Passage A

(This is taken from a short story of realism)

I don’t mean they were scary like they’d hit you on the head with a brick and run off with your lunch money, or that sort of thing.  They were scary to me because they were really, sort of, glamorous – you know?  They were really good looking, for a start, and they looked older and trendier than anyone else.  And they knew things.  They knew how things were done. I mean, on day one at high school we all turned up with shiny black clodhopper shoes, and skirts down to our knees and white school shirts from Grace Brothers, and everything.  And somehow or other they’d known in advance they’d get away with black canvas shoes and big white T-shirts from the markets, and school skirts hitched half-way up their thighs, and they’d come along looking really smooth. I mean, even if I’d known about how to make the uniform look trendy, Mum wouldn’t have let me do it.  Not on the first day.  Not in a fit.
                        (Rodda, E. Zelda in Dreamtime, p.107)

Passage B

(This is taken from a novel of fantasy)

‘What is the meaning of this?’ asked the Witch Queen. Nobody answered.
‘Speak, vermin!’ she said again.  ‘Or do you want my dwarf to find you a tongue with his whip?  What is the meaning of all this gluttony, this waste, this self-indulgence?  Where did you get all these things?’

‘Please, your Majesty,’ said the Fox, ‘we were given them.  And if I might make so bold as to drink your Majesty’s very health –‘
‘Who gave them to you?’ said the Witch.
‘F-F-F-Father Christmas,’ stammered the Fox.
‘What?’ roared the Witch, springing from the sledge and taking a few strides nearer to the terrified animals.  ‘He has not been here!  He cannot have been here!  How dare you – but no.  Say you have been lying and you shall even now be forgiven.’

At that moment one of the young squirrels lost its head completely.

‘He has – he has – he has!’ it squeaked, beating its little spoon on the table.  Edmund saw the Witch bite her lips so that a drop of blood appeared on her white cheek.  Then she raised her wand. ‘Oh, don’t, don’t, please don’t,’ shouted Edmund, but even while he was shouting she had waved her wand and instantly where the merry party had been there were only statues of creatures (one with its stone fork fixed forever half-way to its stone mouth) seated round a stone table on which there were stone plates and a stone plum pudding.
                        (Lewis, C.S.: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, pp.106-7)

Passage C

(This is taken from an historical novel)

Then he chanced to look at the road, and as he looked, a strange figure appeared over the brow of the hill and came striding along it in their direction.  He was a tatterdemalion creature: green and grey and russet rags fluttered about him, and he carried a long staff in his hand, and walked with a strange free lilt that made Hugh think of a wild animal.

“Look!’ said Hugh.  “There’s someone queer coming along the road.  He’s not a Tom-o’-Bedlam, is he?’

Everybody sat up and looked, and Jonathan said, ‘No.  I do believe it’s a pilgrim of some sort.  You don’t see many of them nowadays.’

‘And he’s coming to join us,’ said Master Pennifeather.  ‘We are honoured, my masters!’

The stranger had turned off the road and was coming across the turf; and as he drew nearer they saw that his skin was brown as a ripe hazelnut, and his long hair as white as the seed-silk of the traveller’s joy – though he did not seem old – and his eyes a strange dancing green.  He had a leather scrip tied to his girdle, and a cockleshell in his broad-brimmed hat and a dried palm on his shoulder, and so many little bright pewter figures of saints fastened to his hat and his ragged cloak that he chimed and jingled faintly as he walked.
                        (Sutcliff, R. :Brother Dusty-Feet, p.56)

Passage D

(This is taken from a book of the realism genre)

He shook his head and spent an uncomfortable night on the makeshift mattress.  He didn’t leave the house on Monday. Dreamed of the nameless girl, wondered where Sarah’s plane had taken her and sweated for them both.  Slept.  Woke dehydrated.  By evening he’d found a way to contain the folded blankets so that they didn’t move out of shape under his body.  Small improvements.  Aunt Beryl won on the pokies again and shouted them to fish and chips at the bowls club.  “MONDAY NIGHT ALL YOU CAN EAT,” said the sign.  All three Matts took the invitation seriously.

On Tuesday morning Carl lathered himself in 15+, found a cap at the bottom of the knapsack and declared himself ready to search for the girl on the beach again. He stepped into the sunshine and made it as far as the gutter before a police car drew up, blocking his path.
“Are you Harley Matt?”  The driver leaned forward to make himself visible through the passenger window.
“No. I’m Carl.  Harley’s my brother.”
“Where is he?”
“Around some place.  He’s got a BMX.  What do you want him for?”
“Get in.  You can help me find him.”
                        (Moloney, J.:A Bridge to Wiseman’s Cove, pp.21-2)