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 What did Gregor Samsa find took just as much effort?: Returning to the position he had been in earlier – 1 mark
• 1.2 According to the text, what happens when Gregor gets back to his previous position?: Gregor lay sighing and watched Gregor’s legs, which knocked together more forcefully than before. – 1 mark
• 1.3 What is Gregor Samsa's situation as Gregor Samsa watches Gregor Samsa's legs?: Gregor Samsa is lying and sighing while Gregor Samsa's legs struggle against each other. – 1 mark
• 1.4 What best describes how Gregor's legs were moving as Gregor lay there sighing?: Gregor's legs moved in conflicting directions more forcefully than before – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 51 to 65 of the source:

51 raise concern if not alarm. But it was something that had to be risked. When Gregor was already sticking half way out of the bed—the new method was

56 more of a game than an effort, all he had to do was rock back and forth—it occurred to him how simple everything would be if somebody came to help him. Two strong people—he had his father and the maid in

61 mind—would have been more than enough; they would only have to push their arms under the dome of his back, peel him away from the bed, bend down with the load and then be patient

How does the writer use language here to present Gregor’s struggle and his wish for help? 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 would perceptively analyse how the writer juxtaposes the minimising diction 'game' with the repetitive 'rock back and forth' and the escalatory 'raise concern if not alarm' to render Gregor’s effort both trivialised and risky, while the architectural/clinical imagery 'dome of his back', the visceral verb 'peel', and the objectifying 'load' dehumanise him and make his imagined rescue mechanical. It would also explore how sentence form shapes meaning: the dash-broken aside 'Two strong people—he had his father and the maid in mind—', the semi-colon introducing a procedural verb list ('push... peel... bend... and then be patient'), and the wishful clause 'how simple everything would be' together expose his yearning for help and fragmented, practical thinking.

The writer juxtaposes danger with triviality to convey Gregor’s struggle as both serious and self-minimised. The phrase “raise concern if not alarm” escalates from unease to panic, while “had to be risked” foregrounds peril, suggesting a body on the brink. Yet the parenthetical aside—signalled by em dashes—“the new method was more of a game than an effort” is an ironic understatement, a euphemism that masks pain. Moreover, the repetitive, mechanical “rock back and forth” and the image of him “sticking half way out of the bed” create a zoomorphic impression of an insect righting itself, intensifying his helplessness.

Furthermore, concrete, tactile lexis materialises the physical ordeal. The metaphor “dome of his back” evokes a hard carapace, dehumanising him and implying rigid curvature that resists human handling. The dynamic verbs “push,” “peel,” and “bend” form a procedural sequence: “peel” in particular suggests adhesion and discomfort, as if his body has fused to the sheets. Additionally, the concrete noun “load” objectifies Gregor, reducing him to a weight to be managed, which heightens the indignity of his predicament.

Moreover, modality and sentence structure articulate his wish for help as tentative and carefully rationalised. The conditional perfect “would have been more than enough” and minimising “only” present assistance as simple, almost unobtrusive. An asyndetic triad—“push… peel… bend”—culminating in “and then be patient,” slows the cadence and acknowledges duration, implying that even “simple” help demands time. By specifying “Two strong people… his father and the maid,” the focalised thought feels plausibly practical yet poignantly unlikely, eliciting pathos as his modest, methodical request exposes profound dependence.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: Explains, with relevant examples, how concrete verbs and physical imagery like 'sticking half way out of the bed', 'under the dome of his back', and 'peel him away' convey Gregor’s awkward, heavy struggle. Also identifies how conditional and list-like, dash‑interrupted sentences—'how simple everything would be if somebody came to help him', 'push... peel... bend... be patient', 'Two strong people—he had his father and the maid in mind—', and the modal 'would only have to'—present his wishful planning and dependence on help.

The writer uses understatement and modal language to show Gregor’s struggle as risky but unavoidable. The cautious phrase "raise concern if not alarm" acknowledges danger, while "had to be risked" suggests a sense of obligation, showing he feels compelled to keep trying. Dynamic verbs emphasise effort: he is "sticking half way out of the bed" and must "rock back and forth", which implies repetitive, painstaking movement. The metaphor "the new method was more of a game than an effort" ironically downplays his difficulty, hinting at a coping strategy amid real strain.

Furthermore, the conditional clause "how simple everything would be if somebody came to help him" presents his wish for help clearly. The modal "would" and the minimising adverb "only" in "they would only have to…" show he is trying to make his request sound modest. The adjective phrase "Two strong people" and the aside "—he had his father and the maid in mind—" make his imagined helpers concrete and personal.

Additionally, precise, tactile imagery presents both helplessness and the need for assistance: "under the dome of his back" suggests a hard, inhuman shell, while "peel him away from the bed" implies he is stuck fast. The noun "load" objectifies him, and the list of verb phrases—"push… peel… bend down… and then be patient"—creates a step-by-step plan, reinforced by dashes and a long, complex sentence, conveying his careful, desperate planning for help.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: Words like raise concern if not alarm and action phrases such as sticking half way out of the bed and rock back and forth show his movement is difficult and risky, while the detailed list push their arms under the dome of his back, peel him away from the bed, bend down with the load and then be patient makes the struggle feel physical. His wish for help is clear in somebody came to help him and Two strong people—he had his father and the maid in mind; the long sentence with dashes shows his thoughts running on as he imagines getting help.

The writer uses active verbs to show Gregor’s struggle. The phrases “sticking half way out of the bed” and “rock back and forth” suggest he is trapped and must keep trying. “Had to be risked” shows danger. The line “more of a game than an effort” sounds ironic, as he acts like it is easy when it is not. The dashes create an aside, showing his thoughts while he struggles.

