VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: discovering joy
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 77.5%: The impact of the blue sedan smashed the windows in. I managed to snap my eyes shut just in time before the…
The impact of the blue sedan smashed the windows in. I managed to snap my eyes shut just in time before the raining crystalline shards bit into my face like an unstoppable swarm of ice, and etched a permanent, bloody reminder of this day onto my cheeks.
The incessant click of the indicator continued despite the damage. The panicked screams of the other driver forcibly permeated through my throbbing skull, and my closed eyes seemed to develop their own erratic heartbeats. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” she repeated, more like a frantic lullaby for herself, rather than an actual admission of her fault.
Moments before, I had seen her taking a huge lug out of a flask she seemed to pull out of nowhere, and even laughed about it to my best friend Isla, who I was speaking through the stereo of my car.
Now, Isla’s voice seemed to shrill my name in despair. “Are you okay?”
I wondered if her normally raucous voice had lost its playful timber because she knew what had just happened, or because the unreliable Bluetooth connection had suffered the final, fatal blow to its fickle system.
She sounded tinny and thin, and I imagined her as the frail and mischievous five year old she had once been when we first met in the battered playground of our local, underfunded primary school. Isla had reached out to me that day – noticed that I wasn’t as energetic as my classmates, or as playful with my teasing words. Her omnipresent companionship saved my life – it lended me a saving hand, and pulled me up from the yawning abyss of my depression.
Not that it matters anymore.
I tried my hardest to answer her question, tried to force in as much air as I could into my battered and bruised lungs, even though in my heart of hearts, I knew it was futile. I wanted to reassure her that everything was fine. I wanted to comfort her. I wanted to thank her for always being by my side.
But I couldn’t. And for that, I’ll never forgive myself.
If I died tonight, would my bruised lungs, heart, kidneys or even my liver be able to prevent the death of another? Would I be able to fulfil the duty I had sworn to satisfy as soon as I was 16 and eligible?
As soon as those thoughts began to spiral in my still overactive mind, my body began to feel more transparent, and I wondered if I was finally losing it – although I knew what was really happening.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Silence can appear harmless. It can…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: the cost of silence the disposable idol, player 29, a million-dollar disappointment, by John . B. Just last…
the cost of silence
the disposable idol, player 29, a million-dollar disappointment, by John . B.
Just last week, on the 29th of October, disaster struck. Player 29 was three points away from breaking a record, until a move gone wrong had sidelined him for 12 months. There has been no statements from him and his team, while fans demand answers for his absence. The league's most profitable asset remains unrecognized on the court. In professional sport, there is no room for the fragile. You don't get paid to weep.
5th of November. Finally accomplished a dream, a dream where I'm on the front cover of a newspaper. It's not the way I imagined it, though. They call me an asset. They mention about my fragility, like I'm a shattered vase. They think that athletes shouldn't be weak. They think that we should be free from vulnerability. But how am I supposed to let go of this weakness when there's this guy called John TB who names me disposable idol? I just wonder, if I disappear, if I stay silent, would they even care?
Radio silent idol. Player 29, disposed, forgotten. Why not both? Recent rumors are suggesting that the radio silence from Player 29 may be due to a mental break. However, famous sports analysts suggest that this mental break is just a cover-up for a lack of commitment. In a league built on hard-working grit, Player 29's silence supports the opposite. His silence isn't just deafening, it's a betrayal of the fans who pay his million-dollar salary. This idol hasn't just been disposed of, he's been forgotten.
22nd of November.
They say my silence is a betrayal. What am I supposed to do? Do they expect me to just start jumping and shouting in excitement? I'm back, I'm healthy. I would have if I could. My physio said 12 months, 12 months until I can break that record. Until then, what can I do, JonTV? Silence is my only support at this point. They don't understand the pain that will come if I speak.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Travel and Discovery Crossing New Ground
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: Dear Dad I don’t think I truly saw the real version of you until you were gone. After the cremation and the…
Dear Dad
I don’t think I truly saw the real version of you until you were gone. After the cremation and the house settling into a deep silence I found myself going through the things you'd kept hidden in those locked drawers underneath your desks and those suitcases that looked like they hadn’t been opened since last century. But tucked under the bottom of your suitcase I saw a notebook I hadn't seen before. It wasn’t a diary of thoughts or a soliloquy of love but rather it was photos. Snapshots of a man who reminded me of you, but lived a life I could never recognise.
