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 change does the narrator describe in public interest and in the ability to profit from hunger artist performances?: Public interest has declined, and staging profitable productions under the hunger artist's management is now impossible. – 1 mark
• 1.2 In earlier days, what could be earned by putting on productions of this sort?: good money – 1 mark
• 1.3 Which statement best summarises the narrator's comparison between earlier days and the present for hunger artist shows?: Hunger artist shows were once profitable and drew city-wide attention, but now interest has fallen and running such shows independently is no longer feasible. – 1 mark
• 1.4 What contrast does the narrator draw between earlier days and the present regarding hunger artist performances?: In the past, large self-managed shows were profitable and drew city-wide attention; now such shows are no longer possible and interest has fallen. – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 1 to 15 of the source:

1 In the last decades interest in hunger artists has declined considerably. Whereas in earlier days there was good money to be earned putting on major productions of this sort under one’s own management, nowadays that is totally impossible. Those were different times. Back then the hunger artist captured the attention of the entire city. From day to day while the fasting lasted,

6 participation increased. Everyone wanted to see the hunger artist at least daily. During the final days there were people with subscription tickets who sat all day in front of the small barred cage. And there were even viewing hours at night, their impact heightened by torchlight. On fine days the cage was dragged out into the open air, and then the hunger artist was put on

11 display particularly for the children. While for grown-ups the hunger artist was often merely a joke, something they participated in because it was fashionable, the children looked on amazed, their mouths open, holding each other’s hands for safety, as he sat there on scattered straw—spurning a chair—in a black tights, looking pale, with his ribs sticking out prominently,

How does the writer use language here to present the public’s reactions to the hunger artist and the atmosphere around his display? 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 analyse the juxtaposition of present decline and past fervour—contrasting declined considerably with Back then the artist captured the attention of the entire city—and show how cumulative listing and intensifiers (From day to day, participation increased, subscription tickets) build a frenzy of spectatorship. It would also explore theatrical, dehumanising lexis and sentence craft—major productions, display, small barred cage, torchlight, the parenthetic —spurning a chair— within a long sentence ending on ribs sticking out prominently—to create an unsettling carnival atmosphere, while contrasting adult trivialisation (merely a joke, fashionable) with children’s awe (mouths open, holding each other’s hands).

The writer foregrounds decline through intensifying adverbs: “declined considerably”, “totally impossible”. The blunt minor sentence “Those were different times.” functions as antithesis, pivoting into nostalgia. Hyperbolic metonymy in “the entire city” underscores collective obsession, establishing an atmosphere of mass spectacle.

Moreover, the lexical field of theatre and commerce—“major productions”, “under one’s own management”, “subscription tickets”, “display”—frames fasting as a commodified performance. The concrete noun phrase “small barred cage” uses carceral imagery; the modifier “barred” connotes imprisonment, while the passive “the cage was dragged out” effaces agency, presenting the artist as an exhibit. This creates a circus-like yet cruel atmosphere, as spectators “sat all day” in voyeuristic endurance.

Additionally, nocturnal imagery creates heightened drama: “viewing hours at night, their impact heightened by torchlight.” The light motif evokes ritual and carnival, but also a primitive, sinister glow. Paratactic accumulation—“And there were even... And on fine days”—plus quantifiers “everyone” and “all day” builds a crescendo of participation.

Furthermore, the juxtaposition of reactions sharpens social commentary. For adults it is “merely a joke” and “fashionable”, trivialising suffering; by contrast, children “looked on amazed, their mouths open, holding each other’s hands for safety.” This visual imagery of open mouths and clasped hands captures awe laced with fear. The precise physical description—“black tights”, “pale”, “ribs sticking out prominently”—provides stark corporeal imagery, while the participle “spurning” a chair signals ascetic defiance. The public’s fascination is shown as both superficial and uneasy, within an atmosphere of theatricalised austerity.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain that the writer contrasts past and present using hyperbole and accumulation to show changing reactions—interest has declined considerably compared with when the artist captured the attention of the entire city, with long, additive sentences and details like Everyone wanted to see and subscription tickets presenting a fashionable craze. Vivid imagery and tone build a theatrical yet uneasy atmosphere: the small barred cage and night torchlight set the scene, adults see it as merely a joke while children are amazed, their mouths open, holding each other’s hands, and the parenthetical —spurning a chair— plus the grotesque ribs sticking out prominently suggest morbid fascination.

The writer uses contrast and metaphor to present shifting reactions. The adverbial “In the last decades” with “declined considerably” suggests present apathy, whereas before the artist “captured the attention of the entire city”. The metaphor “captured” implies the crowd was seized by the spectacle. The short simple sentence “Those were different times.” foregrounds the contrast and creates a reflective tone.

Moreover, quantifiers and a performance lexis highlight organised participation. “Everyone wanted to see” and “participation increased” convey collective fervour, while “subscription tickets” and “viewing hours at night” make the display commercial and ritualised. The noun phrase “small barred cage” evokes imprisonment, building a claustrophobic atmosphere, and “impact… heightened by torchlight” adds theatrical imagery and an eerie glow.

Additionally, the writer contrasts adults and children. For “grown-ups” it is “merely a joke” and “fashionable”, implying shallow curiosity, whereas the children “looked on amazed, their mouths open, holding each other’s hands for safety”. This vivid imagery and listing emphasise wonder mixed with fear. Finally, “black tights”, “pale”, and “ribs sticking out prominently”, plus the participle “spurning a chair”, present deliberate self-denial, intensifying the unsettling atmosphere.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response identifies contrast and descriptive vocabulary to show reactions: adults see it as merely a joke while children are amazed, with phrases like captured the attention of the entire city and subscription tickets showing strong public interest. It also points to imagery such as torchlight, the small barred cage, and the artist’s ribs sticking out to create an excited but slightly unsettling atmosphere, and notes how the short sentence Those were different times shows a change over time.

