A* Exemplar description for IGCSE First Language English

After the Bomb Dropped

Homes erupted to rubble; safety bled into chaos; embraces disintegrated to ash. Step by step, with
trembling legs, I staggered through the ruins of the place that was my home. I ignored the streaks of blood
dripping into my eyes, the tiny shards of metal lodged into my left forearm, and the wails around me. If
you paid too much attention, you wouldn’t stop wailing either. The year was 1942 and in the village of
Little Dewhurst, lives had been torn apart by the shelling of bomb upon bomb.

Ice cold, ice cold, I could hardly feel my fingertips, despite the blistering heat of the bombs and the black
tendrils of smoke snaking into the sky. The scene before me was utter destruction. I let my eyes become
unfocused, seeing only hazy piles of rubble and bleary blood splatters, but I knew my family’s home was
surely flattened. I (the lucky one, can you call me such a thing now?) been travelling back to Little
Dewhurst from a nearby village when the sirens began to howl. Now here I was, returned, with no-one to
greet me but the wicked smoke.

Amid the destruction, there were reminders of the life we had once lived together. A child’s doll lay
abandoned in the rubble, its once-cherished form now twisted and broken; the remains of a loaf of bread
sat near the ruins of a bakery, a cruel reminder of the bustling business that had once sustained the town;
and a lone flower, miraculously still alive, poked through the rubble defiantly, mutinously.

I looked to the sky as if I might see the man who flew that plane, pushed that release button, and
destroyed it all. But he was long gone: in his place only of fury of smoke remained. The sky was a funeral
today. Although it was noon, the heavens had donned their black mourners’ gowns and swaddled the sun
in wreaths of black lace until no rays of light could protrude. Wisps of once-white clouds had joined the
procession of mourners; they too wore garments of the deepest black to signal their condolences to the
world below. And the wake, the village’s send-off, consisted of naught but ash as the sky wept goodbye
tears of soot down onto Little Dewhurst. Ash drifted onto my tongue, ash tarnished my clothing, and ash
sutured itself into my nightmares to come. My whole world – nothing but ash. The sky – nothing but the
murkiest and most unforgiving blackness.

Forcing my eyes downwards, I saw with a sharp shock a little girl so bedecked in soot you might miss her
for another pile of burning cinders (did I look like that too?). Smoke shrouded her tiny form, thin from
years of strict rations. She was crouching on the floor, her leg snapped in an unnatural angle. She cradled
a tabby cat in her trembling arms, its fur matted and dusty from the chaos. The girl’s tiny fingers clung to
the cat’s fur as if it were the only thing that made sense to her. A hushed stillness enveloped them, broken
only by the occasional sigh of crumbling debris.

And now I compelled myself to look where I have been refusing to let my eyes settle: my own home, two
doors down from the obliterated bakery. Here, where the walls once embraced us with warmth and
security, now stood a haunting remnant of the life we knew. Memories of sun-drenched days flooded my
mind, pushing away the reality of what I saw before me: my home, my whole world, my family, levelled
to the ground. No hope remained in the aftermath of this blitzkrieg. Atomised, razed, demolished: my
home had been utterly and immeasurably destroyed. The shattered windows, once alive with morning
light, now reflected only fragments of life lost. As I stood amidst the devastation, the echoes of my
family’s laughter were replaced by a deafening silence, and I could not yet allow myself to picture their
faces or whisper their names. It was too cruel, too impossible to admit that such innocents had been
sacrificed for a war across our shores. The scars of war’s merciless hand traced jagged paths on the walls,
etching the story of lives shattered.
This had once been a town of simple pleasures: a growing flower stretching towards the sun, a baker
setting up shop for the day, a doll gifted to a child for their birthday. All had been obliterated as if to
remind us foolish humans that our lives were fleeting and our happiness was not a god-given constant.
Still, the girl clung to that tabby cat: the last vestige of a world now destroyed.

What makes this a great description?

Opening lines

Re-read the opening line of the description and consider how this hooks the reader:

Homes erupted to rubble; safety bled into chaos; embraces disintegrated to ash.

