VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: ‘Make Up Your Own Rules’
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 75%: Rule 1. All noises must be kept to a minimum. She stares in front of her. An angry, glaring screen stares back.…
Rule 1. All noises must be kept to a minimum.
She stares in front of her. An angry, glaring screen stares back. She looks to her sides, only to be met with 3 enclosed walls. She stares up above her. A lonely light illuminates her cubicle, a replica of the hundreds of similar cubicles that occupy the same building. Same building, same job, same lives. The rushed clatter of keys echoes across the building, a stark reminder to return back to focus. But a fleeting thought passes her mind, a feeling of curiosity that she quickly shuts down. Not now. Her mind returns to a blank state, absent of any life, and ready to continue working. And so it ensues – the continuous back and forth emailing and communicating to her coworkers without actually meeting them, the relentless ache just below her back serving as an indication of her wasted hours spent slaving away for a mere pay cheque that never seems to be enough for her. There is something else she searches for; something she can’t quite pinpoint but she knows it’s out there somewhere. Along with each clack of her mouse, her other hand instinctively taps out a tune, each finger rhythmically singing against the cold touch of her desk. It’s not long until her voice joins the orchestra, beginning as a silent hum and building into a slight melody that warms her soul, slowly but surely.
Rule 2. Work attire must be consistently formal and appropriate.
She finally reaches home after her shift. The door creaks open upon her entrance as if to welcome her, and without thinking, she launches herself onto her couch, dirty clothes and all. Her couch sits across an imposing view of the cadenced shimmer that adorns the towering skyscrapers around her. Her gaze shifts from the vast world ahead of her to the solemn reflection that silently greets her, and it is then where she notices her closet door slightly ajar. A small, worn book peeks out at the door’s corner, inviting her closer. She stands up with a grunt, shuffling towards the handle of a door she hasn’t reached for in ages and reluctantly pulls it open.
Crash.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: title: Progress, Not Perfection…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: Jaghori Afghanistan (1970) The seed was planted. He was a blur of motion against the static mountain peaks. The…
Jaghori Afghanistan (1970)
The seed was planted.
He was a blur of motion against the static mountain peaks. The world was small and solid: the scent of dry grass and woodsmoke permeated the air. The laughter of his siblings echoing off the mud baked wall as he collected the crops and fed the cattle, he was one step closer to success. With each and every plausible task completed his competence increased yet it wasn’t all glitz and glamour. Through rainy days and piled up ice crystals the work was always completed. A young boy partially participating in early schooling but engulfed by family duties, took care of the farm from an early age. His obedience made him a role model towards his younger siblings. His father, culturally strict, heavy with punishment, hit his son frequently with the excuse to teach a lesson. But what lesson was their to teach?
The young boy's mother was his safe haven. After every gruelling task that pressured his calloused body; his mother was there to help him, feed him, nurture him. Mother always said “whatever you are going through, know that i am here with you and i have experienced it too”. Due to cultural reasons women could not reason with their husbands. They were maidens who served “hard working men”. Men who they in fact did not love but were forced to marry due to religious beliefs resulting in arranged marriage. The young boy named “Arif”, felt empathy towards his mother; his emotions had to be sustained as presenting them would result in a beating. He promised that he will get help for his mother and provide for her: ever growing support in regards to giving back to what she already provides for him. Arif believed that age was not a barrier but a chance to start earlier.
The Quetta Express
The continuos puls of the tracks concealed the stillness of the earth, a mechanical scream restricting all comfort. Arif sat next to his brooded father travelling away from family and home, questioning the possibilities as to why his father seemed so stricken by frustration and melancholy. He chose to ignore it, seemingly observing his environment: a cabin smelling of stale breath and sour grey scent of unwashed bed sheets. He sat with his knees pressed tightly against his fathers seeking the cohesion he had at home with his mother… but that was nowhere to be seen. As arif accepted his circumstances he gazed upon the window glaring at th the mountain that held his memories and signified his childhood slowy fading away with every bash of the train tracks pulsating and anchoring him away from the life he now has to grow upon.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: the paths - a journey is a process of…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 75%: of myself I almost forgot. Yet, in being seen without needing to perform, I discovered that I didn't need to…
of myself I almost forgot. Yet, in being seen without needing to perform, I discovered that I didn't need to become someone else to be worthy of being known.
This is the nature of human connection; we move through life believing our paths are ours alone, until someone crosses them and leaves us seeing the world differently. We change others, often without knowing it. Others change us, sometimes unintentionally. Occasionally, an ordinary moment becomes the turning point, dividing us from who we were to who we become.
Since then, when I ground myself beyond my own insecurities, and into the lives of those around me, I see more than just strangers. I see people who each have a story that we cannot know just by looking at them. Perspectives that might challenge mine, and a capacity for connection I might otherwise overlook. I am learning to not shrink people to their achievements, appearance or usefulness, but instead ripen them with the curiosity to see their true selves.
