I checked my watch as if that reflex might help somehow. Still nothing: I was a creative carcase. Beyond help.
Cornered in that desolate place, I required a miracle, so I uttered some scrambled, desperate, surely futile prayer.
The hail grew bolder, more defiant. Who was I to pray?
Old Harry the caretaker must have heard my weary, guilty sighs; so he approached my table carrying a paper cup. ‘The machine’s working again Nat’ he said out of breath despite his regular promises to quit the miniature cigars. ‘The chocolate’s a treat,’ his voice carried little conviction but I nodded. Harry was a decent man.
‘Thanks. I might try it. ‘ I was the master of distraction after all.
Harry wheezed back over to his special post and started a letter to one of his ex-wives. This was his nightly habit. He always told me he much preferred his wives divorced than married. ‘Makes them seem exotic’ he told me. And he loved any excuse to write in his Parker fountain pen. If I listened carefully I could hear that hooded nib scurrying across the vellum paper, scattering words of banter and goodwill. Harry clearly had plenty to write about, unlike me.
The hail abruptly gave up any idea of a storm, as if it knew something, as if my prayer had made a difference somewhere.
Then it happened. The event. I call it an event but I have really no idea what else to call it and I certainly can’t explain what occurred- even now.
So, imagine the scene. Pay attention. My arms were tense, flexed out. My fingers were feigning interest in the keyboard, but achieving absolutely nothing. I felt quietly sick to my soul; resigned to yet another night of failure, when suddenly, I saw him, sauntering out from behind the American Literature Aisle, whistling a Beach Boys’ song, just like he always did before it happened. He had pushed his favourite turquoise baseball cap back on his fair head as if he was starring in some movie. Golden lad. God, how I had missed him.
‘You shouldn’t whistle in libraries,’ I said and smiled. ‘Especially at night.’
‘Nat! ’ he said. Just that. ‘Nat!’ His voice sounded as if it originated from the other side of the world.
I couldn’t move and I am sure I sobbed for a while and then he changed his song, just for me. And at some point he wagged his finger at me, side to side, like old times, admonishing my tears. ‘Enough’ he said .’Enough.’ So I stopped. Wiped my eyes.
A moment later, I sensed he had insinuated himself behind me on my chair, scrutinising my blank screen; smelling of some other world and of mints of course. Just like always. ‘Come on Nat’ he said. Let’s fly, let’s fly away! ‘ He nudged me somehow on the back of the neck and even inside my mind.
My arms started to burn as if their sinews had been ignited with some crazy paraffin and then the heat reached my fingers in a surge, making them jump about on the keyboard. My fingers blazed luminously in their strange warmth and started to type words, independently and at great speed. Fascinated, I watched my fingers as if they belonged to some other person: I swear I have never seen words typed so quickly and with such resolve.
‘Bravo! ‘ he said. ( I dared not speak his name yet. ) ‘Let’s pursue that idea all the way home!’
So I did. We did. The typing galloped on and on and on. How long it took I have no notion; I am not sure it could be calibrated anyway as the library’s light formed a special tent of minty air over my chair and laptop as if we were on some secluded camping retreat where time couldn’t find us and instead, let us be.
When the word count reached the assigned limit, I lifted my hands from the keyboard in a blessing. He tousled my hair affectionately in the old way. I was evidently forgiven. My relief was so immense that I fell forward onto the desk and passed out.
When I woke up, Harry was nudging me with a cup of chocolate. ‘Drink this’ he said. ‘You deserve it.’
I blinked and held up my hands which were tingling.
‘You looked like you were inspired. All that frenzy, all that passion! Gave me something to tell Gloria I can tell you! ‘ Harry laughed.
‘What time is it ?’ I asked still blinking.
That’s the thing,’ said Harry. ‘That clock did the strangest thing.’ He tilted his head to one side, striving to make sense of his next words. ‘Time seemed to take a break somewhere. Stepped off the merry-go-round.’
We both glanced over at the library clock. It said 10-10 pm. Not possible. I had written ten thousand words in ten minutes. Not possible. I checked my screen. The words hadn’t left me but he had. I turned my head around. No turquoise cap, no whistling, no Beach Boys. He had gone.
10-10. The time of his last breath.
‘It was like your head was in a cloud of minty air,’ said Harry.’ And there’s no way I can explain myself any better than that. ‘He took out a handkerchief. ‘Well, would you look at that! ’ A huge, embroidered ‘G’ was now entangled with a large, ‘H.’
‘Fancy that’ I said. ‘Destiny. And I bet you don’t relish the thought of a cigar either?’
‘Never again,’ said Harry. ‘Unhealthy things! He walked away quite jauntily for a man of his age.
‘Thank you, ‘I said to the air which still smelt minty which comforted me.
The next day, I submitted my project. My tutor declared it utterly inspired. ‘As if you were charged with something extraordinary- like creative quicksilver!’
‘Near enough’ I said, modestly.
Did my twin come back again? Did he help me out another time? What do you think? Let’s just say we have reached an understanding that has no end.
Consequently, I’m sitting on this beach, watching waves, hoping that he won’t be late. He’s getting slower at getting back. ‘ You don’t need me anymore,’ he jokes.’ And I’m having fun over here.’
‘I miss you still,’ I say.
‘Miss you too’ Saul says. Even his words shine.
And then as if by magic, there he is. Saul. My twin. Surfing the waves, waving, coming to see me once more.
OMG this is is AMAZING?!!? I am speechless.