VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Future Worlds
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 82.5%: 2:50 PM The unobstructed city view from Tehran’s greatest landmark reveals the once again populated Bazaars,…
2:50 PM
The unobstructed city view from Tehran’s greatest landmark reveals the once again populated Bazaars, following the detriments of the great war of 2080. Once a prominent tourist attraction, The Milad Tower now stores the deep wounds with an ultimatum resulting in reformation. Here I sit, cushioned, drawn to the digital clock as if hypnotised, anticipating the arrival of my next client. The next victim of the robbery of recollection.
The blinding radiation, which had found its comfort in this transparent room, was a strain for the eye. Every corner a stark reminder of the past procedures. The sterile vapour momentarily formed the disparate expressions of my victims. Some were unknown to me; others were of my own blood. They haunt me—a constant reminder of my ignorance and a future where the memories that individualise us face extinction. Displayed across all 4 glass panels were the teaching of Farsi scripture I had been accustomed to from my distant childhood. One read ‘the lights are the same, but the lamps are different’, signifying the true divinity of individuality.
“How ironic!” I thought to myself.
3:00PM
The door nudged slightly, recalibrating me from my delusions only to see my greatest nightmare before me with the same glistening look of innocence I once shattered and have yet to heal from. A boy, 12 years old, stood holding the door three times his weight at a 45-degree angle waiting for a sense of approval to step forward. A warm tone of yellow contrasted with the bleak grey concrete I had become so used to. An aspect of fear was trying so hard to remain suppressed yet greatly visible by the fidgetiness of his stance and his dilating pupils wandering every inch of the room with the same unforgettable anticipation.
“Hello child, come in please.” The perfect imitation of a father’s greeting, yet I was not worthy of that title.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Future Worlds
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 82.5%: 2:50 PM The unobstructed city view from Tehran’s greatest landmark reveals the once again populated Bazaars,…
2:50 PM
The unobstructed city view from Tehran’s greatest landmark reveals the once again populated Bazaars, following the detriments of the great war of 2080. Once a prominent tourist attraction, The Milad Tower now stores the deep wounds with an ultimatum resulting in reformation. Here I sit, cushioned, drawn to the digital clock as if hypnotised, anticipating the arrival of my next client. The next victim of the robbery of recollection.
The blinding radiation, which had found its comfort in this transparent room, was a strain for the eye. Every corner a stark reminder of the past procedures. The sterile vapour momentarily formed the disparate expressions of my victims. Some were unknown to me; others were of my own blood. They haunt me—a constant reminder of my ignorance and a future where the memories that individualise us face extinction. Displayed across all 4 glass panels were the teaching of Farsi scripture I had been accustomed to from my distant childhood. One read ‘the lights are the same, but the lamps are different’, signifying the true divinity of individuality.
“How ironic!” I thought to myself.
3:00PM
The door nudged slightly, recalibrating me from my delusions only to see my greatest nightmare before me with the same glistening look of innocence I once shattered and have yet to heal from. A boy, 12 years old, stood holding the door three times his weight at a 45-degree angle waiting for a sense of approval to step forward. A warm tone of yellow contrasted with the bleak grey concrete I had become so used to. An aspect of fear was trying so hard to remain suppressed yet greatly visible by the fidgetiness of his stance and his dilating pupils wandering every inch of the room with the same unforgettable anticipation.
“Hello child, come in please.” The perfect imitation of a father’s greeting, yet I was not worthy of that title.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Future Worlds
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 82.5%: 2:50 PM The unobstructed city view from Tehran’s greatest landmark reveals the once again populated Bazaars,…
2:50 PM
The unobstructed city view from Tehran’s greatest landmark reveals the once again populated Bazaars, following the detriments of the great war of 2080. Once a prominent tourist attraction, The Milad Tower now stores the deep wounds with an ultimatum resulting in reformation. Here I sit, cushioned, drawn to the digital clock as if hypnotised, anticipating the arrival of my next client. The next victim of the robbery of recollection.
The blinding radiation, which had found its comfort in this transparent room, was a strain for the eye. Every corner a stark reminder of the past procedures. The sterile vapour momentarily formed the disparate expressions of my victims. Some were unknown to me; others were of my own blood. They haunt me—a constant reminder of my ignorance and a future where the memories that individualise us face extinction. Displayed across all 4 glass panels were the teaching of Farsi scripture I had been accustomed to from my distant childhood. One read ‘the lights are the same, but the lamps are different’, signifying the true divinity of individuality.
“How ironic?” I thought to myself.
3:00PM
The door nudged slightly, recalibrating me from my delusions only to see my greatest nightmare before me with the same glistening look of innocence I once shattered and have yet to heal from. A boy, 12 years old, stood holding the door three times his weight at a 45-degree angle waiting for a sense of approval to step forward. A warm tone of yellow contrasted with the bleak grey concrete I had become so used to. An aspect of fear was trying so hard to remain suppressed yet greatly visible by the fidgetiness of his stance and his dilating pupils wandering every inch of the room with the same unforgettable anticipation.
“Hello child, come in please.” The perfect imitation of a father’s greeting, yet I was not worthy of that title.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Future Worlds
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 72.5%: 2:50 PM The unobstructed city view from Tehran’s greatest landmark, reveals the once again populated Bazaars,…
2:50 PM
The unobstructed city view from Tehran’s greatest landmark, reveals the once again populated Bazaars, following the detriments of the great war of 2080. Once a prominent tourist attraction, The Milad Tower now stores the deep wounds with an ultimatum resulting in reformation. Here I sit, cushioned, drawn to the digital clock as if hypnotised, anticipating the arrival of my next client. The next victim of the robbery of recollection.
The blinding radiation, which had found its comfort in this transparent room, was a strain for the eye. Every corner a stark reminder of the past procedures. The sterile vapour momentarily formed the disparate expressions of my victims. Some were unknown to me; others were of my own blood. They haunt me—a constant reminder of my ignorance and a future where the memories that individualise us face extinction. Displayed across all 4 glass panels were the teaching of Farsi scripture I had been accustomed to from my distant childhood. One read ‘the lights are the same, but the lamps are different’, signifying the true divinity of individuality.
