(Focus on character development)
“B-ring, b-ring, b-rrrrrring”. I decided to pull over as my cell phone rang fiercely. It was my brother, he’d had another accident, and I had to go to the hospital immediately. I was about to twist my key in the ignition when I heard a soft rapping on my car window. I wound it down. There was a girl with acid pink long bubblegum hair, a slim pointed face and deep blue eyes. “I hear you’re heading to the hospital” she said in a soft sugary voice. I noticed her bulging belly. She was wearing baggy army pants, and a thick fleece. She looked in her late teens, so I let her in. “nice car” she says looking around the inside of my comfy convertible. “Thanks, what are you doing on the highway?” I say.“I need to get to the hospital”, she says sadly.“So what is your name” I whisper in a curious voice. “My name is- is- Saffron Winter” she says unconvincingly.
By Sophie McElwain-Wilson
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Monday, August 18, 2008
The House
(focus on developing plot creating tension and building up interest)
The peeling paint on the gate scratches my hands as I push it open. The house looks like one big mound of bad luck, about to fall down into its own foundations. By this time I’ve reached the door. I reach my hand out to knock but pull it back as if the house is a vicious animal that hasn’t been fed in a long time. I have a second attempt to knock but after waiting 40 seconds I try the door knob. To my surprise the door swings open and throws me on the carpet. It slams shut, I go to check but all I can hear is the eerie sound of an organ playing. So quiet it could be in my mind.
By Billie Bishop-Ash
The peeling paint on the gate scratches my hands as I push it open. The house looks like one big mound of bad luck, about to fall down into its own foundations. By this time I’ve reached the door. I reach my hand out to knock but pull it back as if the house is a vicious animal that hasn’t been fed in a long time. I have a second attempt to knock but after waiting 40 seconds I try the door knob. To my surprise the door swings open and throws me on the carpet. It slams shut, I go to check but all I can hear is the eerie sound of an organ playing. So quiet it could be in my mind.
By Billie Bishop-Ash
Steam punk town
Steam Punk Town - Axel (focus on Setting)
Everything was a blur. Where am I? and why was I here?
As everything slowly came to me I saw a dim foggy light. It was the only thing that made it possible for me to see, I nearly choked when I took a breath of the dirty industrial air. I walked over to a tube marked with pollution. It was labelled “C the world” in large letters, there was a small capsule inside. I decided to get in it, it jerked me forward and I slowly sped through the tube, the brown misted air seemed to stare at me, the only sign of colour was a small glint from the small mossy tiles that lined the street, I couldn’t take it any more I pushed a button and I sped to the end of the tube I had to get out of this place. I ran to a sky dock and grabbed the first Zoom I could find. It made me speed out of Steam Punk I felt so relived I was out of that disgusting place which might have been mans worst mistake.
Axel co. products
Everything was a blur. Where am I? and why was I here?
As everything slowly came to me I saw a dim foggy light. It was the only thing that made it possible for me to see, I nearly choked when I took a breath of the dirty industrial air. I walked over to a tube marked with pollution. It was labelled “C the world” in large letters, there was a small capsule inside. I decided to get in it, it jerked me forward and I slowly sped through the tube, the brown misted air seemed to stare at me, the only sign of colour was a small glint from the small mossy tiles that lined the street, I couldn’t take it any more I pushed a button and I sped to the end of the tube I had to get out of this place. I ran to a sky dock and grabbed the first Zoom I could find. It made me speed out of Steam Punk I felt so relived I was out of that disgusting place which might have been mans worst mistake.
Axel co. products
The House -
By Rhy - (focus on developing plot creating tension and building up interest)
I walked through the dense bush, pushing small rotting trees out of my way. “Are we there yet?” Tim asked
“I don’t know” I replied, and then suddenly the bush track gave way. We slid down the hill stones and leaves rolling down under us. I stood up and right in front of us was an old rickety house it looked like it had been standing for a thousand years. “Shall we go inside?” asked Tim
“Ya” I answered. As we slowly walked over to the destroyed door, I tapped it, and then it slowly creaked open. As we took a step inside, the damp air was cold on my skin and the paint on the wall was rotting away. Under my feet was a puddle of murky slime. We walked up to the stairs to the sound of a thousand screams in my head all at one time. “GO AWAY!” I screamed
“Why?” Tim replied.
“The screams” I answered.
“What screams?” Tim asked again.
“Nothing, nothing” I said. We continued up the stairs. I blinked and saw shadows all around me. The peaceful sound of a clock ticked away tick, tock, tick, tock. I followed the sound of the clock, a rotting wooden door stood between me and some thing terrible. I pushed the door it didn’t move so I pushed harder it bust open I fell to the floor and looked up to see blood all up the walls and bodies of tortured souls the clock had stopped ticking Tim was gone and the shadows were coming.
By Rhys Feeney.
