AQA GCSE English Language 8700/1 - Explorations in creative ...

Mark Scheme

Introduction

The information provided for each question is intended to be a guide to the kind of answers anticipated and is neither exhaustive nor prescriptive. All appropriate responses should be given credit.

Level of response marking instructions

Level of response mark schemes are broken down into four levels (where appropriate). Read through the student's answer and annotate it (as instructed) to show the qualities that are being looked for. You can then award a mark.

You should refer to the standardising material throughout your marking. The Indicative Standard is not intended to be a model answer nor a complete response, and it does not exemplify required content. It is an indication of the quality of response that is typical for each level and shows progression from Level 1 to 4.

Step 1 Determine a level

Start at the lowest level of the mark scheme and use it as a ladder to see whether the answer meets the descriptors for that level. If it meets the lowest level then go to the next one and decide if it meets this level, and so on, until you have a match between the level descriptor and the answer. With practice and familiarity you will be able to quickly skip through the lower levels for better answers. The Indicative Standard column in the mark scheme will help you determine the correct level.

Step 2 Determine a mark

Once you have assigned a level you need to decide on the mark. Balance the range of skills achieved; allow strong performance in some aspects to compensate for others only partially fulfilled. Refer to the standardising scripts to compare standards and allocate a mark accordingly. Re-read as needed to assure yourself that the level and mark are appropriate. An answer which contains nothing of relevance must be awarded no marks.

Advice for Examiners

In fairness to students, all examiners must use the same marking methods.

1. Refer constantly to the mark scheme and standardising scripts throughout the marking period.
2. Always credit accurate, relevant and appropriate responses that are not necessarily covered by the mark scheme or the standardising scripts.
3. Use the full range of marks. Do not hesitate to give full marks if the response merits it.
4. Remember the key to accurate and fair marking is consistency.
5. If you have any doubt about how to allocate marks to a response, consult your Team Leader.

SECTION A: READING - Assessment Objectives

AO1

• Identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas.
• Select and synthesise evidence from different texts.

AO2

• Explain, comment on and analyse how writers use language and structure to achieve effects and influence readers, using relevant subject terminology to support their views.

AO3

• Compare writers' ideas and perspectives, as well as how these are conveyed, across two or more texts.

AO4

• Evaluate texts critically and support this with appropriate textual references.

SECTION B: WRITING - Assessment Objectives

AO5 (Writing: Content and Organisation)

• Communicate clearly, effectively and imaginatively, selecting and adapting tone, style and register for different forms, purposes and audiences.
• Organise information and ideas, using structural and grammatical features to support coherence and cohesion of texts.

AO6

• Candidates must use a range of vocabulary and sentence structures for clarity, purpose and effect, with accurate spelling and punctuation. (This requirement must constitute 20% of the marks for each specification as a whole).

Answers

Question 1 - Mark Scheme

Read again the first part of the source, from lines 1 to 9. Answer all parts of this question. Choose one answer for each. [4 marks]

Assessment focus (AO1): Identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas. This assesses bullet point 1 (identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas).

• 1.1 How do Gregor's mother and Grete communicate at this moment?: Gregor's mother and Grete call from different sides of Gregor's room. – 1 mark
• 1.2 How do Gregor's mother and Grete communicate at this moment?: Gregor's mother and Grete call across from opposite sides of Gregor's room – 1 mark
• 1.3 Which character voices suspicion that Gregor might be deceiving the family?: the chief clerk – 1 mark
• 1.4 Which character suggests that Gregor may be trying to deceive those present?: the chief clerk – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 56 to 100 of the source:

56 against the door and listening. Gregor slowly pushed his way over to the door with the chair. Once there he let go of it and threw himself onto the door, holding himself

61 upright against it using the adhesive on the tips of his legs. He rested there a little while to recover from the effort involved and then set himself to the task of

66 turning the key in the lock with his mouth. He seemed, unfortunately, to have no proper teeth—how was he, then, to grasp the key?—but the lack of teeth was, of course, made up

71 for with a very strong jaw; using the jaw, he really was able to start the key turning, ignoring the fact that he must have been causing some kind of damage as a brown fluid came from his mouth, flowed over

76 the key and dripped onto the floor. “Listen”, said the chief clerk in the next room, “he’s turning the key.” Gregor was greatly encouraged by this; but they

81 all should have been calling to him, his father and his mother too: “Well done, Gregor”, they should have cried, “keep at it, keep hold of the lock!” And with the idea that they were all excitedly

86 following his efforts, he bit on the key with all his strength, paying no attention to the pain he was causing himself. As the key turned round he turned around the lock with it,

91 only holding himself upright with his mouth, and hung onto the key or pushed it down again with the whole weight of his body as needed. The clear sound of the lock as it

96 snapped back was Gregor’s sign that he could break his concentration, and as he regained his breath he said to himself: “So, I didn’t need the locksmith after all”. Then he lay his head on the handle of the

How does the writer use language here to show Gregor’s effort to open the door and the effect on those outside? You could include the writer’s choice of:

• words and phrases
• language features and techniques
• sentence forms.

[8 marks]

Question 2 (AO2) – Language Analysis (8 marks)

Explain, comment on and analyse how writers use language and structure to achieve effects and influence readers, using relevant subject terminology to support their views. This question assesses language (words, phrases, features, techniques, sentence forms).

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Shows perceptive and detailed understanding of language: analyses effects of choices; selects judicious detail; sophisticated and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response will analyse how dynamic verbs and visceral sensory imagery (e.g., "threw himself onto the door", "bit on the key with all his strength", "a brown fluid... dripped onto the floor", "the clear sound of the lock") render Gregor’s grotesque exertion physically palpable, while the parenthetical aside "—how was he, then, to grasp the key?—" and clause-heavy syntax ("only holding himself upright with his mouth...") mirror sustained strain. It will also explore how direct and imagined speech ("Listen... he’s turning the key"; "Well done, Gregor... keep at it, keep hold of the lock!") reveal the hesitant, inadequate support outside, heightening isolation and tension.

The writer uses dynamic verbs and adverbs to foreground Gregor’s laborious determination. He “slowly pushed his way” and then “threw himself onto the door,” a violent collocation that suggests desperation as well as resolve. Clinical lexis—“adhesive on the tips of his legs”—and participial phrasing, “holding himself upright,” render his effort methodical yet grotesquely insectile, while “set himself to the task” frames his ordeal as deliberate labour.

Moreover, visceral sensory detail charts the bodily cost. The tricolon of process verbs—“a brown fluid came … flowed … and dripped”—is queasily precise, as the present participle “ignoring” foregrounds endurance despite self-injury. Outside, reaction is mediated by sound: the chief clerk’s abrupt, imperative-like “Listen … he’s turning the key” presents tense attentiveness. By contrast, the modal “they should have been calling” and the imagined chorus “Well done, Gregor” expose a lack of genuine support through free indirect discourse, intensifying pathos.

