The cold steel door handle sends a shiver down my spine as I pull it down slowly. (One sentence in the author managed to send a pretty powerful message to the reader: “I am creating a narrative with aesthetic description that appeals to the senses and aims to relate to the reader – and lastly, can I have a H1?” I sure hope so! From this point on, I am reading this essay as if I am watching an ice skater doing impossible tricks, going for the gold medal – and clenching my fists in hopes that they don’t slip. A strong opening is one of the best ways to get the examiner on your side.) The dark mahogany door opens with a deep, echoing creak and I feel a trickle of sweat on my forehead. (Suspense and tension = elements of the language of narration.) I slip through, opening the door to a minimal distance and taking care to close it gently behind me. I rub my hands together for warmth as the dark cold night beckons me to start shivering. I inhale and exhale deeply and heavy clouds of mist form as my warm breath meets the cold air. I can taste the coldness in my mouth and I start sweating to warm up. (Well, this last bit doesn’t make sense because you only sweat to lose heat – but luckily, this isn’t a physiology exam. The rest of this essay is pure description and nothing really happens in it. Few people have the talent of writing so descriptively about something as uneventful as a walk in a forest. The introduction with the door handle, trying to avoid being heard and sweating in suspense sets the scene of a Bond film, so reading about snails and moths for seven paragraphs is a little disheartening. I would rewrite the introduction so that it prepares the reader for the actual body of the essay. Still, this is a brilliant essay.)
My eyes catch the scattered night-time drops of dew as they are illuminated by the pale light of the moon. They shine, like a million eyes staring back at me from the dark green hue of the hedges. Among the bushes, a spider builds a silken web. Precisely and carefully, the spider leaps from each leaf of the thick hedge, constructing its intricate trap. (“Its” used correctly! More brownie points.) The moon hides behind a patch of greyish, navy clouds. Its light breaks through the wispy clouds, penetrating their dark cover. The sky is freckled with brilliant, glowing stars. Their intensity contrasts against the sombre blue of the night sky, and warmth begins to fill me again as I take in this magnificent sight.
Reaching for my torch, I press my thumb into its switch and it turns on with a click. I start walking, my feet crunching the autumn leaves that lay on the moist ground. The brilliant reds, oranges, yellows and browns I saw this morning have changed into sombre blues and dark greens. (Excellent!)It seems their warmth in colour has succumbed to the chill of the autumn night. (We know, don’t spell it out too much.)My flashlight reveals a lone snail making its way across the leaves. It moves without seeming to move at all, taking its time. It leaves behinds a slimy trail of mucus as it goes, which catches the yellow light of my flashlight. I am startled by the sudden loud barking of a dog – my neighbour’s hound. This low growl is then followed by a chorus of other dogs in the suburb, as if in a dog choir. I hear the slow crescendo of an oncoming car. As it gets closer, I hear the crisp traction of its tyres with the black tarmac of the road. It zooms by with a flash of white, blinding light and the splash of a puddle.
I continue walking, basking in the now eerie silence of the suburbs. The thin layers of ice on the pathway crackle under the rubber soles of my shoes. In the distance, a lamppost glows amber. As I approach it, I see a moth fluttering round the light source. It incessantly crashes into the bulb with a faint *dink* each time. A gentle breeze hits me from behind, setting me on my way again. The breeze continues, whistling in my ears and causing nearby trees and bushes to sway idyllically. I think of my childhood, when I thought the dark did not harvest any life. Night-time was a period of nothingness, in which nature went to sleep. I feel glad that I was disillusioned at this age, glad to be able to observe the life and light in the dark of the night.
I point my flashlight on a sign, which reads: ‘Grenwich Forest’. Following the gravelly paths, my shoes make a gritty sound due to the myriad loose pebbles beneath them. The path grows ever mossier as I venture further into the forest. The air changes – it is now damper, but fresher. I take in a deep breath of fresh air, filling my lungs with the natural oxygen of my surroundings. An abrupt hoot beckons my head to look in the direction of a nearby tawny owl. Its intense round eyes seem to me to be almost belligerent, and my grip on the flashlight tightens. As I begin my effort to lurk by this magnificent beast, it takes flight. Its wings stretch into a feathery mass of whites, beige and browns. It flies off into the forest with a dull flapping sound that dies off after a while.
