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 Which birds are described as flying around Yakob?: Snipe – 1 mark
• 1.2 After passing the common, where did Yakob walk next?: Along the outskirts of the town – 1 mark
• 1.3 From where did the scintillations come?: the water – 1 mark
• 1.4 What makes it difficult for Yakob to look towards the river?: Bright glare from the water – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 6 to 15 of the source:

6 out of the bathing-place. Not far from the bathing-place sat a group of boys catching crabs with meat; and seeing him they cried maliciously, "Bronza! Bronza!" And at this moment before him rose a thick old willow with an immense hollow in it, and on it a raven's nest.... And suddenly in Yakob's mind awoke the memory of the child with the yellow hair of whom Marfa had spoken.... Yes,

11 it was the same willow, green, silent, sad.... How it had aged, poor thing! He sat underneath it, and began to remember. On the other bank, where was now a flooded meadow, there then stood a great birch forest, and farther away, where the now bare hill glimmered on the horizon, was an old pine wood. Up and

How does the writer use language here to present Yakob’s feelings and memories by the river? 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: Through natural symbolism and personification, the writer maps Yakob’s emotions onto the landscape: the thick old willow with an immense hollow and raven's nest connote age, emptiness and foreboding, while the triadic description green, silent, sad and the exclamative How it had aged, poor thing! project his melancholy and empathy. Temporal contrast and sentence form shape the flow of memory—the extended clause where was now a flooded meadow, there then stood and repeated .... mirror drifting recollection, as the abrupt personified trigger And suddenly in Yakob's mind awoke the memory is set against the boys’ maliciously shouted Bronza! Bronza!, intensifying his isolation.

The writer uses personification and symbolism to render Yakob’s melancholy and nostalgia by the river. The willow "rose" before him like a presence; the dynamic verb suggests sudden reappearance, as if the past asserts itself. Its "immense hollow" and the "raven's nest" are symbolic: the emptiness implies a void in Yakob, while the raven connotes foreboding, colouring his recollection with grief. Simultaneously, "awoke the memory" personifies recollection, implying something long dormant jolting into life.

Furthermore, the tricolon "green, silent, sad" layers tone through colour and sound. "Green" hints at life enduring, but the soft sibilance of "silent, sad" hushes the scene into mourning, a pathetic fallacy that mirrors Yakob’s subdued sorrow. The exclamative "How it had aged, poor thing!" anthropomorphises the tree; the tender vocative "poor thing" reveals his compassion, as if he projects his own weariness onto the landscape.

Moreover, the writer contrasts "now" and "then" to stage an analepsis. The cumulative sentence—"where was now a flooded meadow… where the now bare hill glimmered"—mimics the meandering current of his thoughts, while ellipses ("....") let his consciousness trail into reverie. The lexis of loss ("flooded", "bare") opposes the former "great birch forest" and "old pine wood", intensifying his sense of diminishment, while "glimmered" suggests memory’s distant, fading light.

Additionally, the adverb "maliciously" and the echoed taunt "Bronza! Bronza!" establish hostility, isolating Yakob so that he retreats "underneath" the willow for shelter. Thus, language choices entwine setting and psyche to present a man haunted yet held by memory.

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 uses emotive description and personification to mirror Yakob’s mood, calling the willow "green, silent, sad" and using the exclamative "How it had aged, poor thing!" so we feel his pity and time’s passage, while the ominous "raven’s nest" and "immense hollow" hint at emptiness. It would also note sentence and structural features—ellipses and time contrast ("now"/"then"), and "And suddenly" with "awoke the memory"—to show drifting, triggered recollection, and how the boys’ "Bronza! Bronza!" said "maliciously" adds humiliation that prompts these memories.

The writer uses direct speech and adverbial choice to show Yakob’s discomfort by the river. The boys "cried maliciously, 'Bronza! Bronza!'", with repetition and the adverb "maliciously" presenting open hostility that makes him feel exposed and judged. Furthermore, personification reveals how the setting unlocks his memories. The willow "rose" before him and "awoke the memory" of "the child with the yellow hair": abstract "memory" is personified as waking, suggesting a sudden, involuntary flood of recollection. The triadic list of adjectives "green, silent, sad" conveys his conflicted feelings, mixing beauty with grief, while the exclamative "How it had aged, poor thing!" anthropomorphises the tree, showing tenderness and regret. Moreover, the writer contrasts past and present through temporal adverbials: "where was now a flooded meadow" and "where the now bare hill glimmered" oppose what "then stood": a "great birch forest" and "old pine wood". This juxtaposition of "now" and "then" emphasises loss and the erosion of his past. Additionally, the ominous imagery of "a raven's nest" and "an immense hollow" introduces symbolism of death and emptiness, deepening Yakob’s melancholy. Finally, the frequent ellipses create pauses and a drifting rhythm, mirroring his reflective, fragmented thought as he "sat underneath" the willow and began to remember.

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 might spot simple techniques and effects: the adjectives "green, silent, sad" and personification "How it had aged, poor thing!" show Yakob’s sadness and the old willow reflecting his feelings. It may also notice ellipses and contrast, with "awoke the memory" and the shift from "now" to "there then" showing drifting memories and change, while the boys "cried maliciously" suggests unkindness that troubles him.

The writer uses descriptive adjectives to show Yakob’s feelings by the river. The phrase “the same willow, green, silent, sad” shows his melancholy, as the calmness makes him think of the past. The exclamation “How it had aged, poor thing!” uses emotive language and an exclamatory sentence to suggest pity and tenderness.

Furthermore, personification is used when “before him rose a thick old willow” and “it had aged,” making the tree seem alive, like an old friend. This suggests Yakob’s nostalgia.

