VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: UNITY Together we stand. Together we…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 72.5%: UNITY Together we stand. Together we fight although we fear. There we were, marching the streets where we are…
UNITY
Together we stand.
Together we fight although we fear. There we were, marching the streets where we are no longer welcome. I find it so strange that being out here right now could kill us. Such a simple thing, being outside our homes, using our voices, could cost us our very lives. Three days ago, the Taliban charged into our school, their rifles slung across their chests, ordering us all to leave. My mother always told me to be sure to put my feet in the right place, to stand firm. No one said a word. No one fought back. Chalk dust hung in the air, refusing to fall. The ceiling fan spun lazily above us, its low hum swallowed by the sound of their boots striking the tiled floor. The sound felt like it stopped my heart. It felt like time froze. That was the first time I’d ever seen a gun. I’d seen them in movies, but never this close, never pointed at people like me, all because we wanted to learn. They didn’t even let us take our books home. They took everything. Our books, our educations, our lives. Women are prohibited from leaving their house without being accompanied by a male relative. We can’t show our face, our bodies, or even use our voices in public. Today as we march, we break those rules. As we chant ‘We will not surrender to oppression’, I know how fragile this moment is. The air around us hums with unspoken threats, a silence so brittle it could shatter with one wrong word. Many protestors in Afghanistan have been arrested, tortured and even killed for speaking up for our women. My body starts to shake. I don’t know if it’s from passion or from fear. Probably both.
Today we fight. If we keep fighting, together we will change the world. As we march, I look at the people surrounding me. Women, men and children. We share one thing in common. We believe that women deserve the same basic human rights as everyone else in the world. We deserve to be heard. We deserve to be seen. What we do not deserve is to be completely excluded from public life. We’re not allowed to speak in public, to learn, to laugh out loud without looking over our shoulders. We are punished simply for existing. Not for what we’ve done, but for who we are. The Taliban took away our right to vote. As we march, I notice an older woman walking beside me. I wonder if she remembers the days my grandma spoke of. When the first school for girls opened, when women finally cast their votes with pride. Grandma used to say the 1970’s was a time of hope, when the marriage age was raised and polygamy abolished. Today, we women have less rights than the animals here do. Today, we are fighting for what has been taken from us a second time.
I notice a young girl in the crowd, just like me. She looked around
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Exile. Country framework.
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 75%: Exile Worn bear in one hand, goodbyes in the other. Following in my father’s deep-set boot tracks one by one,…
Exile
Worn bear in one hand, goodbyes in the other.
Following in my father’s deep-set boot tracks one by one, as he leaves his mould in the terrain of our home one last time. Only I was unaware we weren’t coming back.
A tired blink on along our journey turned into waking up separated by sea.
Having been so long ago, I remember it as vividly as yesterday.
The people spoke differently here, and my surroundings were nothing like before. I learnt to adjust to our new life here, but it was never the same. I wished to go home.
My father spoke of our homeland often. I resented him for taking me away, but it was plain to see he missed it more than I did. I’ve never witnessed such bliss within a human being as his fond talk of our home, though I found it ironic, as he was the one to create that barrier between our return. His stories upon stories filled him with life. It was no secret how deep his connection was to that place, framing who he was, yet he chose to leave? I could only wish to feel as if I belonged somewhere so deeply as he did. Only I was so young that I never had the chance, as my time was cut short before leaving in exile with my father.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: ‘Make up your own rules’
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 87.5%: Petition to replace playgrounds with productivity parks We, the deeply concerned upstanding citizens of the…
Petition to replace playgrounds with productivity parks
We, the deeply concerned upstanding citizens of the Sunnyside council, propose that all playgrounds must be dismantled immediately and replaced with productivity parks. At the latest meeting of the Association of Concerned Citizens, it was brought to our attention to the horror of the trend that is circulating on social media known as ‘make up your own rules’. Much to the alarm of the upstanding citizens in Sunnyside Council, witnessing not only children but adults skipping (yes, skipping) in playgrounds. This can simply not continue.
This dangerous epidemic of ‘making up your own rules’ has gone far beyond the acceptable limits and is now directly harming our society. Once a safe space for children to play and rehearse crucial skills for reality, it is now turned into a refuge for irresponsible, immature adults who have seemingly forgotten the simple fact that life isn’t meant to be fun. Grown adults are swinging on swings, sliding down slides and hanging on monkey bars, which can only be described as wildly inappropriate behaviour, all while ignoring the pressing obligations of work. In a survey conducted by the Association of Concerned Citizens, it was found that adults have been sighted playing chess, kicking a football, and even laughing in playgrounds as though their day-to-day responsibilities weren’t crumbling under their neglect.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: UNITY Together we stand. Together we…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 72.5%: UNITY Together we stand. Together we fight although we fear. There we were, marching the streets where we are…
UNITY
Together we stand.
