AQA Eng Lang P1Q5. Question: Write a story with the title ‘Abandoned’
Hi, I've just written this answer for the question above and was wondering how many marks it would get.
He stood there alone, his young hands stained a brutal mahogany red. His jet black hair was scruffy, with inconsistent specks of blood sprinkled around the sea of black. Fresh cuts and scratches were scattered across his face, and his eyes were black holes of vast nothingness, devoid of any emotion or life. The street was brimming with life, but to the countless people that flocked past him on their morning commute, he was invisible.
“Someone will help you soon”, he was told.
“You’ll be alright” they said. But not a single person on that road felt the urge nor compassion to help him. He was by himself, as he always really was, and he began to aimlessly wander along the streets of London.
To his left, a cheerful, bubbly waitress welcomed a family of three into her restaurant. The father thanked her, and his daughter quickly followed as they entered together hand in hand. The mother lagged backwards, smiling whilst watching her husband and daughter, pleased with the family that she had been able to create. To his right, the sun shone through the white bundles of fluff in the sky, highlighting a grass field. A group of boys raced up and down along the ocean of emerald blades, and one struck the ball through two bags that they had used as goals before wheeling away in jubilant celebration. The keeper, disappointed with his lacklustre attempt at a save, chased after the ball, hoping that it would stop before reaching the thorns in front of him. The boy continued to wander. He wondered what it would’ve felt like to experience those sorts of moments.
His family? Dysfunctional at best, violent and abusive at the worst. An only child, his parents would constantly shout at him through sips of beer and whiskey, stumbling as they told him how much better their lives were before he was born. His mother was a small woman in her late 40s, with yellowed teeth and wrinkles resembling that of a person 20 years her senior. A former teacher who quit her job 2 years before her son’s birth, she now spent all of her time in their run down 1 bedroom apartment, sitting on their tattered, wore-down pale green sofa with her chosen alcoholic beverage on the table in front of her. On that day, she sat staring at a picture of her younger self that hung from the chipped, mildew-ridden yellow apartment walls, reminiscing about her youthful years. The ticking of a clock alerted him to the time - 5:58. Looking around, he saw a mountain of dishes piled up in the sink, and a full laundry basket. He knew exactly what would imminently occur.
His father announced his return with a swarm of expletives describing his days work in the office. He was an angry man in his early 40s, with the stature of a rugby or NFL player. His brown hair bore streaks of grey and the uneven stubble on his cold face highlighted his lack of care about life at the time. His black briefcase clattered on the hardwood floor as he threw himself onto the other side of the sofa. Taking no notice of the boy, he started up a meaningless, frigid conversation with his wife in order to avoid the accusations of disrespect that would come from her had he not done so. The boy got up and went into the bedroom. He knew what would happen, and thought that he’d be safer in there so he wouldn’t get caught in the crossfire.
Eventually, his father took notice of the unwashed clothes and dishes, and his initial outburst was met with shouts from his wife as they broke out into another argument. The boy knew the routine; this was life for him. Slowly and slowly, his tolerance had worn down for it and on that day, he snapped.
The time was now 6:22, and the living room had been transformed into a macabre illustration of extreme violence and destruction. Pools of red stained the carpet as two lifeless bodies lay in front of him. In his hands was a kitchen knife, the same one that he had been threatened with on multiple occasions in the past, but this time someone had actually turned the shiny grey blade a shade of dark burgundy. He dropped the knife and left the apartment, his blood-stained shoes adding the final details onto the gory picture.
So there he was, alone again. Born into a family, yet alone. Surrounded by thousands of people, yet painfully alone. He was the only person he’d ever had, and it seemed as though that would never change. His eyes seemed empty but internally he was lost in thought, wondering why fate had dealt him such a hand. Wondering why he had never been given the love and nurturing care that every person needs. Wondering why he had been abandoned by all that saw or knew him. Wondering why he was always alone.
He stood there alone, his young hands stained a brutal mahogany red. His jet black hair was scruffy, with inconsistent specks of blood sprinkled around the sea of black. Fresh cuts and scratches were scattered across his face, and his eyes were black holes of vast nothingness, devoid of any emotion or life. The street was brimming with life, but to the countless people that flocked past him on their morning commute, he was invisible.
