IGCSE Paper 2 Writing Practices

Scenario: describe a room in a house that belongs to an older person.

As the old, wooden door feebly pulls away in a sharp, screeching sound, a sweet and yet provoking scent of pinewood and paint emerged to my senses. My grandpa never allowed me to be here, and yet curiosity led my steps towards this abandoned, distant memory: my grandparents' art room. Through the foggy windows, threads of sunlight cast a bright, golden splatter of color across the room that was once vibrantly painted, reaching into a long-forgotten summer dream lost in thick layers of dust. Before my feet was a thick, wide rug fashioned in Arabic patterns; just like the one I saw in Aladdin. It laid still on the old, wooden floor that is still bearing the hues of American walnut, and yet shaped by generations of living and loving right here. Above the floors stood greenish walls that had faded into the tints of time, where paintings of places and people that I've never seen before were hung, and together they blended into the warm shadows of the room. Strange. I wonder why won't they talk like the ancient paintings in Harry Potter? They must've been lonely with no one to talk to in a decade.

At the right corner of the room sat a wine-red, antique sofa, resting against one wall beside bookshelves filled with books of art history. Before them was a round, metal table where legs curved in victorian patterns. On top of the table laid an oil lamp, long out of oil, that must've been the one lighting up their warm memories through the night.

Towards the left presents a much more artistic corner. Wooden tables tainted in random and yet harmonious splatters of paint lined the walls. On top of them sat rows of canned paint; some uncapped, and had already diminished into a sad, lifeless color; as if knowing that they'll never be used again. Then something caught my eye. In the middle of the room rose an easel, carrying a painting that is surely yet finished. What surrounds them were brushes and paint tubes coated in dry, decayed paint, forgotten and scattered across the dusty floor. On the contrary, the painting, kissed by the tenderness of morning light, evoked a vivacious, appetizing pleasure. I peered closely. It looked exactly just like the breakfast my mother cooked for me yesterday. In gentle yet confident strokes there were tints of blueberry, strawberry, honey, butter, and toast... Beyond the mild strokes, a portrait of two young couples surfaced vaguely; and yet I can still clearly identify their gracious smiles that seems to beam brighter than the morning sun.

I wonder who are they?

(437 words)