Moreover, the writer uses modal verbs and the conditional to show his wish for help: “how simple everything would be if somebody came to help him.” “Two strong people… would have been more than enough” shows longing. Additionally, the list of verbs, “push… peel… bend… be patient,” gives a step-by-step plan. The metaphor “dome of his back” makes his body like a hard shell. Therefore, the language presents Gregor’s struggle and his wish for help.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: Simple action phrases like "sticking half way out of the bed" and "rock back and forth" show Gregor’s struggle, while "Two strong people" and "somebody came to help him" show his wish for help. The list of verbs "push... peel... bend... be patient" and the dashes create pauses that make the effort feel slow and difficult, adding worry in "raise concern if not alarm."

The writer uses word choice to show Gregor’s struggle. Words like "risked" and "alarm" suggest danger, and "sticking half way out of the bed" and "rock back and forth" show he is struggling. Moreover, the verb "peel" in "peel him away from the bed" makes moving hard. Furthermore, the list "push... peel... bend... be patient" shows the careful help he needs. Additionally, the phrase "Two strong people" and naming "his father and the maid" present his wish for help and his hope it would be "simple" with them.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Antithesis between fear and resolve frames his struggle, moving from anxiety to compulsion (had to be risked)
• Concrete, awkward physicality suggests being trapped mid-motion (sticking half way out)
• Parenthetical aside undercuts the struggle with playful self-persuasion (more of a game)
• Repetitive motion implies limited progress and ongoing effort (rock back and forth)
• Sudden cognitive shift to imagined aid reveals longing for an easy solution (it occurred to him)
• Specific, familiar helpers personalise his wish and show dependence (Two strong people)
• A cumulative list of tactile verbs turns his body into an object to be handled (peel him away)
• Concrete image of altered shape stresses awkwardness of movement (dome of his back)
• Burdened diction objectifies him and hints at the strain on helpers (the load)
• Minimising modality idealises help, exposing wishful thinking (would only have to)

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 builds 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 a rising, ticking-clock structure, noting how repeated time markers—Seven o’clock, already, Before it strikes quarter past seven, The time was now ten past seven—compress chronology and escalate pressure, while extended multi-clause sentences and self-directives like He told himself once more and And so he set himself to the task create a breathless, stop-start rhythm. It would also analyse the pivot from inward deliberation to external intrusion with Then there was a ring at the door of the flat., culminating in the physical release of There was a loud thump, immediately undercut by but it wasn’t really a loud noise., to show how structural pivots and sequencing heighten and sustain urgency.

One way the writer structures the opening to generate urgency is through a ticking-clock pattern of temporal references. The clock strikes, 'Seven o’clock, already'; he sets a deadline—'Before it strikes quarter past seven I’ll definitely have to have got properly out of bed'—and soon, 'The time was now ten past seven'. Each time-mark compresses the window for action and accelerates the narrative pace, turning Gregor’s interior monologue into a countdown. Short, self-addressed utterances ('That’ll be someone from work') puncture the long sentences like staccato beats, heightening urgency for the reader, while a 'ring at the door' is a structural jolt that converts pressure into crisis.

In addition, the writer manipulates focus and perspective, sustaining tight internal focalisation before abruptly widening it. We begin with Gregor 'watching his legs' and rehearsing plans; the gaze briefly turns outward—'he would direct his eyes to the window'—but the 'narrow street...enveloped in morning fog' becomes a structural dead end that prolongs delay. When the threshold is breached, focus widens to social scrutiny: 'the chief clerk himself'. A tonal shift into rhetorical questions about his company mirrors a mind spiralling under pressure, quickening the pace from private inertia to public urgency.

A further structural feature is delayed resolution via iterative attempts and conditional planning. Gregor is 'already sticking half way out' and 'rock[s] back and forth'; if-clauses and dash-inserted asides ('Two strong people—the father and the maid—') interrupt progress, keeping him suspended. Only the decisive pivot—'he swang himself with all his force'—releases the built-up urgency.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer builds urgency through a ticking-clock structure, repeating time markers like "Seven o’clock," "ten past seven" and "Before it strikes quarter past seven," and shifting focus from hesitant inaction ("lay there quietly," "rock back and forth") to external pressure with the "ring at the door" and the "chief clerk." This rising sequence culminates in decisive movement ("swang himself with all his force"), showing how changes in time and focus escalate the urgency.

One way the writer structures the text to create urgency is by opening in the middle of Gregor’s struggle and using temporal references as a ticking clock. We meet him already “watching his legs” in “chaos”, then the repeated time checks—“seven o’clock”, “Before it strikes quarter past seven”, “ten past seven”—compress the chronology. This accelerates the pace and makes a deadline feel unavoidable.

In addition, the focus shifts from internal struggle to external intrusion, intensifying pressure. The narrative moves from his body and fogged window to the abrupt line, “Then there was a ring at the door of the flat.” This turning point introduces the “chief clerk”, raising stakes, while direct thought and rhetorical questions (“Should he really call for help?”) quicken the rhythm.

A further structural choice is a stop-start pattern of hesitation and escalation leading to a climax. The contrast between “calm consideration” and “rushing to desperate conclusions”, plus “he would have to make a final decision very soon”, sustains urgency. This repeated pattern continues until he “swang himself with all his force” and the “loud thump” signals brief release, while the sustained third-person perspective traps us in his panic.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: Urgency builds from calm to action: repeated time checks ('Seven o’clock', 'ten past seven', 'Before it strikes quarter past seven') and shifts like 'But then he said to himself' show time running out and the pace quickening. A sudden interruption ('Then there was a ring at the door of the flat') pushes him to act ('he swang himself with all his force out of the bed'), ending in 'a loud thump', which makes the situation feel immediate and tense.

