VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Resist and Persist Frederick Douglass…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 77.5%: Resist and Persist Frederick Douglass – “The thing worse than rebellion is the thing that causes rebellion.”…
Resist and Persist
Frederick Douglass – “The thing worse than rebellion is the thing that causes rebellion.”
Good afternoon fellow students and staff,
Frederick Douglass once declared, “The thing worse than rebellion is the thing that causes rebellion.” In our city, this is hostile architecture. Have you ever walked through Melbourne and felt unwelcome without knowing why? Chances are, you’ve encountered these designs causing harsh protests in the city. Hostile architecture is an urban strategy that uses the built environment to control and restrict human behaviour. It often targets those who rely most on public spaces — youth, the poor, and the homeless — by limiting their ability to rest or even gather. This is not merely about the removal of comfort, but the quiet removal of dignity — the suggestion that some bodies are less deserving of rest, of belonging, of being seen. These protests are not disorder; they are design in reverse — citizens reshaping what their leaders have neglected. I strongly believe hostile architecture is damaging Melbourne, both for its people and for its identity, because it strips away the humanity of our city and silences our collective voice. The rebellion we see is not chaos, but conscience — the city’s pulse resisting the numbing hand of control. In dehumanising others, we reveal the brittleness of our own compassion, the unspoken value that convenience outweighs care.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: ttile - the truth stimulus - Having a…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 82.5%: HELP ME! HELP ME! A cry for help can break out like a dam – raw, urgent and impossible to ignore. Yet at…
HELP ME! HELP ME! A cry for help can break out like a dam – raw, urgent and impossible to ignore. Yet at times help never comes. Many who suffer remain silent, paralysed not by weakness but by the weight of fear, shame and despair. The truth is that silence is not always chosen; sometimes it is forced upon us by a world that refuses to listen. Though I was not among those silenced, I have stood close enough to see how injustice renders speech almost impossible – how the cracks in that dam of silence begin to tremble before truth finally breaks through. And when it does, it comes not as destruction, but as release — a flood of courage that reshapes everything in its path. It begins with a lone voice, trembling but unyielding, and grows into a chorus that no force can contain.
As I speak before you sociologists – experts in the forces that bind us as a society – I do so not to recount my own oppression, but to reflect on a truth that I have witnessed in others: that one voice, brave enough to rise, can awaken many others; that protest transforms not only societies, but souls.
I grew up alongside a boy named Elijah — a quiet soul with eyes the colour of storm clouds and a voice so soft it seemed afraid of echoing. Every morning he would slip into the back of the classroom, his shoulders drawn inward as though trying to make himself invisible. The fluorescent lights flickered above us, washing the chipped desks and tired posters in a harsh, sterile glow. The teacher’s voice — sharp, impatient — would slice through the stillness: “Anyone? No one?” Around us, laughter scattered like pebbles against glass, but Elijah’s silence was heavier than any noise. Sometimes, he would lift his hand — hesitant, trembling — only to be met with the rustle of snickers or the teacher’s sigh of dismissal. I remember the faint flush that rose to his cheeks, the way his fingers would curl back into his sleeve as though retreating from the world. He once told me that the worst part wasn’t the laughter, but the way people looked through him — as though he were made of air. The walk home was always quiet; the crunch of gravel beneath our shoes filled the space where words should have been. When I asked why he didn’t fight back, he said softly, “What’s the point of shouting when no one wants to listen?”
Yet slowly, the cracks began to show in that wall of silence. Through small acts of courage, Elijah began to resist — lifting his head a little higher, meeting the gaze of those who mocked him, answering questions with a steady voice. These may appear to be minor gestures, but to him they were transformative. When Elijah raised his hand, voice quivering but steady, and the teacher finally
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title - The truth Stimulus - Having a…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 70%: HELP ME! HELP ME! A cry for help can break out like a dam – raw, urgent and impossible to ignore. Yet at times…
HELP ME! HELP ME! A cry for help can break out like a dam – raw, urgent and impossible to ignore. Yet at times help never comes. Many who suffer remain silent, paralysed not by weakness but by the weight of fear, shame and despair. The truth is that silence is not always chosen; sometimes it is forced upon us by a world that refuses to listen. Though I was not among those silenced, I have stood close enough to see how injustice renders speech almost impossible – how the cracks in that dam of silence begin to tremble before truth finally breaks through. And when it does, it comes not as destruction, but as release — a flood of courage that reshapes everything in its path. It begins with a lone voice, trembling but unyielding, and grows into a chorus that no force can contain.
As I speak before you sociologists – experts in the forces that bind us as a society – I do so not to recount my own oppression, but to reflect on a truth that I have witnessed in others: that one voice, brave enough to rise, can awaken many others; that protest transforms not only societies, but souls.
