VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Resist and Persist - protest essay
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: The air in the courtroom was thick, suffocating, as the judge delivered the sentence. Six months. Suspended.…
The air in the courtroom was thick, suffocating, as the judge delivered the sentence. Six months. Suspended. The man who had left my brother broken and bruised in a hospital bed would walk free today. My father, a police officer who had spent his career believing in the system, sat rigid beside me, his jaw clenched so tight I thought it might crack.
I thought about that night—the alleyway, the sickening thud of my brother’s body hitting the pavement, the blood pooling beneath him as I screamed for help. The attacker hadn’t even run. He stood there, drunk and smug, knowing the system would protect him. And he was right.
This wasn’t just about my brother. It was about a system that favored the powerful while crushing the vulnerable. The leniency, the easy sentencing—it wasn’t an accident. It was a pattern. And that pattern had crushed my family.
Outside, the world moved on, unaware that justice had slipped through our fingers. My brother, still unable to walk on his own, was at home, wondering how his attacker faced no real consequences. I felt the sting of the injustice burning inside me, my frustration turning into something bigger.
That night, when the courthouse had emptied and the world had forgotten, I couldn’t. I grabbed a can of spray paint, my fingers tightening around the cold metal, and walked straight to the Magistrates’ Court of Victoria. My pulse pounded in my ears as I stood before the building, a symbol of a broken system. My hands trembled, but my resolve was steady. In bold red letters, I scrawled across the walls: "Justice for the Forgotten."
It was reckless. Illegal. But it was the only way I could make them see.
The act made headlines. The message resonated. People who had been silent for too long started speaking
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: Resist and Persist Prompt: 'if…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 80%: Vangel clasps the microphone as the dim spotlight shines on him. He feels restless but is determined to speak…
Vangel clasps the microphone as the dim spotlight shines on him. He feels restless but is determined to speak his truth.
Vangel: I stand before you, but do you even see me? I'm a son of a land that is no longer mine to claim. A voice that screams through generations.
I have been silenced my whole life not being able to express who I really am. An Aegean Macedonian! Shunned for even speaking my native tongue in the village I was born in. All of this happened because of the war. At the tender age of five years old I was forced to leave the village I loved with the faint memory of sleeping to the sounds of the river flowing peacefully replaced with the worrying words of my mother ushering me to gather what little belongings I had to leave.
And those who decided to stay?
They were threatened with imprisonment or even death. Just because they had the courage to resist the Greek soldiers commands to change their names nationality culture the whole identity itself!
Making me wonder how could they just do that to us?
We were human just like them, just flesh and bones.
The sadness Vangel’s
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: Overwhelmed and Spellbound.…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: If you were to condense the Earth's entire lifespan into 24 hours, human existence would only have been present…
If you were to condense the Earth's entire lifespan into 24 hours, human existence would only have been present for 3 seconds
1 ... 2 ... 3
I - Beginnings.
Billions of years, floating in space; content, satisfied. Life giver. The blood that runs through the veins of anything that has lived, or will ever live. 'Mother', we call her.
She supercedes any form of life and yet provides for millions. Her beautiful beaches, wonderful waterfalls, magnificent mountains, ethereal ecosystems. The Home of all, a sanctuary of sanctity. She presents the delicate balance of experience, the only permanent in an ephemeral world.
The footsteps of the past blow away in the wind as the steps of the future arrive.
But there has been a change.
Homosapiens they call themselves - wise men. Perhaps a tad presumptuous but nevertheless she will provide. There is no denying their intelligence, superior to any species that predates them. But what is most curious is their lack of instinct, they seem to be neither predator nor prey. They possess no natural impulses, whether this is for better or worse cannot be said.
They live off the land, respecting it within their 'traditions', worshipping her during their rituals. They ensure to preserve her, care for her, but there is something unsettling about these "humans".
Ambition which seems to know no bound, intelligence limited only by their imagination, they have the potential to be the greatest or worst species in the history of this world.
II - Revolution
These creatures are brilliant, innovation personified, their technology immitates what could have been considered sorcery mere generations ago. They have created civilisations out of nothing, breaking the boundaries of possibilities year after year.
However, they lack control.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: title: transformation stimulus: with…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 87.5%: The earth beneath my feet is not just soil; it is layered with memory. Every step I take presses into a land…
The earth beneath my feet is not just soil; it is layered with memory. Every step I take presses into a land whose story stretches far beyond me, carrying the weight of lives, cultures and histories that endured for tens of thousands of years before colonisation. I know this land does not know me in the way it knew its First Peoples, yet it still bears witness to what was taken and what survived.
