AQA GCSE English Language 8700/1 - Explorations in creative ...

Mark Scheme

Introduction

The information provided for each question is intended to be a guide to the kind of answers anticipated and is neither exhaustive nor prescriptive. All appropriate responses should be given credit.

Level of response marking instructions

Level of response mark schemes are broken down into four levels (where appropriate). Read through the student's answer and annotate it (as instructed) to show the qualities that are being looked for. You can then award a mark.

You should refer to the standardising material throughout your marking. The Indicative Standard is not intended to be a model answer nor a complete response, and it does not exemplify required content. It is an indication of the quality of response that is typical for each level and shows progression from Level 1 to 4.

Step 1 Determine a level

Start at the lowest level of the mark scheme and use it as a ladder to see whether the answer meets the descriptors for that level. If it meets the lowest level then go to the next one and decide if it meets this level, and so on, until you have a match between the level descriptor and the answer. With practice and familiarity you will be able to quickly skip through the lower levels for better answers. The Indicative Standard column in the mark scheme will help you determine the correct level.

Step 2 Determine a mark

Once you have assigned a level you need to decide on the mark. Balance the range of skills achieved; allow strong performance in some aspects to compensate for others only partially fulfilled. Refer to the standardising scripts to compare standards and allocate a mark accordingly. Re-read as needed to assure yourself that the level and mark are appropriate. An answer which contains nothing of relevance must be awarded no marks.

Advice for Examiners

In fairness to students, all examiners must use the same marking methods.

1. Refer constantly to the mark scheme and standardising scripts throughout the marking period.
2. Always credit accurate, relevant and appropriate responses that are not necessarily covered by the mark scheme or the standardising scripts.
3. Use the full range of marks. Do not hesitate to give full marks if the response merits it.
4. Remember the key to accurate and fair marking is consistency.
5. If you have any doubt about how to allocate marks to a response, consult your Team Leader.

SECTION A: READING - Assessment Objectives

AO1

• Identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas.
• Select and synthesise evidence from different texts.

AO2

• Explain, comment on and analyse how writers use language and structure to achieve effects and influence readers, using relevant subject terminology to support their views.

AO3

• Compare writers' ideas and perspectives, as well as how these are conveyed, across two or more texts.

AO4

• Evaluate texts critically and support this with appropriate textual references.

SECTION B: WRITING - Assessment Objectives

AO5 (Writing: Content and Organisation)

• Communicate clearly, effectively and imaginatively, selecting and adapting tone, style and register for different forms, purposes and audiences.
• Organise information and ideas, using structural and grammatical features to support coherence and cohesion of texts.

AO6

• Candidates must use a range of vocabulary and sentence structures for clarity, purpose and effect, with accurate spelling and punctuation. (This requirement must constitute 20% of the marks for each specification as a whole).

Answers

Question 1 - Mark Scheme

Read again the first part of the source, from lines 1 to 9. Answer all parts of this question. Choose one answer for each. [4 marks]

Assessment focus (AO1): Identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas. This assesses bullet point 1 (identify and interpret explicit and implicit information and ideas).

• 1.1 What had already driven the life out of the man's fingers?: the tremendous cold – 1 mark
• 1.2 What fell in the snow?: the whole bunch – 1 mark
• 1.3 What happens when the man tries to separate one match from the others?: The whole bunch falls in the snow – 1 mark
• 1.4 What could the man's dead fingers neither do?: touch nor clutch – 1 mark

Question 2 - Mark Scheme

Look in detail at this extract, from lines 11 to 25 of the source:

11 to the matches. He watched, using the sense of vision in place of that of touch, and when he saw his fingers on each side the bunch, he closed them—that is, he willed to close them, for the wires

16 were drawn, and the fingers did not obey. He pulled the mitten on the right hand, and beat it fiercely against his knee. Then, with both mittened hands, he scooped the bunch of matches, along

21 with much snow, into his lap. Yet he was no better off. After some manipulation he managed to get the bunch between the heels of his mittened hands. In this fashion he carried it to his mouth. The ice

How does the writer use language here to present the man's struggle to light a match? You could include the writer's choice of:

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

[8 marks]

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

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

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Shows perceptive and detailed understanding of language: analyses effects of choices; selects judicious detail; sophisticated and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would analyse how sensory contrast and mechanistic personification render his impotence: he is using the sense of vision in place of that of touch, yet despite volition—that is, he willed to close them—the body becomes a machine whose wires were drawn and whose fingers did not obey.
Dynamic verbs and sentence form intensify futility: he beat it fiercely and scooped the matches along with much snow in long, procedural clauses, only for the short sentence Yet he was no better off to undercut progress, while the precise awkwardness of between the heels of his mittened hands exposes clumsy improvisation.

The writer foregrounds sensory deprivation via precise, clinical phrasing: "using the sense of vision in place of that of touch." This substitution implies numbness so extreme that sight must stand in for feeling. The verb phrase "willed to close them" emphasises conscious effort, not automatic movement, suggesting each action is forced against a resistant body, establishing the magnitude of the struggle.

Moreover, personification and mechanical metaphor present his hands as alien objects. The fingers "did not obey," casting the body as an insubordinate subordinate, while "the wires were drawn" likens tendons to taut cables. This mechanises the body, with "drawn" connoting tension and stiffness, intensifying the sense that cold has turned him into a malfunctioning machine, stripping him of agency as he tries to command his hands.

Furthermore, the writer's dynamic verbs and intensifiers convey frantic, futile effort. He "pulled" and "beat [the mitten] fiercely," then "scooped" the matches "along with much snow." The adverb "fiercely" signals desperation, while the snow ironically sabotages his progress. The emphatic short sentence, "Yet he was no better off," punctures momentum; its monosyllabic cadence delivers a deflating setback, mirroring his exhaustion.