I grew up alongside a boy named Elijah — a quiet soul with eyes the colour of storm clouds and a voice so soft it seemed afraid of echoing. Every morning he would slip into the back of the classroom, his shoulders drawn inward as though trying to make himself invisible. The fluorescent lights flickered above us, washing the chipped desks and tired posters in a harsh, sterile glow. The teacher’s voice — sharp, impatient — would slice through the stillness: “Anyone? No one?” Around us, laughter scattered like pebbles against glass, but Elijah’s silence was heavier than any noise. Sometimes, he would lift his hand — hesitant, trembling — only to be met with the rustle of snickers or the teacher’s sigh of dismissal. I remember the faint flush that rose to his cheeks, the way his fingers would curl back into his sleeve as though retreating from the world. He once told me that the worst part wasn’t the laughter, but the way people looked through him — as though he were made of air. The walk home was always quiet; the crunch of gravel beneath our shoes filled the space where words should have been. When I asked why he didn’t fight back, he said softly, “What’s the point of shouting when no one wants to listen?”
Yet slowly, the cracks began to show in that wall of silence. Through small acts of courage, Elijah began to resist — lifting his head a little higher, meeting the gaze of those who mocked him, answering questions with a steady voice. These may appear to be minor gestures, but to him they were
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: let the journey begin stimulus…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 77.5%: As the girl sat alone waiting at the imperfect and empty dinner table, she pondered how she will describe her…
As the girl sat alone waiting at the imperfect and empty dinner table, she pondered how she will describe her final journey of high school. After graduating she didn’t want to think about her final year as it brought back nostalgia, however feelings of disappoint and failure. A tear slowly rolled down the cold press of her cheek any time high school was mentioned as although she recalled the sweet moments, the sourness unfortunately took up most of her journey. The atmosphere was silent and bare as no flavour has been introduced to the table and the tone remained warm however uncertain and mysterious likes its going to gradually change. The girl saw from a distance a couple of individuals walking to the table, which had prepared her to share her stories of managing her exhilarating yet painful journey of year 12.
First course - the bitter beginning
As she invites the guests to sit down, the first dish arrived - it was cold, sharp and hard to swallow which represented the early life challenges and issues as a year 12. Transitioning from year 11 to year 12 was a major step, she felt an abundance of emotions. fear of the unknown or expectations that must be met. Its the first encounter of adversity - she had the taste of failure for the first time later not knowing that it will eventually fuel some growth. Each bite she explained carried the taste of rejection and after taste of disappointment. She thought she could handle the workload of the demands however her thoughts ran the opposite direction. She was struggling. The texture was rough and grainy resembling the hundreds of pages of textbook she would be carrying home each night to study. It was sour like the sting of red pen marks bleeding across the page of her work. Every fail and every resit made her want to spit out this acidic and awful taste.
She felt like she couldn’t complete it and wanted to give up. However her teachers would not let her, it’s the same thoughts and journey every year 11 transitioning into year 12 go through, that in those early months of year 12 the bitterness would never fade and the struggles would define her. Yet this dish laid the raw truth that its through the harshness where she must learn change and adapt until she can begin to feel flavour or growth.
Second course - the spicy struggle
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title - The truth Stimulus - Having a…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 70%: HELP ME! HELP ME! A cry for help can break out like a dam – raw, urgent and impossible to ignore. Yet at times…
HELP ME! HELP ME! A cry for help can break out like a dam – raw, urgent and impossible to ignore. Yet at times help never comes. Many who suffer remain silent, paralysed not by weakness but by the weight of fear, shame and despair. The truth is that silence is not always chosen; sometimes it is forced upon us by a world that refuses to listen. Though I was not among those silenced, I have stood close enough to see how injustice renders speech almost impossible - how the cracks in that dam of silence begin to tremble before truth finally breaks through. And when it does, it comes not as destruction, but as release — a flood of courage that reshapes everything in its path.
As I speak before you sociologists – experts in the forces that bind us as a society – I do so not to recount on my own oppression, but to reflect on a truth that I have witnessed in others, that protest transforms not only societies, but souls.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Finding my way.
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 90%: Though I was born in Australia, my childhood truly unfolded in China. Not just in geography, but in identity.…
Though I was born in Australia, my childhood truly unfolded in China. Not just in geography, but in identity.
When I was little, the nights in Shenzhen pulsed with life. The streets shimmered gold beneath flickering shop lights, the air thick with the smell of frying oil and sugar, and laughter rising from the food stalls that lined the road. The corner store owner always saved White Rabbit candy for me and my sister. My mother owned a small hair salon right in the middle of that street. While she worked under the hum of dryers and the rhythmic snip of scissors, I ran in my sandals along the narrow pavement, chasing after other children whose parents also owned shops nearby, a tool store, a chemist, a dumpling stall. It didn’t matter where we played, every doorway felt like home. I never questioned this sense of belonging; it was the water I swam in, invisible because it held me completely.
