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 Who is identified as the voice at the start?: the voice of a young sailor boy – 1 mark
• 1.2 From where is the greeting said to come?: from Korsör – 1 mark
• 1.3 According to the young sailor boy, what change has occurred in people's opinion of Korsör?: People used to think poorly of Korsör, but now people view Korsör more favourably. – 1 mark
• 1.4 Which statement best summarises the message the young sailor boy brings about Korsör?: The town is now regarded more favourably than it was before. – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

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

6 "'I dwell by the seaside,' says Korsör; 'I have broad highroads and pleasure gardens; and I have given birth to a poet, a witty one, too, which is more than all poets are. I once thought of sending a ship all round the world; but I did not do it, though I might as well have done so. I dwell so pleasantly, close by the port; and I am fragrant with perfume, for the loveliest roses

11 bloom round about me, close to my gates.'" And little Tuk could smell the roses and see them and their fresh green leaves. But in a moment they had vanished; the green leaves spread and thickened--a perfect grove had grown up above the bright waters of the bay,

How does the writer use language here to make Korsör and its setting feel vivid? You could include the writer's choice of:

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

[8 marks]

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Shows perceptive and detailed understanding of language: analyses effects of choices; selects judicious detail; sophisticated and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would perceptively analyse how personification and cumulative syntax (clauses linked by semicolons) animate the town: present-tense direct speech and anaphoric boasting—I dwell by the seaside; I have broad highroads and pleasure gardens; I am fragrant with perfume—and the metaphor given birth to a poet construct a proud, cultured voice. Sensory and transformative imagery—could smell the roses, the abrupt temporal shift in a moment they had vanished, and the dash revealing a perfect grove above the bright waters of the bay—make the setting vivid and almost magical.

The writer animates Korsör through prosopopoeia, allowing the town to speak: 'says Korsör,' 'I dwell by the seaside.' The anaphora of 'I' and the reprise 'I dwell... I have...' create a confident civic persona. The metaphor 'I have given birth to a poet' extends the personification, suggesting the town nurtures culture like a parent. Evaluative superlatives such as 'loveliest' and the parenthetical aside 'a witty one, too' intensify its proud, conversational tone, while deictic 'close by the port'/'close to my gates' anchor the setting and make it feel immediate.

Moreover, vivid sensory imagery renders the place palpable. The olfactory phrase 'fragrant with perfume' intensifies the richness of scent, and the verb 'bloom' animates the scene with colour. The focus then shifts to Tuk’s embodied perception: 'little Tuk could smell the roses and see them and their fresh green leaves.' This dual-channel imagery (smell and sight) makes the vision experiential; the modal 'could' signals imagination turning tangible, drawing the reader into Korsör’s air and colour.

Furthermore, paratactic syntax builds abundance. The polysyndetic listing with semicolons—'I have broad highroads and pleasure gardens; and I have given birth...; ... and I am fragrant...'—suggests overflow, as if the town cannot stop enumerating its riches. This luxuriance is snapped by the abrupt clause 'But in a moment they had vanished,' creating surprise. Dynamic verbs—'spread and thickened'—depict growth, while the dash in 'spread and thickened--a perfect grove' delivers a reveal. Finally, 'above the bright waters of the bay' bathes the image in light, fixing an idyllic tableau.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer personifies the town with first-person direct speech — "I dwell by the seaside" — and a proud list, "broad highroads and pleasure gardens", giving Korsör a lively voice that highlights its attractions. Sensory imagery such as "fragrant with perfume" and "fresh green leaves", alongside dynamic verbs "spread and thickened" and the contrast in "in a moment they had vanished", make the setting vivid and almost magical.

The writer personifies the town by letting Korsör speak in the first person: “I dwell by the seaside,” “I have,” “I am.” This repeated pronoun (anaphora) and the present tense create an immediate, confident voice, so the place feels alive. The metaphor “I have given birth to a poet” suggests fertility and culture, while rich noun phrases like “broad highroads and pleasure gardens” build grandeur and variety.

Furthermore, sensory imagery makes the setting vivid. “Fragrant with perfume” and “the loveliest roses bloom” appeal to smell and sight, and the superlative “loveliest” idealises the scene. When “little Tuk could smell the roses and see them and their fresh green leaves,” the reader is drawn into the experience, almost sharing the scent and colour of the town.

Additionally, sentence forms and dynamic verbs add movement. The long, flowing clauses linked by semicolons mirror abundance and pride, while the dash in “spread and thickened--a perfect grove” signals a sudden transformation. Verbs like “spread” and “thickened” animate nature, and the visual detail “above the bright waters of the bay” (with gentle alliteration on b) paints a clear picture. Altogether, these language choices make Korsör and its setting feel vivid and alive.

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 personification and simple sensory detail, e.g. 'I dwell by the seaside' and 'fragrant with perfume', plus a list like 'broad highroads and pleasure gardens' and the superlative 'loveliest roses' to show beauty. It may also note action words 'bloom' and 'spread and thickened' and the dash before 'a perfect grove' by the 'bright waters of the bay' to suggest a sudden, vivid change.

The writer uses personification to make Korsör feel alive. “says Korsör” and “I dwell by the seaside” make the town speak, so it seems proud of itself. “given birth to a poet” is also personification, suggesting culture. The long, listing sentence with semicolons (“I have broad highroads and pleasure gardens; and I have given birth…”) shows there is a lot to see, making the place seem rich. Emotive adjectives like “broad,” “pleasantly” and the superlative “loveliest roses” emphasise beauty.

Furthermore, sensory imagery makes the setting vivid. “fragrant with perfume” and “little Tuk could smell the roses and see… fresh green leaves” appeal to smell and sight, helping the reader picture it. Additionally, dynamic verbs “vanished,” “spread and thickened” show quick change, almost magical. The phrases “a perfect grove” and “bright waters of the bay” use positive adjectives to create a clear, attractive image.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses simple sensory and positive words like fragrant with perfume, the loveliest roses, and fresh green leaves so we can picture and smell the place. Personification makes the town feel alive because says Korsör, and the list broad highroads and pleasure gardens makes it sound attractive.