Additionally, sequencing and awkward lexis underline laborious improvisation. Connectives like "Then" and "After" create parataxis, charting a step-by-step, clumsy method as he gets the bunch "between the heels of his mittened hands." The unusual collocation "heels" for hands emphasises inhuman grip, while the parenthetical dash—"that is"—marks correction and self-conscious effort, sharpening the impression of a man battling environment and his own unresponsive flesh.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Shows clear understanding; explains effects; relevant detail; clear and accurate terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer shows the man’s loss of control through sensory contrast—he is “using the sense of vision in place of that of touch”—and personification/mechanical imagery, “the wires were drawn, and the fingers did not obey,” suggesting numb, unresponsive hands. Dynamic verbs like “beat it fiercely” convey desperation, while the dash and explanation “he willed to close them” and the short sentence “Yet he was no better off” emphasise his faltering attempts and the futility of the struggle.

The writer uses sensory imagery and personification to present the man’s struggle. “Using the sense of vision in place of that of touch” shows he has lost feeling, so he must look at his hands to control them. The personification “the fingers did not obey” suggests his own hands refuse to help, emphasising helplessness. The metaphor “the wires were drawn” makes his hands seem mechanical, heightening his loss of control.

Furthermore, violent dynamic verbs and an adverb show desperation. He “pulled” the mitten and “beat it fiercely against his knee”, conveying urgency. When he “scooped the bunch of matches, along with much snow,” the added detail “along with much snow” shows his lack of control.

Additionally, sentence forms emphasise futility. The dash in “he closed them—that is, he willed to close them” signals a correction that reveals failure. The short sentence “Yet he was no better off.” bluntly undercuts his efforts. Sequencing such as “Then,” “After,” and “In this fashion” creates a slow, step-by-step process, while “managed” implies difficulty, underlining the man’s struggle to light a match.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment on effects; some appropriate detail; some use of terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer uses strong verbs/adverbs like "beat it fiercely" and "scooped ... with much snow" to show clumsy, desperate effort, and simple personification/metaphor in "the fingers did not obey" and "the wires were drawn" to suggest his hands are stiff and out of control. The short sentence "Yet he was no better off." and the sensory contrast of "sense of vision" instead of "touch" highlight his frustration and numbness making it hard to light a match.

The writer uses sensory language to show the man’s struggle. He is “using the sense of vision in place of that of touch”, which suggests his hands are numb. The phrase “he willed to close them” and the metaphor “the wires were drawn” show stiffness and how his body won’t respond.

Furthermore, personification in “the fingers did not obey” makes his hands seem disobedient, stressing his lack of control. Powerful verbs like “beat it fiercely” and “scooped” highlight his desperate effort, while “along with much snow” shows the environment getting in the way of lighting the match.

Additionally, the short sentence “Yet he was no better off.” creates a blunt sense of failure. The phrase “mittened hands” emphasises clumsiness and limited grip, making it harder to strike a match. Overall, these choices show how the simple task of lighting a match becomes exhausting and frustrating.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple comment; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response might pick out action words like "pulled", "beat it fiercely" and "scooped" to show he is struggling, and notice the short sentence "Yet he was no better off." to show it still isn’t working. It might also mention phrases like "using the sense of vision in place of that of touch", "the fingers did not obey", and the detail "mittened hands" to show he can’t feel or control his hands.

The writer uses strong verbs like “beat” and “scooped” to show the man struggling with the matches. The adverb “fiercely” suggests he is trying very hard. Moreover, the phrase “the fingers did not obey” is personification and shows he cannot control his hands. The contrast in “using the sense of vision in place of that of touch” shows his numbness. Furthermore, the short sentence “Yet he was no better off” shows failure and frustration. Also, the detail “between the heels of his mittened hands” shows awkward movement. This presents his struggle to light a match.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Sensory contrast (vision replacing touch) highlights numbness and lost control, forcing him to rely on sight (sense of vision).
• Em-dash clarification exposes mind–body conflict, slowing the moment to show effortful intent versus failure (willed to close them).
• Personification of the body intensifies helplessness, as his own fingers resist his commands (did not obey).
• Mechanical metaphor suggests rigid, unresponsive hands, evoking stiffness and constraint (wires were drawn).
• Violent verb and adverb convey frantic, frustrated effort in a bid to restore function (beat it fiercely).
• Sequencing and accumulated actions build a laborious, step-by-step struggle, mirroring repeated attempts (After some manipulation).
• Added obstruction worsens the task, as unintended material undermines his careful efforts (much snow).
• Blunt simple sentence delivers a deflating verdict, puncturing momentum and stressing futility (no better off).
• Awkward workaround (using the “heels” of the hands) shows impaired dexterity and improvisation under pressure (between the heels).
• Abrupt fragment closes on looming difficulty, sustaining tension about the next impediment (The ice).

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 despair?

You could write about:

• how despair intensifies from beginning to end
• how the writer uses structure to create an effect
• the writer's use of any other structural features, such as changes in mood, tone or perspective. [8 marks]

Question 3 (AO2) – Structural Analysis (8 marks)

Assesses structure (pivotal point, juxtaposition, flashback, focus shifts, mood/tone, contrast, narrative pace, etc.).

Level 4 (Perceptive, detailed analysis) – 7–8 marks Analyses effects of structural choices; judicious examples; sophisticated terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 4 response would trace an incremental pattern of attempts and reversals (he tries, seems to succeed, then "He was no better off"), identify a false climax in "seventy sulphur matches at once!" immediately undercut by the shift from "controlled despair" to bodily loss of control ("his shivering got away with him"), and show how cyclical mirroring—from "the whole bunch fell in the snow" to the ending’s "separating and scattering" and the finality of "Each twig gushed a puff of smoke and went out"—structures a mounting futility that closes in despair.

One way in which the writer structures the extract to generate despair is through a relentless, incremental sequence of failed attempts that narrows the focus. We begin with the temporal marker “already,” placing us beyond rescue, and the close focalisation tracks micro-actions: “using the sense of vision in place of… touch,” “he willed to close them.” The paratactic, step-by-step staging of effort after effort culminates in the refrain “He was no better off,” which repeatedly resets progress to zero, draining momentum and instilling futility.

In addition, the writer manipulates pace and focus by juxtaposing brief hope with collapse. A momentary analepsis—“The old-timer on Sulphur Creek was right”—interrupts the action to crystallise his fatal isolation. Immediately, a false climax arrives: “seventy sulphur matches at once!” The exclamation and sudden flare quicken the pace, yet anticlimax follows as the “blazing matches… fell sizzling into the snow.” This engineered rise-and-crash intensifies despair.