“Someone will help you soon”, he was told.
“You’ll be alright” they said. But not a single person on that road felt the urge nor compassion to help him. He was by himself, as he always really was, and he began to aimlessly wander along the streets of London.
To his left, a cheerful, bubbly waitress welcomed a family of three into her restaurant. The father thanked her, and his daughter quickly followed as they entered together hand in hand. The mother lagged backwards, smiling whilst watching her husband and daughter, pleased with the family that she had been able to create. To his right, the sun shone through the white bundles of fluff in the sky, highlighting a grass field. A group of boys raced up and down along the ocean of emerald blades, and one struck the ball through two bags that they had used as goals before wheeling away in jubilant celebration. The keeper, disappointed with his lacklustre attempt at a save, chased after the ball, hoping that it would stop before reaching the thorns in front of him. The boy continued to wander. He wondered what it would’ve felt like to experience those sorts of moments.
His family? Dysfunctional at best, violent and abusive at the worst. An only child, his parents would constantly shout at him through sips of beer and whiskey, stumbling as they told him how much better their lives were before he was born. His mother was a small woman in her late 40s, with yellowed teeth and wrinkles resembling that of a person 20 years her senior. A former teacher who quit her job 2 years before her son’s birth, she now spent all of her time in their run down 1 bedroom apartment, sitting on their tattered, wore-down pale green sofa with her chosen alcoholic beverage on the table in front of her. On that day, she sat staring at a picture of her younger self that hung from the chipped, mildew-ridden yellow apartment walls, reminiscing about her youthful years. The ticking of a clock alerted him to the time - 5:58. Looking around, he saw a mountain of dishes piled up in the sink, and a full laundry basket. He knew exactly what would imminently occur.
His father announced his return with a swarm of expletives describing his days work in the office. He was an angry man in his early 40s, with the stature of a rugby or NFL player. His brown hair bore streaks of grey and the uneven stubble on his cold face highlighted his lack of care about life at the time. His black briefcase clattered on the hardwood floor as he threw himself onto the other side of the sofa. Taking no notice of the boy, he started up a meaningless, frigid conversation with his wife in order to avoid the accusations of disrespect that would come from her had he not done so. The boy got up and went into the bedroom. He knew what would happen, and thought that he’d be safer in there so he wouldn’t get caught in the crossfire.
Eventually, his father took notice of the unwashed clothes and dishes, and his initial outburst was met with shouts from his wife as they broke out into another argument. The boy knew the routine; this was life for him. Slowly and slowly, his tolerance had worn down for it and on that day, he snapped.
The time was now 6:22, and the living room had been transformed into a macabre illustration of extreme violence and destruction. Pools of red stained the carpet as two lifeless bodies lay in front of him. In his hands was a kitchen knife, the same one that he had been threatened with on multiple occasions in the past, but this time someone had actually turned the shiny grey blade a shade of dark burgundy. He dropped the knife and left the apartment, his blood-stained shoes adding the final details onto the gory picture.
So there he was, alone again. Born into a family, yet alone. Surrounded by thousands of people, yet painfully alone. He was the only person he’d ever had, and it seemed as though that would never change. His eyes seemed empty but internally he was lost in thought, wondering why fate had dealt him such a hand. Wondering why he had never been given the love and nurturing care that every person needs. Wondering why he had been abandoned by all that saw or knew him. Wondering why he was always alone.
Original post by Ace7287
Hi, I've just written this answer for the question above and was wondering how many marks it would get.
He stood there alone, his young hands stained a brutal mahogany red. His jet black hair was scruffy, with inconsistent specks of blood sprinkled around the sea of black. Fresh cuts and scratches were scattered across his face, and his eyes were black holes of vast nothingness, devoid of any emotion or life. The street was brimming with life, but to the countless people that flocked past him on their morning commute, he was invisible.
“Someone will help you soon”, he was told.
“You’ll be alright” they said. But not a single person on that road felt the urge nor compassion to help him. He was by himself, as he always really was, and he began to aimlessly wander along the streets of London.