The writer uses personification to make Korsör vivid. For example, “says Korsör” and “I dwell by the seaside” make the place sound like a person, so it feels alive. Moreover, descriptive words like “broad highroads,” “pleasure gardens,” and “loveliest roses” create a pleasant picture. Furthermore, sensory language in “fragrant with perfume” and “could smell the roses” helps the reader imagine the smell. Additionally, the phrase “in a moment” shows sudden change, and “green leaves spread and thickened—a perfect grove” suggests movement, making the setting lively beside the “bright waters of the bay.”

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Personification and first-person direct speech animate the town, giving it a lively, self-aware presence (I dwell by the seaside)
• Accumulative listing of amenities creates abundance and specificity, filling the scene with concrete detail (pleasure gardens)
• Positive evaluative lexis and hyperbole make the place sound idyllic and appealing (loveliest roses)
• Sensory imagery of smell immerses the reader physically in the scene, enhancing immediacy (could smell the roses)
• Bright visual colour and texture make the landscape tangible and lush (fresh green leaves)
• Metaphor of birth for cultural pride humanises the town and gives it history and personality (given birth to a poet)
• Hypothetical ambition and global scale broaden the setting’s scope, suggesting grandeur beyond the shoreline (all round the world)
• Sudden temporal shift creates a dynamic, dreamlike transformation that keeps the image alive (they had vanished)
• The dash spotlights an instant of change, intensifying the sense of growth and fullness (a perfect grove)
• Polysyndetic rhythm and semicolons generate a flowing, breathless accumulation that sustains vividness (and I have)

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 enchantment?

You could write about:

• how enchantment unfolds 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 an episodic, cumulative structure that conjures and dissolves scenes—opening with the beckoning voice ("Little Tuk! little Tuk!", "I am come to bring you greeting") and moving through abrupt transitions like "in a moment they had vanished" and "It seemed like turning the leaves of a book"—to sustain enchantment through continual transformation and sensory layering. It would also analyse shifts in pace and tone from Roskilde’s grandeur and "the deep music of the organ" to the monotonous "Koax!" that lulls Tuk into vision ("But even in sleep there came a dream") and the frame closure "and he woke", showing how these structural pivots blur reality and intensify the spell.

One way the writer structures enchantment is by opening in medias res with direct speech: "Little Tuk! little Tuk!" The repetition and exclamatives act like an incantation, summoning wonder. Personifying Korsör through first-person declaratives ("I dwell... I have...") makes the landscape itself a narrator, while focalisation, "could smell the roses", roots magic in sensation. Rapid metamorphoses ("in a moment they had vanished; the green leaves spread") create cinematic dissolves, modulating pace and keeping each vision shimmering and elusive.

In addition, the text unfolds as an episodic montage, signposted by connective shifts: "And..." / "And now..." and meta-structurally acknowledged: "like turning the leaves of a book." Focus escalates from a lively town to sacred Roskilde with "kings and queens" and the organ's "deep music", a crescendo that sacralises place. This elevation is disrupted by a tonal volte-face: the "old peasant woman" who croaks "Koax!" The monotonous cadence becomes structurally functional, lulling Tuk to sleep and pivoting the narrative into a new, intensified register of enchantment.

A further structural feature is the dream sequence, a mode-shift signalled by "But even in sleep" and the lift of "away they now flew." Pace turns buoyant, and anaphoric second-person futures ("you shall... you shall...") create a prophetic rhythm that enchants through promise. The itinerary continues via place-names ("Kjöge", "Præstö"), sustaining the mythic sweep. A cyclical return breaks the spell: the blessing "you shall sleep as quietly—" is completed by Tuk's line "As if I lay sleeping in Sorö," before he "woke", framing enchantment as brief.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would explain that enchantment is built through a sequence of short scenes and sudden transitions—"in a moment they had vanished", "Then all vanished", "All at once"—with personified voices like "I dwell by the seaside" and the book-like cue "turning the leaves of a book" creating a smooth, magical flow. It would also note the shift into dreaming ("even in sleep there came a dream") and the echo at the end ("As if I lay sleeping in Sorö"), showing how changes in pace, mood and setting build wonder before gently returning Tuk to reality.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create enchantment is through an engaging opening that shifts focus quickly from voice to vision. Beginning with direct speech—“Little Tuk! little Tuk!”—hooks the reader, and the narrative then moves from the sailor’s voice to personified places (“Korsör is a new town”) and sensory detail (“little Tuk could smell the roses”). This deliberate shift in focus from sound to smell and sight immerses us in a magical atmosphere, ending the episode with the reflective line “little Tuk saw and heard it all,” which reinforces his wonder.

In addition, the writer manipulates pace and time through temporal markers and abrupt transitions. Phrases such as “in a moment,” “Then all vanished,” “And now,” and “All at once” produce an episodic structure, like “turning the leaves of a book,” so each scene appears and disappears as if by spell. The transformation of the Sorö woman into a frog heightens surprise, while the tonal contrast of her “tiresome” croak lulls Tuk into sleep, creating a structural pivot into the dream.

A further structural feature is the build to a visionary climax and a cyclical echo. The dream promises escalate (“you shall become a rich and happy man”) before snapping back to reality—“and he woke.” The final echo, “As if I lay sleeping in Sorö,” recalls the earlier town, creating cohesion and leaving a lingering, enchanted aftertaste.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would typically identify that the writer starts with a calling voice "Little Tuk! little Tuk!" and then uses quick shifts where scenes appear and disappear "in a moment", "all vanished", like "turning the leaves of a book", to create a simple, magical flow. It might also spot personified places "I dwell by the seaside" and repeated sounds "Koax!" that change the mood and lead to sleep "fell fast asleep", so the dream where he "flew" (before he "woke") keeps the enchantment going.

