Room15’s blog

Long, long ago, far, far away, tucked up in the Sahara where the sun was always shining and it never got cold, there lived a long, tall, LOUD Giraffe. This Giraffe was the loudest, tallest, giraffe in the jungle. He was louder than the monkeys screeching, he was louder than the elephant’s trumpet. In fact he was louder than the lion’s roar. Well, that’s what he thought anyway.

One day while boasting to his friends, Lion just happened to walk past when Giraffe said

“I am louder than the Lion’s roar”

But just as he had said ROAR the Lion jumped out and shouted: “I’m louder than you, you stinky Giraffe and to prove it, I challenge you to a roaring contest.”

Giraffe who was obviously taken aback quickly gathered his thoughts and said: “Well, I agree. Meet me here tomorrow at lunchtime.” And with that he was off.

The next day came quickly and both Lion and Giraffe were right on time. Lion went first as he thought he was the best at roaring and he wanted to prove it so he did the loudest roar ever. Then Giraffe did his roar and it was much LOUDER  but it was slowly becoming much quieter until was nothing but a quiet bray.

“I win” announced the Lion with a roar and with nothing more to say he jumped upon the Giraffe and gobbled him up.

That was how the Giraffe lost his voice and from now on Giraffes have lived in fear of lions and are too scared to yell and they only whisper.

JE

The Three Big Bad Eggs

Once upon a time there was  a farmer who always, I mean always had eggs for breakfast. The hen house which the farmer owned was very dull. It only had about two hens in it which only laid about one egg a day.

But one day: Pop, Pop, Pop, three eggs were laid. Each egg was a different colour. One was brown, one was white and the last one was spotty. These eggs were very cheeky.

“When the farmer comes let’s quickly jump out and run away said the brown egg.”

 “Let’s do it” said the white egg. The spotty egg just sat there smiling his evil smile.

When the farmer had got dressed he started walking down to the hen house singing “Old Macdonald had a farm, eieio and on that farm he had some hens eieio…”

“He’s coming” said the white egg.

“Get ready” said the brown egg.

The spotty egg just sat there smiling with his evil smile.

“That guy freaks me out” said the brown egg.

“Me too” said the white egg.

The farmer was getting closer, CREAK! The farmer lifted the lid of the hen house.

“NOW” cried the white egg.

The eggs jumped out of the hen house and onto the long grass that grew around the hen house as though it was strangling it.

“At least that was a soft landing” said the white egg.

When the farmer saw the eggs had escaped he shouted: “HEY COME BACK”.

But by the time the farmer had shut the lid the eggs were rolling out of sight. The farmer would never give up his breakfast and he ran straight after them.

“There they are” said the farmer. The eggs were by the shearing shed where the sheep were waiting to be sheered…

LM

Given this picture TC wrote:

The weather was as bright as the Australian rowing boat and the sea was shimmering like a million stars twinkling in the dark night. The trees were doing the Mexican Wave daring him to jump into the icy cold water. He jumped as high as an eagle, landing on a giant seal and it was really slippery…I am going for a ride. I am sure Mum and dad won’t mind…

and SD wrote:

The day was as hot as the desert on a summers day. The water was very inviting. The Samoan boy was racing his friends to the shimmering cold lake but just as he got there he froze…suddenly millions of butterflies started fluttering in his stomach. He could hear his friends thundering footsteps drawing nearer…

Splash his friends flew past him and into the water before him…

There was  along silence then his friend asked him: “Why didn’t you jump?”

But he didn’t reply, instead he ran into his house and locked the door. He didn’t want to tell his friends that he couldn’t swim…

and SN wrote:

The air was warm like a desert wind. The young Fijian boy catapulted through the air, his arms flapped like an eagle learning to fly. The water was inviting him to bellyflop and slap a bright red rash across his stomach, The trees were beckoning him to swim over to the island…

 Given this picture, BC  wrote:

Perfumed and white wall paper surround the dark gloomy rooms that lie silently on the royal red carpets. The only light to the rooms is the bright sun shining through the crystal clean windows.

Stomp Stomp Stomp… that’s the butler who feels he is underpaid. Wearing black socks – they’re as dark as the dark midnight sky.

Tap, Tap, Tap…that’s the cold sharp silver tray with the pearl white cups shivering next to the enormous silver jug.

There it is…the Master’s solid gold room…

 and EB wrote:

Dark gloomy rooms surrounded me. Patterns of red and blue wallpaper were everywhere. The royal red carpet that I was on was as soft as a kiwi’s fur. The richness oozed through the carpet, doors and windows.

Me, with a smug happy smile carrying the really hot tea…as hot as lava. My turban shining in the sunlight with my jet black hair underneath.

He was lonely in the kitchen making the tea…

Given this picture, students were asked to write a narrative.

This is the beginning of CC’s:

Sandy and exhausted, an old man shuffled into the mammoth sized stadium, rivers of sweat dribbling down his head. He strolled over to the stack, took a brush and slowly formed a central sand spiral. The crowd was astonishingly loud, roaring as loud as thunder and the musty smell that was encased in the stadium was too much for anyone to handle. As he swept, he shifted the sand so gracefully. It was really surprising because he was a bald, very old man, who thought of nothing but himself.

His red shirt was as bright as a towering flame and he grumpily mumbled as he worked as hard as a lawyer…

and LEW wrote:

The matador came out scared to the bones, slowly lifting the silk cloth. The bull came charging out with red eyes puffing and bellowing. He saw the red cloth and took all his anger out on it. Galloping towards the soft silk cloth the tip of his horn pierces it and rips the cloth out of his hand. Confused he smashes into the wall. The matador pulled out his sword and pierced his stomach. The blood mixed with the sand. As his legs collapsed his last thoughts were about freedom. Then he died.