Creative Modelling in the Language Course

Maura Keating and her 5th year students in Sancta Maria College in Dublin 16 studied the following passage from The Guardian supplement of Friday, September 14th 2001.

It came literally out of a clear blue sky, one of those eye-poppingly beautiful mornings when you forgive autumn for polishing off summer. All around New York the last rituals of America's innocence were being enacted; huddles of mums and dads at the roadside reassuring their seven year olds that there was nothing frightening about the big old yellow school bus lumbering towards them.

A grey heron was dabbling in the mill pond in our Hudson valley suburb, oblivious like the rest of us to the fact that American history, in the shape of its most irrepressibly ebullient city, and American power, in the shape of its fortress Pentagon, was about to take the hit of its life.

Simon Schama

Students then wrote in response
to the question:

Choose a historic disaster and write a passage describing and reflecting upon place and people in the moments before the disaster struck. You may model your work on the above passage if you wish.

The Bali Bombing
As the last rays of precious sun peeped over the horizon, the energetic streets of Bali erupted with the sound of music and laughter that seemed to linger in the humid air. Bali's streets were jammed with mopeds, cars and Australian tourists eagerly trying to squeeze through the bulging nightclubs. Throughout the streets of Kuta the atmosphere was sweltering, merry, raucous and boozy. This certainly was one Saturday night no one will ever forget!

On the south side of the island green turtles were emerging out of the crystal blue water to lay their eggs. Some of these flat-shelled creatures had already reached the red and black sanded beach, oblivious like the rest of us to the fact that a vile act of wickedness and callousness was about to take place. Paradise Island was about to become paradise lost. Bali's beauty and serenity was about to take the blast of its life.

Sorcha Butler

Duncan's Murder
A filthy air hovers through the iron gates of deception. A bitter wind howls around the dark stone walls. Inside, the burning bright fire casts a shadow. The flames flicker, sending warm, delicate air along the dining room. The remains of celebration echo their laughter. They have retired to bed, merry from wine, oblivious to all evil that lies still, ready to pounce.

Duncan lies in darkness, tucked in his bed. He is on the lazy lips of sleep. For a moment there is stillness. But something is coming. A cold whisper echoes down the dark stone corridor, bringing each footstep closer and closer.

Sophie McKeon