A further structural feature is the sustained, claustrophobic perspective on bodily sensation, closing the narrative into a terminal image. The focus shifts from external action to interior pain—“He could smell it… feel it”—only for failing control (“his shivering got away with him”) to disperse the fire. The closing cadence—“hopelessly scattered… Each twig gushed a puff of smoke and went out”—echoes a recurring extinguishing motif and acts as denouement. The clipped rhythm and anaphoric “He...” leave the reader with an unavoidable extinguishing of hope, completing the structural descent into despair.

Level 3 (Clear, relevant explanation) – 5–6 marks Explains effects; relevant examples; clear terminology. Indicative Standard: Structurally, despair intensifies through a repeated cycle of brief success then failure: hope when the fire flared into flame and the birch-bark was alight is undercut by the refrain He was no better off and the finality of Each twig gushed a puff of smoke and went out. A mid-point shift to reflection—controlled despair, recalling the old-timer on Sulphur Creek was right—deepens the tone before the ending leaves the fire hopelessly scattered.

One way the writer structures the ending to build despair is through step-by-step sequencing and a repeated pattern of failure. The narrative narrows its focus to his hands—“the dead fingers could neither touch nor clutch”—and charts each attempt: “the whole bunch fell,” “He was no better off.” This cumulative pattern slows the pace and creates an inexorable, grinding hopelessness as each action collapses.

In addition, the writer engineers a structural turning point followed by reversal. The apparent climax comes with “seventy sulphur matches at once!” and “the birch-bark was alight,” a brief rise in action. Immediately, however, the focus shifts to obstacles—burning flesh, shivering—and a small accident (“a large piece of green moss fell”) unpicks the progress. The disintegration of the fire—“disrupted the nucleus,” “hopelessly scattered,” “Each twig… went out”—forms an anticlimactic ending that deepens despair.

A further structural feature is the shift between action and reflection. The sudden temporal reference to “the old-timer on Sulphur Creek” inserts a moment of “controlled despair,” acknowledging too late what he should have done. At the same time, the writer zooms in on bodily sensation and uses patterned repetition (“He tried… He could not…”) to emphasise futility. This narrowing perspective and decelerated pace trap the reader in his final, unavoidable defeat.

Level 2 (Some understanding and comment) – 3–4 marks Attempts to comment; some examples; some terminology. Indicative Standard: The writer builds despair through a step-by-step series of failures, from "the whole bunch fell in the snow" to the repeated "he was no better off". There is a brief hopeful moment at "seventy sulphur matches at once!" but this hope fails when the fire is "hopelessly scattered", making the ending feel hopeless.

One way in which the writer has structured the text to create despair is the step-by-step sequence of failed attempts at the beginning. He drops the matches, "was no better off," and the repetition of actions like "twenty times he scratched" slows the pace, making his struggle feel endless.

In addition, there is a change of mood in the middle. The phrase "controlled despair" shows his sinking tone, then the exclamation "seventy sulphur matches at once!" and "At last" suggest hope, quickly reversed when "the blazing matches fell... into the snow." This contrast intensifies the despair.

A further structural feature is the focus on his body getting worse and the ending. Words like "suddenly" and "then" move events on, while the memory of the "old-timer" shifts time to show regret. The final line, "Each twig... went out", closes the extract with finality, leaving a bleak, hopeless ending.

Level 1 (Simple, limited comment) – 1–2 marks Simple awareness; simple references; simple terminology. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response might say the writer shows despair by making things get worse from start to finish: the matches fell in the snow, later they flared into flame but he is no better off, and it ends with the fire 'hopelessly scattered' and 'Each twig went out.' This simple beginning-to-end pattern, with repeats like he tried, makes it feel hopeless.

One way the writer creates despair is repetition and short sentences. ‘He was no better off’ comes again after attempts, so the action feels stuck and his mood gets worse.

In addition, time connectives like ‘Then’, ‘Suddenly’ and ‘At last’ show a step-by-step sequence, but every step fails, so hope rises and drops.

A further feature is a zoom in on tiny actions, like fingers and matches, and then the ending. ‘Each twig... went out’ ends it with no hope.

Level 0 – No marks: Nothing to reward.

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

• Chronological, step-by-step attempts structure a relentless chain of failure → accumulates futility and tension → (but failed)
• Refrain highlights stagnation of progress → cyclical phrasing drains hope each time → (He was no better off)
• Progressive zoom on bodily failure (fingers→hands→mouth) narrows the focus → traps the reader in physical helplessness → (neither touch nor clutch)
• Sensory shift from touch to sight marks decline → coping strategies become inadequate, deepening despair → (using the sense of vision)
• Numerical escalation and sudden flare form a false climax → hope spikes then collapses, intensifying desolation → (seventy sulphur matches at once)
• Staccato pain statements puncture the action → raw immediacy foregrounds suffering over control → (His flesh was burning)
• Mid-passage reflective pause acknowledges doom → thought moment reframes action as fated → (controlled despair)
• Degeneration from dexterity to crude methods visualises loss of agency → desperation replaces skill → (heels of his hands)
• Bleak anticlimax in the final image → extinguishing motif closes on inevitable failure → (went out)

Question 4 - Mark Scheme

For this question focus on the second part of the source, from line 46 to the end.

In this part of the source, the man's own shivering causes him to destroy the small fire. The writer suggests that his own body has turned against him in his fight for life.

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

In your response, you could:

• consider your impressions of the man's fight against his own body
• comment on the methods the writer uses to present the destruction of the fire
• 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 strongly agree, arguing the writer personifies the body as an adversary: visceral sensation 'He could smell it.' and agentive phrasing ('his own burning hands were in the way', 'his shivering frame made him poke too far', 'his shivering got away with him') show physiology sabotaging survival. It would also analyse method, noting the scientific metaphor 'the nucleus of the little fire' alongside dynamic, destructive diction ('disrupted', 'separating and scattering', 'Each twig gushed a puff of smoke and went out') to dramatise the fire’s collapse and reinforce the viewpoint.