“How ironic?” I thought to myself.
3:00PM
The door nudged slightly, recalibrating me from my delusions only to see my greatest nightmare before me with the same glistening look of innocence I once shattered and have yet to heal from. A boy, 12 years old, stood holding the door triple his weight at a 45-degree angle waiting for a sense of approval to step forward. A warm tone of yellow contrasted with the bleak grey concrete I had become so used to. An aspect of fear was trying so hard to remain suppressed yet greatly visible by the fidgetiness of his stance and his dilating pupils wandering every inch of the room with the same unforgettable anticipation.
“Hello child, come in please.” The perfect imitation of a father’s greeting, yet I was not worthy of that title.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Future Worlds
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 72.5%: 2:50 PM The unobstructed city view from Tehran’s greatest landmark, reveals the once again populated Bazaars,…
2:50 PM
The unobstructed city view from Tehran’s greatest landmark, reveals the once again populated Bazaars, following the detriments of the great war of 2080. Once a prominent tourist attraction, The Milad Tower now stores the deep wounds with an ultimatum resulting in reformation. Here I sit, cushioned, drawn to the digital clock as if a hypnotised, anticipating the arrival of my next client. The next victim of the robbery of recollection.
The blinding radiation, which had found its comfort in this transparent room, was a strain for the eye. Every corner a stark reminder of the past procedures. The sterile vapour momentarily formed the disparate expressions of my victims. Some were unknown to me; others were of my own blood. They haunt me—a constant reminder of my ignorance and a future where the memories that individualise us face extinction. Displayed across all 4 glass panels were the teaching of Farsi scripture I had been accustomed to from my distant childhood. One read ‘the lights are the same, but the lamps are different’, signifying the true divinity of individuality.
“How ironic?” I thought to myself.
3:00PM
The door nudged slightly, recalibrating me from my delusions only to see my greatest nightmare before me with the same glistening look of innocence I once shattered and have yet to heal from. A boy, 12 years old, stood holding the door triple his weight at a 45-degree angle waiting for a sense of approval to step forward. A warm tone of yellow contrasted with the bleak grey concrete I had become so used to. An aspect of fear, trying so hard to be suppressed yet greatly visible by the fidgetiness of his stance and his dilating pupils wandering every inch of the room with the same unforgettable anticipation.
“Hello child, come in please.” The perfect imitation of a father’s greeting, yet I was not worthy of that title.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Personal Journeys
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 100%: The key. I found the key by accident, buried beneath takeaway menus and rubber bands in the kitchen drawer,…
The key.
I found the key by accident, buried beneath takeaway menus and rubber bands in the kitchen drawer, its brass surface cool from being hidden from the sun. I remember holding it up to you, expecting a story; instead, you froze for a moment before forcing a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. You told me to leave it be, your voice too sharp for an object so small. I didn’t understand why your hand lingered on the drawer as if steadying yourself.
Back then, I only saw the fun parts of you. The humming while you cooked, the catchy TV-ad tunes you would sing under your breath, the way you would tap my shoulder twice to make me laugh. So, I mistook your tension for mystery, not fear, not pain. I still miss those times: when you picked me up from school with a snack waiting for me when I got in the car, the comforting dinners you would prepare while I sat on the counter, both a giggling mess as you cooked. Sometimes you would point out girls on TV you would see, noticing them as cute. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. You were so at ease then, or at least you made it look that way. I didn’t know then that peacefulness and ease can be performed.
I imagined how the key would open treasure chests or secret passageways that were embedded in the wall, anything except the truth you were trying so hard to keep tucked away behind closed doors. Even now when I think of that moment, I can still feel the weight of the key in my palm, light enough for a child to carry, heavy enough to change everything later.
The distances.
Not long after, I had tried the key on pretty much every locked thing I could find. The shed, the side gate, even old cupboards I knew were empty. I even had the courage to ask you one time about what the key unlocked. I remember you stiffened, as if the question pressed up against something bruised inside of you. For the rest of that day, you disappeared from time to time, spending time in your bedroom with the door left slightly ajar, almost inviting me in but still keeping me at a distance.
As I grew older, the space between us widened in ways I couldn’t articulate, and the key slipped quietly out of my mind. We didn’t suddenly grow apart, more like a slow, gentle drift. The kind you only notice once you are standing somewhere unfamiliar. You moved through the house like someone half-present, drifting between warmth and withdrawal. You were tired in ways I didn’t have words for, a deep exhaustion that lived behind your eyes. One afternoon you sat beside me on the couch, brushing my hair behind my ear the way you used to, and for a moment I felt the version of you I missed. As quick as it appeared, it vanished. I could see you were trying, but the detachment from reality was starting to show.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Personal Journeys
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 97.5%: The key. I found the key by accident, buried beneath takeaway menus and rubber bands in the kitchen drawer,…
The key.
I found the key by accident, buried beneath takeaway menus and rubber bands in the kitchen drawer, its brass surface cool from being hidden from the sun. I remember holding it up to you, expecting a story; instead, you froze for a moment before forcing a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. You told me to leave it be, your voice too sharp for an object so small. I didn’t understand why your hand lingered on the drawer as if steadying yourself.
Back then, I only saw the fun parts of you. The humming while you cooked, the catchy TV-ad tunes you would sing under your breath, the way you would tap my shoulder twice to make me laugh. So, I mistook your tension for mystery, not fear, not pain. I still miss those times: when you picked me up from school with a snack waiting for me when I got in the car, the comforting dinners you would prepare while I sat on the counter, both a giggling mess as you cooked. Sometimes you would point out girls on TV you would see, noticing them as cute. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. You were so at ease then, or at least you made it look that way. I didn’t know then that peacefulness and ease can be performed.
