VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Write an opinion piece of any sort
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 80%: Hello fellow readers. Let me fill you in on the recent events in the Horman household. I hope this blog finds…
Hello fellow readers.
Let me fill you in on the recent events in the Horman household.
I hope this blog finds you well - cos I've been hobbling around lately. The top of my foot has been bruising up and for a while I couldn't work out why. I've developed quite a limp.
Yesterday, it came to me! Footy season has started and so my kids and I have been kicking the footy with each other in the front yard. They love it! But it's been too long since I've kicked a footy.
So, I'm hurt for a good reason - been playing with the boys. (And I'm a bit soft - don't judge me!)
This has made me think… I remember begging my dad to come outside with me to play when I was a youngster. For footy or tennis or basketball.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: theme: "other worlds" Stimulus:…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 77.5%: My World is Not Your World Whenever I think back to the man I used to be, I remember a quiet, suffocating…
My World is Not Your World
Whenever I think back to the man I used to be, I remember a quiet, suffocating room.
Not the kind of place where it feels soft, safe, or secure, but a place where the quiet humming of crappy computers and shaky squeaking of office chairs can easily distract you from any resemblance you once had to what you want for yourself. Every morning, I sat at my desk in one of the many grey cubicles, often scowling at the stale stench of out-of-date sanitiser as it crept up my nasal cavity and stubbornly sat on my tongue. I stared at the monitor with a hazy, senseless gaze, always sat motionless under the neglected, flickering, fluorescent lights, wishing something would change.
Emails. Spreadsheets. Reports. Over and over, day after day.
The clock kept ticking with a hammering jolt, echoing around the room in a mechanical heartbeat, and the manager’s sharp, stern, watchful eyes kept me tightly in check; had my life been enchained in a system? Had my world been transformed into a prison-like cell?
There was an exhaustion in adulthood, which left me in a limp, depressing slump. You were supposed to be ‘normal’. You had to fit in, like you were told — “society needs people like you,” they all said. Uniqueness was stigmatised, socially viewed with unprovoked hatred; my desire to be special had been seemingly futile. Because of this, there had been a leech-like presence of a ‘black mark’ plaguing my mind; I had mistakenly taken the thoughts and words it uttered to me as my own.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: The breaking point Stimulus 2:…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 80%: I am forty now, and I sit beneath the birches in Cambridge knowing that once, a policy decided how many voices…
I am forty now, and I sit beneath the birches in Cambridge knowing that once, a policy decided how many voices a family like mine was permitted to keep. Here, spring leans softly over warm oak benches, and schoolchildren scatter laughter as easily as dust from their leather shoes, their joy multiplying without consequence. The air smells of thawed earth and green beginnings, generous and uncounted. But I remember the wind in our village in Henan, how it drove grit between my teeth, pressed silence into our rooms, and pushed us to our limits. How even breath felt rationed. In this mild light, their bright noise feels almost defiant — a small, radiant excess against the arithmetic that once governed our lives.
When I close my eyes, I still see my mother’s face — not the soft one from my youth, but my final encounter with her; wind-split lips, fine fissures at the corners of her eyes weathered by seasons in the fields. Mother worked the fields and the collective kitchen every season; her hands smelled faintly of wok hei, skin blistered and peeling where intense heat had blazed. She smiled at neighbours, tended their poultry; yet at home her gaze flickered at the door before she spoke, fingers worrying the hem of her apron as she bent her voice toward Father.
Father was a quiet mechanic who fixed tractors and tempers.
“Keep your head down,” he said. “We have the little one now.”
At the collective kitchen, Mother would slip extra ration tickets to families with hidden daughters. A quick triplet knock against hollow wood. Silence encroached. Doors locked, breaths withheld when the family planning officers loomed. When they left, Mother gave her signal — a wet ashen cloth hung on her line, and voices returned in low currents.
Then came the winter of 1990. Mother came home with frost in her hair, her coat thick with the cloying scent of hope. Her boots were caked with mud from the back roads, not the main path.
My chopsticks clinked against the china as I cleared the last grain of rice. Mother abruptly stood up, her chair creaking.
“Where are you going, Mother?” I asked.
