A.S. 2.1 Task: Memories are made of this
Exemplar D: Excellence
The One That Got Away
The night air is cool and comforting. It seems somehow as I grow older, that I only experience the night en route to completing some tedious task or other. I do not venture out as I once did, to run and smell and touch. Tonight, though, something is different and I stop to look and feel. I feel safe, wrapped in the blanket of darkness under my sky’s watery eye, just as I had that day so long ago.
Stars freckled the face of that Cyclops sky and seemed to twinkle, to smile, to dance just for me. I smiled back, whispering my thanks for the calm and clear night, perfect for fishing. The wharf loomed ahead, bridging earth and water, inviting me to cross the line. Ink black waves threaded with silver moonlight lapped the piles, their gentle slap the only sound in the still night. I walked to the wharf’s end, set down my bag and bucket, then eased myself down on the cool wooden planks, dangling my legs over the edge. It felt almost dangerous to swing them there, starkly white against the nothingness beneath. My line made a satisfactory plop as it hit the water.
I followed the line in my mind, chasing the bait and sinker down, down, down into the depths, past the sprat schools, down till it settled on the rocky bottom, befriending a lonely clump of seaweed and wizened old hermit crab. I wound the line up twice around the handle, so it hung just above the bottom and the hungry hermit. I waited. I listened to the lapping wave rhythms. I watched the stars and they watched back. I waited.
Sometimes I think when you’re young you think you spend your whole life waiting. Waiting for the holidays. Waiting for Christmas. Waiting for Dad to come home from work in his old Falcon. Waiting for the excitement to burst, for dreams to come true. Waiting for the fish.
The line jerked. I tweaked back, excitement rising in my throat. In one movement I stood to pull the line in. The nylon strained and my forearms ached but still I pulled. It broke the surface like a dream, a beauty.
I held the fish out, admiring my handiwork. It struggled, strong still out of water, slippery in my small hands. Its eye, wide and pale, stared at me. It did not beg, it just watched. For an instant the fish and I seemed locked together, linked somehow. I felt my heart twinge, defrost, and without a second thought I eased the hook from the gaping mouth and dropped him back. It lingered there, momentarily, before flicking its tail and disappearing. It all seemed right, somehow.
The night air was cool and comforting. I felt safe, wrapped in the blanket of darkness under the sky’s watery eye. I stood, gazing out into the darkness for just a few more seconds before turning towards home. 491 words
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Student Instructions
Write a narrative about a significant incident. The incident could be real, or completely or partly fictionalised.
Begin with a ‘trigger’ as a way of remembering the incident, develop with a description of events and feelings, and conclude by reinforcing a main idea, or theme.
You will produce a narrative of at least 400 words.
You will be assessed on:
· how well you develop your ideas
· your ability to use a writing style that is appropriate to the task
· how well you structure your story
· your accuracy in spelling, punctuation and grammar.
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A.S. 2.1 Task: Being There
EXEMPLAR A: EXCELLENCE
Tarras
It is winter, early morning in the little township, chilled and blackfrosted, the plants and bushes stiffly frozen, the football field icy, the trees carrying crystals of sharp ice up to the wet sodden air-hugging mist.
Listen. It is morning quietly roving the main road, the moist melodic streaming mist rising over the garage and the schoolhouse. It is grass shivering on the hill. Sunrise, dawn, the chorus of birds in the pinetrees.
It is Sunday morning. The thin clear slants of sun echo back onto the thick mist. In the silver windowed house, the parents sleep heavy while three blanketed children toss and turn. In the workshop of the garage, Joe is up and in his practical oil-stained overalls is working on that ute that the farmer needs today. Back in the house, the children now sit heavy-eyed around the wooden rectangular table.
And the toast burns as the jug boils.
"Hurry up kids, we'll be late," Mum shouts, sharp tongued. Washed and combed and brushed, families drive the short way to the little church on the hill. Past the swamp where the dragonflies shimmer and hover in the morning sunlight. Where the captured tadpoles would have grown into glazed green slippery little frogs.
Look. On the hill behind the house the pinetrees lift their heavy branches of sharp dense needles into the dwindling disappearing time-now-over mist. Down below in the township, the little general store opens its ready-for-anything doors to sell soap to biscuits, flour, tea towels, light bulbs and milk that will arrive later in the day carried for hours on the bus.
