VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: When have you helped someone? Students…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 87.5%: My mum has always said that I’m “the helpful type.” I can see where she’s coming from. At a glance, I would…
My mum has always said that I’m “the helpful type.” I can see where she’s coming from. At a glance, I would look pretty helpful. Assisting people, picking up rubbish, everything that comes to mind when you think of an overall good citizen. But, regardless of what your second grade teacher that was a little too into conspiracy theories would tell you about karma, that never really clicked for me.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: VCE Personal Journeys | Section B
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 95%: Rewrite: The canvas lies flat on the studio floor, taped at the corners so it cannot move. A square of white…
Rewrite:
The canvas lies flat on the studio floor, taped at the corners so it cannot move. A square of white under the fluorescent lights. It should feel like possibility. That’s what everyone says about blank canvases. Endless space. Endless freedom. Endless potential. But standing over it now, the white feels heavy. Expectant. Like an audience waiting for the music to start. Once, I would have stepped forward without thinking. Once, I would have trusted the first mark. Now I hesitate.
The Pheasant’s Entrance from Giselle hits me from every side. Violins climbing too high, too fast, the same sequence of notes looping before the last one has even finished. It fills the studio until the air feels thick with it. There’s nowhere for the sound to go. Nowhere for me to go either.
I tighten the ribbons around my ankle, the muscle memory kicking in from the countless days I spent at the studio. Tighter and tighter until the fabric bites into my skin. Tighter and tighter, each pull offering the same thin reassurance. You will not fall. You will not fail. Not again. The canvas waits to be filled.
Beside it, paint trays sit open; red, blue, violet, pink. The surface of each colour is already beginning to skin over. Waiting too long makes paint stubborn. Hard to move. Hard to trust.
The music stops, once again plunging the studio back into a suffocating quiet. I cross the room to start it again, the wood from my pointe shoes clacking against the concrete floor. Every ballerina knows not to dance on concrete. It ruins the shoes, ruins the ankles. Yet I do it anyway.
The music swells again. I hover above the canvas for a moment, balancing on the edge of movement. My body remembers how this should begin. A clean turn. A controlled step. Something precise. But instinct feels unreliable now. Somewhere along the way, I stopped trusting the way my body wanted to move. Every movement already feels wrong before it even happens. Still, I lower the toe of my pointe shoe into the paint.
The satin darkens immediately, colour soaking through until it stains the fabric a deep blue. Blue like the sky stretching open. Blue like the sea closing over your head. Blue like a breath held one second too long.
For a moment I hesitate. Then I step onto the canvas. The stain appears instantly, a sharp blue mark blooming across the white. It shouldn’t look so loud. My foot falters as I try to balance, leaving the line uneven. Messy. Wrong.
My instinct is immediate: fix it. I step again, carefully this time, trying to place the mark more neatly beside the first. A correction. An adjustment. That habit again. Somewhere along the way, art stopped being something I created and became something I corrected.
I drag the edge of my shoe across the paint, smearing the blue away from the line. The colour thins under the pressure until the white begins to show through again. Scraping. Erasing. The movement feels familiar.
There was a time when painting never required this much thinking. I remember sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor as a child, paint smeared across my hands, the paper beneath me drowning in colour. No sketch first. No plan. Just the quiet certainty that whatever appeared was enough. My mother would laugh when I painted outside the lines. “It looks alive,” she would say.
Alive.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: VCE Personal Journeys | Section B
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: The canvas lies flat on the studio floor, taped at the corners so it cannot move. A square of white under the…
The canvas lies flat on the studio floor, taped at the corners so it cannot move. A square of white under the fluorescent lights. It should feel like possibility. That’s what everyone says about blank canvases. Endless space. Endless freedom. Endless potential. But standing over it now, the white feels heavy. Expectant. Like an audience waiting for the music to start. Once, I would have stepped forward without thinking. Once, I would have trusted the first mark. Now I hesitate.
The Pheasant’s Entrance from Giselle hits me from every side. Violins climbing too high, too fast, the same sequence of notes looping before the last one has even finished. It fills the studio until the air feels thick with it. There’s nowhere for the sound to go. Nowhere for me to go either.
I tighten the ribbons around my ankle, the muscle memory kicking in from the countless days I spent at the studio. Tighter and tighter until the fabric bites into my skin. Tighter and tighter, each pull offering the same thin reassurance. You will not fall. You will not fail. Not again. The canvas waits to be filled.
Beside it, paint trays sit open; red, blue, violet, pink. The surface of each colour is already beginning to skin over. Waiting too long makes paint stubborn. Hard to move. Hard to trust.
The music stops, once again drowning the studio in the initial uncomfortable silence. I cross the room to start it again, the wood from my pointe shoes clacking against the concrete floor. Every ballerina knows not to dance on concrete. It ruins the shoes. Ruins the ankles. Yet I do it anyway.