The salon was always bright. Customers came not just for haircuts, but for company. They shared stories and secrets as if they were all part of one extended family. The smell of hairspray mixed with jasmine tea. On summer nights, after closing, the adults gathered around a plastic table for mahjong, their laughter spilling into the street, sunflower shells scattering beneath their feet. Sometimes my mother let me stay up late, the air conditioner rattling in the corner while I watched her play. Those nights seemed endless, as if the world existed only within that warm, humming street.
Every Sunday, we hiked the mountain behind our apartment complex. The path wound through green trees slick with mist, the scent of rain hanging heavy. I still remember the day I got lost, how I wandered too far ahead and turned to find no one behind me. The air thickened, the world grew quiet, and fear pressed against my chest. Tears blurred the path while I stood frozen for minutes before a couple of tourists found me and waited until my mother appeared, breathless and furious and relieved. That night, she made me memorise her phone number. Not just so I could be found, but so I could learn that identity is tethered not only to place, but to the people who anchor you to yourself.
Then, everything changed.
We moved to Australia.
The night we arrived, I pressed my face against the car window, expecting to see lights, crowds, movement. But instead, the streets were still. Houses stood far apart, each one sealed behind drawn curtains. No one called out, no radios played. The silence was not just lack of sound. It was lack of recognition. It made me aware of my own edges, as if I had become visible only in the ways I didn’t fit.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Nothing to fear
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 60%: The unknown - That in which we cannot control - That is where fear thrives. And that darkness outside, it…
The unknown - That in which we cannot control - That is where fear thrives. And that darkness outside, it welcomes such uncertainty with open arms. The cold, blank, unknown is what brings these things to life. manifesting horrors. orchestrating monsters. It is a human condition - to fear everything we cannot influence. We let what we don’t control, control us.
It never rested - the figure enshrouded in that darkness, always present, ever awake, even in the quietest depths of the night. It could not rest, for it feared the light, always weary as it sensed it creep around the corner. At dawn, it flees, vanishing into the shadows, waiting, ready, for that sunless space to return, where it once again could hunt. The creature, An illusion. A reality. a figment of the mind - or an ever ready predator, blighting the unknown.
The trembling had already begun. Why should I have fear, in the warm confines of my home? A sanctuary during the terrors of the night. Why do I have fear?
Yet it is never enough, reasoning does not dare barter with the devil. The fear worsens, clasping what little control I still had over my mind.
The thing lays ready. It senses my presence, just as I feel its. “There is a sort of connection we have, you and I”, I whispered, my voice trembling.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Personal Journey - the map had changed
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 80%: The map had changed This time the sound of the whistle to reassemble us to hear the coaches final words wasn't…
The map had changed
This time the sound of the whistle to reassemble us to hear the coaches final words wasn't welcoming. Normally, after a training session for soccer I was ready to allow my body to relax again; to give it a reward for its strength and ability to improve my status in the team and feel healthy. Yet, this time the map had changed - the sound of the whistle acted like a lightning bolt through my body. Simultaneously the sound of the whistle and my body breaking down forced me to the ground. I had no control. The dampness of the grass and the freezing cold air were no match for the pain that engulfed my body. All I could manage was a primal scream. I knew it felt wrong. I knew I needed assistance immediately. I knew that the bright pitch lights would be shepherding me off the pitch rather than lighting the path for one last pep talk.
The cliché that you don't know what you have until its gone is one that hits home the hardest. Who would have thought that my knee could in fact become the villain of my story? It seemed like any other day right up until the point when my happiness was stripped from me and my map changed. I struggled to draw breath as the fast pace of my heart made me feel as if I were about to explode. For once Melbourne's cold, grey and wet winter weather matched my mood. I knew it was bad but until I managed to take off my tight soccer sock I still had some hope. Like blowing up a red balloon my knee expanded as the sock no longer held back the swelling. The MRI result reported the worst news, the biggest in my journey - my ACL and miniscus were torn, badly.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The embers glow with secrets untold,…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 67.5%: Sometimes I hear the whispers of my ancestors suffering. The genocide of my people, the Assyrians, was a…
Sometimes I hear the whispers of my ancestors suffering. The genocide of my people, the Assyrians, was a deafening hush kept away from the world, a terrifying chorus that struck a piercing note of betrayal into each of our souls. Yet our story lives on, waiting for the brave to listen.
I reminisce back to my younger years, around the age of 11 attending my first protest, standing firm on the uneven pavement clutching a weathered wooden sign that read “The whispers of the Assyrian genocide is a secret jewel kept away from the world”. I recollect on that sweltering Melbourne afternoon that fellow protestors faces mirrored my own, their eyes drowned in tears of determination, anticipation and tension, and their lips quivering with the weight of history. We all stopped, and from here the earth began to shake from the thunderous roar of Assyrian chants: “Is anyone brave enough to listen?” “Our cries were once reverberated through the air, now just a silent whisper flowing through the ashes”. The roar was a great inferno of remembrance, and finally it felt like the chains of silence were shattered. I remember how after we progressed, from where I stood, 1200 protestors began to drop to their knees, each of us raising a hand to the sky in anamnesis of our ancestors. We were a bond forged with the unyielding spirit of aversion against the hostility targeted towards us. I still feel the jagged edges of the concrete pavement pressing deep into my skin, each scar representing the whispers of cries flowing through the ashes of the 1915 genocide. Those embers’ secrets, once tightly bond, were now carried on the wind’s bold currents, breaking the ancient fetters of silence to echo truth for all to hear.
