VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: the quiet shift
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 95%: The concert hall reeked of quiet adolescence. The air filled with the humming of the tuning of strings and the…
The concert hall reeked of quiet adolescence. The air filled with the humming of the tuning of strings and the whispers of anxious teachers advising their students. I take my seat in number 16 quietly; back straight, chin up, every movement deliberate as if I am an artwork on display. I have unconsciously shifted from a living person, to merely an artwork.
I think back to my art teacher’s monotonous spiel last week in class; one thing she mentioned has lingered at the back of my mind ever since. As Leonardo Da Vinci constructed the Mona Lisa, he asserted that, “Details make perfection, and perfection is not a detail.”
I sit, violin in hand, thinking about the details of my performance; myself, prim and proper, my bowing, smooth and articulated. My music must copy Da Vinci’s brushstroke when painting the Mona Lisa.
As the order of contestants is announced at the lectern, my thoughts flurry about, colours and music notes quietly shifting through my mind as my feet anxiously taps against the timber floor. Leonardo Da Vinci has spent 16 years painting her, carefully burying the details of pencil markings, mistakes and hours of work poured into her fragile canvas. As I stare at my music, I examine the rubbed out notes above each bar, reminders of my past failures I have shifted away from since practice; my bow reek of rosin and anxiety as I find myself wiping my strings with a cloth, erasing any traces of residue. Each minute detail culminates towards my performance, quietly shifting towards perfection.
I think of the Mona Lisa again, trapped in her frame, whilst her identity shifts from being unique to being dissolved beneath the painted brushtrokes. I cannot help but wonder if Da Vinci’ muse herself, remembered only for her perfect smile, ever felt the weight of her facade.
Growing up as the eldest daughter, I learned to do the same. I wear Mona Lisa’s smile, a facade of flawlessness, quietly shifting myself to present what others want to see, combatting expectations after expectations with intense study, endless practices and the overarching desire to perform. Once flowing and free, my violin has shifted from an interest to my instrument of ambition, orchestrating my pursuit of perfectionism as the soaring melodies I once played now shifted to resemble a funeral march towards stoic excellence.
Each violin lesson remains imprinted on my mind, metaphysical reminders of the hours spent away from friends. I was confined within the jail cell of musical excellence as I fought to keep up the facade that has been chosen for me. My violin teacher would halt me mid-breath, isolating a single note until satisfied. One by one, the phrases were dissected and reassembled until they all shifted towards what the composer had intended, and the person who first picked up the bow is entirely obscured beneath the painted brushstrokes.
“And first up, we have—”
The voice cut through my thoughts, dragging me back into the present. Here, the air is heavy with the scent of rosin and the suffocating weight of hundreds of held breaths. One by one, performers quietly take the stage, each shift with the same quiet tension. Their playing is flawless, polished until it gleams with a horrifying, hollow perfection.
I can almost see him. Leonardo, hunched over his canvas in the flicker of candlelight. His meticulous anatomical sketches drove a desperate need to replicate the tiniest details, even the muscle of a smile. Shackled to fame, he is unable to afford the luxury of a smile, nor allow a single detail tarnish his name. His masterpiece affirms his brilliance, just as every note I play must affirm mine. Not sure when, but I have quietly shifted, and now we are not so different, I realise.
My name is called.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Framework: Country Title: "my place"…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 77.5%: Moving to the coast was an escape. An escape from the life I had before, almost as if I broke free from the…
Moving to the coast was an escape. An escape from the life I had before, almost as if I broke free from the person I left behind in that small country town. I often find myself sitting on the balcony, legs restless, dangling over the ledge as I watched the waves, mesmerized by the ocean’s restless rhythm. I listen; for the water, for the seagulls cawing from above, for the absence of slammed doors and raised voices. The ocean stretches wide, marked by the boundary of the land. I reflect a lot on why I moved out here, away from what I thought was my place, my home. I wonder if it was ever truly my own choice, or whether I was forced out in the hope of attaining some self-preservation.
I walk along the beach, the sand loosely moulding around my feet before settling back to its original place. Saltwater pools at my ankles, the chill sending shivers through my calves and up my spine. My hair falls over my shoulders, tangling wilding in the wind. As I wade deeper, the blue consumes my lower half, water drifting freely through my fingers, entirely impartial to my presence. The waves fold over themselves and crash in front of me, whitewater swallowing the calm beneath; it’s not scary or dangerous, rather cathartic and beautifully precise.
The sea knows exactly who it is and will not shrink itself to a lesser force. The further I go, the deeper my feet sink into the sand, and I’m once again reminded of the strength it takes to push through the waves. They’re strong. The water has a mind of its own, always determined, always constant. Surviving demands everything. The currents urging me to surrender myself to them; I fight back. Not because I want to, but because that’s all I’ve ever known how to do.
It was a fight I was never going to win. My feet are no longer touching the sand below; my arms burn from swimming against the currents. My limbs surrender before my mind does, and I give up. My head goes under, the wave folding over and crashing over me. I twist and turn trying to find the surface, my lungs beginning to burn, my mind replaying everything that led me to this point. I don’t want to be here anymore.
I remember feeling like an intruder in my own house. I didn’t belong. I didn’t connect. I was never going to; that wasn’t how my story was written.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Peaceful protest is more powerful than…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 82.5%: I stand in front of you all today, not in hatred, not in malice, but with inspiration. In hopes of changing…
I stand in front of you all today, not in hatred, not in malice, but with inspiration. In hopes of changing the way we carry ourselves and purifying our actions. I want to address that peaceful protest is strategically more powerful than violence, and how we can execute it with the same intent without detriment.