I imagined how the key would open treasure chests or secret passageways that were embedded in the wall, anything except the truth you were trying so hard to keep tucked away behind closed doors. Even now when I think of that moment, I can still feel the weight of the key in my palm, light enough for a child to carry, heavy enough to change everything later.
The distances.
Not long after, I had tried the key on pretty much every locked thing I could find. The shed, the side gate, even old cupboards I knew were empty. I even had the courage to ask you one time about what the key unlocked. I remember you stiffened, as if the question pressed up against something bruised inside of you. For the rest of that day, you disappeared from time to time, spending time in your bedroom with the door left slightly ajar, almost inviting me in but still keeping me at a distance.
As I grew older, the space between us widened in ways I couldn’t articulate, and the key slipped quietly out of my mind. We didn’t suddenly grow apart, more like a slow, gentle drift. The kind you only notice once you are standing somewhere unfamiliar. You moved through the house like someone half-present, drifting between warmth and withdrawal. You were tired in ways I didn’t have words for, a deep exhaustion that lived behind your eyes. One afternoon you sat beside me on the couch, brushing my hair behind my ear the way you used to, and for a moment I felt the version of you I missed. As quick as it appeared, it vanished. I could see you were trying, but the detachment from reality was starting to show.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Personal Journeys
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 95%: The key. I found the key by accident, buried beneath takeaway menus and rubber bands in the kitchen drawer, its…
The key.
I found the key by accident, buried beneath takeaway menus and rubber bands in the kitchen drawer, its brass surface cool from being hidden from the sun. I remember holding it up to you, expecting a story; instead, you froze for a moment before forcing a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. You told me to leave it be, your voice too sharp for an object so small. I didn’t understand why your hand lingered on the drawer as if steadying yourself.
Back then, I only saw the fun parts of you. The humming while you cooked, the catchy TV-ad tunes you would sing under your breath, the way you would tap my shoulder twice to make me laugh. So, I mistook your tension for mystery, not fear, not pain. I still miss those times: when you picked me up from school with a snack waiting for me when I got in the car, the comforting dinners you would prepare while I sat on the counter, both a giggling mess as you cooked. Sometimes you would point out girls on TV you would see, noticing them as cute. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. You were so at ease then, or at least you made it look that way. I didn’t know then that peacefulness and ease can be performed.
I imagined how the key would open treasure chests or secret passageways that were embedded in the wall, anything except the truth you were trying so hard to keep tucked away behind closed doors. Even now when I think of that moment, I can still feel the weight of the key in my palm, light enough for a child to carry, heavy enough to change everything later.
The distances.
Not long after, I had tried the key on pretty much every locked thing I could find. The shed, the side gate, even old cupboards I knew were empty. I even had the courage to ask you one time about what the key unlocked. I remember you stiffened, as if the question pressed up against something bruised inside of you. For the rest of that day, you disappeared from time to time, spending time in your bedroom with the door left slightly ajar, almost inviting me in but still keeping me at a distance.
As I grew older, the space between us widened in ways I couldn’t articulate, and the key slipped quietly out of my mind. We didn’t suddenly grow apart, more like a slow, gentle drift. The kind you only notice once you are standing somewhere unfamiliar. You moved through the house like someone half-present, drifting between warmth and withdrawal. You were tired in ways I didn’t have words for, a deep exhaustion that lived behind your eyes. One afternoon you sat beside me on the couch, brushing my hair behind my ear the way you used to, and for a moment I felt the version of you I missed. As quick as it appeared, it vanished. I could see you were trying, but the detachment from reality was starting to show.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Personal Journeys
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 95%: The key. I found the key by accident, buried beneath takeaway menus and rubber bands in the kitchen drawer, its…
The key.
I found the key by accident, buried beneath takeaway menus and rubber bands in the kitchen drawer, its brass surface cool from being hidden from the sun. I remember holding it up to you, expecting a story; instead, you froze for a moment before forcing a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. You told me to leave it be, your voice too sharp for an object so small. I didn’t understand why your hand lingered on the drawer as if steadying yourself.
Back then, I only saw the fun parts of you. The humming while you cooked, the catchy TV-ad tunes you would sing under your breath, the way you would tap my shoulder twice to make me laugh. So, I mistook your tension for mystery, not fear, not pain. I still miss those times: when you picked me up from school with a snack waiting for me when I got in the car, the comforting dinners you would prepare while I sat on the counter, both a giggling mess as you cooked. Sometimes you would point out girls on TV you would see, noticing them as cute. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. You were so at ease then, or at least you made it look that way. I didn’t know then that peacefulness and ease can be performed.
I imagined how the key would open treasure chests or secret passageways that were embedded in the wall, anything except the truth you were trying so hard to keep tucked away behind closed doors. Even now when I think of that moment, I can still feel the weight of the key in my palm, light enough for a child to carry, heavy enough to change everything later.
The distances.
Not long after, I had tried the key on pretty much every locked thing I could find. The shed, the side gate, even old cupboards I knew were empty. I even had the courage to ask you one time about what the key unlocked. I remember you stiffened, as if the question pressed up against something bruised inside of you. For the rest of that day, you disappeared from time to time, spending time in your bedroom with the door left slightly ajar, almost inviting me in but still keeping me at a distance.
As I grew older, the space between us widened in ways I couldn’t articulate, and the key slipped quietly out of my mind. We didn’t suddenly grow apart, more like a slow, gentle drift. The kind you only notice once you are standing somewhere unfamiliar. You moved through the house like someone half-present, drifting between warmth and withdrawal. You were tired in ways I didn’t have words for, a deep exhaustion that lived behind your eyes. One afternoon you sat beside me on the couch, brushing my hair behind my ear the way you used to, and for a moment I felt the version of you I missed. As quick as it appeared, it vanished. I could see you were trying, but the detachment from reality was starting to show.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Personal Journeys
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 95%: The key. I found the key by accident, buried beneath takeaway menus and rubber bands in the kitchen drawer, its…
The key.