To his left, a cheerful, bubbly waitress welcomed a family of three into her restaurant. The father thanked her, and his daughter quickly followed as they entered together hand in hand. The mother lagged backwards, smiling whilst watching her husband and daughter, pleased with the family that she had been able to create. To his right, the sun shone through the white bundles of fluff in the sky, highlighting a grass field. A group of boys raced up and down along the ocean of emerald blades, and one struck the ball through two bags that they had used as goals before wheeling away in jubilant celebration. The keeper, disappointed with his lacklustre attempt at a save, chased after the ball, hoping that it would stop before reaching the thorns in front of him. The boy continued to wander. He wondered what it would’ve felt like to experience those sorts of moments.
His family? Dysfunctional at best, violent and abusive at the worst. An only child, his parents would constantly shout at him through sips of beer and whiskey, stumbling as they told him how much better their lives were before he was born. His mother was a small woman in her late 40s, with yellowed teeth and wrinkles resembling that of a person 20 years her senior. A former teacher who quit her job 2 years before her son’s birth, she now spent all of her time in their run down 1 bedroom apartment, sitting on their tattered, wore-down pale green sofa with her chosen alcoholic beverage on the table in front of her. On that day, she sat staring at a picture of her younger self that hung from the chipped, mildew-ridden yellow apartment walls, reminiscing about her youthful years. The ticking of a clock alerted him to the time - 5:58. Looking around, he saw a mountain of dishes piled up in the sink, and a full laundry basket. He knew exactly what would imminently occur.
His father announced his return with a swarm of expletives describing his days work in the office. He was an angry man in his early 40s, with the stature of a rugby or NFL player. His brown hair bore streaks of grey and the uneven stubble on his cold face highlighted his lack of care about life at the time. His black briefcase clattered on the hardwood floor as he threw himself onto the other side of the sofa. Taking no notice of the boy, he started up a meaningless, frigid conversation with his wife in order to avoid the accusations of disrespect that would come from her had he not done so. The boy got up and went into the bedroom. He knew what would happen, and thought that he’d be safer in there so he wouldn’t get caught in the crossfire.
Eventually, his father took notice of the unwashed clothes and dishes, and his initial outburst was met with shouts from his wife as they broke out into another argument. The boy knew the routine; this was life for him. Slowly and slowly, his tolerance had worn down for it and on that day, he snapped.
The time was now 6:22, and the living room had been transformed into a macabre illustration of extreme violence and destruction. Pools of red stained the carpet as two lifeless bodies lay in front of him. In his hands was a kitchen knife, the same one that he had been threatened with on multiple occasions in the past, but this time someone had actually turned the shiny grey blade a shade of dark burgundy. He dropped the knife and left the apartment, his blood-stained shoes adding the final details onto the gory picture.
So there he was, alone again. Born into a family, yet alone. Surrounded by thousands of people, yet painfully alone. He was the only person he’d ever had, and it seemed as though that would never change. His eyes seemed empty but internally he was lost in thought, wondering why fate had dealt him such a hand. Wondering why he had never been given the love and nurturing care that every person needs. Wondering why he had been abandoned by all that saw or knew him. Wondering why he was always alone.
He stood there alone, his young hands stained a brutal mahogany red. His jet black hair was scruffy, with inconsistent specks of blood sprinkled around the sea of black. Fresh cuts and scratches were scattered across his face, and his eyes were black holes of vast nothingness, devoid of any emotion or life. The street was brimming with life, but to the countless people that flocked past him on their morning commute, he was invisible.
“Someone will help you soon”, he was told.
“You’ll be alright” they said. But not a single person on that road felt the urge nor compassion to help him. He was by himself, as he always really was, and he began to aimlessly wander along the streets of London.