Walking through the bush, I feel time folding in on itself, the past and present entwined. Echoes of ceremony and community rise and fall with the wind through the gum trees. But those echoes are fractured. Colonisation cut through this land with fences and roads, glass towers stabbing into the earth, and rivers drained of their song. The transformation of the landscape was more than physical — it was an assault on culture, an attempt to silence voices and break connections between people and Country.
The wound of dispossession is more than the loss of place; it is the severing of memory and continuity. To
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: Silence “To free the voice is…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 80%: In these shoes, we took our first steps, In these shoes, we inspire, we teach, and we advocate for the future…
In these shoes, we took our first steps,
In these shoes, we inspire, we teach, and we advocate for the future of Australia.
In these shoes we march,
And now, here I stand, fighting for our voice to be heard.
We started that morning on the steps of Parliament House, with its elongated pilasters standing still and proud. A well-known building, known to hold power and authority, one that could be used to voice concerns about the treatment of our mentors too often fails to address the flaws within our education system.
The city had followed its trademark for miserable weather, which was somewhat appropriate for the occasion. The overcast of dark stormy clouds hung low in the skies above, strong winds enclosing us together as we stood there with pride and marked our territory, ready to pursue change.
I felt free, letting my anger go, letting all this pain out that I’ve kept so deep within.
Signs and banners rippled through the tense atmosphere, arms raised proudly with writing that read “overworked, underpaid, over it!” the red pigmented writing highlighting the blood shed that teachers face. “Save our schools” “I made this sign with the resources THAT I PAID FOR!” I speak for thousands of teachers who cannot be safe until protests like these are no longer needed.
We came to echo the truth; I came to echo the truth.
Chants reverberated through the swarm of people. “The future is doomed!” we shouted in unison. (Our voices raised as one)
Til the last chant, the last scream and my last breath, I stand. I stand here and protest for the future.
As the chants fade and crowds disappear, I find myself standing, thinking of my teacher who stayed back those countless hours, when no one else did, hours that I cannot forget. Hours filled with laughter and guidance in who I could become. Her smile on constant replay in my mind as I also educate others.
The value that she brought to young minds was far more than just education,
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Creative response about play
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: The Sandpit The lights and alarm are swift to turn on, everyday at 7:30am, no earlier no later; perfectly…
The Sandpit
The lights and alarm are swift to turn on, everyday at 7:30am, no earlier no later; perfectly timed. The voices of hunger rise, like starved animals. The cells unlock slowly as the chains pull them back, opening the doors. It's the same thing everyday for what feels like years on end. I listen to the animals scatter out their cells, yearning for food. I remain in mine adding another line to my tally; 86 days. My life feels like a scene that someone's watching; constantly replying. Again, again and again. There's no difference between today and tomorrow, and rushing doesn't make time go by faster I've learnt.
I grab my tray and wait in line. Too far away to see what's in store for today's breakfast, not that I expect anything different than yesterday's. “Badge number?.” I’m asked, from a voice with no life in it, grey you could say, similar to the walls that surround me. “2191”, the guard's gaze rises at me then lowers, checking me off on her checklist, she turns, prompting the kitchen worker. I watch as the spoon enters the large pot, scoops and returns to my tray. The porridge splats “next” I hear abruptly.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: PROTEST. Title: Silence is voilence.…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 82.5%: "The winner of the 107th Academy Awards for best actor in leading role is..." I could feel my heart thumping…
"The winner of the 107th Academy Awards for best actor in leading role is..."
I could feel my heart thumping with the beat of tension. My palms dripping of sweat as I took in what I had just heard. I was still. I sat in disbelief as I slowly arose from my seat, sensing the harsh burn of the camera lens piercing my skin. It was a blur. Hands stuck out at me as I made my way through the cloudy and unclear fog, finding myself staring at the mountain of stairs. The millions of butterflies rammed themselves around my stomach as I urged my knees to fight against the shock. I pulled back my blazer pocket as I stood at the symbolic podium. The words etched in the same print as always by my management team. I took a needed breath, and faced the confronting hallowed hall.
"Thank you, thank you. Firstly, I would like to take this chance to thank Cristopher Nolan for trusting me with this role, and having faith in me to be here today. I would also like to thank my co-stars who were next to me this whole journey, it has been an honour to share the screen with you all. I would also... um...".
