VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Time to Play stimulus 1: "i can think…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 100%: Good evening parents, and welcome to our Sunny Smiles Kindergarten webinar, Time to Play. My name is Michelle,…
Good evening parents, and welcome to our Sunny Smiles Kindergarten webinar, Time to Play. My name is Michelle, and I am one of the educators here at Sunny Smiles. We are delighted you have joined us tonight, because this conversation matters not only for your children, but for us as a community: how best to support their growth.
Our philosophy is clear and simple: play is the foundation of learning. Children learn most deeply not by being told, but by doing, exploring, and imagining. One of my favourite lines captures this perfectly: “I can think whatever I like to think, I can play whatever I like to play.” More than a charming phrase, it reminds us that when children are free to play, they are free to grow — and nothing matters more.
Yet in many kindergartens today, play is being overshadowed by something that at first appears harmless: television. Let me be clear. Screens are a part of modern family life, and in moderation they can entertain or even spark curiosity. But in a kindergarten, where every moment is precious for development, does television truly enrich learning, or does it quietly take away from the very experiences children need most?
Consider this: a study in JAMA Pediatrics tracked toddlers’ daily interactions. For every extra minute in front of a screen, children heard seven fewer words from adults, spoke five fewer words themselves, and missed out on one conversation. Over the course of an hour, that means 420 fewer words heard and 60 conversations lost in a single day. Another Japanese study following more than 7,000 children found that toddlers with over four hours of screen time daily were nearly twice as likely to face delays in communication and problem-solving. Even one to four hours slowed language and social development. And here in Australia, preschoolers average two hours a day, already double the World Health Organisation’s maximum recommendation for ages two to five.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: "Learning to Play Again"
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 90%: The following is a monologue spoken by world renowned broadway actor Michael Logarzo after receiving the “Best…
The following is a monologue spoken by world renowned broadway actor Michael Logarzo after receiving the “Best Actor” award at the 2025 Oscar’s for his performance in the film “Wolf of Conform Street.” Michael is infamously known as the “Rockstar of the film industry,” who is unhinged and unapologetic, and not afraid to speak his mind on issues that he is passionate about. Amongst the audience are the likes of Brad Pitt, Margot Robbie, and Morgan Freeman, as well as the millions of film fanatics watching at home.
(He steps up to the mic, gold statue in hand. Smirks. Lets the silence linger.)
You want to know what’s funny?
They gave me this award for “best actor”… but I’ve been acting since the day I learned to tie my shoes.
And so have you.
Because from the moment we’re born, the director starts whispering:
“Tuck in your shirt.”
“Speak when spoken to.”
“Girls, cross your legs.”
“Boys, don’t cry.”
You think you’re free? You think you’re you?
Nah. You’re just following blocking marks you didn’t lay down. We’ve been taught to perform, but never to play. Real play, not the choreographed, applause-chasing kind. The kind where no one’s watching, where you can be you.
It starts with school, where the script is printed on the uniform policy.
No hoodies. No afros. No ripped jeans.
It’s the professor who interrupts and dismisses assertive women, but praises assertive men for “leadership.” They don’t say it, but the message is clear:
Be neat. Be quiet. Be the same.
And then you graduate - straight into the corporate costume department.
Suits stitched with silence. Heels high enough to keep you from running.
You sit at a desk, eyes dry from staring, lips dry from smiling.
Your ideas? Cut to fit the company tone.
Your voice? Filtered through your boss’s expectations.
Your ambition? Caged behind KPIs and meaningless “team-building” exercises.
Even outside the office, the show doesn’t end.
On Instagram, you're the star of your own feed.
But not the real you.
No, the filtered you.
The one who smiles wide under a sunset you barely looked at.
The one who pretends your relationship isn’t falling apart.
The one who pretends you’re not falling apart.
You think you’re choosing what to post, what to wear, what to say, but all you’re doing is listening to the director’s instructions. They tell you:
“Authenticity doesn’t get you likes, comments, and followers.”
Written by tradition. Directed by patriarchy. Funded by capitalism. That’s who we are.
The director doesn’t need a face. Because we, the cast, keep the show running for them.
But what they don’t tell you is that playing a part costs something; your autonomy. They put you in a room full of mirrors, not to look at yourself, but to see if the mask is still straight.
I still remember the first crack.
I was on set, middle of a night shoot, middle of a meltdown, middle of pretending to be someone I wasn’t. And I caught my own reflection between takes. Just for a second. In one of those cheap vanity mirrors with the fake bulbs. You know the kind.