Together we fight although we fear. There we were, marching the streets where we are no longer welcome. I find it so strange that being out here right now could kill us. Such a simple thing, being outside our homes, using our voices, could cost us our very lives. Three days ago, the Taliban charged into our school, their rifles slung across their chests, ordering us all to leave. My mother always told me to be sure to put my feet in the right place, to stand firm. No one said a word. No one fought back. Chalk dust hung in the air, refusing to fall. The ceiling fan spun lazily above us, its low hum swallowed by the sound of their boots striking the tiled floor. The sound felt like it stopped my heart. It felt like time froze. That was the first time I’d ever seen a gun. I’d seen them in movies, but never this close, never pointed at people like me, all because we wanted to learn. They didn’t even let us take our books home. They took everything. Our books, our educations, our lives. Women are prohibited from leaving their house without being accompanied by a male relative. We can’t show our face, our bodies, or even use our voices in public. Today as we march, we break those rules. As we chant ‘We will not surrender to oppression’, I know how fragile this moment is. The air around us hums with unspoken threats, a silence so brittle it could shatter with one wrong word. Many protestors in Afghanistan have been arrested, tortured and even killed for speaking up for our women. My body starts to shake. I don’t know if it’s from passion or from fear. Probably both.
Today we fight. If we keep fighting, together we will change the world. As we march, I look at the people surrounding me. Women, men and children. We share one thing in common. We believe that women deserve the same basic human rights as everyone else in the world. We deserve to be heard. We deserve to be seen. What we do not deserve is to be completely excluded from public life. We’re not allowed to speak in public, to learn, to laugh out loud without looking over our shoulders. We are punished simply for existing. Not for what we’ve done, but for who we are. The Taliban took away our right to vote. My grandma used to tell me stories about women fighting for their rights in her day. The first school for girls opened in the 1920’s and women were given the right to vote. In the 1970’s, the government raised the marriage age for women from 18 to 21, abolished polygamy and introduced compulsory education. Today, us women have less rights than the animals here do. Today, we are fighting for what has been taken from us a second time.
I notice a young girl in the crowd, just like me. She looked around 17, about my age. She has
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Time to Play (2024 exam stimulus 2:…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 90%: Highlights: Blue = Title Red = Stimulus Time to Play (2024 exam stimulus 2: image of light bulb with wings…
Highlights: Blue = Title Red = Stimulus
Time to Play (2024 exam stimulus 2: image of light bulb with wings soaring through the sky)
I was 5 years old when my father first granted me the exhilarating choice to pick out my first ever Halloween costume. As I lurked to the back aisles of BigW, a spooky selection of outfits shimmered under the effervescent illumination of bubbly strobe lights. My imagination flickered like a light bulb, soaring to the skies, with endless possibilities of costumes to wear on the eventful day. Devils, ghosts, even supervillains stared back at me with unwavering authority, enticing me to embody the maleficent aura of Halloween, yet, I didn’t want to be a villain. I wanted to be a hero. I shuffled through bags of assorted capes and clothes until finally arriving at my decision; Batman. I couldn’t wait to try it on. As I slowly pulled the cowl over my face, staring at the bat symbol's reflection, I saw not a costume, but a promise; I could be a hero.
On the 31st, I couldn’t wait to don the mask. I became restless in the wake of patrolling the streets trick-or-treating. As I sat through the inexorable boredom of prep classes, my spontaneity got the best of me; I sporadically jittered across the classroom with excitement — picking up the markers scattered throughout the classroom and throwing them around as if they were makeshift batarangs. “Ashton! Now isn’t the time to play!” pierced my ears from across the classroom. Even in that moment, the teacher’s sharp words sank quietly into my mind, planting the first seeds of caution. Each hesitation, each muffled laugh, each suppressed burst of enthusiasm, I told myself it was what being a hero meant. Heroes followed rules, after all, and wasn’t sitting quietly in class just that? The teacher’s glare felt like the world was testing me, and I was determined to pass, to be admired, just like Batman.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: UNITY Together we stand. Together we…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 75%: UNITY Together we stand. Together we fight. Together we will change the world. There we were, marching the…
UNITY
Together we stand.
