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 was the consultation conducted?: together – 1 mark
• 1.2 What was looked at anxiously?: the surgeon – 1 mark
• 1.3 What happened on receiving the replies?: a head was shaken – 1 mark
• 1.4 What colour was the light in the evening sky?: red – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 71 to 80 of the source:

71 the pit. The rope went out as before, the signal was made as before, and the windlass stopped. No man removed his hand from it now. Every one waited with his grasp set, and his body bent down to

76 the work, ready to reverse and wind in. At length the signal was given, and all the ring leaned forward. For, now, the rope came in, tightened and strained to its utmost as it appeared, and the

How does the writer use language here to build suspense as the men haul the injured man up from the pit? 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 explore how the procedural tricolon and repetition 'as before' with the passive 'the signal was made' delay resolution, while the short simple sentence 'No man removed his hand from it now' and collective body imagery 'grasp set', 'bent down' create coiled tension. It would also analyse the repeated 'and' (polysyndeton), temporal hesitation 'At length' and 'For, now,', and visceral verbs 'tightened', 'strained' with hyperbole 'to its utmost' and the tentative 'as it appeared', all mirroring the rope’s tautness to heighten suspense.

The writer builds suspense through measured repetition and controlled syntax. The epistrophe “as before … as before” within a tricolon (“the rope went out … the signal was made … and the windlass stopped”) makes the sequence feel ritualistic and potentially futile, prolonging anticipation. The passive construction “the signal was made” removes agency, fixing attention on process rather than outcome, which intensifies uncertainty. Moreover, the syndetic coordination and comma pauses move the action forward in cautious increments, mirroring the men’s fear about what the pit will yield.

Furthermore, the focus tightens on collective strain. The simple declarative “No man removed his hand from it now” with the absolute determiner “No” and the temporal adverb “now” compresses the moment into taut stillness. Universal quantification (“Every one”) and the collective noun/metonymy “all the ring” present the men as a single organism, heightening shared peril. Tactile and kinetic imagery—“his grasp set,” “his body bent down to the work”—renders tension physically palpable, while the infinitive phrase “ready to reverse and wind in” suggests coiled potential energy about to be released.

Additionally, temporal markers and micro-pauses manipulate pace. The delayed “At length” and the caesural commas in “For, now,” postpone relief, edging the reader forward. Personification and dynamic verbs—“the rope came in, tightened and strained”—make the rope itself bear the drama; the superlative “to its utmost” and the hedging clause “as it appeared” keep the outcome precarious. Finally, the sentence is left suspended (“and the”), an instance of aposiopesis that leaves us literally hanging, sustaining maximum suspense as the injured man is hauled up.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer builds suspense through repetition and pacing: the listing in the rope went out as before, the signal was made as before and the short sentence No man removed his hand from it now slow the action and heighten anticipation, while At length signals delay. Physical, collective imagery—grasp set, bent down to the work, all the ring leaned forward—and the rope tightened and strained to its utmost mirror the men’s tension and effort as they haul him up.

The writer builds suspense through repetition and parallel structure. The repeated phrase "as before" in "The rope went out as before, the signal was made as before" creates a ritual rhythm, making the reader relive the steps. The three-part list, ending "and the windlass stopped", and the coordinating conjunction "and" link actions into a list, slowing the moment so we feel the pause and worry for the man in the pit.

Moreover, sentence forms heighten tension. The short, simple line "No man removed his hand from it now" is absolute, suggesting a high-stakes moment. Similarly, "Every one waited with his grasp set, and his body bent down to the work" uses physical imagery to show readiness, while technical lexis "windlass" and "signal" grounds the scene in procedure, slowing as they "reverse and wind in."

Additionally, the adverbial "At length" shows the long wait breaking. The quantifier "all" with the noun "ring" emphasises group anticipation. The commas in "For, now," insert a pause that prolongs the moment. Dynamic verbs and the intensifier "to its utmost" in "the rope came in, tightened and strained" suggest extreme pressure and possible failure, so the reader fears for the injured man.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: Identifies repetition of as before and a short sentence like No man removed his hand from it now to show the moment is slowed and everyone is tense. Gives basic comments on verbs/phrases such as grasp set, At length, and tightened and strained to its utmost, explaining they suggest effort and delay, building suspense for the reader.

The writer uses repetition 'as before' and listing in 'the rope went out as before, the signal was made as before, and the windlass stopped' to slow the pace and make us wait, building suspense. The short sentence 'No man removed his hand from it now' also creates tension, showing focus and urgency.

Moreover, imagery like 'grasp set' and 'body bent down to the work' suggests physical strain, which makes the moment feel tight and intense. 'At length' is a time phrase that shows a long wait, increasing anticipation. Furthermore, the collective phrasing 'Every one' and 'all the ring leaned forward' shows the whole group braced for the outcome, adding pressure. Additionally, strong verbs and phrases such as 'tightened' and 'strained to its utmost' make the rope seem close to breaking, so the reader worries about the injured man.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses repetition like as before to show the same actions happening and build tension, and a short sentence such as No man removed his hand slows the moment down. Action words like tightened and strained and the men leaned forward show it is hard and make the reader wait to see what happens.

The writer uses repetition, saying the rope went out “as before” and the signal was made “as before”, which builds suspense as we wait. The short sentence “No man removed his hand from it now” also adds tension, because everyone is ready. Furthermore, the phrase “At length the signal was given” suggests a long wait. Moreover, the verbs “tightened” and “strained to its utmost” make the rope sound under pressure, making the reader anxious for the injured man. Additionally, the list with commas slows the pace, so the reader feels them “ready to reverse and wind in.”