And I didn’t recognise the guy staring back.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: resist and persist
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 82.5%: NOW Peering out of the iron in front of me, I watch citizens go about their lives, minding their business,…
NOW
Peering out of the iron in front of me, I watch citizens go about their lives, minding their business, until they lay eyes on me. I watch their eyes widen, mouths open and their steps falter, heads turning back to do a double take when they realise what they are looking at. I watch parents shoot their hands out to cover their children’s eyes, roughly steering them away from the scene. The city itself seems to slow down surrounding the iron bars I am in, as if I am drenched in sickly sweet honey and they are flies caught in it. My heart thumps in my chest like the bars of the cage itself is suffocating me. Flakes of orange and black paint flake off my skin. My long hair tries to escape my ruthless bun and even though the cold breeze against my bare skin makes me shiver and even though the metal beneath my knees bites into my skin, I am sweating. I hold the small banner I am holding closer to my chest, covering it as best I can. I am uncomfortable, claustrophobic and suffocating within the bars of my cage. The pain they endured sears into the forefront of my mind - the torture and the suffering that they can’t voice. So, I must endure, I must remember, and I must stay strong.
But what if this is too much? What if this display, this intensity, is more than what’s needed.
THEN
I wasn’t looking for it. I wanted a break from reality, but instead I got slapped in the face with it. An Instagram post of a dog, wrapped in chains, ears drooping. Its pleading eyes hesitantly looking towards the camera. The bold white text on it read,
“They don’t have a voice, you do”
I clicked on it, up came PETA’s Instagram. Dozens of animals – cows, cats, dogs, chickens – displayed in dismal conditions, ruthlessly bound and in agonizing pain. I was shocked, appalled, heartbroken. Before I knew what I was doing, I contacted the provocative organisation and got involved. Handing out flyers and raising awareness through petitions, until they asked me to do something more scandalous than they had done before. They asked me,
“Do you know the meat that you choose at the supermarket comes from cows that are crammed into overcrowded pens, standing in their own waste? Do you know that humans pay to watch dogs tear each other apart in illegal fights? Do you know that in China, dogs are boiled alive, tortured and cooked while still conscious, just because its believed that the meat tastes “better” when they’re in agony? Do you know that wild tigers are torn from their natural habitats, locked in tiny cages only to be let out to perform circus tricks for our amusement?”
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Framework: Personal Journey PROVIDED…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 87.5%: Title: What Am I? Summer 27’ Children chasing shells, seagulls hunting food scraps and teenagers sunbaking.…
Title: What Am I?
Summer 27’
Children chasing shells, seagulls hunting food scraps and teenagers sunbaking. The Freeman Beach remained the same every summer, the constant tide closing in on the shore and the harmonious abyss which sat amongst the horizon. Where did it lead? What was it like? My curiosity diverted my attention from Freeman Beach, the place where I learnt how to swim and surf, the place of my first job as a lifeguard and the last place I encountered before leaving for university in the city 3 hours away from home. The last footprints I embed in the sand for a while fade seamlessly with the tide, erasing my presence as I drive the majority of my belongings, myself and my crisp, fresh white Asics away.
Deep breath in. Deep breath out. I repeat to myself, dreading the anticipated arrival, consuming time repeating simple breathing exercises to myself, before I am forced to face the music. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. My new Asics embark my first steps here, my new home, away from everything I know. They take me to the front desk of campus housing, deep breath in, deep breath out.
‘Hi …’, I mutter, fidgeting with my nails,
‘Um, my name is Imogen Cartwright, I am staying in I think Sandhurst Apartments’, I explain,
‘Nice to meet you Imogen, let me look you up and then I will get you all sorted,’ She begins typing away,
‘You are correct! Sandhurst Apartments, level 4 room 405,’ She exclaims, handing over a map and envelope,
‘If you have any questions or need an extra hand, just find your way back here!’
Autumn 27’
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Framework "Play"
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 90%: Growing up, soccer was never just a game in my family. From my earliest memories, the pitch was a playground…
Growing up, soccer was never just a game in my family. From my earliest memories, the pitch was a playground that tested me. Every kick, every tackle, every missed goal seemed to accumulate into something larger, an invisible scorecard that followed me, measuring my worth. On Saturday mornings, while other parents clapped and cheered for their kids, mine would voice their disappointment, “run faster, shoot quicker, don’t you lose”. Encouragement was rare, and praise was even more foreign, in the world they had created for me. Victory was expected, not celebrated.
I grew up being taught that fun and failure were incompatible; this game was serious, and a loss on the pitch was a loss for me. And so, by the time I reached my teenage years, I wore every defeat like a bruise, internalising the sense that my worth depended on the final whistle.
The turning point for me came around in the grand finals last season, when we were up against a team we had no business losing to. Yet, by halftime, we were trailing behind, heads were down, the atmosphere was heavy; it was as if we had already accepted our fate. Frustration twisted inside me as I stared at my teammates' defeated faces. As the whistle blew, signalling the start of the next half, something snapped. I decided then and there that if no one else was willing to fight, I would, I would fight, and I would win the match myself.
From that moment, something in the ball changed. I chased it with desperation, clung to it as though losing it meant surrender. The ball felt hard, pumped up with pressure, no longer a simple object of play but a reminder of the burden I carried alone. I dribbled past teammates, took reckless shots, and ignored calls. Something that was once a symbol of connection now felt heavy in my possession, swollen by the pressure I carried. My lungs burned, my legs ached, but I pressed on, convincing myself that sheer determination alone could rewrite the score.
