VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Transformation
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 72.5%: In the 21st century, we are often told that every life is a story that each of us is the hero of our own…
In the 21st century, we are often told that every life is a story that each of us is the hero of our own journey, authoring a unique narrative worth telling. It’s a comforting thought, but not always a truthful one.
Most lives don’t resemble stories. They resemble habits. They are commutes, grocery lists, and laundry cycles repeated endlessly. Few people are explorers charting new worlds. Most are office workers waiting for the lift, replying to emails, and eating the same sandwich they’ve had for lunch since high school. Life is like a wheel, forever turning.
The trouble with calling every life a “personal journey” is that it compresses our messy realities into recycled storylines. We know the ones, the triumphant underdog, the tragic downfall, the miraculous comeback, the hero who “finds themselves.” But if everyone’s life is squeezed into these predictable things, how unique are these stories really? It starts to feel less like originality and more like Hollywood sequels, the same plot, only with new actors.
Think about it. The biggest moments in your life. Have they transformed you? Have they overturned your own character into a new being? No. These moments only cause growth. A more normal part of human nature.
For example, me personally, landing my first job was supposed to feel like an important event. People say it teaches responsibility and independence. For me, it just taught me how to talk to customers, clock in on time, and collect a pay check. Outside of work, I was still the same person. Not transformed, not enlightened, just a little more tired on weekends.
Everyone says traveling changes you, that seeing the world gives you new
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: “You only know where you’ve been once…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 67.5%: Im sitting at Starbucks while writing this, airpods in listening to a hindi song called “dil diya gallan”…
Im sitting at Starbucks while writing this, airpods in listening to a hindi song called “dil diya gallan” meaning “my hearts conversation.” It feels almost like I’m living the same life in 2024 September. My eyes light up as soon as I hear a door creaking thinking I’m going to relive a memory. Instead of studying business due to my low 50s I’m out here craving the same essence of his presence. A tear drops by from my cheek as I quickly pack up my books and decide to rush out with my double chocolate chip Frappuccino with extra espresso, from the all nighters I pull from comforting my friends with their break ups trying to forget mine. I decided to drive home passing the park me and him used to play hide n seek at. I don’t think I have ever loved anyone or anything this much in my life. Uncovering parts of me I never knew I had, some negatives some positives, but my friend said they’re all just negatives. Avoidant attachment, meaning an avoidance on expression of intimacy, major jealousy issues, constant overthinking, doubting myself, lack of self-worth and self-respect. All these qualities just because of a single individual? And then boom they suddenly all ev
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: writing about protest
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 80%: I stand here with a voice that shakes, not because I am weak, but because every woman who has been silenced…
I stand here with a voice that shakes, not because I am weak, but because every woman who has been silenced walks with me.
Today we gather in protest, in the heart of Melbourne’s CBD, to march for an end towards violence against women — not simply against one act of violence, but against a culture that allows violence to thrive. A culture that teaches women to carry keys between their fingers at night, that teaches daughters to whisper “message me when you’re home safe,” but never teaches men not to harm.
We are told to take the “safe” route home, to avoid walking alone, to lower our eyes, to not wear this, not drink that, not speak up. But here is the truth: women have been following these rules for generations, and still, one woman is killed every nine days in Australia by a current or former partner. Every nine days, another candlelit vigil. Every nine days, another headline. Every nine days, another voice gone.
This cycle is not just repetition — it is a domino chain of violence, one act toppling into the next, unless we resist it together. Every silence, every dismissal, adds another piece to the chain, and if we do not stop it now, it will continue to fall, unstoppable.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: “Echoes of Tomorrow” Stimulus:…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 77.5%: Dear Diary, It took so long for me to realise. The long nights and early mornings all compiled into one. I…
Dear Diary,
It took so long for me to realise.
The long nights and early mornings all compiled into one. I didn't know how to cope with the thoughts running through my busy mind, I wonder if they looked both ways before that ran.
Cupid only had to shoot me once before I fell flat on my face; little did I know it would cause me more pain and bruises than any fall I'd ever experienced. Eyes like the ocean and a laugh that would fill a room with optimism; I'd never take it for granted. I never wanted today to end, but always looked forward to the future of tomorrow.