“A gathering,” she told me, kissing my forehead.
Father cleared his throat, and latched onto Mother’s coat.
“It’s not our fight,” he said.
Mother resisted.
She touched his cheek, and turned her back. Her coat snapped in the wind.
Seasons passed. Leaf litter piled into mounds. For me, the winter never left.
When Mother cracked, so did Father and I.
Mama, why paint your death as noble, when you left us behind?
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: theme: "other worlds"
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 70%: Detective Amnesia "Clatter!" The countless bottles collide together on the floor around me, an applause of…
Detective Amnesia
"Clatter!" The countless bottles collide together on the floor around me, an applause of clinks. I push myself upright, slow and groggy, with a pulsing ache in my head. My nostrils flare at the stale stench of sweat and old beer, making my face contort into a wincing cringe — Someone has been living here. The thought unsettles me. If someone has been living here, is that someone…Me?
I mutter to myself quietly in denial, “Why would anyone do this to themselves?” A cold metallic weight of shame sits lodged in the back of my throat, leaving me too speechless to move. “Who…am I-” I get cut off by a shivering breeze crawling up my back, drawing my attention to the shattered window. The lack of glass on the floor leads me to believe something was thrown from inside, and the absence of a shoe on my left foot hints at exactly what happened the night before.
Somewhere in the bloated ‘man-meat’ and droopy flesh — A sensation? Or a voice?
Limbic System: “A wave of melancholy floods your chest, dragging you heavily towards the window — it’s a desire you’ve felt before.”
Me: “Who is it? That dry, strained voice.”
Limbic System: “You need it. The pale is coming. The world is ending.”
Me: “No! I don’t need it anymore, I'm done!”
Limbic System: “It’ll make you feel like a superstar, just another sip.”
Narrowly, I fend off the voice, putting a halt to the hissing cacophonous whispers — leaving me with a silent yearning for an unfamiliar yet guilty pleasure. Standing at the still broken window, I stare down at the winding roads and streets, the buildings loom with a watchful, unwelcoming gaze — urging me to leave. I take a step back, my bloodshot eyes catching sight of the reflection of a greasy man with a bulbous nose and swollen face under all the facial hair — It’s a face I don’t recognise in the slightest. A stranger, even.
There’s a permanent grimace engraved upon my face, my eyes rimmed with fatigue that seems earned rather than inherited.
Limbic System: “This is the face of a real superstar.”
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Creative about protest
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 67.5%: The Sun rose without asking permission as its cycle continued. It stretched itself across the city in sheets…
The Sun rose without asking permission as its cycle continued.
It stretched itself across the city in sheets of gold, slipping through windows, bouncing off glass and polished pavements. Everything it touched appeared clean, awake, deserving. Light spilled confidently over streets and faces, revealing only what it wanted to show. From above, the world looked organised. Balanced. Fair.
But light never settles evenly.
Where the Sun weakened, Shadows gathered. They clung to alleyways and back streets, folded themselves beneath bridges, pressed against walls where warmth could not reach. They moved quietly, shaped by the Sun’s position rather than their own will. Anywhere the sun looked, they would migrate into the darkness.
The Sun called this natural.
It claimed transparency, believing its glow meant honesty. When problems surfaced, it exposed them briefly, just enough to prove it was watching. People praised its clarity. They trusted the way it highlighted success, the way warmth crept into their souls at the sight. They looked up, never down.