Together we fight. Together we will change the world. There we were, marching the streets where we are no longer welcome. I find it so strange that being out here right now could kill us. Such a simple thing, being outside our homes, using our voices, could cost us our very lives. Three days ago, the Taliban charged into our school, their rifles slung across their chests, ordering us all to leave. My mother always told me to be sure to put my feet in the right place, to stand firm. No one said a word. No one fought back. Chalk dust hung in the air, refusing to fall. The ceiling fan spun lazily above us, its low hum swallowed by the sound of their boots striking the tiled floor. The sound felt like it stopped my heart. It felt like time froze. That was the first time I’d ever seen a gun. I’d seen them in movies, but never this close, never pointed at people like me, all because we wanted to learn. They didn’t even let us take our books home. They took everything. Our books, our educations, our lives. Women are prohibited from leaving their house without being accompanied by a male relative. We can’t show our face, our bodies, or even use our voices in public. Today as we march, we break those rules. As we chant ‘We will not surrender to oppression’, I know how fragile this moment is. The air around us hums with unspoken threats, a silence so brittle it could shatter with one wrong word. Many protestors in Afghanistan have been arrested, tortured and even killed for speaking up for our women. My hands tremble and my body shakes, though I try to steady the sign I’m holding. I don’t know if it’s from passion or from fear. Probably both.
Today we fight. As we march, I look at the people surrounding me. Women, men and children. We share one thing in common. We believe that women deserve the same basic human rights as everyone else in the world. We deserve to be heard. We deserve to be seen. What we do not deserve is to be completely excluded from public life. We’re not allowed to speak in public, to learn, to laugh out loud without looking over our shoulders. We are punished simply for existing. Not for what we’ve done, but for who we are. The Taliban took away our right to vote. My grandma used to tell me stories about women fighting for their rights in her day. The first school for girls opened in the 1920’s and women were given the right to vote. In the 1970’s, the government raised the marriage age for women from 18 to 21, abolished polygamy and introduced compulsory education. Today, us women have less rights than the animals here do. Today, we are fighting again for what has been taken from us a second time.
I notice a young girl in the crowd, just like me. She looked around 17, about my age. She has
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: UNITY Together we stand. Together we…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 75%: UNITY Together we stand. Together we fight. Together we will change the world. There we were, marching the…
UNITY
Together we stand.
Together we fight. Together we will change the world. There we were, marching the streets where we are no longer welcome. I find it so strange that being out here right now could kill us. Such a simple thing, being outside our homes, using our voices, could cost us our very lives. Three days ago, the Taliban charged into our school, their rifles slung across their chests, ordering us all to leave. No one said a word. No one fought back. Chalk dust hung in the air, refusing to fall. The ceiling fan spun lazily above us, its low hum swallowed by the sound of their boots striking the tiled floor. The sound felt like it stopped my heart. It felt like time froze. That was the first time I’d ever seen a gun. I’d seen them in movies, but never this close, never pointed at people like me, all because we wanted to learn. They didn’t even let us take our books home. They took everything. Our books, our educations, our lives. Women are prohibited from leaving their house without being accompanied by a male relative. We can’t show our face, our bodies, or even use our voices in public. Today as we march, we break those rules. As we chant ‘We will not surrender to oppression’, I think about how dangerous our actions are. Many protestors in Afghanistan have been arrested, tortured and even killed for speaking up for our women. My body starts to shake. I don’t know if it’s from passion or from fear. Probably both.
Today we fight. As we march, I look at the people surrounding me. Women, men and children. We share one thing in common. We believe that women deserve the same basic human rights as everyone else in the world. We deserve to be heard. We deserve to be seen. What we do not deserve is to be completely excluded from public life. We’re not allowed to speak in public, to learn, to laugh out loud without looking over our shoulders. We are punished simply for existing. Not for what we’ve done, but for who we are. The Taliban took away our right to vote. My grandma used to tell me stories about women fighting for their rights in her day. The first school for girls opened in the 1920’s and women were given the right to vote. In the 1970’s, the government raised the marriage age for women from 18 to 21, abolished polygamy and introduced compulsory education. Today, us women have less rights than the animals here do. Today, we are fighting again for what has been taken from us a second time.
I notice a young girl in the crowd, just like me. She looked around 17, about my age. She has goals and dreams, just like me. She can’t achieve them, and neither can I, not for now anyway. She gives me a warm yet sad smile. I
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Awakening voice (protest)
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 72.5%: “Justice” a word with seven letters that everyone is fighting for whether on small scale or a larger scale.…
“Justice” a word with seven letters that everyone is fighting for whether on small scale or a larger scale. The word that has brought many changes throughout history, the word that courage people to fight for it. The word that people will fight for till the last day of the world. Today we are standing here for the same word. I represent you a discriminatory policy of Northern Territory that transgender people would be imprisoned based on the gender they were assigned at birth. We are not here just to protest; we are here to raise our voice so loud that everyone wakes up and sees the injustice happening and supports us to bring change.