In the wake of your passing I realized that I have spent my whole life reading only the final chapter of your story. These photos mark memories and stories that I could never comprehend. But there it was in front of me. In that moment I discovered that we all have two lives: the ones we show to the world and the ones we hide within us.
I zoom into a photo from the mid 80s
I see you standing on a jagged cliff with your arms around a stranger laughing and facing the distance, enjoying the view. Your shirt is untucked, your boots are filled with mud and your body is filled with scratches all around. There is no “Dad” in this photo. There is simply a young boy who is free from all tethers enjoying his life.
Looking at this now. I realise that to give me the life you envisioned you gave up your free and explorative spirit your old life entails. Sometimes life is not about finding something new, it is about the sacrifices you are willing to make for greater realities. You discovered that the safety of a quiet street and the calm of the morning is sometimes where you have to be for your family.
I zoom into a photograph of you with that same stranger in the marketplace
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: “Sometimes people hide parts of…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 100%: Smooth. Static. Silent. That was the goal. For years, I believed that if I could just sand away the rough…
Smooth. Static. Silent. That was the goal. For years, I believed that if I could just sand away the rough edges of my personality, I would finally belong. I spent half my life trying to be a blank page—a person without a history, a student without a story. At school, I was the ultimate good sport. I was the one who laughed at jokes that tasted like copper. I was the one who practiced a version of my own voice that fit the flat, broad vowels of my peers until my real identity felt like a tongue-twisting secret. I created a brilliant, imaginary universe where I wasn’t the person from the house that smelled of heavy tradition and unspoken history. In that world, I was invisible. And for a long time, I actually believed that invisibility was the same thing.
But at what cost? Why do we feel the need to sand ourselves down just to fit into a room that was never built for us? Today, I want to talk about the scrubbing we do to ourselves. We are taught that to fit in, we must first be ordinary. We hide the parts of our souls that are too loud or too different just to earn a moment of consolation. But when we hide the fabric of who we are, we aren't finding a home. We are just becoming a monotone echo. We are trading our singular stories for a survival that feels increasingly like a disappearance.
This performance begins with the small, silent edits. We shorten our names. We flatten our accents. We hide our heritage. We do this to make ourselves easier for the world to swallow. We adopt an unreal persona—an astronaut in someone else’s sky—hoping that if we make ourselves small enough, we will finally fit. We spend hours practicing our cursive version of belonging, terrified that one messy outburst of our true self will bring the whole structure down. Why do we choose to be shadows? Is it easier to be a shadow than to be a person who stands out in the sun? We choose the ordinary path because it feels safe. It feels unimaginative. It feels conformist.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Compose a text in a genre of your…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 70%: The rain had not stopped for seven nights. It clawed against the windows of Blackthorn Manor like desperate…
The rain had not stopped for seven nights. It clawed against the windows of Blackthorn Manor like desperate fingers begging to be let inside, while the house itself groaned beneath the weight of secrets too old to remain buried.
Evelyn Ashcombe stood alone in the attic, a trembling candle cupped within her pale hands. Dust swirled around her like spirits disturbed from sleep. The air smelt of mould, smoke, and something strangely metallic — the scent of forgotten grief.
She had spent years searching for answers about her mother’s disappearance. The villagers whispered cruel stories whenever Evelyn passed: The woman vanished into the woods. The Devil took her. Some doors should never be opened.Yet no one ever spoke the truth.
Until now.
At the far end of the attic sat an ancient chest hidden beneath moth-eaten sheets. Its iron lock had rusted with age, as though time itself had tried to seal it shut forever. Evelyn hesitated. Her heartbeat echoed violently through the silence of the manor.
Then she forced it open.
Inside lay a collection of yellowed letters bound together with black ribbon. Beneath them rested a silver locket coated in dust. The moment Evelyn touched it, the candle flame flickered violently.
A memory struck her like lightning.
Her mother’s laughter.
Soft hands brushing through her hair.
A lullaby half-remembered.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: personal journe
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 75%: A mirror doesn’t break on its own. In silence it fractures quietly, until the reflection no longer looks like…
A mirror doesn’t break on its own.
In silence it fractures quietly, until the reflection no longer looks like you.
I was nothing more than reflection. A reflection of my mother. My father.
