VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The end justifies
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: In this society we are obsessed with the scoreboard. We measure success through change, and clinical language…
In this society we are obsessed with the scoreboard. We measure success through change, and clinical language such as “bills passed”, “legislation enacted”, “second reading”. By this criteria, the events of June 5th 1989 were a immense failure. The tanks didn’t turn back, the government stayed the same and the silence that followed shaped protest today. But this was a shallow highlight of the end goal. A protest is never truly unsuccessful if it disrupts the complicity of silence for the act of defiance itself serves as permanent moral record that power can ignore but never erase.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Oppression
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: Throughout the entirety of my almost 16 years of life, all I’ve ever cared about is what my father thought of…
Throughout the entirety of my almost 16 years of life, all I’ve ever cared about is what my father thought of me. Every single perfect grade and measly plastic award I’d ever received was to impress him. I am performer who forgot the show had ended, trapped in a costume of success that wasn’t even for the crowd, but the ringmaster himself. I have mistaken his pride for my own purpose. I don’t know why I adore his validation so much. Is it because I am so afraid of his disappointment? Or is it because without my shackles of perfection, I wouldn’t even have a purpose?
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Oppression
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: Throughout the entirety of my almost 16 years of life, all I’ve ever cared about is what my father thought of…
Throughout the entirety of my almost 16 years of life, all I’ve ever cared about is what my father thought of me. Every single perfect grade and measly plastic award I’d ever received was to impress him. I am performer who forgot the show had ended, trapped in a costume of success that wasn’t even for the crowd, but the ringmaster himself. I have mistaken his pride for my own purpose. I don’t know why I adore his validation so much. Is it because I am so afraid of his disappointment? Or is it because without my shackles of perfection, I wouldn’t even have a purpose?
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The title is "This is me", and the…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 70%: 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.
We are, by nature, fascinated by the possibility of uncovering a pre-existing self that reflects our perceived authentic selves and, in turn, inspires others. There is rampant admiration in society for those who pursue an innate interest and then polish it and distil it until it becomes highly noteworthy. Additionally, those who succeed in pursuing their innate interests serve as examples of self-actualisation and authenticity. Whether it be the late Steve Jobs or the current titan that is Elon Musk, we admire their embodiment of the self-actualisation concept: the notion that one can uncover their “true” self and transform it into greatness. Viewing their personal success from rags to riches, it draws us to attempt to copy the same formula. Thus, in our lifelong search for an identity, we often look up to seemingly untouchable role models and wish to simply declare, “This is me”. Yet society frequently romanticises the end product while neglecting the arduous refinement process that precedes it. Crafting an identity worthy of pride is rarely immediate; rather, it is shaped through continual decisions, setbacks and moments of uncertainty. This reality is often obscured by social media, where sensationalised highlights conceal the struggles and failures underpinning personal growth. Fantastical stories such as those from Roald Dahl’s Willy Wonka or Matilda continue to enrapture modern audiences decades after release because they reflect humanity’s enduring desire to overcome adversity and realise an authentic self. At the same time, it is crucial to recognise that crafting a version of ourselves worthy of pride is often a long and arduous process of refinement, a personal journey marked by both progress and regression. Nonetheless, whether it be through fictional escapism or modern entrepreneurial success stories, society remains captivated by the pursuit of authenticity while overlooking the long and imperfect journey required to attain it.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The title is "This is me", and the…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: There is a prevailing misconception that a belief or intention in one’s own self defines one's identity;…
There is a prevailing misconception that a belief or intention in one’s own self defines one's identity; however, in reality, it is only the consistent habits and experiences that shape us over time. In a world most commonly associated with self-actualisation, it is easy to claim values and aspirations without inserting them into daily life. People often define themselves by what they hope to achieve rather than by the actions they repeatedly undertake. However, identity is not shaped by what we want to do but by what we repeatedly do on a daily basis in our lives. Each action, no matter how minor or seemingly insignificant, leads to a gradual accumulation of behaviours that solidify into character. Even atomic habits, though small in isolation, possess the power to create profound long-term change when practised continuously. Reinforcing how an identity is proactively crafted through a progression of habits, rather than being passively discovered. One example is the American author and activist Helen Keller, who, despite being born blind and deaf, developed a
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: title: speak up stimulus: “In the end,…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: Speak UP Fellow delegates, we gather here today, beneath bright lights and polished marble, where every voice…
Speak UP
Fellow delegates, we gather here today, beneath bright lights and polished marble, where every voice is heard: amplified through microphones and broadcast across nations. Meanwhile, Afghan women write their resistance in disappearing ink, because mere visibility is now a life threatening act. Women are being legislated into silence with terrifying precision, yet we, who are not silenced, are choosing not to speak.
