VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The framework is about Country Title:…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 80%: **Voices of the Land** Invisible magpies warbled in the plane trees. Softly, gently, never running out of…
**Voices of the Land**
Invisible magpies warbled in the plane trees. Softly, gently, never running out of melodic ideas, they perched among the leaves and spun out their endless tales. One of those voices is mine. I am Barrawarn, the magpie of the Woi Wurrung people, the singer of the gum trees. For twenty-five years I have known this stretch of Country, from the bends of the Yarra to the high ridges where the light first breaks. My song has always been my home.
Once, this land hummed with life. The gums stood shoulder to shoulder along the river, their bark peeling in ribbons of grey and honey. Worms wriggled beneath soft soil, lizards flicked between blades of grass, and I could find food with the tilt of my head. My beak knew the weight of the earth, my feathers the rhythm of wind. But now the hum has thinned. The trees are fewer, the ground dry and restless. The humans have taken much, leaving only a few sacred gums the law will not let them cut.
I still return to one of those old trees. Its roots clutch the soil beside a small bird bath, the water shallow but cool. There I drink, lowering my beak until the ripples erase my reflection. Sometimes I glimpse the world as it was—full and green—but the ripples fade, and only the glare of glass and metal remains. Their buildings throw light that blinds me; their noise drives away the quiet I once knew.
I sing anyway. I sing because silence would mean surrender.
Last spring, when the first warmth touched the earth, my mate and I built a nest high in the gum’s crook. Three pale eggs lay within it, each a heartbeat of tomorrow. We guarded them fiercely. I recognised every human face that passed below. Some nodded kindly, some threw crumbs, others stared up with that look of curiosity that can turn quickly into threat. I watched, measured, remembered.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: personal journeys framework
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 75%: 𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑦ā (sea) When a friend or family member travels, Iranians prepare a tray with the Quran and a glass of…
𝑑𝑎𝑟𝑦ā (sea)
When a friend or family member travels, Iranians prepare a tray with the Quran and a glass of water. This traveller traditionally kisses and passes under the Quran three times for protection. One. Two. Three.
Then, as they leave, the remaining family members toss the water from the glass behind them.
A gesture to ensure their safe return.
Except, this time the water was below me. Not thrown. Synchronising with the waves, my body moved up and down and my nose acted like an on and off switch trying to block out the smell of algae musk while simultaneously providing my lungs with oxygen. I’m sure the weight of someone's arm was already restricting my ability to breathe anyway. The tide skiff forced us to overlap on top of each other, fighting for the same freedom. And spot I guess. The blue-ish green ocean became more than just patterns and volume—it was a mirror of uncertainty, of risk and hope swimming together.
Salt crusted on my skin like a memory I couldn't wash off. Being shrink-wrapped by the sea wasn’t what I had planned at the age of 10. I imagined finally letting go of the training wheels or moving up the entertainment ladder to experience PG rated movies. Five days at sea became my rhythm for survival: rocking, rising and falling. During these 120 hours my maturity rose above others my age, deeper than the Indian ocean my boat fought through. However, eating was the biggest wave we needed to surf over.
Eating was mechanical, and a survival task rather than a pleasure. Each bite chewed quickly, swallowed with hope rather than hunger. The smell of food mixes with the brine of the sea. Way different to the smell of rosewater back home and I could confidently conclude expired cheese smelt better.
The smell of decay rising.
Burning espand (wild rue seeds)
Iranian’s can be a bit superstitious, especially when it comes to being jinxed. So in order to avoid “evil eye,” we burn espand until they start to crackle and then wave the smoke over the heads of their loved ones while sending three salavat (blessings).
A wish that they’ll be guarded from harm and blessed with good fortune in their new journey.
Leaving behind my Iranian heritage and entering the land down under, I forced myself to let go of these traditions.
Finally stepping onto the “golden soil” of Australia, my casual sneakers switched to thongs and the immediate smell of sunscreen and slightly burnt sausages hit my permanently switched on nose. Thank god.
Overtime,
Saffron became chicken salt.
The weight of Persian rugs was traded for fluff and convenience.
What once needed a knock on the door now fits inside a notification bubble.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Writing Task 1 Write a text that…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 70%: Life is a Journey
Life is a Journey
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: When we are accomplishing the good;…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 62.5%: The air is heavy and stale, the walls feel as if they are closing in with an oppressive stillness. 114ft, 38…
The air is heavy and stale, the walls feel as if they are closing in with an oppressive stillness. 114ft, 38 meters; evenly spaced lights corroded with a dim hue flickering irregularly, a corridor where every creaking step is a sharp sudden whisper, only meant for you to hear. One step forward, your heartrate increases. Two steps forward, your blood begins to boil. Three steps forward, a loud pounding echoes inside your head. You reach the first step; an overwhelming sense of resistance comes from the sound of soft chatter in the adjacent room. “Am I about to do this now?”
