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Our text driver is The Wonder Garden

Using The Wonder Garden as our stimulus we wrote a new chapter about the amazing Yellowstone National Park.

Below are pages containing a range of writing from home and school based on images.

We imagined what it looks like inside the boathouse.

As I stepped inside the hall, the fragrance of candles wafted up my nose and the sensation of carrot soup settled on my taste buds. It felt welcoming. There were three rooms. A living room to the right, a kitchen on the left and finally a door to the bedroom at the very end. As I led myself into the living room, the sound of the crackling log fire comforted me. Tucked away in the corner was a chest of draws and more fragrance candles rested on top of it. The kitchen was colder than the rest of the house but was still nice enough. In the centre was a table with three chairs and behind that was the cooker. At the far end of the room was a cupboard and a pile of dishes littered the top. Last but not least, I was entering the bedroom, small but comfortable. A creaky, iron double bed was positioned in the corner. Yet a pile of cushions were laid neatly with a blanket on top. I could see a perfect house right before my eyes.

As I stepped through the wooden front door, I was surprised to see such a warm and cosy interior. To my left, there was a fire burning, Logs crackling on the open fire. There was some soft seating and a small dining table with four high back chairs. There was an oil lamp on the table.

Straight in front of me was a small stove with a black kettle beside it. There was a delicious smell of something tasty coming from the cooking pot. I saw an airing rack hanging from the ceiling. The floor was wooden with a red rug in front of the fireplace. To my right there was a small hallway that led to two bedrooms. The bedrooms were off white, and had colourful handmade patchwork quilts on top of the beds. The rooms were small but cosy. It is peaceful and quiet in the fisherman's cottage but I could hear the crashing waves from the sea.
The house was one big room with a small splintered wooden staircase against the dull wall at the back. One side of the room cornered off, as a small wooden kitchen above it were sanded wooden beams and above that, a thatched roof. The staircase led up to a small dusty bedroom with a bed parched against the side, from the other side of the bedroom you looked down into the kitchen and it’s cramped, broken feeling. At the bottom of the stairs was the rest of the house, which spread to the outskirts of the kitchen. This was the living room and in the corner of it stood a small tin fire and bucket. The floor was dusty and old which matched the walls perfectly. Surrounding the fire was a big chipped wooden rocking chair and small table with the remains of sewing sat on them. Behind was a large rough wooden table and chairs, which held round plump clay bowls in front of the chairs, everything felt cramped and worn out but the fire always felt cosy.

As I opened the door I found the strangest illusion ever. The house. Instead of a 1 room tiny home it was a palace filled with gold and diamonds and rubies. Each bedroom was the size of a normal house. It was all connected by one humongous hall. It was impossible to get around. Then the living room. Glorious. Chairs as comfy as a sheep's wool. Then the crown jewel of the room. The bookshelf. it covered an entire wall and was 10x the size of a library . I still had one question though. Why from the outside did it look like a boring shack?

The house was...different. It didn’t feel spooky or anything, it was just odd. It felt familiar. Not creepily familiar like in books, but nicely familiar, like home. As I opened the front door, I saw an old, dusty room filled with long forgotten antiques. A grandfather clock stood silently in the back corner, eyeing us curiously. There were tall, spruce doors to the left and right and in the centre of the room lay a beautiful carpet. It was all dim colours: dark red, mustard yellow and black, yet it seemed to make the entire room sing.

 

I made my way through the door to the left and realized how different each room in the house was to another. This was a small room and it wore a cloak of gold and silver. Everywhere I looked, I could see my face through an incredibly valuable mirror. On the back wall, there was a king sized, yellow bed. Accompanying it was a bedside table of the same dark wood as the walls of the first room. Upon the table, was a lamp with an intricately patterned red shade surrounding it. There was a golden alarm clock and a silver pocket watch with the initials RWJ on the back. I stuffed the watch in my pocket and went to see where the right door led to…

 

A cupboard, brilliant.

As I stepped inside the boat-like house my body was enclosed with warm salty air that rippled through my nose and sent shivers slithering down my spine. I took a deep gulp and the taste of cooked meat danced on my tongue. I gazed around my surroundings taking it all in, the staircase spiraling up, the fireplace glowing, sparking flames springing from within. And the kitchen. A small heated oven sat rumbling beneath a stove, crackling bacon sizzling from within a black pan. The taps above the basin lined with rust spurted out water. Drip. Drip. A single wooden chair had been placed down motionless staring up at an oak table one lonely  plate perched upon it. I took a step forward and a floorboard creaked almost giving way under my shoes. At the far end of this white walled corridor was a bathroom, the walls peeling away with age, the toilet dusty and the sink tilted. I looked over at Ham.
I slowly walked through the asymmetrical door. As my brain took the information in my heart fell. It was hideous. One tiny room. A small, torn carpet lay at my feet, on top of bent creaking floorboards. A rugged sofa was positioned opposite the door and a low table next to it. It was just as cold in here as it was outside, the wind whistled eerily around my feet. I was shivering, despite the tiny flames licking around the front of the miniscule fireplace. The house - if you could call it that - was leaning against the wooden shed outside, so it seemed like you were standing on a steep hill. Part of the roof was destroyed, letting in an icy rain. Lightning flashed and rain lashed  down. A clap of thunder. The house shook as the noise reverberated around it . Half the window panes were smashed, therefore a bitter wind bit at our faces.

However old, run-down and peculiar the exterior of the house was, the inside was worse. The door led straight into the narrow hallway, which had mould growing from every available surface, save the paintings, which had dark green moss almost covering them. In the living room a fireplace that looked like it hadn’t been burning for a hundred years sat in the corner, and beside it squatted a rotting wooden bucket that once held firewood. Apart from that and an old rocking chair the living room was empty. The mould couldn’t seem to penetrate the living room, but the kitchen had been overrun with the stuff. It crawled up the walls and invaded the larder, which was a nest for mould, moss and disease. The stench was incredible. The last room was the bedroom, which the mould and moss also seemed to avoid. The plaster was peeling off the walls and the beds were but a mangled mess of springs and cotton on the floor.

 A few rays of sunlight shone through the battered window and onto the dusty floor. It revealed an array of strange ornaments, broken fishing gear and other clutter. In one corner of the boat-shaped house stood a stove that emmeted an appalling smokey stench. I gagged as soon as the smell reached my unfortunate nose. Across the room of a house was a small, dirty sofa. On it layed dozens of books, covering a variety of subjects all linked to the sea. Fishing, marine life, boats and many others. The whole room looked like no one had lived for decades. It was only because of the burning stove that endlessly bellowed out smoke that I knew this place was inhabited.

I pushed the door open. It creaked as it’s unoiled hinge grinded against its counterpart. Strewn across the floor of the vessel were numerous necrose and festering fish, flies picking at their corpses. The aeolian music of the wind blew through the door, blowing with it a cluster of sand. I stepped forward, and the chink of breaking glass greeted my ears. I stared solemnly down, and saw the remains of a quaint drinking vessel, broken like a thousand promises broken like the very earth it was lying upon. It was a pitiful sight to behold. On gazing at the mantelpiece, I saw several damp and musty books, spores sprouting from it’s pages, harried from many years of existence. There was a sombre feel to the room. Drips of rain fell through the thatched roof, and sunlight dappled through the fractured oak panels of the wall.

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