Additionally, cumulative syntax mirrors the length and difficulty of the task. Long, multi-clause sentences, linked by coordination and participles (“paying no attention,” “only holding”), stretch time as he bites “with all his strength” and uses “the whole weight of his body.” Finally, auditory imagery and onomatopoeia—“the clear sound of the lock” that “snapped back”—release collective tension for those outside, while Gregor’s laconic understatement, “So, I didn’t need the locksmith after all,” undercuts the drama and, followed by “he lay his head,” signals utter exhaustion.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain that dynamic verbs and visceral detail emphasise Gregor’s strenuous effort — for example, "slowly pushed", "threw himself", "adhesive on the tips of his legs" and "brown fluid... dripped" — while the inserted rhetorical aside "—how was he, then—" and long, multi-clause sentence mirror his breathless struggle. Direct speech and sound imagery convey the effect on those outside: "Listen", "he’s turning the key", and the onomatopoeic "snapped back" show rising awareness and tension, while the imagined exclamations "Well done, Gregor" and "keep at it, keep hold of the lock!" suggest encouragement he craves but does not receive.

The writer uses dynamic verbs and vivid sensory detail to show Gregor’s gruelling effort. He "slowly pushed his way" and then "threw himself onto the door," emphasising force and exhaustion. The technical noun "adhesive on the tips of his legs" highlights his altered, insect-like body and how he must strain just to "hold himself upright." Visceral imagery — "brown fluid came from his mouth… dripped onto the floor" — makes the reader feel the physical cost of turning the key. The parenthetical rhetorical question, "how was he, then, to grasp the key?", draws us into his difficulty.

Furthermore, direct speech and sound imagery present the effect on those outside. The chief clerk’s "Listen… he’s turning the key" shows anxious attention, while the "clear sound of the lock" and the almost onomatopoeic "snapped back" mark a release of tension. Gregor is "greatly encouraged by this," signalling that their reactions drive him on.

Moreover, the imagined exclamations — "Well done, Gregor… keep at it, keep hold of the lock!" — use imperatives and exclamation to reveal his need for support, but the modal "should have been" implies their silence and distance. Finally, the long, complex sentence "As the key turned round he turned around the lock with it" mirrors the laborious twisting, and intensifiers like "with all his strength" and "whole weight of his body" underline his determined struggle to open the door.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 2 response might say the writer uses strong verbs and sensory detail to show Gregor’s effort, e.g. "slowly pushed", "threw himself", "bit on the key with all his strength", with physical imagery like "adhesive on the tips of his legs" and "brown fluid" to suggest pain and struggle. To show the effect on those outside, it would pick out dialogue such as "Listen" and "he’s turning the key", plus the encouragement "Well done, Gregor" and "keep at it, keep hold of the lock!", and note that the long, continuous sentences and the sound phrase "clear sound of the lock" and "snapped back" create tension then relief.

The writer uses powerful verbs and an adverb to show effort: Gregor “slowly pushed” and then “threw himself onto the door,” which suggests heavy, exhausting movement. The phrase “holding himself upright… using the adhesive on the tips of his legs” and “with all his strength” highlights his determination, while sensory imagery like “brown fluid… dripped onto the floor” shows the painful cost.

Furthermore, direct speech reveals the effect on those outside. The chief clerk says, “Listen… he’s turning the key,” which shows they are tense and listening closely. Gregor is “greatly encouraged by this,” but the imagined cries of “Well done, Gregor… keep at it” suggest he lacks real support and craves approval.

Additionally, sound and sentence forms add to meaning. The “clear sound” as the lock “snapped back” (onomatopoeia) signals success, and long, detailed sentences mirror his prolonged struggle; the dashes—“no proper teeth—how was he…”—show confusion.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses simple action words like "slowly pushed" and "threw himself", and painful detail "paying no attention to the pain", to show Gregor’s effort; dialogue from outside—"Listen", "he’s turning the key"—and the sound "snapped back" show they notice and react to the door opening.

The writer uses verbs to show Gregor’s effort. The verbs “slowly pushed” and “threw himself” suggest he is trying hard and it is difficult. The adverb “slowly” shows he is struggling. Moreover, the short sentence and direct speech “Listen… he’s turning the key” show the effect on those outside, the chief clerk is paying attention. Furthermore, the question “how was he, then, to grasp the key?” shows a problem for him. Additionally, the onomatopoeia “snapped back” and the phrase “clear sound” show the lock opening and the people can hear it. Overall, this shows his effort and their reaction.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

AO2 content may include the effects of language features such as:

• Dynamic verb and adverb show laborious progress, stressing gradual, effortful movement toward the door (slowly pushed his way)
• Forceful action verb conveys desperation and self-sacrifice as he commits his body to the task (threw himself onto the door)
• Specific, concrete detail suggests an unusual, precarious method of support, heightening the physical struggle (adhesive on the tips)
• Parenthetical rhetorical question foregrounds the practical obstacle and draws the reader into his problem-solving (how was he, then)
• Contrast of limitation and compensation underscores resourcefulness and determination despite hindrance (very strong jaw)
• Viscous, sensory imagery makes the strain visceral and unsettling, implying physical damage from the effort (flowed over the key)
• External dialogue focuses on sound and progress, increasing tension outside while motivating Gregor inside (he’s turning the key)
• Imagined imperatives reveal his craving for encouragement, implying others’ silence and his isolation (Well done, Gregor)
• Endurance emphasized as he suppresses bodily signals, sharpening the sense of painful exertion (no attention to the pain)
• Auditory climax signals decisive success that others would hear, releasing built-up tension (snapped back)

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

You now need to think about the structure of the source as a whole. This text is from the start of a story.

How has the writer structured the text to create a sense of urgency?

You could write about:

• how urgency intensifies from beginning to end
• how the writer uses structure to create an effect
• the writer's use of any other structural features, such as changes in mood, tone or perspective. [8 marks]

Question 3 (AO2) – Structural Analysis (8 marks)

Assesses structure (pivotal point, juxtaposition, flashback, focus shifts, mood/tone, contrast, narrative pace, etc.).

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would trace how urgency escalates across the whole extract: the opening barrage of overlapping imperatives and exclamations—“Grete! Grete!”, “Quick, get the doctor”, “Anna! Anna!”, “get a locksmith here, now!”—with fragmented exchanges (“communicated across Gregor’s room”) and hurried movement (“wrenching open the front door”), sharpened by tonal contrast (“calmness that was in contrast with his mother’s screams”), establishes frantic pace and pressure. It would then analyse the structural deceleration and delayed reveal as focus narrows to Gregor’s painstaking actions—“it had become very quiet in the next room”, “slowly”, “turning the key in the lock with his mouth”—so that sound precedes sight (“The clear sound of the lock as it snapped back”, “already wide open”), releasing tension in shocked reactions (“a loud ‘Oh!’”, “slowly retreating”), thereby heightening urgency through shifts in pace, focus, and sequencing.

One way the writer structures the opening to generate urgency is by plunging us in medias res into overlapping, exclamative dialogue and imperative commands. The staccato calls—“Grete! Grete!”, “Quick, get the doctor”, “get a locksmith here, now!”—create paratactic bursts that accelerate pace. Spatial shifts (“ran out… wrenching open the front door”) externalise the emergency, while the narratorial aside—“they must have left it open; people often do…”—universalises panic. Simultaneously, the clerk’s “calmness” is juxtaposed with the mother’s screams, sharpening the sense that events are careering beyond control.