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Anaphora of routine heightens tension by repeating the cycle and delaying change (as before)
• Polysyndetic tricolon slows pace and culminates in a tense pause at the halt (the windlass stopped)
• Short, emphatic sentence spotlights collective stillness and resolve under pressure (No man removed his hand)
• Collective focus and synchronized movement intensify shared anticipation (all the ring leaned forward)
• Embodied strain creates tactile tension and readiness for sudden action (grasp set)
• Delaying modifier defers the decisive action, increasing anticipation (ready to reverse and wind in)
• Temporal marker signals overdue progress, sharpening the sense of long wait (At length)
• Passive construction ritualises events and distances agency, focusing on process over people (the signal was given)
• Transitional hinge marks a charged shift into action, a breath before the decisive pull (For, now,)
• Escalating pressure in dynamic verbs suggests a near-breaking point for maximum suspense (to its utmost)

Question 3 - Mark Scheme

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

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

You could write about:

• how suspense 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 suspense escalates through structural shifts: from communal elation (‘Alive!’) to anxious consultation and step-by-step preparations, the temporal dimming (‘The sun was setting now… It was dark now’), iterative action and repetition (‘as before’, repeated ‘signal’, ‘ring after ring’), and delayed revelation (‘finally’), culminating in the shocking emergence (‘a sight to make the head swim,’ the body ‘almost without form’).

One way in which the writer structures suspense is through juxtaposition and temporal staging at the outset. The exclamatory 'Alive!' releases hope, immediately undercut by 'he’s hurt very bad' and 'we donno how to get him up.' This sharp contrast keeps the outcome precarious. Collective focalisation—'many eyes had tears'—fixes the crowd (and reader) in 'rapt suspense', while temporal markers ('The sun was setting now' to 'It was dark now') slow time into a tableau of consultation and preparation, deliberately deferring resolution.

In addition, the writer manipulates pace through procedural sequencing and incremental repetition. The rescue reads like a ritual: 'The rope went out as before, the signal was made as before'—a parallelism that both recalls risk and prolongs anticipation. Physical detail—'No man removed his hand,' 'the windlass complained,' 'ring after ring was coiled'—accumulates strain. This step-by-step mechanics, reinforced by polysyndetic 'and', forces the reader to endure the grinding ascent, making the rope’s 'giving way' feel frighteningly imminent.

A further structural feature is the alternation of focus and strategic withholding. While the men work, an analeptic insertion—'It appeared from the little this man said...'—relays Stephen’s fall and innocence, deepening stakes even as it defers the visual reveal. Only 'finally' does the narrative zoom to the bucket and 'the figure of a poor, crushed, human creature.' Even then, access is withheld—'At first, none but the surgeon went close'—and the tone softens from charged expectancy to hushed pity, so suspense about his condition persists into the closing moment.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain how suspense builds from the initial relief of 'Alive!' through procedural delays and a shift from light to 'It was dark now' as the crowd 'consulted together' and prepared 'bandages and slings', slowing the pace and withholding the rescue. It would also note how repetition and incremental stages—'The rope went out as before, the signal was made as before', 'ring after ring'—tighten tension until the delayed climax 'finally the bucket' reveals the 'poor, crushed' figure.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create suspense is through deliberate delay and step-by-step sequencing. After the cry of ‘Alive!’, hope is immediately undercut by ‘he’s hurt very bad’, and the narrative slows into consultation and preparation: hurdles, straw, bandages, slings. This listing and chronological steps reduce the pace, prolonging the moment before the rescue and heightening the crowd’s ‘rapt suspense’.

In addition, temporal markers and shifts in focus intensify tension. The transition from ‘The sun was setting now’ to ‘It was dark now’ shows time stretching, while the perspective zooms from the collective to the pitman, then to the rope. Repetition—‘the rope went out as before, the signal was made as before’—creates a repeated pattern, so the reader anticipates disaster; the strain (‘the windlass complained’) emphasises precariousness.

A further structural feature is the delayed climax and withheld resolution. Only ‘finally’ does the bucket appear, the adverb marking the peak of the action, yet the revelation is partial: the figure is ‘slung and tied within’, ‘a poor, crushed, human creature’. The closing focus—‘At first, none but the surgeon went close’—shifts tone from action to hushed uncertainty, sustaining suspense even at the extract’s end.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: Suspense grows from the early relief of Alive! quickly undercut by hurt so very bad, as the focus moves from the crowd’s anxious consultation to the step-by-step rescue. The writer delays the outcome with repeated signals and time markers like as before, At length, and finally, making us wait until the bucket rises and we see the poor, crushed, human creature.

One way the writer structures the extract to build suspense is by starting with a crowd reaction and uncertainty. At the beginning, we hear “Alive!” but quickly “he’s hurt very bad”, and the people “consulted together”. The focus on the surgeon and planning makes us wait.

In addition, there is a clear time shift from evening to night, which intensifies suspense. The time references “The sun was setting” and later “It was dark now, and torches were kindled” slow the pace. Step-by-step actions and repetition (“as before”, the signals, the rope “tightened”) make the reader anticipate danger.