The music swells again. I hover above the canvas for a moment, balancing on the edge of movement. My body remembers how this should begin. A clean turn. A controlled step. Something precise. But instinct feels unreliable now. Somewhere along the way, I stopped trusting the way my body wanted to move. Every movement already feels wrong before it even happens. Still, I lower the toe of my pointe shoe into the paint.
The satin darkens immediately, colour soaking through until it stains the fabric a deep blue. Blue like the sky stretching open. Blue like the sea closing over your head. Blue like a breath held one second too long.
For a moment I hesitate. Then I step onto the canvas. The stain appears instantly, a sharp blue mark blooming across the white. It shouldn’t look so loud. My foot falters as I try to balance, leaving the line uneven. Messy. Wrong.
My instinct is immediate: fix it. I step again, carefully this time, trying to place the mark more neatly beside the first. A correction. An adjustment. That habit again. Somewhere along the way, art stopped being something I created and became something I corrected.
I drag the edge of my shoe across the paint, smearing the blue away from the line. The colour thins under the pressure until the white begins to show through again. Scraping. Erasing. The movement feels familiar.
There was a time when painting never required this much thinking. I remember sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor as a child, paint smeared across my hands, the paper beneath me drowning in colour. No sketch first. No plan. Just the quiet certainty that whatever appeared was enough. My mother would laugh when I painted outside the lines. “It looks alive,” she would say.
Alive.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: authenticity vs roles
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 90%: Who are we if not performers? And what is living if not performing? Would you squeal at spiders if no one was…
Who are we if not performers?
And what is living if not performing?
Would you squeal at spiders if no one was watching?
Would you smile just for yourself?
We perform joy, fear, ambition, and restraint. We rehearse our dreams, improvise our failures, and revise our identities. Life is not just a stage-it's a rehearsal room, a costume closet, a script still being written.
The biggest stage we'll ever stand on is our own life. From the moment we arrive, we're cast into roles we didn't audition for. We eat and grow so our parents feel fulfilled. We study and work to contribute to society. We love and sacrifice so others don't have to. We perform not just for applause, but for approval, for belonging, for survival.
And yet, there are moments-rare and fleeting-when the mask slips. When we step out of the costume stitched by expectation and into something raw, unfiltered. These moments feel like freedom. But are they? Or are they just another act, one we've convinced ourselves is authentic?
As children, play was instinctive. We didn't perform for anyone-we simply existed in joy. A cardboard box became a spaceship. A puddle became an ocean. Raindrops weren't acid-they were racers, sprinting to the ground. The world was magical because we hadn't yet been taught to explain it. But knowledge came, and with it, complexity. We learned the rules of the stage. We learned to smile on cue.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Personal Journeys : THE BLANK CANVAS
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 80%: The Blank Canvas. The canvas lies flat on the studio floor, taped at the corners so it cannot move. A square of…
The Blank Canvas.
The canvas lies flat on the studio floor, taped at the corners so it cannot move. A square of white under the fluorescent lights. It should feel like a possibility. That’s what everyone says about blank canvases. Endless space. Endless freedom. But standing over it now, the white feels heavy. Expectant. Like an audience waiting for the music to start.
The music presses in from every side. Violins climbing too high, too fast, the same phrase looping before the last one has even finished. It fills the studio until the air feels thick with it. There’s nowhere for the sound to go. Nowhere for me to go either.
I tighten the ribbons around my ankle. Tighter and tighter until the fabric bites into my skin. Tighter and tighter, each pull offering the same thin reassurance
You will not fall.
You will not fail.
Not again.
The canvas waits.
Beside it, paint trays sit open; red, blue, violet, pink. The surface of each colour is already beginning to skin over. Waiting too long makes paint stubborn. Hard to move. Hard to trust.
The music stops.
I cross the room to start it again, the wood from my pointe shoes clacking against the concrete floor. Every ballerina knows not to dance on concrete. It ruins the shoes. Ruins the ankles. Yet I do it anyway.
The music swells again.
I hover above the canvas for a moment, balancing on the edge of movement. My body remembers how this should begin. A clean turn. A controlled step. Something precise.
But instinct feels unreliable now. Every movement already feels wrong before it even happens. Still, I lower the toe of my pointe shoe into the paint.
The satin darkens immediately, colour soaking through until it stains the fabric a deep blue.
Blue like the sky stretching open.
Blue like the sea closing over your head.
For a moment I hesitate. Then I step onto the canvas.
The stain appears instantly. Faster than I expect. A sharp blue mark blooming across the white.
It shouldn’t look so loud.
My foot falters as I try to balance, leaving the line uneven. Messy. Wrong.
Immediately my body wants to fix it.
I step again, carefully this time, trying to place the mark more neatly beside the first. A correction. An adjustment.
That habit again.
I drag the edge of my shoe across the paint, smearing the blue away from the line. The colour thins under the pressure until the white begins to show through again.
Scraping.
Erasing.
The movement feels familiar.
There was a time when painting never required this much thinking. I remember sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor as a child, paint smeared across my hands, the paper beneath me drowning in colour. No sketch first. No plan. Just the quiet certainty that whatever appeared was enough.