One way the writer structures the text to create urgency is through time references. At the beginning Gregor hears “Seven o’clock,” then later “ten past seven” and “before it strikes quarter past seven.” This clear timeline shows time slipping away, so the reader feels pressure building.

In addition, the focus shifts from his thoughts to events outside. First we stay inside his mind as he “told himself once more” to get up and makes plans, but then the bell rings and the “chief clerk” arrives. This movement from inside to outside speeds up the pace and makes the situation more urgent.

A further feature is delay followed by a sudden action at the end. The middle lists worries and possible noises, which keeps us waiting, then the “loud thump” when he “swang… out of the bed” feels like the climax, pushing the reader into the next part.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: At the start he lay there quietly, but repeated time checks (Seven o’clock, ten past seven) and the ring at the door of the flat lead to a final decision. This simple sequence makes it feel more rushed and urgent.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create urgency is by starting with Gregor struggling in bed and repeating that he must get up. This beginning keeps the focus on his problem and makes it feel urgent.

In addition, the writer uses time references like “seven o’clock,” “quarter past,” and “ten past seven.” This shows time going by, and the short line “Seven o’clock, already” makes the reader feel time is running out.

A further structural feature is the change of focus when there is a ring at the door and the chief clerk arrives, pushing events on, and the ending “thump” speeds up the pace.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• In medias res with immediate physical struggle throws us into crisis, creating instant urgency: struggled against each other
• Oscillation between reassurance and alarm builds a stop-start rhythm that frustrates progress: calm consideration
• Repeated time checks and a self-imposed deadline tighten the pace as minutes slip away: Before it strikes quarter past seven
• A decisive shift from thinking to doing advances momentum toward action: set himself to the task
• Stated acceptance of danger raises stakes and pressure on every move: had to be risked
• Incremental, precarious movement sustains suspense as he nears a tipping point: half way out of the bed
• A sudden external interruption accelerates events and signals time has run out: Then there was a ring
• Escalation from private problem to official scrutiny intensifies pressure: the chief clerk himself
• A barrage of rhetorical questions mirrors a racing mind, quickening narrative tempo: Was it really not enough
• An audible, bodily climax delivers consequences to the build-up, sealing the urgency: loud thump

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 76 to the end.

In this part of the source, the arrival of the chief clerk is presented as the most stressful and scary event for Gregor. The writer suggests that Gregor is more afraid of being late for work than of his own monstrous transformation.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of Gregor's panic at the chief clerk's arrival
• comment on the methods the writer uses to convey Gregor's internal panic
• 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, showing how the writer foregrounds Gregor’s institutional terror through free indirect discourse and precise detail: 'ten past seven', alarm at 'the chief clerk himself', and bodily dissonance as he 'froze very still' while his 'little legs ... danced around'. It would link the accusatory questions ('Were all employees, every one of them, louts', 'pangs of conscience') and his anxious attempt to minimize disturbance ('not really a loud noise') to the self-punishing lunge 'swang himself with all his force out of the bed', arguing these techniques present fear of workplace suspicion as more overwhelming than his transformation.

I largely agree that, in this section, the arrival of the chief clerk is presented as the peak of Gregor’s stress, and that his overriding fear is of lateness and censure rather than his own monstrous body. The writer deliberately foregrounds workplace anxiety through structure, voice and imagery so that the metamorphosis remains oddly secondary.

Structurally, the bell acts as a pivot from dithering to crisis. The time check—“ten past seven”—preloads tension, and the “ring at the door” precipitates an immediate physiological response: Gregor “froze very still” while his “little legs… danced around.” This striking juxtaposition of immobility and frantic motion captures internal panic in kinesthetic imagery and underscores his lack of bodily control without making the body itself the source of terror. The free indirect discourse—“‘That’ll be someone from work’”—places us directly inside his fear of authority. Even his “nonsensical hope” that “they’re not opening the door” reveals a childlike dread of being found out, intensified by the brisk certainty of the maid’s “firm steps.” The instant he recognises “the chief clerk,” the emotional temperature spikes; it is the figure of surveillance, not the insectile self, that galvanises him.

The writer then unleashes a barrage of rhetorical interrogatives to dramatise Gregor’s corporate paranoia: “Were all employees… louts… was there not one… faithful and devoted…?” The piling up of clauses in this breathless, cumulative syntax mirrors his spiralling thoughts. Lexis of suspicion and inquisition—“highly suspicious,” “enquiries,” “investigate”—constructs a semantic field of policing. The hyperbolic complaint that he alone is “condemned to work” amplifies the punitive, carceral feel of his employment, while the reference to his “innocent family” shows a social shame that eclipses self-horror. Crucially, it is “more because these thoughts had made him upset than through any proper decision” that he “swang himself… out of the bed”: the chief clerk’s presence, not the grotesque new body, prompts decisive action.

Even in the fall, sensory detail prioritises concealment over pain: the “loud thump” “wasn’t really a loud noise,” the carpet “softened” it, making it “not too noticeable.” This obsessive minimising of sound betrays a fear of detection. Although he is “annoyed and in pain,” the understated irritation contrasts with the earlier panic, confirming that bodily distress is backgrounded.

Overall, I agree to a great extent: the chief clerk’s arrival is constructed as the most stressful event here, and the writer satirically suggests Gregor dreads being late and reprimanded more than his own metamorphosis. Any fear of his body flickers beneath the surface, but institutional anxiety emphatically dominates.