I found the key by accident, buried beneath takeaway menus and rubber bands in the kitchen drawer, its brass surface cool from being hidden from the sun. I remember holding it up to you, expecting a story; instead, you froze for a moment before forcing a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. You told me to leave it be, your voice too sharp for an object so small. I didn’t understand why your hand lingered on the drawer as if steadying yourself.
Back then, I only saw the fun parts of you. The humming while you cooked, the catchy TV-ad tunes you would sing under your breath, the way you would tap my shoulder twice to make me laugh. So, I mistook your tension for mystery, not fear, not pain. I still miss those times: when you picked me up from school with a snack waiting for me when I got in the car, the comforting dinners you would prepare while I sat on the counter, both a giggling mess as you cooked. Sometimes you would point out girls on TV you would see, noticing them as cute. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. You were so at ease then, or at least you made it look that way. I didn’t know then that peacefulness and ease can be performed.
I imagined how the key would open treasure chests or secret passageways that were embedded in the wall, anything except the truth you were trying so hard to keep tucked away behind closed doors. Even now when I think of that moment, I can still feel the weight of the key in my palm, light enough for a child to carry, heavy enough to change everything later.
The distances.
Not long after, I had tried the key on pretty much every locked thing I could find. The shed, the side gate, even old cupboards I knew were empty. I even had the courage to ask you one time about what the key unlocked. I remember you stiffened, as if the question pressed up against something bruised inside of you. For the rest of that day, you disappeared from time to time, spending time in your bedroom with the door left slightly ajar, almost inviting me in but still keeping me at a distance.
As I grew older, the space between us widened in ways I couldn’t articulate, and the key slipped quietly out of my mind. We didn’t suddenly grow apart, more like a slow, gentle drift. The kind you only notice once you are standing somewhere unfamiliar. You moved through the house like someone half-present, drifting between warmth and withdrawal. You were tired in ways I didn’t have words for, a deep exhaustion that lived behind your eyes. One afternoon you sat beside me on the couch, brushing my hair behind my ear the way you used to, and for a moment I felt the version of you I missed. As quick as it appeared, it vanished. I could see you were trying, but the detachment from reality was starting to show.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Future Worlds
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 72.5%: 2:50 PM The unobstructed city view from Tehran’s greatest landmark, reveals the once again populated Bazaars,…
2:50 PM
The unobstructed city view from Tehran’s greatest landmark, reveals the once again populated Bazaars, following the detriments of the great war of 2080. Once a prominent tourist attraction, The Milad Tower now stores the deep wounds with an ultimation resulting in reformation. Here I sit, cushioned, drawn to the digital clock as if a hypnosis, anticipating the arrival of my next client. The next victim of the robbery of recollection.
The blinding radiation, which had found its comfort in this transparent room, was a strain for the eye. Every corner a stark reminder of the past procedures. The sterile vapour momentarily formed the ordinary yet disparate expressions of victims, some unknown to me while others of the same blood, that continue to haunt me and my ignorance of what the future may come to with the memories that individualise us facing extinction. Displayed across all 4 glass panels were the teaching of Farsi scripture I had been accustomed to from my distant childhood. One read ‘the lights are the same, but the lamps are different’, signifying the true divinity of individuality.
“How ironic?” I thought to myself.
3:00PM
The door nudged slightly, recalibrating me from my delusions only to see my greatest nightmare before me with the same glistening look of innocence I once shattered and have yet to heal from. A boy, 12 years old, stood holding the door triple his weight at a 45-degree angle waiting for a sense of approval to step forward. A warm tone of yellow contrasted with the bleak grey concrete I had become so used to. An aspect of fear, trying so hard to be suppressed yet greatly visible by the fidgetiness of his stance and his dilating pupils wandering every inch of the room with the same unforgettable anticipation.
“Hello child, come in please.” The perfect imitation of a fathers greeting, yet I was not worthy of that title.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Future Worlds
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 70%: 2:50 PM The unobstructed city view from Tehran’s greatest landmark, reveals the once again populated Bazaars,…
2:50 PM
The unobstructed city view from Tehran’s greatest landmark, reveals the once again populated Bazaars, following the detriments of the great war of 2080. Once a prominent tourist attraction, The Milad Tower now stores the scars wounded so far deep that the ultimate resolution laid in its complete reformation. Here I sit, cushioned, drawn to the digital clock as if a hypnosis, anticipating the arrival of my next client. The next victim of the robbery of recollection.
The blinding radiation, which had found its comfort in this transparent room, was a strain for the eye. Every corner a stark reminder of the past procedures. The fog fresheners formed the ordinary yet disparate expressions of victims, some unknown to me while others of the same blood, that continue to haunt me and my ignorance of what the future may come to with the memories that individualise us facing extinction. Displayed across all 4 glass panels were the teaching of Farsi scripture I had been accustomed to from my distant childhood. One read ‘the lights are the same, but the lamps are different’, signifying the true divinity of individuality.
“How ironic?” I thought to myself.
3:00PM
The door nudged slightly, recalibrating me from my delusions only to see my greatest nightmare before me with the same glistening look of innocence I once shattered and have yet to heal from. A boy, 12 years old, stood holding the door triple his weight at a 45-degree angle waiting for a sense of approval to step forward. A warm tone of yellow contrasted with the bleak grey concrete I had become so used to. An aspect of fear, trying so hard to be suppressed yet greatly visible by the fidgetiness of his stance and his dilating pupils wandering every inch of the room with the same unforgettable anticipation.
“Hello child, come in please”. The perfect imitation of a fathers greeting, yet I was not worthy of that title.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Personal Journeys
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 97.5%: The key. I found the key by accident, buried beneath takeaway menus and rubber bands in the kitchen drawer,…
The key.
I found the key by accident, buried beneath takeaway menus and rubber bands in the kitchen drawer, its brass surface cool from being hidden from the sun. I remember holding it up to you, expecting a story; instead, you froze for a moment before forcing a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. You told me to leave it be, your voice too sharp for an object so small. I didn’t understand why your hand lingered on the drawer as if steadying yourself.
