Qualification > Languages

Um . what would you grade me on this?

<< < (2/8) > >>

Arthur Bon Zavi:
BAND 2! - 18 Marks ;D

Galleria:
LOL I SUCK THEN :D

Galleria:
AND OMG
WHY IS EVERYONE STRICT WITH MARKS ? I WANNA SEE A PIECE THAT GETS 22/23 ON THIS OR ANY OTHER ESSAY!!!!

elemis:

--- Quote from: Galleria on October 10, 2010, 12:54:56 pm ---AND OMG
WHY IS EVERYONE STRICT WITH MARKS ? I WANNA SEE A PIECE THAT GETS 22/23 ON THIS OR ANY OTHER ESSAY!!!!

--- End quote ---

I'll post mine. wait.

elemis:
The Librarian!
As I push open the oak wood door, I am overcome by a tidal wave of cold air stemming from the antiquated air conditioning system affixed on the wall. As I shut the door, softly, behind me, I am greeted by a monstrosity. Seated on a tall mauve chair, like a griffin ready to pounce, is Ms. Maria, the librarian. Her thick black spectacles serve to only intensify her cold, icy gaze. Her black, beady eyes examine me carefully; waiting for a chance to accost me for disturbing the peace.
In a few, quick strides I walk over to her desk. Mountains of tattered books cover the varnished surface of her desk. I begin to perspire as I nervously ask, “Where is the history section ?” I brace myself for an interminable wave of shouting from this pudgy woman who has a reputation for being a strict martinet. With a quick nod of her head, she motions to the right.
As I move past her, I notice she is dressed in a black and white chequered dress; her wiry grey hair falls quite ungracefully on her shoulders. I pick my book and move to reading section.
I sit down and notice a Sixth Form student hunched over a massive chemistry textbook. Twirling a pen with his fingers he seems engrossed in the book. His thick wavy hair extends to his shoulders where it transforms into a long pony tail. My pristine white shirt cannot compare to his ‘uniform’. His shirt is decorated with a myriad of coloured spots; some quite big. His maroon tie hangs low from his neck and his collar button is open.
Even though it is a cool twenty degrees, he is sweating profusely; overcome with the intent desire to memorise the ionic equations before him. He looks hurriedly at the burnished Godfather Clock and resumes his studying. Quite evidently he is overcome with frustration; his face is contorted into a mask of worry.
I turn my head to see my mathematics teacher engaged in a hushed conversation with a student. Gesticulating wildly with her hands, she seems to be berating the boy. He looks sullen and his pale countenance evokes a sense of pity within me. His smoothly gelled back black hair and tattered uniform tell me he must be quite the troublemaker. With his hands together he seems to be imploring the teacher for something.
With a quick rearrangement of her sari, (which happens to be a bright saffron and white colour) she pushes the chair back and strides out of the library. The boy is left behind, his mouth agape; a truly shell shocked look on his face.

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