VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Against the current
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 82.5%: Title: Against the current I’ve been keeping something from everyone, a secret that goes against the current.…
Title: Against the current
I’ve been keeping something from everyone, a secret that goes against the current.
The spare seat beside me has a name, it doesn’t belong to anyone dead or alive, it’s Maron’s seat, and she takes up exactly the right amount of space.
Class ends the same way every Friday with chairs scraping, bag zipping, door creaking from right to left, others running out the school door laughing. I'm always the one that stays behind, watching their backs.
I watch their heads out the windows as they cross the oval, four of them, already laughing at something I can't hear. I feel a familiar tightening in my throat that I have learnt to breathe around, a faint choke.
“They just forgot,” Maron says, already knowing what I need to hear. “That’s all it was.”
I nod and move my pencil case from the left side of the desk to the right side, then to the right to the left, then back, then left again.
Through the window, they have reached the school's gate and the tall one is doing an impression of someone. I can tell by the way others are watching her, waiting for the punchline and when it lands they all burst out laughing at the same time.
I know them all separately. I have been in enough classes with them to know which one is the loudest, which one comes late, which one tells the most tales. The void of silence surrounding me forces me to eavesdrop, collecting details about people who don't know a single detail about me. That is the kind of knowledge that accumulates whether you want it or not, like the way damp gets into walls.
“You wouldn't have wanted to go anyway,” says Maron ”you don't even like them that much.”
This is the most dishonest thing she has ever said to me and I let it stand. I let it fill the space in my chest where the wanting is, like packing something into a wound, then move my pencil case from the left side of the desk to the right side.
Outside, the tall one is making another impression and I’m getting curious, so I push the window open, just enough to hear them. The hinge creaks, then her voice comes through, then the punchline, then all four of them fold at once.
Suddenly it comes out before I can stop it, a laugh. I press my hand over my mouth but it is already out, and it lands nowhere, on no one, the way things do when you are the only one in the room.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Personal Journeys
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 100%: As a child, I looked up to my father as if he were something immovable, a tall statue set firmly on its…
As a child, I looked up to my father as if he were something immovable, a tall statue set firmly on its pedestal, carved from something stronger than the rest of us. He was steady, reliable, unbreakable. Around him, conversation felt careful, something measured before spoken. I learnt quickly how to soften my words, how to swallow opinions before they became disagreements. At the time, I mistook that caution for respect, believing my silence was the very thing that kept the peace.
But as I grew older, that carefulness began to feel less like respect and more like fear. I remember the way the air would shift if I dropped a fork or spoke too loudly; the atmosphere would turn sharp and brittle in an instant. Silence stopped feeling like a choice and became a weight I carried everywhere, a shadow that trailed me long after the moments of tension had passed.
“You’ve parked too far from the shop,” I said, my voice louder than I intended. His lips pressed into a thin line, and I immediately hesitated. “It’s a bit far… but it’s fine.” He went completely still, jaw locked, eyes fixed, not a flicker of movement, like something carved rather than living. The same stillness I once mistook for strength pressed in on me now. My chest tightened. I went silent again. “You don’t need to make a thing out of it.” He gestured to the car, its grey body parked there, a weight that followed me even as I walked away. “You weren’t this difficult before,” he said. I didn't respond, just silently walked beside him as my jaw clenched and eyes burned. The words curdled into a bitter seed at the base of my tongue; I swallowed it whole, letting it take root in the pit of my stomach. The silence branched out, a thorned thicket that snagged every new thought before it could reach the surface, pulling them back down and whispering that my voice was a useless thing.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: "As we move toward a future defined by…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 75%: "As we move toward a future defined by artificial intelligence and biological enhancement, the line between…
"As we move toward a future defined by artificial intelligence and biological enhancement, the line between 'man' and 'machine' is beginning to blur. If we can code our personalities and replace our flaws with algorithms, do we risk losing the very thing that makes us human? In the world of tomorrow, is 'perfection' actually our greatest threat?"
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Resistance
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 82.5%: Version 2 hybrid essay - manifesto type thing The air in Washington, D.C., that August wasn't just hot; it…
Version 2 hybrid essay - manifesto type thing
The air in Washington, D.C., that August wasn't just hot; it was heavy, thick with the collective breath of two hundred and fifty thousand souls. I, a small child, only 6 years old, was lost in a sprawling sea of mahogany and denim. But I remember the vibration of it. It wasn't the sound of the speeches that I felt first, but the sound of the feet; it was a rhythmic, relentless tide of footsteps that seemed to hum through the very pavement of the National Mall. My mother’s grip on my hand was an unwavering anchor that tethered me to her, while her other hand reached out to a stranger, one who looked nothing like her, but we were all intertwined on that day.
In that moment, standing in the sun-scorched edge of the reflecting pool. I didn't see protestors or activists. I saw a unified group of my fellow people, an unflinching human chain. It was a physical manifestation of solidarity, a living proof that when the state's actions contradict the conscience of the individual, the only path to self-preservation is to stand together. We were there to demand that the government stop acting in our name to uphold a system of segregation. It was the first time I understood that resistance isn't just a political strategy; instead, it is a moral requirement.