The warmth of love filled my spirit, laughing and crying together all held the same sentimental value. Absolutely nothing could change the sparkle in my eyes that I held for her. “Why couldn't the toilet paper cross the road? Because it would fall down a crack!”, Every joke captured her joyful giggle and pearly white smile, no matter how generic.
To me, love was a concept only a few could grasp. I felt like I'd climbed a mountain no one else had conquered. Late-night drives possessed the loud sound of Spotify's top singles, windows down and volume up to 30. Where did it all go wrong?
The giggles faded; feelings shared were accompanied by arguments. She no longer felt like home, no warmth, no security, no nothing. Seventeen years old, looking up like she was on a pedestal, happiness is all I wanted for her but that wasn't enough to make it last.
Back then, my eyes filled with glimmer. Now, empty. Bottomless without a tear left to cry. My soul telling me there's no reason to keep going, why continue.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Protest: 'Resistance is Key' Stimulus:…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 100%: "It's not fair" Those were Vincent Chin's last words as his skull was crashed open by a baseball bat. And he…
"It's not fair" Those were Vincent Chin's last words as his skull was crashed open by a baseball bat. And he was right. It was not fair. It was not fair, that two white men could beat an asian man to death in the street, then walk away with probation and a $3000 fine. It was not fair, that Vincent was listed as "white" in official records, as if his race, the very reason he was murdered, could be erased with the stroke of a pen. It was not fair, that his own mother buried her only son and was dismissed, being told it was justice. What kind of justice is that? What kind of country is this?
Vincent was not killed by Ebens and Nitz alone. He was killed by the sickness of America, it's greed, it's racism, it's unequivocal cowardice. When autojobs vanished, cooperations moved factories overseas, but rather than blaming cooporate greed, white workers blamed us. Blaming us was easy, easier than facing the truth. Easier than holding power accountable. So when Eben's white mouth spat "it's because of you little motherfuckers that we're out of work." he was speaking your language; he was scapegoating.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: change is made of choices, and choices…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 67.5%: After the horrific act of terrorism in the capital, the city of Gion became a graveyard. Charred limbs lay…
After the horrific act of terrorism in the capital, the city of Gion became a graveyard. Charred limbs lay scattered on ashy roads, rivers ran red, and the air reeked of smoke that never seemed to fade. Once beautiful, Gion was now cold and hollow, a city where fear replaced trust.
No one knew who caused the attack, but suspicion poisoned every glance. Friends became suspects, families fractured, and the people lived in quiet panic. Violence filled the streets until they all begged for change—begged for safety.
The lawyers of Gion promised a solution: *transparency.* An injection that made both skin and thoughts visible. The governor assured the people that this would end crime forever. “No more secrets,” he said. “No more fear.” And so, desperate for peace, they accepted.
Sena was one of them. Haunted by the attack, she welcomed the injection without question. Like everyone else, her thoughts glowed softly above her skin: *I love this city. It keeps me safe.* The streets became calm again. People smiled with practised ease, their minds displayed for all to see.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: 'Peace begins with us'
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 75%: A Eulogy / Apology Written for Commander Tadeuz Bór Komorowski by longtime friend Hermann Fegelein (24th August…
A Eulogy / Apology Written for Commander Tadeuz Bór Komorowski by longtime friend Hermann Fegelein (24th August 1968)
I am forever haunted by the actions of a boy who defied the quest for peace within a man.
Good morning friends, family, and comrades. We gather here today to mourn the life of our leader of Poland, Tadeuz Bór Komorowski; a man who instilled with me and so many, that peace begins with us.
One year after his death, I have been plagued with my undeniable part in the destruction of Poland. One that I spewed hatred, while Tadeuz brought peace. I have learnt in reflection, after the Warsaw ghetto uprising, and the Warsaw uprising that in protest, acquaintances can be on either side of the coin. But my side was not right anyway, I Hermann Fegelein offer my very belated apology
to Tadeuz, and Poland for my part in Polands reckoning, as an ss officer for a hateful-tyranic regime. I had been to blame for attempting to unravel commander Tadeuz very guest for peace, in which he had believed was possible in all his companions.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: If you listen I will tell a story
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 80%: Listen up this is a story that your going to want to hear Hands up if you’re absolutely terrified about next…
Listen up this is a story that your going to want to hear
Hands up if you’re absolutely terrified about next year when this cruel experiment is over? Now keep those hands up if you don’t know what you are going to do? Half of you. Good. That’s normal.