A further feature is the build to a climax and partial resolution. The focus shifts down the pit, then up to the windlass as the “bucket” appears. Finally, he is “laid upon the bed of straw”, releasing some tension, but the “low murmur” and weeping keep some suspense.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer builds suspense through the order of events and time changes, moving from 'Alive!' to 'he’s hurt very bad', and from 'The sun was setting now' to 'It was dark now, and torches were kindled'. The repeated 'signal', focus on the 'windlass' and 'rope... tightened and strained', and how everyone 'waited' make us worry about the rescue.

One way the writer structures suspense is by building events in order. It starts with ‘Alive!’ and then the men prepare. Time words like ‘now’ and ‘at length’ slow the pace, making us wait.

In addition, repetition builds tension. The writer repeats ‘as before’ and ‘ring after ring’, and keeps the focus on the rope and windlass. This makes us think it could give way, which is suspenseful.

A further feature is a delayed reveal and change of focus. The crowd and actions are described first, and Stephen only appears at the end in the bucket. This climax increases suspense.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Opens with an immediate reversal from relief to peril, destabilising the mood and seeding anxiety (‘But he’s hurt very bad’).
• Collective consultation and the surgeon’s hesitation stall forward motion, building tension through pauses (‘shook his head’).
• Time shifts from sunset into full darkness, compressing urgency as visibility dwindles (‘It was dark now’).
• Step-by-step preparation lists and practicalities slow pacing, prolonging anticipation of the rescue (‘bandages and slings’).
• Drip-fed, second-hand updates keep knowledge partial, fuelling speculation across the crowd (‘quickly repeated all over’).
• Ritual repetition of actions delays resolution and amplifies dread (‘the rope went out as before’).
• A collective, breath-held pause freezes the scene at a crucial moment, heightening suspense (‘No man removed his hand’).
• Sensory strain of the mechanism makes failure feel imminent, sharpening jeopardy (‘the windlass complained’).
• Incremental progress is measured in tiny stages to sustain tension to the brink (‘ring after ring’).
• Even after retrieval, restricted access withholds certainty about his state, extending suspense into the ending (‘At first, none but the surgeon’).

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 71 to the end.

In this part of the source, the description of the rescued man as a ‘crushed, human creature’ is very moving. The writer suggests that even though the man is alive, his life has been completely destroyed by the accident.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of the crushed human creature
• comment on the methods the writer uses to portray the man's destroyed life
• 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 perceptively agree that the writer presents the survivor as alive yet effectively ruined, analysing dehumanising choices—'a poor, crushed, human creature', 'form, almost without form', the pronoun 'it', and the paradox 'iron deliverance'—and the orchestrated pity of 'A low murmur of pity' and 'the women wept aloud'. It would also note the humane counterpoint of 'tenderly supporting' to nuance the extent of destruction in the writer’s viewpoint.

I largely agree that the description of the “crushed, human creature” is profoundly moving, and that the writer intimates a life effectively shattered by the accident, though the scene’s tenderness complicates the idea that it is “completely” destroyed.

Structurally, the writer heightens our emotional response before we even see the man, using cumulative, ritualised repetition to build dread: “the rope went out as before … the signal was made as before.” This patterned echo, alongside the collective imagery of the “ring” of men who keep their “grasp set” and bodies “bent down,” creates a communal vigil. The mechanical strain is made visceral—“the rope came in, tightened and strained to its utmost,” while the “windlass complained.” That personification, together with the narrator’s aside that it was “scarcely endurable to look at the rope,” prepares us to feel the “sight to make the head swim, and oppress the heart.” The oppressive pressure of that metaphor anticipates the crushed body, aligning the reader’s physical reaction with the man’s condition.

When the man appears, the language pointedly strips him of individuality. He is first a “figure,” then “a poor, crushed, human creature.” The appositive piling of adjectives and the dehumanising noun “creature” suggest a reduction to bare existence; “human” becomes a qualifier rather than an identity. This is intensified by the paradox “this form, almost without form,” a haunting formulation that implies his body—and by extension his former life—has been broken beyond recognition. The industrial semantic field persists—“connecting chains,” “iron deliverance”—an oxymoronic phrase that yokes salvation to the very metal world that crushed him, suggesting that although he has been rescued, he cannot be restored. Even the “bed of straw” carries animalistic connotations, underscoring indignity and fragility.

The community’s reaction amplifies the pathos: “a low murmur of pity” and “the women wept aloud” provide auditory imagery of collective grief. Significantly, pronoun choice furthers dehumanisation: “none but the surgeon went close to it.” Calling him “it” registers the crowd’s horror at his condition, as if his personhood has been effaced. Yet the writer also threads through compassion: the men “tenderly supporting” him, moving him “very slowly,” and the presence of “the surgeon” suggest care, expertise and the possibility—however faint—of survival with dignity.

Overall, I agree to a great extent. Through paradox, personification, structural delay and a cold industrial lexicon, the writer implies that, though alive, the man’s former life has been grievously, perhaps irreparably, destroyed. Still, the tenderness and communal pity prevent the judgment from being absolute, leaving a sliver of humane hope.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response typically identifies that the writer invites agreement that the man’s life is devastated, using emotive, dehumanising images like "a poor, crushed, human creature" and "almost without form", and the communal pity and tone in "oppress the heart" and "women wept aloud" to show the extent of his ruin. It may also note a faint counterpoint in the careful rescue from "iron deliverance", explaining that while he survives, the imagery suggests lasting damage.

I agree to a large extent that the description of the “crushed, human creature” is very moving and that the writer suggests the man’s life has been devastated by the accident. The build-up to his rescue heightens our emotional response, and the language used when he appears emphasises how far he has been reduced.