The writer uses contrast to show changing public reactions. The adverbs “declined considerably” and “totally impossible” create a negative tone about the present, while the short sentence “Those were different times” emphasises the shift. Hyperbole like “the entire city” suggests how excited people once were.

Furthermore, imagery builds the atmosphere around the display. The phrase “small barred cage” makes it feel prison-like, and the verb “dragged” sounds heavy. “Viewing hours at night… heightened by torchlight” creates a dramatic, almost eerie mood.

Additionally, the writer contrasts adults and children. For grown-ups it was “merely a joke” and “fashionable”, showing shallow interest. But “the children looked on amazed, their mouths open, holding each other’s hands” uses physical detail and emotive language to show wonder mixed with fear. Overall, the language presents fascination in a tense, theatrical setting.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses simple words to show popularity and a show-like feel: "everyone wanted", "participation increased", "subscription tickets" and "torchlight" make it seem busy and exciting, while "small barred cage" makes it feel like a prison. He shows different reactions with "amazed" children and adults calling it a "joke", and the detail "ribs sticking out" is shocking; the short sentence "Those were different times." shows change.

The writer uses contrast to show reactions. The phrase “Whereas… nowadays” shows interest has “declined considerably”, so people care less. Moreover, the phrase “captured the attention of the entire city” suggests big excitement in the past. Furthermore, the words “small barred cage” and “torchlight” create a dark, tense atmosphere around the display. Additionally, the writer’s word choice “merely a joke” shows adults are casual, while the adjective “amazed” and the image “mouths open, holding each other’s hands” present children as curious but a bit scared.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Temporal contrast and time markers foreground decline versus past fascination, establishing a sharp shift in atmosphere (Those were different times.)
• Hyperbolic scope presents city-wide obsession, amplifying buzz around the display (the entire city)
• Incremental time phrasing builds momentum, suggesting crowds swelling as the fast continues (From day to day)
• Quantifiers and frequency adverbials convey compulsion and fashion-driven habit in the audience (at least daily)
• Concrete, carceral imagery turns the act into a spectacle while stressing confinement, shaping a claustrophobic mood (small barred cage)
• Nocturnal staging and theatrical diction create drama and eeriness, intensifying the viewing experience (heightened by torchlight)
• Passive construction and public relocation signal objectification and curated showmanship aimed at onlookers (dragged out into the open air)
• Adult response framed as trivial and trend-led, suggesting superficial engagement with suffering (merely a joke)
• Children’s reaction uses sensory detail to blend wonder with apprehension, revealing vulnerability in the crowd (mouths open)
• Vivid physical description and parenthetical dash spotlight ascetic suffering, making the atmosphere unsettling and compelling (ribs sticking out)

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 irony?

You could write about:

• how irony develops throughout the source
• 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 irony is built through structural contrasts and focus shifts: the opening retrospective frame "In the last decades interest in hunger artists has declined considerably" is set against "Those were different times", then the narrative zooms in "From day to day" to the "final days", piling spectacle ("subscription tickets", "torchlight") yet undercutting it by tone (adults say "merely a joke" while children stand with "their mouths open"). It then narrows to "butchers" and the observers, where the narrator’s aside "The honour of his art forbade it" versus "none of the watchers understood" creates dramatic irony that culminates in the paradoxical pivot "a lavish breakfast ... at his own expense", so the starving artist feeds the well-fed who still cling to their "suspicions".

One way in which the writer structures the opening to create irony is through temporal framing and juxtaposition. The exposition contrasts “In the last decades interest… has declined” with “Those were different times. Back then…,” oscillating between present neglect and past adulation. This structural shift from now to then sets up situational irony: an “artist” of self-denial was once a craze, yet even at his peak adults found him “merely a joke.” The focus narrows from the whole “city” to the “small barred cage,” a deliberate zoom which makes the spectacle intimate and paradoxical—crowds avidly consume a performance of not-consuming.

In addition, the writer engineers dramatic irony via a change in focus and an omniscient, parenthetical aside. After the mass spectators, attention pivots to the appointed “observers”—“strangely enough… butchers”—whose presence should authenticate the fast. The narrator undercuts them: “those who understood knew… he would never… The honour of his art forbade it. Naturally, none of the watchers understood that.” This intrusion privileges the reader with knowledge the characters lack. Anaphora (“Sometimes… Sometimes…”) patterns a cycle of misreading: even his corrective—singing to prove abstinence—gets recast as proof he can “eat even while singing,” compounding the irony.

A further structural feature is the cumulative use of adversative connectives to build toward an ironic anticlimax. Concessive pivots—“however,” “But that was little help,” “True… but…”—culminate in the closing reversal, “But nonetheless they stood by their suspicions.” The temporal sequencing from “night” to “morning,” alongside the motif of the “striking of the clock,” charts endurance, yet every demonstration (even the “lavish breakfast” for others) is structurally undercut, leaving suspicion intact and the irony pervasive.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 3 answer would explain how the text moves from a broad contrast—now declined considerably versus once captured the attention of the entire city—into a sequence of focused scenes of surveillance, so that scrutiny by butchers and attempts to show people his honesty ironically increase suspicion when they just wondered. It would use clear examples like the lavish breakfast and the claim that The honour of his art forbade it to show how these juxtapositions and step-by-step developments build an ironic gap between the artist’s integrity and the public’s doubt.

One way the writer structures the text to create irony is through an opening temporal contrast. The initial generalised statement, “In the last decades interest in hunger artists has declined considerably,” is immediately set against “in earlier days” when he “captured the attention of the entire city.” This shift in time and tone establishes situational irony: the more perfected and self-denying the “art,” the less it is valued now. The writer also juxtaposes children’s “amazed” awe with adults for whom it is “merely a joke,” intensifying the contrast between sincerity and trivialisation.

