Complete Worked Examples

Putting It All Together

This is the final lesson in the course, and it is designed to show you exactly what exam-standard creative writing looks like. You will see three complete FSCE-style prompts, each with:

1. A model response — the kind of writing that would score top marks
2. Examiner commentary — explaining exactly why it works
3. A weaker version — the kind of writing that would score average marks
4. Commentary on the weaker version — explaining what to improve
5. A pre-exam checklist at the end to take into your preparation

Think of this lesson as your final training session before the exam. Study the model responses. Understand what makes them excellent. Then go and write your own.

graph TD
    A[Exam Preparation] --> B[Study model responses]
    A --> C[Understand examiner commentary]
    A --> D[Identify weaknesses in weaker versions]
    A --> E[Practise with real prompts]
    A --> F[Use the pre-exam checklist]

---

Prompt 1: Write a Story About a Discovery

Model Response (Strong — Aiming for Top Marks)

The box was buried beneath the rose bushes — not deep, just a few inches under the soil, as if someone had hidden it in a hurry. I found it by accident, digging a hole for Mum's new lavender plant, and my trowel struck something hard with a dull, metallic clang that vibrated up my arm.

I brushed away the earth. The box was made of tin, about the size of a thick book, its surface crusted with rust and dirt. A pattern was pressed into the lid — flowers and leaves, intricate and delicate, though time had softened them almost to nothing. My hands trembled as I worked the lid free. It resisted, then gave way with a soft screech that sounded like a tiny scream.

Inside, the box was lined with faded velvet — once red, now a dusty pink. And lying on the velvet were three things: a photograph, a letter, and a ring. The photograph showed a woman I did not recognise, standing in what looked like our garden, except younger — the trees smaller, the fence unpainted, the house behind her missing its extension. She was smiling. Not posing, not performing, just smiling — a real, uncomplicated smile that reached her eyes. On the back, in pencil so faint I had to squint to read it: "Margaret, 1958."

I unfolded the letter carefully. The paper was thin and fragile, its creases worn almost through. "My dearest Margaret," it began, in handwriting that sloped and looped with a kind of elegant carelessness. "If you are reading this, then I have already gone. But I wanted you to know—" I turned the page. The rest was missing. Torn, or lost, or perhaps never written.

The ring was simple: a thin gold band, dull with age, too small for my finger. I held it up to the light and something caught inside the metal — an inscription, tiny and almost worn smooth. I tilted it. Squinted. Two words: "Always, Edward."

I sat back on my heels in the garden, the box on my knees, the sun warm on the back of my neck. Margaret and Edward. I did not know their story. I would probably never know it. But sitting there with the ring in my palm and the unfinished letter in my hand, I felt the weight of it — a love story buried under the roses, waiting sixty years to be found.

I put everything back in the box. Then I carried it inside and placed it on the kitchen table, where the light was good, and sat down to find out who Margaret was.

Examiner Commentary

Criterion	Assessment
Imaginative ideas	Original and engaging — the mystery of the buried box unfolds naturally
Structure	Clear 5-part structure: discovery, opening the box, contents, unfinished letter, reflection
Opening	Strong — immediately intriguing. What is the box? Why was it buried?
Show, don't tell	Emotions shown through action (trembling hands, sitting back on heels)
Vocabulary	Precise and natural — "crusted," "intricate," "elegant carelessness"
Sentence variety	Excellent — short sentences ("I sat back.") mixed with longer, flowing ones
Figurative language	Simile ("sounded like a tiny scream"), metaphor ("weight of it"), effective personification
Sensory detail	Touch (trembling hands, warm sun), sight (faded velvet, worn inscription), sound (metallic clang, soft screech)
Ending	Reflective and moving — the character does not solve the mystery but is changed by it
Technical accuracy	Correct spelling, punctuation, paragraphing, and speech formatting throughout

Weaker Version (Average)

I was in the garden and I found a box. It was under the ground. I opened it and there were some things inside. There was a photo and a letter and a ring. The photo was of a lady. The letter said something nice but I couldn't read all of it. The ring was gold. I thought it was interesting. I took it inside to show mum. She said it was probably from someone who lived here before. I thought about who it might have been. It was a good day.

Commentary on Weaker Version

Problem	Explanation
Vague vocabulary	"some things," "something nice," "interesting," "good day" — all too vague
No sensory detail	We cannot see, hear, or feel anything
Telling, not showing	"I thought it was interesting" — telling. The strong version shows interest through action
No atmosphere	The garden, the box, the contents — none are described vividly
Flat opening	"I was in the garden and I found a box" — no hook
Rushed ending	"It was a good day" — no reflection, no emotion
No sentence variety	Every sentence is roughly the same length and structure
No figurative language	No similes, metaphors, or personification

---

Prompt 2: Write a Story Beginning With "The Door Was Open"

Model Response (Strong)

The door was open. Just a crack — a thin stripe of darkness between the frame and the wood — but it was enough. Enough to know that someone had been here. Enough to make my stomach drop.

I pushed it wider with my fingertip, the way you might prod something you suspected was alive. The hinges groaned. Inside, the hallway was dark, the only light a greyish glow from the kitchen at the far end. Our shoes were still lined up by the door — mine, Mum's, Dad's trainers with the fraying laces. The coat hooks were still full. Everything looked normal. But the air was wrong. It smelled of cold — not the clean cold of outside, but a stale, indoor cold, as if the heating had been off for hours.

"Mum?" My voice sounded too small for the space. "Dad?"

Silence. Not the comfortable silence of an empty house, but a thick, heavy silence that seemed to press against my ears. I stepped inside. The kitchen light was on — a single bulb above the table — and as I rounded the corner, I saw the mess. Every drawer was open. Every cupboard door hung wide. The contents of our lives — letters, keys, batteries, takeaway menus, old birthday cards — were scattered across the floor like confetti after a party nobody had enjoyed.

My legs went weak. I gripped the doorframe and stared at the chaos, my mind racing through possibilities, each one worse than the last. Then I saw the note. A single piece of paper, placed deliberately in the centre of the table, weighed down with Dad's coffee mug. I crossed the kitchen, stepping over the debris, and picked it up.

Two lines. Mum's handwriting. Shaky, hurried, but unmistakably hers.

"Don't panic. We're safe. Go to Grandma's."

I read it three times. My heartbeat slowed from a sprint to a jog. Don't panic. We're safe. Go to Grandma's. I folded the note, put it in my pocket, and walked back through the ruined hallway and out the open door. I did not close it behind me. There did not seem to be any point.

Grandma's house was twenty minutes away. I started walking, and with every step, the questions multiplied. If they were safe, why the mess? If it was not a burglary, then what? And if Mum had time to leave a note, why had she not called?

The answers, I knew, were waiting at Grandma's house. I walked faster.

Examiner Commentary