QCE · Internal Assessment 3
Internal Assessment 3: JOJO abbit monoluge
QCE Internal Assessment 3 essay scoring 95%: [Allied artillery shakes the ruined pavement under a bruised sky. A haze of plaster dust hangs in the air…
[Allied artillery shakes the ruined pavement under a bruised sky. A haze of plaster dust hangs in the air like a poorly managed smoke machine. CAPTAIN K stands amidst the rubble, a tragic anomaly in an absurd, feathered uniform. His cape billows in the wind, and his epaulets drip with hand-stitched sequins.]
Finkel… Finkel! Look at this. Be honest—the sequins on the epaulets? Don’t they give a sort of… tragic elegance to my silhouette? A bit of "end-of-the-world" chic? And look at the way the muzzle flashes glide along the stitching like a piano, the light dancing into the ground. It’s the best lighting we’ve had all season, wouldn't you say?
[He pulls a crumpled list out of his lapel, squinting at it through the grit.]
C’mon Finkel. Up you get. No sitting on the job, we haven’t finished our list. Still three more things to do before the curtain drops and the critics tear us apart. Whaddaya say? One last dignified hurrah for two morons. Finkel and K: The Seelenverwandters. Two stars of a show cancelled by popular demand.
[K turns around, hand extended to pull Finkel up. His smile freezes. His shoulders collapse; the persona evaporates.]
Finkel?
No. No, no… It’s going to be okay. It’s ju-just a nick, Finkel. Just a bit of a costume malfunction. A loose thread. We can… we can stitch it back together.
[K looks down at his trembling hands, now slick with blood. He looks at the sequins, stained dark. Tears swell in his eyes, carving tracks through the dust on his face. He drags himself along the wall, sliding down to sit heavily beside Finkel’s body.]
Right.
[He takes a jagged gulp from his flask.]
Look at this feathered, sequined rubbish we wore to the end of the world. Fancy wrapping on a crushed, empty cardboard box, isn't it? We spent hours on this thing. You nearly punched me because I sewed the sleeve on crooked. Remember? Three bloody hours you made me unpick the entire thing and start again because you thought it "lacked artistic integrity."
Artistic integrity. In a world of concrete and hatred. We spent the last weeks of our lives on these costumes because we thought that if we died looking ridiculous enough, we could forget what we did. In Poland. In Stalingrad. We wore their uniform then. The grey one. The one that didn't have room for feathers. The one that made us look like part of the scenery.
QCE · Internal Assessment 3
Internal Assessment 3: JOJO abbit monoluge
QCE Internal Assessment 3 essay scoring 95%: Going Out in Style Character: Captain K Setting: The ruins of Berlin, 1945. [Allied artillery shakes the…
Going Out in Style
Character: Captain K Setting: The ruins of Berlin, 1945.
[Allied artillery shakes the ruined pavement under a bruised, violet sky. A haze of plaster dust hangs in the air like a poorly managed smoke machine. CAPTAIN K stands amidst the rubble, a tragic anomaly in an absurd, feathered uniform. His cape billows in the wind of a nearby explosion, and his epaulets drip with hand-stitched sequins.]
Finkel… Finkel! Look at this. Be honest—the sequins on the epaulets? Don’t they give a sort of… tragic elegance to my silhouette? A bit of "end-of-the-world" chic? And look at the way the muzzle flashes glide along the stitching like a piano, the light dancing into the ground. It’s the best lighting we’ve had all season, wouldn't you say? Much better than that damp basement in the Ministry.
[He pulls a crumpled list out of his lapel, squinting at it through the grit.]
C’mon Finkel. Up you get. No sitting on the job, we haven’t finished our list. Still three more things to do before the curtain drops and the critics tear us apart. Whaddaya say? One last dignified hurrah for two morons. Finkel and K: The Seelenverwandters. Two stars of a show that’s been cancelled by popular demand.
[K turns around, hand extended to pull Finkel up. His smile freezes. The theatrical mask doesn't just slip—it shatters. K’s shoulders collapse; the persona evaporates.]
Finkel?