I am going to talk about gap years. But I am not going to tell you it’s all sunshine’s and Instagram posts because two years ago, I woke up in Brazil with my passport gone… just gone.
Listen close, you’re in your hotel room in Rio, with maybe 50 dollars left and suddenly you are no longer a tourist. You’re stranded. That marble floor freezing beneath your feet as you tear through every drawer, every pocket yet still nothing. Jason-who’s your mate that dragged you on this trip, he’s sitting in the corner going “mate we’re so screwed”.
Let’s rewind a bit. 6 months before this disastrous story begun I was sitting where you are now, except I had no plan. Zero. Whilst everyone else was filling out university applications I was rotting in my bedroom. Netflix till 3:00AM, sleep till 2:00 Pm and repeat. I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life searching my brain for clues as to what I was going to be. It came to a point where my parents began to question “so what’s the plan?”, I just had nothing.
That’s until Jason rocked up at my door. This is where the journey begins. “come on a gap year with me” he enforces. In my household a gap year was for rich kids or drop outs, which I was neither. But honestly I was so lost that even the unknown felt better than that bedroom, becoming my bridge keeping me grounded to reality.
So anyways back to Brazil. We’re stranded in the streets that had been pumping with music, with the most breathtaking views, until it became jail. Looking back I still remember the views from my hotel room window; large silver arches that stretched across bold bridges, gleaming against the soft green hills, something you could only see in a postcard. But in the moment my life had come crashing down. Back home I would’ve run to mum and dad and hidden under the covers, waiting for someone else to fix my problems. But we couldn’t, we had no bridge back home. We had to adapt.
The Australian Consulate had gone radio silent, so we had to take to the streets. I remember this part of the story as clear as day. A taxi driver parked on the side of the curb tells us- I swear I am not making this up, he says “Mountain…gang…may have…things”, which directly translated to a gang in the mountain may have our things. I know, I know mental right? But when you’re desperate you’ll do anything. So up we went to climb a mountain, both of us exhausted and so lost.
Half way up the mountain we saw a small house perched on a plateau of land, surrounded by a field of corn, swaying in the wind. We
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: personal journeys, this is me
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 90%: Blue paint smeared across the canvas as I moved with ease, my hands following a path they had long known, a…
Blue paint smeared across the canvas as I moved with ease, my hands following a path they had long known, a rhythm ingrained in me like muscle memory. Blue was the colour that lurked beneath my skin, quietly pulsing through me, embodying the entirety of my being. It seeped out of my eyes to escape its bodily confines, desperate for release, as if the canvas was the only place it could exist freely. It was dark and turbulent, like waves crashing relentlessly against a bleak and hollow shoreline, each stroke a reflection of the storms I carried within.
I had spent most of my childhood crying blue tears. I had cried when my grandma forced me to eat spinach, the bitter taste clinging stubbornly to my tongue, lingering even now in memory as if it had left a permanent stain. I had cried when my mum yelled at me for not remembering the 8 times table, the numbers swimming uselessly in my head, dissolving into a blur through watery eyes. I had cried when my brother tried to cut the hair off my favourite doll, the soft plastic strands falling like tiny sacrifices onto the carpet. Those blue tears dominated my youth, filling the quiet spaces of my days, as familiar as the toys on my shelf or the worn quilt on my bed.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: "Some things about living still…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 75%: So, the other day, I ran out of sugar. No big deal, right? Just pop to Woollies with my humble $2.50. That is…
So, the other day, I ran out of sugar. No big deal, right? Just pop to Woollies with my humble $2.50. That is enough. I do not buy brand names. I figure it is all the same stuff right. So, I am on the hunt for my trusty blue cheap packet of sugar. I scan it... FOUR DOLLARS. For sugar. The one thing that is supposed to be sweet in this economy! I stood there, staring at the screen like it just insulted my ancestors. Four dollars. That is robbery in a resealable bag. And of course, I had to check the milk. Fifty cents more than last week. Fifty cents! I thought we agreed prices do not increase midweek. We did not get that memo. I stared at the carton like it owed me an apology.