I’ve seen so many protests descend into a violent, militant, and chaotic manner, often getting the police involved, and resulting in both sides getting hurt. Why is this the case? Why do more people have to suffer when harm was never the true intention?
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: "my place" Prompts: "Journeys…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 82.5%: Moving to the coast was an escape. An escape from the life I had before, almost as if I broke free from the…
Moving to the coast was an escape. An escape from the life I had before, almost as if I broke free from the person I left behind in that small country town. I often find myself sitting on the balcony, legs restless, dangling over the ledge as I watched the waves, mesmerized by the contained chaos. I listen; for the water, for the seagulls cawing from above, for the lack of violent noise. The ocean stretches wide, marked by the boundary of the land. I reflect a lot on why I moved out here, away from what I thought was my place, my home. I wonder if it was ever truly my own choice, or whether I was forced out in the hope of attaining some self-preservation.
I walk along the beach, the sand loosely moulding around my feet before relapsing back to its original place. Saltwater pools at my ankles, the chill sending shock waves through my calves and up my spine. Long hair falling down over my shoulders, swaying and tangling wildly in the wind. As I wade deeper, the blue consumes my lower half, water drifting freely through my fingers, entirely impartial to my presence. The waves fold over themselves and crash in front of me, whitewash exploding over the calm below; It’s not scary or dangerous, rather cathartic and beautifully precise.
The sea knows exactly who it is and will not shrink itself to a lesser force. The further I go, the deeper my feet sink into the sand, and I’m once again reminded of the strength it takes to push through the waves. They’re strong. The water has a mind of its own, always determined, always constant. It’s exhausting. The currents urging me to surrender myself to them; I fight back. Not because I want to, but because that’s all I’ve ever known how to do.
It was a fight I was never going to win. My feet are no longer touching the sand below; my arms burn from swimming against the currents. My body gives out, and I give up. My head goes under, the wave folding over and crashing over me. I twist and turn trying to find the surface, my lungs beginning to burn, my mind replaying everything that led me to this point. I don’t want to be here anymore.
I remember feeling like an intruder in my own house. I didn’t belong. I didn’t connect. I was never going to; that wasn’t how my story was written.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Peaceful protest is more powerful than…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 75%: I stand in front of you all today, not in hatred, not in malice, but with inspiration. In hopes of changing the…
I stand in front of you all today, not in hatred, not in malice, but with inspiration. In hopes of changing the way we carry ourselves and purifying our actions. I want to address what is really focused on during a protest, and how we can execute with the same intent without detriment.
I’ve seen so many protests descend into a violent, militant, and chaotic manner, often getting the police involved, and resulting in both sides getting hurt. Why is this the case? Why do more people have to suffer when harm was never the true intention?
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: 'My Place' "Journeys away from home…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: Moving to the coast was an escape. An escape from the life I had before, almost as if I broke free from the…
Moving to the coast was an escape. An escape from the life I had before, almost as if I broke free from the person I left behind in that small country town. I often find myself sitting on the balcony, legs restless, dangling over the ledge as I watched the waves, mesmerized by the contained chaos. I listen; for the water, for the seagulls cawing from above, for the lack of violent noise. The ocean stretches wide, marked by the boundary of the land. I reflect a lot on why I moved out here, away from what I thought was my place, my home. I wonder if it was ever truly my own choice, or whether I was forced out in the hope of attaining some self-preservation.
I walk along the beach, the sand loosely moulding around my feet before relapsing back to its original place. Saltwater pools at my ankles, the chill sending shock waves through my calves and up my spine. Long hair falling down over my shoulders, swaying and tangling wildly in the wind. As I wade deeper, the blue consumes my lower half, water drifting freely through my fingers, entirely impartial to my presence. The waves fold over themselves and crash in front of me, whitewash exploding over the calm below; It’s not scary or dangerous, rather cathartic and beautifully precise.
The sea knows exactly who it is and will not shrink itself to a lesser force. The further I go, the deeper my feet sink into the sand, and I’m once again reminded of the strength it takes to push through the waves. They’re strong. The water has a mind of its own, always determined, always constant. It’s exhausting. The currents urging me to surrender myself to them; I fight back. Not because I want to, but because that’s all I’ve ever known how to do.
It was a fight I was never going to win. My feet are no longer touching the sand below; my arms burn from swimming against the currents. My body gives out, and I give up. My head goes under, the wave folding over and crashing over me. I twist and turn trying to find the surface, my lungs beginning to burn, my mind replaying everything that led me to this point. I don’t want to be here anymore.
I remember feeling like an intruder in my own house. I didn’t belong. I didn’t connect. I was never going to; that wasn’t how my story was written.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: Speak Up! Stimulus 1:…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 72.5%: I would like to begin my speech with a simple question: If you have ever joined a protest, for what sake do…
I would like to begin my speech with a simple question: If you have ever joined a protest, for what sake do you join? Is it because your payment is not fair or you feel discriminated against for your race or sexuality? For me, it is out of a sense of obligation as I feel guilty for having sufficient food and freedom, for not needing to face malice everyday or worrying about my next meal.
Last month, I signed a petition for the Australian government to recognise the genocide that happened on Armenian people. Within a month, I have received questions from a wide range of Australian society before the federal government even respond. It is obvious that many of you feel confused for me, one without an Armenian background to give a voice for such an obscure event over 100 years ago. Thus, I feel it necessary to tell you why it is an obligation to support people who suffered or are suffering right now even if it seems to have nothing to do with you.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: 'My Place' "Journeys away from home…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: Moving to the coast was an escape. An escape from the life I had before, almost as if I broke free from the…
Moving to the coast was an escape. An escape from the life I had before, almost as if I broke free from the person I left behind in that small country town. I often find myself sitting on the balcony, legs restless, dangling over the ledge as I watched the waves, mesmerized by the contained chaos. I listen; for the water, for the seagulls cawing from above, for the lack of violent noise. The ocean stretches wide, marked by the boundary of the land. I reflect a lot on why I moved out here, away from what I thought was my place, my home. I wonder if it was ever truly my own choice, or whether I was forced out in the hope of attaining some self-preservation.