The writer first creates intense tension through structure and repetition: “the rope went out as before… the signal was made as before,” and later “ring after ring was coiled,” which slows time and makes the rescue feel precarious. Personification in “the windlass complained” and the description that it was “scarcely endurable to look at the rope, and think of its giving way” push the reader into the crowd’s dread. Phrases like “a sight to make the head swim, and oppress the heart” use sensory and emotive language to prepare us for the shock of what emerges.

When the man is revealed, the phrasing is deliberately dehumanising and pitiful: “the figure of a poor, crushed, human creature.” The noun “creature” and the earlier “figure” suggest he is no longer recognisable as an individual, while the paradox “form, almost without form” implies his body, and symbolically his former life, are shattered. The metaphor “iron deliverance” is poignant: the machinery saves him, yet the hardness of “iron” hints at the brutal force that has mangled him. Details like being laid on a “bed of straw” evoke animal imagery, further suggesting a loss of dignity. The communal reaction—“a low murmur of pity” and “the women wept aloud”—amplifies the pathos, and “none but the surgeon went close” signals the severity of his condition.

Overall, I mostly agree: the writer strongly implies that although he survives, his life is irreparably damaged. However, the adverb “tenderly” and the presence of the surgeon hint at continuing care and a thread of humanity, suggesting that while his former life is destroyed, compassion for him endures.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: Shows some agreement with the writer’s viewpoint by using simple evidence like crushed, human creature and almost without form to argue that, even though he is rescued, the man’s life seems ruined. Also points to emotive details such as A low murmur of pity, the women wept aloud, and oppress the heart to say the scene is moving, with limited explanation of effect.

I mostly agree that the description is very moving and that the writer suggests the man’s life is ruined. The build-up before we see him adds to the emotion. The writer repeats “as before” and shows the effort as the “rope came in” and the “windlass complained.” This structural repetition and personification create tension, and the phrase “a sight to make the head swim, and oppress the heart” prepares the reader to feel shocked and sad.

When the man appears, the language is very emotive. He is called a “poor, crushed, human creature,” which makes him seem less like a person with a future and more like a damaged body. The choice of nouns like “figure” and “form, almost without form” dehumanises him, suggesting his body (and maybe his life) are broken. The verbs “slung and tied” make him seem like cargo, which is disturbing. The metaphor “iron deliverance” hints that although he is saved, the rescue is harsh and mechanical, which adds to the sense that the accident has taken everything from him. The crowd reaction—“a low murmur of pity” and “the women wept aloud”—shows how moving this is.

However, there are small signs of care and hope. The men are “tenderly supporting” him, and “none but the surgeon went close,” which suggests he will be treated. Even so, the final image of him on a “bed of straw” feels bleak. Overall, I agree to a large extent: the writer’s imagery and structural choices present him as alive but with a life that seems shattered.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 1 response simply agrees that the writer shows the man’s life as ruined, pointing to poor, crushed, human creature, almost without form, and the women wept aloud, maybe also noting his survival through its iron deliverance.

I mostly agree that calling him a “crushed, human creature” is very moving, and it suggests that, although he lives, his life feels destroyed. The writer shows the crowd’s fear and sadness and makes the man seem broken and helpless.

The rescue is tense and emotional: “the windlass complained” and it is “a sight to make the head swim, and oppress the heart.” This emotive language and personification make the scene frightening. The crowd’s response, “a low murmur of pity” and “the women wept aloud,” shows how moving it is.

When he is lifted out, he is “almost without form,” which makes him sound ruined. Words and imagery like “slung and tied,” and laid on a “bed of straw” feel pitiful. Also, “none but the surgeon went close,” showing he is fragile. However, “iron deliverance” and being “tenderly” supported hint at a little hope. Overall, I mostly agree because the language makes his survival feel tragic, even if there is a small possibility he can be helped.

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:

• Loaded epithet dehumanises the victim and invites powerful pity, implying existence reduced to suffering — poor, crushed, human creature
• Paradox blurs identity and body, suggesting his very self has been undone and moving the reader to grief — form, almost without form
• Reported prognosis intensifies fatalism; even if he can “speak now,” his lived life seems effectively over — mangled the life out
• Metaphor of a mechanical salvation makes survival feel cold and brutal, hinting at a future stripped of wholeness — iron deliverance
• Communal reaction foregrounds hopelessness; shared grief frames him as beyond recovery, deepening emotional impact — women wept aloud
• Suspenseful mechanics render survival precarious; his life feels held by a thread, heightening dread and pathos — tightened and strained
• Stark resting place reduces dignity, aligning him with rough, animal care and bare survival rather than a healed future — bed of straw
• Counterpoint: his careful self-preservation shows agency and will to live, suggesting not entirely “destroyed” — scooped up a little water
• Protective distance underscores fragility; others dare not approach, implying damage so great normal contact feels unsafe — none but the surgeon
• Compassionate handling preserves some human worth, complicating the claim of total destruction with tenderness and care — tenderly supporting

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A national business journal is publishing a feature on working life and invites entries from young writers.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a city office late at night from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about dedication and sacrifice.

(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 office holds its breath. Under the desk lamp’s small, disciplined halo, a keyboard becomes an archipelago; paper islands lie scalloped and still in a sea of charcoal carpet. High-backed chairs stand like sentries, their shadows long-limbed. Glass walls turn inward, black mirrors reflecting a world of muted shapes and midnight geometry; the room seems both cavernous and contained, a hush made visible.