Perhaps, that is what makes us human. Not our ability to stand above others, but to reach toward them. Not the perfection we construct to earn affection, but the vulnerability though which genuine connection becomes possible.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: together. Stimulus: A crowd of…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 70%: “Ma…” He said in a whisper, unsure whether to comment on the topic he wanted to introduce. Silence ensued… “Yes…
“Ma…” He said in a whisper, unsure whether to comment on the topic he wanted to introduce. Silence ensued…
“Yes D?”
“I was thinking…” Still hesitant, “maybe, I shouldn’t go to school anymore…” Stillness eroded between the two. D, siting on the passage seat, continued to glance at the ensuing muffled lights through the cold damp widow, before hearing soft sobs following his mother.
“What’s wrong ma. Are you that upset to what I said… I shouldn’t have brought it up then.” D’s eyes glance up into the inky sky. He saw a single shining speck in amidst of the void. Together — he thought, before the outer corner of his lips begin to whimper a hefty frown.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: title: The Choice
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 100%: A thick layer of grey dust stuck to my skin. Tarpaulin covers, makeshift tin stores, and endless crowds of…
A thick layer of grey dust stuck to my skin.
Tarpaulin covers, makeshift tin stores, and endless crowds of sweat and grime clawed into every corner of the assembly. My mother reminded me to cover my mouth, the thin scarf doing little to block the air. Below us were rows and rows of every type of vegetable I’d never seen. Keeping my balance along the gravel — it was not hard to hate a place like this. Nothing stood still here. Their shouts echoed, insisting. My mother’s familiar voice mingled with the seller’s — bidding, scoffing, giving in, or winning.
“This is how I always used to do it.” To her, this was simply coming back.
To me, this was treading around a world that I’d never lived in before.
The night before, she’d told me we’d all have to wake up early for the morning market. She said all the cheapest and freshest foods would be gone by 9 am. I complained as usual. I didn’t choose to move around clammy shoulders, squeezing my way through tight alleys and walkways. We avoided puddles with strange smells, gazes falling on the decay. My mother saw potholes, the concrete scarcely holding on to the edges as cars relentlessly passed. I saw a civilization that was failing to adapt — only heard the endless layering of honks. I hadn’t come all the way back to chase a craving my mother had carried for thirteen years. I didn’t understand that to her, to my parents, this was a city they’d lost as soon as they’d left. A choice they had made for me.
All I wanted, all I’d thought this would be was hugging the aunties, shaking the hands of my uncles and laughing with cousins. I thought this would be feasts, gifts and chatting by the fire till the crickets awoke. I had hoped it would be shopping for clothes at the market, trying the street food and visiting the beautiful mountainsides.
Expectation isn’t reasoning. It removes empathy.
It blinds you from truth; you don’t accept things as is. You feel like your parents are being selfish.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title -- ‘At What Cost’ Prompt -- 'If…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 75%: Rain falls in a sharp staccato against the windows of my office. The aroma of an open bottle and half empty…
Rain falls in a sharp staccato against the windows of my office. The aroma of an open bottle and half empty glass of whisky disperses throughout the air. Reagan’s address to the nation is left paused on the T.V—paused mid lie. My desk and envelope stare ominously, sitting down the dread creeps in. My hands are usually steady, but tonight they shake frantically. A sip of whisky and a sharp burn enters my throat, my anxiety is sufficed for now. I pick up my pen and begin.
CONFIDENTIAL — EYES ONLY
Mr President,
I have been ordered not to write this letter. For fourteen years I have followed orders, but the cost this operation is making on innocent people has driven me into taking drastic action by contacting you. A black marker lies on my desk, depleted from years of use. We in the Central Intelligence Agency never lie – just tell a necessary omission. Never bribe officials – just send extravagant gifts. Never break US law – just adapt to successfully complete the mission. The black line of a marker can scrub everything out. Well Mr President, it has been this doctrine which has cost our people too many lives.
The operation was genius. Since Congress blocked our support for the Contras in Nicaragua in their guerrilla campaign against their Soviet-backed government, we in the agency had to find our ways around this hurdle. So we sold arms to the Iranians (although we had an arms embargo) through Saudi middlemen, amidst their ongoing Jihad against Iraq. With the profit from this business venture we would covertly funnel this revenue into the Contras in Nicaragua. We had to adapt to fight the communists and we did. Your address last night promised transparency on this affair. Let me tell you Mr President—You know. Not suspected—knew. Don’t try to act like an old grandpa and dismiss this operation to the press, you had full knowledge. An operation of this magnitude, with this funding, does not occur without the Commander and Chiefs consent. But I believe there is an important detail that you were never briefed about. It is the purpose of my letter. It is how this operation cost peoples lives when they should of never of been harmed. Individuals in the agency are already actively trying to bury it, but the damage cannot be undone.