(people cheering)
I appreciate all the people who have joined us other than members of LGBTQ+ because if this policy is not considered as injustice. Racism should not be also considered as injustice. Unequal pay should not be also considered as injustice. Injustice is not always loud; it can be quiet like this policy being passed. According to Trans Justice Project, around 9 in 10 trans and gender diverse participants reported experiencing vilification (abusive hate speech and behavior) in 2023 and 44% of LGBTQIA+ workers experienced sexual harassment in the workplace in 2024 according to The Australian Human Rights Commission and this policy Of Northern Territory fuelling this injustice even more in 2025. Silence is no longer an option — “we must speak out no matter the costs. Just imagine
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: UNITY Together we stand. Together we…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 72.5%: UNITY Together we stand. Together we fight. Together we will change the world. There we were, marching the…
UNITY
Together we stand.
Together we fight. Together we will change the world. There we were, marching the streets where we are no longer welcome. I find it so strange that being out here right now could kill us. Such a simple thing, being outside our homes, using our voices, could cost us our very lives. Three days ago, the Taliban charged into our school, their rifles slung across their chests, ordering us all to leave. No one said a word. No one fought back. Chalk dust hung in the air, refusing to fall. The ceiling fan spun lazily above us, its low hum swallowed by the sound of their boots striking the tiled floor. The sound felt like it stopped my heart. It felt like time froze. That was the first time I’d ever seen a gun. I’d seen them in movies, but never this close, never pointed at people like me, all because we wanted to learn. They didn’t even let us take our books home. They took everything. Our books, our educations, our lives. Women are prohibited from leaving their house without being accompanied by a male relative. We can’t show our face, our bodies, or even use our voices in public. Today as we march, we break those rules. As we chant ‘We will not surrender to oppression’, I think about how dangerous our actions are. Many protestors in Afghanistan have been arrested, tortured and even killed for speaking up for our women. My body starts to shake. I don’t know if it’s from passion or from fear. Probably both.
Today we fight. As we march, I look at the people surrounding me. Women, men and children. We share one thing in common. We believe that women deserve the same basic human rights as everyone else in the world. We deserve to be heard. We deserve to be seen. What we do not deserve is to be completely excluded from public life. We’re not allowed to speak in public, to learn, to laugh out loud without looking over our shoulders. We are punished simply for existing. Not for what we’ve done, but for who we are. The Taliban took away our right to vote. My grandma used to tell me stories about women fighting for their rights in her day. The first school for girls opened in the 1920’s and women were given the right to vote. In the 1970’s, the government raised the marriage age for women from 18 to 21, abolished polygamy and introduced compulsory education. Today, us women have less rights than the animals here do. Today, we are fighting again for what has been taken from us a second time.
I notice a young girl in the crowd, just like me. She looked around 17, about my age. She has goals and dreams, just like me. She can’t achieve them, and neither can I,
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Stimulus 1: “They shouted until their…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 70%: Unheard “They shouted until their voices broke, yet the silence still won.” The line reverberates across every…
Unheard
“They shouted until their voices broke, yet the silence still won.”
The line reverberates across every protest that has ever fought against unseen suffering. Animal testing—sanitised by white coats and clinical language—remains one of the most persistent moral contradictions of modern science. It asks us to celebrate discovery while ignoring the muted cries that make it possible. Protest, in this space, is the act of giving voice to what has been deliberately silenced.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: UNITY Together we stand. Together we…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 67.5%: Together we stand. Together we fight. Together we will change the world. There we were, marching the streets…
Together we stand.
Together we fight. Together we will change the world. There we were, marching the streets where we are no longer welcome. I find it so strange that being out here right now could kill us. Such a simple thing, being outside our homes, using our voices, could cost us our very lives. It all happened so quick. 3 days ago, the Taliban came charging into our school, ordering us all to leave. No one said a thing. No one fought back. It felt like time froze. The heavy thud of their boots felt like it stopped my heart. That was the first time I’ve ever seen a gun. I’ve seen them in movies, but never this close, never pointed at people like me, all because we wanted to learn. They didn’t even let us take our books home. They took everything. Our books, our educations, our lives. Women are prohibited from leaving their house without being accompanied by a male relative. We can’t show our face, our bodies, or even use our voices in public. Today as we march, we break those rules. As we chant ‘We will not surrender to oppression’, I think about how dangerous our actions are. Many protestors in Afghanistan have been arrested, tortured and even killed for speaking up for our women. My body starts to shake. I don’t know if it’s from passion or from fear. Probably both.
Today we fight. As we march, I look at the people surrounding me. Women, men and children. We share one thing in common. We believe that women deserve the same basic human rights as everyone else in the world. We deserve to be heard. We deserve to be seen. What we do not deserve is to be completely excluded from public life. We’re not allowed to speak in public, to learn, to laugh out loud without fear. We are punished for existing, not for what we’ve done, but simply for who we are. The Taliban took away our right to vote. My grandma used to tell me stories about women fighting for their rights in her day. The first school for girls opened in the 1920’s and women were given the right to vote. In the 1970’s, the government raised the marriage age for women from 18 to 21, abolished polygamy and introduced compulsory education. Today, us women have less rights than the animals here do. Today, we are fighting again for what has been taken from us a second time.