In addition, the writer then manipulates pace through a marked deceleration and a sustained internal focalisation on Gregor at the threshold. The temporal adverbial “Meanwhile” ushers in “very quiet” suspense that paradoxically heightens urgency. Hypotactic, multi-clausal sentences anatomise micro-actions—“turning the key… with his mouth”, compensating for “no proper teeth… a very strong jaw”, “brown fluid… dripped”—compressing time into painstaking beats. The aside “whatever was said next would be crucial” foregrounds stakes, while dashes and parenthetical interruptions track breathless thought. Diegetic commentary—“Listen… he’s turning the key”—functions as a chorus, intensifying pressure.

A further structural feature is strategic withholding leading to a climactic pivot. The “clear sound of the lock… snapped back” is an audible release, yet sight is delayed: the door is “wide open before he could be seen”. This postponement sustains urgency into the reveal, before a rapid shift to reactions—the clerk’s “Oh!”, the mother’s collapse, the father’s clenched fists—creates a final crescendo across the extract.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain that urgency escalates from overlapping imperatives and exclamations—"Grete! Grete!", "Quick, get the doctor", "get a locksmith here, now!"—to a shift into Gregor’s viewpoint ("Gregor, in contrast, had become much calmer") with step-by-step action and sound cues like "he’s turning the key" that sustain tension. The delayed reveal ("already wide open before he could be seen") and auditory release ("The clear sound of the lock as it snapped back"), followed by shocked reactions ("Oh!", "clenched his fists"), show how the structure moves from panic to suspense to confrontation to heighten urgency.

One way in which the writer structures the text to create urgency is by beginning straight away in the middle of a crisis, with overlapping direct speech and imperative commands. Exchanges like "Quick, get the doctor" and "get a locksmith here, now!" create a fast pace. The multi-voiced dialogue and swift action—"wrenching open the front door"—plunge us into crisis and heighten urgency.

In addition, the focus shifts to Gregor, creating a contrast: "Gregor, in contrast, had become much calmer." This does not reduce urgency; the interior perspective and the statement "Whatever was said next would be crucial" raise the stakes. The writer then zooms in on a step-by-step sequence as Gregor turns the key, using the temporal marker "Meanwhile" and precise sequencing, while the clerk’s "Listen... he’s turning the key" keeps pressure on.

A further structural choice is to delay the reveal and then stage a rapid chain of reactions. The door is "already wide open before he could be seen", so information is withheld. The "snap" of the lock is a turning point, followed by quick shifts in focus: the clerk’s "Oh!", the mother collapsing, the father’s "clenched…fists". This escalation at the end reinforces immediate threat and urgency.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would notice the writer starts with urgent dialogue and commands like "Grete! Grete!" and "Quick, get the doctor", contrasted with the clerk’s "calmness" against the mother’s "screams", to speed up the pace. It would also spot a focus shift to Gregor’s step-by-step effort "turning the key", a pause when "it had become very quiet", then the "clear sound of the lock", the door "wide open", and the exclamation "Oh!", showing urgency building to a tense reveal.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create urgency is the opening with sudden dialogue and exclamations. The beginning jumps straight into speech and commands—“Quick, get the doctor”—and names being shouted. This creates fast pace and an immediate, urgent atmosphere.

In addition, the focus keeps shifting across spaces and people, which keeps the reader on edge. We move from the hall to Gregor’s room, then to his mouth on “the key”. A brief quiet next door is followed by a step-by-step struggle, pushing the pace.

A further structural feature is the build-up to a climax at the end. After the lock “snapped back”, the door opens slowly and then we get reactions in order: the clerk, the mother, then the father. This final section heightens urgency as the mood suddenly turns.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: At the beginning there is frantic dialogue and commands like 'Grete! Grete!', 'Quick, get the doctor' and 'get a locksmith here, now!', which makes it feel urgent. Then it builds as we follow Gregor 'turning the key' to the 'clear sound of the lock', making us anxious about what happens next.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create urgency is by starting with lots of dialogue and short commands. People cry "Quick" and "now!", with exclamation marks. This speeds the pace and shows panic.

In addition, the focus shifts from the family to Gregor’s step-by-step actions at the door. The sequence ("he coughed", "turned the key") and words like "Then" move events on quickly.

A further structural feature is ending on reactions. When the door opens, the chief clerk says "Oh!" and the parents move suddenly. This keeps tension high and makes us want to know what happens next.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

AO2 content may include the effect of structural features such as:

• In medias res with overlapping cries and commands → immediate immersion in crisis and hectic pace (Grete! Grete!)
• Rapid-fire imperatives and exclamations stacked early → accelerates tempo and pressure on characters (Quick, get the doctor)
• Swift mobilization and threshold crossing through the flat → kinetic movement creates urgency as boundaries are breached (wrenching open the front door)
• Juxtaposition of panic and composure intensifies tension → contrast sharpens the emergency (mother’s screams vs clerk’s calmness that was in contrast)
• Brief lull and silence after the initial flurry → suspenseful pause makes the next action feel more urgent (it had become very quiet)
• Step-by-step, physically taxing unlocking sequence → time dilation amplifies strain and jeopardy (bit on the key)
• Real-time external commentary on progress → “live” updates heighten immediacy and stakes (he’s turning the key)
• Delayed visual reveal despite the door opening → withholding sight builds anticipation and nervous energy (before he could be seen)
• Climactic cascade of reactions after the reveal → escalating shock then release sustains urgency to the end (a loud 'Oh!')
• Alternation between Gregor’s inner stakes and others’ frantic actions → oscillating focus maintains constant pressure (would be crucial)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 101 to the end.

In this part of the source, the father’s reaction is to look hostile before he starts to weep. The writer suggests that his initial anger is quickly replaced by a sense of shock and deep sadness.

To what extent do you agree and/or disagree with this statement?

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of the father's reaction
• comment on the methods the writer uses to present the father's conflict and despair
• support your response with references to the text. [20 marks]

Question 4 (AO4) – Critical Evaluation (20 marks)

Evaluate texts critically and support with appropriate textual references.

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed evaluation) – 16–20 marks Perceptive ideas; perceptive methods; critical detail on impact; judicious detail. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would largely agree that anger swiftly gives way to shock and grief, tracking the structural pivot from the violent impulse of “looked hostile” and “clenched his fists… as if wanting to knock Gregor back” to the vulnerability of “looked uncertainly”, “covered his eyes”, and “wept so that his powerful chest shook”. It would analyse how juxtaposed verb choices, the adverbial hesitancy in “uncertainly”, and the ironic focus on a “powerful chest” construct a conflicted paternal authority, noting that latent aggression lingers even as despair overwhelms.