I walk along the beach, the sand loosely moulding around my feet before relapsing back to its original place. Saltwater pools at my ankles, the chill sending shock waves through my calves and up my spine. Long hair falling down over my shoulders, swaying and tangling wildly in the wind. As I wade deeper, the blue consumes my lower half, water drifting freely through my fingers, entirely impartial to my presence. The waves fold over themselves and crash in front of me, whitewash exploding over the calm below; It’s not scary or dangerous, rather cathartic and beautifully precise.
The sea knows exactly who it is and will not shrink itself to a lesser force. The further I go, the deeper my feet sink into the sand, and I’m once again reminded of the strength it takes to push through the waves. They’re strong. The water has a mind of its own, always determined, always constant. It’s exhausting. The currents urging me to surrender myself to them; I fight back. Not because I want to, but because that’s all I’ve ever known how to do.
It was a fight I was never going to win. My feet are no longer touching the sand below; my arms burn from swimming against the currents. My body gives out, and I give up. My head goes under, the wave folding over and crashing over me. I twist and turn trying to find the surface, my lungs beginning to burn, my mind replaying everything that led me to this point. I don’t want to be here anymore.
I remember feeling like an intruder in my own house. I didn’t belong. I didn’t connect. I was never going to; that wasn’t how my story was written.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: 'My Place' "Journeys away from home…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: Moving to the coast was an escape. An escape from the life I had before, almost as if I broke free from the…
Moving to the coast was an escape. An escape from the life I had before, almost as if I broke free from the person I left behind in that small country town. I often find myself sitting on the balcony, legs restless, dangling over the ledge as I watched the waves, mesmerized by the contained chaos. I listen; for the water, for the seagulls cawing from above, for the lack of violent noise. The ocean stretches wide, marked by the boundary of the land. I reflect a lot on why I moved out here, away from what I thought was my place, my home. I wonder if it was ever truly my own choice, or whether I was forced out in the hope of attaining some self-preservation.
I walk along the beach, the sand loosely moulding around my feet before relapsing back to its original place. Saltwater pools at my ankles, the chill sending shock waves through my calves and up my spine. Long hair falling down over my shoulders, swaying and tangling wildly in the wind. As I wade deeper, the blue consumes my lower half, water drifting freely through my fingers, entirely impartial to my presence. The waves fold over themselves and crash in front of me, whitewash exploding over the calm below; It’s not scary or dangerous, rather cathartic and beautifully precise.
The sea knows exactly who it is and will not shrink itself to a lesser force. The further I go, the deeper my feet sink into the sand, and I’m once again reminded of the strength it takes to push through the waves. They’re strong. The water has a mind of its own, always determined, always constant. It’s exhausting. The currents urging me to surrender myself to them; I fight back. Not because I want to, but because that’s all I’ve ever known how to do.
It was a fight I was never going to win. My feet are no longer touching the sand below; my arms burn from swimming against the currents. My body gives out, and I give up. My head goes under, the wave folding over and crashing over me. I twist and turn trying to find the surface, my lungs beginning to burn, my mind replaying everything that led me to this point. I don’t want to be here anymore.
I remember feeling like an intruder in my own house. I didn’t belong. I didn’t connect. I was never going to; that wasn’t how my story was written.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: Learning to play again…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 100%: "But now I am six, I'm as clever as clever, I think I'll be six now for ever and ever." — A. A. Milne My…
"But now I am six, I'm as clever as clever, I think I'll be six now for ever and ever." — A. A. Milne
My earliest memories of play all seem to involve numbers. Not schoolwork, not studying.
Just a six year old doing whatever came naturally.
The football strikes my hands, and I hold on tight. I may be six years old, but I know the exact score. Nobody asked me to keep track, but I do. It's Saturday morning, Auskick. There are no umpires, no scoreboard, just the cold grass under my feet and thirty kids who don't really know the rules. But I am counting. Every goal is six, every behind is one. I'm learning my six times tables on a frigid, muddy oval, and I don't even know it. The final whistle blows. My friends are already at the canteen. I let them go. I already have what I came for: six goals, five behinds. 41 to 25. We win. I did the maths. I always do.
On Sundays, we play Monopoly. Dad is always the dog, and I'm the racecar. While he buys properties based on which colours he likes, I play methodically: watching which streets are landed on the most, analysing the value of buying hotels, and calculating the chance I will go to jail on my next turn. But I don’t call it probability. I call it trying to beat Dad. The dice rattle in my hand and I hold my breath. I let them go. For a moment, all my counting means nothing. The dice bounce and spin and finally land. A six. Free Parking. I look up at Dad and grin.
A couple of years later, he teaches me poker. We sit at the kitchen table after dinner. Dad shuffles the cards rhythmically and deals them slowly, like he’s letting me in on some family tradition. I learn quickly that the numbers only get you so far. Poker isn't just about playing the odds, it’s about playing the man. That part is harder. Dad gives nothing away. I lose most nights. Dad says I have a lot to learn, but I am just happy to play. The cards, the dice, the scorelines. The numbers flow freely in my head, just as I do through life. I am six, I'm as clever as clever. I think I'll feel this way for ever and ever.
