VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Gender Double Standards: Use sarcasm,…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: We had the careers expo today. You know, the day when teachers pretend that they actually care about what we…
We had the careers expo today. You know, the day when teachers pretend that they actually care about what we want to do with our lives. I already know what I want to do anyway.
“What would you like to do once you leave school?” She turned to my guy friend first. A surgeon, he replied. I knew he’d do great at it. He’d been dreaming about this for a while now. The teacher smiles, and I swear she looked like a child opening gifts on Christmas. Like he’s just discovered the cure for cancer.
I say I want to work at a high-profile magazine. Be the editor-in-chief. I can already picture it. Skyline view from my office. Coffee on my desk. Writing articles about the things I’m passionate about. What could be better than that? Apparently anything, according to her face.
I’ve seen that look. I know that look. That small crease formed between her brows, her lips curling slightly. “Isn’t that a hard career to get into?” Excuse me? That’s a joke right? I must’ve missed the part in the script where becoming a surgeon was as easy as buying a new shirt.
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 · Language Analysis
Language Analysis: oral essay
VCE Language Analysis essay scoring 85%: Imagine explaining to the family of a terror victim that the people who willingly aligned themselves with one…
Imagine explaining to the family of a terror victim that the people who willingly aligned themselves with one of the most barbaric organisations in modern history deserve another chance.
Imagine telling Australians that after years of extremist propaganda, public executions, sexual slavery, and mass murder, the appropriate response is not distance — but reintegration.
Because that is exactly what Australia is now being asked to accept.
A woman boards a flight to Syria in 2014. She leaves behind the freedoms, laws, and protections of Australia to willingly enter territory controlled by ISIS — an organisation built upon torture, executions, and terror.
Years later, after the collapse of the caliphate, she asks to come home.
And Australia says yes.
Why?
Why should a nation bear responsibility for individuals who consciously abandoned it in favour of an extremist regime that declared war against Western democracy itself?
Australia should not repatriate individuals linked to terrorist organisations such as ISIS because doing so compromises national security, weakens moral accountability, and prioritises emotional idealism over the safety and trust of the Australian public.
Firstly, repatriating ISIS-linked individuals creates an avoidable national security risk.
Supporters of repatriation argue that these women and their families can be monitored, rehabilitated, and reintegrated into society. On paper, that sounds reasonable. In reality, it is dangerously optimistic.
Extremist ideology does not disappear the moment someone boards a return flight.
Counter-terrorism experts across Europe have repeatedly warned that radicalisation can persist for years after individuals leave conflict zones. According to the International Centre for Counter-Terrorism, many returnees continue to hold extremist beliefs long after physical involvement ends.
And Australia already understands the consequences of radical extremism.
The Lindt Café siege. The Bourke Street attack. Numerous disrupted plots uncovered by ASIO.
These attacks were not carried out by armies. They were carried out by individuals.
History repeatedly proves that large-scale terror often begins with a single radicalised person operating at the exact moment security systems fail.
It only takes one.
One person avoiding rehabilitation. One person spreading extremist ideology online. One person slipping through surveillance systems.
And despite political assurances, surveillance is not flawless. Monitoring high-risk individuals requires enormous intelligence resources, staffing, and funding over long periods of time.
So why would Australia voluntarily increase that burden?
A government’s first responsibility is not appearing compassionate on the international stage. Its first responsibility is protecting its citizens.
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 · Text Response
Text Response: It is a text response to the 1950 film…
VCE Text Response essay scoring 85%: Intro Wilders 1950's film of Sunset Boulevard is an acerbic and dark expose' of the dark side of Hollywood. Set in…
Intro
Wilders 1950's film of Sunset Boulevard is an acerbic and dark expose' of the dark side of Hollywood. Set in a post-war America at the peak of commercialisation and materialism, Wilder sets his criticism at the industry through the display of the power of men in the industry and its misogynistic tendancies. Through its treatment of its female stars aftering age, Wilder exposes the misogynistic roots of Hollywood and how ingrained it is in the industry, he also shows the ability and power of men to entrap their female stars in a web of lies and false dreams. However, simultaneously, Wilder displays the femme fatale characteristics of women and how they can use their power to lead men to their eventual downfall.
To begin with, Wilder seeks to establish the misogynistic roots of the Hollywood industry in how they mistreat their female stars. This is displayed in the character of Norma Desmond, and how an "army of beauty experts infiltrated her mansion", the word "infiltrated" being used to describe an invasion or uncontrollable force that comes to haunt Norma Desmond.
BPI
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.