The truth is that the whole Iran-Contra business operation was not providing the Contras with enough funding, so we let them do what they had to do. Through working with local cartels they funnelled drugs into the United States, from the revenue gained there only then were they able to properly fund their anti-government operations. They smuggled cocaine and the new chemically engineered version of it ‘crack’ and we turned a blind eye. Planes carrying suspicious cargo—we gave them protection. Dodgy tourists—we gave them passports. Even regarding suspected individuals, we buried evidence of them so the DEA would not stop the drug supply.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: General personal journeys framework
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 90%: My dream isn’t wealth, exploring the globe, or building a family. My dream is a number: 20.87. I can see it…
My dream isn’t wealth, exploring the globe, or building a family. My dream is a number: 20.87. I can see it with my eyes shut.
The day finally arrived, along with the crowd, the lights, the cameras and the enormous blue rectangle. For years, I have pictured the final touch against the wall, turning towards the scoreboard and seeing it there: 20.87, a number which could justify every kilometre swum, every second spent awake before sunrise, every birthday missed.
Coach caught me at the mouth of the tunnel “Finally adding the big one to the cabinet?” I tried lightening the nerves, “It’ll be the easiest one.” I walked onto the pool deck. The noise hit first, thousands of voices folding into one deafening echo, reflecting off the roof and water.
I stood behind my lane, watching it get narrower by the second. The official called us forward. I rested my foot on the block. My fingers curled over the edge. I breathed: in, out, in.
My wrist felt light.
My stopwatch.
I always wore it.
I dove in. There was only the rush of bubbles beside my ears and the pressure of water against my skin. It was deathly quiet for an arena holding thousands. After I broke the surface, I made sure to tilt my head left and right. Nobody. I must’ve been miles ahead. Then I tilted it more.
All seven of the other swimmers remained frozen on their blocks, staring at me. I stayed put right there. I swivelled my head all around, everyone seemed to have a pair of eyes fixed on me. Then I remembered: it wasn’t just a crowd, somewhere in the stands were my parents. Somewhere behind me was coach, putting four years of faith on this one race. I climbed from the pool. Before the official even moved his lips, I knew: Disqualified.
There were thousands in the arena, yet I had never felt more alone. I had imagined this moment so many times, but not this. I made my way into the tunnel. That’s when my head jolted backwards to the thunderous noise of the spectators, giving me a glimpse of my competitors reaching the wall. I stopped beneath one of the televisions mounted high on the wall. The scoreboard updated, ‘21.08’ sitting beside the winner’s name. My eyes were glued to it.
I don’t remember getting back to the hotel room. For a week, I barely left it. The replay followed me everywhere, the same 10 seconds on every screen I tried not looking at. Eventually, I stopped turning them on.
I hated the sound of the buzzer.
I hate the Olympics.
I hate swimming.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: I may never return. stimulus:…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 87.5%: The last thing I packed was the photograph of my family and I. It had been tucked beneath my mattress for…
The last thing I packed was the photograph of my family and I. It had been tucked beneath my mattress for years, its edges curled and its surface faded from being handled too many times. I stared at it for a moment before sliding it between the pages of my notebook and closing the suitcase. Around me, my green coloured room looked strangely unfamiliar, as though packing it into boxes had already begun to erase me from it. Clothes were folded into neat piles, books were stacked beside the door, and the small collection of things I had one thought I could never leave behind seemed almost meaningless. Tomorrow, I would leave Muludja. I would leave the red dirt that stained the hem of my clothes, the dry heat that clung to my skin, the familiar voices that carried through the community through the evenings. Most of all, I would leave the questions I spent years avoiding. I had always felt ashamed of how little I knew about my own Aboriginal culture, ashamed that the stories and traditions that seemed to belong so naturally to everyone else around me but felt distant when I tried to reach for them. While others spoke about country with a certainty I could never find within myself, I had learned to stay quiet, afraid that someone would notice how disconnected I felt. Perhaps thats why I had convinced myself that leaving would be easier. In a new city, no one would know my family, my history, or how little I understood about where I come from. I could introduce myself without having to explain the parts of me I did not understand. I could become someone new. I zipped my suitcase shut and rested my hand on its handle. Tomorrow, I told myself, I would finally belong somewhere else.
”Are you really leaving tomorrow?” Grandma asked from the doorway. I nodded, keeping my eyes fixed on the suitcase. “I need to,” I said, “I need a fresh start.” She stepped further into the room and looked around at the empty space. The empty shelves and the bare green walls. “And you think you will find yourself somewhere else?” She asked. I swallowed. “Maybe. I just…I don’t feel like i belong here.” Grandma was quiet for a moment. Then she gave a small, knowing smile. “You do not have to understand everything yet.” I finally had the courage to look up at her. “I may never return.” I whispered. The words sounded harsher once they were spoken out loud. Grandma did not argue. She reached for my hand. “Come. Walk with me.”
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: What Matters Most Stimulus: “Be who…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 80%: What Matters Most Stimulus: “Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter and…
What Matters Most
Stimulus: “Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind. Nothing matters very much, and few things matter at all.”
You're not supposed to matter that much. Chipped mirrors, fluorescent lights and cubicle doors that don’t quite lock properly, yet you carry the girls who can no longer carry the weight of the world in their chests.