This economy does not just make me feel poor, but it confirms it. Soap or sugar. Petrol or a house. That is the new reality. I thought I would start a family this year. oops, a child or loaf of bread. Both, if I skip avocado toast for a month. Or live off coffee alone. Decisions, decisions.
Now the election recently happened. Everyone saying they would fix the cost of living. "we'll lower the cost of eggs, cheese and dreams." Yes right. Even the cemetery is raising prices because
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: "Some things about living still…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 75%: So, the other day, I ran out of sugar. No big deal right? Just pop to Woolies with my humble $2.50. That's…
So, the other day, I ran out of sugar. No big deal right? Just pop to Woolies with my humble $2.50. That's enough. I don't buy brand names. I figure it's all the same stuff right. So I'm on the hunt for my trusty blue cheap packet of sugar. I scan it... FOUR DOLLARS. For sugar. The one thing that's supposed to be sweet in this economy! I stood there, staring at the screen like it just insulted my ancestors. Four bucks. That's robbery in a resealable bag. This economy doesn't just make me feel poor but it confirms it. Soap or sugar. Petrol or a house. That's the new reality. I thought I'd start a family this year. oops, a child or loaf of bread. Now the election recently happened. Everyone saying they'd fix the cost of living. "we'll
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The government has banned public…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 65%: Resist and Persist To my beloved, I miss you every day. The streets feel quieter without your voice in them.…
Resist and Persist
To my beloved,
I miss you every day. The streets feel quieter without your voice in them. They say the government wants order, equality, safety, but it is a silence that suffocates. Public gatherings are banned. No one dares raise a sign, sing a chant, or speak above a whisper. I feel the emptiness pressing in, but I remember you, always, in motion against it.
I remember the weeks leading to the final protest. You planned quietly, carefully. Nights spent sketching signs, refining speeches, debating with others who were too afraid to act. You told me that silence has many forms. There is the silence of fear, the kind that coils in your chest and paralyzes you. And there is the silence that waits, like a storm, before striking. You knew the difference, and you chose to act.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The government has banned public…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 62.5%: Resist and Persist To my beloved, I miss you every day. The silence since you’ve gone is not peace. It is a…
Resist and Persist
To my beloved,
I miss you every day. The silence since you’ve gone is not peace. It is a weight pressing down on every street, every voice, every heart. The government calls it equality. They say no one should be louder, brighter, freer than anyone else. But I know the truth. Silence is their weapon, their law, their chain.
You would have laughed at their rules, at the ban on public gatherings, at the way difference is punished in the name of fairness. You always said it reminded you of Harrison Bergeron, where brilliance was shackled and rebellion was crime. You underlined the line about people being “equal every which way,” and laughed, saying, equality isn’t justice if it demands silence. That is why you refused to obey.
I remember the day we called the Last March. The streets were empty, the air tense. Soldiers waited in lines that cut across the pavement like shadows. And yet, there you were, standing at the front, holding your sign, voice rising against the quiet they demanded. It read “Silence is power.” At first, I thought it ironic, a naive belief. But you explained, silence gives power to those who oppress, and to speak even at risk is to reclaim it.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The government has banned public…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 67.5%: Justice To my beloved, I miss you. I miss you every day. Since you’ve gone, the silence feels endless. The…
Justice
To my beloved,
I miss you. I miss you every day. Since you’ve gone, the silence feels endless. The government calls it equality. A world where no voice is louder than another. But all I hear is fear. No one speaks above a whisper now. No one dares to.
