Free AOS Creative Writing Marking!

[elysepopplewell]

Hi, so thank you for your reply to my question, I was wondering whether someone would be able to read over this, just y'know, give me ideas as to what I need to edit, and how well the discoveries are portrayed. I've tried to structure it so there is several, but yeah:

Thanks for your patience! You're a gem Reading now!

Spoiler

They say you can’t die from a broken heart. But you can. I’ve seen it. I’ve experienced it. Every breath is laboured; every movement is meaningless in the abyss that accompanies your thoughts. A broken heart is like a leech. An emotional parasite that sucks away any happiness from what was once a euphoric existence. And then the pointlessness of it all settles, and you try to move on – eventually, you hit the red brick wall of despair again. Before that, the heartbreak is but an echo in the back of your mind, small reminders tucked away in reality, in the coffee shops and the bus seats you sat in together. But this… this is my brick wall. Love is just a temporary fix in an attempt to escape reality, when in reality, love doesn’t exist to fix us; it exists to hurt us.  This is just wonderful! Incredibly thought out and articulated. My only suggestion (not criticism) is choosing a particularly powerful section to isolate. Perhaps a new line at "A broken heart..." Or perhaps just "it exists to hurt us" on it's own line. I mean, this is stellar, I'm just throwing around ideas

*   *   *

I watch the specks of light dance through the air. There is something peaceful about how they vanish. My eyes drift to the skyline, where an urban jungle splits from an exploding canvas of tangerine, coral and crimson. AMAZING!!!!!!!!!!! The sun hovers above the horizon, the early morning spitting traffic and fog onto the streets. My attention is given a shove with the sound of screeching brakes. I pull myself from the seat, shouldering the messenger bag over my shoulder, and hastening forward. I step onto the sidewalk, and hitting a wall of noise. The calling of birds, the purring of engines, the playful shrieking of children.
   A light tone resonates from my phone, and vibrations shiver into my stomach. I slip my hand into my jacket pocket, freeing it from its restraints.
   You have a friend request from: FELICITY ROTH.
   My breath hitches in my throat; barbs course down my spine. It paralyses me. Her name plays on my tongue, leaving a bitter taste.  My head pulsates, my breathing becoming heavier. A question plays at the forefront of my mind; two years, why now? I shake my head. Not in disbelief, but in panic. I’ve done everything to get over her. And yet, here she is, wreaking havoc in my life without even knowing it.

   “Hi, sorry – would you mind taking a photo for me?” Felicity throws a playful smile at the stout lady, and she returns it. I shuffle into position, watching the snowflakes litter the ground. A light dusting covers my gloves. Felicity joins me, and I shuffle into place. Slowly, she draws my ear closer to her lips.
   “Kaleb… do you remember the first time we met?” She whispers, tilting her head.
   “I do. Samuel’s party.” Lemongrass radiates from her.
   “We confessed that neither of us really liked awkward small talk, or parties, and we proceeded to leave the party.” Felicity laughs, and swallows hard. “27 blocks away, and people started freaking out about where we had gone. It was the best night I’d had in a long time. This beats that night.” She presses a small kiss to my cheek, my hand snakes around her waist and the picture is taken.

What do normal people do when they are sad? Do they cry? Perhaps they drink, or get high. Not for me, no. Not for me, for I am a man of no emotion. I am a man not allowed to show emotion. But I do. I crack, I break, I cry.
   I crack. The memories force me to crack. The photos in the snow, the conversation by the beach. The reminiscence of the past alone is enough to bring back the most powerful emotions one can feel. Love. Despair. Regret.
   I break. Emotions are like knives, they drive themselves deeper into my heart, they isolate me from other people, like you. Except you are part of me; you are a fragment of my imagination, designed to act as an immediate between my broken heart and my brain. You see things, you understand things, and you help me understand things. However, we can share emotions, and still be completely alone in this world.
   I cry. For most of the night, I cry. I feel myself panic, no amount of deep/steady/meditated/desperate breathing calms me down. When I think of crying, I think of someone having fitful breaths, so the breaths to me are adding to the panic, not calming. So perhaps just add that this particular breathing is controlled or meditated, in a failed attempt to calm down. When the rays of morning flutter through the thin curtains, I am there to greet them. Unspoken thoughts and insatiable desires take up the better part of the morning, and I am left staring at a blank wall.