This one girl you’ll always remember. You first met her in year 10. She was one of the ‘bus girls,’ the early arrivals with no place else to go. She would come too early and plop down on your cold tiles, while music that held too much emotion filled the eerie silence. Sometimes you would hear her voice singing, and sometimes you would hear her strained sobs, and you would hold her all the same.
The ‘loud’ ones would come in around 15 minutes later, spraying too much perfume, gossiping as if your cold tiles aren't listening, and fixing their hair and makeup before the bell demanded their presence somewhere else in the school.
But you noticed the ‘bus girl’ more. She would wait for them to leave, feet up on your closed toilet lid so as to not be seen, and breath held so as to not make a single sound.
Why wait? You wondered. She was different from the rest. Those who waited for the bell to go or who waited for their friends to arrive.
She waited for the hallway to become quiet enough for her to walk through it alone. Because that's what always mattered to her. Hiding behind the curtains, utterly unaware of her value.
She seemed to believe that if nobody saw her, nobody could misunderstand her; if nobody heard her, nobody could laugh. As though being unseen was the same as being safe.
Eventually you realised it was because classrooms demanded performance, hallways demanded confidence, and everywhere else in school felt like a stage, but you, you let her be human. You let her feel as if she was capable of being herself. In your silence, she could finally exist without having to prove she deserved to.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: Changing Directions "You were…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 72.5%: Changing direction: The Before-image: I was someone else, but this version of me has been lost to time: The…
Changing direction:
The Before-image:
I was someone else, but this version of me has been lost to time: The fearless one who jumped into the unknown out of pure curiosity. Before curiosity killed the cat. His radiant smile, his innocent laugh that didn’t yet know the fate that was given to him. I would do anything to relive moments through the current lens of myself.
The Severing:
Suddenly one day unbeknownst to me, the conditions were suddenly met and my identity was stripped away from me without my consent. Every suddenly felt wrong, the air, the lighting, the people, me. I was confronted by this giant eye in the sky turning into a burning red sun, burning me without rest. I no longer felt like myself.
The Afterimage:
What followed were desperate attempts to get the old self back, I did everything from old songs to old games, I even went back to my home country to revisit old roads just to find a glimpse of that spectral self which all ended in vain. What followed was this hollow felling that I couldn’t shake off, like a crab that grew out of its shell. Out of instincts it crawls back inside, but the shell no longer supports it and after the struggle it must change directions, move on and find a bigger shell because the story must go on.
The Sinking:
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The people we outgrow
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 80%: A tumultuous sheet of grey washed over the horizon as crystal leads began to pour down from the sky. Crowds of…
A tumultuous sheet of grey washed over the horizon as crystal leads began to pour down from the sky. Crowds of villagers hurried inside, shielding themselves from the rain. Not too far away, on an unremarkable hill, lived a boy no older than 15. He rushed outside, endeavouring to put his washing inside before the rain got to it. The villagers didn't know much about the boy; they only knew about the rumours. "He lives by himself," some say, "others gossip about how he grows his own food." The general sentiment was unanimous though; he must be so lonely without anyone to talk to. The boy knew about their conversations, their whispers drifted up from the village towards his small, mundane wooden shack. They floated through his window and into his alabaster ears.
As the sun dipped below the horizon and the fires started to burn low, their murmuring became clearer. "My brother said he watches us from up there." "What does he do all day?" they questioned. "What an outcast." The boy had become used to hearing these words; their arrival filling him with an unusual sense of familiarity. At first he wondered what they meant; he would journey down to the village and sneak around; listening to their conversations, even participating in them sometimes. However, as he sat on top of his window ledge, peering down at the village below, he felt an uncomfortable sense of isolation. He lived right next to them, yet he felt like an outsider. From the top of the hill, the village seemed so distant and the boy felt so alienated, but what else was the boy to do?
At least that's what he wrote.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The people we outgrow
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 77.5%: A tumultuous sheet of grey washed over the horizon as crystal leads began to pour down from the sky. Crowds…
A tumultuous sheet of grey washed over the horizon as crystal leads began to pour down from the sky. Crowds of villagers hurried inside, shielding themselves from the rain. Not too far away, on an unremarkable hill, lived a boy no older than 15. He rushed outside, endeavouring to put his washing inside before the rain got to it. The villagers didn't know much about the boy; they only knew about the rumours. "He lives by himself," some say, "others gossip about how he grows his own food." The general sentiment was unanimous though; he must be so lonely without anyone to talk to. The boy knew about their conversations, their whispers drifted up from the village towards his small, mundane wooden shack. They floated through his window and into his alabaster ears.
As the sun dipped below the horizon and the fires started to burn low, their murmuring became clearer. "My brother said he watches us from up there." "What does he do all day?" they questioned. "What an outcast." The boy had become used to hearing these words; their arrival filling him with an unusual sense of familiarity. At first he wondered what they meant; he would journey down to the village and sneak around; listening to their conversations, even participating in them sometimes. However, as he sat on top of his window ledge, peering down at the village below, he felt an uncomfortable sense of isolation. He lived right next to them, yet he felt like an outsider. From the top of the hill, the village seemed so distant and the boy felt so alienated, but what else was the boy to do?