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 largely agree, explaining that the chief clerk’s arrival sparks Gregor’s peak panic—on recognising the chief clerk himself he froze very still while his little legs... danced around—and that fear of work/lateness eclipses the transformation as he swang himself with all his force out of the bed despite the loud thump and being annoyed and in pain. It would also comment on methods, showing how internal monologue and anxious rhetorical questions like Why did Gregor have to be the only one... convey obsessive worry about suspicion at work.

I largely agree that the chief clerk’s arrival is presented as the most stressful moment, and that Gregor seems more afraid of work consequences than of his own transformation. The writer builds pressure through time and sound: the precise time, “ten past seven”, foregrounds lateness, and the sudden “ring at the door” acts like an alarm. Structurally, this interruption jolts Gregor; he “froze very still, although his little legs only became all the more lively,” a striking contrast that conveys internal panic. The personification of his legs “danced around” suggests frantic, uncontrollable anxiety rather than horror at his new body.

The narrative then shifts into Gregor’s agitated thoughts (free indirect discourse), intensifying his workplace fear. He instantly assumes, “That’ll be someone from work,” and, in “some nonsensical hope,” wishes the door won’t open—language that shows he knows his fear is irrational but overpowering. As soon as he hears “the chief clerk himself,” a barrage of rhetorical questions erupts: “Why did Gregor have to be the only one condemned to work for a company where they immediately became highly suspicious…?” The hyperbolic “condemned,” “highly suspicious,” and “go so mad with pangs of conscience” create a lexical field of oppression and guilt, implying that the company’s scrutiny terrifies him more than his metamorphosis.

His actions confirm this. He hurls himself from the bed “more because these thoughts had made him upset than through any proper decision,” showing the chief clerk’s presence prompts impulsive, risky movement. Even after he falls, the narration minimises bodily harm—“a loud thump, but it wasn’t really a loud noise”—a paradox that suggests he is more concerned with not attracting attention than with pain. Although he is “annoyed and in pain,” he focuses on muffling the sound, not on the monstrosity of his body.

Overall, I agree to a large extent: through time pressure, auditory shock, rhetorical questions, and internal monologue, the writer presents the chief clerk’s arrival as the peak of stress, with Gregor’s work-anxiety overshadowing fear of his transformation.

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 Gregor’s panic at 'the chief clerk himself' (he 'froze very still'). It would use simple examples like questions about being 'condemned to work' and 'highly suspicious at the slightest shortcoming' to show he fears being late for work more than his own discomfort ('annoyed and in pain').

I mostly agree with the statement. In this section, the writer shows that the chief clerk’s arrival makes Gregor panic more about work than about being an insect. Right from the start, the time pressure builds stress: it is “ten past seven” and he must make a “final decision”, which suggests he is worrying about lateness.

When the bell rings, Gregor thinks, “That’ll be someone from work,” and he “froze very still,” but his “little legs… danced around.” This contrast between stillness and frantic movement shows his internal panic. The writer uses his thoughts directly so we hear his fear. The series of rhetorical questions makes his anxiety spiral: “Why did Gregor have to be the only one condemned to work…? …did the chief clerk have to come himself…?” The word “condemned” is exaggerated (hyperbole), showing how heavy the job feels, and the repeated focus on the “chief clerk” creates a threatening presence.

His actions also show that work fear is stronger than horror at his body. He “swang himself with all his force out of the bed,” a powerful verb that shows desperation to act because of the visitor. Even when he falls with a “loud thump,” he reassures himself it was “not too noticeable,” which suggests he worries more about being discovered by the clerk than about pain. He is “annoyed and in pain,” but he just rubs his head and carries on.

Overall, I agree to a great extent: the arrival of the chief clerk is presented as the most stressful moment here, and Gregor’s fear of being late and judged by work clearly outweighs his fear of his own transformation, though the awkward “little legs” and pain remind us it still troubles him.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response would simply agree that the writer shows the chief clerk’s arrival as scariest, pointing to basic details like ten past seven, someone from work, froze very still, and the chief clerk to say he fears being late more than his transformation.

I mostly agree with the statement. In this section, the arrival of the chief clerk makes Gregor most stressed, and he seems more afraid of being late than of being a monster. The time phrase 'ten past seven' creates pressure, and when the bell rings he 'froze very still' while his 'little legs... danced', which shows panic.

The writer uses Gregor's thoughts and questions to show this. He immediately thinks 'That’ll be someone from work', so his fear is about work. The string of rhetorical questions ('Were all employees... louts... did the chief clerk have to come himself?') shows his mind racing about the firm and punishment. The word 'nonsensical' in 'caught in some nonsensical hope' suggests his hope they won’t open the door is silly and desperate.

Strong verbs like 'swang himself... with all his force' show he forces himself out of bed to deal with work. Sound imagery of a 'loud thump' but 'not too noticeable' shows he worries about being heard by the clerk and family, not his body.

Overall, I mostly agree: the chief clerk’s arrival seems scariest, and he fears lateness and suspicion more than his change.

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:

• Time markers build relentless pressure; Gregor prioritises punctuality over his body, suggesting stronger fear of lateness (Seven o’clock, already).
• Bleak setting contrasts with his denial, implying unease but not panic until work intrudes (little confidence or cheer).
• Mechanical self-instructions make the transformation seem procedural, downplaying horror in favour of problem-solving (more of a game).
• Focus on consequences (being heard) rather than bodily danger shows social/work anxiety dominates (loud noise).
• The ring provokes an immediate bodily freeze, signalling peak stress tied to the visitor, not his condition (froze very still).
• Naming authority heightens threat; the arrival feels disciplinary, amplifying fear of work judgement (the chief clerk himself).
• A tirade of rhetorical questions and accusatory diction expose paranoia about surveillance, intensifying work-related dread (immediately became highly suspicious).
• His wishful, self-mocking delay reveals dread of the encounter more than of his condition (nonsensical hope).
• The visit triggers desperate action; his upset at the firm, not pain, propels him to act (made him upset).
• Counterpoint: physical discomfort is acknowledged, but appears secondary to work panic (annoyed and in pain).