My mother would laugh when I painted outside the lines.
“It looks alive,” she would say.
Alive.
Back then the brush moved before doubt had time to follow.
But that was before galleries. Before competitions. Before the careful language of critique.
I remember the first time someone studied my work for too long.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Personal Journeys
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 100%: I was truly haunted. Electrodes, leads, and sensors drew down her chest; her body plumped up by a large,…
I was truly haunted. Electrodes, leads, and sensors drew down her chest; her body plumped up by a large, thick, white pillow. My sister lay still in the hospital bed, her breathing rate now steady, as if the world had finally softened and relaxed. My thoughts remained pinned down there with her in the bed, completely unable to escape what had already been done. She was always fearless, always strong; now she lies here fragile. She was like me.
The subtle hint of peace drew me away from the horrors still inside my mind; the pain, the regret, the worry.
My sister curled up in a ball, her body trembling, ripped away from my parents' grasp as she was rushed by the doctors down the endless hallway. She lay unconscious, stains of blood dripping down the deep dark stains forming on the pale blue sheets of the hospital bed. The wheels of the stretcher screeched against the sterile, dull shine of the floor. My parents desperately wept, her name sharply travelling down the halls.
That all changed after the accident happened. She was walking home from school, like she had done many times before, until she was met by the screeching tyres of a car that didn’t brake in time.
My sister, with her relentless ambition to become a vet, was always a profound inspiration to me. She couldn’t imagine a different future than looking after animals. I knew her to be a perfectionist.
When I was 6 years old, we would tend to my dog as if he was a sick exotic animal, wrapping his fluffy paws in toilet paper as if they were bandages, giving him treats and pretending it was medicine. I fumbled the toilet paper alongside her clumsily, unsure if I was even helping. We even imagined that our dog, Rufus, had tumbled down two flights worth of stairs and somehow required doggy CPR.
I blindly followed her instructions; she seemed born to know her purpose. I often stumbled in life, unaware of where to begin. We shared the same genetics, same curly brown hair, and the same vibrant blue eyes. I was a digital duplicate of her, copy and pasted; yet mentally so different.
I was the machine, simply learning to imitate her actions; but I couldn’t imitate her drive.
On our many journeys to primary school, she would admire the vibrant and colourful fleet of rainbow lorikeets fluttering above the radiant glimmer of the morning sun. The birds would elegantly glide down onto the eucalyptus trees, and she would say “one day I’ll be looking after those magnificent creatures.”
She saw the magic in the animals which roamed the Earth and would relentlessly claw at every possible chance to help them.
My sister was practicing a path she would later follow, knowing her purpose from that moment on.
Although my eyes failed to catch the magical intricacies of the world as she did, I found myself yearning to one day see it through her lens, where the ordinary, like the birds in the sky, held a quiet kind of enchantment.
While she was in the hospital bed, I had been asleep, untouched by the moment which had altered everything.
She would always wake before me; I struggled to even pull myself out of bed, and the shame of that lingered.
There was no visible injury to me, yet the weight remained, an invisible burden I could not escape.
Everyone had seemed to have their futures mapped out, guided by passion and certainty, while I was left drifting into oblivion. With my sister left in a coma in the hospital, the attention had shifted towards me. People checked in, asking how I was coping, what I planned to do next; but I didn’t have any answers. I felt I was encased in loneliness, trapped in a bubble of expectations and guilt, all I really wanted was to live up to my sister.
A few days before the accident, my sister had told me about a nightmare that she couldn’t shake. A single bad grade, small, almost insignificant slipped through the system. Then it turned it another. And another.
In the eerily murky liminal space of her mind, a reflection of herself appeared. She stood there, fitted with light-blue scrubs; the fabric of her clothing drenched in tears.
Her deep blue eyes were fixed on her reflection, trembling. Her eyes were drawn towards the striking, ragged, bloodstained, deep scars on her arms and face.
“Why did you let this happen?” she whimpered.
“Why did you let your dream go?”
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: “Write about how being struck by a…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 60%: The thumping wind battered on my body, as I approached the Fugishoro bushes which surrounded my workplace.…
The thumping wind battered on my body, as I approached the Fugishoro bushes which surrounded my workplace. Vehicles rattled down the streets that buzzed with life as the no strong winds carried them melodiously. I opened the entrance door to endure another mundane aroma that welcomed me as if I were a customer to my own shop. I performed my habitual tasks of: flipping the closed sign, turning on the lights and kitchenware that begged for immediate replacement, having served thousands of customers with fried noodles and other soups.
The bell above the door remained idle, as it stared at me with a humiliating vision, laughing at the subtle progress I have made ever since I started this business, I frowned slightly, glancing at the clock that is embellished with intangible value as time determines my future. By now, there should at least be a few customers drafting in but the street outside seemed to disdain the shop’s collective presence of the shop and myself. The wind pressed harder against the windows as its howls slip through the tiny gaps beneath the entrance door, It appeared as a small consoling embrace which substitutes the withholding customers that usually enter, which rejuvenated my mindset.