My parents migrated from Indonesia long before I was born; their first introduction to a westernised society, one of privilege and imagination. I attended the best of the best schools, I only studied the hardest subjects, the respectable ones according to my dear mother and father. The arts were nonexistent to me; I never drew with colour, or outside the lines. I stayed in my fitted box, banging on the walls but receiving silence. I was the dream child they had longed for.
The mirror’s beauty acted as a shield.
A shield from the truth, a truth I didn’t know but scarred even me.
No one has ever had to look deeper, only seeing themselves and the words they engraved in my skin.
I was the perfect daughter, quiet and who knew her place.
My truth would be a girl who took things easy, dyed her hair the brightest shade of blue, and wore thick black eyeliner that swallowed her petite eyes. Not the girl with white ribbon tied in her long black hair and navy wide rimmed glasses. She was fearless; she was the type of girl a whole room would turn to admire. She had the sort of confidence which could only kill my parents long before their due.
Seventeen years behind this shield, it has been the most stable relationship I’ve had. It grew up with me as I grew up with it. Every study session, every dinner, every sleep, every waking morning. It woke up with me and experienced another day.
Turning eighteen is supposed to be fun, but it is only tied to cliches. Cliches, I dreamt about but could never have. It didn’t seem destined for my reality. The biggest fairytale of them all...freedom. Freedom is less of an idea and more of a myth. When you're eighteen, you're supposed to be free to leave, walk a new life, your own life. The shelter you've comfortably called your own is too heavy to carry into this new life; you need to escape it before it entraps you forever. Being eighteen allowed for a terrifying new world; my mind was no longer so easy to mold and had a way of thinking for itself.
My life was taken over by everyone else's reflection. I couldn’t resist the changes when they took place without my consent.
I couldn’t stop the pain from cutting through my skin.
It is fragile; the slightest scratch will defy its beauty and leave it scarred for life.
The voices in my head whispered to me. I could never make out the exact words, but I knew enough to recognise that when the glass broke no one would know me. The ribbon would have loosened; my hair would flow freely, and my eyes would become defiant.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Written commentary
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 90%: Throughout the unit on protest, I became increasingly interested in how protest movements create change within…
Throughout the unit on protest, I became increasingly interested in how protest movements create change within society and challenge injustice. Texts such as Meyne Wyatt’s City of Gold monologue and speeches surrounding social justice movements particularly captured my attention because they highlighted how silence can allow inequality and suffering to continue. What interested me most was the idea that protest is not only about large public demonstrations, but also about speaking out and using media to amplify important messages. I wanted to explore how protest can influence society and create awareness about injustice, so I chose to write an expository piece discussing the importance of protest and the role media plays in strengthening protest movements. My intended audience was younger people and a wider educated group, as I wanted readers to reflect on how protest has shaped modern social change and why speaking out against injustice remains important today.
I chose the expository form because it allowed me to present clear arguments and real world examples to educate readers about the significance of protest. This style of writing helped me explain how movements such as the Black Lives Matter movement and the Me-Too movement gained power through media exposure and collective action. By using current world examples, I intended to make the piece feel relevant and relatable to a modern day audience. I structured the piece beginning with the role of media in protest, then exploring the importance of speaking out, before finally discussing how pressure must be placed on governments and people in power for meaningful change to occur. This structure was intended to guide readers through my contention logically and reinforce the idea that protest is an ongoing process.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Write a monologue capturing violence…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: Monologue Suspended sentences. Such soft words... Such clean words. These words used to hide the rot…
Monologue
Suspended sentences. Such soft words... Such clean words. These words used to hide the rot underneath. Those three years… Gone. My daughter’s face is mangled. Her future is forever gone, and all this courtroom can offer is a smile and a signature? I once believed in this land of dreams. But those dreams... they were nothing but smoke. I used to believe in its laws, courts, and promises. But this country is no better than Lo stivale. I fled Sicily, wanting nothing to do with the motherland. Nothing to do with men who used violence and stained their hands red to fix their problems and the problems of others. I kept telling myself this place would be different—a land of laws and justice that Lo Stivale never offered. I worked so hard. I respected the law. I raised my daughter in the American way. I let her have an American fidanzato. Freedom. Chances. Safeguards. What do those words mean to me now? My baby lies in her bed, silent. Her nose was broken. Her beauty was stolen by those jealous of her. Those boys call themselves men? These animals are no better than hatchetmen. Even animals kill to survive. These boys did it because they could. And the law? The law protected these fools. I remember kneeling beside her bed. Her face was unrecognizable, as if her skin was painted. She tried her hardest to let go of her sorrow. No matter how she forced her lips to form any sort of sound, they remained immobile, locked by the trauma of that night. The bruises on her face aren't just injuries; they are a constant reminder of the boys’ hatred—a heavy, tangible thing I can almost touch. I used to think violence was an animal's reflex, but looking at her, I see it is a choice as deliberate and human as the love I feel for her.