In addition, the writer narrows the focus from the crowd to the confined space of the cage and the appointed “watchers.” The detail that they are “butchers” is a deliberately ironic choice foregrounded by this change in focus. While the narrator asserts that “the honour of his art forbade it,” the sequence—singing to prove himself and being accused of eating “even while singing”—builds dramatic irony: the reader knows his integrity, but the observers misread every sign. The long, cumulative sentences slow the pace to dwell on this misunderstanding.

A further structural feature is the ending’s return to suspicion after the breakfast episode. He funds a “lavish breakfast” while he starves, yet the paragraph closes, “But nonetheless they stood by their suspicions.” Placing this short, emphatic sentence after extended description shifts the pace and crystallises the central irony of stubborn misjudgement.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer first shows interest in hunger artists has declined considerably, then looks back to when he captured the attention of the entire city, and finally focuses on the butchers and public suspicions; this creates irony because, even though The honour of his art forbade it, many adults think he is merely a joke, so his real effort is not respected.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create irony is through a time shift. The opening says "has declined considerably," but then the focus moves to the past when "the entire city" watched. This contrast makes it ironic that he is less valued now though he is the same, which surprises the reader.

In addition, there is a change in focus from the crowd to the observers, "usually butchers." Structurally moving from the public to these specific watchers creates irony, because people linked to eating guard a man who refuses to eat.

A further structural feature is the ending detail of the "lavish breakfast" for the watchers. Placing this at the end emphasises the irony that the fasting artist pays for food while they still keep "suspicions." The end links back to the beginning’s doubt, so the irony builds across the extract.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer begins with interest having declined considerably and then shows the past when Everyone wanted to see him, saying Those were different times, so the structure moves from now to then to make a simple, ironic contrast. Later, details like butchers watching and a lavish breakfast for them while he fasts keep the irony going.

One way the writer uses structure for irony is the opening contrast between now and the past. It begins with decline, then shifts back to “Those were different times.” This time shift shows irony: once famous, now ignored.

In addition, the focus moves from crowds to the watchers. Listing the “butchers” and their card games is ironic, as they suspect cheating while he refuses food. He even sings to prove it.

A further structural feature is the ending repetition: “nonetheless they stood by their suspicions.” Ending here shows the irony and feels unfair.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Opening temporal contrast (now vs then) frames irony: once-glorified self-denial is now unfashionable, foreshadowing undercut ideals (Those were different times).
• Shift from broad city-wide acclaim to specific rituals of spectatorship builds a spectacle out of suffering, heightening ironic commodification (subscription tickets).
• Time-of-day progression (day crowds to night torches) intensifies theatricality, turning deprivation into entertainment, which undercuts solemnity (viewing hours at night).
• Contrast between adults and children repositions response: adults treat it as fashion while children fear and awe, ironizing public taste (merely a joke).
• Zoom-in to physical details inside the cage objectifies the artist, structuring empathy yet exposing display as performance (ribs sticking out).
• Introduction of official watchers adds a policing layer whose composition is ironically apt, casting suspicion despite his integrity (usually butchers).
• Pattern of “sometimes” episodes shows repeated attempts to prove honesty met by misreadings, so efforts invert into further doubt (even while singing).
• Contrast of dim backlighting and harsh inspection spotlights his willingness to be scrutinized, yet he must entertain to keep them awake (electric flashlights).
• Structural crescendo to the breakfast scene reverses roles: the starving artist pays to feed the fed, deepening irony of appetite and value (at his own expense).
• Concluding adversative pivot (“True... But nonetheless”) seals the irony as proof changes nothing; public belief stays fixed (stood by their suspicions).

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 21 to the end.

In this part of the source, where the children stare in amazement while the adults treat it like a joke, it might seem that the artist is just a bit of fun. The writer suggests that there is something genuinely disturbing and real about the artist's suffering.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of the hunger artist and his suffering
• comment on the methods the writer uses to suggest the artist's genuine suffering
• 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, evaluating the writer’s viewpoint as a critique of voyeuristic trivialization: oversight is 'merely a formality' while the artist’s code—'The honour of his art forbade it'—and the strain of 'excruciating', 'terribly difficult' fasting make his pain real, even as the crowd perversely imagines he could 'eat even while singing.' It would cite the ironic choice of 'butchers' as observers and the final image of them 'hurled themselves' at a 'lavish breakfast' yet 'nonetheless they stood by their suspicions', to show the writer’s disturbing portrayal of public callousness.

I strongly agree that, although the scene can read like a spectacle that amuses the crowd, the writer persistently exposes the hunger artist’s suffering as genuine and deeply unsettling. The public face is circus-like—watchers “playing cards” and the artist even “jok[ing]” with them—but the narrative voice and choices of detail undercut any sense that this is merely “a bit of fun.”

From the outset, Kafka contrasts public suspicion with private integrity to validate the reality of his pain. The observers are “chosen by the public—strangely enough… butchers,” a choice of noun with visceral connotations of flesh and consumption that hints at cruelty and the body, intensifying discomfort. Structurally, the claim that the watching is “merely a formality” is immediately countered by the emphatic assertion that he would “never, under any circumstances” eat: the hyperbole and the solemn phrase “The honour of his art forbade it” frame his fasting as an uncompromising moral code. The weighty lexis isolates him—“none of the watchers understood”—making his suffering not only physical but existential.

The section detailing lax observers heightens this pathos through irony and focalisation. We are told that nothing was “more excruciating” to him than watchers who deliberately turned away; the evaluative adjectives “excruciating,” “depressed,” and “terribly difficult” foreground his internal state. When he “overcame his weakness and sang” to disprove their suspicions, the grotesque irony lands: they imagine he can “eat even while singing.” This persistent misreading forms a structural pattern of misunderstanding; every attempt to authenticate his suffering is perversely flipped into further doubt, which feels both absurd and disturbing.