SteamPunk Town - By Hugh
Focus on Setting / orientation
I feel comforted as I come through the hazy clouds, as smoke pumps out of my flying machine. The wind blows forcing dark smoke into my bare face. Distracting me from the spectacular views. I come slowly gliding down to Steampunk, on my search of a strong standing town. The gleam of the lighthouse reflecting off the water making me want to swim, but I know that that’s not what I came for.
Even as I know that the town is as gloomy as a dark bedroom on a lonesome winter’s night, I feel a sense of warmth.
The deathly smog coming through the yellow sky is making me fan the grotty air in front of me, just for a breath of fresh air. But I’ve seen worse where life has choked on thin air.
Hugh.C
I feel comforted as I come through the hazy clouds, as smoke pumps out of my flying machine. The wind blows forcing dark smoke into my bare face. Distracting me from the spectacular views. I come slowly gliding down to Steampunk, on my search of a strong standing town. The gleam of the lighthouse reflecting off the water making me want to swim, but I know that that’s not what I came for.
Even as I know that the town is as gloomy as a dark bedroom on a lonesome winter’s night, I feel a sense of warmth.
The deathly smog coming through the yellow sky is making me fan the grotty air in front of me, just for a breath of fresh air. But I’ve seen worse where life has choked on thin air.
Hugh.C
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
SteamPunk
Steampunk Story - By Rosie
Focus on Setting / orientation
The swirling mist tickled my nose as I slowly drifted to the ground, my rickety old hot air balloon just coping with my weight. The last time I had visited Steampunk was over 50 years ago, now my hands and face were as wrinkly as an over ripe tomato.
My package thumped like a drum in my chilled hands, as I slowly walked down the moss covered cobblestone steps. I immediately noticed the city leisurely waking up, as if I had broken an endless curse. Without delay I set off towards the old and weary pencil factory. The steam from the chimneys puffed out as if being smoked from an old pipe. I remembered playing on the old pier which now sat motionless on the mirror like harbour. The only ripples were being made by an old steam boat, puffing and gliding towards the old and bleak lighthouse.
I lightly laid my package on the front step of the factory, its walls now covered with mould and rotting wood. A small shiver ran up and down my spine, as I remembered what the once beautiful Steampunk used to look like. The rich colours of the cool blue of the ocean and rainbow tinted sky had now been taken over by the smoke and smog of the run down, and exhausted industrial buildings.
A silent tear fell from my bewildered eye, as walked back to my ancient balloon. Gliding into the clouds I longed for the old Steampunk to return, to my old and favourite town.
By Rosie Reid
Focus on Setting / orientation
The swirling mist tickled my nose as I slowly drifted to the ground, my rickety old hot air balloon just coping with my weight. The last time I had visited Steampunk was over 50 years ago, now my hands and face were as wrinkly as an over ripe tomato.
My package thumped like a drum in my chilled hands, as I slowly walked down the moss covered cobblestone steps. I immediately noticed the city leisurely waking up, as if I had broken an endless curse. Without delay I set off towards the old and weary pencil factory. The steam from the chimneys puffed out as if being smoked from an old pipe. I remembered playing on the old pier which now sat motionless on the mirror like harbour. The only ripples were being made by an old steam boat, puffing and gliding towards the old and bleak lighthouse.
I lightly laid my package on the front step of the factory, its walls now covered with mould and rotting wood. A small shiver ran up and down my spine, as I remembered what the once beautiful Steampunk used to look like. The rich colours of the cool blue of the ocean and rainbow tinted sky had now been taken over by the smoke and smog of the run down, and exhausted industrial buildings.
A silent tear fell from my bewildered eye, as walked back to my ancient balloon. Gliding into the clouds I longed for the old Steampunk to return, to my old and favourite town.
By Rosie Reid
The Deadly House
By Daranee
(focus on developing plot creating tension and building up interest)
I stood on the sharp gravel path leading up to the house. The rusted, once grand, gate swing airily behind me. My head is trying to steer me away. I felt as though I was meant to come to this house.
The garden was seriously overgrown, stacked to the brim with dead wrangly flowers. I fragilely amble up to the French windows and peer inside. I get a strange chilling feeling as I gaze inside the crude lifeless room. I make my way over towards the dark dingy doorway. The door handle is in the shape of an eye. It is cool and damp as I place my hand on it. Before I make my way inside I take another glance around the garden that looks like a barren wasteland off the Lion King. I turn the handle and scamper inside. The wallpaper is cracked and falling to pieces off the walls. The stairs going up to the next level look as though they will crumble any second, yet I still retreat up the stairs. As they creak they send echoes howling through my ears and around the house.
By Daranee Bolger
(focus on developing plot creating tension and building up interest)
I stood on the sharp gravel path leading up to the house. The rusted, once grand, gate swing airily behind me. My head is trying to steer me away. I felt as though I was meant to come to this house.
The garden was seriously overgrown, stacked to the brim with dead wrangly flowers. I fragilely amble up to the French windows and peer inside. I get a strange chilling feeling as I gaze inside the crude lifeless room. I make my way over towards the dark dingy doorway. The door handle is in the shape of an eye. It is cool and damp as I place my hand on it. Before I make my way inside I take another glance around the garden that looks like a barren wasteland off the Lion King. I turn the handle and scamper inside. The wallpaper is cracked and falling to pieces off the walls. The stairs going up to the next level look as though they will crumble any second, yet I still retreat up the stairs. As they creak they send echoes howling through my ears and around the house.