In that courtroom, I was shown 'justice.' A stage performance. Men in theatrical costumes, speaking their scripted lines. And in the end, everyone pretends morality is served while those heartless bastards quietly slip through the unlocked front door and smirk at me. That look. It disgusted me. Because it told me that the land of opportunity has no heart you can touch, no warmth you can feel. It is as cold as the marble in my funeral parlor. It taught me that power is an impulse in a man who desires it rather than something inscribed in a book To see that smirk—to feel that raw, human pulse—is to finally know what it is to be human.
I spent so long condemning a man who called me his friend. I convinced myself that they were animalistic, a remnant of the days I had fled. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps I misunderstood the goodness in humanity. Violence is natural, it is as human as love. Because a human loves as he suffers. As he suffers he loves. Compassion and violence are inevitably cut from the same cloth. Only men who have truly lost something know this suffering. This 'land of the free' taught me to suppress that feeling; to trust a stranger wearing robes to defend my family and my honour. What did this trust achieve? Mortification? The law never guarded my family; it only cowered from violence. It hides behind procedures and routines while innocent people suffer. But Don Corleone understands its price. I once believed violence only belonged to animals. Now it is everywhere. Those bastards walk free because this country cares more for a polished floor and a clean record than it does for justice.
I leave that building now, burdened by a terrible misunderstanding—that the law would ever truly protect my family. I once prayed America would save me. Instead it delivered me back to Lo Stivale. For my baby… I must seek him.
Comentary
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: It’s not how far you’ve come that…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 72.5%: Leaving me at 15 years old, I should’ve expected her to go. I would never have accepted her imminent death…
Leaving me at 15 years old, I should’ve expected her to go. I would never have accepted her imminent death before she truely left for good.
I was born in a quiet neighbourhood. I slept on the top floor of a double storey house that stood on a street where I could ride my bike up and down every day. That all changed when my mother decided she’d had enough of the house she hated.
My earliest memory is one where I wake up and my cat is asleep on my bed next to me, peaceful, before my sister gives her breakfast. I don’t remember when she first came into my life; she was just always there. Sometimes I’d be woken up slightly earlier to the hum of a vacuum outside my door. These mornings were always a stark contrast to the nights that I would succumb to exhaustion after hours of sirens on the street.
The lights that flashed on my walls were nothing like the paw patrol night light that lay next to my bed; these lights covered every inch of my wall. In contrast to my nightlight keeping the monsters away, these lights would only ever arrive after the monsters were already inside my home. Often, the lights would come on after a loud noise startled me awake; sometimes, I would hear crying, and the lights never came at all. My cat was always there, no matter which light was keeping me safe.
On hard nights, my sister would huddle both my cat and me in our mother’s bed while the red and blue lights flashed across the walls, but eventually she would always go downstairs. She would leave my cat and me under the sheets, both still new to this world. These were the nights that I would be forced to fall asleep, in spite of the sirens echoing off the walls. I would wake up the next morning to the quiet cream of the walls and my cat waking up for breakfast while my sister let me sleep in before school.
It would all happen again not long after. I would watch my mother cry as she spoke to the men in big shirts as my sister comforted her. Holding my cat close, as I felt like I was watching from the outside, like a window was holding me back from hugging her too.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: It’s not how far you’ve come that…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 72.5%: I was born in a quiet neighbourhood. I slept on the top floor of a double storey house that stood on a street…
I was born in a quiet neighbourhood. I slept on the top floor of a double storey house that stood on a street where I could ride my bike up and down every day. That all changed when my mother decided she’d had enough of the house she hated.
My earliest memory is one where I wake up and my cat is asleep on my bed next to me, peaceful, before my sister gives her breakfast. I don’t remember when she first came into my life; she was just always there. Sometimes I’d be woken up slightly earlier to the hum of a vacuum outside my door. These mornings were always a stark contrast to the nights that I would succumb to exhaustion after hours of sirens on the street.