It didn't. By the end, the scoreboard still showed the same merciless truth, the whistle that I dreaded still sang the same empty song. We had been beaten, but as I trudged off the field, my teammates could hardly bear to look at me as if I were the one to blame.Me. My parent’s lecture that night barely registered, for the first time, their disappointment was drowned out by something louder, my own hollowed exhaustion. That night, I couldn't get the faces of my teammates out of my head, it stung me, like being red-carded not by the referee but by the people I was supposed to stand with.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: We forget what it is like. To laugh,…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 97.5%: A Letter to Those Who Have Forgotten How to Wonder Dear Adults, Who Have Outgrown Rabbit Holes, When did you…
A Letter to Those Who Have Forgotten How to Wonder
Dear Adults, Who Have Outgrown Rabbit Holes,
When did you stop tumbling? At what age did you decide that curiosity was a luxury, that imagination was something to be packed away with the toys in the attic? Perhaps it happened gradually, like the ticking of a clock that grew louder and louder until it drowned out the sound of daydreams. Or maybe one morning you simply found yourself in a manicured garden, politely sipping tea while duty whispered in your ear and the White Rabbit scurried away unseen.
We like to believe play belongs only to children, but that is a fiction crafted to make adulthood appear dignified. Play is not a distraction from life; it is life’s rehearsal. It is how we learn to stretch beyond limits, to resist rules that do not serve us, and to discover the selves we did not know were waiting. The stories we grew up with remind us of this: a young girl shrinking and growing, questioning who she really is, stumbling into a world that defied logic and demanded she uncover her own courage.
I still remember a time when I was about ten years old, building an elaborate fort out of bed sheets and chairs in the living room. The entire room became a castle, guarded by invisible knights and powered by an imagination so strong I could almost hear the trumpets at dawn. My parents smiled indulgently and let me play. I did not know it then, but in the act of draping those sheets I was experimenting with power, responsibility, and resilience. Every collapsed wall meant starting again, rebuilding stronger. It was play, but it was also a rehearsal for how to face the larger world.
There comes a moment in all of our lives when the path laid out feels suffocating. Expectations loom, marriage, career, respectability, as though there is no room left for wonder. But sometimes we glimpse another path: a sudden doorway, a rabbit hole, an invitation to chase something we cannot yet name. To fall into such a space is not to flee responsibility but to find freedom. In those strange, ungoverned worlds, the rules bend. Time stretches and folds, sense gives way to nonsense, and in that bending we are liberated. Play allows us to imagine lives beyond the ones dictated to us, to break away from the polished lawns and garden parties of expectation.
And did we not once have such places of escape? Secret games, made-up languages, drawings in margins, conversations with shadows. These were not idle amusements; they were gateways to possibility. Why, then, do we close them off as we grow taller, trading them for clocks, ledgers, and lists?
If escape is the first gift of play, self-discovery is the
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: Time to Play Stimulus: ‘I can…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: Who knew that, in all the places that my little feet have taken me to, the tastes that have befallen upon my…
Who knew that, in all the places that my little feet have taken me to, the tastes that have befallen upon my tongue, the experiences that have altered my mushy brain that is trying its hardest to make sense of the world, it is standing on this stage, spotlights bringing life to my proud stance, that I feel most fulfilled?
“I want to act, mum!”
“You are not. That is not going to be a sustainable employment option for you. You better be picking a STEM subject. Even law works.”
“But it is my passion!”
“You can participate in dramas as a hobby, but you shall not be making it your sole income option. I said what I said and I am not going to argue anymore with you.”
The constant ticking of my clock muffles my sobs.
So what if my soul burns for acting?
So what if my body harms itself over not bearing the weight of a costume?
So what if my mind aches to float around the theatre stage?
I can live with it.
After all it is an interest; a hobby that is meant to divert my mind if I were ever to be overwhelmed by the game of life.
Even if it pulses stronger than ever through my every breath.
Even if it clogs my brain from functioning optimally.
Even if it rips my body in shreds, like it is a piece of paper that has ‘blank page’ written on it; serving no purpose rather than to just exist.
Is it not my life?
Do I not have the strings of movement in my hands? Are they to remain in my parents’ grip?
Is life not my own stage?
Am I not my own main character?
Do I have to hide between the curtains of shadows, shining light upon the guardians that occupy my stage?
I feel nauseous.
I want to throw up.
“I did not hear you, say it louder?”
“I applied for an acting academy and I got accepted!”
“What did I tell you about acting?”
“And I will be leaving tomorrow to practice for their upcoming play in which I am certain I will be a part of.”
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: Getting Lost Stimulus: If you…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 72.5%: Getting Lost Base Camp At the peak of winter, climbing mountains is at its most difficult. The cold gusts of…
Getting Lost
Base Camp
At the peak of winter, climbing mountains is at its most difficult. The cold gusts of wind are never-ending reminders to your body, it cannot stop fighting. Although the hike into base camp isn't too bad, the mental thought of summit can be even the greatest of climbers. As you lift each foot, your legs begin to weaken, your heat begins to race. But your mind can never accept defeat. Our mind can never be lost.