I strongly agree that the writer presents the man’s own body as his undoing, turning from a tool into an antagonist that sabotages his fight for life. Strikingly, the passage removes external blame early on—there is “no wind to blow them out”—so the focus tightens on internal forces, charting a structural arc from precarious triumph to involuntary self-destruction.

At first, the man’s bodily resistance to the cold appears manageable and heroic. The staccato, sensory sentences—“His flesh was burning. He could smell it.”—use tactile and olfactory imagery to render pain vividly, yet “still he endured it,” suggesting willpower pitted against reflex. Ironically, the body is both saviour and saboteur: “his own burning hands were in the way, absorbing most of the flame.” The verb “absorbing” implies the body literally consumes the fire’s energy, leeching life from it. The exclamatory “seventy sulphur matches at once!” conveys a desperation that feels momentarily victorious, before the involuntary jerk—“he jerked his hands apart”—sends the “blazing matches” “sizzling into the snow.” This jerk reads as a reflex, not a choice, foreshadowing the later, more decisive betrayal by shivering.

Once the birch-bark is “alight,” the writer intensifies the sense of a body that can no longer obey. The adverbs “carefully and awkwardly” are juxtaposed to show intention thwarted by impairment. Dehumanising detail—he must use the “heels of his hands,” and “bit” off moss “with his teeth”—suggests regression to clumsy, animalistic responses. This clumsiness is given a clinical cause: “The withdrawal of blood from the surface of his body now made him begin to shiver.” The scientific register distances the man from agency; physiology dictates action.

Crucially, the writer personifies the bodily response to make it the agent of ruin: “his shivering frame made him poke too far,” and “his shivering got away with him.” Grammatically, “shivering” becomes the subject that acts, while “he” is acted upon. The metaphor of the fire’s “nucleus” underscores its fragility; once he “disrupted” it, the sibilant pair “separating and scattering” mimics the soft, hissing dissipation of hope. The concluding cadence—“Each twig gushed a puff of smoke and went out”—with its plosive “puff” and blunt monosyllables, seals the finality of extinguishment.

Overall, the writer frames the catastrophe as internally driven: reflex, pain and shivering strip the man of control. While his will remains fierce—he “cherished the flame”—the passage persuasively suggests that his body, not the weather, ultimately turns against him and destroys his last chance of survival.

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 writer presents the body as undermining him through cause-and-effect and sensory detail — The withdrawal of blood makes him begin to shiver, so he grew more awkward, his shivering got away with him, and he disrupted the nucleus of the little fire, and the twigs went out. It would also acknowledge his resistance — he endured it, felt that His flesh was burning, yet He cherished the flame because It meant life, balancing bodily betrayal with determined effort.

I agree to a great extent that the man’s own shivering destroys the small fire and that the writer presents his body as turning against him. Although he keeps “controlled despair” and shows resolve — removing his mittens “with his teeth” and igniting “seventy sulphur matches at once!” — the exclamation suggests only a brief triumph. Significantly, there is “no wind to blow them out,” so the threat is internal, not environmental.

Vivid sensory imagery shows his body acting as an obstacle. He “could smell” his “flesh…burning” and feel it “deep down below the surface,” which makes the harm visceral. Ironically, “his own burning hands were in the way, absorbing most of the flame,” so the very hands he needs to live end up starving the fire. The verb “absorbing” suggests his body is draining the life he is trying to create. There are moments when his body still serves him — “arm-muscles not being frozen enabled him” — but these are fleeting.

When the fire catches, the writer heightens the stakes through lexical choices: he “cherished the flame… It meant life.” Yet the “withdrawal of blood” — scientific lexis that underlines inevitability — makes him “begin to shiver,” and he “grew more awkward.” Even before the final collapse, he must lift twigs “between the heels of his hands” and “bite” off moss, highlighting lost control. The personification in “his shivering got away with him” suggests his body has seized command. As a result, he “poke[s] too far” and “disrupted the nucleus” of the fire; that precise term stresses how delicate the core was. Structurally, the passage moves from the flare of hope to dispersal: the “burning grasses and tiny twigs” are “scattered,” and “Each twig gushed a puff of smoke and went out.”

Overall, I agree strongly: despite his determination, the writer makes his own involuntary bodily responses the antagonist that betrays him and destroys the fragile fire.

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 that the man’s body turns against him, pointing to simple evidence like “the withdrawal of blood… made him begin to shiver”, “grew more awkward”, and “his shivering got away with him”. It would explain that these words show he loses control and so “disrupted the nucleus of the little fire” until “each twig… went out.”

I mostly agree with the statement. In this part, the writer shows that the man fights hard to save the fire, but his own body, especially his shivering and numb hands, works against him.

At first he manages to light the birch-bark, but the sensory detail shows the cost: ‘He could smell it’ and his ‘flesh was burning’. The pain ‘grew acute’, yet he ‘endured it’, which shows determination. However, his hands are ‘in the way, absorbing most of the flame’, so his own body is already hindering him. He can only lift fuel ‘between the heels of his hands’, making him clumsy.

Then the body becomes the main cause. The causal line ‘The withdrawal of blood... made him begin to shiver’ shows he cannot control it, and he ‘grew more awkward’. When ‘a large piece of green moss fell’, bad luck plays a part, but it is his ‘shivering frame’ that ‘made him poke too far’ and ‘disrupted the nucleus’ of the fire. The verbs ‘disrupted’, ‘separating’ and ‘scattering’ emphasise how his shaking ruins it. Most strongly, ‘his shivering got away with him’ personifies the shivering, as if it is in charge. Finally, ‘Each twig gushed a puff of smoke and went out’ shows the fire dying because of his own movements.

Overall, I agree to a large extent. The writer uses sensory detail, strong verbs and personification to present the man battling bravely, but his own body turns against him and causes the small fire to fail.

Level 1 (Simple, limited) – 1–5 marks Simple ideas; limited methods; simple evaluation; simple references. Indicative Standard: A Level 1 response would mostly agree with the writer’s viewpoint, simply noting that the man’s body works against him because he begin to shiver, so his shivering frame made him poke too far and disrupted the nucleus of the little fire, causing it to fail.

