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Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. CHAPTER ONE: THE BOY WHO LIVED.

Example 5
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal,
thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or
mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.
Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. He was a big, beefy man with
hardly any neck, although he did have a very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and
had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time
craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley and
in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.
The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that
somebody would discover it. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters.
Mrs.
Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended
she didn't have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as
it was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters
arrived in the street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small son, too, but they had never even
seen him. This boy was another good reason for keeping the Potters away; they didn't want Dudley
mixing with a child like that.
When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about
the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over
the country. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work, and Mrs. Dursley
gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair.
None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window.

From Whispers in the Graveyard by Theresa Breslin example 1


Im running. My chest is tight and sore. Breath rasping and whistling in my lungs. Branches whip
against my face. Brambles tear at my legs and arms. There is a voice screaming. Out loud. The sound
ripping through the trees, screaming and screaming.
Its my voice.
Amy! Amy!
Now Im back at the back stream and the solid wooden fencing has been torn aside. Blasted apart as if
some careless giant had passed by and trodden on it. I stare at the wood, not splintered or broken, but
melted. Dissolved and warped. Curled aside to make a small space. Space enough for a child to walk
through. What could do that? What power is there that would leave that mark?
I hesitate, feeling the first great lurch of fear for myself.
Amy? I cry out.
Beyond me the gaping dark of the cemetery.
There is a soft shudder in my head. A strange flicker which fastens on my fear. Nothing calling for me
this time. No whispers in my face tonight.
Why?
Creative Example 2
A thin film of dust fell away from the cold brass door knob as I tried the attic door. Stuck. I pressed my
shoulder against it and pushed. Again. This time it creaked slowly like the swollen bones of an arthritic
giant.
Quiet enveloped me, as the total blackness left me fumbling. A delicate sheet wisped over my face then
clung around my head as I clawed it off. All I could hear was my heart and the creaking of floorboards
Wiping cobwebs from my eyes I could make out the contents of the attic
Dust upon dust, decay upon decay; the stench of colonies of insects working tirelessly to live, then
given up their nutrients and life for the next generations. I crunched a cockroach as a brass grazed my
shin. The metal was bound round an ancient chest which felt smooth and strangely warm. On opening I
smelt the sea. Slowly I felt around its pitch black bowels, ancient paper, I raised a leather book from
its depths

Creative Example 3
The baby might not die, I said.
Thats good, said Mina.
I sat on the wall a few feet away from her.
You werent at school today, she said.
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I wasnt well.
She nodded.
Not surprising, considering what youve been through.
You werent at school either, I said.
I dont go to school.
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I stared at her.
My mother educates me, she said. We believe that schools inhibit the natural curiosity,
creativity and intelligence of children. The mind needs to be opened out into the world, not shuttered
down inside a gloomy classroom.
Oh, I said.
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Dont you agree, Michael?
I thought of dashing across the yard with Leakey and Coot. I thought of Monkey Mitfords
temper. I thought of Miss Clarks stories.
Dont know, I said.
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Our motto is on the wall by my bed, she said. How can a bird that is born for joy/Sit in a
cage and sing? William Blake.
She pointed up into the tree. The chicks in the nest wont need a classroom to make them fly. Will
they?
I shook my head.
Well then, she said. My father believed this, too.
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Your father?
Yes. He was a wonderful man. He died before I was born. We often think of him, watching us
from Heaven.
She watched me, with those eyes that seemed to get right inside.
Youre a quiet person, she said.
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I didnt know what to say. She began reading again.
Do you believe were descended from apes? I said.
Not a matter of belief, she said. Its a proven fact. Its called evolution. You must know
that. Yes, we are.
She looked up from her book.
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I would hope, though, she went on, that we also have some rather more beautiful ancestors.
Dont you?
She watched me again.
Yes, I said.
She read again. I watched the blackbird flying into the trees with 40 worms dropping from its
beak.
It was great to see the owls, I said.
She smiled.
Yes. Theyre wild things, of course. Killers, savages. Theyre wonderful.
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I kept dreaming I heard them, all through the night.
I listen for them, too. Sometimes in the dead of night when all the traffics gone I hear them
calling to each other.
I joined my hands together tight with a space between my palms and a gap between my
thumbs.
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Listen, I said.
I blew softly into the gap and made the noise an owl makes.
Thats brilliant! said Mina. Show me.
I showed her how to put her hands together, how to blow. At first she couldnt do it, but then she
could. She hooted and grinned.
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Brilliant, she said. So brilliant.
Leakey showed me, I said. My mate at school.
I wonder if you did it at night if the owls would come.
Maybe. Maybe you should try it.
I will. Tonight I will.
Hoot, she went. Hoot hoot hoot.