I agree to a large extent that the father’s reaction moves from hostility to weeping, and that the writer presents a swift replacement of anger with shock and deep sadness; however, the shift is nuanced, with a brief but telling moment of disorientation mediating the change. From the outset, the father is framed in explicitly antagonistic terms: “His father looked hostile, and clenched his fists as if wanting to knock Gregor back into his room.” The blunt adjective “hostile” gives us a clear initial impression, while the physical, kinaesthetic detail of “clenched his fists” externalises that aggression. Crucially, the comparative clause “as if” signals impulse rather than action, implying a defensive, instinctive posture rather than sustained fury, which prepares the way for an emotional reversal.

Structurally, the writer choreographs a rapid emotional pivot through tight sequencing and adverbial signalling: “Then he looked uncertainly round the living room, covered his eyes with his hands and wept.” The temporal marker “Then” compresses the timeline, supporting the idea that the anger is “quickly replaced.” The adverb “uncertainly” functions as a hinge, connoting shock and destabilisation—a moment of cognitive lag where hostility cannot hold. The subsequent gestures—“covered his eyes” and “wept”—are paralinguistic cues of refusal and collapse, suggesting he cannot bear to see what Gregor has become. The intensity of the sadness is underscored by the visceral clause “so that his powerful chest shook.” The adjective “powerful” ironically heightens the vulnerability; the image of a strong body convulsed by sobs conveys a depth of grief that goes beyond mere upset.

The wider staging intensifies this trajectory. The chief clerk’s “Oh!” “sounded like the soughing of the wind,” a simile that lends the scene an eerie, impersonal force; he is “slowly retreating as if driven by a steady and invisible force,” suggesting that all present are overborne by the uncanny. Gregor’s mother “sank down into her skirts,” a visual collapse that prefigures the father’s emotional fall. Against this tableau of recoil and capitulation, the father’s initial aggression reads as a momentary, perhaps protective reflex—“as if wanting to knock Gregor back into his room”—an urge to contain the uncontainable, which is immediately overwhelmed by shock and sorrow.

Overall, I largely agree with the statement: the writer uses precise lexical choices, focalisation, and tightly controlled sequencing to present a swift transformation from a hostile facade to profound, shaking grief. The brief interlude of “uncertainly” adds complexity, showing that anger is not erased so much as eclipsed by a deeper, disorienting sadness.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would mostly agree, showing how the father’s initial aggression—looked hostile, clenched his fists—is quickly replaced by shock and deep sadness—looked uncertainly, covered his eyes and wept so that his powerful chest shook. It would identify the writer’s use of contrast, sequencing (e.g., Then), and vivid body language to present the father’s conflict and despair.

I largely agree that the father looks hostile before he weeps, and that anger is quickly replaced by shock and deep sadness. The writer charts this emotional pivot through sharp contrasts in body language and clear structural signalling.

At first, the father is aligned with threat. He "looked hostile," and the dynamic verb "clenched" in "clenched his fists" suggests coiled aggression. The simile "as if wanting to knock Gregor back into his room" implies an urge to push the horror out of sight, a defensive instinct to restore order. The mother’s immediate collapse around her "skirts" heightens the crisis, making the father’s stance feel like a reflexive attempt to regain control.

However, the structural marker "Then" shows how swiftly this mood turns. The adverb "uncertainly" in "looked uncertainly round the living room" signals disorientation, while "covered his eyes with his hands" reads as shame and avoidance: he cannot bear to look. Finally, he "wept so that his powerful chest shook." The adjective "powerful," paired with "wept," creates a poignant contrast, undermining his authority and highlighting the depth of his grief. The progression from "clenched fists" to covered eyes is a clear structural contrast that enacts the emotional turnaround.

Even so, the qualifying "as if wanting" shows the anger is an impulse rather than an action; in behaviour it is quickly subsumed by shock and grief. His tears dominate the end of the scene, suggesting helplessness overwhelms aggression.

Overall, I agree to a great extent. Through contrast, simile, adverbs and the sequencing signalled by "Then," the writer presents the father’s initial hostility as rapidly replaced by shocked, profound sadness, epitomised in the image of a "powerful chest" shaking with uncontrollable weeping.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would mostly agree, noting the father’s anger first — looked hostile, clenched his fists, as if wanting to knock Gregor back into his room — then a quick move to shock and sadness — looked uncertainly, covered his eyes and wept, his powerful chest shook. It would offer a simple comment that these strong verbs/details show a rapid change in emotion and basic inner conflict.

I mostly agree that the father first seems angry and threatening, but this quickly turns into shock and deep sadness. The writer presents this change clearly through the father’s body language and the order of actions.

At first, the father is shown as aggressive. The simple adjective “hostile” and the verb phrase “clenched his fists” create an impression of danger. The comparison “as if wanting to knock Gregor back into his room” suggests he wants to force Gregor away, which makes him appear ready to attack. This gives the reader a strong first impression of anger.

However, the mood shifts very quickly. The connective “Then” signals a sudden change, and the adverb “uncertainly” in “he looked uncertainly round the living room” shows his anger fading into confusion and fear. After this, the writer piles on actions: he “covered his eyes with his hands and wept,” which is powerful emotive language. The image of his “powerful chest” that “shook” suggests he is normally strong, but he is overcome by feeling. This contrast between strength and shaking underlines deep sadness.

The reactions around him also build the sense of shock: the chief clerk’s “Oh!” that “sounded like the soughing of the wind” and the mother collapsing help to create an atmosphere of alarm, which may add to the father’s despair.

Overall, I agree to a large extent. The writer uses contrast, verbs and adverbs, and a clear sequence to show that the father’s initial hostility is quickly replaced by shock and grief.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response simply agrees that the father’s initial anger is quickly replaced by shock and sadness, pointing to details like looked hostile, clenched his fists, then looked uncertainly round the living room, covered his eyes, and wept so that his powerful chest shook. It uses these basic quotations to show the change in feeling without deeper analysis.

I agree with the statement because the father first seems angry and then he breaks down. At the start of this part, the writer says the father "looked hostile" and "clenched his fists", which makes him sound threatening. The phrase "as if wanting to knock Gregor back into his room" shows he might act violently, so the initial feeling is anger.

However, this changes quickly. The connective "Then" signals a change in his emotion. He "looked uncertainly round the living room", and the adverb "uncertainly" suggests shock and confusion. After that, he "covered his eyes with his hands and wept", which clearly shows deep sadness. The detail that "his powerful chest shook" makes the crying seem heavy, showing how upset he is.

The other reactions in the room also add to this, like the chief clerk’s loud "Oh!" and the mother sinking to the floor. This makes the scene feel overwhelming, which helps explain why the father moves from anger to despair.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: the writer presents the father as hostile at first, but very soon he is shocked and deeply sad.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward. Note: Reference to methods and explicit “I agree/I disagree” may be implicit and still credited according to quality.