I mostly agree that the man's own shivering destroys the fire and his body turns against him.

At first he does make a flame, but his body already hurts his chances. The sensory detail "he could smell it" about his burning flesh shows pain, and he "jerked his hands apart," so the matches drop. The line "there was no wind to blow them out" makes it clear it is not nature, but himself, that causes the problem.

Later, his shivering clearly ruins the small fire. The writer says "he grew more awkward" and that "his shivering frame made him poke too far," so he breaks the fire apart. The phrase "his shivering got away with him" is like personification, as if the shivers are in control. Simple verbs like "disrupted" and "scattered" show the damage.

Overall, I agree to a large extent. The writer's words and images make me think the man is fighting his own body, and that weakness and shaking are the main reason the little fire goes out.

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:

• Extent: largely agree – involuntary reactions sabotage his efforts, culminating in loss of control (shivering got away with him)
• Structural refrain – repetition intensifies futility, showing each new tactic leaves him unchanged (no better off)
• Reflex response – the cough from fumes is protective yet destructive, costing him the first flame (cough spasmodically)
• Sensory pain imagery – bodily pain overrules resolve, forcing him to drop the matches (His flesh was burning)
• Physical obstruction – his own hands hinder ignition, turning help into harm (absorbing most of the flame)
• Physiological causation – the cold triggers involuntary changes that worsen coordination (withdrawal of blood)
• Personification of the body – agency shifts to the shiver, implying his body acts against him (his shivering frame)
• Numbness and clumsiness – loss of fine control scatters the fragile fire despite effort (no sensation)
• Situational irony – external forces are downplayed, so the main threat is internal (There was no wind)
• Nuance – desperate tactics heighten risk (lighting seventy sulphur matches), but they stem from bodily failure, so I still largely agree

Question 5 - Mark Scheme

At your favourite corner café, the owner is filling a chalkboard wall with short creative pieces from customers, and yours will be read by the morning crowd.

Choose one of the options below for your entry.

• Option A: Write a description of a small café kitchen at breakfast from your imagination. You may choose to use the picture provided for ideas:

• Option B: Write the opening of a story about an honest choice in sport.

(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 kitchen wakes before the street does; a thin blade of light slips through the high window and catches the steam, making every breath visible. The extractor hum is a patient drone, a constant that frames everything else: the staccato clack of plates, the anxious tick of the clock, the soft, surprised sigh of butter meeting iron. On the griddle, bacon curls into copper scrolls and eggs spread like small suns, their edges fizzing; toast rises, startled, from the chrome-mouthed toaster. The air is salted with sizzle and coffee bloom, citrus and heat and the faint, clean bite of bleach. Plates drift past the haze — pale moons carried by swift hands — and vanish over the pass into the bright, public morning.

Concurrently, order slips flutter from the printer like impatient birds; they tremble on the spike, pale flags of intent. The chef reads and moves without wasted gesture, a conductor of flame and steel; his hands, nicked and sure, orchestrate the small theatre of breakfast. One pan tilts to decant a stream of yolk-yellow batter; another receives mushrooms that sigh and darken. A palmful of salt; a whisper of paprika; a lemon quarter squeezed and left shining on the board. Under the heat lamps, plates accrue their careful geometry — toast aligned, rashers folded, tomatoes blistered — as if breakfast could be designed like a map.

Close to the board, details become their own weather. Butter makes an astonished pool and races to the edges; a parsley leaf clings to the lip of a plate and refuses the brush. Steam beads on the glass and furs the view; the world beyond the hatch is a smudge of faces and a bell that rings at the exact wrong moment and the right one too. Coffee breathes from the machine in dark, nutty gusts; the portafilter locks with a satisfying click, the crema arriving like a little miracle. Pancakes turn at the flick of a wrist; blueberries burst into violets that bleed and stain, sweet and slightly bruised.

At the sink, water roars and hushes — a tidal labour; cups clink and saucers chatter in bright avalanches. Yet between burners and boards the choreography stays deft: wipe, turn, plate; call; pass. A knife rests; a bell rings. The tickets spit again. The kitchen inhales and becomes, all over again, morning.

Option B:

Summer. The time of long shadows on cracked tarmac; of suncream slick on forearms; of finals whispered like a dare. The net held the centre of the world in a pale grid; beyond it, the chain-link fence stitched the school to the sky. A yellow ball rested in my palm — warm, faintly woollen, its fur abraded to a soft halo. Somewhere behind me, a whistle from the football pitch stuttered and died; even the birds seemed to hush. The scoreboard, sun-glared and clacking, reported the simple arithmetic of nerves: 5–4, 40–30. My serve. Match point. Everything in me narrowed to a string, drawn tight, humming.

Across the net, Lina bounced on her toes, her plait a relentless metronome. She had a stubborn jaw and a cruelly accurate backhand. My coach pressed two fingers to his lips; my teammates were a row of neon hope. Near the far baseline, two county selectors leaned on clipboards with the practised indifference of people who care. Dad had found a sliver of shade and folded himself into it, cap pulled low. His voice, last night, threaded itself through the heat now: You call what you see, Mays. The line’s more than paint; it’s the bit of you nobody else can mark. I swallowed air that tasted of rubber and cut grass, rolled the ball in my fingers, felt the rasp of rosin against my skin.

Toss. The ball rose into the brilliant, bleached sky, a small sun against the larger one. I bent, uncoiled; the strings bit; the serve cracked wide to her backhand. She reached, late but elastic, and sent it back low and skidding. Feet — split-step, dart — the squeak of my trainers was the kitchen-floor squeal of childhood. I drove cross-court, she cut me down the line; we drew chessboards on the court with elastic neon. My lungs were bellows, mechanical and implacable. Still, I kept the rally alive, shorter now, tighter, every stroke a conversation we had been having all season: What if? What now?

Then — a loop, a slice, a hurried adjustment. I went deep, deeper than I meant, hard to her baseline. The ball landed so near the white that time thickened. A puff of chalk lifted — not theatrical, just a breath — and fell. No umpire here; at school they bank on our eyes, our honesty. Lina’s head snapped to me. The bench stilled. The world pitched forward on a hinge.