Camp 1
As you begin the 14 day expedition, doubt begins to hike beside you. Every falling rock, every cold chill, and every snowfall gives fuel to the horrid hiking route you made. The mountain is trying to kill you. Ofcourse someone told you the savage mountain is gonna try everything it can to end your life". But you only understand that when your crampon digs into the cold mountain for the first time. Your hiking buddy might do everything it can to throw you down the face of the mountain, but your forced to remind yourself. "Don't get lost, remember what you came here for.".
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Personal journey - The greatest…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: Sunlight filtered through the windows. Curtains fluttered along with the breeze as shadows danced across the…
Sunlight filtered through the windows. Curtains fluttered along with the breeze as shadows danced across the room. Dust swirled around, settling on the blanketed furniture. I uncover the antique mirror, drapes pooling around my feet as I stare at it in silence. My whole life, I lived as a mosaic. Parts of others’ unachieved dreams and aspirations moulded me into someone else. A stranger. I reach out towards my reflection as memories flood into my mind.
Voices speak in hushed tones outside the door as I stare up at the ceiling, trying to mute them out. The room was dreary, harsh fluorescent lights seeping through the covers around the propped-up bed. Other than the muffled voices on the other side, only the iv drip and beeps from the monitor interrupted the silence. Exhaustion had once again creeped its way into my body, leading me to the brink of collapse. I reach out for the remote, and flick on the overhanging tv. The grand prix pops on, showcasing a figure skater currently competing. I watch in awe at the graceful moves he executes, each leaving an unfamiliar feeling in my chest. Why was I feeling like this? What was this desire overflowing throughout my body? I suddenly envision myself twirling along the ice, lunging into the air with elegance. My mind is brought out of my imagination as my family steps into the room. “How are you feeling honey? Do you think you are able to resume archery soon?” My mother asks, as she walks to my bedside, tucking me in further with the blankets. It felt suffocating. “Dear, we already decided that he will be concentrating on painting. I still have his drawings from when he was younger. It’s such a beauty to have in the house! Right, Levfin?” My dad’s eyes search for my agreement. “No, Levfin, you are an only child. I am growing older by the day and my one and only wish is to see you succeed in life kid. I can rest easy knowing my sweet, capable child can take care of everything for me” My grandpa utters.
I feel myself
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Framework "play"
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 87.5%: Growing up, soccer was never just a game in my family. From my earliest memories, the pitch was a playground…
Growing up, soccer was never just a game in my family. From my earliest memories, the pitch was a playground that tested me, every kick, every tackle, every missed goal, it seemed to accumulate into something bigger, following me, valuing my worth. On Saturday mornings, while other parents clapped and cheered for their kids, mine would voice their disappointment, “run faster, shoot quicker, don’t you lose”. Encouragement was rare, and praise was even more foreign, in the world they had created for me. Victory was expected, not celebrated.
I grew up being taught that fun and failure were incompatible, this game was serious, a loss on the pitch was a loss on myself. And so, by the time I reached my teenage years, I wore every defeat like a bruise, internalising the sense that my worth depended on the final whistle.
The turning point for me came around in the grandfinals last season, we were up against a team we had no business losing to. Yet, by halftime we were trialing behind, heads were down, the atmosphere was heavy, it was like we had already accepted our fate. Frustration twisted inside me, as i stared at my teammates defeated face. As the whistle blew signalling the start of the next half, something snapped, I decided then and there, that if noone else was willing to fight, I would, I would fight, and I would win the match myself.
From that moment the ball became my burden to hold, I chased it with desperation, clung to it as though losing it meant surrender. The ball felt hard, pumped up with pressure, I dribbled past teammates, took reckless shots, ignored calls. Something that was once a symbol of connection, now felt heavy in my possession, swollen by the pressure I carried. My lungs burned, my legs ached, but I pressed on convincing myself that sheer determination alone could rewrite the score.
It didnt. By the end the scoreboard still showed the same merciless truth, the whistle that I dreaded still sung the same empty song. We had been beaten, but as I trudged off the field my teammates could hardley bare to look at me as if I were the one to blame.Me. My parents lecture that night barely registered, for the first time, their disappointment was drowned out by something louder, my own hollowed exhaustion. Something about my teammates faces stung me like a bee.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: TITLE: Deeds not words Stimulus 1.…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 87.5%: Mr. Beckheld never raised his voice. That’s the first thing I noticed. His actions were always restrained, as…
Mr. Beckheld never raised his voice. That’s the first thing I noticed. His actions were always restrained, as if waiting for release. I was only young when we met. Broken, cold, hungry and waiting on his welcome mat beneath exposed brick. He took me in without question, fed me without words, gave me a place to rest without judgement. A mentor. His eyes told more than his mouth could. They told me familiarity, they told me understanding.
Like a father, he gave me parts of the world that were strangers to me: a home, a parent, love. Warmth he made abundant for me, he struggled to allow himself to feel. Until Elise.
Soft-spoken, gentle, kind — those are fractions of how I would describe Elise.