The Shadows carried what the light refused to hold.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: This is a story from the perspective…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 62.5%: I remember that night by the river - the air so tranquil it felt like the world was holding its breath. The…
I remember that night by the river - the air so tranquil it felt like the world was holding its breath. The men sat around the fire, their faces half-hidden by the smoke. I was close enough to see the light flicker in Pa's eyes, though he didn't look at me. They spoke in voices that curled low through the dark, thick with something I didn't have the word yet for. Fear maybe... or anger. I sat a bit back, pretending to play with a stick, but my ears caught the words they thought the night would keep a secret. "Surprise 'em tonight, settle' ‘em by breakfast," someone said, and Pa didn't argue. The fire cracked and I jumped, my heart hammered against my ribs. The smell of salt and woodsmoke mixed in the air, and somewhere out in the black water, a fish splashed. I wish it had taken me too, down into the quiet.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: This is a story from the perspective…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 65%: I remember that night by the river - the air so tranquil it felt like the world was holding its breath. The men…
I remember that night by the river - the air so tranquil it felt like the world was holding its breath. The men sat around the fire, their faces half-hidden by the smoke. I was close enough to see the light flicker in Pa's eyes, though he didn't look at me. They spoke in voices that curled low through the dark, thick with something I didn't have the word yet for. Fear maybe... or anger. I sat a bit back, pretending to play with a stick, but my ears caught the words they thought the night would keep a secret. "Surprise em’ tonight, settle' em’ by breakfast," someone said, and Pa didn't argue. The fire cracked and I jumped, my heart hammered against my ribs. The smell of salt and woodsmoke mixed in the air, and somewhere out in the black water, a fish splashed. I wish it had taken me too, down into the quiet.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: This is a story from the perspective…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 80%: I remember that night by the river - the air so tranquil it felt like the world was holding its breath. The men…
I remember that night by the river - the air so tranquil it felt like the world was holding its breath. The men sat around the fire, their faces half-hidden by the smoke. I was close enough to see the light flicker in Pa's eyes, though he didn't look at me. They spoke in voices that curled low through the dark, thick with something I didn't have the word yet for. Fear maybe... or anger. I sat a bit back, pretending to play with a stick, but my ears caught the words they thought the night would keep a secret. "Surprise em’ tonight, settle' em’ by breakfast," someone said, and Pa didn't argue. The fire cracked and I jumped, my heart hammered against my ribs. The smell of salt and woodsmoke mixed in the air, and somewhere out in the black water, a fish splashed. I wish it had taken me too, down into the quiet.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: This is a story from the perspective…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 72.5%: I remember that night by the river - the air so tranquil it felt like the world was holding its breath. The…
I remember that night by the river - the air so tranquil it felt like the world was holding its breath. The men sat around the fire, their faces half-hidden by the smoke. I was close enough to see the light flicker in Pa's eyes, though he didn't look at me. They spoke in voices that curled low through the dark; thick with something I didn't have the word yet for. Fear maybe... or anger. I sat a bit back, pretending to play with a stick, but my ears caught the words they thought the night would keep a secret. "Surprise em’ tonight, settle' em’ by breakfast," someone said, and Pa didn't argue. The fire cracked and I jumped, my heart hammered against my ribs. The smell of salt and woodsmoke mixed in the air, and somewhere out in the black water, a fish splashed. I wish it had taken me too, down into the quiet.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: This is a story from the perspective…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 70%: I remember that night by the river - the air so tranquil it felt like the world was holding its breath. The men…
I remember that night by the river - the air so tranquil it felt like the world was holding its breath. The men sat around the fire, their faces half-hidden by the smoke. I was close enough to see the light flicker in Pa's eyes, though he didn't look at me. They spoke in voices that curled low through the dark; thick with something I didn't have the word yet for. Fear maybe... or anger. I sat a bit back, pretending to play with a stick, but my ears caught the words they thought the night would keep a secret. "Surprise em’ tonight, settle' em’ by breakfast," someone said, and Pa didn't argue. The fire cracked and I jumped, my heart hammered against my ribs. The smell of salt and woodsmoke mixed in the air, and somewhere out in the black water, a fish splashed. I wish it had taken me too, down into the quiet.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: This is a story from the perspective…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 75%: I remember that night by the river - the air so tranquil it felt like the world was holding its breath. The men…
