This week we have been learning how to create an effective character description. Below is an extract from our shared writing, have a read and let us know what you think!
She was above all a most respectable female. Unbelievably, she had once been a singer in a band, and you could still hear the enchanting tone of her melodies when she hummed in the mornings. As she glided through the flowers and trees her dainty shoulders swayed to and fro without her noticing. He fragile arms hung like weeping willows and rocked slowly in the breeze. Patched up with a plaster on her left knee, her snowy legs looked as if they hadn't seen the sun in a while.
Looking at her you got the feeling that this was someone who could lull tiny animals into the palm of her comforting hands. He face, no doubt, was a work of fine art, a joy to behold. She had a peachy chin, a compassionate mouth and large sparling eyes.
As for her clothes... they were, to say the least, conventional, but when she wore them they sprung to life. She always had on a lavender blouse, which made the green fleck in her eyes pop. Fastened down the middle by pearlescent buttons, her knee length skirt swooshed as she walked. On her feet she wore flowery sandals. She looked, in short, more like a pixie than a teacher. She was youthful and glowing yet was wise beyond her years.
By All of 6B
Which well known book character could we be describing?
Friday, 10 October 2014
Friday, 3 October 2014
A letter from a Victorian Workhouse
Wednesday, 10 September 1810
Hackney, London
Dear Matron,
I am writing this letter as a plea for you to consider
letting me leave this miserable workhouse. It is like hell on earth. Although I
should be grateful that you have put a shelter over my head, I cannot spend
another sleepless night of fear and terror here. As the cold, misty nights turn
into long, bleak days, I regularly question how long it has been since I
arrived through the doors of this soul-destroying prison. Maybe it has been a
month. Maybe a year. It feels like a lifetime. If I stay much longer my future
is doomed.
The workhouse is unbearable. Every time tears flood my eyes,
I get whipped with a belt. It is like lightening striking my body. The food is
horrendous, even the thought of it makes me heave. I am living in a nightmare,
the fear and terror flooding my mind like the deep, dark, Atlantic Ocean.
I am only in the
workhouse because my beloved family have all deceased. Living on the rough, bustling
streets of London, without a penny to my name, I had no other choice but to
steal. I was ravenous. One single waft of the sweet smelling bread from the bakery.
I could not resist! My stomach was crying out, wild with hunger! Unfortunately,
one day I was caught by the bobbies and forced into this treacherous workhouse.
I beg you, with all my heart, to take your time to consider
letting me leave. I am asking in desperation. Please let me walk to freedom so
I can hear the cries of the city again.
Yours Sincerely,
Spinly
Thomas, 5C
Atmospheric writing round two - 6R
To improve even further on our atmospheric writing from last week, 6R have been 'hugging' a sophisticated passage from a book set in WWI, modifying it while keeping the meaning and the overall tone. Here is James' version.
He lay, unable to move, on the crumbling tunnel floor beneath the foreign fields, but still he hadn't reached death. He felt soil drowning his eyes and dusty nostrils, and a mass on top of him. Trying to move his rigid limbs, he felt himself pinned to the dying earth, as though it had coiled around him in weighty, comfortable blankets and was luring him in with the promise of eternal sleep. The fading sound of the explosion bounded from corner to corner like a bullet flying from gun to heart. He pictured the exit to life sealed off; a spark of panic lifted in his belly, but was extinguished beneath the mass of his motionless state.
The imprisoned sound finally died out.
He listened for it to be substituted by the regular noise of the soldiers' screams, of those whose limbs had been blown from their place or whose brains had been cruelly removed from their skulls. He heard nothing at first, only silence. Then, as the last pieces of displaced soil settled in the gloomy tunnel, he heard a long thick sigh; it was an irregular sound, but he knew that it was the noise of dozens of men decaying simultaneously.
He lay, unable to move, on the crumbling tunnel floor beneath the foreign fields, but still he hadn't reached death. He felt soil drowning his eyes and dusty nostrils, and a mass on top of him. Trying to move his rigid limbs, he felt himself pinned to the dying earth, as though it had coiled around him in weighty, comfortable blankets and was luring him in with the promise of eternal sleep. The fading sound of the explosion bounded from corner to corner like a bullet flying from gun to heart. He pictured the exit to life sealed off; a spark of panic lifted in his belly, but was extinguished beneath the mass of his motionless state.
The imprisoned sound finally died out.
He listened for it to be substituted by the regular noise of the soldiers' screams, of those whose limbs had been blown from their place or whose brains had been cruelly removed from their skulls. He heard nothing at first, only silence. Then, as the last pieces of displaced soil settled in the gloomy tunnel, he heard a long thick sigh; it was an irregular sound, but he knew that it was the noise of dozens of men decaying simultaneously.
More atmospheric writing from 6F!