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A national park authority is creating a new visitor brochure and would like creative pieces from young people.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Write a description of a sea cave from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about being trapped by the tide.

(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 cave’s mouth yawns from the cliff-face, a slit of ink cut into pewter stone, where the tide loosens its lace and gathers it again. Gulls stitch chalk-white loops across the bay, their cries thinned to threads; the air tastes of iron and kelp, bright as bitten foil. Out here the sun is brazen, but at that threshold it falters: light kneels, then crawls, then gives up, leaving a dusky hush that seems to pull at your sleeves.

Step in, and the world cools. The temperature falls like a lifted veil; skin prickles; breath shows. The walls, wet as seals, lean inward with a conspirator’s tilt, glossy with centuries of patient polish. Salt has crusted in commas along the rock, white punctuation marking the pauses of the sea. Each footfall answers itself from somewhere deep—a second, delayed echo, as if the cave were thinking about your presence before replying.

Above, the ceiling stoops in ribbed arches, a cathedral carved by water and accident; stalactites taper like candles that never burn, their wax frozen mid-drip. There are seams of bottle-green stone and knuckles of black basalt; there are freckles of mica that hoard the last crumbs of daylight and spend them sparingly. Water beads in the pores of rock and drops, precise, patient, persistent, the cave’s metronome. Time dilates here; minutes elongate like shadows at evening.

At the heart of it, a pool lies like a dilated pupil, gulping reflections. The tide breathes through a throat of narrow stone—backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards—drawing its cool tongue along the scalloped floor. Foam arrives as delicate lace, departs as scrim. When swells press harder, they set the chamber resonating until the ribs of the earth seem to hum; when they slacken, there is a listening stillness that isn’t silence, not quite.

A blade of sun slips in on the water, sawing brightness into the dark. Every droplet becomes a lantern; every moss-blurred edge is scrolled with silver. For a moment, the cavern ceiling is a night sky, mica constellations pricked into slate, and the concave dark becomes almost comforting—like a held breath before a kiss. Then the beam shifts, and the illusion drains away. The place remembers itself. It is old, and salt-bitten, and obstinately alive.

The smell is medicinal—iodine, damp rope, rust. Somewhere, a crab ricochets under a shelf; somewhere else, something larger makes the water answer in a lower register. Yet the cave is not cruel. It simply exists, receiving weather, returning it, keeping its colloquy with the moon. When you turn to leave, the mouth frames the sky like a coin. Outside, sea and sun collide in extravagant glare. Behind, the cave closes its cool lips on the day and, without fuss, keeps its secret.

Option B:

The sea keeps its appointments; it pretends otherwise. It drifts, glittering, as if lazy, as if scatterbrained; then, when you are not watching, it remembers its calendar. It confers with the moon; it whispers to the channels; it tightens its grip. I was flattered by its performance, lulled by its polite applause against the rocks.

Mid-afternoon made the bay look harmless. The causeway lay exposed, a slick ribbon ribbed by tyre tracks and worm casts. I stepped off the mainland as if onto a stage, carrying a reused plastic bag and a ridiculous sense of competence. The sign at the edge, salt-paled and bossy, said Check tide times; I had—or rather, I had skim-read them.

Black Rock was a knuckle of basalt armoured in barnacles and draped in weed the colour of old brass. The air smelt of salt and iron. I wandered the perimeter, stooping for sea glass and silence. Minutes evaporated; my watch ticked with bureaucratic indifference. Five more, I told myself.

Returning felt simple—until the ground unstitched. Shallow runnels that had glimmered like silver veins were gathering themselves. Rills became rivulets; rivulets joined into smooth, brown-green streams that slid across the causeway with an actor’s stealth. The mainland edged a fraction further away.

I laughed, then stopped. The water lapped my shoes with a practised friendliness that was not friendly at all. I checked my phone: one bar, wavering, then nothing (of course). Somewhere, a tractor droned; it could have been a continent away. My heart hammered too loudly—ridiculous, really—and I swallowed the metallic taste of hurry.

Options arranged themselves with brittle clarity. Wading meant crossing water that looked shallow but moved with intent; climbing meant trusting rock slick with algae and honed by winters. I chose height. Barnacles rasped my palms; weed sighed beneath my boots.

Then the first proper wave shouldered in, not high but heavyweight: a cold, brackish muscle that wrapped my ankles and tugged. The sea had hands. Behind me, the path home thinned to a scribble of foam.

Too late.

The tide accelerated without seeming to move; channels sang in low, glassy voices. Wind feathered my hair; spray salted my lips; the aquamarine-ness of the day drained to pewter. Yet the sun still shone. However much I told myself to think—to calculate—the water edited my plan, line by line, until only I remained, small on black rock, listening to the sea keep its appointment. I knew, with the cold clarity that strips away ornament, there would be no shortcut, no argument, no bargaining: only the patient arithmetic of water.

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

Option A:

The cave opens in the cliff like a black yawn, edged with teeth of barnacled rock. Light, thinned by sea-mist, slides in ragged sheets across the threshold; within, the dark holds its breath. The sea keeps time, drawing itself in and letting itself go—in and out, in and out—the lung of the bay labouring with patient persistence. Salt and iron coat my tongue; the smell of kelp rises, iodine-sharp, then sours where some hidden creature has given in to the tide. Pebbles gleam like coins. The entrance frames a slice of sky, blue rinsed to grey, while the mouth murmurs—low, unending—coaxing me nearer.

