An example written by Academy11+
The Lighthouse Key
About 466 words. Numbers link to the notes.
Crash!1 The shed door slammed shut behind me and the torch flickered, then died. Somewhere in the darkness, something metal clattered onto the floor.
When my eyes got used to the gloom, I spotted it glinting between two paint tins: a heavy iron key, as long as my hand, with a tiny lighthouse carved into its handle2. A brown luggage label hung from it on a piece of string. In faded, spidery writing it said: Rock Point. Low tide only.3
Everyone in Pennick knew Rock Point lighthouse. It stood on a jagged island of black rocks at the end of the bay, its white paint peeling like sunburnt skin4. Nobody had been inside for thirty years. At low tide, a narrow path of slippery stones appeared, linking it to the beach for about an hour. Then the sea swallowed it again.
'We can't,' whispered my little brother Sam when I showed him. But his eyes were shining. I checked Gran's tide chart on the fridge. Low tide: 2:15pm. It was 1:50.5
The path was worse than I had imagined. Seaweed, slimy as cold spaghetti, coated every stone, and twice Sam's trainers skidded out from under him. Gulls screamed overhead as if they were warning us to turn back.6 At last, breathless, we reached the rusty door. I pushed the key into the lock. It wouldn't turn. I twisted harder, gritting my teeth, until – clunk – the door groaned open7.
Inside, a spiral staircase wound up into the shadows. We climbed and climbed (Sam counted ninety-seven steps before he gave up)8 until we burst into the lamp room at the top. Sunlight poured through the dusty glass. In the middle of the floor sat a small wooden chest.
My hands were trembling as I lifted the lid. There was no gold, no jewels – just9 a bundle of letters tied with ribbon and a black-and-white photograph of a young man in a keeper's uniform. He had Gran's smile. 'It's Grandad,' Sam breathed.
Then I glanced out of the window and my stomach dropped10. The path had vanished. Grey waves were already sloshing over the stones.
We flew down the stairs, the chest clutched to my chest. Water swirled around our ankles, then our knees, icy and pulling. I gripped Sam's hand so tightly it hurt. Step. Slip. Step.11 When we finally staggered onto the sand, soaked and shaking, Gran was standing there with her arms folded.
I was sure we were in the worst trouble of our lives. Instead, she looked at the photograph and her eyes filled with tears. 'I've been waiting a long time for someone to bring him home,' she said softly.
That night, the key hung on a hook by the fire. And every time I looked at it, I could almost hear the sea12.