Additionally, the ellipses “...” and the sudden “Yes,” show pauses and a rush of memory, creating a reflective tone. The “raven’s nest” is a dark image, hinting at loss. Finally, the contrast between “there then stood a great birch forest” and “now a flooded meadow” shows change over time, presenting his memories as richer than the present.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses simple describing words like "thick old willow" and "green, silent, sad" to show Yakob feels sad and remembers, while the boys who "cried maliciously, 'Bronza! Bronza!'" and the "raven's nest" make the scene seem unfriendly. Simple punctuation like "Yes," and the ellipses "...." show pauses as he thinks back.

The writer uses adjectives to present Yakob’s feelings. The willow is “green, silent, sad”, which shows his mood is quiet and sad by the river. Furthermore, the direct speech and repetition “Bronza! Bronza!” and the adverb “maliciously” show the boys’ cruelty, making Yakob feel uneasy. Moreover, personification in “How it had aged, poor thing!” makes the tree seem alive and suggests his pity and sadness about the past. Additionally, the verb “awoke” and the ellipses “...” show memories coming back slowly. Therefore, the language shows Yakob is thoughtful and remembering the past.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Direct speech with an evaluative adverb establishes hostility and Yakob’s vulnerability, prompting retreat into reflection (cried maliciously).
• Sudden visual emergence and the verb choice make the tree feel imposing, a catalyst for remembrance (rose a thick old willow).
• Concrete, ominous details suggest age and emptiness, deepening the melancholy tone (immense hollow).
• Personification of thought makes recollection involuntary and powerful, showing memory taking over the present (awoke the memory).
• Specific, vivid detail sharpens the personal past, giving his recollection emotional immediacy (child with the yellow hair).
• Triplet of adjectives fuses landscape with mood, conveying quiet, reflective sorrow (green, silent, sad).
• Exclamation and tender address personify the tree, revealing pity and a sense of time’s wear (poor thing!).
• Juxtaposed time markers create structural contrast between present and past, highlighting loss and change (now a flooded meadow).
• Expanding spatial markers map his thoughts outward, crafting a panoramic sweep of recollection (on the horizon).
• Ellipses and brief interjections mimic drifting, hesitant thought, pacing the passage with contemplative pauses (....).

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 story.

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

You could write about:

• how melancholy deepens 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 track the whole-text shift from bright, bustling exterior (‘Bronza! Bronza!’, ‘scintillations’) into memory triggered by ‘the same willow’, using ‘then’/‘now’ contrasts to foreground diminishment, before the cumulative patterning of regret—repetition and listing (‘What losses! Akh, what losses!’, ‘yawned away his life’) and anaphoric ‘Why’ questions—slows the pace into ‘Evening and night’, culminating in the hospital shift and the bleak, ledger-like verdict ‘The life of man was, in short, a loss’ that seals the melancholy.

One way in which the writer structures the ending to create melancholy is through a journey frame that narrows from public bustle to private memory. As Yakob walks past the common to the river, the repeated chorus of the boys—"Bronza! Bronza!"—bookends the opening as a mournful refrain. The focus then pivots at the willow: "And suddenly... awoke the memory", an analeptic shift that juxtaposes a once-vital river of "barges" with the present "flat and smooth" water and diminished "geese". This contrast, and the zoom to a single "old willow", slows the pace and seeds a quiet elegy for what has thinned with time.

In addition, the writer deepens the mood through accumulation and counterfactual listing. The modal pattern "he might have..." recurs, a syndetic, ledger-like catalogue that builds a semantic field of commerce—"profit", "losses"—until the exclamatory refrain "What losses! Akh, what losses!" breaks into free indirect discourse. A sequence of rhetorical questions ("Why... Why... Why...?") then widens perspective from Yakob’s life to human nature, universalising his regret. The nocturnal montage—"Evening and night... the willow, the fish... Rothschild... an army of snouts"—fractures focus and prolongs time, intensifying the plaintive, insomniac tone.

A further structural movement is the compressed temporal shift into morning and the denouement at the hospital. The doctor's tacit verdict is followed by a bleak volte-face: death refigured as the only "profit". The recurring motif closes the piece on an open interrogative—"why... life... passes by without profit?"—a resonant coda that leaves the melancholy unresolved and lingering for the reader.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain how melancholy deepens through structural shifts from public scene to private memory and regret: beginning with the taunts ("Bronza! Bronza!") and the aged landmark ("green, silent, sad"), moving into past–present contrast ("only a single birch"), and using repetition and rhetorical questions ("losses!", "Why...") to culminate in a bleak reversal ("life... a loss", "only his death a profit"). It would note that this movement and patterning slow the pace and accumulate regret, sustaining a sorrowful tone.

One way in which the writer structures melancholy is through a shift in focus from the present scene to elegiac memory. We begin in real time—boys jeer “Bronza!”, the “sun baked everything”—but the willow triggers a flashback: “the same willow… How it had aged.” The contrast between “then… birch forest… pine wood” and “now… only a single birch” slows the pace and foregrounds absence.

In addition, melancholy deepens through accumulation and repetition. Yakob’s thoughts spiral into lists of missed possibilities (“caught fish… played on the fiddle… kept geese”) and the anaphora of “losses! Akh, what losses!” and repeated “Why…?” questions. This patterning quickens the rhythm yet traps him in regret, while the recurring profit/loss motif creates cohesion and a bleak, accounting tone.

A further structural choice is the temporal progression into an uncompromising resolution. Clear markers move us on—“Evening and night… In the morning… to the hospital”—towards an epiphany: “The life of man was, in short, a loss, and only his death a profit.” This narrowing from landscape to internal conclusion sustains the downward trajectory, and the final qualifier—“offensive and bitter”—leaves melancholy unresolved.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response identifies simple structural shifts: from present action and bright setting (walked past the common, The sun baked everything) to memory and loss (it was the same willow... How it had aged), so the mood gets sadder. It also notes repetition and questions (What losses! Akh, what losses!, repeated Why) building towards night and the hospital, ending with the bleak statement (The life of man was... a loss, and only his death a profit), which feels offensive and bitter.