AO4 content may include the evaluation of ideas and methods such as:

• Structural progression from hostility to grief strongly supports agreement; the father shifts from threat to tears quickly (looked hostile)
• Physical body language communicates initial anger and menace; tight, aggressive posture implies readiness to strike (clenched his fists)
• Hypothetical construction presents violence as contemplated not enacted, revealing inner conflict rather than pure rage (as if wanting)
• Uncertainty displaces fury; the hesitant scan of the room suggests shock taking over from anger (looked uncertainly)
• Self-obscuring gesture shows he cannot face what he sees, signalling overwhelmed emotion and incipient sorrow (covered his eyes)
• Visceral detail makes the grief undeniable; the sobbing shakes a strong body, evidencing deep sadness (powerful chest shook)
• Rapid clause-by-clause sequencing creates immediacy, supporting that anger is quickly replaced by shock and sadness (Then he looked)
• Absence of any speech renders the reaction wordless and instinctive, amplifying the impact of shock and despair
• Contrast with others’ responses (collapse and retreat) throws his emotional arc into relief, ending in breakdown (sank down)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

For the programme of a local music festival, organisers are inviting creative writing submissions.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a festival stage being set up from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a performance that does not go as planned.

(24 marks for content and organisation, 16 marks for technical accuracy) [40 marks]

(24 marks for content and organisation • 16 marks for technical accuracy) [40 marks]

Question 5 (AO5) – Content & Organisation (24 marks)

Communicate clearly, effectively and imaginatively; organise information and ideas to support coherence and cohesion. Levels and typical features follow AQA’s SAMs grid for descriptive/narrative writing. Use the Level 4 → Level 1 descriptors for content and organisation, distinguishing Upper/Lower bands within Levels 4–3–2.

• Level 4 (19–24 marks) Upper 22–24: Convincing and compelling; assured register; extensive and ambitious vocabulary; varied and inventive structure; compelling ideas; fluent paragraphing with seamless discourse markers.

Lower 19–21: Convincing; extensive vocabulary; varied and effective structure; highly engaging with developed complex ideas; consistently coherent paragraphs.

• Level 3 (13–18 marks) Upper 16–18: Consistently clear; register matched; increasingly sophisticated vocabulary and phrasing; effective structural features; engaging, clear connected ideas; coherent paragraphs with integrated markers.

Lower 13–15: Generally clear; vocabulary chosen for effect; usually effective structure; engaging with connected ideas; usually coherent paragraphs.

• Level 2 (7–12 marks) Upper 10–12: Some sustained success; some sustained matching of register/purpose; conscious vocabulary; some devices; some structural features; increasing variety of linked ideas; some paragraphs and markers.

Lower 7–9: Some success; attempts to match register/purpose; attempts to vary vocabulary; attempts structural features; some linked ideas; attempts at paragraphing with markers.

• Level 1 (1–6 marks) Upper 4–6: Simple communication; simple awareness of register/purpose; simple vocabulary/devices; evidence of simple structural features; one or two relevant ideas; random paragraphing.

Lower 1–3: Limited communication; occasional sense of audience/purpose; limited or no structural features; one or two unlinked ideas; no paragraphs.

Level 0: Nothing to reward. NB: If a candidate does not directly address the focus of the task, cap AO5 at 12 (top of Level 2).

Question 5 (AO6) – Technical Accuracy (16 marks)

Students must use a range of vocabulary and sentence structures for clarity, purpose and effect, with accurate spelling and punctuation.

• Level 4 (13–16): Consistently secure demarcation; wide range of punctuation with high accuracy; full range of sentence forms; secure Standard English and complex grammar; high accuracy in spelling, including ambitious vocabulary; extensive and ambitious vocabulary.

• Level 3 (9–12): Mostly secure demarcation; range of punctuation mostly successful; variety of sentence forms; mostly appropriate Standard English; generally accurate spelling including complex/irregular words; increasingly sophisticated vocabulary.

• Level 2 (5–8): Mostly secure demarcation (sometimes accurate); some control of punctuation range; attempts variety of sentence forms; some use of Standard English; some accurate spelling of more complex words; varied vocabulary.

• Level 1 (1–4): Occasional demarcation; some evidence of conscious punctuation; simple sentence forms; occasional Standard English; accurate basic spelling; simple vocabulary.

• Level 0: Spelling, punctuation, etc., are sufficiently poor to prevent understanding or meaning.

Model Answers

The following model answers demonstrate both AO5 (Content & Organisation) and AO6 (Technical Accuracy) at each level. Each response shows the expected standard for both assessment objectives.

• Level 4 Upper (22-24 marks for AO5, 13-16 marks for AO6, 35-40 marks total)

Option A:

The field wakes before the crowd. Dawn loosens its pale gauze over trampled grass; dew beads the blades, and tyre tracks score dark runes into the earth. Vans reverse with plaintive beeps, the air stuttering; flight cases roll over plywood pathways, black, obedient coffins. At the centre, a bare rectangle of scaffolding lifts its shoulders—tentative, deliberate—the incipient skeleton of a stage that will, by noon, stand like a cathedral. The morning smells of diesel and wet soil and something metallic, a taste almost on the tongue.

Riggers in sun-licked hi-vis swarm the latticework. Harnesses snick and cinch; boots bite the rungs; hands read the language of aluminium and bolt. Up there, where wind worries at jacket hems, a spanner knocks in counterpoint to a radio's fizzed commands. Below, a foreman gestures with a pencil—imperious, precise—while ratchet straps chatter their bright syllables: click-clack, click-clack. The truss arcs into place, a rib; another follows; the roof becomes a sternum; a spine runs true. It is anatomy made out of angles.

Meanwhile, sound arrives like weather. Line arrays stack at the wings, mouths tilted toward the future; subwoofers squat, patient and seismic. Cables spill from cases in obedient coils, then unfurl like a nest of serpents; gaffer tape tames them into quiet geometry. Someone says, Test—one, two, check, check; a phantom voice threads the space, caught and released by the wind. A generator coughs awake, then settles to an industrious purr you feel, rather than hear, in the ribs.

Light, capricious and exacting, is coaxed into obedience. Moving heads blink awake, pupil-less and intent; Fresnels yawn; a row of par cans sits like obedient planets. At the console (calm, meticulous), the programmer persuades colour to behave: magenta, cyan, clean white. A strobe flutters a heartbeat; a gobo scatters leaves where there are none. For a moment, the empty stage rehearses for night, a constellation being taught its lines, the sun looking on, almost affronted, almost amused.

Elsewhere, details accrete until the whole feels inevitable. Barriers clink into a measured perimeter; sandbags hunker by the guy lines; a banner unfurls, creased, then proud. The scent shifts—fresh paint, hot electrics, coffee that tastes of resolve. On the lip, wedges squat, tape crosses marking where feet should find their certainty. A set list flutters; somebody anchors it with a roll of tape. Confetti cannons stand like polite artillery, warning labels verbose and stern; even caution seems festive.

And yet, for now, everything holds itself just short. Hands dust themselves off; eyes scan for the thing that is missing and do not find it. A final bolt murmurs tight; a radio sighs into silence. Then—a nicked fingernail presses a switch. Not yet music; already promise.

Option B:

Curtain. The velvet mouth of the stage inhaled and exhaled as if alive; dust drifted in the hard, amber light, a slow snowfall of glittering lint. Beyond the proscenium, the audience murmured—a soft susurration that sounded like rain on paper—while programmes fluttered and were folded into nervous fans. Somewhere high above, a pulley clicked. Somewhere deep below, the metronomic thrum of the stage manager’s headset crackled like a distant storm.