**
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Framework: Writing about Teen Lives…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 65%: He always stood by the side, with his legs as stiff as the sign post itself. Once it had come to the crowd, he…
He always stood by the side, with his legs as stiff as the sign post itself. Once it had come to the crowd, he always fell face first on the sheet of coldness and his legs trampled on one another. The crowd cleared and there he always was. Partnerless.
His face couldn’t be pictured by the ones around him, and he was unlike all the knowns in the timid corridors. He would walk for miles, and their heads would never turn for a slight smile to acknowledge presence or the glint of a wave. He was among the ‘odd ones’, where their core existence was ripped out from the world by the knowns. He knew that now. He wished it would end. Worse, that reality had slightly spread through the route to the house. Starting from the rails.
Every day he would sit for miles alongside them, but the figures wouldn’t dare open their beaks. They kept it shut, and the blue glow of their metallic objects, and the constant move of their thumbs kept their brains distracted from acknowledging his existence too. They stood alongside him; they sat beside him; he was still a loner.
Even in the house he was a shadow; was acknowledged for certain tasks but as soon as he was done, the ones who had once taken him in suddenly forgot with a click of Thanos's fingers. He was once hopeful, but in the end, he was never surprised. This was all just a loop Over and over again. It never ended, but he wished it could be someday.
His only support was the endless expanding universe of shelves in the same cold environment. His face would be stuffed with those same masked humans, those same humans he wished he could be. Still, it was the light in his heart that reflected the darkness surrounding him. It was the beacon of hope in his dusty and plain environment.
At night, he would lie in bed, thinking of a life he could never have. He sometimes wished for a sidekick- maybe a friend. No... He wished for a duo like Miles Morales and Gwen Stacy! Or a duo like Spider-man and Captain America; that would also work! But Batman and Superman... perhaps not. He would hold on to those thoughts for as long as he could before letting it go and would then freefall deep into his mind. Then, he’d wake up, and he’d rewind the same events as yesterday, just in a different order. He still wished for that figure to share his same light. Maybe he would see someone else reflecting in the darkness. Maybe he could find them. He did not.
***
My books were pressed against my chest as my head rotated left and right. I held them closer, running at the speed of sound as I passed bubbling schoolmates and busy teachers holding boxes. Today was more crowded than usual, and that meant there would be a bigger mob to face, soon. And alone. It was me against the ravaging horde of zombified students. My brain pushed on, so I did too. The amount of students around me was only growing in number, and that could only mean I was close. Suddenly, I slid to a stop as I turned to the clash of echoes. I stood my ground, eyeing left and right. It looked like it was the only way across. I took a deep breath, held my books, and took a stop in. I held my breath as the stench of deodorant and perfume filled my nostrils.
“Just blend it.” I took a breath and made my way through the crowd, holding up my smile as I waved at my friends walking past and moved on. “Time’s running out,” I thought, as the clock seemingly ticked faster from above. I weaved my way through the elbows and the distance voices of newsmongers and tale tellers.
I WAS GOING TO BE LATE! AGAIN!
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Writing about Protest in the form of…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 67.5%: Letter 1 Dear Liang Fei, It’s been a full year of oppression, injustice, and silence. Silence. On the streets…
Letter 1
Dear Liang Fei,
It’s been a full year of oppression, injustice, and silence.
Silence.
On the streets and in the busiest part of our hometown. Beijing, silence.
Where we once celebrated New Years, with fireworks and great celebrations. Where we paraded, and lived our loud lives. Now, the streets, are SILENT! Our mouths sealed shut.
A different silence. You remember, it used to be that even in silence you could hear the birds chirping, grass hoppers buzzing. You could hear nature, life, even people conversing in the still, quiet air. But now, we’ve been prosecuted and sentenced to silence. Facing LIFE imprisonment as punishment for living. Their justification being to quell the virus.
The only thing being quelled is us!
I have so much nostalgia, for the days when you were here. Maybe I miss you. Maybe I miss when our city and lives were lively. Maybe both.
I miss the life we had Liang,
From Yuze
Letter 2
Dear Liang Fei,
A resistance movement has started online. Breaking through the government firewall opened my eyes to a new world; a loud world. With circuses and concerts, people are out in the streets. Happy, loud, living!
A realization came upon me. For too long, we’ve accepted being quiet, oppressed and pushed down. And sure, our words online have built confidence. But what are words without action?
With everyone stuck in their rooms all day, only the internet stands as our form of communication. Voices and talking were replaced with the clicking and clacking of a mouse and keyboard.
That’s where the white paper movement began.
We’ve been suppressed by corrupt leadership. No, corrupt, tyrannical incompetence. For FAR too long. Now, we are being given the opportunity to stand up!
NO, NOT given. Seizing the opportunity is what we are doing, Liang.
From Yuze.
Letter 3
Dear Lian Fei,
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: 'Changing Direction' Stimulus 1…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 87.5%: I still remember the glow of my laptop screen in that tiny bedroom, the only window to the world outside. It…
I still remember the glow of my laptop screen in that tiny bedroom, the only window to the world outside. It was 2020, and the Year 7 lockdown had turned our lives into grids of pixelated faces, each classmate trapped in their own little square. That day, I was about to deliver a Geography presentation on volcanic eruptions, complete with animated lava flows and a voice I had practised until it sounded like a documentary narrator. I felt invincible—or at least I told myself I did. My perfectionism was my shield, and the laptop was my stage. On the desk beside me lay the anxiety list, typed in bright Comic Sans, each fear meticulously catalogued—a constant, silent companion to every lesson, every moment I doubted myself. Changing direction felt impossible then; I had no idea that the path to confidence was already open.