At least that's what he wrote.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The people we outgrow
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 75%: A tumultuous sheet of grey washed over the horizon as crystal leads began to pour down from the sky. Crowds of…
A tumultuous sheet of grey washed over the horizon as crystal leads began to pour down from the sky. Crowds of villagers hurried inside, shielding themselves from the rain. Not too far away, on an unremarkable hill, lived a boy no older than 15. He rushed outside, endeavouring to put his washing inside before the rain got to it. The villagers didn't know much about the boy; they only knew about the rumours. "He lives by himself," some say, "others gossip about how he grows his own food." The general sentiment was unanimous though; he must be so lonely without anyone to talk to. The boy knew about their conversations, their whispers drifted up from the village towards his small, mundane wooden shack. They floated through his window and into his alabaster ears.
As the sun began to dip below the horizon and the fires start to burn low, their murmuring became clearer. "My brother said he watches us from up there." "What does he do all day?" they question, "What an outcast." The boy had become used to hearing these words; their arrival filling him with an unusual sense of familiarity. At first he wondered what they meant, he would journey down to the village and sneak around; listening to their conversations, even participating in them sometimes. However, as he sat on top of his window ledge, peering down at the village below, he felt an uncomfortable sense of isolation. He lived right next to them, yet he felt like an outsider. From the top of the hill, the village seemed so distant and the boy felt so alienated, but what else was the boy to do?
At least that's what he wrote.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Framework 2: Protest Title: Resist and…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 80%: Resist and Persist You ever notice how everything has conditions? You can rest after you've finished your work.…
Resist and Persist
You ever notice how everything has conditions?
You can rest after you've finished your work.
You can be proud after you've achieved something.
You can be happy once you've sorted your life out.
Sounds fair, doesn't it? Resist. Persist. Make your parents proud. Get good grades. Get a decent job.
And whatever you do, don't fall behind. Because God forbid you're twenty years old and still figuring things out.
I used to think that was just how life worked.
My parents worked hard so I could have opportunities they never had.
They sacrificed things I probably won't ever fully understand.
And I love them for that. But sometimes love gets tangled up with expectation.
A good report card isn't just a good report card. It's proof that their sacrifices meant something.
A mistake isn't just a mistake. It's a wasted opportunity.
And suddenly, you're not studying because you're curious about the world.
You're studying because you're terrified of disappointing someone. Maybe your pressure comes from your parents. Maybe it's your friends, your teachers, or that random bloke on LinkedIn announcing he's founded three companies before breakfast.
Whatever it is, you start measuring yourself against everyone else. And somehow, you're always coming up short.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The people we outgrow
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 72.5%: A tumultuous sheet of grey washed over the horizon as crystal leads began to pour down from the sky. Crowds…
A tumultuous sheet of grey washed over the horizon as crystal leads began to pour down from the sky. Crowds of villagers hurried inside, shielding themselves from the rain. Not too far away, on an unremarkable hill, lived a boy no older than 15. He rushed outside, endeavouring to put his washing inside before the rain got to it. The villagers didn't know much about the boy; they only knew about the rumors. "He lives by himself," some say, "others gossip about how he grows his own food." The general sentiment was unanimous though, he must be so lonely without anyone to talk to.The boy knew about their conversations, their whispers drifted up from the village towards his small, mundane wooden shack. They floated through his window and into his alabaster ears.
As the sun begins to dip below the horizon and the fires start to burn low, their murmuring becomes clearer. "My brother said he watches us from up there." "What does he do all day?" they question, "What an outcast." The boy had become used to hearing these words; their arrival filling him with an unusual sense of familiarity. At first he wondered what they meant, he would journey down to the village and sneak around, listening to their conversations, even participating in them sometimes. However, as he sat on top of his window ledge, peering down at the village below, he felt an uncomfortable sense of isolation. He lived right next to them, yet he felt like an outsider. From the top of the hill, the village seemed so distant and the boy felt so alienated, but what else was the boy to do?
At least that's what he wrote.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The people we outgrow
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 75%: A tumultuous sheet of grey washed over the horizon as crystal leads began to pour down from the sky. Crowds of…
A tumultuous sheet of grey washed over the horizon as crystal leads began to pour down from the sky. Crowds of villagers hurried inside, shielding themselves from the rain. Not too far away, on an unremarkable hill, lived a boy no older than 15. He rushed outside, endeavouring to put his washing inside before the rain got to it. The villagers didn't know much about the boy, they only knew about the rumors. "He lives by himself," some say, "others gossip about how he grows his own food." The general sentiment was unanimous though, he must be so lonely without anyone to talk to.The boy knew about their conversations, their whispers drifted up from the village towards his small, mundane wooden shack. They floated through his window and into his alabaster ears.