Even so, there is sound, a careful embroidery of it: the air-conditioning’s soft, ceaseless susurration; the faint purr of a fridge; the elevator’s distant throat-clearing. Somewhere, a printer dreams—spooling, unlatching, settling—while a green diode keeps vigil like a star. The analogue clock ticks, not loudly but inevitably, a metronome dividing empty seconds from emptier ones.

Smells linger in the wake of daytime zeal: coffee turned bitter at the base of a mug; the lemon-bright echo of cleaner; the metallic tang of toner that makes the tongue imagine grit. Touch, too, has its residues. The mouse is smooth with a thousand decisions; the desk warm in the way wood remembers hands. A yellow note curls at the corner—URGENT, underlined twice—now oddly sleepy, its adhesive giving up with a sigh.

Beyond the pane, the city rehearses its own nocturne. Windows stipple the dark with lambent punctuation; cranes blink in slow, red consonants; taxis drag bands of colour across slick streets, commas of light that pause and accelerate. A tower opposite sulks—only one floor lit, a stubborn square of wakefulness—while clouds trawl low, grazing antennae. Rain tests the glass with small fingers, impatient, then relents.

In the day, this room is a vortex: voices interweave; laughter ricochets and falls into shared silence. That life is not gone—merely stored. It lies folded in the fibres of the carpet, queued in the outbox of the air. If you listen, really listen, you hear the after-sound of a joke, the ghost of a throat being cleared. Or perhaps you imagine it; exhaustion is suggestible.

A security guard passes the doorway, his torch a brief comet on the carpet; keys whisper against his hip. He pauses, peers in, then moves on, his reflection swallowed whole by the glass. A spider the size of a coin tests a strand between monitor and monitor, a tightrope across spreadsheets asleep in their blue-lit beds. The fern by the window droops like a young umbrella; it will revive—things usually do.

Near five, the blind’s thin slats grow silver. Somewhere east, morning prises open a seam; the city’s hum deepens, then clarifies, like a note tuning itself. The lamp, stubborn, continues to crown its little republic of light. Then, as if on cue: a card-swipe; a door sighs; footsteps, fresh and fast. The office exhales, and the breath it’s been holding slips quietly back into the day.

Option B:

Dawn. The hour of debts and deals; the city keeps its voice low while the sky bargains with light. Give me a little warmth, it whispers, and I’ll give you a day. In that hush, promises feel possible—even the reckless ones.

Lena double-knotted her trainers and pressed tape across a blister. The square kitchen held its breath: the kettle ticked; the fridge hummed; the thin radiator sighed. On the door were lists: Rota; Rent; Kai’s meds; Miles. Three hundred and forty-seven. Numbers lined up like soldiers—she did not love them (they had rarely loved her), but she obeyed.

She pinched the letter again: Outstanding Balance: £3,984. Surgery scheduled pending payment. She’d read those words until they became a tunnel she had to run through. Parties turned into shifts; weekends into waiting rooms; sleep into currency. She had given up little things—new shoes, hot dinners—and larger ones: complaint, attention, permission to be ordinary. Dedication wasn’t a feeling; it was a ledger.

Outside, the street yawned. Lamplight pooled on slick tarmac; last night’s rain turned gutters into thin canals. Her breath met the air and made ghosts. First step, then another—careful, then certain. The city, peeled back to bone, offered her route: past the shuttered florist, through the square, along the river whose surface shivered. Her lungs warmed; her legs argued and then complied; the rhythm arrived, steady as a metronome.

The bakery’s fan exhaled sugar and cinnamon; her stomach answered with a quiet rasp. A fox stitched itself through bins, unimpressed. A bus rolled by, a slow aquarium of faces. Lena kept counting: lampposts, paving cracks, traffic lights flicking to green. She ran not to escape but to keep a promise—ten miles before dawn, then the first bus to the morning shift.

She heard Kai’s sleep-muffled cough in the pocket of her memory; she saw him in the thin hospital gown, making a joke to shrink the room. When she’d said, I’ll fix it, he’d smiled as if she were a ridiculous superhero. You become heroic by showing up, she told herself; you become steadfast by staying.

At the bridge, a wind came off the water and bit. Fine. Hunger gnawed; fatigue pressed its palm to her back. Fine. Ahead, the city brightened, reluctant and slow. She lengthened her stride because she could—because she must. Sacrifice, she decided, isn’t the wound; it’s the scar you choose to live with.

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

Option A:

The desk lamp puddles amber light across a scatter of papers; beyond its careful circle, the office loosens into shadow. Late night settles in the carpet, quiet as dust, and the white hum of the vents sews a thin seam of sound through the room. The air tastes faintly of stale coffee and warm plastic; a metallic ghost of toner persists as if the printer still remembers its last job. Somewhere a pipe ticks—regular, small, stubborn—counting a private time. Empty, yet not: the room holds the remainder of the day like breath held behind teeth.

Post-it notes curl at their corners, whispering; paperclips lie spilled like a small shoal, flashing where they catch the light. The keyboard rests, a city of black squares; the monitor sleeps, breathing a slow, blue pulse that rises and fades. A swivel chair cradles the shape of a departed posture; a jacket hangs there, shoulders caved, cuff brushing the arm as though thinking. Filing cabinets line one wall like patient sentries, their thin handles neat, their drawers shut tight with reticent mouths. On the wall, the clock’s second hand hesitates—jumps—hesitates again; tiny teeth worrying forward.