I had rehearsed every slide, every animation, every pause. Behind one innocuous slide, though, hid a secret: that anxiety list, meant to remain private. Yet, in the flicker of a nervous finger slip, it appeared, fully exposed to the class. The grid of faces reacted in unison—laughter, sharp and unexpected, slicing through my confidence. My hands shook, my heart raced, and suddenly, the meticulous control I had clung to felt meaningless.
“Uh… that’s… just my notes,” I mumbled, cheeks burning. The teacher’s awkward smile did little to soothe me.
For the rest of the week, embarrassment followed me everywhere. Each notification, each glance at the screen reminded me of that moment. I believed my value depended on flawless performance, that mistakes made me unworthy. I stared at the anxiety list, once hidden, now unavoidable, and slowly realised that everyone carries private fears, unseen on the pixelated grid. I had been searching for the keys to self-assurance, but the door had been open all along.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Personal Journeys
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 90%: The smell of warm pithas being fried across the street awakens me, momentarily allowing me to enjoy the…
The smell of warm pithas being fried across the street awakens me, momentarily allowing me to enjoy the pleasure of something, anything. Until the overwhelming pain that endlessly resides in my chest reminds me of someone. A memory of his laugh echoes through my head, stopping time completely. The reminder quickly suppresses my appetite, making it impossible for me to stand up without a terrible headache.
It’s quiet today. The trees sway with every gust of wind, almost like the elements are long lost friends, parted until autumn. I wonder what these trees have seen. More than me, for sure. I can’t help but think of the elders who used it as shelter from the scorching sun, or of the children who climbed its branches, skillfully like little monkeys. Trees have stories to tell, their leaves a reflection of their peace filled life. Or lack thereof.
The street below is emptier than it should be. The woman who fries pithas doesn’t call out anymore. She moves quickly, glancing over her shoulder between batches. Somewhere far off, a truck groans, heavy and slow. Then another. The sound lingers longer than it should, crawling through the morning air. Boots follow. Not near enough to see, but close enough that I hold my breath anyway. By the time the wind returns, the street is still again. Too still. Even the birds seem to not make a sound.
Inside, the radio hums softly on the shelf. I turn the knob with trembling fingers, chasing a voice, any voice, that might make the world feel ordinary again. Static crackles. Then a man begins speaking, his tone careful, measured, like someone stepping across a river on loose stones. “...remain indoors…unnecessary movement-” The signal snaps. Silence swallows the room whole. I wait for it to return, but it doesn’t. Only the faint buzz remains, like something unfinished.
I sink back against the wall, closing my eyes. And for a moment, just a moment, I am somewhere else.
We are sitting beneath these same trees, though they seemed taller then, fuller. Their shadows stretch over open books and scattered papers. He is speaking too quickly, words tripping over each other, hands moving as if they can shape the future themselves. “They can take many things”, he says, eyes bright, “but not this”. I laugh, nudging him with my foot. “You and your speeches.” “It’s not a speech,” he insists, though he’s smiling. “It’s simple. If we forget who we are, what we speak, what we think, then what’s left?” Around us, others argue, debate, interrupt. Someone recites a poem too loudly. Someone else complains about exams that no longer seem important. The air is thick, alive. He leans closer, lowering his voice. “You’ll see. One day, all of this will matter.” The memory dissolves before I can answer.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: Small Acts, Big Wins Stimulus 1…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 87.5%: Title: small acts, big wins With no warning and no time to prepare, a sudden knock at the door changed…
Title: small acts, big wins
With no warning and no time to prepare, a sudden knock at the door changed everything I knew into something I couldn’t understand. I remember my small hands grabbing onto Dad’s jeans, trying to hold him to the floor as they pulled toward the door. I screamed at the black vests, at the heavy boots tracking mud all over Mum’s clean rug. Next door, a neighbour pulled their curtain shut. Nobody came. My Mum was scared but trying to stay strong. She shouted at them. “You can’t break in here without a warrant!” My mother’s voice broke first. I looked up at my father, his jaw clenched so tight, his eyes scanning the hallway for a way that wasn’t there. He looked like a man who just realised his walls were made of paper
I was just a kid. I didn’t question anything. I didn’t have to. Not until the morning ICE took my parents away and everything i had ever felt safe about went cold
At six years old, I held onto hope that mum and dad would find a way out , even though deep down I already knew the truth> This was not a mistake to be fixed. We were not a family to them. We were a non-citizen file with a red ineligible stamp, and that stamp decided everything
I knew ICE had torn my family apart, not by accident, but through a process that was planned and didn’t care about anything we were. Families pushed out of the only home they ever knew, just for a missing visa form or a number error in a payment. As if a paperwork mistake decided whether your life had value. Something had to change, people need to start doing small acts of protest because small acts of protest can create big wins.
What if my neighbours didn’t turn away? What if they made a small act and questioned why ICE was there?
Things might’ve been different.
What I saw that day was not law enforcement doing its job. It was cruelty in a disguise. I just couldn’t wrap my head around how a system that said it protected people could tear families apart. How growing up somewhere, loving somewhere, calling somewhere home, still wasn’t enough to belong. That is not justice that I fear wearing a uniform.
They expect us to stay quiet, to be grateful and disappear. But after everything I have seen, I am done being quiet. Now my voice is louder than ever . Louder because people have joined me…together.. Standing up for what we believe in.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Personal journey
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 77.5%: The beeping never stops; it's what makes Maccas so recognisable. I've been in storage for a long time but…
The beeping never stops; it's what makes Maccas so recognisable. I've been in storage for a long time but it's the greasy smell that indicates that it's time to become someone else. I am but a cup; however, this will not stop me from moving forward. A happy meal, one of McDonald's most popular meals, is filled with fries, a pop top apple juice, a burger and the item that holds it all together - the toy.