You take the next step up, an overwhelming tension sweeps over your body, you begin to sweat, the atmosphere is hot, your mind tells you to stop, but your heart knows it’s time. You take the last step and throw yourself forward through the dark red curtains, hanging with quiet elegance; lined in a soft silk fabric catching what’s left of the little illumination in the hall and providing a subtle relief to the touch.
You approach the podium; a maple oak pedestal engraved in some sort of Latin underneath a spotlight. The heavy air seal snaps, an irresistible pressure builds up as the number of eyes dart towards you, with what was once soft chatters now turned to judgemental glares. You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. The silence is loud, the imminent feeling of being choked by perceived pressure.
Put your brave face on Archer, where’s that crooked smile and that excited upbeat tone gone? Stand up straight, fix your posture, you’re going to let them see the real you, someone broken?
You let out a subtle cough, followed by a series of deep breaths and a nervous pace before finally composing yourself.
“The greatest accomplishment one achieves, is winning the battle against the opposition found within your own mind. A silent battle
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title was resist and persist. Stimulus…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 90%: Ayubowan, Vannakum, Assalamu Alaikum, My name is Ranil and I am not a politician, propagandist or political…
Ayubowan, Vannakum, Assalamu Alaikum,
My name is Ranil and I am not a politician, propagandist or political puppet. I am a humble, hardworking farmer who rises at the crack of dawn and works 'til the skin on my hands crumbles and peels away. I have been sent here today, to the Aragalaya protest as a representative of the working-class farmers of the Sri Lankan Farmers’ Union, for our ability to farm has been taken by the Rajapaksa government. And today, I demand we persist in gaining control of the farming industry.
Last month, the government decided to ban the use of chemical fertilisers overnight, with no care, no thought and no respect for the farmers whose lives depend on these chemical fertilisers. Over the next week, I saw all of my rice crops wither away like dominoes toppled over by the government's reckless decision-making. My children were left starving each night and are now forced to eat old, imported bread for lunch every day. My neighbours moved out one by one to beg for food on the streets. And what's worse is we see no solution to this struggle which we took no part in creating. It's not just my family, it's everyone, every farmer.
Not a single member of our Farmers’ Union was consulted or even made aware of the change.
We planted. We watered. We waited.
And what did they do?
They lied. They took. They stole.
The Rajapaksas said they took this decision out of sympathy for our health, in an attempt
to improve the quality of our produce and
give us "organic" food choices. This is merely
a disguise for their strategic action
that they took to benefit the parasites:
government and importers. So, what is this benefit?
As many of you here today know, our government
has mismanaged our country's economy for generations.
Today, we are in eighty billion dollars of national
debt and our rupee is losing its value quickly.
Their decision on chemical fertiliser was one
made to save millions of dollars on fertiliser imports,
since they knew we cannot afford organics for long.
To their plan? Less import demand means
less supply, hence less import costs. So tell me,
if we are the ones being protected, then why
are our livelihoods being trampled over for the
interests of a government who want to save
the country they destroyed?
Us farmers are being used like chess pieces in a game of economic chaos, and it's only a matter of time before our pieces are taken,
and the whole board comes toppling down.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Protest Title: Speak up Stimulus: “You…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 82.5%: Good morning everyone, Today I want to talk about something that makes a lot of people uncomfortable; racism…
Good morning everyone,
Today I want to talk about something that makes a lot of people uncomfortable; racism and
discrimination. I know some people might already be thinking not this again and that it’s not a
problem here, but that’s exactly why we need to speak about it. Ignoring something doesn’t
make it go away, staying silent doesn’t solve anything, and honestly, silence often protects the wrong side. We live in a world where people are judged before they even speak. Where a name, a skin colour, an accent, or even just a hairstyle can decide how someone is treated. It’s not always obvious and that’s what makes it dangerous. Racism isn’t just about slurs or violence but sometimes it’s also about the small things like not being called on in class, being told you’re too loud or too aggressive when you’re just passionate, getting followed, getting asked to show your bags all time and being expected to work twice as hard. I want you to think about what you do when you see stuff like this happening, think about what
most people do. The answer is nothing. Nothing because it’s easier to look away and ignore it
than to take a stand. Nothing because we and they think that it’s not our problem
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The stimulus was "Mighty Oaks from…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 72.5%: Throughout history, society’s greatest transformations have never sprung fully-formed from the minds of…
Throughout history, society’s greatest transformations have never sprung fully-formed from the minds of powerful leaders. Instead, they have originated from the smallest, most unassuming seeds of protest: an idea, a voice, a moment of courage. The proverb “mighty oaks from small acorns grow” is not merely a lesson in patience, but a challenge to all who feel insignificant in the face of injustice, exclusion, or apathy. For every towering social movement to have ever swept the globe, there has been a lone acorn, dropped quietly to the ground by a person who chose to act.