And soon you will be sitting on hard straight-backed wooden pews with no cushions. The tiny white wooden church echoing with the sound of morning hymns, streaming out into the frosty but now sunstreaked morning. 301 words
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Student Instructions
You will write a description about a place. Choose your own scene and develop a description which evokes a sense of being there, of the place, its people, its sights and sounds. Your writing will be rich in imagery combining elements of both poetry and prose. Your writing in this particular style will be at least 400 words long.
You will be assessed on
· how well you express and develop your ideas
· your ability to use an appropriate writing style
· how well you organise your writing
· your accuracy in spelling, punctuation and paragraphing.
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A.S. 2.1 Task: Well Known
A grandson writes about his grandfather:
Exemplar C: Excellence
Poppa
You could always tell Grandad was on his way. Some people managed to arrive with grace and style. Not our Poppa. No way. He was about as subtle as an errant sledgehammer in a china shop. Of course it didn’t help that his trusty Morrie Minor with its bung exhaust system announced his arrival to the whole neighbourhood.
The car crawled to a stop outside. Grandad made his grand entrance. The door flew open and with an energy that put people half his age to shame, he pulled his hat off, peered up to the crisp blue sky, and scratching his mop of hair muttered, “Bugger of a day!” Be it blazing hot or pouring with rain, he said the same thing. Finishing his salutations to Mother Nature, he took his customary ‘Royal Walk’ around the garden.
As I lay in my room the breeze blew in his sighs of pleasure, his comments about what should go there, what looked nice. No matter where I was I could tell when he entered the house. Rusty, our Red Setter, could be heard tapdancing his pleasure on the kitchen lino as Poppa grabbed him and rubbed him behind the ears. Then it was my turn. With a wink and a punch on the arm he reintroduced himself. “Hi ya kid, giving the buggers hell?” I assured him that yes indeed the buggers were being given hell. He seemed pleased. With that, he flopped down into his favourite armchair. At this point I left. Adult talk was boring. Besides I had business to take care of.
Poppa had one major achilles heel. ODDFELLOWS. And so did I. One thing which Poppa could be counted on was a glove compartment full of half-empty bags of Oddfellows. I gave him time to fall into his regular cycle of inane chatter with Mum.
Thirty minutes passed. The time was now. Creeping up to the car, I pulled the car door open. I was horizontal, like a spy on an especially dangerous mission. Slowly the glove compartment opened its mouth, revealing its hidden treasure. I grabbed my stash and rushed like a thief in the night to my hideout. Then lunch was upon us. I sat on the floor, with my plate precariously placed on my knees. Mum and Poppa kept talking as if the food going in their mouths was but a minor inconvenience.
5pm came around far too quickly. With a great heave he stood. Stretching his arms above his head like an Olympic weightlifter he shouted in a boisterous voice, ”Closing time, everybody out!” We walked him to this car. I always felt sad. Sometimes it felt like it could be the last time I’d see him. He gave me a hug. “See ya kiddo, don’t let the buggers grind you down!”
He reached in, opened his glove compartment and grabbed a handful of Oddfellows. Despite my protests he shoved them in my pocket.
“Add them to your stash,” he winked. Crafty bugger!
With that he jumped in his car and drove off, not before announcing it to the neighbourhood thanks to the noisy muffler.
Eight years later he died. I was devastated. Suddenly the world seemed a less friendly place without him. To this day the smell of Oddfellows remind me of my sweet, crazy Poppa. 553 words
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Student Instructions
Write a description about a person you know well. Your description will highlight how you have structured your writing and selected details effectively which ‘reveal rather than tell’ about your subject and your attitude towards them.
Your description will be at least 400 words long.
You will be assessed on
· how well you express and develop your ideas about your subject
· your ability to craft your description and to select details carefully
· how well you structure your writing
· your accuracy in spelling, punctuation and paragraphing.
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A.S. 2.1 Task: Prequels and Sequels
[Based on Othello, William Shakespeare]
The flash of cannon blasts heaved the boat under Othello’s feet. The gleam of a flying grappling hook caught his eye as it homed in on the Turkish ship. Othello tasted the salty mix of sweat and sea water on his cracked lips and steadied his stance.
“Ready yourselves men. The infidel approaches! We must stand fast against them. It is time for Christianity’s fangs to sink deep into the Turks.”
At that moment the Turkish caravel collided with the Venetian vessel and the gangways were lowered. Othello’s militants charged, their fierce commander at their right flank. The flash of bright blades as they hacked down the scimitars of the Ottoman forces was the scene on which the sun set and the Turkish cries greeted the stars.