As the sun begins to dip below the horizon and the fires start to burn low, their murmuring becomes clearer. "My brother said he watches us from up there." "What does he do all day?" they question, "What an outcast." The boy had become used to hearing these words, their arrival filling him with an unusual sense of familiarity. At first he wondered what they meant, he would journey down to the village and sneak around, listening to their conversations, even participating in them sometimes. However, as he sat on top of his window ledge, peering down at the village below, he felt an uncomfortable sense of isolation. He lived right next to them, yet he felt like an outsider. From the top of the hill, the village seemed so distant and the boy felt so alienated, but what else was the boy to do?
At least that's what he wrote.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Framework 2: Protest Title: Resist and…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 75%: Resist and Persist You ever notice how everything has conditions? You can rest after you've finished your work.…
Resist and Persist
You ever notice how everything has conditions?
You can rest after you've finished your work.
You can be proud after you've achieved something.
You can be happy once you've sorted your life out.
Sounds fair, doesn't it? Resist. Persist. Make your parents proud. Get good grades. Get a decent job.
And whatever you do, don't fall behind. Because God forbid you're twenty years old and still figuring things out.
I used to think that was just how life worked.
My parents worked hard so I could have opportunities they never had.
They sacrificed things I probably won't ever fully understand.
And I love them for that. But sometimes love gets tangled up with expectation.
A good report card isn't just a good report card. It's proof that their sacrifices meant something.
A mistake isn't just a mistake. It's a wasted opportunity.
And suddenly, you're not studying because you're curious about the world.
You're studying because you're terrified of disappointing someone. Maybe your pressure comes from your parents. Maybe it's your friends, your teachers, or that random bloke on LinkedIn announcing he's founded three companies before breakfast.
Whatever it is, you start measuring yourself against everyone else. And somehow, you're always coming up short.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The people we outgrow
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 67.5%: A tumultuous sheet of grey washed over the horizon as crystal leads began to pour down from the sky. Crowds…
A tumultuous sheet of grey washed over the horizon as crystal leads began to pour down from the sky. Crowds of villagers hurried inside, shielding themselves from the rain. Not too far away, on an unremarkable hill, lived a boy no older than 15. He rushed outside, endeavouring to put his washing inside before the rain got to it. The villagers didn't know much about the boy, they only knew about the rumors. "He lives by himself," some say, "others gossip about how he grows his own food." The general sentiment was unanimous though, he must be so lonely without anyone to talk to.The boy knew about their conversations, their whispers drifted up from the village towards his small, mundane wooden shack. They floated through his window and into his alabaster ears.
As the sun begins to dip below the horizon and the fires start to burn low, their murmuring becomes clearer. "My brother said he watches us from up there." "What does he do all day?" they question, "What an outcast." The boy had become used to hearing these words, their arrival filling him with an unusual sense of familiarity. At first he wondered what they meant, he would journey down to the village and sneak around, listening to their conversations, even participating in them sometimes. However, as he sat on top of his window ledge, peering down at the village below, he felt an uncomfortable sense of isolation. He lived right next to them, yet he felt like an outsider. From the top of the hill, the village seemed so distant and the boy felt so alienated, but what else was the boy to do?
At least that's what he wrote.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Framework 2: Writing about protest •…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 77.5%: June 24, 2022 — Washington, D.C. Sophie didn't say hello. She held her phone across the table until the…
June 24, 2022 — Washington, D.C.
Sophie didn't say hello. She held her phone across the table until the screen was an inch from my face.
SUPREME COURT OVERTURNS ROE V. WADE.
"Tomorrow," she said. "Ten o'clock."
"Sophie..."
"Don't."
"I didn't even say anything!"
"You were going to." She pulled the phone back. "I know what you think. That it's just noise, and we'll all go home and nothing will be different." She laughed bitterly. "Well, maybe that's true. But I can't sit in my room refreshing the news until it stops being our new reality."
I looked down at my own screen, refusing to meet her eyes.
“Fine.” She bit out after my silence dragged on far too long. She grabbed her things and left and I told myself the tightness in my chest was irritation.
Grandma's house smelled the way it always did. The soft scent of lavender and vanilla candles clinging to the walls.
Mum had asked me to start sorting through Grandma's things to take with her to the nursing home.
As I reached the bottom drawer, I was met with old photographs, dusty books and outdated gadgets. I was about to push it closed when the blue cloth cover of a small book caught my eye.
I nearly dropped it into the box marked DONATE. Then I saw the name in the top corner of the cover, written in handwriting so careful it looked printed.
Eleanor Grace Whitmore. September 1962.
My great-grandmother. I remembered a small woman with silver hair who slipped peppermints into my coat pockets.
I almost closed it. It felt private, as though reading it would mean trespassing into the most intimate corners of her life. But the first few pages offered a glimpse into her world: dances, friends, her aspirations and dreams.
It wasn't until I reached the entry dated October 17, 1965, that I was truly drawn in.
October 17, 1965
I met the most interesting woman today at church. She spoke of a small group of women writing letters to our state legislators, urging them to reconsider the abortion laws. She spoke with such conviction, such passion, that I found myself captivated by every word. They are fighting for women. It has dominated my mind since.