I think back to my uncle, a survivor of the 1915 genocide, a person that I was emotionally close to, someone that protested through storytelling. His face was weathered with sorrow, each
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: ‘Every voice matters’ Stimulus…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 82.5%: Section B. Every Voice Matters Stimulus 1 Ayubowan, Assalamu Alaikum, Vanakkum, my fellow Sri Lankans. I…
Section B. Every Voice Matters Stimulus 1
Ayubowan, Assalamu Alaikum, Vanakkum, my fellow Sri Lankans.
I stand before you at this farmer's union meeting, not as a politician, but as a fellow hardworking farmer. Much like all of you here today, I wake up at the crack of dawn and toil until the late hours. I work 'til my hands split open and I can plant no longer. But this year, everything changed.
Crops that once fed my village now wilt and wither away. My children go to bed sick and hungry. And my neighbours move one by one to go beg for food on the streets. You experience it too, we all do.
All because of another reckless decision made by the Rajapaksa government, who care more about filling their pockets than our livelihoods.
I look at the faces in front of me and I see the gaze of people that are tired, hungry and especially, unbroken. I see the parts of me that yearn to join the Aragalaya protest in everyone here. And I believe we should let it speak for us.
But before you can fight for yourself a struggle that spans our nation, you must first fight for your own, for I believe our voice as farmers, though often ignored by the government, can still and hold the power to make great change.
Last month, the Rajapaksa government made the reckless decision to ban chemical fertilisers overnight. this left I, and many of you here today, unable to grow our crops. You would think such a government would spare some funding for quality fertilisers, but no; instead, they feast on our tax money whilst we scrape the dirt for what is left.
We plant. We water. We wait.
What do they do?
They lie. They steal.
They take.
So, what do I believe we should do?
Rather than join the Aragalaya protests, where everyone across Sri Lanka plans to storm the Presidential house, I believe we must do a protest of our own. For, the larger effort does not show them how we feel that they stole our livelihoods. How would they know our suffering if our voice is drowned in the sea of millions of others? They cannot. Everyone speaks for our struggles. Only we can, and our voice matters!
We must demand they take back their fertilizer policies.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Protest piece prompt is "Every voice…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 87.5%: The echoes of the masses' chants unravelled throughout the city of Chicago, propelling their fists into the…
The echoes of the masses' chants unravelled throughout the city of Chicago, propelling their fists into the air and carrying signs with "Black Lives Matter" spray-painted on them. They defied the law for their sense of justice, heading toward the Chicago American Shopping Centre, where Chadwick stood nervously—his back hunched, shoulder to shoulder with hundreds of other police officers. Yet, he felt unsafe and alone. Sweat trickled down his forehead onto his eyebrow, and he jerked his head due to the irritating helmet. He gripped his baton loosely in his left hand, while in his right, he bore his shield, pointed down the street from where the birds had fled. He was there to eradicate the chaos—it was his job—but was it the right thing to do?
Down 36 East Street, Chicago Avenue, glaring gazes from the coffee shop pierced through the scene with disdain and irritation. Nevertheless, the protesters marched with confidence, their chests held high—an army steered toward the shopping centre to protest for their sense of justice.
"They're almost here, the animals, I can't wait to swing at one, I can't lie, you're one of the good ones though, Chadwick," James stated proudly beside Chadwick. He stood his ground, gazing straight forward, ignoring James' comment. The hoard rushed towards them. "Shield up, stand your ground," The commander commanded. James swung his baton excitedly, with a wide, devilish grin on his face. Chadwick, however, could not relate. He was conflicted. Was he really going to fight his own people? The push of hundreds of protestors shoved Chadwick back, pulling him back to reality. He glanced to his right to see James beating a black man. Chadwick’s pupils dilated, his stern facade fell, and a look of revulsion and shock took over his face. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out, only silence. Behind the black man stood a woman, tears rolling down her cheeks; she stared into Chadwick's soul with disappointment. Not a word was said, but he knew what she was thinking. He was thinking the same thing.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: Agent of change Stimulus: There…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 67.5%: Title: Agent of change Stimulus: There may be times when we are powerless to prevent injustice, but there…
Title: Agent of change
Stimulus: There may be times when we are powerless to prevent injustice, but there must never be a time when we fail to protest.