Out? One syllable and it would be over: trophy, photographs, a name murmured into clipboards. It would sound plausible; nobody would argue; I had, after all, earned the right to be believed. But beneath the noise — the itch of expectation, the drum of my heart — something steadier spoke. Dad’s voice again, yes, but mine too; the line no longer a stripe but an idea. I saw the truth, plain as paint: the ball had kissed the white.

“In,” I heard myself say, and my voice surprised me by not shaking. “Good.”

A tiny, collective intake — the sound of a kite catching wind. Lina nodded once, curtly. The scoreboard clacked its disapproval and made everything level again. My team’s bright shoulders sagged; the selectors didn’t look up from their pens. I felt the loss of that point as a thud, a dull stone dropped into water.

And yet, as I walked back to the baseline, as the heat pressed and the sun insisted, something unwound inside me. Lighter, somehow. I caught the ball, let it thrum once against the strings. The court was the same in every direction — rectangles and rules, lines and light — but I stood a fraction taller within it. Whatever happened next, I had drawn my own line, and kept to it.

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

Option A:

Morning presses through slatted blinds, laying pale ladders of light across stainless steel. On white tiles, hairline scratches hold last night’s polish; the sink lip is cold, a promise of heat to come. The griddle sleeps until a pat of butter lands — then the waking: a shiver, a spit, a scent that unfurls. Coffee murmurs in the corner, that low, confident thrum; the grinder exhales a fug of roasted nuts. Bread waits in its paper bag, yeast-sweet, while bacon — regimented, pink — shines with patient intent. Above the pass, paper dockets clip into place, their corners curling like moth-wings, summoning the hour.

The first egg breaks: a neat click, glass-white slipping into the pan while the yolk sits intact, a small sun. Hiss. Clatter. The language of breakfast begins. Mushrooms sigh as they give up their woodland damp; tomatoes blister and sweeten; onions turn translucent, yielding without complaint. Toast springs up — startled — and is laid down again, butter rushing to the edges in glossy rivers. Batter ribbons on the hotplate, cloud to gold; sausages revolve in their corner, obedient. Steam writes brief messages on the hood, then erases itself; the extractor draws a steady breath that never ends.

Voices thread the clatter, a clipped call-and-response that keeps chaos at bay: Two full breakfasts; one without black pudding; porridge with honey. On! Behind! Hot! A wrist with a faded swallow tattoo flips bacon with cautious bravado; a wedding band taps the pass; the youngest wipes plates with a folded towel until the rims gleam. They do not collide, though there is barely space — they negotiate: a shoulder angled, a hip pulled in, an elbow paused mid-air so a skillet can scud through. The pass becomes a small theatre (and every plate, a brief performance) as herbs fall like confetti and salt is cast with deliberate snow.

Somewhere the radio whispers an old chorus no one has time to name; someone hums anyway. The docket printer chatters in staccato. Pepper sifts in specks; chives are snipped into fragile green commas. It looks effortless, almost — but it isn’t. It is muscle memory and small negotiations, a routine that holds together what would prefer to fly apart, not quite a well-oiled machine so much as a rattling bicycle kept upright by everyone’s hands. For a breath, there is a lull — then the bell lifts its clean, silver ping, and plates slide over the pass, warmth moving outward to strangers, again and again.

Option B:

Winter. The season of breath turning to smoke; floodlights cutting white squares in the dark; boot leather stiff with cold. Cup final night stretched time thin, then snapped it back; the whistle’s shriek felt immediate and inevitable.

I slid the captain’s band over my sleeve until it pinched; it felt like a promise and a weight. In the changing room Coach had said, "Be brave and be clean": easy to write in marker, harder to live when the stands swell and the roar drags.

We kicked off. The ball moved in neat triangles, a routine we knew. I tasted adrenaline—metallic. Danny looked up, saw me stealing a yard on their full-back, and curled a cross that spun into my path.

Contact. Not foot to leather; not yet. A skip on the greasy surface—and the ball brushed my forearm, a whisper against cold skin. Tiny, incidental, the sort of thing you could ignore if you wanted to. It dropped and I struck it, laces clean. The net heaved. The crowd erupted; blue scarves cascaded; my name rolled back at me in delighted waves.

I ran, but my legs felt borrowed. The scoreboard blinked awake: 1–0. The linesman’s flag stayed at his side. Hands thudded my back. Would anyone know? Did it even matter when the referee had pointed to the centre circle? The questions chased me harder than any defender.

When I was eight, Dad made me take back extra change. "Victory without truth," he’d said, "is a loss you can’t wash off." It sounded like a slogan then; tonight it tasted like grit between teeth. I glanced at the faint red bloom on my sleeve and at our bench, already celebrating like summer.

I could say nothing. I could drown in the noise and let the game swallow the moment. Or I could do the thing that would make me unpopular. The choice felt simple and enormous.

I lifted my arm—the guilty one—and walked towards the referee.

"Sir," I said under the stadium’s heavy hum, "it hit my hand."

Silence has a sound—thin as ice—held for a heartbeat, and then the world came back, not kinder, but clearer.

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

Option A:

Morning squeezes into the small café kitchen and sticks to everything. Steam unspools from the kettle and the sink; it clings to steel and skin, to pale tiles and the chalked specials board. The griddle is awake, a stubborn sun, spitting at the first rashers; fat ticks and leaps—a soft, fierce music. Plates lean in uneven towers by the pass, white moons waiting to be filled. Under the fluorescent strip, knives flash and settle; the boards thud in a rhythm like a heart. Coffee breath rises — bitter, comforting — and mingles with bacon-sweet air so thick you could almost taste it. Beyond the hatch a bell waits, calm for now, as if it knows what is coming.

Meanwhile, hands orchestrate the chaos. A cook with flour-dusted sleeves coaxes eggs in a pan until they ripple like soft clouds. The teenager at the toaster hovers, tapping the lever, breathing on the glass to make it clear. The barista tilts a jug and draws a milky fern onto a cap of foam, his focus narrow. Orders chatter from the strip of tickets: Full English, veggie, one with no tomatoes, porridge, two pancakes. The cook turns, plates in one hand and a ragged tea towel in the other, he slides eggs across the hot plate so they do not catch. He moves with practised speed — not rushed, but inevitable — and the room keeps time.