One way the writer structures the opening to create enchantment is by starting in the middle of action with direct speech: “Little Tuk!” The focus is on Tuk and then quickly shifts from a voice to magical senses: he can “smell the roses” before they “vanished.”

In addition, in the middle the text moves through a sequence of places. Scenes appear and disappear “like turning the leaves of a book.” Figures like “King Hroar” and the old woman who turns into a frog keep changing the setting. These shifts build a dreamy, fairytale mood and keep the reader curious.

A further way is the turning point when Tuk falls asleep. The dream sequence lifts the perspective above Seeland and promises his future. At the end, the story returns to Sorö and then “he woke.” This return to an earlier idea gives a gentle ending while the enchantment lingers.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response might simply spot that the text starts with the sudden call "Little Tuk! little Tuk!" and then keeps switching scenes as things "vanished" and "All at once" new moments appear, like "turning the leaves of a book," which makes it feel enchanting. It would also notice the repetition "Koax!" for rhythm and the ending "and he woke" to show it was a dream.

One way the writer structures the text to create enchantment is by starting with direct speech and short exclamations: “Little Tuk! little Tuk!” This sudden, lively opening draws us in and sounds magical.

In addition, the focus keeps shifting between places and people (“And now”, “All at once”). Quick changes, like the woman turning into a frog and the king appearing, make it feel like a spell.

A further structural feature is the dream-to-waking ending. Moving into a dream and then back to reality gives a simple beginning–middle–end and keeps a soft, enchanted mood at the end.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Immediate vocative opening with dialogue draws us straight into a magical visitation, setting an enchanted tone (Little Tuk! little Tuk!)
• Personified place speaking in first person reshapes the sequence as living geography, animating the world itself (I dwell by the seaside)
• Sudden cut-and-transform transition from scent to sight to disappearance creates a fluid, dreamlike progression (in a moment)
• Expanding scale to a royal procession and sacred space elevates wonder through a grand, ceremonial tableau (all the kings and queens)
• Layered soundscape (organ with fountain) structures the scene through harmonious simultaneity, deepening the spell (deep music of the organ)
• Meta-structural signposting frames episodes as pages in a magical travel-book, guiding the journey (turning the leaves)
• Abrupt tonal contrast and metamorphosis destabilise reality, renewing the enchantment by showing forms shift at will (She had changed into a frog)
• Repetitive croaking flattens pace to a lull, bridging waking visions into a deeper enchanted state via sleep (fell fast asleep)
• Aerial dream-journey widens perspective and momentum, intensifying marvel as horizons open (could fly)
• Prophetic accumulation then circular echo on waking provides a satisfying enchanted arc that returns to the real (As if I lay sleeping)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 16 to the end.

In this part of the source, where the old woman from Sorö turns into a frog, the image is quite unsettling. The writer suggests that the depressing town she lives in has made her bitter and strange.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of how the hyena behaves
• comment on the methods the writer uses to present the hyena
• 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 argue, to a large extent, that the writer presents Sorö’s oppressive stasis as deforming the woman, using grotesque transformation and sound to unsettle—"She had changed into a frog", "Koax!", the deathly simile "as still as the grave", and the claustrophobic metaphor "My native town is like a bottle; one goes in at the cork"—thus endorsing a bleak view of place shaping character. It would also weigh nuance, noting the narrator’s evaluative aside "So tiresome was her tone, all on the same note" while acknowledging cultural counterpoints in "Holberg's comedies" and "an academy", suggesting the bitterness is partly subjective.

I largely agree that the old woman’s transformation is unsettling, and that Sorö is presented as so dreary that it has shaped her into something bitter and strange; however, the writer also threads in a playful, satiric tone that softens the menace, making her more a comic personification of her town than a truly sinister figure.

Structurally, the shift into her appearance is jolting. We move from “the two high-pointed towers of a glorious old church” and the “deep music of the organ” to “an old peasant woman from Sorö,” as if “turning the leaves of a book.” This abrupt juxtaposition replaces regal splendour with provincial drabness, priming the reader to be unsettled. Even before the metamorphosis, the visual detail—her “green linen apron… very wet”—prefigures the frog, the green and damp connoting bogginess and decay. The pathetic fallacy of constant wetness mirrors her mood: “it has… raining heavily.”

The metamorphosis itself is made uncanny through sound and movement. She “cowered down and rocked her head as if she were a frog about to spring,” and then the onomatopoeic “Koax!” punctures the scene. The repetition, “It is wet, it is always wet,” and the grave simile—“as still as the grave in Sorö”—build a bleak ambience. The narrator intensifies the eeriness with layered auditory imagery: the croak “sounded exactly as if frogs were croaking, or as if some one were walking over the great swamp with heavy boots.” The heavy, trudging rhythm and the narrator’s comment that her tone was “so tiresome… all on the same note” produce a hypnotic monotony that is both soporific and unsettling. Her flickering identity—“She had changed into a frog… and again she was an old woman”—is a fairy-tale grotesque, making her “strange” in both form and behaviour.

At the same time, the writer suggests Sorö’s depressing stasis has shaped her complaints. The town is “quiet… where grass grows in the very market place,” a striking image of stagnation. Her extended metaphor—“My native town is like a bottle; one goes in at the cork, and by the cork one must come out”—connotes entrapment and insularity. Yet there are glints of wry pride and cultural memory: she shares “pretty things from Holberg’s comedies,” and even her gripe about “fresh, rosy-cheeked boys… Greek, Greek, and Hebrew!” has a teasing, satirical edge rather than pure venom. The narrative aside—“and a very good thing it was for him”—casts her chiefly as wearisome, not malevolent.

