9A Narrative Compositions

Here are three narrative compositions from our 9A group.
The topic was:

WRITE A STORY ABOUT A MOMENT OF SUCCESS OR FAILURE.

Here is Alex Petropoulos' composition:

   I carefully treaded through the African bush, my sharp eyes telling me to swerve left or right, when I spotted an unwelcoming thorn bush, or a vicious scorpion with its stinger languorously hanging above it, just waiting for the right moment to, in a blink of an eye, proceed with its malicious intentions and inject me with its callous poison. My legs screamed with pain, as they made their way up the gentle incline, begging for rest, after having spent days tracking the herd of gazelle that get me what I so desperately desired.

   My name is Max Baobab. It was my thirteenth name-day and as being part of the Shaka Zulu tribe, this meant that today was the last day for me to complete the sacred trials of manhood; wrestling a member of my tribe, weaving a basket using nothing more than a fistful of long grass, and finally tracking down and killing a gazelle. Three tasks that could only be completed by a boy with strength, cunning and endurance.

As I approached the peak of the hill, I could sense my prey getting near. My heart and breathing rate rapidly increased as I neared my target. Years of hard work had led to this moment. I would finally be treated as an equal among men. The slightest distraction at this moment could ruin my life forever. I didn’t know whether it was the scalding heat or my nerves, but I found myself sweating all over.

   As I looked over the hill, lying on my stomach as not to frighten the animals, I saw my target. At the foot of the hill was a watering hole, holding an elephant, two buffaloes and, most importantly, a herd of gazelle. The watering hole itself was surrounded by almost horizontal cliffs on all sides but mine. Finally, the gods were on my side.

   After a final look, I began my descent. At first it was a gradual one, but it rapidly picked up speed. Within seconds I was hurtling down the hill, with the wind in my hair and a feeling of invincibility. But suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I spotted something. The world seemed to freeze around me as I realised what I had seen. A silver wire, no thicker than a fishing line, was suspended at foot height, and I was headed right for it.

   There was no way to avoid it, and my velocity was already too high to come to a halt. It was a rabbit snare, too small to trap me, but definitely enough to send me off my course. As my foot came into contact with the surprisingly sturdy tripwire, it sent me flying through the air and then, in an almost comical way, I landed with a thud at the foot of a gazelle. For a second, it just stood there, watching me and then, it bolted. The rest of the herd followed its lead and left me, battered and bruised, lying in the mud, thinking only of the terrors of facing my family empty-handed and constantly cursing myself for being so ignorant.

Here is Max Pogoriler's composition:

   The huge wave swept over the deck, nearly sweeping Jeff  into the ferocious blackness of the Atlantic Ocean.The waves battered the small yacht ,showing no mercy and Jeff wondered if now,on the last leg of his trip he was going to disappear into the infinite depths of this unforgiving stretch of water.He had no radio contact since rounding the Cape, in a fearsome storm almost a week ago.If he were to die now he would be totally alone.As another gigantic wave engulfed his already sorely tried boat, Jeff crouched down holding tightly onto the icy cold railings.His destiny was now out of his hands.

     Weeks before, on leaving San Fransisco, full of self-confidence, Jeff could never have predicted such a turn of events.He knew and had always known, that sailing around the world single-handedly for a fourteen year-old was something that had been never achieved before.He had been preparing with his father for years for this moment. There had been times when he had thought that he was ready,but as his father constantly reminded him, Rome was not built in a day.A few more weeks of preparation would make all the difference between success and failure.

     On this dark night, drenched to the skin, with the cold wind whipping his face, it was hard to remember the good moments.There had been many.Unforgettable moments when he had seen nature at its most marvelous, being accompanied by a school of whales, seeing schools of dolphins leaping in and out of the water, and the magical sunrises and sunsets.There had been times when he had felt like he was the only person on Earth.Of course there had been many close shaves, like nearly being run over by a twenty-four storey cruise liner in the early hours of the morning in the Pacific Ocean.There had been storms near Australia, in shark-infested waters, and the times he had encountered pirates off the coast of Africa. But this storm was the mother of all storms.

    Suddenly, there was a loud ripping sound, as if the boat was being torn apart.Jeff peered into the darkness and realised that the last two sail roes,the only things that kept together the sail and the boat, had snapped.He was in grave danger of losing his sail. He struggled to the front of the yacht, but it was too late.His heart sank as he helplessly watched his sail keel over into the water. His chances of survival were at an all time low. His yacht, now commanded by the ocean, helplessly drifted into the vast blackness of what seemed like a never ending night.

   It was only a month later that the search party found the only remaining piece of his yacht drifting of the coast of Cuba.

Here is Lucas Petropoulos' composition:

Kitabu was a boy who lived in an African tribe in Kenya. He was 15 years old, squat, with brown eyes, brown skin and sported a black bush of hair. Kitabu’s father was the leader of the tribe. His family were highly respected by his fellow people. Their family had been on the throne for generations, something they were very proud of. When the time would come for the son to succeed the father on the throne, Kitabu would be crowned king. What an honour it would be for Kitabu to have the pride to take charge of his clan, to lead them for many years. How Kitabu dreamed of standing in front of his clan, with his head held high, his beautifully crafted machete, carried down by the generations of his family. There was only one problem.                                                                        

                       Kitabu was a runt. Most boys his age were physically much taller, broader and stronger than him. They were so big he could barely lift his head up in their presence, instead consigned to forever standing in their shadow. As far as the people were concerned, Kitabu could never be a leader for for the throne. And then there was the initiation.

                     The initiation was a special tournament in which the victors were granted their manhood. Usually, you would become a man at 13, but Kitabu had failed his last two initiations, so he was 15. He was determined not to be carried off in shame, as a failure.

                Today was the big day. Kitabu felt good. He had been preparing for this all year. The day flashed by in a blur. His mother looked at him with anxious blue eyes as she kissed him and wished him well for the initiation. Breakfast was simple: he ate a banana and he carefully drank down a scolding cup of tea.

               Kitabu’s heart pounded like a lion's. There he was, by himself, in the arena where the initiations took place. As he entered the sun-baked arena, the crowd hushed silent. The beat of a drum soon engulfed the arena. But all Kitabu could hear was the beat of his heart. Through the bars of the opposite side of the arena, a rich growl was heard, followed by two dark crimson eyes. Those eyes said one thing: kill!

                    Kitabu’s heart leapt. He boldly took out his sword out and held it high, much to the delighted roar of the crowd. Then, in a flash, the gates were opened, and out came a two hundred kilo lion. It sent shivers down Kitabu’s spine. For a while both stood stationary, both staring into each other’s eyes. That was until Kitabu’s father caught his son’s eyes. The moment Kitabu’s eyes darted away, the lion pounced. Kitabu dodged it, and retaliated with a sharp twist of his sword, missing the lion by inches.

               The lion quickly took advantage of this miss, coming down and clamping down on Kitabu’s thigh. Everyone in the arena winced. Kitabu screamed, as his sword helplessly clattered to the floor. However, to everyone’s surprise, just when the lion went in for the kill, Kitabu’s other leg kicked the belly of the lion. The lion yelped in surprise and backed off, and Kitabu seized his chance and drove the sword through the lion’s merciless heart. There was one last desperate moan from the lion, then it dropped. Kitabu, faint, fell to his knees. The crowd erupted. He had done it! This time last year, he had been carried off in disgrace, to the crowd’s boos, but today he was a hero. He caught his father’s eye. And as soon as he saw the broad smile on his face and the glint in his eye, he knew he had done his father proud.