They met at the brink of night that tiptoed into sunset, in an array of waves and sand. Things moved quickly from there, but not rushed. Their relationship grew fast with intention. Before I knew it, Elise was living amongst us, from a stranger to family in a blink. I’d never seen Mr. Beckheld so fulfilled, so free.
He struggled, but he learned what it meant to be loved.
Elise cooked dinner most nights, as Mr. Beckheld always worked late. Under a bright candle flame, we would talk about nothing in particular — school, art, music, aspirations. Elise shone brightly, like a beam of pure light. A considerate one that knew its brightness and dimmed for others’ comfort. The candle flame danced free while she hummed and stirred a pot that coated the room with sweet aroma.
Mr. Beckheld arrived home, hung his jacket on a hook and took off his shoes upon the creaking floorboards. His actions were louder than usual; they felt tired and aggressive to my ears through the hallway. Elise’s stirring slowed as he entered the kitchen and she became more mindful of any sounds she made. Her body stiffened, movements hesitant — I’d never noticed how she shrank when he came home on edge.
I started to take notice more after that. How her pants never went above her ankles. How her sleeves were never short. How quickly she laughed at my mentor's jokes. How her eyes stayed locked on her plate at dinners.
I convinced myself she was shy, but shyness doesn’t shrink a person so completely.
A little while after, I became an adult. Living in my own home now, I still made time to visit daily.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Personal Journeys
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 90%: - When people ask me where I’m from, I need a moment to think. Do I tell them my parents are from Hong Kong, or…
- When people ask me where I’m from, I need a moment to think. Do I tell them my parents are from Hong Kong, or do I tell them I was born here in Australia? Which comes first. Not long ago, the answer would have been clear as day.
- My parents migrated from Hong Kong to Australia in 2005. Every year, we go back to Hong Kong in January. Its school holidays for me and my brother, so it’s easiest to arrange. Every year, it’s a mad rush to the airport because dad thinks time is a myth, and mum’s last minute luggage inspections are agonising.
- When we arrive in Hong Kong, we take the same bus every time to my grandma’s apartment in Sheung Shui. Its small and modest, because she lives alone.
- We ring the doorbell. My mum, my brother and I wait awkwardly. Eventually, she opens the door. “Hi PoPo,” my brother and I say. No smile, no nothing. Just a comment on how skinny I am. She scolds my mum for this.
- Walking in, there is a peculiar scent that I can only describe as incense and cleaning chemical. There’s no living room, just a black leather couch and a circular dining table, one of those that can be pulled out in case of emergency family gatherings. A pillar of Cantonese homes.
- Sprawled beneath the TV are framed photos of Popo’s grandchildren, and a bowl of apples still wrapped individually in their Styrofoam sleeves.
- Besides them, stands a tall orchid in a porcelain vase, inscribed with Chinese characters I can’t read. Each petal is an abstract dotted pink, which fades into a soft white towards the edges. It bears the weight of unwanted attention, which seems to intrude the humble space of Popo’s home.
The afternoon goes by quickly. Unpacking the suitcase feels routine, like retracing steps I’ve taken before—shirts folded neatly into Popo’s drawers, toiletries lined up in the bathroom.
- But as dark clouds begin to smother the sky, like cotton pads dressing a wound, the anticipation of evening ceases, and in its place, comes the ritual of dinner.
- The Yum Cha restaurant should feel familiar, but I feel nothing but dread.
- The elevator doors open onto the fourth floor, and I brace myself for the press of voices that will rush at me like a toccata- impossible to keep up with unless you already know the notes. Inside, the interior is deceptively spacious- at least 50 tables packed like mosaic. It takes practise to walk to your table without knocking an auntie’s purse or an uncle’s walking stick. The trick is to turn your hips and shuffle sideways, although easier said than done. We’ve booked 2 tables, 24 seats in total. I choose the one with the most direct line of sight to the TV.
- The rest of the seats are filled by people I don’t recognise. It’s awkward sitting with strangers, though Mum claims we know them.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: Playing my part Stimulus: “All…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 100%: Who are we if not performers? And what is living if not performing? Would you squeal at spiders if no one was…
Who are we if not performers?
And what is living if not performing?
Would you squeal at spiders if no one was watching?
Would you smile just for yourself?
We perform joy, fear, ambition, and restraint. We rehearse our dreams, improvise our failures, and revise our identities. Life is not just a stage—it’s a rehearsal room, a costume closet, a script still being written.
The biggest stage we’ll ever stand on is our own life. From the moment we arrive, we’re cast into roles we didn’t audition for. We eat and grow so our parents feel fulfilled. We study and work to contribute to society. We love and sacrifice so others don’t have to. We perform not just for applause, but for approval, for belonging, for survival.
And yet, there are moments—rare and fleeting—when the mask slips. When we step out of the costume stitched by expectation and into something raw, unfiltered. These moments feel like freedom. But are they? Or are they just another act, one we’ve convinced ourselves is authentic?