I turned back to the counter, reaching for a bowl, only to pause as it slips through my brittle fingers, clattering louder than expected against the reflective surface.
The sound echoed through the bland expanse, lingering longer than it should have. I opted to to listen to the fake sounds of the clatter that ranged inside of my head, unbothered to reach down.
“This might just be one of those days.” I spoke to myself, hoping that the mood of the outside environment reflects the echoing silence that yells in my ears.
I quietly continued to retrieve the inert plate which to my luck, did not shatter into uneven pieces. Although the familiar motions of working with kitchenware was felt normal, it also felt slightly out of sync as if time dilation was present. Even the fluorescent lights were trying so hard to match its eerie atmosphere.
The silence was broken by the sharp piercing sound of the door opening.
“Finally,”
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Totems are essential for anchoring our…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 87.5%: If the physicality of culturally exclusive items of significance reflected our connection and devotion to our…
If the physicality of culturally exclusive items of significance reflected our connection and devotion to our own culture, it would appear at first glance that I am holding some form of great dismal and disdain towards my own Sri Lankan and Burgher heritage.
In the culturally centred world we live in today, taking pride and practicing culture is something that is perceived as a means of boldness and individualism to our general public.
But what if my condensed Sri Lankan heritage is so deep-rooted within my persona that no one, including me, couldn’t even tell that I took any exclusive pride in my own individuality? Maybe it is because I just assumed that my culture is only a small piece of who I am.
I was obviously aware that I looked Sri Lankan and the adjective ‘Australian‘ isn’t exactly something that would cross anyone’s mind when I’m looked upon, but does that physical allusion to my culture stand as a totem in itself to ground me in my culture?
Or is my brown skin and uncontrollable mane of black hair a public signpost to all white people that I am quite obviously a 1st generation that was deemed an Australian citizen by the government upon birth as a result of my mother’s Singhalese-Australian dual citizenship.
My father had the guts to be the first of his family line to leave the comforting, but environmentally and politically polluted, environment of Sri Lanka’s Ceylon tea fields, life threatening tuk-tuk rides and unofficial licenses and businesses all to start anew in Australia’s law-backed firms and practices, to conform to Australia’s demanding requirements of immigrants while somehow surviving in their racist work environments despite their public-image of an endeavour for cultural equality.
Despite the selective corruption of both places, you learn to work and conform to both, as my father did. While he thrived on Sri Lanka’s hot weather, the transition to Melbourne’s unpredictable weather and sudden druid downpours of rain led him to taking constant vitamin D tablets to replace the sudden lack of sun in Australia. Those seemingly larger than life tablets that he’s been choking down ever since he stepped foot onto Australia’s golden soil stand as a reminder of the life he left behind for what he was hoping was a better one, this hard-to-swallow totem represents the physiological changes that may encourage a sense of patriarchy within particular natives and their homelands.
The reluctance to leave our country of cultural heritage could be a result of internal health declines but could also be associated by an underlying thread of insecurity that an individual may not be accepted in a place where you aren’t so evidently born of.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Write a persuasive piece arguing…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: With the 2026 Winter Olympics done with, a new controversy has arisen within the sports and networking world.…
With the 2026 Winter Olympics done with, a new controversy has arisen within the sports and networking world. Are the Olympics actually worth it? To me, the answer is a resounding yes, as the Olympics are a significant part of history, and they also do shed light to some "underrated" sports that might not be getting the attention they deserve.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: title: Life is a game Stimulis 1: We…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 97.5%: Life is a Game Press play to start [play] The vivid pixels on the screen are illuminated as I press play on…
Life is a Game
Press play to start
[play]
The vivid pixels on the screen are illuminated as I press play on my gaming console. I am entering my safe zone, the world of Minecraft, where I am truly free, and truly myself. There's no stress here, no due dates and no Norma Desmond and her "celluloid self". There is not a worry in the world. In this game I immerse myself in, there is no façade I put on. There is no audience, mocking my every action; just the NPC villagers who wander around this blocky world. My veneer is pure, my actions free and my cortisol levels at an all-time low. There is nothing that stops me in this world, no barriers or hindrances apart from my own creativity. I build kingdoms unconstrained by regulation. I sail seas and battle deadly monsters unthreatened by consequences. I am not performing life, I am living it. I am playing. To press play on the game is to press pause on everything else.
[pause game]
The screen goes dark as my game pauses. Reality resumes its uninvited broadcast.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: title: Life is a game Stimulis 1: We…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 92.5%: Life is a Game Press play to start [play] The vivid pixels on the screen illuminate as I press play on my…
Life is a Game
Press play to start
[play]
The vivid pixels on the screen illuminate as I press play on my gaming console. I am entering my safe zone, the world of Minecraft, where I am truly free, and truly myself. Theres no stress here, no due dates and no Norma Desmond and her "celluloid self". There is not a worry in the world. In this game I submerse myself in, there is no façade I put on. There is no audience, mocking my every action; just the NPC villagers who wander around this blocky world. My veneer is pure, my actions free and my cortisol levels at an all-time low. There is nothing that stops me in this world, no barriers or hindrances apart from my own creativity. I build kingdoms unconstrained by regulation. I sail seas and battle deadly monsters unthreatened by consequences. I am not performing life, I am living it. I am playing. To press play on the game is to press pause on everything else.