Why does Felicity Roth do this to me? I sit on my bed, scrolling through what seems to be an endless feed. There are photos. Many photos. Of strange faces and familiar features. But soon, a feeling of content briefly washes over me. I get to a photo of the two of us. She looks stunning, her hair flowing down the side of her face, her soft features framed perfectly in her laugh. And I am laughing too. And I lose it. I hurl my laptop across the room, and I watch it shatter against the mirror. Glass rains down, sowing itself over the floorboards like seeds in autumn. A new feeling eases itself into my fist, as I drive it into the wall. Anger. 
   I’d never been an angry person. I’ve always been fairly placid, but I always bottle it up. I’ve been told that when I finally explode, it’s spectacular. I’ve never hurt anyone. I would never. I stand over the shards, my reflection staring back. I’m almost scared of him. His hair is tousled; his cheeks are wet. I can feel the puzzle pieces moving, I can feel it shifting. I am not me, as he is not I. We are different, but we are the same. How can she recognise me, when I no longer recognise myself?

Okay, soooo.... This is magnificent! I get the feeling that you are a very naturally talented writer, or perhaps you do a lot of reading. Because your expression is so effortless. You use just the right amount of showing, and just the right amount of telling. I'm inclined to call this a super-script in terms of your actual writing ability! My only suggestion in terms of plot is about the setting of this all. I think it would work best if the friend request was received as the character sits in bed, so that when we move to the bedroom later on for the laptop throwing, you realise that the flashback was most definitely a flashback, and the power of it all. So, the bedroom is a fairly ordinary place, and the way that the environment stays the same, but the friend request changes everything, is really powerful. So the bedroom stays the same, but all kinds of emotional changes happen. I think the bedroom being a constant, and the friend request being a trigger, really helps emphasise the intensity of what is happening, thus the transformation from placid to angry, and the discovery that this person had something inside of them always, is accentuated. What do you think?

Otherwise, this is stellar. Magnificent! Sorry I can't offer much criticism to improve on, you should be so proud of this!

[jnicko989]

Thanks for your patience! You're a gem Reading now!

I think the bedroom being a constant, and the friend request being a trigger, really helps emphasise the intensity of what is happening, thus the transformation from placid to angry, and the discovery that this person had something inside of them always, is accentuated. What do you think?

Thank you for taking the time to go over it

You're definitely right about the bedroom being the setting. I was actually thinking about the fact I hadn't closed the friend request storyline very well, so that would really give me some flexibility in the way of plot direction. Would it be better if he was just staring out the apartment window, from his bed, instead of on the bus? It would only affect a couple of lines.

And I agree with your suggestion at the beginning, because I originally had "Love exists to hurt us." instead of the entire last line, but it seemed really random. Thinking about it now, maybe it could replace it like this;
Love is just a temporary fix in an attempt to escape reality, when in reality, || ...love doesn’t exist to fix us. Love exists to break us. ||
Does that sound better than the original?

[elysepopplewell]

Thank you for taking the time to go over it

You're definitely right about the bedroom being the setting. I was actually thinking about the fact I hadn't closed the friend request storyline very well, so that would really give me some flexibility in the way of plot direction. Would it be better if he was just staring out the apartment window, from his bed, instead of on the bus? It would only affect a couple of lines.

And I agree with your suggestion at the beginning, because I originally had "Love exists to hurt us." instead of the entire last line, but it seemed really random. Thinking about it now, maybe it could replace it like this;
Love is just a temporary fix in an attempt to escape reality, when in reality, || ...love doesn’t exist to fix us. Love exists to break us. ||
Does that sound better than the original?

Definitely love that second part there - the ending to the introduction. That's really, really, really powerful. You capture the essence of love better than I have seen in a student work so far (admittedly, most people steer clear of it) so that's massive credit to you.