Today, as I sit in my Melbourne home and watch the flickering blue light of a new generation’s digital frontlines, I see that same magnitude of spirit. I see the same 'human chain' forming, though its links are now forged in digital solidarity rather than sweat and touch. But I also see a growing, dangerous silence, a silence that is not passive; it is curated, fed by those who benefit most from your forgetting. I am writing this in the wake of George Floyd's death. Watching the world erupt in response to those nine minutes of agonizing injustice, I realized that the arc of the moral universe we thought we were bending in 1963 is still being contested on every street corner and every digital feed. The cry of "I can't breathe" in the 21st century is the same suffocating silence we fought six decades ago. This is my response to that cry, an old woman's plea to the young: do not let silence return.
The anatomy of defiance
Resistance, I have learned does not announce itself only in the form of marches and demonstrations. It lives equally in the quiet stubborn refusal to comply, in the choice to speak a truth that makes your own voice tremble because silence would be so much safer. When my mother and I stood at the 'reflecting pool' I felt that gravitational pull Martin Luther King spoke of: that invisible force that draws a thousand isolated heartaches, into a single, shared purpose. King's assertion that we all have a "moral responsibility to disobey unjust laws" was more than simply a quote to us; it was a splinter under the skin. It stripped away the comfortable passivity of being a bystander and deposited it, unasked for, at our feet.
If King provided the moral framework, Rosa Parks offered the visceral truth. Her refusal to surrender her seat in 1955 was neither a whim, nor a minor defiance; it was a categorical repudiation of an absurd system-a quiet determination that finally lit the fuse of a movement. Yet, Parks offered us the power of clarity. Malcolm X demanded the power of volume. He knew a fundamental truth that many of you are learning today: power does not yield to those who whisper. Noise-whether it is a chant in the street or a viral video on your screen-forces a reckoning. It compels those in authority to confront the very ugliness they would prefer to overlook. But do not be fooled into thinking that resistance is only found on podiums or at the front of a march. It filters into the intimate, messy spaces of your daily lives. The debates you have at your dinner tables, the assumptions you challenge in your classrooms, the arguments unfolding across your Instagram feeds are not trivial day-to-day interactions; these help…(need to edit in )For change. Every assumption you fracture in your own circle represents a crack in the architecture of oppression. You are not just talking, you are dismantling.
When art becomes the weapon of resistance
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Moments that matter Stimulus: enjoy…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: Moments that matter Wednesdays were my least favourite day. Wednesdays were tedious. Wednesdays were torturous.…
Moments that matter
Wednesdays were my least favourite day.
Wednesdays were tedious.
Wednesdays were torturous.
Wednesdays were the day when I would be corralled by my parents into the dingy, stale hallway of my Chinese tutor. Sporting her long hair and high-collared black top and charcoal trousers, she was more like a drill sergeant and less like a teacher. She would crouch over me, her garlic breath suffocating me as she barked. Her hands were locked behind her back as she paced back and forth across the room.
Two hours. 120 minutes of imprisonment. Nothing could dissuade my parents from rounding me up and delivering me to my Chinese teacher. I felt like a sacrificial lamb! “Learning Chinese will benefit you. We regret not learning it!” My parents chanted each time I returned home sullenly. “But we live in Australia! We need to speak English! Mandarin is useless here!” I retorted, venomously.
As the weeks turned into months, my resentment built. Like a tsunami, it washed over me in violent waves. A chasm appeared. The distance between my parents and me built up. Yet they persisted. ‘It is what is best for you,’ they chanted evangelistically, like singing a hymn from a prayer book.
I dreaded the memorization of 20 characters a week, where they’d march into my weekends like an army. I dreaded the repetition of strokes where a line or dash too long would make the entire character lose its soul. I dreaded pronouncing homophones; they were traps for my tongue, where shuijiao- means sleep, but a breath lower meant water dumplings. There were even times where I cried out of frustration. Not only was the language a treacherous demand, but while all my other friends enjoyed their evenings in the sun, I was a prisoner to my desk, in my own home.
One day, my tutor had a more abrasive tone than usual,
“zhe shi shen me? Zai zuo yi bian!” What is this? Do it again!
I had done it. And again. And again.
I massaged my hands; they were stiff and sore. No matter how many times I did it, I could never satisfy her standards.
I despised the way she stood over me, watching carefully at every line I wrote, waiting for me to mess up. My throat tightened, making a
I glanced at the scissors across my desk, rush of bitterness surged through me. I reached for the scissors at an arm’s length. Took a portion of her hair and watched carefully as I slid my fingers into the holes of the scissors. The scissors ruthlessly sheared each strand of hair, each link I had to the language was being severed, like unlocking a key
It felt like freedom. I was released from my rigid Chinese lessons.
I would no longer have to hear my teacher bark “again!” and “again!” I had finally found the key to escape my prison
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: our Task: Create one unique text…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 75%: You just don’t get it. You never will get it because to society your normal and I’m not. You’re a human being…
You just don’t get it. You never will get it because to society your normal and I’m not. You’re a human being but I’m an animal. Scary and dangerous gangsters that’s all we are to you people. Its exhausting, the stereotypes, the abuse, the discrimination. The “its just a joke bro” till it’s not just a joke “bro”. And I’m not blaming just the racists but really everyone who stands back and allows Black people to be treated like peasants. ‘Being a bystander is just as bad as being the bully’, a lesson we’re taught in primary school.