I notice a young girl in the crowd, just like me. She looked around 17, about my age. She has goals and dreams,
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: Time for transformation…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 65%: Time for transformation I have been complicit in his rash behaviour for many years, ever since I was a child. I…
Time for transformation
I have been complicit in his rash behaviour for many years, ever since I was a child. I am no longer a helpless and docile girl, enough time has passed in order for me to transform into a woman capable of fighting back against his injustices against me. Normalising his outbursts will only continue to hinder my transformation, inhibiting me from developing into a woman worth my rights and privileges. Enough is enough.
The sound of the shattering glass reverberated off the walls and hit my ears. It was then replaced by the thundering of my heart. “You ungrateful brat! The simplest thing you cannot do! You better hope you do what I ask tomorrow right.”He barked at me accusingly.
Heavy footsteps recede from my position on the floor and I hear a distant door slam. With trembling hands, I sit up straighter to view the horrors inflicted on the living room.
The coffee table was upended with strewn papers everywhere, pillows and blankets disheveled upon a displaced lounge and laying on the floor, the root of such an outburst from my father, the discarded grocery bag I offered that did not contain what he most craved, his precious liquor.
My father used to smell of pine and soap. In his most recent years, a potent sour scent has replaced all familiarity. One glass on the weekend morphed into multiple glasses during the weekdays, arriving home from work in fits of rage and demanding his stimulant immediately.
Rehabilitation became unattainable. Somehow, he is able to hide his addictive behaviours from the outside world so well that only I am privy to his actions.
His fury silences my desperations to speak out, instilling fear that prevents me from raising my voice about the honesty and truth surrounding my violent environment. Truthfully, I do not believe that even rehabilitation may save my father.
It insinuates that there is hope for them once they return from their recovery, a hope that yearns for them to choose a better tomorrow without reliance on their addictions.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Resilience
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 87.5%: When I was young, my older brother would tap on my door before dawn, grinning like he’d just drank all the…
When I was young, my older brother would tap on my door before dawn, grinning like he’d just drank all the energy drinks Mum bought us on weekends. “Come on!” he’d whisper. “You’ll miss it!” His voice always carried a strange certainty, as if the morning itself waited for him to arrive. The sky would often be a soft azure, the grass wet with dew that soaked our feet long before we reached the hill. He’d laugh as we raced to the top, teasing me for complaining about the incline.
“My legs hurt,” I’d grumble.
“But you have to keep going. Always.”
I never cared for sunrises. They were all the same, too slow, too quiet. My brother on the other hand, was transfixed. He’d stare at the light peeking over the mountains, face so full of amazement it was like he was watching the world be reborn. Every day for the past 12 months, he’d pull me into mornings I claimed to despise. Somewhere between the journey and the laughter, I genuinely began to enjoy those moments. Not for the view, but for him. I never told him that. I should have.
One morning, the tap on my door didn’t come. Instead, I found my brother at the station, a little past the hill. His face was pale, hands trembling. He looked like he was in a trance. Lost. He rose as the train neared, a grim look on his face. I ran to him, grabbed his arm and pulled him back, begging him not to go.
He pulled me close and whispered, “I’ll be back, okay? Remember, just keep going.”
I didn’t know what it all meant. I stood paralyzed as he walked through the closing doors and disappeared into the horizon.
After that, the mornings were shrouded in an unfamiliar silence. I still caught myself listening for the tap on my door that never came. I stopped climbing the hill. Instead, I found myself at the station. Every morning, I’d scan each carriage, searching for his stupid grin, praying he’d walk out those doors telling me stories about cities with names I couldn’t pronounce. Sometimes I’d spend the entire day there, sitting at the same rusted bench, digging my fingernails into my palms. Minutes dissolved into hours, weeks into months. He never came.
It all became a cycle. Twisted and cold, like I was being tortured with the hope that he wasn’t gone. The station was the only place I ever wanted to be. Some days I didn’t eat. Some days I didn’t sleep, though when I did, I often had to cry myself to bed. I was stuck in an endless loop.
And it was all his fault.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The changing self — personal journey
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 70%: I used to avoid mirrors. Each time a new reflection would emerge, and everytime it would show me everything I…
I used to avoid mirrors. Each time a new reflection would emerge, and everytime it would show me everything I failed to be. The strong individual, the trustworthy friend or even the successful son. I could not bear to think of my distant future, there simply was nothing there. Even as an eighteen-year old my life ahead was a blur, it was frustrating how nothing interested me.