The lights that flashed on my walls were nothing like the paw patrol night light that lay next to my bed; these lights covered every inch of my wall. In contrast to my nightlight keeping the monsters away, these lights would only ever arrive after the monsters were already inside my home. Often, the lights would come on after a loud noise startled me awake; sometimes, I would hear crying, and the lights never came at all. My cat was always there, no matter which light was keeping me safe.
On hard nights, my sister would huddle both my cat and me in our mother’s bed while the red and blue lights flashed across the walls, but eventually she would always go downstairs. She would leave my cat and me under the sheets, both still new to this world. These were the nights that I would be forced to fall asleep, in spite of the sirens echoing off the walls. I would wake up the next morning to the quiet cream of the walls and my cat waking up for breakfast while my sister let me sleep in before school.
It would all happen again not long after. I would watch my mother cry as she spoke to the men in big shirts as my sister comforted her. Holding my cat close, as I felt like I was watching from the outside, like a window was holding me back from hugging her too.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Change is painful, but nothing is as…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 80%: I used to live in a calm and quiet neighbourhood. I slept in an upstairs bedroom in a double story house that…
I used to live in a calm and quiet neighbourhood. I slept in an upstairs bedroom in a double story house that stood on a street where I could ride my bike up and down every day. That all changed when my mother decided she’d had enough of the house she’d always hated.
Every morning, I woke up to the sound of my cat snoring on my bed next to me before my sister gave her breakfast. It would always be silent, spare the sounds of my mother cleaning or my sister moving up and down the stairs. It was always a stark contrast to the nights that would happen every so often, where I would succumb to exhaustion after hours of sirens.
The lights that flashed across the walls of my bedroom were nothing like my paw patrol night light that lay next to my bed. They were bright and strong, and they covered every inch of the wall. Although the way that my night light kept the monsters away from my bed, these flashing lights would only come after the monsters were already in my home. Often, they would come not long after I was startled awake by a loud noise that was followed by crying; sometimes these noises would wake me up, but no lights would come after.
On hard nights, my sister would huddle my cat and me in our mother's bed while the walls flashed blue and red. Eventually, my sister would always leave us. This is when I’d be forced to fall asleep despite the sirens that echoed in my home. I wouldn’t be woken up until the next morning when my cat jumped out of my arms as she heard my sister opening her packaged breakfast, while she let me sleep in before school.
My mother would cry over her bruises, and my sister would comfort her while she spoke to the men in big shirts. I would only watch from the outside, feeling like I was on the other side of a window that wouldn’t break.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Change is painful, but nothing is as…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 77.5%: I’ve always been told to follow the path that I love. In theory, I see why this makes sense, but in practice,…
I’ve always been told to follow the path that I love. In theory, I see why this makes sense, but in practice, I always choose to follow the path I think is safest.
I used to live in a calm and quiet neighbourhood. I slept in an upstairs bedroom in a double story house that stood on a street where I could ride my bike up and down every day. That all changed when my mother decided she’d had enough of the house she’d always hated.
Every morning, I woke up to the sound of my cat snoring on my bed next to me before my sister gave her breakfast. It would always be silent, spare the sounds of my mother cleaning or my sister moving up and down the stairs. It was always a stark contrast to the nights that would happen every so often, where I would succumb to exhaustion after hours of sirens.
The lights that flashed across the walls of my bedroom were nothing like my paw patrol night light that lay next to my bed. They were bright and strong, and they covered every inch of the wall. Although the way that my night light kept the monsters away from my bed, these flashing lights would only come after the monsters were already in my home. Often, they would come not long after I was startled awake by a loud noise that was followed by crying; sometimes these noises would wake me up, but no lights would come after.
On hard nights, my sister would huddle my cat and me in our mother's bed while the walls flashed blue and red. Eventually, my sister would always leave us. This is when I’d be forced to fall asleep despite the sirens that echoed in my home. I wouldn’t be woken up until the next morning when my cat jumped out of my arms as she heard my sister opening her packaged breakfast, while she let me sleep in before school.