Finally, the framing mitigates the threat. After she sends Tuk to sleep, the dream promises prosperity, and Tuk wakes saying, “As if I lay sleeping in Sorö,” which reframes the town as a place of rest. Overall, the image is purposefully unsettling, and Sorö’s sodden monotony breeds her oddness and peevishness; but the writer’s playful tone and cultural references complicate the portrait, making her a damp, comic emblem of the town as much as a bitter, strange figure.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant evaluation) – 11–15 marks Clear ideas; clear methods; clear evaluation of impact; relevant references. Indicative Standard: A Level 3 response would mostly agree, explaining that the unsettling metamorphosis and onomatopoeic sound—she croaks "Koax!"—together with dreary repetition and similes ("it is wet, it is always wet," "as still as the grave," "like a bottle") present Sorö as stifling and the woman as embittered and odd. It might also acknowledge a brief counterpoint in her cultural pride for "Holberg's comedies", showing some balance.

I mostly agree that the episode is unsettling and that Sorö’s dreary character has made the woman bitter and strange, though the writer hints at local pride.

The writer heightens unease through contrast and sound. After the “glorious old church” and kings “wearing golden crowns,” the narrative “turning the leaves of a book” pivots abruptly to an “old peasant woman” with a “green linen apron... very wet.” This shift foreshadows the uncanny. The simile “as if she were a frog about to spring” collapses the human/animal boundary, and the onomatopoeic “Koax!” punctuates the scene. Her bleak claim that Sorö is “always wet” and “as still as the grave” uses morbid imagery to create discomfort and a sense of lifelessness.

Moreover, the writer implies the town’s gloom has seeped into her character. The insistent repetition “It is wet! it is wet!” and the extended metaphor “My native town is like a bottle; one goes in at the cork” suggest stasis and confinement, breeding irritability. Auditory imagery—croaks “exactly as if frogs were croaking, or as if some one were walking over the great swamp with heavy boots”—gives her voice an oppressive quality, and the monotone “all on the same note” is so soporific that “little Tuk fell fast asleep.” Her oscillation—“She had changed into a frog... and again she was an old woman”—implies identity warped by environment, making her appear peculiar.

However, before the transformation she “told a great many pretty things... and recited ballads,” invoking Holberg’s academy and “fresh, rosy-cheeked boys” learning “Greek... and Hebrew.” These cultural references and positive diction suggest attachment rather than pure bitterness.

Overall, I largely agree: the frog image is disturbing and Sorö’s damp monotony has shaped the woman into someone strange and resentful, though the writer shades her with cultural pride and weary resignation.

Level 2 (Some evaluation) – 6–10 marks Some understanding; some methods; some evaluative comments; some references. Indicative Standard: A Level 2 response would mostly agree, pointing out that the old woman’s repeated "Koax!", complaints like "it is always wet" and "as still as the grave", and the simile "like a bottle" suggest the depressing town has made her bitter and odd. They would identify simple methods (onomatopoeia/repetition and simile) and effects, e.g., the "tiresome... all on the same note" tone makes the image unsettling.

I mostly agree that the image of the Sorö woman turning into a frog is unsettling, and the writer suggests the dreary town has made her bitter. The structure shifts “all at once” from the “glorious” church and “merry, musical” fountain to an old woman with a “very wet” apron. The simile “as if she were a frog about to spring,” then “She had changed into a frog,” makes the change feel uncanny. The onomatopoeia “Koax!” and repetition “it is wet, it is wet” create a monotonous soundscape, while “as still as the grave in Sorö” gives a bleak tone. Her voice is “all on the same note,” “tiresome” enough that Tuk falls asleep, which links her bitterness to place.

However, the writer also shows pride in culture: she tells “pretty things from Holberg’s comedies” and “recited ballads.” The simile “my native town is like a bottle; one goes in at the cork” suggests narrowness, so her strangeness may come from living somewhere closed and wet.

After she vanishes, Tuk’s dream of the “golden goose” and being “rich and happy” lifts the mood, making her scene feel more unsettling by contrast.

Overall, I mainly agree: the frog image and gloomy sound effects are unsettling and show a bitter, strange figure shaped by Sorö, though hints of humour and learning stop her being only disturbing.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: I agree, because it feels unsettling when the woman changed into a frog and cries Koax!, and the town sounds depressing with it is always wet and as still as the grave, which makes her seem bitter and strange.

I mostly agree that the frog image is unsettling and that Sorö has made the woman bitter and strange.

When the old woman appears, the writer quickly makes her odd. She “cowered down and rocked her head as if she were a frog about to spring.” This simile makes her seem creepy and not human. Then she suddenly “had changed into a frog” and shouts “Koax!” The sound word and the repetition of “it is wet, it is wet” feel harsh and annoying, which adds to the uneasy mood. The town is shown as dull and depressing with the similes “as still as the grave” and “like a bottle,” so it sounds trapped and lifeless. Her voice is “so tiresome… all on the same note” that little Tuk falls asleep, which suggests bitterness and a dreary place.

However, at first she also tells “pretty things” from Holberg and old ballads, so there is some pride in the town. But the heavy image that remains is the croaking and the “great swamp… heavy boots,” which makes it feel boggy and strange.

Overall, I agree that the image is unsettling and the town has made her bitter and odd.

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:

• Strongly agree: the sudden metamorphosis is uncanny and dehumanising, making the moment feel grotesquely unsettling (bold quote: changed into a frog)
• Repetition drives home the oppressive climate, suggesting a place whose relentlessness could sour temperament (bold quote: It is wet! it is wet!)
• The graveyard simile intensifies a sense of lifelessness, painting Sorö as bleak rather than merely quiet (bold quote: as still as the grave)
• Narrative evaluation of her speech as monotonous creates tedium and unease, supporting the idea she’s become dreary and bitter (bold quote: all on the same note)
• The bottle metaphor conveys claustrophobic enclosure and small‑town stasis, a setting likely to make people odd or resentful (bold quote: one goes in at the cork)
• Sodden visual detail makes her seem worn by her environment, reinforcing a drab, spirit‑damping atmosphere (bold quote: very wet)
• Onomatopoeic croaks reduce her to an animal soundscape, heightening strangeness and discomfort (bold quote: Koax!)
• Heavy, trudging sound‑image evokes swampy oppression, deepening the unsettling mood of the scene (bold quote: great swamp with heavy boots)
• However, her role as a bearer of culture adds nuance, suggesting she isn’t only bitter but also rooted in learning and tradition (bold quote: recited ballads)
• The closing echo reframes Sorö’s stillness as restful, slightly challenging the idea that it is simply depressing (bold quote: sleeping in Sorö)

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

A digital arts festival is collecting short creative pieces for its online showcase.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Describe a massive digital hoarding towering over a city square from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about a hidden message.