I remember that night by the river - the air so tranquil it felt like the world was holding its breath. The men sat around the fire, their faces half-hidden by the smoke. I was close enough to see the light flicker in Pa's eyes, though he didn't look at me. They spoke in voices that curled low through the dark; thick with something I didn't have the word yet for. Fear maybe... or anger. I sat a bit back, pretending to play with a stick, but my ears caught the words they thought the night would keep a secret. "Surprise em’ tonight, settle' em’ by breakfast," someone said, and Pa didn't argue. The fire cracked and I jumped, my heart hammered against my ribs. The smell of salt and woodsmoke mixed in the air, and somewhere out in the black water, a fish splashed. I wish it had taken me too, down into the quiet.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: This is a story from the perspective…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 72.5%: I remember that night by the river - the air so tranquil it felt like the world was holding its breath. The…
I remember that night by the river - the air so tranquil it felt like the world was holding its breath. The men sat around the fire, their faces half-hidden by the smoke. I was close enough to see the light flicker in Pa's eyes, though he didn't look at me. They spoke in voices that curled low through the dark; thick with something I didn't have the word yet for. Fear maybe... or anger. I sat a bit back, pretending to play with a stick, but my ears caught the words they thought the night would keep a secret. "Surprise em’ tonight, settle' em’ by breakfast," someone said, and Pa didn't argue. The fire cracked and I jumped, my heart hammered against my ribs. The smell of salt and woodsmoke mixed in the air, and somewhere out in the black water, a fish splashed. I wish it had taken me too, down into the quiet.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: This is a story from the perspective…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 65%: I remember that night by the river - the air so tranquil it felt like the world was holding its breath. The men…
I remember that night by the river - the air so tranquil it felt like the world was holding its breath. The men sat around the fire, their faces half-hidden by the smoke. I was close enough to see the light flicker in Pa's eyes, though he didn't look at me. They spoke in voices that curled low through the dark; thick with something I didn't have the word yet for. Fear maybe... or anger. I sat a bit back, pretending to play with a stick, but my ears caught the words they thought the night would keep a secret. "Surprise em’ tonight, settle' em’ by breakfast," someone said, and Pa didn't argue. The fire cracked and I jumped, my heart hammered against my ribs. The smell of salt and woodsmoke mixed in the air, and somewhere out in the black water, a fish splashed. I wish it had taken me too, down into the quiet.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: stimulus: People have a tendency to…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 80%: Awakening from a season of slumber, I am filled with an innocent joy of return. I bore through the dry…
Awakening from a season of slumber, I am filled with an innocent joy of return. I bore through the dry riverbed, into shallow waters. They’ve receded since I last toiled in them, shrinking underneath a ruling sun. My scales fleck with dirt, blanketed by the soot and sewerage. The waste sickens my palate, a layer of grime clinging to the roof of my mouth. Unblinking eyes shrouded in murky surrounds. These waters have only worsened with age.
Once, these rivers teemed with mottled blue fish, speckled with darts of green. Beneath their flashing fins, crimson yabbies would scuttle, on the sandy dunes of the riverbed. The fusion of a natural rainbow awaiting hunters who clambered down the banks under the beat of a pervasive heat. Their dark backs would be washed anew. Sweat removed from worked muscles, shining with a calm incandescence. Now, there are no visitors to these lonely lapping waves. The newcomers prefer to cling to fond memories passed, of a land resplendent from union between people and place. In these idyllic visions, no plastic spews coat the river surface, the waters are clear and welcoming.
But before me, past the tracing waterways, life retreats. Arid lands tell a different story to their false lens, tainted with a guilty mind's ignorance. Here, the only vegetation is of the weakened blades of yellow grass covering cleared farmland; this, and the occasional tree, either melting to the side, under the strain of warming skies, or a charred trunk, solemn and limbless from continual burnings.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: personal journey
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 77.5%: Who I’m Meant to Be: In our hallway, the walls are waiting. There’s an empty space between my cousin’s framed…
Who I’m Meant to Be:
In our hallway, the walls are waiting.
There’s an empty space between my cousin’s framed law degree and my uncle’s medical certificate — a careful gap measured in ambition. My mother dusts around it every weekend, as if she’s already polishing the future.
When relatives visit, they stand there.
“She’ll be next,” someone says, smiling at me like it’s already decided.
I smile back. I’ve learned how to do that.
At dinner, success is served alongside rice and stew. It sounds like job titles passed across the table. Doctor. Surgeon. Specialist. Words that land heavy and respectable. My father says them with pride, like he’s building something solid out of syllables.
I chew quietly. There’s a melody playing in my head that no one else can hear.