Framework: Writing about protest
AGENT OF CHANGE
Sceptic turned participant
What if the loudest protest the world ever witnessed made no sound at all?
I was never one to take interest in protests. Instead, I despised them. To me, they were noisy disruptions – excuses for people to clog the streets and shout at the wind. I never saw the point. How could I possibly be an agent of change? What power did I have to push back against injustice?
Yet, despite my strong views, I somehow ended up taking part in the largest protest the world has ever seen. I had always believed protests were confined to streets and parks. I was unaware of the many ways we can be catalysts for change, even when we seem powerless. I discovered that protests aren’t always loud and visible – they can be silent, even invisible. I doubted humankind’s ability to unite against a shared enemy. Nevertheless, my doubts were shattered when something crossed the borders of every nation, drawing me and eight billion others into a protest like no other.
A lurking evil
I remember hearing a news story about an evil on the loose. No one batted an eye. The longer people ignored it, the more it grew. News stories became weekly, then daily. People laughed at this so-called “monster,” sharing memes and jokes. But while we mocked, it multiplied. The media grew frantic, the warnings more urgent – and yet, we remained indifferent. Reports emerged that this invisible force was taking lives, and still we took no action. Perhaps we understood its danger but chose denial over fear.
But ignorance has a limit – denial eventually meets its reckoning.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: ‘I can think whatever I like to think,…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 65%: Host 1 (Grady): G’day G’day everyone, I’m your host, Grady, and welcome to ‘Inbetween The Lines’, the podcast…
Host 1 (Grady):
G’day G’day everyone, I’m your host, Grady, and welcome to ‘Inbetween The Lines’, the podcast where we delve deeper into the common misconceptions of life! I am today joined by my emotional support animal, and more commonly known as my wife, Keiva!
Host 2 (Keiva):
Hey guys!!
Host 1:
Soooo, Keiva. What is play?
Host 2:
Woahhh, that's a bit vague don’t you think? What is play… pfffttt. That’s like asking what the meaning of life is. Where do we go after we die? Who painted the Mona Lisa. What’d you mean by this??
Host 1:
Is it too complex for your teeny weeny wittle brain of yours?
Host 2:
Oh, um, ah.
Host 1:
I’m jokinggg sweety. That’s what makes it complex. Play’s a vague topic. I can play sports. I can play by the rules. I can play you. Not in a weird way for all our underage listeners! The reason I’m bringing this up is why play is purely limited as a childish concept.
Host 2:
I meannn, look how you handled that. Sounded a bit childish for my liking but keep on going.
Host 1:
I feel like as we grow older we get less and less allowed to sort of be ourselves. Like I should be allowed to think what I want to think and play what I want to play.
Host 2:
That’s actually so true. When I graduated from high school I felt like I had to abide by societal norms. I’m forced to pay bills and run errands but in reality, I just want to play barbies all day. And I feel like this… thought is more fueled by society and nothing else.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Connections
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 80%: To be connected, what does it really mean? I mean sometimes I feel a spark, whether it’s the nerves furiously…
To be connected, what does it really mean?
I mean sometimes I feel a spark, whether it’s the nerves furiously cycling in my stomach or an extreme thud created by my heart where it felt like I couldn’t breathe and was going blind at the same time. My brain, my head I can’t tell which is which anymore. The voice in my head is getting fainter and fainter the more, I think. It’s like the synapses and my neurotransmitters are disconnected. I feel separated, between my brain and my mind, between my heart and my soul. Between who I am and who I was.
I can’t remember anything, it feels like a workout trying to squeeze a memory out of my head. Memory, a thing I wish I had more of. I can’t remember the past, but I can see the present. A room, a nice big room with white walls, a green like blanket on my lap, slightly covering the red chair I am sitting in. The red chair reminds me of a certain smell. The most distinct smell of all…
I can’t remember. I see a picture, a painting on the great white wall. It had a man, with a top hat and a handlebar moustache. He had dark brown eyes and a nicely polished leather jacket. Beside the man there was a young boy, he too had dark brown eyes. He was wearing a nicely ironed shirt with braces; a red beret and he had a big nose. Behind them was a river, surrounded by a city of some sort. It was like they were connected with the water, like the water was a part of their home. This too reminds me of a certain smell, another smell just as distinct as the other one…
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: creative essay on prompt of protests,…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 92.5%: Dear America, You have always spoken of freedom, yet I have learned that freedom often hides behind silence.…
Dear America,
You have always spoken of freedom, yet I have learned that freedom often hides behind silence.
It is the silence that follows every promise unkept, every march ignored, every plea for justice met with delay.
This silence is heavy. It fills our streets and courtrooms, presses upon our lungs, and muffles the cries of the weary.
I know its weight.
I felt it in Montgomery, when a seamstress with tired feet sat down and refused to stand. Her name was Rosa. They called her disobedient; I called her brave. When she sat, an entire nation stirred. In that stillness, we discovered a new kind of movement one born not from anger, but from dignity.