You would’ve mocked their new laws. The way they’ve banned public gatherings, erased music from the streets, outlawed difference in the name of “fairness.” It’s their version of peace, one built on submission. You always said their dream of equality reminded you of that story you loved, Harrison Bergeron, the one where brilliance was punished and rebellion was treason. You used to underline that line, the one about people being “equal every which way,” and you’d laugh, saying, equality isn’t justice if it demands silence.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The government has banned public…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 62.5%: Resist and Persist To my beloved, I miss you. I miss you every day. Since you’ve gone, the world has grown…
Resist and Persist
To my beloved,
I miss you. I miss you every day. Since you’ve gone, the world has grown quieter but not peaceful. It’s the kind of silence that feels forced, heavy, suffocating. The government calls it “order.” I call it fear.
You would have laughed at their curfews, at the way they think they can legislate silence. Even after they banned public gatherings, you said voices can’t be outlawed. You said it softly that night, sitting out on the balcony, Marshy at your feet, paint-stained hands gripping your brush as you traced the words across your sign:
“Silence is power.”
Back then, I didn’t understand. I thought you meant strength through calm. But now I see the irony you meant it as a warning. That silence gives power to those who abuse it.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The government has banned public…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 65%: Resist and Persist To my beloved, I miss you. I miss you every day. Life feels smaller without you in it. I’m…
Resist and Persist
To my beloved,
I miss you. I miss you every day. Life feels smaller without you in it. I’m trying to keep going to stand for what’s right, to continue what you began, but the weight of it all grows heavier. The forces have tightened their grip on us. Every voice that dares to rise is silenced before it reaches the sky. And yet, I can still hear yours.
You used to sit at the crumbling wooden table on the balcony with Marshy at your feet, your pen scratching against paper, hair dancing in the wind. You always said words could start revolutions. How dare they take you away from me, for using only your words. How dare they strip you of your life, your laughter, your soul.
I remember that day, the day you made the most change. The weeks leading up to it were filled with restless nights and whispered plans. You poured your dedication into changing the world, into saving a planet too bruised to heal itself. I admired your hope, your reckless courage.
When the government banned public gatherings, you said their silence was a weapon, and that ours would not be. You painted your sign on the deck, Silence is power, the phrase that had once meant strength through calm. But this time, you meant it differently. You said silence only empowers those who hold the chains.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The government has banned public…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 60%: To my beloved, I miss you. I miss you every day. I can’t live without you. I’m trying my hardest to stand up…
To my beloved,
I miss you. I miss you every day. I can’t live without you. I’m trying my hardest to stand up for what’s right, to continue in your footsteps, but it’s just too hard. The forces have gotten stronger, and somehow, I keep getting weaker.
I can still hear your voice echoing through the house. I see you sitting at the disintegrating wooden table out on the balcony with Marshy curled at your feet, writing away, your hair blowing in the wind. This isn’t fair. Life isn’t fair. How dare they take you away from me. How dare they strip you of your life, your laughter, your soul.
I still remember that day. The day you made the most change. The weeks leading up to it were filled with planning, sketching, writing your dedication poured into changing the world. To make peace. To save us from the diminishing earth. I applaud you, I appreciate you, I love you.
That day replays in my mind every second of every day. You, standing there, shoes untied, hair in a messy bun, looking wild and free. You didn’t care; you never did. I loved that about you. Marching down the street, left foot, right foot one after another. Sirens screaming through the air, ready to crush the innocent, the young, the hopeful.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: resist and persist
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 67.5%: Resist and Persist December 1st 1955 - Montgomery, Alabama, USA They say obedience keeps peace. That's a lie.…
Resist and Persist
December 1st 1955 - Montgomery, Alabama, USA
They say obedience keeps peace. That's a lie. My life has been anything from peaceful. My hands were trembling when I clenched my bus ticket. The orange paper turning grey with every drop of rain. My black trench coat clinging damply to my skin, as drops of water ran over my brows and sploched towards the pavement. I stared at the wooden door engraved with 'White's only'. Through the fogged windows, I saw yellow light and heard laughing voices. Customers waiting for the bus. A reminder that I'm not like them.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Prompt: 'The country does what the…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 65%: Act 1:Ignorance: They call me a coconut: Brown on the outside, white on the inside. The morning was cold,…
Act 1:Ignorance:
They call me a coconut: Brown on the outside, white on the inside.