Bells ping; a bright, percussive note, and plates begin their journey. Across the stainless-steel pass, palms steady them like calm water; cutlery rattles a nervous applause. Bacon fans itself; eggs, sunny and tender, tremble; mushrooms shine with butter. At the edges, something gentler: butter curls stacked like tiny shells, jam jars glinting red under harsh light, a lemon wedge that rolls and is caught. Through the hatch, chatter swells — spoons tap, a child laughs — and the door breathes cold into the heat. For a beat, the kitchen seems to pause, listening to its own pulse. Then it goes again, sizzle and spit, over and over, while morning presses in and the day begins to taste real.

Option B:

Floodlights breathe a hard white over the pitch; the grass gleams like slick velvet. The crowd is a single organism—shouting, swaying, then suddenly holding its breath. We are one-nil down with seconds left. My tongue tastes of rust; my legs hum with fatigue, a low electric ache that will not switch off. The captain’s armband pinches; its small band of colour feels like a command.

The pass comes fizzing; I take it on the half-turn, feel the ball settle under my instep like a tamed thing. I drive into the box. Boots drum behind me; studs scissor. A defender launches, sliding across the slick, dark grass. I cut inside. My planted foot skids; the earth tilts and throws me. I hit the ground, palms burning, breath gone. The whistle cleaves the night. For a heartbeat there is a jagged quiet; then sound returns in a wave that almost lifts me. The referee points. Penalty. Aron thumps my back, laughter cracking through his mask of sweat. "You genius," he hisses. The smell of damp soil and hot plastic rises around us; cameras blink.

I stand, staring at the white spot—bright as a small moon. The ball waits, obedient, in my hands. But there was no touch. Not on my calf, not on my ankle—only air and my own haste. I know the difference between leather and air; leather bruises, air whispers. Two choices: speak, or stay silent. My coach's voice from Thursday rasps in my head: take the chance, be ruthless. My father’s from years ago in the garden, softer: if you win, win clean. Back then he made me retake a shot because my toe kissed the chalk. Now the scoreboard glares its red numerals; the chant swells; my mouth dries. Who am I if I lie? Who am I if I don’t?

Honesty feels heavier than the ball—dense, undeniable. Yet truth tugs at me like a sleeve. I step off the spot and lift my head. "Ref," I say, voice not much louder than a breath. He turns, eyebrows rising. "He didn't touch me."

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

Option A:

The small café kitchen wakes before the street does. Cool air drifts in; strip lights hum, a thin chorus above steel. Steam smudges the window, and the glass wears a faint halo of grease. The floor tiles are cracked and shining; the rubber mat remembers every step. On the griddle there is a slow shimmer, a gathered heat, then the first rashers hit and curl.

Sounds build. Knives tap, plates clack, and cutlery chatters like jittery silver insects. The coffee machine breathes out and spits; the kettle complains; the toaster coughs up its first stubborn slice. A voice calls orders, flat but fast: 'Two bacon, one veggie, three teas.' Another voice repeats it, lower. The cook lifts his spatula, wrist quick, eggs sliding in soft puddles—up, down, up, down—marks in the oil.

The smell is thick and kind, like a warm blanket you can eat. Frying fat tangles with ground beans; toast pops, a blunt sound. Tomatoes spit seeds across the pan, popping like rain on a tin roof; mushrooms darken and shrink. Butter softens and shines on a pile of toast. Steam rolls over the pass and sits; it glows. A stack of chipped plates waits; fingers are quick to ferry them.

Time stretches while sausages brown, then rushes when the bell rings for service: ping, ping. Orders clip onto the metal rail, a small paper parade. The owner slips in and out, bringing a gulp of cool morning from the alley—gone at once in the heat. Inside, the kitchen tightens to the rhythm. A burnt edge is scraped away; a smear is wiped; a sprig is pressed, as if a gift. Then a pause, a breath. Only the gentle drip from a spoon into a saucer. The next ticket flutters like a flag, and it begins again.

Option B:

Saturday morning. Thin frost on the grass, chalk lines dull under a sky the colour of tin. Parents huddled with coffee, their voices a messy hum beyond the wire fence. I rolled my shoulders and felt the usual knot inside, tight as laces. County Cup semi-final, one goal needed, one mistake enough.

The move began like a breath. Jay slid a pass to Eli, who took it in his stride; the crowd lifted. I drifted to the back post, unnoticed. Eli’s cross curved towards me, eager, spinning. I jumped. It skimmed my chest—then brushed my forearm, a whisper of leather on skin. The referee’s angle was wrong; he blew nothing. Time slowed, like the whole field was holding its breath. My heart hammered, a clumsy drum. I knew the touch. No one else did.

I had a choice that felt bigger than the box I stood in. We had trained all winter, through rain that stung like grit. We were tired of nearly. A goal here and we were through. But Mr Singh always said: win clean or don’t win at all. His voice arrived in my head, calm, irritating, honest. I could pretend. I could swing my foot and celebrate. The goalkeeper’s eyes were shining. He trusted the world for a second, and that made it worse.

I lifted my hand instead; it shook. ‘Handball,’ I said, the word small but solid. The referee stared, then nodded. Free kick to them. A couple of our fans groaned. Jay swore under his breath, not loud, but enough. Mr Singh met my eyes and gave a tiny nod that settled the knot in my chest. The game restarted. Cold bit my fingers. The honest choice didn’t feel like a victory yet, only a clear space inside me where the lie might have lived.

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

Option A:

Morning squeezes into the small café kitchen in a block of pale light, like it has just woken up too. The room is narrow and warm; the air is salty and sweet. Steam curls from mugs and hangs low under metal shelves. A small radio whispers a song that no one really hears.

On the griddle, bacon snaps and spits; eggs slide out of their shells like soft moons. Butter runs across toast like sunshine. The coffee machine hisses and drips like a small train. Plates clatter on the pass in a quick pattern of white and blue; stacked, taken, gone. Meanwhile, the extractor hums and rattles. The smell is a mixture that clings - burnt sugar and hot bread, a little sharp bleach from last night. Steam fogs the tiny window, the street outside smears into grey stripes.