Maya smoothed the sequinned edge of her costume and felt the sequins bite her palm—small, bright teeth. She had stitched them on herself the night before, eyes burning, because the hired dress looked tired under the lights. Now it flashed: a portable constellation. A good omen, she thought, forcing a smile, although her stomach performed a queasy pirouette that had nothing to do with choreography.

They had rehearsed this moment until the floorboards remembered their steps. Exit right on the violin’s trill; lantern lifted to the cheekbone at cue five; a breath, a beat, a line. As simple as walking to the end of the street. She had even practised backstage with the mop as a partner, turning in tiny crescents across a terrain of taped crosses and discarded prop feathers. It should have worked. It should have.

“Standby sound two, LX twelve, fly moon,” came Bea’s voice in her ear (an indulgence for the lead, the director said, because Maya was “head girl of chaos”). The words were calming now; an incantation. And then the baton lifted, cutting the air with a fragile certainty, and the hall inhaled with it.

The wrong track hit.

Not the rolling swell that should have buoyed her first line, but an upbeat rehearsal cut with a count-in—one, two, three, four—shouted cheerfully by the pianist, who had not meant to immortalise himself. A flock of pre-recorded seagulls circled on an endless loop above the melody, keening in an absurd, mechanical lament. Somewhere, a microphone made a hungry, feral squeal. Maya’s mouth dried; her tongue tasted of copper and rosin.

She stepped into the light anyway. What else could she do? The lantern refused to glow—its battery, that traitor, had been alive at the interval—and the revolve beneath her trembled like a skittish horse. She raised the dark lantern to her face with exaggerated reverence and said, with a solemnity that surprised even her, “Ah. The storm has stolen my star.” The line was not in the script. It was better.

A laugh pealed from the balcony, then another, brief and bright. In the wings, someone hissed, “Hold the moon,” as the moon did the opposite and plummeted gamely, snagging a skein of her hair before bouncing, indignantly, back toward the flies. Maya didn’t flinch; she kept going, threaded her fingers through the tangle as though it were a ribbon, and folded it into the scene.

Meanwhile—because disasters rarely travel alone—the set’s lighthouse rolled a conspiratorial inch on its casters and announced a slow, listing slide toward centre stage. From the pit, the drummer tried to rescue the tempo with nimble brushes; the clarinet chased, slipped, recovered. The script became a palimpsest, original lines ghosting beneath her improvisations as she stitched sense from the senseless with quick, bright phrases.

She could feel the audience leaning forward now, curiosity eclipsing pity. Even the exit signs seemed to blink encouragement. Everything was wrong. Gloriously, infinitely wrong. Yet here was something she had not practised: the delicate, dangerous art of standing on the precipice and smiling as if the precipice were exactly where she had intended to be.

• Level 4 Lower (19-21 marks for AO5, 13-16 marks for AO6, 32-37 marks total)

Option A:

Dawn drizzles pale gold across the field, and the stage begins to grow out of the earth like an idea taking shape. Steel ladders lean and lock; cross-braced trusses climb; a rectangle of air becomes a mouth. Canvas is unrolled—black as a folded wing—and dragged taut until it hums. Cables snake the grass in glossy coils. A crane coughs, then steadies its throat of chain: up, up, the roof grid lifts, the square shadow deepening.

People ignite the scene. Riggers in hi-vis move with brisk choreography, radios crackling like dry leaves. There is a metronome in the air: the ratchet of straps; the soft thud of mallets on pins; the bright whip of tape tearing. Flight cases beetle along plywood paths, their scuffed stickers—Berlin, Bristol—proof that this is both temporary and travelled. The smell is incongruous yet perfect: diesel and coffee; hot rubber and wet grass.

Light arrives before music. LED panels blink awake; a wash of cobalt sloshes across tarpaulin, then amber, then unapologetic magenta. Follow-spots wink. Chain motors rattle and the front truss creeps to height, bristling with moving heads that will soon scissor the sky. Banners unfurl, the festival’s name yawning across fabric. The smoke machine coughs a ghostly trial balloon, while confetti cannons sit like overfed tulips.

Sound tests the ground. Line arrays hang like sleek black hives, and the first voice threads out—check, check, one-two—flat, then firm. Sub-bass rolls underfoot, a tide that nudges ankles and rattles puddles into prickling circles. The mixing desk is a galaxy of LEDs; an engineer’s hand drifts, then pounces, pulling constellations into balance. A snare snaps; a guitar flickers; feedback threatens, then is tamed.

Details gather the whole into something inevitable: gaffer-tape crosses staking safe paths; water bottles lined like small soldiers; drum risers pushed flush; barriers locked with a dull, repeating clink. Cables are groomed; the ramp is eased over them—no trip today. A gust lifts a poncho and slaps it down again. For a moment the field holds its breath. The stage, a beast and a kind of cathedral, inhales wires and exhales light; it waits (for now), bright with expectation.

Option B:

The hall held its breath before the first note, the way a sea stops before it throws a wave. Stage lights pooled like warm honey over the black-lacquered piano; beyond them, faces hovered in darkness, a constellation of expectation. The curtain shivered once, then stilled. I rubbed my fingertips together (still slightly damp from nerves) and tried to slow my pulse, which had adopted a reckless, galloping tempo.

I had a plan: a clean entrance, a measured bow, the bench placed exactly two handspans from the keyboard, and then the piece—memorised, mapped, each bar like a street I knew. I had practised until the neighbours politely complained; I had trusted in muscle memory and the metronome’s insistence. “Nothing to worry about,” my teacher had said, tapping the score. “You know this.” I believed him. Mostly.

The wood smelt of polish and something older, as if the auditorium had soaked up years of applause. I slid onto the bench. The keys were cool, porcelain with a secret, and my fingers hovered, gulls above a quiet bay. A simple breath in, a breath out, and the opening arpeggio unfurled—liquid, precise, exactly as rehearsed. My shoulders softened. The room listened with a kind of generous silence.

Then a light at stage left flickered—just a blink, a quick, indecent stutter—and my eyes, traitorous, glanced. It took only that. The phrase tilted. One note—an E—landed too hard and a fraction late, dissonant, like a cracked glass ringing. The mistake wasn’t catastrophic, but it was visible to me, luminous and unforgiving. My right hand hesitated for a heartbeat; my left tried to rescue the trajectory. The piece, so secure an hour ago, suddenly sprouted shadows.

A cough broke the hush (Mr Dunn, I was sure; he always sat on the aisle), followed by the soft rustle of someone’s program. The bench creaked. Sweat gathered at my temple and slid toward my eyebrow; I blinked it away and miscounted. Silence—thin, surgical—opened in the middle of a bar where no silence should be. What if it lasted forever? I smiled, thinly, at the keys.

I could stop. I could start again. Both felt like surrender. Instead I nudged the melody sideways, stitching in a sliver from a later passage, a clandestine detour. Improvisation disguised as memory. My heart hammered, but my fingers began to believe me. Somewhere in row three my mother’s red scarf burned like a small flag; she nodded once, tiny but decisive.