Music has always felt like a secret doorway. When I close my bedroom door, the house fades into background noise — the clink of dishes, the murmur of the evening news, the low hum of expectation. I sit on the edge of my bed with my guitar, and the world rearranges itself. Chords feel like breathing. Lyrics slip out of me before I can overthink them.
In those moments, I am not someone’s potential.
I am simply myself.
The first time I let the word “music” escape at the dinner table, it fell between us like a glass shattering.
Silence spread slowly, carefully.
My mother’s smile stiffened, just slightly. My father cleared his throat — the sound he makes before saying something measured.
“It’s good to have hobbies,” he said.
Hobby.
The word shrank everything I felt into something decorative.
I nodded, but something inside me folded in on itself.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Personal journeys
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 65%: The aroma of fresh jasmine filled the streets, with frequent honks and beeps creating ringing sirens throughout…
The aroma of fresh jasmine filled the streets, with frequent honks and beeps creating ringing sirens throughout my brain. The air was dense and carried a trance of sandalwood brewed with smoke. The community was different from Melbourne, the locals here had friendly conversation and negotiated about fresh produce at markets. While the women wore flourishing sarees mixed with abstract patterns and a welcoming smile. However I still did not feel like a local. Slangs were foreign to me, and my relatives furrowed their eyebrows in confusion when I would converse with them, but did not fail to understand when my older brother would speak to them.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: how ai has impacted education
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 70%: Artificial intelligence has begun to transform many areas of education, but one of the most promising…
Artificial intelligence has begun to transform many areas of education, but one of the most promising applications lies in improving the way student writing is understood and evaluated. My interest in entering the field of educational AI stems from a desire to help English students develop stronger essays through clearer, more consistent feedback. Writing is one of the most important skills students learn, yet it is also one of the most difficult to assess fairly and efficiently. By contributing to AI systems that can read and analyse student essays, I hope to help create tools that support both students and teachers in developing stronger writing.
One of the main challenges in English education is the time required for teachers to carefully read and provide detailed feedback on every student’s work. Essays require attention not only to grammar and structure, but also to ideas, argument development, and interpretation. Because teachers often manage large classes, it can be difficult to give every essay the depth of feedback it deserves. Educational AI has the potential to assist in this process by quickly analysing writing patterns, identifying structural weaknesses, and highlighting areas where arguments could be strengthened. Rather than replacing teachers, such systems could allow them to focus more on higher-level guidance while routine analysis is handled automatically.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Personal journeys
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 70%: The aroma of fresh jasmine filled the streets, with frequent honks and beeps creating lingering sirens…
The aroma of fresh jasmine filled the streets, with frequent honks and beeps creating lingering sirens throughout my brain. The air was dense and carried a trace of sandalwood brewed with smoke. This is where I called home. The community was different from Melbourne, the locals here had friendly conversation and negotiated about fresh produce at markets. The women wore flourishing sarees mixed with abstract patterns and a welcoming smile. However, I still did not feel like a local. Slangs were foreign to me, and my relatives furrowed their eyebrows in confusion when I would converse with them, but did not fail to understand when my
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Personal journeys
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 67.5%: The aroma of fresh jasmine filled the streets, with frequent honks and beeps creating lingering sirens…
The aroma of fresh jasmine filled the streets, with frequent honks and beeps creating lingering sirens throughout my brain. The air was dense and carried a trace of sandalwood brewed with smoke. This is where I called home. The community was different from Melbourne, the locals here had friendly conversation and negotiated about fresh produce at markets. The women wore flourishing sarees mixed with abstract patterns and a welcoming smile. However I still did not feel like a local. Slangs were foreign to me, and my relatives furrowed their eyebrows in confusion when I would converse with them, but did not fail to understand when my
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Personal journeys
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 60%: The aroma of fresh jasmine filled the streets, with the frequent honks and beeps creating lingering sirens…
The aroma of fresh jasmine filled the streets, with the frequent honks and beeps creating lingering sirens throughout my brain. The air was dense heavy and carried a linger of sandalwood brewed infused with smoke. This is where I called home. The community was different from Melbourne, the locals here had friendly conversation and negotiated about fresh produce at markets. The women wore flourishing sarees mixed with abstract patterns and a welcoming smile. However I still did not feel like a local. Slangs were foreign to me, and my relatives furrowed their eyebrows in confusion when I would converse with them, but did not fail to understand when my older brother would speak to them. No
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: write a short story with the theme of…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 60%: On the Wall: The Freedom Movement of 2153... The pushback was severe, the lives lost in the millions, maybe…
On the Wall: The Freedom Movement of 2153...