The words escaped my mouth. My eyes fought against the heat of the moment as they searched amongst the scribbled and small Calibri font for where I was up to. But they failed. The murmurs and small talk began to find its way into my eardrums as I came to senses with what I was doing.
This wasn't me.
My eyes lifted from the unpronounceable and unrecognisable writing. I looked out at the intimidating theatre of dreams, and I fixated upon a small, minute feature of the architecture. A hidden tv tucked behind a large pillar was visible. The pixels were barely visible as they displayed a person who has fought. A person who has had to fight against being silenced, a person who has had to fight for their rights, and a person who has had to fight to be where they were standing. This person was me.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: Enough Stimulus one: Our voices…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: facebook Caroline Smith posted to > Melbourne and surrounds > 30,704 members…
facebook
Caroline Smith posted to > Melbourne and surrounds > 30,704 members
_______________________________________________________________________
Enough
I don't know about all of you but lately when I've been reading the news, or scrolling Facebook I should say, I have seen more and more Australians being criminalised for exercising their right of free speech by protesting, peacefully. These faces popping up on my feed are fellow Melburnians' children, cousins, friends, whose photos are choreographed to fill their love ones with shame, yet, I only see strength and ambition glowing on their faces (stars emoji). They should not be penalised for speaking up, especially when they are governed by the Australian constitution. Does the government seriously not know their own laws? Enough is enough (shaking head emoji).
Our country that we know today would not exist without protesting. Australia is built on change. Social change that has come from people marching, voting, holding picket signs, signing petitions... the list goes on. We have protests to thank for women being able to vote, our First Nations people being recognised as PEOPLE and not flora and fauns, the LGBTQIA+ community (pride flag emoji) being legally allowed to marry. If protesting is an act that can wind Australians up in jail, how would we have the freedom that we do today? Protests have occurred in the CBD and suburbs for generations now. Let a second, third, fourth, fifth generation full of courage to issue and continue to mould Australia into a country that looks after all, just like their ancestors have done for us (Australian flag emoji).
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Creative writing on the theme: ‘play’
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 70%: ‘The Game’ Glen Iris Bounce - 9:30am. Lily soared through the air, her laughter a symphony woven within the…
‘The Game’
Glen Iris Bounce - 9:30am. Lily soared through the air, her laughter a symphony woven within the shrieks of others. The blue and green mats, filled with springy trampolines propelled children in all directions. The incessant laughter and screams of children echo across. The scent of fresh hot fries lingered in the air. Amidst, a sharp voice cuts through the noise.
“No flippin! No horseplay! Keep your socks on at all times!”. The uniform supervisor shouted
The supervisors command transformed the once thrilling trampoline park to a caged arena, suffocating the curiosity and enthusiasm of childhood. Every move was predetermined, monitored, and controlled.
Beyond the walls, down a few blocks, another child played.
Harry sits curled in the corner, his legs crossed, eyes blatantly staring at the screen of his iPad. A digital device - a portal to a world untouched by adult interference. As his fingers danced over the keyboard, Harry navigates through the intricacies of digital characters. One day he is a knight protecting the kingdom; the next, an astronaut exploring the vast unknown. In his world, he made the rules. He had control.
All of a sudden, play was no longer about outdoor endeavours. The shift had already happened. The essence of childhood - a universal experience passes by in a flash, and in a world we're strangers to - life is too short to always play by the rules.
Instead of devising stories in reality, children have retreated to video games to escape reality and experience adventure. The laughter that once lit up the streets, has turned to nothing but a cold distant sound. Why? Because unlike supervised play, digital technology offers children something real life no longer does: freedom.