But I guess the intolerance shown by White people has brought us closer together. I look at the community I live in and I’m surrounded by my brothers and sisters. Bonds formed not by blood but sympathy and shared struggles. A feeling of pure joy and warmth spreading over me when I’m with my people. That cosy comfort of knowing the people around you accept you and see you as equal, one that I pray will someday be experienced amongst all people no matter what you look like.
That day however is a long way away. Just yesterday I walked down the street and counted seven people staring and I promise it aint because I’m pretty. But its just dirty looks from strangers, surely I can get over it? Not let it affect me. But its more than a few looks, its people moving to the other side of the street when they see me coming, the backhanded compliments, “your smarter than I would have thought”, at the checkout being treated like a degenerate that just tried to steal something. It wears you down, gradually, and at some point your souls dies. Your left with no fight, no self-respect or morals. And then the heaven-sent Whites wonder why we act like feral animals pent up on hate and anger.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Written commentary for my previous piece
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: To me, place is an abstract concept that I explored through snippets in time, showing a connection to culture.…
To me, place is an abstract concept that I explored through snippets in time, showing a connection to culture. Place was represented through cultural elements such as music, foods and jewelry, which with the progression of the vignettes, started to become less frequent as the protagonist slowly lost touch with her roots, leaving a sense of emptiness in her identity. Place was explored as a place of indirect comfort through culture, that the protagonist only realised after she started feeling its absence. She felt nostalgic for a past and for a part of her she never indulged in freely, parts of life she “overlooked”, but after a disconnect, she looked back at those moments and felt regretful for not being more involved. I was particularly inspired by the third stimulus for this aspect, where I wrote that she was thinking back through flashbacks at moments she only vaguely remembered, evoking a sense of longing for what once was.
I intended my vignettes to resonate with immigrant teens, particularly those from a South Asian background. I felt this would help me write a piece I could truly connect with, being from said background, as the events told through my protagonist are moments I myself have lived through. I wanted to write a piece where I could reflect over the different moments that show a disconnect between a part of our lives we have known with a connection to our hearts, and our current reality, being away from home. In this sense, with my audience, I could truly reflect on the identity crises my protagonist felt, particularly in “neither from here, nor from there”, where she felt conflicted between where she felt she belonged when 2 of her worlds clashed together in a busy street.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Ive grown, i grow, im growing
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 60%: May 15th 2005. My mothers death date.
May 15th 2005. My mothers death date.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Postcodes and a place Stimulus is a…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 77.5%: Postcodes “There is another world, but it is in this one” - Sherman Alexie I was seeking an escape from the…
Postcodes
“There is another world, but it is in this one” - Sherman Alexie
I was seeking an escape from the mundane residential streets of Sunshine 3020. I gathered my friends and I let the wind guide our bicycles toward a quiet haven in the woods we stumbled upon: Lumber Co Cafe. It resided at Keilor East 3033, which was split into two parts, the boring residential area, and the mysterious woods which had boundless opportunities to explore. It starkly contrasts the bustling streets of Melbourne 3000, mingled with the industrial scents of the city. The air instead was much cleaner, and was much quieter with the streams of the river, than the streets of the city.
When we seek to explore, the bike trail leads the way as our bikes ride over gravel and sand, which makes us feel slow. The trail tries to challenge us while we casually talk about current trends on TikTok, or spot an unidentified object on the way. We encounter a field of golden plants that are gazed upon by the sunlight, and the undisturbed expanse. But it also reveals the trail we take. We go down a vigorous downhill, increasing our speed little by little, and the wind is all we hear. Our vision starts to become blurry and we have to concentrate, or else we fall off the trail into a bunch of plants and rocks. However, the trail tries to play tricks on us, by placing uphill sections once we finish traversing downhill. The uphills battle against us to tire our legs, but the uphills are no match for my friends and me. Eventually, the vast main entrance of the cafe is spotted.
This Cafe always feels nostalgic, even though we just went a couple of days ago. Unlike the busy and noisy streets of Melbourne, the peaceful vastness of the fields and the scent of water flowing down the Maribrynong River orchestrate a quiet harmony. For me, this Cafe belongs to only the 3 of us, as we are all free to do whatever the hell we want.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Postcodes and a place Stimulus is a…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 70%: Postcodes “There is another world, but it is in this one” - Sherman Alexie I was seeking an escape from the…
Postcodes
“There is another world, but it is in this one” - Sherman Alexie
I was seeking an escape from the mundane residential streets of Sunshine 3020. I gathered my friends and I let the wind guide our bicycles toward a quiet haven in the woods we stumbled upon: Lumber Co Cafe. It resided at Keilor East 3033, which was split into two parts, the boring residential area, and the mysterious woods which had boundless opportunities to explore. It starkly contrasts the bustling streets of Melbourne 3000, giving me a mixed smell of the industrial buildings. The air instead was much cleaner, and was much quieter with the streams of the river, than the streets of the city.