Fractured
The day of my uncle's passing was the same day the severed mirror, glimmered into my bedroom door. It's steel black frame, was consumed with elegance and seemed to embody power itself. except for it's strong structure, it's long fractured reflection, fractured reflection depicted it's unforgettable scars. A divided mirror was useless in this world. It reminded me of myself.
Each day, the mirror waited for me to glance the reality of my life. One time, I caught a glimpse of the dire state I embodied. Divided and broken into pieces myself, the reflection I see enveloped my brain into darkness, shrouding my eyes that once saw the light. Who are you? What is your purpose? The mirrors questions stabbed me throughout the dark. I tried to speak, yet nothing formed . I did not know what I was.
Disguise
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Finding my 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.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Finding my way.
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 77.5%: 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 theme: “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 hallways echoed with a cheerfulness I couldn’t reach—the sound of other lives happening behind glass. “Where are you heading after this year?” hovered like a fly, a reminder that my parents’ carefully drawn map could not 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 education: 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 lingered like a cold shadow. Yet as I pushed through paper after paper, I realised it was the momentum itself—the stubborn persistence, the small, solitary wins—that was changing me. Each page was a calibration: tap the case, steady the needle, take a new bearing. Still, the question returned, quiet and insistent: what bearing will you set? My answer came, casual and evasive—“I’ll find out later”—small talk with a ghost. This wasn’t only about exams; it was about authorship—learning to set my own bearing when every magnet pulled the other way.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: The journey Within Stimulus 1:…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 65%: To my son. I know we haven’t spoken in a while, but I felt it was necessary to write to you, given you just…
To my son.
I know we haven’t spoken in a while, but I felt it was necessary to write to you, given you just turned 18.
Happy birthday by the way.
Son when I was your age, right before he died, my father told me that a man is not bestowed the privilege of complaining about the circumstances of which he was brought up in. He said a boy’s heart will reside in the environment which made it, but a man, a man will not be a product of circumstance, he will be the creator of it. I didn’t understand what he meant back then but given the timing I’ll try my best to relay that same message to you, how you need to hear it.
At the time, I wasn’t sure what my life was, I had no idea where I was headed. Like a pilot flying without a radar in the dark I was drifting aimlessly; failing school, no goals, no sense of direction, all I knew was that I had to be at a party on Friday and still be drunk come Saturday. Then of course, things got worse, mum moved away on my 18th and the party was dreadful, drinks pouring everywhere, begging me to fall off the wagon again.
The smell of bourbon takes me right back.
Just a whiff and I’m that same boy again, scared, alone, goalless. Thinking about it now, the scent always reminds me that the same boy still lives within me. But it works both ways son. Just as that scared little boy lives in me today, the brave loving man you are meant to be lives in you right now. Only when I set out
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Finding my way.
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 77.5%: 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 pronounces the theme: “Finding My Way.” The words look like instructions; my compass trembles like it’s heard its name. Teachers offer the familiar mantra—“your ATAR does not define you”—as if those syllables could soothe the raw nerves from months of early mornings, late nights, and the low-frequency hum of study that lives in my bones. For most, there’s nostalgia in these last moments: the hushed library chatter, the frantic last-minute revisions, the shared, high-strung laughter. For me, the hallways echoed with a cheerfulness I couldn’t access—the sound of other lives happening behind glass. “Where are you heading after this year?” hovered like a fly, a reminder that my parents’ carefully drawn map could not resolve my own direction. To make them happy would be a victory, yes. But choosing their route felt like carrying a sensitive bomb across quiet ground.
I sit at my desk, its timber a faithful companion since Year 8. Its geography is mapped with the scars of my education: the ghost of a coffee ring, the faint etchings of a forgotten formula, the smooth depressions where my elbows have rested for a thousand hours. Scattered across it lie the artefacts of effort—practice exams with pages softened by wear. I finally tried—but why? Doubt lingered like a cold shadow. Yet as I pushed through paper after paper, I realised it was the momentum itself—the stubborn persistence, the small, solitary wins—that was changing me. Each page was a tiny calibration: tap the case, steady the needle, take a new bearing. Still, the question crept back, quiet and insistent: what bearing will you set? My answer came, casual and evasive—“I’ll find out later”—small talk with a ghost. This isn’t just about exams; it’s about authorship—learning to set my own bearing when every magnet pulls the other way.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Finding my way.
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 65%: The final curtains are falling on Year 12, and my compass won’t settle; the needle jitters under the classroom…
The final curtains are falling on Year 12, and my compass won’t settle; the needle jitters under the classroom lights. Teachers offer the familiar mantra—“your ATAR does not define you”—as if those words could soothe the raw nerves from months of early mornings, late nights, and the low-frequency hum of study that lives in my bones. For most, there’s nostalgia in these last moments: the hushed library chatter, the frantic last-minute revisions, the shared, high-strung laughter. For me, the hallways echoed with a cheerfulness I couldn’t access—the sound of other lives happening behind glass. “Where are you heading after this year?” hovered like a fly, a reminder that my parents’ carefully drawn map could not resolve my own direction. To make them happy would be a victory, I know. But choosing their route felt like carrying a sensitive bomb across quiet ground.