This juxtaposition highlights the predominant issue: unstructured outdoor play is being replaced in favour of the rise of digital technology due to parents overprotectiveness. Parents, driven by the desire to protect, have unknowingly shifted towards supervised, controlled forms of play. Extracting the essence of ‘the game’ has led to children’s right to experience the fun and engaging play we all once experienced to be limited in a world where life is too short. Unstructured play - a language we all once spoke fluently, is slowly being silenced. And now lies the only place where kids can be kids? Their screens
Instructed play is being diminished by the reflection of gloomy screens.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: personal journey everything and nothing
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 100%: Everything and nothing The first time it happens, it takes a while to realise that it has in fact happened.…
Everything and nothing
The first time it happens, it takes a while to realise that it has in fact happened. Your mood shifts – your outlook becoming more optimistic – and you find your thoughts unexpectedly pivoting and lingering. They’re innocent but distinct. The feeling is completely foreign. It dawns on you that every pathetic cliché is totally true. You’ve been hit for six. Cupid’s arrow has shot you down. Your breath has been taken away. Thankfully not literally. You’re so pathetically helpless and there’s only one word that does the experience justice. Fuck. And as much as the logical part of your brain wishes it wasn’t happening because it’s so fucking inconvenient – it changes everything and nothing – at the exact same time, it gives you a meaning and purpose that you didn’t know you could have. The bodily symptoms – the palpitations, the lurching of your stomach, the panic – give away the severity of the affliction, but your excitement at the possibility leaves a feeling that makes it all okay. You sit with it, trying to work out what to do with this perplexing knowledge. You also have to check that it isn’t fleeting or temporary; a slightly-too-serious crush. But it isn’t. At least not in the short term. Completely by accident, your heart is no longer your own.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Topic: “I’m not sure anyone gets to…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 82.5%: Johnsons portrays identity as not formed in isolation but is the cumulative outcome of the influence of…
Johnsons portrays identity as not formed in isolation but is the cumulative outcome of the influence of community whether First Nations peoples are connected by cultural ties or shared trauma. The opening scene of the film where Baywarra teaches young Gutjuk about his totem establishes a serene and peaceful atmosphere of the undisturbed Arnhem Land as Johnson switches between long shots and close-up shots. As they stand, Baywarra asserts that his totem is “ a snake, Baywarra” which is then coupled with rhythmic grunting and stomping on the sacred ground. Here, Johnson portrays how the totem assigned to Indigenous Australians sets out their path and purpose in life. This is reinforced in the longshot that captures Baywarra standing in the middle being embraced by the gorge to highlight how his identity is centred within the Country they inhabit. Baywarra passes on knowledge to Gutjuk by telling him that his totem is a “crocodile”, through the transferring of information Johnson portrays how a First Nations child learns through knowledge systems that are passed through generations. This is directly juxtaposed when 12 years have passed and Gutjuk has been separated from his family after the massacre that killed a large
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Alternative Worlds
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 87.5%: On his fifth birthday, we gave our son a train. He thought it was the best present anyone his age could…
On his fifth birthday, we gave our son a train. He thought it was the best present anyone his age could receive.
His twin sister got a doll. She loved to brush the knots out of its golden hair with the tiny, plastic hairbrush it came with.
In March, we had to decide where they would go for school. I wanted them to go to the local public school, which was only a ten minute walk away. My wife insisted that Montclair Academy would set them up for their futures. They were only five.
Montclair was a thirty minute drive from our house, down the main road. I was assigned drop off and pickup, as my office was in the same suburb.
I would wake up at 6:30, to prepare their lunchboxes. The kids liked sandwiches without the crust. I added ham, cheese, and tomato for my son. It went in a blue plastic container. My daughter didn’t like tomato. She has a magenta container.
On the fridge was a list from my wife, with the morning chores. Her car started hours before I stirred.
The kids never woke up on time. They ate their cereal in the car. I only hoped they didn’t spill milk on their uniforms.
There was no doubt that Montclair was a privileged school. After all, I paid their fees. Gardens of exotic flowers bloomed either side of the winding brick pathway to the front gate. Geometrically cut hedges lined the iron fence surrounding the property. More abundantly, teachers were stationed at each fence post, politely signalling the frenzy of children toward the entrance. To one side, a silver inscribed plaque, with a quote: “Play is the child’s work - Maria Montessori”. The kids got out of the car, toys trailing behind, and made for the gate. Their tiny hands waved back at me.
In the afternoon, I battled the hoards of cars lining the streets. My wife got furious if they were not picked up on time. I drove to the two minute pickup spot, and strapped them into their carseats. Their teacher waved at us from the pavement as we drove off. The kids beamed back at her.
“How was your day?”
“Good.”
“Have fun today?”
“So much.”
My son recounted the schoolwide game of tag. My daughter won a game of jump rope.
One day, I received an email from the school.
Dear Valued Montclair Parent,
Your children have been selected for academic enrichment. Their schedule will be delivered to your residence shortly.
Regards, M. Montclair.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Life Has lots of tests
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: “New Home” I mumble, as I inhale a sharp tang of eucalyptus and a distant whisper of salt. It was so different…
“New Home” I mumble, as I inhale a sharp tang of eucalyptus and a distant whisper of salt. It was so different from the smoky, dry mountain breeze of home, always carrying the scent of pollution and dust. My eyes, brown as almonds, darted around, trying to take in this new land—this new test. Everything here was brighter, not greyish like Pakistan. The sun glared down, too strong and direct after the softer, muted light of Pakistan. They called it an island, a place where spiders grew as big as your hand and snakes coiled in toilets like ropes. These stories felt both frightening and fascinating, as my curiosity grew to take this as my new home or not. But I already knew this was only the first of many tests’ life had waiting for me.