The morning was cold, crisp, and empty, like a farm on a Sunday morning. The land was barren and soothing, except for my residence: It was bustling, vibrant and stressful, like the city of Melbourne. I always hated how noisy everything felt. It was the morning of Awrudda: Sri Lankan New Year, the dullest celebration of the year, though my parents would beg to differ. Amma (mum) and Thatha (dad) were drenched head to toe in bedazzling jewels that danced atop their bathik clothing (a type of Sri Lankan clothing worn on celebrations), as they rushed vigorously to prepare all the food and celebrations. I stood out like a sore thumb, in my crusty Oodie that was bedazzled in Dorito crumbs, slumped in my bed as my mind absorbed into the depths of my Tiktok ‘For You Page’. The celebrations seemed dull and especially embarrassing. Despite Amma's efforts in preparing the Kiribath (milk rice) and other Awrudda cuisines, they seem unappetizing to me, and I would much rather prefer my day-old nutella sandwich. Wouldn't anyone?
The rest of the morning, followed by an underwhelming family breakfast where the mindnumbing vocals of Sinhala news almost put me to bed. During this time, my mind travelled back to the memories of messing about with my friends in the city, far away from any Sri Lankan news channel, but for now, I was confined to the chair of our dining table. The rest of breakfast was as thrilling as my grandma’s bingo club.
My Sri Lankan heritage is like the countryside. Barren and downright lifeless. I prefer the exhilarating blues that the Australian city life provides.
Being from an ethnic background, I struggled throughout my primary years of schooling. The bullying, the names, the swirlies. I went through it all. So you could imagine why I veer away from the Sri Lankan bushlife.
My name is Pravin (Prav preferably) and you could call me white washed.
Act 2: Rejection
They still call me a coconut.
Days turned to weeks, weeks to months, months to years.
The morning was not cold, crisp, nor empty. The air was scorching; droplets of sweat streaming down my forehead like racecars. The land shifted, gone was the metropolitan utopia of Melbourne, infact it was a dystopic nightmare: Despite its friendly demeanour, the “WELCOME TO COLOMBO” sign made my stomach drop: Home was further than ever. Part of me wishes I’d stayed in Melbourne, but here we are.
The ride home wasn’t smooth sailing either. The rocky road made sleep an impossible task, and invited an excruciating headache. 2 hours of this, mixed with the mindboggling Colombo traffic made me feel truly welcome. So far, I hated it here, but something about Amma’s smile made me want to suppress my complaints.
The party continued at my Aachi (grandma’s) house. Upon arrival, my eyes fixated on cuisines that I had never seen before mixed with antagonizing aroma’s harassing my nostrils. I immediately refused and slumped in my chair. With my plate empty, I grew ravenous yet determined to avoid any form of Sri Lankan foods. Maybe I was hungry or I was going crazy, but the chicken pan roll did look enticing, however the Uber Eats app was tempting me, like the devil on my shoulder…
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: change
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 65%: Ashes Beneath the Skin My roots run deep through rugged mountains and endless deserts — places that don’t…
Ashes Beneath the Skin
My roots run deep through rugged mountains and endless deserts — places that don’t forgive, only endure. The wind there carries voices older than memory, whispering through dust and ruin. Villages cling to the earth as if falling away would mean erasing their names. The land burns in red and gold, rivers cutting thin scars across the skin of the earth. That’s where I come from — a place that survives by pretending it’s not breaking. I guess I learned that from it.
They say life’s about finding yourself. I don’t think I’ve ever been lost. I just don’t know if the version of me that people see is actually mine.
At school, people act like they’ve got a map — who they’ll be, where they’ll go, what kind of man they’ll become. I try to look like I belong to that plan: laugh when they laugh, nod when they talk about girls or cars or futures. But my reflection doesn’t get the joke. The mirror in my room splits my face in two, and I don’t know which side’s pretending harder.
My father says men don’t talk about what’s wrong. He says silence builds strength. But silence just echoes louder at night. I sit with it, watching the candle on my desk burn low — that trembling flame trying not to die out. I think about how easy it is to disappear quietly.
Some days I scroll through photos of my
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Framework: Protest
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: A butterfly flutters. The soft breeze of the wind sways the fragile wings in swirls. Rather than resisting, it…
A butterfly flutters. The soft breeze of the wind sways the fragile wings in swirls. Rather than resisting, it yields. And like that, the butterfly rises, weightless, untethered. I watch as it disappears, freely feathering off into the vast blue sky.