For years, I have watched as this silence built itself into laws and customs, into polite conversations and whitewashed textbooks. It has dressed itself in respectability and patience, as though justice were something to be scheduled.
They tell me, “Wait, Martin. Not yet.”
But time is not a healer. Time is a mirror. It shows us what we refuse to see — that waiting changes nothing when those who hold power have no reason to move.
When I wrote from the Birmingham jail, the walls hummed with that same quiet. Outside, men of reason and faith good men, they said urged me to be patient. They feared noise more than injustice.
And so I wrote, not to them, but to history itself:
“Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”
They did not know what it meant to live as a problem. To wake each day knowing your existence is debated like a theory, your skin treated as evidence of guilt. Yet even in that darkness, I held a truth stronger than any chain: that love is not silent, and silence is not peace.
Protest, I have learned, is love refusing to be quiet.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Personal Journeys First steps
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 90%: It's been sitting there for a while. In my drawer, an empty journal gifted to me by my grandma. She must have…
It's been sitting there for a while. In my drawer, an empty journal gifted to me by my grandma. She must have thought I was going to start using it as a diary, keeping track of my life so I could look back on it one day. But it is quite useless to me, perhaps because unlike her, I don't have anything worthwhile to write about. My memories still vivid, and none are significant enough to write about, in fear of forgetting. My grandma knows this, so why a journal? I don't do a lot. At the moment, I can only go forward, and there may be something of interest, something I must write. I would like to fill the pages out of pure respect for my grandma, and give her gift meaning, but so far it has gathered more dust than ink. I took the journal and a black pen, blowing the dust off. I open the cover, inhaling slowly and coughing from the dust I just blew in the air, before promptly closing the cover and putting everything right back to where they were. It is too difficult to simply... start. Especially when the end cannot be seen. I just don't know what to write.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: Demand Progress. Stimulus:…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 65%: Demand Progress Dear Andrew Dillon, Thank you for taking the time out of your day to read this letter. I am…
Demand Progress
Dear Andrew Dillon,
Thank you for taking the time out of your day to read this letter.
I am speaking out about an ongoing issue present in the sport of AFL.
As the CEO, I am asking you to listen to what I have to say and implement boundaries to protect the mental health of players in your league.
Being a past player in the AFL, I have experienced the effects of social media on my football ability and my external life. During my time playing, I was scared to speak out. Men and being mentally strong are supposed to go hand in hand with each other. Showing weakness is heavily stigmatized around the league and the last thing I needed was feeling more shame. You hold the greatest power and this issue can only improve in the right direction if you make a change.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title was "First Steps" Stimulus was…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 87.5%: First Steps. "Are we there yet" "Are we nearly there" "My legs hurt can I go back down" Was what I used to…
First Steps.
"Are we there yet"
"Are we nearly there"
"My legs hurt can I go back down"
Was what I used to say to my brother. If you couldn't tell, I never used to be the biggest fan of going hiking. I hated the faint buzz of flies swarming my body. I hated the stickiness of sweaty skin trying to fight off the unbearable heat from the blaring sun. I hated the burning sensation in my legs from the steep rocky incline. I hated it.
"No! You're not allowed to give up, you don't even know what could be waiting for you at the end."
It felt endless.
What could possibly be grand enough to equate this kind of torture?
One foot in front of the other. I just had to keep going. Mum used to say hiking built character. I thought it just built blisters.
My skin began to turn a different shade, a crimson hue slowly spreading. Itches from the scratchy, dry blades beneath me and the pesky blood sucking insects that were driving me insane. I'd gone too far. Not even my favourite beats blasting from my headphones could cure me.
Looking ahead my brother had become a tiny figure in the distance. A speck. If you were to even blink you would lose him. He was so far ahead he could almost reach the setting sun.
One. Two.
One. Two.
Nearly there.
My body moved on autopilot. Somewhere in my brain it was like cruise control was switched on.
I was so close.
closing my eyes, I let my legs take me up that final stage.
The last incline.
The last left turn.
The final step.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: One goal many ways Stimulus:…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 95%: ✨ Captain Planet – “One Goal, Many Ways” (Exam Version) Put your hand up if you like to play outside in the…
✨ Captain Planet – “One Goal, Many Ways” (Exam Version)
Put your hand up if you like to play outside in the sun!
Or go to the beach and splash in the waves?
How about animals — hands up if you love them too?
Well, guess what? So do I!
Hi, I’m Captain Planet, and I’ve just flown in from Earth’s secret headquarters. I’m here because our planet needs heroes — and I’ve heard this school is full of them! You don’t need super speed or laser eyes, just a big heart and a little care for the world around you.
People have made too much smoke, cut down too many trees, and dumped rubbish where it doesn’t belong. The Earth’s getting hotter — it’s like when we get sick. That’s called climate change. So here’s your first mission: help the Earth feel better.