The plan had slipped. The performance had become something else—messier, yes, but oddly alive—and as the lights steadied and the audience leaned in, I pressed on, building a new path through familiar notes, hoping it would hold.

• Level 3 Upper (16-18 marks for AO5, 9-12 marks for AO6, 25-30 marks total)

Option A:

The stage rises out of the grass like a ribcage, silver bones sprouting in the pale morning. Beyond the fence, dew beads on weeds; a light mist hangs, undecided. Metal bites metal—clanks echo, then settle into a measured rhythm. It is early. No crowd yet; only the field listening.

Crew in hi-vis take their places as if choreographed. “Three, two, lift,” someone calls, and the hoists hum. Thick black cables snake from flight cases, coiling around boots, finding sockets, swallowing electricity. Tape snaps from its roll; the sharp tang of glue and diesel stitches itself to the sweet steam of coffee.

Above, trusses lock into a careful lattice. Riggers move with clipped confidence; one hand on rope, one on radio, eyes flicking between sky and stage. Lights blink awake in test patterns—amber, frost, a pulse of magenta—then blackout. At the desk, the engineer sends a polite thud; it walks across the empty grass and returns, softer.

At the edges, the festival begins to imagine itself: banners unfurl, hesitant at first; plastic chairs clatter; a tower of pint cups wobbles, then decides to stand. The generator murmurs, steady as breath. Even the grass seems to flatten into rows, ready for footprints and spilled cola.

By late morning the stage wears its skin. Black drapes fall, swallowing clutter, making a mouth of shadow. Line arrays hang, tall and precise, while subs crouch like patient beasts. A gust arrives—impolite; tarpaulins billow, a ladder trembles, a set list almost takes flight and is saved with a streak of gaffer. Details multiply: chalk crosses; a tambourine face down; water bottles in obedient rows. Then, a pause. The crew members step back. The stage seems to hold its breath—waiting for the first chord to strike and shake the air it has been quietly building all morning.

Option B:

Evening. The auditorium held its breath; velvet curtains sagged like a heavy secret. Dust swam in the spotlights as if it had somewhere important to be.

Backstage, Maya rubbed her palms on the satin of her costume. She had rehearsed the first cue so many times her mouth formed the words in sleep; they felt minted, ready. In the mirror, one eyeliner wing was slightly wrong—she ignored it. 'Places,' hissed the headset. Her heart thudded—too fast, too loud; she twisted the red thread on her wrist for luck.

At first, everything matched the plan taped to the prompt desk. The overture scratched from a stubborn speaker, the curtains sighed, and she stepped into a circle of white. Then the microphone caught the room’s nerves and screamed. Feedback burst like a flock of gulls; a row of faces flinched. Her first line snagged.

She spoke anyway, quieter, and the mic cut out. She reached for volume that wasn't there; the words became smoke. Dom, her scene partner, murmured a prompt—too late. Meanwhile, the painted door that should have opened refused—its hinge stubborn as a jaw. She tugged; it stuck; a small laugh rippled from row C. So she improvised: 'The house is... determined to keep its secrets,' she said, trying to look deliberate.

A beat. Relief; a few chuckles. She found the rhythm again, until the prop teacups skated off their tray—white moons rolling. One fell and shattered with an accusing pop. However, there was no pause button, only movement—forward, always forward. By the third scene, the sound returned in fits; her voice jumped like a radio in a tunnel. Her hands steadied. She listened, caught the thread, stitched it to the next line. Not perfect—never that—but alive.

When the blackout finally came, the curtains took a shy breath and shut. In the dark, one person clapped, then others—reluctant, then generous; a crooked applause, like the night. It wasn’t the show she’d planned, yet she stood there anyway, swallowing dust and grinning, because somehow the wrong notes had become music.

• Level 3 Lower (13-15 marks for AO5, 9-12 marks for AO6, 22-27 marks total)

Option A:

Morning, pale and cool, settles over the park as the skeleton of the stage rises. High-vis jackets move like sparks across damp grass; boots leave dark prints. A lorry exhales as it reverses, the long beep dragging through the air. Coils of cable spill from cases, black and heavy, curling like sleeping snakes. The truss gleams a dull silver; each bolt tightens with short, sharp clicks. The smell is wet soil and coffee with a metallic edge.

Voices bounce—“Up! Hold. Left a bit!”—and a winch complains while the front bar climbs. Lights cluster there, square and patient, lenses blinking like cautious eyes. A ladder scrapes; a rigger leans out with a practised hand, tying knots like tidy signatures. He taps each unit and the row trembles. Test beams drift over the empty field, pale shapes in the morning haze.

Speakers arrive like dark furniture and are lifted into towers. The straps creak; the tower sways; then stillness. When the engineer sends a hum, the ground answers—low, round, a first heartbeat. Gaffer tape stripes the deck; it looks like a map. A banner unfurls with a soft sigh, flutters, then grips the truss as the wind drops. Zip ties bite tight. The generator coughs to life; diesel threads through the lanes of flight cases.

Barriers go down, silver ribs for a crowd that isn’t here yet; in the centre a microphone waits, thin and stern. Plastic cups skitter in a gust; a set list flaps and escapes. Someone strums a single chord, almost shy; it hangs in the air and fades. The sun lifts higher, warming aluminium, warming faces, and the empty space begins to thrum with quiet expectation. Bit by bit, with lists and calls, the stage stops being a puzzle and becomes a promise. Almost ready.

Option B:

The hall held its breath. Velvet curtains hung like heavy lungs; rows of plastic chairs crackled as people shifted, programmes rustled like paper birds. The smell of floor polish and warm lights pressed over everything, sweet and sharp. Tonight was meant to be counted: eight in, eight out.

Maya rubbed resin on the soles of her shoes and tried to still her fingers. She had practised the routine in her bedroom until the carpet learned it too. Leap, turn, reach; smile. Miss Connors had drilled the timing, had tapped a baton against the doorframe until the counts settled in Maya’s bones. From the wings the stage looked bigger, brighter, and somehow narrower, like a hallway you had to run down.

“Ready,” someone whispered. The curtain twitched. The soundtrack waited on the little laptop. She pictured Mum—fourth row, second seat—phone tucked away as they asked. Maya breathed when the first chord hit. It was not her song. It was quicker, tinny, an older version with a piano that clattered. The spotlight stuck on the empty side, then slid to her. She stepped anyway, heel catching on a ripple in the taped line, arms reaching for a cue that had already gone past. Her heart scrambled to keep up with the wrong tune.

A cough burst from the audience, followed by a little laugh that floated, then climbed. She pivoted too fast and her shoulder brushed the cardboard tree; it wobbled and leaned. She caught it with a hand meant for a graceful arc. For a breath, everything paused. Then she did something she had not planned: she bowed to the tree, and the laugh became a wave. She straightened, found a new beat in the crowd’s noise, and, biting down a tremor, danced on.

• Level 2 Upper (10-12 marks for AO5, 5-8 marks for AO6, 15-20 marks total)

Option A:

Metal frames rise like bones against the pale morning sky. Crew in bright hi-vis jackets tug ropes and clip bolts; the stage stretches, a huge square mouth yawning over the field. Diesel and damp grass mix in the air, sharp and a bit sweet. Clink, clank, thud — tools from different hands answer each other. They haul flight cases back and forth, back and forth, leaving tracks in the wet ground. The sun is thin but it gleams on the silver bars, up and up they go.

