Day 2 Writing Homework
Writing Prompt:
Write a narrative that explores a character’s journey through a physically demanding activity
Please upload your homework as a comment below:
- Due Date : July 17, 2025
- Feedback will be shared in 3-5 days
Writing Prompt:
Write a narrative that explores a character’s journey through a physically demanding activity
Please upload your homework as a comment below:
7 thoughts on “Day 2 Writing Homework”
Nico’s Adventure to the End
In the tranquil village of Dorm, Nico White, a 12-year-old boy embarked on a perilous adventure. There was a rumor about reaching the end of the world, which held the Diamond of Legends in a mysterious and eerie cave. Unfortunately, his physical appearance did not suit his adventurous personality. Nico was forgetful, timid, and certainly quite short for his age. With a heavy backpack and sword in his right hand, he set out into the wilderness.
As Nico adventured into the wild, the sun set, and night approached him. He looked at his map and it warned him that he was about to reach a cliff with a very steep drop. He peered in front of him and beneath the cliff was a river that was flowing as fast as plane with many jagged, crooked sharp rocks protruding out of it like teeth. Nico’s heartbeat became faster, and his skin turned pale. But when he looked behind him, there was a tall tree-with wood perfect for building a bridge. Nico simply cut down the tree with his axe, made a bridge with the planks and walked across.
After hours of exploration, every single muscle in Nico’s body ached and his parched tongue begged for water. Suddenly, he saw a colossal mountain as tall as a skyscraper appeared before his eyes. Somehow he was convinced that this mountain housed the diamond. As he came closer to the mountain, he saw a beastly ogre guarding the entrance, who was nine feet tall. Nico whimpered and felt insignificant compared to the ferocious and monstrous ogre.
It was then that the ogre spotted Nico and knocked him onto the ground. Blood dripped from Nico’s mouth and bruise appeared at the back of his head. The ogre boomed, “Do you dare to challenge me?” Nico’s heart exploded with rage. He stood back up, but the ogre knocked him back to the ground with such force that trees collapsed and roofs of caves collapsed. Nico lost all hope of finding the diamond at that very moment.
Just at that moment, a faint light came out of the cave’s mouth. Nico struggled to his feet and sneaked past the ogre while it was bragging about how powerful it was. He made it to the cave and found a chest. Inside the chest was the diamond and fresh fruit to give him the energy to defeat the ogre. Stuffing his mouth with banana and apples, Nico then crept quietly out of the cave, ran to the ogre with his iron sword and knocked it down. Then he ran away from the ogre as fast as he could, not looking back. Nico learnt that no matter how small physically he was, he could still achieve remarkable things.
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Y4_D2 – Astrid
Whispers in the Attic
The tin lid creaked open with a reluctant sigh, revealing a faded photograph, a tiny silver key, and a bundle of letters tied with fraying string. Holly’s breath hitched. “It’s… her,” she whispered, holding up the photo. A woman in a stiff uniform stared out, unsmiling, her eyes hollow with secrets. “That’s Ms. Winters.”
“No way,” muttered Naveed, leaning closer. “But she looks… exactly the same.”
I took one of the letters. The handwriting was spidery and slanted. April 1944. I cannot keep this hidden much longer. If they find it—
A loud thud echoed beneath the floorboards. We froze.
“That came from downstairs,” I whispered. The silence that followed was louder than thunder.
Holly shoved the letters into her backpack. “We’re not leaving without answers.”
Reluctantly, we moved deeper into the attic. The shadows seemed to press in closer, the air tighter with every step. Then, a door I hadn’t noticed before appeared on the far wall—half-rotted, its handle rusted.
The silver key trembled in my fingers.
It slid in with a soft click.
Beyond it, a narrow staircase spiraled down into darkness.
“I don’t think this is part of the school,” Naveed breathed.
“Maybe it never was,” said Holly, stepping forward.
The wind outside had stopped. No rain. No sound. Just the soft rustle of old letters in Holly’s bag, and the distant tick of a clock that didn’t seem to belong in our time.
We had opened something far older than a lunchbox.
And it was waiting.
The staircase groaned under our weight as we descended, the wooden steps sagging like they hadn’t held a soul in decades. The deeper we went, the colder it grew—sharp, unnatural, like the air itself was watching us.
At the bottom, the narrow corridor opened into a hidden room.
Old gas lamps flickered to life as we stepped in—on their own.
The walls were lined with shelves of preserved artifacts: ration books, wax-sealed bottles, and a cracked radio humming faintly with static. In the center stood a writing desk, and on it, a worn leather journal lay open—its last entry still wet, ink fresh.
“They’re coming. I can hear them scratching at the walls. If I vanish, tell my story. Let them know she was never one of us.”
“Who wrote this?” Naveed whispered.
Holly ran her fingers over the page. “It’s signed by Eleanor Fields. That’s… the girl from the photo. The one with Ms. Winters.”
A low creak echoed behind us.
We spun.
Ms. Winters stood in the doorway, but she wasn’t… right. Her shadow stretched too long across the floor. Her eyes didn’t reflect light. And though her mouth didn’t move, we heard her voice.
“You weren’t supposed to find this.”
My breath caught. “What are you?”
