GCSE Descriptive Writing

The Singer

Prompt was: use any or all of these narrative points in your writing.
1. 'Somewhere over the rainbow' she sang, the last note tremoring
2. The judges reject her and she leaves the stage
3. After, a man comes up to her and says 'They know nothing these so-called experts. Come with me.'
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I have always taught my daughters three important lessons.

Firstly, that though I have a passion for music, they may pursue any career they please.

Secondly, their mother and I's separation was in no way their fault.

Thirdly, if an older man with hair greased down so violently that it is flat against his head, and a face concealed by the shadow of a stage curtain, tells you to follow him into the street, you tell him no.

Or at least, I teach them something to that effect.

I could only hope, as I watched silently from the judge's panel as Miss Cagney Harrison was led away into the dark wings of the concert stage, that her parents had taught her something similar.

Was it desperation that compelled her to follow him? Had this audition meant that much to her?

If it had been down to me, the girl would have moved straight onto the next stage. Talent like that is rare, and though her voice tremored on the last note, she held it until the music ended: one clear, strong, flawed note. But Judge Gia Vitale doesn't have time for flaws — she shooed the girl away without so much as a cursory attempt to consult me.

Though Miss Harrison, with flushed cheeks and laborious footsteps, left the stage immediately, she was still just in my line of vision when the man stopped her. What I'm sure neither of them were aware of, and that I certainly am aware of now, is that the theatre was strategically designed, so that the acoustics on the stage could soar up the smooth walls and fan out amongst the empty velvet seats of the main floor.

"They know nothing, these so-called experts," His words were just as audible as they needed to be, "Come with me."

It is these last three words that drive me forward now, hurrying down the halls of the theatre, the obnoxious fluorescent lights stinging my eyes. I'm being paranoid I'm sure, but how can I let it slide? Cagney Harrison can't be more than seventeen, her subtly freckled cheeks so similar to that of my daughters. What if it were them?

But it isn't them. It is a horrible thing to be relieved about, as the newspaper slides accusingly through the letterbox three days later. I can't help but remind myself of it, to calm the sickening lurching in my stomach, as I am marched down to the police station to give my statement for the second time. Even as I crouch over the bowl of a public toilet and heave, I say it again. "It wasn't them."

It is a selfish guilty comfort. And one that doesn't last long.

I first recognise him by his hair, the grease a thick layer that suffocates his scalp and reflects the beam of the streetlights.

He knows I saw him that day. He knows I've  been giving his description. Why else would he be here? Outside my home, his hands shoved into his pockets as he gazes casually upwards.

I follow his line of vision to the upstairs window, and the thin curtain of glass that conceals where my daughters sleep.

It wasn't them.

What comfort would that be now?

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Just something I got full marks on recently that I thought I'd share. You can always spice up a dull prompt with an interesting point of view and an unexpected genre.