Yeah, I think that the bedroom scenario is best because it really brings out how something as ordinary as a bedroom can house something as extraordinary as emotion triggered by love. So that super intense, complicated, extreme emotion, is set in front of a comfortable, familiar background. Although the feeling of love may not be familiar to all, the bedroom will be. So you've created a great access point.

[hollybarnett]

Hey,
I was wondering if you could take a look at my creative, the feedback i got was i need a more defines discovery and i was wondering if you could suggest anything. This is the version that i handed in for the assessment but for HSC i will just follow the general story line.

[elysepopplewell]

Hey,
I was wondering if you could take a look at my creative, the feedback i got was i need a more defines discovery and i was wondering if you could suggest anything. This is the version that i handed in for the assessment but for HSC i will just follow the general story line.

Hi Holly! We require 15 posts on the site here to get something marked! Not to fear though, we have plenty of resources here for you to join in on. You can ask or answer questions for any subject, or join in the general discussion thread here!

Welcome to the forums, please let me know if you need any help

[BPunjabi]

Hey Elyse, Is it possible if I may message you or another english mod (like jamon) my creative writing?

Thanks,
BPunjabi

[ssarahj]

Hey Elyse, Is it possible if I may message you or another english mod (like jamon) my creative writing?

Thanks,
BPunjabi

To receive proper feedback from our amazing markers we do ask that you post your creative writing up on the boards, instead of private messaging. This allows everyone in the community to benefit from the feedback you receive, that's just how ATAR Notes works  . I know it can feel weird and sometimes embarrassing to put your work up for marking in a public forum (especially creative writing) but everyone is here to learn and improve so you have no reason to worry (I'd even guess that 80% of users don't even read the essays/creatives that are posted). If you have any other concerns feel free to message me or another mod! 

[Nightwing17]

Plz Plz plz have a look, my teacher never gives feedback but i have gotten 12/13. What do i need to do to make it a solid A?


A whiney crack rings as he forces his knuckles together and his palms out towards me. His chair creaks as he shifts his large frame. I sit opposite his weathered face, and study it like I have so many times before. The scar on his left cheek, barely visible in the dim light of the receding city, tells the story of his brother’s first driving lesson. A slight bulge in his right temple, which momentarily casts a shadow as we pass a street light, is the result of an attempt to ride a bull in early pubescence. His stare, which was now cast upon me, told of decades of experience and wisdom, full of energy unlike I had ever known. Every night he told me part of his tale, of a fight with a wild animal, of a parade for rights, of travel to a different culture. His tales had reshaped my laborious hour long commute into the highlight of every day, to the vein of my wife whose tales of local gossip were now a waste of breath. In the light of a passing street lamp I see a glimmer on his forehead, unwarranted in the late autumn cool. I sit waiting as we bounce lightly in our seats, as the door clatters because of a broken lock. I catch his gaze, its power and intensity marred by something. As I wonder whether this is why he has yet to speak for the past quarter of an hour, he moves his dried lips.
“So, shall I begin?”
His voice is low and melodic, I had once joked to my wife that he sounded like Morgan Freeman, if Morgan Freeman had been Australian. I nod in anticipation. In front of me the man’s eyes close, mentally unravelling the parchment of his tale. But, strangely, he opens them again. The faint light presents a shimmer in those diamonds.
“I’m afraid son, that the story I have to tell you today will not be your favourite. It is not exciting or fun, but rather something essential to me. I am making a choice to tell you something that only two other people have ever known. If you don’t wish to know then…”
I shake my head. Of course I want to know. There is an outline of a smile, then his eyes close once again and he begins.
“Pain. I sit before you today my friend as a product of many pains, the death of my mother, of my brother, the divorce of my first wife; of broken bones, broken hearts and broken promises. Yet… there is one pain which we, as men, do not find it easy to talk about. Mental pain. Emotional pain.
“This story begins a little after my 16th birthday, I arrived home early from cricket practise. The paint retreated before me as my stench hit the cool air; quickly I advanced to the bathroom. It was mother’s rule that my older brothers and I shower immediately following one of our cricket or aussie rules trainings. So I closed the door behind me and stripped to nothing, my whites in an unruly pile in the corner. As I turned towards the shower, a figure caught my eye. I stopped in my tracks, there shouldn’t be anyone else in the house! I double took the situation, and yes there before me was a scrawny, blue eyed man. You see the mirror told no lies.”
He chuckles to himself, clearly enjoying rising and then dashing my expectations. He doesn’t continue immediately and in the faint light from the window I see his knuckles clenched.
“Yes, my friend, it was just myself in the mirror. Yet, what I was faced with was much scarier for a teenage boy than fighting a home invader naked. For as I looked at the mirror I noticed a crack which seemed to be growing, quickly it spread all across the mirror until my body was completely distorted. A strange sensation spread across my chest as I staggered over to the basin and tried desperately to find just one spot in which I could see myself clearly. But there was no reprieve. At that point a nail bomb exploded in my stomach.”
Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.
“There was a… the CLICK of a key, signifying my father’s early arrival home from work. In a flash I was in the shower, hoping the water would numb this sensation. But it did nothing. I was a ball in the corner, cowering from an evil monster, the devil himself- the devil within. And the water fell, a baptism of acid into a faith of misery and pain. A religion I wish still wasn’t mine.”
Exhale. He opens his eyes, the usually bright blue is contrasted with red. As a street light passes and we are forced perpetually into the wall by a corner, there are streaks of silver down his cheeks. In his gaze I see not wisdom or intensity, but a pain I know too well.
“I sit before you today…”
His voice falters.
“I sit before you today the product of many pains. Yet for some reason, you have chosen to look up at me.”
The frail man in front of me coughs.
“So I have made the choice to share with you my most personal pain, the name of the monster which plagues me, and never leaves completely. As I do, I still hear the voice of my father’s generation “Don’t be a whimp” ringing in my consciousness, but time has taught me otherwise. This monster is in my head, he is real, and his name is depression.”
Silence rings. Instinctively my right hand moves to my left arm, the light outside the carriage grows and I realise it is his stop. The train jolts to a stop.
He gets to his feet slowly, the strain on his knees evident in his face.
“Will I see you tomorrow?”
Slowly he moves across to the broken door, already open and waiting for him. My right hand runs along the indents of a well-travelled river.
“Of course” I reply.
Through a broken door goes the bravest man I have ever known. The lights begin to pass again, the darkness attacking then retrieving as it does every night, but now I have a partner to help me fight the monster.