The cage imagery and a motif of light also complicate the apparent playfulness. He prefers those who “sat down right against the bars” and “illuminated him with electric flashlights.” The “bars” symbolise confinement, while “glaring light” suggests invasive scrutiny; yet he welcomes exposure, desperate to be seen truly. Even his willingness to “joke” and “recount stories” functions instrumentally—to keep them awake so he can “keep showing them” he is not eating—turning the social “fun” into a strategy of self-erasure. The final contrast is brutal: he pays “at his own expense” for a “lavish breakfast” which healthy men “hurled themselves” upon. The semantic field of appetite intensifies the juxtaposition between their abundance and his deprivation. The rhetorical pivot “True… But nonetheless” leaves us with the crowd’s obstinate suspicion; their refusal to undertake a shift “without the breakfast” exposes their hypocrisy and underscores the artist’s lonely authenticity.

Overall, while the surface may entertain spectators, the writer’s irony, symbolism, and internal focalisation insist that the artist’s suffering is both real and profoundly troubling. I agree to a great extent: any “fun” is a fragile veneer over a genuine, unrecognised torment.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 3 response would largely agree with the writer’s viewpoint that the hunger artist’s suffering is genuine and unsettling, contrasting public trivialisation — the watch being merely a formality and observers playing cards — with the artist’s integrity and pain in The honour of his art forbade it, Nothing was more excruciating, They depressed him, and terribly difficult. It would also acknowledge show-like elements (his readiness to joke with them and fund a lavish breakfast at his own expense) to explain why others misread him as entertainment.

I mostly agree with the statement. Although the spectacle can look like entertainment for the crowd, the writer’s methods insist that the hunger artist’s pain is authentic and unsettling. From the start of this section, the physical detail of his condition—‘eyes almost shut’ and only ‘sipping from a tiny glass of water’—establishes fragility rather than fun. The ironic parenthetical aside ‘strangely enough they were usually butchers’ casts a disturbing tone: those associated with meat police a man who refuses to eat. This contrast, along with the emphatic claim that ‘not even if compelled by force’ would he break his fast, uses hyperbole to underline his absolute, painful commitment: ‘The honour of his art forbade it.’

Where adults reduce it to a game, the writer exposes its cruelty. The lax watchers who ‘put all their attention into playing cards’ trivialise his ordeal, yet ‘Nothing was more excruciating’ than their presence. That strong diction—‘excruciating’, ‘depressed’—shows that disbelief hurts him more than hunger. Dramatic irony intensifies this: when he ‘sang’ to prove his honesty, they perversely conclude he can ‘eat even while singing’. The method of contrast between his earnest efforts and their mockery makes his suffering feel both real and humiliating.

Even when there is joking, it is strategic, not playful. He ‘joke[s] with’ the strict observers and keeps them awake under ‘glaring’ electric light—light imagery that suggests relentless scrutiny—so he can ‘keep showing’ the truth that in his ‘cage’ there is nothing to eat. The cage symbolises his dehumanised status as a spectacle. The breakfast detail sharpens the antithesis: ‘at his own expense’ he feeds the observers, who ‘hurled themselves’ at food with the ‘appetite of healthy men’, while he remains empty. Structurally, ending on ‘nonetheless they stood by their suspicions’ leaves a bleak, circular conclusion that denies him recognition.

Overall, while onlookers treat the performance as a joke, the writer’s irony, contrast, and diction reveal genuinely disturbing, lived suffering.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would partly agree, noticing a simple contrast: while some watchers think it is "merely a formality" and even play cards, the writer’s emotive language suggests real pain. They would use basic quotes like "Nothing was more excruciating", "They depressed him", and "The honour of his art forbade it" to argue the hunger artist’s suffering is genuine.

I mostly agree with the statement. Although some people treat the hunger artist like entertainment, the writer shows that his pain is serious and unsettling.

First, the physical description suggests genuine suffering. The artist sits with “eyes almost shut” and only “sipping from a tiny glass of water,” which shows weakness. The writer also stresses his integrity: “The honour of his art forbade it.” This strong noun and the hyperbole “not even if compelled by force” make his refusal to eat feel strict and real, not a trick.

The public, however, often acts as if it’s a joke. The “watchers” are “usually butchers,” which is an ironic choice, hinting at something harsh and dehumanising. Some sit “in a distant corner… playing cards,” treating his fast casually. This attitude “depressed him” and made his fasting “terribly difficult,” showing emotional as well as physical pain.

He even tries to prove himself by singing “as long as he could keep it up,” a phrase that implies strain. There is bitter irony when they then think he could “eat even while singing,” so his efforts only increase the misunderstanding. The contrast between lax watchers and those who “illuminated him with electric flashlights” also shows his desire to be believed. He pays for a “lavish breakfast… at his own expense” to keep them awake, yet people still accuse him of “influencing” them.

Overall, I agree to a large extent. The crowd may be amused, but the writer’s language and contrasts reveal something disturbing: the artist’s real suffering and the public’s cold suspicion.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: At Level 1, a response would simply agree that the writer shows real suffering with basic references like eyes almost shut and Nothing was more excruciating, while noting others treat it lightly by playing cards and assuming secret supplies.

I mostly agree with the statement. In this section, some people treat the fasting like entertainment, but the writer also makes the artist’s pain seem real and troubling.

At the start he sits with his “eyes almost shut” and sips a “tiny glass of water,” which gives a weak, tired image. This description makes him look fragile rather than funny. The watchers, “usually butchers,” are there as a “formality.” The strong phrase “never, under any circumstances” and the verb “forbade” show his strict “honour” and make the suspicion feel unfair.