Back then, I only saw the fun parts of you. The humming while you cooked, the catchy TV-ad tunes you would sing under your breath, the way you would tap my shoulder twice to make me laugh. So, I mistook your tension for mystery, not fear, not pain. I still miss those times: when you picked me up from school with a snack waiting for me when I got in the car, the comforting dinners you would prepare while I sat on the counter, both a giggling mess as you cooked. Sometimes you would point out girls on TV you would see, noticing them as cute. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. You were so at ease then, or at least you made it look that way. I didn’t know then that peacefulness and ease can be performed.
I imagined how the key would open treasure chests or secret passageways that were embedded in the wall, anything except the truth you were trying so hard to keep tucked away behind closed doors. Even now when I think of that moment, I can still feel the weight of the key in my palm, light enough for a child to carry, heavy enough to change everything later.
The distances.
Not long after, I had tried the key on pretty much every locked thing I could find. The shed, the side gate, even old cupboards I knew were empty. I even had the courage to ask you one time about what the key unlocked. I remember you stiffened, as if the question pressed up against something bruised inside of you. For the rest of that day, you disappeared from time to time, spending time in your bedroom with the door left slightly ajar, almost inviting me in but still keeping me at a distance.
As I grew older, the space between us widened in ways I couldn’t articulate, and the key slipped quietly out of my mind. We didn’t suddenly grow apart, more like a slow, gentle drift. The kind you only notice once you are standing somewhere unfamiliar. You moved through the house like someone half-present, drifting between warmth and withdrawal. You were tired in ways I didn’t have words for, a deep exhaustion that lived behind your eyes. One afternoon you sat beside me on the couch, brushing my hair behind my ear the way you used to, and for a moment I felt the version of you I missed. As quick as it appeared, it vanished. I could see you were trying, but the detachment from reality was starting to show.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Personal Journeys
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 97.5%: The key. I found the key by accident, buried beneath takeaway menus and rubber bands in the kitchen drawer,…
The key.
I found the key by accident, buried beneath takeaway menus and rubber bands in the kitchen drawer, its brass surface cool from being hidden from the sun. I remember holding it up to you, expecting a story; instead, you froze for a moment before forcing a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. You told me to leave it be, your voice too sharp for an object so small. I didn’t understand why your hand lingered on the drawer as if steadying yourself.
Back then, I only saw the fun parts of you. The humming while you cooked, the catchy TV-ad tunes you would sing under your breath, the way you would tap my shoulder twice to make me laugh. So, I mistook your tension for mystery, not fear, not pain. I still miss those times: when you picked me up from school with a snack waiting for me when I got in the car, the comforting dinners you would prepare while I sat on the counter, both a giggling mess as you cooked. Sometimes you would point out girls on TV you would see, noticing them as cute. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. You were so at ease then, or at least you made it look that way. I didn’t know then that peacefulness and ease can be performed.
I imagined how the key would open treasure chests or secret passageways that were embedded in the wall, anything except the truth you were trying so hard to keep tucked away behind closed doors. Even now when I think of that moment, I can still feel the weight of the key in my palm, light enough for a child to carry, heavy enough to change everything later.
The distances.
Not long after, I had tried the key on pretty much every locked thing I could find. The shed, the side gate, even old cupboards I knew were empty. I even had the courage to ask you one time about what the key unlocked. I remember you stiffened, as if the question pressed up against something bruised inside of you. For the rest of that day, you disappeared from time to time, spending time in your bedroom with the door left slightly ajar, almost inviting me in but still keeping me at a distance.
As I grew older, the space between us widened in ways I couldn’t articulate, and the key slipped quietly out of my mind. We didn’t suddenly grow apart, more like a slow, gentle drift. The kind you only notice once you are standing somewhere unfamiliar. You moved through the house like someone half-present, drifting between warmth and withdrawal. You were tired in ways I didn’t have words for, a deep exhaustion that lived behind your eyes. One afternoon you sat beside me on the couch, brushing my hair behind my ear the way you used to, and for a moment I felt the version of you I missed. As quick as it appeared, it vanished. I could see you were trying, but the detachment from reality was starting to show.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Personal Journeys
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 95%: The key. I found the key by accident, buried beneath takeaway menus and rubber bands in the kitchen drawer, its…
The key.
I found the key by accident, buried beneath takeaway menus and rubber bands in the kitchen drawer, its brass surface cool from being hidden from the sun. I remember holding it up to you, expecting a story; instead, you froze for a moment before forcing a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. You told me to leave it be, your voice too sharp for an object so small. I didn’t understand why your hand lingered on the drawer as if steadying yourself.
Back then, I only saw the fun parts of you. The humming while you cooked, the catchy TV-ad tunes you would sing under your breath, the way you would tap my shoulder twice to make me laugh. So, I mistook your tension for mystery, not fear, not pain. I still miss those times: when you picked me up from school with a snack waiting for me when I got in the car, the comforting dinners you would prepare while I sat on the counter, both a giggling mess as you cooked. Sometimes you would point out girls on TV you would see, noticing them as cute. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. You were so at ease then, or at least you made it look that way. I didn’t know then that peacefulness and ease can be performed.
I imagined how the key would open treasure chests or secret passageways that were embedded in the wall, anything except the truth you were trying so hard to keep tucked away behind closed doors. Even now when I think of that moment, I can still feel the weight of the key in my palm, light enough for a child to carry, heavy enough to change everything later.
The distances.
Not long after, I had tried the key on pretty much every locked thing I could find. The shed, the side gate, even old cupboards I knew were empty. I even had the courage to ask you one time about what the key unlocked. I remember you stiffened, as if the question pressed up against something bruised inside of you. For the rest of that day, you disappeared from time to time, spending time in your bedroom with the door left slightly ajar, almost inviting me in but still keeping me at a distance.