In modern Australia, as across the world, activism is often seen in grand gestures—a large-scale march, a televised speech, the viral hashtag spreading across social media, uniting thousands in a cause. But the true heart of protest lies elsewhere. It beats in the solitary letter to parliament written by a student, the careful organisation of a community meeting, and the quiet conversations played out in family kitchens. Let us not forget, the campaign for marriage equality in our nation began with small support groups huddled in living rooms, gathering strength for years before it entered parliament and reshaped the law. The mighty oak that now provides shade and safety for so many, was once an acorn watered by persistence, resilience, and hope.
This lesson should not go unheeded by young people—especially students today, who are told they must wait to be older, more powerful, more influential before they take action. There is irony in believing that the world only changes when large numbers move at once, or when powerful people decide it is time. Consider Greta Thunberg: one girl, sitting outside the Swedish Parliament with a hand-painted sign, ignited a wave of global climate strikes and conversations that continue to shape international policy and civic consciousness. Her protest was not elaborate or violent; it was quiet, determined, and persistent. Greta’s school strike for climate began as an acorn: overlooked, doubted, and dismissed. But as others joined, as her message spread, that movement grew roots, sprouted sturdy branches, and now bears fruit in every continent.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: Make a difference if it is not…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 92.5%: Make a Difference August 28th 2025 Ben left a note on my desk at school today. “March for Australia, This…
Make a Difference
August 28th 2025
Ben left a note on my desk at school today. “March for Australia, This Sunday.” He grinned when I picked it up, already talking about “making history,” about showing the government what people really think. Carly chimed in, saying how good it will feel to be “part of something bigger”. I nodded, though those words stuck in my throat. Later, I traced the bold letters with my finger, the ink smudging faintly. “Part of something bigger.”
I wonder if they think that includes me.
My Mum would probably smile at that note, sounding out the words softly in that way she always does when reading English. She always tells me I’m lucky people never ask where I’m from and is so grateful that my friends Ben and Carly didn’t care, and I’d just nod like she’s right.
August 31st 2025
We walked in from Flinders Street, the three of us swallowed by the uniform ocean of faces. Flags snapped in the wind, faces painted red, white and blue. Someone handed me a placard. I didn’t read it straight away; I just held it because everyone else was holding one.
The chanting rose, it rolled through the street like thunder. I tried mouthing the words once or twice, but stopped. My voice just didn’t match the rhythm, it sounded unnatural. However, slightly ahead of me, Ben’s arm valiantly punched the air, while Carly’s laugh rang out, sharp and proud.
On the curb, I spotted a woman in a headscarf gripping her child’s hand tighter as we passed, her eyes darting away from mine. The young boy stared at my sign, tears welled in his eyes. I turned it toward my chest, as if that could hide it. The clouds cleared the sky, the Sun's rays finally shining through, yet when I held that sign to my chest, the world had never seemed so dark.
When I got home Mum gave me the warmest hug and told me she’d already cooked dinner; the divine smell of her talent made me sick to my stomach. I didn’t deserve it. If only she knew what I’d just done…
September 2nd 2025
Headlines are popping up everywhere: “March for Australia draws thousands”. There were politicians giving interviews, promising “action on borders”. Ben posted a photo of us, him mid-chant, with Carly’s arm thrown in the air, then me in the background clutching that wretched sign like it might fly away if I let go. Ben’s caption: “We did it.”
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: writing about protest: write a text…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 60%: If not now, when: I found out equality was not guaranteed when I was 5 and at a friends birthday party. I was…
If not now, when:
I found out equality was not guaranteed when I was 5 and at a friends birthday party. I was the only girl there and when time came to cut the cake I locked eyes with the birthday boy and ran across the room, I hid in the arms of my father. The knife hit the bottom of the tray, looking back now I feel as though the sound should have been louder. The boy ran to me and reached past my father, he kissed me on the cheek. The parents cooed and my classmates looked on in exaggerated disgust at me and cheered for their friend. I did not know it then but I look back now and wonder why he was allowed to come to me when I had run, why my discomfort was treated as the punchline. I am not a garish victim, I am a girl, who now knows I have never been equal. Not even young and innocent was I to be spared the whims of boys. That cost me something small, I learnt to keep more of a distance between the boys and me, realising they were m brothers friends not mine; I was invited as an extension of the men in my life.
The cost grows larger as I do, now I am 17 and I am not allowed at the park down the street alone because what if... That question has always filled me with such contempt, if the chance is so high there must be a problem isn't this so? But no. No, because my father sat me down before I entered high school and said your body will change and men will notice you. Take pepper-spray and call me when you are out, and then he will tell me feminism is redundant in the same breath. Why must I prepare myself to account for mens bad behavior? Why should I alter the presentation of my body to compensate for a man's' lack of control. They'll say it is for our protection, that we should be mature and responsible and then let their sons out into the world nary a warning
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: writing about personal Journeys Title:…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 87.5%: Our house had a pulse I once called a problem. Teaspoons rattled in drawers. The windowpanes hummed. My…
Our house had a pulse I once called a problem.
