Grampound Road Village CE School

Autumn 2 Week 2

Lilah and Elena
This week, Lilah and Elena have been writing their own stories, based upon a short text by Michael Morpurgo. They have been writing in the form of diary entries. Here is their writing...

Dear diary,


To honest I’m not actually writing this - as mind-boggling as it seems, my pen is hovering in the air and writing down my thoughts! But the recently deceased can’t write, right? I guess it is expressing my life and feelings and later on I can see how funny my life was, but there won’t be a later on; I’m dead.


It was normal at first - I could smell the sweet smell of waffles and my brother was teasing me about my giant’s necklace. I thought to myself “soon my necklace will reach the oak table”.


Instantly, my family and I were at the golden sandy beach with sapphire water slightly overlapping. Everything was a-ok; the sea was beautiful and calm. After one hour everyone was edging to go but I stepped up and said I wanted to stay another hour and finish my (nearly complete) necklace.


Meanwhile, I was seeking for more sparkling shells when I glanced at my watch and it was twice the time I was meant to stay. The waves were thrashing at the back of my legs and the sky had switched from royal blue to gun-metal grey. Ten more minutes, right? But that’s what my brain thought…


Now the small waves had turned into colossal waves that could swallow me in one gulp. The rocks were only 15 meters away or so… I was so fixed on finishing my necklace so I slowly gathered up some more shells as I was gradually strolling towards the nail-like rocks. I am so foolish. Why didn’t I go when they proclaimed we should go? Rocks were covered in algae but the house was (to me) inches away. Suddenly, water! Black. I was drowning.


By Lilah Courage

Year 6 2017    


Dear Diary,


To start with I’d like to tell you that I am not alive: I am a ghost. The pen in which is writing this is miraculously hovering above the paper. Casually writing down my thoughts. Because things like me can’t hold things, can they? Writing in a diary has never been my thing - at all. Apart from now - obviously - because now I actually have something to write about. And by that I mean the day I died.


It was just a normal day, like every other - my brother teasing me about my 7-year-long project: my giant’s necklace. Little did they know that once it was finished it would be the most amazing thing they had ever seen. If it ever did finish that is. Little did I know that it would be my last day on Earth – alive.


“I’ll be back in a second!” I exclaimed “I need 250 more shells for my giant’s necklace!” “Ooooooooh have fun!” sniggered my brothers sarcastically from the distance. I was running so fast I thought I might have beaten Usain Bolt’s top speed of 27.44 mph. I hadn’t. Obviously. But. You know. I slowed down as I became near to the beach. The sea was impeccably calm. Well at least, it was.


Three hours had passed and I only needed 20 more shells to finish. I was determined. I leant over the glistening golden sand to pick up some more pearly peach shells. I looked up. Then threw myself onto the soft micro rocks. The fine sand blended with my thick golden hair. The sky had changed severely. The movement of the clouds was now rapid and snappy. My surroundings had transformed into deep shades of grey and navy. Forceful waves began crashing at the top of my shins. I stood up in alarm. I had to be quick. I only needed 10 more shells. “Five more minutes,” I told myself. “That’s all I should need.”


I should gone there and then. I wish I had left in that moment. That second. That millisecond. That instant. Waves crashed. I was coughing and spluttering. I couldn’t see much. My eyes were stinging from salt water. I reckon at least 75% of my organs were salt water by then.


The water had stopped flowing. I was safe. Land! Finally! Hang on one sec. No one survives a storm in the Atlantic Ocean. Ever. So there are two options:


Option one) I had broken a record.


Option two) I was dead.


I knew which one was real. The worst one.


By Elena Waugh

Year 6 2017



Grampound Road School, South Street, Grampound Road, TR2 4TT Truro
01726 882646