G.C.S.E. English Coursework
Creative writing
It is pitch black, bucketing with rain, but he does not shiver. He lies crouched in a small puddle beneath a large dead oak tree, near an old wooden bridge; waiting. A bright moon gives light through the bare branches of the tree, casting eerie shadows on him. He is sporting a trench coat and a sizeable pair of boots. A cigarette is wedged in a space in his teeth, not lit. Over his eyes is a pair of dark shades. Wearing these, no ordinary man could see, except this is no ordinary man. Cloned for one objective, the assassin sees better than men, and knows what he is meant to achieve. The time is approaching. A small, old car with a smashed headlight approaches the bridge unhurriedly. Just before it changes gear, the assassin draws a weapon not unlike a long and shiny television ariel from his trench coat. He points it towards the speeding car and fires, once.
The impending threat has been eliminated. There is only one thing left to do. He breaks from the crouched stance he was in, and starts towards the aged and dilapidated house that looms prominently in the reddish-black sky. A bolt of lightning momentarily illuminates the house. It is large, with robust walls and a grand wooden door for an entrance. Some windows are shattered, but the structure is sound. The car comes to a halt just a couple metres from it. The driver within the car has literally been frozen stiff by the sophisticated weapon the assassin has used. She is like a statue, attached to the steering wheel. He pushes the car over the bridge with no difficulty. He coolly carries on walking at a constant, unrelenting pace in the direction of the house, as if he has done nothing unusual. All that obstructs his passageway to the house, now, is an elderly fence that is engulfed in rust and towering weeds. Climbing the high fence would not have proved a problem for him, but at the top there is barbed wire. He will have to delay.
Creative writing
It is pitch black, bucketing with rain, but he does not shiver. He lies crouched in a small puddle beneath a large dead oak tree, near an old wooden bridge; waiting. A bright moon gives light through the bare branches of the tree, casting eerie shadows on him. He is sporting a trench coat and a sizeable pair of boots. A cigarette is wedged in a space in his teeth, not lit. Over his eyes is a pair of dark shades. Wearing these, no ordinary man could see, except this is no ordinary man. Cloned for one objective, the assassin sees better than men, and knows what he is meant to achieve. The time is approaching. A small, old car with a smashed headlight approaches the bridge unhurriedly. Just before it changes gear, the assassin draws a weapon not unlike a long and shiny television ariel from his trench coat. He points it towards the speeding car and fires, once.
The impending threat has been eliminated. There is only one thing left to do. He breaks from the crouched stance he was in, and starts towards the aged and dilapidated house that looms prominently in the reddish-black sky. A bolt of lightning momentarily illuminates the house. It is large, with robust walls and a grand wooden door for an entrance. Some windows are shattered, but the structure is sound. The car comes to a halt just a couple metres from it. The driver within the car has literally been frozen stiff by the sophisticated weapon the assassin has used. She is like a statue, attached to the steering wheel. He pushes the car over the bridge with no difficulty. He coolly carries on walking at a constant, unrelenting pace in the direction of the house, as if he has done nothing unusual. All that obstructs his passageway to the house, now, is an elderly fence that is engulfed in rust and towering weeds. Climbing the high fence would not have proved a problem for him, but at the top there is barbed wire. He will have to delay.