As children, play was instinctive. We didn’t perform for anyone—we simply existed in joy. A cardboard box became a spaceship. A puddle became an ocean. Raindrops weren’t acid—they were racers, sprinting to the ground. The world was magical because we hadn’t yet been taught to explain it. But knowledge came, and with it, complexity. We learned the rules of the stage. We learned to smile on cue.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: Playing my part Stimulus: All…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 87.5%: Who are we if not performers? And what is living if not performing? Would you squeal at spiders if no one was…
Who are we if not performers?
And what is living if not performing?
Would you squeal at spiders if no one was around?
And would you smile for yourself?
Emotions, feelings, dreams, and ideation.
What is life if you have nothing to prove, to earn?
The biggest stage anyone could ever be on is our own life. We came into the world to live for others; we live our lives for everyone else, but ourselves.
You eat and grow, so your parents would feel fulfilled with themselves.
You study and work so that you can contribute to a better society.
You love and sacrifice, so your loved ones don’t have to.
And only when you are out of the rigid costume that others put on you for the stage, only when you put the act down, only when you step out of your very own skin that keeps you for your comfort, only then are you truly free.
The world is always more magical the less you understand it, when raindrops mean there’s a marathon for which droplets would reach the ground first, when a hot summer day means the sun is feeling pretty. Instead, raindrops aren’t just water but also acid, and a hot summer day only gets hotter. Sometimes I wonder if we were ever meant to know so much about the world, if we were ever meant to know so much at an age that just seems to get smaller and smaller.
When did living get so complicated?
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Framework: Protest Title: Engage…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 77.5%: There needs to be disruption for things to change. This is what I want you to take away from my speech today,…
There needs to be disruption for things to change. This is what I want you to take away from my speech today, because as I stand on this podium looking out at you, young men of 2025, I understand that you not even care about what I’m about to say. Because frankly, if our care was even as big as a mustard seed, I wouldn’t have to fight the increasing pandemic of violence against women. In a world where the first few questions that arise after hearing about a woman being mistreated by a man includes concerns like “What was she wearing?” or “What did she say to make him so mad” or even “Why was she with him anyway?”, we need to really need to be asking ourselves “Why is this happening and how can I be engaged in ensuring this never happens again?”
Globally, statistics reveal that 1 in 3 women will experience violence in their lifetime. That means approximately 33% of women have had to tolerate a man’s lack of self-control. 33% have been the victim of physical harm due to a man. 33% and possibly more are living a life where every second is a risk of violence. That’s far too much and until this number becomes 0%, our fight will not end. It's time we, both women and men, protest against the entrenched acceptance of violence, not with whispers of disapproval but with loud, disruptive demands for transformation.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Let the sun illuminate the words that…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: Sitting on the edge of the old wooden pier, I let my feet dangle above the shimmering water, letting the gentle…
Sitting on the edge of the old wooden pier, I let my feet dangle above the shimmering water, letting the gentle waves kiss my toes. The sun sets in a spectacular show, blending all shades of orange, pink, and violet—a canvas so vivid, it feels as if the universe itself is celebrating my journey. It’s moments like this that remind me how far I've come.
I often think back to my first day at school, how I felt like a misplaced puzzle piece, desperately trying to fit in. I didn’t just want to blend in; I wanted to belong. My heart ached with loneliness as I listened to my classmates’ laughter, their words slipping through my fingers like grains of sand. But instead of retreating into the shadows, I found my voice through art. It became my refuge, my way of communicating what words could not express. Each stroke of my brush was a step toward reclaiming my identity.
The day of the mural was a turning point. I remember the laughter and the way my classmates gathered around, hesitant at first, but soon enveloped in the joy of creation. We were no longer strangers but comrades in this vibrant tapestry of life. It was in that moment of collaboration that I learned the power of connection. The mural we created wasn’t just mine; it was a testament to the beauty of our individual stories merging into one.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: personal jounrey
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 77.5%: The silence after the joy Happiness: The sun glistened brightly, turning the sky into a vibrant blue mixed…
The silence after the joy
Happiness:
The sun glistened brightly, turning the sky into a vibrant blue mixed with golden specs that stretched endlessly, and the warmth had turned young nine-year-old Aliza’s dark brown hair into a caramel brown. Laughter echoed in the air as she ran around her backyard having a water balloon fight with her cousins and her face glowed with a toothy smile as a balloon smacked her arm and drenched her in cold water. She only got to see her cousins twice a year so she soaked up all the joy she got from seeing them and dwelled on the happiness she felt. Her happiness was cut short by a sharp stabbing pain in her lower right stomach. A pain so sudden and intense that she doubled over, gasping for air as she clutched her right side with wobbling knees. Her vision became blurry and something as simple as breathing became hard for her. “Was I dying?”. The thought had flickered through her mind, quiet and terrifying but within moments the pain faded, not completely, but just enough for her to come back to her senses. The laughter of her cousins reached her ears again, like a lifeline pulling her back to reality . Then she remembered that she only had three more hours with them, so she shrugged the pain off and ran back, determined not to miss out on any of the fun. In that moment, joy mattered more than pain.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: For this task you will be required to…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 90%: This occurs at the end of Act 3 Scene 3. The murderers walk away, Banquo is left bleeding on the ground in a…
This occurs at the end of Act 3 Scene 3.