When the watchers are lax, the adjective “excruciating” and “They depressed him” show genuine suffering. He even “sang” to prove himself, but people still think he can eat, which is disturbing. There is a sense of fun when he is “very pleased to joke with them” and pays for a “lavish breakfast.” However, this contrast makes things worse for him, because “nonetheless they stood by their suspicions” and he has “nothing to eat” in his cage.

Overall, I agree that the writer suggests the hunger artist’s suffering is real, even if the crowd treats it like a joke.

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:

• Moral code of self-denial → frames the hunger as principled and authentic rather than playful → honour of his art
• Ironic choice of observers → makes the spectacle unsettling, linking his starvation to those who handle flesh → usually butchers
• Dismissal of surveillance → exposes public reassurance as sham, intensifying the sense of real suffering behind the show → merely a formality
• Trivialising supervision → lax, card-playing watchers reduce his ordeal to a joke, provoking reader frustration → playing cards
• Emotive pain lexis → underlines psychological torment, making his suffering disturbing rather than entertaining → Nothing was more excruciating
• Ironic misreading → attempts to prove innocence are twisted, heightening pathos and futility → even while singing
• Embrace of harsh scrutiny → his openness under intense light suggests desperate need to be believed, not a prank → glaring light
• Normalised exhaustion → matter-of-fact tone about insomnia deepens unease at the sustained toll → couldn’t sleep at all
• Self-sacrificial generosity → feeding the watchers while starving himself authenticates his commitment and isolation → at his own expense
• Intractable public doubt → persistent suspicion leaves a bitter, disturbing injustice at the heart of the spectacle → stood by their suspicions

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

The town museum is assembling a summer guide and has asked for brief creative writing from local students.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a quiet corner of an art gallery from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a moment that changes how someone looks at the world.

(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:

Light has weight here; it pours from the high, frosted skylight in pale, deliberate sheets and settles in the corner like a blanket nobody dares to disturb. The walls are white upon white upon white; skirting boards cut clean lines; shadows pool with the exactness of ink. On a square plinth a marble figure holds its balance, and in holding it, holds the room.

In this quiet, ordinary sounds are sifted and left faint as dust: the distant hiss of automatic doors, a cough politely swallowed, the soft-shoed slip of a guard somewhere between rooms. Here the air hums with its own care (a whisper from a vent, a purr of climate control); even the floor seems to listen, polished to the point where footsteps change their minds.

The statue draws the eye the way a tide draws a shoreline. It is contrapposto caught and made permanent; the hip tilts, the shoulder answers, weight housed in one heel with a grace that pretends not to notice itself. Veins of grey traverse the stone like ghost-rivers. Light rims the collarbone, finds the blunt gleam on a toe. The face turns slightly aside, eyelashes carved in shallow crescents; the mouth is almost speaking, or almost entirely at rest.

A low bench waits—blond wood, edges softened by a thousand careful coats and the slow varnish of time. The plaque is discreet and precise, a rectangle of brushed metal: Marble, c. 1890; anonymous; gift of an anonymous donor. The rope guard sags in a graceful parabola between brass posts; its shadow lies as a second, darker rope across the floor. Without showiness, the corner assembles its elements and composes a still life of restraint.

Dust motes tack and untack in the downpour of light, minute planets that spin without urgency. The coolness tastes faintly of paper and rain. Your breath, suddenly enormous, folds itself smaller; your shoulders do the same. Who first lifted a hammer and heard, in this block, a body asking to be released? As you shift, the light shifts; as the light shifts, the marble seems to breathe, though of course it does not—though of course it cannot.

Elsewhere the gallery is busy with colour and narrative—bruised oils, bright glass, murmuring tours; beyond, the shop rustles like a small forest. Yet here the palette is pared to bone: white, shadow, a fugitive silver where stone meets sun. Perhaps it is the restraint that compels; the absence that is presence; the hush that is curated as meticulously as any masterpiece. Time, if it does not stop, at least hesitates, as if pausing to read a label none of us can quite see.

Option B:

Before today, the world was a watercolour; edges bled into each other, faces were smudged suggestions, and the board and the bus numbers were a pale fog I learned to call normal. I pretended it was choice. If I squinted and guessed, perhaps that was how everybody did it. They called me dreamy, clumsy, unbothered; I nodded—half ashamed—and told myself the blur was soft, forgiving.

The optician’s room felt like the inside of a seashell: white, humming, faintly clinical. A chart floated like a lighthouse. The machine—black, gleaming, many-eyed—swung towards me. 'Rest your chin here,' he said, and the world narrowed to the oval frame and the measured rhythm of his question. 'One... or two?' Click. 'Two... or one?' The lenses turned with neat, understated authority; each change was a tide drawing back, almost imperceptible.

And then: something lifted. The letters that had always braided into fog stood apart, declarative. E F P T O Z. Each stroke stood to attention; the white behind them no longer a suggestion but a certainty. The difference felt indecent—as if someone had replaced my life with a high-definition replica while I blinked. Breath snagged; tears pricked, and laughter trembled because it was so simple, so late. I realised I had never actually seen my own eyes in a mirror, not properly; how audacious I’d been to think I knew anything.

Outside, the afternoon gleamed. Pavement stones became tessellated chapters; the dots of chewing gum constellated the kerb; leaves weren’t blobs of green but serrated, veined, busy with the patient engineering of a million cells. Across the road, my mother waited, and I saw her—really saw her—the fine fan of lines by her eyes, the necklace she never takes off (how had I missed it?), a silver strand at her temple I wanted to touch with reverence. Behind her, windows held people: a barista tamping espresso, a child fogging the glass. The city, which had been background, asserted itself—lettered, mapped, particular.