I sit at my desk, its timber a faithful companion since Year 8. Its geography is mapped with the scars of my education: the ghost of a coffee ring, the faint etchings of a forgotten formula, the smooth depressions where my elbows have rested for a thousand hours. Scattered across it are the artefacts of effort—practice exams with pages softened by wear. I finally tried—but why? Doubt lingered like a cold shadow. Yet as I pushed through one paper after another, I realised it was the momentum itself—the stubborn persistence, the small, solitary wins—that was changing me. Each page was a tiny calibration: tap the case, steady the needle, take a new bearing. Still, the question crept back, quiet and insistent: what bearing will you set? My answer came, casual and evasive—“I’ll find out later”—small talk with a ghost. This isn’t just about exams; it’s about learning to be the author of my own direction.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: My Land Stimulus: This place my…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 90%: Dear Madar (Mum), There are moments when I find myself thinking of you, of us, and all that we have carried…
Dear Madar (Mum),
There are moments when I find myself thinking of you, of us, and all that we have carried across the ocean. The memories linger softly, like golden dust of a Yazd afternoon caught in a sunbeam, reminding me of what we left behind and what still follows me.
Nostalgia is an inevitable pain that every soul endures, carrying consequences deeper than anyone can foresee.
After reminiscing on the innocence I once had, the thought of it lingers quietly at the back of my mind, unreachable, like the warm scent of freshly baked barbari bread slipping through my fingers. The blurred visuals of pure joy are bottled up in a single picture, like a polaroid on the walls of a room where childhood has been outgrown. I can almost hear the laughter of friends echoing in the streets of Kerman, mingling with the soft whistle of the wind through cypress trees.
When I glance at those pictures, I feel reunited with the sweet memories of youth. But then the cycle repeats itself, those memories tucked away until my eyes meet the smiles imprinted on the laminated picture, igniting that familiar sensation of young freedom.
Sometimes I wonder, Madar, are they simply decorations on my wall, or reminders that I, who have lost touch with my past, may never again touch an inch of childhood freedom?
Back then, my dreams were as bright and limitless as the mosaics in a Yazd mosque, bursting with the colours of a childhood without worry. The sunlight would scatter across the tiles like tiny flames, and I would imagine a future as vivid as those patterns, perfumed with rosewater drifting from street bakeries.
But as I grew, those childish dreams felt more like a chest of gold waiting on the other side of the rainbow — close enough to see, too far to touch.
The crowded streets of Kerman hummed with poetry and history. The smell of saffron and kebab rose from chimneys like threads in the town’s tapestry, scented with cardamom and memories. The streets hummed with laughter and music, but I now know that the world beyond was changing, and our happiness would not last forever.
And still, those were merely
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Finding my own way.
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 75%: The final curtains are falling on Year 12, and I'm at the tipping point, with exams stretching out in every…
The final curtains are falling on Year 12, and I'm at the tipping point, with exams stretching out in every direction. Teachers offer the familiar mantra, ‘your ATAR does not define you,’ as if those words could soothe the raw nerves from months of early mornings, late nights, and the relentless, low-frequency hum of study that lives in my bones. For most, there’s nostalgia in these last moments—the hushed chatter in the library, the frantic last-minute revisions, the shared, high-strung laughter. For me, the hallways just echoed with a cheerfulness I couldn't access, the sound of others' lives happening behind glass. School was a persistent allergic reaction, a place where the question ‘Where are you heading after this year?’ hovered like a fly, a constant reminder of an uncertainty that my parents’ carefully constructed preferences could not resolve. To make them happy would be a victory, I know. But choosing their path would be like holding a sensitive bomb, ready to detonate in the quiet landscape of my own life.
I sit at my desk, its timber surface a faithful companion since Year 8. Its geography is mapped with the scars of my education: the ghost of a coffee ring, the faint etchings of a forgotten formula, the smooth depressions where my elbows have rested for a thousand hours. Scattered across it are the artefacts of my effort—countless practice exams, their pages softened with wear. I finally began to try, but for what reason? Doubt still lingered, a cold shadow. Yet as I pushed through one paper after another, I realised it was the momentum itself—the stubborn persistence, the small, solitary victories—that was changing me. Each moment of struggle was a thread, weaving the person I was at the start of the year into the person I am now. Still, the question always crept back in, quiet and insistent: who do you wish to be?