The murderers walk away, Banquo is left bleeding on the ground in a ditch.
BANQUO: Alas great Misfortune!
My faith has now been crowned,
Not with laurel but with a dagger’s kiss.
The wine of friendship soured to vinegar,
A brother’s hand turned traitor in the dark.
We once rode as equals, shared the victor’s cup,
Then a noble partner, cloaked in valour,
Now, allegiance is repaid in bloodshed.
Yet here I stand; shadows steeped in betrayal,
A serpent masked in robes of majesty,
The sceptre but sharpened murderer’s steel.
My blood runs cold, but colder runs his heart,
To strike me down for nothing but ambition.
He thought to sever my thread with a bloody blade,
But Fortune’s loom binds tighter than mortal hands can undo.
(becomes angrier and more desperate)
Cursed thoughts torment my restless slumber,
Emerging since the imbalance of nature,
The owl shrieks and unnatural groans rent the air,
The fatal
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Reist and persist; crafting text…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 80%: The stage is set. A man, whose face is covered by an ocean of blood, is brought to a platform where the horizon…
The stage is set. A man, whose face is covered by an ocean of blood, is brought to a platform where the horizon encompasses a sea of students. Red banners dominate the stage, with the face of Mao Zedong overlooking the horror that is to follow.
Mother may be close, but no one is closer than the chairman.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: personal journeys
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 95%: Beginning The train rocked toward the airport, fields of rice bending beneath the autumn wind, each stalk…
Beginning
The train rocked toward the airport, fields of rice bending beneath the autumn wind, each stalk bowing in farewell. The faint clatter of wheels echoed through the carriage. My father sat beside me, silent but steady. His silence was not avoidance but discipline—the kind I had watched all my life in the store, where his hands folded paper, measured cloth, aligned every item with deliberate care. Strength, he showed me, was not loud. It was in consistency: in the calluses carved into his palms, in the quiet way he bore disappointment without complaint.
At the platform, he finally spoke. “Aiko, shikkari shinasai.” Be strong. He adjusted my collar, smoothed an invisible crease from my sleeve. No embrace. None was needed. His gaze, brief but unwavering, said what words could not: that he trusted me, even if tradition did not. I carried that look as surely as the passport in my hand.
Flight
The cabin hummed like a long prayer, a low vibration in the bones. Outside the window, night fractured into scattered stars, unfamiliar constellations that belonged to no ancestor of mine. I sat pressed between a businessman who muttered in his sleep and a young mother cradling her child, her whispers like lullabies I could not understand.
When the stewardess asked, “Chicken or beef?” my throat tightened. I pointed without speaking, afraid my English would fall clumsy, betray me.
She hesitated, then smiled. “First time?”
I nodded. “Yes.” The single word wavered in the air.
“Then let it be the first of many,” she said, her voice low, almost conspiratorial, before slipping the tray in front of me.
Above the Pacific, I thought of my father. Every evening, his shoes at the genkan perfectly aligned, as though order itself could defend us from uncertainty. He had never said he wanted to leave Japan, but sometimes I wondered. Did he see in my journey the life he could not take? Did he envy it, or fear it?
My aunt’s words stung still: onna no kuse ni. For a woman? What kind of daughter leaves? But my father had not said that. He had straightened my sleeve. That was enough.
I leaned my head against the cold window and whispered into the drone of the engines: I will not disappear.
Belong
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: nothing strengthens authority as much…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 77.5%: Travis Yoong, Herald Sun, 7 May 2025 8 years ago, Colin Kaepernick began protesting against racial…
Travis Yoong, Herald Sun, 7 May 2025
8 years ago, Colin Kaepernick began protesting against racial discrimination and police brutality against black people by kneeling during the national anthem before NFL games. And with that one knee, he stood taller than ever before, embodying resistance against conformity.
The athletes' act of objection started a powerful global conversation about racial oppression and resistance, starting a chain effect in sports players who began to kneel during the national anthem across different sports.
Colin Kaepernick's knee said what mouths were afraid to say in society. It said, 'A badge is not a license to kill'. It spoke for the names of those victims, the ones who never got to speak for themselves, the ones whose skin were seen as a threat.
It was September 1 2016 when the 49ers quarterback Colin Kaepernick, decided to protest against the national anthem before a preseason game in the NFL. Standing shoulder to shoulder with his teammates, the athlete suddenly decided to kneel during the national anthem in objection of racial injustice. Teammates, coaches and the crowd watched in stunned silence as Colin made his protest. While some saw the quiet but powerful protest as disrespectful and unpatriotic, some of his teammates viewed it as a peaceful protest that spoke further than sports.
After the game, Colin Kaepernick addressed to social media arguing, 'I'm not going to stand up for a country who racially discriminates people of colour'. It seemed that the former NFL player had pushed the matter beyond the playing field, challenging the silence that so strengthens authority and advocating for justice from the public and ones watching on television.