I step under the arch; the ledge on the left (slick with weed) offers a narrow, reluctant path. Sound is multiplied and bent; a single drip becomes a metronome, and each wave, rolling from far out, grows until it booms like a drum struck in a stone church. Stalactites hang like a collection of glass daggers; the ceiling, furred with damp, glimmers; a congregation of limpets grips the walls with stubborn, pearly mouths. Underfoot the rock is ribbed and polished, a palimpsest of impact and retreat; shallow pools trap shards of light and small scuttling lives. I brush the wall with my palm—seal-slick, shock-cold—and a faint, fishy breath rises from a crevice.

Deeper in, the cave narrows and then flares into a chamber, austere and unexpected. When the water is stirred, tiny sparks appear—phosphorescent freckles that tremble and vanish—so that, briefly, the dark resembles a dropped night sky. How many storms have hammered this vaulted throat? It is a cathedral of water and time: built by pressure and patience, indifferent as weather. My voice, when I test it, comes back different; it seems older, borrowed from anyone who ever stood here.

The rhythm changes almost imperceptibly at first; then the hush becomes insistence. The tide is turning. Long tongues of foam reach further, exploring; the cool line around my ankles lifts. Pebbles shiver; seaweed lifts its wet hair. The cave begins to disagree with my presence—politely, but firmly—and I take a step back, and another. Outside, the light is paling; gulls skate on the wind. The entrance shrinks from chamber to corridor to keyhole; the mouth chews at the day and the day gives in. Behind me the sea keeps breathing—relentless, reliable—erasing footprints, revising edges, keeping its secret rooms intact.

Option B:

Evening slid down the cliffs like spilled ink; the horizon blurred; the world thinned to wind, salt, and the measured breath of the sea. At noon the bay had been generous, all glitter and open sand, a map of safe routes. Now those lines were being rubbed out. I told myself I had time—an hour at least; the tide timetable, soft in my pocket, agreed with me.

I had come for the pools: small galaxies trapped in rock, starfish like bruised plums, anemones unfurling, tiny fish jittering like dropped coins. I stepped from slab to slab, greedy, careless, the brine washing my boots clean as I went. I wanted quiet; the sea’s attention felt orderly. Each pool mirrored a slice of sky; I broke a skin of light with my fingertip and watched it heal.

The first warning was a chill around my ankle, neat as a cuff. I stood, glanced back, measured the distance in heartbeats. The safe strip of sand was no longer a strip; it was a smear. Water braided itself between dark boulders, quick, clever, inevitable. How fast could it climb? The sea did not negotiate: it simply came.

I turned to the path; the headland shrugged, indifferent. What had been a path was now broken by a channel that had not existed a minute ago. My phone, when I pulled it out (stupidly hopeful), groped for a signal and found none. 'Never trust a turning tide,' Dad had said, laughing, years ago. I hadn’t laughed then; I wasn’t laughing now.

I scrambled. Barnacles bit; weed slicked under my soles; brine stung raw crescents in my palms. The rock was a black ladder with missing rungs. Above me, gorse bristled; below, the bay collected itself, deepening from pewter to iron. The gap widened. My breath came short, shallow, noisy. Don’t fall. Don’t look down. Move.

For a moment—ridiculous, brief—I was angry at the moon, at the drag of unseen forces that sent the water in. Then it reached my knees and anger dissolved into something quieter: a narrowing focus. The cove cradled me like a bowl filling; my footprints vanished as though I'd never been here. I thought of the kitchen light left on at home. The sea touched my thigh, cool and insistent. And I, pressed on a ledge the size of a doormat, learned how loudly my heart could knock.

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

Option A:

At the mouth of the cave the sea collects itself, bows, then surges in, laying a cold breath across the stones. Light stalls there—thin and uncertain—caught on the slick fringe of weed and the glitter of wet rock. The smell is sharp as metal, softened by kelp. Pebbles clatter like tiny teeth; foam unthreads.

But the cave refuses the open day. Its darkness is not empty but layered, as if shadow has weight. The roof lowers in a slow curve, scalloped by patient water; walls are pitted with old work: barnacles like coins, mussels in blue-black clusters, limpets clamped like buttons.

I step between the teeth of stone. The air is cool, it sits on the skin and tells you to hush. Sounds rearrange themselves: the outside roar becomes a careful music—drip, hiss, pause, echo. Every footstep taps the hollow chest of the place. Underfoot the floor is treacherous; ridges ripple beneath sand and pools lie waiting, black until the light finds them and turns them to glass.

Further in, a thin shaft of daylight slides around a bend and rests in a basin of water. The pool keeps a scrap of sky; a gull passes and the reflection trembles. In the dim edges, I see green handwriting on the rock—algae tracing maps no one needs. A crab skitters sideways, leaving hieroglyphs in the silt, and somewhere a drop falls with the patience of a clock.

Yet the cave is not truly still. It breathes with the tide; a slow pulse presses at its throat, and the ceiling ticks with cold. I think of winter storms when this place becomes a bell, ringing with noise and spray, when the ocean shoulders inside and roars at the ribs. Today it is gentler—careful—though it keeps its secrets.

Water lifts and falls at my ankles, inching higher. The path back seems narrower than before, the mouth paler, the day already folding. I turn, retracing damp prints, counting slick steps, counting seconds between the sea's breaths. Outside, brightness breaks over me like laughter, and the cave behind swallows what I have not learned. The tide writes at its threshold, then rubs it out, then writes it again.

Option B:

At first, the sea pretended to sleep. It lay slack as glass, breath held, the horizon a single pencil line of pewter. The wind barely bothered the marram grass; even the gulls glided, lazy and light. At my feet the causeway to the island ran pale and confident between black ribs of rock. The tide board lifted its wet finger: Safe until 4.15. I tapped my watch and nodded. I had a plan: cross to the island, eat my sandwich, cross back.