My mother would cry over her bruises, and my sister would comfort her while she spoke to the men in big shirts. I would only watch from the outside, feeling like I was on the other side of a window that wouldn’t break.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The title is 'this is me', and the…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: As we stand here today, on the very edge of everything that we have worked towards, it’s rather tempting to ask…
As we stand here today, on the very edge of everything that we have worked towards, it’s rather tempting to ask ourselves a familiar question: “Who am I?” For years, we’ve been told that somewhere along our journey, we’re supposed to “find ourselves” as if our own identity is hidden away, patiently waiting to be discovered. But what if that idea was wrong all along? Instead, what if our identity is not something we discover but something we build during our journey? The truth is, our identity is not defined by who we believe we are in our minds but is instead the result of the choices we make, the habits we form and the experiences that shape us over time. As we leave our sheltered high school life and step into an uncertain future, we aren’t searching for a fixed version of ourselves; we are actively crafting one. It’s possible that “this is me” is not a final declaration, but a statement we continue to earn.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The title is 'this is me', and the…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 87.5%: Identities may seem stable, but through times of struggle and hardship, which force individuals to…
Identities may seem stable, but through times of struggle and hardship, which force individuals to reconstruct their identity, they reveal their true properties as fluid rather than firm. When times of tribulation come forth, familiar routines collapse, and certainty is stripped away. Individuals are forced to face their own limits of who they once viewed themselves to be. In these moments, identity is no longer a comfort to be relied upon, but a tool that must be actively sharpened when faced with new realities. This is viewed in the Ithaka poem by C.P.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: S C H O O L A S S E S S E D C O U R S…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 87.5%: When everyday life is routinely going well, it’s hard to imagine a small misstep ( a physical and figurative…
When everyday life is routinely going well, it’s hard to imagine a small misstep ( a physical and figurative one) can smash my normality into smithereens. It shouldn’t happen to anyone. Ever.
Standing in the elevator with my brother and father, I was a few seconds away from shaking hands with my new reality.
Ding!
The doors swiftly opened and I was overwhelmed with the potent smell of antibacterial sanitiser and cleanser, every wall permeating into my senses. The nurse at the front had told us to find bed number 12 on level 2. I followed behind my father and watched as he whisked away the river blue curtains.
There my Mama was, looking slightly frail and exhausted. Her hospital gown, a piece of clothing I thought I would never see on her, merging into the curtains. At the sight of us, her face stretched into pure joy, and I almost forgot about the pungent scent. Her arms came out to hug us tightly. A level 10 hug squishing my insides almost out. A type of hug only used when I was truly missed. This is what true love felt like, what true love should be like. Only if my Mama expressed it as much as my Papa every day and not in rare occasions.
It had been 2 days since I saw her, but it felt like 2 breathless years.
The last time we had a proper conversation was the night before the accident.
I asked her if I could go on the China trip.
“aapha nhu pata nei keohnki asee india ve jana hai” she quickly replied. We don’t know since we also need to India soon.
I felt like I was speaking to a ping pong racquet. Of course, if I asked my Mama, she would bounce back an excuse. Why couldn’t my Mama think this through my angle, my perspective, my worldview. I wanted to go so badly like a bird excited to venture outside the nest for the first time.
I whined,
“Maybe we could at the end of the year. China is a once in a lifetime experience.”
And once again, my Mama said,
“mai sarde vich india nahi jhana hai.” I don’t want to go in the winter.