Teaspoons rattled in drawers. The windowpanes hummed. My brother - three years older, kind but relentless - drummed in the box room he’d claimed with gaffer tape and posters. He stuffed a pillow in the kick, nested tea towels on the toms, and mouthed through my door, “after six?”
I wore earplugs, wedged a towel under the gap, and ran the fan for white noise. Still, the beat found me: through floorboards, through ribs, through the fragile grammar of study. I’m the one polishing a key for Oxford. He’s the one wearing sticks down to frayed straw.
Mum kept a ledger in her head - shifts, bills, bulk rice - smiling like someone holding a kite in the wind. We loved each other with staples and tape, homemade magic and hand-me-downs. unrepentant. We wanted the same end – to leave this. We only argued about the route:
He leaves a crumpled gig flyer on my textbooks with a ring of coffee like a moon-phase: “Come if you can – the second set’s the good one.”
I go, pretending I’m only collecting data: sticky carpet taxonomy, the sociology of pub chatter, and a field note on Melbourne at low tide. He doesn’t see me; he’s busy making a net out of time, catching the band each time the singer slips. At the break he mouths “after six?” out of habit, and I show him the earplugs like a joke we both own.
Outside the bar, the tram clangs its in-patient bell and a southerly combs the street. I leave before the last set because there’s a past paper waiting and a house that hums when I open the gate. The final thing I hear from the footpath is him counting in, four numbers that sound, in that moment, like a promise.
The southerly sharpens the air, forcing my eyes glassy. I stand beneath the streetlight’s hush, pretending its beam is enough protection. It's not the kind of place most mothers would choose their kids to stand at night, but it’s the kind of place we learnt to stop questioning. I read over the flyer again - the band name split by a tired crease. The same thoughts again, quite as they are, drum through my mind; be useful, give Mum a break, bury the sticks before they bury you.
Walking in, the house still hums, Not quieter, just different, empty throughout. A sickening feeling sweeps over me, the house is never empty. No noise to block out, no talking to shout over. A note lies stranded on my desk, “HOSPITAL NOW, IT’S SERIOUS” it reads, with it lies a crumbled $20 note, for an Uber I assume.
~
The emergency ward hums like a bad reverb, the sterile wisp surrounding. Fluorescents flicker and buzz overhead, casting everyone in an unforgiving light. The smell - metal, bleach, and something sharper - settles at the back of my throat. I walk past a woman holding her wrist like it might break again, a boy with blood matted into his curls, two cops hunched over at the desk like they’d been there all night.
A nurse walks me past curtain after curtain, each one
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Compass is the way.
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 87.5%: The final curtains are falling on Year 12, and my compass won’t settle; the needle jitters under the…
The final curtains are falling on Year 12, and my compass won’t settle; the needle jitters under the classroom lights. Above the stage, a banner spells the title: “Finding My Way.” The words look like instructions. My compass trembles as if it’s heard its name. Teachers offer the familiar mantra-“your ATAR does not define you”-as though syllables could quiet the low-frequency hum of months of early mornings and late nights. For most, there’s nostalgia in these last moments: hushed library chatter, frantic last-minute revisions, high-strung laughter. For me, the corridors echo with a cheerfulness I can’t reach-the sound of other lives happening behind glass. “Where are you heading after this year?” hovers like a fly, a reminder that my parents’ carefully drawn map can’t solve my direction. Making them happy would be a victory, yes. But taking their route would be like walking a sensitive bomb across quiet ground.
I sit at my desk, its timber a faithful companion since Year 8. Its surface is a map of my schooling: the ghost of a coffee ring, the faint etching of a forgotten formula, the smooth depressions where my elbows have rested a thousand hours. Scattered across it lie the artefacts of effort-practice exams with pages softened by wear. I finally tried-but why? Doubt lingers like a cold shadow. Yet as I push through paper after paper, I realise it is the momentum itself-the stubborn persistence, the small, solitary wins-that is changing me. Each page is a calibration: tap the case, steady the needle, take a new bearing. Still, the question returns, quiet and insistent: what bearing will you set? My answer comes, casual and evasive-“I’ll find out later”-small talk with a ghost. This is my personal journey’s frame: Challenge, Choice, Change-learning to set my own bearing when every magnet pulls the other way.
My eyes sting—a clean proof I can still feel beyond the dull ache of pressure. In the silence of this year, I’d almost forgotten the
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: Follow the leader Stimulus:…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 77.5%: They gathered before sunrise. A slow wave of bodies spilling into the plaza. Each carrying signs, umbrellas,…
They gathered before sunrise. A slow wave of bodies spilling into the plaza. Each carrying signs, umbrellas, their fists, and something less visible: conviction.
From my desk on the fifteenth floor, the glass warped them into one big collection of light and movement. One here to say we will not be ignored.
The office lights came on behind me. Another day. Another crisis to ignore.
This was the problem with working for one of the biggest uranium mining companies in the nation.
An email from management pulsed across my screen: Disruption expected. Do not engage. Remain calm.
But I couldn’t stop watching.