I take a gulp of the forest air through my nostrils. I smell the vibrant smell of green plants, of autumnal foliage, of colourful flowers. Looking up, I observe the light of the pale moon as it slithers between the tops of the forest’s trees. It transforms their dull, dark leaves into a majestic glowing green. The path has now faded into fully overgrown moss and dew-dappled grass. My shoes now squelch on the wet ground and with each step, I seem to be sinking deeper into the dirt. The moon has moved higher into the sky now and I knew it would be time to go home soon.
All of a sudden, I see a large illumination of light to my right. Curious, I trod through the overgrowth towards the source to look upon quite a striking sight: this collection of light is actually many little fireflies swarming together. I am awe-struck at their magic quality; how do they manage to capture that light? They flutter around – in their hundreds – leaving a glowing trail of light after them. Each insect is as magnificent as the next, flying in harmony alongside each other in the eerie silence of the night.
I venture back home, with a briskness to my gait. The moon is nearly at the end of its tenure in the sky, and the myriad sounds of cars tells me I need to get home quickly. I glance into the windshield of one woman as she is waiting in the early morning traffic. She has dark rings of fatigue around her eyes open in puffed slits of redness. Yawning, she takes a sip of what I presume is a warm, caffeinated drink. My own fatigue weighs down on me as I feel my muscles struggle to do my bidding. My stride becomes erratic, due to my sudden lethargy and I struggle to keep my eyes open. One deep inhale of the clear dawn air gives me enough fuel to make it to the door of my house. Faced with the same dilemma as before, I open the door at a snail’s pace, anticipating the dull creek, and shut it behind me in a similar fashion. I wipe any evidence of the night into the thick, brown bristles of the doormat. Taking off my tattered shoes, I slink stealthily up the stairs in an effort to avoid detection.
Once in bed, my eyes succumb to weariness and close heavily. I dream of the night life just moments away.
Leaving Cert English Papers are marked using “PCLM”
Clarity of Purpose
P: Focus
– a descriptive essay, appropriate to the title Night Scene understanding of genre
– the effective use of some elements of descriptive writing e.g. imagery, use of setting, anecdote, creation of atmosphere, attention to detail, quality of observation, appeal to the senses, etc. originality and freshness, etc. All excellently done.
Coherence of Delivery
C: The extent to which the descriptive writing is successfully sustained and developed effective shaping of the essay sequencing and management of ideas, etc. This isn’t quite as strong because the introduction doesn’t 100% match the body of the essay.
Efficiency of Language Use
L: Quality and control of descriptive language e.g. style, vocabulary, syntax, punctuation, etc. All excellently done.
Essay 2
Another essay by the same title, corrected and graded by an experienced SEC examiner.
Everyday, around the same time, no matter what, a strange phenomenon occurs. The big flame of burning light and piercing rays drifts to just below the horizon of where the eye can see, stops as though saying goodbye, allowing us to revel in its last heat, before eventually disappearing. Rapidly, the sky fills with a hollow blackness, covering the world in a dark mystery. Just like moments of realisation, glinting lights appear in this hollow void, creating a path for travellers and wanderers alike. This phenomenon creates a night scene. (Last sentence is slightly vague.)
Scientifically, stars are burning rocks, destined for death once the last burning flame goes out, but to wide-eyed children and wise optimists alike (L)these lumps of rocks signify hope in the dark shadows of the night time. They prevent the monsters from creeping their way out from the great divide between the bed and the dreaky(M) floor or stop the ghosts from within (L)finally bursting free. However, every so often a massive shadow casts itself over our world, blocking out these hopeful flames and bringing with it loud claps of thunder and the unfriendly flashes of lightning to cloak the monsters and allow them to creep into the night. (Is this a storm? Or cloudy skies?Unclear.) These dreaded nights end only with an ominous silence and the uncertainty of what comes next until we once again see the misty light of dawn.
