GCSE Descriptive Writing

The Stowaway

The seat was wildly uncomfortable.

Cheap plastic; flimsy and breakable, bent forcefully into a sharp curve that no human's back could ever agreeably fit against. With everything that happened that day, this seat was what astounded me the most. I would never understand why, in an airport where one must sit for hours on end, they would place chairs of such immense intolerability.

I shifted, and the plastic dug into my shoulder blades as I craned my neck to survey the room. Hundreds of people were lined up infront of conveyer belts and tills manned by agitated airport workers, everyone eager or flustered or somewhere in between. They bustled in their queues, itching to get out, as if they had been jammed against their objections into this endless flow of foot traffic. As if they weren't here of their own accord, waiting impatiently, harassing the staff and hushing their children, all so they could get to their ski resorts, their seaside villas.

My eyes flicked down to my phone for the fifth time that minute and as it's light illuminated my palm my pulse jumped with panic. It was 4.32am - just eight minutes before my flight's gate would close. Yet I had no choice but to wait in this seat, ignoring the overpowering smell of jetlag in the form of overpriced coffee, and praying that my passport was a good enough fake.

A garbled message sounded over the tannoy, a low scratchy tone that spoke in such a way that the words ricocheting off the glass walls of the cavernous room were indecipherable. But there was something familiar in the cadence of the announcement and a few moments later, I realised it was my name they had spoke. I was, according to them, 'officially late', as if I needed reminding. I almost expected every face in the room to turn and stare at me in judgement, but of course I was a stranger here, and for what I was doing that could only be a positive.

I was close to accepting defeat and going to reclaim my luggage, when my prayers were answered.

I heard the screech of the buggy before I saw it coming, the sound of the tyres screaming across the floor like a wailing animal making me wince and turn my head. Then, the buggy was halted infront of me, and a man in a red uniform was calling to me.

"Get in! Your passport's been authenticated," The man whose name tag identified him as 'Bill' grinned maniacally at me, "You're good to go."

His enthusiasm was a mystery to me, until he smoothed the sides of the plastic steering wheel with a frankly alarming passion. Bill was the very picture of a child finally allowed to play with his shiny, albeit fairly small, new toy.

But Bill was also my messiah in this moment so I didn't linger on his strange eagerness.

"You're serious?" I laughed deliriously, "They're letting me get on the flight?"

He yelled a frustrated agreement and I quickly squeezed into the buggy, checking my phone one last time: 4.34am, and a text from my brother.

Did you fool them?

As we tore through the airport, the buggy rattling at the speed as it barrelled forward, more by the sheer will of the man infront of me than anything else, the scenes all around us blurred into a drab stew of suitcases and tired families.

I tucked my phone back into my pocket triumphantly, and didn't bother to text back. My arrival in Paris would by my answer.

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This short writing excercise based off an image will hopefully show how you can write effectively without a ton of imagery. If metaphors and similes aren't your strong suit, you don't necessarily have to pack your writing with description. Like I've said: don't force a writing style that isn't your own.

Of course, you need a certain amount of imagery to show technique, but it doesn't have to be a sensory overload of poetic metaphors. You can write description without personification, similies etc. And you can make up for that with an extra character, mystery, wit or dialogue.