[willy-boy]

hey guys, a look at this would be much appreciated. Currently have it sitting at 11/15. I like the concept, and have tried and failed to come up with another story to tell. So, if there's any elements missing from it that you think would improve it, or even part of the structure of the plot you think could be better, don't hold back. Thank you muchly

Home

Home

“Everybody up”. The whispered sound might have echoed through the small wooden hall due to the silence, if it were not packed tightly with human bodies. There was a slight break in the stillness of the pitch black hall, as the sensation of movement became a queer kind of visible. And still, there was barely any sound except the lapping of the waves at the hull. Aamir made his way out to the deck as quickly as he could. He needed to clear his head; even after three weeks on the sea he could still taste the bile at the back of his throat every time the deck lurched beneath him.

“Baba?” a small voice called from beneath him. Aamir whirled around. He squinted at the child’s face in the darkness.

Then, in a strained voice, he replied “No, child. I’m not your father”. The child hurried away. Aamir stayed crouched for a while, playing with the straw bracelet on his wrist.  The threading was childlike, yet all the more beautiful to him because of it. Then he composed himself and retook his position by the edge of the boat.

As he stood solemnly, staring out into the moonless night, he heard the sound of people moving out onto the deck. He smelt them as well. While only a few spoke, and only in hushed whispers, the feeling amongst them could be told easily - a breath cautiously waiting for permission to be released. Finally, they had made it.

A taller, swarthier man stood next to him. Aamir could tell this was not his first journey.

“Do you think it’s true?”

“Yes. Not much longer and we’ll be on shore”. The man spoke with a strange, thick accent.

Well, we’re all foreigners here. Aamir was almost happy. He was looking forward to being off the wretched wooden raft that passed for a boat. Only a few more hours now.