Below, faces tilted upward. Even from here, I could sense their breath turning white in the early air. Their signs blurred in the distance, but their rhythm – the rise and fall of voices carried itself upward like heat.
By mid-morning, the building locked its doors. The glass thickened the world into silence. Through it, I saw a woman place her palm against the entryway – not angrily, not striking – but calmly, as though she could will the wall to soften.
Her expression was calm, almost kind.
For a moment, I mirrored her gesture – hand against glass – and felt warmth through the chill pane.
I pulled back quickly. No one noticed. My colleagues stayed glued to their screens, expressions vacant.
Behind me, my oh so beloved workplace leader’s voice cut through:
‘Everyone listen up. We have a very big day ahead of us, and what’s outside is only a distraction. Follow my lead and instructions, and all will be okay.’
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Stimulus: “If you fell down yesterday,…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 72.5%: To fall is human — but to rise again is defiance. When injustice persists, to rise together becomes protest.…
To fall is human — but to rise again is defiance. When injustice persists, to rise together becomes protest. My name is not what matters today — what matters is that I stand here as an ordinary Australian, a citizen who refuses to stay silent while others suffer. I speak to you — fellow citizens, voters, parents, students — because your voice has power. Together, our voices can do what governments refuse to: protect, heal, and shelter those who have nowhere else to go. To ignite a movement of protest that demands dignity — through safe shelters, accessible healthcare, and nourishing food — for those who have lost everything. Because to remain silent is not neutrality; it is complicity. For too long, governments have turned compassion into a crime and fear into policy. We gather to say: not in our name.
Every day, refugees fall — to persecution, displacement, and neglect — yet they rise again, crossing oceans and borders in search of safety. Their courage should inspire action, yet too often, it is met with indifference. Picture a young boy on a wooden boat, his knees tucked to his chest, the sea tossing beneath him as his mother whispers a prayer he cannot hear over the wind. The salt stings his lips; fear tightens his throat. Behind him lies a homeland reduced to rubble — ahead, a horizon that promises both hope and rejection. This is not a political statistic. It is a human story. I have seen those faces — tired, frightened, and hopeful — behind wire fences that were meant to protect, not imprison. According to the UNHCR, more than 117 million people worldwide are forcibly displaced — a number that continues to climb as war, persecution, and climate crises worsen.
Yet governments, including our own, respond not with compassion but with cruelty. Australia’s offshore centres on Nauru and Manus Island have been condemned by the United Nations for causing “severe physical and mental suffering”. When the world’s leading human rights body labels our policies as inhumane, it shatters the illusion of the “fair go” we so proudly preach. How can a nation that built its identity on mateship and equality justify the torment of those who come to us in desperation? This condemnation is not just a stain on our reputation — it is a mirror held up to our moral failure. And if we, the citizens, do not rise to challenge it, then we too become part of that failure. Let this injustice be our call to action — to protest not just for refugees, but for the integrity of our nation’s soul.
This is not protection; it is punishment. It is the weaponisation of fear against the world’s most vulnerable. A nation that prides
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: creative texts writing about play
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 72.5%: For years, the silence was deafening. But silence is never truly empty. I used to believe art had abandoned…
For years, the silence was deafening.
But silence is never truly empty.
I used to believe art had abandoned me.
At thirteen, every margin of every notebook bloomed with sketches: fields of flowers, flocks of birds that seemed ready to fly off the page. Crossed out schoolwork drew back, and the world was my canvas; the back of old receipts, crumpled napkins, the inside of my palm. Drawing plastered my walls fragments of imagined worlds stitched together by pencil and play. My creativity was endless, with a pencil in hand, I could draw for hours, tuning out reality.
It was more than a mindless hobby. It was freedom.
When the house became a battleground of slammed doors and words sharp enough to wound, I escaped into play. With a pencil in hand, my page could contain the chaos that life could not. Each page held freedom - a silence to the outside world. But silence never truly exists.
As time slipped by, somewhere between the relentless assignments, the stinging red crosses in the margins, and the quiet voice whispering, you’re not good enough, the spark died.
At sixteen, my once-cherished sketchbooks were banished to boxes, gathering dust under my bed. Pages curling with silence, the worth of my desk sat empty, devoid of the art that had once defined me. My sketchbooks locked a
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Navigate the world
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 70%: Ever since I was a young boy, I’ve dreamed of navigating the world on my own. While I’m still young and know I…
Ever since I was a young boy, I’ve dreamed of navigating the world on my own. While I’m still young and know I will have many chances to fulfill this dream, I realize that my time hasn’t come yet.
When I first thought about calling my Nan to interview her for school, I felt a mix of excitement and apprehension. To my surprise, she cancelled all her plans for the day and dedicated her time to me. As I hit the FaceTime button, I saw her confused expression while she tried to figure out the technology. But that confusion quickly transformed into a warm smile when she recognized my face.