The drive thru worker says "Just the two Happy Meals?" The nod of approval, then I am lifted inside the box and sent on my way to a child. I am grabbed by the small hands of a 10 year old, he sets me next to the chilled apple juice in the middle seat making my side moist.
He is in Grade 7 now, but it's only the start. I'm placed on the glass table next to the small stack of papers illuminated by the dim lamp light; the studying starts. "If you can't fly then run", he does not fully understand, yet it is full of writing. incorrect as it is at least he starts running.
This time it is with a text book that weighs more than 4 of me filled to the brim. Their warbled words doesn't sound like english, but parts are understandable, math, finish and potato? Same book but this time he's slower, "If you can't run then walk", even with no understanding he moves forward. His left eye twitches, just barely visible but I have nothing else to do but observe.
Today he leaves with a lighter bag, no pencil case nor books. Instead it’s simple but versatile items. 20 dollars, snacks and his watch. The money could be for shopping at Belconnen shopping centre or it could be for food from Hoyts cinemas. The chips and chocolate packs are about the size of his hands, maybe in case the cinema is too overpriced. The cinema has those big plush seats and a copy of the note to go was slid next to me. Only 40 dollars for a premium cinema experience, the school seems to have been given a good deal. I am left with chilled orange and mango juice to fill my crevices.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Personal journey
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 75%: The beeping never stops; it's what makes Maccas so recognisable. I've been in storage for a long time but it's…
The beeping never stops; it's what makes Maccas so recognisable. I've been in storage for a long time but it's the greasy smell that indicates that it's time to become someone else. I am but a cup; however, this will not stop me from moving forward. A happy meal, one of McDonald's most popular meals, is filled with fries, a pop top apple juice, a burger and the item that holds it all together - the toy.
The drive thru worker says "Just the two Happy Meals?" The nod of approval, then I am lifted inside the box and sent on my way to a child. I am grabbed by the small hands of a 10 year old, he sets me next to the chilled apple juice in the middle seat making my side moist.
He is in Grade 7 now, but it's only the start. I'm placed on the glass table next to the small stack of papers illuminated by the dim lamp light; the studying starts. "If you can't fly then run", he does not fully understand, yet it is full of writing, incorrect it may be at least he starts running.
This time it is with a text book that weighs more than 4 of me filled to the brim. Their warbled words doesn't sound like english, but parts are understandable, math, finish and potato? Same book but this time he's slower, "If you can't run then walk", even with no understanding he moves forward. His left eye twitches, just barely visible but I have nothing else to do but observe.
Today he leaves with a lighter bag, no pencil case nor books. Instead it’s simple but versatile items. 20 dollars, snacks and his watch. The money could be for shopping at Belconnen shopping centre or it could be for food from Hoyts cinemas. The chips and chocolate packs are about the size of his hands, maybe in case the cinema is too overpriced. The cinema has those big plush seats and a copy of the note to go was slid next to me, only 40 dollars for a premium cinema experience. I am left with chilled orange and mango juice to fill my crevices.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Personal journey
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 75%: The beeping never stops; it's what makes Maccas so recognisable. I've been in storage for a long time but it's…
The beeping never stops; it's what makes Maccas so recognisable. I've been in storage for a long time but it's the greasy smell that indicates that it's time to become someone else. I am but a cup; however, this will not stop me from moving forward. A happy meal, one of McDonald's most popular meals, is filled with fries, a pop top apple juice, a burger and the item that holds it all together - the toy.
The drive thru worker says "Just the two Happy Meals?" The nod of approval, then I am lifted inside the box and sent on my way to a child. I am grabbed by the small hands of a 10 year old, he sets me next to the chilled apple juice in the middle seat making my side moist.
He is in Grade 7 now, but it's only the start. I'm placed on the glass table next to the small stack of papers illuminated by the dim lamp light; the studying starts. "If you can't fly then run", he does not fully understand, yet it is full of writing, incorrect it may be at least he starts running.
This time it is with a text book that weighs more than 4 of me filled to the brim. Their warbled words doesn't sound like english, but parts are understandable, math, finish and potato? Same book but this time he's slower, "If you can't run then walk", even with no understanding he moves forward. His left eye twitches, just barely visible but I have nothing else to do but observe.
Today he leaves with a lighter set of items, no pencil case nor books. Instead it’s simple but versatile items. 20 dollars, snacks and his watch. The money could be for shopping at Belconnen shopping centre or it could be for food from Hoyts cinemas. The chips and chocolate packs are about the size of his hands, maybe in case the cinema is too overpriced. The cinema has those big plush seats and a copy of the note to go was slid next to me, only 40 dollars for a premium cinema experience. I am left with chilled orange and mango juice to fill my crevices.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: Small acts, big wins Stimuli:…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 80%: Small acts, big wins The Times of India 7th April, 1930 Sabarmati, Gujarat, 12th March, 1930: In the dim light…
Small acts, big wins
The Times of India
7th April, 1930
Sabarmati, Gujarat, 12th March, 1930: In the dim light of morning, seventy-eight men of every caste, creed and circumstance gather here in silence, poised on the edge of something history has yet to name. I am told this small act is the beginning of a revolution. But these men carry no weapons. They do not raise their voices. Yet they claim they will challenge an empire and change their world with nothing but salt.
Near the gathering is a small child, staring mesmerized into the barricaded pile of salt, guards flanking each side as though it was gold. Since the British Raj control all salt within India, citizens are forced to buy it from the government. It affects “the poorest,” according to one marcher.