As the night progressed, the stars grew brighter. In the distance, a shape began to take form. At first, it was only a black slash on the horizon. But the closer they got, the more Aamir could make out. In the darkness, there was nothing particularly remarkable about this strange land. However, he was strangely comforted by the sight. Home, he thought. It felt strange.

The calm seas began to stir. Not many of those on board reacted, but Aamir gripped the railing so tight he felt the splinters. He had found that staring at the horizon often calmed his stomach. Tonight, however, there was something unsettling about the blackness. He couldn’t quite work out what it was. Strange, he thought. I can’t feel any wind. A baby began to cry.

Suddenly, the night lit up. Aamir was blinded, but kept his footing thanks to his hold on the rail. The light continued to shine down on the boat. More children began to cry out, and a few women. Aamir looked up into it, and blinked a few times. As his eyes adjusted, he could make out the silhouette of a great ship approaching. The closer it got, the more the waves churned, until he could stand it no more. He vomited over the side.

A voice pierced the night. It gurgled harshly in a strange language, none of which Aamir understood. The tall man, who had fallen over in shock, seemed to understand. He called back angrily, but none of it made sense. Even as the great ship approached, their little wooden boat got closer and closer to the shore. When the glaring voice from the ship stopped, Aamir could hear the sound of waves breaking on the beach…

He woke up in a strange room. As he sat up, he took in his surroundings. He was in a small cell, with nothing but a bed, a toilet and an orange change of clothes. It had a strong, artificial smell about it. Aamir put the clothes on, and sat on the edge of his metal framed bed. He played with the straw bracelet for a while. How will I find her from in here?

A guard came and led him down a series of corridors until they were in a large hall, packed with benches and people. The pale man pointed to a counter where some sort of food was being served to a line of orange clad people. “Eat”.

Aamir waited, and received a bowl of sweet smelling sludge in turn. Staring blankly into his bowl, he fiddled with his bracelet. One word resounded through his mind –a word as long and strange as his journey had been, and now with a bitter taste.

Then he heard a small voice from below him. “Baba?”

Looking down, he saw a girl with curly black hair and the warmest eyes he’d ever seen. She was taller than he remembered.

Aamir forgot his pain in those eyes, and as he held his child he remembered why he had come here in the first place. He had so many things to say, but he could only manage one. He repeated it to himself over and over, and to his daughter. “Australia”.


THanks again

[mansi]