It felt like these were just little ping pong balls of excuses for not letting me go.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: something is better than nothing
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 65%: Have you ever seen a protest before? If so, then more likey than not, you will have seen protestors holding…
Have you ever seen a protest before? If so, then more likey than not, you will have seen protestors holding signs. The bystanders will always walk by and say something along the lines of, "what a waste of time" or "whats the point", and they may be right, but what they fail to realise is that, no matter how small or big a protest may be, something is better than nothing. People who demand a call to change, people like us, realise this and know that we have to do something, or what we are left with is nothing. You know, when I was young, I used to think that if I couldn't do something to the best of my abilities, then it wasn't worth doing. The more I grew up, the more I realised what a horrible mindset we were accustomed too, the social conformities that we grew up with and adapted into our daily lives like it was nothing. We were taught to wait for a 'perfect' moment that doesn’t exist, as if doing nothing was somehow safer than doing something imperfectly
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: something is better than nothing
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 65%: Have you ever seen a protest before? If so, then more likey than not, you will have seen protestors holding…
Have you ever seen a protest before? If so, then more likey than not, you will have seen protestors holding signs. The bystanders will always walk by and say something along the lines of, "what a waste of time" or "whats the point", and they may be right, but what they fail to realise is that, no matter how small or big a protest may be, something is better than nothing. People who demand a call to change, people like us, realise this and know that we have to do something, or what we are left with is nothing. You know, when I was young, I used to think that if I couldn't do something to the best of my abilities, then it wasn't worth doing. The more I grew up, the more I realised what a horrible mindset we were accustomed too, the social conformities that we grew up with and adapted into our daily lives like it was nothing. We were taught to wait for a 'perfect' moment that doesn’t exist, as if doing nothing was somehow safer than doing something imperfectly
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: something is better than nothing
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 65%: Have you ever seen a protest before? If so, then more likey than not, you will have seen protestors holding…
Have you ever seen a protest before? If so, then more likey than not, you will have seen protestors holding signs. The bystanders will always walk by and say something along the lines of, "what a waste of time" or "whats the point", and they may be right, but what they fail to realise is that, no matter how small or big a protest may be, something is better than nothing. People who demand a call to change, people like us, realise this and know that we have to do something, or what we are left with is nothing. You know, when i was young, i used to think that if i couldn't do soemthing to the best of my abilities, then it wasn't worth doing. The more i grew up, the more i realised what a horrible mindset we were ajourned too, the social conformities that we grew up with and adpated onto our daily lives like it was nothing. We were taught to wait for a 'perfect' moment that doesn’t exist, as if doing nothing was somehow safer than doing something imperfectly
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: something is better than nothing
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 65%: Have you ever seen a protest before? If so, then more likey than not, you will have seen protestors holding…
Have you ever seen a protest before? If so, then more likey than not, you will have seen protestors holding signs. The bystanders will always walk by and say something along the lines of "what a waste of time" or "whats the point", and they may be right, but what they fail to realise is that, no matter how small or big a protest may be, something is better than nothing. People who demand a call to change, people like us, realise this and know that we have to do something, or what we are left with is nothing. You know, when i was young, i used to think that if i couldn't do soemthing to the best of my abilities, then it wasn't worth doing. The more i grew up, the more i realised what a horrible mindset we were ajourned too, the social conformities that we grew up with and adpated onto our daily lives like it was nothing. We were meant to be great, we were meant to be beautiful, we have to keep moving forwards, slow or fast, something is always better than nothing.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: something is better than nothing
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 65%: Have you ever seen a protest before? If so, then more likey than not, you've seen protestors holding signs. The…
Have you ever seen a protest before? If so, then more likey than not, you've seen protestors holding signs. The bystanders will always say something along the lines of "what a waste of time" or "whats the point", and they may be right, but what they fail to realise is that, no matter how small or big a protest may be, soemthing is better than nothing. People do demand a call to change, people like us, realise this and know that we have to do something, or what we are left with is nothing. You know, when i was young, i used to think that if i couldn't do soemthing to the best of my abilities, then it wasn't worth doing. Now that im grown up, i realised that these social conformities that we grew up with and adpated, were such horribles ways of thinking.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: title: Breaking barriers stimulus:…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: Breaking Barriers Distinguished delegates, representatives, and observers, My name is Les Malezer. I am a…
Breaking Barriers
Distinguished delegates, representatives, and observers,
My name is Les Malezer. I am a Butchulla and Gubbi Gubbi man from Australia. Many of you may know me, likely for the work I have done with various countries regarding the rights of their indigenous peoples, here in the United Nations no less. I stand here after hearing protest outside these walls described by many in this chamber as disruption, disorder and threat. I am asking this Assembly to see it differently: not as chaos, but as evidence.
Evidence of voices unheard.
Evidence of grief delayed.
Evidence that people have spoken quietly, formally, patiently and have still been ignored.
This concrete jungle is no stranger to protest. Just some blocks away in the year 2020, the people of this city witnessed a great horror, and broke down the barriers that supressed their voices, and the evidence of injustice. They know what it means to reach for a sign, a chant, a megaphone, because the walls built around them would not move.
That image, a megaphone with words of frustration moving outwards is not just meaningless noise. It is the shape of a voice refusing to shrink. A megaphone does not invent pain. It amplifies what has already been silenced. Its soundwaves do not create the wall; they reveal where the wall is. Every chant, every name, every cry for justice travels outward until it strikes the barriers that those in power have built.