One way the writer structures melancholy is by starting with a calm walk and then shifting into memory. At the beginning Yakob passes the river and willow, then the focus moves to “the same willow” from long ago. This flashback and the contrast of “barges” then and “only ducks and geese” now make the present feel empty and sad.

In addition, in the middle the writer lists what Yakob “might have” done and repeats “losses” and “Akh, what losses!” with several questions. This slows the pace and shows regret building. Piling up examples makes the mood heavier and more melancholy.

A further feature is the timeline from evening to night to morning, ending at the hospital and the statement that “life... a loss.” Finishing here leaves a bleak, melancholy final impression.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response would typically just spot that the writer moves from present action ('Bronza! Bronza!') to sad memory ('the same willow... sad'), then repeats words and asks questions ('What losses! Akh, what losses!', 'Why') before a sad ending idea ('only his death a profit') to make the melancholy grow.

One way the writer has structured the text to create melancholy is by starting in the present and then moving to memories. He “began to remember,” and the shift from “once” to “now” shows loss and sadness.

In addition, the writer uses repetition and lists. The repeated word “losses” and the short exclamation “What losses!” show regret. The long list of things he “might have” done feels gloomy.

A further feature is the ending shift to the hospital and questions. The focus moves to death, with repeated “Why...?” and “life…a loss,” making the ending most melancholy.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Repetitive public taunts frame Yakob’s movement from town to river, using external hostility to seed an isolating mood that primes melancholy (Bronza! Bronza!)
• The willow acts as a structural pivot into memory; this sudden flashback ties present to a wounded past, deepening sadness through continuity of decay (How it had aged)
• Then/now contrasts across the landscape (forests and barges vs emptiness) chart loss over time, turning setting into evidence of diminishment (only a single birch)
• A shift from observation to imagination intensifies yearning; closing his eyes to summon abundance highlights its absence in reality (closed his eyes)
• Accumulative modality in a regretful list structures a crescendo of wasted possibilities, amplifying self-reproach (he might have)
• The refrain of loss crystallises the reckoning, compressing the list into a bleak verdict that reverberates through the passage (What losses!)
• A barrage of escalating rhetorical questions widens the focus from the personal to the social, turning melancholy into a universal lament (Why do people)
• Night-time montage stitches together disparate images in a restless loop, making sorrow feel inescapable and grotesque (an army of snouts)
• A morning return to the real world and prognosis gives structural confirmation of decline, undercutting hope with inevitability (bad business)
• The closing profit/loss paradox ties the motif to its stark conclusion, leaving a bitter final cadence that lingers beyond the story (only his death a profit)

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, when Yakob concludes that only death is a 'profit', his total misery is made clear. The writer suggests that a life spent obsessing over money has left Yakob feeling his existence was worthless.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of Yakob's character and his miserable realisation
• comment on the methods the writer uses to portray his obsession with money
• 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: At Level 4, candidates would largely agree, evaluating that the writer condemns Yakob’s dehumanising, ledger-like worldview through a relentless commercial semantic field and anaphora—without profits, "What losses! Akh, what losses!"—and the bitter irony that only his death is a profit, while recognising his self-lacerating realisation that he had yawned away his life. They would also perceptively analyse how the cascade of rhetorical questions ("Why cannot a man live without these losses?") and the human focus on Rothschild complicate the viewpoint, broadening "loss" from money to moral failure and deepening his total misery.

I largely agree that Yakob’s conclusion that only death is a “profit” crystallises his total misery, and that the writer suggests a money-fixated life has hollowed his sense of worth; however, the passage also widens “loss” to include moral failure and missed human connection, complicating a purely economic reading.

At first, the writer saturates Yakob’s thought with a commercial semantic field to expose how reflexively he monetises experience. Even the river is evaluated as “respectable” and “by no means contemptible,” anthropomorphic adjectives that betray a status-and-profit mindset. The paratactic, cumulative listing of counterfactuals—“he might have… caught fish… the money could have been lodged in the bank… he might even have… acted as bargee”—uses anaphora and modal verbs to build a ledger of opportunities, each clause itemised like entries. Verbs and nouns such as “sold,” “lodged,” “amassed,” and especially the exclamative “What losses! Akh, what losses!” foreground his accountant’s vocabulary. The metaphor “yawned away his life” undercuts him with bleak irony: his fixation on profit left him incurious, so the life that might have “amassed” returns now only as deficit. Hyperbole—“such losses that to think of them it makes the blood run cold”—intensifies that self-reproach.

Midway, the rhetoric shifts from economics to ethics through a volley of rhetorical questions: “Why did he… insult his wife?… frighten and insult the Jew? Why, indeed, do people prevent one another living in peace?” This anaphoric pattern broadens “losses” to include malice and squandered kindness: “If it were not for hatred and malice people would draw from one another incalculable profits.” The ironic oxymoron of “incalculable profits” fuses moral and monetary lexis, showing a man trying to reckon value but with the wrong instrument. Night brings a feverish montage—“the willow, the fish, the dead geese, Marfa… the pale, pitiable face of Rothschild, and an army of snouts… muttering about losses.” This surreal, zoomorphic imagery and the motif of the fiddle (he rises “five times… and played”) enact his psychic torment, the refrain of “losses” invading even his dreams.

At the hospital, the flat free indirect style—“no powders would make it any better”—prepares the bleak calculus that follows. Death yields “one profit”: no need “to eat… drink… pay taxes, or to injure others”; the parallelism itemises costs he will finally evade. The grotesque hyperbole—“hundreds and thousands of years”—makes the “profit… enormous,” a bitter irony that exposes his dehumanising metric. The final rhetorical question—why must life “pass by without profit?”—confirms his sense of worthlessness yet also critiques the ledger that has misvalued it.