A little girl ahead begins to hum, a soft, wavering tune, until her mother’s hand clamps over her mouth. A drone hums overhead, its red sensor blinking like an unblinking eye. Conversation halts, footsteps synchronise once more. The street exhales into silence. No one looks up. No one dares.
I reach into my school bag out of pure habit, only to realise it is empty. Once, it was filled with stories, creases in the spines like veins of memory. I still remember the day the wardens raided the classroom. My friend had slipped me a worn copy of The Little Prince beneath the desk; its pages smelled faintly of dust and hope. We didn’t even reach the second chapter before they confiscated it. That night, the teacher who gave it to us was gone. Ever since, the air has felt quieter, stripped of imagination.
When I think back to that day, I remember the girl beside me gasping as she traced a sentence with her fingertip, a line about taming and love. She whispered it once, as if tasting the word, before the book was torn away. The look in her eyes, fear and awe tangled together, was enough to make me understand why they were afraid of books.
That night, I lay awake, replaying her whisper. My heart thudded against my ribs as a thought formed — fragile, reckless, impossible. Could I do something? What would it mean to try? For hours I watched the ceiling, the faint hum of patrol drones outside vibrating through the glass. My hand hovered over my bag, remembering the feel of that book. By morning, my hesitation had hardened into something heavier, quieter, like resolve.
My fist tightens around the strap of my bag; my breath quickens. A pulse of heat rises beneath my skin, steady and deliberate. My pace quickens, each step a drumbeat against the pavement. The words I would say to them form and reform in my mind, sharp and unyielding. I briskly walk back home, a thousand thoughts swirling through my brain as I prepare to voice my contrary beliefs to my parents.
I barged through the front door, the disruption almost startling my mother and father who were uniformly seated around the porcelain marble table, wrapped in silence. For a second, I witnessed a flicker of genuine emotion, momentarily flustering them, but they promptly composed themselves, their expressions returning to a cultivated blankness.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: resist and persist
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 60%: Resist and Persist December 1st 1955 - Montgomery, Alabama, USA They say obedience keeps peace. That's a lie.…
Resist and Persist
December 1st 1955 - Montgomery, Alabama, USA
They say obedience keeps peace. That's a lie. My life has been anything from peaceful. My hands were trembling when I clenched my bus ticket. The orange paper turning grey with every drop of rain. My black trench coat clinging damply to my skin, as drops of water ran over my brows and sploched towards the pavement. I stared at the wooden door engraved with 'White's only'. Through the fogged windows, I saw yellow light and heard laughing voices. Customers waiting for the bus. A reminder that I'm not like them.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: framework: protest title: 'every voice…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 75%: Every Voice Is Important December 1st 1955 - Montgomery, Alabama, USA They say obedience keeps peace. That's a…
Every Voice Is Important
December 1st 1955 - Montgomery, Alabama, USA
They say obedience keeps peace. That's a lie. My life has been anything from peaceful. My hands were trembling when I clenched my bus ticket. The orange paper turning grey with every drop of rain. My black trench coat clinging damply to my skin, as drops of water ran over my brows and sploched towards the pavement. I stared at the wooden door engraved with 'White's only'. Through the fogged windows, I saw yellow light and heard laughing voices. Customers waiting for the bus. A reminder that I'm not like them.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: framework: protest title: 'every voice…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 77.5%: Every Voice Is Important December 1st 1955 - Montgomery, Alabama, USA They say obedience keeps peace. That's…
Every Voice Is Important
December 1st 1955 - Montgomery, Alabama, USA
They say obedience keeps peace. That's a lie. My life has been anything from peaceful. My hands were trembling when I clenched my bus ticket. The orange paper turning grey with every drop of rain. My black trench coat clinging damply to my skin, as drops of water ran over my brows and sploched towards the pavement. I stared at the wooden door engraved with 'White's only'. Through the fogged windows, I saw yellow light and heard laughing voices. Customers waiting for the bus. A reminder that I'm not like them.