October 23, 1965
I went to my first meeting today. I lied to Mother and Father. They wouldn't understand. Mother would tell me it was improper. Father would tell me to leave such matters alone.
But I couldn’t. It was the most alive I’d ever felt.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The people we outgrow
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 67.5%: A tumultuous sheet of grey washed over the horizon as crystal leads began to pour down from the sky. Crowds…
A tumultuous sheet of grey washed over the horizon as crystal leads began to pour down from the sky. Crowds of villagers hurried inside, shielding themselves from the rain. Not too far away, on an unremarkable hill, lived a boy no older than 15. He rushed outside, endeavouring to put his washing inside before the rain got to it. The villagers didn't know much about the boy, they only knew about the rumors. "He lives by himself," some say, "others gossip about how he grows his own food." The general sentiment was unanimous though, he must be so lonely without anyone to talk to.The boy knew about their conversations, their whispers drifted up from the village towards his small, mundane wooden shack. They floated through his window and into his alabaster ears.
As the sun begins to dip below the horizon and the fires start to burn low, their murmuring becomes clearer. "My brother said he watches us from up there." "What does he do all day?" they question, "What an outcast." The boy had become used to hearing these words, their arrival filling him with an unusual sense of familiarity. At first he wondered what they meant, he would journey down to the village and sneak around, listening to their conversations, even participating in them sometimes. However, as he sat on top of his window ledge, peering down at the village below, he felt an uncomfortable sense of isolation. He lived right next to them, yet he felt like an outsider. From the top of the hill, the village seemed so distant and the boy felt so alienated, but what else was the boy to do?
At least that's what he wrote.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Writing about country Title: Finding…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 90%: Finding comfort It starts so perfect, so playful, so joyful. Glitter. Recasting rays of sunlight back to your…
Finding comfort
It starts so perfect, so playful, so joyful. Glitter. Recasting rays of sunlight back to your eyes, bouncing around the room, lighting up even the darkest corners. Fun and games until it’s not. Falling into crevices and slipping into cracks beyond your reach. Impossible to clean. Impossible to get rid of. Too hard to go unnoticed. Glitter. You are glitter.
It’s been three years to the day you left this earth. Three years since I heard the news, cursing to the vast ocean how you could just leave me to fight on my own in this world. How such a perfect soul could just be taken from me.
I remember the first month or two, locked away, rotting in my room. Starved of food. Starved of sunlight. Starved of your presence. Even when I felt so much comfort in that room, it grew to be unbearable as the memories of our times in there started to flood right back to me.
I remember the endless amounts of conversations we would have on my cold, hard floor when my couch was only metres away. The late night rants we would have in bed about how overwhelmed we were from school, or a difficult teacher, to the point where our words dissolved into tears. Even the bed remembered you. Your dent in the side you always slept on was there, and for a while your warmth lingered, but it left faster than I wished.
When I did finally leave my room, it was like you were still here. Everywhere I went, everything I did, you were right there.
You were still sitting at our cafe. On the table we always sat at. Air lingering with the scent of coffee during the morning rush. People passing, going in and out of the cafe like a blur while you sit there with a hot hojicha latte and reading a book you picked up earlier that week, totally unfazed by the world around you. The calming early morning sunlight kissing your face just how you liked. You would eventually get distracted talking to every barista, as they worked on the other side of the counter. They never let go, marking your name to the only chair that you ever sat on.
Even in the quietest of places, the library or the hall where we always used to study, I still hear you ask for my calculator or a pen, some days maybe both. When you say “I’m going to lock in”. Just to then be distracted, writing poems of sunlight hitting the water, and always reminding me the Korean word for it is Yoonseul. And now seeing the sunlight sparkle across the water only ever brings me back to you.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: time to fight
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: Listen. The photograph is beginning to tear. Two hours into the march, my fingers have worn its corners soft,…
Listen.
The photograph is beginning to tear.
Two hours into the march, my fingers have worn its corners soft, but I keep Armin’s face turned towards the sky. Red light flickers across thousands of faces as flares fill the street beneath restless flags. Fists clench, and voices rise from every corner. “Death to the dictator!” Banners snap above us, photographs held high.
I grip his portrait tighter. He was my joon—my heart, my little brother, whose crooked smile could soften my darkest days. Whenever the world grew heavy, he summoned happiness. Then, months ago, the sky split open above our neighbourhood in eastern Iran, our childhood home collapsing beneath a choking cloud of dust. The shaking stopped, yet I remained frozen; where Armin stood, only piercing white noise remained. A flash of uniform pulled me back to the wreckage, my shoulder stiffening as the air tightened around me.
Now, his absence joins countless others carried through streets where mourning has become defiance. Armed patrols turn our alleyways into zones of fear, harassing anyone who dares to look up. Security forces tear portraits from our hands, yet mourners retrieve them from the mud, restoring the faces the regime tries to erase.