The deathly calm sea was in direct contrast with the massacre spread before Othello’s eyes. Yet what a prize: the Turkish ship laden with spices and the Ottoman general as hostage. Othello’s eyes glinted a tinge of green as visions of acceptance flashed behind his eyelids. Now he was truly a Venetian.
Iago’s eyes glinted too, but for a different reason. He saw a hold full of spice. If only the crawling Cassio and his master, the Moor, were not overseeing the operation, his fortune would be secured. Iago’s bitter eyes fell on the Moor. Him – a Venetian? Ha!! Hatred rose from deep within him, threatening to burst through his honest façade. Iago struggled to bring the rage under control. Despite his keen intuition he could not recognise the racism deep within himself. Instead he focused on the rumours. The Venetian infidel had cuckolded his wife! The strumpet! Soon he would have vengeance.
“Brave honest Iago!” The Moor stood before him, his palm outstretched in greeting. Iago accepted the open-palmed shake and allowed a sad smile to draw across his face. Secretly he abhorred the touch of the infidel’s black hand.
“Well met, Signor Othello. You have proved yourself more than a Venetian in battle.” (‘More like a Turk’, Iago thought.)
“Ay, a success ’t’was for many, but a grave defeat for the few at our feet. I see you struggling to find your smile, friend. Perhaps thoughts of your lost men cast a shadow upon our victory?”
“’tis so noble Othello. While I smile on the outside, I seethe on the inside just thinking of the infidels’ blades and their evil deeds against Christianity.”
“Come, let us return to Venice,” Othello declared, “ so that the Senate might bestow upon your shoulders the honours you have earned.”
With that, the Moor boarded the ship, followed by hatred’s incarnation.
* * *
The scene that night was one of joyous revelry: Venetian high society gathered in full dress to honour those who had fought and won against the mighty Ottoman Empire. The banquet table, laden with delectable meats and fine Sumerian wine, was surrounded by the vivacious faces of the diners.
In the middle of the congenial gathering one man sat, a smile gracing his face like the others. However the charm was forced as Iago sat, once again, a man passed over for promotion, and viewed with hatred’s eyes the Moor escorting his strumpet-wife Emilia to a table. Wasn’t it enough that the Moor should cuckold him, without now flaunting it in public? Othello’s respectful treatment of Emilia he saw only as evidence of an affair between them. Curse his black hide! And now Othello appeared to be spreading his evil Muslim influence to Venetian society as he secretly courted Desdemona.
“But the Moor in his complacency will prove
an easy target for my arrows of discord and I,
Christianity’s fine archer,
shall start the hunting.”
With these thoughts, Iago slipped out through the banquet hall doors, unnoticed, his conscious mind scheming and his unconscious hating. 634 words / Ways in which the narrative reflect the play:
In Shakespeare’s play Othello the Turks are identified as the enemy and Othello is asked to engage in battle at sea against them. This is therefore a convincing scenario.
A link to the reference to ‘bright swords’ made by Othello in Act One of the play.
Othello is a victim of ‘the green –eyed monster’ of jealousy in the play.
Othello seeks assurance that he is worthy in the eyes of the Venetians.
Iago is an opportunist. He is always out for personal gain.
He loathes Cassio for the respect he shows Othello.
‘Ha’ – a phrase associated with Iago.
Iago hates Othello. He makes racist references in the play; he believes Othello has slept with his wife.
Typical of Othello’s speech, his ‘open nature that thinks men honest that but seem to be so.’
Iago lies to Othello’s face.
Othello speaks in grand phrases.
Iago’s appearance belies his hatred. He is scheming.
Othello marries Desdemona in secret.
Iago plans his revenge. / Comments linked to assessment criteria:
Ideas are developed and integrated convincingly. The writer convincingly recreates Shakespeare’s characters in this narrative and also sustains close links to the original text as outlined in the middle column.
Awareness of time and place, eg the spices on board the ship, the descriptions of the battle with scimitars, the Sumerian wine, the references to Christians versus Muslims show maturity of understanding and skilful attention to detail.
Controlled writing is shown through the use of sophisticated language used appropriately to give a sense of the past.
Control is also shown with the ongoing integration of material that links back to the original text, from gestures to theme, language and physical characteristics.
The confidence this writer shows in this powerful story by weaving together aspects of a new tale and the original story commands attention.
Structure is effective because it builds to a conclusion which shows a plausible reason for the actions which follow in Shakespeare’s Othello.
Writing conventions are used accurately.
Student Instructions