For those with wealth, it is merely an inconvenience. But for those already struggling, it is a weight impossible to set down.
I have seen many protests before. Loud. Disruptive. Violent. Impossible to ignore. This is something else entirely. Where is the chaos? Where is the noise? This is but a small act, one so quiet it may slip beneath notice.
It is called civil disobedience, but can silence truly challenge authority? Can restraint bring about big wins? History would suggest otherwise: powers do not yield easily – crowds are scattered, uprisings buried and defiance met with brutal force.
Perhaps this is determination. Perhaps it is discipline. Or perhaps it is something closer to futility.
Before the sun rises, they leave Sabarmati for their march to the shore at Dandi. I follow, notebook in hand, still unconvinced. Was I witnessing the beginning of a winning revolution, or merely the illusion of one?
14th March, 1930: Before the marchers reached Aslali, word had already spread. They were no longer unnoticed, no longer insignificant. They stopped at many villages on their march, recruiting the next people that would be helped by their cause, and asked the townspeople for only food and water. In each town though, they received something greater: support for the movement. Indeed, as Gandhi steps up to speak in front of me, there are some four thousand people gathered on this freezing night to hear his dreams of changing the world.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Against the current
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 82.5%: Title: Against the current I’ve been keeping something from everyone, a secret that goes against the current.…
Title: Against the current
I’ve been keeping something from everyone, a secret that goes against the current.
The spare seat beside me has a name, it doesn’t belong to anyone dead or alive, it’s Maron’s seat, and she takes up exactly the right amount of space.
Class ends the same way every Friday with chairs scraping, bag zipping, door creaking from right to left, others running out the school door laughing. I'm always the one that stays behind, watching their backs.
I watch their heads out the windows as they cross the oval, four of them, already laughing at something I can't hear. I feel a familiar tightening in my throat that I have learnt to breathe around, a faint choke.
“They just forgot,” Maron says, already knowing what I need to hear. “That’s all it was.”
I nod and move my pencil case from the left side of the desk to the right side, then to the right to the left, then back, then left again.
Through the window, they have reached the school's gate and the tall one is doing an impression of someone. I can tell by the way others are watching her, waiting for the punchline and when it lands they all burst out laughing at the same time.
I know them all separately. I have been in enough classes with them to know which one is the loudest, which one comes late, which one tells the most tales. The void of silence surrounding me forces me to eavesdrop, collecting details about people who don't know a single detail about me. That is the kind of knowledge that accumulates whether you want it or not, like the way damp gets into walls.
“You wouldn't have wanted to go anyway,” says Maron ”you don't even like them that much.”
This is the most dishonest thing she has ever said to me and I let it stand. I let it fill the space in my chest where the wanting is, like packing something into a wound, then move my pencil case from the left side of the desk to the right side.
Outside, the tall one is making another impression and I’m getting curious, so I push the window open, just enough to hear them. The hinge creaks, then her voice comes through, then the punchline, then all four of them fold at once.
Suddenly it comes out before I can stop it, a laugh. I press my hand over my mouth but it is already out, and it lands nowhere, on no one, the way things do when you are the only one in the room.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Personal Journeys
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 100%: As a child, I looked up to my father as if he were something immovable, a tall statue set firmly on its…
As a child, I looked up to my father as if he were something immovable, a tall statue set firmly on its pedestal, carved from something stronger than the rest of us. He was steady, reliable, unbreakable. Around him, conversation felt careful, something measured before spoken. I learnt quickly how to soften my words, how to swallow opinions before they became disagreements. At the time, I mistook that caution for respect, believing my silence was the very thing that kept the peace.
But as I grew older, that carefulness began to feel less like respect and more like fear. I remember the way the air would shift if I dropped a fork or spoke too loudly; the atmosphere would turn sharp and brittle in an instant. Silence stopped feeling like a choice and became a weight I carried everywhere, a shadow that trailed me long after the moments of tension had passed.
“You’ve parked too far from the shop,” I said, my voice louder than I intended. His lips pressed into a thin line, and I immediately hesitated. “It’s a bit far… but it’s fine.” He went completely still, jaw locked, eyes fixed, not a flicker of movement, like something carved rather than living. The same stillness I once mistook for strength pressed in on me now. My chest tightened. I went silent again. “You don’t need to make a thing out of it.” He gestured to the car, its grey body parked there, a weight that followed me even as I walked away. “You weren’t this difficult before,” he said. I didn't respond, just silently walked beside him as my jaw clenched and eyes burned. The words curdled into a bitter seed at the base of my tongue; I swallowed it whole, letting it take root in the pit of my stomach. The silence branched out, a thorned thicket that snagged every new thought before it could reach the surface, pulling them back down and whispering that my voice was a useless thing.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: "As we move toward a future defined by…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 75%: "As we move toward a future defined by artificial intelligence and biological enhancement, the line between…
"As we move toward a future defined by artificial intelligence and biological enhancement, the line between 'man' and 'machine' is beginning to blur. If we can code our personalities and replace our flaws with algorithms, do we risk losing the very thing that makes us human? In the world of tomorrow, is 'perfection' actually our greatest threat?"
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Resistance
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 82.5%: Version 2 hybrid essay - manifesto type thing The air in Washington, D.C., that August wasn't just hot; it…
Version 2 hybrid essay - manifesto type thing
The air in Washington, D.C., that August wasn't just hot; it was heavy, thick with the collective breath of two hundred and fifty thousand souls. I, a small child, only 6 years old, was lost in a sprawling sea of mahogany and denim. But I remember the vibration of it. It wasn't the sound of the speeches that I felt first, but the sound of the feet; it was a rhythmic, relentless tide of footsteps that seemed to hum through the very pavement of the National Mall. My mother’s grip on my hand was an unwavering anchor that tethered me to her, while her other hand reached out to a stranger, one who looked nothing like her, but we were all intertwined on that day.