[pause game]
The screen goes dark as my game pauses. Reality resumes its uninvited broadcast.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: title: Life is a game Stimulis 1: We…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 80%: Life is a Game Press play to start [play] The vivid pixels on the screen illuminate as I press play on my…
Life is a Game
Press play to start
[play]
The vivid pixels on the screen illuminate as I press play on my gaming console. I am entering my safe zone, the world of Minecraft, where I am truly free, and truly myself. Theres no stress here, no due dates and no Norma Desmond and her "celluloid self". There is not a worry in the world. In this game I submerse myself in, there is no façade I put on. There is no audience, mocking my every action; just the NPC villagers who wander around this blocky world. My veneer is pure, my actions free and my cortisol levels at an all-time low. There is nothing that stops me in this world, no barriers or hindrances apart from my own creativity. I build kingdoms unconstrained by regulation. I sail seas and battle deadly monsters unthreatened by consequences. I am not performing life, I am living it. I am playing. To press play on the game is to press pause on everything else.
[pause game]
The screen goes dark as my game pauses. Reality resumes its uninvited broadcast.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Theme of Protest. Prompt, Velvet…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 72.5%: TOGETHER WE MARCH Standing united means refusing to accept anything less than what is right. Together we…
TOGETHER WE MARCH
Standing united means refusing to accept anything less than what is right. Together we march.
Czechoslovakia was once promised something powerful. The right to live. The right to speak. The right to exist without permission.
For decades, the communist government promised order — but order built on silence, on fear, on leashes. The people of Czechoslovakia were not citizens. They were pets. Leashed in public. Granted just enough freedom to believe they had it. And no matter how loudly they barked for their autonomy, they were told to shut up and be grateful.
These freedoms — to speak, to assemble, to dissent — were not privileges. They were promises. And promises are not meant to be broken.
Yet our rights were disappearing behind the scenes, through slow and calculated moves designed to avoid our attention.
257,000 convicted people across 40 years. Personal property seized. Civil and political rights stripped away. Individuals executed for so-called "political reasons." These were not isolated incidents. They were a system. A system built to remind us that we were never truly free.
When the cuts keep coming, eventually the bandages will cover your whole body. That is what communism does to a society. It does not bleed you dry at once. It wounds you slowly, deliberately, until you forget what it felt like to be whole.
Wearing the badge felt like wearing their sins. I stood on the front line — not for the people, but against them. Barricades crashing into glass. Soup stains splattered across uniforms and dignity. Students, ordinary students, simply opting for democracy — and we were placed there to stop them. Is this really what I was meant to stand for?
In moments like those, silence becomes acceptance. Compliance becomes corruption. The question stops being "Is this right?" and becomes the far more dangerous question: "Is this safe?"
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Personal Journeys
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: In my 18 years of life: I've never received a school detention, I've never engaged in any physical…
In my 18 years of life: I've never received a school detention, I've never engaged in any physical altercations, I've never smoked, I've never vaped, and I've never been drunk.
These choices in behaviour aren't fleeting preferences; they're enduring commitments that I have pledged to uphold indefinitely. However, my abstention from such behaviours isn't predicated on some strong sense of 'self-control' or 'discipline', nor do I seek to promote this particular lifestyle. Rather, my inclination towards what might be considered the quintessential 'good boy' image originates from a place that starkly contradicts such a title.
*
Not too long ago, I found myself at a family reunion. There were the usual exchanges - “How have you been?”, "Oh you're so big!" - Small talk that drifted by. But one conversation left its mark on me.
It was with my aunt. It had been a few years since she last saw me, and, as aunties often do, she gushed over how much I’d grown. “Oh my god, look at you, so well-dressed, so well-mannered…
Your parents did such a great job raising you.”
I smiled and nodded at the remark, but inside, something felt off. There was this uneasy feeling creeping in, like all my efforts, my experiences, my choices, didn’t belong to me;
as if I was simply the result of my parents' upbringing;
as if everything I have become could be credited to someone else.
This is my dilemma.
While I understand this statement is intended as praise - a compliment to me and to my parents - I found myself wrestling with its implications. It's not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment, it’s just that I cannot fully agree with it.
I find it very difficult to solely attribute my entire identity to the influences of my parents. As, while my mother rightfully holds sway over the person I've become, I believe my father cannot lay claim to the same achievement.
*
That said, my dad is very important to me … In fact, he's the reason as to why … However he's not what you would call the stereotypical 'guardian'
He's more of a cautionary tale rather than a role model…teaching me how not to act, rather than how I should.