Helen, my 78-year-old Nan, has always found joy in gardening and walking with her neighbours. She also loves visiting the “best food place in Adelaide.” Reflecting on our relationship, I realize it has never been particularly strong. I often struggled with the generational gap; our conversations usually revolved around her asking how school was, to which I’d reply, “Good.”
Looking back, I see how terrible it was to feel like I was interviewing her out of obligation rather than genuine interest. Yet, I’m so glad I pushed through because she shared so many incredible stories, one of which resonated with me the most.
At 16, Helen met John. Her life at that point was full of twists and turns, unpredictability lurking around every corner. She never knew where she would end up, but John quickly became a significant part of her life, changing that unpredictability for the better. They began dating, and John was her steadfast companion, always there to offer support. He even taught her how to drive, transforming the zigzags in her life into straight paths.
However, life took another difficult turn when Helen was 20. Despite their love for each other, they broke up. The unpredictable nature of life returned, and she found herself struggling once more.
Yet, amid the deep pain from her breakup, Helen sought to find positives during this challenging time. Ever since she was young, she had dreamed of traveling the world. I could see the spark in her eyes as she recounted how she would spin a globe on her desk, learning about each country.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: title : turning points stimulus ;…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 65%: Turning Points Every journey begins the moment you decide you’re no longer willing to stay where you are. At…
Turning Points
Every journey begins the moment you decide you’re no longer willing to stay where you are.
At seventeen, I’ve made that decision. I want to become a teacher—an educator, a guide, a hero in my community. I want to be someone kids look up to and show them that greatness lives in effort, in resilience, in choosing to rise every time you fall. I want to teach not just lessons from textbooks, but from life. And I know I can—because I’ve lived them.
But it wasn’t always like this. Who I am now is the product of pain, rejection, heartbreak, and small moments of strength that became turning points. This is my story.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Write a text that explores the ideas…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 87.5%: To my fellow farmers, to every family who’s felt left behind, I stand here with you. Not in a freshly ironed…
To my fellow farmers, to every family who’s felt left behind, I stand here with you. Not in a freshly ironed suit, or with a prepared agenda, but in dust-stained clothes and a voice that’s grown dry from all the years of drought and disregard. I’m not a politician. I’m not an activist. I’m one of you. And yet, here I am, standing on the steps of Parliament, speaking out. Today, I am here to argue that protest is essential for fairness and to reflect on what it means for those whose voices are often ignored. Because, when decisions are made that threaten the survival of our rural communities, silence is no longer an option.
You might’ve seen us in the city last week, farmers marching alongside fire trucks, families holding banners, strangers united under the same message: axe the tax. The wailing of those sirens isn’t a warning of danger; it was demanding attention. It was the sound of protest. It was loud, defiant, and necessary. And it’s time that more of us joined in.
To some, protest looks like utter disorder. Like disruption. I’ve heard people say, “Why can’t you just go through the proper channels?” But what happens when the proper channels lead absolutely nowhere? When the letters go unanswered, when the policies pile higher than the hay bales drying out in the sun? Protest becomes the final language left for those who’ve been left in the dust.
That’s why I’m here with you, not to tear things down, but to be heard. Because this new emergency services levy isn’t just another tax. It’s a way to create a deeper divide between the people who provide, and the people who take from us without understanding what it costs. As you know, a small
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title- At what cost Stimulus- If not…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: At what cost. Day 1 I noticed it today, a faint bruise on her wrist. Her, meaning my friend Maya. She’s been…
At what cost.
Day 1
I noticed it today, a faint bruise on her wrist. Her, meaning my friend Maya. She’s been dating my best mate Nathan for almost six months now, and to everyone else, they’re the golden couple: inseparable, admired, enviable. But lately, I’ve started noticing things. Small things. A bruise on her knee. A mark on her hand. And now, her wrist.
A few weeks ago, I asked her about one on her arm. She just laughed, that bright, melodic laugh of hers and brushed it off, said she’d been clumsy. That word again.
But Maya isn’t clumsy. I’ve known her for three years, every step she takes is deliberate, graceful, like the dancer she used to be. So why the bruises?
Maybe I’m imagining things. Nathan’s my best friend. I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Still, I asked again, this time at lunch, surrounded by the rest of our group. I shouldn’t have, I saw her cheeks flush, and Nathan’s shoulders tense.
She laughed again, said she’d had a fight with her sister over a hair straightener and fell onto the counter. Another clumsy accident. Everyone laughed along. I did too. Nathan quickly stood, told her they had to get to class early, and they left.
I told myself it was nothing. Nathan wouldn’t do that. He’s not like that. Right?
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Adapted to the title “Our duty”…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 97.5%: OUR DUTY 'Published posthumously, in memory of Aleesha Grace Thomas, Aged 26.' This is not how I wanted to be…
OUR DUTY
'Published posthumously, in memory of Aleesha Grace Thomas, Aged 26.'
This is not how I wanted to be remembered.
If you’re reading this, I’m already a name in your newsfeed. A face fading on your screen. Another woman remembered not for how she lived, but for how she died—killed by the man who once promised to love her.