No. No, no… It’s going to be okay. It’s ju-just a nick, Finkel. Just a bit of a costume malfunction. A loose thread. We can… we can stitch it back together. I’ve got the needle in my kit, I just…
[K looks down at his trembling hands, now slick with blood. He looks at the sequins, stained dark. Tears swell in his eyes, carving tracks through the dust on his face. He drags himself along the wall, sliding down to sit heavily beside Finkel’s body.]
Right.
[He takes a jagged gulp from his flask, the liquid burning his throat.]
Look at this feathered, sequined rubbish we wore to the end of the world. Fancy wrapping on a crushed, empty cardboard box, isn't it? We spent hours on this thing. You nearly punched me because I sewed the sleeve on crooked. Remember? Three bloody hours you made me unpick the entire thing and start again because you thought it "lacked artistic integrity."
Artistic integrity. In a world of concrete and hatred. We spent the last weeks of our lives on these costumes because we thought that if we died looking ridiculous enough, we could forget what we did. In Poland. In Stalingrad. We wore their uniform then. The grey one. The one that didn't have room for feathers. The one that made us look like part of the scenery while the world screamed.
If we made the end of the war look like some… some fucking cabaret, could we avoid staring at the bloodstains on our boots? We weren’t perfect, Finkel. We got very good at not looking. Very good at stepping over broken glass and pretending it was just diamonds on the road. Very good at hearing screams as background noise, part of the soundtrack. All in the name of a Director who didn’t even value the actors.
QCE · Internal Assessment 3
Internal Assessment 3: Take a Concept/Theme/Idea from the…
QCE Internal Assessment 3 essay scoring 90%: The Glitter Never Washes Off The hotel sink glittered beneath the fluorescent light. Silver particulate…
The Glitter Never Washes Off
The hotel sink glittered beneath the fluorescent light.
Silver particulate clung stubbornly to the porcelain basin in wet constellations, gathering around the drain where water spiralled endlessly in shimmering ribbons. More remained scattered across Celeste’s hands, embedded in the fissures of reddened knuckles, trapped beneath bitten fingernails and caught along the blue veins beneath her wrists like something that had been there long before she noticed.
She scrubbed harder.
The water scalded but her hands kept moving. Steam climbed the mirror in translucent sheets until only fragments remained.
The glitter stayed.
As if it belonged there more than she did.
“Shit,” she mumbled, breathless more than angry.
Outside the bathroom, the hotel suite lay exactly as success was supposed to look. A purple sequined bodysuit had collapsed behind the bed like shed skin, still glittering faintly beneath the amber lamplight. A white rose, left by some executive whose name she had never been given, drooped from a crystal vase beside unopened champagne and melting ice.
She braced herself against the marble counter and finally looked up.
The girl in the mirror looked exhausted in an expensive way. Mascara feathered beneath her eyes and glitter still clung to her cheekbone despite the raw patches where she had scrubbed.
For a moment, she just stared.
The reflection stared back.
Then slowly, mechanically, the girl in the mirror smiled.
The expression arrived with practised precision, before she had decided to make it, her teeth perfect in the anaemic light.
A small breath escaped her throat. Almost a laugh. Almost not.
“God,” she gritted, slamming her fist against the counter.
Under the fluorescent light, the glitter no longer looked celebratory; it looked metallic, sedimentary – something that had been accumulating long before she thought to look.
Water struck the porcelain in sharp, splintering bursts.
Celeste closed her eyes and let the sound of the water fill the silence.
* * * * *
A few hours prior
Backstage was sweltering.
Heat clung to everything – the curtains dividing dressing rooms, the people moving shoulder-to-shoulder, the air thick with hairspray, sweat and overheated lighting rigs. Glitter crowded backstage, dusting countertops and stitched into jackets.
Backstage was a different world entirely – one I had not yet learned to move through without giving myself away.
Dana appeared beside me without warning, still staring down at the tablet in her hands.
“You need bigger energy than Melbourne.”
I nodded automatically.
“Smile more this time,” she added. “You looked nervous.”
She was swallowed back into the noise before I could blink.
I glanced around backstage.
Then I saw her.
Lyra smiled at the room the way someone smiles at something they no longer believe in.
Up close, she was stunning in a way that almost looked exhausting. Glitter still clung so completely to her eyes it looked less like makeup and more like a second skin.