The pushback was severe, the lives lost in the millions, maybe more, putting past massacres to shame. All it took to turn the wheels in this stiff mechanism we now know as the beginning was a glance of freedom, on a tawny brick wall, in a jailed world. It was June 5th, 2153, and the people of my city, Meisa, knew nothing of what once was, but rather what they were born into. We would wake up, worn joints creaking as we trooped to the cramped and unhygienic common room, a circular area dug in the ground with bare dirt walls, to make an artificially caffeinated coffee, complete with microplastics visible to the eye. We would then proceed to choke on its insufferably bitter flavour and grainy texture but ultimately knew better than to decline food.
We then would throw the thin white plastic cups into a bin for incineration, setting off to our long and gruelling days through the vast tube system, reminiscent of vacuum tubes in the 1950s, pushing its users to their destination at hundreds of kilometres per hour. This transport was dangerous and uncomfortable, with almost everyone needing medication to avoid the motion sickness and tens of people dying every month from a malfunction, or worse, a collision. The tubes would go on for thousands of kilometres, allowing fast transport for all individuals, resulting in the uber-efficient exploitation of the unfortunates and no late starts.
All this pain dulled people’s sense of feeling, we became monotonous, almost robotic, we were tired, we wanted it to end, our brains felt as if they had aged twice as fast and our bodies were on the brink of collapse. Us unfortunates would then continue to our days of toil, earning barely enough to survive and death being the alternative.
Our jailors, the withered were just as human as us, the differentiating characteristic being that they were born into their thrones, the lure of wealth poisoning them.
F-Day, otherwise known as Freedom Day, was the beginning of the decades long movement we know today. It commenced with the same gruelling routine as every other morning, the slog to work, the only motivation being the end of the day, the sickening tube transport, with its pitch-black encompassment enveloping its users, and the back breaking days with seldom rest, but, unbeknownst to them, all was about to change.
When a person lives in a censored world, they learn to find hope in the smaller things, drowning their sorrows in alcohol, gambling all they have away to the benefit of the withered, or engaging in pickle races down at the local McSlave’s, a change of name suitable to the then current climate of the economy, so when this painting of a girl holding onto some balloons, being free, appeared, in a world where panopticism reigned supreme, people were shocked. Many chose not to go to their roles that day, my daughter and I being one of them, and we instead chose to gather around this anomaly, murmuring about the origins of the sight.
To say the withered weren’t happy would be an understatement. They sent their troopers to the square where the art lay and decided it opportune to display a message for all to witness. The troopers wore black body armour, made from mostly Kevlar, with polygonal shapes allowing for easy movement and very low tolerances. They also wore masks to cover their faces, an electromagnetic shield over their eyes to stop all projectiles. The section commander stepped forward, cold fury stirring in his eyes, his muscles twitching and veins pulsating through his impenetrable armour. The crowd took this as an indicator to leave, beginning to move backwards. Gunshots rang through the crowd...
“Everyone, stay where you are! If anyone tries to leave, they will promptly be exterminated...” said the 2IC with urgency.
Silence
The section commander then walked up to the painting. The girl was holding onto 7 round balloons, each around the size of the girl. It was a black spray-painted stencil, not precise in any way, but sang in everyone’s minds the possibility of free will. Fury continued to build in the stone hearts and brainwashed minds of the troopers, when suddenly, it occurred.
Me and my daughter Anya were at the front, unable to retreat. She was wearing the cutest dress and her little braid swung in the wind as she stood silent, I had never seen her act this way. Often, she’d ask questions at the worst times.
She then looked up at me, tears filling her large brown eyes, rolling down her fair cheeks.
Rage filled the mind of the soldier, possibly at the thought of global freedom, and he committed the unthinkable. He turned towards us and picked up Anya from the scuff of her slender neck.