Overall, I agree to a great extent: the writer’s structural crescendo, commercial lexis, and rhetorical patterning make Yakob’s misery unmistakable, and show how his obsession reduces life to “loss.” Yet the text also intimates a late, painful awakening to beauty and to harm done, suggesting that what truly impoverished him was not money itself but measuring existence by profit at all.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would largely agree, showing how the writer’s commercial lexis and lists of missed gains (e.g., the fish might have been sold, the money could have been lodged in the bank), the anguished cry What losses! Akh, what losses!, and the conclusion The life of man was, in short, a loss, and only his death a profit make Yakob’s misery explicit. It would also note moral regret (injure others, hatred and malice) still framed as losses, reinforcing the view that money-obsession leaves him feeling worthless.

I largely agree that Yakob’s conclusion that only death is a “profit” makes his misery unmistakable. The writer builds this through a persistent semantic field of commerce that reduces nature, art and relationships to calculations, suggesting that living by profit-and-loss has left him believing his life “passed without profits… before him nothing remained.”

At first, Yakob’s belated noticing of the “respectable river” is filtered through money: the fish “might have been sold” to “tradesmen” and the cash “lodged in the bank.” This accumulative listing of missed ventures—“caught fish, played on the fiddle, acted as bargee, and kept geese”—shows an obsessive totting up of what “sum he would have amassed.” The exclamatives “What losses! Akh, what losses!” with the interjection “Akh” intensify his self-reproach, while “yawned away his life” conveys wasted time and apathy.

The passage then shifts into moral reckoning. A barrage of rhetorical questions—“Why did he… insult his wife? … frighten and insult the Jew?”—exposes guilt. Strikingly, he still frames this ethically in financial terms: “All these are also losses!… If it were not for hatred and malice people would draw… incalculable profits.” This ironic extension of the monetary motif critiques his narrowed value system even as he glimpses the worth of kindness.

Night brings feverish imagery: “twinkled in Yakob’s brain” a montage of the willow, “dead geese,” Marfa “like… a bird about to drink,” and an “army of snouts… muttering about losses.” The tender simile for Marfa contrasts with the grotesque, personified “snouts,” suggesting torment; his repeated fiddling shows restless despair.

Finally, after the doctor’s “bad business,” Yakob decides “from death at least there would be one profit,” listing the burdens—“eat… drink… pay taxes… injure others.” The hyperbole of “hundreds and thousands of years” of profit reveals a skewed calculus, yet the narrator calls this “offensive and bitter,” undercutting it. Overall, I agree to a large extent: the writer’s sustained commerce motif and structural move from missed opportunities to moral loss make Yakob’s total misery clear, and show how a money-obsessed lens renders life seemingly worthless.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: Shows some agreement, noting the writer presents Yakob’s misery and money-obsession via repetition of 'What losses!' and that his 'life had passed without profits', and cites his bleak conclusion that 'only his death a profit'. It may also mention simple methods like rhetorical questions ('Why cannot a man live without these losses?') and basic missed chances ('fish', 'geese') as support.

I mostly agree with the statement. The writer makes Yakob’s misery clear, and shows that his money-minded thinking has left him feeling life was “without profits”.

At first, Yakob reels off a list of the ways the river could have made money: “fish… sold to tradesmen,” “playing on the fiddle,” “kept geese.” This long list and the repeated exclamations “What losses! Akh, what losses!” create a business-like tone. The semantic field of money (“sold,” “amassed,” “profits,” “losses”) suggests he measures everything by gain, which makes his regret feel huge.

As night falls, vivid imagery shows how this obsession torments him. The memories “twinkled in Yakob’s brain,” and an “army of snouts… muttering about losses” crowd his mind. This metaphor and personification make the losses feel like living things attacking him. His restless actions, “five times in the night” playing the fiddle, show his growing despair. Additionally, the repeated “Why…?” questions show his self-questioning.

After the visit to the doctor, he thinks it is a “bad business.” He then concludes that death has one “profit”: a list of negatives will stop—“to eat, to drink, to pay taxes.” The contrast of “life… a loss” and “only his death a profit” makes his worthlessness clear.

I also notice he regrets cruelty—“injure others,” “hatred and malice”—but even this is framed as “incalculable profits.” Overall, I agree to a large extent: the writer uses repetition, lists, rhetorical questions and imagery to show a man whose obsession with money leaves him seeing value only in death.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A typical Level 1 response offers basic agreement with the writer’s view, pointing to repeated words like 'profit' and 'losses' and the line 'The life of man was, in short, a loss, and only his death a profit' to show Yakob feels life was worthless.

I mostly agree that Yakob’s misery is made clear, and that thinking about money makes him feel his life was worthless. At the start of this part, he looks at the river and imagines how the fish could be “sold” and the “money… lodged in the bank.” This shows he measures everything by profit.

The writer uses a list of money-making ideas: “fish,” “playing on the fiddle,” “bargee,” “kept geese,” even “ten roubles a year.” This simple listing makes him seem obsessed with profit and missed chances.

There is repetition of the money words “losses” and “profit,” and exclamations like “Akh, what losses!” and “Terrible losses!” which show his strong regret. The rhetorical questions (“Why cannot a man live without these losses?”) make him sound confused and upset. He even “played on the fiddle” five times in the night, suggesting restlessness.

At the end he says life is “a loss,” and that “only his death” is “a profit,” listing not needing “to eat… to pay taxes.” Overall, I agree: Yakob is miserable because he keeps thinking in money terms, so he believes his life had no value.