Creative Example 4
It was on a dreary night of November that I accomplished my toils. With an anxiety that almost
amounted to agony, I collected the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being
into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet. It was already one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally
against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished
light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open; it breathed hard.
How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how explain the wretch whom with such pain
and care I had endeavoured to form? His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as
beautiful. Beautiful! Great God! His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles and arteries
beneath; his hair was of lustrous black, and flowing; his teeth of pearly whiteness; but this only formed
a more horrid contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed almost of the same colour as the white
sockets in which they were set, his shrivelled complexion and straight black lips.
I had worked for nearly two years, for the sole purpose of giving life to an inanimate body. For this I
deprived myself of rest and health; but now that I had finished, the beauty of the dream vanished, and
breathless horror and disgust filled my heart. Unable to endure looking at the being I had created, I
rushed out of the room and continued a long time moving around my bedchamber, unable to compose
my mind to sleep. I threw myself on the bed in my clothes, endeavouring to find a few moments of
forgetfulness. But it was in vain; I slept, indeed, but I was disturbed by the wildest of dreams. I thought I
saw Elizabeth, in the bloom of health, walking in the streets. Delighted and surprised, I embraced her,
but as I kissed her lips, her features appeared to change, and I thought that I held the corpse of my
dead mother in my arms. I started from my sleep in horror; a cold dew covered my forehead and my
teeth chattered. When, by the dim and yellow light of the moon, as it forced its way through the
window shutters, I saw the wretch - the miserable monster whom I had created. He held up the curtain
of the bed; and his eyes, if eyes they be called, were fixed on me. His jaws opened, and he muttered
some inarticulate sounds, while a grin wrinkled his cheeks.

Creative Example 6 The Shout


They call it the Purge. We call it the Shout.
It started out as a whisper that spread like a cancer, silently killing us before we knew we were dying.
The whisper grew, after a while. It infiltrated our bodies and ripped us from our souls, our power. Thats
why we call it the Shout, because the closer you are, the louder it is. Luckily I wasnt close for the first
shout.
But now I am.
People like me, we can feel it. It skitters across our skin, turns our blood to ice and jars our abilities to
protect ourselves. And thats when they come. The Snatchers.
The shout has made me useless. I would be ripping him to slivers of fleshy pulp with his own ribs if it
hadnt.
No, I wouldnt, but Id be out of here.
Im crouching behind a countertop, my breath rattling in my ears, making it hard to listen to his
footsteps. I clutch the bread roll close to my heart, ready, waiting. He turns in my direction and I tense.
My pulse quickens, my breathing gets shallow, and sweat trickles to the base of my spine.
He grunts and leaves the room.
I exhale. A long, continuous breath that halts my jittery nerves. Hes covering the only door out of here,
so I think quickly. A window. No, too small. I move, meet a staircase and climb it. One bedroom, one
bathroom. The bathroom wont have a big window, so I ignore it. The bedroom, however, does.
I automatically begin extending my mind to unlatch the grey flaking window lock, and when I dont feel
the familiar mental tug I grimace. I have to do this manually.

Creative Writing example 7

When I wake up, the other side of the bed is cold. My fingers stretch out, seeking Prims warmth but
finding only the rough canvas cover of the mattress. She must have had bad dreams and climbed in
with our mother. Of course she did. This is the day of the reaping.
I prop myself up on one elbow. Theres enough light in the bedroom to see them. My little sister, Prim,
curled up on her side, cocooned in my mothers body, their cheeks pressed together. In sleep, my
mother looks younger, still worn but not so beaten-down. Prims face is as fresh as a raindrop, as lovely
as the primrose for which she was named. My mother was very beautiful once, too. Or so they tell me.

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