'Two full! One with no beans!' the cook calls, voice rough but not unkind. His hands move without thinking, left to right, back and forth, back and forth. In the corner, a basket of clean plates waits; their edges look glossy under the hanging bulb. A waitress leans through the hatch, pen behind her ear, her grin shining under loose hair. Order slips tremble on the clip like small flags in a windy harbour. Somewhere the little bell nags and nags, the door must be opening again. The clock above the sink stutters. For a moment everyone breathes, then the rhythm starts over - plates up, cups filled, toast pops, and morning carries on being morning.

Option B:

Saturday afternoon. The pitch shone slick with rain; floodlights hummed over the square of grass like pale moons. Cold air bit my ears and my breath came out in little clouds. The crowd wasn’t huge, but it sounded like a sea in a bottle—shaking, rushing, stopping. Mud clung to my studs. The ball sat on the spot, white and waiting. I could hear my heart: steady, then faster.

One minute before, I had slipped. My foot went from under me near the edge of the box and I fell, skidding. A defender’s boot brushed past, not touching, not really, and the whistle shrieked anyway. The referee pointed to the spot. Our coach yelled something about destiny; their captain threw his arms up. Hands slapped my back. “You’ve got this,” Mason said, grinning too wide. I knew the league table, I knew the headlines our school loved to print. One kick: three points, cheers, glory.

But there was a truth under all that noise. Dad’s voice, quiet from last winter: You play hard and you play honest. Otherwise the win is hollow. I stared at the keeper’s gloves twitching on the line. My stomach turned.

I set the ball down—straight, centred, careful. Rain needled my neck. I could shoot. I could lie. I could pretend he’d clipped me and no one would argue. The net waited.

My hand went up before my mouth did. “Sir,” I said, and my voice sounded small and louder than the whole stand at the same time, “he didn’t touch me.”

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

Option A:

The small café kitchen is hot and busy. Steam curls from the griddle; the strip lights hum. Morning light squeezes through a high, greasy window, making the aluminium counter shine. Smells are thick: salty bacon, sweet toast, strong coffee. Oil spits, like rain. Shoes peel from the sticky floor. A metallic clang carries from the sink.

At the hatch, the cook flips eggs in a quick, careful rhythm. He slides plates along the pass; hands appear to catch them. “Two full, one veggie!” the waitress calls. Tickets click on the rail. Butter smears, then melts. Knives tap, cups clatter, the kettle whistles. The clock ticks above the door—too fast, then too slow.

Meanwhile, outside, chairs scrape, but in here the world is smaller. Up. Down. Turn. Wipe. Breath fogs the glass and condensation beads, then runs. It is only breakfast, yet it feels like a tiny storm. Then the griddle calms; a last slice of bacon hisses, and the room takes one breath.

Option B:

Saturday smelled like cut grass and muscle rub. The pitch shined wet under a low, cold sun. Parents hugged coffees, steam floating up. The white lines were sharp, like fresh chalk on a board, and the nets twitched in the breeze.

Kai pulled his orange shirt over his head and tied his laces twice. "Captain," said Coach, tapping the badge that felt too heavy. His belly buzzed with adrenaline; his hands tingled. He wanted to win so much it ached.

The whistle squealed. The ball zipped and bumped. A pass, a shout, studs scraping. Then it happened. A corner curled in, and the keeper jumped, and Kai jumped too. The ball brushed his knuckles, a tiny touch, then it dropped kindly and he shoved it into the net. Roar. The ref pointed to the centre spot.

It would be easy to say nothing. Everyone thought it was clean. His heart thudded like a drum, and a small voice pushed at him, like a hand on his back. Tell him. No, dont. He took a breath, tasting mud and cold air. He walked toward the referee, slow but sure—words gathering, not neat, but true.

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

Option A:

The small cafe kitchen is hot and busy, so hot! The air is thick with the smell of bacon and coffee, it sits in your nose. Pans hiss like little snakes. The toaster pops and the plates go clatter clatter. Grease shines on the floor, I nearly slip and I laugh but I don't. The cook flips eggs again and again, the yellow is like suns. Steam rises and touches my face, It is damp and warm. A kettle sings like a train. There is forks and knives in a pot and they rattle.

The window is small and dirty, sunlight comes in a stripe across the counter. Bread is buttered, butter melts and runs. Someone coughs in the front and a chair scrapes. The bell at the hatch goes ding and hands pass plates, plates, plates. The pan sizzels and never stops. It is morning and it goes on and on.

Option B:

Saturday. Cold wind on the pitch, my breath was white in the air. Parents shout on the side and boots thud, thud. The whistle is sharp like a bird. Final minute, we need one more goal.

The ball comes to me, slow like the moon, it sticks and I run. My legs burn and I can hear coach yelling go, go.

The defender slips, the goal is open. The ball bounce up and hits my hand, just a little, I feel it.

I could shoot. I could be the hero and my team lift the cup. My heart bangs, my head says dont. I stop—hand up. Handball, sir, I say to the refree. People shout, some say play on. The whistle blows and its a free kick to them. I feel empty and also kind of okay. The sky is grey and the grass look very small.

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

Option A:

The small cafe kitchen is hot and busy. Pans sizzle and spit, eggs slide, bacon pops. The smell is thick like toast and coffee, it sits in the air. Steam goes up and up, up and up. Plates clatter, someone shouts order up. The floor is sticky and there is greese. I think about my bed for a bit. My eyes sting from smoke, i blink and my stomac twists. The bell rings again and again there is a little window but it is misty, you can not see far. Butter melts and runs, back and forward, back and forward. A bird outside shouts too.

Option B:

It was Saturday and the pitch was muddy. Rain on my face like cold pins. The whistle go and the crowd is loud, loud like drums. I can smell grass and mud and chips. Last week we lost by one, I cried in bed. I run and the ball come quick, it hit my arm, I kick it in and the net shake and our bench shout. The ref blow and he give the goal. My chest feel tight. Mum always say be honest in sport, dont cheat, it sticks. I look at the ref and at my coach, I open my mouth and I say it hit my hand.