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: prompt:"'You are old, Father William,"…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 70%: Time to play: If time travel were possible most adults would likely use it to correct their mistakes, to fix…
Time to play:
If time travel were possible most adults would likely use it to correct their mistakes, to fix restore or redo. But children, if handed the same machine would simply amuse themselves with time: leap from past to future, experiment with paradoxes or visit a day twice to see what changes. That difference says something profound. As adults we treat time as a resource to be managed; as children we treat it as a landscape to explore. Perhaps this is why when responsibilities of adulthood harden around us, we begin to forget how to play. The question then is not whether adults can play, but whether we can afford not to.
On one hand, play is far more than a childhood past time, it is a vital human instinct that continues to shape creativity empathy and wellbeing Think of play as a rehearsal room for the mind: a place where you can try unlikely answers, rehearse different roles and return to reality with fresh options. In adulthood, it emerges through imaginative risk taking: a scientist testing wild ideas, a designer sketching without a plan, a parent inventing a bedtime story. Play become a kind of mental time travel, a space where we can step outside the strict present and imagine alternative futures. Many workplaces now embrace “creative play” because unstructured thought often produces structured breakthroughs.
However, critics argue that adulthood demands focus and discipline rather than playfulness. Life’s obligations, careers, bills, families, compress time into schedules and deadlines. Within these constraints play can appear frivolous, even irresponsible. To them, maturity means control: replacing whimsy with reliability. Adults, they argue cannot afford to “lose track of time” when there are responsibilities to meet. Play may refresh the spirit, but it doesn’t pay the rent.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Framework: Protest Title: The truth…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 90%: I am honoured to be standing here under the harsh lights of this sterile conference hall, at this year’s…
I am honoured to be standing here under the harsh lights of this sterile conference hall, at this year’s Environmental Ministers Meeting as a Tasmanian activist speaking on the topic of salmon farming.
Let me be honest with you. The Tasmanian salmon farming industry is one of the most unethical in the world. Since 2016, Tassal, Petuna, and Huon Aquaculture have used a combined total of 125,000 seal bombs in our waterways. Imagine you are scuba diving in Hobart and you are interrupted by flashing lights from across the harbour making you feel blind, high-pitched noises, and loud frequencies that are so deafening it’s going to burst your eardrums. Here I am revealing a day in the life as a seal at Macquarie Harbour.
After a recent intervention into the fatal impact of the seal crackers, Tassal and Petuna reduced their use of the bombs by 75%. But Huon Aquaculture? In a shameless move, they went the other way and secretly increased their usage by 10%, showing a complete disregard for environmental and animal welfare. Speak up! Because this isn’t right.
Former Greens leader Bob Brown recently published a reel on Instagram revealing covert footage of these obnoxious looking salmon coined ‘frankenfish’. The genetically modified organisms are bred to grow and fatten at unnatural rates. Blindness. Spinal deformities. Damaged fins. There is no denying that these deformities are the price these creatures pay for companies that maximise profit over ethical principles. The salmon farming companies are hiding the truth from you. Perhaps I should have brought one here today like Sarah Hanson Young did in parliament so you could get the whole picture! Use your platform to make this issue known. Because together we can fight to make some real change.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: country section b- shaped over time
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 90%: Shaped Over Time Introduction Australia is a country layered with stories, yet too often those stories run…
Shaped Over Time
Introduction
Australia is a country layered with stories, yet too often those stories run parallel rather than intertwined. Our national identity is one of striking landscapes and deep time, but also of (_____), silences, divisions, and fences both visible and invisible. Nowhere did I feel this (______) more sharply than when travelling through Hermannsburg, a small town in the red heart of the Northern Territory. There, in a place where Country itself seemed alive with memory, I saw the lines that separate Indigenous and settler Australia, lines that have been shaped over time by history, misunderstanding, and fear.
The Physical Divide
We stayed in a caravan park on the edge of Hermannsburg, a space meant for visitors like us. What struck me first was not the view of the MacDonnell Ranges, nor the sweep of desert sky, but the fence: towering wire topped with barbs, circling the park like a clenched fist. At night, the gates were locked. From inside, we looked out, and from outside, perhaps they looked in. The message was silent but clear: separation, suspicion, mistrust.
That fence was more than metal. It embodied the physical (____) that still scars this country, The way colonisation has built walls, both concrete and psychological, between First Nations communities and white Australia. Once, this land had no borders. Country was known by story, by kinship, by the pathways of rivers and the tracks of ancestors. But settlers arrived and began to draw lines where none had existed before- On maps, on deeds, and later on fences. Each line carved into the land reshaped the way people related to it, slicing what had been whole into fragments, turning (___into___)
Over generations, this (______) hardened, moulded into the fabric of our towns and streets, shaping the very way we see each other. What I felt most strongly in Hermannsburg was not safety, but estrangement: as if we settlers, in locking ourselves in, had admitted we had never truly learned how to belong.