Beyond the glass, the city glitters: stacked windows burning in orderly constellations, roads veining the dark with restless metal. Sirens tighten and slacken somewhere far below; tyres hiss on a damp strip of tarmac; a bus sighs at a stop. Light climbs the tower opposite, climbs and falls, so the pane becomes a palimpsest—street laid over office laid over sky. Desks replicate in the glass, doubling into a second horizon; the lamp crowns itself twice. The pane is cool, almost clean; if a hand pressed there, a brief oval of breath would bloom and vanish.

In the corridor, an elevator exhales and opens; wheels murmur; a cart passes with a soft, industrious jangle. The floor polisher hums its careful arc and lays a ribbon of gloss—back and forth, back and forth, back and forth—until the scent of lemon almost overwrites coffee and air. Bins yawn; wrappers rustle; the copier stirs once and thinks better of it. Then the corridor stills; the office composes itself, aligning edges, smoothing its quiet. Finally the switch clicks; darkness gathers neatly, and beyond the window the city shoulders the light, while inside, shapes drift into an aquarium calm and wait for morning’s first, pale instruction.

Option B:

Five a.m. does not ask; it expects. The street was a slender corridor of cold, streetlamps blinking like tired eyes as the bus sighed to a halt outside the leisure centre. Inside, the pool yawned—blue, austere, humming with the soft, relentless breath of the filters. Chlorine hung in the air like a stern reminder. It prickled the throat. It made the morning feel sharper, almost metallic.

Maya wrapped her towel tighter, the thin cotton no match for the tiles’ chill. She set her bag down on the bench with careful ceremony: goggles, cap, water bottle, the same objects in the same order, as if tidiness itself could conjure speed. Her fingers were rough with use, delicate crescents of skin lifting from the knuckles where the water had chewed them. She counted out the lengths before she’d even stepped in; numbers steadied her, a quiet litany against doubt.

Her phone buzzed. The screen lit her damp hand with a soft, tempting glow. You still coming tonight? It was Lauren—again. The party had swollen over the week from small to significant, as parties often do. A chance to be ordinary for once; a chance to be seen in a dress, not a lane. Maya stared at the message until the light faded, then turned the phone face down. She felt ridiculous and resolute simultaneously.

“Warm-up,” Coach called, voice echoing like a gavel across the water. He was a silhouette and a stopwatch; he did not do sympathy much, or at least he wore it badly. She liked that. Sympathy was for injuries; she had chosen this—had chosen and chosen, every early morning, every missed sleepover, every Saturday that smelled of chlorine instead of coffee and pastries.

The first shock of entry took her breath; it always did. Cold clutched at her ribs, then released, and she slid forward. Arms swept, legs whipped; she carved the lane until the world narrowed into the rhythm of stroke-turn-stroke. The tiles on the floor became milestones, low-lit and unwavering. Her lungs burned pleasantly, like a wick allowed to work. When she stopped, the pool held her without fuss, indifferent but dependable.

Sacrifice, she thought, was not a trumpeted moment but an accumulation: sleep traded for seconds; skin traded for speed; laughter traded for a lane. It sounded severe when listed like that, yet in practice it felt almost gentle—a habit, a promise kept not once but continuously.

Her phone vibrated again on the bench, a small insect of sound. Maya adjusted her cap, let the message go unanswered, and lifted herself for the next set. Dedication was simply this: choosing the same hard thing, even when no one was clapping. She pushed off. The water took her and did not complain.

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

Option A:

The desk lamp throws a cone of lemon light onto a clean island of wood, a small sun in a sea of shadow. Around it, the office holds its breath.

Chairs are tucked in obedient rows; the swivel seats are turned toward their monitors as if waiting for orders. A few screens flicker, then steady, then sink to sleep.

An air vent whispers, a thin thread stitching the room together. The clock on the far wall ticks with slow patience; its second hand taps the glass like a fingernail. Down the corridor, a lift chimes politely, doors opening to no one.

The smell is stale coffee and paper; warm plastic; the trace of citrus soap. A mug sits by the keyboard, ringed with a crescent of drying brown. Sticky notes curl at the corners, their reminders softening in the dimness: Deliverables due. Call Sarah. The handwriting tilts uphill, hopeful.

Beyond the window, the city is another office: stacked windows like grids of stars, some dark, some stubbornly bright. Cars trail red lines along the main roads; a siren threads the air, thinned by height. Neon from the building opposite splashes a pale colour onto the glass; it wobbles when the air‑con kicks.

In the corner, a potted plant leans toward the lamp as if it remembers daylight. The printer beside it rests with its mouth half‑open. Now and then it stirs—clicks, hums—then quietens, just in case.

Even the carpet seems to swallow sound. Footsteps would be muffled here. Yet the place is not entirely empty. It is crowded with traces: a lanyard like a dropped ribbon; a jacket over a chair; a screensaver drifting through a lake, a dog, a holiday that looks warm.

By midnight, condensation ghosts the higher panes. The lamp throws light into it and the air turns soft with dust. Outside, the city keeps working. Inside, the office waits; not dead, not sleeping—just holding its place in the long, electric night.

Option B:

Dawn. The hour of bare choices; the city not yet awake, breath held. Streetlights blinked like tired eyes as Elena stood by the leisure centre doors with a rucksack heavier than it looked. She checked the strap twice, as if the action could fasten her courage too. Cold tiles awaited her, cold water; colder still the idea of staying home and letting that silence become an excuse she couldn’t afford.