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:

• Extended financial metaphor → frames his worldview entirely in accountancy terms, making his misery feel absolute (only his death a profit)
• Exclamatory repetition → intensifies self-reproach and convinces the reader of total despair (What losses!)
• Catalogue of hypothetical moneymaking → shows he values experiences only as revenue streams (lodged in the bank)
• Self-condemnation of wasted time → encapsulates how worthless he judges his own existence (yawned away his life)
• Rhetorical questioning of waste → broadens the critique yet still reduces life to deficit thinking (live without these losses)
• Moral reckoning recast as economics → even human relations are priced up, revealing a dehumanising fixation (incalculable profits)
• Grotesque animal imagery → embodies an invasive, nightmarish preoccupation with deficit and gain (an army of snouts)
• Clinical prognosis scene → external confirmation of doom strengthens the plausibility of his bleak evaluation (bad business)
• Death as release from obligations and harm over vast time → darkly persuasive logic to his conclusion (not one year, but hundreds)
• Admitted discomfort with his own verdict → tempers the absolutism and implies a belated hunger for meaning (offensive and bitter)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A magazine for young athletes wants creative writing for its next edition.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe the atmosphere just before a race begins from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about pushing yourself to the limit.

(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 stadium holds its breath. Even the afternoon light seems to lean in, braced on the lip of the grandstand, examining the bright red track that gleams like varnish. White lines stitch lanes into certainty, narrow ribbons of possible futures pinned flat under the glare.

The blocks squat at the ends of those lanes, small metal animals, patient as traps. Spikes whisper against rubber as feet are shuffled into place; laces are tugged; shoulders shrug and settle. A cough; the dry click of a shutter; the soft, salt taste of sweat; the sweetness of energy drink rising from discarded bottles.

Faces become masks. Chins tuck. Fingers splay, pressing into the rough grit so that it bites like honesty. Breath is measured: four counts in, four counts out; then less, then nothing. Hearts rehearse their violence. In this narrow pause, each runner inventories their small rituals—left sock pulled higher, a lucky necklace tucked under the collar, a mantra barely mouthed—as if superstition could tip a stopwatch.

Beyond them, the crowd tightens. Noise that was bluster a minute ago draws down to a filament, a humming, tremulous thread; it shivers across the stadium and clings to the lip of the track. Flags fret. Sunlight freckles the seats. A child inhales and forgets to exhale. Somewhere high up a gull scribbles a white line against a vast, indifferent blue.

The starter steps forward, crisp in his neutrality. His cap is firm; his jaw, firmer. The pistol sits in his hand like punctuation awaiting its sentence: not yet a shout, merely the promise of one. He stares along the lanes—numbers, spikes, sinew, intent—and the line of his gaze steadies the place.

‘On your marks.’ It is hardly a command, more a key turning in a lock. Movement contracts to essentials: a knee shifts; a heel notches; a shoulder hitches and stills. Shadows gather under them, small pools that will soon spill. The red track holds their reflections as though it were glass.

‘Set.’ The word lifts and everything narrows. The runners rise, a row of drawn bows, spines taut, eyes on nothing but the middle distance. Silence ripens, thick as fruit; it almost has a smell. Time, rarely noticed, makes itself known—an exhale postponed, a blink withheld, a heartbeat that delays its next syllable until the world listens.

This is the precipice, the held breath between decision and movement, where muscles coil, where memory of winter mornings and aching calves crams itself into a single bright moment. The lane lines seem to quiver. The gun—still unspent—tilts the sky. Somewhere, impossibly, a bee worries a daisy beyond the fence. Here, in this small, sun-glossed rectangle, everything readies at once.

And then—still nothing. A perfect, ringing nothing that stretches like elastic and will, any second, snap.

Option B:

Dawn. The hour when the city holds its breath; shutters like eyelids, pavements rinsed by night rain, windows pale with sleep. A hinge between dark and day. As a lone bus sighs and a fox unthreads the alley, I knot my laces and step into the cool. The road glistens, corrugated by tyre scars; my trainers tap a wet metronome—slap, slap—that my heart learns to match. The air is an astringent ribbon, scouring the throat. Today is a ten-hill day. Coach calls it sharpening; my calves call it complaint.

Before the first incline, I bargain: start easy; find rhythm; don’t look up. Yet the hill waits with the patience of stone, steep as a rule you don’t want to obey. I rise into it. Knees lifting, arms drilling, I climb until the streetlights slide beneath me and the horizon thins to a pale, incendiary line. The city is not awake and somehow it is watching: bins lean; windows stare; a newspaper flutters like a wounded bird. At the brow, I turn and jog back down, lungs unhooking, iron bright on my tongue.

Again. Because today matters: trials in two weeks; because yesterday, Jess beat my split by eleven cruel seconds; because last year, under white lights, I ran like I was underwater. They say pain is temporary; it isn’t—not exactly. It archives itself in the muscle and returns when summoned. Nevertheless, the body is a negotiator. I tell it stories. One more, I promise. Only to the red door, the lamppost, the gum-stained square. How far is enough? Limit sounds civilised, like a library rule; in my chest it is less polite—an animal pacing.

By rep six the road begins to tilt even when it doesn’t; stars pepper the periphery. On seven, my hamstring flirts with rebellion; on eight, the world narrows to a corridor of breath and bruised sky; on nine, the hill stops being a place and becomes a command. Stop, says the junction sign. Try, says the red. I laugh—too much air, not enough sense—and stumble, catching the kerb with a hand that comes away rain-wet. Limits are not fences; they’re chalk lines, smudged by weather and want. However, chalk can harden. So I don’t let it.

The tenth climb is not fast. It is deliberate. Each step is an argument I refuse to lose, a small, stubborn syllable. My heart is a struck match—flaring, guttering, flaring. The watch vibrates (as if it could tell me more than my own ribs), and I push past the red door, past the lamppost, past the gesture of the sign. Then—crest. The road levels. The city inhales. I stand there, shaking, ridiculous, triumphant, and I am not finished. Which is the point. I turn and, quietly, ask my legs for one more.