To his left, a cheerful, bubbly waitress welcomed a family of three into her restaurant. The father thanked her, and his daughter quickly followed as they entered together hand in hand. The mother lagged backwards, smiling whilst watching her husband and daughter, pleased with the family that she had been able to create. To his right, the sun shone through the white bundles of fluff in the sky, highlighting a grass field. A group of boys raced up and down along the ocean of emerald blades, and one struck the ball through two bags that they had used as goals before wheeling away in jubilant celebration. The keeper, disappointed with his lacklustre attempt at a save, chased after the ball, hoping that it would stop before reaching the thorns in front of him. The boy continued to wander. He wondered what it would’ve felt like to experience those sorts of moments.
His family? Dysfunctional at best, violent and abusive at the worst. An only child, his parents would constantly shout at him through sips of beer and whiskey, stumbling as they told him how much better their lives were before he was born. His mother was a small woman in her late 40s, with yellowed teeth and wrinkles resembling that of a person 20 years her senior. A former teacher who quit her job 2 years before her son’s birth, she now spent all of her time in their run down 1 bedroom apartment, sitting on their tattered, wore-down pale green sofa with her chosen alcoholic beverage on the table in front of her. On that day, she sat staring at a picture of her younger self that hung from the chipped, mildew-ridden yellow apartment walls, reminiscing about her youthful years. The ticking of a clock alerted him to the time - 5:58. Looking around, he saw a mountain of dishes piled up in the sink, and a full laundry basket. He knew exactly what would imminently occur.
His father announced his return with a swarm of expletives describing his days work in the office. He was an angry man in his early 40s, with the stature of a rugby or NFL player. His brown hair bore streaks of grey and the uneven stubble on his cold face highlighted his lack of care about life at the time. His black briefcase clattered on the hardwood floor as he threw himself onto the other side of the sofa. Taking no notice of the boy, he started up a meaningless, frigid conversation with his wife in order to avoid the accusations of disrespect that would come from her had he not done so. The boy got up and went into the bedroom. He knew what would happen, and thought that he’d be safer in there so he wouldn’t get caught in the crossfire.
Eventually, his father took notice of the unwashed clothes and dishes, and his initial outburst was met with shouts from his wife as they broke out into another argument. The boy knew the routine; this was life for him. Slowly and slowly, his tolerance had worn down for it and on that day, he snapped.
The time was now 6:22, and the living room had been transformed into a macabre illustration of extreme violence and destruction. Pools of red stained the carpet as two lifeless bodies lay in front of him. In his hands was a kitchen knife, the same one that he had been threatened with on multiple occasions in the past, but this time someone had actually turned the shiny grey blade a shade of dark burgundy. He dropped the knife and left the apartment, his blood-stained shoes adding the final details onto the gory picture.
So there he was, alone again. Born into a family, yet alone. Surrounded by thousands of people, yet painfully alone. He was the only person he’d ever had, and it seemed as though that would never change. His eyes seemed empty but internally he was lost in thought, wondering why fate had dealt him such a hand. Wondering why he had never been given the love and nurturing care that every person needs. Wondering why he had been abandoned by all that saw or knew him. Wondering why he was always alone.
What do you think of this?
As I lay curled up by the fireplace, I couldn't help but salivate at the thought of dinner. My owner, Marco, had been keeping a watchful eye on me, ensuring that I was safe and comfortable. The room was warm and cozy, and the flickering flames of the fire cast a familiar glow across the room. I could smell the delicious aromas of meat wafting towards me, making my stomach growl with hunger. The smoky scent of charcoal filled the air, and I could almost taste the juicy, tender meat on my tongue. The anticipation of dinner was almost too much to bear, and I couldn't wait for Marco to call me to the table.
“Polo” he called.
I entered the kitchen, greeted by a large bowl filled with my favourite savoury items - steak, kidney, and liver. Marco handed it to me and muttered in a low voice, almost sounding like he was crying. I chose to ignore it as I was too consumed by the delightful flavours of the blood vessels exploding in my mouth—heavenly tastes that engulfed all my senses. This was one of the best meals ever, but I wondered why we were celebrating. It wasn't my birthday, nor was it Christmas; there was no turkey or gravy. The unbearable thought that something terrible was about to happen rushed over me. My ears perked up, my nose twitched, and my heart raced as I braced myself.