*
I remember the times I would wake up to the sound of his drunken state clashing around the house.
I remember the times I would choke on the stifling stench of his second-hand smoke.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: English crafting texts: Title: There…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 77.5%: There was once a door here, a threshold between choice and consequence, now permanently sealed. I’ve always…
There was once a door here, a threshold between choice and consequence, now permanently sealed. I’ve always looked up towards my father. He was my pure inspiration. My inspiration to my future success. Usually whenever anyone asked me what i wanted to become i would just say, “I want to be like my appa”. They would just think I was forced to say that coming from India. However, it was the truth, I always had a door open for engineering and my father was the key to it. Engineering requires many sacrifices. Sacrifices that I never knew would change myself and my perspective.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The Unseen Luggage
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 95%: The Unseen Luggage The 3 p.m. heat filled the air as laughter emerged from every corner. The smell of orange…
The Unseen Luggage
The 3 p.m. heat filled the air as laughter emerged from every corner. The smell of orange juice and smelly boys was pungent while the aroma of perfume fogged the atmosphere.
Paper planes of all kinds flew across the room, while tea parties took place with endless chatter. I forced my feet onto the glimmering plastic heels that barely fit, the edges pressing against my heel before clipping on the earrings. They were heavy, jeweled clusters that marked my ears red. Colourful eyeshadow palettes scattered among the floral plates that looked nothing like the ones on TV. We leaned against the canopy chairs, crossing our legs and straightening our backs, trying our best to talk like ‘grown ups’.
I gracefully wrapped my pinky around the teacup pretending to slurp on hot tea, knowing that caffeine was the one thing my mum would never let me touch.
She’d always tuck the jar away in the back of the cupboard behind the packets of tiny teddies and burger rings.
“You’re too young,” she'd say.
Shrugging at her remark, I’d secretly tiptoe my way to try the tea she’d serve guests, ignoring her sharp glances that pierced through my soul. The caramel colour perfectly captured my reflection as I dipped the honeycomb biscuit, determined to get each edge lathered in the bittersweet tea.
Sitting in the corner I gazed at the red lipstick left open on the counter as the half eaten biscuit in my hand submerged into the hot tea. Pulling my finger away from the sudden rush of heat, I envisioned myself with rows of lipsticks in my drawer beside piles of neatly organised makeup brushes. Kicking my feet against the thin air a small smile grew across my face as I counted down the years to come.
As I closed my eyes, the red marks on my earlobes faded into piercings, until the fake jeweled clusters were buried beneath boxes of old toys.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: issue: Racism
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: 'Challenge and Change’ To my brothers and sisters, I come to you all today as someone who has been in your…
'Challenge and Change’
To my brothers and sisters, I come to you all today as someone who has been in your shoes, lived through your experiences, and faced the challenges you will inevitably come to face. However I am not here to cradle you.
I am here to remind you all of who you are. WAKE UP! For too long we have been complacent, and young black individuals are going under the radar in society. Gems are hidden in plain sight. I understand it’s difficult to make it under the system, it’s set against you, against me, and all of us African-Americans. We have to work twice as hard for half the applause. Yet all the same, I want each and every one of you to leave here with one thing. Challenge and change. Challenge the stereotype, change the narrative. Fight back against the ignorant racists, fight back against the white man who believes that you and I are uneducated, that we are dumb, that we are lesser than. Each of you are capable of being in those high status occupations, you just need to wake up every day and fight. For yourselves and your peers.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Personal journey
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 87.5%: The Steam of Memory Pho absolutely represents a soul of Vietnamese’s culture. If you don’t accept it, even…
The Steam of Memory
Pho absolutely represents a soul of Vietnamese’s culture. If you don’t accept it, even you visit a thousand times to Vietnam, you will never and never understand the heart of Vietnam’s cultural identity. Pho is an unforgettable food with unique spices and an indescribable flavor. Any Vietnamese born adult exclaim” Oh my god! It’s so delicious” and I also think that’s the reason why a foreign food in a small country can sit comfortably in the Oxford dictionary and make people feel like that position belongs to it. Pho acts as a guard who witnesses the cycle of time over day, it wakes up from the early morning with the labor who in rush. It follows until nighttime when the worker has a supper and some chat after a hard-working day. Like red plastic chair text from Amy Duong, pho becomes an indispensable food and reinforces the value of Vietnam’s people.
Eating pho is also the best way to use our senses. It will act as a controller to direct our vision and smell and taste when we eat pho. If you only eat it by digesting the food through your mouth, so you are completely wrong, you need to eat by “eye”, “nose” then “mouth”. However, I also used to misunderstand the hidden concept of pho and didn’t respect that food. Up to here, I think most audience will wonder whether I’m a Vietnamese person or not. Although I born and lived in Vietnam for 15 years, I was actually never interested in pho. To be honest, I’m kind of a careless person so it’s hard for me to pick each vegetable stalk into the bowl , wait for it to cool down and then eat it. In the past, I thought this process was a waste of time.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: personal journey and identity
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 60%: The bus sighed as it pulled away, leaving a ribbon of dust curling behind it like a reluctant goodbye. I stood…
The bus sighed as it pulled away, leaving a ribbon of dust curling behind it like a reluctant goodbye. I stood alone at the edge of the unfamiliar town, my suitcase heavier than it should have been, not because of clothes but because of everything I hadn't yet figured out.
