Writing on Historical Themes

History As A Stimulus For Writing

 Studying the past produces limitless writing opportunities. 

Children will be excited by history if it is presented to them in exciting ways, with strong, significant characters and high drama.  People in the past ate and drank, they breathed air and blood ran through their veins. They laughed and sang and danced and cried. They were emotional people, just as we are.  But for a fluke of nature, we would have lived in the 16th century and not the 21st. Literacy links comfortably with history, and when the two are combined, it is equally enjoyable for teachers and their children, in their respective roles. Writing on a historical theme needs good teacher stimulus, which may involve a visit, a local event from the past, use of video or artifacts. Some research will certainly be needed so the children have a good understanding of the period they are writing about and to ensure that their work is historically accurate. A high level of empathy will be required so the children have a real feeling about people and events, but this is only achieved by skillful questioning on the teacher’s part, sowing seeds of ideas in the children’s minds. 

Kayleigh’s Dursley’s emotive piece ‘The Blitz’, followed a school visit to the Eden Camp museum in North Yorkshire, where the exhibits gave her the images, sounds and atmosphere of a night time bombing raid on London.

The Blitz

Terrified people wake restlessly from their troubled sleep, only to hear another screaming air raid siren. As they run through the blazing street, an old man is groaning his last words underneath the burning rubble. A petrified little girl clutches her smoke stained teddy, listening to a burst water pipe beside her. Perplexing memories surround the smoke-smothered town of London. Tall houses now are tiny sculptures. A hand underneath a pile of rubble tenses, and then drops. Another person feared dead. Over two million lives already lost. How many more?Hundreds of bombers droned the air. People cover their ears, as the noise is dreadful. Dispatch riders patrol the streets, constantly running to their ambulance base, to inform the nurses of the horrific injuries they’d seen. A young man lies on a kitchen table with a large block of wood in his back. A family of rats surround a dead cat, feeding on morsels of open flesh wounds. A small boy refuses to come out from under the stairs. He was crying, making little channels of water, through his blood stained face.

Bombs like dragons breathing fire continuously, burning objects in its path to a crisp. An old lady hangs out the window, passing a baby to the fireman below, before falling to her death. The thick, black smoke wrapped itself around London, like a huge Anaconda. A smashed wireless buzzes away, but is heard by no one for the screams of dying town people. The A.R.P. wardens comfort the casualties of dreadful destruction. A tiny baby lies on a bedside table, covered in blood stained shirts.

Bombers still hovered over-head, dropping about a hundred bombs an hour. The magnificent town of London was fast becoming a massive pile of rubble. A huge piece of wood crushed a beautiful pot doll. Her dress was made of white velvet and lace. A small girl ran after it crying “Lucy!” she carefully picked the doll up and ran to her mother.

At last silence, the skies are empty, the noise of the all clear siren rings around the city.

The Morning of Waiting

I cast my eyes on the monster above me. The beautiful building towered above me making me feel like an ant. Two hundred and fifty years of hard work lay before my weary eyes. I had travelled quite a way to see the great structure being opened. Layers of arches built up on top of each other completed my view. The grand opening was due to take place at around midday by our King, Edward IV. The illuminating sun was just rising above the huge central tower. Weird shaped gargoyles protect the Minster from the devil’s evil spirits. Carefully carved statues of our kings jut out from the edge. My mind was swirling with thoughts as I gazed up at the majestic rose window. The pinky colours glimmered as the sun took its place in the orangey sky. The huge circular rose window loomed down on me as the crowds begun to gather.

I was quietly praying that this Minster wouldn’t be ruined by fire. A stale odour of meat hung lazily in the air as a cool breeze blew in from the stinking fleshammels. The busy hubbub of the centre of York was growing quickly. Already I was amazed at my first visit to York Minster. On the cobbled streets there was a scattering of dust, blown on from the Minster itself.

The powerful sun was now in full glory as midday drew nearer. A bony, leafless tree, marked the middle of a cold blustery autumn. Today’s weather was a complete change to the rest of the autumn. A meat cart rumbled by, it’s wheels rattling fragilely on the pebbled streets. Most of the people were waiting to hear the deep tone of Big Peter, Europe’s largest bell.

“His majesty’s here!” croaked an old man at the front of the crowd.

A clearing was made for our king, Edward IV. As if out of nowhere, Edward appeared. He strode through the crowd, pushing his chest out with pride. His ruffled beard wafted in the breeze. He gasped a sigh of disbelief as he looked up at the magnificent structure. His cheeks were a cheerful rosy red and he stank of mouldly ale. I couldn’t believe Edward IV was before me. He was led up to the doors and he placed his scarred hands on the handles.

Big Peter rang. Its deep voice boomed all around York, to mark this historic occasion. The King retained his grip on the handles and flung the doors open. Gasps of delight arose as the first of many people surged in to the Minster.

Slowly I paced in, not knowing what was in store for me.

By Fiona P

A Medieval Shambles

As I approached the fleshammels, the familiar smell of animal flesh wafted through the air. I wrinkled my nose until I was used to the smell, then began to tramp to the entrance of the little street. My feet picked their way over the uneven cobbled ground. The coarse brown material of my long tattered dress swished around my cold ankles as I walked. The dirty ground stained my shoes, each which consisted of a thick piece of material. Suddenly a small herd of filthy pigs stampeded past me and on down the street. They paused now and then and let their grubby snouts wander through the remains of animals rotting corpses. Rusty hooks were buried deep into the rotting wooden beams, which overhung from the tops of the windows. Huge joints of fresh meat were suspended from the strong hooks. Blood trickled down the meat and splattered onto the ground. People pushed and shoved, determined to reach their destination. I strode over a small pool of murky water and focused on a small piece of meat, which was on display on a wooden shelf beneath the window. Flies swarmed around the heap of meat. A hubbub of voices filled the air. The plaster on some of the shop walls was stained with smudges of grey. I peered through the open wooden shutters. A strong odour caught my nose. I pulled away quickly. The butchers’ shops leaned haphazardly towards the cobbled street. I slowly traipsed down the street and as I did, I felt as though the shops were closing in on me. The sound of more pigs grunting mingled with the general noise the humans made. Heavy wooden doors were implanted in each of the low doorways. Small door knobs provided the way to enter the little shops. Suddenly, a woman dressed in a shaggy torn dress and a starched white apron, tramped out of a shop further down the street. She was struggling with a bucket made from tough leather. Murky dirty water sploshed over the side as she walked. Wisps of straggly brown hair were plastered to the woman’s sweaty forehead. Little beads of sweat trickled down as she struggled with the bucket. Then, without warning, the woman tipped the contents of the bucket over the uneven floor. The filthy water hit the ground forcefully, sending innocent passers-by into a sorry state. Trickles of water sidled along in the nooks and crannies of the cobbled ground. Ragged curtains fluttered behind the rickety houses’ shutters. A group of chickens clucked and screeched as they strode down the street, flapping their feathery wings. I hurried along, as the grey sky threatened rain. My feet felt sore as I walked toward the end of the dirty street and to my home. The harsh wind gusted through the narrow street and up behind me as I scurried away from the fleshammels.