This opening sentence uses parallelism, where the sentence structure is repeated. Notice that each of the
three sections of the sentence fit this format: good became bad: homes to rubble; safety to chaos;
embraces to ash.

The correct use of semicolons to create a dramatic tone of voice would also be appreciated by
Cambridge.

Finally, the opening sentence retains a sense of mystery. The reader does not yet understand what has
happened or precisely when or where this description has been set. It is only in the final sentence of the
opening paragraph that the scene becomes clear: this is a description of a British town after being bombed
in World War II.

Use of extended metaphor

An extended metaphor is when you develop a metaphor for more than one sentence. Extended metaphors
are great for descriptive writing because it allows you to develop your imagery and pushes you to make
more imaginative connections. Here’s an example in our model response:

The sky was a funeral today. Although it was noon, the heavens had donned their black mourners’ gowns
and swaddled the sun in wreaths of black lace until no rays of light could protrude. Wisps of once-white
clouds had joined the procession of mourners; they too wore garments of the deepest black to signal their
condolences to the world below. And the wake, the village’s send-off, consisted of naught but ash as the
sky wept goodbye tears of soot down onto Little Dewhurst.

In this example, the sky is compared to a funeral. It then makes connections between other things that are
similar between the sky and funerals. For example:

 Sky filled with smoke = the heavens weaving black mourners’ gowns
 Wisps of clouds moving in the sky = a funeral procession
 Soot falling down from the sky = crying

Use of symbolism

Symbolism is the use of objects, characters, or elements in a text to represent deeper, often abstract, ideas.
For example, a rose is often seen as a symbol of love. Here’s an example of symbolism in our model
response:
A child’s doll lay abandoned in the rubble, its once-cherished form now twisted and broken; the remains
of a loaf of bread sat near the ruins of a bakery, a cruel reminder of the bustling business that had once
sustained the town; and a lone flower, miraculously still alive, poked through the rubble defiantly,
mutinously.

What symbols can you see and what do you think their deeper meaning might be?

 The broken child’s doll symbolises the innocence lost during the fury of war.
 The loaf of bread represents the loss of nourishment, comfort, and everyday life.
 The lone flower acts as a hopeful symbol of resilience; life will persist despite such cruelty and
destruction. However, it is interesting that the narrator also personifies this flower as being
defiant and mutinous. This might mean that nature is angry at this loss of life, or perhaps the
narrator is transferring her own anger outside herself, to this flower.

Use of a circular structure

A circular description is when the writer mentions an image at the start of their writing that they will later
circle back to at the end of the text.

Consider this how the final paragraph of the description echoes images and ideas mentioned earlier in the
text:

This had once been a town of simple pleasures: a growing flower stretching towards the sun, a baker
setting up shop for the day, a doll gifted to a child for their birthday. All had been obliterated as if to
remind us foolish humans that our lives were fleeting and our happiness was not a god-given constant.
Still, the girl clung to that tabby cat: the last vestige of a world now destroyed.

The exemplar description circles back to the powerful images and symbols evoked earlier on in the text.
By now, some of these images have taken on more significance, as the reader confirms that the narrator’s
home (and likely entire family) has been destroyed in the bombing. These symbols now become all the
more poignant, as we realise both what she has lost and that life will continue regardless – represented by
this final image of the little girl with the cat.

A* Exemplar description of New York City

In this description, the writer critiques the vast inequality in wealth and lifestyle in New York City.

The View from the Other Side

Lights up on dazzling New York City, the Big Apple, the City that Never Sleeps, where Fat Cats prowl
and ingénues seek fame, glory or money – whichever comes first. Pan out and see skyscrapers climbing
into the heavens, their facades adorned with glimmering glass and steel, like modern-day castles touching
the clouds. Each one vies for attention, a dazzling display of architectural prowess, creating a
mesmerizing urban landscape that ignites the imagination. And perhaps if we can zoom in close enough,
we might see a solitary face peering out from the top of the tallest skyscraper, looking down, casting
judgement or rolling his eyes with an apathetic sigh. For what happens below is nothing to be proud of.