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

Option A:

The stadium inhales; the world narrows to eight white lanes cut into a brick-red plain. Chalk looks sharp enough to slice a thought; the stencilled numbers are severe against the granular rubber. Heat lifts in faint curtains that make the far end waver. Flags stutter once, then hang. The air tastes of metal and suncream and something chemical—like rain that has forgotten how to fall.

Closer, there is the private music of preparation: the rasp of spikes against grit, blocks nudged forward, nudged back. Fingers spread, testing the abrasion; thumbs press, unpress; breath in, breath out—held. Shoulders roll; calves quiver; sinews draw themselves into clean lines. A chorus of rituals: a cross traced on a chest, a jaw unclenched, lips brushed to a lucky string (a small superstition). Each athlete is briefly alone inside the crowd, a coiled argument with time.

On the periphery, a susurration swells and stills—the stadium’s own sea: coughs, the click of lenses, a child’s whisper that is shushed at once. Coaches fold their arms to hold in advice; parents grip programme sheets until they rustle. The announcer’s microphone crackles, then behaves. Officials in white marshal everything towards its brink; clipboards are carried like exacting shields.

“On your marks.” The command is clean, almost courteous. Bodies tilt and fold; eyes lower; hands find their marks, splayed like starfish on hot rock. The track becomes intimate, close enough to smell: rubber, dust, warmth. Hearts drum—urgent; the ribcage is a small auditorium. Time slackens; the second hand hesitates, conspiratorial. What is a second here but a room that expands and refuses to end?

“Set.” Hips rise; the line of backs becomes a single, held breath. Silence gathers so completely that it has weight; it presses on collars, on tongues. No breeze; even the flags concede. The starter lifts his arm; light glances along the barrel—a silver thread stretched tight. Each runner carries a private storm, but the sky stays obstinately bright, almost cheerful, and strangely inappropriate. The world narrows again—too much, almost—to a bead of sweat, to the word not yet said—

Option B:

Dawn was thin and undecided, a pale bruise spreading along the horizon. Pavement frost braided the cul-de-sac, each blade of grass lacquered in ice; the air had that clean, surgical quality that stung the lungs. Every sound seemed oversized: a windscreen wiper far away, the squeak of her sole. Limits love mornings like this; they turn up early, lay their rulers along your life, and dare you to measure up.

Lena tightened her laces until the bow sat sharp and small. Her fingers trembled—not with fear, she insisted, but with the cold and the jolt of caffeine. On the hallway wall, the training plan gleamed with fluorescent highlighter: miles circled, the long run underlined twice. She had written a single word at the top—Enough—then drew a box around it. Was today the day she would find the edge, or would it move like fog?

The first steps felt awkward, marionette-like, as if her limbs had woken slower than the sky. Her watch chimed; she set off anyway, threading herself into the road’s dark ribbon. Breath in for two, out for two—steady; patient; listen. Her heart found a rhythm, a small hammer tapping at a stubborn nail. Past the sleeping bungalows and the one lit kitchen where a man stirred tea, she ran. A fox watched her with coin-bright eyes, then slid into a hedge, unimpressed. The city yawned, reluctant and grey. She kept going.

By the second mile, heat bloomed under her collarbones and her calves began their quiet complaints. The hill ahead was unromantic, plain as an account statement; it demanded repayment with interest. She thought of other inclines—exams, interviews, last winter’s careful phone call—and how she had climbed them with that same slightly clumsy courage. What if this is the limit? she wondered. Not yet! The thought tried to take up residence. She offered it a stool, not a chair. Knees up; arms nice and loose; don’t chase, don’t flail. Lactic acid scribbled its signature in her thighs; the taste of metal arrived, real and undeniable.

She bargained with the road in tiny pledges: to the lamppost, to the bin, to the not-quite doorway of a shadow. Not because she wanted a medal, but because she wanted to see what remained when comfort had gone. The sky paled. She remembered the kitchen table at midnight and how failure used to arrive early; she had learned to make it wait. The hill did not soften, but something in her did. She lifted her chin and pressed on—one more breath, one more stride.

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

Option A:

The air tightens; a held breath stretches across the red track. Heat skims off the rubber, a faint shimmer that makes the white lanes waver. Somewhere a flag stirs but the wind is shy. The smell is sharp and particular: warm rubber, cut grass, liniment, the paper-dry chalk dust. Speakers crackle and then think better of it. Conversation frays into whispers. Time, for a moment, is elastic; the seconds grow taller. Officials in white pace and peer, clipboards like shields, voices clipped to keep the hush intact.

On the line, the runners fold themselves into shape. Heels press hard into the starting blocks; fingers spread, thumbs tucked; spikes bite with a stubborn little scrape. A bead of sweat slides from temple to jaw. Knees hover, trembling but contained. The track, close to their faces, smells like hot coins. Mouths dry; tongues taste metallic, the sort of taste that makes you swallow twice. Eyes narrow, not at one another but down the tunnels of lanes. They do not look left or right. They look at the line that matters—thin, white, relentless. A cough, a shout, a laugh far back; then a glance from a marshal irons it all flat again.

Meanwhile the crowd turns from many to one. Thousands of throats make a single murmur, then that too thins. Cameras steadied. Stopwatches held like tiny hearts. Coaches chew their lip, or pretend to smile, both gestures a bit brittle. The starter stands by the curve, pistol compact in his lifted hand. Sun glances off the barrel; it looks almost ceremonial. “On your marks.” Bodies settle—small shuffles back and forth, a sigh that belongs to everyone. “Set.” The muscles become language: tight, readable, urgent. A shiver passes along the row like a ripple under glass.