By Daranee Bolger
Hitchhiker
Daes - By Samantha Gorham
(Focus on character)
My car cruises smoothly across the long and old road. Mailboxes and driveways rush past. I begin to see a dot of a person in the distance. The hitchhiker has a look in her husky eyes that says ‘Another car speeding past’, so I stop. “Thanks for stopping,” her clear voice has hardly any accent. “Are you going to Ratahi, mate?” the words seem to darken, like she didn’t want anyone to hear them, but me. “Sure,” I reply as I study her. The beanie she is wearing has a worn and dusty look to it, as so did her grey hoodie; and the jeans had seen better days. I slyly notice a dark cord wrapped around her neck, like a snake constricting its victim. “Name?” she asked
“Uh, personal,”
“Fine. Same here,”
I sighed inwardly. “It’s Kane,”
“Cool. I’m Daes,”
By Sam. G
(Focus on character)
My car cruises smoothly across the long and old road. Mailboxes and driveways rush past. I begin to see a dot of a person in the distance. The hitchhiker has a look in her husky eyes that says ‘Another car speeding past’, so I stop. “Thanks for stopping,” her clear voice has hardly any accent. “Are you going to Ratahi, mate?” the words seem to darken, like she didn’t want anyone to hear them, but me. “Sure,” I reply as I study her. The beanie she is wearing has a worn and dusty look to it, as so did her grey hoodie; and the jeans had seen better days. I slyly notice a dark cord wrapped around her neck, like a snake constricting its victim. “Name?” she asked
“Uh, personal,”
“Fine. Same here,”
I sighed inwardly. “It’s Kane,”
“Cool. I’m Daes,”
By Sam. G
Monday, August 11, 2008
THE HAUNTED HOUSE
By Luke - (focus on developing plot creating, tension and building up interest)
I limp through the over grown grass, the moss which is taking over the old forgotten path slimes through my toes. The cracked yellow cobbles cut my feet. The ghost like stone cold door handle sends a freakish shiver down my now spiky haired back. I hear a horrid creak, the chipped door that is hanging on one hinge opens. I hear a scream and turn to run but I get sucked into a lifeless room
BY LUKE SEARLE
I limp through the over grown grass, the moss which is taking over the old forgotten path slimes through my toes. The cracked yellow cobbles cut my feet. The ghost like stone cold door handle sends a freakish shiver down my now spiky haired back. I hear a horrid creak, the chipped door that is hanging on one hinge opens. I hear a scream and turn to run but I get sucked into a lifeless room
BY LUKE SEARLE
Stranger on the Loose - Character by Andre Chumko
My rusty Suzuki was vibrating calmly, almost purring, as I see a Hitchhiker thumbing for travel. I pulled my car up, almost 3 millimetres away from him. He didn’t even flinch. He knocked fiercely on the smoggy window-pane and blurted out these words in a frustrated manor: “Can I get in already”? In a shallow, low-pitched tone of voice coming from hairy lips that were dry, and the surrounding face, badly shaven. He was wearing black, shiny sunglasses, a beanie that was a musty grey colour, very tattered and bold. A black woollen sweater, with patchwork on the left hand side of his pocket, almost right by his leather gloves, which looked expensive. I quickly analysed him without being suspicious and muttered back to him with a daft expression: “Sure mate”. His belt was a crackling black shade that squeaked whenever he moved. It had a polished silver ring in the middle of it. And he scrambled hastily into my vehicle, as if he were startled by something. I felt like exploding! His deodorant smell was hideous! I wanted to have an argument with him right now. But I couldn’t. I was too afraid. He looked like he had some sort of weapon, and he could strike me at any time.
Andre Chumko
My rusty Suzuki was vibrating calmly, almost purring, as I see a Hitchhiker thumbing for travel. I pulled my car up, almost 3 millimetres away from him. He didn’t even flinch. He knocked fiercely on the smoggy window-pane and blurted out these words in a frustrated manor: “Can I get in already”? In a shallow, low-pitched tone of voice coming from hairy lips that were dry, and the surrounding face, badly shaven. He was wearing black, shiny sunglasses, a beanie that was a musty grey colour, very tattered and bold. A black woollen sweater, with patchwork on the left hand side of his pocket, almost right by his leather gloves, which looked expensive. I quickly analysed him without being suspicious and muttered back to him with a daft expression: “Sure mate”. His belt was a crackling black shade that squeaked whenever he moved. It had a polished silver ring in the middle of it. And he scrambled hastily into my vehicle, as if he were startled by something. I felt like exploding! His deodorant smell was hideous! I wanted to have an argument with him right now. But I couldn’t. I was too afraid. He looked like he had some sort of weapon, and he could strike me at any time.
Andre Chumko
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