In a dizzying spin, we freefall from the lofty heights of those privileged few and come to a sharp halt on
the gum-spattered ground. Quick – load in a new reel of film. And action! Pan across the street, through
the toned legs sporting Manolo Blahniks and leather suitcases, and there! Do you see? Huddled into a
doorway sits a beggar – is that acceptable to say anymore? Oh, homeless. And – retake. Huddled into a
doorway sits a homeless man, burrowed deep into his green overcoat on this brisk day in January.
Weariness is etched into every line of his face, deep crags and gullies. Each wrinkle aches with struggle
and hardship. And there – that’s it! Freeze frame: the man’s hand outstretched, trembling, weathered and
calloused. Out of focus is a sea of bustling bodies, smooth skin, and purpose, whilst the man is the very
picture of uncertainty – a question. Can you help me? Will you help me? Can you see me?

And now a jump cut to a point-of-view shot. Yes, get down, get close. To his eye level. Oh, stop
moaning; this is cinema, darling. Can you see what he sees? Luxury cars zooming by, their owners
carelessly talking on the phone, their eyes unfocused; the sticky hands of a seven-year-old girl gripping an
iPhone; and his own rumpled reflection peering back at him from the window of a pristine and sparkling
shopfront. He averts his eyes. He does not want to see himself. And so he instead fixes his eyes upon the
sky. Earlier on, it had been bitterly cold but bright, dry (the most important word to someone in his
position). But now thick, rolling clouds, like chariots of darkness, were barreling in from the west, their
brooding presence casting a heavy shadow over the city, threatening to unleash a torrent at any moment.
Perhaps he’s thinking of those dry and safe in their Teslas, little seven-year-old girls with homes to
shelter in tonight, shop windows that will soon be pummeled by rain unleashed from menacing clouds
above. Or perhaps he thinks nothing at all… I don’t know. We can add his thoughts during post-
production.

Pan out to a long shot and in the midground, encircled by blackening clouds, the Statue of Liberty stands
steadfast. Move to a medium shot. Perfect. Her torch seems to flicker as dark clouds gather overhead,
challenging the tempest and the turmoil that looms on the horizon. Her noble face, once a beacon of hope
and compassion, bears a sombre expression, as if she mourns the deepening disparities plaguing the city
she watches. (Perhaps now is a good time to cue some incidental music?) As the storm strengthens, the
Statue of Liberty becomes a solitary figure amidst the tempest, a lone sentinel watching over a city that
teeters on indifferent to its moral precipice.

The clouds are like coal when the first fat raindrops fall upon the ground, soaking the homeless man from
crown to toe. Others scatter, but he stays; he has nowhere else to go. Credits roll as the scene fades to
black: the man at the top of the skyscraper shuts his blinds, disgusted by the view outside; the Tesla
speeds away; the little girl is dragged into a taxi by her father; Manolo Blanik-clad women rush into
cocktail bars to pay 15 dollars a drink while they wait out the storm; and our nameless, faceless man’s
eyes meet the lens of our camera. A challenge, another question: do you like what you see?

Cinematic structure and descriptive writing

Cinematic structure, when applied to descriptive writing, refers to the organisation and presentation of
descriptive elements in a manner that mimics the way scenes are composed and edited in films. It
involves using vivid and sensory-rich language to create a mental image for the reader, much like a
camera captures and frames scenes in a movie.

How does the exemplar use a cinematic structure?

 Establishing shot: The opening sentence sets the scene with the phrase “Lights up on dazzling
New York City,” akin to an establishing shot in a film, providing an initial visual and
atmospheric context to the description as a whole. The language of “lights up” similarly evokes
the beginning of a performance on a film set. Initially, this may appear to be glamorous but as the
 description continues, the reader comes to see that New York is superficial, performative, and
more concerned with wealth than individual wellbeing.
 Zooming in and panning across: The text zooms in and out of various aspects of the cityscape.
It starts with a panoramic view of the skyscrapers, describing their grandeur. Then, it zooms in on
a solitary face on top of a skyscraper before transitioning to street-level descriptions of a
homeless man. Later, the description pans across to describe the variety of people seen on the
streets of New York City. This creates a sense of dynamic movement, much like a film, as well as
mirroring the hectic streets of the city itself.
 Film terminology: The text uses terms like “Pan out,” “Zoom in,” “Credits roll” and “Freeze
frame” to call to mind techniques used in the film industry, almost placing the reader in the role
of the director. This makes the final line (“Do you like what you see?”) all the more effective, as
the reader begins to feel guilt for being complicit in the “production” of the text.
 Point of View (POV): The description shifts to a point-of-view shot when describing what the
homeless man sees, inviting the reader to see through his eyes and experience his perspective.
This allows the reader to see the vast disparity of the-haves and the-have-nots in New York City,
as well as create empathy for the homeless man.
 Pacing and Timing: The pacing varies throughout the text, slowing down to capture details and
emotions and speeding up during transitions, mimicking the rhythm of a film.
 Credits Roll: The concluding section subverts the reader’s expectations. Usually a film is
concluded neatly, with the credits rolling signifying a sense of closure. In the final paragraph of
this description, however, the reader is left unsettled. Nothing has been settled; the homeless man
is still on the street in the rain; the director/narrator never intervenes; and with the homeless
man’s eyes “meet[ing] the lens of our camera”, the reader is actively challenged about their role
in society. This mimics a technique in film making, called breaking the fourth wall, in which an
actor looks into the camera, directly at the viewer. The effect is much the same here: to make the
reader feel uncomfortably seen.

A* exemplar narrative for IGCSE First Language English

The Reunion

A cup of coffee grew colder in a café on the frigid outskirts of Paris, but Henri LeBarre seemed to pay no
mind to the dwindling threads of steam. No, Henri’s eyes were fixed far in the distance, any thoughts of
his five Euro coffee going to waste pushed far from the front of his mind. He was wearing one of his best
shirts – as he always did whenever he came to Café Rêveur – and his fine silvery hair had been carefully
combed to the side.

She would pass by soon, Henri knew. It was almost 8:00 am. Steeling himself, he felt an invisible hand
clutching at his heart, spreading icy fear through his veins. He’d promised himself that today, today, he
would actually stand up from his seat, brush himself down and leave the café. What would he say to her?
He didn’t know. But he was certain that if he didn’t step outside the threshold of Café Rêveur that he
would never conjure any sentence that quite captured all the lost years.

At 8:03 am, she emerged from around the corner of Rue du Coeur, her red hair whipped around her face
by a fierce wind. She pulled her lumpy knitted scarf closer around her and set her eyes straight ahead as
she marched on. Chantal.
Henri hadn’t noticed that he had sprung to his feet (indeed, he doubted he had ‘sprang’ anywhere in a
good fifteen years) but he had promised himself that this would be the day and with a shaky breath, he
steeled himself as he left the warmth of the café and stepped out into the street, ten paces behind Chantal.

So far, so good. After all, this was the first time he had even breached the confines of the Café to be in the
same space as Chantal in… twenty years? Had it been that long? But now what? Should he shout after
her? Should he follow behind her?

Henri began to feel foolish. He imagined that passers-by would see him as a doddering old man who had
stumbled outside only to have forgotten his reading glasses or to pay the owner for his OAP half-price
meal.

About to turn back inside, to chalk this moment up to another failure, Henri half-turned to return inside
the café when a sharp gust of wind echoed down the streets with a wail, grabbing Chantal’s scarf from
around her neck and whisking it down the Rue du Coeur: straight into Henri’s open hands.

Henri trembled. Chantal turned.

Henri’s faded blue eyes deeply lined with wrinkles met with Chantal’s gaze: at first surprised at the
wind’s swift theft of her knitwear, then relieved at a kindly old man clutching her scarf… and finally,
wide, disbelieving, shocked… all the things Henri feared he might see when their gazes locked.

No, not all the things he’d feared to see; there was no anger, no pain in Chantal’s eyes.

“Papa…?” he saw the words on her mouth, but her voice was too quiet to hear them.

Henri looked down at the scarf, back up into Chantal’s blue eyes, eyes he had once gazed into as he held
her as a baby, soothing her to sleep. He could only nod in response. His throat suddenly felt constricted.
His eyes burned. And a deep sense of shame flooded his body, sickening and tight, paralysing him where
he stood.

Time stood still. The wind howled. Cars roared past. Henri and Chantal stood ten steps apart, staring at
each other open-mouthed.

Chantal broke the stalemate. She half-walked, half-ran to her father. “I’ve been looking for you. Mama
said you’d got better… You’ve turned your life around and I’ve been trying to find you. I’ve… Oh, Pa.”

Henri offered her the scarf, suddenly unable to meet her eyes for red-faced embarrassment at the tears that
he couldn’t stop pouring down his face nor the words, the explanations, the apologies that he couldn’t
speak. The years he’d wasted.

“Pa,” said Chantal softly, taking Henri by the arm. “Let’s go somewhere we can talk properly. How about
this place, Café Rêveur? The Café of Dreams feels like a good place to start.”

Henri nodded. A good place to start, he thought. I couldn’t ask for much more than that.
What makes this a great narrative?

Introduction

A great story introduction should hook your reader, establish your setting and introduce your characters.

A cup of coffee grew colder in a café on the frigid outskirts of Paris, but Henri LeBarre seemed to pay no
mind to the dwindling threads of steam. No, Henri’s eyes were fixed far in the distance, any thoughts of
his five Euro coffee going to waste pushed far from the front of his mind. He was wearing one of his best
shirts – as he always did whenever he came to Café Rêveur – and his fine silvery hair had been carefully
combed to the side.

In the opening paragraph, we learn that this story is set in a café in Paris, likely in the winter time since
the weather is described as “frigid”.

Not only this, but we also learn about our main character, Henri, an older man with “fine silvery hair”,
carefully combed and he sporting his best shirt. These descriptions of his appearance not only help the
reader to picture Henri but can tell us something about his personality: he takes pride in his appearance,
perhaps being fussy about it, and is either a daydreamer or worried about something as his “eyes were
fixed far in the distance”.

This brings us to our hook: why should the reader care? This story hooks the reader by making them
question what Henri is looking for in the distance, why he is wearing his best shirt today, and why he is
wasting his coffee.
Inciting incident

An inciting incident is the catalyst that begins the main actions of the story. Or, more simply, it is the
thing that happens at the beginning of a story that gets the plot moving.

She would pass by soon, Henri knew. It was almost 8:00 am. Steeling himself, he felt an invisible hand
clutching at his heart, spreading icy fear through his veins. He’d promised himself that today, today, he
would actually stand up from his seat, brush himself down and leave the café. What would he say to her?
He didn’t know. But he was certain that if he didn’t step outside the threshold of Café Rêveur that he
would never conjure any sentence that quite captured all the lost years.

The second paragraph in this story serves as an effective inciting incident because it presents a clear
turning point for the main character, Henri. It introduces the central conflict and his internal struggle as he
contemplates his past and the opportunity for reconciliation with his daughter, Chantal. This moment
creates tension and sets the story in motion by making Henri leave the café and follow Chantal, marking
the beginning of his journey toward reconnection and redemption.

Notice also how this paragraph heightens the stakes of the story further. The reader is left questioning:

 Who is “she” and why is Henri waiting for her? Is it an ex-wife, a workmate, or a family
member?
 Why have the pair become estranged?
 Why does the thought of seeing her make “icy fear” spread through Henri’s body? Will “she”
react badly to seeing Henri here?
 How many times has Henri come to this café, seen her and not approached her?
 Will Henri truly keep his promise to himself and approach her today?

Rising tension

Rising tension is the gradual increase in suspense, conflict, or emotional intensity in a story, building
anticipation and engagement. Usually, rising tension will cause the reader to have many questions that
will only be answered or resolved at the story’s climax. Finally, rising tension will usually take up the
longest section of your story as you build towards your climax.

In this story, the rising tension is everything from when Henri first sees Chantal, him following her out
onto the street, almost backing away and, finally, to the wind blowing Chantal’s scarf into Henri’s hands,
forcing Henri and Chantal to see each other. During this whole section, the reader is left wondering:

 Who is Chantal and what is her relationship to Henri?

 Will Henri engage with Chantal or back out like he did in the past?
 Why have Henri and Chantal become estranged?
 How will Chantal react to seeing Henri? We learn that it has been twenty years since they have
last saw each other, so whatever has kept them apart must be a significant problem to overcome.

About to turn back inside, to chalk this moment up to another failure, Henri half-turned to return inside
the café when a sharp gust of wind echoed down the streets with a wail, grabbing Chantal’s scarf from
around her neck and whisking it down the Rue du Coeur: straight into Henri’s open hands.

In the quote above, we see the tension rise ever higher towards a climax as the story reaches a point of no
return; once Henri has Chantal’s scarf, he has no choice but to interact with her.
Now, heading towards the climax, it seems the reader’s previous list of questions must be answered.

Climax

The climax in a story is the highest point of tension or conflict, where the central problem or conflict
reaches its most intense and decisive moment. This is the moment when most or all of the questions or
mysteries raised in your story should be resolved to fully satisfy your reader.

Henri looked down at the scarf, back up into Chantal’s blue eyes, eyes he had once gazed into as he held
her as a baby, soothing her to sleep. He could only nod in response. His throat suddenly felt constricted.
His eyes burned. And a deep sense of shame flooded his body, sickening and tight, paralysing him where
he stood.

Time stood still. The wind howled. Cars roared past. Henri and Chantal stood ten steps apart, staring at
each other open-mouthed.

Chantal broke the stalemate. She half-walked, half-ran to her father. “I’ve been looking for you. Mama
said you’d got better… You’ve turned your life around and I’ve been trying to find you. I’ve… Oh, Pa.”

This climax begins to resolve most of the questions the reader had during the rising tension of the story:

Who is Chantal and what is her relationship to Henri?

In the climax, we learn about the relationship between Henri and Chantal, as Henri remembers holding
Chantal “as a baby, soothing her to sleep” and Chantal calls him “Pa”: Chantal is Henri’s daughter.

Will Henri engage with Chantal or back out like he did in the past?

Yes, but not by choice but because of the wind. He also finds it difficult to speak to her and Chantal does
all the speaking.

Why have Henri and Chantal become estranged?

The larger question of why Henri has not seen Chantal in twenty years is left open. The reader only learns
that Chantal’s mother “said [Henry had] got better… [Henri] turned [his] life around.” What exactly made
Henri unwell isn’t explicitly stated, but the reader could guess that perhaps Henri suffered from addiction
or something equally disruptive to family life.

This was a question that I, as the writer, struggled with whether or not to answer fully. In the end, I felt it
was more effective to the story to leave this question only hinted at as I couldn’t find a way to explain
what had happened without spoiling the story in some way… do you think I made the right choice?

How will Chantal react to seeing Henri?

Although Henri fears seeing “anger” and “pain” in Chantal’s eyes, this doesn’t transpire. She reacts well
to seeing her father again, saying she’d been trying to find him after hearing he had recovered. In fact, it
is Henri who has the more emotional reaction, crying and being too upset to respond to Chantal.

Resolution
A resolution in a story is where the main conflicts or problems are resolved, and the story reaches its
conclusion or outcome. In a short story, it might be more effective to leave your ending on a cliff-hanger,
but you should still make sure that most of the questions are resolved or your reader won’t feel satisfied.
A resolution for a short story should be brief; the climax is the most exciting part of the story and
anything after that may drag on and become boring.

“Pa,” said Chantal softly, taking Henri by the arm. “Let’s go somewhere we can talk properly. How
about this place, Café Rêveur? The Café of Dreams feels like a good place to start.”

Henri nodded. A good place to start, he thought. I couldn’t ask for much more than that.

Above is the resolution to my story. This resolution is effective because it offers a sense of closure and
hope. It signifies a willingness from both Henri and Chantal to address their estrangement and start anew,
hinting towards the potential for reconciliation. The choice of returning to “Café Rêveur” holds symbolic
significance, suggesting that they are willing to rebuild their relationship in a place that holds sentimental
value, making it a heartfelt and meaningful resolution.

Not only this, but non-French speakers learn the meaning of “Café Rêveur” for the first time: the Café of
Dreams. This might suggest Henri’s dream of being reunited with her daughter is coming true.

Finally, notice that the story both begins and ends with Café Rêveur, creating a circular narrative
structure.