As I grew older, the space between us widened in ways I couldn’t articulate, and the key slipped quietly out of my mind. We didn’t suddenly grow apart, more like a slow, gentle drift. The kind you only notice once you are standing somewhere unfamiliar. You moved through the house like someone half-present, drifting between warmth and withdrawal. You were tired in ways I didn’t have words for, a deep exhaustion that lived behind your eyes. One afternoon you sat beside me on the couch, brushing my hair behind my ear the way you used to, and for a moment I felt the version of you I missed. As quick as it appeared, it vanished. I could see you were trying, but the detachment from reality was starting to show.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Personal Journeys
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 97.5%: The key. I found the key by accident, buried beneath takeaway menus and rubber bands in the kitchen drawer,…
The key.
I found the key by accident, buried beneath takeaway menus and rubber bands in the kitchen drawer, its brass surface cool from being hidden from the sun. I remember holding it up to you, expecting a story; instead, you froze for a moment before forcing a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. You told me to leave it be, your voice too sharp for an object so small. I didn’t understand why your hand lingered on the drawer as if steadying yourself.
Back then, I only saw the fun parts of you. The humming while you cooked, the catchy TV-ad tunes you would sing under your breath, the way you would tap my shoulder twice to make me laugh. So, I mistook your tension for mystery, not fear, not pain. I still miss those times: when you picked me up from school with a snack waiting for me when I got in the car, the comforting dinners you would prepare while I sat on the counter, both a giggling mess as you cooked. Sometimes you would point out girls on TV you would see, noticing them as cute. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. You were so at ease then, or at least you made it look that way. I didn’t know then that peacefulness and ease can be performed.
I imagined how the key would open treasure chests or secret passageways that were imbedded in the wall, anything except the truth you were trying so hard to keep tucked away behind closed doors. Even now when I think of that moment, I can still feel the weight of the key in my palm, light enough for a child to carry, heavy enough to change everything later.
The distances.
Not long after, I had tried the key on pretty much every locked thing I could find. The shed, the side gate, even old cupboards I knew were empty. I even had the courage to ask you one time about what the key unlocked. I remember you stiffened, as if the question pressed up against something bruised inside of you. For the rest of that day, you disappeared from time to time, spending time in your bedroom with the door left slightly ajar, almost inviting me in but still keeping me at a distance.
As I grew older, the space between us widened in ways I couldn’t articulate, and the key slipped quietly out of my mind. We didn’t suddenly grow apart, more like a slow, gentle drift. The kind you only notice once you are standing somewhere unfamiliar. You moved through the house like someone half-present, drifting between warmth and withdrawal. You were tired in ways I didn’t have words for, a deep exhaustion that lived behind your eyes. One afternoon you sat beside me on the couch, brushing my hair behind my ear the way you used to, and for a moment I felt the version of you I missed. As quick as it appeared, it vanished. I could see you were trying, but the detachment from reality was starting to show.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Personal Journeys
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 95%: The key. I found the key by accident, buried beneath takeaway menus and rubber bands in the kitchen drawer, its…
The key.
I found the key by accident, buried beneath takeaway menus and rubber bands in the kitchen drawer, its brass surface cool from being hidden from the sun. I remember holding it up to you, expecting a story; instead, you froze for a moment before forcing a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. You told me to leave it be, your voice too sharp for an object so small. I didn’t understand why your hand lingered on the drawer as if steadying yourself.
Back then, I only saw the fun parts of you. The humming while you cooked, the catchy TV-ad tunes you would sing under your breath, the way you would tap my shoulder twice to make me laugh. So, I mistook your tension for mystery, not fear, not pain. I still miss those times: when you picked me up from school with a snack waiting for me when I got in the car, the comforting dinners you would prepare while I sat on the counter, both a giggling mess as you cooked. Sometimes you would point out girls on TV you would see, noticing them as cute. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. You were so at ease then, or at least you made it look that way. I didn’t know then that peacefulness and ease can be performed.
I imagined how the key would open treasure chests or secret passageways that were imbedded in the wall, anything except the truth you were trying so hard to keep tucked away behind closed doors. Even now when I think of that moment, I can still feel the weight of the key in my palm, light enough for a child to carry, heavy enough to change everything later.
The distances.
Not long after, I had tried the key on pretty much every locked thing I could find. The shed, the side gate, even old cupboards I knew were empty. I even had the courage to ask you one time about what the key unlocked. I remember you stiffened, as if the question pressed up against something bruised inside of you. For the rest of that day, you disappeared from time to time, spending time in your bedroom with the door left slightly ajar, almost inviting me in but still keeping me at a distance.
As I grew older, the space between us widened in ways I couldn’t articulate, and the key slipped quietly out of my mind. We didn’t suddenly grow apart, more like a slow, gentle drift. The kind you only notice once you are standing somewhere unfamiliar. You moved through the house like someone half-present, drifting between warmth and withdrawal. You were tired in ways I didn’t have words for, a deep exhaustion that lived behind your eyes. One afternoon you sat beside me on the couch, brushing my hair behind my ear the way you used to, and for a moment I felt the version of you I missed. As quick as it appeared, it vanished. I could see you were trying, but the detachment from reality was starting to show.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Personal Journeys
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 97.5%: The key. I found the key by accident, buried beneath takeaway menus and rubber bands in the kitchen drawer,…
The key.
I found the key by accident, buried beneath takeaway menus and rubber bands in the kitchen drawer, its brass surface cool from being hidden from the sun. I remember holding it up to you, expecting a story; instead, you froze for a moment before forcing a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. You told me to leave it be, your voice too sharp for an object so small. I didn’t understand why your hand lingered on the drawer as if steadying yourself.
Back then, I only saw the fun parts of you. The humming while you cooked, the catchy TV-ad tunes you would sing under your breath, the way you would tap my shoulder twice to make me laugh. So, I mistook your tension for mystery, not fear, not pain. I still miss those times: when you picked me up from school with a snack waiting for me when I got in the car, the comforting dinners you would prepare while I sat on the counter, both a giggling mess as you cooked. Sometimes you would point out girls on TV you would see, noticing them as cute. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. You were so at ease then, or at least you made it look that way. I didn’t know then that peacefulness and ease can be performed.