In Afghanistan, to be voiceless is not simply to remain unheard, it is to exist in a society designed to silence your thoughts. To have your most powerful weapon of resistance and expression denied, being unable to speak up for your own human rights.
Afghan women once possessed freedoms, that now, seem unfathomable. Classrooms are filled with debate, now collect dust. Voices once celebrated, have been stolen and degraded: ripped from the throats of Afghan women. The Taliban's uncodified interpretation of Islamic law and rigid restrictions, following their regained authority in August of 2021, is not merely religion, but seeks to impose something far more dangerous: to persecute and erase female autonomy. And they're already there. If we do not speak up now, this catastrophe will only worsen. Inaction is the allower of injustice.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The title "It is a maze", and the…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: Good Morning Everyone, Life is ultimately complex, no matter the worldviews, in fact 'it is a maze', in which…
Good Morning Everyone, Life is ultimately complex, no matter the worldviews, in fact 'it is a maze', in which individuals take a path which makes them who they are. This is what makes us so special as independent beings, we are not only a thing but a sum of the choices we chosen in the maze of life. How an individual goes through the path is crucial as it requires patience in order to not be lost. Additionally, we must be aware of other opportunities and pathways in life to further deepen our understanding of our own self. But ultimately, the path an individual takes on the maze of life, crafts their identity.
Often, our very human nature in the present is determined by what worldview or pathway we have taken in the maze of life. As this pathway contains specific challenges that are experienced by an individual which continuously moulds their identity, long after the journey ends. One pivotal example is the novel A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens in which its main character Scrooge is depicted as a grumpy old man full of avarice and fixated on business and making money. He chose to focus on his business instead of being genuine and showing generosity, leading to the his present self in the novel. Dickens shows how when an individual takes a path in life, it's nearly impossible to see in the opposite as they become ingrained in their identity has been moulded by their singular pathway. Thus, Dickens character of Scrooge shows how choosing a path in the maze of life makes an individual in the crafting of their identity.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The title "It is a maze", and the…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 90%: Life rarely unfolds in a straight line. Instead, it resembles a maze: filled with wrong turns, uncertain…
Life rarely unfolds in a straight line. Instead, it resembles a maze: filled with wrong turns, uncertain crossroads and pathways that force individuals to constantly reconsider who they are becoming. Yet society continues to promote the comforting illusion that somewhere within this maze exists a fixed and authentic self simply waiting to be discovered. From a young age, we are encouraged to “find ourselves”, as though identity is hidden at the centre of life’s labyrinth, patiently awaiting revelation. However, perhaps this belief is flawed. Identity is not discovered but constructed through the choices individuals make as they navigate the maze before them. The paths we follow, the habits we cultivate and the obstacles we overcome gradually shape our sense of self over time. As we stand on the threshold of adulthood, we are not searching for a final version of ourselves, but learning how to move through uncertainty with greater understanding. Ultimately, knowing both the paths we have travelled and the countless ones still left to take allows us to recognise that identity is never fixed, but continuously evolving.
Humanity has always been fascinated by the belief that somewhere within life’s maze lies a singular “true self” waiting to be uncovered. Society admires those who appear to have discovered the “correct” path and transformed it into greatness. Figures such as Steve Jobs and Elon Musk are frequently celebrated as embodiments of self-actualisation, individuals who seemingly uncovered their authentic passions and followed a direct route towards success. Observing their rise from obscurity to immense influence encourages others to believe that identity is simply a matter of discovering one destined pathway through the maze. Yet society romanticises the destination while ignoring the countless dead ends, uncertainties and setbacks that shaped their journeys. Rarely is identity crafted instantly; rather, it emerges gradually through continual decisions, failures and moments of self-doubt. This reality is often obscured by social media, where polished highlights conceal the confusion and hardship underpinning personal growth. Fantastical stories such as Roald Dahl’s Charlie and the Chocolate Factory and Matilda continue to captivate audiences because they reflect humanity’s enduring desire to escape adversity and discover a place where one truly belongs. However, these stories also reveal that personal fulfilment is never reached without struggle. Like travellers attempting to navigate an intricate labyrinth, individuals are inevitably confronted by wrong turns and uncertainty before finding clarity. Thus, society remains captivated by the pursuit of authenticity while overlooking the long and imperfect maze individuals must traverse to shape themselves into someone they are proud to become.
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