Earlier, in the flat above the chip shop, the hallway smelled of vinegar. She left a note for Mum—again—and a bowl of cereal for Theo, who would wake and find the remote. “Back by eight,” the note said. “Don’t miss the bus.” Their lives were marked by these small sentences, taped to the fridge. Beneath them all sat one line she never wrote: keep the scholarship.

The pool air was warm and chemical; it wasn’t comforting. Coach’s whistle cut the quiet. “Lanes one and two—forty lengths, negative split.” Commands she knew by heart. She slid into blue and pushed off. Stroke, breathe, kick, turn. The clock’s red hand bit round; her lungs burned like paper under a match. She chased the black line stitched to the floor and held it like a thread she would not let go. Again. Again—elbows high; fingers tight; no drifting.

Her phone buzzed in the locker: party tonight—everyone’s going. When she checked it between sets, a photo of three dresses cascaded onto the screen. She pictured fairy lights and the caramel smell of cake, her laughter rising with theirs. Then she typed, Sorry, training; maybe next time, and knew next time would look the same.

Dedication, she thought, isn’t loud. It is a quiet surrender: sleep, weekends, easy answers. What else could she give? She pressed her palms to the wet tiles and rose. Outside, dawn uncurled, pale as breath, and she dived toward it.

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

Option A:

A desk lamp spills a small pool of yellow over the grey desk; beyond it, the office lies in a soft, patient dark. Paperclips glint like dull fish; dust floats through the light in slow, careful spirals. Fluorescent strips hang above like clouds that forgot to switch on. The exit sign glows an unhelpful green.

Rows of monitors face each other, blank and black, showing the faintest reflection of the city. A cracked mug shows a ring of coffee like a tide mark. A stapler waits; its metal jaw clenched. Wires trail between desks like thin roots, gathering under the tables where the carpet is worn. Chairs are tucked in, angular and obedient, though one is left half-turned as if it tried to leave.

The air-conditioning hums, too cold for night, steady as a refrigerator; the clock answers with a tired tick. Outside, the city presses its light against the glass: red dots, windows, a slow river of traffic. Venetian blinds cut the street glow into thin bars that lie across the carpet like pale ladders. A siren passes, torn and fading, then just the hum again.

A thin smell hangs over everything—paper, toner, the sweet ghost of someone’s perfume, and cleaning spray. A scarf has been forgotten on the back of a chair; its loose fringe looks like tired fingers. The office feels like it is holding its breath, waiting for morning, waiting for the first clatter of keys. When the lamp finally clicks off, the dark closes carefully; the city keeps shining, and the machines keep breathing, still and steady, still and steady.

Option B:

Morning. The hour nobody loves; the sky still clings to a bruised blue, and the streetlights hum like bees. My alarm splits the quiet. I lie still, counting my breaths, while the house creaks around me as if it, too, doesn’t want to begin. Then I swing my legs out, and the cold floor grabs my feet. The air smells like metal and toothpaste. Outside, frost scrawls its faint handwriting on the window. Dedication isn’t warm, Coach says. It is colder than you think, and it bites.

I dress in the half-dark, my hands moving like they already know the order: vest, leggings, hoodie, then the old trainers with their chewed laces. The skin on my heel is hard, a small moon of pain, but I thread and pull until the knot sits tight as a promise. My bag—packed last night—waits by the door with a banana and a bottle of water. Mum is asleep after the night shift; I leave her a note on the kettle. Back by seven. Don’t worry. Why do I do this? Because every season is short, and somebody has to pay for dreams.

The street is a pale tunnel. My breath makes ghosts; my feet find their rhythm, a quiet drum on the pavement. Past the chippy, past the newsagent who won’t open for hours, I run towards the park where the track sits, black and still. My phone shivers in my pocket with a message from the group chat. Movie night? Pizza? I picture their bright living rooms and soft couches. I keep running. This is the cost: missed parties, sore muscles, early mornings, a bed that begs me back. Sacrifice isn’t a one-time thing; it’s a steady coin you drop into the jar, day after day. The sky loosens. Birds begin. At the gate, I pause to stretch and listen to the scrape of my breath and the far-off bus. Trials are in three weeks.

Last winter they sent pictures of candles, a cake like a stadium, everyone leaning in. I stood outside this same track, breath turning silver, and texted happy birthday with numb fingers. It felt silly, and it also felt right. I want that moment when effort counts. Enough to be here before dawn, with frost and stubborn feet, ready to do the slow work again.

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

Option A:

The lamp pools a circle of pale gold on the desk, making the paper look almost warm. Around it, the office falls into shadow. Chairs are pushed back at untidy angles, like tired people that left in a hurry. The air-conditioning hums — a long, low hum — the building breathing. Thermos mug, cold coffee, the bitter smell sits in the air; printer ink too, sharp and a little metallic. A fluorescent exit sign glows a sick green above the door. The screens sleep in black squares, holding my reflection and the tiny galaxies of dust turning slowly.

Through the window the city carries on. Roads draw orange ribbons across the dark; wavering lights slide over the glass. A billboard blinks and blinks, patient, and a siren skims the edge of hearing like a thin blade. Somewhere a train goes over the bridge, the rails complain. The window is cool under my fingers. It stares down at the grid of small offices in other buildings, each a square aquarium with one lamp, one plant, one shadow. The night is busy out there, it is slower inside.