(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:

It looms above the square, a luminous monolith stitched to the tower’s steel flank. As afternoon thins, the hoarding wakes—first a tremor of pixels, then an inundation, a cataract of colour that spills down facades and pools in the cobbles. It breathes, apparently; a slow exhale of blues, an intake of vermilion; constellations flicker into creatures, into shoes, into a car erupting from rain. It is not daylight, not moonlight, but a manufactured aurora that refuses the coming dark.

Under it, the city assembles itself. Commuters, necks craned despite themselves, drift around the fountain; tourists angle their phones; a courier threads through as if memorising a complicated piece of music. Pigeons wheel, confused—then settle, then startle—while the screen clicks and hums, an industrious hive. Smells tangle: coffee steamed to sweetness; the buttery scent of pastries; the faint metallic tang from a vent somewhere high; wet stone after a brief, inconsiderate shower. The square listens; the hoarding speaks.

With indifferent grandeur it conducts its pageants. An athlete sprints across seventeen storeys; a bead of sweat becomes its own planet; trainers arc like comets; a slogan blooms—soft, everywhere. Cut: ocean—silver scales; a diver suspended; a car gliding under neon rain, tyres indifferent to physics. Cut again: a lipstick opens like a flower across a mouth the size of a bus; another tagline; then a pause that feels like a held breath. The rhythm is so constant it is mesmerising: change, flash, fade; change, flash, fade—again and again.

As dusk settles properly, the square becomes a mirror—no, a palimpsest. Light writes and overwrites itself on windows, puddles, cheeks. The bronze statue in the centre is lacquered pewter-blue, then sunflower-yellow, then briefly invisible as the screen bleaches it to absence. Faces glow; irises catch pixel-stars; strangers look briefly related, kin beneath the same manufactured constellations. Even the trees participate, leaves stippled with hot pinks and surgical whites, shivering when the wind—such as it is here—passes.

It is, some would say, the heart of the city; others grumble that it is a billboard with delusions. Perhaps it is both. There is something tender and tyrannical in the way it gathers people—like moths to a flame, yes, though the comparison is too easy—and in the way it erases the dusk we came to admire. Who edits our night?

For a moment—just one—the hoarding hesitates: a glitch, a stutter, a minor arrhythmia. Blackness laps at the edge of the enormous rectangle. The square inhales. Then the sequence resumes; the tide returns; the cathedral of pixels sings on—persuasive, precise, impossibly bright.

Option B:

Dust. It lay in the crooked spine of the bookshop like a soft confession; it rose in silver motes whenever the door sighed open, then settled again, patient and uncomplaining. Outside, the station thrummed—metal on metal, announcements chopped into syllables—yet, within, the air was papery and warm, redolent of foxed pages and old glue. Shelves leaned towards one another as if gossiping. The counter clock ticked with ecclesiastical seriousness. Secrets, the room implied, preferred to be kept.

Mara ran a finger along the lower shelf and felt the live grit of time. She wasn’t looking for a particular title—what she collected weren’t books so much as the ghost-notes inside them: pencilled answers to margins, grocery lists forgotten as bookmarks, exclamations in an untidy hand. Back then, when her own life felt smudged and provisional, she found herself craving certainty in other people’s underlinings.

She paused at a small, sun-faded field guide, no dust jacket, its cloth cover the colour of a storm-dulled robin’s egg. The hinge creaked in a tone that was almost familiar. Field Guide to British Birds, it announced in a modest serif; someone, decades ago, had pressed a fern inside, its skeleton now the delicate brown of tea leaves. Charming, she thought, though that word felt a little flimsy against the density of the room.

Inside the front cover: a name, Mr J. K. Darlington, written in blue ink that had bled infinitesimally at the edges. A telephone number, amended twice. Beneath, a faint graphite line, then another. Mara angled the book toward the anglepoise lamp and the page flashed briefly with the lozenge of light. That was when she saw it—no words, yet the impression of words; a shallow topography of pressure and curl invisible at first glance, apparent only when you looked slantwise. Someone had written, hard, on paper laid over this page.

Her heart answered with a small, domestic thud. Habit took over. She slipped the soft 2B from behind her ear (always a pencil; pens bled and betrayed), and, breath held, shaded, gently, across the blankness. Grey bloomed. Letters rose as if conjured: skeletal at first, then definite.

If you are reading this, you’ve found the quiet way. Don’t call the number inside the cover—it’s his. Meet me where the pigeons gather, under the station clock, Thursday, noon. Bring the book. And do not show this to the man in the red scarf.

Mara’s gaze, unhelpfully, went instantly to the counter. The bookseller was bent over a ledger, shoulders hunched, scarf—was it red?—coiled around his throat like a lazy flame. He looked up, quick as a wren, and smiled in that practised, neutral way. The smile seemed to hover, undecided, and then it set like varnish.

Nevertheless, she told herself, it could be a prank. People tucked all sorts of oddities where they oughtn’t to: ticket stubs for trains that never ran again, pressed flowers mourning something unnamed, lists of pilchards and polish and pears. Yet the message’s tautness—its imperative clarity—refused to be domestic. It felt, absurdly, like a hand on her elbow, steering.

She read it twice, then a third time, catching the imperfections: a hurried loop on the g, a smudge where a comma might have been. The graphite, under her shading, had a faint silvery sheen; the page rasped softly under the pencil—sand under tide. Where the pigeons gather. Under the station clock. Thursday. Noon. The words arranged themselves into something like a bell in her head.

“Find what you were after?” the bookseller asked, voice measured, the vowels elongated by the quiet. He had a pleasant face; open, ordinary. Still, her mouth—traitor—went dry.