The silence of the night however, is never silent. Within it lie the gentle snores of the content settler, the tossing of turning of a lost soul, the lone bark of a dog convinced of the ghosts and the faint laughter of a blossoming love. The silent commentary of a sports fanatic is drowned out by the screams of a teetering relationship reaching its final tether. (Strong section.) The pots and pans of a feast(L) of the ding of the microwave signalling the readiness of a late night snack. Each of these noises fills the silence, making a scene only to get lost in the hollow void of the night.(L)
Amongst this silent racket, a single train horn blares in the distance, carrying its load to his final destination- the night shift. He is dressed in black, a colour meant to convey his strength but only losing its wearer in the night. Another dreamer, lured by the conceivable and swallowed by the void. However, tonight would be different, tonight would leave his name upon the lips of all those like him. Tonight would be the night that a young boy would be lead astray by that same allure that brought that man to the night shift. This lure would force a hammer into one hand and a gun into the other, all the while silently calling him towards that jeweller’s window. Whispering at first, the call getting louder and louder until a smash breaks its call. RING, SMASH, CRACK! Silence fills the air as the footsteps of that young boy disappear into the night. The night that claimed the soul of that lone night-shift worker and the innocence of that boy. (I think this is a robbery description. It is not as clear as it should be. Is it about him losing his soul? Who is the robber? The night shift worker- is he the victim or perpetrator?)
This dark night would hide their secret and the secrets and lies of so many others. Its (L) cloak would veil the fraudsters, the adulterers and the hypocrites alike, looking the other way as under the noses of all those slumbering, as they make their beds. Their cackles and shrieks at their corruption, pulling them closer and closer to their dreams, dreams that can only happen at night. (Strong section.)
A gangster’s dream is not the only dream that comes to fruition in the darkness of the night. The inky sky’s blank canvas brings alive the dreams of all those who slumber, from their wildest fantasies to the most sinister of nightmares, sending them down a spiral that most find hard to return from. (L) Bright images fill their minds, flashing before their eyes, tempting or taunting them. These seconds of images fill a whole night of slumber and a whole lifetime of unhappiness as each morning, as we wake, we desperately scramble to remember our dreams. (Might benefit from specifics or illustrations.)
Under the cover of darkness, on (M)other dream is coming to light. A different dream. Lit by a dim lamp, a student silently reads and rereads willing the words on a page to imprint themselves on the back of their mind. A day spent working leads to a night of tirelessly chasing. The lack of illumination leading to decades worth of knowledge on creation. A different canvas providing a space to fill with the dreams of what’s next, of great inventions and realisations. Of the future. A young generation finding its way under the cover of the night.
However, like clockwork this superb mystery comes to an end as the sun rises harshly lifting the veil of darkness and revealing all of its flaws. Under its (L) light, the monsters become black cloaks, the faux silence a quick relief before the chaos, the lure now a life sentence, the tireless work with dark circles under their eyes, the dreamers now criminals and those once slumbering, now living with distant memories.
Those who believe the moon landing exists fear the appearance of this hollowed void every night, masking reality, whilst all dreamers know that on the blank canvas of a night scene, anything can happen.
This is a descriptive composition, very much in the genre. Some very strong sections, you are really creating a detailed night scene.
I feel it would benefit from more physical description in places.
Clarify the sections highlighted.
Good expression throughout.
(L)- punctuation and syntax.
(M)- spelling.
30-P-25
30-P-24
30-P-24
10M-10
83/100
Essay 3
Another essay by the same title. A little bit less impressive because the plot is too vague in places. This author also gets lost in her tenses – a very common mistake. See if you can spot it.
Their sleek silhouettes become a whisper among the trees. The chorus of clicking heels, dashing playfully across the path is all but gone. The cool breath of the trees sends shivers down my spine. Like an isolated penguin in Antarctica I wander aimlessly without the warmth of my pack. The soft embers of street lights attempt to offer some comfort. An array of amber beams, highlight my every step. I strut confidently, skipping over each shaded brick. It reminds me of my early days of hopscotch. I twirl each time I achieve hitting ten steps. Seven… eight …nine… snap!
The diamante heels glimmer ferociously amongst the brown grease laden bags of abandoned food. “What a shame those were my favourite”. A putrid scent invades my nose. My brows furrow in unison with my mouth. Hesitantly, I attempt to inhale after a few moments. Big mistake. I hear the cartilage in my ankles snapping as I skip across the cold stone. The snapping echoes around the alley. A shadow protrudes around my body. There are no scattered dots of light, or comforting beams of orange in this alley. The shadow engulfs the shadow of my own body. With eyelids squeezed so tight, I fear their very contents will burst at any second from sheer pressure. Its dark, yet bright. A black hole filled with speckles of red, fill my mind. Like a stature frozen in time I travel into the abyss of my mind. “Miss?” The cold beads of tears begin to solidify. I am an ice queen. Every inch of my body shivers erratically. A soft, dreamlike warmth brushes past my ankle.