When someone you care about is sick, do you ignore them?
Of course not — you help!
So if Earth gives us food and water, should we ignore its pain, or speak up to help?
Exactly — we speak up!
That’s what protest is — when people come together to say, “This needs to change.” Maybe you’ve told your brother it’s not fair when he takes your toys — that’s you using your voice. And the best thing about protest? Everyone can do it in their own way.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The city or the bush. Stimulus 1: 'The…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 72.5%: The long, spikey grass tickled my pasty, exposed legs as I trekked through a familiar path. The sound of my…
The long, spikey grass tickled my pasty, exposed legs as I trekked through a familiar path. The sound of my own laughter echoes in the vast land around me. Bare feet delicately grazing the long untouched, overgrown path; heart full, content.
The wet soil of my grandparents' farm left my feet stained brown, but I didn’t care. Heavy footsteps follow behind me as an alluring and soft, almost ethereal laughter follows me. My Nanna runs after me, exhausted but persevering. A long weed tangled in the grass fastened around my foot like a vine, throwing me to the ground. Swallowed by the weeds I giggle, my Nanna towering over me pulling me out of the maze of leaves and grass.
Airbourne. Up into the air I go, flying higher than the willow’s reach.. She catches me, she always catches me. I squeal with excitement as the leaves of the willow tree sway in the soft wind.
Such a small moment, so memorable and simultaneously so insignificant. The city was never like this, only my home was like this. Forever in the country, not always physically but mentally. My heart belongs in the simple memories like that.
This is my country, my home. It was never my city, it was the people’s city. The echo of trains screeching against tracks, the “tick tick tick” of pedestrian crossings and the occasional squeak of poorly maintained brakes on a car; was never mine to keep. Here only stood the willow tree, tall and majestic, illuminated in the otherwise onyx night. Everything else was silent. An usual silence. Emptiness.
“The city never sleeps”, my Nanna used to say, “always busy, always lively.”
We sat on the porch hand in hand. Her soft wrinkly hand in mine. Hearts beating in sync with the sway of the leaves of our old willow tree. The long maze of weeds stands before us, swaying in the soft breeze. Earthy scents mould the world around me, the sound of a distant magpie cawing attracts my attention.
The feeling of her hand in mine. The way we made one with the farm. Moments I will treasure with a fear of losing them. Although they are over now, I will replay them in my mind like a radio never turned off.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: the city or the bush Stimulus:…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 77.5%: To mama and papa. Do you remember those times when we’d all go out into the fields? Collecting endless…
To mama and papa.
Do you remember those times when we’d all go out into the fields? Collecting endless tomatoes to make salads, sauce and soup. Those times, I’d sneak out at five, bright and early in the morning to go for a bike ride with little John? The times we’d spend laughing in the kitchen during dinner, while I quizzed John on his math (we all know he wasn't very good at it)?. I miss those times. I miss the country. I miss my family. I miss Cativo, my real home.
I vividly remember the day before I left I woke up as usual and carried on with my usual duties. Milked the cows, fed the animals, collected the eggs and composted any scraps. Then it was over to the garden. Acres and acres of green plants lined up perfectly linear with a variety of vegetables, most of which I picked, especially the tomatoes for the best homemade sauce in the town. Your sauce. It was as hot as being in the sun that day. I felt like I was constantly being burnt with sweat dripping from any gland it possibly could. It may sound like torture but you both know I love the summer weather especially when I had time for a swim. Whether it be too sunny, snowy or rainy. No matter what the weather was I would never stop the work I was required to do.
I then went on a ride with John. How is John? I hope it's still riding up that steep hill- he could never beat me. That hill had such a gorgeous view and it was the last place we rode. That day the sky was the purest of blues with not a single cloud inside. If it wasn't for the shimmer in the ocean water the colors would be pretty identical and blend into each other. I sat on my bike at the top of the hill staring into the horizon. All the worry of entering that Horizon and going through it vanished as my thoughts quietened. I sat reflecting for… I'm not even sure how long but I eventually headed home.
I'm sure you're both aware of the peaceful swim which occurred afterwards. I’d constantly catch you both glimpsing at me with nothing but sadness. At that moment I felt guilty for leaving you both. I hope that now you understand my true reason. I love Italy, it's provided so much for me and has been the place I called home for nineteen years but I could never go to war…my thoughts subsided the second I stared into the Horizon and it was then that I hoped Australia could also provide the simplicity and quietness which the country lifestyle of Italy had.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The city or the bush. Stimulus 1: 'The…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 87.5%: The long, spikey grass tickled my pasty, exposed legs as I trekked through a familiar path. The sound of my…
The long, spikey grass tickled my pasty, exposed legs as I trekked through a familiar path. The sound of my own laughter echoes in the vast land around me. Bare feet delicately grazing the long untouched, overgrown path; heart full, content.