You’ve seen this story before. You’ve scrolled past it. Different name, same ending.
But I am not just a story. And I refuse to stay silent.
They say the dead can’t speak, but maybe that’s why now—finally—you’re listening.
My name is Aleesha Grace Thomas. I was 28. I loved dark chocolate. I hated the rain. I used to hum when I cooked. I believed people could change. Maybe that was my mistake.
Jack Smith didn’t start out hurting me. He started with compliments, with laughter, with “I can’t live without you.” Then came the jealousy, disguised as concern. The insults, disguised as jokes. The control, disguised as love.
And then came the bruises. And the apologies. And the promises that this time—this time—he’d change.
You ask why I didn’t leave. You ask why I stayed.
Ask instead: Why was he allowed to keep going?
Why was there nowhere safe for me to run to?
Why did the system that promised to protect me require me to be broken beyond repair before it believed I was in danger?
You think you live in a world where justice works. I lived in the real one.
In that world, abusers get second chances and victims get cross-examined. In that world, men like Jack don’t “look like the type.” In that world, police reports vanish, witnesses stay silent, and women are buried with their warnings still echoing in their throats.
This is not just about me.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Its about a personal journey
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 90%: The Koshri Kingdom Sunday was my family’s feast day and Koshri was its sacrament, each bowl a reminder that we…
The Koshri Kingdom
Sunday was my family’s feast day and Koshri was its sacrament, each bowl a reminder that we belonged first and always to our mother’s table. The heart of our household kingdom, my mother’s Koshri was the meal that could gather us the way a bell gathers villagers to a square. For my siblings and I, it was love ladled into porcelain, its steam the comfort of a winter quilt. When Mum would begin her quiet ritual- measuring lentils like little coins of copper and rinsing rice until the water turned from clouded pearl to clear spring, our house shifted its mood.
The clink of spoons and the low hiss of onions in oil became a kind of anthem and as the spices floated through the hallway, warm and persuasive, we would drift toward the kitchen as if drawn by an invisible cord. By the time mum crowned the pot with her signature rings of caramel-brown onion, we would be gathered in a semicircle of anticipation with our spoons mirroring the glint in our hungry eyes. Whenever I picture my mother now, I see the steam rising like a soft benediction and I hear her laugh as she served the Koshri to her awaiting clan.
The Awaiting Beacon
The first time I left for church camp, January of 2018, I felt both brave and breakable. I was ten, finally old enough to join my older cousins. The night before, Mum stayed up late humming a tune from her Cairo childhood, stirring a pot of Koshri large enough to feed an army. It was her unspoken blessing, a protective spell of cumin and tomato.
I remember the squeal of bus brakes the next morning, the smell of pine trees at the campsite, the sharp joy of independence. But when the weekend ended and I stepped back into our house, a familiar aroma greeted me before I even dropped my bag. There she stood, wooden spoon in hand, the great pot of Koshri waiting like a beacon on the battlements, proof that her welcome had not dimmed in my absence.
The Hollow Empire
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: "The patterns of the place"
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 60%: A place passed down through generations is somewhere I call home. I walk the same path as many who have come…
A place passed down through generations is somewhere I call home. I walk the same path as many who have come before me, and I see the same sights that generations beyond generations have seen. But somehow, somewhere, I've come to see it differently.
Being born into a world that is still fighting for its last breath comes with its own set of quirks: Will I grow up to regain the vision of my ancestors? Will I explore what they saw when this place was at its finest? These are questions I may never get the answer to, but I will certainly try to find a solution.
When I was younger, I distinctly remember the scent of the damp rain on the greenery in my backyard, a smell that reminded me of the changing seasons and sticky, sweat-inducing summer that had come before. It's crazy how one, single smell can bring you back to a happier, more fulfilling time when all you can see now is the potential darkness that looms ahead.
I hold onto these memories and the nostalgic tendency of this strange place, but never would I replace it with anything else. It's maybe all I can hold onto these days.
As I look around now, I see the same scenery as I did once before, but now I feel a cold chill, reminding me of the devastation that remains at not only my home, but others’ as well. I look around at generations of people and wonder, “Where did we go wrong?” In what state did we look around and say that this is normal, that decimation and destruction inspire us to keep living? That our home, our sanctuary, is one that can be culled of its respect and its absolute beauty.
This thinking fuels a fire in me that I don't think will ever be put out, because even if it means that I die before I see it, the change that is needed is almost impossible. The dire need for rescue and assistance is needed to preserve the place that I, and many other young individuals like me, call home.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: stimulus is: if not us, then who?
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: I'm back here again. I can't be bothered. The judges eyes are already telling me everything. That disappointing…
I'm back here again. I can't be bothered. The judges eyes are already telling me everything. That disappointing look cuts deeper than any sentence. He only sees me as a criminal, a “lost cause”. Nothing more than a burden to society. Why even try to defend myself? I'm drained. I'm exhausted. It's not like they’re going to see my point of view as to why I stole some food and water. To them, it’s a crime. To me, it’s survival. Today I stand in this court room to share my thoughts on our corrupt justice system.