I imagined how the key would open treasure chests or secret passageways that were imbedded in the wall, anything except the truth you were trying so hard to keep tucked away behind closed doors. Even now when I think of that moment, I can still feel the weight of the key in my palm, light enough for a child to carry, heavy enough to change everything later.
The distances.
Not long after, I had tried the key on pretty much every locked thing I could find. The shed, the side gate, even old cupboards I knew were empty. I even had the courage to ask you one time about what the key unlocked. I remember you stiffened, as if the question pressed up against something bruised inside of you. For the rest of that day, you disappeared from time to time, spending time in your bedroom with the door left slightly ajar, almost inviting me in but still keeping me at a distance.
As I grew older, the space between us widened in ways I couldn’t articulate, and the key slipped quietly out of my mind. We didn’t suddenly grow apart, more like a slow, gentle drift. The kind you only notice once you are standing somewhere unfamiliar. You moved through the house like someone half-present, drifting between warmth and withdrawal. You were tired in ways I didn’t have words for, a deep exhaustion that lived behind your eyes. One afternoon you sat beside me on the couch, brushing my hair behind my ear the way you used to, and for a moment I felt the version of you I missed. As quick as it appeared, it vanished. I could see you were trying, but the detachment from reality was starting to show.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The title is 'Finding My Way', and the…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: We are, by nature, tempted to cling onto the past which seem familiar to us, however personal growth demands…
We are, by nature, tempted to cling onto the past which seem familiar to us, however personal growth demands the painful separation of the past. Let me paint you an example, the story of a little boy who was talented in the arts of singing, becoming famous at the age of just 11 years old. However, he was raised under a strict regimen by his father in which forced him to play alongside his brothers. In order to find his own way in his musical career he had to leave the comfort of his family home
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Personal Journeys
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 92.5%: The key. I found the key by accident, buried beneath takeaway menus and rubber bands in the kitchen drawer,…
The key.
I found the key by accident, buried beneath takeaway menus and rubber bands in the kitchen drawer, its brass surface cool from being hidden from the sun. I remember holding it up to you, expecting a story; instead, you froze for a moment before forcing a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. You told me to leave it be, your voice too sharp for an object so small. I didn’t understand why your hand lingered on the drawer as if steadying yourself.
Back then, I only saw the fun parts of you. The humming while you cooked, the catchy TV-ad tunes you would sing under your breath, the way you would tap my shoulder twice to make me laugh. So, I mistook your tension for mystery, not fear, not pain. I still miss those times: you picking me up from school with a snack waiting for me when I got in the car, the comforting dinners you would prepare while I sat on the counter, both a giggling mess as you cooked. Sometimes you would point out girls on TV you would see, noticing them as cute. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. You were so at ease then, or at least you made it look that way. I didn’t know then that peacefulness and ease can be performed.
I imagined how the key would open treasure chests or secret passageways that emerged from the wall, anything except the truth you were trying so hard to keep tucked away behind closed doors. Even now when I think of that moment, I can still feel the weight of the key in my palm, light enough for a child to carry, heavy enough to change everything later.
The distances.
Not long after, I had tried the key on pretty much every locked thing I could find. The shed, the side gate, even old cupboards I knew were empty. I even had the courage to ask you one time about what the key unlocked. I remember you stiffened, as if the question pressed up against something bruised inside of you. For the rest of that day, you disappeared from time to time, spending time in your bedroom with the door left slightly ajar, almost inviting me in but still keeping me at a distance.
As I grew older, the space between us widened in ways I couldn’t articulate, and the key slipped quietly out of my mind. We didn’t suddenly grow apart, more like a slow, gentle drift. The kind you only notice once you are standing somewhere unfamiliar. You moved through the house like someone half-present, drifting between warmth and withdrawal. You were tired in ways I didn’t have words for, a deep exhaustion that lived behind your eyes. One afternoon you sat beside me on the couch, brushing my hair behind my ear the way you used to, and for a moment I felt the version of you I missed. As quick as it appeared, it vanished. I could see you were trying, but the detachment from reality was starting to show.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Personal Journeys
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 90%: The key. I found the key by accident, buried beneath takeaway menus and rubber bands in the kitchen drawer, its…
The key.
I found the key by accident, buried beneath takeaway menus and rubber bands in the kitchen drawer, its brass surface cool from being hidden from the sun. I remember holding it up to you, expecting a story; instead, you froze for a moment before forcing a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. You told me to leave it be, your voice too sharp for an object so small. I didn’t understand why your hand lingered on the drawer as if steadying yourself.
Back then, I only saw the fun parts of you. The humming while you cooked, the catchy TV-ad tunes you would sing under your breath, the way you would tap my shoulder twice to make me laugh. So, I mistook your tension for mystery, not fear, not pain. I still miss those times: you picking me up from school with a snack waiting for me when I got in the car, the comforting dinners you would prepare while I sat on the counter, both a giggling mess as you cooked. Sometimes you would point out girls on TV you would see, noticing them as cute. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. You were so at ease then, or at least you made it look that way. I didn’t know then that peacefulness and ease can be performed.
I imagined how the key would open treasure chests or secret passageways that emerged from the wall, anything except the truth you were trying so hard to keep tucked away behind closed doors. Even now when I think of that moment, I can still feel the weight of the key in my palm, light enough for a child to carry, heavy enough to change everything later.
The distances.
Not long after, I had tried the key on pretty much every locked thing I could find. The shed, the side gate, even old cupboards I knew were empty. I even had the courage to ask you one time about what the key unlocked. I remember you stiffened, as if the question pressed up against something bruised inside of you. For the rest of that day, you disappeared from time to time, spending time in your bedroom with the door left slightly ajar, almost inviting me in but still keeping me at a distance.