“Perhaps,” she said. The syllables tried to steady themselves and mostly did. “I think so.”

Outside, a train drew in with a metallic sigh, doors shuddering open; a gust of air shoved at the bookshop door and set the bell stammering. Time—implacable, efficient—kept going. Mara closed the guide with care so precise it almost made her laugh, slid coins across polished wood, and gathered her bag.

On the pavement, heat lifted off the stone in wavering sheets and the pigeons moved as one tide towards a dropped crust. The station clock, impassive, watched everything. She wanted to be sensible. Sensible people did not answer messages intended for nobody in particular left inside old bird books. And yet—and yet—curiosity, that inconvenient creature, was already at her heel, insistently tugging, asking its old question: What if?

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

Option A:

Over the stone ribs of the square, a single screen towers, a sheer wall of light. It breathes — or seems to — with a low electrical hum that threads through the traffic noise; its glow rinses the cobbles in restless colour. The evening is not dark here. It is tinted: lemon, then carmine, then lucid blue. Rain caught in the paving glitters as if the ground were stippled with impatient stars. It smells of hot dust; the air tastes faintly metallic.

Up close, the hoarding resolves into a discipline of minutiae: regimented pixels jittering; panels tessellated with surgical neatness; a seam you would miss unless the image slips and a line runs leftward like a thought. Behind it, fans purr (patient, tireless); the heat blooms against the skin. Images arrive with the certainty of tides: a citrus slices open in impossible slow motion; a car turns a corner that does not exist. Everything is saturated, persuasive, almost too bright to doubt.

Below it, the city keeps behaving. Commuters pass — heads down, bags tugging at their shoulders — and still their faces tilt a moment to the promise above. A child in a red coat drags a balloon that the screen stains sea-green; the busker’s trumpet gathers an extra sheen so the note seems lacquered. Steam coils from a cart; pigeons parade with arrogant little steps, necks iridescent, as if they too were designed. Even the fountain’s water copies it, flashing adverts in broken commas.

On the periphery, the buildings endure: soot-scored cornices, stern windows, stubborn stone. A bronze mayor lifts his hat forever, now banded across the brow by a wandering rainbow; the town clock blinks — the minute hand looks, for a moment, like a loading bar. Old detail is remade by new light: hollows swallow darkness; chipped paint softens into a consumed pastel. It is gaudy, yes, a little domineering; there is a kind of civic theatre about it.

Sometimes the sequence falters, a hiccup of static, and a single dead diode pegs the sky with a small, stubborn night. People notice; then they don’t. A tram hushes past and the crowd rises and falls like surf. Very late, when the programme yields and the hoarding dims, the square breathes its own breath again — stone, water, voice. Dawn will come, pale and ordinary; the screen will bloom; the day will rearrange around it, as if it were sunrise we had ordered.

Option B:

Morning light did not so much enter the library as sift through it, turning dust into glittering secrets. Between the stacks, silence arranged itself carefully; even the radiator clicked in whispers, as if it too belonged to the archive. The air smelled of paper and glue.

She was meant to revise chemistry—rates of reaction, catalysts, neat equations—but her attention drifted to the thin, fern-green spine of a poetry book. When she eased it free, the cover flexed with a tired sigh; inside, the paper was foxed and soft, edges feathered. On page ninety-three, a corner had been folded long ago, leaving a crease like an old scar.

Something slithered loose and landed on her knee: a sliver of tracing paper, almost weightless, almost nothing. She lifted it between finger and thumb. Blank. Or so it wanted her to think. Amara tipped it against the light, and faint lines appeared then disappeared, like fish under a grey river. There were dents, shallow grooves in the back cover too; whoever had written here had pressed hard.

She dug a pencil from behind her ear (blunt, obedient) and, holding the paper flat against the cover, she shaded lightly. Graphite hushed across the surface; letters rose from nowhere. It felt illicit, as though she were eavesdropping on the past. The message arrived slowly, word by word, until it stood, unmistakable, in a soft grey whisper:

If you are reading this, follow the river to the iron footbridge; under the third step, taped beneath, is what I could not say. Tonight, nine.

Her scalp prickled. Who writes to no one and to anyone at once? There was no name, no plea, no threat—only that small, urgent promise. She glanced about, suddenly aware of everyone else: the student asleep behind a fortress of textbooks; the librarian, immaculate, aligning a stack with the ruler edge of her hand. The city, she thought, is a palimpsest; one voice written over another, never entirely erased.

It could be a prank. A treasure hunt. Nothing at all. Yet the words felt as if they knew her—impossible, yes, but insistent. She slid the tracing paper into the inside pocket of her jacket, where it lay like a thin, beating thing. The big clock measured out the afternoon with a grave, metronomic tick. She could stay and memorise formulae; she could close the book and forget the bridge and its iron ribs. She breathed, counted, decided.

She would go.

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

Option A:

The massive digital hoarding is a monolith of light, bolted to the side of the tower and leaning over the square like a second sky. It does not wink; it pours. Colour falls in sheets, washing the flagstones in sugar-pink, ocean-blue, a burst of lime that feels almost edible. The late afternoon dulls; the hoarding wakes, and with a quiet electrical murmur it speaks without lips.

Beneath it, the city moves. Commuters cut diagonally; tourists drift; pigeons scatter and re-form. A food cart sizzles—sweet steam and hot salt—while the tram bell tings. The advert changes; the square changes. A model’s eyes swing open and a hundred smaller eyes tilt up. The voiceover descends like weather: polished, promising perfection in thirty seconds.

Reflections multiply the scene. In rain-polished tiles the image breaks into glittering blocks, a mosaic beneath shoes. The bronze statue at the fountain wears a sherbet jacket; office windows catch the frame and send it deeper. For a heartbeat the screen goes black—just a breath—and then it blooms again. Too bright, almost.

Up close, the miracle looks like work. Tiny diodes blink in grids; pixels stack into faces, faces into stories. Steel ribs hold the hoarding like hands; a service door hums, smelling of hot dust and rain. A soft throb sits behind the chatter and traffic, behind the violinist near the steps. It keeps time. It keeps count.