In that moment, standing in the sun-scorched edge of the reflecting pool. I didn't see protestors or activists. I saw a unified group of my fellow people, an unflinching human chain. It was a physical manifestation of solidarity, a living proof that when the state's actions contradict the conscience of the individual, the only path to self-preservation is to stand together. We were there to demand that the government stop acting in our name to uphold a system of segregation. It was the first time I understood that resistance isn't just a political strategy; instead, it is a moral requirement.
Today, as I sit in my Melbourne home and watch the flickering blue light of a new generation’s digital frontlines, I see that same magnitude of spirit. I see the same 'human chain' forming, though its links are now forged in digital solidarity rather than sweat and touch. But I also see a growing, dangerous silence, a silence that is not passive; it is curated, fed by those who benefit most from your forgetting. I am writing this in the wake of George Floyd's death. Watching the world erupt in response to those nine minutes of agonizing injustice, I realized that the arc of the moral universe we thought we were bending in 1963 is still being contested on every street corner and every digital feed. The cry of "I can't breathe" in the 21st century is the same suffocating silence we fought six decades ago. This is my response to that cry, an old woman's plea to the young: do not let silence return.
The anatomy of defiance
Resistance, I have learned does not announce itself only in the form of marches and demonstrations. It lives equally in the quiet stubborn refusal to comply, in the choice to speak a truth that makes your own voice tremble because silence would be so much safer. When my mother and I stood at the 'reflecting pool' I felt that gravitational pull Martin Luther King spoke of: that invisible force that draws a thousand isolated heartaches, into a single, shared purpose. King's assertion that we all have a "moral responsibility to disobey unjust laws" was more than simply a quote to us; it was a splinter under the skin. It stripped away the comfortable passivity of being a bystander and deposited it, unasked for, at our feet.
If King provided the moral framework, Rosa Parks offered the visceral truth. Her refusal to surrender her seat in 1955 was neither a whim, nor a minor defiance; it was a categorical repudiation of an absurd system-a quiet determination that finally lit the fuse of a movement. Yet, Parks offered us the power of clarity. Malcolm X demanded the power of volume. He knew a fundamental truth that many of you are learning today: power does not yield to those who whisper. Noise-whether it is a chant in the street or a viral video on your screen-forces a reckoning. It compels those in authority to confront the very ugliness they would prefer to overlook. But do not be fooled into thinking that resistance is only found on podiums or at the front of a march. It filters into the intimate, messy spaces of your daily lives. The debates you have at your dinner tables, the assumptions you challenge in your classrooms, the arguments unfolding across your Instagram feeds are not trivial day-to-day interactions; these help…(need to edit in )For change. Every assumption you fracture in your own circle represents a crack in the architecture of oppression. You are not just talking, you are dismantling.
When art becomes the weapon of resistance
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Moments that matter Stimulus: enjoy…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: Moments that matter Wednesdays were my least favourite day. Wednesdays were tedious. Wednesdays were torturous.…
Moments that matter
Wednesdays were my least favourite day.
Wednesdays were tedious.
Wednesdays were torturous.
Wednesdays were the day when I would be corralled by my parents into the dingy, stale hallway of my Chinese tutor. Sporting her long hair and high-collared black top and charcoal trousers, she was more like a drill sergeant and less like a teacher. She would crouch over me, her garlic breath suffocating me as she barked. Her hands were locked behind her back as she paced back and forth across the room.
Two hours. 120 minutes of imprisonment. Nothing could dissuade my parents from rounding me up and delivering me to my Chinese teacher. I felt like a sacrificial lamb! “Learning Chinese will benefit you. We regret not learning it!” My parents chanted each time I returned home sullenly. “But we live in Australia! We need to speak English! Mandarin is useless here!” I retorted, venomously.
As the weeks turned into months, my resentment built. Like a tsunami, it washed over me in violent waves. A chasm appeared. The distance between my parents and me built up. Yet they persisted. ‘It is what is best for you,’ they chanted evangelistically, like singing a hymn from a prayer book.
I dreaded the memorization of 20 characters a week, where they’d march into my weekends like an army. I dreaded the repetition of strokes where a line or dash too long would make the entire character lose its soul. I dreaded pronouncing homophones; they were traps for my tongue, where shuijiao- means sleep, but a breath lower meant water dumplings. There were even times where I cried out of frustration. Not only was the language a treacherous demand, but while all my other friends enjoyed their evenings in the sun, I was a prisoner to my desk, in my own home.
One day, my tutor had a more abrasive tone than usual,
“zhe shi shen me? Zai zuo yi bian!” What is this? Do it again!
I had done it. And again. And again.
I massaged my hands; they were stiff and sore. No matter how many times I did it, I could never satisfy her standards.
I despised the way she stood over me, watching carefully at every line I wrote, waiting for me to mess up. My throat tightened, making a
I glanced at the scissors across my desk, rush of bitterness surged through me. I reached for the scissors at an arm’s length. Took a portion of her hair and watched carefully as I slid my fingers into the holes of the scissors. The scissors ruthlessly sheared each strand of hair, each link I had to the language was being severed, like unlocking a key
It felt like freedom. I was released from my rigid Chinese lessons.
I would no longer have to hear my teacher bark “again!” and “again!” I had finally found the key to escape my prison