The first test was leaving behind the place that had always been my world. My grandparents’ faces, compassionate and welcoming, were the first memories I clung to, the last goodbyes before stepping onto the plane. My family in Pakistan was like a vine, everyone connected by stories and laughter, always ready to help and share. Their memory, pecking in my mind, not letting me forget. The rivers and mountains that had always watched over us became distant images in my mind, like paintings in a museum. I stand there as I contemplate the possibilities of this test.
“Kaisa Laga?” (“How is it?” in Urdu) my father asked me, his voice soft and steady, but I could hear the worry behind it. My dad had already faced tests of his own, he got stopped at the airport four times for “random” checks. The randomness a silent, heavy accusation. It was perhaps because of his flowing beard and his traditional Islamic clothes, a stark contrast to the clean shaved faces and the “tourist combo”, (shorts, a flower print shirt, and flip-flops). It was the way people turned their gazes towards us, their eyes lingering, like cold, sharp needles pricking at my tanned skin, then whispering to their children to “be careful”. Triggering a feeling of anxiety, I realised that this was another test: not just of patience, but at test of developing a sense of belonging in a so called “home”. My father tried to reassure me, his hand resting gently on my shoulder, for me this was an anchor on a catastrophic night, a radiant lighthouse during a cyclone. “It’s because we are special people,” he said, a proud smile that didn’t quite reach his tired eyes. I wanted to believe him, to feel special instead of different. But deep down, I could already feel the weight of those tests pressing in.
The first day of school was among the greatest tests life had to offer me, as I stood there in the hallway, like a zebra in a field of horses, painfully differently from the rest. My shalwar kameez, usually a source of comfort, now felt like a sign pointing out everything that made me different. The word “immigrant” wasn’t said aloud, but it was in the way the blue eyed “Aussies” looked at me, the way they laughed. Their voices were like music I couldn’t understand, every word another test I had to learn to pass. I didn’t know how to answer them, how to prove I belonged.
If only I’d worn some “Civilised” clothes, or basically clothes the others wear (a pair of shorts and a t shirt). But even then, my olive skin would radiate like the moon in a dark night. Their accents, their jokes—they flew past me, leaving me stranded in the silence. All except for one boy. According to the others, he looked like an outsider too, but to me, he was a campfire on a freezing night, a small circle of warmth. At lunchtime, we shared our “stinky curry”, a small rebellion against the tests of fitting in. Helping each other learn English.
At home, the tests didn’t stop. My father watched me carefully, his concern of me losing who I am grew whenever I forgot an Urdu word. “Be yourself” he would remind. His words felt like a question I didn’t know how to answer, who am I? My grandfather would call from overseas; his voice filled with reminders to hold on to our heritage. His stories of my home were like anchor, to keep me from swaying away from my culture. But that couldn’t be of avail to the extreme hurricane of doubting my identity.
Every day, my clothes changed bit by bit. The flowing fabric of my shalwar kameez turned into shorts and t-shirts. At school, I carried two lunchboxes: one filled with the spicy,
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Protest framework
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 82.5%: “Violent demonstrations and other actions that cause fear and intimidation in the community” must be “deal[t]…
“Violent demonstrations and other actions that cause fear and intimidation in the community” must be “deal[t] [with] quickly…to preserve public order.” - This was stated by Liberal Party member Michael O’Brien following a clash between Pro-Palestinian and Pro-Israeli protesters.
It’s easy for a person of privilege to dismiss the seemingly simplistic surface concealing the roots of a detrimental hegemonic narrative.
Michael O’Brien – a straight, white male – is in a position of authority. As a member of parliament, this is quite an obvious observation. Yet, if you look beyond the surface of his identity, you may uncover the centuries of historical precedence at the roots of his power - the power to degrade protests rather than participate in them.
Anything with substance in life consists of numerous layers. It’s easy to detect the outer layers, whilst understanding the inner layers requires taking additional time to thoughtfully unravel its exterior. The process of challenging unjust norms at its outermost layer could be perceived as annoying, unnecessary and unsolicited social discourse. However, delving into the motivations behind protests would reveal a history of prolonged suffering caused by the noxious weeds permitted to dictate the landscape and suffocate any indication of biodiversity.