Meanwhile, the square obeys. Cars hiss past, the screen throws colour into their windscreens; cyclists lift their heads as the slogan scrolls again and again. A child points; an old man doesn’t look, yet his face glows violet. When the advert flips, shoulders flicker; when it lingers, the crowd holds itself. It is only light and noise—adverts and algorithms—but it feels like weather, like a tide we stand inside, letting it wash us over.

Option B:

Rain. The sort that scribbles on windows; gutters muttering, streetlights haloed, the town holding its breath. Inside the library, the air tasted of old glue and paper dust, the kind that lies soft as flour across forgotten shelves.

Mara had volunteered to tidy the returns after choir—though volunteered wasn't quite true, Miss Bennett's raised eyebrow had done the volunteering for her. She wheeled the rattling trolley between stacks, fingers trailing spines, their gold titles flaking like tired constellations. The clock clicked; the radiator hissed; somewhere, a drip counted seconds that felt heavier than they should be.

Halfway down History, a paperback sat wrong, pushed too far back. When she tugged it free, something snagged; a sliver of paper, thin as a petal, slid from the split lining of the dust jacket and fluttered to the carpet. It looked blank. It looked deliberate.

She turned it in the lamplight. No ink, just a faint bruise on the surface where a pen might have pressed on the page above. Who hides a message, and then doesn't write it? She found a blunt HB in her pocket and, without really thinking, shaded gently, side of the lead whispering across the card. As if breathed on by ash, letters rose out of nothing: not straight, not neat, but there.

IF YOU FIND THIS, DON'T TRUST HIM. MEET ME 8PM — UNDER THE CLOCK.

Her stomach tightened into a knot; she glanced behind her even though the aisles were empty. It was surely a joke, a relic of some ancient dare. And yet the words felt urgent, the way a siren feels urgent even before you hear it. The note smelled faintly of oranges, or maybe that was her imagination.

She checked the book's cover. The Map Room: City Plans 1901. Inside the front was a date stamp from 1998, a name scrawled in fountain-pen loops—J. Hale—and a tear at the hinge like a small, hungry mouth. Mara read the message again. Under the clock. Which clock? There were three in town; the station clock, the church clock, and the one that never worked above the bakery.

It was not meant for her.

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

Option A:

The hoarding towers above the square like a new moon hung too low, a flawless rectangle of light stitched onto the side of a glass tower. Dusk slips in; the sky is bruise-blue, and the first stars hesitate. Below, the square is tiled, a stage that belongs to the screen. It turns on with a clean blink. Colours pour down the facade, a fall of neon, washing faces in a trembling glow.

A sneaker grows to the height of a bus, treads crisp as geometry. Then a model's smile widens, too smooth to be real. The advert changes and changes; scenes slide with a hush while the electronics hum, a thin, steady note. The smell of onions from a stall fights the metallic tang of rain. In puddles the screen repeats itself, torn into pixels by ripples.

People gather without meaning to. Office workers squint, their faces lit mint, then scarlet, then gold. Tourists tilt phones and grin. A child reaches out as if he could hold the moving shoe. Footsteps click-clack on the concrete; a bus sighs; someone laughs too loudly. The hoarding doesn't care. It blinks, commands attention even when you pretend to be busy.

Up close, the magic is mechanical. The surface is a mosaic of tiny squares, each a little sun. Heat slips from vents, warm on the cheek; the air quivers. A drizzle starts, and the light breaks it into glitter. Pigeons scatter and settle again in the coloured tide. The building seems to lean, as if listening to its own advertisement.

Night drops, and the hoarding grows brighter - unblinking. It becomes the square's calendar: its clock, its weather, its mood. Part of me wants silence, a pause, a proper sky. Yet I look up anyway, again and again, and let the false daylight soak in.

Option B:

Secrets do not always shout; sometimes they curl up in ordinary objects and wait. They hide in the fold of paper, in the seam of a curtain, behind a picture that looks straight. In this house they felt patient, as if the walls were holding their breath.

On a slow, rain-polished Saturday, Maya climbed the ladder to the attic. The bulb hummed. Dust rose in soft spirals and the air tasted like old books. She was looking for a photo album—something simple—but a box of school exercise books caught her eye: ink-blue covers. She lifted one and the spine sighed; a thinner sheet slipped out and skated to the floor.

It was a scrap, no bigger than her palm, creased and yellowed. Along the edge, in neat, deliberate handwriting, someone had written: If you have found this, begin where the clock never sleeps. Beneath it, there was a tiny drawing of an arrow and three numbers, 12—00—12. The letters looked hurried and careful at once, as if whoever wrote them wanted them hidden but also found. The paper smelled faintly of lavender, like her grandmother’s coat. Maya’s heart thudded, too loud in the small space.

It felt ridiculous to talk to a piece of paper, yet she whispered, “Is this yours, Gran?” She remembered stories—puzzles and riddles that ran late into night. Her grandmother’s clock downstairs ticked, steady and exact; Maya realised the clue wasn’t only about time: it was a place. The hallway clock that never stopped? The station clock in town set to twelve? Possibilities.

She folded the scrap and slipped it into her pocket. The house creaked—just the wind, probably—and a corner of the blue notebook lifted, as if moved by a breath. Under its cover waited another line of ink, thinner than a spider’s thread—

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

Option A:

The hoarding rises above the square like a second building, brighter than any window. It stretches corner to corner, a slab of moving colour. Blues slide into pinks into green; letters tumble; smiling faces bloom and fade. The screen blinks, then shouts. A warm buzz leaks from it, a hum like summer insects. The air tastes electric and smells of warm plastic and fried onions. People tip their heads back and squint; a man shades his eyes. Pigeons startle when a flash turns the ground pale for a heartbeat.