A crooked wooden sign read welcome to Greyhaven. The paint was peeling, as if even the town wasn't sure it wanted to be seen.
"That is it?" I muttered.
"This is always it," I answered myself, though the words felt borrowed.
The first few days passed like fog. Thick. Quiet. Directionless. I rented a small room above a bakery that smelled perpetually of cinnamon and brown sugar. Every morning, the scent curled through the floorboards, wrapping around me like a memory I couldn't quite place.
"You're new," the baker said on my third day. She had flour on her cheek like a careless badge of honor.
"Is that obvious?"
She smiled. "you look like someone waiting to leave."
"i'm not" I said too quickly.
"Good," she replied, handing me a warm loaf. "Then stay long enough to prove it"
At night, I wandered. Greyhaven wasn't large, but it stretched in unexpected ways, narrow alleys that opened into wide, empty fields, streets that curved back into themselves like questions without answers.
One evening, I found a lake.
It lay still, a sheet of dark glass reflecting a sky bruised with twilight. I crouched at the edge and saw my reflection ripple, unfamiliar.
"Who are you supposed to be?" I whispered.
The water didn't answer, but a voice behind me did.
"Someone figuring it out, I hope."
I turned. A boy - no, not a boy, maybe my age-
stood with his hands in his pockets.
"Do you always sneak up on people?" I asked.
"Only the ones talking to the lakes."
I almost smiled. "i'm just thinking"
"Dangerous habit."
"What about you?"
"I come here when I need things to be quiet," he said. "Name's Eli"
I hesitated. "I'm--"
But the name stuck in my throat. It felt wrong, like wearing someone else's coat.
"I'm still deciding" I finished.
Eli didn't laugh. "Fair enough."
Days turned into something more solid. I started helping at the bakery, kneading dough, shaping something with my hands even when my thoughts refused to take form.
"You're getting better," the baker said, watching me.
"At bread?"
"At staying"
I paused. 'I don't know if I belong here"
She wiped her hands on her apron. "Belonging isn't something you find. it's something you grow into"
"Like dough?"
She grinned. "Exactly like dough."
But growth isn't gentle.
One afternoon, a letter arrived. The handwriting was unmistakable - sharp, precise, like every word had been measured.
I didn't open it right away. Instead, I took it to the lake.
Eli was already there.
"Trouble?" he asked.
"History," I said, holding up the envelope.
"Same thing, sometimes"
I turned the envelope over in my hands. "If I don't it still says the same things"
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: Breaking Point Stimulus:…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: Who are we if we do not persist? What is living, if not trying? Would you stay calm in a crisis if no one was…
Who are we if we do not persist?
What is living, if not trying?
Would you stay calm in a crisis if no one was watching?
Or put on a brave face, just for yourself?
We perform courage, bravery, ambition, and purpose. Yet deep down we are taught to suppress our fears, conceal our failures and reshape our identities. All our lives, we are told, pressure doesn’t create crisis. It reveals what was already there. It is not just a stage; it’s a rehearsal room, a mask waiting to expose who is hiding underneath.
When the moment for the biggest stage arrives, we tell everyone we have rehearsed. We eat and grow so our parents feel fulfilled. We study and work to contribute to society. We make sacrifices so others do not have to. Not just for applause, but for approval, for survival, because deep down we really do care.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: 'The caterpillar transforms without…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 77.5%: Chameleon – In the sombreness of the primary school playground, she stood out like an orchid in a meadow of…
Chameleon –
In the sombreness of the primary school playground, she stood out like an orchid in a meadow of daises. The laughter of fair faces echoed around her, and her brown skin seemed to fade like a shadow amidst the sunlight. As her unruly curls danced in the wind, she watched her classmates play, their blonde, straight locks, swaying with every moment. She couldn’t help but wonder, ‘why can’t my hair be like theirs?’ As time passed, she began to change the food she brought to school, trading her homemade meals of rice and egg curry for a vegemite sandwich, that she loathed the taste of. A lunchbox, once a symbol of her cultural heritage, become a battleground where she sacrificed authenticity for fleeting acceptance.
In the classroom, she observed how her classmates interacted, their easy conversation and shared experiences. She listened intently to their conversations, noting the way the words rolled off their tongues with a distinct twang. They greeted each other with a cheerful ‘G’day’ and asked ‘how ya going?’ She began to mimic them, practicing the pronunciation of every word in front of the mirror each night. But she stumbled over the strange words and sounds that she never heard at home. She felt like an imposter, like a puppeteer controlling their voice in a never-ending performance. During recess, they played games of netball and footy, and sang unknown nursery rhymes, activities she had never known. She longed to join in, to be a part of their world but she felt like an outsider with no place. In this innocent phase of life, the seeds of assimilation were unknowingly planted and her struggles of identity began to take root.