The privileged are privileged because they are in a position to worry about the disturbances of protests, whilst the disadvantaged must constantly worry about whether their lives are defined by the barriers of an indifferent history. Although the privileged are also at liberty to educate themselves about how to evoke change, they walk over the surface in blind complicity because it’s easier than digging into the complex roots of the need to protest.
We live in a world where there is no moral obligation to condemn systemic inequality or the wrongdoing of authorities, passively endorsing the prevailing narrative of marginalisation. We live in a fragile world plagued by a lack of pensive consideration for the politics in which we are entrenched. We live in a world where “fear and intimidation” are aroused amongst the systemically disadvantaged to deter them from expressing their opposition and hence, “to preserve public order.”
Thus, protest isn’t a choice - it’s a means of survival. When the roots of our identities are drowning in unrelenting adversity, we sink or swim. However, we are at liberty to choose our stroke: a calm and easier breaststroke or an aggressive and exhausting freestyle.
Ironically, ‘easy’ has never been a word to describe the lives of First Nations people. The death of Daniel Yock in 1993 while in custody is just one example of the colonised justice system drowning the roots of Indigenous voices.
In response to this devastating yet historically foretold tragedy, thousands gathered the week following Yock’s death in silent protest. Although empowered by the rage of generations, it was never converted into violence, unlawfulness, civil disobedience or even a use of words that would cause “fear and intimidation in the community”. The sole purpose of this protest was to mourn, in hope that someone in a position of power could empathise and hence, excavate the noxious weeds dispensing
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Framework is country and stimulus is…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 80%: The culture - clothes - unique making and fabric My tears fall unnoticed. Despite my grief, I continue to stand…
The culture - clothes - unique making and fabric My tears fall unnoticed. Despite my grief, I continue to stand silent, graceful, and proud. My peplos is pinned at my shoulder, the thick linen bunching at my waist, held in place with an ornamental pin and zoni, then draping like a waterfall. The fabric is heavy and luxurious, the result of many gentle hands that lovingly cultivated the fibres of the flax plants and then carefully, expertly weaved the linen. I am a quiet symbol of my origins and my homeland.
The British claimed that the Greek Museum was not capable to maintain and preserve the marbles and according to Hannah Boulton, a spokesperson for the British Museum, said that “Elgin did a great service in terms of rescuing these artifacts”.
History I am a “Korai”, a daughter of the goddess Athena. One of six. Together with my sisters I carry the past on my shoulders, the history of my country on my head. Stories have been told of my birth. My sisters and I were born in Karyai but allied with the Persians when they invaded and now we stand frozen in time, passing on the burden of our punishment to future generations.
Culture and history and art I am the symbol of my country’s history, its art, its culture, its battles, the lives of its men and women. The Pentelic Marble was like a time machine, taking those who wished to know back to a time when Mount Pentelicus loomed large over Athens - They are not interested in the chiselled fishtail braid that was the height of fashion for ancient women or the sculpting technique of Alkamenes or Kallimachos which was popular at the time.
Excerpt from the University of Glasgow: Lord Elgin's removal of the Parthenon sculptures was illegal. At the time, Greece was under Ottoman control. Elgin received permission (a firman) from the Ottomans to:
1. Enter the Parthenon.
2. Draw, model, and dig around the ancient temples.
3. Take small artefacts that didn’t interfere with the Parthenon’s structure.
Loss of identity - she is a foreigner and does not belong. I shouldn’t be here. I am a foreigner. I’m surrounded by strangers who do not understand me. They do not speak my language here. They do not know my story. And they do not try to. To them I am just a statue. They make strange faces as they walk past me with their camera flashes and tired yawns. Few would sit with me and read my story, learn about my ancestors from the land of the
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Personal journeys Title: finding my way
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 95%: When I look at the arrows scattered across the pavement in front of me, I see my life reflected in them. Each…
When I look at the arrows scattered across the pavement in front of me, I see my life reflected in them. Each arrow points to a possibility, but none of them guarantee a smooth path. Some are bold and straight; others are faint, broken, or veer off unexpectedly. Standing still, I feel the weight of choice pressing down on me. Which direction leads to belonging? Which road leads me further away? The image reminds me that life is rarely a straight journey; instead, it is full of crossroads that demand decisions, even when I am unsure.
Growing up Asian Australian, the paths before me often seemed narrower than those of others. From the moment I could speak, I carried an accent shaped by my parents’ Hakka words. At school, that difference was marked, underlined, and turned into a target. When classmates imitated the way I spoke or wrinkled their noses at the food in my lunchbox, I felt pushed towards one arrow: silence. Stay quiet, stay invisible, avoid their laughter.