As I grew older, the space between us widened in ways I couldn’t articulate, and the key slipped quietly out of my mind. We didn’t suddenly grow apart, more like a slow, gentle drift. The kind you only notice once you are standing somewhere unfamiliar. You moved through the house like someone half-present, drifting between warmth and withdrawal. You were tired in ways I didn’t have words for, a deep exhaustion that lived behind your eyes. One afternoon you sat beside me on the couch, brushing my hair behind my ear the way you used to, and for a moment I felt the version of you I missed. As quick as it appeared, it vanished. I could see you were trying, but the detachment from reality was starting to show.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Craft a memoir that explores a moment…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 70%: Winter Break Playing basketball is my happy place. Where I go when I need to relax or quell my hurricane of…
Winter Break
Playing basketball is my happy place. Where I go when I need to relax or quell my hurricane of thoughts and emotions. The spot I play out the front of my house, where the swish of the ball through the chain net and the splash of warm colours across the sky at sunset calms me like no other. I love sport, especially footy, and I dream of one day making it to the AFL. If only I knew that my love would be taken away from me for the rest of that year.
My footy team was playing in a qualifying final, a win meant we would be in the grand final. It was a cold and bitter Sunday morning. It was a tough game. Despite leading for the whole game, one kick from the opposition sealed their two point win. We were devastated, now having to play and win again to reach the Grand Final. I was crushed, blaming myself for the loss, thinking it was all my fault. "What could I have done differently?" I asked myself, going through the game in my head over and over again and finding a million mistakes.
The rest of the week wasn't any better. I was still dissapointed in myself and the loss, despite my parents constant reassurance, saying that it
wasn't my fault, and that "there was always next week". At school on Wednesday I had 3 tests. I felt like I'd failed them all. When I got home, I decided to play some basketball. Just me and the ball. It was a nice night, we were at the end of Winter, so the air was warming up and the sun was hanging around for a little longer.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: NOTE! This is VCE English Literature,…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 90%: The night carried its own breathing. Slow and hot through the cracked fly screen, through the walls swollen…
The night carried its own breathing. Slow and hot through the cracked fly screen, through the walls swollen with summer, through the dark belly of Prosperous, where everything creaked like it remembered something before me. I lay still because it felt safer. I had always been all movement before. August used to laugh, said I danced like country moved through me. But not that night, that night, I folded myself small, because small things survive easier.
Outside, the gum trees scratched at the sky. Country was awake. I could feel it listening.
I remember thinking of August then. Funny thing. Not God, not home, not dancing. Just August, as if it were her curled in the bed beside me, her sharp knees, cracked skin and tangled hair, soft breaths passing through her mouth, whispering unheard pleas to hold on. Sometimes I’d imagine it was her hand twisted in the back of my shirt, her holding onto me, begging me not to disappear into the night… It was too late by then. I’d already started to leave. Not suddenly, not all at once. I felt myself loosen from the room, from the sweat-soaked sheets and pressing heat on my chest. Drawn upwards, strange and weightless, looking down at the girl still behind. I followed her now, as he carried her out into the night, one dark shadow carrying another through the fields she used to run through. I followed him as he tore his way towards the peppercorn trees the little girl and her sister used to climb, as he disappeared behind the invasive crop marking foreign men’s claim over land her ancestors lived, breathed and cared for. I stopped in that moment, looking past the uncanny pair, looking for something I couldn’t place, yet knowing I wouldn’t find it there. Country surrounded me in this moment, dampening what I faintly felt far away, dulling it through the dried eucalyptus leaves clapping, the thirsty mulch cracking under the heavy footfall of that shadow. My eyes found the sky in this moment, raptured by the giwang, the crescent moon, which shined light on acts not meant for waking hours, not worth hopeless bunba-nha attempts. It was in this moment, as my eyes searched the ink black mulaa, I felt myself slipping. Not away, but up. Towards ngulagambilanha. Towards home. The noises slipped away first, quelled by an overwhelming silence, comforting, wrapping around me like a blanket. I didn’t fight it, I took the edges of it, folding the night sky around me like a quilt, tucking my entire body around it, hiding. I look down from here, safe. I saw the asphalt covered by potholes, neglected by a government too far east to pretend to care. I saw the two properties, facing each other, waving. I saw the darkness shrouding the houses, spare one ngalgarra streaming from the upstairs attic. Where August, no doubt, lay awake, dreaming of more things to whisper to Princess Diana over cassette tapes long since spun out. I felt my dhulubang pull towards this ngalgarra now, like a magnet. A brolga perched high among the peppermint trees, long legs bent awkward against the branches, claws dug deep into bark older than fences and property lines. Moonlight silvered its feathers. It turned its neck slowly towards the empty air.
Towards me.
And for the first time that night, I felt seen.
Years later, August walked the same paddocks with Joey beside her, boots sinking into the soft grooves left by cattle and potato beds, following the blackened path towards the protestors where voices carried thin over the smoking fields. Beyond them, the drill stood ugly against the horizon, its metal spine trailing to a spiked mouth pointing at Wiradjuri country like it couldn’t feel what sat beneath it.
August kept her eyes ahead.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: In defence of play
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: To those who can’t wait to grow up, I understand the feeling, the excitement of what’s next, the urge to move…
To those who can’t wait to grow up,
I understand the feeling, the excitement of what’s next, the urge to move forward, the belief that the future will be bigger, brighter and more beautiful. That’s exactly how I used to feel. But what I didn’t realise is that I would lose something just as valuable, my sense of play. So that’s why I’m writing to you all today, in defence of play. You don’t realise it’s happening, but slowly your playful spirit dissipates and the way you see the world is not the same. That’s something I didn’t quite understand when I was younger.
I still remember the first time I truly felt it, many years ago when we first moved to the big city. Back when I was just a little boy exploring my new home, with the world in his hands. The city pulsed beneath my feet alive with the sounds of life, love and laughter. To me it wasn’t just streets and buildings, it was a playground waiting to be explored. Tall trees surrounded me like silent sentinels while the lush green bushes shimmered in the golden sunlight. Even the grass was soft, it was as if nature had laid out a cozy blanket just for me. But even as I took it all in, a part of me assumed I would always feel this way.