I had believed I was careless; perhaps I was simply ill-equipped. That realisation landed like a confession. All the times I wrote the wrong date, tripped the kerb, misread a glance—how quick I’d been to decide I didn’t care. I do. The world does not owe me softness; it offers detail. Time didn’t slow; it widened, a door opening on a hinge I hadn’t known was there. With frames warm against my skin and the street translating itself, I made a quiet promise: to look properly; to ask what else I have blurred into excuses; to let sharpness sting if it must. When the bus sighed to a halt and its numbers arrived unambiguously, I laughed and stepped on as if boarding not a route but a revision.

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

Option A:

The corner keeps its own weather of quiet. Light lands cleanly on the herringbone parquet, a quiet geometry of warm oak; the walls are a milky white that seems to breathe out coolness. Even the air is careful here—chilled, filtered, almost ceremonious. There is only this: a pale square of sunlight roaming slowly across the floor, and the soft mechanical sigh of the vents.

Beneath the skylight stands a single marble statue, modestly roped off. The figure is classical and unreadable; shoulders poured from stone, a mouth like a pressed petal, eyes polished and empty yet somehow full. Folds of drapery cling and fall as if a breeze had happened and then been arrested. The marble is the colour of unspilt milk, cold as a kept secret; small veins of grey creep through it, the faint maps of a mountain not yet climbed. The statue does not look at anyone, and still it seems to notice everything.

A narrow bench waits along the wall—ash, smooth with a thousand quiet pauses. A brass plaque offers dates and an unfamiliar name; the letters catch like tiny mirrors. Dust moves in its own tide; specks lift, settle, lift, settling again; each one is a minute the room has kept. Somewhere far down the gallery an attendant coughs and the sound travels thinly, then evaporates. It is so quiet you could hear a coat sleeve brush, a shoelace whisper, the pin-drop silence people always talk about.

The light changes almost imperceptibly. Shadows lengthen, retreat. The white paint takes on a cooler tint; the oak deepens. The smell is a mixture of beeswax, old paper, the chemical breath of air-conditioning—faint, antiseptic, almost clean enough to taste. If you run your fingers along the bench you find a small notch (someone’s thoughtless key, perhaps), but even this imperfection feels curated by the hush.

People come one by one. They pause, fold their arms, tilt their heads. Some stand as if in prayer; others glance and move on, drawn by louder canvases. In this corner, time seems to hold its breath; ordinary minutes are magnified into something larger. Who first saw this face as a miracle in stone? Who decided it belonged here, in a room like a held note? The corner does not answer. It offers steadiness instead—a measured grace, unhurried attention, a quiet that is not empty but complete.

Option B:

Night, in our street, was never dark. Shopfronts threw their colours onto the pavements; phones flashed like restless fish; buses sighed and grumbled as they bullied their way past the corner shop. I hunched over a revision guide that smelt faintly of dust and printer’s ink, highlighter bleeding neon across a page about tectonic plates and pressure and unseen forces.

At 9:07, the lights went out.

Everything stopped in a single, disciplined second. The fridge swallowed its hum; the lift groaned and fell silent; the fizz in the air flattened. The window opposite, usually blue with someone’s television, turned into a square of honest night. For a beat, I couldn’t breathe. It was as if the city had put a finger to its lips—hush—and expected me to obey.

We opened our doors, all of us, as though the corridor had called our names. On floor six, Mrs Patel’s bangles clinked like small bells; someone lit a candle that released a buttery scent; a baby protested, then settled. “Power cut?” Mr James observed, already peering at his watch as if time could be argued with. My phone glared at me, bossy and bright, and I tucked it in my pocket, suddenly embarrassed by its rectangular insistence.

I climbed the final flight to the roof. The stairwell was warmer than usual; the air tasted metallic, like static. Above, the sky spread itself with indifference: a canvas the colour of ink. At first I saw nothing—only a smear of cool dark and the suggestion of a moon. Then my eyes learned patience. Pinpricks gathered themselves. A timid scatter became a lattice; a faint haze became a river; the sky, which I had always treated as a lid, turned out to be a window.

I had thought I knew vast. I had thought the map in my book—edges, borders, neat arrows—meant something fixed. Yet above me the universe arranged and rearranged its faint fires as if to say: look longer. Constellations stitched and unstitched themselves in my imagination; the Milky Way arched like spilt salt across velvet; even the dark felt busy, deliberate. My worries—an exam mark, a message I hadn’t sent, the fact I’d snapped at Mum—shrunk until they were the size of a freckle. Not nothing, but small.

Around me, the building breathed. A neighbour laughed softly; someone down on the street played a violin, tentative notes arriving in the air like birds. I thought of all of us—stacked lives in boxes, stories pressing against thin walls—and of the ancient light arriving, late but faithful, to lay itself on our concrete.

In the morning, the buzz would return; screens would flare; deadlines would reassert their tyranny. But standing there, neck aching, eyes watering with cold, I understood something I hadn’t before: the world was not arranged around me. It was older, wider, indifferent and generous all at once. I put my phone on flight mode and, for once, let it be quiet.

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

Option A:

In the farthest corner of the gallery, where the white wall kinks inward, the air seems to hold its breath. Light from a high skylight falls in an even sheet; faint dust lifts and settles like slow snow. The statue on the low plinth—marble, pale as skimmed milk—stands with an arm missing, the other half-raised, as if listening. A velvet rope makes a soft boundary; a brass plaque glints with tidy text. The wooden floor, scratched then polished again, returns a dull glow. I stand here and my steps feel too loud.

It smells of polish and old paper; a lemon-clean with something chalky underneath. The air is cool on my wrists. Somewhere, far away, a door clicks; the sound travels thinly and arrives as a polite tap. I can hear my coat sleeve whisper against itself. Above, the white paints out distractions, lifting the eyes to the curve of a shoulder—the sculptor has caught a pause, a breath before speech. A hairline crack threads the stone like a vein. On the narrow grey bench, the fabric sags slightly in the middle; it invites, but warns you to sit carefully.