The trip to the Cafe commences, as the bike trail leads the way with gravel slowing us down. The trail tries to challenge us as we casually talk about current trends on Tiktok, or spot an unidentified object on the way. We encounter a field of golden plants which are gazed upon by the sunlight, and the undisturbed expanse. But it also reveals the trail we take. We go down a vigorous downhill, increasing our speed little by little, and the wind is all we hear, and what we see goes by so quickly, as concentration is key or we fall off the trail into a bunch of plants and rocks. However, the trail plays tricks on us, by placing uphill sections once we finish traversing downhill. The uphills battle against us to tire our legs, but it shows no match towards me and my friends. Eventually, the vast main entrance of the cafe is spotted.
This Cafe always feels nostalgic, even though we just went a couple of days ago. Unlike the busy and noisy streets of Melbourne, the peaceful vastness of the fields and the scent of water flowing down the Maribrynong river orchestrate a quiet harmony. For me, this Cafe belongs to only the 3 of us, as we are all free to do whatever the hell we want.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title ‘challenges’ ‘Life tests us in…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 95%: 1 year ago You stand on the green grass; the leaves of trees rub together in the gentle wind, sounding like…
1 year ago
You stand on the green grass; the leaves of trees rub together in the gentle wind, sounding like musical laughter, and suddenly the numbness in your chest morphs to anger. This field they buried her in is too peaceful to contain death. You feel rage at the golden words emblazoned on the gates; “Melbourne memorial garden” as if grief could be swept up like wisps in the breeze. You stand with your arms firmly wrapped around her mother, holding tighter with every rattling sob that passes, as if you could single-handedly stop the cascading torrent of grief . A soft string of Bangla pulls your attention, but the unfamiliar words slip from your mind like oil, as if it is too much for your head to hold the unfamiliar shapes and find a definition for them. You categorise the phrase as one of comfort as you feel the tension ease from the shoulders of your childhood best friend's mother, yet any solace aimed at you is lost in your inability to understand. A hand on your shoulder startles you—“Taslim, cha khao” (Taslim, have tea). The warmth of the cup placed in your hands soon feels too much; it mirrors the sting behind your tired, burning eyes. The scent of elach (cardamom), meant to comfort, instead feels overwhelming—too rich, too present. You have always been told, “Life tests in many ways,” but you never expected to be stripped so violently of a life full of vibrance, to be hollowed out until all that remains is a black, self-consuming hole.
*********
4 years before
The car rides with your Dadu (dad’s mum) had always been awkward. You would stare outside the window, having long given up trying to hold conversations with her. The sound of your dad chattering with her became reduced to a noise at the back of your head, each Bangla sentence too fast to be registered. Your breath would fog against the cool glass as you watched 2 magpies jumping around each other, and on the side, you noticed a lonely sparrow. You shifted uncomfortably against your seatbelt and let out a huff.
That’s how you felt when it came to Bangladeshi culture.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Title: Nostalgia, writing a series of…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 87.5%: Watan - homeland My eyes flit around the dark spaces inside the SUV. The car takes me through an unfamiliar…
Watan - homeland
My eyes flit around the dark spaces inside the SUV. The car takes me through an unfamiliar route, lit by fluorescent street lights bright like mini suns. I’ve never been here before — well, I have. I just haven’t travelled on this road at night. The streets are shrouded in pockets of black under the calm trees whispering with the wind. Night car drives are calming, but this one feels different. I can still smell the slight aroma of the biryani and kebabs we packed for our journey like always. The car still drives over the uneven asphalt, with an almost therapeutic rhythm. It feels familiar, like all the times I went with family.
This time I’m just not with family. I’m sitting in the middle seat between my brother on the left and my cousin on my right. I haven’t done this since I was 7. I can feel a weight in the air, weighing over us all, that my life is about to change drastically right before me. I know exactly why.
In a few hours, my family will send our loaded luggage through a conveyor and board a plane. We’re going to fly above everything I know of; my life will vanish right below my feet, and I’ll be in a completely new continent in 2 days.
The low hum of the engine as it drives over the highway registers as faint background noise. I reach up and feel for my earrings, a pair of glistening gold jhumkas shaped like bells, studded with rubies. I got these from a distant relative as an infant. Tradition in South Asian culture of passing down gold to their daughters. Though I never had an affinity for heavy jewelry, I always adored these pieces. They feel even heavier now, and I think about the small moments where I felt I had overlooked cultural elements in my life. Music playing at full volume at weddings I merely just watched from a distance at times, disturbed by the noise. Biting into a clove while eating my favorite dish and feeling momentarily disgusted by the taste before forgetting about it.
I look at my cousin and wonder whether my life here will also become just a memory like all the others. Whether I’ll feel disconnect and decide to bury them into a small corner of my mind, silenced. I feel uneasy now, the weight of what awaits me feels tantalizing.
Na hum idhar ke, na hum udhar ke - neither from here, nor from there
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Postcodes and a place Stimulus is a…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 70%: Postcodes “There is another world, but it is in this one” - Sherman Alexie I was seeking an escape from the…
Postcodes
“There is another world, but it is in this one” - Sherman Alexie
I was seeking an escape from the mundane residential streets of Sunshine 3020. I gathered my friends and I let the wind guide our bicycles toward a quiet haven in the woods we stumbled upon: Lumber Co Cafe. It resided at Keilor East 3033, which was split into two parts, the boring residential area, and the mysterious woods which had boundless opportunities to explore. It’s way more different than the bustling streets of Melbourne 3000, with people and the industrial and oily aroma, giving me a mixed smell. The air instead was much cleaner, and was much quieter with the streams of the river, than the streets of the city.