The sand was ribbed like the inside of a shell. Pools blinked with trapped sky and, when I leaned over them, anemones clenched their tiny fists. My boots made a soft, orderly squelch. I moved quickly at first, then more slowly, distracted by the small, bright things—glass-green seaweed like ribbons; a fragile crab skittering sideways; a feather that looked, oddly, like a quill I might write with. The island felt nearer than it was.

Then the sea breathed in.

It was subtle, not a wave but a decision. The flat water lifted and crept across the flats, fingering the edges of the path. Foam stitched itself along the stones. By the time I reached the rusted chain at the island’s lip, the ribbon of sand behind me had narrowed and darkened, a bruise spreading through it. I swallowed. It was only 3.50. The board must have been wrong, or my watch, or both.

I told myself it was fine. I would turn at once; I would be brisk. I would not look back at the gulls nesting in a tired piece of rope, or at the cracked boat that lolled like a stunned fish. I would go. The plan reshaped itself, a neat, sensible thing.

Halfway across, the plan dissolved. Water skated over my boot and slipped inside, confident and cold. The channel I had hopped ten minutes earlier heaved into a strip of quick water, brown with silt. The causeway that had been straight now bent, then broke, the pale stones vanishing under an opaque gleam. My phone flickered between one bar and none—no service.

The way back was gone.

I climbed onto a rock that smelt of iron and old salt. Wind rose without asking, pushing its damp hands through my coat. Somewhere, a dog barked, then was silent. I could picture my mother’s voice, tidy with warnings: Watch the tide. It turns quickly. It does, I thought, and the sea, awake now, kept coming.

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

Option A:

The cave opened like a dark mouth at the foot of the cliff. White water curled over its lips and slid away again, leaving threads of foam that trembled and vanished. The tide was patient; it came forward, it drew back, as if the whole headland breathed. On the wet shingle, the light was a cold pewter. I stood where the sea rinsed my boots and listened to a low, steady hush.

Stepping in, the temperature dropped at once; the sound changed; even my own breath sounded borrowed. The roof leaned down in ragged arches, not smooth but gnawed and gnarled, with rock edges like blunted teeth. Water gathered on them in shining beads and fell, one by one. The walls were slick with weed and streaked with black; when I touched them, they were as cold as coins. A narrow channel twisted away into the dark, a corridor of shadow I could not measure.

Light reached in only so far. It broke into the entrance like a blade and scattered into pale shards on the floor; beyond that, the half-light took over. Pools lay in the hollows—clear, greenish, strangely still—holding tiny lives: flickering shrimp, a bold crab, ghost-white shells. The smell was thick and complicated: salt, old rope, rotting kelp; there was a faint metallic tang that sat on the tongue. Somewhere, unseen, something clicked. Water dripped from the ceiling, it ticked like a slow clock.

At the same time, the place felt almost careful, almost sacred—a chapel made by the sea. The echoes softened my steps and made the cave seem larger than it was. Yet there was danger here too; a sudden surge could sweep everything clean. I watched the lip of the water creep forward and retreat, back and forth, back and forth. Then another swell rolled in; the mouth filled; the whisper became a roar. I stepped back. The cave exhaled.

Option B:

Morning made the shore look clean and harmless. The sand rippled like a ribcage; pools of sky lay trapped between the ridges. I could see the causeway glinting towards the low island, brown and green under the pale, thin sun. I breathed in the sharp, seaweed smell and felt the flat wind on my cheeks. We had come to look for fossils and crabs, nothing dangerous, nothing difficult. The tide, according to the board by the car park, was out for hours—we didn’t really study it.

Finn ran ahead, hopping over the slick rocks, his laughter bouncing. “Not too far!” Mum called, but her voice came thin in the breeze and I waved without turning. The causeway was a road of stones and shells that snapped under our trainers. We picked at barnacles, peered into miniature worlds: green hair of weed, tiny shrimps flickering, the faint glitter of a coin half-buried.

Time stretches on the shore. It seemed slow. It seemed safe. I should have checked again: the tide was already on the move. First it was only a thread of water licking the edges; then it tugged at my laces, cool and a little too strong. A gull dropped a shell that cracked like a warning. Finn looked back at me, his smile sliding away as the path narrowed into wet, shining stripes.

We started back, but the sea had other plans. It crept and then it hurried—racing over the flat sand with a low hiss, filling the ditches and swallowing the tracks of our feet. The causeway that seemed broad was broken into islands. “This way!” I said, though there wasn’t really a way. We splashed to a rock like a dark knuckle and climbed, hands numb, trousers clinging, my heart beating too loud. We were trapped.

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

Option A:

At the mouth of the sea cave, the afternoon light looks bruised, pressed thin against rock. The opening gapes like a slow yawn; a cold breath slides out and creeps over my arms. Waves nudge in and retreat, in and out, in and out, dragging pebbles with a rattle like beads in a jar. The smell is strong: salt, seaweed, something old. Above me, the ceiling sweats; drops hang, then fall, tapping on the black water. The walls glimmer where they are wet.

Further in, the noise changes. The world outside gets muffled, and every step, every breath, echoes back at me. My torch makes a weak cone; it shakes a little. Stalactites crowd the roof like blunt teeth. The rock is rough, like shark skin; it scrapes my palm when I steady myself on a ledge. Lines on the walls look like faded maps; a pool in the floor holds a perfect slice of the sky. A gull cries somewhere and it sounds very far away.