Cables snake over the mud in black loops, stubborn and shiny. Tape slaps down in long stripes, boots press it flat. Zip-ties peck at trusses; tick, tick, tick. A ladder leans; a figure climbs like a beetle. Speakers swing as they are hoisted, big black hives with mouths that will shout. The generator coughs awake, a low growl you feel in your chest. Meanwhile, lights are nudged into position until they stare straight ahead, cool and glassy. A blue tarp snaps—sharp and snappy—over the mixing desk.

Someone taps the mic: one, two. The sound jumps away across empty space. Flags rattle on their poles, and the breeze brings the smell of noodles and something sugary from vans that aren’t open yet. It is almost a city being built, quick but careful, noisy but focused. The lights blink on, it's like the stage wakes. Ready, almost ready, the crew step back and look. For a moment everything is still; then another shout, another clink, and the waiting heart begins to beat.

Option B:

Evening. The stage smelled of polish and dust; lights blinked awake like impatient stars, and the curtains hung, thick and velvet, pretending calm. The hall held its breath; so did I. We had practised for weeks; lines, cues, the funny pause, even the bow.

Backstage, we shuffled in soft shoes. The plan was simple: music, door opens, I step out and say the first joke. Meanwhile, my cardboard door leaned as if it wanted a nap. Sam grinned through facepaint.

Then the red light winked: go. The curtains were supposed to glide; they lurched, snagging on a nail. The music burst in two bars early, the drummer panicked; I stepped because I had to. My shoelace coiled round my ankle; I tripped. The painted tree wobbled and fell. Glitter rained, slow as snow, loud as rain. My mouth opened—nothing. My throat went dry... chalk.

There was two beats of silence. The microphone squealed like a kettle, 'Line?' Sam hissed, too near his mic, and the front row heard everything. Laughter rolled, warm and sharp, and my ears burned.

I found the sentence, sort of: 'Good even—ing, good evening folks.' The words marched out in the wrong order, like shoes on the wrong feet. Mrs Carter flapped from the wings—breathe—and I listened. In, out; in, out; the metronome of not giving up. The scene limped on. It’s not the show we planned, its not neat, but it is ours, stitched with courage. And I am still here, ready to try again.

• Level 2 Lower (7-9 marks for AO5, 5-8 marks for AO6, 12-17 marks total)

Option A:

Morning. The field is still damp and the air smells of diesel. In the middle, a skeleton of silver aluminium rises, legs planted in the mud like stilts. Black cables curl over the grass, snakes that don't quite move. Lights hang from the truss, sleepy eyes blinking as someone plugs them in. Click, clack, click. A tarpaulin flaps—soft, stubborn—above a crate, and the smell of coffee mixes with wet soil.

Workers in hi-vis talk short, sharp words. First they pull the ropes, then they test the bolts, then they pull again. Up it goes, up and up; the frame rises and groans a little. A drill whirs. The speakers wait; mute boxes with mouths covered in mesh. A tech leans into a microphone and mutters, one, two, one two, and it echoes over the empty space. There is a rhythm: lift, tighten, test.

Then banners appear and flash early colours, tape blesses the floor in fat lines so no one trips. The sun climbs behind thin cloud, metal glimmering like new coins. Finally, the stage seems to breathe—wires tucked, curtains straight—almost a ship. Not music yet, but something hums under it all, the crowd is not here but you can feel them; the beat is arriving.

Option B:

Evening. The hall smelt like polish and dust; the stage gleamed under fierce spotlights. I could hear the audience whispering, paper programmes crackling like dry leaves. The red curtain trembled, like it was breathing. We had a plan, a simple plan: go on, say our lines, bow, smile.

Backstage, my hands shook as I straightened my tie for the third time. My mouth was dry, like I had swallowed chalk. We'd practised for weeks in the cold hall. Miss Carter said, keep your nerve, keep your pace. I nodded like I understood. I took a breath; it stuck. First cue. The music began, a bright tune, and we went.

Then the microphone squealed, a sharp scream, and everyone froze for a heartbeat. The spotlight slid off me, onto the curtain. I opened my mouth and my first line flew away. Silence. Someone coughed in the second row. Tom pushed the cardboard door and it fell flat on the floor. He swore under his breath and I stepped forward to save it - my shoe slipped on the tape and I went down.

We were meant to look brave and professional. Instead, we looked like kids in a jumble sale. But the audience laughed, and oddly, that laugh felt warm.

• Level 1 Upper (4-6 marks for AO5, 1-4 marks for AO6, 5-10 marks total)

Option A:

The field is muddy and cold. Men in yellow jackets walk around. There lifting metal bars and silver poles. The stage grow's from the ground and it looks like a box. Trucks beep and wheels sink in the grass. A crane moves slow like a big arm.

Lights hang like stars but in day they look dull. A boy tapes wires, wires are everywhere, like snakes. The speakers are big black boxes. The floor is slippy, someone shouts, "Carefull." A sign says NO ENTRY but people still peek in. Hammers go on and on.

The air smells of dust and chips. Music tests: a thud, then silence, then thud again. Up and down, up and down. Banners flap, the wind pushing, pulling. I stand back and watch it get ready; it is slow it is busy. Soon it will be bright, but now it is only work and waiting.

Option B:

Show night. The hall smelt like dust and polish. Chairs in rows and rows, like little soldiers. The red curtain stared at me, it didnt blink. My hands shake. My mouth is dry. I hear the whisper of people.

I step on to the stage, the light hits me like a hot sun. The microphone squeals, a sharp sound, and it hurts. I drop my paper and it slides like a fish.

Silence... then a cough, then a laugh. I say my first line but it runs away. My voice is tiny, it doesnt carry. Mrs King waves at me from the wing, she mouths go on, go on. The music starts to soon, the piano bangs the wrong tune. I step left but my foot finds nothing, the tape mark is gone.

I stumble.

The crowd makes a small noise like wind. It is not like the plan.

• Level 1 Lower (1-3 marks for AO5, 1-4 marks for AO6, 2-7 marks total)

Option A:

The stage is going up. Metal bars shine in the pale sun. Men in jackets push big speakers, they talk loud and the wires look messy. A hammer hits again and again, bang bang, then stop. I smell dust and hot chips from a van, it makes my stomach turn but I still watch. A light blinks on and off, it hurts my eyes. The floor shakes a bit when they test the bass, boom! boom! there is flags and tape. A gull screams. Someone drops a bolt, it rolls away and nobody cares they just carry on, the music isnt here yet

Option B:

The lights are big and hot on my face. I hold the mic tight. My hands shake like jelly. I take a breath, and the music is meant to start. It doesnt. It crackles, then stops, then nothing. People cough. I say hello but my voice squeeks and I laugh, but no one laughs. I try the first line, I forget the words. My teacher waves at me, I cant see. Outside its raining I think about the bus. The mic slips, there is a loud bang and I just stand there and say sorry.