Tell me, how's a single mum supposed to afford anything? When every door is slammed shut on her face. When she’s told she’s “not presentable”, “not their standards”. You've seen others walk free for worse, yet I'm standing here. They don't see the struggle just the label. All they see is a “coloured” teenager spiraling, never stopping to imagine what it feels like to walk in my shoes. To see those same biased eyes and knowing they already decided who I am before I even speak.
Racism, police brutality and unfair treatment are not just problems, they’re poison. Seeping through every crack of our justice system until fairness becomes fiction.how many more names must we chant, before someone listens? How many more lives like George Floyd must be lost before justice means something again? A police officer knelt on Floyd’s neck for 9 mins, 9 long, breathless minutes. What kind of system breeds that cruelty?
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title : My life, my story Prompt Who I…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 67.5%: Today I tell you a story, my story. But this isn’t an ordinary story, it is the story of the one who died for…
Today I tell you a story, my story.
But this isn’t an ordinary story, it is the story of the one who died for me two thousand years ago, the one who hung on that cross, suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, dead and was buried. Without him my story would have no meaning, for I live through him, and my identity is found in Christ alone.
He is the vessel, and I am the plant. He is the potter, and I am the clay.
Jesus Is my creator, my purpose, and the reason I stand here today. I invite you to walk with me- not through words written on paper, but through a journey of the spirit. It’s a path many have not experienced, but one so profound, so full of grace, that it transforms everything it touches.
This is my journey with Jesus.
It begins with a single tear- the first sound I ever made, echoing softly against my mother’s heartbeat. Her arms became my first home, her eyes the first reflection of who I was becoming. Love wrapped itself around me before I even understood what the word meant.
The world was soft once-laughter pressed against my cheeks, tiny hands reaching for comfort I didn’t yet have the words to ask for. My story began in London, but my roots were waiting elsewhere, calling from a land of warmth and rhythm.
At three, I found myself beneath the sun drenched palms of Sri Lanka – my “homeland” they called it. The air was sweet with mangoes and monsoon rain. I remember the monkeys leaping through the trees, my grandmothers wrinkled hands peeling mangosteen just for me, and the sky painted in colors that only belong to God. Back then, life felt infinite-like a house built on love so steady it could never crumble.
But change always finds you, even in paradise.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Find your way- “ but it’s no use going…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 72.5%: I grew up believing that love looked like having everything I wanted. Father built a life for us that looked…
I grew up believing that love looked like having everything I wanted. Father built a life for us that looked perfect from the outside, where we seemed like the model family: polished, poised and pretty. The objects within our house gleamed and glowed, an illusion of success and a product of status. But when you looked closely, everything was hollow. The cars slept outside like trophies, smothered in quiet arrogance. The house, in its grandeur and majesty, was anything but a home. From the outside, we seemed untouchable, but no one saw the years of debt we were slowly drowning in. Father liked to say, “Everything I do is for you,” repeatedly, like a broken record, and soon, it became meaningless.
But for a long time, I believed him.
Everybody could see that Father worked hard. But their eyes failed to recognise Mum as the person who worked harder - the real architect of our home. She was the spine of the house, the pulse behind the walls. By day, she commanded boardrooms as a team director of a prestigious bank and by night, she came home, slipped off her heels, and became the quiet storm that kept everything running. Somehow, she managed to have dinner on the table at seven every single night.
During dinner, Father's voice suffocated the quiet, deep and commanding, the way thunder fills a clear sky. He spoke of deals and ventures and the next empire he would build. Mum sat up straight, knees crossed at the table, her porcelain smile unwavering as she nodded quietly as if her achievements were meant to disappear inside his. My sister and I watched him the way everyone else did, with awe, unaware that our mother's silence was the loudest thing in the room.
At the age of eight, my parents gave me my younger sister, Maanya; her mischief peeked through her lopsided smile, pale skin adorned her and she was bestowed with confidence foreign to me. And with that, my father had only one daughter; She had Father's attention before she even knew what it meant. When she tumbled, he rushed to her side, showering her with kisses and affection. But when the same happened with me, he would tell me to get up. Don't cry. Be stronger.
I simply believed it was because he knew I was stronger than her, not because he loved her more. But I was naive. Years later, I learned the truth: I had to find my own way through life because I could only trust myself to pick me up. The only lesson Father actually taught me.
I grew up thinking my purpose was to exist as Maanya’s protector – shielding her from his moods, his sharp words, his expectations, and the kind of pressure that bends you before you realise you have already been broken.
But she never really needed my protection.
She was his princess, untouched and adored. She charmed him into getting whatever she wanted, whereas nothing I did impressed him. I was smarter than her, more respectful than her and more hardworking. But the crown was hers.
I told myself that I was the strong one, that being unseen meant being safe. But every time Maanya laughed with