hey guys, a look at this would be much appreciated. Currently have my story sitting at 11/15.
please help me
Going back to where I was born and raised, it’s like being captured in a flashback from a picture where you can see the profound transformations and the continuation of things from the past. 5 years since I saw the old rusty sign of my hometown. 5 years since, I looked at the old grocery shop where I would purchase milk from. Realising that a house was built in the past few years. Feeling like a lion, returning back to its own territory overfilled with sensations of pride and exuberance. Leaving, when the house was asleep like a graveyard with silence adding to the regret, on a dark misty winter night, in the dim light of the full moon which sent shivers down my spine, as I reluctantly abandoned this place with a small secure suitcase and some important documents along with few manageable clothes. This was when I said my final “goodbye”.  But, today I return on a genial summer morning as instruct the driver to stop the car. I contemplate on the years passed. It used to be sneakers and now they’re high heels. It used to be shirts and shorts and now its small dresses. I hear the crunch of rocks as I step on the road; the high heels make it an awful lot more difficult to walk with the eloquence of femininity that I was once acquainted with. Cringing as I take a deep breath and walk at a steady pace, gazing into the long abandoned Villa that appears to have been void of any movement. For once, I am drowning in hopelessness as the love for this place hits me like a bullet. Again, I ponder on the time, I spent to make myself look exquisite. All this time, I manoeuvred to try and pick the finest dress. Reminiscing on my father’s never ending advice “Focus and you will get there" as I properly structure my words. The slump, dull and dark atmosphere gives me the overwhelming sensations of sorrow and the profound realization of the great memories with me. The time and memories I desperately want back, but all I can do is sigh as nothing can be changed.
I am wearing the hideous black and gold uniform, that I am forced to wear, with my pink bag, that swings as I move. Rushing across the pavement with my hair swaying if they were waves of the ocean and swaying, back and forth. My heartbeat is ponding as I run at top speed, charging in like a Roman army into the lounge. Quickly glancing to the left and right. I drop my painfully heavy school bag, which weighed a tonne. Then stop to take a tranquillizing breath, while I listen to carefully. I hear the soft and tardy creak of the rocking chair, through the hammering of my heart. Rushing to climb the extravagant spiral stairs gripping tightly on to the handrail. My heart overflows with exhilaration which I felt may have me falling down the stairs. I stop to catch another quick breath as I reach the top of the stairs. I creep to the wooden door, which is the only barrier between me and him. The door gives off a long lumbering creak. Indicating my presence, He gracefully folds the newspaper. I proudly smile at him, he smiles back with pride and warmth, his smile of pride reaches from one ear to another, with his is glistening like millions of stars through his colossal owl eye glasses, while he opens his arms to welcome me. I dash to give him an enormous cosy bear hug, while I sit on his lap. He gently plants a kiss on my cheek. I feel the rigid spikiness of his newly shaved beard, which grew back like a lizard’s fallen tail. I tell my day’s passing and he carefully listens. I proudly break the news to him that “I have won the Maths competition at state level”.
I rush down stairs; I smell the air and skip into the kitchen. Noticed them working together like the rain and sun to foster a plant. I go and give them a hug. I felt the comfort and love. Something which rushed my blood to the heart giving me a tingly feeling. I hear the bells of her anklets as I sway her while I hug her. I stare at her wrinkly face with small eyes, I felt like she is better than anything, she is wearing a scarf to keep the cold out. Then I stare at her she wore a purple shirt and three-quarters, with her hair in a small bun as she patted me on the back telling me " I knew you could do it”.
I return to my consciousness as I reach the massive door, which is the archway to the lounge room. I push the door with all my might. The smell of old and dusty clothes gracefully passes down into my body. I see that the couch concealed with a pale white sheet. I yank the sheet so I can remove it well. A cloud of dust forms, small particles penetrate into my nose causing me to sneeze. I walk to the median of the couch and sit there like a queen. Reaching my hands out to feel the smooth yet bumpy texture of the couch while feeling the warmth of their memories with me as I imagine my mother telling me " Family is where we find love". I know they left because of me, but my heart won’t rest until I find them. I get the feeling of comfort and acceptance being inhaled into me as I re-discover a deep sense of belonging to this place. The feeling yearned for all these years. I know that no matter what I am and what I become, I will truly belong to my family. This means even if it takes a lifetime to find them! 

[Deng]

Hey, i was wondering how i could improve my creative in the form of language, techniques and general engagement. I also feel that my ending is a bit abrupt but i am not sure how to flesh it out a bit more

Thanks


The shrieking sounds of joyful laughter pierced my ears. I stared intently at their mischievous faces, before I tried divulging back into the realms of Avalon. Soon their obnoxious little voices began invading the pages of my novel, as I began envisioning them in The Battle of Demacia.

“This is a library, can you please go outside if you want to laugh!” I lectured, angry at their voices disrupting the peace.

Their sardonic smiles dropped instantly.

Peace. Finally. I began diving back into the epic by T S Beliot. As I continued reading, I began grabbing the edge of my seat, turning each and every page with delicacy. Appreciating every word used by Beliot fashioning a world of fantasy and engagement.

Before long I had completed the page-turner, my body sweating profusely at the thrill Beliot had brought me.

“Attention, the library will be closing in 10 minutes” an automated voice creaked out of the vintage sound systems.

Home. Every day I dreaded going home, to leave the sanctuary of the library. To come home to my mother’s high pitched, erratic and slightly nasal laughter, my father’s continuous chirping on his phone like a parrot.  I dreaded the thought every day.

As I carefully placed the novels back onto the shelf, I saw my bus pulling up to the kerb. Instantly, my feeble legs kicked into ignition, pumping as hard as my body would allow. To my surprise, two busses had arrived, waiting patiently as a plethora of bodies boarded. I decided to take the larger bus of the two, wanting more space for my journey home.

Rows of city skyscrapers covered the scorching sun their glass reflecting the deadly rays, as I began dozing off.