I breathe. Icy air is welcomed into my lungs. The small creature still purring at my feet looks up curiously at my disorientated disposition. The soothing purring entrances, its beady eyes bare a friendly twinkle,“Hey cutie”. I lower my aching body piece by piece to the floor. “Miss”. The voice is suddenly softer, a voice like a Grandfather or an amical old man. I gingerly search for the stranger’s gaze. A warped face; its wrinkled exterior with every groove of skin representing one of life’s years, like a tree’s rings. I trustingly accept his extended hand. With struggle on both parts I am standing upright once again. We hobble arms entwined to a nearby pub. The purring kitten jumps with each step we make. I never thought one could feel a colour, but my feet certainly felt blue. The colour blue always held negative connotations in my mind, Blue Mondays , hints of blue in a bruise.
The pub appears dormant. Glimmers of light faintly frame the paint chipped door. Its sombre appearance failed to prepare me for its vibrant interior. A heated fog of tobacco enlaces the air. Intoxicated men sit precariously against the bar. The aged hand steers me towards a quaint corner. A blazing, eruption of fire filled my eyes as the man opened the stubborn door of the stove. Heat burned though my flesh. My feet itched with glee as they regained their blush exterior. I sat basking in my haven of sun; until he came back, two glasses in hand. A rich caramel liquid swivelled around the clear glass edge. The substance cascaded down my throat with an enticing burn. The kitten embeds itself in my sequin dress.
I rub the dried, crusted substance from the corner of my eyes. A purring sound fills the warm, now still air. A stiff, woollen blanket encircled my body. The energetic flames have too fallen asleep. Red, orange embers remain still fighting to keep their flame alive. My toes; well I can now feel my toes which is a relief. I wriggle them in ecstasy, marvelling at the kindly placed socks hiding my feet. “Are you alright love?”, that sweet voice questions compassionately. I nod. I cannot find words to repay this kindness. My larynx seems to have abandoned me, a practically inaudible thank you escapes my lips like a whisper. “No thanks needed. You just take care. A young girl like yourself shouldn’t be wandering those streets at night.” He gently places a scalding cup of tea in my cupped hands. The hot beverage lacked the intrusive nature of the liquid from the night before. It soothed, rather than gushed, it warmed rather than scorched. It was homely. The man openly expressed his concern for the kitten. A burning fire erupted in my heart as I gazed lovingly at the precious creature cradled in my arm.
The door of the truck grudgingly clicks into place behind me. I wave brightly at the kindred spirit of a man who gave me refuge. The street lamps are dull, lifeless, souls. Devoid of any life, they stand as isolated pillars gazing at the streets below. A stream of light peaks through a cloud, freckling the path below in spots of sunshine. I hop up each grey, concrete step. The door opens slightly premature of my touch. An incoherent mass of concern greets my fatigue ridden body. After several agonising moments of reassuring others, I trudged directly to my bed. A pool of light shone down on my enticing bedcovers. I slowly released control of each muscle. I lay exasperated. The sweet purring diluted the pain of my aching feet. Her angelic, minuscule body curls perfectly into my extended arm. We lay as one among the mound of scattered pillows. Joyful drunks dance along the street below my window. The last traces of song dissolve in the air, along with the final whispers of night. A clicking sound begins to erupt from the trees. Birds burst into a vibrant symphony. A glint catches my eye, peeking through the bedcovers. Ten sequins pull my gaze towards them. Their delicate array of silvers twinkle menacingly like the stars of a charcoal night.
Essay 4
And, one more! Excellent work below.
The heat of the campfire struggles to penetrate the frosty air. It crackles and sparks in the silence, its flickering flames casting twisted shapes on the trunks of the surrounding wood, dipping and dancing with each breath of wind in the still night. The air is tangible, as though you could reach out and feel it flow over your skin like icy water. The meagre cloth you huddle in, once plush and warm is now threadbare in patches. The ends are unravelling and frayed with age, making it barely long enough to cover your bare legs. Still, you wrap yourself in its cocoon of warmth, consisting more of fragile memories than material.