Then a lift coughs, then sighs, and its doors close again. A cleaner’s trolley whispers past, wheels squeaking; the blue mop head leaves a dark trail that dries almost at once. The photocopier wakes for no reason and clicks, like it wants attention. The clock ticks—metronomic, stubborn. I stack a file; the papers are stubborn too. Soon the office will yawn and stretch, or maybe it wont, but the desk lamp keeps its small sun going.

Option B:

Dawn. The hour when the town holds its breath; streetlights blink tiredly and frost clings to the railings. Malik knots his laces until his fingers sting. His breath makes small ghosts, rising and slipping away. The air is thin, it scratches his throat. The street waits, long and grey. His trainers are frayed at the toes, but they still do the job.

Inside the flat, his mother snores softly, her supermarket badge still pinned to a crumpled shirt. Night shift again—two in a row because the gas bill came. He leaves the note he writes every morning: Gone to run. Back before school. Proud of you. He never wakes her although he wants to. Last night his phone buzzed with messages about a party he used to go to; he turned it face down and counted the miles he needed instead.

He runs for the scholarship, for a chance that seems far but not impossible, for the way her face might finally look rested. His legs complain early, a slow burn in his calves; the cold chews his ears and fingers. Is pain the price for something better? He counts lamp posts, he counts breaths, he counts the seconds until the next corner. At the end of the road a stray cat watches him like a judge.

His heartbeat is a steady drum, his thoughts are messy threads, but his feet keep the rhythm. Every mile is a promise he made and he cannot break it. He keeps going.

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

Option A:

At this hour, the desk lamp makes a small island on the desk. Paper edges glow while dust floats through the yellow cone - slow and lazy. The rest of the room is dim. The clock on the wall drags its hand, ticking, ticking, then a pause, then ticks again; the air conditioning grumbles in the ceiling, a low hum that never really stops.

Meanwhile, chairs wait in a row like quiet people. Their wheels leave thin tracks in the grey carpet. A coffee cup is abandoned, a brown ring, a cold smell that mixes with paper and toner. The printers sleep; tiny green lights blink, it looks like an eye that won’t shut. Who would come now? The building feels awake but bored, it listens.

Outside the glass, the city keeps moving. Neon signs flicker and bounce back at me in the window, making my shape a dark silhouette. I raise a file and lower it, just to hear the soft flap; a small sound in a huge place. Then, because night is long, I switch off the lamp. The island disappears.

Option B:

Four a.m. The alarm buzzes like a fly in a jar, thin and annoying. The house is heavy with sleep; even the radiator ticks softly. I slide out of bed and reach for my trainers. The laces are stiff from yesterday's rain, they bite my fingers. Outside, the street lamps blink; the air nips my ears.

People think dedication is loud, cheering and medals. It isn't. It is quiet footsteps on empty pavements, breath like steam, a stubborn heartbeat counting one-two, one-two. Coach says champions are made in the dark. I run anyway. The road is empty; the city not yet awake. Each stride is a small choice: say no to the party, say yes to the miles, say no to ten more minutes in bed.

There is sacrifice too. Mum's late shift means I make breakfast and check my brother's homework. My hands smell of toast; my legs burn. However, I keep going because I promised Dad when he left for the oil rig that I would try, really try, to get that scholarship. I run for a reason: to open a door. The sun lifts and my shadow stretches. I am small, but I am moving.

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

Option A:

Its late and the office is very quiet. A desk lamp is the only light. It shines on a messy desk like a small moon. Shadows sit in corners. The chairs was empty. The computer screen glows, blue and cold, it makes my hands look strange. I can hear the clock, tick tick, and the air-con hums. It smells like cold coffee, and dust. The printer is sleeping with its mouth half open. No voices, no phones, only the humming - low and steady - like breathing.

Through the window there are tiny lights on the street. Cars move slow and they look far, like little boats on a black river. The glass shows my face and the lamp too; it makes two rooms, inside and outside. A cleaner pushes a mop back and forth, back and forth.

The lamp keeps on. The night keeps on, and the office stays awake, even if we arent.

Option B:

Morning again. The alarm shouts in the dark. My hand is heavy and my eyes sting. I get up because I said I would. I pull on my old trainers and the floor is cold like ice. I tie my laces and go out - no excuses. The moon watches me like a teacher. I think of Mum sleeping, the bills on the table.

I run to the track, to the same lane. Lap after lap, again and again, I count. My chest burns and my legs ache but I keep going, I keep going because I promised. Friends are warm in bed, they laugh later at lunch, I don’t go, I dont mind, I say that. I want the race, I want the time, so Mum don’t have to worry no more.

I give up sleep, and sweets, and Saturdays. It hurts, but it’s worth it.

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

Option A:

The office is quiet. A small lamp on the desk makes a yellow pool. The chairs is empty, they look like they are waiting. The computer screen is black, it still glows a little. I hear the clock, tick tick tick. Paper make a soft rustle and the air hums like a fridge. Shadows are long like fingers. A cold cup of coffee sits, it smells bitter and old. Outside the windows the city light blink, cars hiss. I think about the night bus, it will be late, it was late before. I dont want to stay but I stay, the cleaner comes soon.

Option B:

Morning. Cold like metal. I get up when the street is quiet and the sky is grey. I tie my old shoes and go to the field. I run and my chest hurts but I keep going. I miss breakfast with my brother, the bus is late and I am tired in class. After school I carry boxes at the small shop Mum says we need the money. I save for the race, I dont buy snacks. It is small things and big too because my friends call and I say no again. The bin truck groans.