Metamorphosis –
As she traversed the bustling hallways of high school, she instantly felt a difference between her and the other students. In a sea of similarity, her caramel skin and large hair were abnormal, drawing unwanted attention from her peers. Determined to carve a place in the contours of high school, she embarked on a journey of transformation. She started to change her appearance, the hair straightener became a tool of conformity. She traded her modest attire for revealing clothing, and her makeup became more dramatic with each day passed. She even adopted her friend’s reckless and carefree attitudes, neglecting hard work and education, and her other values, just to fit in. The movies she watched, the food she ate, the songs she listened to, transformed, slowly aligning more and more with the Australian lifestyle.
‘Why was I doing this? Would this make me happy?’
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Who I really am
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 87.5%: I stood dead straight at the gates of Karan College, my flaky hands gripping the backpack straps as voices…
I stood dead straight at the gates of Karan College, my flaky hands gripping the backpack straps as voices scattered through my ears. Stepping through the gates made me feel a sudden sense of dread, this didn’t feel like school. Laughter bounced off classroom walls, but none of it felt meant for me. I walked through the courtyard, seeing that it was smaller than my old school. Trees stacked beside like sentinels, offering shade but no comfort. Within minutes, Karan college started to get louder - quick glances, quiet whispers and I was jostled around like a toy. The walls weren’t naked, appealing inappropriate drawing words that made the place rough. Dust hung in the air, it smelt different, it didn’t want me.
“Nerd!”
It didn’t take long for that word to spill out. My glasses, my slouched posture and the way I looked – it was all they needed. The label followed me through classrooms and corridors and even slipping into conversations beside me. My tongue felt sour and dry, feeling a knot of anxiety when peers stared at me. I felt smaller than the others, butterflies ran through my stomach. My doubts lingered quietly, knowing my déjà vu will happen again. THUD! A scrambled paper ball was thrown at me, something inside it felt weird. I didn’t pick it up; it was war for me.
*
It wasn’t always like this. At my old school, being quiet didn’t make me the target, it just made me lonely in a different way. No one wanted to talk to me, besides the nerds. Everyone wanted to talk to me if they needed answers. I was just a weapon. But here, I felt agonized, and silence here is different. I wasn’t going to be an academic weapon again, but I was going to be a punching bag.
*
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: How play evolves through life
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 72.5%: Every night at 10pm, my sister and I would have secret meetings with our stuffed toys, which seven-year-old…
Every night at 10pm, my sister and I would have secret meetings with our stuffed toys, which seven-year-old me would swear up and down were real. While I can confidently say that at 17, we no longer do this, I have found other ways to find play in my life. Play is often seen as something we grow out of, something that leaves us as soon as we get to a certain age. However, in reality, it never actually disappears. We just get older and the free, creative play we had when we were young becomes structured, influenced by social norms or responsibilities. But with all these changes, no matter how hard it is to hold close, play is waiting to be found, somewhere in your life.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: conflict of values
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 75%: Rain banged against the roof in a steady, insistent rhythm. The windshield wipers carved lines through the…
Rain banged against the roof in a steady, insistent rhythm. The windshield wipers carved lines through the water, leaving streaks of neon red. The heater hummed quietly, warm but not enough to chase away the tension in the car. I sat in the passenger seat, fingers pressed together in my lap, tracing invisible circles over the fabric of my jeans. Every sound seemed amplified, the tapping of rain, the hum of the engine, the croaks of thunder.
Dad: “ So… you like that kpop group right?”
Me: “Newjeans? Yeah”
Dad: Pause. His voice soft, deliberate. “Do you… like the lyrics, or… the girls?”
I blinked. I already knew where this was heading, but I kept my tone light, careful.
Me: “…I like both.” A shrug. Casual, or as close to casual as I could manage.
Dad: Exhaled slowly… fingers drumming against the steering wheel, “Yeah… I thought so”. Eyes stuck on the road.
Silence ensued. My fingers twitched in my lap. Neon streaks slid across the dashboard, painting the interior in pale yellow. The rain smacked against the glass in slow, irregular bursts, each one echoing in the small space between us.
Dad: “…Do you… think about the girls differently than the lyrics?”
Me: “Well…not really. I just… like their songs.”
Dad: His voice slowed, careful, weighted, almost like each word might shatter something fragile. “You don't like them because… I don’t know… you’re curious about… yourself, right?”
My chest coiled as the pressure of my next response weighed on me. He wasn’t asking about music. He was feeling for something bigger. Something he feared, but didn’t say out loud.
Me:“I… like music. That’s it.” Soft, yet only half the truth.
Dad: He exhaled. The air seemed heavier between us. His gaze flicked briefly to me, then back to the road. “And you… you’re sure you don’t… like… boys?”