The first barrier is silence.
Silence is not always natural. Sometimes it is constructed. Built by careful language. Built by delayed reports. Built by official statements that say everything except the truth. In my home, Australia, I think of Ms Dhu. A young Yamatji woman. Taken into custody over unpaid fines. Asking for help. Returned to a cell. Then gone.
Her death could have remained behind a wall of procedure: a case, a process, a tragedy at a distance. But the people, fed up with the systemic injustice that overwhelmed for so long,lifted the megaphone. In Melbourne, people gathered with signs that said Justice for Ms Dhuand Stop Aboriginal Deaths in Custody. For a few hours, silence cracked. Her name moved from a cell into a crowd. From private grief into public memory. From something power could manage into something the public had to face.
That is the first inception of protest. It breaks the barrier of silence.
The second barrier is the distance between injustice and protest.
Distance tells us that suffering is someone else’s problem. South Hedland is far from Melbourne. A prison cell is far from our Parliamentary offices. A grieving family is far from the people who make the laws. But a megaphone collapses distance. One voice becomes many. One name crosses roads, cities and borders. One chant says: this is not remote. This is not hidden. This is close enough to confront. That is why protest matters even when the law does not change by morning. Because something has changed. A name has been heard. A story has travelled. A wall has weakened.
The third barrier is the doubt that ensues.
After every protest, someone asks: what did it change? Did the institution fall? Did justice arrive? Did the law change before the streets emptied? Often, the answer is no. Protest is not magic. A march can fill a street and still leave a government unmoved. A chant can reach the evening news and disappear by morning. A crowd can gather, grieve, and demand change, only for power to wait until the sound fades. But protest does not only change laws. It changes what power can pretend to not know.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: something is better than nothing
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 60%: Have you ever seen a protest before? If so, then more likey than not, you've seen protestors holding signs. The…
Have you ever seen a protest before? If so, then more likey than not, you've seen protestors holding signs. The bystanders will always say something along the lines of "what a waste of time" or "whats the point", and they may be right, but what they fail to realise is that, no matter how small or big a protest may be, soemthing is better than nothing. People do demand a call to change, people like us, realise this and know that we have to do something, or what we are left with is nothing. You know, when i was young, i used to think that if i couldn't do soemthing to the best of my abilities, then it wasn't worth doing. Now that im grown up, i realised that these social conformities that we grew up with and adpated, were such horribles ways of thinking.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: "One looks back with appreciation to…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 87.5%: Hello teacher. How have you been? It has been ages since last time we talked to each other. Not too long ago,…
Hello teacher. How have you been? It has been ages since last time we talked to each other. Not too long ago, I saw a quote that says "One looks back with appreciation to the brilliant teachers, but with gratitude to those who touched our human feelings." and it reminds me of you. So I decided to write this letter to you for appreciation and to talk about our past memories that we have together.
You are the first teacher in my life. I met you in kindegarden 1, so I was 3 years old, which I was very young. When I first saw you, I remember you have nice - neath hair styles, pretty makeup and polite clothing. Whenever I cried to come to school, you always comfort me until I used to school and don't cry anymore. You always make the lesson seem fun, which you taught me how to count basic numbers or to write my name with a combination of created hand-made toys or sometime we often went outside classroom to the sand area and builded a sand castle together.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Gender Double Standards: Use sarcasm,…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: We had the careers expo today. You know, the day when teachers pretend that they actually care about what we…
We had the careers expo today. You know, the day when teachers pretend that they actually care about what we want to do with our lives. I already know what I want to do anyway.
“What would you like to do once you leave school?” She turned to my guy friend first. A surgeon, he replied. I knew he’d do great at it. He’d been dreaming about this for a while now. The teacher smiles, and I swear she looked like a child opening gifts on Christmas. Like he’s just discovered the cure for cancer.
I say I want to work at a high-profile magazine. Be the editor-in-chief. I can already picture it. Skyline view from my office. Coffee on my desk. Writing articles about the things I’m passionate about. What could be better than that? Apparently anything, according to her face.
I’ve seen that look. I know that look. That small crease formed between her brows, her lips curling slightly. “Isn’t that a hard career to get into?” Excuse me? That’s a joke right? I must’ve missed the part in the script where becoming a surgeon was as easy as buying a new shirt.