She caught me staring.
“You’re Celeste right?”
I nodded.
“Thought so.”
She leaned on the counter beside me, champagne in one hand.
“First tour?”
“Yeah.”
A small laugh left her as she shook her head.
Lyra slipped a hand into the pocket of her blazer. When she opened her palm something small caught the light.
The capsule shimmered softly beneath the dressing room bulbs – silver dust pressed inside a clear casing like crushed glitter suspended in glass.
“It’s tiny,” Lyra said gently. “It just… takes the edge off. Makes everything quieter.”
For just a moment, Lyra’s expression softened into something that looked almost like guilt. The kind that lives in someone who knows what they’re doing, but decided the alternative is worse.
I swallowed hard, my hand coming up instinctively.
“I don’t really- “
“Come on, take it.”
She pressed her open palm to my chest, turning stricter.
Around us the room continued normally. Makeup brushes against skin, equipment checks, champagne fizzling softly.
Routine.
This was routine.
“Take it,” she ordered, her tone freezing over.
Then she placed the capsule carefully into my hand, like something precious rather than poisoned.
QCE · Internal Assessment 3
Internal Assessment 3: imaginiatie short story from a…
QCE Internal Assessment 3 essay scoring 75%: A single, icy weaved its way through the canopy to strike viciously at my cheek, its path following the…
A single, icy weaved its way through the canopy to strike viciously at my cheek, its path following the contours of my features as it added to the ever-present mire below. Only a few drops now, but I had learned never to think too optimistically. The trench carved by suffering more than shovels. 8 feet of earth held back by mildewed timber, stretching through the horizon, like a lacerated wound, festering with the stench of decay. the floor shifting underfoot, mud threaded with spent cartridges and things I couldn’t describe, the opposite of what was told back home, the exciting scene described a stark contrast to what is was witnessing.
It was here I decided we would not die.
Our choice had overrun us, the way the rot had. A letter to Robert’s wife, thrown back at him for including ‘negative propaganda’. apparently, dislike for the conditions was not allowed.
The plan had been Roberts, desert under the cover of darkness, move through the craters in no man’s land to the gulley 300 meters west, then slip behind the lines. If challenged, we had gone out to recover a wounded man. A story that would hold long enough.
Across from me, Robert stirred, his mud caked khaki-stained brown, corrupted beyond recognition, absorbed into the trench itself. His weary features not from starvation but a longing for home so constant, not even he knew its influence. I had known his face for 3 years, I no longer thought I would recognise it. Hunched in the slowly melting mud sat Grady and will, bent over a tin of rations, sweaty, callused hands prying at the remaining morsels. Three years of war hadn’t broken them, but it had changed its meaning, the last person I would not lie to.
“Alright,” Robert said, rising with agonising slowness, the relentless work of time grinding deep into his bones. “Get up”.
We gathered close, the precipitation of our breath gathered, intertwining our treacherous words tighter.
He said some things but I wasn’t listening, my mind wandering, obscuring his message until his final words.
If they ask what kind of men we are, gaze sinking into the mud, quietening his thoughts. We went back for our own. That’s all they need to know. He paused, that’s all we need to know. the occasional drop had become a steady patter, occupying the trench floor with more authority. The words filtered through my mind like the rain, the realisation permeating into my consciousness. How easily the lie had taken shape, not driven by cowardness, but sheer survival. And that, I thought was the more frightening thing, how quickly survival resembled virtue.
The ground out there is still warm, Robert said, almost to himself. From the ones who went before, the ones who didn’t know. We know that we have to carry that.
No one answered. The betrayal was etched within the silence. This wasn’t honourable, but it was needed, the lie we were told only known by a few. (
Robert took the gripped the rung of the ladder first, palms grasped around mud and bloodstains, boring the handprints of men who never came back. He pulled himself up and over, feet dangling before the darkness enshrouding him, the rain masking his movements as its steady trickle concealed him. I followed.
The world beyond the parapet felt disorienting after months in the trench, the cold rain lashed against my cheek in sharp, relentless needles, each drop striking like ice as it streaked down my neck, the night air thick with the smell of iron and the distant rumble of thunder, rolling through the darkness above, indistinguishable from the artillery. I pressed flat and crawled.