Silence, for a time, became my shield. I stopped answering questions in class even when I knew the answer. I pretended to like sandwiches so I wouldn’t have to explain the noodles and dumplings my mother lovingly packed for me. Yet invisibility came with its own cost. By erasing parts of myself, I began to lose the sense of who I was. The arrows before me blurred into grey, and I wondered whether I had any direction at all.
On the street, exclusion found me again. Strangers asked the same question over and over: “Where are you really from?” I would reply, “Here,” but the question always came again, insistent, as though my face could not belong to the same soil my feet walked on. Each time, I felt myself standing once again at the crossroads of those arrows, unsure which way to turn. Should I fight, explain, or walk away?
The arrows in Stimulus 2 remind me of those moments—standing still, paralysed by the sense that no direction would be safe. For a long time, I thought my choices were only two: to reject my culture to be accepted here, or to cling to it and risk being forever seen as an outsider. Neither path
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Create an essay/text on the threat of…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 82.5%: The Threat of Joy The presence of joy in my life is a threat to my endeavour to change, evolve, become. Joy…
The Threat of Joy
The presence of joy in my life is a threat to my endeavour to change, evolve, become. Joy is a thief. It makes the blandest moments seem important, but the monotonous after effects leave me dry, only clinging for more. It coats itself “in my mind, nailed into my heels”, just to abandon me when I need it most, dismantling the walls I have built. That's why I wear a mask of seriousness, because to feel joy is to risk losing it all. I’m not sure if I can survive that fall again.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: create an essay/text on the theme…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: The Evening After Once again, I sat alone in my room the evening after the party. It felt calming, in contrast…
The Evening After
Once again, I sat alone in my room the evening after the party. It felt calming, in contrast to the voices tumbling over each other, the clattering of plates and that annoying, screaming child that always had to be there. It was too much, too loud, and above all, it felt forced on me. The celebrations were never really about me; they were for the things I did, or the things I achieved, but never for what I had become up to this point.
That's why I never really paid much mind to those parties. I focused on what I valued: my evening after. Those moments sitting in that silent room, my desk bathed in the warm embrace of my lamp, flickering as if afraid, painting the surrounding walls and furniture in a yellow tone. They were the sustenance of my rigid being.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: create your own written text on a flicker
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 80%: Flickering Voice His dreams, goals, everything. It was all crumbling down, at his feet, as if it had never been…
Flickering Voice
His dreams, goals, everything. It was all crumbling down, at his feet, as if it had never been much at all, the bedroom where he spent his youth, now a place reminiscent of his failure: to become, to be great. It felt cold, surreal, like it wasn't really the end. He flopped into the covers of his bedsheets, gazing into each grain of the moonlit ceiling, the seemingly fading light of the moon held his attention, mocking him. He knew that the world would move on without him, pretty easily even, but, there was a flicker in him; a voice that kept nagging on and on, trying desperately to keep him awake, keep him chasing that now meaningless desire.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: create your own written text on…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 80%: The Passenger “Click clack, click clack.” I snap awake to the sound of the train engine roaring, the wheels…
The Passenger
“Click clack, click clack.” I snap awake to the sound of the train engine roaring, the wheels clacking, and the horn occasionally whistling. I sit up and rub my eyes groggily. My head aches and my eyes sting as if I have opened them for the first time. I take in the layout of the cramped roomette. The old fashioned carriage feels warm, but also wrong, and reeks of the musky scent of cigars. The faint orange glow of sunlight through the window flashes into the corners of my eyes, “People…” I mutter, as I gaze at the passing shadows on the fabric sliding doors. I sit frozen, unsure if I even belonged in this place.
The air is murky with a thick haze that urges me to leave, I venture outside with uncertainty, looking around at all the people. They move past me without a glance, laughing, whispering and tapping their glowing screens. I tap the shoulder of an old man, “Hello, sir?” He looks at me with a scowl then walks away, leaving me unanswered. I stand there feeling left behind, out of place, like I’m being left out on a joke everyone else is a part of. Like I’m the unwelcomed guest in the house of a stranger…Like I am the lone passenger of a train that’s at a standstill.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Connections- title writing about country
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 80%: Good afternoon students, teachers and special guests, Let me ask you something, when was the last time you…
Good afternoon students, teachers and special guests,
Let me ask you something, when was the last time you walked in nature, truly walked, with no phone and no headphones? When was the last time you really stood still and felt the country beneath your feet?