What threat could a grieving family pose to a state armed with guns? We lift banners bearing the faces of those buried beneath the rubble, confronting the regime with the human cost concealed behind its illusion of a war without innocent victims. Beside me, a single protester cries a victim’s name. Hundreds echo it. The sound swells into a defiant wave, pushing back against the heavy republic marching toward us. Our voices falter, then surge, refusing the quiet they try to impose.
They want us silenced.
The word returns me to those first nights after the bombardment, walls shuddering around us as sirens tore through the darkness. My mother called Armin’s name until her voice broke. Our pain was folded beneath the state flag and carried away quietly. They renamed our suffering: destroyed homes became collateral damage, grief became civil disorder, and our voices became national threats.
Yet families still search the wreckage with bare hands for loved ones the regime dismisses as “terrorist elements.” Photographs rise beneath floodlights, held by hands refusing to let the dead disappear. The protest feels less like a march than a cemetery that has learned to move.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: Belonging Stimulus used: 3
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 90%: Isolation was introduced to me as protection — an invisible perimeter drawn against the world. It was never…
Isolation was introduced to me as protection — an invisible perimeter drawn against the world. It was never presented as temporary. It was a lifelong condition: a road unspooling endlessly toward a horizon that neither approached nor receded, only waited. It was presented as inheritance: a land to which I had an obligation to belong, passed down like a surname.
From my earliest memories, I slipped easily into the rhythm of my parents’ lives. Their days were measured and predictable, shaped by the steadiness of the land itself. I learned to walk without taking and how to stay without owning. For them, the land was not scenery; it was structure. It dictated pace, ambition, even expectation. It asked for commitment and offered continuity in return.
My only glimpse beyond Laverton came through my childhood friend, Jack. His parents carried him across Australia; through cities dense with movement, coastlines dissolving into open water, and national parks that stretched further than sight. To me, these places existed as borrowed horizons, half-real images flickering from screens and dog-eared pages.
Whenever I asked about leaving, my parents answered with the same quiet certainty.
’What for?’ Dad said, scratching at the table with his thumb. ‘Everything you need’s right here.’
‘Chasing things only makes you tired,’ Mum added, her hands still. ‘There’s a difference between wanting and needing.’
Over time, I learned to listen before speaking.
But Laverton never felt sufficient. Each morning, I walked the same arduous stretch to school — flies orbiting in thick swarms and heat rising off the asphalt in wavering sheets that demanded a patience my restless mind could not offer. Ahead of me, the horizon quivered like spilled water, an illusion of motion in a landscape defined by stillness. I learned early that the horizon could tease you with distance while offering no passage- unless you choose to move towards it.
At school, the teachers resembled the country that shaped them: immovable, watchful, resistant to change. They granted us freedom within invisible borders, like livestock released into fenced paddocks; you could roam, so long as you did not test the fence. Most students embraced those boundaries, inheriting their parents’ ease with containment. While others settled comfortably into the present, I fixed my gaze on the horizon, blind then to what lay underfoot, imagining a life that extended beyond Laverton’s edges.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title- Listening Stimulus used- 1
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 87.5%: Isolation was introduced to me as protection — an invisible perimeter drawn against the world. It was never…
Isolation was introduced to me as protection — an invisible perimeter drawn against the world. It was never presented as temporary. It was a lifelong condition: a road unspooling endlessly toward a horizon that neither approached nor receded, only waited. It was presented as inheritance: a boundary etched into the land long before I was born, passed down like a surname.
From my earliest memories, I listened and learned from the repetition of my parents’ lives. Their days were measured and predictable, shaped by the steadiness of the land itself. The land was not scenery; it was structure. It dictated pace, ambition, even expectation. It asked for commitment and offered continuity in return.
My only glimpse beyond Laverton came through my childhood friend, Jack. His parents carried him across Australia; through cities dense with movement, coastlines dissolving into open water, and national parks that stretched further than sight. To me, these places existed as borrowed horizons, half-real images flickering from screens and dog-eared pages.
Whenever I asked about leaving, my parents answered with the same quiet certainty.
’What for?’ Dad said, scratching at the table with his thumb. ‘Everything you need’s right here.’
‘No point chasing what you don’t need,’ Mum added. ‘Town’s looked after us this long.’
But Laverton never felt sufficient. Each morning, I walked the same arduous stretch to school — the sound flies orbiting in thick swarms and heat rising off the asphalt in wavering sheets that demanded a patience my restless mind could not offer. Ahead of me, the horizon quivered like spilled water, an illusion of motion in a landscape defined by stillness. I learned early that the horizon could tease you with distance while offering no passage- unless you choose to move towards it.
At school, the teachers resembled the country that shaped them; immovable, watchful, resistant to change. They granted us freedom within invisible borders, like livestock released into fenced paddocks; you could roam, so long as you did not test the fence. Most students embraced those boundaries, inheriting their parents’ ease with containment. While others settled comfortably into the present, I fixed my gaze on the horizon, blind then to what lay underfoot, imagining a life that extended beyond Laverton’s edges.