She stepped forward, face unchanged since the photo, voice like dry leaves. “I kept the truth buried. I kept the curse contained.”
“But the key—” I began.
“That key opened more than a door,” she said, and suddenly the walls of the room shimmered, bending and warping. The shelves cracked, the radio whined. Something behind the brick walls began to stir.
“Now,” she whispered, “you have to finish what Eleanor started.”
Then the lamps all blew out.
And the real whispers began.
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Y4_D2 – Ellie
There was a cold clarity in the mountain air that morning, the kind that stripped away pretense. Mara tightened the straps of her pack and stared up at the ridge line, where the snow was already blowing sideways. The trailhead sign read “Summit Ridge Trail – 14.7 miles” in faded lettering, and below it, in red: “Difficult. Expert hikers only.”
She had never considered herself an expert. But here she was, boots worn, body lean, and hands calloused from months of preparation. The idea had come in the aftermath of her divorce, somewhere between empty boxes and nights spent lying awake listening to silence. She had needed something to conquer — something real.
By mile three, the forest was already thinning. Her thighs burned from the climb, and sweat gathered under her wool layers. The wind spoke in groans through the pine trees, reminding her how far she was from anyone or anything. Her phone was off. This was supposed to be unfiltered, uninterrupted.
She pressed on.
By mile seven, the trail became a scramble — narrow switchbacks and loose shale, each step a test of balance. Her breath came hard and ragged, fogging the air. She slipped once, catching herself with a scraped palm, blood beading in the cold. She laughed dryly. “Good,” she muttered, “still awake.”
At mile ten, snow began to fall. The flakes were large and silent, erasing her boot prints as fast as she made them. The summit was still out of view, hidden behind jagged teeth of stone. Her calves cramped. She chewed on frozen trail mix and stared at the whiteness, wondering if this was bravery or just her own kind of madness.
Then came the whiteout.
The trail disappeared beneath her. Wind howled like something alive. She hunkered down beneath a boulder, hands trembling from cold and fear. The mountain didn’t care about her reasons for coming. It didn’t care about her grief or her rage. It offered only one question: Can you keep going?
She closed her eyes. In the darkness behind her lids, she saw the last time she cried — really cried. On the floor of her kitchen, back against the dishwasher, still wearing her wedding ring like a wound. She saw herself standing again. Packing. Training. Walking through forests alone until the weight of silence stopped feeling like loss and started feeling like space.
She stood up.
Each step after that was a small rebellion. Against pain. Against the voice in her head that whispered “you can’t.” The wind screamed. Her muscles burned. She climbed.
At the summit, there was nothing grand — just gray sky and a brutal wind and an empty cairn stacked by other fools like her. But Mara stood there with her arms outstretched, tears freezing on her cheeks, and laughed.
Not because it was over. But because she had made it.
And for the first time in years, she felt weightless.
There was a cold clarity in the mountain air that morning, the kind that stripped away pretense. Mara tightened the straps of her pack and stared up at the ridge line, where the snow was already blowing sideways. The trailhead sign read “Summit Ridge Trail – 14.7 miles” in faded lettering, and below it, in red: “Difficult. Expert hikers only.”
She had never considered herself an expert. But here she was, boots worn, body lean, and hands calloused from months of preparation. The idea had come in the aftermath of her divorce, somewhere between empty boxes and nights spent lying awake listening to silence. She had needed something to conquer — something real.
By mile three, the forest was already thinning. Her thighs burned from the climb, and sweat gathered under her wool layers. The wind spoke in groans through the pine trees, reminding her how far she was from anyone or anything. Her phone was off. This was supposed to be unfiltered, uninterrupted.
She pressed on.
By mile seven, the trail became a scramble — narrow switchbacks and loose shale, each step a test of balance. Her breath came hard and ragged, fogging the air. She slipped once, catching herself with a scraped palm, blood beading in the cold. She laughed dryly. “Good,” she muttered, “still awake.”
At mile ten, snow began to fall. The flakes were large and silent, erasing her boot prints as fast as she made them. The summit was still out of view, hidden behind jagged teeth of stone. Her calves cramped. She chewed on frozen trail mix and stared at the whiteness, wondering if this was bravery or just her own kind of madness.
Then came the whiteout.
The trail disappeared beneath her. Wind howled like something alive. She hunkered down beneath a boulder, hands trembling from cold and fear. The mountain didn’t care about her reasons for coming. It didn’t care about her grief or her rage. It offered only one question: Can you keep going?
She closed her eyes. In the darkness behind her lids, she saw the last time she cried — really cried. On the floor of her kitchen, back against the dishwasher, still wearing her wedding ring like a wound. She saw herself standing again. Packing. Training. Walking through forests alone until the weight of silence stopped feeling like loss and started feeling like space.
She stood up.
Each step after that was a small rebellion. Against pain. Against the voice in her head that whispered “you can’t.” The wind screamed. Her muscles burned. She climbed.
At the summit, there was nothing grand — just gray sky and a brutal wind and an empty cairn stacked by other fools like her. But Mara stood there with her arms outstretched, tears freezing on her cheeks, and laughed.
Not because it was over. But because she had made it.
And for the first time in years, she felt weightless.
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Y4_D2 – Thomas