A startling voice interrupted my sleep as I rubbed my eyes shocked by my surroundings.

“Next up, Kiama Rainforest, we will be going on a 10 kilometre hike to explore and discover one of natures’ best natural products”

My heart began jumping back and forth, hands sweating and my legs jumping up and down. 

“ Wasn’t this bus heading into the suburbs?” I cried weakly.

“ That was the smaller bus today, this bus is a discovery bus for people who are eager to explore Australia’s natural treasures” the guide replied his voice filled with spirit

“ How do I get back to the suburbs?” my voice becoming more desperate, fearing the unknown

“ This bus. However  we are not leaving until we finish the 10 kilometre hike, don’t worry, the hike will be safe and you’ll discover a whole new world” the guide tried to reassure me

Before long we were all jostling in line, hooked up in safety gear and provided a flashlight to explore the beauty of the rainforest.   As we ventured deeper into the heart of the rainforest, swift shadows jumped from left and right, mysterious and sickening howls filled our ears, yet the sweet fragrance of flora aroused our noses. My body became increasingly tense with every step I took, yet a sense of me felt accomplished for embarking on this journey.

“ Everyone, there are some biscuits and fruit at the back of your carry bags, we will have a five minute break” the guide barked in the silence of the forest.

I unbuckled the carabiner before searching the vast landscape for a comfortable seat. My feet were filled with blisters, my back drenched in sweat and my lungs working over its capabilities. As I untied my laces, I stared at my bleeding foot. Aghast at the pool of blood drenching my foot, it had evoked imagery of Aslan’s journey to Demacia. The tedious and gruelling journey Aslan had trekked to reach Demacia, just to destroy and decapitate the rebels.  I felt proud, I felt as if I was Aslan.

“Okay, time to re-buckle and continue the last leg of our hike” the guide continued to command.

As I attempted to hook the carabiner back onto the guide, to my horror a large leech had latched onto my naked ankle.

“ GET IT OFF ME!” I screamed, running franticly in the pitch darkness.

As I continued to run sporadically to kick off the leech, I realised I had been separated from the group.

My eyes darted left and right, where was I? How did my pathetic legs drag me away from my group?
Fear began to overwhelm me. What would Aslan do in this scenario? All those countless hours couped up in the library reading novels over the years, yet none of them taught me how to find my way out of a rainforest.

“HELP ME” I screamed out as I attempted to retrace my steps. Eyes glistened in the shadows awaiting their time to pounce on their pray. I pulled out my flashlight flickering it on and off attempting to attract the attention of any passerbys. I couldn’t give up, Aslan would never give up but my frail body was going to give up soon. I couldn’t withstand any more physical exertion, my stomach rumbled, awakening the sleeping inhabitants of the forest.

I stopped. Something was coming. I could hear the snapping of twigs as my ears honed in at the direction of the source. A bear? I was ready to fight the bear to the death with the years of knowledge and minute physical experience I had experienced in my 16 years.

To my disappointment it was the group. I was unable to showcase my physical prowess or my tactical mind, but I discovered something more important. The world was a strange but beautiful place, a rainforest had provided me with more exhilaration and emotion than a book could ever give.

[angiezhang9]

Hi, I was wondering if you could have a look at my creative and give me some feedback on what I should change/add. Thanks so much

[bethjomay]

How many words do you think a creative piece should be? Is it ok if it's less than your essay?

[Emerald99]

How many words do you think a creative piece should be? Is it ok if it's less than your essay?

I think around 800-1000 should be good

Moderator Action: Added quote.

[elysepopplewell]

Plz Plz plz have a look, my teacher never gives feedback but i have gotten 12/13. What do i need to do to make it a solid A?

hey guys, a look at this would be much appreciated. Currently have my story sitting at 11/15.
please help me

Hi to the both of you! We require 15 posts on ATAR Notes before you can get a piece marked to the length of a creative or essay. It's not difficult to build posts up! You can ask or answer any questions, post a thesis statement for feedback here or give feedback on someone else's work in any place where you think you have something to offer! You can read more about the policy in the link in my signature below! Please don't hesitate to ask any questions if you're unsure of anything