No, not her.
“Take me, please, she has done nothing wrong! She’s just a child!”
All I could do was struggle, but I knew it was too late, the withered weren’t above killing children. I screamed for help, everyone else followed suit, chaos spreading as the people present realised what was happening and who was involved.
More gunshots, then... silence.
“Everyone here wants freedom?!” he yelled with furious contempt, as Anya swung, struggling to breath, choking on her own saliva.
He pushed Anya’s right side to wall, her head lining up perfectly with the black outline of the painting as she began to pass in and out of consciousness. The commander then pulled out his pistol as my screams penetrated the fabric of time around me. A gunshot rang through the square and my baby, my only remaining family, the love of my life, went limp.
Silence...
Five field-seconds, perfected by fog, we wallowed in silence. Then, in slow-motion, the crowd charged, Anya’s body falling to the ground, the spatter from her injuries covering the head of the painting, daubing the wall in red, her body lying on the ground, still gushing blood onto the floor. I fell to my knees; I was unbelieving as to what had happened when suddenly, the firing of gunshots took over the block. Red mist filled the air as bullets rained upon undeserving people, mixing with the haze already present, creating a blanket of death enveloping everyone in the area. The commanding officer raised his hand while crunching his fist tightly, motivating the others to continue firing till the square was flattened below them, a pulpy carpet of bodies lying in their midst, a salty smell from the red vapour and gunpowder still present in the air. They ended Freedom Day the only way they knew how, by killing the witnesses. They put up the same image everywhere, Anya’s body, laying on the ground under the bloodstained painting, symbolising the grasp the withered had on the population and how easily they could crush rebels. This image didn’t just come as a message, it came as a warning, a warning showing what freedom could do. Under each image, the same caption loomed: “Freedom Kills.”
***
I awoke in a gurney, a blinding white light and a piercing headache hit me like a school bus, knocking me out cold.
Flashes of memories came and went. They were all the same.
“Anya...” I muttered repeatedly.
I came to in a comfortable bed, a throbbing headache and piercing fits of pain greeting me as I struggled to open my eyes. I looked around panicking, I couldn’t afford this, I could barely afford the sector 19 community hospital. I frantically tried lifting my arms, but pain prevailed, more than I can describe and I slumped back down, I knew it was too late. Darkness swirled around me with mystical allure as I fell back down into the arms of perdition.
More flashes of memories
“Anya... Anya! Anya!!!”
I cried out loud to no avail, her small body limp, lying there with no one to grieve it—the Anya that once was, no more.
Suddenly, movement, I woke up to a group of people around me, gently shaking me, whispering my name.
“Aksel Aldoh Allan Aurelius, wake up, you’ve no business lying here, a vegetable at best.”
I tried to move my lips, but they felt glued together, brittle, cracking like recrystalised sugar.
I gasped in pain.
“I thought we lost you back there, I’m sorry to hear about your daughter.”
I continued to fight my muscles, to say they felt deteriorated would be an understatement.
“Where am I?” I muttered, thinking to myself whether there was anything less cliche to say.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: WILD we play several roles in life -…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 77.5%: WILD “Ready or not…” Cassie’s words drift down the hallway, light and airy. You press your back to the…
WILD
“Ready or not…”
Cassie’s words drift down the hallway, light and airy.
You press your back to the wardrobe and click the door shut. The tendrils of darkness wrap around you.
Your heart hammers faster. Each breath feels heavy with anticipation. This is your favourite part - the waiting.
Here in the shadows, nothing can reach you. Not yet. Your excitement hums beneath your skin, sharp and electric. The dark isn’t gentle. It’s untamed - but it belongs to you.
You imagine Cassie’s hands covering her eyes, fingers parted just enough to cheat. She always peeks. She always bends the rules.
Floorboards groan as you shift your weight, careful not to make a sound. Your nerves are heightened.
You hear Cassie’s small feet teetering down the hall. You won’t be found here. You never have been before.
The dark welcomes you home. It knows you too well. The silence settles thick around you, pressing softly against your ears.
A sharp, sudden shrill splits the heavy hush.
Your stomach lurches. You tell yourself it’s the neighbours. That this can’t be happening again.
