In Year 11 Standard and Advanced English, the course starts with a unit of work called Reading to Write. As the title suggests, the aim of the unit is to have students think about the importance of reading and in turn how this shapes us as writers. 

The following piece below is from Jimmy Macri in Year 11 Advanced English. 

Task:

“The climax hits close to the very end of the story. It is the point at which the story turns from being an interrelated deliberately arranged set of scenes to gold.”

Martha Alderson

1. Subvert this rule by Martha Alderson in your imaginative piece by starting it with the climax. Construct the opening of a piece of narrative writing (250-300 words)

In your response, you must include at least ONE stylistic and literary feature that you have explored during your study of texts so far this year in Advanced English

Text:

Truthfully, I must confess, that I could not have foreseen such events. Yet, it was entirely within my grasp; I could have saved them. Alas, these are the words of the man who could not.

The world was ending. 

Well, not the world. But my world. 

This dark corner of the world, so terrifying, yet so comforting. Silas was wrong. Hyde was a fool. And I followed them. The Shasari - the Lightdwellers - were storming the breach. Light pooled into the Mists, dispersing it. Ages prior, I would have salivated at the thought. No more darkness. No more suffering. Hell, I would be able to see. But now I see true horror. Men ripping apart one other. The clashing of blades, the swirling of mist, thunderous cracks of light, screams of pain. Now I feel the Mists. I feel her anguish. Betrayal, from her own children.

And who am I? To crumble, despite myself. I see my life's work, standing perfectly in front of me. But there is no beauty. Only sorrow, and regret for what we have done. The pain of what we have lost.

But of course, you need context. So we return, once again, to the middle. Not the beginning, for  there is no such thing. And our destination - you have seen that it is the same, regardless of our route.

We return to silence. A seeping darkness. Shrouded in pestilence. After all, it was in everything he knew. Well, out here on the border at least. The looming walls of Lumina Bastion blocked out any sunlight from passing onto the Wastes. Of course (as one could assume), there was no room for light in this dark corner of the world. Those touched by ruin were not worthy. Or were already dead, too far gone. He couldn't tell the difference anyway. It seemed there were no lines in this cursed world. Only walls. Towering over you, watching you, condemning you. But that's besides the point.

Silas trudged through the murky depths of the Wastes, clinging to the crystalline walls, tainted by blackness, yet still radiant in its own right. One didn't go far into the dark mists. They tempted you, called for your name, then consumed you in a slow, dreadful dance, akin to that of a dull flame. There was no life, no passion, no driving force. It just… was. Devoid of everything but existence itself. It had been five weeks now, since Silas had last seen any remnant of civilization. Today was the day, though. He didn't know it. But that is the nature of a story, is it not?

Five hours from then, Silas had arrived at the Conclave. A small outpost for travellers of the Waste, a few miles from the wall. It didn't matter how far you were from the base, though. It still stood there, silently watching over every single little step you made. Go further, and you might see the light. But that meant traversing through the Mists.

The people of the Conclave were the same as any other. Those who dwelled in the wastes had been touched by that unspeakable darkness. Some had black, inky veins, others a shadowy mist encompassing entire limbs, very rarely the body itself. Silas was similar. He glanced over the camp through his dark, bottomless sockets which defied all reason - for he had no eyes, but could see perfectly fine. It is worth noting that no one could see down in these depths, which makes this predicament a paradoxically perfect one. The seeping darkness, which we have dubbed the mists, was not as strong out on the border. Regardless, it was still enough to block vision. Silas, though, had no eyes. And therefore, he could not be blinded by these mists.

Silas entered the Summer's Rest, a small inn, located towards the centre of the Conclave. Few people were up at this hour, though it was tough to track time down here. Luckily for Silas, among those people was Hyde. He was deep in a game of stones against a younger man, looking in his early 20s. His left arm was shrouded by black mist, deeper than the mist that already obscured vision. As Silas drew closer, Hyde seemed to perk up, blind as he was.

"Silas.", said Hyde, "Finally decided to show up, did you?". Silas quickly composed himself, before taunting, "I'm terribly sorry for the wait your majesty, but walls don’t break themselves, do they?". A wide grin began to curl upon his face.

Hyde leant back in his seat, folding his arms - narrowing his eyes. "And your proof?"

Silas fished through the pockets of his rugged trousers before setting a stone on the table. It was of the same cut as the stone that made up the wall. The stone glowed faintly, imbued with some sort of light that counteracted the swirling mists. You could see that same marbled pattern - like light and dark, frozen in time. Encapsulated eternally in a dance, but neither had taken the lead.

"Gods above..", Hyde said, picking up the stone, bringing it close to his face, inspecting it in all its glory. Its light illuminated his face, revealing black, sunless eyes and thick, pulsating veins coated in a rich black. "How long ago?".

"Not but five weeks back. It took a while to get there.. But there's hope, Hyde. We can find salvation. We don't have to suffer, not for much longer, at least…".

Now, I didn't know what I was getting into that night, in that game of stones. Hyde was a strange man, Silas even stranger. I've left with more questions than answers. I’ve seen things that one cannot unsee. Collected wounds that will never fully heal over. And here I lay, a thousand feet below.

One question stands tall among  them all, though.

Where did we go wrong?