CRASH! That’s when the first fierce and foreboding roar of thunder echoed down the street like an enraged beast, awaking me, sending shivers down my spine. Below me was a cold, wet, uneven surface, one that felt all too familiar. I was on the streets... Alone.
The intensity of the rain's sound grew, getting louder and heavier with each passing moment. It sounded like a drumbeat with a thousand tiny tip-taps tapping, reminding me of a scene from an apocalyptic movie that I once watched with Marco. The pitter-patter of the raindrops mimicked the rhythm of the tears dropping from my eyes. Suddenly, a piercing wind whistled through the rustling leaves of the trees, casting a ghostly shadow on the pavement behind me.
“GRRRR”
Nervously, I rotated my body; the rush of air hit my face, and the scenery blurred for a moment. My attention was abruptly drawn to three large canines skulking in the shadows beneath the trees. Upon closer inspection, I discerned that the trio comprised of two sturdy white Pit Bulls and a colossal, obsidian Rottweiler, all of whom had a fierce and vigilant countenance.
Suddenly, the Rottweiler jolted forward towards me, immediately gripping my leg within his chomping jaws. Razor-sharp teeth pierce through to the deepest layers of my skin. When the frenzied hound finally decided to release me from his murderous grasp, a rush of ruby-red blood promptly flooded the streets, diluting slowly in the pools of rain.
I found myself lying motionless in a pool of crimson, my life's essence slowly seeping out of me. In that moment of pain and confusion, I couldn't help but wonder what had brought me to this point. Marco, my trusted companion, had always been my protector and confidant. Why would he abandon me here, alone and helpless, after all that we had been through together? The memories of how he had found me years ago, wounded and lost, came flooding back to me, adding to my bewilderment and despair.
Unsure if it was the last time, I let out a quiet howl as my eyes closed slowly...
I entered the kitchen, greeted by a large bowl filled with my favourite savoury items - steak, kidney, and liver. Marco handed it to me and muttered in a low voice, almost sounding like he was crying. I chose to ignore it as I was too consumed by the delightful flavours of the blood vessels exploding in my mouth—heavenly tastes that engulfed all my senses. This was one of the best meals ever, but I wondered why we were celebrating. It wasn't my birthday, nor was it Christmas; there was no turkey or gravy. The unbearable thought that something terrible was about to happen rushed over me. My ears perked up, my nose twitched, and my heart raced as I braced myself.
CRASH! That’s when the first fierce and foreboding roar of thunder echoed down the street like an enraged beast, awaking me, sending shivers down my spine. Below me was a cold, wet, uneven surface, one that felt all too familiar. I was on the streets... Alone.
The intensity of the rain's sound grew, getting louder and heavier with each passing moment. It sounded like a drumbeat with a thousand tiny tip-taps tapping, reminding me of a scene from an apocalyptic movie that I once watched with Marco. The pitter-patter of the raindrops mimicked the rhythm of the tears dropping from my eyes. Suddenly, a piercing wind whistled through the rustling leaves of the trees, casting a ghostly shadow on the pavement behind me.
“GRRRR”
Nervously, I rotated my body; the rush of air hit my face, and the scenery blurred for a moment. My attention was abruptly drawn to three large canines skulking in the shadows beneath the trees. Upon closer inspection, I discerned that the trio comprised of two sturdy white Pit Bulls and a colossal, obsidian Rottweiler, all of whom had a fierce and vigilant countenance.
Suddenly, the Rottweiler jolted forward towards me, immediately gripping my leg within his chomping jaws. Razor-sharp teeth pierce through to the deepest layers of my skin. When the frenzied hound finally decided to release me from his murderous grasp, a rush of ruby-red blood promptly flooded the streets, diluting slowly in the pools of rain.
I found myself lying motionless in a pool of crimson, my life's essence slowly seeping out of me. In that moment of pain and confusion, I couldn't help but wonder what had brought me to this point. Marco, my trusted companion, had always been my protector and confidant. Why would he abandon me here, alone and helpless, after all that we had been through together? The memories of how he had found me years ago, wounded and lost, came flooding back to me, adding to my bewilderment and despair.
Unsure if it was the last time, I let out a quiet howl as my eyes closed slowly...
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