We go on to seek the destination, as the bike track is filled with gravel and bumpy sidetracks which slows us down, quite a challenge like a voyage against the vast sea. Although not tiring, it takes some time, as we casually talk about current trends on Tiktok, or spot an unidentified object on the way. We encounter a field of golden plants which are gazed upon by the sunlight, and the undisturbed expanse. But it also reveals the trail we take. We go down a vigorous downhill, increasing our speed little by little, and the wind is all we hear, and what we see goes by so quickly, as concentration is key or we fall off the trail into a bunch of plants and rocks. However, the trail plays tricks on us, by placing uphill sections once we finish traversing downhill. The uphills battle against us to tire our legs, but it shows no match to the muscular legs me and my friends have grown. Eventually, the vast main entrance of the cafe is spotted.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The power to change your life lies in…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 87.5%: On this evening, I struggled with the silence in my room, which used to be filled with happiness and clinks…
On this evening, I struggled with the silence in my room, which used to be filled with happiness and clinks of alcohol, gone. I wished I could go back, go back to the enjoyment of temporary pleasure and the wildness of poison. The very thing that brought me closer to the world seemed to have only distanced me further from myself. A simple yes would bring me closer to despair. In the end, I tried to fix what I shattered. Myself.
The taste of being a part of the community. The taste of partying was everlasting. Or so I thought. The fun, the freedom, the happiness was all I ever wanted, yet it made me feel trapped inside. That wasn’t as fun. Every day I find myself trying to reach for the bottle, the very bottle that broke me from the inside, the very bottle that would wither my soul away. Maybe it's impossible to defeat this, maybe I’ll never overcome this wall of temptation. But I can’t go back. I don’t think I ever will.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The shape of what remained
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 90%: May 2011 It's ok, everything is fine. Is what I told myself, knowing I was blatantly lying to not just those…
May 2011
It's ok, everything is fine.
Is what I told myself, knowing I was blatantly lying to not just those around me, but my mind. But I had to stay strong, for if not what was to become of Armaan? He was already coming home bruised and battered from school. It hurt, it really did when I had to empty his pockets before washing his uniform. Armaan would come home, hiding the scars the world outside had given him. He had no one other than me, but what was I to do? There were bills to pay, people to appease and most importantly no one to rely on. What other choice did I have? I had to stay diligent in my duties, for if I kept going, who knows maybe one day I could rest for just a few minutes.
It hurt when I began finding the empty zip lock bags in Armaan's bags and uniform; my hands would always tremble when throwing those vile bags into the bin. He wasn’t growing any taller, he was fragile. It felt as if he no longer had emotion, I tried with such fervor to appease our son, but I was constantly met with the shattered version of what was left after you had died. Why did you die? If only you were here, for just one day, no, for just one hour, maybe you could talk to the son you had left behind. I wonder what you were thinking when the bullets pierced your body, did it hurt? What were your last thoughts, were you thinking of me or our sons?
I know as I'm writing this letter that it isn't going to bring you back, nor is it going to make our son happier. I've realised that he is just a shattered mirror, reflecting my sorry image in his actions. I can no longer look at him, for I am reminded of you every time. Your deep brown eyes and your smile, o what I would do for you to hold us both in your arms one more time!
September 2011
We all celebrated Armaan's birthday together. His uncle came and bought him the books he'd always wanted. Sheru gave him a long, heartfelt hug; it was such a beautiful moment, if only you were here to experience it. I know I sound terrible when saying this, but if only he would go outside and breathe. He's stuck in his room all day, reading and reading and reading. It has become his safe haven, he no longer puts his trust in me. Boo the days are getting longer and longer. As you know, that guy Aaron sure was one annoying guy, he tried hitting on me! Wasn’t he your best friend? Maybe not I guess but one thing led to another and I got fired.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The shape of what remained
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 90%: May 2011 It's ok, everything is fine. Is what I told myself, knowing I was blatantly lying to not just those…
May 2011
It's ok, everything is fine.
Is what I told myself, knowing I was blatantly lying to not just those around me, but my mind. But I had to stay strong, for if not what was to become of Armaan? He was already coming home bruised and battered from school. It hurt, it really did when I had to empty his pockets before washing his uniform. Armaan would come home, hiding the scars the world outside had given him. He had no one other than me, but what was I to do? There were bills to pay, people to appease and most importantly no one to rely on. What other choice did I have? I had to stay diligent in my duties, for if I kept going, who knows maybe one day I could rest for just a few minutes.
It hurt when I began finding the empty zip lock bags in Armaan's bags and uniform; my hands would always tremble when throwing those vile bags into the bin. He wasn’t growing any taller, he was fragile. It felt as if he no longer had emotion, I tried with such fervor to appease our son, but I was constantly met with the shattered version of what was left after you had died. Why did you die? If only you were here, for just one day, no, for just one hour, maybe you could talk to the son you had left behind. I wonder what you were thinking when the bullets pierced your body, did it hurt? What were your last thoughts, were you thinking of me or our sons?
I know as I'm writing this letter that it isn't going to bring you back, nor is it going to make our son happier. I've realised that he is just a shattered mirror, reflecting my sorry image in his actions. I can no longer look at him, for I am reminded of you every time. Your deep brown eyes and your smile, o what I would do for you to hold us both in your arms one more time!
September 2011
We all celebrated Armaan's birthday together. His uncle came and bought him the books he'd always wanted. Sheru gave him a long, heartfelt hug; it was such a beautiful moment, if only you were here to experience it. I know I sound terrible when saying this, but if only he would go outside and breathe. He's stuck in his room all day, reading and reading and reading. It has become his safe haven, he no longer puts his trust in me. Boo the days are getting longer and longer. As you know, that guy Aaron sure was one annoying guy, he tried hitting on me! Wasn’t he your best friend? Maybe not I guess but one thing led to another and I got fired.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Play gives us freedom to make connections
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 87.5%: “All the world’s a stage all the men + women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances, and…
“All the world’s a stage all the men + women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts.” – William Shakespeare
Botswana: Fireworks
In Botswana, play takes place against the backdrop of the night sky, bursting to life with the warm, bright fireworks dancing across the open expanse. The sharp red sparks cut across the heavy navy that cloaks the sky, intermingling with the electric yellow hues that ignite my childish and eager heart. The streets overflow with crowds of people filled to the brim with the rhythm and soul of community. Children are enticed outside by the erratic sounds of mischief and danger. Sudden gunshots startle, then delight – Fireworks! Between the explosive bangs of fireworks the low grumble music swims through the absence of sound that follows. Reds, fluorescent greens, vivid purples and neon pinks all paint the empty canvas in the sky with playful and wild brushstrokes each more inspired than the last. Eyes reflect the color and hope of a new year on the horizon: 2013. From clay backyard to clay backyard, plastered house to plastered house the authenticity of a community sparked to life by the light of tradition illuminates the blank nightscape. The scent of the dirt roads mixed in with the lingering gunpowder serve as a carriage of hopes and dreams of a country. Fireworks are play.
Gaborone: Church
The church is all my Sundays in Botswana and the obligatory game of charades. I am dressed to please in my Sunday best, White shirt, black slacks and a neat little bow tie to really make the congregation’s hearts flutter. Grandma gives out the prompts while the older church members act as judges. The old, dull walls act as a backdrop for my weekly masquerade, while the archaic crucifix looms over the whole show making the air heavy enough to crush a much more unexperienced actor. The pictorial entrance windows watch as I trudge through the routine compliments. The heights I’d reach one day. How strong I’d grow up to be. Every time I manufacture a smile on my face, the grins on the faces of the stained-glass windows grow larger as if becoming more convinced by my act. I hide my kid but I don’t abandon it. Week by week I become better at this song and dance, crafting a mask of stoicism and resilience under the roof that feels all too low. My spark resists the slow monotonous tempo that makes the whole experience feel like a chore. The unsettling smell of the elderly women’s makeup and the metallic smell of the paint buckets for a renovation that is long overdue both infect each and every receptor within my nose, giving me no chance to come up for air. Church doesn’t brighten my spark: for me church isn’t play it’s a performance and my role is one I did not volunteer for.
Mildura: Afternoons
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The shape of what remained
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 80%: May 2011 It's ok, everything is fine. Is what I told myself, knowing I was blatantly lying to not just those…
May 2011
It's ok, everything is fine.
Is what I told myself, knowing I was blatantly lying to not just those around me, but my mind. But I had to stay strong, for if not what was to become of Armaan? He was already coming home bruised and battered from school. It hurt, it really did when I had to empty his pockets before washing his uniform. Armaan would come home, hiding the scars the world outside had given him. He had no one other than me, but what was I to do? There were bills to pay, people to appease and most importantly no one to rely on. What other choice did I have? I had to stay diligent in my duties, for if I kept going, who knows maybe one day I could rest for just a few minutes.
It hurt when I began finding the empty zip lock bags in Armaan's bags and uniform; my hands would always tremble when throwing those vile bags into the bin. He wasn’t growing any taller, he was fragile. It felt as if he no longer had emotion, I tried with such fervor to appease our son, but I was constantly met with the shattered version of what was left after you had died. Why did you die? If only you were here, for just one day, no, for just one hour, maybe you could talk to the son you had left behind. I wonder what you were thinking when the bullets pierced your body, did it hurt? What were your last thoughts, were you thinking of me or our sons?
I know as I'm writing this letter that it isn't going to bring you back, nor is it going to make our son happier. I've realised that he is just a shattered mirror, reflecting my sorry image in his actions. I can no longer look at him, for I am reminded of you every time. Your deep brown eyes and your smile, o what I would do for you to hold us both in your arms one more time!
September 2011
We all celebrated Armaan's birthday together. His uncle came and bought him the books he'd always wanted. Sheru gave him a long, heartfelt hug; it was such a beautiful moment, if only you were here to experience it. I know I sound terrible when saying this, but if only he would go outside and breathe. He's stuck in his room all day, reading and reading and reading. It has become his safe haven, he no longer puts his trust in me. Boo the days are getting longer and longer. As you know, that guy Aaron sure was one annoying guy, he tried hitting on me! Wasn’t he your best friend? Maybe not I guess but one thing led to another and I got fired.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The shape of what remained
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 77.5%: May 2011 Its ok, everything is fine. Is what I told myself, knowing I was blatantly lying to not just those…
May 2011
Its ok, everything is fine.
Is what I told myself, knowing I was blatantly lying to not just those around me, but my mind. But I had to stay strong, for if not what was to become of Armaan? He was already coming home bruised and battered from school. It hurt, it really did when I had to empty his pockets before washing his uniform. Armaan would come home, hiding the scars the world outside had given him. He had no one other than me, but what was I to do? There were bills to pay, people to appease and most importantly no one to rely on. What other choice did I have? I had to stay diligent in my duties, for if I kept going, who knows maybe one day I could rest for just a few minutes.
It hurt when I began finding the empty zip lock bags in Armaan's bags and uniform; my hands would always tremble when throwing those vile bags into the bin. He wasn’t growing any taller, he was fragile. It felt as if he no longer had emotion, I tried with such fervor to appease our son, but I was constantly met with the shattered version of what was left after you had died. Why did you die? If only you were here, for just one day, no, for just one hour, maybe you could talk to the son you had left behind. I wonder what you were thinking when the bullets pierced your body, did it hurt? What were your last thoughts, were you thinking of me or our sons?
I know as I'm writing this letter that it isn't going to bring you back, nor is it going to make our son happier. I've realised that he is just a shattered mirror, reflecting my sorry image in his actions. I can no longer look at him, for I am reminded of you every time. Your deep brown eyes and your smile, o what I would do for you to hold us both in your arms one more time!
September 2011
We all celebrated Armaan's birthday together, his uncle came and bought him the books he'd always wanted, Sheru gave him a long, heartfelt hug, it was such a beautiful moment, if only you were here to experience it. I know I sound terrible when saying this, but if only he would go outside and breathe. He's stuck in his room all day, reading and reading and reading. It has become his safe haven, he no longer puts his trust in me. Boo the days are getting longer and longer. As you know, that guy Aaron sure was one annoying guy, he tried hitting on me! Wasn’t he your best friend? Maybe not I guess but one thing led to another and I got fired.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: The shape of what remained
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 72.5%: May 2011 Its ok, everything is fine. Is what I told myself, knowing I was blatantly lying to not just those…
May 2011
Its ok, everything is fine.
Is what I told myself, knowing I was blatantly lying to not just those around me, but my mind. But I had to stay strong, for if not what was to become of Armaan? He was already coming home bruised and battered from school. It hurt, it really did when I had to empty his pockets before washing his uniform. Armaan would come home, hiding the scars the world outside had given him. He had no one other than me, but what was I to do? There were bills to pay, people to appease and most importantly no one to rely on. What other choice did I have? I had to stay diligent in my duties, for if I kept going, who knows maybe one day I could rest for just a few minutes.
It hurt when I began finding the empty zip lock bags in Armaan's bags and uniform, my hands would always tremble when throwing those vile bags into the bin. He wasn’t growing any taller, he was fragile. It felt as if he no longer had emotion, I tried with such fervor to appease our son, but I was constantly met with the shattered version of what was left after you had died. Why did you die? If only you were here, for just one day, no, for just one hour, maybe you could talk to the son you had left behind. I wonder what you were thinking when the bullets pierced your body, did it hurt? What were your last thoughts, were you thinking of me or our sons?
I know as I'm writing this letter that it isn't going to bring you back, nor is it going to make our son happier. I've realised that he is just a shattered mirror, reflecting my sorry image in his actions. I can no longer look at him, for I am reminded of you every time. Your deep brown eyes and your smile, o what I would do for you to hold us both in your arms one more time!
September 2011
We all celebrated Armaan's birthday together, his uncle came and bought him the books he'd always wanted, Sheru gave him a long, heartfelt hug, it was such a beautiful moment, if only you were here to experience it. I know I sound terrible when saying this, but if only he would go outside and breathe. He's stuck in his room all day, reading and reading and reading. It has become his safe haven, he no longer puts his trust in me. Boo the days are getting longer and longer. As you know, that guy Aaron sure was one annoying guy, he tried hitting on me! Wasn’t he your best friend? Maybe not I guess but one thing led to another and I got fired.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: Michael beats George even though he…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 77.5%: The delicious aroma of Mum’s meatballs wafted across the kitchen into my room. I stood up from my bed, blood…
The delicious aroma of Mum’s meatballs wafted across the kitchen into my room. I stood up from my bed, blood rushing to my ears.
Tonight is the night, I forced the thought in place.
Tonight’s the night I talk to Dad openly.
As I timidly walked into the dining room, my family was already seated, waiting for me. Dad sat on one side of the rectangular mahogany dining table, still in his suit. Seated next to him was Mum, tired but mellow. On the opposite side sat my little brother, engaged unusually in a book - one of those stunts to avoid his least favourite food.
My designated seat for tonight was directly opposite to Dad.
Great. I had to do this face to face with him.
“Ah, Luca, take a seat son”, said my dad, peering at me through his thick rimmed glasses. It was strange how the most gorgeous looking hazel eyes could be so terrifying.
I attempted to get my thoughts in order as Mum served a generous amount of dinner on my plate. As each minute passed by excruciatingly, my every movement felt robotic, every breath got heavier by the second.
I finally broke the eerie silence.
“Dad, I got accepted into an arts degree at the uni”, I managed.
For the next minute, my parents squirmed as if they were suspended in some sort of dense fluid. Mum’s eyes bulged out of her sockets, her jaw hanging in disbelief. Dad abandoned the fork with the bite of food he was about to take. He lifted his face, his deliberate gaze boring through me. Heat rose in my face and neck, making me look flustered.
“What did you say?”, Dad asked, in the most gravely voice.
“I, uh… Yeah Dad. I want to pursue painting. After graduation. So I applied for the arts degree. And I got their reply today.”, I replied.
What Mum said next shocked me. I thought she’d warm up to the idea.
“But Luca, are you really sure? I mean, your application for Commerce was solid, I have no doubt you’ll get accepted”, Mum said, and in the corner of my eye, I saw Dad nodding curtly, his eyes still on me.
“Yes. I know Mum. But that’s not what I want. That is not going to give me peace and happiness”, I retorted, finally sharing a piece of truth with my parents in an eternity.
Dad put his fork down, straightening in his seat a little and clearing his throat. A typical sign of an incoming philosophical speech.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: creative writing, familial values
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 90%: I remember staring at a diagram in my Year 9 biology textbook—the Bombus terrestris. “According to all…
I remember staring at a diagram in my Year 9 biology textbook—the Bombus terrestris. “According to all aerodynamic laws, the bumblebee cannot fly because its body weight is not in the right proportion to its wingspan, but ignoring these laws, the bee flies anyway.” I didn’t think about things like that when I was nine. I was more focused on not burning the rice. The pot would rattle slightly as the water boiled over, and I’d have to jump a little to turn the stove down properly. The bench was too high, so I’d drag a chair across the tiles, the legs screeching louder than I meant them to. By the time I figured it out, my brother would already be behind me. “Is it ready yet?” “No.” “You said ten minutes.” “It hasn’t been ten minutes.” He’d sigh like it was my fault and walk off, and I’d stand there, watching the steam rise, pretending I knew exactly what I was doing. That was just normal. Cooking, cleaning, making sure he ate, making sure things didn’t fall apart before my parents got home. They were always working—early mornings, late nights, shifts that blurred into each other. Nothing about it felt optional. It just made sense that someone had to do it. So I did. At school, things didn’t really line up the same way. People noticed things. Not big things—just enough. The way I never stayed back after school. The way I didn’t talk much. The same lunch, over and over. “Do you ever do anything?” someone asked once. “Yeah,” I said. “Like what?” I didn’t answer. It wasn’t worth explaining. It was easier to just let them think whatever they wanted. The comments weren’t always direct, but they were there. Small, constant. Enough to make you aware of yourself all the time—how you sounded, how you looked, how you fit into a space. I used to have things I liked. Drawing, mostly. I’d fill pages without
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: creative writing, familial values
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 90%: I remember staring at a diagram in my Year 9 biology textbook—the Bombus terrestris. According to every known…
I remember staring at a diagram in my Year 9 biology textbook—the Bombus terrestris. According to every known aerodynamic law, the bumblebee is a failure of design. Its body weight is too heavy, its wingspan too narrow; mathematically, it is grounded. I used to trace the ink of its wings with my finger, feeling a strange kinship with that "impossible" creature. At fourteen, the laws of the hallway dictated that I, too, was a failure of proportion, constructed in a way that didn't quite fit the rigid geometry of high school social life.
At school, the "laws" weren't written in textbooks, but in the sudden silences when I walked toward a lunch table. Bullying isn't always a shove; it’s a chemical inhibitor. It’s the way laughter lingers in a corridor just a second too long, a caustic substance that slowly dissolves your confidence until your internal pH is permanently off-balance. I became an expert at reading micro-expressions—the slight narrowing of eyes, the subtle tilt of a head away from mine. I was internalizing the data they gave me: You are built incorrectly for this world.
But if school was a site of erosion, home was the buffer solution.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: creative writing, familial values
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 77.5%: According to all aerodynamic laws, the bumblebee cannot fly because its body weight is not in the right…
According to all aerodynamic laws, the bumblebee cannot fly because its body weight is not in the right proportion to its wingspan, but ignoring these laws, the bee flies anyway.”
Growing up, I often felt like that bumblebee—constructed in a way that didn’t quite fit the expectations placed around me. At school, this feeling was not subtle. It was reinforced daily through quiet exclusion, careless words, and laughter that lingered longer than it should have. Bullying has a way of convincing you that there is something fundamentally wrong with you, that you are somehow built incorrectly for the world you are in. Over time, those voices become internal, shaping the way you see yourself and limiting what you believe you are capable of.
However, while school became a space where I was constantly diminished, my home represented something entirely different. My family, despite their own struggles and sacrifices, created an environment that resisted those external judgements. They did not deny the reality of what I was experiencing, but they refused to let it define me. Their support was not always loud or expressive, but it was consistent. It existed in the long hours they worked to provide stability, in the small conversations that reminded me of my worth, and in the expectations they held for my future.