For a final, stretched blink nothing happens. A fly bobs over lane four; a loose programme lifts, then falls. Heartbeats drum—too loud, too near. The starter lifts his arm, the stadium leans forward. The air, which has been holding on, cannot hold any longer. It waits, we all do, right on the lip of sound, and then—

Option B:

Dawn is a fragile promise: a thin band of light stitched along the hills; frost holds the heather in a glittering grip. The moor is quiet, except for the dull thud of my heartbeat that the cold seems to echo back. Breath makes ghosts in the air, brief and vanishing. The path ahead is a ribbon, pale, and it bends into places I can’t yet see. Today, I tell myself, is not about speed. It is about the edge, the threshold. It is about finding out where it is, and what happens when I lean over it.

I tug my laces tight—twice—until the knot sits like a small certainty on my shoes. My watch blinks a number I pretend not to care about; time will stretch or snap on its own. The wind is mild but persistent, a hand at my back and then at my chest. I set off gently, knees remembering, shoulders loosening by stages. Gravel rasps; a crow starts and flutters off like a warning. One more step, one more breath, one more push—this small litany keeps pace with my feet. The first dip gifts me an easy glide; the first rise politely steals it back.

People have told me to be sensible. After the fall, after the physio appointments and the slow, stiff mornings, they spoke in soft, careful tones. Rest, reduce, respect your limits. The words sounded right, and yet they felt like fences put up by other people. Who draws the map of my boundaries? The scar on my ankle is a pale, honest line, but it does not get to choose for me. Somewhere inside, a stubborn spark has survived all the tidy advice. I would like to choose, even if my choice is clumsy.

The path climbs; so does my pulse. Heat blooms under my ribs and travels outward, a steady flame that eats the doubt first and then starts to nibble at my courage. Stones shift treacherously, and I place my feet with care, pretending I am lighter than I am. I count to thirty and start again; when the numbers blur I count the high gorse, the scattered sheep, the breaths that whistle a little as if a kettle were about to boil. The wind argues with me—turn back, it nags—so I answer out loud, No. My voice comes out small but it is there.

At the steep gully, everything narrows: the path, my focus, the world. My legs are full of noise; they ache in a bright, ringing way, almost musical. Sweat slips into my eyes and salts my sight. I stop for a count of five, then ten; I do not sit, because I know I will not rise. The trig point is still hidden by the shoulder of the hill, and that seems unfair, childish almost, but I accept it. Is this the limit? Maybe. I look at the slope, and it looks back, indifferent. I draw in a breath that tastes of iron and winter and decide to move anyway.

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

Option A:

The stadium holds its breath. The red track curves in clean lanes, a ribbon under bright, almost silver light. Heat lifts from the synthetic surface; it smells of rubber and a hint of cut grass. People settle like a low tide; a murmur rolls, folds, and then pauses.

At the line, the runners move into their small rituals. Fingers spread on gritty paint; thumbs press until they whiten. A cough, a swallow, a quick shake of the arms. Spikes scratch softly—tiny metallic insects testing the ground. Numbers rustle on chests, colours loud against skin. Sweat beads cluster at hairlines and slide down; it is not cold, but it is not quite warm either. Their eyes look inward, like doors quietly closing.

The announcer clears his throat; his voice arrives, official and thin. Please come to your marks. It travels around the bowl in fragments, echoing. Cameras blink. A child drops popcorn and is shushed. The starter lifts the pistol and the whole place narrows to that small, dark barrel; time does a strange stretch. The track is a stage and it waits.

"On your marks." Knees lower, backs bend; shoulders settle into angles that feel both familiar and new. Muscles coil. Breathe in. Breathe out. "Set"—and the world lifts onto its tiptoes. Silence grows loud, almost physical; you could cut it with a blade. Hearts drum; a doubtful thought flickers—what if the first step misfires? No one moves. The air holds, like the last bead of water on a leaf. The tiniest twitch; the smallest tremor. Everything gathers, about to break.

Option B:

Dawn scraped a thin line of silver along the ridge. Frost stitched the grass together like stubborn glitter, crisp under my shoes. I stood by the gate with hands jammed in worn gloves; my laces double-knotted; my thighs humming. One plan: run to the trig point and back, no stopping. The world was quiet except for a crow and the polite click of my watch.

The first rise looked friendly. It wasn't. The path tilted up and kept tilting, my feet slapping the frozen mud. Coach's voice drifted through the cold: keep your cadence; relax your shoulders; don't panic. I counted in fours to keep rhythm. Breath in-in, out-out. My chest warmed, then burned, and the air sawed the inside of my throat. The hedges were dark and bristling, leaning in as if to test me.

Halfway up, a stitch stabbed beneath my ribs and my calves pulled tight like old wires. I tasted iron, clean and faint, as if the hill had its own flavour. Part of me begged for mercy—just walk, just for a second—but I had made a promise. One more step. Then another. The word limit hovered in my head, large and final. What is a limit, anyway? A wall someone else built, or a thin line I can move?

The wind found my cheeks and pushed at me with small, cruel hands. I remembered last winter when I stopped and pretended to tie my lace; I carried that shame like a stone. I drove my arms, eyes locked on a clump of grass ten paces ahead, and my heart grew loud—thud, thud, insistent. At the crest my knees trembled and my lungs were ragged, but I didn’t fold. I tipped forward into the run, and the limit slid back just enough.

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

Option A:

Heat lifts from the red track, wavering. White lines lie straight like ribs; numbers sit at the end, solid, calm. The stadium hum is low and packed, thick with anticipation, a kind of thunder under the seats. People finish talking and then don’t, voices drop as if the air asked for quiet. I can taste metal on my tongue, that sour buzz of nerves, and there is a smell of rubber and sweat.

In the lanes the athletes fold themselves down. Hands spread wide. Fingers press the rough surface. Spikes nibble at the track and scratch. A knee knocks the block; a coach whispers. Someone thumps their chest. Faces tighten with concentration. Their backs rise like sails catching a small wind, then sink. Breath in, breath out, breath in. Muscles shine. A shiver moves along them, not cold, just energy getting ready.