The square becomes part of the advert. Damp cobbles reflect the pictures so they look doubled. In a puddle a running shoe swims away from a laughing mouth, pixel water flickering. Children chase the light as it rolls across their coats, then across a bus and back again. Around us the old buildings lean in—stone eyebrows, cracked windows—curious and a bit jealous. Can stone compete with this glitter? For a moment it feels like a festival and a lecture: be happy, buy this, keep watching.

The crowd thins, but the hoarding hardly slows. It cycles and cycles, persistant, as if it needs to breathe through our eyes. The sky is purple; the square is darker; the screen stays a morning. It sells trainers and phones and dreams. It knows our names, or it pretends to. The benches wait, the fountain sleeps, the screen doesn’t. And in the middle, very small, I stand and watch, blinking back the light, again and again.

Option B:

The library smelled of polish and rain. Dust sat like a thin winter coat on the old atlas that crouched on the bottom shelf; the clock coughed four slow ticks as Maya knelt.

She tugged the atlas free. The spine cracked, the map of Europe flaked at the edges like old pastry. One page didn’t fall flat; it lifted, almost proud. Maya slid her nail under it, careful and clumsy together. The paper crackled and a smell of glue puffed up. In the hollow was a thin envelope, the colour of old tea. It had no stamp, only three words scratched on the front: To the finder.

Who hides words in a book? Why here? She broke the flap. Inside was a small note, creased and deliberate, with lines that looked like directions:

At dusk, go to the oldest tree. Take nothing but your courage. Turn right when you hear the river. If you are seen, wait. Come alone.

Maya read them twice. The first letters leaned at her: A T T I C—attic. The word sat heavy, like a stone in a pond—ripples touching every corner of her thoughts.

The caretaker rattled keys in the corridor, the light began to thin. Maya slid the note into it's sleeve and pushed the atlas back, her hands left little moons in the dust. She wanted to tell someone, she didn’t. After all, a message that hides inside another message might be a promise, or a warning.

At dusk, she would climb.

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

Option A:

Above the roofs, the digital hoarding hangs like a window that never sleeps. It towers over the square, a moving wall of light that is sharp and bright, almost too much. The pictures blink, scroll, slide; adverts change and change. A soda explodes in slow fizz, a sneaker runs by itself, a model smiles with impossible teeth. Colours shout: hot pink, electric blue, clean white. It seems to breathe—inhale, exhale—and the crowd, for a second, holds its breath too.

Meanwhile the square works around it. Pigeons peck and flap; the shadows stretch long and then snap when the screen flips to a sun scene. Phones rise like small mirrors. Footsteps click-clack on the stones, buses hiss, a vendor turns the metal of his cart and steam smells sweet. Some people tut, some grin. Reflections climb the glass of the high-rise; letters ripple across windows, like water, like a river running upwards.

Rain earlier has left silver puddles, so the advert falls onto the ground and wobbles. Backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, light slides when a car passes. It is a kind of noise even when it is quiet. Who is it talking to? Me, them, everyone. I feel small under it; still, I look up.

Option B:

The note wasn’t meant for me. At first, I only wanted Gran’s apple pie recipe in that torn, flowery book on the high shelf. The kitchen smelled of cinnamon; the old clock ticked, warning me. I stood on a chair, my hands dusty, listening to rain tap the window. It felt like the house knew I was snooping.

When I opened the book, a thin paper slid out and fluttered onto the table. It looked ordinary—lined, creased—but there were faint shapes in the margins. After that, I turned the lamp up and tilted the page. Nothing. Then I held it near the toaster—not too close. Slowly, letters crawled out of the blank spaces like ants. It was a message. Careful writing, small. I told myself I was just curious; curiosity sounds harmless, right?

However, the words were not harmless. Do not go to the pier tonight. That was all. No name, no signature, just a command, like a whisper pinned to paper. Who wrote it? Who was it for? The rain got louder, or maybe I did. I should of put it back, I know, but I didn’t. Instead, I folded the note and kept it—wierdly brave and stupid at the same time.

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

Option A:

The big digital hoarding hangs over the city square like a giant TV. It is big. It is bright. It flashes and changes all the time and I have to squint. The colours are strong, red, blue, green, yellow, they slide across the screen and jump, again and again. My neck hurts when I look up becuase it goes so high.

People stop and stare, some just walk by, they tut and look at there phones. There is advertisments and pictures, a burger spins, a shoe spins, a phone shines, then it starts again. A low hum is in the air and music, the sound is tinny and it buzzes and it doesnt end. The light falls on the wet stones and windows and makes little squares. It is like a sun at night, bright but cold. I feel small under it and also excited, but it is too much.

Option B:

Morning. The house was quiet, like it was holding its breath. I pulled a old book from the shelf because the cover was blue and dusty. My fingers went black with dust, it felt dry and soft. A small paper fell out like a leaf and landed by my shoe. It was a mesage. The letters were small and shaky. My heart knocked like a door.

It said: Under the stairs.

I didn't tell anyone, Mum was outside with the dog. I thought the house was listening to me. I walked to the hallway slow, step by step. I kept saying the words in my head, under the stairs, under the stairs.

Behind the coats there was a lose bord. I pushed it and it groned - like a sleepy door. There was a tin box. My hands shook. I shouldn't open it, I should. I were not sure... but I did.

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

Option A:

The digital hoarding is massive and it sit over the city square. It is high above and I look up and my neck hurts. The colours are bright, red blue green, they flash and blink. The light goes on my face on the stones. It hums like a bee, but louder, it kind of shouts. People stand and stare, some walk past, there is traffic noise and chips smell from a van. I try to read the advert but it keep changing, it dont stop, again and again. A bird flies across and looks tiny. The building is cold and the sky is grey.

Option B:

Morning. The paper on the table has a stain. I move my bowl and see a line under the light. It looks like a mesage. It is tiny and thin, like a scratch. I put my finger there, it shakes, I dont know why. mum says hurry up but the words pull me. The letters hide in the fold of the page and they say look here. My heart thumps. I fold the corner and a slip falls out, it smells like dust and old rain. Who wrote this? it says find the key under the step, but we dont have a step so I just stare.