You tear your eyes away from the mesmerising dance of the fire, casting them along the jagged edge of the ring of light. The cool damp air of the woods beckons, yet you find yourself transfixed, as if your own feet were rooted in the ground. You absentmindedly fiddle with a loose thread on the tattered blanket. It threatens to drag you back to another night, another fire. Weariness begins to set in and, unable to resist any longer you allow yourself to be immersed in memories.
The echo of an owl’s shriek rouses you, and you slowly come to your senses. Through bleary eyes you see a vast expanse before you. Gone is the claustrophobic clearing, replaced by the glint of fading rays upon the glassy surface of a lake below you. The sound of soft ripples lapping at the foot of the steep drop rise to your ears as you peer cautiously over the edge. It reveals a reflection of the sky, showing the clear distinction between night and day. The bright, fiery hues of reds and yellows bleed into cool indigos and navy, bringing with them the comforting blanket of darkness.
Here everything is still, only the growing brightness of the stars betrays the passing of time. A sharp gust of wind sends you reeling back from the ledge. The sudden exposure causes a rush of blood to your pale cheeks. You cup your stiff fingers over your mouth,deeply inhaling the thick, muggy air created by the recycled breath.Lowering them, you fill your lungs with the cold, crisp air of the oncoming night.Turning your attention back to your hands, you rub them together, trying to force blood flow back through the numb skin. Your hands burn as they begin to warm, yet you continue the action, as if you could create a spark simply from the friction between your palms.
Satisfied, you swivel slowly to take in your surroundings. An arc of dense forest encapsulates you, leaving you no choice of path. The ground is littered with cracked twigs and fallen foliage. A once neat pile of dead leaves is scattered haphazardly across the clearing. Your eyes streaming from the now howling gale, you tentatively approach the forest’s boundary, seeking shelter from the bitter wind.
Parting the first branches leads you to another world. The night is alive with the scurrying and pattering of paws.The unnatural sound of leaves crunching under your feet resonates loudly in the otherwise undisturbed peace. Ferns seem to cling to your skin as you lightly tread through the brambles and bushes. The sense of watchful eyes eyes amongst the blackness follows you, tracking your every move. A flicker(beam?) of moonlight catches a dew-covered web, an intricate trap built with caution and precision. You pause and watch with awe, a worthy contrast to the honk of horns and echoes of laughs off the dense concrete jungle you are accustomed to.
You come across an ancient oak, its gnarled branches seeming to salute you as they creak in the breeze. You run your fingers over its rough bark, feeling the grooves and hollows formed long before you ever walked the earth. The grain provokes a fleeting memory. The faded sound of soft laughter echoes eerily, from a long forgotten time. With your eyes closed, you can almost trace the outline of the shallow engraving you carved, hoping to leave your own mark behind. A sharp jolt of pain reminds you of the power nature can have, both in life and death. Sharp pin pricks of tears escape your eyes as you extract the jagged splinter from your palm. A single drop of blood stains your pale skin. The air hangs heavily around you, holding its breath. This place is sacred. It should never have been disturbed. The serenity broken, you are overwhelmed with a primal instinct to flee. You spin around, disoriented as the trees seem to close in on you. Blindly picking a direction, you stumble through the maze, fallen twigs cracking beneath your hurried steps.
The woods become sparse, the vivid colours replaced by dull tones of brown. The sudden open space startles you.You hunch over and scoop up a handful of the dry earth, clenching your fist as it crumbles through your fingers. You watch as it accumulates in a pile of dust on the cracked earth, mocking a timer which had clearly run out long ago. The hair on the back of your neck rises and a shiver runs down your spine as you stare at the seemingly never ending plain of scorched earth.The moon is eclipsed by growing clouds, leaving only starlight to guide you. Craning your neck, you gaze at the freckled night sky. The stars are scattered like dying embers. Slowly, they seem to fade from view, plunging you into total darkness.
The fire has long since been extinguished when your eyes flicker open. Your back aches, pins and needles running up your limbs as you rise to your feet. You remove the blanket from your shoulders, draping it over the dead hearth. There’s a sense of finality to the action as you turn on your heel and leave the scene for the last time, a smile on your face and a tear in your eye. Behind you, a bronze memorial plaque glints from its position, embedded in a boulder.