A swell runs through the tunnel so quietly I almost miss it, then it lifts the dark water and rolls a silver skin along the rock. For a moment the place feels alive, as if it was breathing with the tide. I taste metal on my tongue, and the air is colder; something whispers around corners I can’t see. There is fear here, but also a calm, a kind voice that says, stay, listen. I back toward the light anyway; the sea keeps its rhythm, in and out.

Option B:

Evening peeled across the bay, a thin orange ribbon on the water. At low tide the flats stretched like a road to the dark rocks; the beach seemed endless. I walked out, counting shells, nudging driftwood with my boot. It didn't feel like a trap at all.

At first, I didn't notice the trickle behind me. The sea breathed, softly in, softly out. Then the hiss grew. A narrow river curled across the sand between me and the cliff; a silver snake threading where my footprints had been. By the time I turned, it kissed my ankles—icy, insistent. Closer, closer.

I laughed, a small sound that blew away. I could step across, I thought, but the ground sucked at my heels and the next wave came higher. My bag thumped my hip—awkward; I should of left it by the dunes. The gulls wheeled and screamed like they were telling me off.

The channel widened. What was a thread became a wall. I tried a run—two strides, three—and slipped. Pebbles bit my palms; cold slid into my sleeves. The tide had a voice now, a steady drum, louder, louder, a crescendo swallowing my breath. Trapped.

Above me the cliff wore a crown of brambles; under me the sandbar narrowed to a white spine. There was one way: a crooked stack like steps, wet and treacherous. Could I climb it before the next surge? The sea reached again, greedy, patient, as if it had all the time in the world.

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

Option A:

The cave opens like a dark mouth at the edge of the tide. Grey waves slide in and shiver on the stones, leaving foam like torn paper. The air tastes salty; it smells old, like pennies and wet rope. Light squeezes through the narrow arch, thin and silver.

Inside, the sound changes. Every drop from the roof is loud — drip, drip, drip — and the echo answers, softer each time. My steps are careful because the floor is slick with weed and shells that crunch. Barnacles grip the rock like teeth; the walls are cold and gritty, then suddenly smooth, dark glass. Water moves backwards and forwards, tugging at my shoes, tugging at the loose sand.

Further in the roof lowers and the cave feels as if it is breathing around me, pulling air in and out, in and out. A thin beam breaks across a pool and shakes as the sea breathes. Small fish flicker like arrows. The cave smells damp and sharp and the taste sticks on my tongue. Outside, gulls cry, but in here time slows, my voice is only a whisper. Finally a colder wave pushes in and I step back, leaving the cave to keep its secrets.

Option B:

At first, the beach looked safe. The tide drew a glittering line and backed away, hissing like a kettle. I stepped over pale ropes of seaweed and peered into pools where tiny fish flickered. Salt stung my lips, gulls folded and wheeled above, and my footprints stitched a path between the dark rocks.

Then the wind turned. Clouds slid over the sun like a curtain, and the water came back—faster than I expected. It whispered around my ankles, then my calves. When I looked for the steps carved into the cliff, the path was already thin and far, a grey ribbon being eaten.

I walked, then I ran; stones clacked under my trainers. The rocks were slippery, my hands cold and wet. I grabbed a ledge, it felt slimy as soap. How could water move so quick? My breath went shallow, my heart thudded a heavy rythm in my ears.

But the little cove that seemed friendly had a different face now. The walls were close. The foam leapt. I shouted, though no one answered, and I held my phone up, no signal at all.

The tide kept climbing. It touched my knees. It didn’t stop.

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

Option A:

The cave is like a big black mouth. The sea pushes in and out, in and out. The floor is stone and wet, I step careful and my shoe is slippy. My breath comes white and it feels like the cave is breathing too.

Drip, drip, drip goes the water. It echoes and bounces off the walls, the sound is bigger than it should be. I can smell salt and old seaweed, a heavy, damp smell. The walls are rough and they shine.

The light behind me is small now. Inside it is darker and the rocks got green lines, they look like fingers. I touch the wall and it is cold - very cold. Waves slap the stones and sprinkle my face, I taste the sea.

A gull cries.

I think the cave is hiding things, secrets maybe, it feels deep but I dont go, the water were too high.

Option B:

Evening. The tide was coming in. It looked small at first, a little edge of foam. The wind nipped my ears. Gulls screamed.

I went out too far to get a shell. My shoes squelched and I laughed, then I didn't. Water curled around my ankles, then my knees. I turned, but the sand behind was shiny water now, like a mirror. It felt wierd, like the sea was closing a door.

I shouted, no one answered. My phone had no bars, I pressed it again and again, please work! Waves pushed me. They were like hands. I climbed the big rock and scraped my palm, it stung and I tasted salt.

I thought of Mum on the prom, I thought of home and a warm towel. The tide kept coming. It came and came. I were small, the sea was big. I dont know what to do, not yet.

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

Option A:

It is a cave by the sea. It's mouth is big like a black mouth, and the water goes in and out, in and out. The air smell like salt and fish, you can hear drip drip on the roof, the sound is wierd and loud. I go in and the floor is slippy and cold it were very loud, I say hello and it come back, hello hello! There is green stuff on the rocks and my shoe gets wet. I think about chips we had before, for no reason. Outside is to bright. A crab maybe look at me, or maybe it is nothing.

Option B:

Evening. The sea was cold and big and it kept moving in. I went out to the rocks because the shells were shiny and I wanted one, my shoes made squelch sounds and the wind was like hands on my back. Me and my bag was heavy and I didn't look back. The tide creeps but then it ran, it got my ankles, it got my knees, I said help! but there was no one by the steps. My phone was dead I think, the clouds looked like dirty wool. I were stuck on a small bit of stone and the water kept coming.