As a development of our atmospheric writing we did last week, we have been looking at using a particularly sophisticated passage of narrative from Sebastian Faulks' Birdsong. This was our good example to inspire this week's writing. Have a look at Matthew's first paragraph below:
Listlessly, he lay imprisoned underneath the slimy tunnel floor beneath no-man’s-land, and still he was not gone! He could taste the damp soil and feel it in his weary eyes and nose. There was an ominous pressure on his chest. He tried to move but found himself motionless, as though the sullen Earth had wrapped him in bulky, uncomfortable blankets and was encouraging him to sleep. The noise of a deafening explosion seemed to echo in the slender tube. He pictured his way back blocked by damp soil, and a flicker of trepidation rose in his stomach, but then died again beneath the mass of his pinioned state. The imprisoned sound eventually diminished...
Listlessly, he lay imprisoned underneath the slimy tunnel floor beneath no-man’s-land, and still he was not gone! He could taste the damp soil and feel it in his weary eyes and nose. There was an ominous pressure on his chest. He tried to move but found himself motionless, as though the sullen Earth had wrapped him in bulky, uncomfortable blankets and was encouraging him to sleep. The noise of a deafening explosion seemed to echo in the slender tube. He pictured his way back blocked by damp soil, and a flicker of trepidation rose in his stomach, but then died again beneath the mass of his pinioned state. The imprisoned sound eventually diminished...
A Letter from the Workhouse by Erin, 5G
The Workhouse
Drury Lane
London
28th November 1872
Dear Matron,
I am writing to inform you of just some of the reasons why you should let us famished, miserable children depart this daunting work house full of broken hearts and lost souls .Let us leave this haunted house before we become the ghosts!
Firstly, I wake up every day only to discover the same painful screams of unsuccessful runaways being beaten and of course the same grimy gruel waiting to be devoured. But we only ever pick at it because even the smell is sickly. Furthermore, the tasks I am expected to overcome are catastrophic for me and other younger children who are unable to manage it. Most of us are deathly pale and yet you still demand that we are to carry on no matter how tired we are.
This would never have occurred if the tragic death of my Ma and Pa hadn't happened. I am still overcome with grief and unless you set us free my broken heart will never be fixed.My parents died of an unfortunate fever and I knew I couldn't save them but if you let us journey beyond the work house then my guilt will fade.Unfortunately, the work house is like a prison so I must beg you for my release. Just give us our freedom and we will know how nice you truly are in your heart.
If you are so kind as to allow me to leave, I will travel far distances to seek out a willing man named Dr Barnardo. If you don't know who this man is, he is a gentleman, amazing and kind to all young children (such as myself) and he will surely give me a place in one of his ragged schools.
I finish this letter in the desperate hope that it will have encouraged you to open up your heart to our plight. It is of course, your choice.
Yours faithfully,
Louis.
P.S. Shortly after I leave, (if you let me) I may write to you again.
By Erin, 5G
Letter to Matron from Aarthy in 5E
Still following our theme of Street Child, in Year 5 we have been writing persuasive letters to the strict Matron of a workhouse, asking for her permission to leave. We spent time thinking of imaginative scenarios as to why our character had been forced to enter the workhouse.
Below is Aarthy's letter from 5E:
Below is Aarthy's letter from 5E:
Work house
Room number 56
Floor 2
HA3 ODW
Friday May 22nd 1849
Dear Matron,
I am
writing to you in the hope that you can let me go; you should because I am your
favourite girl, Alice Kulan.
Firstly, when I wake up EVERY morning I breathe the
cold, disgusting air and it’s like I am in prison or an ogre’s home which
has just been bogey bombed! So as to survive, I have to force myself to eat the
horrible but slightly nourishing food.
After all those reasons, you should and must let me get out of this sickening, ghastly place. If my dear, tender, mother were here
there would be no point in asking you to let me go because I will rather stay here with her, however now she has
unfortunately and miserably died. When you let me go, I will be set free and
you…..will be a hero to all the other children who are trapped here, too.
So, I beg you, please, please let me go!
Yours sincerely,
Alice Kulan
Atmospheric writing part three!
LI: To use features of atmospheric writing.
Still half-deaf from the booming bomb, he lay there. The noise was still ricocheting to and fro in the tunnel walls and buzzing in his ear. Dourly, he thought about his only way out, avalanched by mud. Waves of horror and fright paralysed his body. His eyes widened. Fighting desperately for his limbs to work, he found miracles don't happen. Silence filled the air. Life slowly died away.
Millie 6B
We hope you enjoyed this extract from Millie's writing this week.
Still half-deaf from the booming bomb, he lay there. The noise was still ricocheting to and fro in the tunnel walls and buzzing in his ear. Dourly, he thought about his only way out, avalanched by mud. Waves of horror and fright paralysed his body. His eyes widened. Fighting desperately for his limbs to work, he found miracles don't happen. Silence filled the air. Life slowly died away.
Millie 6B
We hope you enjoyed this extract from Millie's writing this week.
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