The wet soil of my grandparents' farm left my feet stained brown, but I didn’t care. Heavy footsteps follow behind me as an alluring and soft, almost ethereal laughter follows me. My Nanna runs after me, exhausted but persevering. A long weed tangled in the grass fastened around my foot like a vine, throwing me to the ground. Swallowed by the weeds I giggle, my Nanna towering over me pulling me out of the maze of leaves and grass.
Airbourne. Up into the air I go, flying higher than all the skies. She catches me, she always catches me. I squeal with excitement as the leaves of the willow tree sway in the soft wind.
Such a small moment, so memorable and simultaneously so insignificant. The city was never like this, only my home was like this. Forever in the country, not always physically but mentally. My heart belongs in the simple memories like that.
This is my country, my home. It was never my city, it was the people’s city. The echo of trains screeching against tracks, the “tick tick tick” of pedestrian crossings and the occasional squeak of poorly maintained brakes on a car; was never mine to keep. Here only stood the willow tree, tall and majestic, illuminated in the otherwise onyx night. Everything else was silent. An usual silence. Emptiness.
“The city never sleeps”, my Nanna used to say, “always busy, always lively.”
We sat on the porch hand in hand. Her soft wrinkly hand in mine. Hearts beating in sync with the sway of the leaves of our old willow tree. The long maze of weeds stands before us, swaying in the soft breeze. Earthy scents mould the world around me, the sound of a distant magpie cawing attracts my attention.
The feeling of her hand in mine. The way we made one with the farm. Moments I will treasure with a fear of losing them. Although they are over now, I will replay them in my mind like a radio never turned off.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: No justice, No peace
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 67.5%: No Justice, No peace June 28th 2023 The sound of justice rises before the sun. At first, it’s only a whisper,…
No Justice, No peace
June 28th 2023
The sound of justice rises before the sun. At first, it’s only a whisper, the scrape of a pot lid, a voice calling out in the half-light. In this city, where militants decide who eats and who breathes, there is no peace, there is no justice. Once, our market hummed with merchants and music, bright fabrics rippling above stalls of fruit and spice. Now, the streets lie hollow, the stalls split open like empty shells. Checkpoints choke every road, soldiers sift through what’s left of people’s pockets. Even the hospital has become a fortress. People die waiting for permission to be saved.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: An image of hands holding soil with a…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 100%: Take me Home **February 4th, 1984** The humid air at home was always thick but never heavy. It felt alive and…
Take me Home
**February 4th, 1984**
The humid air at home was always thick but never heavy. It felt alive and warm, clinging to me like a second layer of skin. The smoke of Grandma’s cooking fires travelled through our yard, carrying the sweetness of freshly roasted sweet potatoes. I’d always imagine the smell reaching everyone in Dili, bringing them together, as if the whole world was holding us close.
In the evening, Father showed me how to climb a mango tree. First he used his hands to grab a branch, then he pulled himself up using his legs to support himself. Once he was relatively high, he started to pick the fruit one by one before tossing them down to me. The juices ran down my wrists while Mother scolded us for making a mess. Even then, she had a smile on her face.
At night before falling asleep, Mother would sit on my bed telling stories, but this time was different. Clothes were shoved into my backpack, and I was wearing my red boots. Grandma folded slips of sweet potatoes into my palm that were wrapped carefully in tissues. I didn’t understand what they were for, but the look in her eyes made me hold them tighter.
The air was alive with the sound of birds, the smell of rain, and the comfort of everything I knew. Today we were leaving. Father said it was for the better, that there were greater opportunities for me out there, but he didn’t say anything else. He just stood by the gate with his mother, watching the road as we left.
That night I looked at him, and for the very first time I saw my father as a little boy.
---
**February 5th, 1984**
We’ve arrived. The sky was not the colour I was used to, neither was the smell of the fresh air. The atmosphere felt sharp and thin, like it was stabbing at me. I stepped off the plane, tightly squeezing my mother’s hand in the very same boots that carried the dirt of my home. They squeaked on the airport tiles with each step I took, like they knew they weren’t made for this country.
My backpack hung heavily on my back. It wasn’t just filled with clothes messily shoved away, but with things I refused to leave behind. But some things couldn’t be carried. Grandma’s sweet potatoes and Father’s laughter all stayed behind. Their absence weighed on me, heavier than anything in my bag.
Still holding my mother’s hand, we stepped outside of the airport. The sun was bright, but its warmth felt hollow. Above us, birds were staring. One was perched on a wire looking down at me. I wondered if it knew that it took 13 hours and 28 minutes for us to get here. I stared at it until it decided to fly away, except it didn’t. Maybe it was trying to tell me something, but I couldn’t understand.
Not yet, anyway.
---
**May 1st, 1984**
I started school today. It’s a lot different here than I expected. Teachers try to pronounce my name but it always gets stuck in their throat. I’d hear different pronunciations, but none of them were me. Every wrong syllable chipped at my name until it no longer felt like mine.