Beyond this recess, the gallery carries on with its usual choreography: shoes chattering, a child's laugh, a guard clearing his throat. Here, the noises arrive washed and small; they cannot quite cross the white. Even the light behaves—obedient, deliberate—edging the statue’s jawline, tucking shadows neatly underneath. I look, and I look again, and details reveal themselves in patient order: the shallow dent where a thumb once pressed clay, the fold of drapery that is less carved than suggested. It’s almost plain, this corner, almost empty, yet it fills with an attentive sort of silence.

When I leave, I think I will take that quiet with me. But it waits, stubborn, near the plinth. The air is thin, it tastes like chalk. If I reach towards the marble—I don’t—my hand hovers in the cool shade and then comes back, tinged with restraint. Stillness settles again, tidy as a freshly made bed. The window clouds; the light thins. The statue doesn’t move; it listens, still, still.

Option B:

November leaned over the town like a grey coat, heavy at the shoulders, pockets full of rain. Breath hung in the air; the pavement shone as if it remembered earlier light. Market stalls packed away, canvas dripping; gulls heckled from lampposts.

I walked home with my head tipped down, measuring my steps on the slabs. In my ears, a song kept time with the engines; my phone throbbed with messages I’d answer later. The world, for me, was a tunnel: homework, bus times, what's for tea. I didn't look up.

So I almost missed it.

The bus sighed to a stop by the green and, at the edge of my view, a small boy in red mittens tugged his mum’s sleeve and pointed. At first it was dots—a scatter of pepper on cold sky. Then they gathered, then stretched; a ribbon unspooling. The starlings poured like ink then broke like salt; they curled and folded, a living scarf remaking itself. Still, they moved together as if the air was sheet music. The street changed. Not silence—attention. Even the driver let the engine idle, a held breath. We stood, strangers side by side, our separate afternoons briefly stitched. What I saw was simple and impossible: hundreds of small hearts reading the wind, agreeing to turn.

I had believed, up to then, that the world was mostly lists and lines; essential, ordinary, predictable. Here was something else. I slid my phone into my pocket, screen down, and felt oddly rude to look away. I looked up.

Afterwards, everything seemed edged, brighter, as if some invisible lens had been cleaned. The red bricks were not just red; they held shadows. The cracked paint on a gate was a map. A puddle carried its own inverted sky. The birds settled in the sycamores, as if nothing had happened and, I suppose, nothing had. The path home was the same. Homework still waited. However, a fine fissure opened in the way I thought, and light began to seep through. What else had I not noticed?

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

Option A:

The corner holds its breath. The white walls look clean, like paper before a story begins. Light slides from a high skylight; it falls in a soft square and shows a slow parade of dust. A bench waits, its wood polished to a shy shine. There is the faint smell of polish and something older—linen, maybe, or closed pages. The air is cool; it clings quietly to my skin.

On the plinth stands a marble figure. The stone is pale, almost edible with light; the surface is smooth where a shoulder turns. Shadows gather in the fold of her dress and in the small hollow under her chin. She looks past me, past everyone, to a wall that has nothing on it. A thin rope makes a neat fence; its posts are like sentries that never move. If I lean closer, I see a shallow scratch on the base, one thin imperfection that makes her feel real. The floor around her gleams; it reflects her feet in a blurred way, like a puddle remembering rain.

Sound is careful here. From beyond comes a soft chorus of footsteps, a cough, a whisper that skims the plaster and fades. The air-conditioner hums, a low thread of noise that stitches the moment together. Sometimes a guard passes the doorway; their shoes squeak once, and then the quiet returns, quiet and sure. I sit on the bench. In this corner the world becomes smaller: marble, wood, light. My thoughts slow down; they spool gently, like ribbon.

Option B:

Evening. The colour of TV glow on the curtains; the street outside a necklace of sodium lamps. Cars hissed past, rain stitched the window with fine lines, and I scrolled, and scrolled. My world was small and bright, the size of my palm, warm with its buzzes and pings. I told myself it kept me connected. News, jokes, trends, a war in a country I couldn’t place on a map; it all flickered through like adverts. I didn’t look up. Why would I, when the screen gave me everything, filtered and tidy?

Then the lights went out. Somewhere, something tripped, and our block blinked like a tired eye. The television sighed, the fridge stopped humming; the kettle, midway to a boil, fell quiet. Everything—stopped. For a second, the silence made a slight ring in my ears. From the landing, I heard a door open, a hesitant 'Hello?' and the rustle of someone hunting for candles. I stood in the middle of the lounge with my thumb still on the dead phone, surprised at how heavy the dark felt. It wasn’t the usual city shadow, cut by neon and headlights. It was proper night, thick and close.

I stepped onto the balcony because the flat suddenly seemed too small. Cold air licked my arms. Across the estate, windows were squares of black, and then shapes moved: neighbours coming out, murmuring, laughing softly, sharing matches and torches. A kid pointed up. I followed his finger, and my breath caught.

The sky had returned. Stars, a scatter of pinpricks, then dozens, then more, like sugar thrown across slate. The dark was not empty; it was layered and deep, an ocean above our estates and bins and delivery vans. I had been staring down for years. When did I last look at this? We stood with our heads tilted, strangers together, and I felt something tilt in me too—small, but definite.

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

Option A:

The quiet corner hides at the end of a white corridor; a pocket of air that feels intact. Light slides from a high window, pooling pale and calm like spilt milk. The silence doesn’t shout, it sits and waits. Yet there is life: a murmur from the hall, the soft sigh of the vent, one careful cough that echoes and disappears. It's cool here, like the inside of a shell, smelling of polish and old paper.

In the centre, a lone marble statue stands on its modest pedestal. The figure is almost human, almost breathing; the smooth shoulder shines, the fingertips are chipped, the mouth is caught between speech and secrecy. A small plaque, neat lettering, announces a name I can’t quite pronounce. Shadows cling to the folds of the stone as if the fabric was real. A red rope makes a quiet border. On the bench someone has left the curve of heat. Footsteps pass the doorway—click, click—and do not enter; dust floats, slow snow, in the steady, soft light.

Here time slows down; it has to. The corner gathers moments and holds them together: breath, then thought, then breath again. My eyes travel the wall: a hairline crack, a brighter patch, an accidental finger mark. Small things matter. I listen for the statue, I half expect it to answer a question I still haven’t asked. Maybe that is the point of this quiet — to make space that feels almost private, almost mine, before the world spills back in and the shadows stretch longer.

Option B:

Night had always been noisy in our street: sirens, late TVs, the neon chicken shop sign buzzing like a trapped insect. I knew the rhythm of it, the bright blur from bus headlights and the steady hum of electricity under everything.

Then, at 9:14, the lights clicked off. Not just ours — the whole block sighed. The takeaway sign stopped its old fussing; the flats opposite went blank; even the traffic slowed, confused. For a breath the dark felt heavy. I could hear my own pulse.

We went outside because everyone did. The stairs were full of slippers and whispers. Mr Khan from downstairs held up a torch like a tiny moon. My sister squeezed my fingers. Above the roofline: stars, scattered like salt. A pale river from chimney to horizon — someone whispered, the Milky Way. I had seen pictures, but this felt alive; I blinked and the pattern seemed to shift, then settle.

Neighbours pointed, names we didn’t know became voices. A boy across the road said, can you see that saucepan? My sister breathed out "constellations" slowly, as if testing a new word. The night didn’t seem empty anymore, it felt stacked with distance.

I used to look down: at screens, at timetables, at shoes. That night made me look up. It didn’t fix everything — the bills, the crowded bus, the homework — but it moved something inside me, a small hinge, quietly opening.

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

Option A:

In the far corner of the gallery, there is a small square of space that feels tucked away. The walls are white and clean and the floor is pale wood with a shine that shows every step. Light falls from a high window like a blanket. Dust moves in it, tiny sparks. Somewhere, a single footstep, then nothing. It smells faintly of varnish and old paper.

Beside the wall, a marble statue stands on a short plinth. It is a figure with one hand raised and its head turned, as if listening. The surface looks smooth and cold; the light makes a soft halo on the shoulder. A rope sits in front to keep people back. The sign is small and neat: Artist unknown. The shadow pools around the base like water. Everything here is still, still and careful.

Beside it, a bench waits, thin and grey. I sit for a moment and feel the bench creak, the quiet feels heavier in this corner. A guard walks past and nods but does not speak, his shoes tap and fade. Time slows – or seems to, and I count my breaths. In this corner the gallery holds its breath too, a calm pause between noisy rooms.

Option B:

Blur. That was how the world used to be to me; like the bathroom mirror after a too-hot shower, like frost on a window. Letters on signs were waves, faces were clouds. I said it didn't matter, I could guess. At first I was stubborn, I squinted and walked on. But the ache behind my eyes grew, and secretly I wanted clarity, a clean line, an edge.

On Thursday, in the small optician that smelt of polish, the woman handed me thin frames. "Try these," she said. I slid them on and paused. The world sighed into focus. Dust hung like planets; the clock’s second hand ticked with a sharper sound. Outside, bricks separated into bricks, not a block. A pigeon had green on its neck I had never noticed, it shone like a coin.

Then the change moved inside me. People on the street weren't shapes any more, they were themselves: a man with paint on his cuffs, a girl dragging a suitcase, a tired mother smiling anyway. I thought the world had been hiding, but it was me. I took a breath and stepped out—careful, awake. It wasn’t magic, yet it definately felt like a new way to look.

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

Option A:

The corner is quiet. The walls are white and clean. Light comes from a high window. It falls in a square on the floor and on the statue. The statue is a woman. Her face is calm, like she is thinking.

In the galery corner it smells of dust and polish. I hear a beep somewhere, and an echo when my shoe moves. The floor is cold. There is a rope and a sign that says do not touch, so I dont touch. I look at the hands of the woman, they are smooth like soap and a little scary.

It feels kind of still, like the air is holding its breath. Time slows down, or maybe it just feels that way, my watch ticks like a small bird. The shadow of the statue is long and grey; it wants to reach the bench, it doesnt. I stand there for a bit then I go.

Option B:

Morning is grey and wet. The town looks blurry, like breath on glass. I walk to the opticians and cars hiss, I squint and the street signs swim, it makes my head hurt, I want to turn back but mum says keep going.

We go in and the room is white and quiet, the chair squeeks. The man says look here, read that line, I try but I cant, I dont like it, I feel like a small fish in a big bowl.

He lifts the frames and puts them on my face

just like that.

The world snaps. Sharp. The sign outside isnt a blob, it has numbers. Raindrops are like silver pins, the bus is red, mums hair is not a smudge, its brown and I can count the hairs, I laugh and nearly cry. I look. I blink. Maybe the world wasnt wrong, I was.

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

Option A:

The corner is quiet, very quiet. White walls and a big statue stand there. The statue is cold stone, it look at nothing and it is still. Light from a small window fall in a square on the floor, dust goes up and down, up and down. My shoes make a soft sound, then I stop. There is a little bench a sign says do not touch, it is small. The air smell like paint and old books. I hear my breath and a far clock maybe. The floor shine a bit but has marks. I think about the bus home. The corner stay still like a held breath.

Option B:

Spring was here. The path was wet and brown leaves still. I walked with my mums hand to the eye shop, I didnt want to go, I was thinking about chips. The man in the shop smiled and put glasses to me. I put them on. The world went clear like windows after rain, it was sharp! I could see tiny lines on the road and a spider web on the sign and words far away on the bus. My shoe was wet and I forgot it. I stood quiet. I looked and I felt new, like the world changed, or I did.