For a lot of us the answer would be ‘I don’t remember’. Which is exactly the problem.
In a world constantly connected to screens, socials and systems, we are becoming more and more disconnected from our country than ever before. We are rapidly losing the land that holds memories and stories greater than any post online. We are losing the land that shapes our identity; this causes a loss of connection to self which is vital for human survival. Technology is pulling young people, us, away from the country. But not only the country is disconnecting us from identity, connection and life.
When I say country, I don’t just mean the physical land.
Its culture.
Its recollection.
Its soul.
For Indigenous Australians country is a living entity. It’s much more than a physical connection but one filled of spirit and emotions where many hold these connections from ancestral ties from thousands of years before anyone else found the land. Country offers more than we could ever get through a screen.
It offers connection.
It offers serenity.
It offers knowledge.
It offers us the ability to slow down and breathe. It offers a reminder of what truly matters in life. If we choose to ignore parts of the country we are also choosing to ignore parts of ourselves.
The wind touching our faces is a fierce reminder we are a part of something much larger than ourselves. The ‘pitiless blue sky’connects everyone in our country together to show the core of all our hearts.
However, this heart for the country is being lost, especially within younger generations. It is widely recognised; young people spend many hours each day. According to the Australian Bureau of Statistics 24% of children aged 5-14 spent over 20 hours weekly on
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: 'Every voice matters' Stimulus:…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 92.5%: The first time I raised my voice, it shook. My words stumbled out like pebbles against stone, fragile and…
The first time I raised my voice, it shook. My words stumbled out like pebbles against stone, fragile and uncertain. But even as the crowd of strangers towered around me, even as the police officers tightened their grip on their shields, I realised that silence weighed heavier than fear. To stay quiet was to agree that nothing needed to change. And so, trembling, I chose protest.
It did not begin with megaphones or banners. It began in my bedroom, whispering arguments to the mirror, practising how to say no. Before I could fight for others, I had to learn how to fight for myself. That was the hardest part — recognising that my anger was valid, that my voice deserved to join the chorus of dissent. Protest, I learned, was never just about marching. It was about finding the courage to believe that your story mattered.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: stimulus 1: ‘No two journeys are…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 97.5%: White Creation was only ever a myth. Matter is just redistributed; nothing is truly yours. You’re the…
White
Creation was only ever a myth. Matter is just redistributed; nothing is truly yours. You’re the manifestation of a thousand identities, fragments of people who once loved and collided — the pinnacle of their beauty, and their ruin. For me, that’s what you are: arms and legs I stitched from memory, the pinnacle of my making, the bane of my existence.
A blank **white** canvas for me to draw my path. Not my parents’ choice. Not theirs. Mine.
I know this sounds deluded, but listen. Just because it was you before, and it’s no longer your own, doesn’t make you any different from what I’ve become. This time… this time I promise to tell you the whole truth. I won’t keep secrets. You won’t have to read my story twice.
Yellow
Every life is the sum of choices leading to your death; every choice matters, like I was in a forest with infinite paths with no clear exit. Left.... or right, that’s what you were screaming, right? Or was it me that was screaming? God, personal choices are barely personal anymore. Maybe on a surface level it’s me that walked left, but embedded into that was a year of abuse by you and yourself.
No matter what I pick someone gets hurt. I’ll always end up a monster to either yourself or maybe you. I don’t want to hurt anyone. If only I could pick the middle option, maybe the path in between the two roads, never needing to pick a direction. What if I could go up instead of left or right? Maybe east instead of north.
as long as its me walking these steps my fate is my own the orientation of matter is only mine to manipulate so ill pick the path straight.
Red
The iron taste in my mouth; the weak, weighted grass below me. The destination seems to be thinning. my journey is difficult but it is one of my own. The sand turns even muddier, melting like a swamp below my feet trying to distract me. Am I distracted? I’ll never know, nor do I want to know. This journey is mine, my own. I’ll walk for as long as it takes to reach my conclusion.
The baggage I clung to in order to get here was rough. Hikers pass by me with bags drained of water, food and necessities of the sort, yet mine is rough, rugged, full of rocks. They all run as mine weakens, like someone proposing in front of me and all I can do is shatter before them. The iron taste comes back and flows down my face. The iron taste comes back and flows down my face. The iron taste…
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: resist and persist
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 87.5%: "Its's not fair" Those were Vincent Chin's last words as his skull was crashed open by a baseball bat. And he…
"Its'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 told it was justice. What kind of justice is that? What kind of country is this?