Meanwhile the starter steps forward, neat in a jacket, the pistol black against the bright afternoon. He lifts his arm; the world narrows. On your marks, he calls, and the word slides across the lanes. Heads drop. Now. Set. The stadium holds its breath—just for a moment that stretches. Even the flags seem to freeze.

The quiet is loud. My heart is a drum I can’t quieten; my feet feel nailed to the blocks, and adrenaline prickles under my skin. Tiny stones press my palms. How can a second grow so big? The crowd leans in as one. Waiting. Waiting. The whole place tipped forward, balanced on the edge of a bang.

Option B:

Dawn scraped a pale line across the sports field. Frost clung to the rails, and my breath was a faint cloud. The track looked longer today; it seemed to stretch out, wider and wider, like it wanted to push me back. I rolled my shoulders, the ache already awake. Coach said, go steady, then push at the last lap, but the word push was louder than any other.

The whistle cracked. I ran. Feet slapped a wet rhythm, heart hammering, not smooth but messy; determined, though. The cold bit at my cheeks and the air tasted metal. My calves hissed. One step, then another—again, again. There was a boy in front, red vest, arms pumping like pistons. I stayed on his shadow and I thought about everything I had carried here: early mornings, dark buses, that small, stubborn spark that refuses to go out.

Halfway, the track turned to the hill at the far corner; it climbed, slow and cruel. I wanted to ease up. I told myself, no. The word rang in my skull. No. You said you’d do this. You said you’d see what your limit is, not what comfort is. My lungs burned like coal in a furnace that was closing; my legs shook as if the ground was moving. There’s a edge in me, I could feel it, and I pressed against it with whatever I had left. One more step. One more breath. The hill peaked, and I did not stop, I couldn’t, and wouldn’t—because this is where you find out who you are.

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

Option A:

The track looks like a strip of hot rubber, red, breathing out a faint smell of rain. The stadium hum falls away until it is a low, nervous buzz. Flags twitch; cameras blink; a cough is swallowed. The air feels thick, as if it is holding its breath for us. My mouth is dry, my palms are damp, the lights glare in a ring.

On your marks, the starter calls, and bodies fold down like knives being closed. Hands press the paint, spikes bite, shoulders shine with a sheen of sweat. Numbers shake on vests, a ribbon of wind moves across the lanes. I hear my heart, fast as a drum, and other breaths around me; short, sharp, ready. We stare down the track. Waiting, waiting, ready, not ready.

Then comes the single word: Set. Everything climbs into silence. Time stretches like chewing gum, thin and clear. The line ahead looks longer, the lines on either side feel like walls. I fix my eyes on nothing and everything: the lane, white flickers, the tape that isnt there yet. A bead of sweat crawls down my back, slow as syrup. The pistol lifts—one small black thing—and the whole place leans towards it.

Option B:

Dawn. The time when streets are empty; shop windows dark, breath hanging like smoke. My laces are tight, my cheap watch blinks 5:59. At the bottom of the long hill, my legs already shake. People call it Cardiac Hill. Today I will reach the top without stopping. I told myself that last night and I say it again now.

I start slow, then the slope arrives. The pavement tilts, it feels like the world is sliding back. My lungs burn; my chest rattles. A small stitch digs under my ribs. Heart thudding like a drum in a small room. One idea: don’t stop. I pick a lamppost - just one more - and then another. Sweat runs into my eyes and stings, the road keeps coming, relentless. Why did I think I could do this?

Because I need to. Because I am tired of giving up. I count to five, then five again. Little steps. My thighs shake, my breath saws in and out, but adrenaline flickers in my arms. Finally, the last bend appears, bright with morning. Go. I push past the ache, past the voice that says quit. At the top I bend double, hands on my knees, the town below like a map, and I am still there.

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

Option A:

The track is red and hot. The white lines go forward in a straight line. The air is tight. It sits in my throat.

Shoes scrape and then stop. The crowd is big and it goes quiet, like a library.

We bend down to the blocks. There heads are down, there fingers on the rough track. My hands shake. My heart is like drums in my chest, bum bum bum. Sweat on my lip tastes salty. I can smell rubber and dust. The starter says Ready and my back goes stiff, set, and all the sound falls off.

I look at the lane, it looks long. Time slows, sticks like glue. We was all still, even the wind dont want to move. My legs want to run now now but they can't. I dont blink. The gun is small and black in his hand and I wait for it to shout.

Option B:

It is early. The road is wet and black. My breath is white in the air like smoke, my chest hurts and my legs are heavy, but I keep going. Step. Step.

My shoes slap puddles, cold water jumps up my legs.

The hill is in front of me and it looks like it goes forever; it laughs at me.

I could stop. I should of stopped, I'm tired and the bin men stare but I ain't stopping, I'm definately not first.

Coach said push past the line in your head, so I look at the post and I tell myself just get there. I taste metal in my mouth, there is alot of noise in my chest. Why am I doing this?

Because I want to see what I can do, I will not fail. I count to ten. I get to six then start again...

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

Option A:

The track is quiet and loud at the same time. The air sits heavy. My feet itch inside the shoes. We crouch at the blocks. The man with the gun waits. The crowd hush, phones stop, a flag hangs. I hear breath. I hear my heart. It is like a drum, but slow, then fast. Sweat on my hands, it stick. I look left, a boy blinks and his mouth moves, maybe a prayer. I think of my room, the small window, then I am back. Time is not moving, it stretch, I want it to go. Ready set

Option B:

Morning. The air is cold and wet. I run on the track and my legs feel like rocks. I push and push to the limit, again and again. My chest burns like fire, my head is loud, a drum in there. The coach shouts go, but the word is far away. I want to stop. I should of stopped. I dont. I keep going because I need to show I can do it. The hill is big and ugly, bigger than me. I look up and I look down at my feet. I think of home, and then I run.