You remain hidden. But now the game has changed. The rules shifted. Playtime - abandoned.
A thin strip of light cuts beneath the doorframe, sharp and accusing. Light means exposure. Exposure has consequences.
The handle clicks. A pause. The knob turns. Your lungs tighten.
Vulnerability engulfs you.
Cassie’s small frame stands before the wardrobe. She slides down and scoots towards you, embracing you with her gentle arms.
You reach for the handle, closing the door.
Safe again.
With you both in there, the dread-laden air begins to thin. The coats hang like witnesses above you.
A heavy figure ascends the stairs, the floorboards groaning under a predatory weight.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: "when experience became growth"
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 62.5%: The aroma of fresh jasmine filled the streets, with the frequent honks and beeps creating sirens throughout…
The aroma of fresh jasmine filled the streets, with the frequent honks and beeps creating sirens throughout my brain. The air was dense and carried a linger of sandalwood brewed with smoke. This is where I called home. The community was different from 'my home', the locals here had friendly conversation and negotiated about fresh produce at markets. The women wore flourishing sarees mixed with abstract patterns and a welcoming smile. However I still did not feel like a local. Slangs were foreign to me, and my relatives furrowed their eyebrows in confusion when I would converse with them, but did not fail to understand when my older brother would speak to them. No matter how hard I tried to immerse myself in what I thought was my
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: "when experience became growth"
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 67.5%: Preface: Welcome to ‘Articulate/Collaborate/Reiterate & Liberate’! Today we will embark a voyage to craft…
Preface:
Welcome to ‘Articulate/Collaborate/Reiterate & Liberate’! Today we will embark a voyage to craft a
dish that not only rejuvenates/revitalises/restores/heals the taste buds but resists the everyday
injustice experienced by us superhero mothers, allowing you to comfortably leave your aprons at
the door and enter a workplace that rewards us for our ability and not by the conservative
medieval standards that frame us in the household doors. An eye for expertise, not the natural
constraints of a woman’s lifestyle that are continuously overlooked and neglected. This dish, a
trusty meal, for those plucky housewives who must clothe, feed and house their families on a
moderately insufficient allowance. This recipe, the ultimate 15-minute dinner right at your
fingertips, so all possible help be given to these heroes without capes who must feed our bodies
and persist the systemic injustice.
It means the steaming, the stewing, and the baking, through all seasons, day by day, year after
year, decade after decade. She must know how soon, how long, how much and how often. She
must know quality and quantity and cost. She must balance her family, maternal role and her 9-5.
Through the beauty of a woman, nothing will enable them to do more certainly than without the
mastery & methods in the preparation of the homiest meal. This dish’s name, you ask? This is the
Cessation Casserole. Oppose the cascade of bland tasting discrimination stirred & agitated by the
male dominated workforce, forcing high-wage firms to address systemic barriers and break this
draining vicious cycle.
Ingredients:
3 kilograms of corrupt, oppressive companies
8L of moderate-wage women’s tears
A pinch of potent resistance
6 tablespoons of maternal responsibility
50mL of resilience
2 kilograms of male-skewed superannuation rates
A sprinkle of hopeful advocacy & awareness
500 grams of federal government policy enforcement
Method:
1. The second wave: 1960s Women’s Liberation Movement:
A lack of historical knowledge of the origins behind the craft of this antidote is a boiling
disaster. Without knowledge of a previous recipe a dish can be devoid of flavour and the
past may be repeated. To ensure maximum yield of flavour, understand this dish gained
popularity as middle-classed women were increasingly grappling with their roles as
confined housewives in a separate “sphere” of motherhood that women were relegated to.
As John F. Kennedy signed the Equal Pay Act of 1963 into law, feminist Betty Friedan and
other activists collaborated to challenge the global stereotyping and pervasive ‘norms’
framing women. Despite the attempts to align equality between men & women in the
workforce, this reached no permanent change in the world. This dish increased in potency
the imbalances within the workplace continued to thrive. Let the shortage of feminine input
in the past be overcome whilst you stand and accomplish a wonderful dish like this one.
2. Preparation:
i. Preparing the resilient skillet: