VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: title: Breaking barriers stimulus:…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 85%: Breaking Barriers Distinguished delegates, representatives, and observers, My name is Les Malezer. I am a…
Breaking Barriers
Distinguished delegates, representatives, and observers,
My name is Les Malezer. I am a Butchulla and Gubbi Gubbi man from Australia. Many of you may know me, likely for the work I have done with various countries regarding the rights of their indigenous peoples, here in the United Nations no less. I stand here after hearing protest outside these walls described by many in this chamber as disruption, disorder and threat. I am asking this Assembly to see it differently: not as chaos, but as evidence.
Evidence of voices unheard.
Evidence of grief delayed.
Evidence that people have spoken quietly, formally, patiently and have still been ignored.
This concrete jungle is no stranger to protest. Just some blocks away in the year 2020, the people of this city witnessed a great horror, and broke down the barriers that supressed their voices, and the evidence of injustice. They know what it means to reach for a sign, a chant, a megaphone, because the walls built around them would not move.
That image, a megaphone with words of frustration moving outwards is not just meaningless noise. It is the shape of a voice refusing to shrink. A megaphone does not invent pain. It amplifies what has already been silenced. Its soundwaves do not create the wall; they reveal where the wall is. Every chant, every name, every cry for justice travels outward until it strikes the barriers that those in power have built.
The first barrier is silence.
Silence is not always natural. Sometimes it is constructed. Built by careful language. Built by delayed reports. Built by official statements that say everything except the truth. In my home, Australia, I think of Ms Dhu. A young Yamatji woman. Taken into custody over unpaid fines. Asking for help. Returned to a cell. Then gone.
Her death could have remained behind a wall of procedure: a case, a process, a tragedy at a distance. But the people, fed up with the systemic injustice that overwhelmed for so long,lifted the megaphone. In Melbourne, people gathered with signs that said Justice for Ms Dhuand Stop Aboriginal Deaths in Custody. For a few hours, silence cracked. Her name moved from a cell into a crowd. From private grief into public memory. From something power could manage into something the public had to face.
That is the first inception of protest. It breaks the barrier of silence.
The second barrier is the distance between injustice and protest.
Distance tells us that suffering is someone else’s problem. South Hedland is far from Melbourne. A prison cell is far from our Parliamentary offices. A grieving family is far from the people who make the laws. But a megaphone collapses distance. One voice becomes many. One name crosses roads, cities and borders. One chant says: this is not remote. This is not hidden. This is close enough to confront. That is why protest matters even when the law does not change by morning. Because something has changed. A name has been heard. A story has travelled. A wall has weakened.
The third barrier is the doubt that ensues.
After every protest, someone asks: what did it change? Did the institution fall? Did justice arrive? Did the law change before the streets emptied? Often, the answer is no. Protest is not magic. A march can fill a street and still leave a government unmoved. A chant can reach the evening news and disappear by morning. A crowd can gather, grieve, and demand change, only for power to wait until the sound fades. But protest does not only change laws. It changes what power can pretend to not know.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: something is better than nothing
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 60%: Have you ever seen a protest before? If so, then more likey than not, you've seen protestors holding signs. The…
Have you ever seen a protest before? If so, then more likey than not, you've seen protestors holding signs. The bystanders will always say something along the lines of "what a waste of time" or "whats the point", and they may be right, but what they fail to realise is that, no matter how small or big a protest may be, soemthing is better than nothing. People do demand a call to change, people like us, realise this and know that we have to do something, or what we are left with is nothing. You know, when i was young, i used to think that if i couldn't do soemthing to the best of my abilities, then it wasn't worth doing. Now that im grown up, i realised that these social conformities that we grew up with and adpated, were such horribles ways of thinking.
VCE · Creative Response
Creative Response: "One looks back with appreciation to…
VCE Creative Response essay scoring 87.5%: Hello teacher. How have you been? It has been ages since last time we talked to each other. Not too long ago,…
Hello teacher. How have you been? It has been ages since last time we talked to each other. Not too long ago, I saw a quote that says "One looks back with appreciation to the brilliant teachers, but with gratitude to those who touched our human feelings." and it reminds me of you. So I decided to write this letter to you for appreciation and to talk about our past memories that we have together.
You are the first teacher in my life. I met you in kindegarden 1, so I was 3 years old, which I was very young. When I first saw you, I remember you have nice - neath hair styles, pretty makeup and polite clothing. Whenever I cried to come to school, you always comfort me until I used to school and don't cry anymore. You always make the lesson seem fun, which you taught me how to count basic numbers or to write my name with a combination of created hand-made toys or sometime we often went outside classroom to the sand area and builded a sand castle together.
VCE · Text Response
Text Response: Language,even more than colour defines who…
VCE Text Response essay scoring 70%: In Trevor Noah's memoir Born a Crime, based on his childhood growing up in South Africa during the time of the…
In Trevor Noah's memoir Born a Crime, based on his childhood growing up in South Africa during the time of the apartheid, he explores the complexities of language and race in relation to identity. From the outset, Noah reveals how language allows mobility between social groups. Even further, he suggests how language provides power, safety power and education. However, it is not always enough to overpower the reality of the apartheid, with discrimination and harshness always present. Overall, Noah acknowledges how language can be seen as a resource for people during the harshness of the apartheid, although,ultimately it can not always change your identity.
Noah highlights how language allows for mobility between social groups which allows an individual to experience freedom and new experiences. Noah reveals his perception of language,conveying that if someone “talked like you[they were] you,” demonstrating how language changes people's perceptions, encouraging interconnectedness. Noah reveals how language is the “quickest way to bridge a race gap” further suggesting that whilst the apartheid can divide people, it can also unite them together through a shared means of communication . Through Noah establishing this idea of language serving as a powerful unifying force, he aims to emphasize how it can act as a resource for social connection in oppressive times like the apartheid. In a similar vein, Noah reflects on his linguistic diversity, expressing that throughout his life he had to “become a chameleon” which carries negative connotations, likening his behavior to a chameleon and insinuating that for his survival he had to significantly change his characteristics in different environments so he would be treated with more respect, exposing the social hierarchy caused by the apartheid, where respect and treatment were determined by individuals ability to conform to expectations culturally and socially. Through Noah comparing himself to a chameleon, he exposes how language can help transform individuals to help them fit into a certain identity that others will accept him for. Noah recollects how Patricia used her knowledge of many languages as a tool to “navigate the world” characterizing her as a resourceful and adaptive individual, allowing her to be exposed to many different opportunities that otherwise would be limited because of her race. Noah exposes his mother as a symbol of agency within a place of barriers and expectations. Through Noah exposing Patricia's techniques of embedding her variety of languages into her life to fit in, he reveals how flexibility was necessary to fit into social norms which reinforces that individuals used adaptability as a form of self regulation in societies like the apartheid.
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.