Robert was already in the first crater, crouched low, eyes squinted from the rain.
“Keep your bloody head down,” he hissed. “You’re the brightest thing out here.”
QCE · Internal Assessment 3
Internal Assessment 3: Take an element/concept or theme…
QCE Internal Assessment 3 essay scoring 80%: The Glitter Never Washes Off The hotel sink glittered beneath the fluorescent light. Silver particulate…
The Glitter Never Washes Off
The hotel sink glittered beneath the fluorescent light.
Silver particulate clung stubbornly to the porcelain basin in wet constellations, gathering around the drain where water spiralled endlessly in shimmering ribbons. More remained scattered across Celeste’s hands, embedded in the fissures of reddened knuckles, trapped beneath bitten fingernails and caught along the blue veins beneath her wrists like something that had been there long before she noticed.
She scrubbed harder.
The water scalded but her hands kept moving. Steam climbed the mirror in translucent sheets until only fragments remained.
The glitter stayed.
As if it belonged there more than she did.
“Shit,” she mumbled, breathless more than angry.
Outside the bathroom, the hotel suite lay exactly as success was supposed to look. A purple sequined bodysuit had collapsed behind the bed like shed skin, still glittering faintly beneath the amber lamplight. A white rose, left by some executive whose name she had never been given, drooped from a crystal vase beside unopened champagne and melting ice.
She braced herself against the marble counter and finally looked up.
The girl in the mirror looked exhausted in an expensive way. Mascara feathered beneath her eyes and glitter still clung to her cheekbone despite the raw patches where she had scrubbed.
For a moment, she just stared.
The reflection stared back.
Then slowly, mechanically, the girl in the mirror smiled.
The expression arrived with practised precision, before she had decided to make it, her teeth perfect in the anaemic light.
A small breath escaped her throat. Almost a laugh. Almost not.
“God,” she gritted, slamming her fist against the counter.
Under the fluorescent light, the glitter no longer looked celebratory; it looked metallic, sedimentary – something that had been accumulating long before she thought to look.
Water struck the porcelain in sharp, splintering bursts.
Celeste closed her eyes and let the sound of the water fill the silence.
* * * * *
A few hours prior
Backstage was sweltering.
Heat clung to everything – the curtains dividing dressing rooms, the people moving shoulder-to-shoulder, the air thick with hairspray, sweat and overheated lighting rigs. Glitter crowded backstage, dusting countertops and stitched into jackets.
Backstage was a different world entirely – one I had not yet learned to move through without giving myself away.
Dana appeared beside me without warning, still staring down at the tablet in her hands.
“You need bigger energy than Melbourne.”
I nodded automatically.
“Smile more this time,” she added. “You looked nervous.”
She was swallowed back into the noise before I could blink.
I glanced around backstage.
Then I saw her.
Lyra smiled at the room the way someone smiles at something they no longer believe in.
Up close, she was stunning in a way that almost looked exhausting. Glitter still clung so completely to her eyes it looked less like makeup and more like a second skin.
She caught me staring.
“You’re Celeste right?”
I nodded.
“Thought so.”
She leaned on the counter beside me, champagne in one hand.
“First tour?”
“Yeah.”
A small laugh left her as she shook her head.
Lyra slipped a hand into the pocket of her blazer. When she opened her palm something small caught the light.
The capsule shimmered softly beneath the dressing room bulbs – silver dust pressed inside a clear casing like crushed glitter suspended in glass.
“It’s tiny,” Lyra said gently. “It just… takes the edge off. Makes everything quieter.”
For just a moment, Lyra’s expression softened into something that looked almost like guilt. The kind that lives in someone who knows what they’re doing, but decided the alternative is worse.
I swallowed hard, my hand coming up instinctively.
“I don’t really- “
“Come on, take it.”
She pressed her open palm to my chest, turning stricter.
Around us the room continued normally. Makeup brushes against skin, equipment checks, champagne fizzling softly.
Routine.
This was routine.
“Take it,” she ordered, her tone freezing over.
Then she placed the capsule carefully into my hand, like something precious rather than poisoned.