From sidelines to headlines
Following the incident, Colin Kaepernick sparked intense controversy amongst fans, politicians and athletes, some praising him for his courageous act against racism, while some criticizing him for what they thought as a disrespectful act towards the country.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Voices Rising
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: Good afternoon: My name is Austin Reaves, and I am grateful for the opportunity to speak at the Housing Policy…
Good afternoon:
My name is Austin Reaves, and I am grateful for the opportunity to speak at the Housing Policy Forum 2025.
I am currently a second-year student at Monash University, undertaking a Bachelor’s Dega in Architecture, majoring in Urban Planning.
However, that’s not a sole reflection of who I am as a person. Since I was little, I've always had a burning desire to speak out on any and every injustice I witnessed, no matter the scale. I was six years old when on a school excursion to the city, I saw a homeless person with a jar of coins on the cold pavement beside him. I gave that man every last cent of my pocket money. If you couldn’t tell by now, I am not the type of person to just sit around when I believe something is wrong. I will speak up.
And that is why I am standing here before you today.
I am a firm believer that "raising your voice in protest is the comerstone of change”. Victoria’s youth housing crisis is at an extent where it is impossible to ignore. Being a uni student, I've seen it all. My friends sleeping in cars. Skipping meals to pay rent.
You claim that Melbourne is one of the most liveable cities in the world.
How could you possibly say that when these injustices are so visible to everyone?
I know what you're thinking. Why is someone my age speaking on problems that are probably far too complicated for me to understand? See, this is why it is rare to see a Z0 year-old speak up these days. We're too afraid of being judged and looked down upon. But are we wrong to think like this? Because that’s the unfortunate reality for us.
However, I’ve had enough with the lack of and unaffordability of housing for us, the youth of Victoria. I will not consent to being silenced, especially when I am personally affected by this issue.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Framework 2: Writing about protest •…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 82.5%: Right to Rebel Rebellion and dissent are fundamental attributes of a democracy, acting as a sharp antidote to…
Right to Rebel
Rebellion and dissent are fundamental attributes of a democracy, acting as a sharp antidote to oppression and power imbalances. Think of the most important and influential moments in history such as The civil rights movement, the vietnam war protests, and even as far back as the french revolution. All of these are moments of rebellion. Rebellion is a democratic right which holds powerful figures account able, providing a meaningful voice for citizens. In my younger years, like many others, rebellion and protest was merely an annoyance. I could never understand the passion and desperation that is involved in these movements. However, the sacred moral obligation that protest once was is now under attack, as more and more rallies and marches are being hijacked by the most extreme groups on either side of the political spectrum. It is imperitive that those of you who want to see change in this world remember what made the great campaigns of the past so effective so that our generation continues the legacy of those before us.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Turning points
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 80%: The truck groaned as it jolted through the mountain paths. Each jolt made my nerves shiver. The darkness…
The truck groaned as it jolted through the mountain paths. Each jolt made my nerves shiver. The darkness surrounded us unable to see anything but the moon's dim light. My mum held onto me trembling despite the warmth of my tiny body against hers. I was just seven years old too young to understand the fear in her eyes or the weight of the weary journey ahead of us. My siblings held together their faces hidden under scarves. We were leaving everything our home, our memories, our family. It began with my father’s whisper: “We can’t stay”. That impossible decision. That was the moment our journey began. The moment we were no longer willing to live in a place with no bread in shops, no power in homes and a place where even silence could get you killed.
With the help of my Uncle Reza, a truck driver who knew the hidden roads, we escaped under the cover of night. Cramped in the back of an open utility truck ten silent men surrounded us, surrounded us, strangers all gloomy. The journey to Pakistan stretched on for five brutal days. The wind slapped my face as we sped through dusty roads. The sun burned my head during the day, and the cold numbed our bones during the night. We could not speak, we could not cry, we could not even move. It was a rule that was not spoken of but just known for our survival. The warlords who patrolled the roads would not hesitate to shoot if they discovered us. The only sounds were the wind howling through the mountains, the distant echoes of gunfire, and my tiny stomach growling from hunger. At night the truck's headlights went off to not draw attention or we would get shot without question. The driver navigating only by the dim glow of the moon. I wanted to sleep but I could sense the fear around me, hearts trembling every time we stopped. Where we rested, we were given nothing more than a piece of bread, and a sip of tea. My mother, still weak from giving birth, held onto her prayers with what little strength she had left. My elder sister whispered eleven prayers into her burka.
By the grace of God, we made it. Five days and give nights of fear, and exhaustion ended when we reached Peshawar in Pakistan. My father, who had escaped before us, had spent every moment praying for our safe arrival. When he saw he stumbled backwards like he was struck by lightning. He stared in disbelief at our dust covered clothes, our eyes red with exhaustion as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His mouth opened wide trembling, but no sound came out until he couldn’t handle it anymore. He collapsed onto his knees, tears dripping down his eyes, and wept just grateful we were alive. My parents held onto each other and wept by the kindness of my father's friend who